Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

We've been living in the shadows everyday
Are we ever gonna learn from our mistakes?
Our innocence, our ignorance, were lost but they'll be found
The innocence of years we spent

“Hey, you’re pretty good.”

The voice—light-hearted and friendly—came from directly above Deckard. Its suddenness stole a startled hiss from his lips as he nicked his thumb against a guitar string.

“Oops–”

Harried footsteps. There’s a sound of someone clamboring down the staircase before crouching next to him on the bottom step. When Deckard turned his head, he found himself face-to-face with another boy around his age.

The nameless boy smiled apologetically. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. Is your thumb okay?”

They looked at his—red, throbbing, but thankfully not bleeding—digit together as Deckard held it up for inspection. In truth, most of the pain had already ebbed, but Deckard directed a sideways glare at the other boy anyway, out of principle.

It was enough to make the boy back up a bit, though not as much as Deckard would’ve liked.

“Whoa. Has anybody ever told you that you got a nasty side-eye?” He asked with a nervous grin.

An imbecile, then.

Just because he felt like it, he glowered silently for an additional few seconds (a feat made infinitely easier when one was an angsty pre-teen in the throes of pubescent horror), just to watch the other squirm. However, when it became clear that simply mean-mugging the hell out of the kid wasn’t enough to get him to fuck off, Deckard gave in with a sigh.

“Who are you?” he snapped irritably.

The imbecile smiled as if Deckard had just complimented him.

“I’m Charlie Disco! Yeah, I know. Weird last name, but my mom swears it’s been passed down for generations.”

Deckard blinked at him.

“Dad’s a Disco, too. And so was his dad, and the dad before him. Funny enough, great-grandpa Disco was apparently more into that hard rock stuff from way long ago. You know? Like Bon Jovi and st–”

“What do you want?” Deckard gritted through his teeth.

He flinched back slightly when the boy, Charlie, hit him up with the double finger-guns.

“That’s a pretty open-ended question,” he winked. “But seeing that in this context you’re holding a guitar, and I was listening to you play it just a few minutes ago, I think it’s safe to assume I wanna know what song you were singing earlier.”

Deckard scoffed. “Does it matter? I doubt you’d recognize it.”

Charlie smugly crossed his arms. “Try me.”

Blue met blue in a wordless challenge.

Finally, Deckard clipped, “The Other Side. Memphis May Fire.”

The other boy sat on his haunches and closed his eyes, hemming and hawing obnoxiously as his features twisted in apparent deep thought. Deckard stoically watched the display, feeling his already thin patience wearing down nearly to the bone. After what felt like an hour (which was in actuality, barely even a minute), Charlie re-opened his eyes and nodded his head.

“Yup, don’t know it,” he confirmed.

Definitely an imbecile.

“But it sounded really good when you sang it!” He leaned in with another dazzling smile, and this close, Deckard noticed the nearly invisible divots in his cheeks. “Your voice is nice.”

Oh.

Deckard quickly turned his head away as his heart mysteriously picked up speed.

“I…” He gulped, internally cursing his uncooperative tongue. “... I’ve never sang. In front of anybody else before.”

He could practically hear Charlie’s jaw dropping to the floor.

“What!? That’s… insane, though? Like, I only heard a little bit, but I already want more!”

Scrabbling against the tiles. Deckard chanced a glance back at Charlie, only to find that the boy had literally gotten onto his hands and knees and was peering at him with enormous, pleading eyes.

“Can you please play it again?” His lower lip wobbled dangerously. “Pretty please? I’ll buy you lunch– no! I’ll buy you two lunches!”

It occurred to Deckard then, cornered against the bottom of his apartment’s dirty staircase with some 85 pound teenage boy attempting his best impression of a sad puppy, that he wasn't used to receiving this much attention from anyone regarding his music. His own father hadn't shown half of the interest Charlie was, but then the old man was hardly ever home long enough to realize his son possessed a hobby, anyway. It was overwhelming in a strange, intoxicating way. Like having his first taste of something he knew would eventually ruin him, should he overindulge.

He didn't hate it.

“First off, back up a little. You're too close,” Deckard said.

Seeing Charlie scramble to obey almost made him smile. With a more acceptable amount of space between them, Deckard considered the boy, searching his face with critical eyes.

“You'll listen quietly. No commentary allowed.”

Charlie eagerly nodded. “Yeah, for sure! I’ll be quiet as a mouse—won’t even know I’m here!”

After scrutinizing him for a moment more, Deckard readjusted his guitar and positioned his fingers over the strings. He plucked a mellow intro chord, building both momentum and nerve, then sang. Getting into the groove was easy; this wasn’t the first time he’s performed this song, and he completely forgot that he had an audience. Soon, the plucking turned into strumming; his voice rose, filling the space of the dirty apartment stairway.

”Pain will be your guide
To peace that you can’t find
It’s always darkest just before the light
If you could see the other…”

Shuffling, soft. Charlie had made himself more comfortable, drawing his knees towards his chest as he listened raptly.

The visual made Deckard falter for only a beat before he resumed, holding the boy’s gaze. The eye-contact seemed to startle him, but for reasons unknown to Deckard, Charlie stared right back, and didn’t once look away until the song concluded.

Afterwards, with the final notes still a lingering echo, Deckard waited in trepidation for Charlie’s verdict.

Charlie’s lips fell open slightly, then closed. He tucked his legs under himself and, with a heavy look in his eyes wholly unbefitting of a 13-year-old boy, scooted closer.

“Can we be friends?” he whispered, almost timidly.

Deckward’s mouth opened, too, in surprise. “Friends?” he repeated, eyebrows narrowing in suspicion. “You don’t even know me.”

“I want to, though.” There’s those puppy-eyes again. “You’re so… cool. And your voice is… wow! I bet you’d make an awesome rockstar one day!”

Mortifyingly, Deckard felt heat rise to his cheeks completely against his volition. He scrubbed at them with his palms, emitting a low noise of frustration. “You have no idea what you’re talking about…”

“Hmm, yeah. Probably,” Charlie admitted easily. “We can still be friends though, right?”

Gods, this kid was stubborn. “Why do you wanna be friends with me so badly, anyway?”

Charlie grinned widely, showing off his dimples again. “Because when you become a famous rockstar, I can point you out to people and be like, ‘Hey, I know that guy! He’s my buddy!’”

Deckard stared in disbelief. “... that is such a dumb reason.” He looked away, pursing his lips.

As the seconds dragged by without a response, Charlie’s grin began to flag. “So… that’s a no, huh?” he softly asked.

Blue eyes flitted to his devastated expression. It's just on the side of pathetic enough to tug at Deckard's dilapidated heart strings, and so, despite his common sense hissing at him to get up and leave, he didn't.

“Deckard.”

Charlie perked up.

“My name,” he elaborated, nearly inaudible. “Deckard Voltaire.”

Initially, the boy does little more than owlishly blink. But after his brain appeared to finally catch up with the information presented, his face split into a blinding smile.

“Right on, Dex!” he cheered.

“It's Deck–”

An arm wound around his shoulders and yanked him forward. Before his mind could fully comprehend what was happening, he felt a gentle, blunt pressure against his forehead.

……

Charlie had very long eyelashes.

“Call it a hunch, but I think you and I are gonna be the best of buds,” he grinned.

The careless remark successfully snapped Deckard out from whatever spell the other had cast on him. He drew back as far as he could—which wasn’t very far, considering Charlie seemed intent on eliminating any possible distance between them—and shoved his knee against the boy’s stomach.

“Let me go, already!” he growled.

Laughing, Charlie at last released him, but remained all but plastered to Deckard’s side as he grumbled and picked up his fallen guitar.

He gets begged to play another song. Deckard complained for the sake of complaining, but indulged Charlie anyway. Not because he wanted to impress the other teen or anything, and certainly not because he actually liked his attention.

Totally not.

Throughout it all—the shifting notes and winding chords, the rise and fall of his voice—the warmth of Charlie’s leg pressed alongside his own was a constant presence that only left once it was time for both of them to return home.

Dex didn’t know what to expect when Charlie mentioned wanting to introduce him to his friends, but this… was pretty fitting, actually.

It made sense that this odd, colorful boy had his own little gang of equally odd and colorful boys.

The tallest one towered a full head above Charlie and hadn’t stopped leering at him since the moment they clapped eyes on each other. He was big for his age (assuming they were all the same age), and gangly in a way that reminded Dex of those long-limbed primates at the zoo. Certainly, there was a vague, feral air about him that made Dex want to keep his distance.

Right after tall-and-unsettling was not-as-tall-and-less-unsettling. Easily his most prominent feature was his blue hair (which Dex doubted was his natural color. Probably), and unlike the other teen, the smile he gave Dex actually looked friendly.

“So, this is Dex,” Charlie announced, gesturing at him excitedly, “The guy I told you about—y’know, crazy-good guitarist and singer?”

He absolutely refused to preen at the description, even if an appallingly large part of him felt pleased by it.

“Dex, this is Hemlock.” He thumped the tall one’s chest who was, yup, still leering. “And this is Benny.”

“Charmed,” greeted Benny.

“I’ve known these two since we were snot-nosed kids. They’re basically my brothers.”

At this, Benny reached over and playfully ruffled Charlie’s hair. “That makes you the youngest and most annoying one, right?”

Charlie batted the offending hand away. “I’ve got several months on you and Hemlock,” he groused.

