Archive of Our Own

Life isn’t nearly as complicated as everyone presents it to be.

The unexplainable happens? You explain it. Someone diverts your path? You revert it back. You need something done? You do it yourself.

With your IPad in hand, you hold the power button. You wait a second. Then another. And another. And you’re groaning in frustration.

Notetaking with a digital pen is the aesthetic, futuristic school norm that everyone sets it out to be. Well, until you’re scrounging for power from your hand-me-down IPad with more scratches than the Statue of Liberty.

That damn low battery picture’s just mocking you at this point.

“Yo,” you hear from your left. Just the simple, questioning tone’s enough to make your blood boil. “You good?”

You huff as if your friend’s mere existence triggers you. “No. I–”

As you twist in your plastic chair, your knee slams against the leg of the table.

“Ouch. Looks like that hurt,” he snickers.

You bare your teeth. “I’m gonna make you hurt if you don’t shut up.”

“Jesus,” your other friend quirks her head. “What’s wrong?”

You present your dead IPad, fingers clenched around the edges. For a moment, you imagine you’re squeezing the neck of everyone who’s ever annoyed you. “All my research notes for that stupid paper are on here. And it’s dead.”

He scans the screen for a moment, proceeding to glance around the rather full computer lab. “Can’t you just charge it?”

It’s not like you haven’t thought of that. The issue is the lack of free cables.

You fish your knotted charger from your bag, flicking the cord annoyingly close to his face. “Go find me a good place to plug it in.”

He swats your wrist. “Fine. Good point.”

Your other friend kicks the back of your chair, pointing a thumb at her computer screen. “I can share you my notes, if you want.”

You sigh dramatically. “No, it’s not worth it. Already got caught rewording an upper year’s essay a few weeks ago.”

He laughs. “What? I thought you lied your way outta that.”

“Tried. But they had the original. And maybe there were certain parts I was too lazy to reword. And they might’ve read the repeated lines I copied back to me. All of them.”

“Damn.”

You brush her off. “Thanks. But they’re gonna think I’m being ‘academically dishonest’; not conducting my own research, or something.”

She shrugs. “Well, good luck.”

Yeah. Good luck indeed.

You’re the last of you three to turn back to your computer. There’s a definite look of I’m fucked plastered on your face.

You try to find the sources you used, but you weren’t exactly prepared to memorize the websites. You skim every other link, hoping to jog your memory on something familiar. To be honest, you can’t remember how many sources you had.

And, as life has it, you’ve encountered an obstacle. Correction, obstacles.

Just between the bulky masses of monitors and PCs, you can just make out an all-too-familiar group of stereotypical outcasts. The obnoxious nerd, the shy wimp, the all-talk bully, and… the human.

Not to mention, they’re all being loud as fuck. There’s a certain strangling-need that returns to your finger tips.

Susie has claimed ownership over what seems to be their main computer, spreading her fingers lazily across the keyboard. Noelle’s more than hovering over her shoulder; her own hand nervously floating above the girl’s arm, not quite making contact. There’s a wing or two pulling Susie’s keyboard towards the owner; Berdly, as always, trying to hog control over anything he can get his grubby feathers on.

The human’s at their own computer, mindlessly clicking away at whatever’s gracing their screen at the moment.

You tried, very hard, not to listen in. Trust, you’d have sealed your ears shut if you could. But ignoring a squad of imbeciles is much harder when they’re competing for who can make the most ears bleed in ten minutes.

They’re discussing some group project; that much you figured out. In pairs, is what it seems like. And yet, they’re all crowding around each other like it’s a group of four. You’re not surprised. None of them have any other friends.

Eventually, you will your eyes to return to your glaring monitor. You do find a website that you recognize, but you can’t find any exact quotes. You can’t remember where words cut off, where words start, where–

“Susie! This is a public computer! They can see what you search up!”

The fawn claws at the keyboard, keeping it out of anyone’s reach. The two of them start bickering, flirting, whatever. What, are you supposed to swoon at the sight? Coo at the cute teen drama?

No. Instead, a scowl works its way onto your face. It consumes your brain, and you’re tilting your gaze between the monitors before you can stop yourself.

Noelle seems to notice your movement; your look of daggers. Her mouth immediately clams shut, banter-filled smile morphing into a cowering frown at the sight.

“Shut your jaw before I break it,” you wish you could say. Maybe she caught it telepathically, from the way she measuredly lowers the keyboard back to Susie.

“Hey,” Susie raises an eyebrow at her sudden mood change. “You, uh, okay?”

The girl starts pestering her, prodding at her for an explanation, to which Noelle remains silent as a mouse. And, of course, the loud mouth has filled what should’ve been an extended break of sweet silence.

Although, you will admit you’d rather hear the low tones of an overconfident moron rather than the screechy voice of an embarrassment.

But it doesn’t take an idiot to see the obvious death glare in the corner of your vision. Or maybe that’s just the human’s resting face. Hell if you’d know. Maybe an old you would.

You feel your victorious smile form, finally relaxed enough to continue your work. You copy and paste a few quotes, organize the headings of your brainstorm, and start writing short jot explanations for all your cited work.

A subconscious part of you continues to listen to Susie’s irritation, gaining rather guilty pleasure from the deer’s one-word responses. You even hear semi-sincere worry from the nerd, too. Interesting change of pace, from what you’re used to.

“A-actually,” she mumbles out, trying to come across as more confident than she is. You can hardly hear her over the external noise. “I just remembered a book that might be useful for our topic.”

“That’s what got you bummed out?” Susie stares blankly. Then, her face falls flat. “Actually, nevermind. School sucks. Totally get it.”

Berdly sticks up a feather. “I shall assist you in finding it, Noelle! As a devoted volunteer to this establishment, I will have no trouble in–”

“Nah, dude. I’ll find it,” the purple girl rises from her chair. “You’ll just get lost drooling over all the smart lookin’ dudes on the covers.”

“Nonsense! Noelle, where is your esteemed book selection?”

She follows Susie’s motion. “Uhm, upstairs. I think. But I can just go get it myself–”

Noelle’s immediately pushed down by the shoulder, forcing her to sit with a look of confusion on her face.

“Upstairs. Got it,” Susie smirks, trekking to the doors of the lab as if she has any clue where she’s going. You’re almost certain she’s never set foot in a library before this. Berdly starts squawking after her, trailing so closely behind that you’re sure they’re chest-to-back.

Noelle eyes Kris, a droplet of sweat trailing down her temple. “I didn’t even tell them the title…”

You hear the human let out a quick snort, and you hate the way your head veers to catch a glimpse of the action. But by the time you’re scanning their face, they’ve returned to their emotionless default.

Whatever. You’ve got work to do.

At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

For some reason, your head spins with what you’d consider great ideas. With Susie and Berdly gone, you’d much rather take advantage of the limited audience you’ve now been graced with.

You’re grinning before you truly feel it.

With a hand now deep in your bag, you fish out your charger, eyes narrowing at the cord trailing down Noelle’s computer, leading all the way to the extension cord.

