Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gary Barkovitch had tried every hobby under the sun as a way to silence the voices.

When the voices showed up, creeping behind him and whispering in his ears, he was 13, already living with his Meemaw. He had thrown himself into learning how to knit under her tutelage, but never quite had the patience. She suggested poetry and gave him a tape recorder, saying if he could keep his feet and mouth busy he wouldn’t get so antsy.

It did jack shit, and the poems weren’t even good. He couldn’t tell her to her face that it’s hard as hell to remember a rhyme scheme with invisible flies telling him shit

“If anyone learns you’re a fuckin’ poet you ain’t ever living it down. Might as well get used to eatin’ alone and being called a faggot.”  They would whisper, and Gary couldn’t argue. Livin’ with his Meemaw had already given him habits and quirks that caught the wrong kind of attention, and he had learned to keep his mouth shut when asked what his favorite show was. Angela Lansbury was a great actress, but no one his age was supposed to know who she was.

After poetry and knitting and gardening and puzzles his grandmother had come home with her last-ditch efforts.

“If these don’t tickle your fancy, I’m outta ideas, ” and she set on the kitchen table a disposable camera and a cookbook with Angela Lansbury on the cover. “There are themed cookbooks now Gary did you know that? A whole section in the B.J.’s just for it. We can try a recipe or two next time there’s a Murder She Wrote marathon.”

Gary smiled as she puttered out of the kitchen into the living room, and picked up both the camera and the cookbook.

—————————————————

Four years later and both the camera and cookbook had long been completely used up, and Gary assumed he had defeated the enemy in his head as long as he kept his eyes on the prize. Culinary school was his dream; he adored being in the kitchen and bringing new dishes for his meemaw to try. His greatest accomplishments were marked with a toothy grin from her whenever he brought out a dish for her to try. When he was done in the kitchen and settled down in his bed the voices would crawl back into his head, hissing from the walls, closet, dresser, window, door, and under his bed, all saying different things:

          “She is lying, she knows you suck at this”

          “She’s being supportive.”

         “She doesn’t think you have a lick of talent. You should just die. It would be easier than forcing her to love you while you fail her over and over again”

          “Being in the kitchen is a woman’s job. You’re basically telling her you like dick every time you use the microwave”

Gary would lie there. Hands over his ears pulling at his hair waiting for the voices to leave. They stayed until he fell asleep, greeted him in the morning with the same tirade of tired comments until he picked up his camera to take a photo of the old weathered cat on the porch. The only time he didn’t hear them was when a knife or a camera was in his hand.

——————-

Rank wasn’t exactly his friend.

Rank would probably say Gary Barkovitch was his worst enemy and greatest tormentor in life.

But they lived next to each other, and so by some cruel law of proximity they sat next to each other on the bus every day. Rank was quiet, a smallish boy who kept his head down and eyes transfixed on the endless supply of colored paper in his backpack that he folded into elaborate pieces of origami.

He could remember one time, in maybe the 5th or 6th grade, repeating a question a voice in his head had asked, “Why the fuck you folding so many cranes Rank? And why did your mama name you Rank anyway is it short for Ranklin? You Ranklin Rellinore Roosevelt?"

Rank didn’t talk to him for 4 days after that.

But his Meemaw said time healed all wounds and if it didn’t a good apology would sure help. So he mumbled his way through an apology to Rank and his mama the next time he saw them at church. The matter was soon resolved.

Rank didn’t have many friends, and Gary had Rank. So like two unfortunate peas in a shitty pod they were stuck together. They shared most classes to avoid group projects with strangers that would make Rank nervous and it kept Gary from deep-throating his own foot with his shitty social skills. They hung out occasionally, Meemaw hosting Rank and his mom often, and Gary always interrupting to thank Meemaw for how good the dinner was. Meemaw never said anything, just smiled and kept his secret.

Gary didn’t think a half-assed apology on Sunday would save him this time.

Looking back, the day had been doomed from the very beginning.

He had woken up to voices yelling at him to tighten his sack up and hit the road, and they never quieted even when he hung his camera around his neck and started towards the door. He checked in on his grandma’s bedroom. She slept with the door open now, after a nasty tumble when he was 16, she told him it was so she could call for help. He knew she had a phone on the side table, and deep down could accept this was for his peace of mind. So he stared and stared at the blanket rising and falling until he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and heard a voice behind him.

“She’s fine man. You can give her a hug when you get back.”

Turning around Gary didn’t see anyone.

On the bus he could swear he saw a dead cow on the side of the road. There wasn’t a farm for miles.

Rank was sitting silent next to him as always as he tried to fill his ears with his own voice to drown out the rabble. He didn’t  say a word until they were walking the halls to first period.

“Did you understand a lick of the chemistry homework? I swear I thought I was going crazy. I got the whole count-the-electrons bullshit from a couple weeks ago, but this joules and moles shit makes no sense to me. I think she’s just making it up because I ain’t that dumb.”

Rank looked up from his origami rose, “I can help at lunch maybe. I’m gonna try and talk to Alex today though.

“Which Alex, long haired Alex, theater boy Alex or girl Alex?

“Theater girl Alex. She’s having a party.”

“Fuck yeah.” They sat down in first period and Gary swore he saw a short boy with black hair fill the usually empty seat next to him. Something about him seemed… off, like he’d always been there just out of the corner of Gary’s eye. The boy turned to him and with a New York accent said “C’mon you gonna see if you can go to the party or what? Be a fuckin’ wingman.”

Gary blinked at the new kid before Rank tapped the desk he was sitting in to get his attention. The teacher had walked in and started calling attendance.

The empty desk remained.

Chemistry was his 4th class of the day, right before lunch bullshit reasons. So he sat confused watching as the teacher showed some experiment that the groups would need to replicate. Gary could be half interested, given that there was risk of having to use the eyewash station. Gary fuckin wanted to see some nimrod use that at least once this year.

Behind him a voice popped up “By my estimation theres a 17% chance it will be you, the odds are slightly elevated since you aren’t listening to the teacher.”

Gary could see the source of the voice in the reflection of the glass equipment. The boy behind him was standing too close, jean jacket with a tie on. Gary turned around and shook his head. He was still there. Pinching his eyes closed he smacked his wrist against his knee and opened them again. The boy was now in front of him, squatting to inspect the teacher’s set-up. Rank looked at him, and said nothing as he handed him the worksheet.

“Go get your goggles Gary we need to start.”

Gary slid off his stool to go to the closet, there was a large man by the door wearing sunglasses. He looked down at Gary, glasses slipping down his nose. “If you weren’t a goddam coward you would tell that sack of shit to stop telling you what to do!” His voice was booming, nearly deafening. Gary could swear the desks rattled and glass shattered, but when he spun around the room was normal, peaceful even as students worked with low voices to light their burners and begin mixing chemicals.

The goggles were too tight and the gloves felt tacky against his skin. The room was sweltering with all the burners on. Gary was the notetaker as Rank did the experiment. The large man swore endlessly about that, and the boy with glasses and a book breathed heavy on his neck while monitoring the levels.

“Gary! Gary!” Rank snapped his fingers in front of his face  startled Gary fell off of his stool, hitting his forehead on the desk on the way to the floor.

“Whats your problem fucker!” Gary swore the voice came from the man, but he felt his mouth open and close. The eyes of the room turned to stare. He pulled himself to his feet and tried to avoid making eye contact. Notebook boy shook his head, pencil scribbling. Rank lowered his head and kept going.

“Temperature’s normal,” Rank said.

“It’s not,” Gary muttered. “It’s too high its too high.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw another boy walk in. Broad shoulders were bisected by suspenders, a hat fit snuggly on his head  and in his hand he held a baseball bat.

“Hey Gary can you watch this? I think I forgot something in the chemical closet?” Rank didn’t wait for an answer, just began walking towards the teachers desk that guarded the entrance to the chemicals.

The bat-boy leaned against the lab table, tapping the bat against the tile. Thud. Thud. Thud.

“They’re laughing at you again.”

“Shut up,” Gary whispered.

“You gonna take that? He left you here to look like a clown. You gonna let him?”

The goggles dug into the bridge of his nose. The air buzzed. The whispers overlapped.

“You’re falling behind, Barkovitch,” said the man in sunglasses, standing in the corner like he’d always been there. “You always do.”

Hit him hit him hit him stop being weird stop being weak they’re laughing make it stop make it stop

Gary watched as the flame swayed back and forth, not quite bringing the mixture to a bubble above it. Inside the light blue liquid began to swirl, moving faster and faster as the flames danced higher and higher as the mixture began to hiss. Rank returned and prepared to add something to the flask.

“It’s too hot, Rank.”

“It’s not even moving, Gary.”

“It’s gonna spill.”

Hit him save him hit him stop being weird stop being weak they’re laughing make it stop make it stop

Gary’s hand shot out before he could think. Too fast, too slow; he sent the flask tumbling toward Rank. Acrid chemical fumes filled his nose as it crashed over his arm and face. The man rushed towards him only to be met by the boy cracking the bat into his sunglasses. Breathing heavy Gary began inching down until his feet hit the floor to let him stand as he watched in horror as his classroom filled with a thick smog from the chemical spill, his friend burnt alive. He heard a fractured cry come from somewhere.

He felt large arms grab him from behind and as he writhed and kicked he heard a voice cut through the noise “Mister Barkovitch you need to stay calm. Who would you like us to call?”

Gary opened his eyes and looked up to see the teacher crouching in front of him, a classroom of his peers staring at him as Rank was crying, slowing being walked towards the sink with his arms outstretched. His chest heaved, but he couldn’t stop shaking.

Chapter Text

His meemaw said it was lucky that it was happening right before the holidays. 

“It gives us time to work this out before the next semester, baby. Plenty of time between thanksgiving and when the school year restarts.” she’d said, smoothing his hair like he was still ten. 

Meemaw had some sway in the community and got the principal to let Gary take his semester finals, alone, monitored, in a classroom with a single desk and the school officer standing by. As empty as he knew the room was it was full of people to his eyes and ears. Unpacking his locker after that, once again escorted, he heard everyone talking, laughing, pointing, mocking him. Rank didn’t make eye contact, but there was no origami in his hands anymore. Both of his arms were bandaged heavily from the chemical burns, and his neck was red like he had been shot from where it had splashed. His mother had stopped by to return some Tupperware and to tell Meemaw that any future invitation over for dinner would be ignored. 

Gary was no stranger to pills. He filled his meemaw’s weekly medicine dispenser every Saturday: heart medicine, blood thinner, something for her diabetes, and something meemaw called her “nice pills”. 

“If I don’t take them I ain’t very nice to be around.” Was all the explanation he ever got from her. 

But this was the first time they were sitting an office together where he was the one needing a drug to make him nice to be around. 

The doctor explained slowly to him, as if he was a frightened horse who could run at any sudden loud sound, that he was schizophrenic. The doctor’s voice dissolved into static. He tried to scratch it out of his neck before his Meemaw took his hand in hers. “Just tell us what we can do. We don’t need all the extra shit.” Her voice was thin and short. He hadn’t heard her curse in years. She was tired of doctor’s offices and driving him around town to every specialist she could find. Each one prescribed something new, a new cure, a new treatment, and new way to stop the people living in house that weren’t there. 

Every time they asked the same set of questions: Any change? Any worsening of symptoms? Any lessening of symptoms? Any new symptoms? 

It was always the same. No, no, fuck no. Nothing new under the sun. 

The recurring cast of assholes in his head never left. He had given them names after hearing the suggestion “naming a problem helps you tackle it easier” but it was shit. 

As the doctor turned to only talk to his meemaw he heard something about his mother and tuned out further. He met the gaze of the boy with the glasses. He had called him Harkness. He didn’t look quite that similar to the character in Torchwood, but he had kinda the same hair. 

Harkness was standing behind the doctor scribbling. He was always fucking writing in a neverending notebook and babbling on about how this was his life story and shouldn’t he make it a good one. 

Harkness was around the most; but he pissed Gary off the least. The most annoying was Olsen. Olsen had a thick New York accent and was an endless stream of inappropriate thoughts and compulsions. He wanted to look up naked ladies and sneak out and go to the strip club since his life was over any-fucking-way. 

Gary had minimal feelings towards the large boy with the bat. He named him Stebbins and they generally didn’t talk. Stebbins was more interested in fighting the Major anyway. The Major was the imposing force that tormented Gary every moment of every day. He told Gary to run, to keep running until his heart failed and even then to give it another mile. He reminded him that he was a failure, a source of shame, the imbecile who haunted the lives of everyone else with his queer little hobbies and his fucked up brain. 

Gary felt the thin bones of his Meemaw squeeze his hand and instinctively stood from the chair to follow her, his swarm of ghosts not far behind. 

The house was worse now. Before he could hide from the noise in the kitchen, chopping vegetables, seasoning, stirring, he could make 3 course meals that shielding him from reality and be rewarded with a smile. Now the kitchen was off-limits. His meemaw had, with a soft smile, softer than he deserved ,hidden all of knives, and kept her ears peeled for the tick tick tick of the gas stove. 

The kitchen was no longer his. So whenever he dragged his ass from the bedroom to the door with his camera thumping against his neck his Meemaw asked to join him on his walk. What was once his solidarity hobby that brought only him his peace and fresh air became being walked like a fucking dog. 

Every time he stopped to snap a photo she would start talking to anyone around them; a friend from her book club or church would walk up to speak to her, avoiding eye contact with him so they could go home and sit at the table with their normal fucking family and say “i saw Missus Barkovitch today. She’s looking much better. You wouldn’t ever believe it though her grandson was with her.He's the one who’s a little touched in the head. Sweetest boy it's a shame what he’s doing to her.” 

The hardest pill to swallow wasn’t prescribed. It was the fact that his greatest accomplishment that he could achieve was being gossip for the neighborhood. 

Chapter Text

The winter break passed him by in a daze of new medicine and rotting in his bed as voices echoed in his head just as loud and bothersome no matter what he did. If he shoved a pillow over his face he’d hear the voice of the Major calling him a pussy, a coward and a sissy to boot while Olsen droned about the mother’s training for the marathon outside and how “if you really wanna suffocate try asking to smother yourself in those.” Gary had peeked out from under the pillow to see Olsen taking two large oranges and holding them up to chest and laughing. 

He thought he never really had fake smells to worry about. That cooking might be safe because the heat of the spices burning his nose could guide him when his eyes failed. Olsen had proven him wrong. No matter when Gary looked at him he was always eating something. Chewing on gum, munching on clementines, sucking something akin to a gogurt, the meaty smell always managed to reach his nose and it pissed him off. 

Gary would punch his pillow, grip his hair and tug and yank and cry. Nothing would work. He sobbed when he could, when the pills didn’t take his feelings behind a wall and leave an empty casket of a body in its wake. When he couldn’t he laid in bed or on the couch, staring at the ceiling while his meemaw checked on him, stroking his hair before leaving every time. If he didn’t know better he’d think she was checking for a fever, some sign of sickness to explain who stole him away. 

There wasn’t a pretty answer. 

Meemaw was diligent though, calling all of her friends to see who knew of a school willing to take him on in January to finish his last semester of high school. Most weren’t. Probably justifying to themselves that risking one of their good students being a burn victim just to include his ass in the yearbook wasn’t on their to-do list. Others said he needed to be on a medication that actually worked before they would think of it. 

The Major would growl in his ear whenever that thought crossed his mind, “No one wants a freak in the classroom, you willing to kill your fellow man for your chance at success Barkovitch?”

But no high school diploma meant no culinary school. 

No culinary school meant no future. 

So he swallowed the new pill.

Meemaw had heard about an experimental drug trial from a lady at the church who had a daughter working as a CNA in the same hospital, Gary tugged at his hair and dug his nails into his palm when she told him, enraged at knowing his business was out on display for the world to see and gawk at, as if he was a group project taken on by his Meemaw and her friends, a quilt the circle thought needed finishing. 

The drug was new, not yet available to anyone outside the trial, and it came with a long list of side effects he didnt care to read, he knew he was a bad fit for the trial, being a part of the elite group called medication resistant, so he expected to not be chosen. 

They fucking chose him.

Gary wasn’t in the dark about his chances. Academically he was middle of the pack, no stand out skills beyond making food and taking photos. Without college he would need a miracle to cook somewhere better than Red Lobster, and while Meemaw may like the cheddar bay biscuits it had fuck-all creative avenues left to explore in the menu. 

For all those reasons and more Meemaw had him in his Sunday best driving an hour to some school named after a saint. 

Meemaw had never been Catholic, and beyond a single occurrence when she brought a priest in to clear the house of negative spirits after her second divorce, she knew fuck-all about the faith. She was a firm Baptist woman, and had raised Gary much the same. He knew that she tried hard, harder than she probably should have, but she was steadfast and trying to redeem herself. So when she straightened his tie and told him to mind his P’s and Q’s he shut his mouth. 

They were greeted by one of the nuns, Sister Mary Cynthia, who guided them on the tour, rambling on about the expectations of the school and the conditional acceptance. They passed by students in groups of 3 or 4, all dressed in uniform like goddamn dolls. Fucking clones of each other. The school had wings instead of portables, different floors instead of numbered buildings, and a courtyard with patches of grass and trees instead of concrete with more concrete. Everything smelled faintly of wood polish and smoke from the candles, a clean smell that made him want to cough. He clutched the strap of his messenger like it was a life preserver counting the tiles in front of him. 

Sister Mary Cynthia’s voice droned on about uniform compliance, chapel attendance, and the importance of a 3.5 GPA, but Gary’s ears caught only the edges of it, like the wind dragging leaves across cracked asphalt. His hands clutched the strap of his messenger bag so tight it felt like it was the only thing keeping him from slipping on the polished floors and falling straight through the rabbit hole. 3.5 GPA, stay on meds, don’t let anyone see your pills, don’t set anyone on fire, don’t be a freak, the Major growled behind him, like a drill sergeant with a flamethrower. 

Olsen leaned against the nun’s polished railing somewhere in his imagination, chewing gum and muttering, “Who the fuck cares if they see? Watch the whole building burn, fuck it.” Gary flinched and tugged at his hair. Harkness scribbled behind the doctor again, or somewhere in the corner of the hallway, “Technically you can tell whoever you want, but the nuns won’t bring it up. This may not be a title nine school but technically you are disabled now.” 

Gary flinched at the word disabled. By the time the tour hit the end of the first wing, Gary’s chest was tight. His throat tickled like smoke, the polished wood and candle scents too clean, too controlled, too wrong. He felt a flash, a candle flicker in the corner of his eye, and imagined the flame catching the uniformed doll next to him. His stomach lurched. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. He wanted to slap himself, but knew there were eyes on him. He hit his wrist into his hipbone again and again, the dull thud a disappointing compromise to the beautiful sting. 

He muttered a quiet excuse to Meemaw and veered into a side hallway, counting tiles, one, two, three, four, five. The hallway smelled faintly disinfectant as he neared a bathroom, and he rushed into a stall pressed his back against the wall, sliding down until he could sit, knees to chest, trying to ignore Olsen and Harkness muttering to each other by the urinals. He counted the cracks in the ceiling until they started spelling words again. DON’T TRUST THEM. RUN.
He blinked hard. The letters melted back into the plaster.

His chest was tight, too tight, and every breath felt like dragging sandpaper through his ribs. 

The bathroom door creaked moments later, and Gary jumped, pressing his hand against the stall door to steady himself. He had to see that he wasn’t about to catch the place on fire, that he could breathe without the Major shouting “Coward! Pussy! Imbecile!” into his ears.

Another boy walked in, another fucking doll in the uniform, long hair reaching his mid back he faced towards Gary’s stall as he leaned against the row of sinks, fingers tapping on the manilla folder in his hand. Gary’s chest heaved. The new school, the uniforms, the candles, the rules, the pills, the Major, none of it mattered. Not right now. Right now, he was just another boy hiding in a bathroom, trying not to burn the place down with his goddamn mind, watching someone who might be waiting for him. Or worse, someone else. 

—------------

Collie Parker was going to be the valedictorian. 

Collie leaned against the sinks in the second wing bathroom, waiting. Shouldn’t have been nervous, he did this every week, but the hallway was echoing with footsteps that weren’t normal. A tour. Typically tours were later in the spring. He knew because every year the Sisters would parade him in front of parents and make him speak to the tours. He was the class president, and had been his 4 years at Saint Josephs. He should be proud, and he was. But a part of him knew some of the votes didn’t come for his good grades and ideas. He was the minority. The only indigenous kid at the school. The scholarship kid. He kept his eyes on the door, ears alert for the low, hurried whispers that meant a handoff.

Scramm walked in, a regular at this deal. 

“Do you have it all this time, or should I make you start a tab?” Collie knew Scramm was a poor writer, and busy hiding the fact his girlfriend was pregnant from his mom. Poor kid didn’t have time to write 3 shitty pages.

 “Man, you charge too much,” Scramm whispered, forking over a roll of cash. 

“Then write it yourself,” Collie said, flat. They did this dance every time. 

“Fine, I'll bring the rest Friday.” Scramm said, easily defeated. For a second he froze, eyes darting toward the bathroom stalls. Collie followed the glance, saw black boots under the door. 

Shit. 

Scramm left with his essay, whistling off-key, leaving a heavy silence behind

Collie pushed the door open without knocking. The boy inside didn’t move, all wide eyes and frozen limbs, sitting curled up on the floor of the bathroom next to the toilet. His eyes looked past him, like someone was behind. The door to the hall hadn’t opened. Collie knew they were alone.

Collie’s eyes were sharp, assessing. Not angry yet, but close. “How much did you see?”

The boy blinked. “Uh, nothin’. I was just.” He gestured vaguely toward the sink, where his reflection shimmered in the mirror like it wasn’t sure whether to stay. “Bathrooming.”

Collie sighed. “You were hiding. That’s worse.”

The boy ran his fingers through his blond greasy hair as he swallowed. “I, uh, had a headache.”

“Sure.” Collie leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. He didn’t need this today. “Look, new kid, I don’t need any trouble. You didn’t see anything. You don’t say anything. We’re good?”

He nodded too fast. “Yeah. Good. Great. Didn’t see nothin’, swear to—”

“Don’t swear,” Collie interrupted. “Not in this building.”

The air between them was too still. The hum of the light got louder.

Gary’s mouth twitched. “I’m uh, Gary. I start tomorrow. I think. You know, fuckin Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.”

Collie wanted to laugh. He really did. But the longer he stayed quiet the more the skinny white boy in front of him looked around the room, like he was waiting for an audience to applaud. 

The bell rang, saving both of them. 

Collie turned to leave, waiting one more second to repeat his warning. “Don’t say anything you saw here.”

The boy, Gary, smiled, “I swear,” Collie’s eyebrow raised, “I swear on Dolly,” he finished, smiling wide with crazy behind his eyes. Collie watched as the thin boy left the bathroom.

Chapter Text

Gary had figured out the secret to never getting caught crying at school when he was nine years old.

It happened a lot before he learned the secret. Mostly when, by some supreme act of hatred that god had for him, he was called on in class for a question he did not know, or when his answer was wrong despite him understanding the concept perfectly right up until the moment the worksheet was placed in front of him. In those moments, when the hot tears pressed behind his eyes and his throat started to close, he learned to shut down. He hated being called a crybaby, an attention-seeker, and needy. Close his eyes. Wrap a hand around his neck and pinch, right at the knuckles beside the lymph nodes. He would squeeze just enough to feel the tears retreat and his breathing get shallow and his headache blossomed just at the edges of his mind, and when he let go he felt happier. The world was shiny and new and no one got to see him cry.

---------

He still used the trick sometimes. Only now, it wasn’t tears he was trying to choke back. It was all the words rattling inside his head. He couldn’t blame them all on Olsen, or Stebbins, or even the fucking Major. It was rage that grew deep within him, festering and curdling. All that hate and disgust had to go somewhere, though, and it burned straight through him when people said…anything. Harmless things, a small smile that didn’t reach their eyes, a hollow laugh. He could see it; they didn’t like him. They thought he was stupid, pitiful, and worthless. He could feel it in his palms, the itch to throw something, to make someone look at him for once before they left.

He zipped his messenger bag shut, the pill bottle rattling inside. Out of sight, out of mind. Meemaw wouldn’t see them and would eventually forget to ask him if he had taken them. He didn’t want to be angry, but being numb was worse.

He left the room before he could change his mind.

The smell of onions floated out of the kitchen to his bedroom door. Meemaw was already at the counter, her knife moving steady through a row of celery. She insisted on helping him make his lunch, though he knew it wasn’t out of the goodness of her heart. She didn’t trust him with even a dull knife. He hovered by the stove, stirring the rice she’d left cooling in a metal bowl. The sound was soft and even, the kind that once could have made his brain go quiet. Before everything.

“Got that chicken cut?” he asked.

“Almost. Don’t rush me, baby.” Her tone was gentle, not sharp. He reached for the tangerine halves he’d zested the night before and squeezed the juice into a small jar. “People are gonna think they’re sitting with someone special when you pull this out at the table. Smells fancy.”

“It’s just chicken and rice,” he said, a little too quick.

“Maybe when I made it. Now with the fancy dressing, and the parsley, and the pickled onions you made me boil vinegar for last night?” She smiled without looking up. “You got an eye for it.”

He wanted to shrug it off, but the praise hit something tender. He tipped the bowl just to watch the oil catch the morning light. The salad was clean, layered, perfect, chicken sliced thin, orange segments gleaming against the white rice, herbs cut fine enough to look accidental. He’d made it look effortless, and that was the point.

Meemaw cut through his thoughts. “You took your meds yet?”

He froze. “Yeah.” He met her eyes, and for a second, neither of them spoke. Then he reached for the plastic lid, sealed the salad, and slid it into his messenger bag. The pills rattled against the plastic.

“Good boy.” She passed him on her way to the door. “Car’s warm, let’s get you to school before the bell rings.”

—------------------------
Gary slid into the back row in the classroom, careful to not draw any attention to himself, backpack heavy on one shoulder, heart hammering like a drumline. The desk felt too small, the chair too close to the row in front of him. He swallowed, trying to remember how to act normal. Like he wasn’t the new kid, like he didn’t already hate being here, like he wasn’t seeing people who weren’t there.

Sister Bernadette cleared her throat, walking to the front of the room with her hands clasped in front of her. She was a short woman with a wooden cross as a necklace that thudded against her as she walked. Gary studied his classmates' reactions to her, trying to calm his breathing as he realized he hadn’t needed to say anything when she came in. Olsen piped up, never helpful, “This ain’t divorce court, we don’t gotta rise for the right honorable nun.”

“Good morning students, Today, we will begin Hamlet, and before you all moan and groan, I am well aware that Shakespeare is not any of your favorite writer. Frankly, he is also not mine. Shakespeare is however a classic, and a man ahead of his time tackling themes of duty, of love, and of madness. Something you all can relate to in some ways. Scholars have long debated whether Hamlet’s actions are the result of grief, reason, or… something darker.” Her eyes swept the room, landing somewhere past Gary’s shoulder. “Madness is not just in the story. It can live inside us all, in choices we fear to make, in words we never speak, in the doubts that distract us from the life we wish to lead.”

Sister Bernadette’s shoes clicked against the tile as she talked, crossing up and down the desks until she stopped at the chalkboard. “Act One,” she said, writing it in neat, sharp strokes. “You will be doing the reading tonight that will include this scene, but it is a powerful opening sequence to have you all invested in these characters. These moments of grief and anger give way for madness. Hamlet has returned home to find his father dead and his mother already remarried. Scene Five. Hamlet meets his father’s ghost. Or, as some say, the moment he begins to lose his mind.”

Gary’s stomach lurched as the nun began writing character names in chalk, the squealing shredding his nerves.

“We will not be reading the whole play,” she continued. “We have neither the time nor the patience for that. But there are moments, scenes, that demand to be seen. Shakespeare is theatre, not homework.”

A few kids murmured at that, sliding down in their chairs to appear smaller, more fragile. A girl stuck her hand high in the air. Gary winced, she was either a teacher’s pet or a theatre kid. Maybe both. Or just some random chick obsessed with death. No one could look goth in these uniforms. Gary’s head throbbed.

The Sister turned around. “Now let me find our players for today. After all, the world is a stage.”

She didn’t react when a number of students whispered “Not it.” Gary kept his eyes on his desk, but it didn’t help. He felt the nun’s gaze like the barrel of a gun pressing to his forehead.

“Mr. Barkovitch,” she said. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

He nodded, throat tight.

“Good. Then you may introduce yourselves to us by being our Hamlet. And Miss Pearson, as you are so very eager you may be the Ghost. We’ll start from…” she flipped her script, “ line 729, on the page with ‘Mark me.’ On the top. Page fifty-seven in your editions.”

Gary opened his copy, a collection of plays, flipping to the page she’d said…fifty-seven. The paper groaned under his fingertips. The text was dense, tiny, too many words crammed together like they were arguing for space.

“Mark me.”

The line shimmered faintly. The ink seemed heavier in the center of the page, pooling like it hadn’t fully dried. He blinked, but it didn’t go away. It spread, bleeding into the paper’s grain, swirling slow and hypnotic, black and silver like oil on water.

He rubbed his eyes. When he looked again, the letters had righted themselves, perfectly crisp. Normal.

Only his pulse was still too fast, and the air still hummed.

“Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Barkovitch,” Sister Bernadette looked at him, expectantly yet kind. Like she had no idea the immense weight she had placed on him.

“Speak,” he coughed, “Speak. I am bound to hear.” Thankfully, the part of Hamlet looked small in this. Pearson, Sister Bernadette had said, smiled wildly, ready to start having the time of her life as the ghost. Definitely a theatre kid.

Gary swallowed. His pulse was loud in his ears. The next line glowed faintly in the lamplight.

“What?” he whispered. Then, stronger: “What?”

Something flickered in the corner of his eye-almost like someone moving between desks-but when he looked, there was only the coat rack.

He must have tuned out, Pearson was looking at him, “a most unnatural murder” she said, slowly, as if trying to will the next line into his mouth.

Gary’s eyes caught on the page. The ink seemed darker now, almost wet.

“Murder?,” he said again, but it came out rough, too loud. The emphasis on the second syllable odd and uncoordinated.

The class laughed. Olsen elbowed Harkness next to him.

“Excellent,” Sister Bernadette said, ignoring them. “You see, class, how Hamlet’s reason frays the more he listens? How the Ghost could be a spirit or a symptom? Shakespeare leaves it open. That uncertainty in Hamlet's world is where his madness begins.”

Gary blinked. The word madness echoed in his head until it didn’t sound like a word anymore. The letters slipped, rearranging nonsense spiraling as they grew in size until they were filling the pages.

The letters shrank back to normal when he blinked. His chest ached, and the room had gone fuzzy around the edges.

Sister Bernadette’s voice cut through it. “Good. That’s enough for now. We’ll discuss Act One in groups tomorrow.”

Desks scraped. The bell rang. Gary waited until the others filed out before he moved. His hands shook as he closed the book, the thin pages whispering like they knew something he didn’t.

He shoved Hamlet into his bag, careful not to look at it again. Just a normal morning. Just words.

He floated through the next classes, math, chemistry, economics. He never expected that he’d miss his old school, with its cracked tiles and random fights, but he did. The photography class had been a buoy in the storm that he had clung to every day. A bastion from the rest of the school. But now all he had was a one on one meeting with the priest to fulfill the required theology credit.

Luckily lunch was before that.
—------------------------
By the time he reached the cafeteria, the noise hit like a wall, chairs clattering, laughter ricocheting off tile. The smell of cleaner and fryer oil curled in his stomach. He scanned for an empty table and found one by the window, where the light was soft and far away from the crowd. He brought his own crowd with him, the voices braiding together around him. They didn’t even need to he in his line of sight; he could hear them constantly, every moment of the day going, “PRETEND! Say something smart. FAILURE! Who are you gonna hurt in this class?… Ignore him… NOPE. The ceiling is boring”. When one voice stopped 3 more took its place.

He unpacked his lunch, trying to set it on the particle board table without making a sound. Classes were tolerable, one or two voices at a time with Harkness and Olsen chiming in too often.

Olsen and Harkness sat next to him, if he pretended, it was like they were friends, classmates, not him seeing people that weren't there. If he just lied to himself he could have friends.

Olsen’s voice cut through the edges of his awareness: “Dude, did you ever realize you breathe weird.”

“Shut up,” Gary muttered under his breath.

“Everyone is looking at you.” Harkness whispered, sharp and impatient.

Olsen looked at him, and Gary had the sense to not turn back, knowing being the guy talking to nothing at a table alone wouldn’t serve the “don't fuck it up” challenge he had set for himself.

“So,” Olsen popped his gum, “how much do you wanna bet that the priest they set us up with is gonna try and convert us?” Gary just rolled his eyes, poking at the rice,

“Yo,” a voice said.

Gary looked up. A ginger boy with close-cropped hair and a crooked grin hovered at the edge of the table, tray in hand. “Mind if we sit? The football guys keep taking the good seats.”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s cool,” Gary said, keeping his voice steady. It wasn’t like they were sitting together, but close enough that he could catch snatches of conversation.

The ginger boy scooched over, beckoning a friend. “I’m Ray. This is Pete. First day, right? I heard a new kid was transferring.”

Pete followed with a grin. “Survived Sister Bernie yet? She’s… something else.”

Gary studied them. Neither seemed malicious. Both looked genuinely happy to talk to him.

Harkness piped up from the edge of his vision. “Make a joke. Disarm the tension. Bond”.

Gary cleared his throat. “Uh… yeah, Bernie didn’t give me any trouble. But, uh, got a meeting with the priest next period. Gotta warn me though am I his type? Never been an altar boy, never been… converted like that.”

The words hung in the air. Ray’s eyebrows shot up. Pete’s smile twitched. Gary felt the heat rise to his ears.

“Yeah,” Ray said, “Right, You’ll be fine.”

The conversation died as quickly as it came. He pressed his thumbnail into his palm under the table until the sting steadied him. Stebbins leaned in, hissing about how Gary had screwed up, and how this was the worse outcome. He feels the tears begin to climb up and puts the palm of his hand against his throat to start suffocating himself back down to earth, like a balloon deflating and floating until it lands safely on the grass.

His grand plan is delayed when a shadow is cast over his salad.

“Fuck off,” he says, under his breath. Gary knew the major would show up because he always did when he fucked up.

“And if I don’t?” The voice wasn’t the Major.

Gary looked up to see the boy from the bathroom, he swung his bag down and sat across from Gary’s salad. “So, you brought your own lunch. You too good for cafeteria food?”

Gary’s brain short circuited, he hadn’t expected to see the boy again, and definitely hadn’t assumed that this meant they were friendly.

Olsen leaned into his ear, “Tell him you have a big palette.” and snickered.

“I have a big palette.”

“O-kay, you seem harmless, so I'm not going to waste my breath threatening you. I’m going to leave you and your big palette alone.”

“What’s your name?” Gary asked, swiping his nails over the back of his neck, “I’m Gary… Gary Barkovitch.”

“Collie Parker, try to break the habit of sitting on the floor in the bathroom. Unsanitary, man”

Gary stopped scratching, running his fingers through the knots in his hair instead, “I bet, what's with the hustle though, this is a fancy ass school. They could pay for a tutor.”

“Fancy enough to have a bathroom no one uses. Some kids have more cash than brains. Open market for some spare change.”

“And that's where you come in?” Gary leaned back, admiring silently his ability to tune out the voices.

“I’m the projected valedictorian, Barkovitch; a couple essays is no sweat off my back. Makes their grades a little higher, makes my wallet a little heavier. Quid pro Quo.”

“Of course, of course.” Gary laughed nervously.

“If you ever need a paper Barkovitch you know where my office is.” Collie pushed the chair out and stood up, swiping an orange wedge off of Gary’s salad as he left.
Gary watched Collie leave, the chair scraping softly against the tile, his long black hair shiny in the braid that swished with every step. The cafeteria noise seemed louder now, harsher somehow, and the voices that had been buzzing at the edge of his awareness tugged harder at his thoughts. He felt the itch in his palms, the pressure building behind his eyes.

He reached into his messenger bag, fingers brushing the cold glass of the pill bottle. His stomach twisted. Just one. Just to try it.

He uncapped it, staring down at the small white capsules like they were foreign objects. They rattled in the bottle like tiny dice, waiting to decide his fate. Harkness’s voice whispered sharp in his mind. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t you fucking dare do it!

He shook his head, trying to silence the chatter. Then he remembered Collie, the swipe of the orange wedge, the quiet challenge behind that smirk. He wanted to be able to hold a conversation next time. Just for that.

He popped the pill into his mouth, washed it down with a sip of water from his bottle, and waited. The cafeteria sounded the same, smelled the same, but a strange calm began to settle in the spaces between the voices. They didn’t vanish, he could still hear Harkness muttering, Stebbins pacing, but the edges weren’t sharp anymore. The words weren’t hammering his skull.

His hands stopped shaking, the tension in his throat eased, and for the first time in weeks, he felt like he could sit here and not collapse under the constant tug of chaos. This could work, he could be. Just be.

Gary took a deep breath, poked at the rice salad with his fork, and allowed himself the tiniest spark of hope: maybe, just maybe, he could get through today.
—------------------------
The bell rang, causing a cacophony of footsteps and chairs scraping against the floor as the flood of students moved in formations, groups bunching together and breaking apart as classes dictated. Gary was eventually left, standing alone in the chapel, a place he had missed on the tour.

A tap on his shoulder made him jump. He turned to see an older man in the all black uniform with the white collar, with a calm smile, standing there. “Mr. Barkovitch, this is Arthur Baker,” he said, gesturing to a younger man hovering nervously beside him. “He’s in his final year of formation. He’ll be guiding you for your theology session. I understand this is all very new to you, and myself and the Sisters agreed that someone more relatable to you may help. You still will have a final of course this is a class, but please feel free to lean on myself and Arthur for any emotional or spiritual needs that arise outside of this class.”

Art Baker’s eyes met his, dark brown, sharp but warm. His black cassock was neatly pressed, his posture stiff with the awareness of authority he didn’t fully feel. “Uh… hey,” Art said, the edges of his thick New Orleans accent curling around his words. “So, uh… we gon’ get started, yeah? I’mma try to make it… not too boring.” He shifted, tugging at the sleeves like they were a chain.

Gary blinked. He hadn’t expected to see someone closer to his own age in this official role. He wondered how much of Art’s confidence was real and how much was performance. The actual Priest, Father Phillip he had said, nodded to Art and walked away. Gary had to assume to go do priest shit.

Olsen’s voice jabbed at him from the corner of his mind: Bet he doesn't know what he’s doing.

Harkness whispered back, Then neither do you, genius.

“So what are we doing here Father Arthur?” Gary sat down in the pew, zipping open his bag.

Art sat down next to him, “Well, I ain’t a father yet, so just call me Art. I wanted to get some background first, so just talk to me, what is your faith?

Gary frowned, trying to gauge what Art wanted from him. “My faith?” he echoed, like it was a test question.

Art smiled a little, nervous again. “Yeah, you know, like how you were raised, what church you come from, that kinda thing.”

“Baptist,” Gary said finally. “Congregational Holiness down by the Walmart. My grandma sings in the choir. My mom used to, I think. Before she…before we moved.”

“Gotcha.” Art nodded, slow and deliberate, like he was taking mental notes. “So y’all more the, uh, Sunday-mornin’-hallelujah type or the quiet-and-serious type?”

Gary blinked. “What does that mean?”

Art’s grin widened, showing a hint of teasing beneath the starched collar. “I just mean you know some folks shout, some folks don’t. Catholics, we got our kneelin’ and standin’ and sittin’ down again. You Baptists got your Amens and your tambourines. Everybody talkin’ to God in their own way.”

Gary smirked, despite himself. “Yeah, we got plenty of shouting.”

“That’s good,” Art said. “Means y’all ain’t afraid to let the Spirit talk back.”

“Even if I talk to him, Its not God answering me.” Gary thought to himself, bitter and angry,

Olsen snorted somewhere behind his ear: He’s flirting with you, man.

Gary rubbed the back of his neck, trying to drown them out. “So what, you gonna quiz me on the schism or something?”

“Nah,” Art said quickly. “Ain’t about that. I was thinkin’ we start with somethin’ easy. Father Phillip says every student here gotta write reflection journals about what you believe, what you doubt, how you think all this fits into your life. We can use those as your grades. Just show some effort and reflection. We can talk about the differences in the faith here and you incorporate that into your journal. ”

“Reflection journals,” Gary muttered. “Free therapy with Jesus.”

Art laughed at that, a genuine sound that bounced off the stained glass. “You ain’t wrong. Sometimes that’s exactly what it is.”

For a second, Gary almost smiled back. Then Stebbins’s voice slithered in, quiet and mean: He’s laughing at you, not with you.

The smile died before it formed. “So I just… talk about what I believe?”

“Talk about what you don’t, too,” Art said. “Doubt’s half of faith, least that’s what they teach us.”

Gary looked at the crucifix above the altar, the carved face of Christ serene and empty-eyed.

“Then I must be halfway there already.”

Art studied him a moment, the humor fading into something gentler. “That’s okay, man. We all start somewhere. God’s big enough to handle your questions.”

Gary didn’t answer. He just traced the edge of the pew with his thumb, the wood worn smooth from years of restless hands. It was so different, a stark contrast to Meemaw's church. They sat in chairs with patches on the upholstery there, the blue fading into white on the chairs by the window, bleached by the sun. There was no platform for the pastor to stand on, a pulpit someone’s cousin had built in their garage. The guitars wailed loud, the drums rattled the windows, and people clapped until their palms stung.

Here, the air felt still. Polished. Holy in a way Meemaw would’ve said was missing a heartbeat. Pretty don’t mean spirit,she’d say. And sitting there, Gary almost agreed.

Art leaned back against the pew, stretching his arms along the backrest. “You got a sharp tongue for a Baptist.”

“You got a lotta patience for a priest.”

Art grinned. “Ain’t a priest yet, remember? Just a guy in borrowed robes.”

Gary snorted. “Borrowed faith too?”

The grin faded, but not in a bad way. Art studied him like someone who understood the question even if he couldn’t answer it. “Every day,” he said quietly. “That’s the job.”

Gary looked back up at the crucifix, at the hollow eyes carved into wood. He wondered if Jesus ever heard voices too, if faith and madness just meant the same thing said different ways.

Chapter Text

The first week of school wasn’t the worst ever. But second place was a good fit. No one in class liked his jokes, and it wasn't that they weren't funny, he laughed at them. No. No one thought that his tight five about Sister Bernadette having a hard-on for Shakespeare that was hidden by her nun robe was laughable, which just proved his theory about being in class with a bunch of teachers' pets. The class itself was fine, he had dodged being drafted into more scenes, and was listening to videos about Hamlet at home while he did laundry. 

Unfortunately he did have two additional essays: his mandatory therapy with Doctor Lambert and his self-reflection with Art. Gary sat at his kitchen table, the reflection journal open but mostly blank. The cover says Mindfulness Log in loopy letters, like it’s trying too hard to be friendly. The pages smell faintly of glue and paper dust. His pen hovers above the first line, but nothing lands.

The therapist’s instructions echo from memory: Observe the shape of a thought before it takes root.

He thought that was stupid, for several reasons, the biggest one being that thoughts aren’t plants. They don’t grow toward light; they swarm. They’re gnats, buzzing around your face until you swat at one and end up inhaling another. If anything, thoughts are pests. They get him into trouble if they fly out of his mouth. 

He scribbled in the notebook, “Sometimes I think too much about thinking, which feels like trying to look at my own eyeballs.”

