Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's dark outside.

It always seems to be dark outside these days, thick clouds blocking out the sun like some kind of meteorological solar eclipse. They never seem to actually do anything, either - they just crawl across the sky, occasionally letting out a few droplets of rain but never really progressing into any kind of storm.

It leaves the entire house cast in a sort of gray glow, the faint light coming through the windows reduced from the spotlight he'd once adored. It was at his suggestion that they made this room the bedroom, after all - his insistence that rising with the dawn would be best, that not only would it be great for the plants, it'd help them be more productive. His argument had won out, and they'd dragged the king-sized mattress up the flight of stairs before they even had a bedframe, collapsing into bed that first night amidst a sea of laughter.

There's no laughing in here anymore. There hasn't been for quite some time.

There's nobody left in the room. It's late enough in the day that Etho's downstairs cooking dinner for an audience of none, and he can imagine how he's standing at the stove, contemplatively stirring some boiling water before he dumps a few handfuls of pasta in. Etho's never gotten the hang of portion sizes - or how to cook things without burning them, he thinks - but it's his turn to cook on their two-tone marked chore calendar, so he does his best.

For his part, he's just spent the day upstairs. He's traced the pattern of the ceiling fan with his eyes and stared out the window, hoping for rain. It'd be good for the plants, he thinks, only there's not any plants left for it to be good for, except the desperate grass in the backyard. All the others - all the ones he'd brought with him and carefully installed in front of optimal windows? The ones whose upkeep went on the chore calendar along with dinner, laundry, and cleaning up? They're all dead.

The thing about haunted houses, he thinks, is that nothing is really meant to live in them. 

The air is thick these days, heavy with the weight of the past. There's dusty poker chips on the bedside table and a computer that hasn't been turned on in months in the office and there's him, sitting in the gray light and waiting for something that won't ever come. There's him and there's Etho and there's the silence between them, the dust swirling in the air around something neither of them want to name.

It's killing them, he thinks. It's killing them like it killed everything else, strangling and burying them like kudzu. 

He rises, then, stepping across the room towards the too-big closet. There's his stuff pushed to one side and Etho's pushed to another and there, in the center, is the photo. 

He keeps taking it down - takes it down every single time he sees it - but Etho keeps putting it back up. It's up right now, sitting on top of the upper shelf like a taunt, like a jab, like Etho's insulting him twice over with the action. Etho knows how much he hates it being up, knows that he keeps taking it down, knows that he's sick of seeing the skeletons in his closet, but he keeps putting it up anyways, just like he keeps the candle burning in the kitchen.

He tries not to look at it, but he can't avoid seeing it - and even if he hadn't, he already knows what it'd show. The photo's inhabitants all smile at the camera, all piled in together like nothing's wrong, and he looks at them properly, looks at them and then at his reflection in the glass.

He doesn't want to remember. He doesn't want to think about it. He doesn't want to stay in this haunted house with the thick air and the dusty memories and nothing left but him and Etho orbiting around each other like lost stars. He wants to move on.

He might hate Etho, he thinks, for clinging to the opposite. 

He might hate Etho, he thinks, for putting the photo back up, for shoving things back into the forefront of his mind - hates him in the same way he hates the poker chips and spare computer and the memories lingering in every corner. He hates Etho and he hates the photo and he hates this house, hates this history, hates that they can't just move on and start over and leave this stupid house that's killing them- he hates, and he burns.

The photo hits the ground with a resounding crack, the glass across its face splintering down the center. 

He stares down at it for a second - looks at the crack spiderwebbing down the center, looks at the way it neatly divides them, two faces on one side and two faces on the other. The eyes in the photo stare out at him, accusing him, and he thinks, in a moment of sudden clarity, that he can't take this anymore.

He storms out the room and down the stairs, passing more framed photos and posters on the walls. Etho's in the kitchen when he arrives, face lit by the flickering light of one nearly burnt out candle, and he turns when he hears him enter, neutrality morphing into concern when his eyes land on his face.

"What's wrong?" he asks, as if he doesn't know exactly what he's done.

"You put the photo back up," he growls, and Etho's expression flickers for a moment, passing through fear and concern and acceptance before landing back on neutrality and that- that's exactly it, isn't it? Etho, clinging to the past, clinging to the dead, stuck in this dead-air house with nothing but his memories- 

"It didn't feel right to keep it down," Etho softly replies, and he grits his teeth, fury bubbling inside him like lava.

"Didn't feel right? So you- what, you think he's right? You think- you think I'm the freak for wanting to move on? For wanting to live my life?"

Etho's expression twists, pain evident even despite the medical mask obscuring his nose and mouth. "That's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant," he spits back, and Etho's expression further twists, gaze flickering away from his face and towards the window - towards the sunset, which only manifests itself in slightly darker shades of gray. "Admit it," he presses, stepping forwards to demand Etho's attention, "you agree with him! You think he's right!"

"I don't," Etho replies, and it's so clear he's lying - after all, why else would he keep putting the photo back up? Why else would he cling to this house full of ghosts? 

"Do you even hear a word you're saying?" he demands, stomping over to face Etho across the kitchen island. Then, in a mocking impression, "'oh, no, I totally don't think he's right, which is why I keep putting up the stupid photo and keep around the stupid candle even when you clearly want to forget about it!'"

"That doesn't mean I blame you-"

"Then prove it," he spits, slamming his palms on the kitchen counter. Fury burns in his chest like a branding iron, heat carving through the soft tissues and scouring the muscle of his heart. "Get rid of the photo and the candle. Move on."

"I can miss him," Etho says, voice quieter than he's ever heard before, "without blaming you."

Only he can't, can he? Only there's no detaching what happened from what happened after, no decoupling cause and effect - especially not when the ghosts linger so thick in the air. Only he doesn't care that insisting on all this is itself assigning blame - that Etho's insistence on forcing him to linger in what happened is itself assigning blame. How it feels: "you shouldn't be over it. It was your fault, so you should care more. I'm caring the right way. You're doing the wrong thing."

Is it so wrong to want to move on? Is it so wrong to want to flee this house of memories and ghosts?

"No," he growls, "you can't."

Etho's expression tightens again, pain evident in the lines of his brow. "'Dubs-"

"Choose," he spits, cutting off Etho's words before they can leave his mouth. He strides over towards the candle, gripping it in one hand and positioning his other hand just above the flame - poised to pinch it out. "Me or him."

Etho's eyes widen in something like panic, and he raises his hands, a nervous kind of laugh escaping his lips. "We don't have to go that far-"

"Choose!" he roars, and Etho's eyes widen further, a few faltering noises escaping his mouth. When he doesn't reply, he presses further, rounding the corner to shove the candle in Etho's face. "Choose!" he demands, and he's close enough to see the flickering flame reflected in Etho's pupils, close enough to hear the faint sounds of his breathing through the mask. "Me or him!"

Etho stares at him, eyes both wide and pained, and opens his mouth to respond-

And he doesn't know what he'd've said, really, because it's at that second that the candle slips from his fingers, falling to the floor and flickering out.

It's a moment after that the front door locks on its own, the lights start to flicker, and the haunted house comes alive. 

After a year or so of working together, they've figured out a policy for accepting jobs.

Generally speaking, there has to be unanimous agreement, which usually isn't too hard to achieve. If there's a disagreement, they talk it out, and if someone feels really strongly about a job - either for or against - that's factored in as well. Lastly, and most importantly, they consider health and safety - something that became paramount after Grian and Scar fell through the floor of an old farmhouse and got stuck in a hole for upwards of two hours while the ghost continued to hunt.

This is all to say that ninety-nine times out of one hundred, they're able to agree whether or not to take a job pretty quickly. 

This time, though... well.

It starts easy enough. It's a referral from another team with the added note that this ghost is exceptionally aggressive and difficult to handle - meaning that it's getting kicked up the ladder to them. Gem'd be lying if she said she didn't like that part - the fact that they're the ones who get the hard ghosts, that they're the people at the tippy-top who other people call in to handle their problems. "Special ops," Grian had once called them with a cheeky grin, and yeah, she likes that. 

The homeowners are apparently at their wits' end, which, yeah, makes sense if they've been trying to find a team to handle this ghost for at least six months. Not much is known about the ghost, and at least ten other teams have tried and failed, meaning that they're both the last resort and the best people for the job.

That's why it's so surprising when Skizz, of all people, takes one look at the job and shakes his head.

Skizz hasn't ever put his foot down on a job. It's usually Grian or Impulse who point out problems like safety concerns or other things, and it's Gem who'll point out other problems like prior records or other things that mean other teams could handle it. Even Scar's pointed out a couple problems based on what they know of the ghost in life - such as one homophobic ghost, which Gem was all too glad to avoid - but never Skizz. Sure, he'll back people up if they put something forwards, but he's never been the one to insist they turn down a job.

Until today, that is.

"Skizz?" Grian asks, confusion mixing with concern in his voice as he tilts his head. "What's going on?"

"I'm putting my foot down," Skizz replies, tossing the folder back onto the table. "I'm not doing this one."

His jaw is tight, Gem notes, and his lips are pressed in a thin line. He's rocking back and forth a bit, apparently out of anxiety, and his fists clench and unclench at his sides. He's really shaken up about this one.

"But why?" Scar asks, and he's simply confused. "They seem like they really need our help-"

"Then they'll have to find someone else," Skizz snaps, voice uncharacteristically sharp. It's odd enough that even Gem blinks in surprise, and looking to Impulse, she can tell he's equally shocked.

"Skizz," Impulse starts, voice slipping into the tone he uses when he's trying to calm a scared animal. "What's going on, dude?"

"Doesn't matter," Skizz retorts, folding his arms over his chest in an apparent attempt to end the conversation. "I'm vetoing. It's not gonna happen."

Gem turns to Grian, then, and they exchange a look. She can tell that Grian's concerned - of course he is - but more than that, he's curious, and Gem would certainly be lying if she said she wasn't curious as well. 

Grian snags the file from the table, and she stands, crossing behind Impulse to read over Grian's shoulder. Scar wheels over as well, and though Skizz's jaw works as he watches them read, he doesn't interrupt.

The ghost's name is, most likely, Tango Tek, and he's apparently got a strong connection to either the house or the homeowners. The past few ghost teams have had multiple casualties each, and they've still got no clue what kind of ghost it even is, much less how to exorcise it. It seems exactly like the kind of job that'd warrant them coming in- which makes Skizz's refusal all the stranger. 

"It looks like they really need our help," Scar points out, and Gem and Grian nod in agreement. 

"Doesn't matter," Skizz grits out, though there's something like doubt flickering in his eyes. "It's gotta be unanimous, and I'm saying no."

"We should at least go meet with the homeowners," Gem tries, and she can tell Skizz is getting properly upset now - an equally strange thing to see, given that, for all his dramatics, Skizz very rarely becomes genuinely angry - but it feels like they have some kind of moral obligation to this call. "I mean, if it's not us, then who else can it be?"

"You don't have to go," Grian pitches in. "We can handle it."

Skizz's jaw works again, and Impulse steps to his side, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder. He leans in to say something to him - the words soft enough that Gem can't quite hear - and Skizz seems to process them for a moment, expression shifting a few more times before he finally lets out a long, wearied sigh. 

"Fine," he grunts; then, throwing his hands in the air, "fine! Go- go knock yourselves out!"

Impulse reaches out to grasp his shoulder again, but Skizz moves before he can, brushing past Impulse and heading upstairs to the office. Impulse glances back at them, something both pained and concerned in his eyes, and though he opens his mouth to respond, he ultimately just shakes his head. 

"He might just need some space," Gem offers, and Impulse sighs, reaching up to rub at his temples.

"Yeah," he agrees, though it's a wearied agreement at best. "I don't know what's going on with him."

"That was weird, right?" Grian chips in, and Scar and Gem quickly murmur agreement. "I mean, when has he ever done anything like that?"

"Never," Impulse gravely replies, and then seems to consider something. "Well..."

"Well?" Gem presses, and Impulse shakes his head.

"Nothing. You guys- you guys go meet with the homeowners. I'll give Skizz some space and hopefully we'll get to talk. Let me know what you find, okay?"

"Only the best for you," Scar winks, and Impulse snorts, shaking his head. 

"Yeah, yeah. Go on, get going."

It always seems to be cloudy these days.

Gem rocks back on her heels, glancing up at the sky as Grian fiddles with his phone. He's checking to see who, exactly, they're meeting - which he should've done in the car, in her opinion, but whatever - so she and Scar get to contribute by waiting.

She isn't a huge fan of waiting.

"You're taking forever," she points out, and Grian huffs, flicking through something with entirely too much force.

"Yeah, well, maybe it'd go quicker if someone would stop bothering me while I'm looking!"

"Excuse you!" Scar gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in exaggerated offense. "We are contributing!"

"You're both nuisances," Grian retorts, but there's a smile creeping over his lips regardless. Then, after a brief pause, "yeah, we're at the right place. Looks like we're meeting a couple named Bdubs and Etho. Said to look for white hair."

"So they're old," Gem states, and Grian rolls his eyes. "What? White hair? That's, like, every old person in the world."

"They're about the same age as Impulse and Skizz," Grian replies, and then, evidently hearing his own words, "so yeah, I guess they are."

It feels strange going out on a job without Impulse and Skizz. The spectres of their presences hang over the conversation like a blanket, and in the brief pause after Grian's words, all three of them can imagine the same thing - Impulse's loud protests at being called old, followed by Skizz's overwhelming laughter. It feels- more than strange, even, being here without them- it almost feels wrong. 

"Why do you think he doesn't want to take this job?" Gem blurts, the words escaping her lips before she can even really think about it. It's the right thing to say, though, because Grian and Scar adopt similar expressions of consideration as soon as her words register. 

"No clue," Grian sighs, reaching up to run a hand through his hair. "I mean, it could be literally anything."

"But it's weird that he won't tell us," Gem counters, and Grian lets out another aggrieved sound of assent. "I mean, when does Skizz ever not talk about what he's thinking?"

"Maybe it's about his tragic past," Scar gasps, and Gem and Grian exchange a look as Scar's mind visibly flies off to the dramatic world of science fiction. "I mean, maybe he's committed a secret murder and he doesn't want us to know! Or maybe he and the ghost were secretly siblings and didn't know it, just like-"

"If you say Star Wars," Grian interjects, fixing Scar with a withering glare, "I'm going to lose it."

Scar seems to consider this for a moment, then shuts his mouth.

"They're probably waiting for us," Grian continues, glancing down at his phone once more before shoving it into his pocket. "Let's get going."

The diner the clients chose for the meeting is... well, it's not fancy, at least. The cloudiness outside only makes it look even more depressing inside, and the fluorescent lights on the ceiling just serve to wash everything out in shades of blinding gray. Despite that, though, it's easy enough to find the people Grian mentioned - not just because they're two of the only people in the place, but because, just like he said, one of them has a shock of messy white hair.

"...even bother," the one with brown hair says as they walk up. "I mean, it's not like these guys'll do anythin' the other guys couldn't-"

"Hey, now," Scar interjects, fixing the pair with a blindingly brilliant smile, "give us a chance first!"

There's a brief moment where the two clients look them up and down, both visibly forming opinions based on their impressions. Gem can't blame them - she's doing the same.

The white-haired one seems to be taller, with a medical mask covering his nose and mouth and a scar stretching over one eye. His partner looks shorter, with a missing tooth and a clump of messy brown hair pushed back by a bandanna. If nothing else, Gem thinks, they definitely have personality. 

"So you're the ghost guys," the brown-haired one states, tone conveying that he either isn't impressed or is simply fed up with the entire ghost process. "And what makes you guys so special?"

"Bdubs," the white-haired one chastises, but, well, it's a fair question.

"We're some of the best in the business!" Scar grins, and yeah, sure. He's the best salesman of their group, especially when the clients don't seem to be too terribly impressed with them, so there's no real harm in letting him speak. "Impulse-"

"Our team leader," Grian chips in, apparently wearied by this encounter already.

"-is Gold Apocalypse certified!" Scar continues, ignoring Grian's intrusion as if it hadn't happened. "That means he's certified as the best level of ghost hunter there is, and he trained all of us!"

Those words clearly mean nothing to the clients. Gem can, in fact, just about see the words go in one ear and out the other. 

"Well," the white-haired one starts, seeming visibly hesitant, "I mean, our ghost isn't exactly a normal ghost."

"The file said it was aggressive," Grian adds, and both the clients nod. "Is it based in a specific room or area, or-"

"You can sit down," the brown-haired one - Bdubs, Gem thinks - interjects, gesturing to the other side of the booth. Then, with a bright smile, he adds, "I mean, if we're gonna be talkin', you might as well!"

There's something a bit weird about him. Call it a gut feeling if you will, but Gem is pretty sure there's something off about him. Still, they take him up on his offer, all three of them squishing into the booth - and ha-ha, Grian's stuck in the middle - and after the waiter brings around some glasses of water, they get back to business.

"So," Grian continues, steepling his hands on the table and looking over at them. "The ghost-"

"Hey, hey," Bdubs interjects again, and yeah, Gem definitely has a weird feeling about him. "We're not even gonna do introductions first? I mean, if you're gonna be helpin' us out, seems like we should know who you are!"

"Oh," Grian replies, seeming a bit dazed by the sudden change in topic. "That- yeah, alright."

Before he can fumble the introductions, Gem jumps in. "I'm Gem," she starts, and then, pointing to her friends in turn, "and that's Grian, and that's Scar. There's a couple other guys on our team, but it's just us today."

"Wonderful," Bdubs grins, sounding somehow both pleased and awed by the simple information. "I'm Bdubs, and this is Etho."

Gem glances at Etho, then, noting how deeply uncomfortable the man seems with this entire interaction. He glances away from her when he sees her looking, and keeps staring out the window, up at the cloudy sky. 

"So," Grian continues, valiantly attempting to get the conversation back on track, "the haunting started... about six months ago, right?"

"Maybe a bit longer," Etho unhelpfully adds. They wait for him to elaborate. He does not. 

"And would you say it's stuck to any one room in the house?" Grian asks.

"I mean, we wouldn't exactly know," Bdubs replies, once again sounding somewhat annoyed by a relatively simple question. "Since, y'know, it tried to kill us! Sorry if we don't wanna go back in after that!"

This, Gem thinks, is not a conversation for Grian. He seems generally bewildered by the way it's going, and she can tell that this kind of answer is throwing him for a bit of a loop. It's her time to shine.

"What was the first thing you noticed it doing?" she asks, and Bdubs snorts, apparently further annoyed by that.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe it trying to kill us?"

"Bdubs," Etho interjects, placing a hand on his partner's shoulder. Bdubs, without even looking at him, shrugs it off. 

"What sort of stuff happened before it tried to kill you?" Gem presses, and Bdubs visibly clams up.

"I don't see how that's important."

Yeah. This is definitely strange. They've had people who're resistant to answering questions before, but this seems... different, somehow. It almost seems like Bdubs and Etho have a kind of personal connection to this ghost - and if so, that would definitely explain the unusual aggressiveness both towards ghost hunters and homeowners. Even besides that, though, it seems like Bdubs sees any question as an attack, which...

She isn't here to be a marriage counselor. She's not here to deal with that. She's here to do a job.

Scar, however, seems to have different ideas.

"You know," he starts, apropos of nothing, "I so love seeing couples in this day and age. I mean, look at you two! You're perfect for each other!"

"Scar," Grian hisses, but Scar pays him no heed.

"It's so lovely seeing love," Scar continues, sounding as though he's ascended to another dimension of queer poetics. "And you know how you can think of us? Think of us as marriage counselors!"

"Scar," Grian nearly begs. Scar, once again, does not listen.

"It makes me so sad to see two lovely young souls, two souls in love," he continues, "cruelly chased out of their home! Out of the place where love should flourish! That's why we're here - so that you two can get back to enjoying your newlywed bliss in a home that's free of any awful murderous ghosts!"

Etho blinks a couple of times, then turns to stare out the window. He doesn't reply.

Bdubs, on the other hand, wears perhaps the brightest smile that Gem has ever seen. "You're a marriage counselor," he repeats, sounding entirely awed by Scar's performance.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Grian complains to nobody in particular. Gem feels pretty much the same.

"I can't believe this," she agrees. Neither of the two seem to hear, and if they do, they don't seem to care.

"We want to help you live your love story," Scar continues, reaching out to grasp Bdubs's hands over the table. He sounds a lot like an unconvincing advert, Gem thinks, but somehow, Bdubs is eating it up.

"Yes," he agrees. "Yes, absolutely."

"We've just gotta ask a few questions so we can get this over with as quickly as possible," Scar adds, and Bdubs nods like a bobblehead. 

"Yes. Yes."

"Is there anything you can tell us about where the ghost came from?"

"No," Bdubs replies, in the exact same cheerfully awed tone as before.

Gem buries her face in her hands. Next to her, she thinks Grian is doing the same.

"Nothing?" Scar asks, the cheerful salesman persona slipping for a moment in surprise. "I mean-"

"Nothing," Bdubs agrees, smile still firmly plastered on his face.

Gem looks over at Etho, then, who keeps staring out the window. He glances back over to them, something dark and pained reflecting in his eyes, but doesn't interject. 

These guys are interesting. They're really interesting, in fact. Even if the ghost wasn't so violent, Gem would still really want to take this job. Now, though - with how strange both of them are acting on top of how strange the entire situation around this ghost seems? This isn't a job Gem thinks they can refuse.

They don't get anything else out of Bdubs and Etho, and the meeting concludes shortly after. Despite Scar turning on the charm, Bdubs doesn't budge, and Etho barely says a word. The three of them slink out of the diner and into the car, somewhat defeated, and it's only when they're driving back to the GIGGS house that they start to talk about it.

"So they were weird, right?" Scar starts, peeking over the console to glance between them.

"Oh my gosh, they were so weird!" Gem agrees.

"I mean, what was up with that?" Grian asks, glancing away from the road to visibly commiserate. "Why didn't they wanna tell us what was going on?"

"I don't know," Gem sighs, "but now I'm really curious. With that, and with Skizz..."

"I thought they were nice, though," Scar interjects. 

"Well, yeah," Grian shrugs, somehow conveying with that movement that he doesn't quite agree, "but they were still super weird."

"We gotta take this job," Gem continues, glancing between Scar and Grian. "I mean, if not for the ghost, then for how weird all of this is. This is, like, the most interesting ghost hunt I've ever gotten to see!"

"You're so right," Grian agrees, and Scar nods sagely from the backseat.

Right. So they want to take it. That's great.

Now, they just have to convince Impulse and Skizz. 

The thing about creating a home is that it's never truly safe.

Turning a place from a house into a home is assuming a risk - is saying, however implicitly, that the amount of joy the home brings is worth the pain that'll inevitably follow. It assumes length, assumes a period of time that Skizz knows all too well isn't guaranteed, assumes that the end is far-off and distant. 

Skizz has seen too much to fully believe that. He knows, perhaps better than anyone there, that homes are temporary.

It's for that reason that his room looks more like a guest room than anything else. Over a year he's lived there, and although he's accumulated all sorts of detritus in that time - knick-knacks, odds and ends - most of them stay in a box in the closet or in a small group on the nightstand. Everything else he has set up is either for work or convenience. 

