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Chapter Text

Oliver gazes out the window through half-lidded eyes as he watches the House of Vera slowly disappear into the distance. Haunted house to haunted blur to haunted silhouette to haunted speck of grey among the snow, until finally the bus takes a turn and it vanishes altogether behind the mountains. 

Out of sight, but not out of mind. The House will always be there, as will the ghosts of everything that ever happened in it. The past is never dead, after all. Hell, he's not even sure it's past. 

The gentle rumbling of the bus against the rough terrain teases him with the pull of sleep. But he will not listen to its foul seduction! He shall resist its wretched temptations and assert his own will! He is a strong, independent man and not sleepy at all. Definitely not eepy. Certainly not a mimir. 

…Even when the all-too familiar nausea of a sleepless night settles over him like a damp blanket. 

He has plenty of other things to be nauseous about, though. 

For one, he died! Not once, not twice, but in fact thrice! In quite violent ways that he would rather not think about! He'd been stabbed before, sure. Beaten, burned, crushed under rubble, et cetera. He's no stranger to passing out from blood loss or head injuries. His deaths this past night hadn't felt any different than any of those other times, really. Pain, exhaustion, thoughts melting together into a muddy soup… and then it just ended. Only this time, instead of waking up in a hospital, he'd woken up several hours back in time, walking once again into the jaws of a House, completely unaware that anything had ever happened. He doesn't know what that implies about the concept of an afterlife, and, as previously mentioned, he would REALLY rather not think about it, thank you. 

He also killed a man. He did that. That is indeed a thing that happened and will haunt his sleepless nights for an indefinite amount of time, probably the rest of his life. 

It doesn't matter that he did it for the sake of others. It doesn't matter that he had no other choice (he… didn't, did he?). It doesn't matter that the guy really fucking deserved it. He ended a life with his own two hands, violently, permanently, and that will always haunt him. 

He's... okay with that, he thinks. There are worse things to be haunted by. Over the years, many parts of him have been damaged, and many may be lost forever. It's part of the job. Part of life. But he'd sooner gnaw off his own arm than let himself lose the part that cares. He killed a man. It was probably for the best. No matter how he lives his life from this point forward, he will always have killed a man. Those are the objective facts, and the moment he gets a little too comfortable with those facts is the moment he stops being human. 

…He also met the love of his life.

He allows himself to close his eyes for a moment, just to take it all in. The feeling of Ángel's hand aimlessly tracing squiggles on his back. The gentle rhythm of his breath. The smell of cigarettes and overpriced cologne (or is that perfume? He forgets the difference). He can still feel the buzz of adrenaline in his system, but right now, all that is drowned out by a hypnotic tranquility.

He died. He killed. He found love, and the trajectory of his life was permanently and violently altered. He is Oliver Beebo, and he is the luckiest man in the world. 

Journeys end in lovers meeting. 

A rather cliche phrase that never really made much sense to him, and yet at the end of this long and terrible (yet so very short) journey he finds himself running the words through his head over and over, turning them over like smooth pebbles, appreciating them for all their corny sentimental beauty.

Journeys end in lovers meeting. Journeys end in lovers meeting. Journeys end in lovers meeting.

He read it in a book once, years ago, though he forgets exactly which one. Maybe it's due for a reread.

…Ah. It was The Haunting of Hill House.

Well, disconcertingly fitting book quotes aside, at this moment Oliver Beebo is a very happy man. And a very exhausted man, although it would be unfair of him to fall asleep and leave Ángel to make sure they don't miss their stop. Falling asleep on the first date? He's gonna get a bad grade in boyfriend! 

His jaw pops as he yawns, a pathetic little groan escaping from his mouth. 

Shit, that wasn't subtle at all. He is never beating the sleepy allegations. 

He feels Ángel laughing beside him. A small chuckle, but via the miraculous power of close proximity and physical contact, he can almost feel the vibrations resonate through his own chest. 

“Eepy?” Ángel teases. 

Oliver means to say no, but what comes out is more like “nngh…” 

He feels Ángel's fingers combing through his hair and is having completely normal and composed feelings about it and absolutely is not wishing he were born with the ability to purr like a cat.

“We'll be there soon, Beeb.”

God, he loves him. That's probably a strong thing to say about someone you've known for just over 12 hours, but, in all fairness, it was a very unusual 12 hours. He hopes it's love this time, and not pity, or guilt, or codependency, or… something else. He hopes it's real. It sure feels real. 

He hopes Ángel feels the same.

He's pulled out of his thoughts by a tug on his sweater collar. “Wakey wakey, Beebles. We're at the stop.” 

“Ah.” He lifts himself up, but Ángel stops him before he can fully get out of his seat. 

“Your ankle, love.” 

Ah, right. That motherfucker. He'd sprained it pretty bad getting out of the House, although he'd done a fairly good job of tuning out the pain. It would probably still be bad to walk on it, though. 

“Here, just hold onto my arm. You can put your weight on me til we reach the station. Don't worry, not the first time I've done this.” 

Oliver leans into him as instructed, feeling just about ready to melt at how gentle his touch is. Still, it's uncomfortable having his movements rely so closely on another person. An unpleasant childhood memory begins to resurface. 

“One time in first grade we were doing a three-legged race and I asked to be paired with a guy I had a crush on and the moment it started he ran so fast I fell over and was dragged face-down through the dirt across the entire schoolyard.” 

He cannot see Ángel's expression, but he can feel a sort of tense in his muscles and hear a noise halfway between a laugh and a choke. “...Such is the burden of being attracted to men. Been there many times, my friend.” 

Many times? That exact experience? Really? 

Ángel squeezes his hand and the two step off the bus into the little town outside.

Except Oliver makes the awful mistake of stepping first. 

His legs give out beneath him as his ankle makes a sickening crunch like a plastic water bottle being crushed. White stars flash in his vision, and as the world warps around him, all that goes through his head is a single word.

Fuck.

Fortunately, he doesn't faceplant directly into the ground. His guardian angel makes sure of that, holding onto him like a lifeline.

“Oli! What happened, are you okay, are you in shock, are you bleeding-”

“I'm fine, it's just-” he reassures, voice choked out by a grunt. “...a miscalculation. I seem to have severely underestimated how broken my ankle was. Turns out the answer is very.” 

Ángel turns towards the driver. “Call an ambulance.”

“Sir, this bus has other stops to go to, and I really don't have time to-” 

Oliver can hear the crinkling of paper. Seems Ángel pulled out some amount of money. He can only hope it is a reasonable and not utterly ostentatious amount.

“Ángel, love, I appreciate the concern, but that really isn't necessary-” Oliver exhales.

“He doesn't seem to be complaining. Just sit your pretty little ass down and take care of yourself, alright?”

He sits his frankly quite average ass down and takes a deep breath. 

He's shaking. A normal response considering how he's sitting on cold pavement in the middle of winter, but he is also unbearably hot and drenched in sweat. He feels pins and needles pricking his extremities, and would much prefer to be lying down until the sickly feeling subsides. Ángel frowns, rubbing his shoulder in circles.

“Well, fuck. I was hoping our problems would give us a break after all that, but I guess you're still god's favorite little wound man.” 

“I can't believe my ankle decided to break right after we left the time loop. This is homophobic. This is a hate crime.”

“And during pride month, too! The audacity!”

“It's July first.”

Ángel raises his eyebrows at this, fishing his phone out of his pocket to check. “.......Ah. So it is.” He takes a deep breath, then exhales. “So it's more like a corporate Twitter account that changes its profile picture as soon as the month is over. Gotta say, still not a fan.”

Oliver chuckles at that, then smiles a bit at himself. Laughing is good. He's glad they can both laugh. 

He still feels like shit, though. 

Oh! Wait! Snacks. 

He rummages through his many pockets and pulls out a water bottle and a chocolate eclair. In less than a second the eclair is gone, reduced to crumbs. He chugs the water and breathes a sigh of relief. He can already feel himself revitalizing, his body returning to homeostasis. 

Ángel stares at him blankly. “...When did you grab those?”

“Right before we confronted Coli. Why?”

Ángel pauses for just a second, then shakes his head and laughs. “Nothing. Nevermind. Carry on.”

Oliver furrows his brow, trying to decipher what the hell that meant.

“...Oh! Want one? I have loads more, I always try to keep backup snacks in my pockets in case of emergencies. You'd be surprised how often it comes in handy! I've got eclairs, croissants, some fruit tarts…”

“Oh, I… Actually, yeah. A fruit tart would be great right now.”

“...Cheese, those mini pies, half a carrot for some reason…”

“Fruit tart.”