Then he stopped, staring at what he had written. It looked smart enough to get by, but he can already hear Olsen in his head: Wow, profound. You gonna frame that?

Gary pressed his thumb against the page until it smudged

.

The therapist told him to write daily, but “daily” felt like a trap. He’s not the kind of person who does things every day unless someone’s paying him, and Dr. Lambert definitely isn’t. The man had said something about “pattern recognition,” like if Gary simply wrote long enough he’d start to see his own mind as a map instead of a maze. 

He started looking  around the house, wondering how to spin the concept being bored at how crazy his head was into decent therapy work. The light through the blinds sliced the room into neat little bars. The kitchen is small but clean enough at least, that Meemaw wouldn’t groan at him for it. The only thing on the table besides the journal was a half-eaten bowl of grits. Cold now. 

The refrigerator hummed. That sound, low and steady, was realer than anything he had written so far.

He flipped the journal shut, got up, and started pulling things from the fridge and pantry: onions, peppers, potatoes, a couple of eggs. He didn’t have a plan; he never did. Cooking had stopped being about plans and recipes years ago. Now it’s about instinct. About knowing the rhythm of the sizzle and the smell of “almost done.”

Meemaw had gotten some “safety knives” off of QVC or HSN. He had been annoyed, they were different, a new texture and weight in his hand that he had to contend with while he diced the onion, the knife thudding against the cutting board in clean repetition. Chop. Chop. Chop. He could almost feel his heartbeat syncing with it.

Cooking was the closest thing he had to control. The ingredients obey. Heat changes them, but in ways you can predict. Add butter and things taste better,  that’s a law of nature. Unlike calculus, where the rules change just to spite you, or theology, where the rules are invisible and somehow still binding. Both of those things were out to get him. Fucking stupid catholic school bullshit he had to deal with just to get a diploma. 

No diploma, no cooking school. 

He tossed the onions into the pan, maybe a little angry than the onion warranted, and watched them turn translucent, then gold. The smell fills the room, sharp and sweet.

Smells like something alive, Harkness murmurs, voice faint, more memory than sound.

Gary grips the spatula tighter. “You’re not real,” he mutters, because that’s what Dr. Lambert told him to do. “You’re not real, and I’m cooking.”

The sizzling doesn’t stop, but the whisper fades. The sound of the pan, hissing and popping beautifully swelled to fill the space where the voice had been.

It always works better when his hands are busy. That’s something else the therapist said: Grounding through sensory focus. Gary hadn’t believed him, but it’s hard to argue with the quiet.

He cracked two eggs into the pan. Watched the yolks spread, bright as suns. The edges crisp. He flipped the eggs over. 

He exhales slowly, like the steam rising off the pan. “Observe the shape of a thought before it takes root.”

Okay. Maybe. Maybe a thought has a shape. If you give it one. Talking under his breath while he cooks. “Thought: I hate writing. Shape: circle, spinning in place. Thought: I don’t trust silence. Shape: open door. Thought: I like this.” He gestures at the pan. “Shape: something solid.”

Olsen pipes up faintly, almost teasing: You talking to your omelet now?

Gary snorts. “They’re over easy and it's better company than you.”

The silence after that is heavy, but not threatening. It feels earned.

Sitting back down at the table with his plated food, journal reopened, pen in hand, he started writing again, handwriting a little bit messier now, slanted like it’s hurrying to catch up to his thoughts.

‘I cooked instead of writing today. It helped. It had been my escape for a while, but after everything with my friend.’ he scratched out friend. ‘With Rank I haven't been allowed to. With the stronger hallucinations, I was worried it wouldn’t work. It would fucking suck to lose cooking.I like cooking because it’s honest. If something burns, you can smell it and shit. If something’s wrong, you can fix it or start over. You can’t do that with your brain. But when I’m cooking, the noise goes quiet. Maybe that mindfulness crap is just keeping your hands busy enough that the rest of you shuts up. I used to think cooking is my control, my version of church. You mix shit together and trust they’ll turn into something worth eating.’

He hates that line the moment he writes it. It sounds dumber written down. It’s gag-worthy and it sounds like something from one of those “inspirational” Facebook posts Meemaw used to share. But he leaves it anyway.

For a few minutes, the apartment stays quiet. No whispers. No shadows twitching at the corners of his vision. Just the steady hum of the fridge, the scrape of fork against ceramic, the taste of salt and butter and pepper.

He looks back at the journal. One more line.

‘Dr. Lambert said to notice when things feel lighter. Right now, it does.’

He signs his name, because it makes it official somehow, and leaves the notebook open on the table. The smell of cooked onions lingers like proof.

His next problem was math.

Fractions made sense, you needed them for recipes, conversions, measurements. Things that had purpose. Calculus didn’t. Calculus was pointless in the grand schemes of his life.

Unfortunately, the nuns had made his odd acceptance to the school contingent on maintaining a 3.5 GPA. That meant biting his tongue about the uselessness of calculus and pretending to care about functions and limits. He saved his worksheet for class until the last possible minute, which was easy enough, since math was his last class of the day.

Lunch. He could find that guy there, Collie. The one who did tutoring.

He didn’t linger on the fact he could’ve gone through the official tutoring department or asked the nun who handled student aid. Collie worked.

—--------

The cafeteria sounded like hell with its metal chairs screeching, kids shouting across tables, the faint wet slap of someone’s mashed potatoes hitting a tray. Gary hated it. It made his head throb and his teeth ache.. But he’d been circling the place for ten minutes already, trying to find one person.

He spotted Collie in the back corner, hunched over a book as he held half a sandwich in his hand, the lunchmeat nearly sliding out of his loose grip. If he had to wager a guess Collie hadn’t taken a bite in about 10 minutes. 

Gary didn’t know how to open the conversation. He never did. He just walked up and said, “You’re still tutoring, right?”

Collie looked up, eyes a little bloodshot, and blinked at him. “Depends who’s asking.”

“Someone failing calculus but not dumb enough to need hand-holding,” Gary said, dropping his bag onto the table. “I’ll pay double whatever you typically ask for those essays if we can meet more than once a week.”

Collie leaned back, eyeing him like he was measuring whether the interruption was worth his time. “You… want to pay me more money?”

“I want to not fail calculus. There’s a difference.”

Collie snorted. “Most people don’t volunteer extra cash. You high or something, Barkovitch?”

“Not right now.” Gary crossed his arms. “I can pay. Won a fucking cooking competition last summer. Figure I can spend some of my winnings on suffering.”

That got the faintest smirk. “Cooking comp? What, like on TV?”

“No, like in real life,” Gary said flatly. “You want my money or not?”

Collie sighed through his nose. “Yeah, sure. Double pay for double misery. Fine.” He rubbed his forehead. “Christ, you picked a bad time. I’m already tutoring three freshmen who think biology is a hate crime.”

“Guess that makes me a nice change of pace,” Gary said.

“Doubt it,” Collie muttered, but there was a flicker of humor behind the tired tone. “Hand me whatever worksheet got you desperate enough to come to me.” he sighed again, “Oh joy, derivatives. Let me go light myself on fire.”

They sat there a minute, Gary fiddling with a pen, Collie erasing something hard enough to nearly tear the paper. Gary didn’t usually notice people’s hands, but Collie’s fingers were smudged with graphite and calloused, like he spent too much time holding pencils, not enough sleeping.

“So,” Collie said finally, “what’s your deal with calculus? Everyone’s got one.”

Gary shrugged. “It’s useless. Fractions I get like you use those when you cook. But this?” He pointed at Collie’s worksheet. “Feels like doing math about math.”

“That’s… basically what it is.” Collie’s mouth twitched. “So, you’re a chef?”

“Trying to be. Can’t be shit if my diploma is held hostage.”

“Cool. I can make cereal.”

Gary huffed a small laugh. “Good thing I’m not asking you for that kind of help.”

Collie rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. He went back to his worksheet, muttering numbers under his breath. Gary sat there for a bit, watching him work, realizing Collie had this sharp, restless energy. The kind of guy who hated slowing down because it gave him too much time to think.

He understood that type.

After a while, Collie shoved the pencil behind his ear. “Alright, I can fit you in Tuesdays and Thursdays. After school. You actually gonna show up, or should I pencil in your ghost instead?”

“I’ll show,” Gary said. “I’m ain’t paying you to fucking jack off.”

“Good,” Collie said. “I don’t like wasting time.”

“Neither do I.”

Collie gave him a sideways look, tired but curious. “Guess we’ll see.”

When the bell rang, Collie stood and slung his bag over his shoulder. “Try not to fail before tomorrow.”

Gary smirked. “I’ll hold off just for you.”

Collie barked a laugh, the sound rough around the edges. “Yeah, sure you will.”

He left with that uneven stride of someone already thinking about their next thing. Gary stayed sitting for a minute, tapping his pencil against the table, feeling something quiet and strange under his ribs.

He packed up and left the cafeteria, muttering to himself, “Guess I’m paying for more of that.”

—--------

The first time they met up they focused on work, no breath was wasted on pleasantries or jokes, just Collie Parker trying to crack open Gary’s brain to shove the textbook into his grey matter. The concepts of limits eluded him for most of the hour. Collie had tried, so very hard. Tapping his pencil against the paper. “Limits. You know what a limit is?”

Gary leaned forward. “Like… when you’ve had enough of something?”

Collie let out a short laugh, not entirely nice. “Sure. You’ve got a natural gift for bullshit.”

Gary smirked. “I practice.”

Collie shoved the notebook toward him. “Here. This is a limit. Basically how a function behaves as it gets close to a certain point.”

Gary squinted at the numbers. “That looks like a seagull drowned in ink on your page.”

“Yeah, well, that’s calculus.”

—--------

Their next meeting hadn’t gone much better. They were in the library again, the light buzzing overhead, the smell of old carpet and coffee thick in the air, and Gary had tried to follow along, but his attention kept snagging on small things: the dark circles under Collie’s eyes, the band-aid on his finger, the faint smell of coffee and pencil dust.

After ten minutes, Gary’s brain started to buzz, his focus fraying as he tried to stay in his body, and stay tethered to gravity. He rubbed his eyes. “You ever think about how much easier life would be if math fucking died? Like the inventor of math was never born?”

Collie arched an eyebrow. “You’d still have to count your ingredients, Gordon Ramsay.”

“Yeah, but I’d just eyeball it.”

“That’s how you blow up a microwave.”

Gary grinned. “Hey, could be worse. At least I’m not some sleep-deprived number goblin.”

“Wow,” Collie said, deadpan. “You really know how to compliment a guy, Barkovitch. I see why you have to pay people to hang out.”

Gary felt the rage rising up in his throat. “I mean, you kinda look like one. All that chalk dust. It’s very math gremlin core. I see why the ladies aren’t falling off of you.”

Collie gave him a look, but didn’t rise to it. They kept working, the rhythm falling back into place until Gary broke the ice with a shitty half-formed thought that came out wrong.

“So, are you, like… one of those guys who gets offended at everything now? ’Cause you kinda give off that vibe.”

Collie froze mid-scribble. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Gary backpedaled. Hard. “I didn’t, wait, I just mean.”

“You meant what?” Collie’s voice was sharp now, not raised but cutting. “You gonna call me a bleedin heart liberal or whatever because I don’t laugh at your shit?” Gary heard the mocking southern accent Collie put on, his impression of Gary’s own accent, an echo of a stereotype. An uneducated redneck. 

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Collie shoved his pencil into the notebook and closed it. The sound echoed harder than it should have. “You don’t get to say crap like that and pretend it’s just a joke. You’re not as funny as you think you are.” Collie stood, shouldering his bag. “Text me if you still want to meet next week. I’ll decide if I have the energy.”

Gary sat there a long moment after he left, the echo of Collie’s footsteps swallowed by the hum of the lights. He stared at the empty chair, throat tight, muttering, “Yeah, Barkovitch. You’ve still got it.”

—--------

The next week, Gary found Collie at the library again, sprawled across a table with a textbook and a mountain of notes. The second he walked up, Gary’s chest tightened. He should’ve just ghosted the whole week, but pride, or whatever stubborn thing he called pride, hadn’t let him.

“You wanna, uh, make me cry over derivatives again?” Gary asked, voice too loud, a little panicked.

Collie looked up, tired eyes narrowing. “Sure.” He stretched, his shirt riding up just a little as he cracked his back over the seat. “Let’s get this party started.

Gary scratched at the side of his neck, fingers worrying a raw patch that never really healed. He shouldn’t have come. He should’ve let it die after the last blow-up. “I didn’t mean that shit before, by the way. Just jokes. Bad ones.”

Collie studied him, not cold, but cautious. “You always talk like that when you’re nervous?”

“I’m not nervous.” Gary’s nails dug harder. “I was just trying to get you to lighten up, you know? You looked like you needed it.” Gary shifted his weight, then blurted, “ But like I swear I’m not paying you to jack off or anything. I mean, unless you’re into that.” He froze up, nail staying gouged into the red, overworked flesh of his neck..

Collie blinked, expression flat. “The fuck?”

Gary waved his hands like he could erase it. “I didn’t fuck forget it. I meant, like… I’m paying you to do math, not… you know… other stuff.”

Collie’s eyebrow twitched. “Other stuff?”

Gary panicked harder, digging a deeper hole. “You know, gay stuff! Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m not, what I mean is. I get if you don’t want me to talk about shit that ain’t math.”

Collie pinched the bridge of his nose. “You do realize the more you talk, the worse this gets?”

“Yeah, yeah, I realize that! I just. Look, I’m saying I respect boundaries and all that. Totally. Full respect,” Gary said too fast, almost tripping over his words, raising his fist upright. The way he had seen people do at protests.

“And?” Collie prompted.

“And you’re… native, right? Indian? Not that it matters, just… context. Context is important in jokes, I hear,” Gary added.

Collie sat back, exhaling. “Oh my God. You’ve officially made my day worse. Man, give me your money and let me try to teach you math.”

When the time was over Collie stood to leave, Gary muttered, “I’m not usually that…”

Collie didn’t look up. “Yeah, you are.”

Gary stared after him, the words landing harder than they should have. He sat there long after Collie left, pencil tapping against the table, whispering to himself, “Yeah, you are.”

The Major stood behind him, casting a shadow over his notebook. “Yes, you are.”

—--------

Two days later they tried again.

Collie finally looked up, eyebrow twitching. “You really do like to put your foot in your mouth, don’t you?”

Gary grinned, small, nervous. “It’s… a talent.”

“Mm-hm.” Collie shook his head, but this time there was something softer in his mouth, like a half-smile hiding under exhaustion. “Alright, show me where you’re stuck.”

They worked through a few problems in silence. Gary’s pencil squeaked against the paper, and he kept pausing, watching Collie’s hands. Calloused, sure, but not intimidating this time just tired. 

His focus snapped once or twice when he imagined messing up again, or when a memory of last week’s idiocy hit.

“So,” Gary said suddenly, “you ever get tired of people being idiots?”

“Every day,” Collie said, tapping his pencil. “But some of them pay better than others.”

Gary’s grin slipped a little. “Good to know I’m in the premium tier.”

Collie muttered something under his breath. Gary pretended not to hear it.

For the next twenty minutes, they worked. Collie corrected mistakes quickly, and Gary actually got some of the answers right. He felt something warm, like pride, creeping up behind his ribs. Harkness looked up from where he had been sitting silent and smiled, a faint thumbs up as he faded in and out of visibility. 

The panic didn’t vanish, but it receded, buried under fractions and limits and Collie’s impatient sighs.

When they wrapped up, Collie leaned back. “You did… better today. Not amazing, but better.”

Gary shrugged, trying to look casual. “Yeah. Don’t go thinking I’m suddenly charming or anything.”

Collie’s smirk slipped through. “Don’t worry. I’ve got my guard up.”

Gary hesitated. “Hey… uh, thanks. For… like, not punching me last week.”

Collie shook his head, grabbing his bag. “Just… don’t make it a habit.”

—--------

By the third week, the tutoring sessions had loosened up a little. Calculus was still hell, but the edges weren’t quite as jagged. Gary kept his focus on the problems, but the conversation drifted, small and slow, like a river sneaking around rock, a stream making a new path..

They were sitting in the courtyard this time, pencils scratching against paper. Gary’s notebook was open to a page, but his eyes kept straying to Collie’s headphones dangling from the neck of his hoodie. The faintest sounds leaking out, a guitar solo here, a scream there. 

“What’s playing?” Gary pointed at the earbuds. 

Collie didn’t look up, just paused and listened to the music, “I think this is the Ramones. You know them?”

Gary shrugged, though he was desperate to lie, to create common ground where there wasn't. But if he was quizzed on any song or band member he knew he couldn’t list anyone except Ramone. And they were a given. 

“Uh-huh,” Collie said, smirking. “So what do you listen to?”

Gary rolled his eyes. “Shit man, normal stuff. I like Britney Spears. In a normal way. Man she’s hot right?” 

Collie snorted. “Relax. I was teasing. You’re fine. Mostly. Need to expand your palate some more.” He emphasized the T as he said it, smiling wide. 

There was a pause, and Gary tried to think of something else. Brain buzzing as he remembered Collie’s fingers grabbing a slice of orange from his salad. Something neutral. Safe. He settled quickly, afraid he was running out of time. “Did you watch the new episode of Survivor?”

Collie’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. I always think it's funny though, the premise? We’ve dropped people off to see if they can survive in a place where people have been surviving for centuries.”

Gary laughed, small and tight, then immediately wished he hadn’t. He fiddled with his pen, tapping it against the notebook. “Uh… yeah. I mean, I like the storylines. Politics.” He said it fast, stumbling over himself. “Not like… I’m… uh… never mind.”

Collie glanced at him, expression unreadable. “Never mind what?”

Gary’s hand went to his neck, scratching absentmindedly. “Nothing. Just… thinking out loud. Like you do. You know, internal monologue. Totally normal.”

Collie raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. “Uh-huh. Totally normal.”

They went back to work for a few minutes, pencils scratching, pages turning, but the air between them felt easier now, lighter. Gary noticed that he could look at Collie without feeling like he was about to make a mistake with every word. Not completely comfortable, he was still panicking internally about saying something wrong, but… manageable.

“Hey,” Collie said finally, leaning back, “have you ever hung out with anyone else at school?”

Gary froze, heart skipping. “Uh… not really. Not that it matters. I mean, people are…. Messy. I'm bad at people.”

Collie tilted his head, studying him. “You should meet some of my friends. Chill crowd. Not… calculus obsessives. Just… normal people.”

Gary’s stomach twisted a little. He wanted to say no. He wanted to say yes. He settled on a noncommittal, “Maybe. I’ll… think about it.”

Collie shrugged. “Cool. No pressure. You still show up for tutoring though. That’s the main requirement.”

Gary nodded, scribbling something down, pretending it was about math. Internally, he tried to convince himself that meeting people didn’t mean he had to actually… like anyone. Attraction was not a thing he was thinking about. He repeated it like a mantra, silently, to stop his thoughts from spinning further. Olsen tried speaking, but he sounded like he was a million miles away. 

“You’d probably be okay,” Collie said after a pause, a little softer than usual. “You just… overthink things.”

Gary snorted. “Professional overthinker. That’s me.”

Collie smiled faintly, and Gary caught himself thinking that it wasn’t threatening at all, the way Collie smiled. Not dangerous. Not judgmental. Just… there.

For a few minutes, they went back to derivatives, but the tension had shifted. There was room for conversation now, room for jokes about alien governments and weird music tastes. Gary scribbled numbers, tapping his pencil but listening, really listening, for the first time in a while. And it wasn’t terrifying.

—--------

Reflection Journal #9
Assignment: “Describe your beliefs.”

‘I believe. In something. I believe that the stove will turn on, and it does. I believe my grandma will always be there to pick me up. She does. I believe people don’t like me, and they don’t.

I don’t know if there's anything bigger that I believe in. I think the world is mostly noise.

I’m supposed to believe in myself, and god with a capital G. But neither of us are very good at our jobs, cause the world is shit, and my world is shit. 

I know what I was raised to believe, and what I was raised to believe is bullshit. Like as a baptist I'm supposed to reject the notion of once saved always saved, because you can backslide, and you gotta fix that. 

I'm supposed to believe in hell and sin and punishment, but that mostly just made me afraid of myself. Afraid of thinking, afraid of wanting, afraid of living. I know how people see me, and even if I'm doing my best they don’t think it's good enough. 

I’m supposed to believe in people being good, but most of the time they’re not. I’m supposed to believe in love and fairness and… whatever, all those things they tell you in Sunday school. And I try, sometimes. But it mostly feels like noise too, like the world’s still there, buzzing and messy, and me just trying to make sense of it.’

Chapter Text

The February air still clung to winter in the mornings, but by noon it soon forgot itself. Florida never knew how to commit to a season. The ceiling fan ticked a slow rhythm above him, the kind that marked the late morning hours when Meemaw had already been up for hours. Gary lay there a moment longer, listening to the gospel station humming faintly, rolling through the house in waves as the announcer’s voice shared some hymn about light and deliverance. It made him feel both too heavy and too hollow.

He swung his legs off the bed, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, and tried to pretend his body didn’t ache in strange, new ways. His muscles had been doing that thing again twitching, almost shivering without warning, like there was static trapped under his skin.

Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of old coffee. Meemaw had gone out to water the petunias by the porch. He figured he’d surprise her with breakfast, proving he was “getting better,” like she said he was. The humidity had already started to sneak back in, soft and sticky on his neck as he stood in Meemaw’s kitchen, trying to beat eggs into something that looked like breakfast. The light through the window was harsh and forgiving all at once, hitting the old linoleum like it was still the seventies. Outside, her windchimes were jangling, seashells, glass, a bent spoon or two. He reached for the whisk when his wrist jerked suddenly and without warning. The bowl rattled against the counter. Some of the yolk splattered across his hand.

“Damn it,” he muttered, grabbing a paper towel.

He tried again, slower this time, but the tremor came back, sharp and uninvited. His fingers cramped around the handle. The whisk slipped and clanged against the counter. Barko cursed again, louder this time, staring at his hand as if it belonged to someone else.

He could hear Meemaw’s radio through the open window now. What a privilege it is to carry. Everything to God in prayer.  He couldn’t help the bitter laugh that bubbled up.

“Yeah, maybe He can make me hold a spoon right.”

He’d wanted to surprise her. She’d been so pleased lately, calling him “steady” again, humming when she thought he couldn’t hear. He’d wanted to keep that up.

It clattered too loud against the counter. For a moment he froze, waiting to see if she’d heard, but the radio on the porch kept playing, a brief interlude from the music, that old preacher with the syrup-thick drawl, talking about forgiveness. He wiped his hand on a dish towel, stared at the trembling fingers that wouldn’t stay still. They’d been doing that more often. Not shaking, just… buzzing. Like his nerves were still arguing with his body. Like a marionette arguing with its strings. His fists would clench on him, or his fingers would flex open to the point he felt his skin would tear open. His knees locking in the hallway, his jaw wedging shut in English. He was tangled in his strings. 

He wiped the counter clean, dumped the failed eggs into the trash, and reached for his camera instead. The strap hung where he always kept it, looped over the chair back. He felt steadier with it in his hands. 

Outside, the air was thick with the smell of honeysuckle and soil still damp from last night’s rain. Sunlight sifted through the trees in yellow shards, dappling the path that led behind the house. He followed it, camera bouncing against his chest, each step making the gravel crunch beneath his boots.

He took pictures of whatever caught his eye: a dragonfly trembling on a cattail, the broken wheelbarrow half-swallowed by vines, a patch of mushrooms glowing faintly at the base of an oak. Some of the shots blurred when his hands twitched, but a few came out sharp, sharp enough that they looked almost intentional. 

He crouched down by the fence line, focusing on the way the sunlight hit a spiderweb stretched between two posts. For a moment, he held his breath, and everything stilled. No twitch, no ache, no noise. The ditch lilies by the fence line were starting to come up already, orange and stubborn. Just the soft click of the shutter. Then, of course, his hand spasmed again, and the camera jerked. The photo came out crooked.

“Figures,” he muttered.

He stayed out there anyway. Walking around the yard, dragging his heels in the soft dirt as he swung on the wooden swing he had helped his Meemaw build when he was younger, during the first year he lived with her.

He raised the camera. The lens cap slipped; his hand jerked again. He tried to steady it, focusing on a dew bead trembling at the tip of a palmetto frond. Click. Click.

The sound was a small relief. A clean, mechanical thing in a world that always felt too loud.

He crouched, tried again. His hand jumped; the photo came out blurred.

He swore under his breath, then took another. And another. A lizard blinking from a cinderblock. The way the sunlight fractured through the Spanish moss. A red bird taking a bath.

The static in his hands wouldn’t quit.

“Gary!”

He turned. Meemaw was coming down the path, visor on, one of her floral house-dresses billowing behind her. She held two glasses of sweet tea that was already sweating, ice cubes clinking as she walked.

“You been hidin’ out back here?” she said, smiling. “You missed breakfast.”

“Didn’t feel like eatin’,” he said, raising the camera a little like an excuse. “Light’s real good right now.”

She gave a small laugh. “Light’s always good to you, huh?” She set the second glass down on the stained table they kept by the swing, the glass countertop opaque after years of service. “What’re you shootin’?”

“Just stuff.”

“Hmm.” She squinted at him, then brushed at a spot on his sleeve. “How’s school been?”

He tensed, swallowing all of his complaints. “Fine.”

“You makin’ friends yet?”

He shrugged, pretending to adjust the lens. Thought about Collie inviting him to meet his friends on Monday. “Talk to people sometimes.”

“That ain’t what I asked.”

He smiled thinly. “You sound like my guidance counselor.”

“I just don’t want you keepin’ to yourself all the time, baby.” She reached to tuck a stray curl from his forehead. “You’re a good boy. Just gotta give people the chance to see that. You know if you meet anyone special you can invite them over. You know I miss taking all the credit for your meals.” She gave him that look, part amusement, part worry, part complete and utter acceptance of her role as grandmother, mother, and confidant. The look that made him feel twelve years old again. They sat quietly for a while, the cicadas starting their low summer song. Meemaw watched the trees sway. “You been takin’ your medicine?”

“Yeah,” he said too fast. Then, slower, “Every day.”

She nodded, sipping her tea. “Good. I can tell, you know. You seem steadier. More like yourself.”

That word. Yourself. It landed somewhere low in his chest and sank into the pit of his stomach. He didn’t know what that meant anymore. He didn’t know where he stopped and the medicine started, where the illness started, where his old self had gone. If he was anyone ever. If he had always been an amalgamation of illness and rage. The sin of the mother, the crime of the father. 

She smiled faintly. “You don’t know how much it means to see you doin’ better. I been sleepin’ easier. You look… peaceful, baby.”

He wanted to tell her the truth. That the meds made the voices quieter, sure, but they also made him feel like he was underwater all the time. That every muscle in his body had turned into a question mark. That he couldn’t cook, couldn’t hold the camera right, couldn’t think clearly. That being “peaceful” felt a lot like being controlled. A character in a video game. Something to be turned on and off at the whim of others. 

But she was smiling the first easy smile he’d seen on her face in months, and he couldn’t take that from her.

“Yeah,” he said finally, forcing a grin. “They’re helping.”

She reached over and patted his knee. “I’m proud of you, Gary. 

He took a small step back, camera rising instinctively. “Hold still a second,” he said, pretending not to hear her. “You got the sun hittin’ you just right.”

“Oh Lordy, not me,” she said, half-laughing as she covered her face. “I ain’t camera-ready.”

“Oh c’mon Meemaw, you know you’ve always been my muse.”

That made her smile. He focused the lens, though his hands kept twitching. He locked his elbows tight to hide it.

Click.

She blinked at the sound, still smiling. “You takin’ pictures so I can’t ask about your little friends, huh?”

“Maybe.”

She shook her head. “You ain’t as slick as you wanna be.” she stepped close and ruffled his hair, “The slickest thing about you is your hair, baby.”

He turned the camera so she could look, careful to keep his hand steady as the muscles buzzed beneath his skin. The picture was bright, her face framed by the green behind her, sunlight glowing around her as she’d been caught mid-laugh.

“Oh, that’s pretty,” she said softly. “You always make me look better than I am.”

“You always been pretty, Meemaw,” he murmured, and she reached over to hug at his side..

They sat there a while longer, the cicadas starting up even though it wasn’t quite spring yet, rocking on the swing. She sipped her tea and let the silence stretch before saying, “You don’t know how glad I am now that the medicine’s helping, Gary. You look more settled. I was scared for a while, you know that?”

He nodded, still looking through the camera. “Yeah. I know.”

She smiled, eyes soft. “You got that peace about you again. It’s good to see. Like your soul is settled.”

His throat tightened. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t peaceful. It was emptiness, a quiet that pressed against his ribs from the inside. That maybe, during some moments, he actually missed the noise, even when the noise scared him. That the twitching was driving him crazy. That before everything, before Rank, he could have lived like that, and would take that in a heartbeat to the world taking his hands in exchange for his mind.

But she looked so sure, so proud. Her shoulders lighter these days. The house felt lighter too.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “It’s good.”

She patted his back. “You keep it up, you’ll be back to your old self in no time.”

He took another photo instead of answering. The shutter clicked, and Meemaw’s face disappeared behind the blur of light.

When she went back inside, he stayed, checking the pictures. Most of them were crooked, a few blurred from the tremors. But the one of her, laughing in the sun, had come out perfect. He stared at it a long time, the edges of his hand still shaking, then slipped the camera strap back over his neck and headed indoors.

Chapter Text

Collie still couldn’t get used to the way February felt in Florida.

It was sticky, biking to school felt like swimming in the humidity, by the time he arrived most mornings he was sweating, hair clinging to his neck and the stupid tie required by the uniform having the single use of functioning as a handkerchief. It was only cold at 6 am, and by 9 am it was already back to being 80 degrees. Florida winter was the memory of winter, a ghost of its former self. Back home, February meant frozen breath and static-crackling sweaters. Here, the only frost he saw was the film on the fridge door when the AC kicked too high. The sky stayed the same washed-out blue no matter what the calendar said. He hated that. It made the days blur together. Sometimes, when he pedaled past the cypress trees and the crape myrtles, he thought about how everything here rotted so easily, fruit, wood, old cars, even people if they stayed still long enough.

Gary Barkovitch wasn’t the kind of person who stayed still, though. Collie had noticed that right away. Even when they were supposed to be working, Gary’s fingers twitched, tapping the pencil, drumming the desk, tracing invisible shapes in the margins of his notebook. Like his body was running on a generator nobody could switch off. He was also easily distracted in the beginning, turning off to the sides to look at nothing, needing everything repeated as if he couldn’t hear Collie the first time, even if they were alone in the library. Despite asking to be tutored, he acted like it was a prison.

After the second session, Collie had decided he didn’t like him. Gary talked too much, but never about what mattered. He made jokes that landed like glass bottles breaking, dangerously loud and sharp. He seemed to hate Collie, but wanted to use him for a grade, and he, as his mother would say, had no couth about him. But then there were moments when he’d lose his place mid-sentence, eyes darting to the corner like he was checking for something Collie couldn’t see. A monster in the corner of the shelves waiting for him to get distracted.

Collie wanted to know who was haunting Gary Barkovitch.

Now, weeks later, Collie couldn’t shake that image. He’d catch Gary scratching the inside of his arm raw while pretending to read, or flinching like a muscle in his face had misfired. The movements were small enough that most people wouldn’t notice. Collie wasn’t sure why he did. Maybe because he was starting to look for them.

He had been awful, crass, and leaning just a little too close to the racist line. He hadn’t believed him when he said he had a talent for putting his foot in his mouth socially, but now he knew it to be true. But after a couple weeks the fire that burned violent and crude in Barkovitch’s mouth had died out, the few embers not enough to sustain him. Gary had been showing up with his uniform pressed, shoes actually tied, hair neater than before, tie in the mandated double Windsor. It should’ve been a good sign. But the more he polished up, the hollower he looked behind the eyes. Like someone had swapped out the noise in him for static. Collie wanted to be glad he seemed more “together.” He just wasn’t.

Collie started keeping track without meaning to. The way Gary’s eyes glazed when he talked about science, but brightened, only for a flash, when he mentioned his grandmother. How he always carried his camera, though Collie never saw him take pictures anymore.

Florida heat hummed through the library windows while they worked. Gary muttered through an English passage, voice too low to be confident. He messed up a line, and instead of laughing it off like usual, he went still. His pencil rolled off the table. He didn’t pick it up.

“You good?” Collie had asked.

Gary blinked once, twice, like rebooting. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

Thinking, sure. But he didn’t write another word for ten minutes.

Sometimes Collie caught him staring at nothing for whole seconds. Then Gary would blink, smirk, and ask about the next assignment, like nothing had happened.

When the bell rang at the end of tutoring, Gary always left too fast, like if he lingered, he’d unravel. Collie stayed behind most days, packing up slow, staring at the empty chair across from him. He told himself he didn’t care. He didn’t even like the guy. But he still found himself glancing across the lunchroom sometimes, to see Gary sitting alone again, arms crossed.

So he invited him to sit with his friends during lunch.

Collie regretted it almost immediately.

He’d given himself hope even though he knew Gary was all sharp edges, the kind that wanted friends but didn’t know how to ask.

Gary followed him across the cafeteria like a stray dog pretending not to follow at all, hands in pockets, pretending he wasn’t nervous, eyes darting everywhere but at the table. Collie told himself this was good. Exposure therapy or something. He’d been sitting alone for weeks, and now he’d get to talk to people who weren’t paid to tolerate him.

His friend group was there waiting. The first couple weeks of the new semester they had been separated, all hunting for the ideal spot for the five of them to hang out, something Tressler called “operation BT” for best table, but soon enough had found a table far enough away from the noise that could accommodate them. Pete had an arm thrown across Ray’s shoulder while Pearson told a story.

Tressler was sitting silent, unwrapping a sandwich, but listening.

“Hey,” Collie said, setting his tray down. “You guys mind if Gary sits with us today?”
Ray’s polite smile flickered. Pete didn’t even bother to hide his scowl. Tressler gave a noncommittal shrug. “Sure, man. There’s space.” Pearson nodded, barely breaking his story, jumping back to talking about some movie he had seen Saturday.

Collie could feel the air shift before anyone said a word. Pete’s arm slipped from Ray’s shoulder; Ray gave a small, nervous smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Pearson kept talking, probably trying to keep things normal, but Collie could see his posture stiffen.

Gary slipped his lunchbox open and pulled out some leftovers. He was fine for maybe thirty seconds before he started talking.

Pearson was still mid-story about some movie, something about the editing being “purposefully disorienting”, and Gary interrupted, not maliciously, just suddenly, like the thought had tripped him on the way out his mouth.

“Hey, your sister is in my English class i think. Man you guys are identical. I thought I was seeing double.”

Pearson turned to look at him, and smiled. “Yeah I think she mentioned having a new kid in her class. She’s really enjoying Hamlet.”

Gary laughed, “Oh everyone can tell, she talks a shitton, I don't know how you haven’t gone crazy living with her.” Gary laughed, a barking loud sound. Collie watched

Pearson’s back go rigid, his mouth set in a harsh line.

Collie saw Gary look around, as if waiting for a laugh track that never came, like this was the kind of thing guys said to each other. When nobody did, he shrugged, looking back down at his tray. “I mean, not in a bad way. Just, she’s loud. Like, volume-wise.”

Pete muttered, “Yeah, maybe don’t talk about people’s sisters, man.”

Gary’s mouth twisted. “Sorry, I didn’t realize she was off-limits. Didn’t mean to offend the happy couple.”

It was a throwaway comment, said with that same sharp laugh, but the way he said happy couple had a slant to it. Pete froze. Ray blinked. Collie felt his pulse pick up.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Pete asked, voice deceptively light.

Gary shrugged, eyes still on his food. “Nothing, man. Just, you don’t usually see guys like, ”
“Like what?” Ray said, quiet but clear.

Gary hesitated a beat too long. “Like, just… you know. PDA at a Catholic school. Didn’t think it’d fly. Ain’t everyone supposed to be thinking WWJD all the damn time?”

Pete leaned forward. “You got a problem with it?”

Gary’s jaw flexed. “Didn’t say that.”

Collie felt the heat crawl up his neck. “You didn’t have to,” he said flatly.

Gary looked up then, surprised — like he hadn’t realized he’d said anything wrong until Collie said so. Then that defensive smirk slid into place. “Whatever. You’re all acting like I murdered someone. I was just saying.”

“Yeah, you were just saying something stupid,” Collie said. His tone wasn’t loud, but it hit harder for how even it was. “You wanna sit with us, you don’t say that kind of shit.

Pete leaned back in his chair, one eyebrow raised, but didn’t say anything. He just looked at Collie, silently questioning the choice to bring Gary to the table. Ray shifted, the kind of polite discomfort that made Collie want to crawl out of his skin.

Pearson’s face didn’t move, but something in the set of his jaw changed. Collie opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Gary’s attention had already swiveled to
Tressler, trying to recover with a joke. “So what’s your deal, man? You hiding a flask under that hoodie or something?”

Tressler froze mid-bite. Collie saw the muscle in his jaw twitch. Gary was still going, oblivious or pretending to be. “You don’t gotta be self-conscious, man. I mean, I get it. Everyone’s got something they don’t like about themselves.”

Collie felt his stomach drop. He wanted to sink under the table.

Tressler set his sandwich down slowly. “What the hell does that mean?”

Gary blinked, like he’d just been asked a question in a language he didn’t speak.

“Nothing,” he said. “I was just saying. You dress kinda, uh. Like you’re trying to…y’know.” He gestured vaguely at Tressler’s chest and then at his own. “Hide your chest or something. Hey not all of us can be buff like Tonto over here, but that ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”

The table went silent. Even Pete, who usually jumped to mockery, just stared at him.
Collie’s first thought was that maybe he’d misheard. Tonto? The word hit his ears like something his grandpa would’ve said when he was five, muttering at the TV during reruns of The Lone Ranger. He hadn’t thought about that show in years, one of those black-and-white cowboy fantasies where the hero rode off into the sunset, and the sidekick didn’t even get a last name.

But the second thought was sharper, uglier: Gary had said it like a punchline. Like it meant something about him. And Collie didn’t even know what exactly Gary thought it meant, brown skin, long hair, the way Collie didn’t fit the Florida tan crowd? It didn’t matter. It was all there in the word, in the easy way it slipped out, the kind of word someone says when they’ve never had to wonder what it’s like to be a joke before.
Collie could feel his pulse in his ears. His fork felt too heavy in his hand. The noise of the cafeteria blurred, all the laughter and tray clatter shrinking to a single hum under his skin. He wanted to say something, anything, that would make Gary feel how that landed. But he also knew if he opened his mouth, it would come out too sharp, too revealing.

Collie could feel his body thrumming, his fist clenching. “Gary,” he said, low. “Shut up.”

Gary’s face flickered, first confusion, then something like hurt, then that awful smirk he used as armor. “What, are you his boyfriend?” he muttered, pushing food around his tray.

Tressler looked up, and spoke for the first time, “Man, fuck you. What decade do you think this is?”

Nobody said anything for the rest of lunch. Pearson didn’t finish his story. Ray whispered something to Pete, who shook his head. Tressler stared down at his sandwich, jaw set tight.

Collie didn’t eat much either. He just kept thinking about the way Gary had looked right before the smirk came on. Like for a second, he knew he’d lost something he hadn’t even gotten to hold yet. But then Tonto would echo in his ears, and suddenly Collie was 15 again, packed up into a new house, a new school, and everyone was commenting on his long hair and asking if he used to live in a teepee. Any willingness to forgive Barkovitch vanished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Collie had ranted to his mom the whole way home the night before. He had barely set his backpack down before it started spilling out of him, the frustration, the guilt, the general disbelief that he’d been the one to feel bad for Gary Barkovitch. She didn’t even get a hello before he started.

“Why do I keep giving him chances?” Collie said, sitting in the kitchen with clenched fists and restless legs while his mom chopped onions for dinner. “He doesn’t think before he talks, he’s rude, he doesn’t even try to be normal. He’s like, like if foot-in-mouth disease was a person.”

His mom didn’t look up, just hummed.

“He’s got this… thing where he wants people to like him but can’t stop making them hate him. He’s not mean, not exactly, but he doesn’t get it. He said some shit to Pearson about his sister. He’s just. He's awful, Mom,” Collie said, beginning to pace in like he was building up static. “He’s rude to everyone, he doesn’t even try. And I invited him to sit with us, and what does he do? He just stared at Tressler, and said these… these weird things.”

She slid the onions into a pan and gave him a side glance. “Maybe he’s just one of those kids who needs a little more patience. Didn’t you say he’s new? Sometimes people talk like that when they’re nervous. You always take it personally when people don’t fit in right away.”

“It’s not that,” Collie said, then faltered. “Okay, maybe it is a little bit. But he isn’t even trying!”

She gave him a look, the kind that meant she was filing away his words, waiting for the part he wasn’t saying. “I said something similar about you when we first moved here,” she said softly. “You weren’t happy about Florida. About how no one talked like you or looked like you, how the air felt wrong, how the trees didn’t turn brown. Took you a while to stop hating it.”

Collie made a frustrated noise. “He’s always angry. Or nervous. Or both. You should’ve seen his face when I told him to shut up.”

“You did what?”

He winced. “I didn’t yell. I just had to say something. He was being awful. He called me Tonto”

His mom looked up at that, her normally pleasant face creased into a frown, her heart breaking was almost audible, her eyes tired. “Oh, darling. I’m so sorry. Some people have to want to stop stepping in it. Horses and water dear.”

“Yeah,” Collie muttered. “Well, Gary sure doesn’t.”

“Some people never learn where the line is,” she said gently. “Doesn’t mean you have to stand next to it waiting for them.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

So when Gary was already sitting at their table at lunch, Collie wasn’t surprised. Dreading it a little, sure, but not surprised. The cafeteria was alive with midterm panic, the month of March marking the beginning of the end for seniors.

Pete’s expression said you’ve got to be kidding me. Ray gave a sympathetic half-smile that was mostly for Collie’s benefit. Pearson looked like he was trying to focus on his food hard enough to vanish into it, and Tressler’s jaw was tight, his hoodie pulled low as possible, staring into the table.

Gary looked up when Collie sat down. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound casual, but his shoulders were hunched like he was bracing for impact.

“Hey,” Collie said back. He wasn’t expecting an apology, and part of him didn’t even want one. But another part, the part that hated himself for feeling so rocked by it, hoped for a hint of acknowledgment.

They ate in silence for maybe thirty seconds before Gary decided silence was failure.

“So,” he said, poking at his pasta. “I was thinking about that movie you were talking about yesterday, what’s it called? The trippy one?”

Pearson looked up. “Requiem for a Dream.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. I looked it up. People online say it’s depressing as hell. You like depressing movies?”

Pearson blinked, a bit thrown off by the question. “I like films that make you think,” he said carefully.

Gary nodded too fast, like he was trying to match rhythm without understanding melody.

“Yeah, yeah, me too. I like…uh, I like when a movie ends and everyone’s dead.” He laughed, loud and alone. “Not because it’s funny, just, like realistic, y’know? Nobody gets happy endings.”

Pete made a noise. “Jesus.”

Gary frowned. “What?”

“Nothing, man,” Pete said, voice light but sharp. “Just, you’re a real ray of fucking sunshine.”

Gary blinked, clearly trying to figure out whether that was sarcasm. “I’m just saying, it’s honest.”