“And yet, you’re still so, so short,” Benny sighed.

Dex glanced between the three of them silently, his grip loose around the strap of his guitar case. Friendship was, admittedly, a more foreign concept to him; his childhood was a blur of moving vans and hasty classroom introductions. He couldn’t remember ever staying long enough in a city to form a connection with anyone, and because of that, never had a friend.

Not once had he ever found that particular component about himself abnormal. Not until now.

“Nice… to meet you?” he tried.

The ensuing awkwardness he felt was immediate and brutal.

Fortunately, at least one of Charlie’s friends had the kindness to overlook his crippling lack of social skills. Benny chuckled good-naturedly and stepped forward, offering his hand.

“Nice to meet you, too. Dex, right?”

He hesitated before tentatively gripping Benny’s hand, finding the other’s palm to be cool and dry.

“Yeah, that’s what Charlie calls me.” His eyes briefly flickered to the brunette before returning to Benny’s curious face. “My real name is Deckard.”

Both of them flinched in tandem when sudden, boisterous laughter exploded from behind Benny.

”Deckard? Are you shittin’ me?” came the gruff, thickly accented drawl. “That’s your fuckin’ name, mate?”

“Hem,” Charlie warned.

Benny’s smile, although still present, gained a strained edge as he regarded the taller teen. “Seriously, dude? We’ve just met him. Can’t you keep your thoughts to yourself for five minutes?”

Hemlock snorted. “Easy ‘nuff for you to say, Bene-dick. Ol’ boy Deckard ‘ere sounds like he was made to go throatin’ golf balls. What’s your daddy’s name, then? Mayhew? Abernathy?”

“Shut up, Hem!”

If Dex wasn’t so annoyed, he might have found the sight of Charlie needing to literally jump to smack Hemlock’s head slightly funny. As he was currently, though, it took all he had within him to not just turn and storm off. Hemlock struck him as the type of crazy who would pursue his fleeing victims, much like a dog with a high prey drive. And besides that still, he hadn’t put in the effort of venturing out of the safety of his bedroom just to be tongue-lashed by a dumb punk with a dumber-sounding accent.

In the midst of Benny and Charlie taking turns admonishing Hemlock, Dex had enough and opened his mouth.

“Those sure are some bold words for someone who’s named after an ogre.”

An instant hush fell over the squabbling teens. When three pairs of eyes turned to him, Dex continued on.

“You know what an ogre is, right? I’ll enlighten you in case you don’t: they’re big, loud, smelly, and ugly. A lot like you, actually. So, congrats—you have a name that fits you pretty well.” He shrugged. “Not sure what that says about the person who gave it to you, but that’s not my business.”

Benny’s face, ostensibly, couldn’t decide whether it wanted to gawp in horror or cry with laughter. The outcome was a bizarre amalgam of both as he desperately pursed his lips to contain any incriminating sound he might make.

Charlier, on the other hand, looked as if Dex had just recited an entire inflammatory hate-speech, complete with fire in the background and an angry, baying mob. He nervously glanced up at Hemlock, whose expression had gone frighteningly blank.

The tall teen began stomping towards him.

“Hem—”

He ignored Charlie, pushing the smaller boy aside when he tried to go around him. Dex held his glare as he came closer, and closer, his neck tilting backwards once Hemlock stopped directly in front of him. By now, Benny seemed to have realized that the situation had officially flipped on its head, and hovered at Hemlock’s back with wide, anxious eyes.

Charlie’s still tugging on Hemlock’s arm, to no avail.

“Think you’re real clever, huh,” Hemlock growled.

“More than you, at least,” Dex fired back.

Hemlock’s nostrils flared, green eyes flashing.

Every strand of hair along Dex’s neck and arms rose as if in anticipation of a lightning strike. He expected a fist to come flying up under his chin at any moment, or maybe from the side of his temple. He imagined it would hurt—the bones in Hemlock’s knuckles were wide and prominent, biologically formulated to inflict agony—yet couldn’t bring himself to feel anything other than smug satisfaction knowing he’d gotten under the other’s skin.

An arm blurred in his peripheral, then—

—wound around his neck—not to choke him, surprisingly, but to jostle him against Hemlock’s chest as the teen guffawed in his ear.

“Bloody ‘ell, you’ve got a mouth on ya, bro!”

A fist tucked under his chin, dragging him even closer into a bruising headlock. Dex knew what was coming next, but was helpless to stop it. Another fist came down upon the top of his head, scrubbing furiously. It was, without a doubt, one of the single most unpleasant sensations he’d experienced in his short life.

Hemlock cackled, “I like you, Deckie! Let’s be mates, yeah?”

“He’s turning blue,” Benny pointed out.

Hemlock’s lobster claw grasp around him finally let up. Once released, Dex staggered backwards and coughed, clutching his throat. A different pair of arms settled on his back, steadying him.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlie apologized, “Hem is… well, Hem. He’s really territorial and doesn’t like strangers. I told him you’re cool, but he’s so…”

He trailed off when Dex shook his head, giving the black-haired boy some space as he straightened upright again.

Dex’s narrowed gaze darted from a grinning Hemlock, to the contrite Charlie. “It’s just the three of you, right?”

“Well, yeah. But we want you to be a part of our group, too!” the shorter boy insisted.

“Mostly Charlie,” Benny added. “He kept going on, and on about this mega-cool guitar player–”

Charlie flushed, “Ben!”

“What? Did I lie?”

Hemlock thumped his fist against his chest. “I vote we keep ‘im!”

“We’re not voting, stupid–”

Dex observed their bickering, his eyes carefully roaming from one face to another. Three boys, each one with a vastly different personality. They shouldn’t have worked, and yet, they did; they were controlled chaos, unified likely because of their diversity, almost like a band.

Looking at them, he felt a foreign pull in his chest. Indescribable. The closest thing he could compare it to was the feeling he’d get while watching his grandmother’s old music recordings. It wasn’t unpleasant.

No—quite the opposite, actually.

His hand tightened around his case strap, his mind made up.

“I’ll hang with you,” he said.

Hemlock and Benny were still embroiled in an argument that had somehow segued to the evilness of single-use plastic, but Charlie heard him. The boy’s head whipped towards him at a blinding speed, his eyes sparkling.

“You will!?” he beamed.

Dex lifted his hand. “Don’t–”

Too late—he immediately found himself with an armful of overexcited teenager after Charlie leaped at him, shouting his delight. The commotion drew the others’ attention, and soon, Hemlock joined in with a roar of his own, easily enveloping them both in his long arms and spinning them in circles.

“ONE OF US! ONE OF US!” Hemlock chanted.

“Put me down, you fucking ape!” Dex shrieked. “I’ve changed my mind! I want nothing to do with you freaks!”

Charlie only laughed harder. “No take-backs! You’re stuck with us forever!”

As Dex’s screams of frustration rang out into the air, Benny pulled out his phone and recorded the scene with a wicked grin.

It’d come as a shock when Dex learned he went to the same school as the other boys. Sure, he had an inkling this might have been possible, given that he was a new student, but surely this wasn’t a mere coincidence, right?

Charlie seemed to think it was destiny, wasting no time launching himself at the other teen like a human-shaped trawl the moment he saw Dex in the hallway. Once all of the awkward first-day introductions were over for Dex’s classes, Charlie then made it his official mission to indoctrinate Dex into every single activity their group did together after school.

Today was apparently ‘hang out in the band room’ day, which suited Dex just fine. He probably won't find better acoustics in this rundown heap of a bulding than here, anyway.

While entering, he didn’t miss the lingering, wistful expression on Charlie’s face when they walked past a drum set.

“You interested in playing?” he asked, tilting his chin at it.

Charlie blinked, giving his head a brief shake before looking at Dex. “Huh…? Oh, right.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get this guy to teach me, but he keeps saying I’m not ready yet.”

“Hmm.” Dex set his guitar case down onto a bleacher and unzipped it. “Is he a music instructor?”

“Not really.” The teen hops onto the bleacher below Dex’s, swinging his legs. “I… work for him, I guess? I help clean on the weekends. I don’t get paid really well, though. He says that because I’m still a kid, I get paid in experience.”

Humming again, Dex sat and placed his guitar in his lap. “He sounds stingy.”

Charlie giggled, not denying it. “He totally is.”

“Why are you even working? Do you need money that badly?”

His legs pause. “It’s not about money. The guy, Stix, used to be a famous drummer. One of the best around.”

“Used to?” Dex frowned.

The smile Charlie gave him was small and strangely sad. “He’s retired. Works as a bartender now in a place called The Encore. It’s been almost two years since I’ve started there, but,” a sigh, “He won’t budge. I dunno if it’s because I’m lacking, or too young, or... whatever.”

Dex’s fingers fiddled with the tuning pegs contemplatively. “Do you think maybe he’s leading you on? You know, just so he could have somebody around to clean and cheap out on their pay?”

Several moments ticked by without an answer. Once Dex finished tuning his guitar, he finally deigned to glance down at Charlie, only to freeze.

“... hey,” he said.

Charlie swiped his jacket sleeve across his face, his head bowed. “He… Stix wouldn’t do that. He’s not that type of person.”

“I could be wrong,” Dex offered hesitantly. “I’m just saying shit. Sorry.”

The sniffling hadn’t let up. If anything, it grew louder.