As efficiently and smoothly as you can manage, you reach for her plug, yanking it out and replacing it with your IPad’s charger. You stick the end into your dead IPad, smiling triumphantly at the sight of the charging picture.

You hear Noelle let out a confused, “What the…”

You’re pretty sure the PC’s in the library are those old ones that need constant electricity to function, which would explain the instant reaction. An instant reaction that you hate to admit makes your heart race with pleasure.

You pretend you have no idea what’s going on, clicking at random parts of your screen as casually as possible. Especially when she presses the power button not once, not twice, but seven times.

Man, do you wish you could watch the panic work its way through her veins.

Just out of view, you see her stand, following the cord to where her plug now sits lifelessly on the deep oak. Her face scrunches in question, but fades into nervousness when her eyes follow to your plug.

You can tell she’s trying to discreetly get your attention, hovering uncomfortably over the table to hope you see her timid stare. You torture her for a few seconds, typing absolute gibberish on your keyboard.

Right as your absolute joy starts to show, you push it down and offer her the most disinterested look you can muster.

“U-uhm…” she smiles; all too fake, all too scared. “I-I think you– um, unplugged my…”

You wait another moment, glowing in the way she shrinks under your stare. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. IPad’s dead, needed a port.”

Her face strains. “I– but my… computer.”

You shrug like an old friend an underpaid cashier, oozing with false friendliness, pressing more random keys like you’re actually getting valuable work done.

She looks like she wants to say something, anything, but she instead squirms back to her seat in surrender. You want to laugh.

Oh yeah. Her overblown reactions more than make up for that fucking lackluster human’s–

You clear your throat. Okay. You have work to do.

You finish up whatever last thoughts you had on your most recent quote, feeling excited about having your old notes to pile on top of your now new ones.

After a few minutes, your attention falls to your IPad. You hold the power button. You wait a second. And you’re immediately filled with deja vu.

The zero battery screen flashes once again, but there’s a distinct difference to the last time you checked. This time, there’s no charging symbol.

Your teeth clench in immediate anger, albeit a bit unjustified. Well, not until you lightly tug on your charger cord to realize your plug’s been replaced.

This moronic deer wants broken fingers too, apparently.

Although, one quick glance at the target shows she’s putting her entire life’s effort into avoiding anything to do with you. She’s definitely an accomplice, from the way she freely clicks away at her now-working computer.

No, no. This is the human’s doing. But you don’t spare them with a look, a scowl, nothing. It’s what they want; you know it.

You can’t– won’t stop yourself from very indiscreetly unplugging the same cord, replacing it with yours once again.

Your senses have been heightened; you’re looking out for that skin-covered hand to repeat its earlier offenses. It takes a minute – a few quiet complaints from the deer – for them to reach for your plug. You watch them do it. You watch as they slyly fight back.

You’re not sure how long this goes on for. You wait, you unplug, they wait, they unplug. It’s become an annoying, endless cycle that you refuse to back down from.

But they’re getting more confident. Instead of waiting a minute, they wait, say, thirty seconds. Then, twenty. And eventually, they’re just unplugging it right after you plug yours in.

And that’s when you snap.

As soon as their hand comes into view, your fingers lunge for their wrist (despite being awkwardly bent under your monitor). You feel their pulse quicken just so very slightly as their hand heats up under yours.

Your eyes bolt to find theirs.

The shadow of their bangs obstructs your view, but you can make out the unimpressed glare of their blood-red eyes. You tighten your hold.

“Would you stop?” You spit.

As you’d expect, there’s no response. Not even a twitch of the face.

And, of all people, Noelle’s the one to chime in. You swear her lip is quivering. “Well… you w-were the one to–”

You roll your eyes. “Then go to another computer. I need a charger.”

You feel the human tug at your grip, trying to yank away. You stand and grip harder out of spite, digging your nails into their skin. You don’t look, but you’re sure you’re going to cause blood. Instead, you’re staring straight through Noelle, knowing she’ll fold eventually.

You can tell you’re making a scene as you loom over the table. But you don’t care.

Noelle’s eyes cling from your face to your grasp. You watch the obedience etch onto her features. “Okay, sorry– I’ll… go to another–”

But you don’t feel that satisfying glint of victory. No. You feel Kris snap their wrist from yours, jerking your damn charger from the port. You watch it slide about a foot down the table.

Oh, and if you thought you were mad before? That was nothing.

Red fuels your vision as you lunge for your charger, only to be stopped by a hand you once had your own fingers wrapped around. You can visibly see the red scratch marks you’ve left on their skin. How the tables have turned, a voice echoes in the back of your mind.

Who’s side’re you on?!

Your other hand strains to reach for it, only for another to encase your own. Goddamnit.

“Why’re you even here, Noelle?” You hiss, feeling their nails dig into your flesh. “I know damn well you’re too much of a book freak to not have your stupid project done.”

Yeah, maybe your blood’s boiling a bit more than it should be. And maybe there’s a steadily increasing number of eyes on your back. Including your friends’.

You watch her cower, shielding her mouth with her hand. You’re about to say something else, but–

“Surprised you’re here at all.”

And you’re sure your eyes ooze out of your head.

Kris is still seated; their expression, ever stoic. But you can still read them like a book. The glint in their eyes? The ever so slight upturn of their lip?

They’re calling you stupid. And all this is nothing but a joke to them.

“Ha. Like Dess was any different,” you huff, turning your attention back to Noelle. “Guess that’s just another thing you two didn’t have in common.”

You’re watching her so intently that you spot the exact moment her psyche dies. It’s satisfying, to say the very least. It almost quells your anger.

You feel their fingers tighten, right before one hand releases you. You instinctually raise an eyebrow, wondering what made them give up, but you’ve become immediately aware of their digits snaking around your charger. And into their pocket it goes.

They rise smoothly, exiting the lab before you can process what’s going on. You and Noelle share a face of surprised confusion, ironically enough.

“Hey!” You shout, unfiltered, already rounding the table to follow them.

You push the doors open to be met with Susie and Berdly with a handful of random books, to which you can’t help but scoff at. Scanning the first floor, they’re nowhere to be seen. You go out of your way to check the second floor. Nothing. You leave the library, shivering at the chill of the wind.

But they’re just… gone. Disappeared.

You’re not surprised.

You return to the computer lab, defeated. You ignore the small stares you get, having to stop yourself from telling them to mind their own business. Just as you return to your seat, your friends pipe up.

“Dude. The hell was that?”

But you’re not listening to them. Instead, you catch yourself looking for that squeaky, obnoxious voice.

“Hey. Where’d Kris go?”

Noelle shrinks. “I– Kris just… uh, left.”

Yeah. With your damn charger.

~*•*~

You’ve had to resort to pen and paper for the past day. Does that count as robbery? It must count as robbery. You should be able to press charges. Call the police for the crime. Get your money’s worth from a classic ol’ lawsuit.