“Got it.” 

~~~~~

They didn't have to wait long to be seen. Perks of small town hospitals. Ángel had spent most of the ambulance ride and waiting time talking incessantly, rambling on about whatever random things crossed his mind before inevitably circling back to ‘are you sure you're okay?’ or ‘how much does it hurt?’ or, Oliver's personal least favorite, ‘I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.’ After plenty of reassurance that he was fine, it hurt like hell but nothing he wasn't used to, and it was not Ángel's fault by any stretch of the imagination and it's frankly upsetting he would even think something like that, they were finally called in by a doctor.

A quick X-ray identified his injury as a bimalleolar fracture, which the doctor helpfully explained meant that two of his bones were broken and he was definitely going to need surgery. Ángel tensed up at the word ‘surgery.’ 

“It'll be fine.” Oliver reassures. “I'll be in and out in less than an hour and then we can go home and sleep and drown our trauma in snacks and terrible movies.” He smiles. “In all honesty this is probably the tamest thing I've experienced in the past 14 hours.” 

“That doesn't help.” Ángel mutters, burying his face in his arms. “None of this should've happened. I should've been able to help you, to at least keep you from getting hurt after we left the house. An hour out of the timeloop and I already failed at that. And now you're hurt on top of everything else. I feel… I just feel like…” His voice, already hoarse, begins to choke up too much to speak. He hics, taking sharp and irregular breaths and shaking like a leaf. 

Fuck. 

Oliver puts his hand on Ángel's arm. He hopes the touch is okay, he probably should've asked, but Ángel doesn't object to it so he takes that as a good sign.

“Ángel, darling, love of my life. I hope you understand that this is in literally no way shape or form your fault. This sort of thing just happens sometimes, if anything it's on me for not realizing how bad off I was when we first left. I've never been good with that. I mean, without you there, I would've faceplanted on the concrete and ended up with a broken nose or worse. So don't beat yourself up over it. …Please. It disturbs me to see you like this.” 

Slowly but surely, Ángel's breathing stabilizes. He lifts his head up, eyes red with tears. His bangs are messy and slightly damp, the dark circles beneath his eyes suddenly very apparent. Upsettingly so. “...Sorry.” he croaks. 

“Um. Did you… hear what I just said?” 

“No, yeah, I know, I just… For freaking out, I mean. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm…” He gestures vaguely. “...kind of a mess right now.” 

“That's completely understandable.” 

“Yeah. I know that. It's still embarrassing, though.” He chews a bit on his bottom lip, staring at some nondescript point on the wall.

“Well, I hope one day we reach a point where you no longer feel the need to be embarrassed around me.” Oliver smiles. And he means it. He wants Ángel to feel comfortable with him, he wants the two of them to feel natural, familiar, more themselves together than they are apart. A single heart pumping blood through two bodies. Bodies locked in an embrace that fits together like pieces of a puzzle. 

The doctor comes in with the anesthetic. She goes over the details of what's going to be done and what to expect going in and coming out of it. Oliver nods along and thanks her, although he zones out through most of the explanation. He is deeply familiar with this process. The mask is fitted over his face and he just lets it happen, counting to 10 as the doctor instructed. 

“Have a nice nap, Oli.” With a squeeze of his hand, Ángel smiles down at him, and the glare from the fluorescent light frames his head like a halo.

…Something feels… wrong.

His head is swimming. He can hear voices around him. 

“...ormal for him to be in and out like this?”

“Yes, it's expected for him to take a while to fully wake up. Best to let him take his time. He'll likely still be a bit groggy for the rest of the day, so be patient with him and make sure he's well-taken care of. Have nausea and constipation medicines on hand, keep his leg elevated as often as possible for the next two weeks…”

Where the fuck is he. The smells are strange, the temperature off, the sounds of voices and beeping machinery and hurried footsteps melding poorly with the nausea soup that is his current mental state. He tries to open his eyes, but it's hopeless. His body feels like it's being held down by weights, or buried underneath a mountain of sand. 

“I understand. No need to tell me twice, he'll be getting the princess treatment for sure.” 

What? What does he mean by that? Who is this pretty-voiced man offering to give him the ‘princess treatment'? Where even is he? What time is it? 

What… time….

“Hehe, how long have you two been together?”

“Five months, but we've known each other for years.” 

What. Okay, he must have hit his head and developed severe amnesia, because he would certainly remember having a boyfriend of five months. Either that or this guy is lying, which is frankly concerning in its own way. He scrapes his head for any traces of memories. He can't forget, he doesn't want to forget, not again not again, Ángel would be devastated- 

…Ángel.

“mmnph…”

“Oliver! Are you awake? Can you hear me?”

“............................weh.” He opens his eyes. Big mistake. He immediately closes them again. “Ngh. Too bright. Bad.” 

The other man, who Oliver now has the brain cells to determine is a nurse, speaks up. “Welcome back. You've woken up a few times before, but weren't very coherent, so I'm going to ask you some questions now, if that's okay.”

Oliver nods. The questions are nothing unexpected. ‘How are you feeling’ (tired and nauseous), ‘are you in any pain’ (yes), ‘rate your pain on a scale of one through ten’ (do you mean in comparison to the full spectrum of pain it is possible for the human body to experience, or just the instances of pain I know from my own life? What's my point of reference here? I've never experienced childbirth but I have been stabbed before and this isn't as painful as that and- right right, sorry. Seven.) Eventually he's given the pass to go free if he so desires. 

“Can I just…” He rubs his eyes, still squinting against the harsh lights of the hospital room. “Have some alone time, for a bit? He can stay.” 

The nurse looks between them both, then nods. “Alright. Someone will be coming in a few minutes to put your leg in a cast, I'll get your discharge papers and your prescription and then you'll be good to go. I'll leave you to it.” 

And then they're alone.

“Morning, sleeping beauty. How was your rest?” Ángel smiles, playing with Oliver's hair.

“Like blinking and then suddenly waking up in an unfamiliar room with people talking around me and no concept of the passage of time. How long was I out?” 

“Uhhhh…” Ángel attempts to think for a full five seconds before accepting defeat and pulling out his phone. “The surgery was just under 50 minutes, you woke up pretty soon after that but you were really out of it so you kept falling asleep again. It's been an hour and a half now.” 

Oliver hums in acknowledgement. “Did I… say anything weird?” 

“Oh yeah, it was crazy!” Ángel beams. “You asked one of the nurses if he was into men.”

“I what.” 

“Kidding, kidding. You mostly talked about your cat. And something involving 30 to 40 wild geese. You had a lot of opinions about proper sidewalk management.” 

“Thank god. Please never scare me like that again. I don't think my heart can take it.” 

Ángel snickers. “Keheh… but your face looked so cute when you got all embarrassed! I shrimply couldn't help myself!” 

“I SAID HOW THE FUCK ARE MY FUCKING SWEETIE PEES!!! ” 

The door slams open. Both men immediately turn to look at where Vivi is standing, panting with exertion. Her demeanor changes the second she sees them. 

“Theeeeere's my favorite poor little meow meows! Meow One, Meow Two, what's the word?” 

Ángel takes a deep breath. “Sorry.” He murmurs. “I sent a message to the group chat while you were out, and, well… the power of Vivi could not be stopped.” 

“I have the power of god and energy drinks on my side.” 

“The Margulis family and their boy lawyer are here too, presumably staying in the waiting room like normal law-abiding citizens.” 

“It's okay.” Oliver says, and then a solid eight seconds later remembers to smile. He's still a bit too groggy to show the proper level of social engagement, but he does appreciate her company. Even if he wishes she would be less loud. The lights are loud enough already. Er, bright enough…? Bright in a loud way, which is a normal sensation that everyone can understand and relate to. “It's good to see you here.” 

“Jegus.” Vivi scans the both of them up and down, lips pursed. What? Does she mean Jesus..? “Okay, that settles it. As the officially designated responsible adult of the friend group, I am driving you two sopping wet cats home. Oliver where do you live.” 

“Vivi, no. It's fine, we were gonna take the bus-”

“And both fall asleep on each other and wake up 12 hours later in Night Vale or perhaps the Backrooms? You guys look like shit.” 

“You were up all night too!”

“Yeah but I chugged a Monster on the way here so I've got at least another five to eight hours before I pass out, also I have your car so I'd have to drive it over there eventually anyway.”

“You have a car?” Oliver blinks, suddenly feeling crushingly aware of the fact that he is 28 years old and probably the only adult in his friend group without a driver's license. 

If the two heard him, neither of them acknowledge it, continuing with their bickering or… whatever they're doing. 

“I'm leaving you. I'm filing for divorce.” 

“Only if I get custody of the Furbies!”

“Only if you give back my CDs, you fleet-footed song bandit.” 

“Never!” 

“You two got married without me?” Oliver is clearly at least a decade behind on whatever these two have going on, but he's pretty sure he has the right to be mildly offended by that. “I had no idea. I wouldn't have behaved this way if I'd known you were a married man, Ángel.” 

“Not for much longer.” Ángel huffs, then appears to suddenly become very aware that Oliver had bore witness to that entire exchange. “Uhm. Sorry about that. Old inside jokes, nothing to worry about.”

“I can confirm that it is nothing to worry about. Tall, dark, and daddy issues isn't my type. Anyway, as Milkwalker once said: where you live” 

Oliver props himself up on his elbows, scanning the bedside table for his phone. “I'll send you the address. She's right, Ángel. You look exhausted. …Also, I would like to see your car.” 

Ángel opens his mouth to protest, but stops himself and instead is overtaken by a deep sigh. “...Alright. You win. It is a really cool car.”