Dex squirmed, uncomfortable and uncertain on how to proceed. Even more than that, he felt guilty, despite realistically knowing that he shouldn’t. It was a peculiar predicament to be in; he couldn’t remember the last time he, himself, cried. Hearing someone else dangerously on the cusp of tears, however, evoked an unfathomable type of dread.

Out of desperation, he started to play, fingers plucking the first song to come to mind, if only to just drown out the creeping onset of hiccups. The act was rash and instinctive. His mouth opened automatically, and then he sang.

”If I could have a moment
of peace then that’d be great
without the pressures of the world
screaming in my face…”

He watched Charlie, noting that the boy’s shoulders had stopped shaking.

”’Cause I’m a friendly castaway
I prayed the winds would guide my way
The gods were fools to believe in me
‘Cause I’m a friendly castaway.”

At last, Charlie twisted around in his seat, eyes round and wet. He listened, rapt as the day they first met, as Dex strummed the remaining notes before halting the song at the halfway point.

They both stared, waiting for the other to speak.

“... that was nice,” Charlie murmured, smiling shyly. “Which song was that?”

Dex didn’t respond immediately, abruptly feeling mysteriously bashful, himself.

“Castaway by Bayside,” he managed to croak.

Sniffing one more time, Charlie turned his body so that he could properly look up at him. “All of the songs you’ve played are stuff I’ve never heard of.”

“Yeah,” Dex quietly agreed. “That’s ‘cause they’re pretty old.”

“You must really like those kinds of music.”

He averted his gaze. “I do. My grandma got me into them. She—”

“You're gonna spill them, dumbass!”

“If it's botherin’ ya so much, why don't you carry ‘em?”

Dex's jaw clenched. The door to the band room was propped open, and from down the hallway, a familiar pair of voices steadily drew nearer.

“The agreement was that I carry the snacks and you carry the drinks. If you'd just— will you stop?”

“Yap, yap, yap.”

Hemlock’s lanky figure appeared first holding a cup carrier filled with four drinks. Their sealed, reusable caps should prevent most spillage, but knowing Hemlock, he’d probably find a way around it. Benny trailed in after him with a takeout bag in each hand, looking mildly disgruntled.

“Oi! Got your boba!”

“Don’t throw it!” Benny hissed.

Charlie’s hands were already halfway lifted when Hemlock tossed him his drink, thankfully underhand. He caught it and grinned. “Thanks, Hem.”

“Heads up, Deckie!” Hemlock reared his arm back.

Dex tensed, but fortunately, Benny thwarted what was very likely to be a messy aftermath and yanked the other boy’s wrist down.

“Idiot. We’ll be banned if we spill anything, remember?”

Hemlock rolled his eyes skywards with a groan. “Can’t do anythin’ fun ‘round ‘ere.” He swiped a takeout bag from Benny and stomped up the steps.

Dex mumbled a ‘thank you’ as his milk tea was (properly) passed to him. He’d never had it before, but when Benny had offered to treat the group, he didn’t have it in him to say no. A paper straw was attached to the side of his cup, and with some fascination, he stabbed it through the cap’s circular opening.

While Hemlock plopped onto a nearby bleacher, gangly limbs flopping everywhere, Benny walked around to Charlie’s side, only to pause and peer at the boy’s face.

“Why’re your eyes red?” A hand reached towards him, but Charlie shifted away.

“Just allergies,” he said, stabbing his own drink. “Dex played another song while you guys were away.”

Benny paused again, but the silence this time felt weighted, calculative.

“Really?” Gold eyes slyly flitted towards Dex. “He serenaded you again?”

Dex choked on his tea at the same time Hemlock piped up, “What's that mean?”

“It doesn't matter,” Dex coughed before Benny could open his dangerous mouth, “Because I wasn't serenading anybody. I play for my own reasons.”

“You do seem pretty attached to that guitar of yours,” Benny mused, considering the instrument in Dex's possession. “It’s got an interesting design. Where’d you get it from?”

Dex hesitated. “It… was passed down to me.”

Benny’s eyebrows shot up. “You're from a family of musicians?”

“Sort of.”

“Me too,” Charlie chimed in, “But you already knew that. Benny’s folks have a musical background, too.”

“They’re natural performers, as am I,” the blue-haired teen smugly confirmed. “I’m part of my church's choir. Hemlock's the only talentless hick among us.”

Hemlock chewed loudly around a mouthful of popcorn chicken, nonplussed. “Go fuck yourself, Ben.”

“So…” Charlie leaned over and propped his chin on Dex's bench, “Does it have a name?”

At Dex's puzzled look, he pointed at the guitar.

His confused frown deepened. “Why would a guitar have a name?”

“Sentimental value, individuality, or just for funsies,” Benny said, sitting next to Charlie. “Musicians name their favorite instruments all the time. Did your grandma never tell you the name of her guitar?”

Dex was silent, his throat working over the lump inside of it. Almost unconsciously, his fingers slid across the guitar's body—a midnight-black, carbon fiber ibanez iceman with an ebony-wood fretboard, inlaid with curling, silver grooves. Older than him by decades, but still as beautiful as it had looked in the very first video it featured in. Clearly loved and meticulously cared for, its finish glossy and smooth.

Craftsmanship of this caliber would certainly have a name; it was deserving of one. But if it ever did, his grandmother took it with her to her grave.

“I guess she didn’t,” Dex whispered, swallowing his grief.

Somebody plucked one of his earbuds out while he was in the middle of reading his passage.

Dex passed the thief a blank stare, but Charlie merely playfully stuck out his tongue before popping the bud into his own ear. Afterwards, he dragged another chair over and seated himself backwards on it, using the backrest as a stool for his arms and chin.

Charlie, Dex had discovered, appeared to have a strange aversion to sitting like a normal human being. But, he supposed it’s a reasonably tame quirk, especially when comparing it to Benny’s obnoxious habit of gargling his water after every meal. Or Hemlock’s tendency to bark at the pigeons lollygagging around the campus (which Dex was inclined to believe may stem from other, clandestine issues that he was prudently choosing not to study further).

“You really like listening to this heavy stuff, huh, Dex?”

After watching him for another moment, Dex eventually sighed and returned to his book of Norse mythology.

“It’s called metal,” he droned, “I don’t expect you to know anything about it.”

Charlie bobbed his head to the beat of the current song. “I know a metal band.”

Dex hummed, disinterested. “Oh, yeah?”

“Nickelback’s metal, right?”

Shutting his eyes, Dex counted to three, then slowly faced Charlie again.

“Nickelback,” he repeated, deadpan. “Thousands of metal bands in existence, and you pick Nickelback.”

Charlie frowned. “What's wrong with that?”

“They're…” pursing his lips, Dex swiveled in his chair, his book all but forgotten, “Okay, yeah, they’re technically metal. In my opinion, they’re more rock than anything.”

A tiny smile was forming on Charlie’s face. Gripping the bottom of his chair, he awkwardly inched it closer to Dex’s with short hops until he was right beside it. Then, leaning forward, he lowered his voice conspiratorially. “What’s the difference between rock and metal?”

“What’s the— What’s the difference?” Dex scoffed in disbelief. “They’re completely different from each other! Tempo, vocals, distortion, everything!”

A couple of nearby students in the library shot him looks over their shoulders as he got louder. Noticing this, Dex quickly ducked his head and quietly hissed, “If you wanna be a drummer, you’re going to need to know the distinctions."

Charlie’s eyes grew big. “Really?”

“Yeah. Drums play a huge role in metal songs.” Dex scanned around him, stopping when his gaze landed on Hemlock in the next seat over—fast asleep at his own desk with a manga book folded over his face.

Without an ounce of remorse, Dex shot his leg out and kicked Hemlock’s chair, jarring the boy awake in a flurry of flailing arms and startled grunting.

“Whadda…? ‘oo the fuck?”

“Hey,” Dex called. “What do you know about metal music?”

The blonde blinked at him blearily, his jaw still hanging halfway open. After a moment, understanding lit up his eyes and he wagged his finger excitedly.

“Yeah, yeah! Them’s, uh… Nickelback, ain’t it?”

Any fragile and critically endangered joy that still lingered inside of Dex thus disappeared into the aether as Charlie bursted into hysterical giggles.

“Heathens. Both of you.”

The band room was in use today. There’s a concert coming up.

Not that Dex particularly cared; school band programs typically followed an arbitrary metric that hardly ever allowed the actually talented students to spread their wings. It’s messy and mundane. At least, in Dex’s opinion.

Benny’s parents had allowed them to congregate in their spacious garage with some bean bags and snacks. With the door open, they could hear the sounds of midday traffic bustling somewhere high up above.

While the other boys were seated, Dex marched to the center of their square and planted his speaker on the floor.

“You’re all learning about metal,” he stated.

Charlie and Benny leaned forward in interest, but Hemlock only let out a snort. “Really, mate? You still pissed ‘bout the Nickelback thing?”

Yes.

“No,” Dex said. “I’m just tired of the ignorance. Mainstream media only ever plays the same, boring slop. If any of you plan to be real musicians one day, you’ll have to branch out.” He turned on the speaker, then walked back to his own bean bag. “What do any of you know about metal? And please don’t bring up Nickelback again.”

“There’s a lot of screaming?” Benny offered.

“Them guitars go like—” Hemlock’s fingers played an invisible (and painfully inaccurate) riff as he made dininini noises with his mouth.

“The drums use double-kicks,” Charlie said, grinning proudly. “I Googled it.”

