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Chapter Text

He was about to open his mouth to say something, but was stopped short by a furious vibration from his pocket.

"You don't need us to help you get fucked up," a sickeningly familiar voice chimed in during his verbal lapse, "you've done a perfectly good job so far on your own."

A sickeningly familiar voice with sickeningly familiar advice.

He sat on a worn wooden chair in a pub of his hometown, surrounded by four other men who he no longer knew. Four men - no longer boys - whose minds had been dulled and eccentricities nullified by the time they'd all reached their thirties; (his pocket was vibrating again) whose conversations once followed a jagged path of music, drugs and girls, but now danced around on small talk about what jobs they've been working; (his phone was still ringing) whose days had shortened and temper had quickened, no longer amused by what he could pull out of a hat, but now annoyed merely by his presence. (Who the hell was calling him?) Four men - no longer boys - who had just simply grown up.

The familiar voice started up again, "I'm gonna go and see if there's a bus back to London, if anyone wants to come with me," he sighed.

He decided, then and there, that he refused to grow up with them.

"You can't go!" He pleaded. "This is special." By now he seriously doubted that any of them would agree with him on this, but he had to say something, anything, to stop them from leaving. It didn't matter if it was the first lie that he could come up with: "This is our anniversary." Why would they have bothered to remember the date it had happened, anyway?

"It's not the anniversary, Gary," a different voice corrected him from his left, "We did this in June. It's October."

He felt a spark of...something in his chest. It could have been pride over the fact that holy, shit! They actually care enough to remember! Wait, did he say that it was October? I thought it was still March, but it could also be the three and a half pints of beer finally kicking in.

He scrambled for another reason to keep them on his side. "Y-Yeah, but it's the anniversary of the year, isn't it?"

"Every year is the anniversary of a year!"

His pocket vibrated against his side.

"It's just not the same anymore, Gary." The familiar voice was back. He couldn't help but notice how tired it sounded, how devoid of character and lifeless it seemed, how used and rundown it was compared to twenty years ago: how unfamiliar the familiar voice actually was. "And it's not that the town's changed," he said, and time stopped. Or at least his heart did. Or maybe his heart didn't stop, it just clambered its way down to his shoes, grovelling, shrivelling up at the familiar voice's words in the soles of his Dr. Martens, as the best friend he'd ever had laid out his biggest fear right in front of him to see: "we have changed."

His phone vibrated again, and he finally gave it the light of day, if not only for the shield that it provided for him between himself and the four strangers seated at his sides.

His heart, having only just climbed up back to his chest, plummeted again as he read the caller ID.

He hit decline.

"Yeah, well, you can't go," he applauded himself on the artificial steadiness of his voice as he displayed the phone screen to the others, showing the lateness of the hour like a badge, "'cause the buses are finished." He tossed his phone on the table in front of him, knowing that now, they couldn't possibly leave him again.

"Then I'm gonna go back to the B&B."

His heart, God rest its soul, had already free-fallen twice in that conversation, and now it was as if a rusty metal knife had pierced its vulnerable back. As the others all agreed to leaving, he felt the knife being turned and pushed deeper, slowly, mercilessly penetrating its deepest defences and causing him to bleed out from the inside.

"You know what I think?" His mouth had opened and the words were spilling out before he could tell them not to. "I think you're jealous." The others all looked at him incredulously, but the only thing running through his mind was any attention is good attention. If they're looking at you, then at least they're not leaving. "Yeah, you've got your houses and your cars and your wives and your job security. But you don't have what I have. Freedom. You're all slaves and I'm free to do what I want any old time."

"And this is what you want?" Yes, it is. "You should grow up, mate." No, I shouldn't. "Join society." ...Are they playing Inspiral Carpets right now?

"Yeah, but..." he swallowed, "Mum died." He almost didn't catch himself gesturing to the discarded phone lying on the table.

"And we're all very sorry, but now it's time to go home."

Yeah, that's definitely Inspiral Carpets.

"I thought we were home."