Impulse has feelings about that, he knows. He expresses those feelings once more when he walks inside, a half hour or so after the rest of their team has left.

"You know," he starts, leaning on the doorframe with something soft flickering in his eyes, "you can unpack."

"I could," Skizz agrees, staring up at the ceiling. He'd collapsed onto the bed once he got upstairs and hasn't bothered to move since - has, in fact, spent that time watching the ceiling fan spin in lazy circles. It casts long shadows now, the edges of the white-gray blades blurring in with the edges of the white-gray ceiling as if everything's turned into a low-hanging cloud. 

Impulse pauses for a moment, apparently looking at him, before he crosses the space between them to sit on the edge of Skizz's bed. He doesn't say anything for a while, and Skizz appreciates that - lets himself watch the blurry edges of the fan spin around and around in lieu of thinking about anything else.

Because, well- he can't exactly explain why he doesn't want to take the job, can he? It's not as if he necessarily needs to, either. Does he need to? Can he just say "I don't want to" and have that be enough? 

He'd asked himself this before - asked himself how much the weight of his emotions could tip the scale of obligation - and didn't have an answer then. It's no surprise he still doesn't now.

"Are you feeling alright?" Impulse finally asks, voice soft in a way that makes Skizz wonder, foolishly, if the thick blanket of clouds has muffled his voice. 

"I'm fine."

"You're not feeling sick?" Impulse continues, and Skizz considers this for a moment.

It's an easy out, he knows. He could take it, and they'd go and do the job without him, but-

But he doesn't want them to do the job at all, does he? Really, he wishes it didn't exist at all, but he knows, in his heart of hearts, that if they take the job, he'll go chasing after them. If he refuses, though, it could continue to linger in some in-between space - in the hazy expanse of memory instead of the papercut sheets of reality.

"It's not that," he replies without elaborating.

The ceiling fan continues to spin in slow circles - around and around and around and around.

"Talk to me," Impulse asks, and Skizz's skin prickles with the proximity of aborted movement. He doesn't know, but he thinks Impulse might've gone to pat his leg and stopped, for- whatever reason.

He's glad he did. He doesn't know what he'd do if Impulse decided to tear his feelings out of him - spread them out on the cutting board of the conversation like a twitching, bloody thing.

"It's my problem," Skizz replies, circling the problem and the truth all at once. "It's my- my fault. Don't worry about it."

And that's as close as he'll get to the truth, isn't it? He won't dare to say any more than that, because then he'd've said it, and that's the problem, isn't it? When you say things, they become real. 

Impulse considers pressing - Skizz can hear it in the silence - but he lets the space between them hang, lets it grow thick and gnarled like scar tissue. That's Skizz's fault too, he thinks - thinks that perhaps he's holding Impulse at arm's length in a way that's just leaving pain and cold between them. 

Only, well- that's what space is, isn't it? The gap between things is always painful and always cold. He's lived with that before. 

"Is this about what happened back then?" Impulse asks, the words wrapped in as gentle a coating as he can muster, and Skizz-

It's not like this was never going to come up. He's lucky it didn't come up for as long as it did. It's just- he'd hoped they've never have to talk about it, is the thing. When he'd shown up at Impulse's door, phone in hand and a duffel bag over one shoulder, he'd said "no questions asked" and Impulse had agreed, "no questions asked". He never had, either. They'd successfully spoken around it for months, and Skizz, fool of fools, had assumed that things would stay that way - that an object at rest would stay at rest.

Only now Impulse is asking, and Skizz isn't a very good liar.

"Why do you want to take this job?" he asks instead of answering, and Impulse knows he's avoiding the question - knows because of course he does, he's known Skizz for as long as they can remember, even if they did spend a year a few hours' drive apart. 

But, because he's Impulse, he answers anyways.

"People could be hurt," he replies, turning to stare out the window. "We're their last chance. If it's not us, I think... other people could get really hurt trying to handle this thing."

Skizz swallows, bile burning the back of his throat.

"You think it's our responsibility?" he asks, and in his words, he's asking that same question - "how do my feelings weigh out against obligation?"

"I think it could be," Impulse replies, voice soft yet severe. At the same time, though, he's turning to look at Skizz properly, something infinitely patient and kind shimmering in his dark eyes. "Still, though, if you don't want to, we won't."

It's not much of a choice. It's weighing the right thing to do against his selfish desires. It's turning the scales into a courtroom where a judge wearing an achingly familiar face pronounces Skizz guilty. How is he meant to say no?

"I don't want to meet the clients," he says instead of acknowledging Impulse's words, and Impulse-

His friend reaches out properly, then, placing a gentle hand on Skizz's shin. "That's okay," he murmurs, turning his gaze back out to the window. "But really, dude, if you don't want to-"

"It's like you said," Skizz replies, mouth tasting like metal and ash. "It's our responsibility."

Impulse glances at him, then, something dark in his expression, but says nothing. 

They head out the next night.

Gem's still not sure how Impulse managed to talk Skizz into it - nor is she especially sure what's even going on with him, considering how he's still not really willing to look his best friend in the eyes - but he's here! Which means they have a guy in the van plus four in the house, which means they're in the best possible situation they can be in!

It doesn't actually feel that great. It especially doesn't feel that great when, as soon as they enter the house, glass crunches under Gem's feet.

She glances down, gaze landing on a shattered photograph. It looks like it's been ripped from the walls, if the hunk of paint missing on the nearby wall is any indication, and while the glass has been shattered, what's more concerning is the picture itself. 

It seems like the ghost has, either on instinct or on purpose, ripped out the faces of the four people in the photo.

"That's not good," Grian notes, peering over her shoulder to stare down at the picture.

"Yeah," Gem scoffs, reaching down to pick up the frame and set it on a side table. It's not policy, to be sure, but it feels... wrong, at least, leaving it on the floor like that. "Definitely not good."

"You guys check the bottom floor," Impulse commands, already spinning around with his parabolic to try and catch any stray whispers. "Gem and I will head upstairs."

"Aye-aye!" Scar grins, giving their team leader a jaunty salute. Grian rolls his eyes, but follows suit, trying his best all the while to seem overwhelmingly inconvenienced by the entire thing.

Ah, the boys. Gem's infinitely endeared by their nonsense. 

Impulse leads the way upstairs as per usual, headphones over his ears and thoughts fully on parsing any of the many miniscule sounds filling the building. There's no point in trying to make small talk with him while he's listening, so once they make it to the upstairs hall, Gem bids him farewell with a wave and ducks into the first room on the left.

It looks like an office of some sort, albeit a very dusty one. There aren't any photos on the walls, although there's not any indication as to whether that's because of the ghost or because of the owners, but there are a couple desks, one pressed up to each exterior wall. One is empty, although some discoloration on the table implies that there used to be something there, and the other still holds a computer and a monitor, both caked in a thick layer of dust.

Gem steps a bit closer to examine the computer that's still there, gaze immediately landing on a few post-its stuck to the monitor. They all have little messages, not all of which seem to be written by the same hands, but they all have little bits of encouragement on them - things like "hope this cheers you up!" and "good luck, don't mess it up". One of them - the one that says "You've got this, Top!" - seems oddly familiar, but she can't quite place it.

The entire scene leaves her with a feeling of melancholy - one she's familiar with from this line of work, but one that never really ceases to ache regardless. It's always a bit painful, remembering that these ghosts were people - that people lived here, loved here, lost here, just like her. Whoever this computer belonged to must've been loved. 

The thermometer says that this room is normal, so there's really no reason to linger. Still, though, Gem gently runs her hand over the desk, brushing off some of the dust that's accumulated there.

"Sorry," she murmurs to nobody in particular, and then, before she can do any more lingering or digging, she turns and heads back for the hall.

Impulse is still poking around in the rooms on the right side, and a quick glance down the hall proves that he's decided to park himself in the corner of the uppermost room to try and get coverage of the whole house. He gives her a small wave when he sees her emerge, but quickly turns his attention back to the parabolic in his hand.

Gem still doesn't fully understand why he insists on that, really. Supernatural sounds are unreliable and finnicky at best, and that's when you already know the room. Trying to find a ghost with it feels like finding a needle in a haystack.

But then again, Impulse seems to do well enough with it, so even if Gem doesn't really understand why, she won't argue too much.

The other room on the left side seems to be a bedroom - is a bedroom, most likely, unless the owners just stuck a bed in there for no reason. It's a big bed, too - easily big enough to fit four - and Gem can imagine that their whole team could fit on it if they tried. 

Besides that, there's not much else of note in the room. There's a few dead plants sitting near the window, stems sticking up at odd angles and brown leaves littering the floor. There's a stack of poker chips on the bedside table next to what looks like a lighter of all things, and the bedsheets have been left unmade, clearly indicating that the owners left in a hurry.

The temperature is normal, though, so Gem turns to leave. There's not much point in sticking around when they still have a ghost to find.

Not much point, that is, until her shoes crunch on glass.

There's another broken photo on the floor, but this time, unlike the last, there doesn't appear to be any damage to the image itself. 

She really shouldn't pry. She really shouldn't. 

But, well- let it never be said that she isn't just a bit nosy.

She lifts the frame off the floor, shaking off bits of excess glass before raising it to eye level. There's four people in the photo, and she quickly recognizes two of them - there's Bdubs and Etho, arm in arm and grinning at the camera. Next to Etho is someone she doesn't recognize - a blond man with a brilliant smile, shorter than Etho but taller than Bdubs - and next to him is-

Her breath catches in her throat.

Next to the blond man is Skizz.

It doesn't seem possible. It doesn't make any sense. She stares at the photo for a long, long moment, trying to search for anything that would account for this - that would explain what has to be false recognition - but no, that has to be Skizz. A little younger, maybe, and certainly more carefree than she's ever known him, but she knows those eyes, that nose, that smile- there's no mistaking it.

How is Skizz there? Why is Skizz there? Does he know the clients? Who's the blond man in between them? What the heck is going on?

"Earth to Gem!" Grian calls, voice crackling through the walkie-talkie strapped to her shoulder. "We've found our ghostie!"

Gem blinks, shaking her head in an attempt to dispel her reverie. She reaches up to turn on her channel with one hand, blurting a quick "be right down" before turning her gaze back to the photo in front of her.

Before she can really think about it, she pops the back of the frame, sliding the photo into the pocket of her jeans. This is definitely theft, she knows, but they've stolen much more before, so it can't be that bad, can it? 

Besides, she needs to ask Skizz about this photo. There's definitely something he's not telling them.

By the time she arrives in the kitchen, the others have already started setting up.

Grian's fiddling with a tripod, foot wedged between its legs as he tries to make it open. Scar's still taking temperatures, turning this way and that as though the temperature will have changed since he last checked, and Impulse is setting up the crucifixes, squinting at something only he can see as he tries to figure out maximum coverage.

This is all to say that the hunt, despite Skizz's weirdness, is going pretty well!

"Any ideas so far?" Impulse asks, directing the question primarily at Grian - who, for his part, seems entirely focused on the tripod at hand. 

"Ask me later," Grian grunts, giving the tripod another swift kick. "Oh, for goodness' sake-"

"You need a hand there?" Gem smirks, and Grian gives her a truly withering look. 

"Don't you have something else to do?"

"Nah," she replies, leaning back against the counter to watch him struggle. "Annoying you is my full-time job, you know."

"You're awful," Grian retorts, fiddling with a switch up near the neck of the tripod. "Go- go bother Scar, or something."

"Nah," Gem repeats, grin only growing as Grian lets out a sound of pure frustration. "See, annoying you is so much more fun than annoying Scar, 'cause he just doesn't get when people are messing with him."

Grian makes a sound in response that somehow conveys that yes, he knows that, and also that he'd much prefer if Gem could go away so he could suffer in silence. Unfortunately for him, he did decide to have this struggle inside the house instead of, say, in the van, so Gem reserves the right to mock him as much as she wants. 

"You all get out of here," Impulse commands, fishing a spirit box out of his pocket and setting it on the counter. "I'm gonna chat with the ghost."

"Yeah, Grian," Gem taunts, "we should all get out of here so Impulse can spirit box, huh?"

"Don't be too mean to my buddy!" Skizz interjects, voice crackling from the walkie on Gem's shoulder. "He's doin' his best!"

"His best is awful," Gem retorts, and Grian sticks his tongue out at her. 

"Could you guys get going?" Impulse presses, although there's no real heat to his words. Grian gestures vaguely at the tripod in response - which seems to have clamped itself around his foot like some kind of snake - at which point Impulse sighs, walks over, and picks up the offending equipment. 

He then taps a button, flicks a switch, and places the tripod back on the ground. Fully functional. 

"Wh-" Grian sputters, at which point Gem just grabs his arm and drags him out of the room before he can continue his tirade of offenses in ghost proximity.

The three of them crouch just outside the door to the kitchen, their gazes all pinned on Impulse. They can see his breath fogging up as he speaks, clouds appearing and disappearing in front of him in pace with his words, and Scar mumbles something about checking temperatures again, which-

"Did you not get the temperature already?" Grian hisses, and Scar throws his hands up in surrender.

"I did!"

"Why do you need to check again?"

"Because it's cold!"

"-are you here?" Impulse is asking, spinning around the kitchen to try and catch any range of response. "Where are you?"

Then, in a crackling whisper: "I'm right here."

"Spirit box!" Impulse calls, and Gem fishes her notepad out of her pocket, checking off spirit box and crossing off the ghosts that don't fit. Once that's done, she heads back in, flicking on the light as she does, and approaches Impulse. 

"Any idea what it is?" she asks, and Impulse sighs, brow scrunching up as he apparently weighs whether or not to say what he's thinking. That means he has some idea, she thinks, so she nudges his leg with her foot, physically prodding him to go on.

"It could be an onryo," he finally replies, turning his gaze to the floor. Gem follows it, and her eyes land on what looks to be an overturned stub of a candle, the clump of wax lying on the floor near the kitchen island. 

"You think?" she asks, and Impulse nods, though a sigh still escapes his lips.

"Yeah. But I don't know. Just... a feeling, y'know?"

"Well, I trust your feelings," Gem replies, and Impulse gives her a small but genuine smile in response. Then, flicking on her radio, she continues, "I mean, I definitely trust your feelings more than I trust Skizz's-"

The lights in the kitchen cut out, and a crucifix bursts into flame.

Gem and Impulse freeze in tandem, Gem's hand still on her walkie and Impulse's gaze pinned on the twisted piece of metal. As she watches, he bends down to pick it up, barely even flinching as his fingers make contact with the hot metal. 

"I thought so," he murmurs, more to himself than to Gem, but she can still hear it regardless, so, really, if he didn't want her to ask, he should've talked to himself elsewhere.

"Thought what?"

"That used both charges," Impulse replies, dropping the now useless crucifix on the table. 

Gem blinks, turning to stare at it - and sure enough, the crucifix is already twisted and mangled, bent out of shape enough that it'll no longer do anything to stop a ghost.

"What do you think did it?" Gem asks, and Impulse shakes his head. 

"I don't know. I mean, nobody was playing with cursed objects, right?"

"Not me!" Scar exclaims, voice crackling through the walkies on their shoulders. "And frankly, I resent the accusation-"

"We didn't even accuse you!" Gem retorts, and Scar makes a noise of annoyance in response. 

Impulse, however, seems to have some suspicion. He bends down to pick up the second crucifix, casts his gaze around the room, and speaks-

"Do you know Skizz?"

The second the last word leaves his mouth, the crucifix bursts into flames.

Impulse hisses, dropping the burning metal and leaping back. "Hot-hot-hot-" he grits out, shaking his hand in an attempt to dispel the heat, but Gem's caught up on something else - something perhaps more pressing.

"Hang on- did the ghost react to-"

"Don't say it!" Impulse hisses, and Gem shuts her mouth. "But yeah, I think so."

"Did the ghost react to what?" Grian asks, sounding somewhat confused- and hang on-

"Are you guys in the truck?" Gem demands, because hey, wait, they're all supposed to be in here together! "Why are you there!"

"We came out to resupply, I'll have you know," Scar replies, somehow managing to sound both theatrical and offended. "Not all of us can get in and out of the truck as quick as Impulse!"

"Thanks?" Impulse replies, tone lifting at the end to turn his statement into a question.

"If you guys are done," Skizz interjects, "we should all meet back up in the van. Sounds like you guys know something we should know?"

Gem glances over at Impulse, then, and feels the weight of the photo in her pocket like an anvil. 

"Yeah," Impulse agrees, looking back at her with an expression of overwhelming seriousness. "We should."

By the time they step into the back of the truck, the other three members of their team are already there.

Skizz has claimed the spinny chair, one knee up to his chest and the other turning him in slow circles as he stares up at the ceiling. Grian's perched up on the desk next to him, arm on the monitor and legs swinging freely in the air, and Scar's leaning against the near wall, apparently just watching Skizz watch the ceiling.

"Top tier ghost hunters," Gem deadpans, depositing her equipment back on the racks. "Best team ever. Definitely worth whatever we get paid."

"Excuse me," Scar gasps, "did nobody ever tell you about the importance of rest? The importance of relaxation? Honestly, how are you meant to keep working when you're all worn out and tired? This is therapeutic!"

"This is for business," Impulse interjects, and Gem and Scar shut their mouths. Much as she loves to bicker with Grian and Scar, she does know that when Impulse gets like this - when he says he means business - they'd better be quiet and listen. 

"What even happened in there?" Skizz asks, spinning to face them properly. "All I heard was that the ghost didn't like something or other, and you guys all left."

Gem glances at Impulse, then, hoping to convey the pressing question with her eyes alone: "do we tell him what happened, or not?" Impulse, however, seems to just be looking at Skizz, expression twisted up into some kind of agonized consideration - which makes sense, all things considered, but it's still...

Impulse and Skizz are something different to what the rest of them are, she thinks. They just about know each other down to the very core. If this is something that Skizz is keeping from Impulse and something Impulse doesn't know how to handle... 

That might be a bit above her paygrade.

"Skizz," Impulse finally starts, and man, he's botched it already, voice sounding far too gentle to be natural. Skizz notices it as well, since he straightens in his chair, something in his expression shuttering. "Are you really sure there's nothing you want to talk about with this job?"

Skizz's expression entirely closes off, then, smile collapsing into a thin line. "Why would there be anything to talk about?" he retorts, voice sharp and tone cold. 

"Well," Impulse starts, then falters. Once it becomes clear he's not going to finish his sentence, Gem inhales, shuts her eyes, and opens her mouth.

"The ghost responded to your name."

Skizz's expression flickers, then, for the briefest of moments - collapsing into a look of such pain that Gem almost thinks he's been stabbed. It's gone as soon as it came, though, and Skizz sets his jaw mulishly, lips pressing even tighter as he fixes her with a withering glare. "That doesn't mean anything," he grits out, and Gem's about to reach into her back pocket, about to unfurl the proof that he's lying, when Impulse catches her arm. 

She looks back at him, then, and Impulse meets her gaze before barely shaking his head. It's almost imperceptible, but the message is clear: "let me handle it". 

Thing is, if this were about anything else, Gem would dig her heels in. If it were about anything but Skizz, she'd insist that Impulse hear her out, that they bring the problem to committee, because in a lot of things, the boys just don't know as much as they think they do. In this case, though... she thinks Impulse might know Skizz better than anyone else alive.

She moves her hand away from her pocket, and Impulse gives her a small and grateful smile. "We'll talk later," she mouths, and Impulse gives her a nod of agreement before turning back to Skizz.

Skizz, for his part, seems to be entirely on the defensive. He's pulled his other leg up on the chair, one arm thrown over his knees and the other gripping the desk to hold himself steady. "Ghosts are weird," he states apropos of nothing, gaze fixed somewhere past Impulse's head. "Could've thought you were saying anything, honestly. I mean, lots of ghosts don't like it when you curse - could've thought you were saying shit or something-"

"We don't need to keep talking about it," Impulse interjects, and Skizz's expression darkens like the clouds outside.

"Don't we? I mean, you guys seem real invested in talking about it!"

"We don't need to talk about it," Impulse repeats, catching Skizz's gaze. There's a long moment where the two of them just stare at each other, tension flickering in the air between them like a live wire, and it feels like a small eternity has passed when Skizz finally sighs, turning away and running a hand through his hair.

"Fine," he relents, turning back to the computer in front of him. "Sure. Whatever."

"We'll head out for the night," Impulse continues, evidently expecting some argument. Wherever he expected it from, though, it doesn't come - Grian and Scar both glance at Gem, and she glances back at them, hoping to convey with her eyes that yeah, they're gonna talk about this later. 

Skizz, for his part, doesn't look back at them. He just keeps staring at the exterior view of the house, expression shadowed and unreadable. 

They head back to the diner the next morning.

It's finally starting to rain, droplets trickling down from the sky slower than Impulse had thought possible. It feels like the sky is just starting to give in to something, he thinks - like the droplets from a dam before it breaks.

Etho and Bdubs are there when they arrive, and despite never having met them before, Impulse can clock them immediately. The others hadn't even given very detailed descriptions - just that Bdubs was short and "a lot", and Etho was tall and brooding - but there's something familiar about the pair of them that draws his eye as soon as they walk in.

"Who's this?" Bdubs asks as they approach, gaze fixed on Impulse. Then, almost as an afterthought, "have we met before?"

"I'm Impulse," he replies, offering his hand for Bdubs to shake. The other man takes it, although his gaze never leaves Impulse's face, flickering over his features in an attempt to place them. "I was gonna say you seemed familiar," he continues, and Bdubs nods in agreement, "but I don't know where we'd've met before."

"A magic coincidence," Bdubs sagely replies, and yeah, Impulse thinks, he would probably remember meeting him. 

Etho is more subdued, gaze fixed out the window and face cast in shadow by his long hair. He doesn't offer a hand to shake, and Impulse doesn't try.

"So!" Bdubs grins, watching as the four of them squish into the booth, "is the ghost gone?"

Gem glances over at him, then, displeasure evident in the lines of her face. He supposes she has a right to be annoyed - after all, they hadn't spoken like he'd promised - but hey, have a little faith in him! He can handle talking with customers!

"Not yet," he replies, and Bdubs's smile immediately disappears. Then, before anything can get worse, he hastily adds, "but that's actually why we wanted to meet with you today! So we could get some more information!"

"I already told you," Bdubs snaps, "I'm not tellin' you anythin' about this!"

"Bdubs," Etho interjects, voice low and soft as he places a hand on Bdubs's shoulder.

Bdubs stills for a moment, gaze flickering to Etho, before he sighs, some of the tension visibly draining from his form. "Alright," he sighs, "ask your questions. Can't say I'm gonna answer them, but you can ask."

That's... a bit better than Impulse was expecting, in all honesty. From what the others had mentioned, he hadn't expected to get anything out of this conversation.

"Firstly," he starts, flipping open a little notepad and pulling a pen out of his pocket, "do you know anything about how the ghost died?"

"Nope," Bdubs blurts, and Etho's expression twists in apparent displeasure.

"Bdubs-"

"Nope," Bdubs repeats, voice brokering no argument. "Next question?"

"Did you know the ghost in life at all?" 

