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Normal isn’t quite sure how to behave around Hermie anymore.
Really, he wasn’t sure how to before, either — but that was for entirely different reasons, thank you very much.
The world isn’t ending anymore. There’s no great rush to figure out who they are and how they fit together and why Normal’s heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of his chest whenever Hermie stands a little too close.
They have all the time in the world now.
Right?
Everything is supposed to be fine.
Everyone else seems to think so, anyway.
Life moved on. School started up again. Linc and Scary went back to soccer. Taylor returned to whatever it is Taylor does when nobody’s looking. The world kept spinning.
Hermie came back.
And Normal—
Normal still can’t forget the feeling of a cold, bloodied body in his arms.
He tries not to think about it. Most days, he’s even successful.
Today is not one of those days.
Hermie had texted him three hours ago: 11:30 PM. Don’t be late.
No explanation. No context. Just a command. Despite the vagueness of the message, Normal would have to be crazy to deny a hangout with Hermie—
—Which is how Normal finds himself standing outside Hermie Unworthy’s front door at exactly 11:29 PM, staring at the clock on his phone and pretending he isn’t nervous.
The seconds drag.
57.
58.
59.
Finally, the numbers flip. Normal shoves his phone into his pocket and knocks — three sharp taps against the wood.
Within mere seconds, the door is swinging open, and Normal is met by one Hermie Unworthy.
And there’s his reminder — he has no idea how to act around Hermie.
All Hermie knows how to do, however, is act. Normal is reminded of this fact when Hermie answers the door in full-costume, immediately producing two hefty duotangs that appear almost-overflowing within the thin plastic covers—scripts, Normal realizes.
Before Normal can even say ‘hi’, or ‘oh wow, Hermie, you look great in that!’, or ‘it’s really great to see you again!’, one of the scripts is being thrust flat against his chest.
“We’re rehearsing,” Hermie says, the corners of his lips angling just the tiniest bit upward. “I have an audition to prepare for.”
Normal blinks.
Slowly, he wraps his fingers around the folder and holds it where Hermie had pressed it against him. “Oh,” He finally answers. “Oh! Uhm— okay! Sure! Er, wait, no— are you sure? It’s almost midnight, and—”
“The arts never sleep, Normal.”
And that is the last thing Normal hears before he’s being tugged inside by the sleeve of his hoodie—Teen High merch, naturally—and ushered silently up the stairs into Hermie’s bedroom.
—
…This isn’t so bad.
Normal isn’t particularly well-acquainted with the art of theatre—not nearly as well as Hermie is, at least—but it’s kind of fun, actually. He doesn’t need to look for the right words, only to stumble over his own tongue and come up empty. No — the words are all right in front of him, at his disposal. No internal rambling or reflection needed!
Some of it is still pretty awkward. He’s not used to acting as anyone other than Teeny—that role has always come fairly easy. Easier than being ‘himself’ ever was, anyway.
Whoever that is.
But at least a script tells you what version of yourself you're supposed to be.
At least there are lines.
At least when you mess up, somebody can point to the page and tell you what should've been said instead.
Hermie doesn’t seem to mind much when Normal’s lines come out shaky or with the wrong tone, though. He only nods encouragingly and waits for him to continue.
There’s no odd stares or whispers. No laughing, or head-shaking, or rude gestures of which he will not be naming. No judgement.
It’s just the two of them.
That’s… new.
It’s nice, he thinks.
Thankfully, they weren’t going through the whole three-hour script tonight; only the final act. Because of this, Normal’s not entirely sure what led up to the current state of events in the play — but when he finishes monologuing and hears a quiet little “Excellent delivery, Normal,” from Hermie, he realizes he doesn’t particularly care.
Hermie could hand him a script written in another language and he’d probably still show up.
As quickly as that thought emerges, Normal shoves it down and continues the reading—their fourth pass at this scene, now. That is not why they’re here. They’re taking it slow, and Normal is being so normal about it! So normal. He does not stare at his ceiling each night for half an hour thinking about Hermie’s smile, or the way his two-toned hair catches the sunlight just right, or—
“Normal.”
There it is again! That’s his name!