~~~~~

The best word to describe Ángel's car would be, to no one's surprise, ‘fancy.’ Sleek, shiny, with black leather seats, tinted windows, and plenty of leg room. The second best would be ‘comfortable.’ Oliver usually isn't fond of the texture of leather, but in this case it feels soft. Welcoming. The car is remarkably clean and well air-conditioned, and it has a pleasant fragrance to it, notably devoid of cigarettes. Leave it to Ángel to take better care of his car than his own body. Kind of materialistic, but regrettably Oliver is developing a fondness for all aspects of his boyfriend, including the ones that are deeply annoying to him. Such is love, he supposes. 

His eyelids are heavy. He still feels a bit sick from the anesthesia, and the idea of sleep has never felt so appealing. His ankle aches, but the sleepiness helps to distract from the pain. He looks down at his cast and a smile warms his face once again. 

It's covered in signatures already. From his friends.

“Thank you for everything. Be sure to stay in touch - Marigold Margulis” 

“Feel better soon!!! It was great meeting you :-) - Nina” 

“thanks for saving our lives mostly and also not dying also mostly. see you next holiday probably idk - simon”

“gay gay homosexual gay - vivi” 

“It was good to meet you. Get well soon. - Nadia”

“you're cool so you get uncle privileges but i'm still kicking your ass at uno next time i see you (this is a threat) - owen” 

They really did not have to all write so much. There's no more room for his parents or work acquaintances to sign! But he's grateful. Really grateful. Some of them included drawings, too. 

Nina had put some flowers around hers. They look nice! 

Simon had done some seemingly random doodles. Plants, fish, what might've been intended to be a face but then got scribbled out… He's a talented young artist! He should lean into that more. It might be good for him.

Vivi drew some kind of soaking wet rabbit being rained on by a cloud with a face. It's eating an ice cream cone. …Well, at least you have your ice cream, little guy. 

And then there's Ángel's. He just wrote his name with some hearts around it, probably because it's not like they won't be seeing each other for a long time like the others, so a sentimental message wouldn't be very necessary. Underneath the name, however, is a very familiar eye symbol. One that had been spotted at the scenes of various high-profile robberies over the years. Oliver can't help but snort. Dork.

His dork now. My oh my, what ever has he gotten himself into. 

He would love to keep looking at these for a while more, but as of now, his thoughts are thick and hazy, and his vision is blurring too much to read. With a final glance at the messages, he allows himself to lean on said dork's shoulder and drift off to wherever his mind takes him.

The rest of the ride is made up of brief flickers of awareness, vignettes embodying individual sensations rather than any sort of coherent thought. 

Vivi singing along to Dancing Queen on the radio, attempting to be as quiet and non-disruptive with it as possible, something that proves to be quite the difficult task for her.

Ángel leaning against his shoulder, snoring, the smell of his shampoo flooding Oliver's senses. 

The sky being darker than it was before.

There's a nostalgic quality to it, like being a little kid and falling asleep on a road trip. Any and all structured thoughts escape him, giving way to the blurred lines between sleep and wakefulness, the outside world and the inside.

He dreams of grass and chickens and first dates and snow and clocks and sunrises. 

At some point, Vivi jostles him awake. “Wake up sleepyhead, we're here. C'mon, let's just get in, this place gives me the creeps.”

Oliver opens his eyes. It's pitch dark outside, although he's not sure what time that would make it. Probably not that late, it being winter and all. 

“You too, gayboy.” She pokes Ángel, who rises to consciousness with a prolonged groan, joints popping as he shifts himself into a more proper sitting position. 

“We're here…?” His voice sounds so lovely when he's just woken up. All deep and gravely and imperfect, thick with residual sleep. Focus, Oliver. Now is not the time for gay thoughts. You're already running on less brain cells than usual. 

“Oh, Oli, do you need any help?” He slides out of the car and stretches until his joints pop once more before making his way around to Oliver's side. 

Oliver takes the help in getting out. He doesn't quite trust himself to make the transition from car to sidewalk with much elegance right now. He insists that he's fine getting around with his crutches once he's gotten his bearings, and it's not a lie. Ángel still watches him like he's about to topple over at any moment, which does not exactly help his focus or self-confidence, but he makes it to the door just fine.

Once they're through the door, though, he is hit with the sudden realization of a problem he'd forgotten about until now.

His apartment sits at the top of three flights of stairs in a building with no elevator. 

“...Shit.” he murmurs, gazing upon the very steep, very intimidating staircase before him with nothing but dread in his heart. 

“Ah.” Vivi stares at it with an unreadable expression. “Well, boys, it seems we have reached an impasse. Fortunately, ya girl has a solution!”

“Oh no.” Ángel groans.

“Beeboy, you lie down flat on the floor. I take the arms, Ángel takes the legs. We ascend.”

“I do not consent to this. I want to make it very clear that I do not consent to this.”

“I'll carry him, it's fine.” Thank you Ángel. Thank you so much Ángel. What would I ever do without you.

“Fine, if you wanna do it that way.” Vivi tsks, clearly disappointed with this arrangement. “I take the crutches, you take the Beepo. We ascend.” 

They ascend, Ángel with Oliver in a bridal carry, which is very romantic but clearly not very comfortable or sustainable for him. Ángel seems to realize this too, because after the first flight of stairs he switches to over the shoulder. This is good too. This is nice. Physically uncomfortable, but nice. 

They make it. Thank god.

“This the one?” Vivi asks. Oliver opens his eyes just enough to hum confirmation that yes, that is, in fact, the one. 

“Poggers.” She tries the door. “Ah! Locks. My age-old nemesis. A wily foe, but I have my methods-”

“I have his keys.” Ángel reaches into his pockets and what huh when did he get those. 

“Why must you rob every bit of joy from my life.” 

The door clinks open and the three are immediately met with frantic meowing. 

“Mozilla!” Oliver's eyes shoot wide open. 

“Kitty!” Vivi shouts at the same time.

“Kitty.” Ángel agrees. 

The cat weaves its way around the two sets of legs, sniffing them with fervid interest. After determining that both of these unfamiliar humans pass the vibe check, he rubs his face against their legs, purring exuberantly.

“The creature! The stinky boy! Foul Cheez-it beast!” Vivi lets the pair of crutches she was holding fall to the floor, evidently deciding that she has priorities and her main priority at this very moment is Cat. She scoops him up and jiggles him around. “Superb. Hangs like a sack of oats. That's what I'm talking about. Peak performance right here, take notes guys.” 

Ángel deposits Oliver on the nearest couch, taking a second to recover from the Herculean task of ascending the stairs. God, the wheeziness of those breaths does not sound good. Oliver vows to get this man to stop smoking as soon as they’ve had enough time to settle down from The Horrors. 

“You have anything to prop up your leg? Wait, hold on.” Ángel grabs a random throw pillow off the floor (those things always end up everywhere except where they're supposed to be) and gently places it under Oliver's leg.

“Thanks.” Oliver gives him a smile, although his mouth feels like sandpaper and it's getting harder to keep his eyes open by the second. He will not let this deed go unappreciated.

Ángel frowns, unsatisfied with his own work. “Is that enough height? It's not much higher than the rest of your- Oh! Wait.” He takes off his coat and bunches it up, placing it on top of the pillow for extra padding. “Voila. My work here is done.”

If Oliver were less exhausted, he might be in more of a state to fully appreciate the sight of Ángel's arms and collarbone. He would probably have very normal and composed thoughts about it. But right now he just settles for “I love you.” 

“I love you too. Now go to sleep, pretty boy.” 

He can feel a weight settling down on the couch's back cushions. What is he- 

Ah. Apparently, when faced with a couch that very clearly only has room for one person to lie down on, Ángel is the type of man to make space for himself anyway. Even if it means balancing atop the back like a fucking cat. Oh, well. It's comfortable enough, and the proximity is nice. Love finds a way. 