And yeah, maybe you’re a bit too mad about the whole situation. Doesn’t stop you from ranting to every friend you’ve ever had about it. You try to slyly push it off as annoyance that your charger is gone, but most of them can see right through you–

Not that you have any ulterior motives. It’s mostly just… a bit of a hateful obsession. The type where you’d be much happier hearing about the human’s failures than their successes, but you can’t tell anyone that, because that’s toxic and yada yada.

But it doesn’t stop you from talking about it the next day, hand buried deep in your locker with your friend by your side.

“–and they just pocketed it. Ran off with it. Is that illegal? Can I sue?”

“I don’t know, dude,” your friend sighs, maybe a bit sick of hearing the story. “Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

He’s alluding to something, you’re sure. But as you close your locker, new notebook in hand, you give him a look. “Are you saying I have no life?”

And he’s already leaving you, attempting to disappear down the hall. “No. The calc test?”

“What calc test?”

He groans. “You’re shitting me, right?”

“No, man,” you push through the crowd, catching up to his side. “You’re fibbing. We don’t have a calc test.”

He laughs pitifully. “Guess that answers my question.”

“Hey, hey, what? You’re not joking?–”

But you don’t get to finish as you slam your nose into someone’s bony shoulder. God– now you’ve totally gotten two bruises in the span of twenty four hours.

You rub your nose, praying for the absence of a nose bleed. “Ow, fuck–”

And your eyes focus on a very distinct striped green sweater. Just great.

Ironically enough, you feel more shoulders bump into you as you’ve now halted in the middle of the isle. But those don’t anger you as much as the mere presence of the human (and your pulsing nose).

You stand perfectly enough that they can’t pivot around you. Not that they make any motion to. They’ve remained still, just as you have. Watching you with those uninterested, red eyes.

“Watch it,” you spit, observing just a tad too intensely for the reaction you so crave.

But you don’t get it. And it only pisses you off more.

“Is this all you do?” Your eyes narrow. “Stare like a scarecrow?”

Nothing. Not even a twitch. Fuck.

“Why don’t you go stare at that empty side of your room?”

It’s almost like they’re not listening.

Like they’re just… watching. You.

Eugh. The thought disgusts you.

The bell rings, but you’re not sure if you fully register it. You’re almost certain your friend’s disappeared into the masses, too. Not that he’d want to witness another thing you’ll be talking about for the next week.

The best part? They don’t make the move to leave, either.

As the crowd dies around you, all you can manage is a stare in return. To not back down. Yeah, maybe you’re getting a bit creeped out, and eye contact is starting to become a struggle, but you keep going because you’re not about to let them win.

Win what? You’re wasting your time with them.

Shut up, reasonable and factual voice!

“You still sleep in his bed sometimes? Sniff his pillows like a freak?”

They raise an eyebrow. God, this is getting embarrassing. You’re not pushing hard enough!

“Bet your dad would be an alcoholic if this town sold an ounce of beer.”

Okay, now you’re just spewing random shit because you’re panicking.

But, but! You see it. Just the slight twitch of the eye. Yes! Okay.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. “Uh, I’m gonna head to class. See you there. Probably.”

You halt.

Well, looks like your friend didn’t leave. It’s fine! It’s working!

You hide the sadistic excitement on your face. “Guess he’d end up like your mom. Wine’s a pretty good substitute, isn’t it?”

And back into the depths of silence you go. The halls are dead.

Their eyes become lidded from exhaustion. You feel manic.

You swallow. You’re salivating. “Bet you wouldn’t cry at her funeral.”

There’s a moment, a second of a pause. And their mouth falls agape, ever so slightly.

“Bet you’ve forgotten how to.”

…

And you’ve found yourself so unbelievably enraged that you can’t feel it anymore. If anything, you feel… shocked.

They think you’re emotionally constipated. Maybe they always thought that.

Who the hell do they think they are? You process your emotions just fine. They’re wrong. So, so, so wrong–

You feel a million feelings run through you at once. But, of course, defensiveness is the one that pushes to the forefront. “I’m not–”

“Hey!”

Your heart races more than it should. Susie’s coming.

She jogs to a halt, inadvertently coming between the two of you. You didn’t realize how close you were until she physically pushes you apart. “Back off, man.”

And something about her interference makes you snap back to normal. “Oh, please. You’re one to talk.”

She seems confused. “Uh, what?”

You feel your adrenaline pump. “All you do is get in other people’s business. Why don’t you try minding your own?”

You don’t really have any evidence for such a claim, considering you’ve rarely ever talked to her unless it was for mitigation purposes. Like this one. And yeah, maybe that counts as not her business, but the two might as well have fused from how close they are now.

“You’ve got serious issues, dude. I can tell you this one,” she jabs a thumb at Kris, “wouldn’t start anything with you.”

Ohh. She thinks you’re not worth the time nor effort.

You scowl. “You really think they’re the angel’s spawn, or something.”

“Oh, no,” she bares her teeth like a rabid wolf. “They’re the worst. Absolutely horrible.”

She turns back to them, a blatant sarcastic smile gracing her disgusting face. You feel your neck heat up. She’s playing you.

And Kris seems to find it hilarious, evidence hiding under their slipping facade. Just the slight rise of a cheekbone. They’re not looking at her. They’re still looking at you.

You’re not about to be their little bonding toy.

“Could say the same about Noelle,” you bite.

She’s knocked back into the moment, gracing her full attention onto you. “Hey. I don’t know what you, uh, did to her, but she’s actually scared of you, man–”

“You just figured that out? You’re just as observant as you seem.”

Something in her clicks, friendly (ish) nature vanished. “You’re just as rotten as you look.”

And you know you’ve got her.

“Oh, there it is,” you coo. “What ever happened to that murderous bully? You’re much more entertaining like this. Don’t tell me hanging out with the town reject made you soft.”

You watch her clench her jaw. Clench her fists. You hope she punches you. Gives you an excuse to fight back.

But, sad as it is, you know she’s converted to bark-only. The bite’s been thrown out the window months ago. It almost makes all this not worth the effort.

Almost.

“Or, maybe it’s something else? Realize you couldn’t hold your own? Needed a backbone?”

She makes no move. Man, she really has gone soft.

You continue, trying to spurt her on. “Y’know, lots of online studies show that when people search for certain familial traits in friends, it’s because they’re lacking the stuff in their home life–”

The human’s eyes widen before Susie can comprehend what you’re implying. And they’re yanking her by the sleeve, dragging her down the hall. Not once looking back. Susie’s spurting a plethora of ‘what the hell?’s and you’re not sure if it’s in response to you or Kris.

Either way, you feel immensely content. It’s like you’ve finally won.

You just… never got your charger back.

~*•*~

It’s late. Far too late for you to still be at school.

You had tutoring immediately after classes finished, which ran for much longer than you thought it would. You ended up having to change at school, sprinting to practice before your coach ridiculed you again for being late. And, of course, one of those clubs you only signed up for to get goodie points for university had a really late meeting; one of which you showed up for flustered and a bit sweaty.