"Nope," Bdubs repeats yet again, and Etho's expression twists further. If Impulse didn't already know Bdubs was lying, that would've made it painfully clear - especially when Etho turns to stare out the window, expression growing stony and cold. 

"Do you know of anyone who might want to hurt you or curse you?" Impulse asks, and here, Bdubs seems ready to respond. 

He's about to open his mouth when Etho interjects, voice firm as he replies "no, we don't."

"Etho!" Bdubs protests, and Etho shakes his head, eyes narrowing as he stares at his partner.

"He wouldn't do this."

"You don't know what he'd do," Bdubs snarls, and Etho shakes his head again.

"I do. He wouldn't be behind this."

It feels oddly like Impulse is trying to paint with a blindfold, or trying to sculpt clay in the dark. This entire conversation is missing context, and he's left with no clue what they're talking about or who's telling the truth.

"Do you want me to answer their other questions?" Etho continues, voice low and sharp. 

Instead of cowing his partner, the statement only seems to make Bdubs angrier. "Are you threatening me?" he asks, an undercurrent of danger in his voice, and wow, Impulse did not sign up for this today. 

"Hey, now," Scar interjects, laying on the charm as thick as he can. It seems to work at least a little, since Bdubs turns to face him and stops glaring daggers at Etho. "Our real enemy is the ghost, guys! Remember, this is all in the name of love!"

"Right," Bdubs growls, sounding entirely unconvinced despite his words. "Our real enemy. Right."

Impulse makes the informed decision to not press the subject, and instead continues on to his next question. 

The entire venture is basically pointless, in the end. The only thing they were able to confirm is that Bdubs and Etho are apparently not in romantic paradise - which is entirely unhelpful as far as dealing with the ghost goes - and that Bdubs and Etho are lying about their relationship with the ghost. By the time they walk out of the diner and leave Bdubs and Etho behind, Impulse just feels drained.

"So they're totally lying, right?" Gem asks, moving up to keep pace with him. "Like, they're definitely lying."

"They're definitely lying," Impulse agrees, reaching up to massage his pounding temples. "But unless they want to tell us the truth, there's not much we can do about it. Unless you know something about them that I don't, or something..."

Gem glances at Scar and Grian, then, and an unspoken understanding passes between the three of them. "Well," Gem continues, turning back to face him, "we might have a place to start."

It's raining.

It's raining, droplets sluicing down the glass windows like rivers, and Etho won't look at him. It's raining, and there's cars outside in the street, and the ghost hunters have just left after asking yet again if they know anything, and Bdubs wants to scream, wants to rip apart the ghost haunting his shadows with his bare hands.

"You stopped me," Bdubs starts, and Etho turns to look at him, then, dark eye reflecting the shadowed clouds outside.

"I did."

"You're choosing him again," he snarls, and there's fresh anger bubbling to the fore, a fresh wave of betrayal twisting in his chest like an arrow. "You always do this- you always choose him! You-"

"I'm still here," and now Etho's really looking at him, expression settling into mulish determination under the mask. "If I was choosing him, I would've left a long time ago."

Only that's not under consideration, is it? Before it was the four of them, it was him and Etho, Etho and him, tied together stronger than anything. There's no world in which Etho isn't by his side, Bdubs thinks, because that's all they ever are and all they ever will be.

So yes, he decides, Etho is choosing Skizz over him in all the ways that matter.

"You're choosing him by- by actin' like I've done something wrong!" Bdubs retorts, the words tripping off his tongue with the force of his rage. "You're actin' like this is my fault, like- like I asked for all of this shit to happen, like I'm bein' unreasonable, when, actually, I think I'm being pretty reasonable!"

"Bdubs," Etho starts, then stops, apparently considering something. There's that same expression of pain again, something dark making a home in his eyes, and that's rich, Bdubs thinks, because he's not the one who's been called a murderer. 

"What?"

"If," Etho starts again, then falters once more, but Bdubs isn't willing to wait for this, isn't willing to listen to Etho equivocate, because if he doesn't spit it out, then they'll just be stuck in this stupid in-between and get nowhere. 

"If what?"

"If it is Tango-"

Bdubs's vision darkens for a moment, rage bubbling over in his chest. "You're saying you believe them?" he snarls, shoving closer to Etho to press him into the wall. "You're sayin'- you're sayin' what, that Tango stuck around because he blames me? You think it's my fault?"

"I didn't say that," Etho replies, only he did say that, didn't he? After all, why else would he believe it's Tango if not because he believed what they'd said - believed that this ghost had a problem with them in particular? Why wouldn't he throw all the blame on Bdubs? That's the easy thing, isn't it? Easy way to go? 

"You didn't have to," he spits, and Etho's expression twists further, gaze dropping down to his hands.

"I don't want to fight about this."

"We're going to fight about this," Bdubs snaps, because what, is he just supposed to take this lying down? Is he just supposed to go "oh, okay, you think that Tango's ghost blames me for his death, which means you also think I'm to blame for his death, that's fine"? No. 

Etho hesitates for a moment, drums his fingers against the table in an apparent second of consideration - only Bdubs isn't inclined to let him consider, is he, because there's the pressing thing of the now, which is the accusation in the air between them. "Spit it out," he demands, and Etho looks up at him, eyes shimmering with something Bdubs can't quite name.

"That night-" he starts, and Bdubs doesn't want to hear it. 

They've had the ghost of this conversation before - if not him and Etho, then him and Skizz, with Etho as the referee on the sidelines. He doesn't need to have this conversation again. He doesn't need to stick around and listen to another person call him a murderer. He can do better for himself than that. 

"I'm leaving."

Etho's eyes widen, then, and he reaches out to grasp Bdubs's sleeve. "Bdubs-"

"Don't," Bdubs spits, yanking his arm out of Etho's grasp. "Just- I can't believe you. All that stuff you said- you're just a stinkin' liar!"

"Bdubs," Etho entreats, but Bdubs isn't listening, already pushing himself upright and shoving past a startled server. "Bdubs!" Etho calls again, but he's shoving open the door and storming down the street, first at a walk and then at a run.

It's raining hard, droplets pounding against his hair and his jacket with a vengeance. There's the distant roar of thunder, and despite being afternoon, the sky is dark enough that it seems like night. Headlights pass over him with a roar, illuminating him in flickers against the storm, and Bdubs runs, shoes pounding on the pavement in an attempt to drown out the roaring in his ears.

Everyone blames him. They all blame him. He knows Etho does, can see it in his eyes, and Skizz's words still pull at his shadow, threatening to drag him somewhere dark. It wasn't his fault. It wasn't his fault. It was Tango's fault for fighting with him, for yelling at him, because if they hadn't been fighting, they would've left sooner, and then none of this would've happened. It was Skizz's fault for shutting down the argument when he did. It was Etho's fault for standing by. Why is it Bdubs's fault just because he was behind the wheel? Why is he the one they're all willing to abandon? Why is he the one who has to take the blame? 

They're all against him. They're trying to bury him in this. They want him to linger in the past, to accept responsibility, to linger in history, and he's tired. He's so tired. 

It's raining, dark, and cold. He's left alone again. Etho's back at the diner, probably sipping on something warm under the bright lights. Skizz is probably off somewhere with new partners, telling them all about Bdubs, all about how he killed Tango, all about how it's his fault. Bdubs just wants to move on, but Etho doesn't want to, and the looming memory of Skizz won't let him. He just wants this ghost gone. 

He just wants to move on.

He slows to a stop, breath escaping his mouth in harsh gasps. It's still dark, the sidewalks illuminated only by the thin streams of light coming from the streetlamps, and Bdubs's eyes ache from focusing on them. There's something hot burning in his chest, something wet trickling down his cheeks, and when he reaches up to scrub at his face, he's not sure if what's dripping off his chin is rain or tears. 

The thing is that time doesn't heal all wounds.

The thing is that Gem's words keep ringing around his head like a bell - "the ghost responded to your name" - and he can't stop thinking about it, can't turn away from it, can't shut his eyes and keep it out when history has its hands around his throat. The thing is that this wound hasn't even started to heal, and he's done a pretty good job at covering it up, sure, but it's still down there, still festering. 

The thing is that the ghost knows his name, and Skizz doesn't think he can keep running for much longer.

It's his fault, really, that it's all ended up like this. He's the one who showed up at Impulse's doorstep after a year of lapsed contact, he's the one who insisted he and Impulse ought to go to separate schools - find out who they were without each other, which, as it turns out, just revealed that Skizz-without-Impulse is someone he really doesn't want to be - and he's the one who kept this secret locked behind his teeth. He's the one who thought things were going well. 

He's the one who broke it all, he thinks, because he fell in love first. 

It's an awful word to use like this - love - because he can't put it in the past tense. He thinks there's a part of him that still aches for what was, still aches for those good moments even if there weren't too many left by the end. He thinks it's the same part of him that, in the weary gray-streaked hours of the dawn, still reaches out for someone on the other side of the bed. It's that same part of him that hasn't fully escaped the curse of history. 

He's thinking about this, thinking about things that were and things that aren't, when Impulse knocks on his door.

He knows it's Impulse because of the pattern - the little knock-knock-knock like a beating heart - and even if he hadn't, he'd still know it was Impulse. After all, he's the only one who'd come to find him when he's feeling like this. 

"Skizz?" Impulse calls, voice muffled through the door. "I brought dinner."

It's so him that something in Skizz spasms, aching like a fresh wound. "Come in," he calls, pushing himself upright - because he can't just keep staring at the ceiling fan, even if he'd like to - and tucking his legs under him as Impulse opens the door.

Impulse looks - worried, Skizz immediately realizes. There's a tension around his eyes and a heaviness to his smile that he can't quite bury, and Skizz knows, intuitively, that it's because of him. Impulse is worried about him.

This is his fault again, Skizz thinks, because he never told him. Oh, he might have some recollection of one thing or another - might've seen a picture on Skizz's socials before he'd deleted them all in a frenzied purge, might've heard a voice in the background of a call - but Skizz had never put into words the thing they had. When it started, he couldn't explain it in a way that didn't make him seem awful, and when it ended- 

Well. It ended.

"I made pasta," Impulse offers, taking a seat at the foot of the bed. Skizz blinks at the plate in his hands, scrutinizing it, and sure enough, that's a plate of spaghetti, still hot and steaming.

"Did you eat?" he asks, and Impulse gives him a lopsided smile, which most likely means no, he hasn't. "Dude-"

"I wanted to make sure it was still warm when I brought it up to you!" Impulse protests, and something in Skizz's chest warms, some of the cold in his bones dissipating in the face of the sunlight that is Impulse's affection.

"Just- dude, go grab yourself a fork," he demands, and Impulse sighs, a smile playing on his lips as he fishes two forks out of his pocket. 

"I thought you'd say that."

He knows Skizz too well, he thinks - knows all his intricacies more than anyone else in the world. 

The secret weighs heavier on his shoulders with that thought, acid burning deep in his chest. There was never a good time to tell him, he rationalizes, and now it just feels too late. 

If he can't tell Impulse the truth, though, he can at least make sure he's eating. For his best friend, he can do that much.

They eat pasta for the next few minutes in companionable silence, both of them sat on Skizz's bed and slurping up noodles without a word passing between them. It's not uncomfortable - silence with Impulse is never uncomfortable - but it is heavy, charged with something neither of them are willing to name. The question in the air between them lingers, demanding a response - why, after all this time, won't Skizz talk to him? What secret exists between them that he can't share? Don't they tell each other everything?

He wishes, more than anything, that he could share the whole story. He wants to tell him every bit of it - wants to tell him how they met, how he ruined it, about that night - but he can't. The words stick somewhere in his throat when he thinks about them, and the concurrent emotions threaten to choke him. 

"You don't have to tell me anything," Impulse finally murmurs, reaching out to nudge Skizz's calf with his socked foot, "but you know I'm here if you ever want to talk."

That's the problem, Skizz thinks. Telling the truth might rip it all out of him, might tear out the organs behind his ribs and leave him to bleed out. How's he meant to try and put what he's feeling into words? How's he meant to breathe through this when it just seems to keep coming back, seems to exist in his mind like an ember that never goes out? 

"We can drop this job," Impulse continues, and Skizz keeps his mouth shut, swallowing down his feelings before they can spill out. "Nobody would give you a hard time about it. They might be curious, but I can shut them down."

It's- it's a kinder offer than he deserves, he thinks. It's an offer that he might take, were he not so deeply entrenched in history. If he could run away now, he thinks, he'd like to, but there's something about this - something about all of this - that keeps dragging him back down.

"The ghost responded to your name," Gem said. Skizz thinks about the outside of a home and dead plants in a window and burns.

"They're probably looking things up," Impulse adds, and in there is another question - "do you want them to stop?" 

It's a good question. After all, Skizz thinks, if they keep looking, they'll certainly find something, and he's pretty sure that something will be the truth. Maybe that's the best way to have it come out - to have it all exposed for him, instead of making him drag it out of his bleeding heart piece by piece. If they find the truth, then Skizz is absolved of telling it. 

Only, well- the truth isn't his alone, is it? 

He still has a contact in his phone, still has the number someone tucked into his palm as he'd walked out the door. He thinks about his eyes, thinks about the way he'd looked at him - because they could only look each other eye to eye without looking up or own - and told him he was sorry.

He wonders if Etho's ever grieved. He wonders if he's moved on. He wonders if this ghost is his alone, or if it sits at the junction of the three of them, held taut by their collective memories like a net.

"You don't have to tell me anything," Impulse repeats, nudging Skizz once more with his foot, "but remember, I'm here if you wanna talk. I'll leave you alone."

Before Skizz can do something, then - reach out to him, ask him to stay, tell him the truth, ask him how they were - Impulse rises, taking his sauce-stained fork with him. "I'll leave the plate with you," he smiles, and Skizz opens his mouth, swallowing back the heavy weight of regret. 

"Thanks."

Impulse's smile turns a bit more genuine, then, and he reaches out to clasp Skizz's shoulder. "Anytime."

With that, he leaves, and Skizz turns his gaze out to the window, watching as the pouring rain patters on. 

They convene for their super secret fact-finding mission that evening.

Impulse is up talking with Skizz, which means they probably have until he finishes to find the information they need. With any luck, they'll be chatting for a while.

Gem doesn't necessarily believe they'll actually be talking for that long, but she hopes that it at least gives them enough time to get a start.

"Alright," Grian starts, peering at them over the open edge of his laptop. "What do we have so far?"

"Etho and Bdubs are partners," Gem replies, "and they've got some problem with this ghost."

There's a general wave of nodding around the table in response to that. 

"Yeah," Grian sighs, resting his chin on one hand, "but do we honestly have anything besides that?"

It feels as though there might not be a better time than now to reveal what she's stolen, and certainly feels as though Grian and Scar won't judge her for it. "I might have something," she states, and Grian and Scar turn to her in tandem, sporting twin looks of confused excitement.

She withdraws the photo from her pocket, unfolding it and spreading it out over the table. Grian and Scar crane in to stare at it, and Gem looks at it again in turn - sees Bdubs, Etho, the blond man, and Skizz. She can tell the exact moment they see Skizz - Grian sucks in a breath, and Scar gasps out loud. 

"Is that Skizz?" he blurts, and Grian elbows him hard.

"Ssh! They'll hear you!"

"Sorry," Scar whispers, although it's more of a stage-whisper than anything. "Is that Skizz?"

"It has to be," Gem chips in, because yeah, that looks exactly like Skizz. "Who's the blond guy?"

Grian seems to consider this for a moment, one hand coming up to tap at his chin. "This might sound crazy," he finally replies, sounding as though he's both wary of believing what he's about to say and oddly confident in it nonetheless, "but what if that's the ghost?"

That...

That would paint one hell of a picture, Gem thinks, if he's right. If Skizz knew the ghost in life - if Bdubs and Etho knew Skizz and the ghost - if this is all tied together - that would explain a lot, she thinks, but would also be... impossible? Improbable?

It's not like they get photos for the ghosts they hunt, and it's not like they're even sure the ghost actually is Tango Tek. If the ghost is Tango Tek, though, and said Tango did actually know Bdubs, Etho, and Skizz in life, then...

"I found an obituary," Grian reports, and Gem and Scar slide over to peer at the screen over his shoulders. The page loads, and there, right at the top, is a photo of the blond man in the picture. 

Something in Gem's veins chills at the sight. The person smiling in the photo looks so full of life, looks- looks like he shouldn't be dead, really, which feels pretty common with obituaries, but especially so like this. It feels like- it feels like this should be someone they know personally, not through a web page announcing his death.

"Killed in a car accident," Grian reads, "and survived by his best friends, Bdubs, Etho, and... Skizz."

There it is, in print: proof that Skizz knew Tango. 

It doesn't feel nearly as triumphant as Gem thought it would.

"Okay," Scar blurts, and Gem has a feeling that he's been rather confused about what's going on for the past bit and just hasn't said anything, "that's all good and whatever, but what does this actually mean?"

"Well," Grian replies, scrolling down to search for more information, "if we're gonna handle this ghost and also help Skizz with whatever he's got going on, we need to know everything we can about this, right? Now we know how he died, so we need to find out what his relationship was with the clients and Skizz."

"I thought they were just friends?" Scar asks, and Gem sighs. 

"That could mean literally anything. Besides, what we need to know is what their relationship was when he died."

Scar gives a considering hum at that, and they delve back into the depths of cyberspace.

Skizz doesn't have any socials - they found this out early on, when Gem had offhandedly asked if Skizz was online and he'd said he didn't have an account on anything. A quick search proves that Bdubs, despite having social media, seems to have wiped everything from before Tango's death, which is certainly suspicious, but definitely doesn't prove anything. Tango's social media is even less helpful - just posts about games and apparent development updates on some game called Decked Out, which doesn't seem to have been released - and Gem's about to suggest they give up when Scar suggests checking through Bdubs's followers.

"I mean," he shrugs, "if Etho has an account, or if there's anything else like that, it'd be in there."

That's a good enough point. 

A quick search of Etho's name reveals nothing, and a scroll through Bdubs's followers list doesn't seem to yield anything either. It seems for all the world like they're stuck.

They're stuck, that is, until Scar suggests they click on a profile with a generated name and no profile picture. Sure enough, when the page loads, the first image that greets them is a photo of Etho and Bdubs, dated five months prior.

"You," Grian proclaims, scrolling furiously down the page, "are a genius."

Scar preens, a light flush of pride coloring his cheeks. "Thank you! I know!"

The posts from the page seem to be relatively infrequent, and almost entirely consist of reblogs of other people's posts. A decent amount of them are from a deleted account - "Skizz," Gem mutters, and Grian and Scar nod in silent agreement - and a few of them have been deleted outright - Bdubs's, then. There's a few from Tango, mostly around Decked Out and usually involving a bit of commentary on Etho's part about how nobody's going to be better than him, and then, dated just under three years prior, is what they were looking for.

It doesn't seem to have been uploaded by Etho, if the way the caption is written is any indication. "'Happy birthday to this loser,'" Grian reads out, something soft and pained in his voice. "'Told him he should finally post a picture of his boyfriends online, so if you're seeing this, Etho, happy birthday!'"

That cold feeling in Gem's chest spreads, tangling with the nausea threatening to rise in her throat. The photo looks- the photo looks domestic, she thinks, with Bdubs draped over Skizz's shoulders and Tango's arm slung around Etho's neck. Tango's kissing Etho's cheek above the mask, and Bdubs is looking at the pair of them with naked adoration.

It feels, she thinks, as though they've seen something they were never meant to see. It feels as though they've just looked four ghosts in the eye, as if they've dug up rotted history for their viewing pleasure. It feels as if they've done something wrong.

"Oh," Grian breathes, sounding both pained and vaguely ill. "Oh."

"Skizz," Scar murmurs, and he just sounds agonized, a thickness to his voice that speaks of unshed tears. "Why..."

There's a short pause while Scar swallows, visibly working through the thoughts in his head. Gem gives him the time, turning her attention back to the image in front of her - looking back at the photo and its familiar-looking setting. Is that-

"That's the kitchen," she whispers, and Grian lets out a soft curse under his breath.

Scar still seems to be working through whatever he was thinking about, though, because he eventually slumps over with a small, pained noise. "They look happy," is all he finally says, voice small and thick with sympathetic grief, and-

They look happy. That's the worst of it. The four of them keep smiling in the photo, immortalized forever online, with no knowledge that in less than a year one of them will be dead.

"Skizz looks happy," Gem agrees, and Grian and Scar nod agreement. 

That's the thing, really - they've seen Skizz happy, but not quite like that. There's always a darkness to his eyes, always a glance behind him, always a feeling they never knew to name - one she can now identify as restlessness. Skizz has been running from this happiness, she thinks, for as long as they've ever known him. 

The screen darkens, then turns to black. None of them make any move to turn it back on.

"What have we done?" Grian finally asks, the question left to hang in the air between them like an unsheathed blade.

Gem doesn't know. She doesn't know how to come back from this. She doesn't know how to look at Skizz now without seeing that ghost, that version of him immortalized in photos and on webpages. She doesn't know what to say other than "I'm sorry, you must've loved them". 

She doesn't know what to do tomorrow. She doesn't know how to go back and face the ghost without thinking about a smiling face in photos doomed to death. She doesn't know how to face the clients without spitting out the knowledge that lays acid-thick on her tongue.

Her only solace is that Grian and Scar don't seem to know either. It's in that confusion that they sit there, the three of them crammed around the black screen of a computer, and let the memories of a past they've never known fill the silence. 

Pulling up to the all-night diner feels, more than anything, like walking towards a firing squad.

It's late, late enough that it's gone back around to early, and the rain is still pounding down like an ocean. Skizz squints through the downpour at the sign ahead, the neon shine of "OPEN" blurred and refracted by each falling droplet, and sucks in a breath, trying to regulate his thoughts.

He's here. He's here, and he can't go back. If he leaves now, he thinks, he might never find it in himself again to take this chance - to take this leap into the yawning abyss buried somewhere behind his ribs. If he runs away now, he won't ever come back.

He didn't bring an umbrella, so as soon as he steps out of the car, he's soaked to the bone. He dashes through the parking lot, hiking his jacket up over his head in an attempt to keep some of the rain from his hair, but by the time he pushes open the door, he's still dripping all over the linoleum. 

There's only one other person there this late at night - someone in a thick jacket at a booth in the corner, hood pulled up over their head. Skizz doesn't need to see their face to know who it is - he thinks he'd be able to recognize him blindfolded at the end of the world. 

He slides in to the other side of the booth, and the person nudges a mug of something across the table, steam still curling off it in small wisps. Skizz gives him a wan smile, wrapping his fingers around the ceramic, and takes a long, shuddering breath in.

"Hey, Etho."

Etho looks up at him, then, pushing the hood back from his face. He's still wearing the medical mask, but something about the way he's looking at him - the way he's staring at him, like Skizz is something both new and old all at once - makes him look almost painfully exposed. He looks similar to how he did when Skizz left, he thinks, save for the way the shadows have made a permanent home in his eyes. 

Etho, he thinks, might never have grieved. Etho, he fears, might never have had a space to.

It's not too dissimilar from Skizz himself, and for the briefest of moments, he feels a bit less alone. Tango's ghost hangs in the space before their conversation, to be sure, but Skizz knows they're going to talk about it, and that - talking about it - is more than he's had for the longest time. 