He stood up from his seat and pushed it in messily, almost as if he was a teenager whose parents had just shouted at to go to his room. He stormed across the pub floor, eyes searching for an easy out; a place where he could be alone. He found a door towards the back of the bar, where the surrounding tables had given it a wide berth for all those walking in and out of it. Perfect, he thought bitterly, no one will be able to hear my breakdown. He pushed the door open with his side and stepped outside, freshly cut grass under his shoes and crisp night air entering his lungs.

Chapter Text

The bandages wrapped around his wrists felt even tighter now more than ever, and he could hardly restrain himself from clawing at them and freeing himself from the shackles that faceless doctors had bound him in.

From standing outside the back of the pub, he could hear the music thumping quieter as the sounds of young boy's jokes and cheers carried over the songs. There'd been a group of five of them, all around 17 (too young to get into a pub, anyway - Gary could tell that much) surrounding the pool table and probably having one of the best nights of their lives.

Gary sighed.

All he'd wanted was to return to that night. To be young again, with the world at his feet, the universe in his hands, and his mates by his side.

He couldn't comprehend how his friends didn't feel the same. How could they have changed so much? How could they have become the boring, grey, lifeless drones that willingly worked their life away everyday that they were awake? How come he could barely recognise who they really were anymore?

It's you, an annoying voice niggled at the back of his mind. They left you. Grew up without you. They changed, as they should do, and you're still stuck in fucking 1990.

He ignored the voice. He'd gotten quite good at that.

He went to go reach for a cigarette from his pocket but was cut short when the door beside him knocked open with such force that he thought it was sure to fly off the hinges and break something in its path.

"You need to explain this, right now!" He barely heard himself being screamed at before his body was pinned to the pub's wall by one Andy Knightley. If it wasn't for what he had yelled, Gary King would have been a very happy man right then.

"You know who I just talked to?" Andy's voice invaded his ears before he had the chance to grace his former best friend with an answer. "Your mum!"

Andy's grip on Gary's shirt tightened as he viciously shook his shoulders, causing his head to rudely collide with the wall of the pub. A weak "What?" escaped his mouth as his halfway drunk brain tried to comprehend what Andy had said.

He continued, "And not from the afterlife; from fucking Bournemouth!"

Gary's eyes snapped shut, unable to look any longer at the crude mix of anger and disappointment on Andy's face. He groaned. Of course she had to go and call him now, of all nights. Couldn't it have waited just one more day? Or even a week? A month? Year, even? He doubted he would even be alive for that long, though. He'd had planned this whole night out perfectly, but now that a gigantic wrench had been thrown in it (to be frank with himself, however, even he of all people could see now that it truly had been fucked from the start), he'd have to go and rearrange the evening events.

"Andy..." he groaned, voice far too shaky for his liking, "listen, you don't understand-"

"No, Gary, it's you who doesn't understand. She said she hadn't spoken to you for eight months!"

"Andy-"

"No!" Andy yelled, and Gary's breath got caught in his throat; he hadn't heard him sound this pissed since the December of 1997. "You are not going to wriggle out of it this time, Gary!"

A voice spoke up. "Andy, you're making a bit of a scene," Peter Page whispered.

Next thing Gary knew, he was seated on the dust and stain ridden couch of their motel room, staring directly into the fiery, raging pits that were Andy's eyes.

"I can't believe this," he started.

No one said anything. Steven Prince was seated diagonally across from both of them, constantly looking between the two as if there was a tennis match going on that only he could see. Oliver Chamberlain was leaning on the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, tapping the fingers that would rather be sending a very important, grown up, business-y email right now against his pinstripe sleeve. Peter was currently doing his best to stay invisible by blending in with the one of the room's dark corners.

Andy looked down and shook his head, his mouth forming a thin line that curved upwards only with spite. "What am I talking about? It's you!" He looked back up, and Gary was almost certain that if he wasn't careful, that stare would burn holes into the back of his head. "Of course I do!"