“Soooooo no one's taking the bed?” Vivi asks. “Aight cool, more space for me. C’mere goober, let's go.” She reaches for Mozilla, but he instead turns to rush over to Oliver, jumping on his chest and engaging in passionate biscuit-making. 

“When is it my turn to be happy.” 

…So here they are, huh? They made it. Oliver made it, and he's home. It was a long, nightmarish day, but he made it home, to a safe, comfortable apartment where the air conditioning is just as he likes it and he has a cupboard stocked with his favorite foods and a cat purring on top of him. Somewhere in his mind, he is well aware of the fact that the events of the day have permanently altered him both internally and externally in ways he can't yet comprehend, and there's no going back to the person he was before. But that's a crisis for another day. Now is the time for rest.

In a non-specific urban city like any other, Private Detective Oliver Beebo drifts off to sleep in his own apartment, a cat on his chest, a lover at his side, and a friend in the other room. And for the first night in a long, long string of nights, he doesn't have any dreams. 

Chapter Text

Ángel wakes up to a sunbeam hitting him directly in the eyes. Augh. Not pleasant. He rolls over to bury his face in the cushions, hoping to catch another 10 minutes of sleep at least. 

The texture of the couch is unfamiliar. Okay, so he's not in his own home. Not too alarming. Some lucky guy must've had him over and enjoyed his night enough that he hadn't kicked him out yet. What a gentleman. He should probably get his stuff together soon, though. As much fun as he might've had, all lovely nights must come to an end eventually. 

He curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut until dingy colors swirl in his vision. Amidst the visual noise, a single image flashes through his mind. 

A house. 

A corpse.

Oliver. 

Oh god oh fuck, what time is it!? He can't believe he let himself sleep in, where's his phone, it's in his jacket which is on the couch which is-

Cold. Oliver isn't there. He isn't there, where is he did I lose him did something happen not now please god not now not when we can't go back oh god oh god oh god- 

“Oh, you're awake.” His head jolts up to see Oliver standing in the doorway, looking far more put-together than he probably does right now. His hair is tied back into a neat little ponytail, and he's wearing flannel pajama pants and a baggy sweater that has a picture of a cat lying in a hammock with the words “beach bum” beneath it. He hadn't been wearing pajama pants when he went to sleep last night, meaning he deliberately put them on after waking up, which is adorable . Oliver smiles down at him with a fondness in his eyes. He seems… surprisingly cheerful, for someone who just escaped the torment nexus not two days ago. “How'd you sleep?” 

Ángel's heart rate settles a bit, but is still nowhere near baseline. Whatever. He stretches until his joints crack and slips on a smile. “Like I never bore witness to the man-made horrors beyond my comprehension.” And then, ever so casually, “What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost two.” 

“What.” 

“Yeah. I've been up since nine. Vivi's out on a walk, scoping out the area I think. I thought about waking you but I, er… figured you needed the sleep.” 

He probably did, more than he had realized. Timeloop really does a number on ya, who'da thunk? But wait, there are more pressing matters at hand here- 

“Have you eaten? Or taken your meds? You- you haven't been putting weight on that leg, have you?” The words rush out of him in a waterfall of panic. He doesn't realize just how pathetic it sounds until it's already out of his mouth, but right now Oliver's wellbeing is much higher on his list of concerns than perhaps being maybe a little cringe. 

“Yeah, I've been fine. Meds taken, food eaten, crutches used, et cetera. …It's sweet that you care so much, but I can take care of myself. Really. You have nothing to worry about.” 

Nothing to worry about. Yeah, right. He doubts he'll ever go a day without worry again. 

Oliver jolts in sudden realization. “Oh! You haven't eaten yet! Let's fix that. I, er, don't really feel like cooking right now, but there's cereal, and fruit, I could make toast…” 

“No need, I can serve myself.” 

He furrows his brow. “Huh? But… you're my guest. It's rude to make a guest serve themself.” 

“Correct! However, I am also your boyfriend, and with the power vested in me by the holy gods of homosexuality, I hereby command thee to lie down. And put your leg up. …And watch one of your nerdy documentaries.” Oliver likes documentaries. He remembers that. He gives himself a mental pat on the back for remembering that.

Oliver snickers, rolling his eyes. “You drive a hard bargain, o sacred boyfriend.” 

“Hey, just following my divine mission.” Ángel walks towards the kitchen but lingers a bit in the doorway, not leaving the room until Oliver has laid down and made himself comfortable. 

“Um.” Oliver glances at him.

Oh! He's staring. “Sorry, sorry! Just admiring the view.” 

At least that got another laugh out of him. Mission success! Oliver is safe and resting and oh god I'm so hungry what the hell when did that happen

Food! Now. Uhhhhh… There's bread! He leaves his bread just sitting out like that? It's gonna get moldy! Nevermind, it looks new at least, we can talk about that later. 

Ángel nibbles on the corner of a piece of bread. Not very classy, but in this moment his main concern is getting his stomach to stop screaming at him long enough for him to actually make some food. Once the stomach beast has been sufficiently tamed, he contemplates putting the half-eaten slice of bread in the toaster, but that feels sacrilegious in some way, so he decides to just finish the slice and get another to make into toast. He hopes Oliver doesn't mind him eating too much of his food. It's literally just two slices of bread, Ángel. This is a complete non-issue, Ángel. You have stolen literal priceless artifacts from museums and he still decided he likes you, he is not going to be mad at the fucking bread bandit. 

He lets his inner demons continue to chatter in the background as he inserts the bread into the toaster. “You know what they say,” he mutters under his breath, grinning stupidly at the little mantra. He has to say the line, it's iconic. It would be a crime not to. “All toasters toast toast.” 

“What?” 

Ah. It seems he was not as quiet as he thought.

“Don't worry, kitten.” 

“I thought I was a- …Nevermind. I will choose to ignore this.” 

“As you should.” 

The toaster does, in fact, toast the toast. Uhm. Fuck, what now. He didn't think this far ahead. What goes on toast… There's probably something in one of the cupboards. Rummage rummage…

Aha! Jam. That'll do. Some properly jammed toast, a meal fit for a guy who is deeply tired on a physical, mental, and spiritual level and cannot form a single organized thought but still needs to put something in his cesspool of a body. As far as depression breakfasts go, this might as well be a succulent ribeye steak. 

He re-enters the living room, succulent depression toast in hand, to be greeted by a cozy-looking boyfriend stroking an even cozier looking cat.

“Is that going to be enough?” Oliver shifts his head awkwardly, attempting to get a good look at the meal past the hulking Wall of Cat sitting on his chest. Mozilla Firefox wall. Mozilla Firewall. 

“Yeah, I fill up quickly.” That's not exactly a lie, especially since it tends to be much harder to eat with his brain all buzzy like this. Oliver looks like he's going to say more, but is interrupted by Mozilla launching himself off of his chest and rushing over to sniff at Ángel's feet. Upon detecting the toast, the little beast stands on his hind legs and sniffs the plate eagerly while licking his lips. 

“Firefox! No!” Oliver shouts from the couch. “No toast! You are an obligate carnivore, you shouldn't even want that! It's not good for you!”

Ángel giggles. “He can have little a toast.” 

“No!”

“As a treat.”

“Nooooooo!!!” 

“C'monnnnnn, Oli! He's just a little guy! And it's his birthday! He's a little birthday boy!”

“He is a little scoundrel and it is not his birthday.” Oliver huffs, then scooches over to make room. “Wanna sit?” 

It takes Ángel a few seconds to realize that Oliver is talking to him and not the cat. Once this registers, he plops himself down on the couch and leans into Oliver's shoulder without a second thought. For a moment, he wonders if that was the wrong move, but before he can say anything, Oliver puts an arm around him and pulls him in closer.

Oh. 

This is nice. 

The TV is playing a documentary on the industrial revolution. It doesn't really interest him. The sounds and images coming from the screen feel distant, fading more and more into the background of his mind until they dissolve completely into white noise. 

He can feel Oliver's arm around his shoulders, the softness of his sweater, the warmth radiating off of his body. Vaguely, he registers that he should be happy.

So why does he feel so cold? What's with this heavy sense of dread weighing down like a stone in his gut? 

Oliver is warm. He is warmth and he is softness and he is love. Ángel knows this, and it does absolutely nothing to calm him. Contrary, it makes his heart beat faster, and not in a good way.

Because he knows it's not going to last.

How stupid was he, to think it was going to last, to allow himself to enter this man's home after the worst night of both of their lives? Sure, he was invited. Right now, Oliver loves him, or thinks he does. He's got some sort of idealized image of him in his head that's warped by sugared words and trauma and perfume. 