"Why'd you call?" Etho asks, voice low and crackling like a fireplace. 

Skizz looks at him, then, and drums his fingers along the edge of the table. "Did you know," he starts, meeting Etho's shadowed gaze, "that I was part of the ghost hunting team you all hired?"

Based on the almost imperceptible twitch of Etho's jaw, he didn't. "You were just the guys the others sent us to," he confirms, and Skizz hums in acknowledgement.

"Would you have hired us if you knew?"

"I don't know," Etho replies, and Skizz hums again in response. He's expecting a reply, but after a moment, Etho turns, breaking their stand-off to stare out at the pounding rain. 

Skizz follows his gaze, watching as the light from the streetlamps outside bends and refracts. That's the thing about being with Etho - any silence with him, no matter how long it's been, feels comfortable. Even now that they don't really know each other, the weight of their shared history still dampens any awkwardness that might arise. 

"You look good," Etho finally states, the words sounding awkward and stilted. He's never been one for small talk, Etho, and watching him try feels a bit like watching someone try to wrestle an eel. Still, though, Skizz can feel there's something else behind the question, and maybe he does still know Etho after all this time, because there's a part of him that thinks he might know the right buttons to press to make him open up. 

Before he can reply, though, Etho glances back at him, the faintest hint of something kind in his eyes. "I'm happy for you."

This is something he forgets, sometimes - that in the end, Etho is kind. Perhaps not as prone to dramatic gestures as Bdubs or Tango, but he shows his care in his own way. 

Even so, that statement - "I'm happy for you" - puts something in him ill at ease.

"How are you and Bdubs doing?" 

It's the right thing to ask. Etho turns even further away, fully facing the window, and exhales, long and shuddering. "You know how he is," he replies in lieu of a direct answer, and yes, Skizz thinks, he does know how Bdubs is. 

"Are you guys still together?"

"Yeah," Etho sighs, though there's something deeply wearied about his voice. "I- yeah."

"It's not great," Skizz guesses, and Etho sighs again, turning back to face him. That's a good sign, Skizz thinks - that Etho might actually open up and tell him what's going on.

It's strange how easily they fall back into these patterns - how easy it is for Skizz to care. It feels like putting on a well-worn jacket, all kinds of comfortable in a way that feels intimately familiar. 

"It's not easy," Etho agrees, turning his gaze to his cup. He swirls his straw around - and he has a milkshake, Skizz realizes, because of course the cold of the rain wouldn't bother him - and stares into the depths of his drink, gaze going vacant. "I- you know."

"He's not dealing with it well," Skizz guesses, and Etho sighs again, dips his head in either agreement or shame.

"He's not."

"How are you dealing with it?"

There's a slightly wry tilt to Etho's lips when he looks up, then, almost as if to say "it's a bit late for this conversation, isn't it?" "I'm dealing."

"Have you been to see Tango's grave?"

It feels like a bit of a low blow even as he says it, and he can see his words make impact - Etho curls in on himself, shoulders hiking up as if to shield his heart from some unseen threat. "What do you think?" he asks, and it sounds less accusatory than a bitter acknowledgement of fact. 

Etho sounds tired, Skizz thinks, tired in a way that has nothing to do with the time. There's a deep weariness to his voice, and when he stares down at his milkshake, Skizz can almost see unshed tears hiding behind his eyes. 

Etho's not a crier. None of them were, really, except Skizz and sometimes Tango. Skizz was the one who cried at the funeral, tears rolling off his chin and dripping into the dirt. Bdubs and Etho just stood, stone-faced.

"I think you go sometimes," Skizz replies, and Etho inhales, breath catching on the way in. "I think you go without 'dubs, 'cause he wouldn't want you to go."

"That's a pretty bold guess," Etho murmurs, but he doesn't say it's wrong. "Why do you think that is?"

It feels like stepping back in time, Skizz thinks - back to one of their few moments as a pair. It was usually Etho-and-Bdubs and Skizz-and-Tango, even when they all got together, but one of the few things Etho and Skizz could find solace in was games of trickery. Skizz could pick apart Etho's lies, pull at a loose thread until it unraveled, and sometimes - like this - Etho would try and nudge him towards the correct answer. Skizz is sure that Etho thought he was being sneaky - that Skizz had no idea what he was doing - but he's known.

Etho cares, he thinks, even now. Perhaps neither of them really forgot how to love.

"The flowers were always fresh," Skizz replies, and Etho flinches like he's been stabbed. "Whenever I went, the flowers were always fresh. I didn't think 'dubs would do that, and I knew the cemetery people wouldn't, so..."

"Heh," Etho huffs, though the sound comes out with little humor. "Guess you caught me."

"You were the impostor," Skizz quips, and Etho's responding chuckle comes out a bit more genuine than the last. He hates to ask what he's about to ask, honestly, now that Etho's got the faintest of smiles on, but he feels like he has to - feels like he has to hear it put plain. "Bdubs doesn't go?"

Etho's smile disappears, something only made visible through the faint darkening of his eyes. "You don't need to ask me that," he murmurs, which is as close to confirmation as Skizz thinks he'll get. He thinks that Etho saying the truth might make something a bit too real, might put some kind of vindication to an age-old argument.

Thing is, he and Etho were perpetually talking around the real problem. They'd mediate, and Skizz would talk to Tango while Etho spoke to Bdubs, but they'd never talk about it when they were together, because, well - it was everywhere else. Bdubs's creeping jealousy mixed with Tango's vulnerability was a toxic combination, and any time Bdubs would accuse Tango of something - of monopolizing time, of being inconsiderate, of turning everyone against him - Tango would retort with anger, Bdubs's words striking a soft part of him that he never let anyone see. 

He wonders sometimes, really, how much Bdubs and Tango loved each other. He wonders how much of that love was tainted by resentment or jealousy or pain. He wonders when there stopped being more good times than bad.

This is all to say that he and Etho never spoke about it. Skizz doesn't know who Etho would blame. He doesn't know if he has to ask.

It's a moot point in the end, though, because Tango's dead. That nasty, awful part of Skizz - that part of his heart that Tango took with him when he went - wants to take Bdubs by the shoulders and shake him, scream in his face that he won, can't he see, Tango's dead and he won, isn't he happy now? but that won't do anything. 

After all, there's still a part of his heart that's Bdubs's. No matter how much it hurts, he doesn't think it'll ever go away.

"Why did you take the job?" Etho asks after a long, heavy moment.

It's Skizz's turn to go on the defensive, and the question leaves him feeling a bit wrong-footed. "I mean," he starts, turning his gaze to his now lukewarm drink, "I couldn't really tell my friends the reason why not."

"You never told them?" Etho asks, and Skizz shakes his head. "Not even Impulse?"

A bit of warmth settles in Skizz's chest, then, at the realization that Etho probably still remembers Skizz's long-ago ramblings about his long-distance best friend. "Not even Impulse," he confirms, and Etho hums in consideration. 

Then, after a brief pause, "why?"

That's the question, isn't it? 

Why not tell them? Why not rip the truth from his chest? Why not say it outright - "one of my three boyfriends died and I left because we couldn't handle it"? 

He knows why. It's an ugly, festering truth, but he knows why. He thinks Etho might understand, out of anyone - more than anyone except, painfully enough, Bdubs.

"It'd change how they'd look at me," he replies, looking up to catch Etho's gaze. "I don't want them to see me as the guy with the dead boyfriend."

Etho seems to consider this for a moment, and Skizz is sure, for a moment, that he's going to call out the other half of the truth that Skizz is keeping stuck behind his teeth - "they won't understand. It hurts too much to talk about. I miss him too much." All he says instead, though, is "you didn't use to care about what people thought about you."

"Yeah, well," Skizz sighs, turning his gaze back to the window, "people change."

That's the problem, isn't it? People change. People change, and there's a part of Skizz that fears that he doesn't know how to talk to Etho anymore. There's a part of him that fears that the instructions he knows are outdated, that Etho's changed too much for him to recognize. There's a part of him that fears he's done the same.

Perhaps this isn't the Etho he learned to love. Perhaps he's not the Skizz that Etho learned to love. That prospect feels like a death all its own, as if the further disintegration of their relationship is just killing Tango all over again. 

"I saw on the cameras," he starts, the words tumbling out before he can really think through them, "that you kept the office the same."

Etho's expression twists, then, something pained settling in his eyes. "It was your and Tango's room," he replies, something soft creeping into his grimace. "I didn't- there wasn't any reason to change it."

He thinks they're talking around the truth - that neither of them will just say what they mean. "It hurt too much to move," Etho's saying, trained out of expressing that pain by Bdubs's anger. "It hurt too much to talk about," Skizz is saying, practiced at talking around the truth of the problem.

Tango's ghost hovers between them like a splinter, sharp and wedged under their skin. 

"Bdubs never went in there?" Skizz asks, and Etho shakes his head.

"I-" a moment of hesitation, then, "he wanted to. Wanted to throw it all away. I told him we'd donate it."

The words spill over before he can really stop them - "you didn't want him to get rid of it, did you?"

Etho flinches again, then, and Skizz knows he's right. "Did he ever accept what happened?" he demands, despite already knowing the answer in his heart. "Did he ever accept his part in it? Or did he- does he just want to bury Tango's memory and move on like nothing ever happened?"

"I don't know," Etho retorts, words sharpening to a point. "Haven't you?"

The words land exactly where Etho intended to, hitting all the harder because Skizz knows they're true. He knows he ran away. He knows that he's kept Tango's memory locked behind his teeth. He knows he never told anybody about him. He knows he left Etho and Bdubs and never looked back. He knows he's been trying to outrun the past. 

He knows, he knows, he knows, and it feels like a guillotine hanging over his head.

The thought occurs to him, then - this is exactly like back then. 

"Heh," he chuckles, burying his face in his hands. Etho makes a small noise of confusion, some of the anger draining from his voice, and Skizz slowly shakes his head. "This is just like back then," he mutters, unable to keep some of the fresh grief from his voice. "This is why everything fell apart."

Etho inhales sharply, then, and they're talking about it now, Skizz thinks, finally stuck in the thick of what they never spoke about back then. He can't take back what he said, and neither can Etho. 

Then, almost as if he's putting his own neck under the blade, Etho murmurs, "you know, it was our faults too."

He knows. Of course he knows. How could he not? How could he not, when that argument replays in his mind over and over and over again? There's nothing but what-ifs, nothing but ways to wonder if things could've gone differently if he'd said something different, if he'd done something different, if anything had gone different.

It was his fault, too. Bdubs might've crashed, but Skizz told Tango to stop fighting over it. Bdubs might've crashed the car, but Skizz told Tango to leave it when he said Bdubs was too drunk to drive. Bdubs might've been driving, but Skizz was the one who papered over Tango's concern with his selfish desires for peace. 

"Leave it," he'd said. "Both of you, forgive each other."

It was Etho's fault, too, though not in the same way it was Skizz's. Etho had stood and watched, and that made him culpable, perhaps, but not like Skizz.

What he meant when he said the others would look at him differently: they would know I killed Tango. They would know his death was my fault.

"I know," Skizz whispers, and it feels like those simple words flay him open, send his guts spilling out over the diner table. He knows, he knows Tango's blood is on his hands, he knows he was clinging to something that'd fallen apart, he knows he was selfish, he knows he just wanted things to be good and ignored the fault lines growing between Tango and Bdubs, he knows, he knows, he knows.

He looks at Etho, then, and Etho looks at him. 

For a long moment, neither of them speak. Outside, the rain continues to pour down. There's the soft roar of a passing car, and a pair of headlights pass over them, sending their shadows twisting across the linoleum floor. Etho's shining eyes catch the light for the briefest of moments, a disc of light rushing through his irises before it disappears into the shadow of the night.

"I miss him," Etho finally whispers, the words cracking at the edges like a log in flames. 

Skizz - slowly, slowly - rests his hand on the table, then, palm-up in silent offering. There's a moment before Etho moves, and an even longer moment before he settles his hand in Skizz's, wrapping long fingers around Skizz's warm hand.

"I miss him too," Skizz breathes, and that - that simple realization, years overdue - feels like enough to break them. 

They sit there in silence for a long, long moment, their mutual grief hanging thick in the air between them. Neither of them makes eye contact, both instead choosing to stare out the window at the rain pounding down. 

It feels like a release. It feels like drowning. It feels like pulling the scab off an old wound and letting it bleed.

It feels, finally, like grieving. 

When he wakes up, Etho is gone.

Bdubs blinks for a moment, trying to force the thought through his sleep-addled mind. The sheets next to him are rumpled, and the space Etho would occupy is cold. He's been gone for a while, then.

He glances at the clock - two-thirty. It's so late it's early, even though the sun hasn't even started to peek at the skyline. It's so late it's early, and Etho's gone, has been gone long enough to leave his side of the bed empty and cold.

It feels like fresh betrayal. It feels like a familiar kind of pain. It feels like something terrifying, like the other shoe falling. 

Bdubs shoves himself upright, glancing around the space for a note. There's nothing on Etho's side of the bed, and there's no note on the nightstand. He fishes out his phone, unlocking it with a swipe, and there's no text, either. 

Etho's gone. Etho left. Etho's gone somewhere at two-thirty in the morning, and though he's left his stuff - a quick glance shows Etho's suitcase sat next to Bdubs's on the couch - he's taken his shoes and jacket. He's out somewhere.

He's out with someone.

A burning thing in his chest roars to life, snapping at his spine like something desperate. Etho's left. Etho's probably with someone. Etho's probably cheating on him, probably off with someone else, probably listening to them tell him how pretty he is, and he's probably gone because of those things those ghost hunters said, those answers they wanted, those things Etho's mad at him for. 

He's gone because he's upset with Bdubs, because he's done with Bdubs, because he believes all those things Skizz said. He's gone, and he's going to leave Bdubs alone.

He's not sure how long he sits there, stewing in his thoughts, but at some point, the door clicks open.

Etho steps through the door, hood up and shoes scuffing against the hotel carpet. He's dripping, Bdubs notes, the fur around his hood damp and matted, and he shuts the door quietly behind him, apparently trying not to wake Bdubs up.

Too late for that. 

"So," Bdubs starts, reaching over to flick on the side lamp, "you came back."

It's almost comical, the way Etho freezes - the way he stares at him, eyes wide, like a deer in the headlights. "Bdubs!" he exclaims, voice just a little too high to be natural. "You're up!"

"Yeah," Bdubs snaps, "I'm up. Just like you are."

Etho seems to catch on to his anger, then, because he raises his hands in a kind of surrender. "Bdubs-"

"Where were you?" Bdubs demands, and Etho takes a step back, apparently aware that what he's done has no defense.

"Bdubs-"

"Where were you?"

"Out," Etho says, the words just a bit too panicked to be believable. Bdubs narrows his eyes, and the truth comes to him in a moment - he's lying. 

"Liar."

Etho flinches, then, and oh, Bdubs was right. "Where were you really?" he demands, and Etho inhales, exhales, apparently running the words through his mind before he says them, but it's taking too long, and Bdubs can feel his anger bubbling in his throat like acid. "Etho-"

"Skizz," Etho blurts, and something in Bdubs freezes, goes cold. "I was with Skizz."

He can't think. He can't breathe. It feels like staring down the barrel of a gun, feels like staring down the shaft of an arrow. "You," he asks, voice colder than cold, "were with Skizz?"

"He asked me to meet up," Etho replies, sounding both somewhat cowed but not entirely repentant. "Said he wanted to talk."

"And you went?" Bdubs spits, shoving himself off the bed. He storms up to Etho, tilting his head to look him dead in the eyes, and Etho stares back at him, something almost ashamed flickering in his eyes. "You went to talk with him? Without telling me? After all the stuff he said about me?"

"Bdubs-"

"Don't you 'Bdubs' me!" Bdubs spits, reaching up to jab a finger into Etho's chest. "After he called me a murderer? After he said I didn't care about Tango's death? You still went to see him?"

Etho hesitates, then, just for the briefest of moments - something that probably wouldn't even be noticeable to someone who didn't know him like the back of their hand. To Bdubs, though, it feels like condemnation. "You believe him," he states, voice as cold as he feels.

"I-"

"You believe him!" Bdubs shouts, stepping back to throw his hands in the air. "You believe him! Ohh, I can't- I can't believe this! All that time you were sayin' you were on my side, that you believed me- how long has this been goin' on, huh? How long have you been laughin' at me behind my back? I bet you guys had a lot of fun, huh, talkin' about how awful Bdubs was, talkin' about how much I sucked, huh-"

"This was the first time we met," Etho murmurs, and Bdubs- well, honestly, Bdubs isn't sure he believes him. 

"Oh yeah? And why'd you meet up now, huh?"

"He's on the ghost hunting team," Etho admits, and something in Bdubs- something in him twists, feels almost ashamed. "We were talking about the ghost."

He says "the ghost", Bdubs notes, not "Tango". That distinction means something, to him. 

"About getting rid of it?" Bdubs asks, and Etho swallows before nodding.

Oh. Oh, he feels bad now - feels like he's done something wrong.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, and means it. After all, if Etho really wants to move on, then- then that's amazing, really. "I'm really sorry, Etho."

"It's fine," Etho mumbles, but can't quite meet his eyes.

Bdubs steps forwards to grasp his hands, ignoring Etho's little flinch as he does. "I'm really sorry," he repeats, catching Etho's gaze. "I should've trusted you. You and me forever, right? Us against the world?"

"Us against the world," Etho agrees, though his heart doesn't sound quite in it.

"Once this ghost is all gone, we can sell the house," Bdubs continues, squeezing Etho's hands even tighter. "We can move out to a place in the countryside or something. We'll have the future we always wanted. Doesn't that sound nice? Just the two of us? No more ghosts and no more Skizz?"

"No more ghosts," Etho echoes, sounding almost dazed. "No more Skizz."

Bdubs smiles, then, twisting around to drag Etho further into the room. "That's for tomorrow, though," he proclaims, pointing at the extremely large and comfortable bed still in the room. "For tonight! We need to sleep!"

"Of course," Etho chuckles, sounding a bit more animated now. That meeting with Skizz must've done a number on him, Bdubs thinks, and a part of him feels even worse at the idea that Etho was putting himself through that for Bdubs's sake. He probably didn't tell him because he didn't want him to worry!

Yeah. That's it, right? 

That's it, he decides once they're in bed, his head tucked under Etho's chin. That's it. They'll get rid of this ghost and sell the house and then they'll finally be able to put Tango and Skizz behind them. That's what Etho needs.

That's what'll make Etho happy. 

"He's not coming down?"

Impulse's expression twists, fingers tangling in his lap in an apparent attempt to redirect his thoughts. "I don't think so," he replies, something pained and heavy in his voice.

There's a moment of silence after that, a moment where all four of them around the table try to put their thoughts in order. Gem, for her part, glances out the window, watching as the pounding rain keeps falling. It's going to flood soon, she worries, filling up the gutters and spilling onto the sidewalks.

She wonders if this is how Skizz has felt in the time since Tango's death. She wonders what it feels like to lose someone like that. She wonders if Skizz ever had anyone to talk to about it.

Impulse stares outside in turn, something dark and agonized in his expression. He looks like he's not sure what he's doing there - like he's not sure if he should even be there - and for a moment, Gem wishes they'd never dug into this mess at all. She wishes that she could turn back the clock, that she could skip back in time to before any of these decisions were made and before she knew anything she now does. They're stuck in the thick of it, though, and she fears the only way to go is forwards.

"You've been digging into the clients," Impulse states. It isn't a question. 

Gem nods anyways, hand dropping to the pocket of her jeans. The photo's still there, now creased and a bit worn, but still decidedly understandable. 

"You think they have something to do with Skizz," Impulse continues, and that's not a question either, is it - more a statement of fact. It's got a tone, though, that makes her wonder - how much does Impulse suspect? How much does he want to know? 

"Yeah," Grian simply replies.

Impulse sighs, long and pained, and buries his face in his hands. "It should be Skizz's story to tell," he murmurs, fingers raking through his hair. "I don't want to invade his privacy like this."

That's- 

That crossed their minds, to be sure. It feels horribly like they've dug too deep, like they've flayed Skizz open for public viewing without even telling him. They've gone looking for something they never should've tried to find, and now they're just stuck there, information spread out on the table before them like a scarlet letter.

"Do you think he'll be upset?" Scar asks, and Impulse sighs again, shaking his head slowly in an attempt to either dismiss their words or corral his thoughts.

"I- I don't know. I don't know if I want to know what you have. I don't think I should know. If Skizz didn't want to tell us, it was probably for a reason."

"But it's hurting him," Gem blurts, because even if they did mess up, even if they shouldn't've done what they did, it's clear now in retrospect that the truth was burning him from the inside out. "I- we just wanted to help-"

"I know," Impulse murmurs, sounding entirely agonized over the direction this conversation has gone. "I know. I know you just wanted to help. Just- just-"

He breaks off with a sound of distress, fingers gripping clumps of hair, and Gem feels like the worst person alive.

Nobody likes having Impulse disappointed in them. It feels like the truest form of misery, knowing that Impulse - that Impulse, always trying to keep everyone's needs in mind - expected better from you. It certainly feels like a burning kind of shame now. 

"It should be his story to tell," Impulse concludes, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. "It- I don't want to have it told for him, not when- not when it's-"

"Not when it's what?"

Four heads swivel in tandem, and their collective gazes land on Skizz, elbows braced on the banister upstairs and expression creased in something unintelligible.

"Not when it's about the ghost?" he asks, and it's not anger in his voice, exactly, but it is... discomfort, to be sure. "Not when it's about me?"

He's not sure what, exactly, he's expecting to happen when he jumps into their conversation.

It's just- it's just Impulse sounded lost, alright, sounded like he didn't know what to say, and the others all know now, so there's not much point in continuing to keep it secret, is there? There's not much point in continuing to hide upstairs when the truth is being hashed out a floor below, when the raised voices of his best friends are floating through the thin walls.

Now that he's here, though, he doesn't know what to say.

Gem, Grian, and Scar all look ashamed, as if they've been caught doing something they shouldn't have been. A folder sits on the table between them, some papers spilling out from inside it, and Skizz has to blink away when he sees the faint spark of blond hair and a toothy grin. Impulse, though- Impulse just looks agonized, looks like he desperately wants to respect Skizz's privacy all while trying to understand.

That, more than anything, is what pushes him down the stairs and towards the table. If anyone deserves to know, he thinks, it's Impulse - the person who took him in when he didn't know where to go, who's always been at his side, who held him together when he was falling apart and never asked questions.

He pulls up a chair, sitting between Impulse and Gem with a good view of the folder in front of them. Up close, he can see the picture on the top - a photo that he recognizes, even with only a quick glance.

"That was a good one," he murmurs, pulling it out of the folder so he and Impulse can both look at it. "Took it for Etho's birthday. Man, he was embarrassed that we posted that."

There's a pause, then, during which Skizz fights to keep any wayward tears from his eyes. Seeing them like that - seeing them so young, so happy, so- so together- 

He hasn't looked at any photos of the four of them since he left. He deleted his socials so he wouldn't have to be reminded - wouldn't have to see those last year today! posts that just served to twist the knife deeper - and hasn't had the courage to look through the older photos on his phone. Seeing them here, though, all blown up and printed out...