Alright. Dex could work with this. He pulled up his playlist on his phone. “Most of you are right. Metal doesn’t always involve screaming, though. The vocals can be anywhere from clean to guttural—what really matters is the way the instruments are played.”

The speaker came to life with a low, haunting whine. An acoustic guitar faintly played, moody and measured.

”Like a flash of light
In an endless night…”

“Metal is variable,” Dex resumed explaining as the boys turned their heads to listen. “Just like how there’s different genres of music, there’s genres of metal. What you’re listening to right now is a song by Type O Negative, one of the earliest gothic metal bands.”

“Don’t sound much like metal to me—” Hemlock flinched when both the electric riffs and drumbeats kicked in without warning. “... never mind.”

“Gothic metal is known to have slow tempos and a heavy, gloomy ambiance. It was the starting block for other genres, like symphonic metal and power metal.” For reasons unknown even to himself, his eyes sought Charlie’s, and upon seeing the genuine intrigue in them, his confidence swelled. “I can show you guys examples of those, too, if you want.”

They go through a series of other bands in Dex’s playlist—Evanescence, Amaranthe, Hammerfall, then, upon Hemlock’s insistence, Megadeth and Suicidal Tendencies. Benny appeared particularly enthralled by the power ballads, going so far as to add a few selections to his personal playlist. There was an odd gleam in Hemlock’s eyes as he listened to the thrash bands, his fingers twitching as he attempted to clumsily emulate their riffs.

Benny’s mother appeared halfway through their lesson with lemonade, chips and guacamole. While Dex munched on a chip, he glanced over at Charlie and noted the boy’s foot restlessly tapping against the floor.

“Any preferences, so far?” Dex asked.

Charlie tore his eyes away from the speaker and blinked at him.

“Um… All of them, I guess.” He smiled widely. “You sure are knowledgeable, Dex.”

Heat threatened to claw up his neck, but Dex pushed it down, brushing off the compliment with a huff. “I grew up listening to this stuff. It's important to know your roots.”

After tossing a brief glance at Hemlock and Benny—the latter was helping the former search something up on his phone—Charlie grabbed the sides of his bean bag and, through a liberal scrabbling of twiggy legs, scooched closer.

The speaker was still blaring Powerwolf. Charlie brought his face close—closer than he really needed to—and asked, “What's your favorite genre?”

Dex leaned back, foam crunching softly below him.

“Probably…” he ran his tongue over his teeth, then looked at Charlie. “Metalcore.”

“Can you show me that, too?” Their knees had to be only centimeters apart. If Charlie shifted even a tiny bit, they would be touching. “I wanna listen to the music you like.”

This time, when warmth returned to fill his cheeks, Dex did not fight it.

“Sure. I don't see why not.”

They celebrated Charlie's 14th birthday at The Encore.

It was a small affair that consisted of the four boys, Charlie's parents, and Stix—Charlie’s infamously stingy boss.

The image of Stix that Dex had been building in his head was of a crotchety, old miser who had no qualms about exploiting young and suggestible teenagers if it meant he could pinch together a few more credits.

Turned out, he was only partially correct.

Stix was, indeed, crotchety and old, but even a blind person could see that he cared about Charlie. The pre-party, preventative dressing down he’d dished out to Hemlock had been one of the more entertaining things Dex witnessed that year; it was then very swiftly surpassed when Stix snatched Hemlock’s nose in a beartrap grip after the boy grumbled something characteristically moronic, dragging him down and holding him there until he cried uncle in a frantic, nasally whine.

After that, Dex thought he was pretty cool.

It’d taken some finagling and sloppy evasive maneuvers in order to avoid tipping Charlie off, but in the end, Charlie’s father was able to convince him to drop by The Encore after school under the pretense of a “bonus.”

Everybody huddled by the elevator and waited for the birthday boy to arrive. Once those cabin doors slid open, Charlie was greeted by a collective holler of “SURPRISE!” and popping party streamers .

When the deer-in-headlights look faded from his face, he flew out of the elevator with a shout, conveniently landing right in the middle of Benny, Hemlock, and Dex.

Mostly Dex.

While Dex idly wondered how he kept finding himself in this predicament, Charlie tearily blubbered about how he’d thought everybody had forgotten his birthday, how happy he was that they were all here, and so on, so forth—

“We’ve got a cake for you, too, baby,” his mother said.

Charlie unlatched himself from Dex, his eyes sparkling. “There’s cake?”

As far as birthday parties went, this was likely the most lively one Dex had ever partaken in. Most of his own memories of birthdays were quieter, comprising only of himself and his parents. Then, after his mother passed, it became just him and his father, and maybe a sad little 10-credit cake fetched from the grocery store at the last minute.

Charlie’s cake was double-tiered, vanilla-cream frosted with funfetti filling and music notes as toppers. Benny sang the loudest during the birthday song, on-key, but no less offensive. Hemlock looked like he was dying to smash Charlie’s face into the cake while he was blowing out the candles, but a single, murderous glance from Stix kept him in check.

When it came time to open presents, they sat around the bar area to watch Charlie gush over everything he received, no matter how small or cheap a gift was.

His parents had gotten him an expensive-looking, yellow leather jacket that Charlie instantly pulled on. Hemlock bought him the newest issue of the comic series he knew he adored. Benny cockily brandished a rectangular case containing a pair of polychrome sunglasses with a transparent rim; much like the jacket, he eagerly wore this, too.

Dex was more reluctant about handing over his present, even though Charlie’s mother had assured him that her son would love it. He timidly approached the other boy’s side, and after clearing his throat, held out a small, black box.

“Happy birthday, Disco.”

Charlie gently took it from Dex’s hand, and with very obvious care, lifted the lid.

He gasped quietly. “Oh…” His fingers reached in, delicately extracting the thin, black string from its cradle. As it dangled from his grip, the silver ring attached to it twinkled in the light.

“Disco Forever,” Charlie read, holding the ring up to his shades.

Dex fidgeted, suddenly deeply self-conscious. “I know we haven’t even known each other for a year yet, but I wanted to give you something special, since… you’re my first friend, and all.”

Charlie was still staring at the necklace, saying nothing. Behind him, Dex spotted Benny whispering to Hemlock. Nausea filled his stomach and began its slow climb up Dex’s esophagus, but right as he felt as though he would faint, Charlie’s arm dropped with a thud atop his thigh.

Then, he was being hugged, reedy arms thrown around his neck in a deathlike cinch as Charlie practically hung off of him.

“I love it,” a wispy voice murmured next to his ear. “I’m so happy to be your friend, Dex.”

His heart was a metronome beating a ceaseless, staccato rhythm against his ribcage as his trembling hands rose to hold Charlie’s waist, still not quite certain on how to go about returning a sudden embrace. Vaguely, he realized that they were being filmed; Charlie’s mother had whipped out her phone the second he’d made contact and was, currently, uncontrollably cooing while her husband smiled at her shoulder. Even their other friends looked stunned—particularly Benny, who gawked at them in a mixture of incredulity and mild outrage.

“Um, hello? So he gets a hug and we don’t?”

Laughing brightly, Charlie at last pulled away and readily transferred a hug to Benny, as well.

“Of course you do! You guys are my best friends,” he reassured him. “You wanna hug, too, Hem?”

Hemlock grunted, “Sure do,” and in a move that reminded Dex of their very first meeting, encircled both of the boys and hoisted them off their feet.

There was something satisfying about watching someone else get tossed around, for a change. Benny had essentially transformed into a siren, but no amount of name-calling would convince Hemlock to put them down just yet.

“Let ‘em go, boy,” a low voice spoke up from behind the counter. “Charlie's still got one more present to open.”

Stix pushed a long, slender rectangle across the bar’s surface as Charlie was placed back on his feet. The boy pushed his sunglasses over his head as he approached it, eyes large with surprise.

“Wow. You got me something, too, Stix?”

“‘course I did. You’re my employee, ain’t ya?”

Grinning, Charlie started reaching for the box, but paused. He stared at it, pupils briefly flitting to Stix’s face, then back to the box. With an air of caution, he held it one hand, using his other to slide the bottom out. A shiver arose from his wrist when the case was half-removed, and with one more yank, he pulled the rest of it onto the counter.

Charlie made a sound between a gasp and a sob. “Stix…”

The ex-drummer smiled at him. “Happy birthday, kiddo. You’ve earned these.”

Dex’s gaze followed the motion of Charlie’s hands as they carefully extracted the blacklight drumsticks from their box. They were held in a simple black pouch, the initials C.D. carved into the leather.

“Does—” Benny’s lips tilted up hopefully, “Does that mean you’re gonna teach him how to play?”

Stix chuckled. “It sure as Hell does. An’ I expect ‘im to show up on time to every lesson.” He leveled his hand towards Charlie. “I’m no nice teacher. Imma teach ya all the ins, the outs, an’ the betweens an’ I don’t expect any lip ‘bout it. We clear on that?”

Charlie, through the tears trickling down his face and his hiccuping shoulders, could only fervently nod, his eyes never leaving the drumsticks.

“Good.” Thumping his fist once against the counter, Stix then casually reached underneath and retrieved a stack of paper plates.

“Aight. Who wants some cake?”

We've been given all these chances everyday
Another step to take in this could change
Our innocence, our ignorance were lost but they'll be found
The innocence of years we spent

Middle school came and went in still-frames of humdrum classes, listless weekends spent either at The Encore or the arcade, and the odd practice session here and there. The latter had been a more recent development; not too long after Charlie began his drumming lessons with Stix, Benny’s parents had bought him a digital keyboard, and Hemlock got his hands on a secondhand bass guitar from a pawn dealer.