They've known each other for, what, a day? That's usually how it goes. Men fall for him quick, they fuck, they leave. Ángel falls for them hard and fast, and then it's over, and he has to convince himself to try to be normal about it. With a bitter taste in his mouth, he remembers one of the times he thought it would be different. He was 21, maybe 22, and had managed to stay in a steady-ish relationship for a whole week, so clearly, it was pretty serious. ‘ Oh god,’ he'd told himself, ‘it's working, it's actually happening! This time is different, this is the one, we're gonna stay together and get married and adopt a kid or a dog or a cat and fall asleep in each other's arms every night and wake up engulfed in each other's warmth-’ And of course, he had already gotten attached, so like the miserable romantic he was, he got the guy's name tattooed on his lower back. Like it was some sort of spell that would seal the deal and make it last forever. Like it was a binding legal contract.

Course, another week and the guy dumped him, cause of course he did. Something about him being ‘too much’, which… yeah, fair. Can't argue with that. He cried for longer than he'd like to admit and got a cover-up of a cool wolf he named Tequila Sunrise, after his drink of choice for coping with that night. And then Vivi took him out to key the guy's car, so it was alright in the end. Still, one alcoholic wolf tramp stamp is enough for one lifetime.

He's calmed down since then. Learned to tone down his behavior. Learned to not expect so much. Learned to joke around and flirt as often as he breathes, so he can always have plausible deniability when it doesn't go his way. He hates it, sometimes. But usually he's pretty alright with it. It's just who he is.

So why is he in this man's home, a 12 hour drive from his own apartment, in the dead of winter after they'd looked each other in the eye in the face of death and exchanged what might as well have been marriage vows? 

‘Tonight, tomorrow, and other tomorrows.’ He wants to scream. He wants to curl up into a ball and die. Why did he think that was a good idea? Why did he think that was a good thing to say? At that moment, on that night, in that god-forsaken house, localized entirely within that bedroom? 

Oliver isn't even the first man I've said that to. He thinks I'm so sweet. He thinks I'm so fucking sweet, but I'm just a pathetic mess. He chose me, yes, but he doesn't know me. He's doesn't know how fucked up I really am and that it's not just timeloop trauma it's some deeply unwell shit that's been going on with me since I was a kid and we've only just met and it was a stressful situation and oh god what if this whole thing is a trauma response and I've just been taking advantage of his vulnerable mental state this whole time? 

…God, I'm such a piece of shit. 

“Ángel? Are you alright?” 

Oh. He's shaking. And his lip is trembling, and he's white-knuckling the couch cushions like a fucking lunatic. 

And he made Oli worry. Because he is, as established, a piece of shit. Say something, asshole! He's frowning and making those sad baby cow eyes and say something say something SAY SOMETHING!

Ángel smiles. “Oh, yeah, I'm fine. I just, uh… need a cigarette. Haven't had a smoke in a while, withdrawal symptoms, y'know.” As he says that, he realizes that it's not technically a lie, although he hadn't noticed how shitty he felt until now. 

Right. He just needs a cigarette. A cigarette will fix him. Well, okay, it won't fix him, but it will fix at least a few of his most pressing problems at the moment. That's one thing he can trust. “Can I…?”

Oliver sighs. “You know what I'm going to say.” 

“Oh?” Ángel tilts his head.

“Those things can-” Oliver huffs, turning to face a bookshelf behind them. “…Nevermind. I am looking the other way. Do what you have to. Just not around the cat, please. He is an impressionable young man and I don't want him following your example.” Although he's facing away and speaking sternly, Ángel can hear a smile in his voice. Thank god.

“You deny him toast and now you deny him cigarettes? Not even one? Not one smoke for baby? Jail! Jail for Beebo for one thousand years!” 

“You are a nasty nasty man and I will not allow you to corrupt our son.”

Our son.

Welp, that settles it. Ángel is going outside. He lifts himself off the couch and pulls his coat out from between the cushions. “Be back in a bit, stay safe!”

“I can assure you, I won't be going anywhere.” Oliver gestures to his injured leg, and the cat currently lying on top of it. 

“Right.” Ángel hurries out the door, but lingers in the doorway with his hand on the knob for a second. “Call me if you need anything, though.” 

“I will.” Oliver smiles, looking him directly in the eyes this time. Ángel's chest fills with warmth. And a twinge of unease, but what else is new. “Please close the door quickly, though, we have an escape artist here.” 

“Right, got it! I love you! Bye!” He slams the door shut behind him, leaning back against it with a heavy sigh. He takes a few moments to collect himself before heading down the stairs. They're a lot less daunting than he remembers, although he supposes that going down the stairs by himself in the middle of the day is a very different experience than climbing up the stairs while deeply, deeply tired and carrying a whole man in his arms.

The cold winter air should help him wake up a bit. He used to find it bracing – the capital rarely gets this cold, so winter days like this are a novelty. Now, though, it just feels numbing. Like he's sinking deeper into himself, and doesn't have the strength to climb back out. He lights a cigarette and begins walking. He doesn't know where. Doesn't matter. He'll find his way back. 

The smoke does help ground him, a bit. Calms his nerves. Gives him something to do with his mouth. Something to focus on other than his thoughts. He knew it would. Breathing exercises and meditation never did much for him, but he can always count on ol’ reliable. 

…Oliver wants him to quit, though. 

He hadn't really considered it before. He never had a reason to. He was an edgy teen, then a reckless adult, and now he's just… whatever he is. Scared, maybe. Vivi never said much about it other than the occasional joke, and he always sorta figured he was here for a good time and not for a long time. 

He can't make that excuse anymore. Not now that he's seen death up close in all its horrific divinity.

Scared, yeah. That's one way to say it.

He takes another drag. 

He cares about his life. Vivi cares about his life. Oliver cares about his life. Oliver loves him in his weird, dorky, beautiful, naïve, divine way, and Oliver wants him to quit smoking, which he could theoretically do at any moment and now has no real reason not to. 

So… He will. 

Yeah. 

Sure. 

He will. 

…Later, though. Right now his brain is foggy and his head is killing him. He raises a hand to rake through his hair and immediately grimaces at how greasy it is. He hasn't showered in two days, he can feel the filth clogging his pores. His skin is already starting to break out, and he definitely has eyebags and chapped lips and he hasn't whitened his teeth in a while and he smells fucking terrible. It's gross. He feels gross. 

Will he still love me when I'm gross? 

Oh, great. Here we go.

Will he still love me when I act too clingy, or he has to bail me out of jail for something dumb and impulsive I did, or he finds out how many guys I've fucked before him, or he realizes he can't fix me and whatever he saw in me before can't make up for how fucked up I really am? 

Fuck, will he still love me if I never stop smoking?

Behold. Ángel Valdivia, in all his glory. A 30 year old man who still hasn't outgrown the melodrama of a 13 year old girl. If he dug up one of his middle school diaries, he's willing to bet money that the prose would be indistinguishable.

He finished his cigarette some time ago and is now mindlessly chewing on his lip. The already dry skin has cracked open, filling his mouth with the metallic twang of blood. He wrinkles his nose at the taste and spits it out on the sidewalk. Not good. 

…Huh. It's… darker than he expected it to be. The world is tinted a hazy blue and the cold air now has a bite to it. How long has he been out here? Oliver was probably expecting him back by now. He rummages through his pockets for his phone, and comes up empty.

Shit.

Chapter Text

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. 

Oliver's head pounds.

Tick. Tick. 

Stop.

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

He really should get rid of that clock now, huh. It's a shame. He liked it. It was a gift from his parents when he moved out, some sort of family heirloom passed down from good ol’ Grandpa Beebo, or maybe Great Grandpa, or something like that. He doesn't remember, everyone on his father's side died long before he was born. Still, it means a lot to him. The wood is a nice color and he always liked the analogue sound. There was something comforting in its monotony. 

Keyword - ‘was’. Now he has to actively fight the urge to smash that fucker to pieces.

Oh great, is this going to be a thing now? Another fear he has to deal with? As if getting dizzy around abstract art wasn't enough.

Tick. Tick. 

When is Ángel getting back, anyway? He has a right to privacy and space, obviously, and it makes sense that he would need some after everything he'd gone through. Oliver wanders off all the time when he's overwhelmed, he gets it. But the guy could at least text him to let him know how long he'd be! It's been almost an hour now. An hour of lying down counting the bumps on his popcorn ceiling and listening to the rhythmic ticking of that godawful-

Tick.

Welp. That settles it. Oliver is going to do something about the sound. With a muttered apology to Mozilla, he grabs his crutches from where they were leaning against the side of the couch and rises to his feet.