Andy slammed Gary's phone onto the coffee table as he stood from his chair, using enough force that it must've woken the neighbours downstairs. Nobody but Gary flinched.

Andy stared pacing around the room as the silence between the five seemed to suffocate them in the form of a thick, awkward blanket.

Gary fidgeted, unable to stand the quiet. "It was a white lie," he mumbled, although he wasn't exactly sure if he was trying to convince Andy or himself.

"What was that?"

Gary sighed. He hated it when Andy used that tone.

"It was a white lie," he raised his voice as he looked up at Andy, which it turns out, was probably a mistake. He looked about ready to rip his head clean off his shoulders.

"How is that a white lie?!"

"Well, she's not dead, is she?!"

Steven and Oliver barely had enough time or strength to hold Andy back after he had lunged at Gary. All five of them were on their feet now, shouting at each other to either 'calm the fuck down' or to 'sort your fucking life out, mate.' Before any of them could get at each other's necks and draw first blood, however, a knock on the door interrupted their rather heated dispute.

"Hello? Excuse me? Hello? Would you care to open the door, please?"

The voice behind the door was that of an old woman's: concerned and loving, with a hint of tenacity. No doubt the owner of the motel coming up to check what all their fuss was about. Four of them all turned to Gary at once; ever since the start of high school they'd expected him to deal with all outside threats and authority - after all, he was their king, wasn't he?

He shoved past them, delivering a rather hefty elbow to Andy in particular. He opened the door slowly, only letting it crack open to where the chain and bolt lock allowed it to.

"Yes?" He felt that he really should be receiving some sort of praise for how steady and sober he managed to make his voice sound.

The lady seemed like a deer caught in the headlights, as if she wasn't expecting Gary to actually open the door. "Is everything all right in there?"

Gary nodded, wanting nothing more than to get back to his friends and continue to tear each other apart. Sure, it wasn't exactly how he'd envisioned this evening turning out, nor was it exactly what he'd wanted, but at least he was finally spending time around his closest friends in the world after nearly twenty years apart. "Yes, thank you, we're fine."

He started to close the door before she clasped her hand around its side, slightly pushing it open and forcing him to step back a bit.

"Oh! Uh, are you sure?" Her voice had turned sickly sweet, like a grandmother who was only paying attention to her grandkids because her own children had told her to do so. "Because I seemed to have heard-"

"Uh, no, it's alright," he interrupted, pushing the door to a close a little quicker now. "We're fine, thank you."

She stuck her foot in between the door and the frame. "Are you absolutely sur-"

"Yes!" He snapped the door open (as far as it could go without breaking the chain) and she jumped back, eyes wide and mouth hanging open slightly. "We- we're- we're just alright ma'am, thank you. We're peachy," he smiled, nodding to her as if they were old mates. He then lowered his voice a bit, as if the words he was speaking were taboo, "We've, well, we've had a bit to drink, you see. We're all fine though, we promise. We'll try to keep it down."

Her brows furrowed and her gaze looked down to the floor, almost as if she'd forgotten something and the memory was just out of her grasp. She looked over her shoulder, then back at Gary, and then over his shoulder, all before inhaling and exclaiming, "Oh, alrighty then!"

And with that she was on her way. Gary sighed and closed the door quietly, taking a moment to collect himself before he could barge back into the battlefield.

He turned around, and in his way was the dearest friend he'd ever had, staring at him like he wouldn't be opposed to watching a savage pack of wolves tear his fragile body apart limb from limb.

Andy, not for the first time that night, grabbed Gary's shoulders and pulled him closer to his face.

"I am not done with you."

Chapter Text

It was 9:00 PM.

They were filing out of the B&B one by one, heads hanging between their shoulders and feet directing them towards the Beast. At least, that was the plan, anyway. They'd only made it to the lobby until someone had stopped them; someone with a sugary voice sweet enough to make your teeth fall out.

"Oh, leaving already?" The five collectively let an exasperated sigh leave their lips. The landlady. "Why, you haven't even stayed the night yet! Don't you want to hang about for another day or so; see the sights?"