Out of the group, Dex and Benny were the most adept at their instrument; Benny was already taking piano lessons since before, so segueing into an electric format was child’s play for him.

On the other hand, Hemlock’s guitar had to be customized to fit his big fingers (Vienna sausages, Benny disdainfully described them as). He’d hit what was probably his fourth growth spurt in two years and was showing no signs of stopping, towering over most adults at the tender age of 16. Since he couldn't sit in the bean bags anymore (the last attempt had ended with an exploded sack and a whole lot of vacuuming), Benny's garage was no longer a viable hangout spot.

Fortunately, Stix was happy to lend The Encore's backstage to them with the caveat that they'd be gone by the time the bar opened for patrons. There, Dex was able to witness first-hand Charlie's progress from his lessons.

And it was staggering—almost frightening.

Charlie had been egregiously downplaying his skill, and it was a realization that was as exhilarating as it was numbing. When he'd sat upon that throne and turned on the metronome, it was as if Dex stood before a stranger—a seasoned musician rather than some punk-ass kid with a hobby. His arms created streaks of color as they moved, so fast they were practically invisible, his beat unwavering. With every strike against the snare, a chord inside of Dex reverberated in reply.

And above the relentless percussion, above each thunderous crack of the cymbals, Dex saw Charlie unveiled for what he was: an artist in love with his craft, consumed, body and soul, by the power of music.

Just like Dex.

Centuries seemed to pass before he finished his set—a moment suspended like an acrobat on a highwire, come crashing down with a final cymbal smash. Panting and beaming, Charlie twirled his drumsticks once, then tucked them under his arms as if they were a chain of nunchucks. Dex could do nothing but gape while Hemlock and Benny cheered.

“Disco, ya beauty! Ya killed that!”

“Stix must have really put you through the wringer. That was awesome!”

Charlie flipped his fringe out from his sweaty face. His hair's gotten slightly longer, though it's still not quite at Benny's level yet. “Aww, stop. You're gonna make me blush.”

He’s already flushed, Dex thought to himself. The physical evidence of his effort stained his cheeks a fetching maroon over his tan skin.

When blue eyes inevitably drifted to him, Dex’s breath caught in his lungs.

“What did you think, Dex?” Charlie asked, metaphorical tail wagging.

It was a pointless question as far as Dex was concerned. Would his opinion even matter when there’s already avid approval from the others? Did Disco desire another pat on the head that badly? Empty praise to stroke his blossoming ego?

Dex imagined it would be easy to lie and say that he performed poorly; better—he could feign indifference, and Charlie, like the acceptance-hungry fool that he was, would strive endlessly to win his favor.

A senseless, cruel idea. So, why was Dex tempted to do it?

“You were great,” he said, still somewhat uneasy from his previous thoughts. “It’s like… you were made to play drums. Stix must’ve seen something in you.”

“Hey, that’s a good point,” Benny stated before Charlie could respond. “You think Stix took you on the job because he knew you were a prodigy?”

Charlie’s mouth flapped for a moment. “I-I don’t know if I’d call myself a prodigy...”

“Maybe we oughta start our own band,” Hemlock pondered aloud, scratching his chin, “Call it, like… ‘Danger Disco’ or some such.”

Benny arched a quizzical brow. “Danger?”

“Disco Killers?” Hemlock offered.

Charlie shook himself free from his funk and stood up, wearing a look of mock indignation. “Hey, hi, Charlie Disco over here. Why are we using my name?”

“Hmm. What about Voltaire Vixens?” Benny asked.

“I want no part in this,” Dex said.

”Whaaaat? Mate, you gotta be part o’ the band!”

Goosebumps erupted across Dex’s skin as Hemlock approached him with an arm threateningly held out. He managed to duck the first swipe, hastily retreating behind the drum set with Charlie and shooting the tall teen a glare from his defensive position.

“If I had to play with the likes of you for the rest of my career, I think I’d go crazy and eventually kill myself or someone else,” he sneered.

Benny tittered, ”Someone’s in a espicy mood.”

A hand lightly grabbed his elbow. Looking down, Dex was met with Charlie’s huge, simpering stare.

“You don’t wanna be in a band with us…?”

Dex’s eye twitched. “I—” He sighed, guttural and aggravated. What was it about this kid’s kicked-dog eyes that kept unfailingly stripping Dex of his ability to form words? “Listen. You guys are just starting off. I don’t want any amateurs weighing me down.”

“Eh? We not good ‘nuff for you, hot-shot?” The cymbals clattered as Hemlock leaned his bulky frame across the drums. “Think you can make it on your lonesome? With Harmony out an’ about? Don’t be daft, mate.”

“As much as it pains me to say this, Hemlock’s right,” Benny said airily, pushing some of his locks over his shoulder. “Everything’s rigged. Radio stations, television, streaming platforms—all of it. The only way any of us would even stand a chance in the industry is if we form a band.”

The hand around Dex’s arm inched higher, gripping his bicep. “Friends should stick together, too,” Charlie murmured, still painfully earnest. “If we do form a band together one day, I’d definitely want you in it, Dex.”

With their proximity, Dex could see the telltale glint of silver peeking just below Charlie’s shirt collar, almost like a reprimand. The sight of it dislodged every single caustic retort that had been waiting on his tongue, leaving him with only a phantom of his animosity. His lips pulled back in a grimace, and with a short, frustrated puff through his nostrils, he grumbled, ”Fine.”

“Fine?” Charlie echoed, perking up.

Dex’s resigned stare passed over each of the faces watching him.

“I’ll join your stupid band.”

Charlie was all over him before Benny or Hemlock could start rejoicing. Naturally.

Hemlock's fingers paused over his bass as Dex coughed for what had to be the umpteenth time that hour.

“Aw'right, Deckie? Ya sound like you're ‘bout to ‘ork up a kidney.”

Dex waved off his question while wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I'm fine. Probably just caught a cold.”

All of the floating particles likely weren’t helping, either. He didn't know when the last time The Encore's backstage was deep-cleaned, but judging by the fine layer of dust over everything that wasn't an instrument, Dex could only presume: way too long.

Evidently, Charlie's janitorial duties didn't extend here.

“Want some cough drops?” Benny asked from the sofa.

Dex caught the tiny, wrapped piece of candy when it was tossed to him. “Thanks.”

“You just carry those around with ya?”

“Their ginger-lemon flavor is refreshing,” Benny shrugged.

Hemlock made a gagging noise. ”Ginger? What are ya, forty? Don’t ya ever eat normal crap? Snickers? Cheetos?”

“Chocolate and high fats make my skin break out.”

“Heh. ‘High’ fats.”

Dex smothered another cough around the candy in his mouth. The taste wasn’t unpleasant, but he was more concerned about it going down the wrong pipe if he started hacking again. “Start over from the beginning, Hemlock. I wanna take a closer look at where your fingers are while you play.”

With a throaty noise of assent, Hemlock re-positioned his fingers over his bass’ fretboard.

“Wait— Wait up.”

His friends stopped in their tracks and turned. As soon as Charlie laid eyes on Dex bracing himself against a street pole, panting and wobbling, he hastened to his side.

“You okay? What’s wrong?” He frowned as looked Dex up and down. “Dex… you look like you’re about to pass out.”

“There’s a bench here,” Benny gestured.

With Hemlock’s aid, he and Charlie guided Dex to the seat and lowered him upon it. Dex’s head slumped over the back of the headrest as he pulled in ragged breaths.

“Sorry,” he rasped.

Benny touched the back of his hand to Dex’s forehead, humming. “No fever. Have you been getting enough sleep, Dex?”

“Let’s take you home,” Charlie said, phone already in hand. “I’ll call my dad—”

“No.” Dex coughed into his elbow. “That’s not necessary. I just need a moment.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Charlie hopped onto the space next to him.

For the following minutes, they loitered by the bench while Dex gradually recovered. Some time during, Hemlock brought back a bottle of water from a nearby vending machine and gave it to Dex, sternly reminding him to recycle it once he’s finished drinking it.

When Dex’s legs no longer felt like they were going to buckle under his weight, they resumed their trek to the arcade without further fanfare.

“LET’S FUCKIN’ GOOO—”

“If you don't shut your big mouth, you can kiss your movie goodbye,” Benny snapped.

It was Hemlock’s turn to pick the movie this month, so of course, he chose a film that none of them were old enough to watch.

At the core of them, though, ratings were just a suggestion—an opinion that Hemlock eagerly took and sprinted with all the way to the AMC.

Benny’s mother was under the belief that her darling law-abiding son was going to see The Last Entry of Geraldine Winters with his friends and had provided them credits for tickets and snacks. Dex felt a little guilty about lying to such a generous lady, but Hemlock had been adamant about catching Final Destination 11 before it left theaters.

And honestly, if Dex had to pick between those two movies, he’d go with Final Destination 11, too.

It’d been tricky trying to sneak past the part-timers with an entire Hemlock as a stowaway, but they were ultimately able to follow another group into theater 4. There was a short-lived squabble over seating arrangements once they reached the back, which was promptly put to rest when Charlie wordlessly sat down and tugged Dex alongside him.