They look like they're in love.

They were in love once. 

For a moment, Tango's absence feels like an almost physical thing, digging somewhere behind his ribs and ripping through his organs. They would've loved Tango, he thinks, would've loved to meet him, would've loved trading stories with him, would've loved hearing him talk about games or talk about how he and Skizz met or any of a million other stupid things, but they can't, because he's dead.

Tango's dead. 

In the photo, though, he looks alive, if only for a moment. In that moment, frozen in time, he's still there.

"You look happy," Impulse murmurs, and Skizz nods, not trusting his mouth with any words. "You..."

The question lingers despite him not giving voice to it, and Skizz nods, hand sliding under the table in a blind search for his friend. Impulse grasps his after a moment, intertwining their fingers, and Skizz inhales, a shaking, rattling thing. 

"I loved them," he admits, and the words feel like they tear him open. 

He doesn't think he can say the rest of it. He doesn't think he can say anything more than that - not when the truth of it feels so agonizingly real. He loved them, and Bdubs and Etho are gone, and Tango is dead.

"I'm sorry," Grian breathes, the words seeming almost muffled by the pounding rain outside. "We shouldn't've- we shouldn't've pried."

Skizz looks at him, then, and from the way Grian's expression falls, he can imagine what he looks like. "Can you tell him?" he asks, the words coming out strangled even as he tries to force them through. "I- it's just-"

A hand lands on his shoulder, then, and he turns, gaze landing on Gem. She's looking at him with an expression of almost overwhelming care, and that- that threatens to break him all over again, threatens to send him spinning off somewhere into the beyond. "If you want us to," she murmurs, and Skizz-

It should be his story to tell. It should. It just-

Stories carry their own kinds of ghosts, be they happy or sad. For a story to exist, that means someone cared enough to remember it, and this story feels so thick with ghosts that Skizz doesn't think he'll be able to tell it without choking on them. 

Tango is gone. Bdubs and Etho are far away. The world they made isn't a world that exists anymore. 

Maybe hearing someone else tell it will take some of that burden away. Maybe hearing someone else tell the story will make it a bit easier to breathe, if only for a moment.

The story they tell - it has the broad strokes right. They tell Impulse that Tango, Bdubs, and Etho were all his boyfriends - and Impulse's face does a funny thing at that, like he's just figuring out where he knew something from, but he doesn't otherwise comment - and that Tango died in a car accident. They tell him that Bdubs and Etho being weird about it probably means there's some history they don't want to talk about. 

It's not a big story, but it has the broad strokes. The rest of it, though...

"You have most of it right," Skizz admits, dropping his gaze back to the photo. He can almost feel Tango's presence at his shoulder, just like back then, urging him to go on, tell them how you feel. "I- we were all boyfriends. I met Tango first, and we started dating, but a bit later, I met Bdubs and Etho, and..."

They were beautiful then, he remembers, just like he thinks they still are now. Instead of the world-weariness in Etho's eyes, there was a shimmering optimism, and instead of the rage creasing Bdubs's features - and it's a shame, isn't it, that the latest image he has is from the day he left - there was nothing but excitement.

"I liked them." The admission feels like shame, feels like admitting that the butterflies in his heart started the storm that killed Tango. "And I didn't want to tell Tango, but of course, he figured it out."

He still remembers that night - remembers the way Tango'd took his hands and told him "if you really like them, Skizz, you should tell them. Don't worry about me."

"He told me to ask them out, and I did. And then I had the two of them, and Tango."

And then Tango wanted to see him more, as did Bdubs and Etho. And then they started spending more time together, and then, and then, and then...

"Eventually, Tango said he liked them too, and they liked him back. So all four of us were a thing."

It was good, then. It was good for a while. 

"And then..."

He breaks off, then, unable to put words to the next part.

And then that night. And then Bdubs was drinking, and he and Tango were yelling, and it was raining, and there was the screech of tires on asphalt and screaming and-

"And then it wasn't."

He stares down at the table, at the photo, and he swears that, for the briefest of moments, he can feel Tango's hand in his.

On his other side, Impulse squeezes his hand, thumb tracing circles over the back of his hand. That simple contact - that touch, that kindness - is enough to bring him back into himself, and he exhales, trying to put the rest of the story into words.

"I blamed Bdubs," he starts, skipping over the events of that night because to speak them into being would be to destroy himself beyond repair. "Bdubs wanted to move on. I didn't. Eventually, I left."

That's where the story ends, isn't it? That's the important bits. Bdubs wanted to excise Tango from their lives - wanted to act like he was never even there when he was the one who'd- 

Etho's words swim back into his mind, then - "haven't you?" - and he exhales, trying to purge the thought from his mind.

He's no better than Bdubs. He's kept running away, kept the truth locked behind his teeth, kept Tango as a secret of late-nights and confessions to empty air. What makes him any better?

"Thank you for telling us," Impulse murmurs, and Skizz nods, the motion feeling more wooden and automatic than anything. "That... that must've been hard."

"Yeah," Skizz whispers, words cracking at the ends. Then, in a moment of unfiltered truth- "I miss him."

Impulse nods, and even in the dim light, Skizz can see a glassiness in his eyes. "I can imagine," he murmurs, and Skizz thinks, for the briefest of moments, that Impulse did know them - knows them through the emptiness in Skizz they left behind.

That's not the end of the story, though. Not when the others are looking at him, the one question they need to ask but won't dare to hanging in the air between them.

The circumstances around a death are key, and Skizz skipped over that part. To put Tango to rest - which makes his chest ache to even think about, but he knows, he knows it has to be done - they need to know how he died and why.

"You don't have to tell us if you don't want to," Impulse insists, speaking around the question that none of them have officially posed. "If it's too hard-"

But no. If he doesn't say it now, he knows he might never say it. If he doesn't say it now, then Tango's ghost will just linger, festering until there's nothing left for him but agony. 

They had something good, once.

"It was late," he starts, and Impulse's mouth shuts with an almost audible click. "It was raining. We'd gone out to celebrate something, I think, and it was... it was a good night."

He remembers that, if not the details. There were so few good nights, and that was a good one. Bdubs and Tango hadn't fought, hadn't bickered - had even kissed, Bdubs halfway in Tango's lap. It was a good night.

"I didn't want it to end," he admits, and the words feel like a brand, shame painted across his face for all to see. 

They don't understand yet, but they will. 

"Then we went to leave. Bdubs... Bdubs had had a lot to drink, and Tango said he shouldn't drive."

That scene he remembers - remembers them standing out in the parking lot, remembers Tango's wet hair plastered to his forehead as he shouted about safety, remembers Bdubs screaming back that Tango didn't trust him, that he didn't believe in him, that he just wanted to be the good guy, to look better in front of the others, and-

"And they started fighting."

He remembers Bdubs turning to them, an accusation on his lips-

"And I told Tango to stop."

He remembers Tango's expression in that moment - the look of betrayal that'd flickered through his brown-red eyes, the way his lips had parted, just slightly, in an expression of hurt. It wasn't a notable fight, in that moment, but he still remembers it - remembers the way Tango'd looked at him, as if to say "you're asking me to sacrifice to keep this relationship together."

That was all he ever did, he thinks. He asked Tango to sacrifice again and again and again and never did what he should've done. 

Bdubs wanted an apology. Tango refused to give one. The two of them sat in the front seats, and Bdubs was still upset, still making jabs as they pulled out of the parking lot, and Tango was firing back, visibly angered, and then-

"And he did. So we left. And then-"

And then.

Screeching tires. Panning headlights. Nothing.

He exhales, turning his gaze back to Tango in the photo. Would he smile like that, Skizz wonders, if he knew how it'd end?

"He died on impact," Skizz whispers, the words barely escaping his throat. "The doctor said- the doctor said he probably didn't feel a thing."

This is what he never wanted them to know. This - the truth of what he's done, what he did, who he killed - was something he was always afraid to voice, because they'd know.

He killed Tango. He ruined everything. Tango died because of his insistence on cooperation, because of his desire to cling onto something broken, because of his stupidly myopic view towards his own happiness. Tango died because of him.

A hand lands on his shoulder, then, and he turns, fully expecting reproach.

Instead, though, it's Impulse. It's Impulse, expression twisted with so much pain that Skizz nearly thinks that he's the one who's just revealed something deep, only to realize oh, this is for him.

"Skizz," Impulse whispers, and he knows they're both thinking about that night, months later - that night where Skizz turned up on his front porch with a duffel bag and a suitcase, tears streaming down his cheeks. "I'm so sorry."

That-

That's enough to break him.

He chokes on a sob, other hand flying up to cover his mouth, and Impulse moves, wrapping his arm around Skizz's side and pulling him close. Skizz absolutely wails, then, hands coming up to grip at Impulse's shirt like a life preserver in a storm, and Impulse reaches around to rub his hand up and down Skizz's back, almost as if to provide proof of life.

"I'm sorry," Skizz gasps, and he's not sure if it's to Impulse for his lies or to Tango for what he's done or to Etho and Bdubs for leaving them or to everyone for everything or for what, but it bursts out of his chest like a living thing. 

"It's okay," Impulse murmurs, but it's not okay. It won't ever be okay. Tango is dead, and even after all this time, Skizz still doesn't know how to live without him.

He doesn't know where to go from here. He doesn't know if he can. 

But there's Tango, and there's Bdubs and Etho, and there's Impulse, right here, hand on his back and arm around his waist, and Skizz thinks that, at least, he won't be figuring it out alone. 

"So," Grian starts, tracing the rim of his glass with one finger, "are we going to keep this job?"

It's a good question. If Skizz's reaction is any indication - as in, he and Impulse are still talking even now, huddled together next to the photo Grian had printed out - this is a fraught situation for him, and definitely not one that'll end without some kind of emotional pain. 

At the same time, though, it really doesn't feel like it's their decision to make. 

"We shouldn't make a decision for him," Scar states, voice uncharacteristically stern. "I mean, for us, this is just a ghost. For Skizz, though..."

He trails off, and Gem thinks again about the photo on the table - thinks about Tango, thinks about another world where they could've met him as flesh and blood instead of wisps of cold and ink on a page. The Tango they're hunting may not be the Tango that exists in Skizz's memories, but they come from the same place.

"Should we ask him about it?" Gem asks, because that's the real thing right now, isn't it? Do they press now or later? How long can they wait, sitting around a table with the pounding rain outside, before time sweeps everything away? Is there a window for this to happen? Is Skizz going to turn away? 

"I mean," Grian sighs, "we probably should. I just..."

He makes a vague gesture, then, as if to indicate some kind of "don't know what to do". "It feels weird," he concludes, "asking him directly. You know, like, 'how are you feeling about your ghost boyfriend and us killing him'?"

"I think that wouldn't be too weird," Scar opines, and Gem fights the urge to kick him.

"I've never been in this situation before," Grian continues, seemingly speaking to nobody in particular. "I think this one might be new for me."

"Yeah, well," Gem retorts, "it's new for all of us. Get it together."

Grian glances at her, then, a retort visibly on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back, sinking into his chair with a decided scowl.

Gem's about to ask if they should go and check on the others when someone knocks on the doorframe, and she turns, gaze landing on Impulse. He's leaning against the wall like it's all that's holding him upright, but there's a faint smile on his lips when he asks if they'd like to come back in and talk about the job, so it can't be too bad.

Skizz still looks like death warmed over, but he smiles when he sees them, the expression somehow managing to reach his eyes. "You came back," he says, like an idiot, and Gem smacks him as she sits. "Ow- hey! What was that for!"

"Of course we came back," she huffs, because honestly, what did he think they'd do? Jump out the window and run into the woods? "What'd you think would happen?"

Skizz looks about to reply, but he falters, turning his gaze back to the photo. "I don't know," he murmurs, voice small, and Gem immediately feels like the worst person alive.

"Right!" Impulse exclaims, apparently intending to drag them back to business with sheer force. "There's one more thing we need to talk about!" Then, as if they haven't already been discussing this in their respective groups, "are we going to keep this job?"

Everyone looks at Skizz, then, and Gem fights the urge to glance suspiciously over at the window. It's not like Skizz doesn't know they're all looking to him, and he's not the type of person who would really care. 

He does look confused, though, brows scrunching together as he scans their faces. "Why wouldn't we?" he asks, and it's such a cosmically ridiculous question that Gem nearly wants to scream.

"It's personal," Scar interjects, answering before Gem can put the same answer in a much blunter way. "If you're not comfortable-"

"Well, we already started," Skizz replies, voice thick with false cheer. He seems to catch this, though, and he glances down at his hands, cheerful smile fading into something much more contemplative. 

"Skizz?" Impulse asks, reaching over to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You alright?"

Skizz looks up at him, then, and a silent understanding passes between them, an entire conversation without words happening in the span of a few seconds. Skizz furrows his brow, Impulse tilts his head, Skizz arches a brow, Impulse tilts his head again, this time with a bit more force, and Gem isn't sure what to think. It feels like watching a tennis match, the ball flying back and forth faster than she can track.

At the end of it all, though, Skizz sighs, ripping his gaze away from Impulse's and back to the table before him. "It's because it's personal that I don't want to stop," he admits, gaze pinned on the photo between his hands. "It's because it's Tango that I... I want him to be at peace."

That's all it needs to be, isn't it? 

"Alright," Impulse simply replies, clapping his hands as if to say "there, decision made". "We'll head back tomorrow night, then?"

"Wh- you're not gonna talk about it?" Skizz blurts, the words seeming almost to spill out unbidden. "Not even, a little?"

Impulse turns back to face him, then, something both severe and soft settling in his eyes. "We trust you," he says, and Skizz stares at him for a moment before smiling.

"Heh," Skizz murmurs, reaching up to cover his eyes with one hand. "You guys..."

It's more reticent than he'd usually be, and Gem rolls her eyes, leaning over to elbow him in the side. "If you want a hug, just say so," she sighs, and Skizz snorts, reaching out to wrap an arm around her shoulders. 

"Aw, you know me so well, Gemmy-Bemmy!"

"I take it back," she grouses, though she doesn't put up any real fight as Skizz drapes himself over her like a limpet. "You're the worst."

"You love me," Skizz coos, and Gem sighs, though she can't keep the fondness from her voice.

"Yeah," she admits, "I do."

"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

He's not even really asking Skizz when he says it - isn't even asking Skizz at all. Impulse knows himself well enough to know this much, at least - knows he's really asking himself if he's ready for this to happen. He's not sure if he's ready to know whatever truth is going to be dragged into the open, isn't sure if he's ready to catch Skizz when he falls.

It's not a hesitation of will or of spirit - he'll always be there if Skizz needs him, no matter what. It's just- he's not sure if he's enough. 

He knows it's not his fault that Skizz didn't tell him. He knows it's not about him. He knows, he knows, he knows, and yet there's still a small niggling part of him that says that he failed, somehow, as a best friend. He feels, somehow, as if it's his fault that Skizz had to keep this secret.

But Skizz turns to him, then, and claps a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be alright," he promises, and Impulse finds he can't help but believe him.

Grian's the person in the van today, and he chatters over the radio as they make their way up the front path. "It was in the kitchen last time," he rambles, "so check there first, and I don't know if we have any evidence yet, but it could be anything, so look out-"

"You're worrying too much, G," Skizz chuckles, easily slicing through Grian's chatter to the root of the problem. "I'll be fine."

"Yeah, well," Grian starts, then pauses, apparently unsure of what to say. "Be careful."

"We'll keep an eye on him," Impulse promises, and Skizz gasps, dramatically puffing up like an angered cat. 

"Hey! I don't need you to watch me! I'll be just fine!"

"It's because we care," Scar interjects, and Skizz huffs, rolling his eyes dramatically. 

"Yeah, yeah."

They linger outside the front door for a moment, and Impulse takes that time to check his pockets. "We should be prepared for a hunt when we walk in," he states, and the three others on the team all nod in agreement. Skizz, for his part, looks a bit unsettled - just like the rest of them knew he'd be - but he nods nonetheless, jaw set and lips pursed in a thin line. 

Impulse grips the incense, tangling the cord around his fingers in an attempt to burn out some of the anxiety thrumming through his veins. The anticipation is the worst, he thinks - after all, he can handle a hunt when it happens, but waiting for it never stops being unnerving.

The others are standing by, though, waiting for him to go, so he exhales, turns the doorknob, and steps inside.

He's expecting the lights to start flickering as soon as they enter - and if not as soon as he enters, certainly as soon as Skizz does. A couple moments later sees them all stood inside, though, with no sign of an angry ghost.

"Well," Impulse starts, glancing warily around the space, "I think... we might be good?"

"Scar and I will head upstairs," Gem volunteers, and something in Skizz's expression flickers, gratitude mixing with pain. "You guys are gonna head to the kitchen, right?"

"Yeah," Impulse confirms, leaning over to bump Skizz's shoulder with his own. "Meet up once we find the room?"

Gem nods, and Scar gives a cheerful salute in response. Impulse and Skizz watch as they head up the stairs, bickering softly the entire way, and it's not until they're entirely gone that Impulse turns to face his friend, flicking off the radio on his shoulder so they can have some privacy.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks, voice pitched soft so that Gem and Scar can't hear it.

Skizz doesn't seem to see him at first, gaze flickering over the walls nearby. There's a far-off look to his eyes, and as Impulse watches, the corners of his mouth twist with unspoken pain.

"Skizz?" Impulse prods, and Skizz blinks, physically shaking himself out of his reverie. 

"Yeah, dude?"

"You're sure you're okay?" Impulse presses, because honestly, Skizz doesn't seem okay. 

His friend doesn't respond, instead glancing somewhere past his head to the room beyond. That pain from before only seems to grow, and Impulse makes a decision that could at worst be called idiotic and at best be called - hah - impulsive.

"Tell me what you're thinking of?"

Skizz turns to him, then, something like surprise dashing across his features. "What d'you mean?"

"You're thinking about memories around here, right?" Impulse asks, and Skizz nods, slow and wary. "Tell me about them?" Then, when Skizz doesn't respond for a moment or two, "unless you don't want to, I mean-"

"No, no," Skizz dismisses, lips curling into the faintest of smiles as he glances around the space. "It's just... weird, being back here, you know? Last time I was here was when I left, and that wasn't exactly a happy time."

Impulse doesn't interject, instead waving for Skizz to go on.

Much to his surprise, Skizz leads on, drawing Impulse towards the kitchen. He's a professional, Skizz, and Impulse watches as he pulls out his thermometer, starting to take the temperature before he speaks.

"We picked this place out ourselves," he states, turning side to side as if the ambient temperature will change with position. "It seemed perfect. 'dubs wanted a lot of light for his plants, and Tango and I needed an office."

"You were doing consulting?" Impulse asks, and Skizz nods.

"For a bit, yeah."

"What about Tango?"

He fears it's a misstep as soon as he says it, but Skizz seems to almost soften at the question, lips curling into the faintest of smiles. 

"Tango designed games. He was amazing at it, too. He released Decked Out a bit after we started dating, and before he- he was working on the sequel. It was kinda a full-house thing, but Tango did most of the work. He did the art and the music and the programming, and I'd do some web design and stuff if he needed it. Etho playtested, since he was the best at the first game."

"What about Bdubs?" Impulse prods, and that's definitely a misstep, if the way Skizz's expression flickers is any indication.

"'dubs... wasn't really involved," Skizz states, and leaves it there. 

They enter the kitchen, then, and Skizz reaches out to run his fingers over the kitchen island, lips curling into a frown at the dust that meets him. "Bdubs would have a fit," he mutters, seemingly to himself, but Impulse - still thinking about Skizz's last reaction - tries to press anyways.

"What do you mean?"

Skizz blinks, turning to face him as if he'd forgotten Impulse was there. "Bdubs was always the best at at-home stuff," he replies, rubbing his fingers together as if to rub away the dust. "He was the one who led the deep-cleans, and we'd all do what he said to. He's a hell of a cook, too- made incredible dinners and everything."

"What did he do?" 

"Architecture," Skizz says, turning to glance out the window at the pouring rain. "I don't know where he found the time."

His expression goes distant, then, telling Impulse that he's thinking about memories from a time he isn't privy to. Skizz's fingers dance over the kitchen counter, then, drumming in a rhythmic pattern Impulse isn't sure if he's even aware of - one-two-three-four over and over again like a metronome.

"We found the ghost!" Gem announces, voice crackling through Skizz's radio. They both jump, and Skizz even curses a bit, one hand coming up to smooth down his hair. 

"Where is it?" Impulse asks, switching back on his radio and holding it to his mouth. 

"The upstairs room with the computer."

"The office," Skizz corrects, seemingly on autopilot. Then, when he seems to realize, he sighs, shaking himself again as if to force himself to the present.

"Are you sure you don't want to go back to the van?" Impulse asks, and he shouldn't keep asking, he knows, but it feels as if- it feels as if Skizz is about to drown in memory, about to dissolve like sugar in the river of time. 

"I'm fine," Skizz replies, then sighs, hand coming up to pinch at his nose. "I- I'll be fine. Let's just- let's go upstairs, okay?"

"Okay," Impulse slowly responds, letting Skizz lead the way. 

The office looks about how Impulse would've expected, two desks pressed against each of the walls with windows. One is empty - that one must've been Skizz's - and the other still has a computer and monitor, sun-faded post-it notes stuck to the monitor like reminders. 

Impulse recognizes Skizz's handwriting on one of them and glances away, feeling as if he's just seen something he was never meant to see.

"It's freezing in here!" Scar exclaims, hands coming up to rub at his arms. 

"He's right," Gem agrees, and Scar huffs, dramatically pouting.

"Of course I'm right!"

"No, it's actually freezing," Gem retorts. "As in, we have freezing temperatures."

Impulse makes a note of that, scribbling it down in his little pocket notebook. 

"We've got ghost orbs as well," Grian reports from the truck, and Impulse notes that down as well. "Does someone wanna set up DOTS and spirit box?"

"I'll do it."

It takes a moment for Impulse to fully process Skizz's words, and a moment longer to process the implication. "No!" he blurts, and that doesn't do much good, because Skizz just turns to look at him, expression turning unreadable.

"Impulse," he replies, voice going somewhat soft and somewhat steely. "I think I need to do this."

"Yeah, but," Impulse tries, voice cracking at the end. 

It's not about Skizz. He knows it's not about Skizz. It's not- it's about him, really, about feeling like he's standing on the other side of this closed door that he's unfamiliar with. Skizz has never kept anything from him, and now that he's in the thick of this - now that he knows that Skizz had this entire other world he's never known, and now that he knows that Skizz is about to jump head-first into it, about to submerge himself in what must be an agonizingly painful past-

He's scared. He's not sure if it's for himself or for Skizz, but he's scared.

Skizz must see that, since he clasps Impulse's shoulder, lips curling into a gentle but genuine smile. "Trust me," he murmurs, voice soft, and Impulse-

Impulse would trust Skizz with his life. He would follow his friend to the ends of the earth. 

Phrased like this? He can trust him. 

"I trust you," he replies, and Skizz smiles, soft and kind. 

"Thanks, dude."

Scar passes him the spirit box, and Skizz moves to flick off the lights. Impulse steps back, out of the room, and leans against the outside wall, gaze pinned on his friend inside.