“Honest is overrated,” Ray said, not looking up.

Gary took that like a challenge. “Nah, I think people are just sensitive. Can’t take a joke or a fact.” He shoved a forkful of pasta in his mouth, chewed, swallowed, then kept going. “Like, you know how people freak out about labels? It’s like, if a dude’s acting fruity, just say it. No one dies.”

Collie’s chest tightened. Every word felt like a reminder of the way Gary had casually treated him like a joke. He clenched his fists under the table, trying to focus on the fork in his hand.

The words dropped into the middle of the table like a lead weight. Pete’s head snapped up.

“Excuse me?”

Gary blinked. “What? I’m just saying like, if someone’s ”

Collie cut in fast, voice sharp. “Don’t.”

Gary frowned. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t use that word. Or talk like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Gary looked confused, defensive. “I didn’t mean it bad, I just meant ”

“Yeah, and it still sucked,” Collie said. “Try again.”

Gary’s mouth opened, then shut. His face went red with anger or embarrassment, Collie couldn’t tell. “You don’t have to act like I danced on someone’s grave, Jesus. You’re acting like I, ”

“You said something shitty,” Collie interrupted. “Just admit it and move on.”

There was a long, brittle pause. Gary stabbed his fork into his tray again, staring at the noodles like they’d done this to him. “Fine,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

No one spoke for a minute. Pete’s arm went around Ray’s shoulder again, protective and deliberate. Pearson busied himself with his drink, and Tressler slipped his earbuds in, staring off into space as he ate.

Gary tried again. “So, uh. Did Sister Winifred assign the same history project for every class?”

Pearson shrugged. “Started my research, we were assigned modern history.”

“Yeah same,” Gary said. “I was thinking of doing mine on the nuclear arms race. Y’know, mutually assured destruction and all that.”

Ray tried to smile. “Lighthearted stuff.”

Gary took it as encouragement. “Yeah, I like the tension. Like, everyone pretending to be calm but ready to blow each other up. It’s kinda like high school.”

No one laughed.

He tried again. “You ever notice how the cafeteria food looks like cardboard but somehow still manages to be greasy? Like, they cooked it in an air fryer full of motor oil.”

Pearson snorted before he could stop himself, and Gary seized on that tiny sound like it was a life preserver. “Right? Like, seriously, who’s running this kitchen, a raccoon?”

This time, a few small smiles appeared around the table. Even Pete, begrudgingly, let out a half-laugh.

Collie smiled despite himself. It wasn’t that funny, but it was the first thing Gary had said all week that didn’t sting.

Then Gary pushed it. “Bet the lunch lady’s spitting in the food anyway. She looks like the type.”

And just like that, the laughter was gone again.

Ray sighed. “Dude.”

“What? It’s a joke.”

“Then maybe find a better one, you don’t even eat the school lunch, Gordon Ramsey” Collie said quietly.

Gary deflated again, falling from the sky like a sad balloon. He slouched, stabbed another piece of pasta, and mumbled something Collie couldn’t catch.

For a while, no one said anything. The cafeteria noise swelled around them, chairs scraping, trays clattering, laughter echoing from tables where people knew how to be normal.

Gary finished his food quickly. He sat for a bit afterward, fingers drumming against the table. Then, softly:

“I used to eat lunch everyday with this guy at my old school. He, something happened between us, and after that I just… stopped trying.”

It wasn’t loud, wasn’t defensive, just something that slipped out before he could catch it.

Collie didn’t say anything. No one did.

After a few seconds, Gary cleared his throat, picked up his trash, and stood. “See you guys,” he said, and started walking away.

When he was gone, Pete groaned. “Collie, man, I’m begging you, don’t make this a thing. The guy’s a walking car crash.”

Collie didn’t answer. He just stared down at the spot Gary had been sitting.
Because for all the things Gary said wrong, every time he fumbled or crossed a line, there was something underneath it, small and scared, like a note caught under static.

And Collie hated that he could still hear it.

Chapter Text

Gary didn’t sit with them on Friday. Or Monday.

By Wednesday, his usual spot at the end of the table had become an empty stretch of laminate, the kind nobody looked at for too long.

Collie told himself he didn’t care. He told himself Gary was probably off terrorizing someone else’s lunch table, or eating alone because he liked the peace. He told himself anything except the thing that kept tapping at the back of his mind: that maybe Gary actually felt bad. Maybe it was a mistake, a joke. But nothing in his head could manifest an apology out of thin air. Besides, he didn’t need barkovitch paying him for tutoring and thinking that the money meant he could say whatever he wanted. Fuck that.

The cafeteria buzzed like usual. Trays, laughter, sneakers squeaking against the floor. Pete was mid-story about a substitute teacher when the noise behind them shifted, a scrape, a clatter, a silence.

Gary stood there, shoulders hunched, a plastic container in his hands.

He didn’t look at anyone. Just stepped forward, set it down in the middle of the table, and muttered something no one caught. Then he turned to go.

“Hey,” Ray called after him. “What’s this?”

Gary hesitated but didn’t turn around. “Macarons.”

Pete leaned over, squinting. “Like… the coconut kind?”

Ray had already popped the lid open and picked one up, turning it over between his fingers like it might break. “Nah, dude. These are the fancy ones. Like the French ones. Jesus, did you make these?”

Gary shrugged, still half-turned away. “Yeah.”

Ray took a bite, eyebrows shooting up. “Holy shit. These are incredible.”

Pete snorted. “No way he actually made” He took one, two. Then another. “Okay, what the hell. They taste like bakery-grade.”

Tressler reached over and broke one in half, examining the perfectly smooth shell, the soft center, and handed the other half to Pearson.

Collie hadn’t said anything yet. He just watched Gary’s back, the way his shoulders tightened like he was waiting to be laughed at, or worse, ignored. Gary glanced over his shoulder, just long enough to meet Collie’s eyes, something uncertain flickering there.

Then he nodded once, sharp and awkward, like if he lingered he’d ruin it.

He walked off before anyone could say more.

At the table, Tressler licked a bit of filling off his thumb. “Guess that’s his apology to us, huh?”

Collie didn’t answer. He was too busy taking one for himself, the shell giving way under his teeth, impossibly light. It tasted like almond and sugar and something harder to name. “Guess so.”

Pete grabbed another muttering under his breath, “never thought the little freak could bake like that,” and Ray smacked him on the shoulder, grabbing another of the pale pink and blue sweets.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Now the lunch crowd was gone, the cafeteria nearly empty except for a few stragglers and the janitor sweeping near the vending machines. Collie stared at the Tupperware, eaten clean, exposing the napkin at the bottom with a scrawled “sorry” in sharpie at the bottom, face down, and sighed.

Of course Gary hadn’t come back for it. The last two days he’d sat somewhere else, once outside near the benches, once alone by the vending machines. Collie picked up the Tupperware. It was light, the plastic slightly warm from sitting in the sun that streamed through the cafeteria windows. The right thing to do would be to give it back, maybe say thank you, maybe not make it weird.

But with Gary, everything had a way of being weird.

He found him outside by the curb, sitting cross-legged on the concrete, earbuds in but no music playing. His backpack was open beside him, papers spilling out, a scuffed lunchbox at his feet. The afternoon light was harsh, turning the edges of the school parking lot gold.

Collie hesitated, then walked over. “Hey.”

Gary looked up, squinting against the sun. The surprise on his face quickly rearranged itself into guarded neutrality. “Oh. Uh. Hey.”

“You forgot this.” Collie held out the Tupperware.

Gary blinked at it, then reached up and took it carefully, fingers barely brushing Collie’s. “Right. Thanks.” He set it beside him, like he wasn’t sure if Collie was going to snatch it back.

“They were good,” Collie said, trying to sound casual. “Everyone liked them.”

Gary looked down, a small, crooked smile forming. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Tressler wants more.”

He shrugged, eyes still on the ground. “I didn’t expect them to turn out right. They never do.”

Collie tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

“The humidity messes with them,” Gary said, tugging at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Shells crack, filling gets runny. Meemaw says it’s ‘cause Florida’s cursed for bakers. But I tried extra this time. Gotta make 40 to get 10 good ones sometimes.”

Collie sat down beside him without really thinking about it. The concrete was still warm from the afternoon heat. “Why macarons?”

Gary gave a one-shoulder shrug. “Meemaw used to say if you’re gonna apologize, you gotta do it right. And if words don’t work, sugar might. I don’t know, i figured I fucked up major, i gotta make it right majorly. These are hard to make.”

Collie huffed out a laugh. “Your grandma sounds nice.”

Gary smiled at that, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes but came close. “Yeah. She is. She raised me right, though. Better than I act, most days.” He paused, frowning slightly. “She always says she raised me better than to be mean to good people.”

Collie’s throat went tight. “You think I’m a good person?”

Gary’s eyes flicked toward him, then away. “I think you didn’t have to give me another chance. But you did.”

They sat there for a while, the sound of cars passing filling the silence. Collie watched a group of freshmen walking toward the buses, laughing about something none of them would remember next week.

Gary picked at the seam of his jeans, voice low. “I don’t really know how to… y’know, talk. To people. I think I get nervous and then I just start saying shit. And it always comes out wrong.”

Collie leaned back on his hands. “That’s not an excuse for being an asshole.”

Gary nodded quickly. “I know. It’s not. I just, when I was a kid, Meemaw always said if I didn’t know what to say, I should just say nothing. But I hate quiet. Makes me feel like I’m disappearing.”

Collie considered that. “You ever think maybe not everything needs noise?”

Gary smiled faintly. “You sound like my Meemaw now.”

“That might be the first nice thing you’ve said to me.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Gary said, but his tone was soft.

They lapsed into silence again. Collie looked at him, really looked at him this time. The shadows under Gary’s eyes, the faint sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way his posture always seemed to be bracing for impact.

There was something small and scared under the bravado, the same thing Collie had noticed at lunch that day when Gary’s smirk had faltered. Collie heard the voice of his mother echoing in his head, and he shoved it back. He could wait at the line a bit longer.

“You really like baking, huh?” Collie asked finally.

Gary’s face brightened, cautious but real. “Yeah. I like…making things that stay made, y’know? You put in time, you follow the steps, you get something good out of it. People don’t always work that way.”

“Macarons do, though.”

Gary smiled. “Maybe half of the time.”

A car honked near the street, and Gary looked up. “That’s Meemaw,” he said, standing and brushing off his jeans. He hesitated, then looked down at Collie. “Hey. I’m really sorry, for before. For the Tonto thing. I don’t believe in all that. And the other thing. I don’t want you thinking I’m”

“I’ve heard worse, but it still fucking sucked to hear,” Collie interrupted, firm but gently.

“The dessert was a nice enough gesture. Now you gotta be better. Also next time don’t make macarons in the trans flag colors as an apology you gotta say something to Tressler, man. He needs an apology that isn’t trans macarons.”

Gary’s grin faltered. “Wait… what do the colors have to do with Tressler?”

Collie laughed before looking at Gary, his face wrinkled in confusion, "Man, you made them pink, blue, and white.”

“Yeah that’s the normal color for macarons. The fuck is the trans flag.”

Collie waited for the punch line that never came. “Google it dumbass.”

Gary nodded once, satisfied, and jogged the rest of the way to the car. His Meemaw waved through the window, gray hair in curlers, face bright with a smile that made it obvious who’d taught him to keep trying even when he didn’t know how.

Collie stood there until the car disappeared down the street. The Tupperware in his hands still smelled faintly of sugar and almonds. He turned it over in his hands and smiled to himself, just a little. He’d return it tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Gary didn’t sleep that night. He stumbled his way through dinner and a shower, mostly standing under the water while echoes of The Major yelled from beyond the chasm created by the medicine in his mind. He wasn’t sure what he expected, some cheap baptism to wash away the agony of existence, wake up renewed, healthy and clean and having never stumbled in his endless journey towards friendship kept continually out of his reach.

Whatever stain on his soul, it didn’t come out in the wash.

Meemaw was asleep on the recliner when he woke up for school. More often than not these past days she would fall asleep watching Family Feud, never making it to her actual bedroom. The tv was still on, some show Gary didn’t recognize still playing.

The kitchen had just barely recovered from the macaron crisis that had been his weekend. He had told Collie it took 40 tries to get 10 correct, but it was moreso 60 attempts. But Meemaw had taken all the failed attempts with her to Bible study, kissing him on the temple and saying, “all gods children, all gods sweets” when he had told her they were ugly and therefore no good.

Her cheery outlook on life left him feeling deserted in the kitchen, attempting to swim off the island he was born on, separated from every living thing by virtue of being unlovable.
So when he had tried to sleep Wednesday night, assured that he could return to the lunch table and after school tutoring with Collie the next day he had tossed and turned.
Thinking about the look on Collie’s face, not angry, not cold, just disappointed. That was worse somehow. The guy had every right to be mad, but instead he’d been calm, like someone who’d already learned to stop expecting better from people. Gary could still hear the words looping in his head: Now you gotta be better. He could faintly see Stebbins and Harkness across the room, ghosts of their outlines sitting at his desk, hunched over Harkness’ journal, comparing notes on all the ways he had fucked up recently.

He’d stared at the ceiling half the night, then stared at his hands, still faintly pink and blue from the food coloring. The trans flag. He hadn’t even known there was one. He smacked himself over and over again as stupid echoed in his head, as if he could beat it and brand it into himself. It felt proof he didn’t belong anywhere decent.

When lunch rolled around he sat silently, and far enough away that any passerby would deem him a stranger sitting oddly close to the group, but not a member. He laughed a half-beat behind the rest of the guys, and didn’t make eye contact with Collie. He had caught Tressler as he was about to throw his trash out, and apologized, head down and eyes turned away. Tressler had patted his shoulder and said everything was okay, and somehow, that made him feel worse.

Walking to the chapel Gary felt like he had fallen two steps behind his own body, a passenger on a runaway train.

Art was there, waiting for him in the pew they always sat in, eyes turned upward at the stained glass window. He didn’t turn at the footsteps, just hummed under his breath and greeted him.

“Hello Gary, or should I say, Israel, because you look like you been fightin’ angels in your sleep,” he said as Gary slid into the pew next to him. He finally turned to smile at him, his lips quirking into a smile.

Gary groaned, shoving his face into his hands, pressing the palms into his eyes until they whited out his vision.

Art raised an eyebrow at that. “You wanna talk about what’s bothering you, or you wanna pretend we both real interested in Paul today?”

Gary snorted, then slouched into the chair. “I’ll talk. Maybe.”

Art folded his arms. “Then maybe I’ll listen.”

Gary couldn’t sit still. His fingers tapped a beat that didn’t exist against his arm, his leg bouncing so hard the pew vibrated. He stood up, paced three steps, then sat again. Stood. Sat. His knee jittered like it was trying to escape. He rubbed his palms on his jeans, then dug his fingers into his hair, tugging until it hurt, just enough to focus on that instead of the static in his brain. He tried to look calm, like maybe Art wouldn’t notice how close he was to vibrating apart. Finally, he just started talking, words spilling out in the wrong order, circling the point but never landing on it. He ranted about Collie, about the macarons, about how every time he opened his mouth something ugly fell out. Everything except the part about being a diagnosed schizoid freak. After he finished ranting, there was a long pause. The kind that made Gary’s chest tighten. He rubbed the back of his neck, watching dust float in the sunlight coming through the high windows. “So, I messed up,” he said finally. “Said some jokes I shouldn’t’ve. Again. Like I always do. It wasn’t even funny. Just stupid.”

“Again,” Art repeated softly. “So this is a pattern.”

“Yeah. Guess so.”

Art nodded, not surprised, not judging. “But you feel bad, you said? Did you apologize?”

He exhaled hard through his nose. “One of ‘em forgave me, I think. Or said he didn’t hate me at least. The other one…” He shook his head. “I made him somethin’ to say sorry. Didn’t even realize I was makin’ it worse.” Gary’s throat felt tight. “Didn’t even know what I was apologizin’ for until after.”

“Sounds like you learned somethin’, though.”

Gary huffed out a laugh that didn’t sound like one. “Learnin’ don’t fix nothin’. Feels like every time I try to be better, I just prove I ain’t.”

Art was quiet for a moment. “You ever worked on a car?”

Gary blinked at him. “No. Why?”

Art laughed, “Well, work with me here. When somethin’s busted, you don’t just slap new paint on it and call it a day, right? You take it apart. Figure out what’s wrong. Might take hours. Might find out the whole damn engine’s got rust. But you still work through it, ‘cause leavin’ it to rot don’t fix it either.”

Gary rubbed his palms against his dress pants. “Yeah, but i’ve never heard of a car hating you while you’re workin’ on it.”

Art smiled faintly. “Well cars aren’t people. They hurt. You hurt. That’s what makes the fixin’ harder and more important.”

Gary looked down. “Do you think people actually forgive? Like… for real? Not just say they do?”

“I think forgiveness ain’t about erasin’ what happened,” Art said. “It’s about choosin’ to keep moving forward even when you got a limp.”

Gary didn’t say anything.

Art went on, voice softer now. “You know, one of the most beautiful things I found about life is it’s a long walk. Which gives us plenty of time to catch up when we stumble and fall behind.”

Gary let that sink in. He wanted to believe it. He really did. But something in his chest kept tugging him backward. “What if I don’t deserve to catch up?”

“Who told you that?” Art asked.

Gary blinked. “Nobody. I just… feel it. Like I keep provin’ it.

Art stood up at that, and Gary followed behind him until they were standing in front of the stained glass Art had been looking at earlier. Art’s voice was soft as he started speaking, “Don’t laugh, cause i’ve heard all the catholic jokes before. But guilt ain’t God’s language. love is. You got a conscience, that’s good. Means you know when you done wrong. But sittin’ in the mud ain’t repentance. Gettin’ back up is.”

Gary laughed under his breath, bitter. “You make it sound so fuckin’ easy.”

Art looked at him until he muttered a sorry under his breath before saying his piece. “I said it was beautiful. Never said easy.”

Gary leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “I think I just… I wanna be someone who don’t gotta apologize all the time. Someone people ain’t scared of, or tired of.”

“That’s a good goal,” Art said. “But you don’t need to be liked to be that person. It can start with you forgivin’ yourself enough to keep tryin’.”

Gary frowned. “Forgive myself? For what?”

“For bein’ human. For makin’ all those mistakes.”

Gary didn’t answer. His throat felt too tight.

Art didn’t press. He just stood with him in the silence, gazing up at the kaleidoscopic glass.

After a long while, Gary spoke again. “When I said that stuff… I wasn’t even trying to be cruel. I just didn’t think. Thought I was being funny. That’s the worst part. I wasn’t even mad; I wanted them to laugh. I wanted them to think I was funny enough to keep around..”

“That’s where a lotta harm hides,” Art said quietly. “In the things we say when we think we can’t mess up. But you’re seeing it now, and that matters.”

Gary let out a shaky breath. “I just don’t want them to think I’m a monster.”

“They don’t gotta think that for you to change,” Art said. “Forgiveness doesn't erase what happened. It just makes room for somethin’ new to grow.”

Gary nodded slowly. He could feel the sting in his eyes, but he blinked it back. “You ever… you ever screw up bad enough you thought you couldn’t come back from it?”
Art gave a small laugh. “You think I’m wearin’ this collar ‘cause I got it all figured out?” He shook his head. “I've been stupid plenty. Said things. Done things. I had to ask for forgiveness from folks I didn’t think would ever talk to me again. Some still don’t. But I’m still here. Still walkin’.”

“Still walkin’,” Gary echoed quietly.

Art smiled. “That’s right. Long road ahead. Plenty of time to catch up.”

Gary rubbed his face with both hands, then looked over at Art. “How do you even start? Sayin’ sorry ain’t enough.”

“You start by meanin’ it,” Art said. “Then you show it. Keep showin’ it. Over and over, ‘til folks stop waitin’ for you to mess up and start believin’ you won’t.”

Gary nodded, the words settling heavy in his chest but not hopeless. “Alright,” he said. “Guess I’ll keep walkin’, then.”

“That’s all any of us can do.” Art leaned back, smiling faintly. “And hey, next time you bake somethin’ as an apology, maybe run the color palette by somebody first.”

Gary laughed for real this time, the sound short but bright. “Yeah, lesson learned.”

Art stood, patting his shoulder. “Good. Now come on. I think Paul can wait a bit. We’ll call this today’s theology.”

Gary grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. “Guess I passed, then?”

Art grinned. “Now wait a minute, you ain’t graduated yet. But you’re learnin’.”

As they walked out of the chapel, Gary looked down at his hands again, they were no longer stained, but he could see them if he looked long enough, imagining his blood spilling out in rainbow sanding sugar. He thought about what Art had said, about the long walk. About catching up.

Chapter Text

Gary Barkovitch had learned to tell bad news from good before he ever opened the envelope. Bad news was heavy. It bent the corners. It smelled like ink and panicked sweat. Good news, he wouldn’t know. He didn’t get a lot of that. He had gotten some, mostly competitions for photography he had submitted online, or local cooking competitions his Meemaw had heard of through her extensive network, Facebook messages from her ladies coming in of shared posts since they remembered “she had a grandson who fancied himself a chef”.

Now all the messages were condolences about him. As if his funeral was around the corner. His obituary posted if they just refreshed the page. 

So when Sister Julienne laid the paper face-down on his desk and said, “You did well, Mr. Barkovitch,” Gary just stared at it like it might explode.

Did well.

That was a phrase people didn’t say to him anymore. Not at school, not anywhere. His hand hovered over the page, thumb tapping a nervous beat. He waited for the trick. Maybe she’d said ‘did well’ sarcastically. Maybe there was a but coming, maybe a “You did well, but you still make everyone uncomfortable. You did well, but we’re all waiting for you to screw it up again”.

But it never came. She moved on to the next desk.

Gary flipped the paper over.

A’s and B’s. Neat black letters. His name spelled right at the top.

He read it twice, then a third time, like it would vanish if he blinked too slow. For the first time in a long time, nobody had circled his mistakes in red. No comments about tone or effort or behavior. No reminders that he was capable of more if he’d just focus, whatever that meant.

It should’ve felt good. It did feel good, at first. Warm, fizzy, like carbonation under his ribs. But then came the other feeling, slow and sticky, crawling up the back of his neck.

The meds.

He could almost hear Meemaw’s voice from the kitchen that morning, the rattle of her glass as she’d said, “You takin’ your pills this morning, baby? Don’t forget them, the doctor said every day.”

Yeah, he fucking took them. They kept him still. They kept him quiet. They kept him flat as day-old soda that was left on the side-table. If he sat still too long he’d probably attract flies.

He tapped the paper against the desk, eyes darting over the rows of neat little letters. A. B. A-. Like they were proof he was fixed. Except he didn’t feel fixed. He felt sanded down.

He used to see color in everything. Even cafeteria slop had a flavor, metal trays, overcooked carrots, salt like tears. Now, it all blurred together. He missed how the world used to hum.

The note under Art’s name should have lifted his spirits, “Mister Barkovitch exhibits a strong desire to learn and understand, and continues to put the work in week after week. A pleasure and honor to discuss faith him while he is with us.”

He shoved the paper into his backpack before anyone could see the stupid look on his face.

~~~~~~~~~

At lunch, the cafeteria smelled like bleach and reheated fries. The boys were already at their usual table, trays clattering, laughter rising and breaking like waves. Collie was in the middle of it, head tilted back, grin sharp and easy, the kind of smile that made other people want to orbit closer.

Gary stood by the milk cooler longer than he needed to, pretending to study the expiration dates. His fingers tightened on the strap of his bag. He’d spent the morning rehearsing what to say if they talked to him again, something normal, something funny, something that wouldn’t sound like it came from the wrong planet.

He finally made himself cross the room.

Tressler glanced up first, eyes flicking over him, unreadable for half a second before his grin came back like nothing had ever gone wrong. “Congratulations, you actually made it out of the vending machine corner,” he said, nudging a spot on the bench. “Come on, man. Sit.”

Gary sat. He tried to match their posture: elbows on the table, chin propped on his hand, casual but not too casual. His tray felt like evidence in front of him. Someone made a joke about gym class, and everyone laughed; Gary laughed too, half a second late. He kept glancing at Collie, watching how easily he seemed to fit, how his jokes landed without even trying.

Gary said something about the fries being cold, and one of the boys nodded, distracted. Not bad. Safe territory. He could stay there.

But then the conversation shifted, someone brought up a party that weekend, Collie teasing Pearson about being too responsible to show up. Gary wanted to say something, to prove he could belong in that rhythm too, but the words tangled on the way out. He caught himself before he said something weird, just bit into a fry instead, nodding like he got the joke.

He could feel the effort behind every gesture. The right smile, the right time to speak, the right time not to. Like a test he’d failed before and was trying to retake without the answer key.

Still, for a moment, when Pete shoved his shoulder and joked about him coming off his cloud to eat cafeteria food like the rest of the masses, Gary let himself believe he was doing okay. That maybe this was how it started: one lunch, one almost-normal conversation at a time.

He wondered if he’d earned their friendship. Or if the pills had.

~~~~~~~~~

After lunch, he found himself in the library, because it was quiet and smelled like paper instead of people. He sat at a computer and stared at the grade portal like it might talk back. Every class had a neat column of numbers, percentages glowing green. Sister Julienne hadn’t been lying.

He leaned back in the chair, staring up at the fluorescent light. His reflection glowed faintly in the monitor, a pale blur of motionless features. No twitch, no bounce, no spark. He couldn’t even tell if he was happy.

“You did well.”

The words echoed in his head like a recording, tinny and unreal. He’d spent his whole life waiting for someone to say them. And now that they had, he didn’t know what to do with them.

He thought about Meemaw’s kitchen again. The way she’d look over her glasses when he’d screw something up, half exasperated, half soft. “Time heals all wounds,” she’d always said. “And if it don’t, a good apology will.”

That line had stuck. It was why he’d made the macarons. Why he’d spent three hours whisking egg whites by hand like a man possessed for days in a row, just to get a dozen that came out right.

Maybe this, these grades, was another kind of apology. To himself. To everyone who ever looked at him and saw a problem.

But he didn’t want grades to be his redemption arc. He wanted himself to be.

He glanced toward the window. Outside, Collie and Tressler were walking across the courtyard, laughing at something he couldn’t hear. The sunlight hit Collie’s hair just right, turning it almost gold.

Gary rubbed his jaw, an idea forming, stupid and impulsive as most of his ideas were.

He’d treat them. Or, well, Collie, at least. Maybe dinner. Not a date, nothing weird. Just a thanks for all the tutoring. A way to say, See? I’m not all bad. I can be good company. I can be someone worth sitting next to.

He grabbed his bag, nearly knocking over the chair in his rush. He didn’t even notice the librarian’s glare. The thought of doing something, anything, kept the static from crawling up his spine. Kept the flies from circling his head, ready for him to rot.

~~~~~~~~~

That night, he spread the paper on his desk like a map of unfamiliar territory. His name. His grades. All the little victories no one else would care about. Meemaw had nearly jumped from her chair in delight when he handed her the paper. He knew that was a lifeline she had been waiting for. Proof that he was, what, healing? Actually getting better? That these pills could fix him permanently, first good grades, then a good life, never failing because of words no one else could see or hear. He didn’t know her grand plan, but he knew she was happier with him drugged out of his mind. 

He stared at the pill bottle beside it, the label catching the lamplight. The cap clicked when he twisted it, soft and hollow.

He didn’t stop taking them. Not yet. Just looked.

He wasn’t sure which version of him had earned those grades, these friends, the kindness of Art. The loud, twitchy one who said too much, or the quiet, medicated one who said nothing at all.

Maybe both. Maybe neither.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to find out.

~~~~~~~~~

Gary didn’t think through asking Collie to dinner. He never did think things through, his brain worked in impulses and collisions, a pinball machine wired straight to his mouth. He never planned anything, not really. Everything came in bursts and impulses, like lightning in a storm he couldn’t predict or outrun.

The bell had just rung, and the hallway flooded with noise: lockers slamming, sneakers squeaking, the chatter of kids who hadn’t stopped talking since first period. The air smelled like pencil dust, disinfectant, and somebody’s cheap cologne that was so heavy his throat stung from the tang of it. Gary was shoving his grade sheet into his backpack when he saw them, Collie, Pete, Ray, and Tressler, gathered at the far end of the hall by the exit, half in shadow, laughing about something.

He hesitated, fingers frozen on the zipper.

He’d been trying lately. Trying to do things right. Sit with them, not interrupt, not make jokes that crashed like bricks through windows. Collie still didn’t look at him quite the same, never mean, just cautious, like someone testing the ice before stepping on it. Looking for proof he could be better.

Proof he wasn’t all mess.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he jogged down the hall. “Guess the apocalypse ain’t comin’ today,” he said, waving the paper like a flag.

Pete looked up from his phone. “What, they finally outlawed school?”

Gary grinned, trying not to sound too eager. “Better. I passed everything. All A’s and B’s. Check it out.”

Ray whistled low. “Damn, Barkovitch, they start grading on effort now?”

“Funny,” Gary said. “Real funny, Garraty.”

Tressler leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Collie said he had worked your ass off. Good for you, man.”

That one hit different. Gary nodded, pretending it was no big deal, but his chest went warm.

Collie took the paper from his hand, scanning it with mock suspicion. “You sure this ain’t a forgery?”

Gary smirked. “You think I’d give myself a B?”

“I think you’d know better than to claim an A in calculus. That isn’t realistic.,” Collie said, but there was a glint in his eyes, somewhere between teasing and genuine pride.

Gary took the paper back, clutching it too tightly. The hallway was thinning out now, voices fading toward the exits. The others started drifting toward the doors, tossing half-hearted goodbyes.

It should’ve ended there.

But Gary’s mouth didn’t know how to quit while it was ahead.

“Hey, uh-” he blurted. “Collie. Let me treat you. For dinner or somethin’. To celebrate.”

Collie blinked. “Dinner?”

“Not a date,” Gary said fast. “Just, you been cool. After everything. For all the tutorin’, but I’m, tryin’, y’know? So let me buy you dinner. My treat.”

Pete snorted. “Ooh, romantic.”

“Shut up, Pete.”

Ray elbowed him. “Hey, if he’s paying, I’ll come too.”

Collie’s mouth curved. “No, it’s fine. Just us.”

Gary froze. “Wait. You mean, yeah?”

Collie shrugged, the picture of casual. “Sure. Why not? I’ve had worse dinner company.”

Gary’s pulse kicked up. He shoved his hands in his pockets so Collie wouldn’t see them shaking. “Cool. Uh. I’ll pick a place.”

“Better not be McDonald’s,” Collie said as he turned for the door.

Gary called after him, “What, you don’t like fine dining?” but Collie just flipped him off without looking back.

~~~~~~~~~

The restaurant was one of those downtown places Gary had only ever seen through a car window. Brick walls, soft lighting, menus printed on card stock instead of plastic. He’d picked it because it was where he wanted to work someday, maybe after culinary school. Meemaw had said it was double pinky. Her funny way of saying it was fancy. Gary hadn’t been to a restaurant with cloth napkins before. He wiped his hands on his jeans before touching anything. The clink of glasses. The low hum of conversation. The faint sizzle from the open kitchen where chefs moved like a dance Gary had always wanted to learn. The restaurant was the kind of place Gary usually only passed by. White tablecloths, low lights, music that felt expensive. He’d walked by a hundred times on his way home from class, peering through the window just long enough to imagine himself in the kitchen with an apron on, whisk in hand, sugar and fire and precision.

He’d looked up the menu earlier and memorized the prices so he wouldn’t choke when he saw the bill. He could afford it. He wanted to. He had never had something worth spending money. It felt like proof that he wasn’t a lost cause, proof that he could make something decent, maybe even good.

He had got there early, fifteen minutes before Collie, and sat fidgeting with the edge of his napkin. The dining room smelled faintly of lemon and butter, and the soft clink of glasses and forks filled the air like a steady rhythm.

He couldn’t taste smells anymore, not like he used to, but he remembered what it was supposed to feel like.

The bell over the door chimed, and there was Collie, a little underdressed but somehow making it look intentional, denim jacket, flannel shirt, his long hair tied back loose. He looked around like he was trying to spot the one normal person in a movie about rich people, then saw Gary and grinned.

“Damn,” Collie said, sliding into the chair across from him. “You drag me out to a five-star joint and then tell me it’s not a date? Bold move, man. This place smells good,” he said, sliding into the booth across from Gary.

“Yeah,” Gary said, too quickly. “They bake all their bread fresh here. You can smell it from the street.”

Collie glanced around. “You ever been here before?”

Gary hesitated. “No, but I looked it up. The chef’s got a background in French stuff. Like, pastries and sauces and all that. They make all their bread in house and it’s like my fucking dream kitchen.” He paused, realizing he was talking too much again. “Sorry. I just. I need to turn my cooking brain off.”

Collie smiled. “You don’t. You gave Tressler a sugar high for three days. He’s so close to being obsessed with you.”

Gary didn’t know what to do with that, so he just looked down at the table and muttered something about the menu.

~~~~~~~~~

When the waiter came, Gary ordered the salmon, he knew his appetite could handle something light, simple. Collie ordered some burger, one of the cheaper ones on the menu, despite Gary protesting his choice. They handed their menus back, and for a moment the table felt too small, too intimate.

Gary busied himself straightening his knife, then his fork, then his knife again. His hands wouldn’t stay still. He kept catching the reflection of the candlelight in the silverware and thinking it looked like fire trapped in a jar.

They talked about music, teachers, how Ray nearly fell asleep in history class. Collie teased, Gary laughed, but under it all, there was a hum of awareness. The medication dulled everything—his thoughts, his mouth, the sharp edges that used to spark his words. 

“So,” Collie said, “How’s it feel?”

“What?” He was knocked out of his stupor, he had been trapped in the candle’s hypnotic dance, like a bug to the zapper. 

“Doing good. The grades. You should let yourself enjoy it, dude. That’s huge.”

Gary shrugged. “Feels fake. Like maybe they graded wrong.”

“Yeah, well, maybe they didn’t.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

He wanted to believe it. He wanted to feel that rush again, the kind he used to get when something came out of the oven perfect, when the smell hit first and everything was warm and real and full of texture. But lately even joy felt like trying to smell through glass.

~~~~~~~~~

The food came, steaming and artfully arranged. The salmon glistened, the lemon wedge perfectly cut, the sauce smooth as paint. Gary cut into it, took a bite.

It should’ve been heaven. bright citrus, buttery richness, but it just… wasn’t. It was fine. It was nothing. The taste landed flat, like static. He knew it wasn’t cooked wrong. 

He could remember what lights in his brain should have turned on eating this. Messages should have pinged across his taste buds at the idea of eating it. 

He chewed slow, deliberately, trying to will it into being good.

Across from him, Collie watched, one eyebrow raised. “You look like you’re chewing cardboard.”

He wanted to tell Collie that before the meds, he could taste everything, the grain of flour, the tang of lemon, the electric hum of sugar melting in his hands. Now, everything felt gray. But saying that out loud felt weird, too much like a confession.

Instead, he said, “I could cook it better with my eyes closed.”

Collie raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. The sauce is decent, but the scorching is all wrong. Too soft.”

“Criticizing the restaurant and the food you picked, bold move Barkovitch,” Collie said, half-laughing.

Gary grinned. “Guess I’m brave now.”

He could still do it, follow the steps, measure, mix, but the magic part, the alive part, was gone. Everything came out right but wrong, precise but hollow. Like the taste didn’t make it all the way to his brain.

He used to get lost in it, the textures, the smells, the colors, every sense sparking at once. Now, when he tried, it felt like his heart was underwater, and his hands were being electrocuted.

“Hey,” Collie said. “You good?”

Gary blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

“Too much school, huh?”

“Something like that.”

He looked down at his plate, pushing the salmon around with his fork. He wanted to say it, the truth, or something near it. That he was on meds that made the world quieter, him safer to be around, but everything duller. That he missed how things used to feel even if the noise had nearly killed him.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t want Collie to look at him differently.

So instead he asked, “You ever think about what it’d be like to just… do something and not overthink it? Just… be?”

Collie grinned. “Every day of my life. Why?”

Gary shrugged. “I dunno. Just thinkin’.”

Collie nodded, slow, like he understood more than he said. “Yeah. Sometimes your brain’s just louder than the rest of you.”

Gary almost laughed at the irony.

~~~~~~~~~

When the check came, Gary grabbed it before Collie could reach for it. “My treat. I said that, remember?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Let me do this one thing right,” to make up for the fact that it’s me, was left unsaid. 

Collie gave him a look, gently questioning, but didn’t argue.

They stepped outside into the night air. It was cooler than Gary expected, the kind of cold that nipped but didn’t bite. He breathed deep, feeling it sting the back of his throat in a way that reminded him he was still here, still moving.

Collie suggested ice cream. Gary said sure.

They walked a few blocks to a little corner shop, and Gary bought strawberry, like always. It wasn’t even his favorite, but the color calmed him, the soft pink like the inside of a seashell, or the light you see through closed eyelids. He couldn’t taste it much these days, not with the meds, but the cold grounded him.

They sat on the curb, watching cars go by outside, legs stretched out toward the street, the low sun sliding down behind the gas station sign. Collie ate fast, impatient, chocolate already dripping down his thumb. Gary ate slow, small bites, waiting for the flavor that never came. Collie was telling a story about how his cousin accidentally destroyed a microwave by following this tutorial on youtube that told him he could cook an egg in a cup of water, Gary listening and laughing at all the right moments. But underneath the laughter, his brain was a storm of static.

He caught his reflection in the window: a guy sitting somewhere he didn’t belong, pretending everything was fine. He almost missed seeing Olsen and Harkness behind him everywhere. He had stopped looking off to the sides to steal a joke from them, or see their reactions to the world. A part of him missed his crew, his one-sided friendship with hallucinations now dimmed by pills. 

He wondered what Collie saw when he looked at him. Just some awkward kid with bad timing and worse jokes? Or something else. A friend, someone to tolerate, pity?

“You ever think,” Gary said, “that maybe we don’t get better, we just get quieter about the bad parts?”

Collie looked over, licking a drip of chocolate from his thumb. “Nah. I think we get better. Just takes time.”

Gary wanted to believe him.

He was about to say something when he heard it. Loud laughter, too familiar.

“Holy shit. Is that him?”

His stomach dropped. He knew the voice instantly. Across the street, a group of kids leaned against the railing, laughing too loudly. He recognized one instantly. Rank, from his old school, his next door neighbor that used to be over so often. Now he ducked his head when Gary was outside. The others he only half-remembered, faces that blurred together with the word before.

“Hey, Killer!” one of them shouted. “How’s the freak show? Still hearing angels on the radio?”

Laughter. Sharp and clean as glass breaking.

Gary froze. His ice cream slipped from his hand and hit the pavement with a dull thud. Pink melting into the gray concrete. 

“Hey!” Collie called out, standing. “The hell’s your problem?”

The boys laughed harder. “Oh shit, Killer’s got a guard dog now! Careful, he bites!”

Gary’s heart thudded so hard he thought it might break his ribs. Every nerve in his body screamed to run, to hide, to vanish. Rank was screaming, is screaming, has always been screaming. The screaming, the shock, it's too hot, it's going to spill. The way everyone looked at Gary afterward like he’d sprouted horns. He hadn’t meant to. He didn’t even remember all of it. Just flashes. A fire. A flash of red. A man grabbing him.

“Don’t,” he said, catching Collie’s arm before he could move. His voice was low, hoarse. 

“They’re not worth it.”

Collie’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t argue.

“Jesus, look at him,” one said. “Still twitchy. What’s the matter, freak, figured they’d have you locked up or drugged up?”

Something cold went through Gary’s chest. It was like they’d reached straight into him and grabbed the part he tried hardest to bury.

Collie’s head whipped toward him. “What’s he talking about?”

Gary couldn’t breathe. “Nothing,” he said quickly, voice too sharp. “They’re just being assholes.”

“Assholes that know your name?”

Gary’s pulse spiked. His vision tunneled. the edges of everything starting to shimmer like heat on asphalt. He could hear Rank’s laugh again, the way it used to sound before everything broke, echoing over bike tires and humid summer air. Then it twisted, warped into the sound of that day. The noise, the hands, the way everyone pulled back like he was contagious.

He realized too late that he was breathing too fast.

“Hey!” Collie was saying, voice half toward him, half toward the street. “Back the fuck off, yeah?”

“Aw, relax,” one of them called. “We’re just saying hi to our old buddy. He used to be so fun. Always talkin’ to his shadows.”

Another laugh. Another word. Spaz. Psycho.

The sound hit like static under Gary’s skin. His whole body felt wrong, so wrong, too tight, too bright, too close to snapping, bugs in his skin, wires in his veins, he needed to get them out. Out. Out. Out. 

His fingers hit something warm. Wet. 

Blood. 

His fingers had dug and scratched fast and hard until they found purchase in his skin, old scabs and scratches reopened. Blood slowly covered his nails and fingertips. 

Gary stared at the blood like it wasn’t his. The sting came late, sharp and distant. He tried to rub it away on his jeans, but it just smeared, darker now. His breath came too fast, shallow and whistling through his teeth. The sounds around him were stretching thin. cars, laughter, Collie’s voice, all like the world was underwater.

“Gary,” Collie said, low and startled. Not scared, not yet. Just startled, like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing. “Hey. You’re bleeding, man.”

“I’m fine.” Gary’s voice cracked. “Just, it’s just a scratch.” He forced a laugh, thin and broken, staring hard at the pavement. The pink puddle had gone pale at the edges, fading into gray. He wished he could fade with it.

Across the street, Rank and the others were still watching. He could feel their eyes like flies on his skin. One of them nudged the other and said something he couldn’t hear, then barked out a laugh that felt like being hit.

He couldn’t tell if they were real or if they were still standing there or if they ever had been.

“Hey!” Collie snapped, stepping forward again. “You had your fun, get lost.”

“Collie, stop,” Gary said, reaching out before he could think. His hand landed on Collie’s wrist, leaving a faint smear of red. “Please.”

Collie froze. His pulse jumped under Gary’s fingers. Gary yanked his hand back like he’d touched a burner.

The group lingered a moment longer, throwing a few more words across the street, spaz, psycho, crazy, before they finally drifted off, their laughter dissolving into traffic noise.

Gary stood there for a long moment, chest tight, eyes fixed on the melting pink puddle by his shoe. When it was quiet again, he realized his whole body was trembling. The muscles in his jaw ached from clenching. His palms stung.

Collie was looking at him, eyes dark, trying to make sense of something he didn’t have the pieces for. “They shouldn’t have said that,” he said softly. “Whatever that was about…”

“It wasn’t anything,” Gary said too fast. “People talk. They always talk.”

“That didn’t sound like just talk.”

Gary turned away. The world still shimmered at the edges, like it couldn’t decide whether to hold still or break apart. His reflection caught in the dark window of a parked car, a blur of color, eyes too wide, face pale and hollowed out by streetlight.

He hated that reflection. It looked too much like the one in the bathroom mirror when the meds wore off.

“Can we just. Can we drop it?” he said finally. “Please?”

Collie hesitated, then nodded once. “Yeah. Okay.”

They stood there a while longer, the air between them thick with things unsaid. 

Somewhere down the street a dog barked. Gary wiped at his hand again. The blood had dried into a dark rust-colored film.

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” The lie slid out smooth. He was practiced at it. “Crowds just mess me up sometimes. That’s all.”

When they reached the end of the block, Collie bumped his shoulder lightly against Gary’s. “You know,” he said, “I was thinking. For a not-date, that was actually pretty decent.”