He is going to smash that damn thing to-

Ahem.

He is going to take that thing off of the wall and carefully dismantle it in such a way that it could be reassembled with ease by somebody who would get better use out of it. 

Yes, that is what he is going to do.

He hobbles to his room, trying to focus on the sound of his crutches against the floor rather than the ticking of the clock. It gets louder and louder as he gets closer, until it becomes difficult to hear his own thoughts. It was never this loud before, was it..? Maybe he's losing his mind. Like the guy who buried the heart under the floorboards. He certainly feels like he could lose his mind if he has to listen to this any longer.

Alright. Less thinking, more doing. Oliver rushes to the wall and takes the clock off. Success! Well, not success, because it's still ticking, but almost success! 

He freezes.

He hears something. 

The door to the apartment unlatches. 

Shit. Shit. Shit. He shoves the clock under a pile of blankets and stares into the doorway. He really wishes he closed the door. 

Okay, breathe, Oliver, it's probably just Ángel. It's definitely just Ángel. He reaches for the knife he keeps under his pillow. His fingers clasp tightly around the handle. 

Why is my heart beating so loud oh god oh god they're gonna hear me and I can't even run and I'm fucked I'm fucked I'm so fucked. 

He can still hear the ticking. That DAMN ticking. That goddamn motherfucking GOD-FORSAKEN TICKING.

He isn't safe. The apartment is dark and he's alone and Ángel is going to come home and find his corpse and be devastated and this time there's no going back, no way to fix this. He can't run. He can't hide. All he can do is stay here and miserably clutch a knife to his chest, praying that whatever intruder this may be will be open to negotiation. Like that ever did him any good.

The footsteps are getting closer and I'm dead I'm dead I'm sorry Ángel-

“Wagh, it's dark in here.” 

…Vivi. Of course it's Vivi. God he looks like an idiot.

Oliver haphazardly throws the knife away over his shoulder and puts on his best impression of a normal, composed adult who was definitely not in fight or flight mode two seconds ago. 

The light switch flicks on.

“You gotta be careful with the dark rooms, man. You could summon a phantom or perhaps a dracula. Woah are you okay” 

Ah. So much for normal and composed. “Oh, uh… yeah! You just startled me, is all. I'm alright, don't worry about me!” 

I just almost stabbed Vivi. That would've been… God. Wow. Yeah. Not going to unpack that right now.

……….Wow.

“Sounds fake but okay. Anyway, I got ice cream!” she beams. “I didn't get anything too crazy cause I don't know what you like, but I've got chocolate, pistachio, cookie dough, mint chocolate chip-”

“Have you seen Ángel.” Oliver's heart is still pounding in his chest and he is not in the headspace to think about ice cream flavors right now, as lovely as that all sounds.

“No? …I'm guessing he went out on one of his sadboy walks, huh.” 

“His what.” 

“Oh yeah, sometimes he goes out and wanders around like a stray cat for a while when he needs to brood about stuff. Drags himself forlornly around. Sad little howl at the moon. Ant with a bindle image. Et cetera. I wouldn't worry about it, he's usually back in a few hours tops.”

“...Ah. So he just does this, then.” That… sounds about right, actually.

“Yep! He just does this. Wanna watch classic SpongeBob until he gets back?” 

“As appealing as that sounds, I would like to know my boyfriend's whereabouts before I settle down to watch TV. You might not be worried, but I am.” 

To Oliver's surprise, Vivi hums in agreement and nods solemnly. “Then I shall call him now.” She pulls out her phone, types a number into it, and waits. 

The muffled sound of a dramatic anime theme song rings out from the living room. 

The two share a glance, and one single word. 

“...Shi-”

“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!”

…Okay. Maybe more than one word.

~~~~~

Okay. Stay calm, Ángel. While it's true he's never been in this city before, and he doesn't have a map or GPS or means of calling someone, and it is rapidly getting darker by the second, he's sure he can figure something out. He is famously somebody who is clever, daring, and adaptable, at least according to the years-old news articles he has saved onto his phone for bad days. 

His phone that he currently does not have.

…I don’t even remember Oliver's address.

Ah. His heart is already racing. Has it been long enough to have another cigarette? He knows he can do whatever he wants forever, but-

…Screw it. Oliver isn't here. He reaches into his pocket for his lighter. Unfortunately, the cold air seems to have made his fingers clumsy and unpredictable, and he drops it on the pavement below. Ugh. That'll leave a scratch. He bends down to pick it up, uh, you're supposed to bend with your knees, right? Urgh, why are my joints so loud? Okay, there we-

Something in the world shifts. 

The incredibly loud vrrrrrr of an engine, right by his ear. A rush of air against his back. A blur on the edge of his vision.

A car almost hit him. 

He drops the lighter and runs.

His heart is pounding like never before. He can hear the blood throbbing in his ears. His nervous system is alight. Oh god oh god oh god. He wasn't even standing in the middle of the road, he was at the side of the road, within the line. That thing swerved, it could've hit him, he could've died, he isn't safe.

He darts off without any care of where he's headed. He just needs to get away, away, away. He weaves between roads, rushes past storefronts, past street signs, past cars and crowds and alleyways. The world is darker than it was before. He can smell blood, why can I smell blood!?

There's nowhere to stop, nowhere to hide.

The streets are dark, too dark. They could hide anything. Darkness hides killers. 

He isn't safe. 

He just has to keep running, to keep moving, even when his chest and throat burn and his legs grow weak and clumsy. He probably looks suspicious as all hell right now, but he doesn't care. He could almost laugh. What a weird thought to have when he is running for his fucking life over here. 

He can feel people's eyes on him. Everyone is looking. Everyone sees him. He can't tell their intentions, their thoughts, their capabilities, and he doesn't care to find out. People hide knives.

He isn't safe. He isn't safe. He needs to get away, away from the people, the people and their eyes and their faces and their pockets that could hide anything and their breathing and their footsteps and their voices and conversations and their whispers about god-knows what and and and and

He runs.

He doesn't know how long he runs, or where he's going. His brain might've checked out at some point, he isn't sure, but eventually, he trips and falls.

His hands don't hit pavement, but sand. It sinks beneath him, piling up between his fingers. 

…Huh.

He's on a beach. He remembers Oli saying something about living on the coast. There's no sound, save for the rhythmic rush of the tides.

It's nice.

He burrows his hand deep into the sand until it can't go any farther, then lifts it out. The sand falls through his fingers, cold and smooth as silk, making a pleasant noise as it lands back on the ground. It's such a quiet noise, too. A gentle noise. He focuses on that noise, and the peaceful stillness that allows for him to hear it. 

…He's calm now, he thinks.

He looks up. The ocean is calm, the waves gentle. Ángel gets to his feet and walks towards the water, legs stumbling forward of their own accord as if he were in a trance. 

He's never been on a beach at night before. He didn't realize you couldn't see the horizon. The water is the same pitch-black as the sky, the two blending seamlessly together into one endless expanse of void. He stares into it, mesmerized. He can't look away. 

He shivers, but not from the cold.

He doesn't like it. He doesn't like the invisible line, the void with no beginning or end that looks as though if he leaned too far forward he could fall into it forever. A sea with no bottom, a sky he can drown in, with no real distinction between the two. Just one void. One deep, terrible, unknowable void. 

…I can't see the moon. Has it drowned that as well? 

He doesn't want to look at it anymore, but he can't stop himself. It consumes his vision, his mind. The sky-sea is all there is. 

He sits. At least this way, he can see where it begins, if not where it ends. The foam of the waves, the gentle ebb and flow, turning soft, dry sand into hard mud. The tide licks his fingers, and it feels nice. For the first time this night, the sting of cold isn't numbing, but bracing, just as he remembers it. He puts all his focus into that, and rests. 

~~~~~

“-NGEL!” 

Huh…….?

“ÁNGEL! THERE… YOU ARE! WHAT THE HELL, WE'VE BEEN LOOKING….. EVERYWHERE… for…. urgh. Shit. Fuck. I think I hate sand now.” 

Is that…?

“Dude.” Another voice.

Vivi. And the other one is…

“Oliver! And- and Vivi!” Ángel scrambles to his feet. “I was, uh…” What exactly was he doing? Staring at the ocean, or something. His fingers are numb. He puts them in his mouth. Salty.

“You left your phone, goofus.” Vivi holds up said phone to demonstrate, the glare of the flashlight piercing his eyes. “C'mon, let's go. Heeeere boy, pspspspsps.” 

It's too dark to see her expression, but her voice is tense and hurried. Irritable, maybe, but also scared. Ángel's chest twinges with pain. He worried her. Another silhouette – Oliver – appears to be leaning heavily on her shoulder and-

Oh god.