Andy turned around. Clicked his tongue as if he was disappointed. "Unfortunately, ma'am, we've all decided to head back into the city for now. It was nice seeing the town again but...you know how it is. Things change."

Her lips turned to a thine line that forced itself into a quote unquote smile, "Oho, I see. Was the ol' Golden Mile a bit too much for you boys, then?"

Gary grumbled at this while Andy let out a noise that sounded like a strangled cough impersonating a polite chuckle.

"Oh, actually, that reminds me," Oliver interjected from in front of the door, "I nearly forgot. I've left my phone charger upstairs. Won't be a minute."

He rushed past the other four men, grabbed the discarded room key from the counter and disappeared up the stairs.

They waited for him in the Beast.

They waited for a good ten minutes.

Andy, although rightfully suspicious as to why he was taking so long, was grateful for the wait. It gave him time to think. Within the ten or so minutes of being enclosed in the most awkward bubble of air between more than one person, Andy had realised that he had never been more correct in his life than when he had presumed that Gary King had not changed one bit. He was tapping his fingers on his knees, feet thumping a beat against the car floor and a small semblance of a Pulp song falling out of his lips cloaked underneath a hum. The same seat settings had remained since before the turn of the millennium (despite the replacement of said seats) - Andy could tell when he sat in the driver's: his head hung halfway off of the top of the headrest and he had to make his feet reach that one extra centimetre to connect them to the pedals. Cassette tapes and cigarette buds littered the backseats; Andy was sure that even if the whole car had basically been ripped apart and put back together again, the smokes and songs from their youth would still stick to the car like glue. Even the smell remained.

The whole ordeal had started to make Andy nostalgic; a golden flower of the 90's blooming within his chest and planting roots of young adulthood in his stomach. Any other time he would scoff at Gary for the lack of anything remotely resembling the 21st century (or a colour other than black, for that matter), but in this moment he let himself get slingshot back in time to when he didn't have to worry about his marriage, the kids, the law firm, job security, synonyms for things that he was convinced that Gary would never achieve, financial stability, and just simply sat. Nothing special or overwhelming. He finally let the man beside him bring him back to the past. He sat, not worrying about any of his troubles, in the driver's seat of the car belonging to a man who he hadn't called a friend in a lifetime, waiting for someone who he hadn't talked to in close to ten years with two other people sitting behind him, not one of them making a sound.

Andy sighed, and he found himself back in 2013 again. He sighed, and told himself to cut that sentimental bullshit out.

When Oliver returned, he didn't come near the car.

"Andy," he called from the doorway of the motel, "could you come here, please?"

Andy opened his door and stepped out of the car, but still chose to stand within its doorway. "What is it?" He called back.

"Could you just come here, please, Andy?"

Andy looked back into the car at Gary. He didn't nod, shrug, make a face or even say 'What're looking at me for?' to indicate that he'd ever noticed Andy and Ollie's brief conversation; he just wordlessly looked out his window.

Andy exhaled through his nose and closed the door behind him. He'd almost slammed it in Gary's stupid face, but thought better of it at the last second. He briskly walked to the entrance of the motel, asking a small "Yeah?" before Oliver led him further into the building, out of sight from the three left in the car.

Chapter Text

He didn't know why, and he didn't know how, but they were back on the crawl.

The strobing lights of The Mermaid synced up with the pumping of his blood as he danced among kids younger than half his age to songs that he had never even heard of before. He jumped in time with the thumping beats of the music, his eight pints of beer slushing dangerously in his stomach, daring to return back into the world via a disgusting trip back up his oesophagus.

Maybe it was dumb luck. Maybe it was a dream. Frankly, he didn't care what it was, as long as he still downed a pint in every bar.

As the music lulled in between songs, he saw someone walking up to him from his peripherals. It was Oliver.

No, wait, no it wasn't. It was Peter.

No, wrong again. Andy.

No. Someone he'd never seen before.

They'd started talking to him before he got the chance to figure it out.

"Gary, are you okay?"