Ah, he should say something, right? That seems like the right course of action. What line was he on again? Is this… is this even the right page anymore?
“Normallll?” Hermie calls again, tapping the shorter of the two on the tip of the nose. “Page one-thirty-two?”
“Sorry, sorry!” Normal squeaks out, flipping the page and searching for where Hermie’s last line ends and his own begins.
Hermie lets out a noncommittal hum and goes back to his own script, even though he doesn’t need to look. He probably memorized these lines the first week after receiving the audition excerpts. He’s probably got the whole play down-pat by now, too. Are the actors allowed the full scripts before parts are announced? He isn’t sure. He wonders if Hermie is only looking at his script so Normal doesn’t feel weird about being the only one who doesn’t know the lines…
“Okay, um…” Normal mutters to himself, finally finding his spot—they’re back into regular dialogue now—and tapping at the words gently. He takes a deep breath, letting the air settle and fill his lungs, and continues.
Normal doesn’t know why this scene feels different this time. It shouldn’t. It’s just lines. Just rehearsal. Just acting.
But his grip tightens slightly on the edge of the script anyway, like his hands remember something his mind is trying not to.
His own voice cuts through the thought before he allows it to fully form.
“I heard about the battle months after it ended,” he breathes, slipping back into the role given to him.
“And?” Hermie calls quietly, having stepped a few feet back, now.
Normal’s fingers stutter, the tips of them hovering just above the pages, his other hand gripping tight to the flimsy spine of the plastic folder.
The scene feels all too familiar to him, and he’s sure it’s not just because they’re on their fourth reading. No — it’s because somewhere between page one-thirty and one-forty, it stopped feeling like fiction.
“…And they told me you’d died,” Normal says at last.
Hermie scoffs, his face a mix of disbelief and annoyance, and Normal feels a pang of something sharp and rotten straight through his chest—before he realizes Hermie is still acting. And God, does his performance feel real, if only for a split second.
“You should’ve listened to them,” Hermie spits, book closed now except for the thumb that marks his place between pages. He takes a few steps closer. “Moved on.”
“I tried,” Normal whispers back, something a little too-real slipping into his voice as he steps forward too. He cringes the second it comes out, averting his eyes and glancing back down to his script—but in less than a second, a warm, firm grip is pushing the hand that holds it to the side. Hermie is nodding slowly when he looks up, as if to say, ‘you’ve got this, keep going.’
“Why?” Hermie asks, hand still over Normal’s.
“Wh… what?”
Hermie’s gaze locks onto Normal’s, full and intense and all-encompassing in a way that makes Normal’s knees a little weak.
“Why come looking for me?”
At that, Normal stares back, lost in more ways than one.
When a few seconds pass, and Normal begins to chew on his lower lip and glance at their overlapped hands, Hermie does not remove his hand to allow Normal another glance at his lines—but rather, he whispers, “because…” and mouths a few words.
Normal swallows. “…Because someone had to.”
“No,” Hermie shoots back immediately—and his delivery is perfect, like he’d already lived through this role a hundred times before. “Not someone. You.” He lets out a short breath, his eyes narrowing into thin slits. “Why you?”
Normal’s breath catches in his throat. For a second, he forgets the script entirely.
And Normal… isn’t sure how to answer that. Not just because he doesn’t remember his lines, but—
Normal can hear the script paper shift as the other finally moves. Hermie exhales through his nose, almost like he’s annoyed. “Let’s skip ahead,” he interjects suddenly, bringing Normal’s hand and script back up and flipping a few pages for him. “Page one-forty. I’ll start here,” he taps where his own dialogue begins, “and you, here,” another tap where Normal’s line is.
Hermie stills. For a moment, he doesn’t look at his own script at all. Then, he flips forward a few pages, just enough to give his hands something to do. “You liked the stories.”
Normal scrambles to read just a little ahead, eyes darting across the ink and scribbled-in annotations from the actors that held the script in the years before him. Finally, he answers: “I… liked them, yeah,” but his voice drips with uncertainty.
Hermie pauses, and Normal realizes he must’ve messed up, must’ve mixed up where the starting point was—
—and then Hermie continues, as if nothing had happened.