You’re surprised staff haven’t closed the doors just yet; the school’s as quiet as a graveyard. You can taste the orange of the sky shining through the windows. It’s oddly relaxing, despite your hectic day.

You let out a sigh, shutting your locker with delicate ease. It’s one of those sighs that screams I can’t wait to go home and rot.

But, something catches your eye. A figure; moving slowly, cautiously across the tiles. You clench your bag’s strap.

Yeah, it’s the human. Probably overslept, knowing them. Who else would the universe set you up with?

And suddenly, a few day’s worth of rage fuels your exhausted bones. They’ve got something that belongs to you.

“Hey!” You shout. There’s no one left to hear you but them.

They don’t turn, not even a bit. Instead, they dip.

The door slams behind them. Your eyes widen. “Wait!”

Shoving yourself through the front doors, you home your eyes onto their silhouette. You let your adrenaline and spite power you as you chase them down like a crazy person– not crazy! Just determined!

They follow the barren roads, definitely speedwalking, taking two simple rights. You follow from a safe but present distance. They’re headed for the lake.

Good! Makes for a good place to dispose of their body.

The dirt crunches under your urgent steps. But as you peer towards the lake’s edge, they’re nowhere to be seen.

Your legs slow to a stop. You pretend to act clueless, oblivious to where they could’ve gone. But you know what’s about to happen. They’ve pulled this trick on you before.

As soon as you see their fuzzy shadow behind you (can’t rely on the steps; they’re always light on their feet), you plant your heel firmly into the ground.

A 180 later and you’re swinging your arm at them, fingers spread and clawed like you’re ready to scratch.

Maybe they suspected it too, just from the way they jump back a few feet.

“Cut it, creep,” you growl. “I just want my charger back.”

They shrug. “Don’t have it.”

You point an accusatory finger at them. “Stop lying, you stupid human. It’s expensive, and I need it for school.”

Their head falls to the side, hair framing their face like vines. They’re acting oblivious.

You’re not about to go another day having to physically erase something without an undo button. “Give me back my fucking charger, dude.”

They take a step back. Not out of fear. Out of a cocky, I-know-you-won’t-do-shit mindset.

You take two steps forward. Just to get uncomfortably close in their personal bubble.

Fine. They’re not breaking?

Looks like you’ll have to take something of theirs in return.

You lunge for their sweater, tugging on their collar before they can bolt.

They pretend they don’t choke from the motion. But you can tell it hurt.

Your hand’s around their neck. Not quite squeezing – you’re not psychotic – but building enough pressure to say I can if I want to.

“Fine. Give me your phone,” you glance to their pocket, then back to their blank expression. “I’ll trade it for my charger or a new charger. Either or works.”

Their arms hang loosely to their side. They’re not moving to follow your order.

You inch their face closer to yours, tempted to spit on them (but that’s just kinda gross). “You deaf? The phone, Kris.”

You watch their face intently. When they refuse to move again, you shake the hand around their neck, just to jolt them back to reality. They’re staring through to your soul. You swear you see…

A faint rosy pink across their cheeks.

The fuck?

Your face must morph into one of utter disgust, as they seem to wake up. One of their hands moves slowly, deliberately towards one of their pockets.

You’re so busy zoning in on the motion that you don’t notice the other.

Their other hand’s disappeared behind their back. You’d have been slashed in half by their knife if it weren’t for your fast reflexes.

What an absolute psycho!

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” You shake your head in disbelief, standing a safe distance away. “Brought a knife to a fist fight? What a cheater.”

They rub their neck, bruises soon to form. “Was barely a fist fight.”

“Yeah, barely a fight, either. You’re a shit opponent.”

You’re not sure why you’re taunting someone with the obvious upper hand (because you don’t carry sharp, dangerous weapons with you at all times. Although, you probably should) but maybe a masochistic part of you wants to see what they’ll do.

They don’t take your obvious taunt, so you make the first move.

You try to reach for the knife, maybe gain a sweet upperhand yourself, but they’re too quick with their slashes. Everytime you’re cut, you back off. Just for a moment.

And it repeats like that.

You’re not sure how long it goes on for. You’re riddled in cuts. On your hands, arms, two on your jawline, one near your eye…

What a cheater indeed. Knives are their playing field. You almost miss seeing them use it.

They cover all their blind spots, never leaving a single opening. You’re disappointed, to say the least.

Looks like you’re not getting your charger back, after all.

…

Unless.

You’re so tired, you think your plan’s a sound one.

Whatever. You’ve come too far to lose.

They ready for another sloppy attack, to which you feed them to a T. Although, instead of trying to swivel from their slash, you use your hand to block it.

The blade digs into your palm, and you let out a groan of pain. Stings like hell, but totally worth it.

You hear them let out a faint gasp. Perfect.

Using your only free fist, you capture their wielding hand, using their momentary surprise to slip the blade from their grasp.

But they snap out of it. Fast.

Their hand darts desperately to your own. You nearly drop the knife.

You clench harder. Like hell you’re letting them take it back!

They seem more panicked than before. Well, as much as panicked can show on their unchanging face.

You twist your wrist awkwardly, trying to pry them off. It doesn’t work.

You press your bloody hand to their shoulder, attempting a shove. You’re too weak and it hurts far too much to do anything useful.

You’re about to bark off another insult – try to throw them off their game again – when…

You see something.

What–

…

Your thumb brushes against the spine of the blade, right at the base. There’s something there.

It’s carved into the metal.

Two letters.

Two…

Very familiar letters.

They’re–

Your stomach erupts in very unwanted butterflies.

That’s your initials. On their knife.

You gather your newfound might to shove them far away from you, allowing them to capture the handle.

“What the hell? Are those my?–”

Their mouth falls agape, definitely realizing what you’ve seen.

And you’re proven exactly correct when they hide their blade back to wherever it came from.

The buzz of your palm’s immediately overshadowed by the buzz of your head.

…

And you’re awkwardly strolling past them before you can process what’s going on.

Escape? Flee?

No. It’s a tactical retreat.

You’ve been mentally wounded.

~*•*~

The phrase ‘out of sight, out of mind’ doesn’t really apply to you. Turns out, you’ve got a photographic memory.

It was a normal day. Better than average, you’d say. You got your first 100% test of the year, your friends are giving you more space than what’s probably normal (maybe not a good thing), and you “accidentally” broke the borrowed pens you got from Berdly. You’re pretty sure they belong to Noelle, too. Win-win.

A few in-class discussions later, and you’re sitting amongst your assigned group, pretending you can’t feel the heat of the human’s body right behind you.

The classroom’s small. When Alphys told you to spread out, it was made immediately apparent that there isn’t much space to spread out into.

Even after shuffling all the desks around like some shitty Tetris game, all the groups are touching, in one way or another. You just so happened to end up where you’d rather not be.

You’re not an overthinker. If anything, you excel at turning your brain completely off. And because you’d rather not think about yesterday to any extent, you do exactly that.