"Hey," Gem murmurs, leaning over to nudge him with her elbow. "He'll be okay."

"I know," Impulse whispers, and finds he believes it. 

It's strange being back here.

It feels almost as if he's stepping back in time, as if he'll turn around and see Bdubs or Etho leaning against the doorframe or see Tango sitting at his chair. It feels like he's trying to fit himself into a mold he isn't sure if he can fill anymore, as if he's grown sharp in all the wrong places.

It feels cold.

The rain pounds against the window, a rhythmic thud-thud-thud like a beating heart. In the distance, Skizz almost thinks he can hear thunder.

The spirit box switches on easy, and the staticky sound of it rolling through channels fills the room. Skizz inhales, wraps his fingers around the spirit box, and starts to speak. 

"Are you there?"

Then, through the static: "you're here."

It sounds warped, distorted, like mashing together other voices to speak, but underneath it, there's a faint gravelly hint that makes something in Skizz's heart pound. 

He shouldn't keep talking. He should shut it off. They know they have spirit box now - he ought to just turn it off and walk away. He ought to step back.

But- but, well, he was never going to do that, was he? 

It's Tango. It's Tango sending a chill down his spine, Tango speaking to him through the static, Tango here with him after two years of silence.

"Hey," Skizz whispers, voice cracking at the end. "You're- you're really here?"

"Nearby," the box replies, and Skizz covers his mouth with a hand, fighting back the tears that sting his eyes. 

"You- do you remember me?"

A momentary pause, then, as if Tango's thinking it through, before finally: "you left."

The words pierce like a knife.

He left him. Tango was aware, was here all along, and he left him- left all of them. He'd left, and then Bdubs and Etho left, leaving Tango all alone in this cold, empty house.

He's been alone for so long. Skizz, at least, had the rest of the ghost hunting team, and Bdubs and Etho had each other, but what did Tango have? Nothing but the cold and the memories.

"I'm sorry," Skizz whispers, and knows it's insufficient even as he says it. Tango doesn't respond, and Skizz inhales, glancing up at the ceiling in an attempt to collect himself. 

"I'm sorry," he repeats, staring up at the ceiling as if Tango is hovering somewhere above him like an angel. "I- I would've stayed, if I knew you were here. I promise, I would've."

"Left," the box replies, the word shorting out at the end. 

"I know," Skizz breathes, and oh, what can he say? What can he say that would make up for this? He was so wrapped up in the thrill of it all - the exhilaration of seeing Tango again - that he'd forgotten what must've happened in the interim. 

He left him alone. How much must that have hurt?

"Are you in pain?" 

The box garbles out a response, this time distorted enough that Skizz can't fully make sense of it. With a heavy heart, he asks again: "are you in pain?"

"Yours."

He's not sure, for a moment, if Tango said "yes" or "yours", and he's about to respond when the box garbles something else out. "You left," Tango crackles, words spilling out like the rain from above. "You left."

A few figurines on Tango's desk start to shudder, and Skizz steps back as one topples. "Wait," he pleads, but the ghost evidently isn't listening. 

"Your fault," the box spits out, and Skizz stumbles back, the words hitting like a punch. It feels like a physical thing, this guilt, and he reaches up to clutch at his chest, an ache making a home just behind his sternum. "Your fault."

"Tango-"

Tango appears, then, and that's the worst of all.

He looks- he looks dead is Skizz's first thought, clothes drenched in blood where they aren't entirely shredded. His head hangs at an odd angle, neck clearly broken, but his burning eyes stare at Skizz, accusatory and demanding. 

"Your fault," he growls, and it echoes through the spirit box and the room itself, all mixed with an awful kind of gargling noise that sounds like choking. 

Skizz can't breathe.

It feels like Tango's hands are around his neck even though they're not, feels like his airway has swelled shut with the force of his guilt. Tango stares at him, and says something else - even more garbled this time, with a sound like multiple people speaking at once - and Skizz stumbles back, hands bracing against the wall in an attempt to keep himself upright.

Tango says that same overlapping thing again - still unintelligible - and lurches forwards, arms outstretched. 

Skizz shuts his eyes.

"Skizz!"

There's the sound of something bursting into flame, and the faint light from the hallway winks out. 

Skizz slits his eyes open, gaze landing first on the red-hot crucifix in the center of the room. He stares at it for a moment, processing, before he glances to his side just in time for someone to grab his shoulders. 

"What were you doing?" Grian demands, and ah, Skizz thinks, he brought in the crucifix. "You could've- why didn't you-"

Skizz opens his mouth to respond - honest, he does - but all that comes out is a sort of broken, strangled sob.

Grian's expression crumples, and he glances over his shoulder, a war clearly waging on his features. "We should go," he whispers, and Skizz sucks in a shuddering breath, trying to banish Tango's words from his mind.

It's no use. That accusation sticks with him the entire way back to the truck, "your fault" ringing through his ears like a death knell. 

Impulse... Impulse isn't sure where to start with this, in all honesty.

They'd pulled into a late-night diner under the foolish assumption that maybe eating something would help, but it doesn't seem to have made much of a difference. Skizz just chews on french fries woodenly, gaze still fixed somewhere distant on the horizon.

Stupid, stupid Impulse. He should've put his foot down. He should never have let Skizz spirit box in there alone. He should've been quicker, should've been the one to throw in the crucifix. He should've done more.

"So," Gem starts, spinning a fry around in her milkshake like a spoon, "we all heard that conversation, right?"

Everyone who isn't Skizz nods in agreement.

"It was mad," Grian points out, angling a fry in their general directions. "Mad at Skizz."

"But why?" Gem asks, sounding somewhat annoyed by the entire thing. "Skizz didn't do anything."

"He did leave," Grian points out, and Gem scowls.

"Yeah, but it's stupid of Tango to blame him for that."

"Well, clearly, he does," Grian retorts, and Impulse didn't think it was possible, but Skizz's expression actually grows even more despondent.

He's about to interject when Scar pipes up, french fry perched between two fingers like a fork at a high-end restaurant. 

"What did it mean that Skizz asked if he was in pain and the ghost said 'yours'?"

That's... a good question. It's a strange response, to be sure, and definitely not one he'd expect. Maybe the ghost is saying that Skizz caused it - but then again, that would probably be another "your fault", which Tango could clearly say. Maybe it's saying Skizz is in pain instead of him? Or, maybe, it's something in between.

That- that would make sense. Assuming Tango really is an onryo - which would make sense, given the candle they saw in the kitchen - and given his negative responses to the photos in the house, it'd make sense if he was seeking some kind of revenge. More to the point- well, he remembers how Skizz looked that night, remembers the way he stood on Impulse's doorstep, expression drawn and haunted. He remembers how Bdubs and Etho looked at the diner, remembers Bdubs's anger and Etho's blankness. 

"Yours," Tango had said. Impulse thinks he might have an awful feeling about what that means.

"Skizz," he starts, turning to face his best friend. Skizz, for his part, had just been staring out the window, watching the rain patter against the glass, so he starts a bit when Impulse addresses him directly.

"Yeah?"

"How were things when you left?"

He hates that he'd asked as soon as the words leave his mouth, and hates it all the more when Skizz's expression shutters, closing off in an instant.

"I don't want to talk about it," he murmurs, clearly asking Impulse to leave it be.

But- but, Impulse thinks, this may be one of those cases where he has to push. He has to push, because he doesn't think that Tango really does blame Skizz, and he doesn't want Skizz to keep thinking he does.

"Please," he tries, and Skizz looks at him, his visible pain only deepening at Impulse's words. 

"Impy," he pleads, the word splintering at the end like rotted wood. "Don't-"

"I don't think he was actually mad at you," Impulse blurts, because he can tell Skizz is about to spiral down somewhere Impulse can't reach, and it's crucial he heads that off at the pass. 

Skizz blinks at him, bewildered, and Impulse tries to organize his thoughts enough to elaborate. "I think- I think he's just-" an exhale, then, "I think the reason all of this is happening - why he's so aggressive, why he's stuck there, why he was acting like that - is because of what happened after his death."

He doesn't say it explicitly - doesn't say outright "because of you and the others" - but Skizz clearly understands regardless.

"It's my fault," he murmurs, turning his gaze down to his nearly-untouched food. "I did this."

"It's not just your fault," Impulse pleads, but the words are coming out all wrong. He's no silver-tongued wordsmith, no smooth speaker, and everything he's trying to say just comes out all twisted and tangled. "I- he doesn't hate you, Skizz, it's just-"

"He's lost," Grian interjects, and all heads turn to him. He stares at Impulse, then, dark eyes boring into his, and adds, "right?"

"Lost," Impulse agrees, which is as good a way to say it as any.

"What do you mean?" Gem asks, and Impulse glances over at Grian, silently begging him to elaborate.

Thankfully, Grian takes the hint. "I think what Impulse is trying to say," he starts, "is that Tango's trapped in a kind of... nexus of negative feelings."

There's a general round of blank stares at that, so Grian sighs, resigning himself to an elaboration.

"Feelings have power," he continues, glancing at each of them in turn. "I mean, we all obviously know that. But you all know how it feels when people are mad at each other - the room just feels darker, you know?" That statement gets him more nods, so he continues. "Ghosts are, as far as we know, basically all feelings. So if Tango was already there as a ghost, he could've been influenced by all the negative feelings in the house, especially since they were all about him."

"What does that mean?" Scar asks, evidently not sure what this has to do with anything.

"It means," Grian continues, visibly annoyed by the interruption, "that what he's saying and how he's acting doesn't have anything to do with him. He's just expressing everyone else's negative feelings."

All heads turn to Skizz, then, even Grian's, despite him continuing to speak. "That is," he finishes, words slow, "if the feelings were actually negative enough."

That seems to spur Skizz into some kind of action, then, because he just lets out a wearied, humorless chuckle. "Yeah," he mutters, "they were definitely bad enough."

"Skizz," Impulse tries, because he can't- he doesn't want Skizz to think that Tango really thinks that, doesn't want him to blame himself, but at the same time, to believe that means believing that he contributed to Tango's present misery. 

"It'd make sense," Skizz continues, words entirely without mirth. "I mean, Bdubs always said it was my fault."

"Exactly," Grian interjects, something like triumph layered into his voice. "See? It means that he's not actually the one saying those things - means he's just repeating what other people said!"

Skizz laughs again, though this time, it's bitter to the point of near-anger. "Right," he replies, voice frigid. "That's great. Great that he's miserable because of me and what I did. Great."

Grian's expression falls, something like pain flickering in his eyes. "No," he blurts, "that's not what I-"

There's the sound of shoe-on-shoe, and Grian shuts his mouth, betrayed glare flickering to Gem. Impulse takes that as his cue.

"We can fix this," he assures, reaching out to place a hand on Skizz's shoulder. "We can help Tango find peace."

"Not if we need Bdubs," Skizz mutters, hands coming up to cover his eyes. He braces his elbows on the table, forming a kind of curtain with his arms that effectively keeps Impulse from getting too close, and shakes his head. "If we need Bdubs, we're doomed."

"I mean," Scar chips in, and Impulse glances warily in his direction, unsure where this could be going, "have you actually talked to Bdubs since all this happened?"

Skizz lets out another humorless laugh, parting his fingers just enough to glance at Scar. "What do you think?"

"Maybe that'd help," Scar continues, apparently ignoring Skizz's hostile tone. "Talking with all three of you."

"Yeah," Skizz dryly replies, "I'm sure that'll help." Then, addressing Scar properly, "look, I know you're trying to help, but me and Bdubs- we don't wanna see each other. He doesn't wanna see me, and I don't really wanna see him. It won't happen."

"Yeah," Scar says, sounding as though he thinks the solution is simple as can be, "but you all loved Tango, didn't you?"

That-

Impulse glances back at Skizz, waiting for some kind of explosive response. He's not sure what Skizz will do - not sure how he'll react in this new paradigm they've found themselves in - and he finds himself bracing for the worst, fully expecting to deescalate. 

But Skizz- Skizz doesn't respond. He just stares at the table, apparently lost in thought.

"If you want to try," Impulse murmurs, doing his best to keep his voice low. "we'll be there. I know- I know it's probably not what you really wanna do, but if you want to try, then we'll- we'll be right behind you."

"I don't know if it'll work," Skizz sighs, voice wobbling like he's about to cry. "I don't- I don't think it'd go well."

"But we'll be there if you want to try," Impulse repeats, and Skizz buries his face in his hands, apparently considering.

The thing is, Impulse thinks, it's not really about Skizz or Bdubs or Etho or, really, any of them. It's about Tango. 

If there's one thing he's learned from all of this, Impulse thinks, it's that Skizz still loves Tango. He thinks Skizz still loves Tango with a depth and ferocity that even Skizz himself isn't fully aware of, despite the chasm of death between them.

He's not jealous. How could he be? If anything, he's just pained - pained for Skizz, pained that he never got to meet him, pained that this chain of events spiraled out of control the way it had. Just because Skizz loves Tango doesn't mean that he doesn't still care about Impulse.

He thinks that Skizz might know, somewhere in his heart, that this is the last thing he can do for Tango. He thinks that having all of them by his side might just give him the courage to do it.

It's for that reason that Impulse isn't surprised when Skizz exhales, raises his head, and says "okay."

"Beware of floods across the region as the multi-day storm grows stronger..." the radio warns, and yeah, Skizz thinks, that sounds about right.

The rain's just grown worse since the day prior, meaning not even his raincoat can fully insulate him from the storm. Impulse has angled his umbrella over the both of them, but it still lets some of the storm in, and by the time they step inside, all five of them are soaked to the bone.

Once he pulls down his hood, Skizz shakes his head, sending droplets flying from his damp hair. Next to him, Impulse sputters, wiping a few stray drops off his face, and Skizz gives him a smile that he's not sure he really means.

It's like this: he's not sure how he's going to face Bdubs after all this time. He's not sure what the two of them look like anymore, whether they fit into each other's empty spaces or just leave a gap between them that nothing can really fill. He's not sure if the ghost of their last conversation will continue to haunt them, or if Bdubs will face him like nothing's changed.

The man he knew wasn't really one to hold a grudge. Skizz isn't sure if that's changed.

Impulse grips his shoulder, then, and Skizz turns to him, some surprise sparking up his spine. "Impy?" he murmurs, voice just loud enough to be heard over the air conditioning, and Impulse gives him a soft smile, squeezing his shoulder in reassurance.

"We're right here," he promises, and that- that means a lot.

It's like this: Skizz could pick out Etho and Bdubs in any size crowd, could probably find them blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back. He notices them immediately when he enters the room, sees the two of them sat at a booth, and for a moment, Tango's presence feels like a physical thing.

It was like this when they got together, wasn't it - him and Tango arriving while Bdubs and Etho saved them a seat? It almost feels like if he looks behind himself, he won't see Impulse but Tango, his smile crooked with nerves and hands tangled together behind him. 

He glances, just to be sure. He glances back, because he thinks he'd always look back if there was a chance Tango might be there.

But it's not Tango, is it - it's Impulse and Gem and Scar and Grian, all of them looking to him to see what he'll do. It's not Tango, and that feels like losing him all over again.

That just firms some of the resolve in his heart - reminds him why he's here and what he has to do. It's his fault that Tango's gone, and it's his fault that Tango's still here in the way he is. It's all of their faults, really, but Skizz thinks it might be up to him to make the first step.

Etho sees him first, though Skizz can only tell by the faint way his expression softens, goes both relieved and worried like someone finding an injured animal. Bdubs doesn't follow his gaze at first, engrossed in chattering about nothing in particular, but when Skizz comes to stand at the end of the table, Bdubs finally - finally - looks up.

There's a moment where they lock eyes, and it almost feels like nothing's changed.

When Bdubs looks at him, dark eyes reflecting the LEDs overhead and damp hair hanging in his eyes, it almost feels as if they could be anywhere else - as if they could've just come in from a storm, Bdubs's hands wet with mud and dirt caked under his fingernails. It almost feels as if they'd been caught in the rain, rushing inside to share laughter and gentle touches around a fireplace. It feels like something familiar. 

But Bdubs's expression creases with fury, and Skizz remembers the reality - remembers, and realizes that perhaps Bdubs loved him enough to hold onto this hate.

"What's he doing here?" Bdubs snarls, addressing the question at Etho even as he never releases Skizz's gaze. He pushes himself upright, evidently attempting to leave, but Etho grabs his wrist, and then - then - Bdubs turns to Etho, that fury softening in an instant.

It was always like that, Skizz thinks, old bitterness rising to the fore. It was always Etho and Bdubs over the rest of them, always Etho and Bdubs against the world with Tango and Skizz as afterthoughts. Perhaps, Skizz thinks, that's why he's still scrabbling for some evidence of Bdubs's love - still searching for some indication that he might matter to him near as much as he mattered to Skizz. 

He thinks about Bdubs calling him charismatic and baby, thinks about him looking over at him from the kitchen counter, hair tousled and dirt on his cheek, and wonders if they ever had what Skizz thought they had.

He's not sure what Etho does, or how he conveys it, but Bdubs sits. He sits, and though that anger still festers in his eyes, it's not enough to make him leave.

It's a horrible thing, Skizz thinks, loving Bdubs like this - and it is still love, something roaring and awful in his chest. It's awful not because he loves him, but because Bdubs can only pretend to love him the same.

Impulse approaches, then, and Bdubs's expression darkens, fresh betrayal seeping into his features. "What is this?" he demands, and Impulse glances to Skizz, evidently waiting for him to take the lead. 

"This is about Tango," he states, and he knows how Bdubs will react before he says it. He anticipates the way Bdubs rears back like he's been stung, fresh anger and indignation bleeding into his dark eyes, and the way he turns to glare at Etho, something personally wounded in his posture. 

"And why are you here?" Bdubs demands, turning back to Skizz as if to shelve whatever conversation he's going to have with Etho for later. "Did they track you down to find out the truth, huh?" That last phrase - the truth - he spits like it's burned him, and Skizz's chest burns yet again, anger mingling with grief.

"I'm on the ghost hunting team," he retorts, and Bdubs looks shocked, if only for a moment. It passes, though, and Bdubs just scowls, visibly settling in for a long argument.

"Great. Then you don't need me to talk about what happened."

"You don't need to," Skizz replies, biting back the "it wouldn't be the truth anyways" that threatens to slip. It's unfair, he knows, and probably not even entirely accurate, because- well, Skizz knows he's biased. He knows that Bdubs sees what happened to their relationship differently, assigns blame to Skizz and Tango that Skizz himself can't quite believe. That doesn't make him wrong, exactly, just... different. 

Then, the critical part - the part that he knows will send this conversation spiraling down a path they've never managed to walk away from: "but it was our fault."

Bdubs jerks back at that, the old argument bursting to life like a peeled-off scab. "Are you kidding me?" he demands, now turning his glare onto Etho. "You seriously- are you kidding me? You always do this- and Etho, I can't believe you set this up, but did you- you always do this! Oh, it's always Bdubs's fault-"

"You're not listening!" Skizz shouts back, because he knows his words, they know their lines in this play. "You never listen to me!"

"Oh, you want me to just sit here while you say it all over again," Bdubs spits, shoulders trembling like a cornered animal. "'Ooh, Bdubs, you killed Tango, Tango died because of you, it's all your fault, you never loved him anyways'-"

"Stop putting words in my mouth-"

"Both of you," Etho entreats, but his words are far too soft to have any real impact.

"Listen," Bdubs continues, voice growing like a rising wave, "we were happy without you, y'know, and nobody asked you to come showin' up back into our lives like this-"

"It's not about us!" Skizz retorts, rage only growing. "It's not about us, and if you could pull yourself together and actually listen for five seconds-"

"Oh, I'm listenin'," Bdubs growls, "I'm listenin'. I've heard all you've said, sayin' that I don't care, that I'm actin' like it doesn't matter, that I'm hurtin' everyone around me, that it was my fault-"

"It was your fault!" Skizz nearly screams, because they're here again, banging their heads against a wall that's never going to give way. "It was all of our faults, and I can't believe you're just running away from this when he loved you-"

"Oh, don't even start with that-"

"I'm sorry I want to get somewhere!" Skizz shouts back, hands now planted on the table to keep himself upright. "I'm sorry I want to move on-"

"Move on?" Bdubs exclaims, voice thick with mockery. "All you want to do is live in the past!"

"This is what I'm saying!" Skizz replies, voice loud enough that everyone else can surely hear them. "You just act like you don't care when Tango was here, when he was real, when he loved you-"

"Don't you even," Bdubs hisses, and good, Skizz thinks, there's something finally approaching hurt in his eyes. "Don't you dare say shit like that-"

"Then own up to your fucking mistakes," Skizz spits, and Bdubs growls, pushing off from the table to approach him. He stomps up to him, gripping fistfuls of his collar, and Skizz just looks down at him, teeth bared and jaw set. "You had a part in killing Tango," he continues, and Bdubs looks about to hit him, and Etho rushes to try and get between them, one hand on Bdubs's shoulder and the other on Skizz's, and-

"Did you love him?"

The question comes from somewhere outside them, and the haze hanging over their fight breaks just long enough for Skizz to glance over and see Gem, her hands planted on her hips and jaw set. "Did you love him?" she repeats, directing the question at Bdubs.

Bdubs drops Skizz's collar, then, and wheels on Gem, stomping over to try and loom over her. Skizz is about to move to intervene - because nobody, nobody gets to treat Gem like that - but Gem just stares back at him, jaw set and looking entirely unfazed. "If you did love him," she states, not a hint of fear in her voice, "then you'd put your shit aside and get it together, because this isn't about either of you." Here she glances at Skizz, and Skizz glances away, feeling entirely cowed. "This," she concludes, "is about Tango, so if either of you ever cared about him, then you'd put him before your problems."

"Are you sayin' I don't care about him?" Bdubs hisses, voice cold as ice. "Are you sayin'- actually, I don't see how that's any of your business-"

Grian steps up, then, jaw set and fury flickering in his eyes. "Why can't you say it?" he demands, and oh, Skizz thinks, Bdubs never reacted well to anything he perceived as being ganged up on - never reacted well to any kind of consortium or group he couldn't handle one-on-one. Sure enough, Bdubs's expression seems to flicker, alternating between something cowed and something increasingly furious.

Grian just lifts his chin, though, staring at Bdubs with a challenge in his eyes. "If you loved him," he responds, the words coming out slow and measured like a carefully weighted blade, "why can't you just say it?"

Skizz wants him to say it. He wants him desperately, desperately, to put what they had into words. He wants Bdubs to look at him and Etho and the space in between them and say "I know, you're hurting, I'm sorry," but that's not who he is. That's not where this conversation goes.

The three of them know this dance too well to expect any other ending. At the same time, though, gashing their sharp edges against each other is the only way they can feel close.

Bdubs's mouth opens and shuts a few times, no sound coming out. Next to him, Etho murmurs his name, soft - "Bdubs" - and reaches out, but falters at the last moment, hand left hanging over his shoulder. 

There's a moment where nobody says a word - a moment where it's just all of them standing in the diner, rain pounding on the windows and dark clouds blotting out the sun. 

Then, softly, and ever-so-painfully, Scar murmurs "you seemed like you were all in love."