“But you didn’t like me,” he says, and his voice sounds honest in a way Normal hasn’t heard before. It’s… a slight variation from the script, but he can work with it.
“…What? I— I liked you.” Normal defends, eyes flitting between the pages and Hermie’s eyes— and he hopes with everything he has that the sadness behind those eyes is a trick of the light. Normal reaches forward, fingers curling loosely around Hermie’s wrist, grounding himself before he can focus too much on it.
“You didn’t know me,” Hermie states simply, voice devoid of the emotion it had only moments prior.
“I knew enough,” Normal mutters, lowering his script now, even though he doesn’t know what comes next. His brows pinch tight. Hermie’s fingers twitch slightly where Normal is holding his wrist.
Hermie’s gaze doesn’t move away. He’s waiting.
And Normal realizes, detachedly, that he’s not sure if he’s acting anymore.
“I thought… I thought I’d lost you.”
The words hang there longer than they should. The pages stop turning.
For a long, painful second, it’s entirely silent.
Something in Hermie’s expression shifts — confused, as if Normal had just spoken a foreign language. He stares at Normal a moment longer before flipping back in his script and glancing at the ink; but his eyes glaze over, like the words are passing through him instead of absorbing. “That isn’t the line,” he mumbles, almost to himself.
Normal’s stomach drops to the floor, his cheeks abruptly warming. He did it again. He screwed up. He ruined it.
He peels his hand away from Hermie’s wrist and dips his head, using the pages as a distraction. “S-sorry.”
Hermie shakes his head a fraction, almost unnoticeably. “I know,” he murmurs, and something in his voice sounds so hollow that it makes Normal pause.
Then, Hermie laughs—but that comes out hollow, too.
It doesn’t bloom in the soft quiet, or erupt with light and overflow from his lips, or flutter against Normal’s very soul as he’s grown so used to. It’s curt and void of mirth and it seeps into Normal’s skin, settling where he can’t reach it anymore.
“This character is kind of an idiot,” Hermie says absently.
Normal blinks.
“What?”
“The one I’m playing.” He flips a page. Then another. He isn’t even reading it; just using it to occupy his hands. “Spends the whole play convinced nobody actually cares about him.”
And now Normal is staring. “That isn’t… true, though.”
Hermie only shrugs. “Maybe not.” he flips another page. “But if everyone only likes the version you’re pretending to be…”
He stops.
His fingers tighten slightly around the edge of the duotang.
“What’s the difference?”
His voice sounds pleading — like he’s begging for an answer that nobody can give him.
Normal feels as if his chest has just been cut open and vacuumed until nothing’s left. Something cold and heavy settles in the chasm left behind.
And Hermie finally looks at him again, his stare vacant. His head tilts ever so slightly to one side, his lower lip wobbling for a fraction of a second before he schools his expression into normalcy again.
Normal wishes he knew what to say.
Wishes he could take Hermie into his arms and tell him it’s alright. That he loves him. That he wants to know him for all he is. That the spaces between his fingers echoed with his absence. That each room felt cold and empty and dark without him. That of everything the world has to offer—each pocket of mundane beauty, each whispered word of reverence, each sunrise, each slow-moving song—
—He would choose him again, and again, and again.
He wishes the script could save him.
But he knows there’s nothing inside that could help him. The play ends in tragedy.
He fidgets with the edges of the papers anyway.
“I don’t know,” he mumbles, barely above a breath.
Hermie laughs again, and this time it pierces like a dagger. “Compelling argument.”
“…No,” Normal looks up. “I mean it.”
Hermie’s brows twitch.
“I really don’t know,” Normal swallows. “…But I know I would’ve missed you either way.”
Hermie doesn’t answer.
The room goes strangely quiet. Outside, a car passes somewhere down the street.
Hermie looks away first.
Not dramatically, or particularly quickly, or even like he’s trying to avoid the words. Just— like he doesn’t know where else to look.
His thumb traces absent circles along the spine of the script.
Normal immediately assumes he’s ruined everything. Obviously.
Why wouldn’t he?