Internally, he laughed.

No. "Yeah! Never better, mate," he shouted over the start of the new song.

"Are you having fun, Gary?"

He almost faltered in his step. Almost; not enough to notice on the crowded dance floor.

He swallowed. Smiled. Nodded. "Why're you asking?"

They copied his smile. Shrugged. Laughed. "Just asking."

They were quiet in their walking away - granted, there was music being blasted so loud that he felt like the pop singers had held up a megaphone in front of their mic and then turned the speaker directly to Gary's ears, except this was a different sort of quiet. The quiet that makes you uneasy, as if it could be right behind you at any time, ready to pounce, and you wouldn't be able to tell. The quiet that slips into place a little too easily, as if it is trying to convince you that yes, this is normal. Yes, this is comfortable. Yes, this is good. The quiet that, had Gary'd noticed, had been infused deep down into the bones of Newton Haven.

Gary shook the thought out of his head, grabbed a few more drinks, and continued to dance until his legs were sore and his ears were numb.

He managed to leave The Mermaid, however reluctantly, only passing through its doors because he knew that The Beehive beckoned. He galloped out of the pub's clutches, rushing to lead his trusty musketeers onward through the night, through the battle, managing miraculously to only stumble a few times over the sidewalk that, for some reason, seemed to be tilting now.

Suddenly, he felt something akin to a vice grip wrap around his upper arm and was jerked out of his drunken momentum to come face to face with Steven.

"Gary, something's wrong," he claimed, apparently making it his sole duty to frantically look everywhere on the street except at Gary.

Gary hung his arm around Steven's neck after shaking it loose from his grip. He pulled the other man closer (probably closer than necessary, but whatever. Someone had once called him a Professional Invader of Personal Space, and he'd been very flattered), his smile seeping into his words. "What? No, no, Stevie-baby, nothing's wrong!" He patted Steve on the chest for good measure. "Everything's just all right."

He'd decided that he was now having the time of his life. Everything was going absolutely smoothly. (Well, that's what he'd thought anyway. If you were to ask him if there had been any slight mishaps that night; any bumps in the road whatsoever, he would've smiled widely and shook his head.)

"No, I'm telling you, something's wrong."

Gary frowned at the alcoholic scent coming from Steve's mouth, in that: there was none. He must've stopped drinking at around The Cross Hands. Gary frowned even more. Well, no matter. That was all good. Everything was still good.

"What do you mean?" Gary asked, attempting to lower the volume in his voice to match Steven's, but it just ended up a slurred jumble of words sounding more like 'whaajuumeen?'

"Look around you," he gestured at the stiff people on the street, "look at the guys."

Andy, Peter and Oliver were walking briskly to The Beehive, all stepping in rhythm with each other, hands in their coat pockets.

"They're having fun," Gary decided. He turned to Steve and raised his voice, "We're all-"

"Shush, shush, shh!" Steve cut off Gary's cry of joy by shoving his hand in his face. He grabbed Gary's shoulders. "Gary, look at me! I don't know what it is, but something's not right here anymore." He looked back into the street again, except in the wrong direction - he was looking in the direction of the B&B. "Maybe Andy was right about leaving..."

Gary swatted off Steve's hands and stepped back from him. "You know what I think?" Ooh, too much hurt in your voice, King. Pull back the hurt. You're supposed to be having a good time tonight - make sure Steve believes that, too. "I think you've been spending too much time with Basil." He started skipping towards The Beehive, following the other three ahead of him. "C'mon Steve," he waved his hand as if to pull his friend closer to him, "it's time to stop riding that old nutter's dick and just let loose!"

He picked up the pace, almost running, to catch up with the others. He whooped and cheered, urging smiles out of his old friends as they crashed through the doors of pub number nine.

At some point in The Beehive, Steve had excused himself to go to the bathroom.

Steven Prince never brought up any more grievances that night.

Chapter Text

When Gary King woke up, he was eighteen.

He didn't know why his age seemed to be worth noting, but for some reason, it did. He was eighteen. He was always eighteen. When was the last time he was eighteen?