While your group continues to jot down any ideas on the crumpled chart paper, you fold your arms on the desk, creating the perfect (eh) pillow for your sleep-deprived head. It almost reminds you of a certain–

Nope.

Your eyes embrace the darkness as you pass out.

It could’ve been days. It was one of those naps that feel like you’ve been there for ages; the type that, if you were in bed, you’d have your pants rolled up your leg, sweat drenching every crevice of your body, and dried drool trailing down your chin.

Then, you hear a name. You wake up instantly.

It’s Susie, sounding like she’s waiting at the door. She’s calling to the human.

Your head darts up, made instantly aware of the very empty classroom you find yourself in. Well, besides the chair behind you. Because yeah, why not make your day unbearable?

You don’t mean to, but you pause to watch them lift their head. Important: You don’t mean to.

You don’t want to talk to them. Or Susie. You’re too tired to look at their… stupid faces.

You’re usually better at this.

You lift yourself up, chair squeaking behind you. But you can’t push it back far enough; you’ve hit something.

Of course. They’ve gotten up, too. You couldn’t have timed that any better. You’ve got twin telepathy, apparently!

You’re more interested in leaving than being around the little thief for longer than you need to. You shove your chair awkwardly to the side. Its legs intertwine with their chair, forcing it to drag along. And you both take a step to the door, halting when you’re practically chest-to-chest.

Your teeth clench automatically. “Move it.”

And they do.

…

What?

Their eyes, maybe just a tad wider than they usually are, stay trained on you as they take a step back, squishing themself against the edge of the desks.

No fight, no weird look, not even any back talk.

Ironically enough, you seem stuck in place.

That’s all it took? For you to seem some creepy sign that they maybe might kinda still think about you? That’s what it took for them to take you seriously?

Or maybe they don’t want you using it against them. It would make for good blackmail. That is, if you were actually okay with everyone knowing you’ve got the town outcast obsessed with you.

Gross. Nasty.

They probably think about you a lot. You don’t want to be the center of their world. How much would you have to think about someone to put their initials on your everyday wielding knife?

Mmm. Actually, maybe the average person doesn’t have an everyday wielding knife.

You wonder what they’ve thought about you. Every time you snarl at them; do they think it’s– cute, or something? They better not. You’re not about to be the butt of their stupid joke.

You’d rather be gutted than be thought of as some unserious chum tryna pick fights.

Or maybe they just liked you as a kid. Yeah, yeah. They’d always smile for you the most. They’d laugh at your jokes more than the others’. They followed you around the most. You, you, you.

They clung to you when everyone started leaving like the cowards they all are–

…

Ahem.

They’re so stunted they can’t suppress whatever burning emotions they had for you. That’s it. And even now – when you wouldn’t so much as hesitate to tell them to off themself – they’d still somehow come crawling back. At their safe distance.

They love you. They’re obsessed. That knife’s all the evidence you need to prove it. They’re practically begging to be your friend again. They miss you so much–

…

You hear your name uttered from their lips.

You didn’t realize how little space is between you. The foot of distance they left you has been shortened right back to nothing.

Did… you do that?

You’re unbelievably close to their face. Your noses are brushing. You feel your lips part.

But you’ve never heard them use your name as a defence.

…

Unless…

They don’t think you’re a threat.

Their face looks like it’s always been. But it’s the small things that you take note of. For one, they’re not breathing. Their pupils are dilated to hell. You see them swallow.

God. You can’t believe you haven’t noticed any of it until now.

Your eyes become lidded. “You’re disgusting, you know that?”

But it just… doesn’t feel right.

…

You wonder if they’ve ever thought about getting you flowers. Maybe from their dad.

Your cheeks grow warm.

Nope! That’s enough of you, moron.

You back away, taking long strides to the door. You ignore Susie’s bewildered expression. She knows nothing.

You don’t look back.

~*•*~

It’s another late evening after school. It started unexpectedly pouring in the middle of practice, and you’ve spent the past half hour or so holding your jersey under the blow dryer in the bathroom.

Yeah, it’s a bit useless, considering you’re not sure if you’re getting a ride home, or if you’re just gonna have to toughen it out in the rain.

You slip it back on, exiting the undercleaned washroom, ignoring the plunge of darkness that the school’s been put under. At least your shirt’s cozy and warm. It feels like a nice hug.

You skim your notifications, disappointed by the lack of texts from your parents. Looks like you’re walking.

You search for your umbrella, pleased to see it’s still in your bag after not using it for a year straight. Slipping in an earbud, you play a random song on your playlist and push yourself against the front door.

The relaxing patter of rain against the concrete couldn’t have prevented the way your heart dropped at the sight of Kris, leaning on the pillar still shielded by the overhang.

You let out a laugh, falling right into the automated response you’ve developed over the past few years. They don’t have to look back to know it’s you.

“You look more pathetic than usual,” you comment nonchalantly, perching against the other pillar. “Mommy couldn’t pick you up?”

Nothing.

And you’re back to this. The silence. Goddamnit.

Wait. You’re not disappointed by that.

You’re scrounging for things to say. Your heart rate picks up.

“S-she got more important things to do, huh?”

Crap! Calm down. You’re freaking out.

“What about Asgore?” You snap your finger. “Right. He cleans up for Noelle now, right?”

They continue to stare straight ahead.

“Yeah. Those snobs got lots to clean up. Don’t blame him for being so busy.”

You feel like you’re just talking to yourself. You feel insane.

“Bet Azzy would forget, too.”

Your overly forced smile begins to fade.

“You’re just very… forgettable…”

…

You sigh. A long, grueling one. It’s not forced – that’s the worst part.

You’re losing steam. You don’t even know why. You’re not even inherently tired.

“God,” you whisper, sliding down the pillar until you hit the ground.

You should just leave. Cut your losses now, walk home in the flood, get your shoes soaked. At least then, you could run a hot shower. Reflect on the day, regret every word you’ve ever spoken… y’know, the usual shower thoughts.

But you don’t. You sit, barely a foot away from the windless rain.

A mumble; you barely hear them. You almost wish you didn’t.

“How’s your hand?”

It’s like they’re pretending they said nothing. All that moved was their mouth. Why would you grace someone with conversation when they won’t even look at you?

Your undamaged fingers subconsciously drift to the bandages around your other palm. Yeah, you had a really bad infection-scare when you got home, but you’ve seen worse. Your thumb rubs against the hidden scar. You press once, just to see if it’ll hurt.

Of course it hurts. Why wouldn’t it?

“Barely left a mark,” you glower.

You’re both encased in silence.

You feel like you’re listening to ‘some peace for hard nights... (minecraft music, soft rain & water)’ from the way the rain eases your soul.

You feel yourself crumble. Break.

You really are an idiot.

…

You let out a pathetic laugh. “My mom got so pissed. Thought I got into another fight.”

They turn to you. You make out an eye. A red, ruby eye.

“Didn’t you?”

They’re smiling. It’s oh so small. But it’s there.