Maybe that was too much. Maybe it sounded weird. Maybe—
Hermie reaches over and gently takes the duotang from his hands.
He sets both scripts atop his dresser, crooked, one splayed overtop the other.
Hermie stares at them for a second. Then another. Finally, he lets out a breath, long and slow.
“Wow.”
Normal freezes.
Hermie’s fingers furl and unfurl into fists until he clasps them in front of his chest. “That’s…” He laughs once. Softly. Disbelieving. “That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
His hands fall back to his sides. He laughs again under his breath, the sound barely there, even in the silence.
“…That’s kind of embarrassing, actually.” The corner of his mouth twitches. “This must be what therapy feels like,” he adds.
Normal doesn’t realize he’s staring until Hermie shifts back and forth under his gaze, the mask gone and whatever lies beneath it left painfully exposed, bare beneath the spotlight.
For a moment, neither of them move or speak. The room feels strangely small.
Normal’s chest aches.
Not in the sharp, horrible way it had before. Not in the way it had when Hermie died, or when he’d convinced himself he said the wrong thing, or when he spent months trying not to think about any of it.
Just— a quiet ache. The kind that comes from finally seeing someone. The kind that comes from being trusted with something fragile.
“…Oh,” Normal says softly. His own fingers twitch at his sides, drifting to the hem of his hoodie.
At that, Hermie’s gaze flits back to his.
“You don’t have to turn it into a joke,” Normal says after a moment, quieter now.
He hesitates. Just for a second. Then, carefully, “I think… if it feels real like that, then you’re probably doing something right.”
Hermie doesn’t answer immediately. For once, he looks like he actually heard it.
“…Huh,” he says quietly, like he isn’t sure what to do with that.
Normal’s stomach flips.
Because now it is beyond clear to him that he isn’t talking to Hermie-the-actor, or Hermie-the-weird-theatre-kid, or any wall he’s put up to shield himself.
It’s just Hermie.
Somehow, that version is the one that makes it hardest to breathe.
Then Hermie exhales a laugh that doesn’t quite land. “Anyway.”
He turns sharply toward his dresser drawers.
“Are you hungry? I prepared,” he adds — far too brightly, all things considered — wrenching one drawer open with theatrical flair. “Refreshments.”
Normal peers over it.
For a second, he just stares.
It isn’t impressive. But it’s thoughtful. The kind of thoughtful that feels strangely out of place in a drawer full of junk food and old stage props.
A bag of regular salted chips. Soda cans lined up like they were arranged recently. A sandwich bag of chocolate chip cookies. Gummies tucked neatly to one side, like someone had actually tried to make it look like a proper spread.
Normal blinks.
He hadn’t expected that.
He also hadn’t expected the tight feeling in his chest to return so quickly.
“…You did all this?” he asks, quieter than intended.
Hermie hesitates for half a second too long. When he speaks again, the word comes out far too quickly. “Obviously.”
Normal huffs a small laugh through his nose, but it doesn’t quite hide the softness in it. He looks down at the snacks again.
It’s such a simple thing — and yet, somehow it feels like more than it should.
He swallows, throat a little dry. “Are these—”
“Vegan? But of course,” Hermie interrupts immediately, like the question itself is offensive. “Who do you take me for, Normal?”
And that does it. Normal’s smile finally breaks through properly — small, warm, a little helpless.
“…My sincerest apologies,” he says, and there’s real fondness in it now.
When Hermie gestures at the bed with a dramatic sweep of his hand, Normal lingers for just a second longer. Only long enough to let himself feel it.
Then he sits.
“You’re forgiven, I suppose,” Hermie hums, carefully extracting the respective snacks and handing some of them to Normal—who sets them beside himself so they can share. “Would you care to… indulge alongside myself in one of the greatest, most captivating, award-winning movies to this date?”
Normal raises a brow. “Are you talking about the Joker?”
“Twenty-nineteen, directed by Todd Phillips, starring Joaquin Phoenix?”
“…Yes?”
Hermie actually scoffs, like it’s the clearest answer in the world. “Obviously.”
Normal laughs softly, raising his hands in defense. “We’ve already watched that together.”