“O-Oliver!” Ángel rushes up to him, the fog of his mind cut through with guilt and worry. Oliver came all the way out here on a broken ankle, hobbling through the sand with crutches in the middle of the night because he disappeared and he just sat there the whole time brooding like an asshole and- 

Ángel attempts to place a hand on Oliver's shoulder, but he jerks away at the first hint of touch, as if struck with a jolt of electricity. 

“Let's just go.” He grumbles, not looking Ángel in the eye. 

Ah. 

So that's how it happens, huh. Didn't expect the fuckup to come quite so soon, and certainly not like this, but if there's one thing Ángel is good at, it's coming up with new and innovative ways to ruin things. Truly a mind like no other. 

It used to hurt, when something ended. It still stings, sure, and he'll probably cry his eyes out about it when he's getting shitfaced in a hotel room later, but for now it's just… cold. A coldness at the center of his chest. A distance between him and the rest of himself, like his feelings are shouting at him from the end of a long tunnel. He's grateful. If he broke down now, he would just make everything worse. Better to just walk along in silence. 

He lags a bit behind the other two. Vivi is helping Oliver, head in a constant state of movement, eyes darting to scan the area for any hidden threats. Every now and then, her gaze lingers on Ángel for a few seconds and he flashes a smile. She doesn't reciprocate. Ouch.

There's a nervous energy about her that wasn't there before. A grim reminder that no one got out unscathed. She's different. Even if she acts the same, or similar, she's different now and she'll never be quite the same person she was before. And it hurts so bad. 

“Ah! Bench.” Vivi's keen observation skills come in handy. There is indeed a bench. 

“Oh thank god.” Oliver exhales, sinking his entire weight into the probably freezing cold bench. Vivi joins him. Ángel stays where he is.

“I'll call an Uber. I still have your address in my phone, so basically you can never hide from me now. No take-backsies.” Vivi whips out her own phone and sticks out her tongue – a telltale sign that she is in focus mode and does not want to be interrupted. The silence is suffocating. Ángel really wishes he still had his lighter. He bothers the sore on his lip with his teeth. 

He has to say something. It won't save him – if anything, it'll just make everything worse. But he can't just stay here and accept this. The pain is kicking in now, sooner than he had hoped. That crazed, maddening ache that thrashes around and claws at the inside of his ribcage, wanting nothing more than to tear its way out of him like a wild animal.

“Oli, I-” 

“ÁNGEL, COULD YOU PLEASE JUST BE QUIET!?” Oliver snaps. 

His voice is like a thunderclap. A slap in the face. Both turn to look at him in an instant, because holy fucking hell??? 

Oliver's shoulders are tensed, his feet perched up on the seat of the bench. His face can't be seen behind his knees, but his hands are buried in his own hair with a white-knuckled grip. He is all hard edges, not an ounce of softness, each breath carrying a threatening sharpness not unlike the unsheathing of a knife. He is seething. 

Oh.

Well. 

He made it worse. 

Yayyyyy. 

Ángel's mouth is too dry to speak. He's not even sure if he can move. He feels dizzy.

Vivi suffers no such hindrance. “...Dude, what th-”

“You too! Just. Both of you. Quiet. Now. …Please.”

Vivi makes a small grunt, clearly unhappy with this, but doesn't protest. She wordlessly stands up, pushes Ángel's phone into his hands, and begins typing on her own.

He gets a text.

vivisection 🔥😈 >> u ok? 

<< not really  

vivisection 🔥😈 >> yeah figured. It's valid. if it's any consolation i don't think he is either

Ángel starts typing. ‘it's my fau’

vivisection 🔥😈 >> NOT UR FAULT

Hah. Of course. He really should stop reusing lines, this is getting old by now.

<< thanks. but also. [X] douvvht

Dammit. A tear fell on the screen while he was typing. He's crying now, because of course he is. Stop doing that. Stop crying. Not here. Not now.

<< *doubt. fuck

vivisection 🔥😈 >> I'm rlly sorry idk what his problem is. This is rlly weird he seemed cool!!! well not cool but like nice and silly and nonthreatening ig like a little woodland creature in a jacket or smthg. He was worried abt u earlier so maybe it's a stress thing but also holy shit man???? 

<< stress mljmakes sense. these past few days have been fucked. i've been fugked. i just wanna forget it all honesggb 

vivisection 🔥😈 >> “i've been fucked” waow kinda a weird time to tell me that but congrats dude 

<< GSVDVDVDVDGG STOPGHHDGGG

<< but really. im not in the mood for jokes rn sorry

vivisection 🔥😈 >> ah yeah makes sense sorry. Just a reflex

vivisection 🔥😈 >> Seriously, though. You didn't deserve that. Even with all The Horrors he shouldn't have lashed out at you, you did nothing wrong. 

<< Yyou say 5yat  but this alsways happens!!! every fuckingc time. like sure some guys are assholes but afte r d certain point its pretty clear its a me thingm. im the asshole. or sonetging idk. im too mamy things I think

vivisection 🔥😈 >> okay. Maybe. sure. I will admit I've seen a pattern but like. You're cool!!! I wouldnt've stuck with you if you weren't cool. Some people just quit too early and y'know what? Their loss! Insert Patrick Star ‘I guess you're going to miss the panty raid’ screenshot here. they don't know what they're missing king

vivisection 🔥😈 >> Also. I can't make a full judgement yet, but I don't really think he hates you. I think this is maybe just a right now thing. mby wait it out and see? We kinda have to get back to the appt first anyway

vivisection 🔥😈 >> u can do whatever you want after that. Just know that whatever happens, I'll be with ya, k? I'm on your side

vivisection 🔥😈 >> whether u like it or not >:3. u cannot escape, we are sworn brothers (gender chaotic neutral), bond forged in war and sealed in blood 

After that, she sends an image of two kittens cuddling, labeled ‘me’ and ‘you’ and covered in glittery filters and heart emojis. Ángel can't help but smile. He still feels fucking awful, and has given up on the whole ‘not crying’ thing, because, yeah, no, that ship has long since sailed and the best he can hope for at this point is not to audibly ugly-sob. But he feels warm now, at least. Sort of. A smoldering warmth in his chest amidst the category 5 shitstorm that is everything else. It helped. She helped, a lot.

He's so lucky to have her.

<< thanks. really, i really needed that

vivisection 🔥😈 >> np. I love u bitch no hetero :P

<< ily2 no hetero

They stand in silence a bit longer. The Uber arrives. Oliver has slowly unraveled from his ball of panic-slash-rage, but still remains silent, refusing to look anywhere but at the ground. 

They enter the car. Vivi sits between them, hand on Ángel's shoulder. The ride is silent and not particularly long. They make it back to the building and Oliver manages the stairs by himself.

The apartment is warm, a welcome contrast from the freezing, merciless night they'd just endured. Oliver crashes on the couch and Mozilla rubs against him, making biscuits on his chest. Vivi, meanwhile, stares daggers into him. 

“So are you gonna explain what the hell that was? Cause that wasn't very funky fresh of you back there.” 

“Whuh…?” Oliver looks up at the two of them for a second, before his eyes fall on Ángel and he jolts up in alarm. “Oh! Oh god, Ángel, I-”

Is it that obvious I've been crying!? 

Ángel squirms, turning his head slightly to hide his eyes. Not that it would really do much good now.

“Answer for your crimes.” Vivi presses.

Ah, wait, no, this isn't what he wants. This is not a situation he wants to happen at all. Ángel tries to say something to defuse this line of questioning before it escalates any further, but the words don't come out fast enough. 

“I'm sorry, I'm- God, I'm really sorry, I don't know why that happened, I- I haven't lashed out like that in years, I didn't mean to…” Oliver lifts his feet up onto the couch and sits with his head tucked into his knees once more. His brow is tensed and he tugs at his own hair, eyes fixed on the ground. His voice chokes up. Oh no. 

“I'm okay!” Ángel shouts, it's okay it's okay please don't cry. “It was just… unexpected, is all. I know everything has been… a lot. I understand.” 

“Well I don't! You gotta spill the beans, cause otherwise it just looks like you were being a dick for no reason.” 

“Vivi-”

“What? I'm being honest. If we don't know what the problem was then how are we supposed to keep it from happening again?” 