The number stuck to his tongue until it didn't taste real anymore.

Eighteen.

That shouldn't be a problem.

So why was it?

Yes, he was eighteen - a teenager - just like he'd always been. Right? This was normal. This was comfortable; good. Yes, he was eighteen - young and free - just like he'd always wanted. This wasn't just good, this was absolutely perfect. Yes, he was eighteen - reckless, careless, hopeless - just as it should be. He was rested on a soft couch in a pub of his hometown, drinking with the only four people in the world that he cared about to the start of the new year.

The numbers were flashing everywhere over their town, everywhere over the Earth, surrounded by bright lights and loud cheers: 2014.

Wait, no. That wasn't right. If he was eighteen on January 1st, 2014, that would mean that he would have been born in...1995. That definitely wasn't right. Was it?

He couldn't tell anymore. Couldn't remember.

He strained to recall his last memory.

There wasn't much there. He couldn't remember any actual events (or conversations, locations, faces, dates, times...), but he could remember what was important: the emotions. Tones of his past, hidden behind dark patches and shadows, only coming to mind when he gave them no other choice.

He remembered. Not a lot, but enough. There was fun. There was controversy. There were ladies, shots and drama. There was drinking. And the colour blue. Lots of blue. Blue all over: invading his memories, deafening his ears, blinding his eyes; blue running through his blood. A monochromatic painting trapped inside his mind.

That didn't help Gary. All it served to do was make his head hurt.

Suddenly, the door to the pub was kicked open, rebounding back off of the adjacent wall and almost hitting the drunken men who had struck it in the first place.

The men - two of them, about in their mid thirties - were obviously not at their first pub that night. Their faces were glowing with joy, smiles seeming to slowly droop off of their faces. They had their arms wrapped around each other's backs, singing (read: shouting) 80's classics as if it was their last night on Earth and they'd demanded to run their throats dry before their inevitable demise. From the way that every other person in the pub dropped what they were doing and turned to stare at the obnoxious couple, it was painfully evident that the two were new in town.

They were new in town, and seriously starting to get onto Gary's nerves.

They were sloppy, rude, loud and had no place to fit into in Newton Haven. They'd interrupted the quiet evening that he was enjoying with his friends. They were absolutely horrid at keeping their singing in tune.

They paused their song for a minute, laughing, and it seemed as though the entire pub simultaneously let out a sigh of relief. But before they could relish in their sweet, undisturbed silence, the men started up again, slurring together a song that Gary recognised as an old Mary Hopkins song:

Once upon a time there was a tavern
Where we used to raise a glass or two
Remember how we laughed away the hours
And think of all the great things we would do...

They laughed, and Gary gritted his teeth. He wished the men would stop.

Those...
were...
the...
days, my friend

Gary's head hurt.

We thought they'd never end

It felt like...someone was piercing his head from the bottom of his skull.

We'd sing and dance forever and a day...

It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop.

We'd live the life we choose

No. No, no, no. It hurts. It hurts so badly. Make it go away, please! Make it not hurt. Take it back, please! Take it away! Take it back!

We'd fight and never lose

Please, make it go away! It hurts so much; why does it hurt so much?

For we were young, and sure to have our way!

Oh.

La la la la la la la...

It's gone.

It was gone. It had disappeared. The last clutches of it had let go without so much as a protest or a shout, or even a kick and a shove. It went away quietly.

They continued to scat the rest of the song's melody, the lyrics lost behind the obstructive wall of alcohol. They grew increasingly louder as the song went on, while their coherency dropped rapidly until it was just a noisy mess of mumbles barely forming a song. People turned and stared, some even going as far as to stand up.

Gary sipped his beer in silence. If the men intruded on the peace any further, they would get what was coming to them.

And perhaps they did. Gary didn't seek out the specifics of what had happened, but two days later, he found them standing amongst their ranks, loyally supporting them in their mission that would no doubt change the Earth forever.

Their mission to discipline the human race.