Benny, torn between sitting next to Dex to avoid being near Hemlock or taking Charlie’s other side, chose the latter with a dramatic sigh. He fell into the plush chair beside the drummer, muttering about popcorn and how it’s likely going to be all gone before the previews were over.

As if to reinforce this theory, Hemlock shamelessly reached across Benny’s lap and grabbed a biblical handful of the puffy corn kennels before haphazardly shoving them into his hanging maw. While Benny’s face twisted in disgust, Charlie took a much more moderate amount of popcorn, offering some of it to Dex.

“No thanks. I don't like the stuff,” he said.

All three boys instantly turned towards him in alarm.

“How do you not like popcorn?” Charlie asked.

“Is it because you hate joy? Is that it?” Benny seconded.

Dex scowled. “I like not having husks stuck in the back of my throat.”

“So?” Hemlock scoffed. “Just ‘ave a fizzy an’ wash ‘em down.”

“Then I'd have to get up in the middle of the movie to use the bathroom.”

“Don't be such a—”

Somebody shushed them from down the row. Hemlock retaliated with a middle-fingered salute.

“It's just previews, ya pisser. Save it for the real show, why don't you?”

Benny flicked a piece of popcorn at his head. “You're too loud.”

Darkness fell upon the room eventually with still roughly half a full popcorn bucket to spare. As Dex settled more comfortably in his seat, Charlie leaned over and whispered, “Do you want this here?”

He was referring to the armrest between them. Dex glanced at it and shrugged.

“You could have it.”

To his surprise, Charlie grabbed it and lifted it up. Weird, he thought to himself, but paid it no further mind once the first scene opened up.

Dex was no stranger to gory films; his dad owned a collection of what had to be every slasher in existence on Blu-ray, accumulated extensively during his youth. Back when they used to spend more time together, he’d enjoyed watching the movies on their antiquated player with him on Sundays. Nowadays, it was usually just him.

He’d seen the original Final Destinations with Tony Todd, and a few after that. They were solid, mindless and bloody entertainment that didn't try to elevate themselves by delving into any meta or deep narratives.

There’s too many people in the current film’s elevator, packed tightly against each other like tinned sardines. They should’ve far exceeded the weight limit, but the doors closed regardless and began to rise with only a slight lurch at the start. The protagonist seemed to realize what was wrong before anybody else, but her cries to stop the elevator go unheard in the bustling cabin.

Charlie wriggled in the corner of his eye; he had shifted closer to Dex’s side, his breath coming out faster as the elevator steadily picked up speed. The numbers on the position indicator rapidly blinked with each floor they blew past—20, 21, 22, 23…

Dex wasn't looking at the screen anymore. He watched his friend instead, eyebrows furrowing as he observed the anxiety play on the other boy’s face.

45, 46, 47, 48…

Thoughtlessly, he placed his hand in the space between them and rotated his palm upward. The moment the elevator shot through the roof of the highrise, Charlie gasped and reached for Dex’s offered hand. Hemlock’s low, rumbling crowing could be heard as the cabin imploded on itself in a grand shower of misty gore and glass.

Charlie’s eyes were squeezed shut. Amused, Dex brought his mouth to his ear and whispered, “Not a fan of horror?”

The teen chuckled weakly, soft hair brushing against Dex’s chin as he shook his head. “I prefer animated comedies.”

Dex huffed. “I figured.”

The scene's moved on, whipping back in time minutes before the protagonist's demise.

“You can open your eyes again,” Dex said.

Charlie did, his shoulders slumping in relief. He directed his attention to the movie again—however, he didn’t let go of Dex's hand.

The rest of the showing panned out similarly with Charlie occasionally tightening his grip during harrowing sequences. It shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was—he was 16, on the cusp of 17, more man than child—and yet, Dex couldn’t help but lump him into the same category as a kitten—

—puppy, he amended, recalling big eyes and invisible wagging tails.

A supporting character (whose name Dex had already forgotten and only existed for the sole purpose of providing more death fodder) had his headphones on while mopping the floor of a museum. He did not notice that the wires suspending a humpback whale skeleton were coming apart; each snap sounded like a gunshot, and while panicked visitors scrambled away from the collision zone, Soon-to-be-dead-guy remained blissfully unaware up until his very end where a giant rib bone impaled him right through his skull.

Charlie squeaked, pushing his face into the divot of Dex’s shoulder and neck.

Cute.

Suddenly, Benny glanced over, and Dex’s heart dropped into his stomach.

In the darkness, it was difficult to determine what kind of face he was making. Dex could only hope it wasn't one of revulsion. The brief, seemingly benign interaction left dread pooling inexplicably at the fringes of his thoughts. No amount of frightened clinging from Charlie or gratuitous arterial splatter from the movie would dispel it.

The unexpected onset of stress brought Dex's attention to the mounting pressure in his chest—a pressure that he’d been suppressing since the beginning of the day, now fit to burst like an overfilled balloon.

When the credits rolled and the lights of the theater flickered back on, Benny was the first to stand, stretching his arms over his head with a languid crack.

“Well, that was fun,” he commented, straightening out the wrinkles on his jacket. “A little grotesque for my tastes, but at least the acting was decent.”

Hemlock threw his head back and laughed. “You’re only sayin’ that ‘cuz the cast was hot!”

“Both could be true at once.”

Dex stood next, snapping to his feet with a swiftness that had Charlie peering at him in concern. Without a word, he rigidly removed himself from the aisle and rushed out of the theater, ignoring the calls of his name.

Later, as he was splashing water against his face in the AMC’s bathroom, he raised his head and met his own eyes in the mirror. He looked pale. Gaunt, almost. Puberty had been less than gracious to him compared to the others, lengthening his limbs in unseemly proportions, stretching the skin thin over his cheekbones and making them even more pronounced than they already were.

And that was just the visible aspects, because his heart was still throbbing as if the short trek to the bathroom had been 10 times the distance, rattling against his insides like a caged beast. His legs wobbled beneath him, unsteady as a newborn fawn’s, threatening to give out. He felt winded and weak, just as he had for the past month. It should be worrying. He should be worried.

Yet, all he could think about was the sensation of Charlie curled against his side while the weight of Benny’s indecipherable stare dissected him in the dark.

A door swung open in the distance and shortly afterwards, his reflection was joined by three others.

“Dex?” Charlie prompted softly. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

His next attempt at an inhale proved to be the final crack in the dam. The result was a violent coughing fit that sent him reeling over the sink counter, nearly toppling him. Charlie and Benny were at his sides in an instant, holding him upright while Hemlock swore and pulled out his phone, frantically scrolling through his contacts.

A cool palm cupped the underside of his jaw and tilted his face up.

“Your coughs are getting worse,” Benny observed, brows pinched in worry. “This doesn’t look like a typical cold.”

“It’s, nothing,” he wheezed.

“Hello, Mr. Voltaire? Dex is in a real bad way,” Hemlock babbled into his phone. “Uh, yeah, he’s coughin’. Almost fell over, it was so strong. We’re at the AMC on Steelpike street…”

“Don’t—” a second cough ripped through him like a lance, more brutal than the first. “—dad… he doesn’t—”

”Please.” Charlie's voice was a tinny whisper, fainter than even Dex's. “Just… let us help. You can't keep doing this to yourself.”

The hands on Dex's arm were gripping almost tight enough to bruise—a sharp, anchoring spot of pain among his otherwise muddled senses. Blinking through his swimming vision, he tried to focus on the face in front of him, but it was a challenge; water and sweat droplets kept dripping into his eyes.

Benny left briefly and came back with paper towels, folding them to carefully dab the wetness from Dex's lashes.

“Your da's on the way,” Hemlock said. He sounded far away, more of an echo than a person. “Fuckin’ ‘ell, Deckie. Ya better not be dyin’.”

The edge of the counter dug into Dex's back as he heavily leant against it. His head lolled forward, chin dropping upon his collarbone. A layer of fuzz cocooned his brain still, but he knew for a fact that he would never allow himself to die in a fucking AMC bathroom. There'd be no one left to carry his grandmother's legacy—no one to remember the woman she was, or how she'd sparked passion into a deadbeat kid and shaped him into more than what he thought he could be.

Beyond that, Dex had yet to create a legacy of his own, and this, more than anything, was unacceptable.

“Not going anywhere,” he managed to gasp. Words were difficult when every breath was like getting his lungs punctured with needles.

It’s quiet in the bathroom save for Dex’s intermittent rasps and Benny’s hushed assurances. Hemlock guarded the entrance, turning away any curious, concerned, or ambivalent guest with admirable resolve. Dex won't ever say it out loud, but he was grateful; in his most vulnerable moment, he was privately glad to have friends to catch him as he fell—literally, in this sense.

One of Charlie’s hands migrated from his arm to his waist, white-knuckled as it clenched the material of his shirt. Somehow, he looked sicker than Dex, his cheeks sallow and eyes glossy.

Dex thought about how he could lend the other boy his hand, just as he did back in the theater. Something for him to hold onto and keep himself from shaking apart.

But like a coward, he didn’t.

It took fifteen minutes for Dex’s father to arrive, ten to drive him to the nearest hospital, and hours for the trajectory of his aspirations to nosedive straight down into an abyss.

“Hey, bud. Charlie’s here to see you.”

Dex stopped singing. “I'm busy.”

Even without an amp, his grandmother's guitar was more than capable of drowning out any sound his father could possibly make. Still, the man lingered at his bedroom door, annoyingly paternal whenever it least suited Dex. “He told me to tell you that he's not leaving until you talk to him.”