Gary huffed a laugh. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You chew like a goat and pick weird restaurants, but still.”

Gary smiled, small but real. “Thanks, I guess.”

They kept walking, the air cool and sharp around them. Somewhere behind them, a siren wailed faintly.

~~~~~~~~~~

The front door clicked shut behind him, and the quiet hit like pressure underwater, like it sealed him in. Meemaw’s old clock ticked from the living room, steady as a heartbeat. The smell of her perfume lingered faintly, but it made his stomach twist instead of settle. Gary stood there for a long time, still breathing too fast, the sound ragged in his throat. The air in the house felt stale. He wanted to scrub his skin off.

He kicked his shoes off, one went flying, one half on, and stumbled toward his room, barely seeing where he was going. His chest hurt. Everything hurt. Every thought was too loud, slamming into him from different angles, voices echoing over each other.

Hey, Killer! Still hearing angels on the radio?
He bites!
Should’ve been locked up.

He slammed the door behind him and pressed his back to it, as if that could keep the words out. The sound still leaked through with their laughter, or maybe it was just memory. It didn’t matter. It lived under his skin now.

He could still feel the heat of Collie’s hand on his arm, that sharp pull of reality before everything tilted. He’d told him Don’t, and Collie had actually listened. That should’ve meant something. That should’ve felt like control. Instead it just left room for everything else to crawl in.

He tried to breathe. One, two, three. He had been taught to count. He’d been told to name things in the room. The clock. The torn corner of wallpaper by the window. The blood under his nails. His own hand shaking too fast to count as anything real.

But the counting broke when his reflection caught in the dark window. He looked wrong, too big, too close, eyes wide and wet and not his. His throat made a sound halfway between a laugh and a gasp.

He stood up too fast. The motion knocked something off the dresser, the little photo of him and Meemaw from last Easter, the one she made him take after church. He caught it before it hit the ground, staring at their frozen smiles. Hers was real. His wasn’t. He put it face down on the dresser. He didn’t want it looking at him.

The walls were too close. His shirt was too tight. He pulled it over his head and threw it into the corner. The room was spinning, or maybe he was. He wanted to move, he needed to move, but every time he took a step, something inside him jerked back like he was on a leash.

He tore his gaze away and went for the bathroom sink. The water ran cold, clear. He splashed it on his face once, twice. It didn’t help. The taste of metal stayed on his tongue. Blood? He looked down. His fingertips were still streaked red, dried now. He rubbed at them, hard, until the skin underneath stung raw.

It wasn’t enough.

His thoughts kept circling back to Rank’s voice. The look on his face that day, the shock before the blood, the screaming. Everyone was screaming. He couldn’t remember how it started, not really, just the sound of someone grabbing him, a flash of red, the world going silent like a film strip cut in half. He hadn’t meant to. He hadn’t.

He gripped the edge of the sink so hard his knuckles went white. His body started to shake again, little tremors that crawled up from his hands to his shoulders.

“Stop,” he whispered. “Stop it, stop it, stop it” he knocked his wrist against his temple trying to dislodge it. But his head wouldn’t stop replaying it. Rank and his friend’s laughs melting into the laughter from today, the same tone, same cruelty, the same disgust. Freak. Killer. Psycho.

It all blurred. His chest caved in on itself. The air went wrong.

He sank down to the floor, back against the cabinet, pulling his knees up. The tiles were too bright, too sharp. He wanted everything to stop moving. He wanted his brain to stop moving. His breathing hitched, short, shallow, like the air was fighting him.

Then came the pressure. The one that started at the base of his skull and spread, heavy and electric. It told him he was wrong, that everything was wrong, that he’d never stop being the thing they said he was. He tried to fight it, tried to hold on to something real: Collie’s voice, Meemaw’s laugh, the smell of baking sugar, but they slipped through like water.

“Stop it,” he muttered again, shaking his head. “Please just stop.”

He dug his fingers into his hair, pulling until his scalp screamed. The pain helped, for a second. It anchored him. Then it didn’t. He pulled harder.

His breath caught on a sob, sharp and wet. He pressed his forehead to his knees, shaking. The room tilted. His thoughts spiraled. He saw flashes, the boys’ faces, Rank’s blood, the way Collie had looked at him, confused, worried. The way his Meemaw would look if she saw him like this.

He couldn’t let her. She’d think he’d gone backward again.

He tried to muffle the noise, pressing his sleeve against his mouth, but the sobs kept breaking through. His nails dug into his arms, dragging down until they caught on skin. 

He felt the sting, the warmth spreading under his fingertips. It made something inside him unclench, just a little.

For a second, the static dimmed.

Then guilt flooded in, thick and choking. Please,” he whispered, but he didn’t know who he was talking to. “Please just make it stop.” He rocked back and forth, slow at first, then faster. The rhythm helped. The sound of the floor creaking under him was something to focus on. The world was spinning too fast, and the only way to stay upright was to keep moving with it.

He could hear the echo of footsteps, maybe hers, maybe just the house settling. He didn’t know. Everything sounded too close.

His throat hurt. He wanted to scream, but the sound caught halfway up. Instead, he started hitting, small at first, his hand against his thigh, then harder, faster, until the shock of impact drowned out the noise in his head. Each hit punctuated a word.

“Stupid.”

“Worthless.”

“Broken.”

He didn’t even know who he was talking to. Himself, probably.

The tears blurred everything. His chest felt like it was collapsing. He clawed at the collar of his shirt, too tight, too much. He yanked it down until the fabric stretched. The pressure didn’t ease. The walls were too close. The air too thick.

He clawed again, his throat this time, desperate for relief, for something that felt like control. His fingers pressed in until black dots flickered at the edges of his vision. The world narrowed, muffled. For one terrible moment, it was quiet.

Then he gasped, the instinct to breathe winning out, air dragging rough and cold into his lungs. The silence shattered. The sound of his own breathing filled the room again, uneven and wet.

He fell back, spine hitting the cabinet. His hands dropped limp to his sides, trembling.

He sat there for a long time, just breathing. The air tasted like copper and salt. The world slowly came back into focus, the hum of the refrigerator, the faint tick of the hallway clock.

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaked. Meemaw, probably.

He froze.

If she saw him like this, hands bloody, face streaked with tears, his throat red, she’d cry. She’d hold him and tell him he was okay, and that would make it worse, because she’d be lying.

He forced himself up. His knees almost gave out. He moved slow, mechanical, toward the sink again. The water came out icy. He scrubbed his throat until the sink ran pink. 

The sound of it made him dizzy.

He couldn’t look at himself in the mirror.

He turned the light off instead. The dark felt safer.

He slid down the wall beside the door, curling into himself again. His body ached everywhere. The adrenaline had burned out, leaving only the heavy, sick exhaustion that always came after.

The silence pressed in.

He pulled his hoodie tighter around him, pressing his sleeve to the raw spots on his arms. The fabric stuck. He didn’t care.

Somewhere in the house, Meemaw called his name, soft, uncertain.

He didn’t answer.

He closed his eyes.

The quiet rang in his ears like a pulse.

He whispered, almost without meaning to, “I didn’t mean to.”

No one answered.

The house stayed still.

He waited for the world to end. It didn’t.

Chapter Text

The library’s air conditioning died sometime between nine and noon.

By three, the place felt like a sauna lined with textbooks. Pages curled at the edges, kids wilted in their chairs, and even the old wall clock seemed to tick slower in the heat. The week had already been uncomfortably hot, February had taken any breeze when it left and March only brought rain and heat. 

The boys had become something of a study group after school, but Gary still paid Collie for an extra hour of his time to focus on calculus, the bane of his existence, his archenemy, and probably the cause, Gary suspected, of his eventual death. 

Gary had his head bent over his notebook, sweat dampening the back of his neck, pencil sticking to his fingers. He was trying, he really was, but the numbers were swimming. The derivative of a problem that had taken up half the chalkboard when he copied it down might as well have been a foreign language.

“Fucking hell,” Collie muttered from across the table, fanning himself with a notebook, his long hair sticking to his neck and arms like spanish moss snaking down the trees. “Feels like we’re inside a dog’s mouth.”

Gary snorted before he could stop himself. The sound startled him. Laughter wasn’t something that came easy these days, it always felt like stepping into sunlight after too long indoors. He felt like he was in molasses most days, or like the mosquito encased in amber. The world spinning while he was sedentary. 

“Let’s bail,” Collie said, packing up his books. “You can’t think in this heat. My brain’s turning into soup by the second.”

“Where?” Gary asked, instantly wary. “It ain’t gonna be better outside.”

“We could go to your place,” Collie said, like it was obvious. “It’s close enough. Would your grandma mind?”

Gary froze halfway through shoving his calculator into his bag. His first thought was no. Fuck no, Please god no. Not out loud, never out loud, but it hit him like a warning light behind his eyes.

Meemaw and Collie. Same place.

The images started building fast, like static on a busted TV: He could already imagine Meemaw in her worn house dress, so excited to see a new face in the house and saying something too open, too much, asking questions Gary couldn’t answer without unraveling everything. Meemaw standing in the doorway, smiling too big, saying something like, Oh a friend, Gary’s been having such a hard time making friends, with his condition, he’s doing better since the pills though. Or worse, mentioning Rank. Saying his name like a story, like an open wound, explaining what he did, why he changed schools, why Collie should hate him. So, he wanted to say no, to stop the train crash he could see in front of him. He could already see Collie’s face tilt, the confusion, the slow shift of the puzzle pieces clicking together. Wait, you did…oh, 

Once people saw that version of him, the story rewrote itself. Everything good became suspect. Every laugh, every word he said, filtered through that lens. They’d start talking softer, stepping lighter, trying too hard not to trigger him. He could feel it even now, the memory of pity like grease on his skin.

Gary’s thumb rubbed the ridge of his pencil until the wood bit into his skin. Maybe he could make an excuse. Say the house was messy, Meemaw was sick, anything. But Collie was already halfway to the door, taking his silence as a yes, slung his bag over his shoulder and grinning. “C’mon. You rode your bike to school today, yeah?”

Gary nodded, privately cursing to whoever was listening that Meemaw had budged on driving him to school. For months he had been trapped as a passenger in her car, but had regained his wheels when the doctor had assured her the risk of him crashing from seeing things that weren’t there was minimal. 

But Collie was already heading toward the door, sunlight spilling over his shoulders like an invitation. Gary followed before he could think better of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The chain clicks and hums beside him, steady as a heartbeat. Collie’s bike creaks every few seconds, just enough to fill the silence. Gary’s walking his own, keeping pace on the cracked edge of the sidewalk, shoes scuffing the grit. He’s grateful for the sound, the small, metallic rhythm that means he doesn’t have to talk. Doesn’t have to think up filler words or force a laugh that lands wrong.

He’s grateful, mostly, that Collie doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t name it. Just keeps coasting, front wheel spinning slow. The sun’s dipping low enough to make everything amber and unbearable, burning through the trees until Gary’s squinting through the light.

He’s counting the blocks like breaths: twelve, then ten, then eight. Every number feels like a heartbeat closer to disaster.

It’s not that Meemaw will do something bad. She’s sweet, he knows that. She’ll like Collie. She’ll probably offer him sweet tea before they’re even through the door. But she’ll also ask questions, because that’s what she does. Questions with landmines under them. Nothing could be simple when you’re him.

He imagines it a dozen ways. Collie laughing too loud at something he says. Meemaw looking too happy, like she knows something. The way she’ll touch his arm and say, “It’s nice to see you bring a friend around, honey,” in that soft tone that means she’s noticed.

The thought makes his stomach twist. He wants to turn back. He wants to invent a reason to keep walking, tell Collie he forgot something, pretend he left a book at school. But Collie’s right there beside him, easy and unbothered, the corner of his mouth twitching every time the bike bumps a crack in the pavement. Gary doesn’t want to ruin that.

He rehearses small talk instead. This is Meemaw. She used to be a hairdresser.
That’s Collie. He’s tutoring me in calculus.
She’ll probably make you eat something.
Don’t mind the cat.

Each line sounds fine in his head until he tries to imagine saying it out loud. Then the words melt, collapse under their own weight. He pictures himself choking on them halfway through, tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth.

He watches Collie pedal ahead for a few feet, then slow down again, matching his pace without even thinking about it. That tiny gesture punches right through his chest, the care in it, unspoken and automatic. He’s so stupidly grateful it hurts.

The silence stretches long enough that his brain fills it in. He imagines Meemaw’s voice overlapping Collie’s, a conversation that hasn’t even happened yet but already feels like it’s going wrong. The imagined answers tangle up until he can’t tell which version of the night he’s rehearsing, the one that goes fine, or the one that ruins everything.

He grips the handlebars tighter. The rubber squeaks against his palms.

There’s a light breeze coming off the road, warm and damp, carrying that faint smell of dust and jasmine that always reminds him it’s home. He should feel comfort in that. He doesn’t. It feels like walking toward exposure, like peeling back something he’s managed to keep private.

He risks a glance at Collie. The other boy’s hair catches the wind, flaring golden brown where it meets the sun instead of the ink-spilled black that his hair is under the dull incandescent lightbulbs at school. He’s squinting ahead, lips moving like he’s humming something under his breath, maybe that same tune from earlier in study hall, the one Gary pretended not to notice.

For half a second, Gary imagines what it would feel like if this were normal. Just two friends riding home. No nerves, no planning, no second skin of lies to hold everything together. Just wind, and noise, and an evening that didn’t mean anything.

The image collapses before he can even hold it.

He adjusts the strap of his backpack, the weight digging into his shoulder. It gives him something to focus on, a small ache that’s real, not imagined. He clings to it.

He tells himself: You just have to make it through dinner. You can do that. You’ve done harder things.
Then his brain answers: Yeah, but not with him watching.

They turn the corner onto his street. The house is visible now, squat and soft yellow in the evening light, wind chimes tinkling on the porch. Meemaw’s car in the drive. The curtains open. Gary was certain he was going to have words with Art about the fleeting power of prayer tomorrow, because god was not listening.

His pulse kicks.

Collie coasts to a stop at the base of the driveway, one foot on the pavement, still smiling like this is nothing. “So this is it?” he asks.

Gary forces a nod. “Yeah. Sorry if she’s, uh, chatty.”

Collie laughs. “That’s fine. I’m used to talkative.”

Gary wants to believe him. He wants to believe this can be simple. But his brain is already rewriting the next ten minutes a hundred ways and none of them ending well.

He tells himself to breathe, counts four in, four out. The air tastes like heat and grass.

Then Collie grins and says, “You ready?”

Gary lies. “Yeah.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Meemaw was sitting at the kitchen table with her crossword puzzle when the front door opened. She squinted over her glasses at the unfamiliar figure behind Gary.

“Afternoon,” she said, her tone friendly but edged with curiosity. “Who’s this handsome fella?”

Gary’s stomach dropped.

“Meemaw, this is Collie,” he said quickly. “He’s my, uh, tutor.”

Collie smiled and offered a polite wave. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

Meemaw beamed. “Well, ain’t this nice. I was starting to think Gary made you up.”

Gary made a small, strangled noise that was supposed to be a laugh. “We’re gonna work in my room for a bit. The AC is out in the library.”

“You do that.” Meemaw stood, brushing crumbs off her muumuu. “You boys hungry? I’ve got sweet tea, and I can slice up something. Make a little snack board for y’all.”

Collie’s eyes brightened. “Yes, thank you, if it’s no trouble of course.”

“No trouble at all,” she said, already in the kitchen. “Gary, bring those little tables to your room! I ain’t gonna have sweet tea spills on my nice rugs again.”

Gary obeyed, face hot. His heartbeat thrummed in his throat as he dragged the tv dinner tables into his bedroom.

He could already feel it. The danger. Meemaw meant well, but she talked. She always talked. And if she started rambling about “after the thing with that Rank boy,” or how the doctors said Gary was doing “so much better now,” everything would come apart. Collie followed at his heels, and Gary could feel the spotlight on his dresser where the pill bottles sat. He had amassed a small mountain. The drug trial had him closely monitored, but had signed off on him continuing some other medications that they shoved at him. Prozac so he didn’t want to die, Trazadone so he could sleep. He was more pill than human most days. 

Collie didn’t say anything, thankfully, and after Meemaw brought in a plate of chips and carrots with ranch, the hum of the ceiling fan was the only sound for a while, just soft enough to cover the occasional clink of pencil against paper.

Collie sprawled comfortably, his handwriting looping across the notebook. “Okay,” he said, tapping the page. “So when you’re finding the derivative, think of it as… slope in motion. Like, how fast something’s changing. You’re good with metaphors, right? Think speed instead of direction.”

Gary nodded, chewing the inside of his cheek. He wanted to focus, but every few seconds his eyes darted toward the doorway, half expecting Meemaw to reappear and say something, anything, that would give him away.

“Right,” Collie said, leaning closer. “So if this is f(x) = x³ + 2x, then the derivative, what’s that?”

Gary stared at the problem. His pencil hovered. “Um… three x² + 2?”

“Bingo.” Collie grinned, thumping the table once. “See? You got it. You don’t even need me. ”

It was stupid, but the praise made something flutter in Gary’s chest. He nodded, trying to act casual, pretending his pulse hadn’t just jumped. Gary hated the concept of needing Collie Parker. But he did, he did need this tether to the real world. The anchor in the sea that was everything else. Collie liked him, and he didn’t know he was sick. Well. he knew he was sick in the head, in the way that Gary was fucked up and made awful jokes, and never could quite nail the tone of a conversation. But he didn’t know he was sick-sick, doctor sick. 

And Gary needed that, more than he needed air. He needed to breathe in the outside world that Collie brought with him everywhere he went. 

~~~~~~~~~

They worked like that for an hour. Collie explaining, Gary scribbling, the fan rattling gently overhead. The faint echoes of Meemaw’s divorce court on in the living room coming in through the door. 

When the workbooks finally closed, Collie stretched his arms above his head with a groan.

“I swear,” he said, “my brain burns more calories than running.”

Gary huffed a small laugh.

Collie’s eyes wandered toward the shelves along the bookshelf, lined with Gary’s odd little collection of cookbooks, dvds and trophies from competitions. Each cookbook was shoved full of colored tabs peaking out of the sides and tops.

He stood and pulled one down. “Wait. You have two different Star Wars cookbooks?”

Gary immediately flushed. “Yeah,” he mumbled. “It’s… I like the recipes."

“Dude, this is adorable.” Collie flipped through it, grinning. “You actually make this stuff?”

“Sometimes. They’re mostly normal recipes with fun names. But that one” he pointed at the book in Collie’s left hand, “actually does some fun shit with the flavor text. It tries to tell a story about the people making the food on different planets.”

Collie handed him the book and looked over his shoulder, his breath making his hair tickle his ears. “See, this one is just a normal souffle, but the flavor text talks about a cooking competition where a Devaronian was murdered for not whipping it correctly!” Gary looked back at Collie to find him staring at him, with something he couldn’t place behind his eyes. Ridicule? Joy?

Collie pulled another off the shelf. “Five Nights at Freddy’s: Official Cookbook?” His voice cracked with disbelief. “What, you cook killer animatronic pizza?”

He pulled more and more off the shelf, and Gary, upon realizing that the laughter was not malicious, joined in, pointing out fun recipes and explaining the sticky note system. 

“So the red ones mean I need to add more spice, most of the books under-season everything, but Chica’s Thai Chicken Salad needs like double the amount of chilis to be good.”

Collie looked at him, eyes wide and grin threatening to split his face in half, “you’ve seriously made all of these?”

“Well, not all of them, both of the Star Wars books have drinks that Meemaw will not buy me the alcohol I need for them, but being a mixologist isn’t exactly my passion so I don’t mind.“ Gary grabbed another book off the shelf and flipped through it. “So my new mission is to find a replacement for the cilantro in this because me and Meemaw have the soap gene.”

“The soap gene?”

Gary hopped up back on the bed, the duvet billowing in response, “Yeah man, the soap gene, some of us eat cilantro and it tastes like soap. I think it's more common in white people though you probably don’t have it.” 

At that Collie laughed, a real deep laugh that made Gary smile so hard his eyes couldn’t stay open. “Well, shit. Guess you guys finally lost one.” Collie laughed again at his own joke, and Gary, shaking his head, got up to put the books back up. 

Collie was still flipping through the FNAF cookbook when Gary leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms.

“So,” Collie said, turning a page and squinting at an image of a cupcake with plastic eyes glued to frosting, “what do you listen to when you’re cooking creepy robot food?”

Gary blinked. “What?”

“You know,” Collie said, still grinning, “like, what’s the soundtrack? Something dramatic, I bet. Are you a classical guy? Metal? The kind who listens to, like, Viking battle songs while chopping onions?”

Gary snorted. “What kind of question is that?”

“A good one,” Collie shot back, tossing the book gently onto the bed and collapsing beside it, hands behind his head. “Music says everything about a person. You can tell if someone’s secretly a psycho or just pretending. We’ve talked about music taste before man, you said Britney Spears was super hot.” He drew the u sound in super out, letting it drag out into space. 

But Gary was frozen for a fraction of a second at the word psycho, the sound a spark hitting dry kindling, but shook himself out to stick his tongue out at Collie. He laughed, kicked off his shoes, and Gary let the moment slide past like a ripple smoothing over water.

“Well, other than Britney, who is super hot,” Gary said finally, repeating Collie’s pronunciation from earlier. “Depends on what I’m doing, Meemaw always has something playing when she’s in the house, but Vestal Goodman ain’t my preference. I like noise.”

Collie turned his head. His hair fell across his cheek like a shadow. “Too quiet feels heavy, doesn’t it? It’s quiet a lot here. I hate that about Florida.”

Gary’s throat tightened. “Yeah.”

They stayed like that for a while, Collie lying back, Gary slowly leaving his post by the dresser to sit criss-cross on the bed, the fan clattering softly above them. The music talk unfolded slowly, like they’d both forgotten the rules of small talk but were learning again together.

Collie liked guitar-heavy stuff, anything that sounded alive and a little reckless. He talked about the one band his uncle had played so loud the speakers rattled in his house back home, how listening to the songs now made even bad mornings feel electric. Gary countered with playlists full of lo-fi, eclectic remixes from one channel on youtube, video game soundtracks, and late-night ambient sets from YouTube. He admitted, quietly, almost embarrassed, that the noise made it easier to think, that silence made his head too loud.

Collie didn’t laugh. “Nah, that makes sense,” he said, voice soft but sure. “I never was in a quiet house until we moved, so silence freaks me out too sometimes. Like the second you stop filling it, it starts filling itself.”

Gary blinked at him. “Yeah,” he said, almost a whisper. “Exactly like that.”

The moment stretched. Something close to comfort sat between them, easy, fragile, like a thread that could hold or snap depending on the next word.

Then Meemaw called from the kitchen. “Y’all want dinner? I made plenty!”

Collie sat up. “What’d you make, ma’am?”

“Fried pork chops and mac’n’cheese,” she hollered back.

Collie’s eyes lit up. “Gary, if you don’t go out there, I’m going without you.”

Gary rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his mouth. “Fine. But if she starts telling stories, you don’t get to complain.”

“What, is she gonna tell me about how you were a child prodigy or something?”

“Something,” Gary said under his breath.

~~~~~~~~~

Dinner was warm in every sense of the word. The kitchen was small but alive with the smell of butter and grease thick in the air, the sound of Meemaw’s laughter echoing off the tile. Collie fit himself into the space like he’d been coming there for years, setting the table without being asked, calling Meemaw ma’am in that polite-but-charming tone that made her glow. 

Gary watched from the edge, always one step behind the conversation. His stomach twisted every time Meemaw opened her mouth, waiting for that comment, the wrong detail, the thing that would make Collie’s face change. But it didn’t come.

Gary could hear his heartbeat under the clatter of plates. Every laugh felt too sharp, too loud. Meemaw’s hands moved quick, passing dishes, refilling glasses, and every time her mouth opened, Gary’s stomach clenched until he felt the food about to come right back up.

He kept waiting for it. The slip. The sentence that would break everything.

She liked to tell stories, especially when she was happy. She’d tell about the time Gary made her a “fancy dinner” at thirteen that gave them both food poisoning due to some out of date ground beef, or the time she’d had to pick him up from the Sanders house after the thing. She told stories the way some people breathe, easy, unstoppable.

And Collie was listening so closely, laughing in all the right places. Gary wanted to grab her hand, stop her mid-word, but that would only make it worse. He could almost see it, her saying “Oh I miss Rank, don’t you, honey. You used to be so close before you brutally maimed him?” and Collie’s smile cracking. But she never said it. 

He focused on the plate instead. The fork against ceramic. The grease soaking through the napkin. His own voice, when he forced himself to talk, sounded too light, like someone else was using his mouth. His hand, shaking when he picked up the glass, nearly spilling it because his body hated him now. 

Instead, Meemaw was on her best behavior, teasing Gary about how when he is a chef she would just put her feet up and let him do all the hard work, and insisting Collie take seconds. “Lord, you’re too thin,” she said, dropping another pork chop onto his plate.

“Yes, ma’am,” Collie said through a mouthful of macaroni, and Gary had to look away before his smile gave him away completely. 

They talked about school, Collie’s classes, Gary’s classes, the heat, the bugs already coming out even though it was barely spring, and her strong opinions against sweet cornbread. “It ain’t dessert, it's to soak up the broth!” Collie made her laugh so hard she had to dab her eyes with a napkin, and Gary thought, God, don’t ruin this.

It almost made him dizzy, that relief. Like breathing after holding your head underwater too long. Gary felt something unclench in his chest. A strange warmth spread out beneath the fear. He’d been bracing for impact the whole time, but the crash never came.

After dinner, Collie helped clean up, rinsing plates and pretending to take notes on Meemaw’s “recipe” that was mostly just “I ain’t like Gary he has all these fancy techniques, with me, you just cook it ‘til it looks right, and season til your heart tells you to stop.” When the dishes were done, Gary followed him out to the porch to wait for the drive home.

The air was thick and gold from the setting sun. The cicadas were already starting up, buzzing like power lines in the distance.

Collie leaned against the railing. “Your grandma’s awesome, dude.”

Gary huffed. “I think she likes you more than me now.”

“I would put money that she would take out a whole football team if they looked at you wrong. Were you not listening? You’re all she talked about. You’re her whole fucking world.”

Gary smiled without meaning to. “She’s kinda like that. She threw a shoe at someone at church once because they said some shit about my hair being too long.”

They stood in silence for a bit, the sound of crickets filling the air between words.

When dinner was over, Meemaw insisted on driving Collie home.

“You two worked hard,” she said, gathering plates. “No sense bicycling in this darkness. You’ll be hit by a car and haunt me, and my heart will break.”

Gary started to protest, but Collie beat him to it. “Thank you, ma’am. That's very kind.”

So Gary found himself in the backseat holding Collie’s bike because it was too big for the trunk of the car,  Meemaw hummed to the radio, Collie talked about his sisters—how one wanted to be a vet, how the other still thought he could do magic, and Gary just listened. Meemaw adored him instantly. The conversation rolled around him like warm water.

Gary watched the sunlight fade through the car window, the world mostly greyed out signs from closed stores now. He felt a strange tightness in his chest. The hum of the engine was soft, steady, like a lullaby for someone who hadn’t been a kid in years.

He tried to memorize everything. The way the streetlights flicked over Collie’s profile, the squeak of Meemaw’s turn signal, the smell of grease still clinging to his hands. He wanted to pocket it, fold it into himself like a secret.

This felt normal. Not borrowed normal, not pretending. Just, real. And real scared him more than anything. Because real things could end.

He thought about how quiet the house would be when they got back, how the air would thicken again, and how tomorrow Collie would still know him as the version that was okay. The one who made jokes and cooked and hated calculus.

He leaned his head against the window. The glass was cool against his temple. For a second, he let himself believe that this was what better felt like.

They pulled up outside Collie’s neighborhood, neat rows of small houses, lawns glowing under the streetlights.

Collie turned in his seat. “You know,” he said, “you didn’t even threaten to drop out this time.”

Gary smirked faintly. “You’re improving as a teacher.”

“I’ll take that.” Collie’s grin softened. “See you tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Next time I come over I’m expecting some nerd food.”

Gary rolled his eyes, but there was warmth behind it. “We’ll see.”

Collie got out, waved once, then disappeared up the walkway toward his porch.

As Meemaw turned the car around, she said, “He’s a sweet one. You be good to that boy.”

Gary looked out the window, the reflection of the streetlights flickering across his face. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Curley was late.

Adam “Curley” White was one of Collie’s repeat customers, and while he typically felt a minimal sympathy for those who needed his services, he had more for Curley. Curley was a short, nervous boy who had all manner of chronic health issues plaguing him day in and day out, and had come to Collie for tutoring originally. After a couple months, Curley bit the bullet and asked for an essay written instead, the text request full of ellipses and shame as Curley, once again, missed a week of school for a hospital visit, something to do with his leg, Collie remembered.

He was ten minutes late, which meant the kid was either sick again or talking himself out of the deal. Collie didn’t mind waiting if it meant he actually showed face; he could use the cash. His dad’s hospital bills weren’t paying themselves, and savings wouldn’t stretch forever. He didn’t like thinking about that part, so he didn’t. So, despite his firm timeliness policy for all customers, Collie waited. Tapping his foot and monitoring his watch until he heard the familiar squeak of the bathroom door opening. Curley was there, eyes red with tears, and behind him, stood Sister Mary Cynthia, her face creased with frown lines.

“Mr. Parker, ” she said. Far too calm for his taste.

Collie froze. His brain short-circuited through every possible alternative explanation, skipping class, missing chapel, the time he mouthed off in Ethics last month, but the look on her face told him none of those fit.

“Come with me, please.”

Her tone left no room for questions, and Curley whispered a small sorry as he passed him. As much as Collie wanted to be angry, the poor kid had weaseled into his heart. He also knew Ray had a deep affection for the kid and had all but adopted him after seeing him get bullied the first week of school, and would kick his ass if he made him cry.

The hallway was empty this time of afternoon, all that sun-bleached quiet that made the crucifixes on the walls feel like they were watching. Collie followed, trying to keep his breathing even as he felt the eyes of wooden Jesus’ judge him.

Her office was stark, and as severe as the woman herself, a single chair in front of her barren desk. A single framed photo of the ten commandments on her wall.

“Do you know why you are here, Mr. Parker?” She sat in her chair, the only comfortable-looking thing in the office, and gestured for him to sit. He stood until she raised a single eyebrow. He sat, sufficiently chided.

Collie weighed his options, all of them bad. Lying was pointless. She had that look, the kind that meant evidence already existed. “No, Sister,” he said anyway.

Her mouth tightened, something between a frown and a smirk. “Mr. White brought an essay to his English teacher this morning. A fine essay, by all accounts. Too fine, one might say, for a student who has not passed a single grammar test this year.” She opened a drawer of her desk and pulled out a single page. “Would you care to read the essay? Or can I surmise that you don’t need to, given that you yourself wrote it?”

Collie’s throat went dry.

Sister Mary Cynthia folded her hands atop the desk and continued. “When pressed, he admitted he’d purchased it. From you.”

Collie schooled his face into a perfectly blank expression, before tinging it with some fear. The trick was to look scared. Adults liked scared. Scared meant you understood what you’d done wrong; it meant you respected their authority.

Sister Mary Cynthia sighed, “I would like you to tell me this was a singular incident, born out of a misguided pity for Mr. White’s exceptional circumstances.” She leaned forward, and her voice dropped an octave. “You’re a bright boy, Mr. Parker. Too bright to risk everything for something so stupid. You’ve worked yourself to the bone these past years. You could still be valedictorian.”

There it was, the soft dagger of hope. It almost hurt worse than if she’d screamed.

Sister Mary Cynthia stood up and looked down her nose at him, “So, was this the first and only time this has occurred?”

Collie looked up at her, swallowed hard, “Yes, Sister.”

“Will this ever happen again?”

“No, Sister.”

“Good, you are dismissed. And I expect to see your name in the graduation bulletin for the right reasons.”

For a second, he just stood there, blinking, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. All of the plans he had were reliant on the money he got from the essays, they were a pillar of his future he wasn’t proud of, but had come to depend on. His scholarship applications for college sat mostly unfinished on open tabs of his computer, and by the time he reached the bike rack, he’d already decided. He stood outside, blinking in the sun, feeling like the air had been sucked out of the day. The decision came quietly, the way bad habits do. He’d get another job. If he couldn’t sell essays, he would have to. He had a future to get to.

He skipped tutoring that day, and promised himself he wouldn’t skip Wednesday. He skipped Wednesday though, instead going to every mom-and-pop store and fast food chain that was churning through students.

He hit the strip first: the mom-and-pop shops with faded Help Wanted signs taped to their doors. The laundromat that always smelled faintly of ammonia. The tiny grocery store where the owner’s kid from his class barely looked up from her phone when she told him, “Dad ain’t hiring. He prefers not paying me.”

Then the fast-food joints.

He stood under the hum of a fluorescent light while a manager in a red visor handed him a paper application, even though there was a stack of other ones behind her desk. She didn’t bother to make eye contact.

“Turn it in when you’re done, sweetheart.”

He filled out every line in block letters so neat it could’ve been printed, like handwriting might be the thing that decided whether he could get a gift for his sister’s birthday.

By day three, the Florida heat felt like it was chewing through his patience. His shirt stuck to his back, his shoes rubbed blisters into his heels, and the whole world smelled like fryer oil. He stopped for a minute outside the gas station, watching the condensation bead down the window of the freezer door and trying to remember the last time he’d felt cold.

Every rejection sounded the same, polite in the same tired way:
We’ll call you.
We’re not hiring right now, but we’ll keep your name on file.
We’ll let you know, kid.

He wasn’t even mad, not really. Just tired. There wasn’t room for anger when everything already hurt.

At the third gas station, a woman with tired eyes and a voice like sandpaper finally handed him a sheet to sign and said, “We got nights open. You eighteen?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Bring your ID and Social tomorrow. Black shoes, no holes in the pants. Don’t be late.”

Hours for money. Breath for survival.
Collie walked out with the paper folded tight in his fist. The parking lot was loud with cicadas and car exhaust, the sky all soft orange like a bruise healing. He could already feel the burn in his legs from biking home, but there was a small, stubborn spark under the exhaustion, relief, maybe. Control, in the smallest way.
He’d figure out the rest later. He always did
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Collie didn’t show up to tutoring on Monday, or Wednesday. And by Friday, Gary stopped pretending he wasn’t monitoring how Collie was acting weird at lunch. He tried to write it off, Collie was sick, or grounded so he was unable to stay after school, or maybe he was busy and had simply forgotten to text Gary about canceling. But the longer the seat in the library sat empty the more hollow his chest felt.

Not class, though. Collie still showed up to school, still sat at their usual lunch table, still laughed at Pete’s bad jokes, still flicked fries at Pearson when he said something smart-assed or called Ray’s mother hot. He looked the same. That was what drove Gary insane about it.

Because he was there. Right in front of him.

Just… not after.

And he didn’t even say why. Or what Gary had done wrong.

When the bell rang, Collie would pack up his tray, toss his backpack over one shoulder, and say, “Catch you later,” in that easy, unbothered tone that meant nothing was wrong, except he didn’t fucking catch him later. He didn’t show up in the library, didn’t text, didn’t so much as glance
Gary’s way when he left.

He didn’t ask. He couldn’t. Asking would make it real, would force Collie to say whatever reason he was avoiding him. And Gary couldn’t stomach hearing it out loud.

So he watched.

Watched the way Collie’s smile tightened around the edges sometimes, how he seemed tired in a way Gary hadn’t noticed before. There were dark circles under his eyes now, faint but growing, the kind that meant late nights or long shifts. Collie’s knuckles were red and cracked, like he’d been washing his hands too often.

Gary noticed everything, because noticing was how he survived.

By the end of the week, Collie had missed every session. The space between them grew wider, louder, until it filled Gary’s head like static.

He started sitting farther down the table at lunch, not because anyone told him to, but because he couldn’t bear to pretend he wasn’t listening for Collie’s voice. Ray noticed, of course he noticed, and kept the conversation running like it was a lifeline, looping Gary in when he drifted too far into thought. If Gary had hope that even one person would stay his friend after Collie told everyone, he hoped it was Ray. Tressler filled the gaps with his own dry humor, subtle enough that it didn’t feel like pity.

But the rest of the group, they didn’t really look at him anymore. Not like before. And maybe they never had.

Gary picked at his food, kept his head down, laughed at the right parts. From the outside, he looked fine. But the whole time, his mind kept rewinding: Collie’s last smile at the library, the sound of his bike chain, the clatter of his chair when he stood to leave.

Maybe he was sick, or his sister was and he needed to rush home to take care of her.

When the final bell rang Monday, Gary didn’t go home. He grabbed his backpack and started walking towards Collie’s house, justifying his choice all the way. If he was sick he could take care of him, or keep him company so he wasn’t lonely. And if his sisters were sick he could be an extra pair of hands! He could be useful.

He told himself he just wanted to make sure Collie was okay, that this was about concern, not panic. But his pulse said otherwise. In between every thought was a deeper, uglier thought begging beneath it saying “please don’t be done with me”

So he biked the unfamiliar path, looking for landmarks that were different in the light of the afternoon compared to their night appearance. The dead stump, the church painted a gauche shade of purple, the mailbox shaped like a manatee.

The air was heavy with that sticky, late-afternoon heat that made every breath feel like chewing. The road shimmered ahead of him, the pavement bright enough to sting his eyes, and the back of his shirt clung damp against his spine. His tires hummed against the asphalt, the sound too steady, too rhythmic. It gave his thoughts a tempo to march to.

By the time the manatee mailbox came into view. Gary slowed. The tires crackled over the gravel shoulder until the house appeared, smaller in the light of day, with pale siding that had seen too many summers and a front porch lined with potted plants, some dead, some clinging to life. A faded poinsettia wreath still hung on the door, leftover from Christmas.

His pulse picked up the second he coasted into the yard. Every rational part of him screamed that this was a mistake. Showing up uninvited wasn’t normal. People didn’t do that. He was already the weird kid, the quiet one, the one who stared too long or said too little. He should turn around. Go home. Pretend he got lost. Pretend the heat got to him.

But he was already climbing off the bike, hands shaking as he leaned it against the porch rail.

The door was open behind a screen. Through it, he could see a woman standing at the stove, stirring something in a big pot while talking on the phone. The tv was on, playing an older barbie movie, and a little girl darted through the kitchen, laughing and chasing a smaller one who was holding a stuffed rabbit by the ear.

Gary froze halfway up the steps. He didn’t know what to do with the sight of Collie’s house alive like that, all motion and warmth and sound. His own house was quiet, always quiet, except for the hum of Meemaw’s TV or the creak of the ceiling fan. This was something else. Gary was always too loud and too quiet. No wonder Collie knew, if this was how he grew up.

He knocked lightly on the frame. The woman turned, startled. She looked so similar to Collie, long dark hair, pulled up into a ponytail, with dark warm eyes and a soft smile. Gary had almost thought Collie was unnaturally beautiful, with how his jaw and cheekbones finally taught him why Michelangelo had carved David from marble. Some beauty needed to be preserved, but seeing Collie’s mom he understood that he was her carving, and she had managed to preserve her beauty and heighten it tenfold in him.

“Oh! Lord, you scared me half to death.” She wiped her hands on her apron, peering at him through the mesh. “You must be one of Collie’s friends?”

Her voice was kind, the vowels soft but not southern like Meemaw’s, more melodic and even-toned, not dancing around every vowel like his accent did. Gary nodded too quickly.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m Gary. From school.”

“Gary!” she repeated, smiling like it was a good name. “Well, come in, sweetheart. Collie’s not home yet, but he should be soon. You can wait, if you want. It’s too hot to be standing out there. Take your shoes off.”

Gary hesitated, glancing back at his bike like it might save him, but the door opened wider and she waved him in before he could protest.

“Collie’s at work,” Mrs. Parker said, going back to the stove, he could smell something cooking, but couldn’t place it anymore. “He just started down at that gas station off Highway 5. You were the one who dropped him off a couple weeks ago, yes?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Gary said. His throat felt dry. “He didn’t tell me, I mean, I didn’t know he got a job.”

He stood as still as he could, trying to disappear. The girls had stopped their chase, and settled at the kitchen table with coloring, occasionally whispering to each other.

Mrs. Parker sighed, stirring. “He doesn’t like talking about it. Been worried sick about money since his dad got sick. I tell him it’s not his job to fix everything, but you know how he is. Stubborn as a mule. Do you have a project to work on together?”

Gary didn’t know what to say. He looked down at his hands, then at the cluttered counter, half-open mail stacked near the microwave, a few envelopes marked urgent, one with a hospital logo peeking from the pile. He looked away fast, guilt creeping hot up his neck.

“Would you mind watching the wohanpi for a minute while I check the laundry?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said, before he could think of an excuse. He walked up to the stove and peered into the pot. The soup, the wohanpi, she had said, simmered on a low heat.
The older girl, maybe nine, looked up from her coloring. “You’re Gary? Collie talks about you.”
Gary blinked. “He does?”

She nodded solemnly, like she was sharing state secrets. “He said you’re real smart but bad at math, and that you have a weird taste in music.”

Gary laughed, a small, startled sound. “That’s… fair.”

She grinned, pleased with herself, and went back to coloring.

The younger one looked up at him, her hair was shorter than Collie’s and hung in two braids. She stared at him for what felt like a minute straight until satisfied with herself and snatched one of her sister’s crayons.

“So, Collie mentioned one of yall wanted to be a vet?” Gary was somehow already sweating, unsure why he was desperate to impress two elementary school kids.
The older of the two, nodded and kept her eyes focused on her drawing. “Yeah, we can’t have pets because our mom is allergic, so if i wanna pet cats all day I have to be a vet. What do you wanna be? Collie is going to be a professor he says. He wants to teach history, but like, he says the real history, and not the,” her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “fake shit.”

Gary’s mouth cracked into a wild smile, yeah, he thought, these are Collie’s sisters. They finally introduced themselves as Winona and Keyara, and both proclaimed he did not look like a Gary at all, which he had to agree with. Winona, the older one, had that same spark in her as Collie, like she was just waiting to get into trouble and talk her way out of it. Keyara was quieter but blunt, all big eyes and sudden opinions. Gary found himself liking them in spite of the knot in his stomach.

Mrs. Parker returned quickly, and took over on the stove.

“So, uh, can I ask you something ma’am?” Gary scratched at his neck. He was so afraid of upsetting her with his big mouth.

“Yes, go ahead.”
He gestured at the soup, “you have it on a pretty low heat. Why?”

She opened a cabinet overhead as she spoke, “The meat will get too tough if i put it any higher, its venison. One of my husband's friends went hunting and now I have a freezer full of meat in the garage.”

Gary nodded. “I only ask cause I’m curious, sorry.”

She smiled at him, “Not a bother dear. Collie said you were a chef. Want to taste-test for me? Let’s see if you can tell what it needs.”

Her eyes were crinkled into a smile as she looked at him, so earnest in her offering. Gary said yes and took the outstretched spoon. His hand shook and he spilled some onto his other palm he had underneath, but he hid his wince as the heat blossomed into his skin and painted it red. He did, somehow, manage to get some into his mouth and resisted the urge to swish it around like a sommelier, because as funny as Meemaw thought it was he was almost certain it wouldn’t land here.

“Well, salt and pepper obviously, but i’d add paprika and cumin I think.” That answer was clearly near the realm of correct based on the smile it drew from her, and she showed him the seasonings she had grabbed. In the middle of her work with the soup her phone rang again, and she excused herself to the porch.

The smell of venison and sage filled the house, thick enough that it clung to his shirt. Every few minutes, one of the girls would ask him something: favorite color, worst subject, whether he thought ghosts were real. It was like being interviewed by two pint-sized FBI agents. Gary looked after the soup, stirring occasionally, and trying to gauge each ingredient that had been added and commit them to memory. But, despite himself, he continued to try to hear Mrs. Parker’s worried tone through the screen door, a few words floating through, like “physiotherapy” “bedrest” and “extended stay”. Gary looked back at the girls, their faces and shoulders heavy.

By the time dinner was ready, Collie still wasn’t home, and the mood had dropped severely. Gary pulled Mrs. Parker to the side to ask if he could help in anyway. He was faced with her tired eyes and offered to watch the girls while she took a moment to rest. She smiled, placed her boney hand on his shoulder and called him “sweet”.

When Collie got home, the sun was almost gone. The door banged open, and Gary jumped. Collie stepped in, shirt sticking to his back, eyes shadowed and tired. He froze when he saw Gary sitting at the table laughing with the girls as the three of them colored.

“Hey,” Gary said softly. “I, um… came by to check on you. You weren’t at tutoring, so” he trailed off.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

The words hit harder than they should’ve. Collie’s voice wasn’t loud, but the edge in it was sharp enough to cut. Mrs. Parker appeared from the hall, wiping her hands.

“Language, Collie.”

“Sorry, ma,” he muttered, but his eyes stayed on Gary.

Gary opened his mouth, then closed it. “I didn’t mean, I just thought maybe you were”

Collie set his keys down too hard. The clatter echoed. “Or what? You were gonna fix it?” He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Jesus, Gary.”

Mrs. Parker frowned. “He was just keeping me company till you got home. Don’t be rude. Sit. Dinner is getting cold.”

Collie walked up and grabbed Gary by the wrist. “One moment ma, I gotta talk to him first.”
Gary’s stomach dropped as he followed him further into the hallway until they reached what looked to be Collie’s room. The room a dark blue with checkered curtains and a matching bedspread. Posters hung to the walls and the bookshelf was littered with trophies.

Collie stared at him.

“Do you think,” he started, voice low and deliberate, straining against the mounting pressure to keep from yelling and punching him, Gary had to assume, “that its fucking appropriate for you to come to my house, and hang out with my fucking mom and sisters, like this is some goddam after-school special, just because I didn’t come to the library to help you with your goddam homework.”

Gary blinked back his own hot tears, “I thought something was wrong, you’ve been acting weird, and barely talked for like a week. I didn’t know your dad was fucking dying or something dude.”

He heard the crack before he registered that Collie had hit the wall behind him, his fist carving out a new hole in the wall. “Get the fuck out. Now. You had no right to be here!” The sound came first, sharp, wrong, then plaster dust fell like snow. Collie’s hand stayed in the drywall, knuckles split, breath coming fast. His eyes weren’t angry now. They were scared.

“Wait, shit, Collie.”

“Barkovitch. You need to leave.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean. I just wanted to check on you.”

You did check. I’m alive. Now go.”

He didn’t look at Mrs. Parker as he passed her. Didn’t look at the girls, who had gone silent on the couch. He only heard the scrape of the screen door, the cicadas screaming in the dusk.

The air outside was still hot, but it felt different now empty, heavy. He climbed onto his bike, his hands slick on the handlebars. The porch light flicked on behind him, haloing Collie’s silhouette in the doorway. Gary didn’t look back.

He just pedaled.

Faster.

Until the manatee mailbox was gone. Until the road blurred into dusk. Until he could pretend the sound in his chest was just the wind, and not his heart breaking.

Chapter Text

The buzzing had been there since he sat down.

Not loud, not close. just constant. Like bees under glass, somewhere out of sight. He couldn’t see them, couldn’t swat them away, but their sound got between every word Dr. McGhee said.He could never tell if it was the fluorescents or the medication doing it, but it was there every session.

The office was bright enough to sting. The fluorescent bulbs hummed above him, warring with the steady whir of the vent. The clock on the wall ticked in three-second intervals. He counted them to stay anchored.

She was writing something down when he came in. The pen scratched lightly against her clipboard, a steady counter-rhythm to the AC vent and the wall clock.

“Let’s start with a check-in,” she said. “How’ve you been feeling this week?”

Gary gave a noncommittal shrug. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she repeated. “That’s our favorite word, isn’t it?”

He smiled without teeth. “It’s efficient.”

“It’s evasive. You’ve been here long enough to know I don’t buy ‘fine.’”

“If you won’t accept my answer you shouldn’t ask.”

Dr. McGhee gave a small smile. “I have to. It’s the job.”

Gary shifted, the vinyl of the chair squeaking. He glanced at the clock, three minutes since they started. Felt longer. “You ever get bored of the job?”

“Not yet,” she said. “You make sure of that.”

He blinked, unsure if it was a compliment. “Huh.”

“You’ve been consistent with the medication?” she asked, like she already knew the answer.

He nodded. “Yeah. Haven’t missed any.”

“Good. Any side effects? Trouble sleeping, nausea, intrusive thoughts?”

He shook his head. “Just… quieter.” He looked past her, to the small print of a
field on her wall, flowers, bees, sky too blue to be real. They reminded him of the puzzles Meemaw had bought for him years ago, recreated paintings with rivers and cabins, a mountain in the distance, sometimes a horse-drawn buggy.

She didn’t argue, just waited. That was worse. The silence pressed against him until he finally sighed. “I’ve been… okay. School’s school.”

She hummed, jotting something down. “And the social part of school?”

He frowned. “What social part?”

“The part with people.”

“I sit with people.”

“You told me you sit near people,” she said. “That’s different.”

He didn’t answer.

Dr. McGhee crossed one leg over the other. “How’s Collie?”

Gary’s throat tightened at the name. “He’s fine.”

“‘Fine,’ again.”

He exhaled through his nose. “We’re not really. He’s busy.”

“I see.” She made another note. “You went to see him, didn’t you?”

He blinked. “You make it sound like a felony.”

“You said last time you were worried about him. Then you stopped mentioning him entirely.”

Gary rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the raised skin of scabs. “It didn’t go great.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“No.”

Dr. McGhee didn’t press. “What about Tressler?”

He winced before she even explained. “I already said sorry for that.”

“I know,” she said, tone mild. “But you didn’t say why you said it in the first place.”

He stared at the clock. “It was just a joke.”

“It didn’t sound like a joke to him.”

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know.”

“Sometimes,” she said quietly, “you hurt people before they can hurt you. It’s not unusual. But it keeps you alone.”

He didn’t like that. Didn’t like the calm way she said it. “I’m not alone.”

“Who do you text outside of school, Gary?”

He didn’t answer.

Dr. McGhee sighed. “You want to cook, don’t you? Want to go to school for it? I remember you mentioned baking macarons as an apology for your friends.”

He gave a short laugh. “Yeah. Whole tray cracked down the middle.”

She smiled a little. “And you said that was your ‘villain origin story.’”

He almost laughed at that. Almost. “It was a joke.”

“I know. But you kept trying to fix them, didn’t you?”

Gary stared down at his hands. “Three batches.”

“You didn’t stop when they failed. You adjusted. You paid attention.”

He looked up, wary. “This is leading somewhere, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she said simply. “Because I think you could try that with people, too. Adjust instead of withdraw.”

He shifted in his seat, restless. “People aren’t recipes.”

“No,” she said, “but both require care. And patience. And you’re better at both than you give yourself credit for.”

Gary looked back at the print on the wall. The bees looked frozen there, mid-flight, all perfect symmetry and stillness. “I don’t think people want care from me.”

“Collie’s mom seemed to appreciate it.”

He glanced up sharply. “You remember that?”

“You told me,” she said. “How you helped stir the soup, and her daughters talked your ear off. You said it felt like you’d walked into someone else’s life for an afternoon.”

He rubbed his eyes. “Yeah, and look how that ended.”

“Badly,” she said. “But that doesn’t mean the instinct was wrong. It just means the timing was.”

He let out a breath. “You always make it sound simple.”

“It’s not simple,” she said. “But it’s worth trying again.”

Gary laughed once, tired. “What, you want me to drop by someone else’s house uninvited?”

“No,” she said. “I want you to invite them to yours.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because you need to practice being known, not just tolerated. You build connections by offering something. It doesn’t have to be big.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

“Cook for them.”

He tilted his head. “That’s… weird.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it’s also kind. You’ve spent months hiding the parts of you that are good. Let them see one. You feel confident in the kitchen, let them see you like that, instead of at school where you feel stressed.”

He stared at her for a long moment. “You think that’s going to make me more social? I had Collie over to study and nearly died over the stress.”

“I think it’s going to make you human again,” she said gently. “The rest can come later.”

The clock ticked loud enough to fill the silence.

“Do I have to invite Collie?” he asked finally.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Dr. McGhee said. “But maybe you could try being brave in small ways. Even if it’s awkward. Even if it’s messy.”

He smirked faintly. “You’re gonna make me bake macarons again, aren’t you?”

“Not this time,” she said. She clicked her pen closed, a soft punctuation. “You don’t have to fix it all at once, Gary. Just try one small kindness that doesn’t cost you more than it gives.””

He nodded, though he wasn’t sure why. The lemon smell of her office clung to his clothes as he stood.

When he left, the buzz of the lights followed him into the hall, steady as his pulse. Outside, the air felt thicker, warmer, spring pushing in through every crack. Somewhere, he thought he heard bees again.
~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning air still had that early-spring chill that bit at his knuckles. Gary waited by the breezeway behind the gym, backpack slung over one shoulder, trying not to look like he was waiting for someone. The sky was too bright, washed-out blue that made everything look overexposed. He could already hear the low hum of the first bell ringing in the distance.

Collie always loitered near the gym before making his way across this path before first period, late enough to make teachers sigh but not late enough to get detention. Gary had timed it perfectly. He’d been timing it for a week.

When Collie finally appeared, he looked the same as always, long hair a little messy in its double braids, sleeves rolled up, but there was a white bandage wrapped around his right hand, tight and clean. The sight of it twisted something in Gary’s chest.

Collie saw him before Gary could pretend otherwise. His steps slowed. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Gary said. It came out too quick, too bright.

For a second, neither of them spoke. The sound of sneakers on pavement, someone’s laughter from the parking lot, a gull screeching overhead. The world felt too big around them.

Gary’s mouth went dry. He forced himself to look at the bandage instead of Collie’s eyes. The edges were pulling on the skin between his fingers. “I. Shit. I shouldn’t’ve gone to your house.” His throat worked, words sticking on the way out. He’d practiced the line all morning. It still sounded wrong out loud. “I thought I was helping. I wasn’t.”

Collie stared down at the ground, jaw flexing. Then, after a beat: “Yeah, well.” He scratched at the back of his neck with his good hand. “I shouldn’t’ve yelled.”

That was all. Gary felt confused at the lack of celebration for a second. Just two sentences hanging in the morning air, tentative forgiveness settling like morning dew on the grass.

Gary nodded, the breath he’d been holding finally slipping out. “So we’re both idiots, then.”

Collie’s mouth twitched. “Guess so.”

The laugh that followed was short, rough, but real. It cracked something open between them, just a sliver, but enough for light to slip through.

Collie shifted his backpack higher on his shoulder as he began walking. Gary had to jog for a second to catch up. “Been working evenings,” he said, like it was casual. “Gas station. You know the one with the flickering sign?”

Gary nodded. “That’s the one that looks like it’s about to explode.”

“Yeah.” Collie smirked faintly. “That’s the one.”

He looked tired up close, the kind of tired that didn’t wash off with sleep. But there was something steady under it too, like he’d decided being exhausted was better than being anything else.

“Miss tutoring?” Gary asked before he could stop himself.

Collie shrugged. “Kinda. But it’s not in the cards right now. All the sisters have eyes watching to make sure I’m not being the wrong kind of helpful. Can’t even tutor above board without causing them to triple check all of the work.”

Gary nodded again. His hands itched for something to hold, so he fidgeted with the strap of his bag. “So, uh. My therapist’s making me do this thing.” Gary had mentioned having a therapist once, when Collie caught him writing in a journal. He had lied and said it was for anxiety, which technically it was, having schizophrenia made him incredibly anxious.

Collie quirked an eyebrow. “That sounds ominous.”

“It’s not,” Gary said quickly. “She just,” he hesitated, words tangling on their way out, “she wants me to try being normal again.”

“‘Normal,’” Collie repeated, like he was testing the word for cracks. “That’s a tall order. You’re like three personality types taped together with anxiety.”

Gary huffed a laugh. “Tell me about it.”

Collie looked at him sideways. “So what’s the assignment? Join a book club? Make a scrapbook?”

“Not nearly that bad,” Gary said. “Just gotta have people over. Like, actual people. Not just me and Meemaw. Apparently I gotta be vulnerable and shit. So wanna come over? I’ll cook.”

That earned a short laugh. “Cook, huh? Well you still have, what, a whole bookshelf of those nerd cookbooks? Plenty of options to choose from.”

“Three shelves,” Gary said automatically, before realizing how defensive it sounded. “And they’re not nerd cookbooks, they’re references.”

Collie smirked. “Sure, Chef Barkovitch. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

“Apparently I’m supposed to ‘show I care.’” Gary made air quotes with one hand. “Whatever the hell that means.”

“So who’re you feeding?”

“You, I hope” Gary said, before realizing how that sounded. “And, uh, the others. The guys.”

Collie blinked. “All of us?”

He shrugged, trying to look casual and failing. “If I’m gonna do it, might as well go big.”

Collie’s eyebrows climbed. “You serious? You’ll feed Pete too? That’s half your pantry gone.”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “Figured I’d make something cheap. Chicken, maybe. I can make something from the FNAF cookbook.”

Collie laughed again, really laughed this time. It wasn’t loud, but it reached his eyes. “You’re a menace with that killer animatronic pizza.”

“Thursday,” Gary said before he could talk himself out of it. “Six, my place? Zero dead kid pizza.”

Collie gave him a long, assessing look. Then nodded once. “I’ll be over after work.”

When Gary pulled out his phone later that day, he typed out the message before he could overthink it:

“Dinner at mine. Thursday. Don’t be dicks. 6 pm.”

He hit send.

Within seconds, the chat lit up.

Ray : HELL YEAH can I bring chips
Tressler: ill be there
Pete: Save me a seat.
Pearson: 👍

Gary stared at the screen for a long time, a stupid grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

By the time he got home that afternoon, the house smelled faintly of lemon dish soap and the faint sweetness of fabric softener. Meemaw was at the kitchen table folding laundry, the radio mumbling some country song about heartbreak.

“How was school, baby?” she asked without looking up.

Gary dropped his bag by the door. “Fine.”

“Fine,” she echoed, the same way Dr. McGhee did. “That your favorite word this week or what?”

He huffed out a laugh. “Maybe.” He hesitated, leaning against the counter. “I, uh… invited some people over. Thursday.”

That got her attention. She set down the tea towel she was folding, eyes bright behind her glasses. “People? Your little friends?”

He shrugged, trying to play it off. “Yeah. I guess. The guys from school.”

“Oh my goodness” she said, grinning wide enough to show the gap where a molar used to be. She stood up from her chair and wrapped him in a hug as she spoke. “How exciting. How many? You give me a list and I’ll run on down to the Winn-dixie to get everything. Gary, this is so good for you. Do you want extra hands in the kitchen?”

Gary shook his head. “I got it.”

“Well let me help tidy up a bit, then,”

“I got it,” he said again, gentler this time.

Meemaw studied him for a second, like she could see everything he wasn’t saying, the effort, the nerves, the quiet kind of pride, how he needed this. Then she nodded. “Alright, chef. You do your thing.”

When she turned back to the laundry, Gary stood there for a moment longer, the faint lemon scent catching in his throat.

His proof of self, he thought. His hands. His kitchen. His rules.