“And?”
“Like, a hundred times.”
“And?”
Normal glances between him and the TV across from the bed that Hermie is already flicking on.
He’s memorized every scene of that movie by this point. Even the… less savoury moments. It’s not really his type of movie; he’s always been a little more into Marvel.
When he sees Hermie looking at him expectantly though, he gives in.
He never wins this battle. He finds he doesn’t mind losing tonight, though.
“…Fair enough. Sure, Hermie, I’d love to.”
Hermie’s expression softens in the smallest, most dangerous way — like he’s pleased, but would rather die than admit it. “Well,” he says, “if you insist...”
He says it like Normal has just agreed to something far more significant than a movie. And maybe, in some small way, he has.
Hermie slides the disc in. The click of the player feels louder than it should in the quiet room.
The lights go off.
Briefly, as their eyes adjust to the low-light, the two of them are very still.
Then, Hermie settles beside him. Carefully. Casually. Like it doesn’t matter that they’ve ended up here again.
Like it doesn’t matter at all.
And then, somehow, everything is normal again.
Not normal normal, because that would be ridiculous. There is nothing normal about sitting cross-legged on Hermie Unworthy’s bed at one in the morning while Joker plays for what has to be the millionth time this month.
But it’s normal enough.
The opening logos wash over the room in flickers of blue and white. Shadows stretch across the walls, shifting with every frame.
Beside him, Hermie opens the gummy bag with the same intense focus he’d used earlier on the script; like even snacks are part of a performance he refuses to get wrong.
Normal watches him do it. Something in his chest loosens again, just enough to breathe easier.
He… doesn’t know what exactly changed tonight. Maybe nothing did. Maybe everything did.
He glances sideways. Hermie is watching the screen now, but only technically. His jaw is slightly tense, like he’s still half in another conversation, another version of himself.
At some point during the opening scene, he silently mouths a line before the actor on screen can say it.
Normal lets out a small, betrayed sound. “No.”
Hermie freezes instantly. Slowly, he turns his head. “What?” he asks, far too innocent.
“You were mouthing it.”
“I was not.”
“You definitely were.”
Hermie presses a hand to his chest like he’s been mortally wounded. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Normal points at him. Hermie points back.
Neither of them say anything for a moment; staring silently at each other. The movie keeps going without them, filling the silence. For a few seconds, the argument doesn’t resolve. It just sits there, like neither of them are actually interested in winning it.
Finally, Hermie sighs and admits to his crimes.
“Okay,” he relents. “In my defense, it’s a very good script.”
“It’s Joker.”
“Exactly.”
Normal laughs, softer than before but steadier now, shaking his head with a fond sigh. Beside him, Hermie smiles. It’s small — unplanned. The kind of smile that doesn’t realize it’s happening.
Normal realizes something then.
He doesn’t feel like he has to memorize that smile. Doesn’t feel like he needs to analyze it, or cling to the moment before it disappears.
Hermie is here. The movie is playing. There are crumbs in the bed already, somehow.
The world is still loud and heavy and complicated — but right here, in this stupid flickering blue light, it is briefly, unfairly quiet. Everything hurts a little less than it did before.
For now, that’s enough.
A few scenes later, both of them reach for the chips at the same time. When their hands bump, Normal jerks back so quickly he nearly launches himself off the bed.
Hermie bursts out laughing. “Relax, Oak.”
Normal freezes for half a second too long, then quickly straightens, eyes suddenly anywhere but Hermie. “I am relaxed.”
“You looked like I shot you.”
“I— I did not,” Normal says immediately.
Hermie hums, delighted. “You definitely did.”
Normal opens his mouth for a rebuttal. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing useful comes out.
“…Maybe a little,” he admits finally, quieter.
Hermie’s grin widens. “Thought so.”
The movie keeps going.
At some point, the chips disappear. Then the gummies. Then half the cookies.
The room has softened into something warmer now, lit only by the television’s flickering glow and the pale spill of streetlights through the window.
Normal’s eyes start to sting. Not enough to sleep—just enough that blinking feels like an effort he has to remember to make.