Your throat clams up. You don’t know why.

Your umbrella, abandoned on the ground, returns to your hand. You squeeze it like a stress ball.

There’s a very loud voice in you. It’s telling you to go the fuck home.

And so, you listen to it.

At least, you try to.

Just like how you try to open the umbrella. But your hand won’t budge.

…

Yeah. This’ll be one of those things you think about in the shower.

They’ve been watching your internal (very obviously external) struggle, only getting a tad defensive when you approach them. They open their mouth to say something, but you quickly thrust your umbrella into their hands.

They look at you like you’ve just shot someone.

“Take it,” you stare anywhere but them. You cannot, for the life of you, handle the eye contact. “Don’t give it back. Human cooties. Or something.”

And you’re running into the pouring rain, almost instantly regretting your decision.

…

Damn.

You’re really off your A-game.

~*•*~

Yeah, that was a bad idea.

The water seemed to nearly destroy your dollar store quality jersey – courtesy of the school – exposing all the little strings and threads that rip off at the seams.

You’ve gotten through another day of surviving, not living. You’re standing at your locker once again, picking at said strings in an attempt to rip them off.

But they refuse; you can’t get a good grip on the stupid things. And when you do, you’re suffocating your fingers in the chokehold that is the tiny twine. Sometimes, your fingers slip from the force, stabbing into your sliced palm.

And you’re going to be late for practice again. You’re too hyper fixated on this to notice. It’s almost embarrassing how hard you’re trying.

You feel like you’ve gotten an okay hold on one of the larger strings sticking from your shoulder.

Hoookay. It’s like you’re about to rip off a bandaid.

You tug, ignoring the pierce of pain in your finger, and…!

It snaps!

But your hand goes flying behind you from your momentum–

And you nearly punch someone in the face.

You just barely pivot your trajectory. Worried you’re about to get suspended (and maybe beaten up, depending on the person), you instantly turn. “Shit, sorry–”

But lo and behold, it just so happens to be the human. Should’ve let your fist keep flying.

You blink. Is there a way to take back an apology?

Why’re they even here? Their locker’s on the other side of the school. Which you only know because of how loud Susie is at eight in the morning. It echoes, to say the least.

Can they stop staring at you?

“What?” You defensively accuse, not wanting to ruin the rest of your day.

One of their hands drifts to their back pocket, or somewhere around there. And, oh, they’re– wait wait wait you’re not ready for this.

Ready for what?

They’re fetching their beloved knife!

With your name on it, of course.

Hopefully they stab you with it!

Why’re they doing this? Are they trying to ruin your image? Embarrass you?

Their hand reappears from behind them. Yeah, they’re holding it!

You see the scribble! Your initials.

Grab it! Slit your throat with it!

No, slit their throat with it.

Not before you ditch it in the lake! Remove the evidence.

What evidence? This isn’t evidence of anything!

Yes it is, you moron!

You don’t give a shit about them! What a horrendous accusation! You don’t–

Not you, them!

They’re tapping you with the tip of the spine.

…

Like… they’re offering it to you.

Perfect. Kill them and then yourself!

You…

Your hand shakily hovers towards the handle. They tilt the knife, just enough for you to get an okay grip. Your fingers practically curl around their own. You see them break their gaze in the corner of your vision.

Okay. Now you’re holding their knife. You don’t know what to do with it.

C’mon. It’s the perfect opportunity to outwardly acknowledge the familiar two letters. Or even go out of your way to ridicule them to their face. Reject them on the spot.

Yeah. Say something straightforward.

“I don’t want to be friends again.”

You should say that.

“Leave me alone.”

Why aren’t you saying it? You know you want to.

…

Do you?

They’re observing you with such interest, as if their gesture was even remotely readable. “The strings?”

“Oh,” you say, dumbfounded.

How long have they been… watching you?

You’re getting less and less observant by the day.

You pretend they’re not still examining your every move, plucking another thread between two fingers. You use your newly acquired knife to cut the string off with ease.

Huh.

Your hand gravitates to another loose twine. Then another. Yeah, it’s probably bad to be cutting off so many threads (you’re sure your jersey’s just going to fall apart at this point), but it’s too satisfying to stop.

You’re definitely more than late for practice – who knows how long you’ve been standing here – but you find yourself not minding as much as you should.

There’s a string that’s been tickling your neck. You left it for last because you have no idea how to angle your hand precisely enough to not slice yourself open (despite wanting to earlier).

You close your eyes. Take a deep breath. And… you pretend the human standing in front of you is anybody else.

Or maybe… just a different version. A past version.

You tug on the string. “Mind getting it for me?”

They don’t say anything. Instead, they wordlessly reach for their knife, slicing the annoying thing off with quick precision. They make an extreme effort not to touch you, especially after they pull away.

You pretend you’re confused at their distance. You pretend you’re confused at the slight tint of their cheeks. You pretend you don’t want to see the knife again.

Maybe you’re hallucinating the letters. Change of mind; you need to see it again. Just to make sure. Of what? You’re not certain.

It makes you question, to say the least. But you shouldn’t be questioning anything. Nothing’s different. You’re normal. This isn’t odd, weird, unusual, strange–

You push down every current thought in your head. You’re losing your mind, aren’t you?

~*•*~

The answer is yes. You are.

You’ve been feeling itchy recently. Not the physical kind – it almost feels like you’re missing something. You feel very off. And you’ve been pent up for the past few days. For no apparent reason whatsoever.

Noelle always makes you feel better. Helps you let off some steam.

Right after church service is when you decide to strike. You’re definitely not the type to attend regularly, but it’s not like you could just show up to Noelle’s. Here’s the only place you could reliably find her.

Sounds stalkerish, maybe. But you might end up killing someone without talking to her, haha!

You see Noelle and Toriel talking up by the piano. You take note of Susie occupied with the punch bowls, not wanting her to come over here and start a scene. And yeah maybe Kris is there too but that’s not important.

Your smile grows as you walk down the isle, making a beeline towards your favourite deer.

“Great singing, Noelle,” you call to her back. You can visibly see her stiffening at your voice.

Her eyes, flooded with the same fear Susie briefly described, lock with your own. She mumbles your name as a greeting.

To your dismay, Toriel echoes it with joy. “It has been so long since I last saw you! How have you been?”

“Fantastic,” you clench. “Would love to catch up, but I was actually hoping if Noelle could help me out. Think I dropped one of my rings underneath the bench, but I can’t find it.”

“Oh, of course!” Toriel grins, offering Noelle’s mere presence as if it were a service. “Noelle, dear, we’ll talk about your concerns at the next practice.”

“Mhm,” she nods, following with hesitance as you beckon her like a pet.

Once you get a safe distance away, you open your mouth. “Concerns? What’s with that?”

She murmurs something along the lines of: “Oh, it’s nothing important, haha…”

“Is it the waver in your singing? Maybe the flat notes?” You halt at your row, not once motioning to enter it. It’s not like you actually lost anything.