~~~~~~~~~
The idea should’ve been simple.

One dinner.

One evening where he wasn’t a disaster in human skin.

He could cook. He was good at it. That was the one thing everyone agreed on. His one fucking skill in the world that could actually endear him to people.

So he made a plan. Plans were supposed to keep people from freaking out.
The first list started as ingredients. Then substitutions. Then a ranking of meals by prep time, potential mess, and estimated cost per serving. By Monday night there were three full notebook pages taped to the fridge, color-coded by protein.
He told himself it was planning. That this was what normal people did when they cared. But somewhere between “fry vs. bake?” and “paprika or cayenne,” it stopped being about feeding anyone. It was about proving he could do something right.

He could control this.

He would win. Earn friendship. Trade a homemade meal for permanent residency in their hearts and minds.

He texted the group that night.
Gary: any allergies?
Pete: only to being hungry
Ray: i’ll eat whatever
Tressler: you cooking or ordering takeout?
Gary: cooking
Pearson: awesomeness
~~~~~~~
The next day, he took over the kitchen.

Cookbooks spilled across the counter like fallen dominos, The Stardew Valley Cookbook, Freddy Fazbear’s Family Diner Recipes, The Joy of Cooking, one of Meemaw’s church fundraiser collections with grease stains older than he was.
He tried the Lucky Lunch from Stardew first. Rice, tuna, a sprinkle of green onion. It was supposed to increase “luck and speed.” All it increased was his frustration.

He took a bite and frowned. The texture was there, the salt, the fat, the acid, but nothing hit.

He added more salt.

Then more.

Then more.

Still nothing.

He shoved the bowl aside and moved on.

The kitchen began to smell like a carnival and a chemical plant had a baby.

He tried Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza Fries next, following the recipe with surgical precision: cheese, sausage, marinara, fries.

It came out bubbling and obscene, molten orange grease pooling at the edges. It smelled divine. He burned his tongue shoveling the first forkful in.

No flavor.

Not even the ghost of one.

He dropped the fork, stared at it like it had betrayed him.

He woke early on Wednesday, before school, and started prepping. He had settled, finally, on something he could cook with his eyes closed and one hand behind his back. The cutting board was lined with chicken thighs, slick and pale under the kitchen light. He seasoned them by instinct, salt, pepper, paprika, garlic, but the smell barely moved anything inside him. He pressed his thumb into the meat to check tenderness, the way he always did. Still nothing. He left his chicken marinading in the buttermilk with a note for Meemaw to check on them while he was at school.

By the time he made it home his mind was a buzz of math and static. Every recipe bled into the next.

Cornmeal batter dripped in ribbons.
Okra popped in the oil like snapping nerves.
A pot of Brunswick stew burbled thickly on the back burner, filling the room with the smell of tomatoes and smoke.
On the counter beside the stove, a pan of cornbread waited to cool. Golden crust, perfect rise. He brushed butter over the top until it glistened.

It should have felt good.

It didn’t.

He tried a bite of everything, one after the other, chasing flavor like oxygen. But all of it was dull.

He could smell it fine, that maddening richness of grease and salt and onion and butter, but his tongue registered nothing. No sweetness. No bite. Just texture and heat.

He stared down at the piece of chicken in his hand, disbelief curdling into panic.
He added more salt as his hand shook.
Then more.
Then cayenne, then lemon juice, then another shake of hot sauce just to feel something.
Still nothing.

The realization came slow, like a slow-motion car crash:

How can I be a chef if I can’t taste?

“Sweetheart?”

He nearly jumped. Meemaw stood in the doorway, wearing her robe, curlers half undone. She had been so excited to have his friends over tomorrow, and he saw her nicest church dress laid out on the rocking chair in her room that morning.

“What on earth are you doing to my kitchen?”

“Cooking,” he said. His voice sounded too loud. “Just… experimenting.”

“With fire?” she asked dryly.

He handed her a spoonful of the stew without thinking. She tasted it, paused, and made a face. “Sweet baby Jesus, that’ll strip the paint off the walls.”

He forced a laugh. “Good. Then I’ll know it’s working.”

She looked at him for a long moment, really looked.

He kept his hands moving, pretending to stir.

“You sure you’re alright, sugar?”

“Fine,” he said. That word again. He smiled too quickly. “Go back to bed, Meemaw. Big day tomorrow.”

“Alright,” she said slowly, “but don’t burn the house down, you hear?”

“I’ll try.”

Her slippers whispered against the linoleum as she left. The sound of the television murmured faintly from the living room, the news anchor talking about rain on the weekend. Ordinary things. Real things. They made him feel far away. As far away as his dream to be a chef was. A tasteless shaky-handed chef.

The tremors were small at first, easy to hide. He tried to steady himself by gripping the counter, but that only made the bowl of batter slip. It hit the floor with a splatter. The sound made his chest seize.

He dropped to his knees to clean it, but his fingers kept fumbling the rag, smearing more than wiping. His breaths came too fast, too shallow. His body wouldn’t cooperate. His hands wouldn’t stay still.

He laughed once under his breath. It came out choked. “God, I’m pathetic.”

He stood, shoved the ruined bowl into the sink, and started again.

The second batch of batter was too thick. He thinned it with milk, then realized he’d added too much and had to start over. The oil was ready before the chicken was. The okra burned. The kitchen was smoke and chaos, the air dense with salt and grease and something almost sweet that only made him more nauseous.

He knew it was excessive. He knew no one needed four full courses of fried food. But the thought of stopping made his chest ache, like there was something clawing inside him that wouldn’t let him rest until it was done right.

He didn’t even know what right was anymore.

His reflection stared at him from the oven door, eyes too bright, cheeks flushed with heat, a streak of flour across his jaw, his hair falling into his face. He didn’t recognize the face. It looked like someone trying to wear Gary Barkovitch as a costume.

He tasted the stew again.

Still nothing.
He added sugar.
Still nothing.
Hot sauce.
Nothing.
Salt.
Lemon.
Garlic.
More salt.

He stopped only when the spoon trembled so hard he nearly dropped it.
By midnight, every surface in the kitchen was covered.

Two full trays of fried chicken.
Three bowls of fried okra.
A vat of Brunswick stew that could feed ten people.
Two pans of cornbread.
It was obscene. Beautiful, in a way. A still life of overcompensation.

He sat down at the table and stared at it all, chest heaving. The smell was glorious, he could smell everything. Every spice, every molecule of grease. It filled his lungs, coated his tongue.

But it was like breathing in color and seeing only gray.

He reached for a piece of chicken and took a bite anyway. Hot grease burned the roof of his mouth. He didn’t care. He chewed until his jaw ached.

Nothing.

He laughed once, a sharp, hollow sound that cracked into something like a sob. “You’re such a fraud.”

The word echoed in the kitchen.
Fraud. Fraud. Fraud.

By two in the morning, his body felt electric, too hot, too tense. The tremors had become constant. The whole kitchen buzzed.

Or maybe that was just him.

He washed the dishes until his fingers pruned, the lemon soap stinging his cuts. The smell filled the room, bright, sharp, sterile. It reminded him of Dr. McGhee’s office. Of control. Of failure dressed up as therapy.

He pressed his palms flat against the counter and breathed, counting seconds the way she’d taught him.

In for four.

Out for six.

It didn’t help.

He stared at the clock instead. The second hand jumped in uneven clicks, three-second intervals, steady as the buzz in his head.

When he finally turned off the lights, the kitchen gleamed, too bright, too clean. Everything was ready.

He told himself that was what mattered.
He told himself it would taste better tomorrow.
He told himself it was fine.

The buzzing didn’t stop.

Even in the dark, it followed him down the hall, humming under his skin.
Outside, the air smelled faintly of spring rain and cut grass. Somewhere, bees droned low and constant, like the sound was coming from inside him.

He laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, his tongue still numb. His fingers twitched against the sheets.

How can I be a chef if I can’t taste or cook?

The thought looped endlessly, chasing itself in circles until it stopped being a question and became a fact.

“I can’t.”
~~~~~~~~
By five-thirty, the house smelled like every county fair and church picnic smashed together, oil and butter, fried cornmeal and chicken grease, the faint metallic sweetness of tomatoes simmering too long on the stove. Gary had opened every window, but the air still hung thick and humid, clinging to his skin. He had warned the guys at lunch to bring appetites, because otherwise he didn’t know if the fridge could take all the leftovers. They all had laughed, unaware of how serious he was.

The table was set. The kitchen counters gleamed. He’d folded napkins the way he’d seen in restaurant photos online, little triangles stacked by each chipped plate. Meemaw hovered nearby, wiping nonexistent crumbs.

“You sure you don’t want me to make the sweet tea?” she asked for the third time.

“I got it,” Gary said. It came out too sharp, then softened. “I just… got it, okay?”

She smiled gently. “Alright, baby. I’ll just keep out of your way. It’s gonna be delicious. They’re gonna love it.”

He heard the pride in her voice, and something in his chest tightened. He wanted, no, needed, this to go right. Tonight wasn’t about food. It was about proof. Proof that he could hold a room, host a table, make people stay.

The first knock came early.

Pete, predictably, carrying a bag of chips and a grin. “Chef Barkovitch, I come bearing offerings.”

Gary rolled his eyes. “You’re not supposed to bring Lay’s to a home-cooked dinner.”

Pete grinned wider. “They’re a palate cleanser. You know, for between courses.”

Behind him came Ray, tall and smiling the way sunlight does when it hits water, bright, easy, unselfconscious. “This smells amazing, man. You made all this?”

Gary shrugged, pretending not to glow under the praise. “Yeah. Might’ve gone overboard.”

“Might’ve?” Pete whistled, peeking into the kitchen. “Dude, this looks like a buffet exploded. You’ll put the Golden Corral out of business.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Tressler said, stepping in behind them with Pearson. “He’ll start plating the chips like hors d’oeuvres.”

“Hors d’oeuvres,” Pete repeated, mispronouncing it on purpose. “You’re just jealous of my refined palate.”

Pearson, of course, had already charmed Meemaw by the time Gary shut the door. He kissed her hand with mock gallantry. “A pleasure, ma’am.”

“Oh, you stop,” Meemaw said, giggling like she was sixteen again. “Lord, are you boys ready to eat enough for five families?”

“Working on it,” Pearson said, winking.

Gary couldn’t stop smiling. The house was alive. The noise filled every corner that had been quiet for too long, the clatter of shoes, the scrape of chairs, Pete’s terrible jokes, Tressler’s groans of mock despair.

For the first time in months, maybe years, it felt like being part of something instead of orbiting around it.

They crowded around the table, the food taking up more space than the people.

Ray whistled low. “Man, you weren’t kidding. Fried chicken, cornbread, stew, okra, do you cater Thanksgiving?”

Pete leaned in conspiratorially. “Alright, full disclosure, if I die, I want you to tell my mom it was worth it.”

Gary snorted. “Noted.”

Tressler stabbed a piece of okra with his fork. “So what cookbook did this one come from? Collie said you’ve got a couple collections. Please tell me this is Five Nights at Freddy’s themed.”

“Close,” Gary said. “Stardew Valley for the cornbread. Freddy’s for the stew.”

Pete blinked. “Wait, Freddy Fazbear has a stew recipe?”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “Called it Brunswick Bonanza.”

“Jesus,” Tressler muttered. “You’re both insane.”

“That’s why it tastes good,” Gary said, automatic and easy. The words slid out smoother than expected, like they’d been waiting for an audience.

Collie came last.

He knocked softly, already halfway inside before anyone could answer. He was still wearing his gas station uniform, shirt wrinkled, name patch half-hanging by a loose thread. His hair was tied back, a little damp from the humid evening air.

Gary’s breath caught.

“Hey,” Collie said, offering a small, tired smile. “Hope I’m not late.”

“Right on time,” Gary said, and meant it.

Pete saluted him with a chicken drumstick. “We were just debating whether your boy here is trying to kill us.”

“Probably,” Collie said, sliding into the seat beside Gary. “Looks like a last meal.”

Gary grinned, nervous energy bubbling up. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

They dug in.

And for a little while, the world was perfect.

The noise was a kind of miracle. Laughter bouncing off the walls, Meemaw chuckling from the kitchen doorway, her smile neverending as she watched them all, Ray passing plates with quiet efficiency. Even Tressler’s dry sarcasm couldn’t dull the warmth that filled the table.

“This stew’s insane,” Pete said with his mouth full. “I’m sweating but I can’t stop eating.”

“That’s because it’s got, like, five different peppers in it,” Tressler said, reaching for a glass of sweet tea.

“Six,” Gary corrected automatically.

“Jesus, man,” Collie said between bites, grinning. “Trying to kill yourself?”

Gary smiled too wide. “Just making sure I’m awake.”

The table laughed.
It sounded like applause.

He ate along with them, spooning more stew onto his plate, but it all felt wrong in his mouth. He could smell the heat, feel the texture, but there was nothing underneath. No salt, no spice, no warmth. Just the mechanical act of chewing.

He poured chili oil onto his plate, stirred it through the sauce. Then more. Then more. Still nothing.

He could feel the burn on his lips, the slick of sweat on his forehead, but it was sensation, not taste. The absence of flavor made the noise around him sharper, almost too loud.

“Dude,” Pete said, staring. “You trying to see God?”

Gary laughed, high and breathless. “Maybe He’s hiding in the hot sauce.”

They laughed again. Collie shook his head, still smiling. “You’re a freak.”

“Yeah,” Gary said, voice thin. “But I make a mean stew.”

At some point, Meemaw reappeared with a pitcher of sweet tea, placing it right in the middle like a crown jewel. “Alright, you animals, hydrate.”

Pearson rose immediately to take it from her hands. “Allow me, ma’am.”

She beamed. “Such a gentleman.”

Pete elbowed Tressler. “Think she’s gonna adopt him.”

“Nah man,” Tressler said. “Guy’s got moves. Gary’s about to have a step-grandpa.”

The laughter rolled again, easy and golden. Ray caught Gary’s eye from across the table, raising his glass. “Seriously, man. This is great. You did good.”

Gary looked away too fast, his throat tight. “Thanks.”

It was everything he’d wanted, the sound, the people, the mess. Normal. Despite it all he knew in his bones it wouldn’t last. The slow crawling bugs under his skin squirmed and rested in his collarbones.

When plates emptied, conversation softened into that comfortable lull that comes after good food. Tressler put on music from a phone speaker, old stuff, 70s rock distorted through tinny audio. Meemaw hummed along. Pete declared he was “officially dying,” and Pearson offered to deliver his eulogy.

Ray stacked plates, standing automatically to help clear. “You cooked, least we can do’s clean.”

Gary opened his mouth to refuse, but the word caught in his throat. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Collie stood too, collecting forks. His movements were slower than usual, like gravity had gotten heavier. Gary noticed the faint grease stain on his sleeve, the way his shoulders sagged. But when their hands brushed over a stack of dishes, Collie smiled, a small, crooked thing that felt almost like an apology.

“This was good, man,” he said quietly. “You did good. Maybe next time it’s at my place, my mom enjoyed meeting you.”

Gary’s chest burned with something that wasn’t quite pride, wasn’t quite relief. “Yeah?” His voice cracked.

“Yeah.” Collie bumped his shoulder lightly. “See? You’re not a total disaster.”

“High praise,” Gary said, grinning. It came out almost steady.

They worked in silence for a while, the sound of water and dishes soft against the echo of fading laughter in the other room. Meemaw had cornered Pearson into helping her put leftovers away in tupperware for each boy to take home; Pete and Tressler argued over whose car had better mileage. Ray was folding the tablecloth, whistling off-key.

Gary handed Collie a clean plate to dry. For a moment, everything was quiet.

Collie broke it first. “You really cooked all this by yourself?”

“Yeah.” Gary’s laugh was short. “Didn’t really know when to stop.”

Collie nodded, eyes down. “Yeah. I get that.”

Something in his tone, soft, unguarded, hit Gary like a pinprick. He wanted to ask how, what that meant, but the words stuck. He wasn’t ready to press. Not tonight.

Instead, he said, “You want to take some home? Meemaw’ll feed you until you explode if I don’t.”

Collie smirked. “You offering, or threatening?”

“Both.”

When everyone finally left, the house fell back into stillness, warm, faintly humming.
Meemaw kissed Gary’s cheek before heading to bed, murmuring, “You did good, baby. Real good.”

He stood there for a long moment after the door clicked shut behind the last of them, hands still smelling of dish soap and cayenne. The lemon scent hung in the air, bright and sterile.

He should have felt satisfied. He’d done it, hosted, laughed, kept it together.
But underneath, something buzzed.

In the empty kitchen, the leftovers looked obscene now, half-eaten pieces of chicken, stew congealing in the pot. The food that had once felt like salvation now looked like evidence.

He sat at the table, spooned up a bit of stew, and tried one last time.
Still nothing.

The realization didn’t hurt, not at first. It just sank through him slow, heavy as oil. The laughter from earlier still echoed in his head, but it sounded distant now, like it belonged to someone else.

This was good, man. You did good.

Collie’s voice replayed over and over, until the words blurred. The warmth of them twisted into something hollow.

He reached for the leftover bottle of chili oil and poured a little onto the spoon, watching the red swirl cut through the brown.

He licked it clean. The burn hit instantly, sharp enough to sting his throat.
For one heartbeat, he thought, there it is.

Then it was gone.
Just numbness again.

He laughed quietly, a broken sound. “Guess you win, Meemaw,” he muttered to no one. “Should’ve let you make the tea.”

He pushed the plate away and leaned back in the chair. The air still smelled like everything he’d cooked, oil, spice, smoke. He could smell it fine. He could remember what it was supposed to taste like. His body remembered how to expect pleasure, but his mouth refused to follow through.

He went to his room, sat on the edge of his bed. The sheets still smelled like lemon detergent from when he’d washed them earlier in a fit of cleaning mania. The order of it mocked him now.

He reached for the nightstand drawer, digging through old papers until he found the crumpled leaflet, the medication insert. The one Dr. McGhee had explained when she’d first prescribed it, with that calm, practiced voice.

He smoothed it flat on his thigh. The print was small, lines of warnings and side effects blending together until the words felt meaningless. He had to squint to focus.

Common side effects may include: fatigue, muscle tremors, dry mouth, loss of appetite, loss of taste, emotional blunting, disassociation, cognitive fog.

The words pulsed.
Loss of taste.
Blunting.
Blunting.

He said it out loud, voice low. “Blunting. Not fixing. Blunting.”

He ran his tongue along his teeth, as if taste might be hiding somewhere in the cracks. Nothing. His hands shook, fine tremors, small but visible. He held them out, watched the light catch on the faint sheen of dish soap he hadn’t washed off.

“This is why,” he whispered. “This is why I can’t feel right.”

The thought unspooled fast, unstoppable.
Maybe this was why laughter felt like acting. Why even when he was happy it felt secondhand. Why everything, food, sound, friendship, came to him filtered, dulled.

He pressed the paper flat again, tracing the word blunting with his finger until the ink smudged.

A voice rose from somewhere behind his thoughts.
Not loud. Not frightening. Just familiar.

See? They’ve been dulling you. Cutting off the edges. You were sharp once.

Gary froze. His throat closed.
The voice wasn’t new. It had lived in him for years, quiet during the good months, waiting
during the bad ones. It wasn’t the angry kind. This one always sounded calm. Reasonable.

“You’re medicated,” he murmured, half to the paper, half to himself. “You’re fine.”

Fine.
That word again. The one Dr. McGhee didn’t buy.

They like you this way, the voice said softly. Easier to manage. Easier to ignore. But you? You’re meant to feel everything. Taste everything.

He pressed his palms to his eyes until light bloomed behind the lids, red and gold. “Shut up.”

The voice didn’t. Remember before? When food made you cry the first time it came out right? When colors felt loud? When you could taste cinnamon from across the room?

He did remember. Vividly. Too vividly.

He remembered sitting on the kitchen counter at twelve, licking frosting from a spatula and thinking how this is what love tastes like.
He hadn’t thought that in years.

He stood, pacing. The floorboards creaked under his bare feet. His heart beat too fast, too loud. He tried breathing slow, counting seconds like Dr. McGhee taught him. In for four, out for four.

It didn’t help.

He went to the bathroom, turned on the tap, splashed water on his face. The mirror showed a pale boy with circles under his eyes and red on his cheeks from the heat. He looked alive, technically. That was something.

He opened the medicine cabinet.

There they were. The orange bottle, half-empty, his name on the label in neat black print: Gary Barkovitch. Take one daily with food.

He picked it up. Shook it once. The rattle echoed in the small room.

“Just for a day,” he whispered. “Just… to see.”

To feel, the voice corrected gently. To taste.

He tightened his grip until the plastic squeaked. “I just want to taste again,” he said aloud, like it could justify anything. “That’s all.”

He went back to his desk, bottle in hand. The warning leaflet still sat there, creased and shining in the lamplight. The bees on Dr. McGhee’s print floated across his mind, perfect, frozen, lifeless.

He unscrewed the cap.
The child lock clicked like a camera shutter.

He poured a few into his palm. They were small, pale tablets. They looked harmless. They looked like chalk. He rolled them between his fingers.

They looked like flavorless candy.

He wondered what it would feel like to stop swallowing chalk and start tasting again.

The thought pulsed once, bright and terrible.
He didn’t move. Just sat there, the pills balanced in his hand, the house breathing around him. Outside, a bee hit the windowpane, again and again, the faintest thud each time.

He listened to the sound until it was all he could hear.

Chapter Text

Gary could see God.

He hadn’t really ever believed in the divine, and had never been to church before Meemaw started taking him. He sat in pews, twiddled his thumbs, and enjoyed hearing her voice in the choir. Before Meemaw, his mom hadn’t ever gone to church, just finding salvation at the bottom of bottles, and Gary would silently praise god whenever she didn’t come home for a night or two.

But two days off his meds had him nearly believing, and almost convinced he was God. The lights were shining, twinkling, sparkling. The french fries in the cafeteria burst salty with every bite against his tongue. Endless possibilities and energy coursed through his brain as his synapses were wound tight like guitar strings plucked by invisible fingers.

He woke up early, around 3 am. Despite only 4 hours of sleep he felt more alert than he had in years. He cleaned his room, mopped the kitchen, reorganized the fridge and pantry, and got dressed all before he needed to start prepping for the day.

By breakfast, he’d already rearranged every spice jar alphabetically, rewritten his English essay twice, and walked three laps around the block because sitting still felt like drowning. The world buzzed, alive and waiting. The bees in his head had learned harmony.

Colors had edges now. Music in his earbuds vibrated behind his ribs, like his bones had turned into speakers.

At school, which he got to in record time, his body never quite feeling the burn from bicycling, his limbs lighter than air, people noticed.

Pete asked if he’d started drinking coffee and Tressler laughed at him skipping up to the lunch table, asking if he had won the lottery. But Ray kept his grin when Gary caught him mid-lunch with a smille so bright it looked painful, and they all laughed when he made a joke. His landing sticking, his tongue, once lead, turned to silver.

“I’m just in a good mood,” Gary said, and it was true, good didn’t even cover it. He felt limitless.
For once, Collie didn’t roll his eyes. He just watched him for a second too long, that quiet, measuring kind of stare, as if he were weighing his soul against a feather.

Later, in the library, Gary talked too much. About recipes, about how maybe he’d write a cookbook someday, how he’d name each chapter after a person, how “Tressler’s Toast” had a ring to it.

“Man, you’re wired today,” Collie said, half-laughing. “You put too much sweet-n-low in your Meemaw’s sweet tea or something?”

Gary laughed too. “Maybe God’s.”

But as Collie packed his bag, his eyes softened. “You sure you’re okay, though? You seem… I dont know, different.”

“Different’s good,” Gary said. His smile hurt his cheeks. “Different means alive.”

Different meant invincible

By Thursday, Gary had said yes to everything. Yes to Pete’s stupid bet about climbing the gym bleachers two steps at a time, yes to Ray’s request for help with history notes, yes to Tressler’s request for more macarons. Every “yes” felt like oxygen. His voice carried, people laughed. They laughed with him.

He didn’t even notice he’d stopped checking the corners of rooms, stopped glancing at the flickering ceiling lights. The buzzing had turned to applause.

He found out that when he spoke fast enough, nobody could interrupt him. That if he smiled big enough, no one could see through it.

They started calling him “Chef” again, this time not as a joke. When Pete complained about cafeteria food, Gary promised he’d bring leftovers next week. When Tressler mentioned wanting to learn to cook, Gary scribbled recipes in his notebook margins between algebra problems. “Cornbread’s easy,” he said, “but you’ve got to treat it like a living thing. Feed it butter, don’t suffocate it.” They laughed, but they remembered.

It felt good to be remembered.

~~~~~~~~~~

At lunch one day, Collie slid into the seat across from him, still smelling faintly of gas and soap. His hands were red from work, his expression unreadable. “You’re, uh, doing better,” he said, which sounded halfway like a question.

Gary grinned, shoving half a fry into his mouth. “Guess so.”

“Guess so,” Collie echoed, watching him a moment longer. Then he picked up one of Gary’s fries, twirled it between his fingers, and said, “Don’t get cocky. You’ll ruin your reputation as our resident problem child.”

“I’m rebranding,” Gary said. “Going to my next era. Optimism era or some shit.”

“Dangerous move, getting better.”

Their eyes met for just a moment too long. Something flickered there, amusement, curiosity, something warmer.

It started small, that something.

Gary found excuses to text the group chat, then tack on a message to Collie after everyone else stopped replying.

gary: hey what’s the best kind of gas station snack
collie: depends who’s asking
gary: your favorite customer obviously
collie: bold of you to assume you’d be my favorite

It became a habit, Collie sending half-sarcastic replies at 1am after his shift, Gary still awake, making casseroles for Meemaw to take to whoever had lost some family member in the church newsletter, the messages lighting his phone like prayer candles, the kitchen left spotless as a crypt.

During lunch, their legs would bump under the table and Gary would laugh it off, a jittery, radiant sound.

Sometimes Collie would shake his head, muttering, “You’re too much lately, Barkovitch.”

And Gary would beam. “Finally!”

Even the others noticed the shift. Pete whispered to Tressler, “Barko got a personality transplant or something?” and Tressler shrugged, but smiled.

Gary didn’t slow down after that.

If anything, he got brighter.

~~~~~~~~

At lunch the next day, he arrived, tray clattering down like an announcement. Ray lifted his brows.

“Damn, Barko. You’re glowing.”

“I’m exfoliating,” Gary deadpanned, taking an obscene bite of a chicken tender. Salt exploded on his tongue again, a miracle. “Skin care’s important.”

Pete choked on his milk, laughing. “Since when do you use skin care?”

“Since always,” Gary lied. “I’m a man of many mysteries.”

“You’re a man of three socks and 12-1 shampoo,” Tressler shot back.

The table cracked up.

Even Gary.

They weren’t used to Gary volleying banter like this, sharp, precise, perfectly timed. He talked with his hands, with his whole body, as if someone had wound him too tight and pointed him at sunlight.

Pearson said something about a TikTok recipe for Sprite pie and Gary snapped into a lecture about emulsification that lasted three full minutes. Pete leaned in repeatedly to whisper “nerd” whenever Gary took a breath.

But none of it slowed him.

He felt bigger than his skin, like he could vibrate apart and still leave a perfect Gary-shaped outline in the air.

And they liked him.