“Then he can stay out there, because I'm not in a talking mood,” Dex shrugged.

He hadn't been for over two weeks—not since he was told that he'll never be able to properly walk again without assistance. And especially not since his doctor warned him against ‘overexertion.’

”But with plenty of regulated exercise and daily physical therapy, you’ll be able to manage your symptoms and optimize your quality of life.”

Maybe then, he might live to see 50 years instead of dying of heart failure at 35.

What a sick, fucking joke.

His father must have left after his latest comment, because the door was closed again when Dex looked up. Good. He should know better than to disturb Dex while he was songwriting.

Wads of crumpled paper laid strewn around his trash bin containing the evidence of the misbegotten fruits of his labor. His tiny TV monitor—an ancient relic from the days where people still watched movies on flimsy, plastic discs—currently displayed a still-frame of Deathroes during their 2031 performance.

His grandmother’s band.

Dex slowly inhaled.

“Short of breath and pulse erratic,” he paused, scratching out lines in his notebook, then readjusted his grip on the guitar. “The weight on my chest inciting—”

A knock came from his door.

“Go away, dad,” Dex growled.

It opened a crack, and in poked a familiar head of dark brown hair.

“It’s me, Dex,” Charlie murmured.

Fuck.

Shock wrested a wheeze from his already battered lungs. Before the first cough could even leave his mouth, Charlie was at his side, crawling across his bed to get to him and stroke his back.

Dex hated how pleasant it felt.

“Why the fuck—” his voice shook, pitifully brittle, “—are you here?”

The other teen chewed on his bottom lip. “Because you won’t talk to me. I’m worried—we all are.”

“Oh, really?” He shoved Charlie’s arm away. “Thank you so much for caring about my wellbeing. Your concern is truly touching. Too bad it can’t do shit about my incurable disease.”

Charlie looked on the verge of tears. “Don’t say that, Dex.”

Dex felt nasty, right then. Irrationally, monstrously vicious. He was exhausted just from speaking and in pain from doing fuckall. And it was unfair, so very unfair, that Charlie could sit there in front of him with his watery eyes and crestfallen expression and act like he actually gave a damn about some sickly kid who might not live past 40.

He didn’t need to be kind, and yet, he was. Unfailingly and to a fault, like he was some warped parody of a guardian angel.

Dex wanted to push him—to see how far that kindness would stretch before it snapped, exposing the ugliness Dex knew was buried inside.

Snarling, he set his guitar on the floor and rounded on the boy, snatching the front of his shirt. “Why? Can’t handle the truth?” Dex slammed him back against the comforter, ignoring the scared gasp of his name as he loomed above him. “Is sweet little Charlie so delicate that he can’t stand knowing there’s someone who doesn’t have everything fucking perfect in their life, like him?”

His other palm pressed into the mattress next to Charlie’s head while his knees planted on either side of his hips, pinning him in place.

Charlie gawked open-mouthed at him, eyes huge and black.

“You’re so full of it,” Dex hissed, fist coiling further into his shirt. “Pretending to care, playing the role of a wounded friend. You nauseate me.”

At any moment, Dex expected to be pushed off, cursed at, punched, even. He saw Charlie’s hand sliding across the blanket, fingers closing around the wrist atop his chest and thought, prematurely, I’ve got you, now.

But then most unexpectedly, those slim fingers traveled lower, feeling deliberating along Dex’s bandaged fingertips.

Dex stared, dumbfounded.

Charlie’s tongue darted out to wet his lips—a quick, nearly missable flash of pink before it disappeared back inside of his mouth.

The air between them grew suddenly, oppressively warm.

“Dex,” Charlie whispered. His eyelashes fluttered as he explored Dex’s hand again, warm skin brushing over the swell of his knuckles, curious and unbothered.

Dex could hear his heartbeat in his ears. His pupils frantically flickered from Charlie’s face, to his wandering fingers. Back and forth, warring between confusion and something undefinable.

They spent an indeterminate amount of time simply watching each other, neither daring to delve deeper into the strange atmosphere that permeated the small bedroom. Only when Dex practically ceased breathing altogether did Charlie freeze, grasping his digits with a squeeze.

“You’ve been playing non-stop.” It wasn’t a question, but an observation, spoken almost absently. “Again. You’re hurting yourself.”

Dex released his hold on Charlie’s shirt and slipped his hand free. It didn’t move far, its wrapped fingertips extending outwards, the breadth of his hand spanning more than half the width of Charlie's shoulders. He was slight for his age, retaining the slenderness of his youth while others around him outgrew their clothes; the size disparity was made more blatant when paired with a giant like Hemlock; Benny, too, built long-legged and broad-shouldered like his father, was quickly gaining additional inches on him.

Charlie was forced to constantly look up at Dex whenever they walked and talked together, neck craned nearly all the way back just to meet his eyes. Dex hadn’t thought much about it before. It was inconsequential, as were most aspects in his life.

Here, in Dex’s dim, depressing 8 by 10 with the blinds pulled shut, he became acutely aware of how much smaller the boy was.

And he was still gazing up at him as if he was waiting for something, his irises dark. Inscrutable.

Dex swallowed, unthinkingly creeping his hand higher.

His ring finger bumped against a hard, round shape beneath Charlie’s shirt, and it was as if he was struck by an electric current.

The connection was severed. Dex propelled himself backwards and away, chest rising and falling rapidly.

What the fuck was he about to do just now?

Charlie sat up slowly, his jacket slipping off of his shoulders and pooling around his elbows. “Dex—”

“Shut up,” he snapped, belligerent. “What else am I supposed to do? Dad won’t let me stay out too long because of all the ‘fumes.’ I can’t— I can’t even go anywhere without—”

He refused to look at it. Couldn’t. Even acknowledging it made his stomach fill with bile.

His hand shook where the gauze was cinched tight at his finger joints. Dex held it up to his face, the bandages bleached-white like bones.

“This is all I have. Nothing will take it away from me. Not sickness, and not you.”

The blankets rustled. Charlie started to crawl towards him, but paused when his palm happened to nudge Dex’s notebook on the bed—still opened. Dex outwardly scowled as the teen pulled it towards him for inspection, but inside, his heart pounded nervously.

He knew the sheet looked like a mess with its countless scratched out words and butchered chords. Inspiration, if it could even be described as such, only ever seemed to reach him in his darkest hours; he’d harnessed it as best he could with what he had, but up until now, no one had seen his product except for him.

Charlie was silent while he read, his face unreadable. Eventually, he placed the notebook down again and gingerly slid it across the bed at Dex.

“Have you played it yet?”

Dex’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not finished.”

Charlie chewed on his lower lip again and scooted a few inches closer. “I still wanna hear it.”

The look in his eyes told Dex that he won’t take no for an answer. Dex was trapped, anyway—confined to the corner of his room in an ironic inverse of their earlier positions. The bed was barely large enough to fit both of them; if Charlie came any nearer, he’d be sharing the same breath as Dex.

Dex glared, then sighed.

“Hand me my guitar.”

Eager to comply, Charlie reached over the side of the bed and fetched the instrument, passing it to Dex with exaggerated reverence.

“Your scepter, milord,” he said solemnly.

Dex rolled his eyes. This fucking kid.

Settling the guitar in his lap with Charlie kneeling barely a foot away, it occurred to Dex that it’d been some time since he privately played for him. Had it really been almost four years since the day they met on that stairway?

He supposed it didn’t matter, at any rate. In a couple of months, he probably won’t have to think about it again for a long while.

Dex hadn’t been lying when he said the song wasn’t finished. Merely halfway written, he’d yet to figure out how to work out the closing verses. With Disco practically vibrating with anticipation, though, it’s highly unlikely that he’ll complain.

”If I start to fade, gone without a trace
Who will pray for me tomorrow?”

Charlie wiggled his knees out from underneath him to pull towards his chest. He folded his arms atop them, resting his chin on his crisscrossed wrists.

”If I fall too far, disappear in the dark
Who will pray for me tomorrow?”

In the gloom of his bedroom, Charlie’s eyes were two, shining points that drew Dex’s attention away from his music sheet. He found himself strumming almost on autopilot, fixated by the depth of the boy’s gaze—open and—

—adoring.

”Who will pray for me?
Who will pray for me?
Who will pray for me tomorrow?”

“So,” Benny stated with all of the hauteur of a parent who had to find out through a teacher that his child skipped class.

Hemlock, possibly because he was more accustomed to that particular tone than most, froze with his spaghetti noodles dangling from his mouth.

But the blue-haired teen wasn’t looking at him. He was staring across the lunch table at Dex, chin propped upon his palm.

Charlie inquisitively glanced between them. Dex kept his eyes lowered, raising a spoonful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Undeterred, Benny continued, insouciant as he could be. “I heard you’re moving away in two weeks. When were you planning to let us know, hm?”

A fork clattered beneath the bench.

“... what?” Charlie said.

“Our dads were talking,” Benny clarified, watching Dex’s face with too-sharp eyes. “Dex was just going to quietly make his exit without telling any of us. Or maybe he was going to keep it to himself ‘til the very last day. But, I'm sure he has a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

All eyes were on him. Dex calmly put down his spoon.

“My dad thinks I'll have an easier time living somewhere with cleaner air quality. “ A shrug. “I can get cheaper treatment outside of the city and maybe build up my cardiovascular strength.”

There was a beat of silence.