She shies away from you, lip pouting with a rosy hue of embarrassment spreading across her face.

A giggle escapes your throat. “Seems–”

Your eye wanders to the punch bowls. You try to revert your gaze, but to no avail.

You can’t look away because Kris is already watching you.

…

Your thoughts wander to the knife.

Snap out of it.

You cough. “Seems like your–”

C’mon.

Seems like your singing gets worse alongside your father’s health.

That’s what you want to say.

But you don’t.

Before your brain and your conscience can argue, you feel a hard, aggressive hand on your shoulder. It shoves you aside, making you nearly trip over your own feet.

“Leave her alone.”

Susie truly bears her fangs. Looks like she took your “advice”.

You still don’t have the heart to take her seriously. She’s rambling on about how you’re psycho, or something. You’re not really paying attention.

You’re too busy watching Kris. Their poker face.

Usually, their monotone expression is a genuine reflection of their mood. But now? You can tell they’re putting up a front.

Maybe they want to laugh at Susie’s insults. Maybe they want to smile at your (lack of) offended comebacks. Maybe they want to smile at you.

That’d be stupid. You’d never smile at them.

Your eyes dart to where their knife should be.

It’s why you’re not smiling at them right now. Push it down, asshat.

Their hand, previously resting in their pocket, emerges from its hiding spot. You watch it with more intention than you should.

It slips behind them. It reappears with what you’ve been looking for.

Their thumb brushes along your initials like a curtain revealing the final act.

They’re indulging you.

You ignore how that likely means you’re as readable as you feel.

Your head’s spinning.

It doesn’t matter what Susie’s saying. You’re shoving between the duo before she can spit out another word.

“Whatever.” You feel your face flush.

You feel absolutely mocked as both Susie and Noelle let out a quick huh?

You flee to the foyer, disregarding your obvious issues with the scent of the candles. You breathe out a laugh, pretending to blow out Susie’s candle.

Your eyes trail from your candle, to Noelle’s candle, to Kris’ candle, to Azzy– Asriel’s–

…

That’s funny.

You wonder what he’d think of you now.

The doors slam open, thankfully breaking your thought process. For some reason, your first instinct is to hide behind the display, disappearing from sight.

It’s the trio. They’re talking about walking home together. Like you care.

…

So you end up following them home. You have no clue why. There isn’t a reason! You just do. For… fun.

Susie’s the first to split off, albeit unsurprising. You’re not sure where she lives, but there’s no chance in hell she’s neighbours with the childhood-neighbours-turned-friends.

Although, Kris and Noelle don’t part ways at their juncture. Instead, they follow her through the gate.

You feel a pang of jealousy that you so desperately bury. You can’t believe they still hang out without you.

No. You deserve to be mad. Why couldn’t they have stuck together like this when you were still around?

The gate closes behind them (Carol and her goddamn paranoia), leaving you with no other option but than to hop the fence.

No other option? You could just, uh, go home?

You’ve been using your head a whole lot lately. Not exactly in a good way. You’ve been having a lot of stupid thoughts. Like this one. Perfect example.

You know what they’re there for.

You poke through the trees, getting comfortable underneath the kitchen’s window sill. You know she doesn’t have cameras. Or, you hope she hasn’t gotten them installed in the past year. Which is a very real possibility.

But, the prospect of any cameras vanishes from your head when you hear those faint notes.

…

You’re so impulsive. Maybe you are emotionally stunted.

Less stunted, actually. More pathetic.

This is so pathetic.

You’ve lived the past, like, five years without them. Without any of them.

That really is all it took. Just… knowing they still think about you.

You don’t need them.

…

No one really needs anything.

You just– want it.

Want to be happy again.

Want for everything to go back to normal.

You hear the window open. You’re sent into heart failure.

You scuttle away, twisting your neck to see Kris’ figure pretty much looming over you.

Heart racing, you squeak. “I’ll gouge your eyes out if you tell anyone…!”

But they say nothing. How surprising.

As if you were nothing but a mere ghost, they leave the window ajar, returning to what you can only assume to be the piano.

Your fingers dig into the dirt.

You can’t bring yourself to leave.

At some point, you peek over the window’s ledge, watching them play. You recognize the exact moment they notice you, which is almost immediately. They hide their face, shying away.

You calm your breathing, letting yourself lie back onto the grass. The little weeds tickle your neck.

Man. They really do like you. For some reason.

Yeah, you kept telling the obvious facts to yourself, but a part of you couldn’t believe it. It didn’t sound right. It didn’t feel right.

You lay there for an hour. You count the seconds in your head.

Kris left a while ago. When you hear the front door open, you don't look over to see if they notice you. They don’t approach you either, to which you’re grateful for.

You’re not sure why you’re still here.

You spend the time thinking. About everything. About nothing.

But you do hear someone’s breath hitch. It’s obviously Noelle.

She’s on her driveway, looking down the side of her house, glancing between the sparse trees to spot you. It’s like she knew you were here.

You can’t bring yourself to spit an insult. Whether it be from burnout, from relaxation, from confusion. You’ve learned not to question it.

…

You push yourself up.

“Hey.”

And she visibly deflates with relief.

She offers a timid smile.

“...Hi.”

You find yourself offering one back.

~*•*~

You broke into Kris’ house that night.

Wait. That sounds bad.

You saw Kris’ knife in an empty pie tin and couldn’t help yourself. Their kitchen window’s one of the more finicky ones, anyways.

As soon as you get your grubby hands on it, you find yourself gravitating to the lake once again. You’re not sure how they noticed, but you felt their presence following you about halfway into the walk.

You sit, just preceding the sand.

Your pinky traces the initials as a feeling of crippling nothingness washes over you.

“I can hear you, y’know.”

The only response you get is one of crunchy gravel, and their sitting presence by your side. You hide the knife instinctually.

“I think that’s mine.”

You give them a look, revealing the blade with a caress of the letters. “This says otherwise.”

They’re unmoving. Silent.

“I would’ve let you listen.”

How random. “Bold of you to assume I give a shit about piano.”

Considering they said nothing about it, you revealed your cards pretty quick.

“Noelle said she saw you.”

“You saw me, you brainless half-wit.”

“She saw you after I left.”

You choke on your spit, scrounging for an excuse. “I lost track of time.”

“She thought you were crying.”

“She needs to get her eyes checked, then,” you fold your arms.

Crying. Why would you be crying? You have nothing to cry about. Do they think you were crying? How embarrassing of an assumption.

…

You feel yourself getting protective.

“I wasn’t crying. I was… thinking.”

They’re quick to change the subject. “You were nicer to her yesterday.”

“Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to roughen her up next time.”

They almost laugh. You’re not sure if what you said was a joke or not. “Susie would stop you.”

“Yeah. Exactly why I backed off. Didn’t feel like getting my head pummeled inside out.”

You’re at the perfect angle to make out their smile. It’s moreso mocking than anything.

“Is that why you didn’t react when she called you a spineless wannabe?”