He could tell.
That was new.

~~~~~~~~~

Gary didn’t go straight home that day. His legs moved before he could think, carrying him across the courtyard toward the breezeway where Collie usually loitered, spending any moment before he was trapped in the desolate world of the gas station.

Collie wasn’t leaning on the wall today. He was sitting on the steps, backpack beside him, staring at his phone with the kind of blank expression tired people wear like armor.

Gary bounded up, two steps at a time. “Hello hello!”

Collie nearly dropped the phone. “Motherfucker, warn me next time.”

“Next time I’ll enter with a trumpet flourish,” Gary said.

Collie snorted, and for some reason, that tiny half-laugh sent a warm jolt through Gary’s stomach. Everything felt good today. Every sound. Every color. Every reaction.

He sat beside Collie without waiting for an invitation. The stone step buzzed under him like it shared his pulse.

“You waiting for a ride?” Gary asked.

“Nah. Just… thinking.” Collie rubbed his eyes. “Long night at the gas station. Someone tried to steal sunflower seeds. Again.”

Gary grinned. “The great economy is in fucking shambles.”

“Shut up.” Collie nudged him with his shoulder, lightly, but intentionally. “You’re in a weird mood today.”

“Great mood,” Gary corrected. “I feel like, I feel like I could run to Tallahassee.”

Collie gave him a look. Something soft. Something puzzled.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked quietly. “I mean it. Yesterday you were kinda wired but today you’re…” His hand gestured vaguely. “All fireworks.”

Gary shrugged, too happy to hide it. “Maybe I’m just, finally, good.”

Collie looked away, jaw flexing. “I like seeing you like this.”

Gary froze. “Oh,” he said, heartbeat stumbling. “Well… I like being around you.”

Collie’s ears went pink, and he stood abruptly, brushing dust off his jeans. “Walk with me to work?”
Gary didn’t trust his voice, so he just followed.
~~~~~~~~~
They hung out after school once, impromptu, because Collie didn’t have work for once. Gary led them to the park, bought everyone ice cream from a vending cart, and somehow got Pete and Ray to play tag like they were ten again. Meemaw would have called it “showing off,” but Gary didn’t care. He was dazzling. He was golden.

And through it all, Collie watched him. Not in a bad way, just careful. Measured.

When Gary collapsed onto the grass beside him at sunset, laughing too hard, Collie nudged his shoulder. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

Gary grinned up at the sky. “Takes one to know one.”

Collie huffed, but he was smiling too.

They stayed like that a while, talking about nothing, about everything. The world felt too big and too small all at once, and Gary swore he could taste the air, the salt, the light, the warmth of Collie’s laugh.

Different meant alive.

Different meant wanted.

And for the first time, he thought maybe that was worth everything else.

Meemaw was waiting for him when he got home.

Well, waiting was generous. She’d fallen asleep in her recliner with the TV humming infomercials at her, head slumped sideways in a nest of pink foam rollers. When the door creaked open, her eyes fluttered, unfocused at first, then settling on him like she had to pull him into view.

“Lord have mercy, baby,” she croaked, rubbing her temple with two knuckles. “You’re home late.”

“It’s only nine,” Gary said, a little too brightly. He kicked off his shoes and tossed his backpack toward the hall. “I was with the guys. We were… bonding.”

She blinked at him like the sentence was in a foreign language. Her voice came slow, sticky, like syrup that wouldn’t pour. “That’s good, sweetheart. ’Bout time you found yourself some friends.”

He smiled. “Yeah. I’m doing great.”

Meemaw pushed herself upright with a shaky grunt. The rollers in her hair wobbled dangerously. “Come here,” she said, motioning him closer with a flick of her fingers.

Gary stepped forward, still buzzing, still lit up like he had swallowed sunlight. He popped a squat in front of her chair, somehow he never noticed how short she was, even squatting, he was eye-level with her.

She squinted up at him. Really looked at him. And something in her face pinched. “Your eyes look like you’ve been swimming in coffee.”

“I’m just happy,” Gary insisted, laughter bubbling up too fast. “Feel good. Really good.”

Her hand, warm and papery, landed on his sleeve. It lingered a second longer than usual, like she needed to steady herself… or him. “You been takin’ your medicine, Garbear?”

The question punched through his ribs, sharp and clean.

Gary’s smile didn’t falter, not visibly. He let the lie slip out smooth as melted butter. “Yeah. Every morning.”

Meemaw’s brow wrinkled. “You sure?”

“Positive,” he said, a little too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”

She hummed, not convinced, but too tired to argue. Her chest rose in a shallow breath that didn’t fully expand. She pressed a hand to the spot just beneath her collarbone like she was trying to push air down into her lungs.

“You been feeling okay?” he asked, voice softening.

“Just old baby.” She waved him off, but the motion made her wince. “And I don’t like that new blood pressure medicine they got me on. Makes me woozy. I’m gonna call my doctor tomorrow, tired of him experimenting on me.”

She said that often, tomorrow, and tomorrow rarely came.

Gary swallowed. “Can I get you something? Sweet tea? Water?”

“No, baby. I’m fine.” She eased back into the recliner. “You look wired to high heaven.” Her eyes fluttered, fighting sleep again. “Don’t run yourself ragged, you hear? Happiness is good, but too much sugar’ll make you sick.”

“I’m not on a sugar high,” he joked.

“You act like it.”

Her breathing evened out before he could answer, her hand going slack on the armrest. Gary watched her chest rise and fall, too small, too shallow, and something cold pricked at the edges of his bright, spinning world.

But then his phone buzzed in his pocket.

A message from Collie.
collie: u make it home?
gary: yup :) meemaw says hi
collie: tell her I said hi back
collie: also u left some of your shit in my bag
gary: guess I’ll have to see you tomorrow :)

He stared at the screen too long, a grin stretching so wide it almost hurt. The flicker of worry about Meemaw dissolved like sugar in tea. The buzzing came back, warm and golden.

Everything was fine. Perfect, even.

He walked to his room humming under his breath, the shadows on the walls softening into friendly shapes.

Tomorrow, he’d see Collie.

At 11:47 p.m., Gary sent:

Gary: you ever wanna hang out after school? When you don’t have work? just like… us?

The three dots blinked.
Then blinked longer.

Collie: sure we can do that

Gary stared at the message until his vision blurred.

He felt infinite.

Chapter Text

CHAPTER 14

Gary hadn’t expected “hang out sometime” to turn into right now, but Collie texted him Saturday morning at 11:04 a.m.

collie: u wanna go get lunch?
gary: like… with u??
collie: that was kinda the implication yeah i get off work at noon
gary: oh okay hold on i need to brush my teeth and also die real quick

Gary brushed his teeth twice, combed his hair so many times the static made it cling to his face, and changed shirts every time he realized he was sweating through them. His heartbeat felt like a bird trapped in his ribcage, bright, fluttery, impossible.

When Gary biked up, humming under his breath, Collie was leaning against the ice freezer, hair pulled out of the way in its signature braids, cheeks flushed from a long shift. He looked exhausted in a way Gary wanted to fix, like he always wanted to fix things.

Collie straightened when he saw him. “Damn, you got here fast.”

“I am speed,” Gary said. “I’m velocity. I’m”

“--a menace,” Collie finished. “Yeah, I know.”

Gary laughed, too loud and too happy.

Then Collie did that thing he sometimes did, looked straight at him, searching and serious, as if trying to see the shape of Gary’s thoughts. Gary looked away, as if avoiding eye contact could protect his innermost secrets. “So,” Collie said slowly, hooking his thumbs into his jean pockets, “I gotta ask you something.”

Gary’s heart hiccuped.

“Today,” Collie continued, “is this… like… a date?”

For one moment, Gary forgot how breathing worked. The buzzing in his head rose, hot and electric. He could feel his pulse everywhere, fingers, throat, ears. A cold current shot through him, cutting through the warm, soft haze he’d been living in.

A date.

A date with a boy.

A date with Collie.

Boys like him didn’t get dates.

Boys like him weren't allowed to want.

Boys don’t like boys.

You’ll ruin it if you make it weird.

You’re disgusting for wanting.

Jesus fuck say something you fucking dumbass

He swallowed, voice cracking, his wrist begging to be free to dislodge his thoughts with a swift crack against his skull. “Wh-why would you… why would you think that?”

Collie shrugged one shoulder. “I dunno. You been texting me a lot. And today’s not a group thing. And you’re…” He gestured at Gary’s shirt. “You’re wearing actual clothes.”

Gary looked down at himself.

Oh.

He was wearing nice clothes. Like an idiot. Like someone hoping.

“Shit,” Gary whispered.

“Hey,” Collie said quietly, “you don’t gotta freak out. Just tell me what this is.”

Gary’s throat burned. He felt his childish urge to wrap his hand around his throat and squeeze until his troubles floated away. His lungs had declared mutiny. His brain was static and butterflies, the old fear, the old church sermons he never really believed but grew in his mind like mold. The boys in old classes class who said slurs like they were punctuation. The way he had giggled at crushes on boys in movies as a child before he was told to be ashamed of it.

“What if it is?” Gary said, barely audible.

Collie didn’t move.

“What if I want it to be one?” Gary pushed on, voice thin and trembling and too honest. “Is that, are you? Fuck, am I messing everything up?”

Collie’s mouth twitched. Just a little. Like a held-back smile.

“You’re not messing anything up,” he said.

Gary stared at him. Disbelief and wonder held back by fear and horror. 

Collie rubbed the back of his neck. “And yeah,” he said, “I’d… like it. If it was a date. Only if you want that of course.”

The world sharpened.

Colors clicked into place.

The buzzing turned symphonic.

“Oh,” Gary said.

Then he grinned. Small at first. Then huge.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a date.”

Gary felt like the sun cracked open inside his chest.

Collie smirked, “So where are we going?”

Gary replied, “Hell if I know!” 

Mo’s Diner smelled like syrup, fryer oil, and something burnt that Gary decided to be optimistic about. A rotating fan clipped lazily above their table, rattling every few seconds like it was complaining about being alive.

Gary loved it.

He loved everything.

The vinyl booth squeaked when he slid in. The table was sticky in a way that made him laugh. The jukebox was playing a song so old it predated morality. He felt like the universe had opened its mouth and poured sunlight directly into him.

“God, I love it here,” he said before Collie had even sat down.

Collie blinked. “You’ve never been here.”

“I know.” Gary bounced his knee hard enough to shake the table. “But I can feel its energy. I can tell this place has, like, like character. Like if buildings had D&D stats this one would have +6 to charisma.”

Collie sat slowly, eyebrows raised. “You good, dude?”

“Fantastic.” Gary beamed. “I could run laps.”

“Please don’t,” Collie muttered, but there was a smile tugging at his mouth.

The waitress waddled over, chewing gum aggressively. “What can I get y’all?”

Gary pointed at the picture of fries. “Those. And a chocolate malt. Extra chocolate. Extra malt. Extra cup. However you do that.”

Collie laughed under his breath. “Just a grilled cheese for me.”

As soon as she left, Gary exploded into conversation like someone had taken a cork out of him.

“So anyway, this morning I reorganized the entire pantry. Did you know we had paprika from 2009? Like, Obama-era paprika. I threw it out. I feel like that’s illegal? Also I found three cans of beans that physically rattled when I shook them. Meemaw screamed.”

Collie blinked. “Why’d you shake them”

“Also I made pancakes at six. They were perfect. I mean perfect. Like top-tier diner pancakes, which is ironic because we’re at a diner and I bet mine would be better, no offense to Mo, wherever he is. Do you think Mo is still alive? The restaurant’s old enough that he might be dead. Oh God what if he died here? What if he’s haunting the milkshake machine”

“Gary.”

Gary jolted to a stop. “Yeah?”

“You’re talking like you had six espressos.”

“I don’t drink coffee. I don’t like the taste. Everything tastes strong. Like, strong. Like my tongue’s a supercomputer.”

Collie stared. “That’s not how tongues work.”

Gary waved a hand. “Yeah, but it feels like it. I can taste the salt in the air. I can taste the electricity in the jukebox.”

“That’s… not a thing.”

“But what if it was?” Gary leaned across the table, eyes bright. “What if people taste feelings? Like, okay, what does stress taste like? Battery acid. Obviously. And happiness tastes like…like Sprite! And grief tastes like freezer burn. And—”

The waitress plopped their drinks down, and Gary grabbed his malt so fast it sloshed over the rim.

“Shit--sorry–anyway,” he said in one breath. “What was I saying?”

“I don’t know if you ever had a point,” Collie said.

Gary grinned, licking chocolate off his thumb. “Yeah, I do that now. I’m a mystery. I’m a rogue. I’m unpredictable. Ladies love me.”

“Ladies?”

“Gentlemen too,” he added before thinking, then froze.

Collie’s eyebrows shot up.
Gary’s heart tried to exit his body through his throat.

“I–uh–I mean–people love me. Everyone. All types. Universally adored.”

“Right,” Collie said slowly. “Universal. Sure.”

Gary shoved fries into his mouth before any other words could betray him. They were perfect. Holy. He groaned.

“Are you okay?” Collie asked, bewildered.

“This is the best fry I’ve ever had in my life,” Gary declared. “It tastes like destiny. Like if heaven made a potato.”

Collie snorted. “Jesus Christ.”

He told Collie about reorganizing the fridge. And rewriting essays. And how his bike felt faster today. And the stupid dream he had about a talking cat chef. And why pie charts were pointless. And how he once read that oranges were man-made but he wasn’t sure if that was propaganda.

He talked with his hands until he nearly hit the waitress twice.

Every time he paused for breath, Collie stared at him, confused, amused, worried, fond all at once, as if trying to map this version of Gary onto the one he knew

“You’re really jumpy today,” Collie said.

“I’m normal-jumpy,” Gary lied. “This is my sexy mysterious jumpy thing.” Collie snorted soda through his nose.

Gary felt weightless. Bright. Breathless. This was the joy they tried to deny him, the doctors, the people who figured that No Gary was better than Wrong Gary. He had never been wrong, he had just alone.

At one point Collie leaned over the table to steal a fry, fingers brushing Gary’s. It sent Gary somewhere celestial.

Gary’s chest tightened with something giddy and terrified.

Brighter could be good.
Brighter could be dangerous.
Brighter could mean he was slipping.

But at that table, with Collie looking at him like he was something worth watching.

Brighter felt miraculous.

They just biked around that day, neither of them worried about other places they had to be. They made it to a thrift shop, a hole in the wall place Gary had never seen before, despite living there for his whole life. The thrift store didn’t even have a real sign. Just TREASURE HOUSE spray-painted on warped wood and a sun-faded Garfield poster taped crooked to the door.They stumbled in, louder than the other bored employees and customers. The bell over the door let out a death rattle as they entered. The air smelled like mildew, regret, and someone’s grandmother’s attic. Gary inhaled deeply.

“Oh my god,” he said reverently. “That’s the smell of bargains.”

Collie glanced at him sideways, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “You’re adorable, you know that?”

He drifted toward the clothing racks like something magnetic pulled him. He touched everything. Sequins. Denim. A T-shirt that said “I HEART MY CARDIOLOGIST.” A prom dress that was aggressively yellow.

Then he saw it.

The jacket.

A monstrosity of lime green corduroy.

“Oh my God,” Gary whispered, eyes huge. “Collie. Collie, look. Collie, look!”

“What,” Collie said, coming over, then stopped dead. “Oh. Jesus.”

“It’s gorgeous.”

“It’s a hate crime.”

Gary shoved it into Collie’s arms. “Put it on.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s radioactive.”

Collie rolled his eyes but shrugged it on, and it was both the worst and funniest thing God had ever allowed. The color made his face look like he was seasick. Gary clapped like a toddler.

“You look incredible.”

“I look like the physical embodiment of Mountain Dew.”

“That’s a compliment!”

“It really isn’t.”

Gary was laughing so hard he bent over, clutching his ribs. The laughter came too fast, too bright, spilling out of him before he could catch it. His vision went sparkly at the edges from how much joy was ricocheting inside him.

Collie stared at him, really stared, something soft and stunned in his eyes.

“You’re ridiculous,” he muttered.

Gary popped upright. “Okay your turn.”

“For what?”

Gary dove into another rack with manic purpose. “Fashion destiny.”

He emerged with a button-down so hideous it looked like it had lost a fight with a tropical bird.

“No,” Gary said immediately. “This one’s for you.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Absolutely yes.” Gary held it up triumphantly. “It matches your jacket. Guy Fieri would be jealous.”

“I am not wearing that.”

“You’re wearing it.”

“I’ll die.”

“You’ll die sexy.”

Collie laughed and grabbed it out of his hands on pure reflex. “Fine. But if anyone sees us, I’m blaming you.”

“Didn’t know you cared what people thought,” Gary said with a grin.

Collie brushed past him toward the dressing room, but his ears were pink.

Gary followed, bouncing on his heels. “Okay now you pick one for me.”

Collie turned, eyes narrowed in amusement, scanning the nearest racks. After a moment he pulled out something. A floral button-down that looked like it had been made from a tablecloth at a funeral.

“No,” Gary said flatly.

“Yes,” Collie echoed, mimicking him from earlier.

“I’ll kill myself in that.”

Collie shrugged. “That’s how you wanna be buried?”

Gary glared at him, but his mouth kept twitching upward like it refused to obey him. “Fine, but if I look stupid I’m blaming you. 

They walked around the store in their hideous outfits, going from rack to rack attempting to convince each other that they had found the height of fashion hidden in between denim skirts that went to ankles and last year's nerd merchandise that was already labeled cringe.

Eventually they calmed down enough to sit on the edge of an old display case, surrounded by mismatched mugs and VHS tapes.

Gary’s breaths were still fast. He felt lit up from the inside, like he could burst into fireworks at any second.

Collie nudged him with his knee. “You’re having a good day, huh?”

“The best,” Gary said, staring up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “Everything’s… brighter. Everything feels like, like possibility.”

Collie watched him, not laughing this time. “You scared me earlier, you know.”

Gary blinked. “Why?”

“You were shaking.” Collie’s voice was quiet. “Talking fast. Not breathing.”

“Oh.” Gary swallowed. “I just,  I just didn’t know what you meant. About the date thing.”

Collie nudged him again, softer. “You don’t have to freak out with me. I mean, it’s just me.”

Gary looked at him. Really looked.

Collie’s braids falling forward. His cheeks a little pink. The ugly jacket somehow making him look painfully endearing.

Gary’s heart squeezed.

“You make it easy,” he whispered. “Being around you.”

Collie looked away so fast Gary almost missed the smile tugging at his lips. “Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“I’m literally just sitting here.”

“Still.”

Collie huffed a laugh.

They kept wandering. Tried on more clothes. Played with hideous lamps. Laughed at a velvet painting of cats playing poker. Something softened around them, warm and quiet underneath the chaos.

And every time their shoulders brushed, neither of them moved away.

They wandered until the thrift-store laughter burned into something warmer, quieter. The sky had softened into late-afternoon gold, bleeding through the branches of the small neighborhood park. A couple of little kids shrieked happily on the jungle gym, their parents too exhausted to intervene.

Collie drifted toward the swings like muscle memory. Gary followed without thinking. The chains creaked as they sat, the metal seats cold even through their jeans. Gary swung a little, not enough to leave the ground, just a slow forward-and-back rocking that soothed something fizzy in his chest. 

They talked about stupid things first.
Gas station horror stories.
How the freezer door jams.
How old men buy scratch-offs like they’re investing in the stock market.

Then Gary rambled, slower now, about baking. About how bread dough smells like comfort in a way nothing else does. How frosting a cake is the closest thing to painting.  His voice was fast, but less scattered. Collie listened, chin tucked, eyes soft.

“Would you hire me?”

“You’d eat all the pastries I’d try to sell.”

“Yeah, yeah I would.”

They fell into silence, rocking gently. The kids on the jungle gym shrieked again, then dissolved into giggles.

 “I want to explain something,” Collie said, voice soft enough to break, “about when you came over.”

Gary felt his insides seize. The swing slowed under him, Collie was still angry. “Yeah?” he tried to not sound pitiful. 

Collie’s boot pushed a furrow into the mulch. Back and forth. Back, and forth. “It’s not like I'm ashamed of my family, or you, or that I hate the idea of you meeting my folks.”

Gary’s chest prickled. He stared at the graffiti carved into the swing-set beam. A heart. Two initials. Someone else who got to be brave enough to carve something permanent.

“So…why did you blow up about it? I mean you were, you were pissed at me man.”

“I’m getting to it.” Gary looked down, not meeting eye contact. “We had a nice life, a really good life in Sioux Falls. i had friends, like next door friends, lifelong friends from kindergarten. I loved my school, my teachers and my life there.My mom had her routines, stupid little things, and my dad…” He trailed off, jaw flexing.

Gary didn’t interrupt. Couldn’t if he wanted to. It felt like he had swallowed superglue. 

“And then my dad gets transferred here, he’s like an engineer. Good at it. Loved his job. And they kept moving him for work, so we kept following. But Sioux Falls was supposed to be the last time. You know? We were supposed to stay!”

He finally looked at Gary.

“And we deal with it, we get here. It's going fine. And about a year ago he got injured. “And now he can’t get out of bed without help. Some days he barely talks. And I didn't want you to see that without warning.”

Gary didn’t interrupt, Collie was kicking the dirt under his boots as he swung. And there was something fragile in his expression, something like a cracked window letting in cold air. He swallowed hard.

“I didn’t want you walking in and thinking, ‘Damn, what a mess.’ And maybe that’s stupid, because you weren’t doing that, but I panicked. And then I yelled. And it was shitty.”

Gary’s breath shuddered in his chest. The manic glitter behind his eyes flickered.

“That’s why?” he said softly.

Collie nodded.

Gary didn’t speak for a long moment. The ground felt like it was tilting under him, not in the dizzy, euphoric way from earlier, but in a way that made his stomach tug downward.

“I wasn’t judging you,” Gary said, voice tiny.

“I know.”

“And your family was… really nice to me. I liked them.”

“That’s why it scared me,” Collie said. “’Cause you were already… there. Inside my real life. And it felt like losing control of something. I don’t have people over.”

Gary’s hands loosened on the chains. The swing swayed gently.

“I should’ve texted before coming,” he admitted. “I was just…worried. And stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid.”

“Then what was I?”

Collie looked at him. Really looked. “You were being a friend.”

The words hit Gary in the gut. Hot. Unexpected. Gentle.

“A friend who can’t text for shit,” Collie added lightly, kicking the dirt, “ But I don’t hate the idea of you meeting my folks. I just… want to choose when. You know?”

Gary nodded. “Yeah. I get that.”

Collie nudged his swing sideways with his foot, barely a tap, but enough to sway Gary toward him.

“But imagine if you came home to me kickin’ it with Meemaw,” he said, smiling just a little. “I like you. I wouldn’t want to scare you off doing that.”

Gary’s heart did something dangerous. Something bright.

“I like you too,” he blurted.

Collie’s smile faltered, turned into something real. Something that cracked open his entire face with warmth.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I kinda assumed.”

Their swings slowed to stillness.
The sun sank lower.
Kids’ laughter echoed like tiny windchimes across the grass.

For a moment, Gary’s world didn’t buzz or spin or burst.

It just… softened.

And Collie didn’t look away.

When they walked back to where they parked their bikes, Collie’s hand brushed his.

Just a brush.
A ghost of contact.

Collie shoved his hands in his pockets fast, ears pink.
Gary didn’t call it out.

But he noticed.

God, he noticed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

They fell into something easy.

Not all at once. Not like a switch flipping. More like a light dimmer nudged up a little each day.Texting every night. Sometimes whole conversations. Sometimes just Collie sending a single video of a raccoon in the gas station dumpster and Gary replying with a paragraph-long analysis of raccoon psychology.

Other times 

collie: u awake

gary: im literally never asleep

collie: same

gary: we sound like losers

collie: yeah but like cool losers

gary: speak for yourself im hot

collie: 🙄 ray level pun 

Hanging out after school more than either would admit to planning when Collie didn’t work.

Sitting closer at lunch. Not noticeable at first. But Ray noticed everything.

“Y’all are sitting real cozy today,” Ray remarked one Tuesday, raising an eyebrow.

Gary kicked him under the table. Too hard. Knocking Ray’s knee into Pete’s, which made Pete yelp and drop his fork.

“Violent motherfucker,” Pete hissed, rubbing his leg.

Laughing at jokes other people didn’t hear. Like their brains had started tuning to the same frequency.

Collie would mutter something under his breath and Gary would snort into his water bottle.

Gary would scribble a note saying something at the edge of a homework page and Collie would choke on his chicken nuggets.

And then:

gary: so like… u wanna be my boyfriend?
collie: yeah
collie: i kinda thought we already were
gary: oh
gary: cool

And then the guys figured it out.

They just… noticed.

~~~~~~~~~~

It happened on a Thursday. Lunch period. Gary leaning back at the table, hands animated, talking too fast about the chemistry of liking pickled onions only when paired with the correct food, while Collie leaned in, just listening.

Then Collie whispered something, not even flirty, barely a joke, right against Gary’s ear. And it wasn’t the words. It was the breath. Hot against his skin. Close enough to feel, not hear.

Gary’s whole body jolted.
He turned scarlet, full, catastrophic, blooming red from collarbone to hairline.

Pete saw it immediately. His eyebrows shot up. Then the smirk happened. That awful, knowing, told-you-so smirk.

“Ohhh,” Pete said under his breath, elbowing Ray. “Ohhhh. It’s like that.”

Tressler looked up from his sandwich. “What’d I miss?”

“Gay panic,” Ray whispered.

Gary choked.

Collie rolled his eyes, muttering, “Mind your business.”

Pearson clasped his hands like he was witnessing a wedding proposal in real time. “I knew something was going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” Gary said in a voice several octaves too high.

Collie calmly ate another one of Gary’s fries.

Ray leaned back, grinning at Pete. “Pay up. I told you it wasn’t just ‘Barko being weird.’”

“You two had a fucking bet?” Gary yelped.

Pete shrugged. “We didn’t bet money, just bragging rights.”

Tressler squinted. “Wait, Gary’s dating someone? Who?”

And then Collie, quiet, tired, steady Collie, put his hand on the back of Gary’s chair.

Casual. Easy. Like he’d been doing it for years. And he said, calm as a sunrise,  “Me.”

Gary’s stomach fell through the floor as the table went dead silent.

Tressler shrugged. “Makes sense. I’m happy for you both.” and put his earbuds back in. Gary knew in a couple hours he’d get a text from him with more detailed thoughts, but Tressler operated on a different schedule than the rest of the world. 

Gary felt like he had accidentally climbed onto a stage as Pearson began asking him questions and Pete began talking to Collie about it. 

Collie leaned back, as if it was nothing at all, like he hadn’t just shoved Gary into cardiac arrest in front of their entire friend group.

Gary squeaked out, “We’re not. We weren't, We didn’t. ”

Collie raised an eyebrow. “You literally asked me last night if I’d be your boyfriend.”

Gary slapped a hand over his face. “And I will sign the divorce papers tonight."

Ray nudged Pete. “Told you Barko would combust.”

Collie laughed, soft and warm and wicked.

Gary heard nothing but the buzzing in his ears.

The good buzzing. The bright buzzing. The kind that meant: Someone is choosing you. Someone sees you. Someone isn’t running away.

For once, he didn’t mind being witnessed. He kind of… loved it. Everything felt golden, effortless, dangerous with possibility. He and Collie exchanged a glance, just one.

And Gary realized, they weren’t becoming something easy. They already were.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next day that Collie had off they watched a movie at Collie’s house, a stupid comedy where none of the jokes landed.

Gary couldn’t sit still. He kept adjusting his position, bouncing a knee, running fingers through his hair.

Collie eventually grabbed his wrist gently to stop the movement.

“Relax,” Collie murmured.

“I am relaxed,” Gary said in a voice that was definitely not relaxed.

Collie smiled, exasperated and fond. “You know what I mean.”

Gary swallowed. “I… I don’t know how.”

Collie hesitated, then scooted closer. “You good if I…?” He gestured to the space between them. 

Gary nodded too quickly.

Collie slid an arm behind Gary’s shoulders, tugging him in until Gary was tucked against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Gary stopped vibrating. Stopped moving. Just breathed, shallow and shaky.

Collie whispered into his hair, “See? Told you you could relax.”

Gary whispered back, “Only with you.” Collie stiffened for a second,  then melted. Their fingers threaded together.

Halfway through the movie, Gary turned slightly, heart hammering.

“Collie,” he whispered. “Can I?”

Collie turned too.

Their faces inches apart. Their breaths shared.

Collie whispered, “Yeah.”

The kiss was clumsy, inexperienced, soft. Gary felt like he’d been plugged into a power outlet. Collie tasted like popcorn and mint gum. Their teeth clacked together until they settled into it, and Gary’s throbbed until he remembered he could breathe through his nose. 

After, they leaned their foreheads together.

“Holy shit,” Gary murmured.

Collie laughed quietly. “Yeah.”

Gary didn’t tell him he felt the buzzing again. The bees. The brightness. The dizzy sense of being chosen, wanted, whole. He didn’t tell him he hadn’t taken his meds in two weeks, he didn’t even know he should be on them.  He didn’t tell him fear and joy were bleeding together under his skin. Collie didn’t know enough to ask.

They kissed again. Longer. Slower. It was a good night. A great night. Collie had kissed him. Gary biked home floating. Buzzing. Singing under his breath. He had a boyfriend. A boyfriend. Oh fuck a boyfriend. 

He pushed open the front door, still smiling.

“Meemaw?” he called. “I’m home.” No answer. He froze halfway out of his shoes, waiting for her usual response, a muffled “In here, baby!” or the sound of her slippers shuffling or the TV blasting whatever court show she’d fallen asleep to.

The house was dim. Quiet in the wrong way. The hum of the washer was off. The hallway smelled faintly like detergent. He looked into Meemaw’s bedroom, the door open as always, but the familiar lump under her covers wasn’t there, and the light in the bathroom wasn’t on. The tv was off, but the light in the mudroom, the little laundry room by the back door, was on. 

Gary stepped into the mudroom. His shoes squeaked on something wet.

His breath hitched. “Meemaw?”

A thin smear of water trailing from the washer to the tile where his foot now stood.

A bottle of detergent toppled on its side. The cap cracked. Blue soap puddled, reflecting the light like a glossy mirror.

And then he saw her. Not at first,  not fully, just the edge of her robe, the familiar faded pattern of daisies.

Then the shape of her hand.

Then…his breath caught like it had been hooked.

She was on the floor. Half-lain against the dryer. Her body folded wrong, not violently, not dramatically, just incorrect, like a puzzle piece forced into the wrong place. One roller had fallen from her hair, resting a foot away like it had rolled and came to a stop.
Her glasses hung crooked on her face. Her left hand curled toward the wall as if she’d been reaching for something, the dryer door, the shelf, the emergency phone on the wall she always said she’d never need.

“Meemaw,” Gary whispered, voice cracking.

She didn’t answer.

Not even a hum.

Not even a breath he could hear.

The buzzing in his head,  the constant electric hum he'd lived inside for weeks,  vanished. Completely silent. Just gone. Like someone cut the wire. The world narrowed to a single point. He dropped to his knees so fast they cracked as the tile bruised them. Silence roared in its place. The world narrowed, tunneled, collapsed inward until there was only her. Her and the rising panic shredding through his chest.

“Meemaw–” His voice broke. “Meemaw? Please. Please come on…”

He grabbed her shoulders with trembling hands. She was still warm.

Still warm. That meant something.

That had to mean something.

But her eyes stayed closed, lashes unmoving. Her breath,  if she had any, was too shallow to see.

“Please,” Gary begged, his voice dissolving into a rasp. “Please wake up. Please. Please.” He didn’t care that he was crying. He didn’t care that the floor was cold. He didn’t care that he didn’t know what to do.

He had no infinite brightness. No buzzing, no joy, no speed. Nothing to float him.

For the first time in weeks?

He didn’t feel powerful.

He didn’t feel untouchable. He felt small. He felt twelve again. Terrified. Alone. Kneeling on a cold floor next to the one person who had ever made him feel safe. And the world, for the first time in a long, long time,  felt horrifyingly, crushingly real.

He fumbled for his phone and called 911.

Chapter Text

He read somewhere that people could die of a broken heart. That the stress could just snap something inside of you, killing you instantly. Meemaw hadn’t died when any of her three husbands had died or left her, she was strong. She was the strongest person in the world.

The doctor said it was her heart medication.

He didn’t remember a lot of the conversation. People were walking around. A child was screaming, not the laughing scream he had heard days ago at the park. This child was shrieking, wailing, sobbing for someone to come help. Maybe it was him. The doctor asked him questions, what her medications were named, had she been dizzy earlier in the day, family history that he couldn’t answer. He was crashing through floors in his mind for days and he had just hit the cement at the bottom. His ears were ringing and underwater and full of static. Every time he blinked the image of her on the tile flashed against his eyelids like a warning.

He needed to vomit, to sleep, or walk into the ocean. He wanted someone to hug him. He wanted to go back, go home, go to the thrift store and sunshine and Collie on the swings, his hand brushing against his.

He needed Meemaw to be okay.

He couldn’t give the doctor any answers. He stared blankly until a nurse stepped in and helped. They looked at him with pity. Worse than pity. Gentleness. The way adults look at kids who’ve been hit by cars.

Their voices rose and fell like waves he couldn’t swim in.

Words blurred.

“SVT… arrythmia… medication interaction… possible TIA… we’re admitting her…”
“…no, she wasn’t alone long… no, he found her quickly…”
“…you’re her emergency contact?”

He nodded. He didn’t know if he was. He might’ve been. He was everything she had. She was his.

Someone brought him water. It tasted like the hospital, metallic and chlorinated. He held the paper cup until it crumpled, forgotten in his hands, sloughing like damp paper.

Hours passed wrong. Too slow. Too fast.
Nurses came. Nurses left.
A man coughed blood into a little basin across the hall.
Someone dropped a tray.
Someone laughed at something on a phone.
A monitor beeped in a steady rhythm that made Gary’s teeth ache.

Finally a doctor sat beside him. Not standing. Sitting. That was the worst sign.

“Your grandmother is stable,” she said softly. “She’s sleeping right now. She’ll need testing in the morning. She’s not out of the woods yet, sweetheart, but we got to her in time. You did good.”

In time.

The buzzing in his head didn’t return. The bright lights didn’t dance anymore.

Instead he felt hollow, scraped clean from the inside, like the world had scooped him out and forgotten to put anything back. He was no longer god. Just tired.

“Can I see her?” Gary croaked.

“For just a minute,” the doctor said.

He walked in on legs that didn’t feel connected to him.

Meemaw looked smaller than she ever had. Her skin looked thin, tinged grey. Her hands looked cold. The heart monitor beeped beside her, its steady rhythm mocking his own unsteady pulse.

Her face wasn’t peaceful. It was slack. Wrong.

“Hey, Meemaw,” he whispered. His voice cracked. “It’s me. I’m here.”

She didn’t answer.

He reached for her hand. It twitched. Maybe. Or maybe he imagined it. He squeezed anyway.

“Please get better,” he whispered. “I know I mess up everything. But please don’t go. I’m sorry I got home late. I’ll call next time. I promise.”

He didn’t cry. He didn’t think he could. There were no tears left in him, just a dry ache behind his eyes that felt like it might split his skull open.

A nurse touched his shoulder. “Visiting hours are over now, honey.”

He nodded. Kissed Meemaw’s knuckles. Left.

~~~~~~~~~

He spent the whole of the next day at the hospital.He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. His thoughts didn’t buzz anymore; they dragged. Heavy, wet, sluggish. Every blink felt like peeling old wallpaper off the inside of his skull. He had grabbed Meemaw’s big I-pad from where it sat next to her recliner and shoved it in her big reusable grocery bag along with a nice blanket, her favorite, it was a quilt her mother had made, and a couple sodas and biked to the hospital, in slow, dragging strokes. The pedals felt heavier than usual. His legs felt like they were carrying cement. Or maybe he was just carrying the whole damn world. He situated himself on the uncomfortable and stiff chair in the corner of the room.

Nurses moved around him constantly, checking monitors, taking notes, adjusting IV lines. They’d say, “Sweetheart, do you need anything?” and he’d shake his head even though he definitely did.

He tried to do schoolwork.
He opened his English homework.
Read a sentence.
Forgot the sentence.
Read the same sentence.
Forgot it again.
Words blurred. His brain refused to catch anything it reached for.

He tried to watch YouTube on the iPad.
Comedy videos.
Cooking videos.
Long drawn out analysis videos of books or games he’s never own.

Nothing stuck. Everything felt wrong. Too loud. Too bright. Too sharp.

He pulled the blanket over his shoulders even though he wasn’t cold.

He tried to ignore the bugs.

Under his skin.
On his arms.
Crawling up his spine.

He scratched.
Bit at his lips.
Tore a hangnail up to the knuckle.

A nurse gently tapped on his shoulder and pointed at his hand. “Honey, you’re bleeding.”

He whispered, “Sorry,” like a reflex.

But the worst part wasn’t the bugs.

It was the shape.

The silhouette sitting in the corner of the room, across from him, in the chair no one else ever looked at. The shape that didn’t make noise. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink.

Just watched.

Sometimes it was tall.
Sometimes it was hunched.
Sometimes it looked like it was wearing boots.

Once just once it stood up.

Gary gasped so loud the nurse dropped her pen.

He blinked hard until even his eyelashes hurt, and when he opened his eyes again, the shape was sitting. Exactly where it had been. As if it had never moved.

But it had.
He knew it had.

He hugged his knees to his chest, trying to fold himself smaller. Trying to disappear inside himself. Trying to breathe normally, even though each inhale felt like dragging barbed wire up his throat.

Every time a nurse rustled the curtain, he flinched.
Every time a machine beeped, he jumped.
Every time Meemaw’s breathing caught, he panicked.

He whispered to her, even though she couldn’t hear him.
“I’m here, Meemaw.”
“I’m right here.”
“Please don’t leave me.”
“It’s okay. I promise. I promise.”
He didn’t know what he was promising.

The doctors had told him she was fine, that she was stabilized, and was just resting now. She had woken up a couple times, sipped at water and looked at him, eyes unfocused and shaky. He knew if she ever came back she would be different that he remembered, but every thought about that was followed with a sour, acidic voice in his head telling him that he would be different than she remembered too.

At some point, maybe 8 p.m., maybe midnight, he went to the bathroom to splash water on his face. The overhead lights flickered. The silhouette followed him. He didn’t see it move. He just knew it was closer. Standing behind him in the mirror. Blurred. Wrong. Too tall.

He shut his eyes and whispered, “You’re not real. You’re not real. You’re not real.”
When he opened them, the mirror was empty. But he still didn’t breathe right for minutes.

He shuffled back to Meemaw’s room, sat down, and curled in on himself. The iPad dimmed next to him. A cooking video autoplayed. Flour dusted someone’s counter on-screen. Meemaw had always said you could judge a baker by the mess they made.

His throat tightened. He pressed the heel of his palm into his eye until colors burst behind the lid. A nurse poked her head in. “Sweetheart, visiting hours ended an hour ago. You sure you don’t want to go home? Get some sleep?”

He couldn’t say yes. He couldn’t say no. He just shook his head and whispered, “I’m staying.”

The nurse sighed softly. “We’ll let you. But you need to eat something.”

“I’m fine,” he lied.

“You’re not,” she said gently.

He didn’t answer.

The silhouette was back in the corner. He couldn’t look at it. He couldn’t not look at it. His skin prickled. His heart thudded wrong. He whispered into his knees “Stop. Please stop. Please leave. Please don’t do this. Not right now. Please.”