That's the hard thing, Skizz thinks: he never stopped. The part of him that gashes his sharp edges against Bdubs's and walks away bleeding is the same part of him that wants to shut his eyes and open them to a lazy morning, three bodies curled around his in a sunlit bed. 

Bdubs- he doesn't know what Bdubs is thinking, now. He's staring at the floor, hands balled into fists and breath coming hot and quick, and Skizz isn't sure if he's trying to fight back fury or something almost approaching grief. That part of him that knows his lines wants to take his hands, wants to apologize, wants to paper over these cuts and make the surface of their relationship look pretty - but he'd forfeited that when he left, hadn't he?

It's Etho that reaches out to grasp Bdubs's shoulder, Etho that finally bridges the gap. "Let's sit down," he proposes, and Bdubs-

Bdubs follows without words, staring down at his hands like someone discovering them for the first time.

They talk a bit longer after that - hashing out details, talking about ways in which they might go about freeing Tango's soul - but the entire time, Bdubs doesn't say a word. He just keeps staring at his hands, tapping his fingers over and over. 

"You seemed like you were all in love."

It's stupid the way those words get to him - the way they wiggle under his skin like some stupid splinter buried under his fingernails. The hell does he know? He knows what Skizz told him, but that's hardly reliable. Bdubs bets that Skizz managed to phrase it to make it look like he did nothing wrong - like they were all just victims of horrible, awful Bdubs. 

He knows how Skizz plays. He knows how it goes. He's familiar with Skizz using his height to tower over him, to push him back, familiar with Skizz pulling in reinforcements to try and gang up on him, familiar with all of this, because of course he is. He's familiar with all of this because before they were Skizz's plays, they were Tango's, and Skizz would've always chosen Tango over him or Etho. 

The way Skizz frames it, he and Etho were the only victims. The way Skizz frames it, Bdubs didn't lose anything, because he was the perpetrator - that he'd just killed Tango because he didn't care about him and then abused Skizz and Etho until Skizz left. All this because he wants to move on, because he wants to stop lingering in the past?

What's gone is gone. The past is only something to be weaponized, to be honed into a blade and stuck somewhere between his ribs. He wants to forget and move on, because Tango's dead. What point is there in lingering on?

He thinks this, and thinks at the same time that the past does nothing but hurt. 

What point is there in thinking about a big bed on sunlit mornings? What point is there in thinking about a broken photo or about past celebrations? What point is there when it's all gone and it's never coming back? Better to forget, Bdubs thinks, than to linger in it, because once he thinks about it, he can't stop.

The highway lights strobe past, light passing in angled waves over the inside of the car. Next to him, Etho's staring out the window, expression blank and fingers tapping a one-two-three-four against the side door. He seems so unaffected, Bdubs thinks, so able to move past it - able to do all that until he isn't, right, because Etho apparently has no problem weaponizing the past against Bdubs. 

Why do they want to linger in it? What point is there in thinking about it? Why- and now that he's thought about it, he can't stop, because Tango's stupid face is imprinted on the back of his eyelids and he can hear Skizz calling him a careless murderer and he can see the passing lights on the planes of Etho's face, just like that night, and it's raining and there's the roar of raindrops on the car roof and he's so damn sick of the past chasing him like this, so damn sick of everyone trying to drag him back into the past, so damn sick of all of this shit-

He pulls over in one quick jerk, steering the car over onto the shoulder and hitting the brakes. It's not a smooth stop, but Bdubs doesn't care - just presses his face into the steering wheel and slams his hand down on the dashboard. 

Why won't this get out of his head? He was doing so well, hadn't been thinking about it, had been avoiding it so well, but the more he thinks about it, the more it feels like a distant looming wave ready to sweep over him. The bed and the house and the plants and that night, the strobing lights of an ambulance, Tango's blood on the seats and Skizz's shouts and the way they'd tried to hold in the blood, the way Skizz had gone in the ambulance and Bdubs and Etho went home and sat on the couch and tried to pretend like Tango had been breathing-

"Fuck!" he shouts, slamming his fist down against the dashboard again. He cares, he does, he just- 

He wants to forget. He doesn't want to fucking live like this. Is that so wrong?

"Bdubs?" Etho asks, voice soft with worry, and oh, Bdubs hates him in that moment - hates him with a white-hot intensity, hates him for all he's said and all he hasn't, and he picks up his head, wheeling on Etho with a fresh rage.

"What do you really think of me?" he demands, and Etho's captive to his questions now, in this car, unable to really run away. "Huh? Do you think that I'm what Skizz said? Do you think I'm a murderer? Huh? Why don't you just say it, huh?" and he's on the verge of screaming, now, the emotions that've been building in his chest since the first instant he saw the ghost hunters threatening to spill over. "Just say it! You think I killed Tango! Just- just throw all the blame on Bdubs, huh! Goodness knows everyone else does!"

"Bdubs-" Etho starts, then cuts himself off, apparently focusing on a different part of the sentence. "Don't put words in my mouth."

"I'll say whatever I damn well please," Bdubs growls, because it's always "don't say that, Bdubs," or "don't think that, Bdubs" or "you're wrong, Bdubs" and never "I understand, Bdubs". "Just say it! Everyone else blames me," and that's true, he knows, he saw it in their eyes at the diner, "so why not you? Just say it! You think it's my fault!"

"Bdubs-"

"Don't you 'Bdubs' me," he retorts, the words spilling over his lips like poison. "Just tell me the truth. Just- just go on and blame me and leave me all alone!"

"That's not what it is-"

"And you went to see Skizz about Tango," Bdubs spits, because how could he honestly have been so stupid? "I bet you two talked all about me, huh? Talked all about how terrible of a boyfriend and partner I am, huh? Talked all about how Tango's death was my fault?"

Etho hesitates, then - just for a moment - but Bdubs can see it nonetheless. The confirmation of his thoughts - of his worst fears - feels like a fresh blow to the chest, and he grits his teeth, the single action stinging worse than anything he could've imagined.

"I knew it," he hisses, something like tears stinging his eyes. "I knew it."

Then, in a moment of impulsivity: "get out of the car."

Etho blinks at him, then, surprise registering in the infinitesimal widening of his eyes. "Bdubs-"

"Get out of the car," Bdubs growls, pointing out at the side of the highway. "Now."

Etho's expression flickers again, but ultimately falls into something unreadable. "It's my car too."

It's such a- it's not about anything, really, is it? Etho's not saying he cares. He's not apologizing for lying or for believing all of what Skizz said. He's not apologizing for siding with a bunch of people who don't know a thing about this situation against his partner. He's just saying it's his car too, like two divorcees arguing over custody.

That simple act - that simple absence of Etho's emotional response - drains the immediate fury out of him like a punctured balloon. He turns back to the road, sucking in a long, long breath, and taps his fingers against the steering wheel, one-two-three-four.

"Fine," he finally grits out, turning the car back into drive. "Just don't talk to me."

They drive back to the hotel in the silence Bdubs had asked for, the only sounds the roar of the road and the heavy pounding of the rain. When they arrive, Bdubs pulls up around the front, and Etho glances over at him, some kind of surprise registering on his face.

"Get out," Bdubs repeats, and Etho tilts his head, apparently confused. 

"What about you?"

"I'm heading out. Don't wait up for me."

Etho looks like he wants to ask something further, but in the end, he keeps his mouth shut - just hops out of the car and shuts the door behind him. Bdubs peels out of the drive a moment after, tires squealing on the pavement, and when he looks at Etho in the rearview, he's just staring after him, expression too complicated to read. 

He's honestly not sure where he's going.

He just- he needs to get away. He needs to outrun his mind. 

The rain only seems to come down harder as he presses down the gas, his surroundings streaking by in flashes of watercolor. The rain sounds even heavier than before, and the distant thunder almost seems to rattle the car with its sheer force. 

Even so, the thought of Tango lingers in his mind.

There's a part of him that still thinks that he might be able to turn to the side and see Tango there, his messy hair pushed back from his face and arm braced against the side door. There's a part of him that thinks that he might look in the rearview mirror and see Skizz and Etho, chattering about something or another. There's a part of him that thinks he's just going home from a long night, that he'll walk in the door and be able to head up to see three people already waiting for him. 

He wants to end it. He wants to finish all of this. He wants Tango to stop haunting him, to stop lingering, and god, he hates him. He hates him, he hates him, because why, why would his memory feel such a need to stick around? Why can't he just let them move on? Why does he want to keep dragging them back into this nightmare?

The radio crackles, and Bdubs reaches over to smack it. He doesn't even really like the radio - it was always Skizz who'd insist on playing something, leaning over the console to fiddle with the knobs. The sight just feels like another damn memory that he wants to escape from, and now it's spitting out that damn static, dragging his mind away from the future and back towards the past-

"Bdubs."

The static clears for the briefest of moments, and Bdubs swears - he swears - he heard his name. 

That's stupid. It's radio static. Nobody's going to be saying his name.

He reaches over to turn off the volume, but even when he turns it all the way down, the static doesn't budge.

"Bdubs," the static repeats, and he shakes his head, reaching over to slam his fist against the radio once again. This stupid radio- this stupid car- this stupid memory, haunting him like a damn ghost-

"You're just running away from everything."

It sounds like Tango.

Bdubs glances to the side on instinct, almost expecting to see Tango right there, staring at him with a piercing glare. Only- only there's no Tango, is there, just an empty seat and open road. 

"Shut up," Bdubs growls, and he doesn't even know why he says it - it's a radio on the fritz, not anything real. "Leave me alone."

"I know what you did," the radio continues, and Bdubs feels something in him catch at those words, something in him start to burn afresh. "Even if you don't want to admit it."

"Shut up!" Bdubs shouts, but the radio just keeps spitting its same taunting static, just as the rain outside keeps coming down.

He slams his fist against the power button, and although the static cuts out for a brief moment, it quickly bursts back to life. 

"You're just hurting everyone like this," the radio continues, and Bdubs shakes his head, trying to turn his mind back to the road. "You can't run away from this forever."

"Watch me," Bdubs spits, pressing the pedal down as far as it'll go. The car leaps forwards, the surrounding world turning into nothing more than streaks of color and the roar of tires on pavement, but the radio just continues spitting out its infinite, maddening static.

"You've already lost Skizz," the radio continues, words slightly garbled by the roar of the car but audible nonetheless. "You're going to lose Etho."

"Shut up!" Bdubs roars, gripping the steering wheel hard enough that he thinks it might snap. "You don't know anything!"

"You can't face what happened," it continues, and Bdubs screams, driving his fist into the metal face of it. 

"Shut up!"

Pain bursts to life through his hand, but he hardly notices it. The radio just keeps sputtering out that same maddening static even as it sparks, even as pieces of metal dangle out from it, and Bdubs wants to scream, wants to throw the radio into the street, wants to shut his eyes and find out this was all a horrible, awful dream. 

"You're just being a coward," the radio continues, and it sounds so much like Tango - sounds so much like something Tango would say in a voice that's far too much like his for comfort - that Bdubs nearly sobs, fury mingling with dredged-up grief. "You're just running away because you don't want to face what happened."

"Shut up!" Bdubs nearly shrieks, and oh, it feels like someone's driven a stake through his chest, pinned him to the chair and left him to bleed out on the upholstery. He slams his fist into the radio again, then again, then again, metallic components slicing into his hand and spraying throughout the car like a synthetic horror show. 

"I don't want to hurt you," the radio says, and Bdubs screams outright, then, driving his fist into the radio with renewed force.

"What the fuck do you want, then?"

"I still," the radio garbles, words nearly unintelligible with the combined force of the rain, road, and the radio's destruction, "care about you."

The static sputters out. 

There's a moment of silence, a moment where it's just Bdubs and the road. Blood drips off his fingers and onto the console. The rain continues to pound.

Then, all at once, something inside him shatters.

Bdubs screams - an aching, primal sound - and slams his fist into the radio again and again and again, beating it until it's nothing more than a pile of twisted circuits. Tango's voice rings through his ears, bouncing around his head and refusing to leave, and he sobs, slamming his fist against the dashboard even as the motion sends shocks of pain up his arm. He hates, he hates, he aches, he's so fucking lonely, and Tango's voice is gone and it didn't blame him and it hates him and Tango's fucking gone, he's dead, and it's all his fault.

It's all his fault.

He can't see anything on the road, can just see streaks of light and color, and he pulls over, cuts the motor, and screams, screams like he hadn't at the funeral, like he hadn't at the crash, like he hadn't when Skizz left, like he never has. He slams his fist into the steering wheel, blood streaking over the covering, and he thinks about Tango's voice and Etho's face when he'd pulled away and Skizz's silhouette when he'd walked out and wails, a broken, animalistic sound he didn't know he could make.

Tango's dead. Tango's dead, and it's all his fault.

"I'm sorry," he sobs, the words spilling out of his mouth over and over again on loop. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"

But it's too late. Skizz is gone. Etho's going to leave. 

Tango's dead.

It feels like he's been ripped apart, like he's been sliced open from chin to navel and left to bleed. He wails, he screams, he cries, but no amount of screaming or sobbing or begging will bring Tango back. 

It was his fault. It was his fault, and he didn't want to admit it. He killed Tango.

Outside, cars roar past, all headed to somewhere better than this. His hand drips blood onto the carpet, and loose screws from the decimated radio dribble on the floor.

There's nothing left. He's truly and hopelessly alone. 

It's late. 

It always seems to be late these days, always seems to wind up with Skizz stuck somewhere in the depths of so-late-it's-early. The rain's still pounding outside, thunder is still rumbling across the sky, and Skizz is still awake. 

He's not sure what to think, in all honesty.

The look on Bdubs's face is still printed on the back of his eyelids, and Scar's words still rattle around his brain like beads in a rain stick. "You seemed like you were all in love," his mind repeats, and oh, Skizz wants to scream, is there any way around that? Is there any way to respond without revealing that he still is? 

Growth, he thinks, is understanding that you can love someone without being with them. Growth, he thinks, is knowing that despite how much he wants toslice bits of himself off to fit back in those old photos, there's no point in it. 

He's thinking about this and thinking about the rain and thinking about late nights and warm mornings when there's a knock at the door.

He knows immediately that it isn't one of his teammates. The other four are already asleep - they'd all turned in one after the other, Impulse leaving last with a soft murmur to "get some rest, Skizz" - so it's not one of them.

At the same time, though, he knows who it is. He knows who it is before he even opens the door.

Etho's standing on the other side, hood pulled up over his head and clothes plastered to his skin. He stares at Skizz, something painfully hollow in his eyes, and when Skizz stares back, Etho just gives him a small, acknowledging nod.

"Etho?" Skizz asks, like an idiot.

Etho nods again, and that - more than anything - pushes Skizz into motion. He ushers Etho inside, helping him peel off the rain-slicked coat and hanging it by the door, before rushing towards the laundry room for a spare towel - and, after a moment's consideration, a pair of his freshly-washed pants. 

Etho accepts both of them with another mute nod, toweling off his hair and kicking off his rain-drenched cargo pants. Skizz doesn't bother looking away - just accepts the towel when Etho offers, scrubbing the rain out of his hair as Etho steps into Skizz's sweatpants.

It feels like an old dance. It feels like they've stepped into the past. It makes something in Skizz's chest ache, twisting into a pained kind of Gordian Knot.

Etho remembers this about him: he wants to feel useful. More than that, Etho cares enough about that to give Skizz an opportunity to help. 

It feels like strangulation, like the slowest kind of death. 

Etho straightens, finally, handing the damp towel back to Skizz without a word. He looks different like this, Skizz thinks - more exposed, more open in just a long-sleeve and Skizz's sweatpants. It feels, foolishly, as though they're about to meet each other in the middle somehow.

"You're not gonna ask how I knew where you lived?" Etho finally starts, and Skizz blinks, the thought just occurring to him.

It didn't seem strange for Etho to show up, really, even though in retrospect it definitely was. "How did you know?" he asks, and Etho's lips twitch into the ghost of a smile, the expression bordering on a death-grimace.

"You never turned location sharing off."

Here is another way in which Skizz has never learned to stop loving them. The thought never would've occurred to him, really - a lingering vestige of late nights and hours spent worrying until Tango had finally just told all of them to share their locations so they could stop worrying. Skizz had forgotten, in all honesty, but now that he knows, it doesn't feel strange at all.

"Nice place," Etho adds, glancing around the entryway. 

It must look nice to him, Skizz thinks - as befits a house large enough to fit five. There are shoes strewn by the entryway and jackets left hanging by the door, along with framed pictures hanging on the walls. Before them, the foyer opens into a large kitchen slash living room. It's spacious.

It's also not his.

"It's Impulse's place," Skizz shrugs, because yeah, Impulse has always been like this - has always sought out groups large enough to fill the empty spaces he ends up finding. "I think it was some kind of project house before we all moved in."

Etho hums, apparently digesting that information. Then: "Impulse is asleep?"

"Everyone is," Skizz shrugs, and Etho hums again, eyes sparking with something like intrigue.

"Why aren't you?"

It's a fair enough question, if a bit funny given that they're both there together. "Couldn't sleep," Skizz shrugs, turning to head towards the kitchen. "You?"

"Yeah," Etho simply replies, following Skizz without needing to be told. 

Skizz gestures towards the kitchen counter, and Etho sits, pulling out a stool and folding himself into it. He looks a bit out of place, Skizz thinks, as if he's not entirely sure how to fit into this new part of Skizz's life - although, in all honesty, he'd probably feel the same if the situation was reversed. It's only by luck that he's the one who ended up hosting, only by coincidence that Etho sought him out instead of the inverse. 

He pulls down the kettle, filling it up on autopilot as he fishes out a pair of mugs. When he turns back, it's a fresh jolt to realize that he's put in enough water for four, but he doesn't bother pouring any out.

This, too, is familiar. Making hot chocolate on late nights, waiting for the others to drift into the kitchen, sitting silently in companionable silence until they'd either talk about it or not - this, he knows. 

"You still like hot chocolate?" Skizz asks, a bit too late for it to really mean anything.

"Yeah," Etho mumbles, voice going quiet. 

Skizz doesn't comment on it - just sets the kettle to boil and sets about finding the ingredients.

He's got his own recipe - his own way to properly mix it all in to keep it from either being too watery or too rich. He pulls out milk for the base, cocoa powder for the flavor, and a few marshmallows for texture, setting them all to the side until the water's done boiling.

Etho doesn't comment as he works, but Skizz can feel his gaze on his back.

By the time he's set everything out, the water still needs a few more minutes. Skizz considers this, considers the ingredients, and finally leans on the counter, glancing at Etho out of the corner of his eye.

"You're not gonna ask what I'm doing here?" Etho dryly mutters, and Skizz shrugs, because, honestly? He's missed this enough that he doesn't really want to.

Still, though, Etho's looking at him like he wants him to ask - like he almost needs him to - and if nothing else, Skizz can do this.

"Why are you here?" he asks, and Etho exhales, looks like he didn't want Skizz to ask the question he needed him to.

There's a moment while Etho just sits there, staring down at the counter, before he just slowly, slowly reaches up to cover his face with his hands.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore."

The words come out muffled by his palms, but Skizz can still understand each syllable.

"Do what?" he prompts, and Etho exhales, the sound rattling on the way out.

"He's not the same," Etho mumbles, voice thick with a combination of pain and grief. "Bdubs. I- you know what I mean."

"Tell me?" Skizz prods, because if nothing else, he can help Etho open up like this.

"It's like-" and Etho falters, apparently trying to put it together in his own mind. An inhale, another exhale, and then, "it's like he lost a part of himself when Tango died."

"Yeah," Skizz agrees, and there's the faintest hint of some old pain digging into his voice, carving a path through his ribs. "I know."

Etho sighs, slowly shaking his head. "I don't know him anymore," he murmurs, sliding his hands up to press against his eyes. "I don't know what to do."

He knows Etho won't agree with his proposal before he says it, but he offers his solution anyways- "you could leave."

It's not said unkindly, and based on the way Etho doesn't immediately shut him down, Skizz takes that as an opening to continue. "You could start over. Find something new."

Etho shakes his head, then, in a way that seems more like habit than anything else. "I can't leave him," he whispers, but it sounds more like a repeated vow than anything else.

"You've never had a problem leaving people before," Skizz points out, because if anything is true about Etho, it's this: he'll look out for himself. In all the time he's known him, Skizz doesn't think he's ever seen Etho so hesitant to leave someone.

Etho just laughs, low and bitter. "You know," he murmurs, voice adopting an almost wistful quality, "Tango said the same thing, way back when. Not to me, but I heard him anyways." Then, with a faint affectation of a rasp both of them know by heart, "'he's a survivor. That's who he is.'"

It's a fresh kind of grief, hearing Etho parrot Tango's words back like that. It feels like dredging up the past, as if for the briefest of moments, Tango was there with them. 

"I don't know why he said that," Etho continues, either missing or ignoring Skizz's silence. "I'm not a survivor. I just... I just keep ending up in situations, you know?"

"Yeah," Skizz finally agrees, doing his best to speak around the fresh lump in his throat. "I get it." Then, when Etho doesn't seem like he's about to respond, "I don't think I'm much of a survivor, either. Just... just a coward."

Etho definitely doesn't know how to respond to that, and Skizz doesn't need him to. Those words - much like Etho's, he thinks - weren't for each other, but for themselves.

The kettle starts to whistle after a moment, and Skizz turns his attention back to the mugs. It's a familiar process - pour, stir, pour, stir, pour, stir, top with marshmallows - and feels like falling back into a familiar pattern, like humming an old song. When he finally finishes, he lifts the mugs and returns to the kitchen counter, sliding one over to Etho and picking one up himself.

Etho wraps his hands around the mug for a moment, apparently just absorbing its warmth. After a few seconds, though, he reaches up to pull down his mask with one hand, and Skizz can't help but look.

It's a special thing, he thinks, being privy to Etho's entire face. It's like another part of history dragged out to fill this dark night, another thing that just feels like the past brought back to life. Etho's there with his mask around his chin and a mug at his lips, and it could be any night from years ago. 

But it's not, is it? Neither of them are the same. Neither of them are who they used to be, and there's two people missing from this table. 

Etho slowly, slowly lowers his mug, and when he ducks his head, Skizz notices - with some degree of shock - the faintest of tears trickling down his cheek.

"It tastes just like it used to," Etho murmurs, voice wet, and Skizz-

It feels like dying, this moment. It feels like being shoved underwater and staring up at the sun, watching the reflection of the sky ripple and twist with the waves. 

"You're crying."

Etho reaches up to brush at his cheek, then, and his expression flickers with surprise as his fingers come away wet. "Oh," he murmurs, voice thick and hand trembling.

"I can't remember the last time I saw you cry," Skizz notes, that pained spot in his chest seeming to almost loosen as Etho turns back to his drink. "Not even at the funeral."

Etho exhales, the sound shakier than before, and bows his head. "Yeah," he whispers, and takes another sip. 

They sit there for a moment, and Skizz bites back the stupid, foolish urge to reach across the empty space and take Etho's hand. That's not something he's allowed to do anymore - that's something he gave up. He walked away from that himself, and he has no right to want it back. 

It's Etho that breaks the silence after a long moment, glancing up at Skizz with red-rimmed eyes. "How did you leave?"