Your mouth falls open. “She called me a what?”

They stare at you like you’re delusional. “You weren’t paying attention.”

You panic. “Psh– yeah, I–”

Damn. They got you there.

They know you were so unbelievably distracted by them of all people that you weren’t paying attention to the ongoing threats made about your life.

“Fuck off,” you scowl.

There’s a pause. It’s so long it’s almost awkward.

“Mom wondered where you went. Wanted to catch up.”

“Well, tell her she–”

You cut yourself off. You’re not sure if it’s because you can’t think of anything, or because you’re actively trying not to.

Both are disappointing options.

“Said she’d make you apple pie.”

“What, you think you can just bribe me? I don’t want her pie.”

You glance at the knife. It still smells like baked pastry and cinnamon.

You’re not even hungry.

They pull out their phone, as if they’re trying to actively ignore you. You don’t care.

But a few taps later, they’re offering it to you. You gaze at them like they're crazy. When they don’t back off, you take it with hesitance.

It's a voicemail. You press play, against your better judgement.

You feel your eyes sting at the voice alone.

“Hey, Kris! Can’t believe you didn’t pick up– I know you’re probably busy with your best friend Susie, but don’t go around replacing me already, yeah?”

The hell? You give Kris a look, to which they roll their eyes.

“Hope everyone’s been doing good. Tell mom I say hello, even though she tries calling me every waking hour. Go hang out with dad for me, too. Make sure he doesn’t overwater his flowers–”

He starts listing a plethora of people, to which you don’t give two shits about. Oh, say hello to x for me! Let y know I say hey! It just goes on and on.

You’re losing your patience. “The hell’s the point of this?–”

They place a finger on their mouth in a shh motion.

You listen. Just because you have that feeling of knowing how this is going to end.

“–and I still owe him ten bucks. Right– also…” He pauses, for an abnormally long time. “How’s the, uh, little devil doing? I know she’s not exactly little anymore, but… y’know. It’s been a while since I’ve asked about her.”

…

Little devil.

How nostalgic is that?

“I know you don’t really talk anymore, but could you just– I don’t know, keep an eye on her for me? She didn’t seem very… okay before I left. Did I ever tell you what happened?”

Your throat dries. Oh no.

“It was the week before the move-in day. She wasn’t really talking to me at the time, but I tried anyway. She… well, lashed out–”

You do not want to relive this. No way in hell!

Your finger zooms for the hangup button, but Kris snatches the phone before you can press it.

“Give it!” You scream.

They shove you back, keeping you away with one hand.

“Stop!”

Your fist tangles with their sweater as you kneel over them.

You point the tip of the knife to their throat.

“Turn it off,” you threaten.

They give you an unreadable look.

And they blast the volume to max.

You growl, ready to cut their insides up, but the voice–

“–after I mentioned Dess, she really snapped. She told me she hated me, hated you, hated all of us. I’ve never felt more guilty in my life–”

Your cheeks burn. “Turn it off!”

“–but after a few minutes, she lost some steam. I just held my arms open, and she stared at me like I was an idiot. But then, she… broke, I guess. Tumbled right into me.”

You grit your teeth. You might shatter them.

“I’ve never seen her cry like that before. She told me it wasn’t fair. That we were all still grieving. She hid it under a bunch of ‘you guys are emotional, selfish dirtbags’, but I think she just wanted everything to stay the same, how it always was–”

God, no no no no no.

“She let some of it slip. Buried under the harsh stuff. Said she missed me, Dess, Noelle… said she really missed you. Her words, not mine–”

You push the knife into their skin. You see a sliver of blood drip down their tensed neck.

This isn’t a threat anymore. It’s a promise.

“I’ll break your phone if you don’t–!”

“But she was right,” you hear a laugh on the other side. “Don’t tell her I said that! I just… yeah. I should’ve been there for you guys. I shouldn't have let us all grieve separately. We should’ve done it together. Maybe then, she wouldn’t be so… y’know. Emotionally stunted?”

…

You feel your hands go slack. The knife drops.

You let yourself fall to your ass.

“Maybe just tell her I’m sorry. And maybe go bring her to the diner. She always liked it there.”

…

You do like it there.

He huffs into the mic. “Okay, sheesh, this is getting long. I’ll let you go. Oh– and don’t forget to order a hundred pizzas for delivery. Make sure it’s Pizzapants taking the order. And give him a fake address. Or schedule for pickup and just never go in. Okay, bye.”

…

You laugh.

It’s pathetically sad.

“God, he’s such a dunce.”

“He left two more,” they add. “Follow-ups to the delivery idea.”

…

You’ve never felt more open. Torn to see for this stupid, pathetic world. Screw Azzy and that horrible voicemail.

You frown. “I’m not stupid.”

“I know.”

“Don’t lie. You think I’m stupid.”

No response.

“You think I’m selfish for wanting everyone to stay together for my own sake. Well, I–”

Your voice breaks. Stop it.

…

“I didn’t… know what was going on,” you mumble. “Hell, she wasn’t my sister. Bet that family suffered ten times more than I did.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Bet you suffered more than I did. Fuck, man– I felt nothing for the first year. When you were all… I just…”

They’re unmoving. You wish you could say the same.

“I was selfish. I am selfish. I’m not stupid enough to deny it.”

You grab the knife. You’re a fiddler at heart. You let out a breath you’ve been holding.

Your entire soul’s just been exposed.

Might as well dig deeper when the light’s not visible anymore.

“Could you tell Azzy? That I’m sorry, too?”

Another pause. “Yeah.”

You shut your eyes, angry that you’ve let yourself go to such an extent. Your walls are as fragile as glass.

“...And tell him to tell you I’m sorry, too.”

“Sounds redundant.”

You narrow your eyes. “God, I hate you.”

“Still?”

…

God fucking dammit.

“I don’t hate you.”

…

They’re reaching into one of their pockets. You can’t make out what’s in their hand until they reveal it to you. “Trade you.”

You instantly perk up. Your charger!

“You should have it back, anyways.” You shove the blade into their hand, snatching your charger before they have a second say. “You probably talk to it like a weirdo.”

You glance up to meet their extreme poker face, and you realize it might’ve sounded like an insult. Not that it wasn’t, but–

“In a good way,” you add. “Sorta.”

“Doesn’t sound good. Sounds stalkerish.”

“Yeah. Don’t think you’re above the label.”

“Mhm. Almost as bad as hopping someone’s fence to listen in on–”

You shove their shoulder. “Hey. I only did it, like, three times. And they were all years apart.”

You swallow, twirling the cord around your finger.

“Yeah. I should probably, uh, talk to Noelle about that.”

They give you an amused look. “She thought you were planning her murder.”

“Tomayto tomahto! It’s not like Susie’s any different. She straight up fantasizes about being bullied by her.”

“Eh. They’re a special case.”

“Mmm. Like us,” you let slip. “We’re a special case. ‘Cause you always manage to make my blood vessels burst.”

They sigh.

“Yeah. Guess we are.”