It didn’t leave.

~~~~~~~~~

When he woke up the next morning it wasn't to the harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights or to the creak of the cart carrying the computers for the nurses from room to room. It was the smell, the familiar minty smell trying to mask the stench of tobacco.

Gary groggily opened his eyes, his neck and shoulder stiff from sleeping in a chair designed to break the human spirit. Chattering with a nurse was a woman he hadn’t seen since he was eleven. He tried to not move, to study her without revealing he was awake. He was always told how much he looked like his mama, her hair was the same dishwater blond, though she now seemed to bleach it even brighter, the ends of her hair dead and brittle. She was always skinny, like him. Despite being only in her late 30s her tanned, sun-damaged skin aged her.

Gary could remember being young, trying so hard to endear himself to her. She had been talking on the phone, stood at the screen door of the trailer, her green box of cigarettes tipped on its side. He had walked up to her, pulling on the back pocket of her shorts, the bedazzled rhinestones on the denim digging into his chunky child fists. She hadn’t even paused her conversation, waving him off, puffing smoke into his face as she turned to face him. She never blew the smoke out of the door, content to just open it to shake the ash outside. Gary had once said to Meemaw that he liked the yellow wallpaper at home, and asked why she didn’t get any. Meemaw had shook her head at that.

But now she was right in front of him, talking to the nice nurse who had brought him a snack yesterday like she was in Meemaw’s life.

“Mama? What are you doing here?” Gary hated how young he sounded. Like he was still the child begging for attention and calling his mama pretty to earn a smile instead of a sneer.

The nurse walked away as she turned to him, and a part of Gary wanted to plead for the nurse to stay. His mama walked up to him, the minty tobacco scent following her. Seeing her face was like a fun house mirror, her sunken eyes with bright blue eyeshadow, her thin hair falling around her shoulders, they were distorted reflections of each other.

“Well, Gary, since you’ve apparently killed your meemaw I had to cut my vacation short. My turn to ask a question. Why aren't you in school?”

“It’s Sunday.”

“It’s Monday, dumbass. I don’t know why I even tried with you. You’re just as retarded as your daddy was, but he had the good sense to fuck off when he forgot to pull out in time.”

Gary had never quite figured out righteous fury until that moment. He imagined walking up to her, shoving her to the ground and pounding her skull into the tile until it cracked open and blood gushed out. Or yelling at her, the guttural cries from him spilling out until Meemaw woke up and joined in, yelling at his mama together until she turned to dust, or ran, or both. Punching her, watching her two front teeth clatter down her throat until she choked on them. Each one was more satisfying than the last.

In reality he just stayed in the chair. His mama eventually took the hint, and walked out, mumbling something about the nurses station and chair, unintelligible over the sound of her flip flops.

It was like someone had reached into his chest and wrung everything out, air, heat, thoughts, all of it. His body existed but nothing in it was working right. He was just… a vessel. An outline. An empty Gary-shaped shell in a plastic chair.

His mama.

Darlene Barkovitch. Here. In this room. After seven years of nothing but silence except the mess she left behind. He didn’t move for a long time. Didn’t breathe right either. His breaths came in thin, shaking little gasps like he’d forgotten how lungs functioned.

Killed your meemaw.
Retarded like your daddy.
Should’ve pulled out.

Her words clung to him, oily and heavy and burning, like someone poured hot tar over his spine. He swallowed hard, the burn of shame thick and acidic, eating the soft parts of him first. He just sat there, eyes locked on a scuff mark on the floor like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

The silhouette had moved.
He could feel it.
Closer now.
Almost beside him.

He didn’t dare look. If he looked, it became real. He knew they would come back, the pills no longer killing them off, locking them away. He didn’t want to know which one had chosen to haunt him today.

His skin crawled anyway, each hair on his arm prickling like static from the fluorescent lights was crawling under his skin.

The childhood memory, 12, in Meemaw’s backyard. He had run around in the backyard, dancing under the Spanish moss that draped off the limbs like feather boas. He had picked up some that had fallen off, it was fall, but the evergreen trees, greedy with their leaves, left him wanting for something to pile high and crash into like the children did on television shows. The small bugs in the Spanish moss had given him rashes all over.

His nails dug into his jeans. He pressed hard enough that the denim left imprints across his palms. Not enough. Not grounding enough. He needed pressure on his arms. He needed to pace. He needed something, anything to quiet the thoughts chewing at him.

Instead he stayed frozen, small and obedient as a kicked dog. It had always been like this with her. His mama had never needed to hit him to hurt him, her words did the job, sharp as fishhooks, catching in him and pulling until he bled invisible places.

The hospital room felt too bright now. Too loud. Even the steady beep of Meemaw’s monitor seemed to echo, echo, echo. His heart beat in time with it, too fast, too panicked, too loud. He wished he could unplug himself the way they unplug machines, just a quick click and silence.

His breath hitched.

He whispered, “I didn’t kill her.”

The silhouette didn’t answer, but it leaned forward, or he imagined it leaning forward, darker now, like smoke layered on shadow.

“I didn’t,” he said again, voice shaking. “I didn’t. I didn’t.”

The words didn’t help.

Because part of him, the small part, the broken part she carved out of him, whispered, “But maybe you did.”

He squeezed his eyes shut until sparks burst behind his eyelids.

He wished Collie were here.
He wished he hadn’t been stupid.
He wished he didn’t feel like the worst version of himself had crawled back out of the grave just to greet his mother.

He wished someone would hold him.
He wished someone would tell him he wasn’t a monster.
He wished someone would tell him he wasn’t what she said he was.

But no one could get in here.
He wouldn’t let them.
He didn’t want anyone to see this.
To see him like this.

He swallowed again, throat raw. Meemaw’s monitor beeped steadily. Gary whispered, “I’m sorry,” even though he didn’t know who it was for. Meemaw. Himself. The universe.

The chair shifted beside him.

He tensed all the way to his teeth, chest hitching. The silhouette, he could feel it now. Pressing in like a weight against the air. It wanted him to look. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

He squeezed his eyes shut again. Footsteps approached. Not flip-flops this time. Practical shoes. Rubber soles. The nurse from earlier leaned into the doorway.

“Sweetheart?” she said softly. “You okay?”

Gary nodded too quickly, the motion jerky and frantic.

She didn’t believe him. Of course she didn’t. But she let him pretend. She stepped back out, giving him privacy or mercy? He wasn’t sure which.

The room was quiet again.

Too quiet.

He looked at Meemaw’s hand.
Her fingers limp.
Her nails chipped.
Her wedding rings, all three, still on her fingers even though none of the men had stuck around.

He reached for her hand.

His own shook.

He wrapped his fingers around hers and whispered again, “Please don’t leave me.”

Somewhere in the hallway, flip-flops slapped back toward the room.

Gary flinched so violently the chair squeaked under him.

And his mama reappeared in the doorway.
Ready.
Loaded.
Already lighting the fuse.

Mama dragged a chair behind her, one wheel stuck and squeaking. She pulled up next to his chair, too close, and popped an Altoid from her purse, the cinnamon on her breath hitting him like a cloud of smog, she crossed her arms. “So. Wanna tell me why I had to leave Myrtle Beach early because you can’t even handle a simple emergency?”

Gary blinked. “She, she had a stroke. I, I called the ambulance.”

“I, I, I know what happened,” she cut in, her thin lips pulled tight in a grin as she mimicked the stutter. “I know what happened because the nurse told me what happened. What I wanna know is why you couldn’t answer any of her questions. Why you stood there like some useless statue flapping your jaw while everyone else had to figure your life out for you.”

Her voice hit him like a slap. He went still again, every muscle tensing at once.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gary,” she continued. “Almost eighteen and still can’t do anything on your own? What are you gonna do next year, huh? What, you gonna call the fire department because you can’t find the damn can opener?”

His breath caught. “I didn’t, ”

“You didn’t what?” she sneered. “Didn’t try? Didn’t think? Or is this you playing dumb again so people feel bad for you?”

He hadn’t played dumb. He was dumb. He always had been. The silhouette whispered at the edge of his hearing, static, breath, something.

He clenched the blanket around his fist.

Mama turned her attention to the hospital bed, rolling her eyes at the tangle of wires and tubes.

“Look at this,” she muttered. “I swear to God, the woman eats salt like it’s a hobby and I’m the one who gets dragged back because she finally keels over. Watching you ain’t supposed to be that hard. You gonna drive me into the dirt next I bet.”

Gary’s stomach twisted.

He opened his mouth, he didn’t know why, he didn’t know what he planned to say, but his mama cut him off again.

“If you had half a brain you’d be able to tell the doctors basic shit. ‘What medication does she take?’ Who doesn’t know that?” She gestured at him like he was a stain. “You live with her. You sponge off her. And you can’t tell them anything? God.”

“I’m sorry, mama,” he whispered.

“Yeah, well, that’s your favorite line, isn’t it? It was your favorite when you were a fuckin baby. I’m sorry mama, you were such a crybaby you know.”

A faint sound cut through the room. A breath. A shift. The crinkle of sheets.

Gary’s head shot up.

Meemaw stirred. Her left hand twitched. Her right eye flickered. She looked… wrong. Off-center. Her face drooping to one side like the stroke had pulled some piece of her down with it.

Gary whispered, leaning forward. “Meemaw?”

His mom glanced over, annoyed. “Oh. You’re awake. Great. Perfect timing.”

Meemaw blinked unevenly. Her mouth opened, but only half of it moved. Her voice came out slurred, thick like syrup.

“Da… Dar…” She swallowed. Fought. “Dar…lene.”

“What?” his mom demanded. “You got something to say?”

Meemaw tried again. Her hand trembled on the blanket. “Don’t… talk…” Her breath hitched. “Don’t… speak to… him… like… that…”

Gary felt something in his chest crack open. He watched his mom let out a sharp laugh. “Are you kidding me? You can barely talk and that’s what you waste it on? Defending him?”

Meemaw’s face twisted, frustration knotting her features as the words tangled on her tongue. “My… boy,” she managed, barely more than a whisper. “Not… yours…”

“Oh, give me a break,” Darlene snapped. “If he wasn’t such a little pansy ”

“Don’t.” Meemaw gasped it out, every syllable a fight. “My… boy…”

Gary felt his throat go tight. His eyes burned. He didn’t cry. He didn’t breathe. He was eleven again, standing in the trailer doorway, secondhand smoke choking him, wishing someone, anyone, would stand up for him.

Darlene’s face went cold. Dangerous. “You are unbelievable. I leave him with you, and you baby him so much he turns into a useless little, ”

“Stop!” Gary’s voice broke like glass.

The silhouette flickered at the edge of his sight. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Darlene turned on him, eyes narrowing. “Or what? You gonna cry? Gonna throw a tantrum? You’ve always been dramatic, ”

“Stop,” he said again. “Just… please stop.”

Meemaw reached for him weakly, her fingers shaking.

“Gare…” she whispered, and that shattered him.

He stood up too fast, the chair scraping loudly against the floor.

“I need, I need air,” he said, voice thin. “I need, I gotta,”

Darlene scoffed. “Oh please. Don’t make a scene.” But Gary was already moving, already stumbling out into the hallway, already shaking so hard he couldn’t feel his hands. The silhouette followed. The buzzing hit him again. And the door clicked shut behind him.

The hallway outside Meemaw’s room was too bright. Starke white. Too loud.

Gary stumbled into it anyway, the door clicking shut behind him like a judge’s gavel. The buzzing in his ears came back all at once, like static, like flies, like something vibrating inside the bone marrow of his skull, festering and feeding on him.

He braced a hand against the wall. The tiles felt too cold. The wall felt too real.

His breath came in sharp, uneven pulls.
In.
In.
In.
He couldn’t find out.

The fluorescent lights seemed to flicker or maybe that was his eyes? They glared down at him, too bright, burning his retinas, like they wanted to see inside his skull, his soul.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The silhouette waited. He didn’t want to see it. If he looked, it got clearer. It always did. It always had. He’d see the looming man in the military uniform.

His hands shook. He wiped them on his jeans, then wiped them again even though they were already dry. He dug his nails into his palms. He couldn’t feel the pain. Not really. Just pressure. Just the knowledge that he should feel something.

His heartbeat pulsed behind his eyes.

Get it together. Get it together. Get it together.

But he couldn’t.
Not without Meemaw.
Not with his mom in the room poisoning the air.
Not with the hallway stretching out impossibly long, like the hospital was breathing around him.

He stumbled toward a chair by the vending machines. His vision doubled. The floor seemed to stretch upward, then lurch downward, then tilt sideways. He clutched the arm of a chair and collapsed into it, chest heaving.

A family walked by, a father pushing a stroller, a mother holding a toddler’s hand. The toddler stared at Gary like he was something strange.

Gary wanted to say he was fine.
He wanted to smile.
But his face wouldn’t move right.

The toddler’s face… twisted. Teeth too sharp, mouth spreading into something grotesquely wide.
Gary blinked.
It was normal again. He dug his nails deeper into his palms. The buzzing roared.

A man turned the corner, except he didn’t have a face. Just a blank blur.
Gary blinked again. The face resolved.Normal man. Normal nose. Normal eyes.

He squeezed the sides of his head.

“Stop,” he whispered to himself. “Stop. Stop.”
His breath hitched. He squeezed harder. Hard enough to hurt. Harder.

A shadow slid along the floor toward him.
He froze.
Didn’t breathe.

It didn’t belong to anyone.
Not to the man.
Not to the toddler.
Not to the mother.

It stretched long and wrong across the tile, too thin, like a mannequin’s silhouette. It crept closer

He squeezed his eyes shut.

It didn’t go away.

He heard it breathe.

Gary curled forward in the chair, arms around his stomach, fighting not to whimper.

He tried to breathe like his therapist had taught him.
In for four.
Hold for seven.
Out for…
His lungs didn’t listen.

He choked on air.

The buzzing got louder.
The hallway tilted again.
And somewhere behind him,
The door opened.

He didn’t need to look to know it was Darlene.

The buzzing slammed into him full-force.

He tried to make himself invisible.
Small.
Silent.
Unnoticeable.

But Darlene didn’t miss much when it came to blood in the water.

She zeroed in on him immediately.

“There you are,” she drawled. “Figures you’d be sulking.”

He didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

His chest was tight. His vision was smeared at the edges. The shadow by the vending machine twitched, tilting its head at him.

Darlene scoffed. “Oh, don’t even start with the panic attack bullshit. You always were dramatic.”

Gary’s breath stuttered.

She clicked toward him in cheap flip-flops.
Slap.
Slap.
Slap.
Each step a gunshot in his skull.

When she reached him, she planted a hand on her hip and leaned down so they were eye-to-eye.

Her mascara was flaking.
Her perfume was overpowering.
Her breath smelled like menthols and Red Bull.

“You done?” she asked.

He shook his head, barely. Not even a full shake. Just a tremble.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” she snapped. “This is why I didn’t want to come back. Every time something happens, you fall apart like a kicked dog.”

Gary swallowed. His throat ached. His voice came out small.

“I… I can’t breathe.”

“Bullshit.”

“I can’t,” A sob clawed at his chest. “I can’t… Mama, please.”

Her eyes flashed at the word Mama.

She hated when he used it.

“Don’t call me that,” she snapped.

Gary flinched like she’d hit him.

Darlene rolled her eyes. “Unbelievable. You know what? Of course you’re panicking. This is just like every other time. When you cried because you couldn’t find the macaroni. When you cried because a teacher gave you a B. Every goddamn time.”

He shook his head, tears running down his face. “It’s not. I’m not. I’m not like that.”

“No?” she said, towering over him. “Then what is it? Huh? You having some kind of meltdown? You on drugs?”

He froze.

“Is that it?” she pressed, stepping closer. “You strung out? Hanging out with those weird friends of yours, letting ’em get you hooked on something?”

“What? No? no,” His breath hitched painfully. “I’m not on anything.”

“Then why are you acting like this?” Her voice grew louder, sharper, knifing him with every word. “Why are you shaking? Why are you crying? Why are you falling apart over nothing?”

He looked up at her, throat tight, vision blurry.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

“Oh, you’re scared?” Her voice turned cruel. “Well, guess what? I’m scared too! Because the second she dies, you’re my responsibility again, and I can’t afford that! I didn’t come back here to raise you all over again. You should be grown by now. You should have your shit together.”

“I’m trying.”

“No, you’re failing,” she snapped. “Like always. Like you did in school. Like you did with friends. Like you did with your daddy. Like you did with...”

She cut herself off, lips curling.

Gary felt something cold and razor-sharp slide into his veins.

“Like I did with what?”

She leaned in, breath hot on his face.

“Everything.”

He stopped breathing again.

“You’re weak,” she said. “You’re soft. You’re slow. You’re a burden on everyone around you. And now I have to deal with you again because you can’t even keep the one person who gave a shit about you alive for five minutes.”

“I didn’t?” His voice broke. “I didn’t kill her.”

“You didn’t help either.”

He gasped, like she’d punched him.

His vision warped.
The hallway stretched.
The shadow twitched closer.

Darlene went on, relentless.

“You think I’m the bad guy? I wouldn’t have left if you weren’t such a difficult kid! Always crying, always whining, always needing something. I couldn’t live like that. I deserved to live my life. Your meemaw knew that.”

“She didn’t say that.”

“Oh, but she thought it,” Darlene sneered. “She just didn’t want to break your fragile little heart. God forbid poor Gary hear the truth.”

His pulse hammered painfully in his ears.

The buzzing turned sharp. Piercing.

Darlene leaned back just enough to fold her arms. “You know what the nurse said to me? She asked if you were ‘delayed.’ Can you believe that? Delayed. As if you were handicapped or something.”

The buzzing stopped.

Everything stopped.

Gary’s head snapped up.

“What?” he whispered.

Darlene smirked.
She was lying.
He knew she was lying.
But the damage was already done.

“Yep,” she said. “That’s what she asked. Because you couldn’t answer basic questions. Because you looked like some confused little retard slumped in the corner.”

Something inside him cracked.
Clear. Loud.
Like thin ice giving way.

His skin felt like it didn’t fit right.
His breath wouldn’t come.
His ears rang.

The shadow climbed the wall behind Darlene, twisting like a marionette, head lolling wrong. Gary blinked hard. It stayed.

“Please,” he whispered. “Please stop.”

“No,” she said. “Someone needs to tell you the truth.”

He shook his head. “Please?”

“You are a failure, Gary.” He clamped a hand over his mouth to stop the sound that came out. “You always have been.” His body curled inward, shaking violently. “And when your meemaw dies,” she added, cruelly triumphant, “you’re going to have to come home with me. Whether you like it or not.”

His breath shattered.

No.
No.
No.
Not home.
Not her home.
Not again.
Not ever again.

The buzzing returned, deafening now, swallowing up the world.

He stood so suddenly the chair tipped over behind him.

Darlene jumped. “What the hell are you doing?”

Gary backed away from her, hands shaking so hard he couldn’t keep them still.

“I-I can’t I can’t.” His voice came out broken, strangled. “I’m not going with you.”

“Oh yes you are.”

“No,” he whispered.

She stepped toward him. “Don’t you walk away from me.”

“I’m not going with you.” The words burst out of him raw, jagged. “I’m not, I can’t. I won’t”

“Don’t you talk back to me!”

“STOP!” Gary screamed.

The word echoed down the hallway.

A nurse appeared around the corner, startled, looking between them.

“Is everything okay?” she asked cautiously.

Gary shook his head violently. “No-nono-no.”

Darlene plastered on a smile. “Just a family disagreement.”

He choked out, “She, she’s lying.”

The shadow loomed behind him, stretching tall, reaching.

His knees began to buckle.

He felt himself falling before it happened, like the world was sliding out from under him.

The nurse moved fast.

“Sweetheart, hey hey, you’re okay, sit down, breathe.”

He couldn’t feel his legs.
Couldn’t feel anything.

He sank to the floor, hands over his ears, eyes squeezed shut, shaking uncontrollably.

“Gary,” the nurse said gently, kneeling beside him. “You’re safe. I’m right here.”

“No he isn’t,” Darlene muttered. “He’s acting out. He’s just being dramatic.”

“Ma’am,” the nurse said sharply without looking at her, “I need you to step back.”

Darlene scoffed. “This is ridiculous.”

“I said step back.”

Darlene hesitated, then took one step back, flipping her hair like she was the injured party.

Gary gasped like he’d been underwater for minutes and finally breached the surface.

The nurse put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re okay. You’re hyperventilating. Slow breaths. Look at me. Don’t look anywhere else.”
He tried.
He really tried.

But the shadow crept closer behind her.

He squeezed his eyes shut again, sobbing.

~~~~~~~~~~

The week after the hospital blurred into a frantic routine. Gary woke up early, and bolted out the door before she could start in on him. His mother had taken over Meemaw’s room and, by extension, the whole house. Her voice was always somewhere, on the phone, on the couch, in the hallway, sharp, discontent, annoyed at the dishes, the decor, the “mess,” the silence, the way the house itself seemed to sag without Meemaw’s gravity holding it together. Gary felt watched even when she wasn’t looking directly at him. Like she was waiting for him to need something so she could resent him for it.

School became the safest place he knew, bright lights, background noise, predictable schedules. People. Eyes. Witnesses. All his old friends, the hallucinations he had tried so hard to forget and ignore until they left him alone were back. They had followed shapeless from the hospital back home, taking shape the longer he was unmedicated.

Harkness appeared sometimes in the far hallway, clipboard in hand, jotting down observations about Gary’s posture or breathing. Stebbins hovered by the stairwell railing, muttering curses at the Major like they were stuck in a war no one else could see. Gary didn’t engage. Not here. Not where Collie could see.

And Collie was everywhere lately, being around him felt like slipping into a warm pocket of air. Walking with him, touching him casually, laughing at his jokes. His face lit up every time Gary said yes to something, like Gary’s attention was a gift. Like Gary was worth something. And Gary clung, he held on like Collie was the railing on a staircase in a dark movie theater. He had shook as he told Collie and the boys what had happened to Meemaw, and Ray had shot up from his chair and pulled him into a hug first. Gary didn’t remember the last time someone other than Meemaw had hugged him unprompted, and he had slowly melted into the soft padding of Ray’s shoulder, as Collie wrapped him up as well, each of the boys wishing her a speedy recovery.

The pills sat untouched in his backpack. Every hour he didn’t take them, he felt something crackle at the base of his skull, dangerous, electric. But Collie liked him when he was bright. When he was energetic. When he wasn’t a medicated blur. And Gary couldn’t bear the idea of losing the only thing that felt good.

Especially not now. Especially not with his mother back in the house, her voice like a knife carving old wounds open. Meemaw wasn’t home yet. But Gary already felt like the house was bleeding out without her.

~~~~~~~

It had been 9 days since Meemaw had been admitted for her stroke, and now a week with his mom in the house. Meemaw was coming home in a couple days, with a nurse set to come to do physical therapy every day. He had asked his mom once why she hadn’t left, since she was so dead-set on him not needing her, and she had just scoffed and said, “if she drops dead in a couple days I don’t want to have wasted my gas.” Gary had pretended that answer made sense. Pretended it didn’t stick like a splinter behind his ribs. Pretended he wasn’t already learning the new rules of the house: be invisible, be quiet, be gone. Mornings became a drill. He woke before dawn, dressed silently, and slipped out before Darlene could catch him in the hallway with that narrowed, disappointed look she always seemed to be wearing, like his existence was something she kept stubbing her toe on. School was easier. Too bright, too loud, too busy for the Major to bark orders at him or for Olsen to lean in with one of his crude asides. Harkness still showed up sometimes, materializing at the end of a corridor with his clipboard, but Gary could ignore him if he kept moving.

Home was worse every day. His mother filled the silence with complaints, with sighs, with comments about how “fancy” the school uniform looked or how “unnatural” it was for a boy his age to spend so much time cooking. She watched him like she was trying to figure out which part of him Meemaw had broken. And Gary kept his head down, kept his answers short, and kept breathing. Just a few more days, he told himself. Meemaw would be home soon. Everything would settle. Everything would go back to normal.

~~~~~~~~

Two weeks in, Meemaw came home.

The nurse wheeled her up the ramp that Ray, Pete, and Collie had built the weekend before. Pete doing most of the drilling while making doe eyes at Ray, clearly flexing in the Florida heat for him. Gary pretended his hands weren’t shaking, praying to any God above that his mama wouldn’t come home and say something, and suddenly the house didn’t feel like a house anymore. It felt like a hospital, a sickroom wearing the memory of his home like a costume.

Meemaw cried the second she crossed the threshold. Just stood there in the doorway, gripping the arms of the wheelchair, shoulders shaking like some invisible hand had reached in and wrung her heart out. Gary dropped to one knee beside her, trying to smile, trying to be steady, trying not to fall apart with her. Darlene was standing behind them, arms crossed, rolling her eyes like emotion was a waste of oxygen.

“Mama, it ain’t that serious,” she muttered. But everything was serious now. Everything felt like it could break if he touched it wrong. The nurse gave instructions, medications, exercises, food textures, and Gary memorized all of it. He nodded, repeated things back, and asked questions. Harkness stood behind the nurse with his clipboard, writing everything down as if Gary might forget a syllable. Gary didn’t acknowledge him. He never acknowledged any of them in front of Darlene. She’d already sniffed around him like she expected to find something off, something soft, something wrong.

After the nurse left, Meemaw cried again, this time because the recliner felt “too big for her.” She apologized every thirty seconds for needing help. For dropping the remote. For talking too slowly. For waking up from naps confused.

Gary kept saying, It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.

And maybe if he said it enough, one day it would be true.

Mama stayed. Of course she did. “They’ll just make me come right back to handle the funeral,” she said, like death was an inevitable inconvenience Meemaw should apologize for ahead of time.

Gary avoided the house as much as he could. He spent hours at school, trailing behind Collie, pretending he didn’t hear Olsen leaning against lockers whispering, “Mama’s back, huh? Told you she’d ruin the place.” Pretending he didn’t see the Major standing guard at the end of the hall, arms behind his back, waiting to issue some new cruel directive. Pretending Stebbins wasn’t glaring at the Major like he wanted to start another war.

He ignored all of them, mostly. Enough to function. Enough to pass for normal.

But the more he ignored them, the closer they drifted. Like shadows learning the shape of him again.

At home, Darlene kept up a steady stream of commentary.

“That what you’re making? A quiche? Lord, that’s daintier than the lace on your grandma’s curtains.”

“You and Mama watching them old lady shows again? What’s next, knitting circles? Tea parties?”

“Why don’t you ever watch something normal?”

Meemaw would try to defend him sometimes, her voice thin and wobbly, her words slipping around the way they did now. “He likes… likes cookin’. Good at it. Always been.”

Darlene would sigh dramatically. “Yeah, well, boys his age usually like girls, too, but he don’t seem interested in that either.”

Gary would stir something on the stove, swallow hard, and pretend he hadn’t heard.

Later, Harkness would stand by the sink, tapping the edge of his book with his pen, “She’s the antagonist of the story, the villain. You have to defeat her without stooping to her level to remain the hero.” Olsen would lounge on the counter like it belonged to him, smirking. “She’s got a point though, fucker. You’re gay as fuck.”

And through all of it, Meemaw would sit in her recliner, watery-eyed, clutching her blanket as if she could hold the world steady by gripping harder.

Gary wanted to tell her he was fine. That everything was manageable. That the house didn’t feel like a live bomb. But the hallucinations were getting louder, and he could feel the edges of himself blurring again. He kept pretending anyway.

Because Meemaw was home, and Meemaw being home meant everything was going to be okay.

~~~~~~

Gary practically flopped onto the lunch table. The guys were already mid-conversation, all noise and elbows and arguments about nothing, which made it easier to slip into the space next to Collie almost unnoticed.

Pearson was talking about his sister again. “She’s losing her mind over prom,” Pearson said, pulling apart his sandwich, putting the crust on his napkin. “Says if her dress doesn’t come in this week she’s just not going.” All his feigned annoyance about her dripped over his words, but Gary remembered his single slight against her and the backlash that had earned him, and his sister’s boyfriend, some guy named Percy if Gary remembered correctly, had got the fear of God and Pearson put into him if he made her upset. Pearson loved his sister, and Gary had to assume, if he had a sister, that he would love her too, and show it in an equally weird way.

Olsen appeared behind Pearson, leaning down conspiratorily.

“Prom?” Olsen scoffed. “Oh, you should go, man. Wear something scandalous. Give that Collie boy something to drool over.”

Gary let the comment slide over him. Trying to follow the real conversation, and not the one happening only in his head.

“I don’t even know who I’m supposed to ask,” Tressler said. “Everyone’s paired up already.”

“That’s not true,” Pete said. “You could ask…” He scanned the cafeteria, looking for someone that he knew was available“…uh… that girl.” He went to point until Ray smacked his hand down. “She sits behind us in physics. The one with the really long ponytail.”

“Man she’s like 5 foot nothing. I’ll look like I’m escorting a munchkin.”

“I just think prom shouldn’t be this complicated,” Ray said, nudging Pete with his shoulder. “You ask someone, they say yes or no, boom. Easy Peasy.”

Pete snorted. “Says the guy who asked me with a scavenger hunt.”

“That was romantic.”

“Yes it was, Ray.”

Collie smirked at the two of them, and then made eye contact with Gary and fake gagged, both of them giggling conspiratorily.

Ray and Pete sit shoulder-to-shoulder, doing that couple telepathy thing they think no one notices, lost in themselves to the rest of the world. Pete is wearing Ray’s hoodie again and Ray isn’t even pretending like he wants it back.

“I’m not wearing a white tux,” Ray said, folding his slice of pizza like a taco to eat it.

“You’d look hot,” Pete said, completely unbothered.

“We’re wearing blue, we look good in blue.”

Gary pushes his warming, but at one point frozen, fruit around his tray. Their voices start to warp in and out, like there’s a bad radio connection in his skull. The background noise doesn’t stay background for long. Someone across the room laughs too loudly; the sound sharpens, stretches. For a moment it’s not laughter but a whisper, or maybe a snarl. Gary blinks hard at his plate until the world comes back into focus.

“You’re spiraling,” Harkness said, “that doesn’t do anyone any good.”

Collie was talking with Tressler and Pearson, the three of them working out a game plan to help Tressler ask out some girl named Bianca. Pearson was content to go alone, joking that, “I’ll be there with a handkerchief for any recently heartbroken ladies.”
Gary’s brain glitches again. Tressler’s voice doubles, one version speaking the words, the other layering under it

Leave. Leave the table. They know something’s wrong.

Gary swallows hard. “Bathroom,” he mutters. “Be right back.”

Collie’s hand brushes his wrist as he glances up. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Gary lies as smoothly as gravel.

He stands too quickly, knocking his knee on the underside of the table. The cafeteria tilts for a second before settling back into place. He forces himself toward the hallway, past blurry lockers and the phantom shadow in his peripheral vision that refuses to behave like it should.

~~~~~~

Gary had had many long weeks in his life, weeks where he’s had to do group projects, or when Meemaw was out of town on a girls trip with the Joyces, her three friends who were all named Joyce coincidentally, or most recently the weeks waiting to find a school that would take him post the Rank Incident.

All of those weeks shriveled and died in comparison to the weeks he had with his mom in the house with Meemaw.

One night, a Thursday, a beautifully innocuous Thursday, Gary sat on the edge of Meemaw’s bed, the off-brand Tiffany lamp on low, the room smelling faintly of menthol rub and the lavender lotion she used on her hands. She looked small propped against the pillows, smaller than she had ever looked in his whole life, her hair flattened on one side from sleeping so often, her eyes wet at the corners for reasons she couldn’t control anymore.

The TV had been moved from the living room to her bedroom, it covered the mirror on her dresser, but Meemaw said looking at herself just made her sadder. So some Christmas themed romance movie was on silent in the background, the closest he or Meemaw had ever gotten to seeing snow. He rubbed the bruise on the back of her hand absently.

“I can tell something is on your mind, so go on and say it before you have nightmares baby.” Meemaw looked at him, her voice as firm as it could go.

“I wanted to tell you something, I planned on it that night. The night of your stroke.”

He swallowed. He didn’t want to do this tonight. Not on a night she was already so tired. But he had promised himself, before the ambulance, before the lights, before the weeks of silence, that he would tell her. That she deserved to know.

Meemaw nodded, encouragingly.

“It’s about Collie.” He felt the words tremble in his chest, the good ones, the soft ones he saved just for her. She smiled at his name. “We’re boyfriends. I’m gay, Meemaw.”

There. He said it. The first person he’d ever said it to.

Meemaw’s breath shuddered, and she reached up with her good hand, brushing his cheek. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said in the kind of voice that felt like a warm quilt. “I’m so happy. You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

And he broke at that. Tears rolling down his cheeks, matching her. He folded over himself to wrap himself up in her arms, his face in her neck. The smell of lavender around him.

There was a sharp crack of floorboard in the hallway, too heavy to be the house settling. He sat up, Meemaw’s eyes darted past him.

“What the fuck did I just hear?

Meemaw flinched, her hand jerking in Gary’s. Darlene filled the room with her presence. Her cigarette, still lit, dropped ash on the nice rug.

Gary froze. His throat closed. The Major’s boots thudded in behind her in his peripheral vision, tall and sharp, his shadow stretching long across the carpet like a blade.

Mama jabbed a finger at Meemaw. “You’re still at it. Raising him to be a fucking pansy!” Gary’s heart stopped. Meemaw’s chest heaved. “I didn’t ask you to raise him,” Darlene spat, stepping forward, “I asked you to watch him!”

“You didn’t ask me shit!” Meemaw’s voice cracked mid-syllable, but the force was still there, years of swallowed hurt and anger erupting at once. She pointed right back. “You left him outside my garage in the middle of the night!”

The room tightened. Gary felt the air compress until he could barely breathe.

Darlene’s mouth twisted, ugly and mean. “I deserved to live my life! He stole the best years of it!”

“He stole them?” Meemaw rasped, pushing herself more upright, rage flushing through the tremor in her limbs. “He was born! He didn’t steal a damn thing!”

The Major stepped beside Darlene now, a towering specter, eyes like cold command. “You hear that, soldier?” The Major murmured, only for Gary. “Even your own mother knew what you were. Dead fucking weight. Should’ve left you where she dropped you. Shoulda drowned you like a damn litter of kittens.”

Gary shut his eyes, trying to push the voice away, but it burrowed deeper, echoing. His pulse hammered against his ribs.

His mantra chanted, “Real voices matter. The real voices matter.”

Darlene’s face was inches from Meemaw’s now, spit flying, fury burning hot and sour in the room.

“You babied him so much he can’t even walk straight without you! Look at him! He’s a wreck! A freak! I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t kept him pathetic!”

Gary felt himself shrinking, curling inward, drowning in the noise, the heat, the overlapping voices.

Meemaw reached for him with her good arm, tears streaking down her cheeks, she couldn’t stop them anymore, the doctor said, but these were real tears, these were fury-born.

“Don’t you talk about him that way,” she cried. “Don’t you dare. He’s the only reason you even, he’s the only good thing you ever did!”

Gary couldn’t breathe.

The Major leaned down. “And now look at you. Can’t even defend yourself. Can’t speak. Weak. Embarrassment. Can’t defend your granny, the only one who even loves you.”

Darlene stepped back, breath hitching like she’d exhausted herself with anger. “I swear to God,” she said, voice breaking into a bitter laugh, “I should’ve never ever have come back here.”

“You didn’t come back though,” Gary heard himself say before thinking. The words slipped out, small but sharp. “They called you.”

She rounded on him so fast he flinched. “Oh, now you’re talking? Now you’re brave because your grandma’s here to hide behind?”

Something inside him cracked, not loudly, but cleanly, like a thin branch under weight. “I’m not hiding,” he said. “I’m just.” He looked at Meemaw. Her trembling hand. Her wet cheeks. The way she tried to smile at him even now. “I’m just tired.”

Darlene scoffed. “You think I’m not tired? You think I didn’t have dreams? You think I didn’t have plans?”

“You left,” he said, voice barely audible.

Silence. A plate-glass silence, fragile and dangerous. She stared at him like she didn’t recognize him. Maybe she didn’t.

Meemaw broke first. “Gary,” she whispered, reaching.

But Darlene spoke over her. “You’re just like your worthless father,” she said quietly. “Always needing. Always dragging. Always breaking whatever’s around you.”

Gary felt that one physically, like a punch to the throat. A stab wound. Tears filled his eyes, blurring his vision, his throat was red-hot. Meemaw held his hand like she was holding him to the earth.

“He’s mine,” she said, voice hoarse. “He’s my heart. And you,” she coughed, a thick crackling noise, “you don’t get to break him again.”

His mom’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. She stormed out, the door banging so hard the picture frames rattled.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she whispered, pulling him close against her shoulder. He finally let himself cry, soundless, shaking, clinging to her like he was six again and the world had fallen apart. He didn’t know how long they stayed like that. Minutes. Maybe hours.

Chapter Text

Gary hadn’t been sleeping. 

Not that anyone could tell, really, he was sure of it. He’d gotten good at forcing brightness, at talking fast enough that no one could find the gaps between his thoughts. If he spoke quickly, constantly, if he joked, if he moved, if he didn’t stop long enough for anyone to get a good look inside, no one would see the fracture lines in his skull. But the nights had started to stretch thin again, like the saltwater taffy machine at the county fair pulled too far, twisted, pulled, over and under, forever and ever, until the sugar fibers were practically transparent. Olsen paced the corners of his room. Harkness perched on the dresser like a vulture waiting to choose his bones clean. Both talking endlessly throughout the night about absolutely nothing, and Gary couldn’t even yell at them without waking up Meemaw or his fucking mom who was still sleeping on the couch.

He didn’t know why she didn’t leave already. She was always making some excuse whenever he tried to ease the question into the conversation, saying that there were things that needed to be done around the house that him and Meemaw couldn’t handle, or that she could help Meemaw if she had another episode while he was at school. Harkness would turn to him, smiling slightly and say, “well she does have a point.” and he would walk away angry. 

Meemaw was better now. Her words clotted sometimes, like traffic caught behind a wreck no one could see. Half-sentences. A lost noun. A wrong name that she’d quickly correct, embarrassed. She’d smile and swat at his shoulder and say she was just tired. Gary would nod and pretend to believe her. And try not to think about how close she’d come to disappearing forever. He was constantly checking on her, making sure she was upright, conscious, responsive, breathing. Spying she called it. But he knew one day he would peek in on her, when she was supposed to be watching NCIS for Mark Hamill and him alone, supposed to be laughing like she did every afternoon, and she would need him. And the thought of being too late made it hard to breathe. 

But he sat at the kitchen table, stirring more and more sugar into his coffee. He hadn’t ever been a coffee drinker, vastly preferring sweet tea. But sweet tea didn’t stop him from yawning. He was pulling open another splenda packet when his phone’s screen lit up. 

Collie ♥️: Heyyy, thoughts on the dance Friday?

Gary blinked at the text, every time he saw the little heart Collie had added to his name he couldn’t help but smile. It felt unreal.  He hadn’t been thinking about the dance. He’d barely been thinking about school. His brain felt waterlogged and electric at the same time. But Collie asking…that did spark something. A flutter. A warm feeling up his spine. 

He typed back.

Gary: maybe idk, no one has asked me

He knew that would get a reaction from him. Bait. 

Collie ♥️: Well fuck me ig

Collie ♥️: go with me?

There’s the fish. Gary stared at the screen for a long second. His pulse rose. His cheeks nearly broke from the smile on his face. And suddenly the kitchen felt too small.

Gary: yeah, yeah that would be awesome

Collie ♥️: it’s a date.

He set his phone down, screen down, and practically leapt from the chair. He barrelled into Meemaw’s room.

Later that night he couldn’t sit still. He cleaned. Then reorganized. Then reorganized again. He drifted room to room like sparks were popping under his skin. Olsen watched him from the kitchen doorway, popping gum that didn’t exist. “You’ll embarrass yourself,” Olsen hummed. “You’re trembling already.”

“Shut up,” Gary muttered, checking himself in the big oval  mirror in the dining room again. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Signs of something wrong? Signs of something right? 

“You can’t keep him,” Olsen said. “Boys like that don’t stay with boys like you.”

“I said shut up.”

“You’ll ruin it.”

“Shut! Up!” His voice cracked.

He pressed his palms hard against his eyes until patterns bloomed like firework embers. He was not going to lose control. He was not going to talk to people who weren't really there. Not before the dance. Especially not at the dance. Not before he’d even gotten to hold Collie’s damn hand in public. He wanted one night.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Mama was still asleep on the couch, arm flung over her eyes like some half-dead corpse unable to commit to rotting. The blanket twisted at her waist, her flip flop dangling off her toes. He stared at her, half praying for her chest to not rise. No such luck. 

Olsen sat on the floor criss-cross, “She’s probably faking being asleep to listen in. Waiting for you to say something she can yell at you for.”

Meemaw was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in her favorite sunflower robe, the one he had saved for a whole year to buy her. The fabric was faded, threads pulling loose at the seems. She looked tired, and smaller in the robe. Her glasses sat crooked on her nose, but she was smiling.  

“Morning, baby,” she murmured.

“Morning,” Gary said, leaning down to kiss her cheek. Her skin was warm? He kissed her forehead, hoping she wouldn’t notice him taking her temperature. Normal. 

She squeezed his hand, a little too weakly. “Y- you got a big weekend coming up. With the…” She paused, scrunching her face like the word had slipped away. “Dance. You… asked that boy.”

Gary flushed. “He asked me, Meemaw, I told you this last night.”

“Mmm.” Meemaw patted his cheek. “He’s… a good boy.” Her voice slurred just a little. Barely. Barely noticeable. But Gary noticed. He noticed everything now. He lived with her voice in his bones. He swallowed the spike of fear. 

“You want more oatmeal?” he asked, reaching for the packets. Meemaw had an awful taste in oatmeal, wanting it as soupy as possible. She used to joke that he wanted his as thick as cement, that he could use it to build a house. But they both could agree that the apple cinnamon flavor was the best. 

She started to answer, but the words tangled and she shook her head in frustration.

His chest tightened. “It’s okay. I’ll getcha something else.” 

She reached out, catching his wrist. “Baby… you’re… good. You’re good.” Her eyes were wet and full of love he didn’t deserve. 

He swallowed around something jagged. “You too, Meemaw.”

She smiled. “Gonna… be a good night. Don’t worry so much.”

Easy for her to say. She didn’t see Stebbins sitting on the washing machine, staring holes through the back of Gary’s skull like he knew every thought in his head. 

~~~~~

Two days before the dance, Collie found him at his locker.

“You okay?” Collie asked, studying him with those worried, too-honest eyes.

Gary jolted, too fast, too startled. He slammed his locker and nearly caught his fingers. He tried to slow down his movements to not seem weird. “Yeah. Just, yaknow, lots going on.”

“We don’t have to go if its too much. We could have a movie night with your grandma? Or something? I don’t know?” Collie asked gently, unsure. Gary hated being treated like he was fragile. He wasn’t fucking breakable.

“No!” Gary’s stomach twisted. Too loud. He had to pretend or the whole damn world would crack open. He shook his head, and tried to smile. “No. I want to go. Really.”

“Well, wanna come over Friday?” Collie asked. “Get ready at my place? My mom can drive us.”

Gary hesitated. His hallucinations had been picking up. The voices sneaking back in. Shadows growing more… person-shaped. But Collie was smiling at him, hopeful and soft and boyish. He couldn’t lose that. 

“Yeah,” Gary said. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Collie beamed. Actually beamed. The hall behind him flickered, a silhouette at the end of the hall vanished. 

But Gary felt like he was floating. The sun cracked open in his ribs. 

~~~~~~~~

Friday came too fast. Gary felt like he was standing still while the earth turned faster and faster every second, like someone had grabbed his reality and spun it like a merry-go-round. 

Gary stood in his room, trying to shove all his clothes in his backpack, but his fingers felt disconnected from the rest of him. He was jittery. His heart kept skipping beats in little stutters. He dropped a sock, grabbed another pair, forgot, and still bent to grab the dropped sock. 

Harkness circled him like a vulture. “If you don’t stop worrying you will ruin the night,” he murmured. “You ruin everything.”

Gary squeezed his eyes shut. “Shut up. Telling me to stop worrying isn’t fucking helpful.”

“You think he’ll choose you? You think he’ll stay? You’re delusional, boy.”

Gary’s breath hitched. The voice wasn’t Harkness. It was the Major. His cold commanding voice unmistakable for Harkness’ gentle one. He turned but the corner was empty, just an echo from the closet. 

His head throbbed. He reached for the orange pill bottle. He hadn’t taken them in over a month.Just one normal night. Please. He poured out ten pills. He closed his eyes until the buzzing faded, replaced by the burn from dry swallowing the pills. 

Meemaw shuffled into his room a couple minutes later, leaning on the doorframe. “Your little friend is here to get you ,” she said, the words thick but warm.

Gary turned, cheeks flushing. “Thanks, Meemaw.”

Her gaze softened, worry seeping through her smile. “You… okay, baby?”

He stiffened. Forced another smile. “Yeah. Just excited.”

She stepped forward and cupped his face with a trembling hand. “My boy,” she whispered. “You have… a good night.”

He almost broke. Right there. His vision blurring from the tears. He wanted to scream. He wanted to prove how miserable he felt. But no one would listen to anything that wasn’t what they wanted to hear. 

“Thanks,” he croaked.

“You come home and tell me… every detail.”

“I will.”

She nodded, shuffled back down the hall, and Gary followed her with his eyes until she disappeared out of sight. He didn’t want to leave her. Didn’t want to leave anything that felt as fragile as this idea of happiness. But he also couldn’t refuse Collie. Not tonight.

~~~~

Collie’s house was warm, like someone had turned up the thermostat just to prove our lived in it was. It cluttered in the comforting way families were supposed to be. Shoes with multicolored laces by the door. A half-finished puzzle on the table the edges complete but the middle empty, piles of pieces organized by color surrounding it. It smelled like detergent and spices and something frying in oil. Keyara and Winona kept trying to peak out of their room, desperate to be included, repeatedly told to play quietly by Mrs Parker. Nothing like the neat, echoing quiet of Gary’s place.

Collie’s mom beamed at him brightly. “Gary! So nice to see you again.”

Gary tried to smile back. “You too.” He hoped he sounded appropriately happy. 

She leaned against the counter, watching the boys bustle around gathering ties and hairspray and deodorant. “You two excited?” she asked.

Collie grinned. “A little.”

Gary’s pulse tripped at that “little”, like this was normal. Easy. Just another Friday. 

They went upstairs to Collie’s room. Posters on the wall. A half-open bag of pretzels. Laundry that had definitely been shoved under the bed moments before peaking out. Gary breathed in. Safe. It smelled safe. Gary shrugged off his backpack and pulled out his clothes, only slightly wrinkled, and started undressing to slip his dress shirt on. 

He was suddenly intimately aware of his body, his thin shoulders and barely visible ribs, how Collie’s hand on his back could frame him. He turned his head to look at Collie, expecting to find him facing the wall like he was. Instead Collie was grinning at him. Fondness, he hoped, palpable in his eyes. 

“I got you something,” Collie said suddenly.

Gary blinked. “What?”

Collie held up a tie, navy with tiny sunflowers. “Matches your shirt.”

“Oh.” Gary took it, throat tight. Sunflowers. Meemaw’s favorite.

“You like it?” Collie asked, suddenly shy.

Gary nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

Collie’s cheeks flushed pink. He stepped closer. “Can I try putting it on you?”

Gary nodded automatically. Collie’s fingers brushed the base of his throat as he lifted the tie around his neck, and Gary swore the room tilted. Something warm and huge swelled inside him.

“You okay?” Collie murmured.

Gary’s breath came shallow. “Yeah.”

“You sure?”

He wanted to say no. Wanted to say he was unraveling. Wanted to say Olsen and Harkness were whispering again. “He’s shaking like a leaf this is fucking embarrassing,” and “C’mon suck his cock already!” were being yelled simultaneously. How did he get stuck with worst peanut gallery in existence, he had to wonder what he did to piss off God. 

Instead he said, “Yeah. Just… nervous.”

Collie’s eyes softened. “I am too.”

Gary let out a tiny laugh. Nervous? Over him? It wasn’t possible. 

When Collie finished tying the knot, they stood there for a long second, close enough that Gary could feel the heat from his skin, close enough to count Collie’s freckles, close enough that his thoughts fuzzed around the edges. And suddenly Collie’s hand were meeting and passing his, as both reached for each other's faces. Their kiss messy and uncoordinated, teeth clacking. But Gary felt the pit in his stomach melt away as he nipped at Collie’s lower lip, and they explored each other's mouth. Collie moved his hand into his hair, gripping like he was worried he would float away, and Gary stifled a moan at the tug. Collie smiled at that, and peppered kisses over his cheek to his ear. Something molten and bright flooded his chest. 

“Ready?” Collie whispered, his lips brushing the shell of his ear. 

Gary whispered back, “Yeah.”