“It doesn't usually happen!” Oliver yelps. “I mean… It shouldn't! Anymore. I'm sorry, I don't know what…” He takes a deep breath. “I, erm… I am very sorry for lashing out, Ángel. I was under a lot of stress and sometimes everything is too much and I just need everyone to be quiet and leave me alone, but I could've expressed that better.” His words are slow and measured, as if putting in a conscious effort to speak clearly through the shake in his voice. He takes a deep breath. Or what's probably supposed to be a deep breath. He does not seem to be having an easy time with it. “I, uh… I used to freak out like that a lot, when I was younger. But it's been years since it's gotten that bad, I didn't- I… I really thought I'd be okay! I don't know what's gotten into me. I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry…” He chews on a strand of his hair, tears welling in his eyes.

“Ah.” Ángel really wishes he were good at dealing with other people's feelings. At least he can confidently say he's better at it than he is at dealing with his own. “...Hey, hey, it's okay! Don't cry…” He sits down at Oliver's side, lifting his own feet onto the couch to match his position. It feels more equal that way. He almost puts a hand on his shoulder, but stops himself. Probably not a good time for that. “I'm not mad at you. It's kind of a relief, honestly… That I'm not the problem. Hehe…” Why did I say that. I had no reason to say that. Now he's just going to worry…

Oliver looks up at him with wide, reddened eyes. “Why would you be the problem? You've- you've been wonderful, Ángel.”

“Oh, um…” Ángel clears his throat. It's still weird and sore from crying. He looks over at Vivi. She's sitting on the edge of the coffee table, watching them intently. She tilts her head at him. He sighs. “Just. Me disappearing like that. I didn't mean to worry you, you're already dealing with a lot, so it must've… Yeah. I don't blame you for blowing up.” 

Oliver sniffles. “I don't know why I did that. I'm not an angry person anymore, I don't do that. I don't want to go back to that… I worked so hard to not go back to that.”

Ah. Something awful clicks into place. Ángel understands that feeling. Maybe not exactly, but the same sort of fear. Seeing old behaviors slip through the cracks. Years of progress being undone. All the bad parts of yourself climbing back up to the surface. It's probably one of the most terrifying and humiliating feelings a person can have. He knows it all too well, he just didn't expect Oliver to feel like that. He always seemed so… not Ángel. Different. Better. A guy with less embarrassing problems to deal with, ones that come from the outside rather than within. He holds out his hand where Oliver can see it. Oliver takes it, squeezes, and then- Oh. 

He sinks his weight into Ángel, sobbing into his shoulder. Ángel wraps his arms around him immediately, of course, but this is uh. Unexpected.

“I don't want to get worse again….” Oliver whispers. His fingers tighten around the fabric of Ángel's shirt. He's shaking. “What's going to happen if I get worse again?” 

Okay, Ángel needs to say something comforting now. He absolutely cannot fuck this up, which makes it all the more irritating that his mind is completely blank and his head feels like it's stuffed with wet cottonballs. He opens his mouth and hopes something at least vaguely helpful comes out.

“...You'll get better again.” 

Huh. Wow, that was actually kind of good. Perhaps even… true? Maybe? 

The two sit together like this for a while. Seconds, minutes… Slowly but surely, Oliver's breathing eases. The feeling of relief permeates through both of them.

“...Damn. This sucks.” They look up. Vivi. Ah. She's just been there, the whole time. Well, she's far from the worst person to have a sopping wet homosexual breakdown in front of. “And you wanna know what the worst part is?”

“...What?” Oliver croaks. Ángel sees the punchline coming mere milliseconds before it happens. There is nothing he can do to stop it.

“We still have to deal with Godzilla at some point.” 

“PFFFFFFFFHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! STOP!!!!” Ángel doubles over in laughter. Dammit. That always gets him. “Please, don't- don't bring Godzilla into this!”

Oliver glances between the two of them with an expression of utter perplexity. “What? What is this? What does Godzilla have to do with this?”

“Oh my-” Ángel chokes. “Oh my god, he doesn't even know the lore, you can't just drop that on him like that!”

“I can and I will!” Vivi beams. “...Alright, that got you laughing. I'll go make you two wet cats some cocoa, you can talk about your feelings and cry more if you want, I'll be pretending not to hear.” She pivots and walks right through the kitchen door without any further comment.

“Wait! You can't just leave me in the dark like that! What's the Godzilla lore!?” 

“I'll tell you later, Beebest.” Ángel wraps an arm around Oliver's shoulder and kisses him on the side of the head. Oli lets out a giggle. 

“Fine. But you have to deliver. You have me invested now.” He pauses. “...Wait, Ángel! You need to eat something, you've barely had anything in the past…” Ángel can see Oliver begin to do mental math and grow increasingly horrified by the second. He must put an end to this quickly before it turns into another panic attack.

“Okay, okay! I'll order takeout.” He pulls out his phone. “...Chinese okay? I'm kinda in the mood for greasy and salty right now.” 

“That sounds good.” Oliver smiles. The expression drops after a second. “...You were acting strangely, earlier today. I didn't want to say anything, but you seemed off at the beach too. If anything's on your mind, you can talk about it.” 

Oh no, my demons. His finger freezes over the button to add more shrimp fried rice to his order. He would really rather not talk about this, but Oliver already opened up to him. Fair is fair. Equivalent exchange and all that.

“...It's stupid, really.” He clears his throat. “I mean. I dunno. I guess I was worried you'd just… realize you didn't like me? I mean, we barely know each other, and I don't exactly have the best track record with relationships. I figured I'd just fuck it up somehow.” 

“Ángel…” 

“Like I said, stupid, huh? I mean, we basically just made it out of hell and then immediately I start worrying about something like a breakup? I should just be grateful for the whole ‘not being dead’ thing, but alas. My demons.” His eyes are starting to sting. He doesn't think he has another full-blown cry left in him tonight, but the agonies continue to torment him.

“It's not stupid.” Oliver takes hold of Ángel's hand. “You're right, we don't really know each other.”  

Pause. 

“...I want to get the chance to, though. Maybe we'll work, maybe we won't. But we won't know until we try. And I really, really, want to make it work.” 

Their fingers close around each other. Ángel squeezes. “...Me too.” 

“Then let's do it.” Oliver kisses Ángel's forehead. In an instant, his entire body fills with warmth. Not literal. …Maybe literal? More like just… Comfort. Belonging. For the first time in days, he feels safe. Better savor this feeling while it lasts.

"...I might try therapy again." Ángel mutters.

"That's a good idea." Oliver smiles. Well, presumably smiles. Ángel is currently staring down at the cracks in the floor, but he's pretty sure he can hear a smile in Oliver's voice. "I can help you look f- ...Wait, 'again'?" 

"Oh, uh. Yeah." Shit. Ángel glances off at the wall, chewing on his inner cheek. He can feel his face growing hot. "It's kinda a funny story, a friend convinced me to go to therapy once and I figured I'd give it a go, nothing better to do with my life. And it helped! I became a happy and functional adult. I felt so hyped up and great about myself all the time that I figured I'd ride that high and spend my time living it up and chasing new thrills, and it wasn't like I needed therapy anymore anyway so I, uh. Stopped going to my sessions. And threw out all my medications. ........It did not go well.

Oliver stares into him with a look that could crumple him like a piece of paper. His lips are pursed, and Ángel can tell there are several things he could be saying right now that he is actively biting back. 

"Hey! Don't look at me like that! It was years ago!"

Vivi enters the room, three mugs clutched in her crafty little gremlin hands. Thank god. Vivi coming to my salvation as always, trusted fiend that she is. "I brought the good stuff. Hot cocoa, fancy style, definitely not drugged. …What!? I'm telling the truth! It is in fact not drugged! Have you no whimsy!?” 

Oliver's demeanor lightens. He rummages through his pockets and slips something cold into Ángel's hands. “This is yours.” He gives him one more quick kiss before turning back to Vivi to thank her and accept the completely innocent and undrugged hot chocolate. 

Ángel looks down. It's his lighter. Scuffed and a bit dirty, but not lost forever like he'd assumed. He pockets it. 

And so the three sit together, eating, drinking, and watching bad movies under a pile of blankets. It's peaceful, save for a singular incident of Firefox running off with a piece of shrimp. They unanimously agree to count their battles on this one. He can have a little shrimp. As a treat. Ángel is surprised at just how exhausted he is. He can barely stay awake through the first movie and by the second he begins to half-jokingly wonder if Vivi really did drug the cocoa. They decide to call it an early night and sleep in the bed this time (neither of them would like to deal with the joint pain that comes with sleeping on a couch for two days straight.) 

Ángel falls asleep in a warm, comfortable bed – body intertwined with another, fingers buried in each other's hair, hypnotized by the rhythm of Oliver's breathing. Things have been hard on them both. Fucked up. Traumatic. He's probably gonna be dealing with the fallout of this for the rest of his life. But right now, in this bed, nestled in warmth with the weight of a cat on his back and the faint sound of traffic outside – in this moment, everything feels okay.