Beside him, Hermie suppresses a yawn. Then another.
“You tired?” Normal asks.
“No,” Hermie says immediately.
Normal waits.
“…A bit,” he corrects.
Normal gives him a look, faintly amused. “I figured.”
“Watch the movie.”
“We’ve both seen it like ten times.”
“Fifteen,” Hermie clarifies.
Normal turns his head slightly. “Fifteen?”
“Ten together,” Hermie says, as if that clears everything up. “Five alone. This is basic research.”
Normal lets out a quiet snort before he can stop it. The sound lands between them, soft and easy, like it belongs there.
And he notices, dimly, that nothing in him flinches when Hermie looks at him like that.
He cocks his head to the side.“Why?”
Hermie shrugs. “A true artist studies his craft.”
Eventually, Hermie pulls a blanket over them without commenting on it. By the time the movie is halfway through, he’s slouched sideways against the wall behind the bed, one shoulder pressing lightly into Normal’s. Neither of them acknowledge it.
A few minutes later, Normal shifts—just slightly, searching for a more comfortable position. He hesitates for half a second longer than necessary before settling again.
And when he does, the contact is still there. Still warm. Still real. And it doesn’t disappear.
The movie keeps playing, but it fades into something more distant now, like it’s happening in another room entirely.
Somewhere outside, a car passes. The house creaks softly. Streetlights flicker through the curtains in slow intervals.
Normal becomes aware of Hermie’s breathing before he realizes he’s been listening for it. Slow. Steady. Close enough that it feels like a rhythm he can fall into.
His eyes close for a second. Then a little longer.
When he opens them again, Hermie’s head is tilted at an uncomfortable angle, like it drifted there without asking permission.
Normal huffs a small laugh. “You look ridiculous.”
Hermie makes a small noise of protest that sounds suspiciously like the beginning of a snore.
Normal laughs again, gentler this time.
And before he can overthink it, he lets his head fall sideways. It lands against Hermie’s shoulder.
Surprisingly, the world does not end.
Hermie doesn’t pull away. If anything, he adjusts slightly—like making room is the most natural thing in the world—and lets his chin rest lightly against the top of Normal’s head.
Normal’s chest tightens with warmth.
Not in the sharp way anymore. In the quiet way. The good kind—the kind that doesn’t hurt. The kind that doesn’t demand anything back.
They don’t speak after that. They just sit there, propped up against each other, tired eyes following the screen even though they already know the movie by heart, sitting a little too close to pretend it doesn’t matter.
Eventually, Normal’s face ends up tucked into the crook of Hermie’s neck without him really noticing when it happened.
He stops trying to keep his eyes open after a while.
That is, until he remembers something.
“Hey, Hermie?” he mumbles against soft skin, voice thick with weariness.
“Mm?”
“When’s the audition?”
Hermie shifts slightly. For a long few seconds, all Normal can hear is the movie.
“…What audition?” Hermie finally answers.
“For the play.”
Another pause settles. Normal pulls back just enough to look at him.
“Normal.”
“…Yeah?”
“I… got the part three weeks ago.”
“Mm,” Normal hums, like the information is something he can safely set down for later. He returns to the hiding spot that is Hermie’s neck.
His thoughts feel slower now, softer at the edges, though he tries very hard to follow them and focus on that answer.
He got the part three weeks ago. They just rehearsed his audition for over an hour tonight. Hermie knew all his lines by heart. Hermie’s invitation (demand) text was very vague, and not in the careless way, but like it was unnecessary. They…
…Ah.
The room is quiet again, but it doesn’t feel as empty as before.
Slowly, Normal reaches over and takes Hermie’s hand in his own, threading their fingers together.
Hermie didn’t need a scene partner. He didn’t need help.
He just wanted him there.
He lets that thought settle before it can be argued with.
He gives Hermie’s hand a soft squeeze. A second later, it’s returned.
Normal allows sleep to pull him under, staying just conscious enough to feel Hermie lean down a press a kiss to his temple.
His last thought isn’t a conclusion so much as something that finally stops resisting:
Maybe he doesn’t need to find a way to act around Hermie.
Maybe he just needs to simply be.