~~~~~~

The car ride was a blur. Collie’s mom had something on the radio, but nothing he recognized, she hummed along. Collie knee-bounced the whole time. Gary stared out the window and tried not to notice the figure in the rearview mirror, the wrong figure, the tall silhouette with the carved, amused smile. He was burning up, he could feel his palms sweating and his face flushed.  He dug his fingers into his thighs and inhaled through his nose. One night. Just one night. Breathe. The mantra repeated like a war march. 

The school gym was washed in string lights and swirling shadows. Makeshift constellations for a night entitled “Fancy Takes Flight”. Music thumped through the floorboards. Kids milled around in awkward clusters, glitter and sweat and nerves filling the air. Pete and Ray had already showed up, both in their navy blue suits milling near a wall, and Collie instantly wolf-whistled at them and Ray met him with a mock salute as Pete cracked his smile. Teeth bright enough to be spotted at twenty paces. Pearson waved from his seat by the ladies room, clearly poised to comfort any girl going to cry. Tressler had argued with the DJ over the playlist to no avail so the tracklist was mainly 80’s love ballads.

Collie touched his arm. “C’mon.” And Gary followed. Because he would follow Collie anywhere right now. They danced for a while, badly, stupidly, laughing when they stepped on each other’s shoes. It felt… normal. Almost. 

But Gary’s heart kept skipping. His chest kept tightening. The shadows around the edges of the gym kept breathing.  And the Major was somewhere behind his shoulder, whispering. “You look ridiculous.” Gary winced.

Collie noticed instantly. He stepped closer, voice lowered beneath the swell of Cyndi Lauper’s Time After Time, “Hey. You good?”

Gary nodded too fast. “Yeah. Just, it’s hot in here ain’t it?”

“You wanna go outside?” Collie asked, already tilting his head toward the gym doors. 

Gary could’ve kissed him again for giving him an exit. He swallowed hard. “Yeah. Please.” 

Collie laced their fingers together as they slipped through the crowd, weaving past slow dancers and clusters of kids screaming lyrics into each other’s faces. Each touch of Collie’s hand was a grounding point. A weight. A tether. A buoy in the storm. But Gary still felt like he was floating six inches off the ground and sinking at the same time.

The gym doors opened with a metallic groan, and suddenly the night air hit him like a blessing. Cool. Crisp. Real in a way the gym hadn’t been. The parking lot was lit by sickly yellow lamps, long shadows stretching over cracked asphalt. Gary looked around instinctively, counting shadows, checking for movement that shouldn’t exist. Olsen wasn’t there. Harkness wasn’t there. The Major was–

He was standing at the edge of the lamplight. Tall. Still. Waiting. Gary blinked hard until the figure flickered and dissolved. “Jesus,” he whispered under his breath.

Collie tugged lightly at his hand. “C’mere.” They walked around the corner of the building, where the noise faded into soft thumps and occasional shrieks of laughter from inside. Collie hopped up to sit on the concrete wall, pulling Gary up beside him.

“You okay?” Collie asked again, leaning shoulder-to-shoulder.

Gary let out a laugh, sharp and thin. “Yeah. Just… overwhelmed. Crowds, y’know?”

Collie nodded immediately, like he really did know. An evil part of Gary’s brain said he didn’t fucking know, a guy like Collie was made to be the center of attention. “Same. My mom loves dancing, but I always feel like everyone’s watching me.”

Gary snorted, of course everyone was watching him, he was beautiful. He wanted so bad to say that but. “You’re a good dancer.” came out instead

“I stepped on your foot three times.”

“And I stepped on yours twice.”

“Twice?” Collie raised an eyebrow. “Gare, it was like six.”

Gary laughed again, for real this time. His body loosened just enough to breathe.

Collie bumped their shoulders. “I’m glad you’re here. I know life has sucked so much ass recently.”

Gary looked at him then, really looked. The way the lamplight softened Collie’s features, turning every freckle golden. The bow tie slightly askew from dancing. His hair a little messy from Gary’s hands. Warmth pulsed in Gary’s chest, deep and bright and aching.

“I’m glad I’m here too,” he whispered.

Collie’s smile was small, private. “Can I… ask you something?”

Gary tensed, heart hammering. “Yeah?”

“Is this okay?” Collie held up their joined hands slightly. “Like… us? In public? I know the guys support us obviously Pete and Ray can’t keep their hands off each other but…” he trailed off gesturing back to the gym where everyone in the world seemed to be.

Gary’s throat tightened. His palms were sweaty. His brain was loud and terrifying and loving and dizzy. He hated how desperate he felt. 

But he nodded. “Yeah. This is really okay.”

Collie’s breath caught, soft, visible in the cold night air. “Good.”

They sat there for a while. Talking quietly. Laughing. Shoulders pressed together like the night needed them to stay warm.

Gary leaned back on his palms, looking up at the stars. They spun a little, but gently this time. And for the first time all week, the shadows didn’t breathe. Just Gary. Just Collie. Just the night. One night.

Gary could almost believe it would be enough.

Chapter Text

Gary didn’t want the night to end.

Not with the music bouncing in his ribs, or the sticky glow of gym lights making everything feel soft around the edges. Not with the sunflower tie against his shirt, the one Collie had knotted around his throat with trembling hands. Not with Collie’s laugh still warm in his chest, or Ray twirling Pete like they were in a shitty Disney Channel movie ignoring the looks from others as they laughed too loud. Their happiness unabashed and for no one except themselves. Pearson was holding a crying girl’s shoes while she hyperventilated and gripped his dark green button-up. His glasses slipped down his face as he made eye contact with Gary, giving him a thumbs-up. Tressler was doing his best to not be spotted by Pearson, the girl he had come with, Becky or Brittney or something, had been replaced as his dance partner with Pearson’s sister. 

And for a moment, a stupid, warm, impossible moment, Gary let himself imagine this was his life. A life where his brain behaved. A life where dances weren’t minefields. A life where being Collie’s boyfriend didn’t feel like holding something delicate and breakable and too good to last.

He wanted more of it. More of the warmth. More of Collie touching him without hesitation. More of his friends being loud and stupid and alive and dancing. More of feeling like a normal seventeen-year-old boy instead of… whatever he was.

So he made himself a promise: he will not fuck this up tonight. He will just be a boy with a boyfriend at a dance.

He was going to be present. Attentive. Fun. Kissable. Someone Collie wouldn’t regret choosing. Someone who didn’t shake or flinch or stare at corners too long. He was going to give Collie everything. His attention. His presence. His smile. No shaking hands. No listening to men who weren’t real.

Just one night.

Collie squeezed his hand as they re-entered the gym, thumb brushing his knuckles. “You doing okay?”

Gary smiled too widely. “Yeah. Great. I’m great.”

Collie beamed, happily believing him.

Gary’s stomach twisted. His teeth hurt from the sweetness.

Behind Collie’s shoulder, Stebbins materialized, his normally tall frame seeming small with how jittery and furious he was, kicking at nothing on the gym floor. “Tell him! Tell him now before it gets worse!” he hissed.

He excused himself for the bathroom before his smile cracked open entirely. “Just,” he shook his head, “Water. Bathroom. Be right back.”

Collie grinned back, bright and unguarded, and it burned. “Ill be right here. 

And oh God he would be. He would be. Until he saw too much. And then he slipped away.

Just for a second. Just to the bathroom. Just to breathe. The moment the bathroom door shut, the noise of the dance flattened into a dull thump. Gary gripped the sink, breathing too fast, staring at the mirror.

He didn’t look like himself. Too flushed. Pupils huge, swallowing the blue completely. His collar damp with sweat. His heart beating like he’d sprinted a mile.

But that was just nerves. Right? Just nerves.

Just one normal night.

The dizziness swelled like water inside his skull, sloshing whenever he moved. He locked his elbows and breathed through it until the room steadied. He clutched the sink until the initial wave of dizziness passed. His pulse thumped hard in his neck, his wrists, behind his eyes. He splashed some water on his face, but as he looked up into the mirror his world tilted, his face in the mirror not matching his own. A large bloody wound in his neck met his gaze instead.

When he blinked it away, the bathroom light flickered, and the Major was leaning against the far stall. Arms crossed. Tactical gear. Boots leaving muddy prints that weren’t possible.

“Now that’s desperate,” the Major drawled. His voice slithered into Gary’s bones. “Drugging yourself just to pretend you aren’t broken. You really think a few pills will shut us up? We’re not going anywhere. We’re carved into your skull. Permanent fixtures.”

Gary flinched hard. “Shut up.”

Harkness appeared beside him in the mirror, scribbling rapidly onto a clipboard. “Pulse elevated. Respiration unsteady. Cognitive fragmentation is increasing.” He didn’t look at Gary, he never did,  just wrote and wrote, like documenting Gary’s collapse was part of the job.

Olsen leaned against the hand dryer, arms crossed, shaking his head. “Told you skipping the meds would come back to bite you in the ass. Real dumb, kid.”

Gary ripped his eyes away, forcing himself to start walking. His heart hammered faster with every step. His hands were shaking. The hallway was getting hotter. He shoved into the hallway. It wasn’t cooler. The lights in the corridor buzzed like angry hornets. Too bright. Too sharp. Heat radiated off the lockers in shimmering waves. His skin felt too tight. His mouth too dry. His ribs too small.

He stepped into the gym and the entire world tilted.

Music slammed into him. Colors smeared. The crowd warped around the edges like a funhouse mirror. The crowd warped, faces smearing, expressions stretching into masks. The music thumped, but weirdly off-beat.

Gary scanned the room, desperate for Collie.

There, by the drink table with Tressler, his dark hair haloed and glowing under the lights.

For half a second, Gary felt his chest loosen. Collie was real. Collie was here. That meant he could get through this.

Gary tried to smile.  “It’s fine,” he told himself. “I’m fine.”
He forced himself back into the circle of metal chairs, into the half-warm soda and half-finished conversations like nothing was happening.

Pete was talking about some girl in chem who’d asked him for help on the final, and Ray elbowed him like it was a scandal, and Gary tried, God, he tried, to smile. But every sound came in too loud, like someone had turned the gym’s acoustics inside out.

Ray leaned in to whisper, “Do you think he knows she’s flirting with him?” and Gary blinked slowly, the words hitting him at a delay. 

Ray smiled and continued, “He’s going to call me jealous when I point it out later.” and laughed. Ray’s laugh was like sunshine on a cloudy day, all warmth and no burn.

“Dude, you good?” Tressler laughed after Gary didn’t respond. “What, see a ghost?”

Gary flinched. Hard. Because over Tressler’s shoulder, The Major grinned like he’d been waiting for that line. Attaboy. Tell ’em. Tell ’em what you really see.

“No, I just, sorry.” Gary pushed a hand through his hair, fingers trembling. “Long night.”

Ray joked something about “If Collie has his way it may be longer,” but Gary didn’t hear the rest. The joke twisted, distorted, warped into something sharp and hostile, like Ray was accusing him of something.

Then he blinked, and Ray was normal again, mid-sentence, smiling.

Then the Major appeared behind Collie. He leaned down as if whispering in Collie’s ear. Gary’s entire vision jolted, white-hot panic slicing through him. His breath punched out of him.

Collie hadn’t even turned around yet.

“Gary?” Tressler’s voice cut through the music; he was suddenly at Gary’s shoulder. “Dude, you look…are you sick?”

Gary stumbled back. “No, no, I’m-I’m fine, I’m good, I’m,” But his words tangled. His tongue felt thick. His brain skipped.

Pete and Ray approached on the other side. “You’re sweating through your shirt, man.” Pete said.

“I’m not no. ’s just hot, hot in here, it’s just ” The gym walls pulsed like lungs. The balloon arch writhed like intestines. Someone’s laugh shot through the air sharp as a gunshot. The lights flickered like warnings.

Collie started toward him, worry flickering across his face. “Gary? Hey. What’s wrong?”

But Gary didn’t hear him.

The Major walked toward him, boots echoing through music that shouldn’t have allowed that kind of sound. “You think they care about you?” Step. “You think they’d still want you if they saw what’s in your head?” Step. “You’re a liability, Gary. Dead weight.” Step. “You shouldn’t be here,” the Major murmured. “You’re making a fool of yourself.”

Gary jerked back and slammed into someone. Pearson, who flinched.

“Woah, dude hey, look at me,” Pearson said carefully. Gary tried. Pearson’s face split into two. Then three. Then melted back into one like clay.

“I’m fine,” Gary insisted again, but the words slurred. “Jus’ too loud.”

Harkness walked a slow circle around Gary, murmuring observations: “Visual distortions intensifying. The subject is dissociating from the spatial environment.” His pen scratched with mechanical efficiency.

Collie reached him, hands on his arms. “Okay. Okay, hey. We can go outside again. We can get air. Gare? Look at me. You’re okay.”

“He’s not,” The Major said, marching right beside them, boots echoing even though no one else reacted. “He’s compromised. Son, report your symptoms.”

“Ignore him,” Stebbins snarled. “Don’t listen to that bastard. Gary, kid, don’t you dare.”

Harkness nearly lost control of his clipboard. “Subject is exhibiting accelerated decompensation,” he muttered, scribbling over and over. “Recommend intervention. Immediate. Immediate.”

Olsen sauntered behind them, hands in pockets. “This is what happens when the kid doesn’t take his meds. What’d you think was gonna happen? Sunshine and boyfriend kisses?”

Gary forced his eyes up at Collie, away from the others.

Collie’s face was backlit by gym lights, soft, warm, terrified for him.

Gary wanted to hold onto that face with both hands. Wanted to anchor himself in it. Wanted to drown in it. Wanted to die before he made Collie take care of him. Wanted to cry seeing his face creased with worry.

But then the Major stepped behind Collie again.

“You think he wants this version of you?” the Major asked. “You think he’ll stay when he sees how broken you are? They’ll leave you. All of them. And when they do? You’ll be alone. With me.”

Gary ripped away from Collie so suddenly the boy almost fell.

Ray swore as Pete lunged to steady Collie.

“Gary! Stop!” Collie called out, if people looked at him he didn’t care to notice.

Gary shoved through the crowd.

Someone protested when he bumped them. Someone else cursed. The Major’s shadow followed him, stretching long and wrong under the gym lights.

The walls were melting. The lights were flaring. His skin felt too tight. His circulation went tight and hot and wrong. His chest burned. He didn’t know where he was going, only that he needed to get out. He stumbled into a hallway. The corridor warped like a heat mirage. The floor rippled under his shoes. His shadow stretched long in front of him, except it wasn’t his shadow. 

It was the Major’s.

Gary pressed both hands to the wall. “Nonono don’t don’t stop,” he hissed at the hallucination, but the words weren’t right. They didn’t line up.

Footsteps thundered behind him.

“Gare!” Collie’s voice cracked with fear. “Please, just talk to me. What’s happening? We can go home?”

Gary spun around too fast, stumbling into a locker. Collie skidded to a halt several feet away, hands raised like approaching a scared animal.

Behind Collie, Pete and Ray hovered, unsure, gripping each other’s hands. Pete hiding Ray behind him just a bit. Pearson sprinted past them, probably going to get a teacher. Tressler had his phone out, ready to call someone at a moment’s notice with his shaking fingers hovering over the screen. 

“Gary,” Collie tried again, voice soft but shaking. “You’re scaring me. Are you having…are you freaking out? Are you sick? Talk to me, please.”

“I c-I can’t,” Gary gasped. His tongue felt too big. Words stuck like glue. “They’re, they’re sayin’-they’re tellin’ stuff, I can’t, can’t”

“They?” Collie repeated gently.

Gary grabbed his own head like he could squeeze the voices out. The Major walked right through Collie. Straight toward Gary. His eyes red and his hands, once empty, holding a rifle. Gary screamed. A raw, panicked sound.

Ray’s face drained of color. “Holy shit. Holy shit. Collie, fuck, what do we do?”

Collie didn’t move. He stayed planted, desperate and helpless. “Gary, baby, who’s there? Who are you seeing?”

Gary’s chest convulsed, breath jagged. He pointed behind Collie, hand shaking so violently it looked blurred.

“There’s no one there,” Collie whispered, broken.

Gary shook his head frantically. “No. No he’s-he’s right! He’s right there!” Then he crumpled to his knees.

Collie lunged forward. Pete grabbed his arm. “Don’t touch him, he’s confused. he might hurt you…”

“I don’t care, he needs help!” Collie gasped, ripping free. He knelt beside Gary, gripping his shoulders. “Gary. Look at me. Look at me. Just me, just Collie please.”

Gary stared at him, pupils huge, tears streaking down his face.

“Don’-don’t. He’ll he’s gonna hurt you,” Gary whispered. His words were fading, breaking, slipping into nonsense. “Stay back, no, don’t-don’t–don’t let him.”

“Gary, there’s no one here but us.”

Gary screamed again, this time a full-bodied wail, and scrambled backward so fast he fell onto his elbows.

Stebbins appeared beside him and tried to push the Major away with both hands. His palms went through the larger man’s chest.

The Major crouched beside him, smiling. “You’re coming with me.” Gary bolted to his feet. Then he ran.

The night slapped him in the face. Cold. Sharp. Not grounding him at all, just making the world tilt harder. The parking lot lights smeared into streaks. The parking lot stretched too long, too wide, like someone had pulled it at the corners. The streetlights flickered, pop, pop, pop, each flash like a muzzle flare.

He staggered, clutching at nothing.

“Gary!” Collie was behind him again, feet pounding pavement. Ray and Pete weren’t far behind.

Gary could hear Collie’s breath hitching like he was crying. “Please stop! You’re scaring me.” He turned to the rest of the guys, his voice cracking, “I don’t know what’s happening.”

“Gary!” Collie’s voice echoed weirdly, like it was being broadcast through an old walkie-talkie: ary, ary, ary, do you copy? 

Gary whipped around. Collie was running toward him. Or at least Gary hoped it was Collie. His face glitched, lines through it like an old CRT tv, one second soft and terrified, the next sharp-edged and disappointed.

But Gary couldn’t stop. The Major prowled after him, boots silent now. “You can’t run from me.”

Gary’s pulse thundered. His vision tunneled. Everything was too bright. Too sharp. Too much. The pavement blurred under his feet.

The night peeled open around him like wet paper, stars smearing into white scars across the sky as if reality itself were tearing to let the Major through.

The Major stood between two sedans, half-smoked cigarette glowing like an ember in the dark.

Tressler’s voice broke through the noise, “Does anyone know his Granny’s number?”

The Major lunged.

Gary shrieked and tore open into a sprint toward the street.

His chest was burning. His arms numb. His legs pure adrenaline. He didn’t see the headlights until they were already too close.

Stebbins grabbed Gary’s sleeve. “Don’t listen to him! Stay with me, stay with us, stay with reality, kid!”

Olsen whistled from the roof of someone’s car. “Reality? That ship sailed weeks ago.”

Gary stumbled mid-street, knees buckling. He collapsed, palms scraping asphalt, narrowly missing the front bumper of a red sedan as it skidded sideways.

The car swerved and stopped just inches from his hip. Gasps. Screams. A woman shouting from the driver’s seat.

But Gary didn’t hear her. Because the Major was kneeling in front of him. Reaching for his face.

The whole world pulsed like a single, enormous organ, choking, contracting, and Gary was just another trapped heartbeat trying to escape.

Gary sobbed, curling inward on the asphalt. “Stop, please. Stop, please jus’ jus’ one night.”

Everything blurred. Collie reached him first, sliding on his knees, grabbing Gary’s face between both hands.

“Gary. Look at me.” Gary couldn’t. His eyes rolled. His breath came in shallow, panicked spurts. He heard Collie snapping his fingers.

Collie shook his head violently. “There’s no one. There’s no one. It’s just us. You’re safe. You’re safe. Stay with me, stay with me.”

Gary’s body arched once, violently convulsing, like a jolt of electricity arcing through him.

Then he went limp.

Ray choked on a sob. “Oh my god, Collie, Collie!”

Collie didn’t look away from Gary for a second. “Call 911!” he screamed. Tressler screamed back.

Pearson’s voice echoed from somewhere near the building: “They’re coming!! The Sisters are on their way!”

Collie held Gary’s head in his lap, shaking, crying openly. Pete kneeled next to him, his hand on his shoulder.

“Gary, baby, please wake up, please, pleasepleaseplease.”

Gary’s breath shuddered weakly.

His pulse fluttered against Collie’s fingers like a moth beating itself to death.

Bright.

White.

Then nothing.

Chapter Text

One second he was standing in the living room, shoes still on, jacket still hanging off one shoulder, and the next he was sprawled on his bed staring at the ceiling like it might explain something if he looked hard enough, the old posters on the wall just out of focus around the edge of his vision, blurring more as tears threatened to slide out but never did, hanging suspended like everything else that night. The posters stared back, the band one from sophomore year with the bent corner, the retro poster for “The Thing” he’d bought in Maine when his dad was placed there when he was in middle school, bought just because the room had felt too empty at the time and it looked cool. He hadn’t even seen the movie yet, and now it was one of his favorites. Little pieces of himself he’d hauled from house to house, town to town. Normally they grounded him. Tonight they barely registered.

He hadn’t even meant to go to his room. His feet took him there while the rest of him stayed stuck on the sidewalk where Gary’s body hit the pavement. He passed the framed school photos on the wall, the ones Ma insisted on buying every year even when Collie knew he looked bad, washed out or with a mouth full of braces. His own seventh-grade one caught the light, chubby cheeks, shorter, messier hair, a large grin on his face because he hadn’t yet been told they were moving next year. He felt like an impostor wearing that kid’s face now.

The house was too quiet. It was never quiet, but Ma had picked him up without question, and gone in the house to make sure the girls were asleep before waving him in, shielding him from questions from sisters who were more excited than he had been for the dance.

Not peaceful quiet. Not the beautiful nighttime quiet that meant he was free to scroll on his phone without someone needing him. Wrong quiet. The kind that rang in his ears.

Gary’s bag sat on the floor by the dresser, tipped onto its side where Gary had dropped it earlier in the night while Collie’s mom had called from the kitchen that she was ready to drive them.

Collie stared at it.

Didn’t move.

His phone buzzed in his hand again. Another text from Pete. The stupid name he had him saved didn't even bring a smile like it normally did.

Freak-a-leek: how you holdin up??? get home safe??

Freak-a-leek: im sure hell be okay

Collie didn’t answer. He didn’t know what the answer was. He didn’t even know what the question really was. Okay? No. Safe? Technically. Holding up? Barely. Gary had gone into the street. Gary had collapsed. Gary had gone limp in his arms.

And then the paramedics had taken him away, and someone, Ray, maybe, or a teacher, had steered Collie backward like a malfunctioning robot and told him to sit down, to breathe, to wait.

Wait for what?

He dragged a hand down his face. His fingers were still trembling. He could still feel Gary’s pulse under his thumb, erratic and fluttering like it didn’t want to be caught. A butterfly in his net.

“Okay,” Collie whispered to the empty room. “Okay.”

The word meant less than nothing.

He looked at the bag again.

Something twisted in his chest. Answers were in there, maybe, and didn’t he have a duty to find them? If Gary had taken something, something bad, he would need to call the hospital to tell them.

Collie leaned forward and picked it up.

It felt heavier than it should have.

He hesitated, just pausing for a second, with the backpack heavy on his knees, like he was crossing a line he didn’t have permission to cross. Then he unzipped it the rest of the way. Snooping, his ma had never let him dig in her purse, and had always told him to bring the whole thing to her when she needed it. People deserved privacy, she always said.

Inside were the normal things. Books, folders, one inch binders, both color coded. They had argued on the merits of math being yellow, but at least science was always green. School issued ID. Keys. A crumpled napkin from earlier with something handwritten on it, probably homework, Gary was always writing things down. His hoodie, folded smaller than Collie expected, like he’d taken care to make it neat.

At the very bottom of the bag was a pill bottle. Collie froze. His breath came shallow as he pulled it out. The label caught the light from the lamp. Gary’s name. It was a prescription. His stomach dropped, but not as far as it could have, at least it was his. Not someone else’s. Another bottle was wedged beneath it. And another. All the same name, all one month older than the last.

Collie sat back hard against the wall, clutching the plastic like it might burn him.
“Oh my god,” he breathed.

He lined them up on the bedside table like evidence. All the same dose and name and doctor. He googled the medication name. The only link that popped up was a government trial. He scrolled slowly, medication resistant schizophrenia,

“This doesn’t, ” He broke off, swallowing. “This doesn’t make sense.”

But it did. In awful, jagged pieces. A puzzle that didn’t want to be solved. How Gary had been on the floor in the bathroom when they first met, too pale, too shaky. Weeks of him getting quieter. Slower. Like a dimmer switch on a person.
Then the sudden change. Then the brightness.

The newest bottle was at the top of the pile, wedged in the corner on the bag, held up with a red binder, red for history, because of the bloodshed Gary had said with a smirk he kissed right off of his stupidly pretty lips. Collie counted out the pills, a 30 day dose issued that Monday, missing 10 pills.

Gary hadn’t been sick at the dance. Gary hadn’t just panicked. Gary had done that on purpose. Why?

He wiped at his eyes, angry, embarrassed at the tears, then froze as his hand brushed something else in the bag.

A notebook. Black cover. Soft-edged. Worn. He pulled it out slowly, careful to not disturb its resting place between English’s blue notebook, “like the curtains” he had said, and math’s yellow. Yellow because it pissed him off.

There was no name on the front. No label. Just the corners bent and the spine cracked like it had been opened and closed a thousand times.

Collie’s chest tightened. He knew, he knew he shouldn’t read it. He should put his headphones in and crank music up til his ears bleed. He should stare at posters on his wall, he should sleep. He should call Pearson and tell him he saw Tressler dancing with his sister just to hear him rant until he admitted that Tressler was a good guy and Veronica could do worse and has done worse. And Collie should joke that by worse did he mean when he dated Ronnie for a week in the 9th grade until they kissed and Collie got scared feeling her boobs press against him.

But Gary wasn’t here. He was in the fucking hospital, probably hooked up to fluids getting his fucking stomach pumped because he decided to take a couple hundred milligrams for some fucking reason. Gary had nearly died.

And something in Collie was screaming that if he didn’t understand now, he never would.

He opened it. The first page wasn’t dated. The handwriting was cramped, like Gary had been trying to stay inside the lines of his own thoughts, writing faster than normal to not be seen.

Sometimes I think too much about thinking, which feels like trying to look at my own eyeballs.

He skimmed the rest of the page, looking for something, even though he didn’t know what. It’s mostly chicken scratch, illegible, and some words are scribbled out. He catches some though, Rank, cooking, hallucination.

Hallucination.

He hated that the word hit his stomach so firmly, that it made sense. The people Gary had been referring to, the ones only he could see.

He turned the page.

They’re louder at night.
Harkness talks like he’s narrating my life. And Olsen just makes lewd jokes and laughs when I mess up. The Major doesn’t laugh. He just watches. He’s always fucking watching. Dr. Lambert and Dr. McGhee both say that doesn’t mean they’re real. It just means my brain learned the wrong lessons too well. Who knows what that shit means. But they both say i gotta in here to help “organize my thoughts” so this is me, fucking writing.

Collie had to stop.

He pressed his fingers into the page like he could hold Gary’s hand through the paper.

“Oh, Gare,” he whispered.

Page after page followed. Some long. Some barely a paragraph. Dates scattered and inconsistent January to April. The first date is a couple days into January, and thinking back, it was soon after they had met.

Sometimes they were quiet when I was with people. But now the meds have almost gotten rid of them?
Maybe not gone. Just… softer. Like someone turned the volume down but didn’t turn it off? I don't know, Feels like I’m slipping.
Like I’m standing on a hill covered in mud and everyone keeps yelling at me to “try harder” but I can’t get my feet under me.
I’m tired of disappointing people just by existing wrong.

Another.

I don’t tell people because I don’t want them to look at me the way they look at broken things. Like I’m something they need to pity, or worry about. I can take care of myself. I think the meds are supposed to make me feel steady. But most days I feel like a puppet with someone else pulling the strings wrong. Some days I wake up and feel okay. Other days I wake up and everything is loud before I even open my eyes.

Another.

Meemaw says I’m strong. I don’t feel strong. I feel like I’m always bracing for impact. I just want to get through this school without anyone knowing I’m fucked up. I don’t want anyone looking at me the way Rank did. I’m tired of being scared of my own head. It’s like every thought I have has to fight for space with something that isn’t mine. I keep thinking about what McGhee said, “You’re not dangerous, you’re overwhelmed.” But ain’t it the same damn thing? If I’m overwhelmed enough, I can still ruin everything.

Collie’s vision blurred.

He flipped further in, faster now, heart pounding, with panic, with the desperate need to know.

Collie

Collie stopped breathing entirely.

His fingers trembled as he read.

Collie holds my hand like he means it. Like it’s not a question that he likes me. When he smiles at me, everything gets quieter for a second. I think that’s what peace is supposed to feel like. He says he loves how happy I am now. I love being happy for him. I just wish i could be happy without worrying i’ll scare him off by being broken.

Tears slid down Collie’s face without him noticing.

He laughed once, brokenly, pressing the heel of his hand over his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he breathed. “Oh my god.”

Another entry.

I’m scared he’ll find out and leave.
Everyone leaves eventually. Collie noticed I was shaking when we were walking to class. He asked if I was cold, and I said yeah, even though it was like seventy-eight degrees. He gave me his sweatshirt and held my hand through the sleeve to “warm me up,” and Olsen shut the hell up for a whole hour.
Maybe I should’ve said thank you in a way he’d actually hear. Not sure how. But if I get one good night, just one, maybe that’s enough. I just want to be normal for him.

Collie slammed the notebook shut, pressing it to his chest as a sob tore out of him.

“No,” he said aloud, hoarse. “No, that’s not…”

He dragged in a shaky breath.

“That’s not how this ends,” he told the empty room. “You don’t get one night. You don’t get just that.”

He did it…because he thought he needed to. To be something he had decided Collie deserved.

The realization hit so hard Collie bent forward, elbows on knees, bottles clutched to his chest like he could hold the truth still if he squeezed hard enough.

“You idiot,” he whispered, maybe to himself, or to the universe, or to the months he had spent just wanting to love Gary without being allowed to understand him. “You absolute idiot.”

Collie must have fallen asleep without meaning to. One second he was sitting upright, back pressed against the wall, breath still hiccupping in his chest and then the world tilted, softened, and he was standing in the middle of the school gym again. Except it wasn’t the gym. Not really.

The lights were too dim, spinning too slow, smearing color across the air like someone had dipped the whole room in watercolor. The music wasn’t the same music they had played, just a deep thrum under his feet, like a heartbeat coming from somewhere outside his body. People moved around him in shapes, not faces, outlines blurred and shifting like reflections in a broken mirror.

Collie tried to call out, but his voice didn’t make any sound. His throat didn’t even vibrate. He saw shapes he knew were Pete and Ray, dancing, swaying with each other.

A figure stepped forward through the haze. Gary. He was still wearing his dance outfit, shirt wrinkled from where Collie had pressed against him in his bedroom for a kiss, tie crooked, hair pushed back in a way that made him look startled and soft all at once. He smiled when he saw Collie.

Except… it wasn’t really a smile. Too slow. His teeth were too sharp. Too heavy at the corners. Like he was trying to remember how to use his face,

Collie reached out. “Gare?”

No sound again. Not even a whisper. Gary seemed to hear him anyway. He stepped closer, shoes scuffing across the gym floor in long, dragging arcs. He lifted a hand like he wanted to touch Collie’s cheek. Behind him, shadows shifted.

Three figures stood in the corners of Collie’s vision, never fully in focus. Shifting like they couldn’t decide how to be the most threatening.

Collie’s stomach twisted. He didn’t want to see them. Didn’t want to know them. He only looked back at Gary. Gary’s fingers brushed his wrist, cold, too cold. Collie wrapped his hand around Gary’s, trying to anchor him, trying to pull him closer, trying to do something. But Gary jerked like he’d been shocked. His smile flickered, cracking down the middle. His pupils seemed to shudder, shrinking, expanding, shrinking again.

He swayed.

“No, Gary. don’t ” Still no sound. His mouth moved uselessly in the dark air.

Gary’s lips parted like he was about to speak, to explain, to apologize, to say something that would make all of this make sense, but nothing came out. Not even breath.

Then his knees buckled.

Collie lunged forward, arms outstretched, but the floor grew slick beneath his feet, a wet sheen spreading across the tiles. The thudding heartbeat of the music grew louder, louder, louder until it rattled Collie’s bones. Gary fell into Collie’s chest, weightless and heavy at the same time, like a ghost wearing a body.

The shadows in the corners whispered. Or maybe laughed.

Gary’s head lolled back, eyes rolling just slightly, the way they had in the street. His hand slipped from Collie’s fingers…falling.

Collie screamed, a ripped-open, throat-twisting sob, but the dream swallowed it whole.

The world dropped out beneath him.

The gym vanished.

Collie jolted awake in his bed, breath ragged, chest aching like someone had reached into it and squeezed. For a second he didn’t know where he was, gym, sidewalk, his room, somewhere in between, until the ceiling swam into focus, faintly yellow in the lamplight he’d forgotten to turn off. His heart was still racing.

He pushed himself upright, palms planted against the mattress like he needed proof it was solid. His whole body felt wrong, like he’d been dropped from a height and had to wait for his soul to catch up.

The notebook was still on the floor beside him where it had slipped from his arm. The pill bottles were still lined up on the table like silent accusations. Nothing had changed. Nothing was better.

He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging at the dried tear tracks on his cheeks. It had been a dream. Just a dream. But his throat still felt raw from a scream he hadn’t made out loud.

He looked at the clock. 3:42 a.m. Too late to call anyone. Too early to pretend he’d ever sleep again. A small, weak sound crawled out of him, something between a laugh and a groan. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes until stars bloomed behind them.

Gary had known he cared. Gary had written about him like he mattered. And instead of talking to him, about the meds, the voices, the fear, he had tried to fix it alone. Tried to turn himself into something Collie never asked for.

Was Gary even awake right now? Was he scared? Was he confused? Did he think Collie would be mad at him? Was someone sitting beside him in the hospital bed or was he alone under those too-bright lights with the sound of machines beeping like metronomes for thoughts he couldn’t quiet?

Collie swallowed hard. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He needed to move. Needed to do something. Sitting still made the panic crawl up his throat like it wanted to choke him. He stood on unsteady legs and crossed the room. His reflection in the darkened window stopped him, eyes swollen, hair sticking up, face blotchy, shirt wrinkled from where he’d fallen asleep against the wall. He barely recognized himself. He pressed his forehead to the cool glass.

He should call Pete. He knew that. He should call Pete or Ray or anyone who wouldn’t let him spiral in his own head until morning. But the thought of opening his mouth and hearing his own voice crack wide open made his stomach twist.

He exhaled, fogging up the glass. He needed a second. A minute. Something.

He turned back toward the bed, toward the bag, toward the truth he’d spent months wishing for and now wished he could un-know. His hands hovered over the notebook again.

He didn’t open it.

He just touched the cover, gently, like it was the closest he could get right now to touching Gary’s hand.

He sank down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, forehead pressed to his clasped hands as if he were praying to something he didn’t believe in.

Tomorrow, later, when the sun was up, he’d have to call everyone. He’d have to explain. He’d have to figure out how to get to the hospital. How to talk to Gary. How to tell him that he didn’t want perfect nights or normalcy or silence. Just a couple hours. Just until the sky went from black to blue. Just enough time to gather what pieces of himself hadn’t broken.

Collie lowered his hands, fingers loosening, and stared at the dark stripe of the notebook’s spine on the floor. He could still feel the weight of it, ghosting across his palms. He shouldn’t have read it. He knew that. Some part of him knew he had crossed into something private, something sacred, like stepping through a doorway he wasn’t supposed to know existed. But now that he’d stepped through, there was no going back. There was no pretending ignorance. No pretending he didn’t know exactly how scared Gary had been. Or exactly how much he’d been trying to hold himself together.

He felt sick. Like he had a stomachache, like any second he’d be bent over the toilet, like he might shake apart if anything else touched him wrong. He leaned back until his shoulders hit the wall, head tilting upward. The ceiling stared blankly back at him, and he stared at it like it might blink first.

He wasn’t ready for tomorrow.

He wasn’t ready for the phone calls, the explanations, the sympathy. Oh God, the sympathy. People meant well, sure, but the minute they softened their voice, the minute they tilted their head and asked how he was holding up, Collie felt like someone had grabbed him around the ribs and squeezed.

He wasn’t holding up. He was a loose stack of parts pretending to be a boy. He scrubbed at his eyes again. His shirt’s sleeve came away damp. He wished he could go back. Just for a second. Back to the stupid argument about which binder color was for history. Back to the hallway where Gary had smiled at him for no reason. Back to his mom shouting from downstairs that she was leaving in five, so hurry the hell up.

Back to before the street.

He would give anything to go back before the street.

Collie curled forward, arms folding across his stomach like he had to keep himself from cracking open. His mind was too loud. The silence in the house made it worse. Every small creak of the walls settling sounded like a scream. He could feel the house breathing, aware of him. He needed air. His hands pushed at the mattress beside him like he could claw his way out of his own skin. Standing felt impossible, but sitting felt worse. So he forced his legs to move, to straighten, to bear his weight as he staggered toward the door.

The hallway light had been turned off, but a faint glow spilled in from the bathroom nightlight. He padded toward it, feet cold against the hardwood, hands sliding along the wall to steady himself. He was careful to be quiet, he didn’t want to wake up Keyara, she was a light sleeper. Not Winnie, she could sleep through a tornado at the end of the world and wake up asking where the roof went.

In the bathroom, he flicked on the light. Too bright. Too immediate. He flinched and reached automatically for the dimmer, turning it low until everything washed in honey-colored shadow.

He gripped the sink with both hands. The porcelain was cold. He looked at himself in the mirror. He wished he hadn’t. He looked ruined. Eyes red and swollen, lashes clumped, cheeks blotchy and uneven with rogue strands of hair clinging to them. His hair was a mess, frizzy and knotted. Shirt wrinkled, still in one of his dad’s ties. A tie that he had been so excited to wear.

He should splash water on his face. He should, at the very least, clean up enough that he didn’t look like someone who’d spent the night reading the worst night of someone’s life in their own handwriting.

But he couldn’t move.

His reflection stared back at him like a stranger wearing too much of his skin. Like someone older than him stared back. Like someone who’d survived something without actually coming back whole from it, or had come back wrong.

He swallowed, throat tight. “Get it together,” he whispered, but even his whisper cracked. He gripped the sink harder. “Just for tonight. Just until morning.”

His voice sounded small. Pathetic. He hated it. He liked being the capable one, the strong one for his sisters. The brother who could be the jungle gym. The one who moved all their furniture when they decided they needed to redecorate their room that instant, even if that instant was 10 pm on a schoolnight.

He turned on the faucet, cupped water to his face, wiped at the remnants of tears and sweat and panic. The cold burned, but it grounded him, kept him tethered to the moment instead of spiraling backward into memories.

He shut off the water. The silence snapped back into place.

He took one long, shaky breath and turned off the bathroom light before stepping into the hallway again. The house hummed quietly. The AC kicked on, a low, steady rumble that traveled up his spine. He made his way back to his room, nudging the door open with his foot. His room felt smaller now. Like the walls were leaning inward, breathing with him, listening to every shaky inhale. He sat on the bed again, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms loosely around them. The window across the room was just beginning to lighten, not morning, not yet, but that faint wash that marks the edge of night fading.

He fixated on it. On the promise that the sky would shift eventually. That time hadn’t frozen the way it felt like it had. He leaned his forehead against his knees.

He thought of Gary. The way he smiled, the way his eyes softened when he was proud of something, one of Collie’s jokes, or an A on an exam he was sure he failed.

Collie let out a breath that shook like it was being torn out of him.

He wanted to be there at the hospital so badly his bones ached with it. He wanted to sit in that too-white room and hold Gary’s hand and say, “You don’t have to be normal. You just have to be here. I don’t care about anything else.” He wanted to read him every single entry out loud and tell him why each one was wrong, why he wasn’t broken, why he wasn’t too much, why he wasn’t something to hide. He wanted to tell him he was allowed to be scared. Allowed to need help. Allowed to need him. How he should have fucking told him how upset he was about his mom coming back.

Collie’s throat burned. He wiped his eyes again, frustrated that the tears kept coming, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that he was done crying.

He reached for his phone again. Pete’s messages were still there, a couple hours old.

Freak-a-leek: bro i swear if u dont text me im coming over first thing
Freak-a-leek: ray is gonna come too motherfucker i will drag all of us to wafflehouse to regroup

Collie almost smiled. Almost. Pete was trying. Pete always tried in the only way he knew how.

He typed a response.

Collie: im home

He typed it, stared at it, then deleted it.

He couldn’t. Not yet. Pete deserved a good prom night with Ray. He knew they were probably curled up in Ray’s room right now. If he texted Pete and he was awake, Pete would call. And Collie couldn’t talk right now. He’d open his mouth and everything inside him would come spilling out, fear, guilt, anger, grief, and he’d never get it back in.

He needed a little more time.

He lay back again but didn’t close his eyes. His eyelids felt raw, too tender to shut.

The sky outside shifted another fraction lighter. Morning wasn’t far now.

He exhaled shakily.

He would call them. He would. Pete first, then Pearson and Tressler. He’d figure out what to do next. Right now, all he had to do was breathe and wait for the sun to rise.

He turned onto his side, curling slightly, arms tucked against his chest protectively. He focused on the rhythm of his heartbeat, too fast, but steadying.

He imagined waking up in a couple hours to sunlight hitting his wall, warm and uncomplicated. He imagined his phone vibrating again, incessant, demanding attention, and this time he’d answer it.

He imagined Pete’s voice saying, “Okay, tell me everything.” And he imagined, or hoped, that for the first time all night, he’d be able to speak without feeling his throat burn and his lungs fight him.

For now, he just stared at the window, at the navy-blue edge of approaching dawn. Just a couple hours. Just until the sky turned blue. Just until he could breathe without choking on it. Then he’d call his friends.

Then he’d start trying to fix the pieces he still had left.

Then, God willing, he’d go to Gary. And he’d tell him the truth. That he didn’t need perfection. He just needed him.