“That’s… good,” Charlie began haltingly. “But you were keeping it a secret? Why?”

When Dex didn’t immediately respond, Hemlock grunted from beside him and gave him a shove that almost sent him over the bench.

“Hem!” Benny and Charlie shouted simultaneously.

The tall teen sneered. “Look at this gutless cunt, tryin’ to weasel ‘is way outta ‘ere an’ leave us behind. Some friend you are.” He spat on the grass. “Bet ya couldn’t wait to get rid of us, huh?”

Steadying himself, Dex turned to shoot Hemlock a glower. “That’s not it. Stop putting words into my mouth.”

“Fuckin’ spit it out, then!” Hemlock’s fist slammed on the table. “Prove me wrong! If we’re really mates, we deserve to know!”

“Firstly, you need to calm down,” Benny said, his tone hard. He nodded at Dex. “Go on, Dex.”

Each of his friends wore a different expression. Hemlock was understandably furious; Benny was leveled, but expectant; and Charlie…

Dex’s gaze lingered on him, because out of the three, he appeared the most hurt. Betrayed, even.

The weeks of pent-up guilt and frustration had finally taken their toll. Dex sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wishing he didn’t have to care as much as he did.

“My dad and I used to move around all of the time. You guys are basically the only friends I ever had.” He folded his hands together on top of the table. “When we’d pick up our things and go, I never had to say goodbye to anybody. It’s different now. I don’t… I don't know what I should do.”

Truth kept tumbling from his lips, nigh-on impossible to stop. His leg jiggled below the table within its brace. “I hated thinking about it. So I just… didn’t. It was always easier for me to ignore those types of things. Talking about them is— ” His eyes closed. “Painful. I’m not used to it. … sorry. I should’ve said something sooner.”

He was thankful, at least, for the fact that they’re outdoors instead of inside the cafeteria; Dex didn’t know how much worse or better he would fare if they were surrounded by chatter, where other students could easily peek over and see him unraveling like a loose spool of yarn. Here, he can focus on the distant birdsong and playground, and not the pitying looks his friends were giving him.

A touch on his wrist jerked him back to the present.

“Hey,” Benny soothed, “I get it. Goodbyes are scary. But like you said, we’re your friends. That won’t change just because you’re moving 50 miles away.”

“Yeah!” Hemlock slapped the table, ignoring Benny’s scathing glare. “Ya still got our numbers, dont’cha! An’ we can face-time an’ whatnot! Ain’t the end o’ the world!”

Dex blinked rapidly, rendered speechless by their nonchalance.

“Where are you moving to?” Charlie chimed in, too. “Maybe when one of us gets a car, we can all drive out to visit you.”

“Gonna have’ta be the rich kid,” Hemlock glanced significantly at Benny.

“I’ve already told you, we’re not rich, you neanderthal.”

Dex was still blinking. A subtle quake snuck into his shoulders, and unsurprisingly, the first to notice this was Charlie. The drummer stood up, halting Hemlock and Benny's discourse, and walked around to the other side of the table.

After squeezing himself between Hemlock and Dex, he wrapped his arms around the latter, holding him wordlessly as he started to shake in earnest.

“You guys,” his breath hitched, tears gathering in his eyes, “I'm—I could just—”

Benny smiled. “You understand now, don't you? Sheesh. People might start thinking you're a masochist with the way you keep torturing yourself over the little things.”

Hemlock crowed in agreement, a broad palm slapping Dex's back as he wept.

With Charlie still firmly attached to his side, the conversation moved on to topics of summer break and their plans after graduation, occasionally asking for his input and passing him napkins when his vision got too blurry.

He calmed down gradually, lulled by his friends’ familiar voices. When questions about his move were brought up again, he answered them openly. Charlie’s arms had eventually withdrawn, but his presence remained as a solid, steadying line against him. His laughter was genuine, and whenever he peered up at Dex from beneath his shades, the warmth twinkling in his eyes served as a silent reminder that he's no longer alone.

Near the end of May, Dex’s junior year reached its conclusion—just in time for he and his dad to leave.

There was a surprising lack of bittersweet sentiments. The boys had designated almost the entirety of Dex’s remaining two weeks to hanging out with him as much as possible; it was about as ingratiating as it was insufferable (Dex believed he could go the rest of his life without listening to Hemlock caterwaul “Highway to Hell” ever again).

“I’m sick of you guys,” he mentioned mildly as they were helping him transfer his boxes to the truck. “You’re like a pack of rabid strays.”

Although he used the term ‘helping,’ he wasn’t actually doing any work. It was a very small perk that came with requiring a cane to walk.

Hemlock guffawed from behind his impressive 3-tiered box stack. “That’s the kinda ‘tude you’re gonna give us after all the good times we ‘ad together? Bummer, mate.”

Someone kicked the back of his calves.

”Move it, you gigantic bridge troll,” Benny berated. “This box is heavy.”

Grumbling, the tall teen stepped out from the doorway, allowing Benny to pass through.

The other boy flipped his hair before smirking at Dex. “You say you’re sick of us now, but I’m sure you’ll be missing us terribly in a few days’ time.”

“Whatever helps you cope,” Dex deadpanned.

Benny chuckled before moving down to the sidewalk. His, Charlie’s, and Dex’s fathers were there, chatting with each other as they loaded boxes and furniture into the moving truck. While putting his stack down, Hemlock passed an inaudible joke that made the men burst into laughter and compelled Benny to aim another kick at his knees.

Ensuring he wasn't being observed, Dex slipped through the doorway and into the apartment, passing through each room until he stopped in front of what used to be his. There, crouched on the floor among piles of cardboard boxes, was Charlie.

The male seemed too preoccupied with looking around the bare walls to notice him. It took Dex quietly clearing his throat and approaching his side for him to finally speak, his voice soft.

“I can’t believe you’re actually leaving.”

Charlie wasn’t looking at him as he said this. Dex was struck by an urge to take the boy’s chin and turn his face towards him, but he dismissed the disquieting idea as soon as it appeared.

“Pretty sure we’ll see each other again.” He tried for a casual tone, but to his own ears, he sounded somber. Before he knew it, his hand was lifted halfway towards Charlie.

It froze in midair when Charlie’s blue eyes found his.

“You promise?” he uttered.

The air stalled in his lungs. It felt like just yesterday when he had Charlie under him in this very room, the space between them heavy with an unspoken emotion. This was different from then; the tension they shared in this moment didn’t come from a place of anger, but…

Dex’s fingers slipped beneath Charlie’s fringe, brushing the soft strands away from his face. Dark lashes dusted against the top of his cheeks as Charlie slowly blinked, lips parting with a gentle breath.

Heart in his throat, Dex said, “I promise.”

Dex was forced to separate when their friends filtered in to retrieve more boxes. As Hemlock clamored in and out of the door, noisily complaining about how he could never live in such a “cramped arse-crack” of a bedroom, Benny kept sneaking looks at Dex and Charlie. Every time Dex happened to catch him, the blue-haired teen merely smiled cryptically and raised a random question about the furniture they’re moving.

Dex tried not to allow Benny’s behavior to get to him, even if the boy seemed to know far more than he was letting on.

It’d be another hour before the whole apartment was emptied. A different truck had arrived earlier to transport their larger furnishings to their new home. All that was left now was for him and his dad to follow suit.

His dad shared a final handshake with the other fathers before turning to him. “Ready to say your goodbyes, kiddo?”

Dex nodded. “Just… give me a minute.”

No sooner did he turn around the corner of the truck did a small weight crash against his chest. He barely caught himself on his cane in time, his free arm coming up to pat Charlie’s back.

“Gonna miss you,” the boy mumbled into his shirt. “Don’t forget to text back, okay? Or else I’ll get Hemlock to leave you annoying voicemails.”

At the mention of his name, the teen appeared with Benny in tow. He flashed his canines in a big grin and spread his arms out wide.

“Awww, come ‘ere, ya emo fucker!”

“I thought he was goth?” Benny wondered as Hemlock stooped low to gather both boys into a crushing hug. He approached and patiently waited for Hemlock to put them down before pulling Dex into his own, gentler embrace.

“Don’t have too much fun without us,” he murmured. Quieter, he added, “If Charlie finds out, he’ll pout about it for weeks.”

“I don’t pout,” Charlie argued.

Benny withdrew and elegantly arched his eyebrow. “You’re pouting right now, darling,” he drawled, pinching the other’s cheek.

The exchange was painfully typical of their average banters, so mundane that Dex wanted to scream at the notion that soon, he won’t be seeing it for what may be a very long time. Heat was accumulating behind his eyes again, creeping up his chest. He stepped away before he could do something mortifying like cry and prolong this farewell.

“Catch you guys later,” he muttered, voice cracking.

Dex hurried to the front of the truck and dragged himself into the passenger’s seat, sucking in a high, reedy gasp once the door was closed.

His father smiled, ruffled his hair, and merged the truck out onto the road.

As they began to drive away, Dex dared one last glimpse in the rearview mirror. The moving party was still on the sidewalk, its younger members out in front, waving wildly. If he strained his eyes, he could just about make out Charlie’s figure wedged between Benny and Hemlock, his fist closed tight around the dip of his necklace.

I remember the days, between the past and the pain
We were never afraid of places unknown
There was nothing to fear, there was faith in the air
We will never be scared of letting go
We were living in the shadows everyday
Are we ever gonna learn from our mistakes?
What happened to the world I used to know?