It's a direct question, and one that Skizz isn't sure he can answer. It could easily be accusatory, he knows, but the way Etho said it - it sound more desperate. It sounded less like he's trying to admonish and more like he's trying to understand.

"I don't know," Skizz admits. "Just- I felt like I would- like I would die if I stayed there any longer."

It's true. That's the worst part of it: that he's not even lying. Being in that house, being in that environment, being in that place with the dark cloud of Bdubs's fury and Tango's ghost stuffed somewhere under the bed like something that should be left behind- he couldn't handle it. He doesn't think he could handle it now.

But Etho's looking at him, searching his face for something like an answer, and he can do this for him, Skizz thinks. For Etho, he can rip himself open like this. 

"It was over," he admits, even as the words burn his tongue. "With Tango gone and with Bdubs... with Bdubs not wanting to talk about it," and that's the best way to phrase it, isn't it, to address what happened in the vaguest terms that still ring true, "it was over."

Etho exhales, then, something pained settling in his eyes. "It was over a long time before that," he murmurs, the words thick with bitter acceptance.

What else is there to say? What more can he say that he didn't say before?

"Yeah," Skizz simply agrees, and finds there's nothing more he can say.

It's true, isn't it? It was over long before the accident - long before any one definable moment any of them could point to and say this, this here is where it fell apart. It's just Skizz who clings to that one moment, just Skizz who wants one definable point where he can say "here, here is where it ended".

The truth is that falling apart is never one definable moment. The truth is that the crash was never the cause of the end, just a symptom. 

The truth is that they would've ended up here - Etho and Skizz, after the end of things - no matter how it came to pass.

"When do you think we all fell out of love?"

It's Etho who says it, voice soft and infinitely pained. It's Etho who says it, looking up at Skizz with desperate eyes as if he too is searching for one definable moment - as if both of them want to conduct an overdue autopsy on the end, pushing through the rot of time to find that one defining moment.

Only, well - Skizz never fell out of love, did he?

"I never did," he admits, and Etho's expression shifts, then, turns unreadable. "That's... that's what was so hard about it, y'know?"

Etho just keeps looking at him, and Skizz- Skizz doesn't know how to face him like this, doesn't know how to offer Etho the bloody guts of the truth while looking him in the eye, so he stares down at his drink instead. "I still loved you guys," he continues, voice rasping on the way out, "but I... I wasn't happy. I don't think Tango was, either," and that's an entirely different thing, assigning conjecture to the actions of the dead, but it's all Skizz can think to say. "That's what was the worst about it," he concludes, and he hopes Etho can see the truth, can see "here, here is the awful truth, here is what I've done, here is the truth that even after all this, I still love you". 

"Oh," Etho just murmurs, and it sounds like a genuine realization - as if he's seen the blood on Skizz's hands and just now understands where it's come from.

Then, finally, the question they've been circling around: "do you still... do you still love us?"

Not "me", Skizz notes without surprise, but "us". Even now, Etho still thinks of himself and Bdubs as one unified whole. 

"Of course," he admits, and looks at Etho, then, hoping that he can understand. "I don't- I don't think I'll ever be able to stop."

Etho looks about to say something, so Skizz continues, cutting him off before he can. "It's not like it used to be," he admits, "and, you know, I don't think I want anything from it, but I- I can't just stop loving you guys, you know? I'm not- I can't work like that. You guys- you'll always have some part of my heart."

"So you don't want to try again?"

It feels like an accusation, even as Skizz knows it wasn't meant to be.

"No," he replies, and much as it hurts, he knows it's the truth. "I don't... I don't think we're good for each other. As much as I love you guys... we're not good for each other. Not like that."

Etho just looks at him, then, and the ghost of Tango hangs between them. 

Finally, after a long pause: "I don't think I know Bdubs anymore."

It's Etho handing over his own guts, splitting himself apart and handing the pieces to Skizz. It's a truth he hasn't wanted to admit - a truth left to linger behind his words: "I don't know if I love him anymore".

And Skizz- Skizz loves Etho enough to do this for him. He loves him enough to tear him apart so that Etho won't have to himself. 

"Do you still love him?" 

The question hits exactly where Skizz expected it to. Etho flinches, expression flickering rapidly between shock, grief, and pain, before finally landing on bitter acceptance. 

"I..." he starts, then trails off. They both know what he's going to say - both know what he means, both know what he feels, even if Etho can't quite put it into words.

There's a moment of struggle, a moment where Etho visibly wars with himself as he considers what he's going to say. Skizz, for his part, just waits.

He can do this for him, he thinks. He may not say it for him, but he can wait while Etho decides for himself.

Then, finally, Etho looks at him, an unfamiliar degree of grief written on his features.

"I don't know."

There's a long, long moment of silence.

Then, finally, what breaks it isn't Etho, nor it is Skizz. In the dead of night, in the midst of the rain and the storm, there's a knock at the door. 

It's Bdubs at the door.

It's Bdubs at the door, his hair plastered to his head and hand dripping blood onto the pavement. It's Bdubs at the door, his eyes wide and bags like bruises under his eyes. 

It's Bdubs at the door, and perhaps it says something that this, more than anything else, is what Skizz is stuck on.

"I'm sorry," Bdubs blurts, and Skizz just stares, mind still spinning. Then, like a torrent, Bdubs continues, words spilling over his lips without seeming like they'll stop. "I'm so- it was my fault. It was all my fault. It was all my fault, and I-"

His voice breaks, cracking at the edges before he eventually restarts. "I don't know what to do," he admits, looking up at Skizz with huge, desperate eyes. "I- I just- I don't know what to do."

The awful thing about all of this is that Skizz never stopped loving him. The awful thing is that he knows, knows in his bones, that no matter what happened between them or how many times Bdubs hurt him, if he asks - if he just asks like this, looking at Skizz like he's some kind of salvation - Skizz will answer.

"Come in," Skizz replies, and Bdubs's expression cracks, fresh pain flickering in his eyes. 

"I- are you sure?"

"Etho's here," Skizz adds, and there's something there, he thinks - something like fear or envy - but Bdubs tamps it down almost as soon as it appeared. "If you want to, you can come in."

Bdubs seems to consider this for a moment - seems to consider Skizz's offer, the light behind him, the warmth that it provides in contrast with the damp darkness outside - and finally steps forwards.

It seems like getting inside was all Bdubs could do, in the end, because as soon as his shoes land in the foyer, he freezes like a deer in headlights. It's Skizz who handles him - Skizz who grabs another towel and scrubs off his damp hair - and he's in the laundry room grabbing another pair of pants when he hears it - the exact moment Etho sees Bdubs.

"Oh, snap," Etho mutters, the sound carrying through the empty halls. "You..."

Skizz emerges, then, a bundle of fabric in his arms. He's greeted by the sight of Etho bent over Bdubs's hand, blood smearing over his fingers and palm as he investigates the damage, and Bdubs standing there, apparently frozen.

"Do you have a first-aid kit?" Etho asks, turning to face him. 

Skizz offers the pants in silence, and Etho nods, turning his attention back to Bdubs. It feels, for the briefest of moments, like he's failed somehow - like he's erred by not adhering to the order of events in Etho's mind - but hey, it can also be true that Bdubs needs to get in dry clothes before they clean up his wounds. He's not wrong. He's just coming at it from a different perspective.

Heh. Different perspective. That's what got them here to begin with, wasn't it?

When he returns with the first-aid kit, Etho's got Bdubs leaning against him, and he looks up at Skizz with a silent question in his eyes: "where should we take him?" Maybe it's a sign of the time they spent together, or maybe it's a sign of how even though some things have changed, some still stay the same, but when Etho asks, all Skizz has to do is angle his head towards the kitchen island, and Etho understands.

Etho escorts Bdubs to the kitchen island, plopping him down on another stool before starting to rifle through the first-aid kit. Bdubs, for his part, has just started trembling, shaking like a leaf in the wind - though whether it's from cold or something else, Skizz isn't sure. 

Either way, it seems like the most he can do to help right now is to provide some warmth. 

Only-

"Skizz," Etho murmurs, and Skizz turns, mug in hand. Etho's looking at him, bandages in one hand and lips pursed into a thin line, and ah, Skizz thinks, he needs me to do this.

They swap places in silence, and Skizz hops on the other stool to start his work. He extends Bdubs's hand under the faucet and turns it on, letting the roar of water fill the room for a brief few moments. Across the room, Etho's pouring water into a mug, sprinkling bits of cocoa in as if to imitate Skizz's technique.

Bdubs doesn't react when the water starts, nor does he really react when it turns off. He just sits there, shaking, as Skizz pats his hand dry with a dish towel and starts to wrap gauze around it. 

"Too tight?" Skizz asks, and Bdubs looks at him, then - really looks at him.

There's something so devastated in his eyes, something so pained that Skizz nearly jolts at the sight of it. Bdubs is staring at him with raw and naked grief, and as Skizz watches, a tear slips down his cheek.

"I'm sorry," Bdubs whispers, voice shaking as much as the rest of him. "I'm sorry."

Skizz doesn't acknowledge his words - just keeps looping the gauze, winding it around and around before finally tying it off. Bdubs won't be able to separate his fingers until they change it, but hey, Skizz is no professional. 

"I'm sorry," Bdubs continues, glancing back at the kitchen counter. "I- I'm-"

"What are you sorry for?" Skizz presses, and it might come out meaner than he intended, but at the same time, he wants to know. He wants to know what Bdubs is apologizing for, wants to know that he's not just imagining remorse that isn't there.

That question seems to set him off again, though, and Bdubs crumples in on himself, hands coming up to cover his face. "It's all my fault," he whimpers, voice thick with reedy desperation. "I killed him. I killed Tango."

Skizz- 

Skizz freezes at that, a kind of cold shooting through his veins and keeping him pinned to the spot.

This is what he'd wanted to hear. This is what he'd wanted - for Bdubs to take responsibility. This is what he'd wanted.

Was it?

He thought that was what he wanted. Maybe, at one time, it was. But now - now, with the ghost sitting between them, with the memory of a relationship that rotted from the inside out hanging over their conversation like a storm cloud - he just wants to grieve. 

It was Bdubs's fault and it wasn't. He was the one driving the car, but Skizz pushed him that way. Bdubs had a hand in destroying the relationship, but so did everyone else. The blame isn't his alone. 

"What happened to your hand?" Skizz finally asks, and Bdubs looks at him, eyes going glassy all over again. 

"I was driving," he stammers, "and I heard- I heard Tango's voice on the radio, and he was saying things," and here Bdubs's voice dissolves into something almost hysterical, but he presses on regardless, "and he said all kinds of things, but he- he- he said he-"

Skizz reaches out, then, though his hand stills just before it reaches Bdubs's shoulder.

It's not his place, is it? What's done is done. He has no right to assume comfort anymore - not when he left. 

But Bdubs looks up at him, eyes glassy like a lake, and when Skizz's hand lands on his shoulder, Bdubs leans in.

"He told me he still cared about me," Bdubs finishes, and loses the battle to his tears.

Skizz keeps his hand there for a few moments, sitting there while Bdubs sobs. After a while, Etho returns with a mug in hand, and he slides it across the counter, placing it right in front of Bdubs's hands.

It feels domestic, Skizz thinks. It feels almost like how things used to be. If he tries, he can imagine that Tango's in a bed upstairs, that he's waiting for them all to come back up or sleeping through this emotional moment. If he tries, he can pretend they're back in the past.

But it's not the past. It's not, and this moment feels important in its own, new way.

"I've been awful to you," Bdubs finally hiccups, glancing over to meet Etho's gaze. "I've been- I've been awful to everyone, and I- and I- and I hate myself-"

Skizz could be angry. He should be angry, probably. Here feels like the dramatic climax of their entire relationship - the big blow-out fight of emotional catharsis. Only, well- he's not. He just... isn't.

Instead, he just feels sad.

He misses Tango. He misses what they had. He misses how they all used to be, back when they had fun together. He misses being able to talk to them and being able to smile around them. He misses them as people, not just as partners.

It's for that reason he grips Bdubs's shoulder and looks at him, making sure Bdubs is looking at him when he says, clear as can be, "it wasn't just your fault."

Bdubs stares at him for a moment, visibly confused. "What?" he whispers, voice thick with tears.

"It wasn't just your fault," Skizz repeats, making sure to clearly enunciate so Bdubs understands. "Yeah, you were driving. But we all had parts to play, y'know?"

"I ruined it," Bdubs continues, but Skizz is already shaking his head.

"No. Dude, listen to me. It was all of our faults, okay? And yeah, you aren't innocent, but none of us are. That's... that's the truth."

Bdubs's gaze flits over his face, evidently searching for something in his eyes. Skizz isn't sure if he finds what he's looking for or not, but after a long, long moment, Bdubs just dips his head.

"Is that why we didn't work out?" he asks, voice small and trembling.

Skizz glances at Etho, then, but Etho isn't looking at him - he's just looking at Bdubs. It feels like it should feel worse than it does, but all Skizz feels is just... tired.

"Maybe," Skizz shrugs, giving Bdubs's shoulder a small squeeze. "I mean, you do kinda think in absolutes."

They fall silent, then, and the joke Tango would've made dies in the air between them.

Bdubs reaches up to scrub at his face, pulling up the hem of his shirt to wipe at his eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeats, voice still thick with phlegm, and Skizz just shakes his head.

"You said that already, dude."

"I'm still sorry," Bdubs replies, a bit of stubbornness returning to him as he sets his jaw in defiance. "For everything else, if you won't let me apologize for... for what happened back then."

It's... it's more than Skizz ever thought he'd get.

It feels a bit like peeling open an old wound, but it feels cathartic at the same time. It feels like they're finally getting to the point where they might start something new.

"I'm sorry too," Skizz replies before Bdubs can say anything else. When Bdubs just blinks at him, seemingly stunned, he elaborates - "I shouldn't've said the stuff I did back then. I... it was cruel. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Bdubs replies, though with the tears still in his throat, it sounds more like "isth figne". He glances up at Skizz, then, apparently considering something, before finally turning to Etho. 

"I'm sorry about tonight," he continues, and Skizz can see Etho's reaction - watches as his expression flickers between a number of different emotions before landing on careful neutrality. He reacts with his mouth, Etho, and despite all the time that's passed, Skizz still knows how to read the miniscule twitches and shifts of his lips. 

There's things in this conversation he shouldn't be privy to, he thinks. There's things to be said here that he doesn't need to hear. 

"You guys should talk," he states, taking a step back towards the living room. "I'll be just over there-"

"No!" Etho and Bdubs blurt in tandem, the sound synchronized enough that they glance at each other in mild surprise. In the end, it's Etho who picks up the trail of the conversation, staring down at his fingers with his lips pursed.

"Stay," Etho asks, the word simple and the request anything but. 

It feels like- it feels like home, somehow. It feels like a strange way of being loved.

Perhaps this is where they end up - Skizz in the middle, Skizz as the third point of their triangle, Skizz as the connection between them they needed. For the first time, he finds himself wondering: could it be that just like he needed the others, Etho and Bdubs might need him?

He sits back down, looking over at Etho and waiting for him to start.

Bdubs isn't sure what he's expecting Etho to say. 

He thinks he might've been expecting something about how he'd worried him, about how he was scared when he'd left - something about Etho feeling afraid, at least, or something based in affection.

Instead, though, Etho just exhales, looks him in the eye, and says "it's been hard being with you."

It's not like he doesn't deserve it, he initially thinks, the thought born of some kind of bitter hysteria. It's not like he's been a good boyfriend - not like he's been a good partner all this time - but he somehow never thought Etho would think that way. A stupid, foolish part of him always expected Etho to look at him like he'd hung the stars, not- not like this, disappointment thick in his eyes.

"You've been so angry," Etho continues, "and- and you didn't want to accept any part of what happened to Tango. And because of that, we couldn't even talk about him. It's... it's been hard. I don't..."

"I'm sorry," Bdubs interjects, but Etho isn't done.

"I miss Tango," he blurts, and those words dig into Bdubs's heart in all kinds of places, a combination of jealousy and envy and anger sweeping over him. It's that old why am I not enough for him mixed with he cares about Tango more than me and he blames me for Tango's death with a fresh topping of it is my fault, Tango's dead because of me. 

It's a potent combination, in short, and Bdubs just stares down at his hands, swallowing around a lump in his throat. 

"I miss him a lot," Etho continues, words spilling out like a broken dam. "And I- I'm angry about what happened. I'm mad about how it ended, because Tango's dead, and we all killed him."

It's a blunt way to say it, but it's true. Tango's murderers are all sat here, his blood on their hands even as they've tried to move on from it.

"And I know it was an accident," Etho continues, "and I know it wasn't all our faults, but it- it feels like it was. And he's dead. And not being able to talk about him because you'd get upset at me, and not even being able to miss him- not being able to keep around pictures or even the candle-"

"I'm sorry," Bdubs repeats, but the words don't feel like enough. It feels like Etho's looking at him, now, looking at him with an honesty that he hasn't shown in as long as Bdubs can remember. 

"Do you miss him?" Etho asks, looking Bdubs straight in the eye as he does, and that-

It's an awful question to ask. It's an almost rage-inducing question to ask, because yes, of course he does. It's also a complicated question.

Things were bad at the end. Much as it was Bdubs's fault, there was a lot of it that was Tango's, too. He doesn't miss the bad times - doesn't miss the fights or the jealousy or the frigid atmosphere in the house that seemed to choke the life out of any room it filled. 

There were good times, though, and those times - those times at the start, those times that appeared in fleeting moments near the end like the moon from behind a cloud cover - he misses. 

"Yeah," Bdubs murmurs, and the word itself feels like admitting guilt. "I do."

They sit there for a moment, Tango's ghost hanging in the space between them, before Skizz nudges his leg. Bdubs looks up at him, then, and Skizz is looking back at him with a silent command in his eyes - a command to say what you mean before this snowballs into something far outside his control.

He wants to leave it there. Really, he does. But his apology doesn't seem sufficient - not to himself, and, apparently, not to Skizz.

"Etho," he starts, and Etho looks at him, expression drooping with weariness, "I'm sorry."

"You said that," Etho replies, voice devoid of anything like anger. He just sounds tired, Bdubs realizes, and that feels like its own kind of punishment.

"I want to do better," Bdubs continues, reaching across the table to grab Etho's hands. Etho doesn't pull away, Bdubs notes, but he doesn't grasp him back, either. "I want to- I want to change. And I'm sorry for everything else that happened. I want to do better."

Etho's gaze flits over his face, apparently searching for something - though if it's genuine contrition or what, Bdubs doesn't know. Finally, though, he just dips his head. "I can believe that."

It's not forgiveness - not even close. It's not absolution, either. Rather, it's just a second chance - a second chance that, Bdubs thinks, he doesn't come close to deserving.

He dips his head, reaching up to scrub at his eyes with one hand. They're burning because he's got something stuck in them, okay, not because he's going to cry. "Thank you," he chokes out, and though Etho doesn't come around the table to hug him, he does squeeze his hand back, and that's enough.

For right now, that'll have to be enough.

There's a brief silence, during which time Bdubs just sniffles and tries to stop any traitorous tears from dripping off his chin. Etho doesn't say anything else, but he does gently run his thumb over Bdubs's knuckles, tracing their bumps and divots with his fingerpad.

"So," Skizz finally states, "is this what being a marriage counselor feels like?"

Bdubs can't help it - he snorts at that, then giggles, and finally dissolves into a full fit of hysterical laughter. It's so Skizz, is the thing, to make a joke there - to try and ease the tension he could tell was filling the room. It's so Skizz, and there's something in his heart that feels less empty, feels less cavernous with Skizz's presence at his side. 

"Nah," Etho shrugs, fixing Skizz with a wry smirk. "Marriage counselors get paid."

"Hey, yeah!" Skizz protests, some spark returning to his expression as the mood lifts. "I gave you guys clothes and stuff and I gave you marriage counseling? I think you owe me!"

"How d'you want us to pay you?" Bdubs quips back. "Take you to dinner?"

He knows it's a misstep as soon as he says it. This, more than anything, is a sentence that reverberates through time - something he's pulled directly out of the past and deposited at their feet like a cat with a dead mouse.

After all, those are the exact words he'd used to ask Skizz out the first time. 

They keep falling into old patterns, keep trying to dance the same dance when they've all changed too much to match the steps. There's a part of Bdubs's heart that still clenches near Skizz, that still picks up like a jar of butterflies. 

"Bdubs," Skizz starts in a tone that says "no, we're not doing this again". "I talked about it with Etho, but-"

"I'm sorry," Bdubs simply replies, and Skizz's expression turns even more conflicted. 

"That's not- dude, that's not-" a sigh, then, "I don't think- you know we weren't good for each other, right?"

But Skizz is good for them. He stupidly, foolishly wants to insist on that point - to say hey, maybe after Tango's gone, they could try again.

But, then, that's the elephant in the room. Tango. 

"I still care about you," Skizz is saying, "but we shouldn't-"

"Are you gonna exorcise Tango?"

It's an abrupt swerve in the conversation, and one that visibly throws off both Etho and Skizz. Skizz looks almost like he's been hit, honestly, eyes going wide and hands gripping the edge of the counter for support. 

"What?"

"Are you gonna exorcise him?" Bdubs repeats, because he has to know this. "Is he- is he in pain? Is that- would an exorcism be good for him?"

He doesn't know enough about ghosts to answer - wouldn't've believed in them if not for the very real ghost that's stuck itself into his life and doesn't plan to leave. He just- 

He's got a lot of feelings right now, okay? There's Skizz here, and okay, maybe Bdubs isn't over him, and there's Etho who's just pointed out a lot of problems with their relationship, and hey, maybe it's because they had problems before that he sought out Skizz and later Tango, because Etho wasn't physically affectionate in the way he needed, and there's, well. There's Tango's ghost. 

There's a lot of introspection and a lot of problems all at the same time, and chief among them is the ghost in his radio.

"Is he stuck in my radio?" Bdubs blurts, the thought suddenly occurring to him. "Is he- there's so many pieces, I don't know if I can put it back together-"

"He should be fine?" Skizz replies, though he doesn't sound very confident about that. "I mean, ghosts don't usually get stuck in things-"

"I got him stuck in the radio," Bdubs wheezes. This is new. Dead boyfriend stuck in a radio? This is new! "How're we gonna put it back together? Do you have glue?"

"He's not stuck in the radio," Etho states, and Bdubs whips around to stare at him.

"How do you know?"

"'cause he's stuck in the house," Etho shrugs. Then, upon both of them staring at him, he elaborates: "I mean, he's tied to the- the candle, right? He's probably not stuck in the radio."

That probably does a lot to mitigate the confidence of Etho's words, Bdubs thinks, but if it is true that Tango isn't stuck in the radio, that can only be good.

"Yeah," Skizz slowly replies before giving himself a little shake. It reminds Bdubs a bit of a dog, somehow, watching Skizz shake his head to try and collect his thoughts. "Ghost. Okay. Yeah, we wanna exorcise him."

"That'll kill him," Bdubs points out, and Skizz gives him a so-so kind of motion.

"He's-" a stutter, then, "he's already dead, so it'll just help him move on."

"Couldn't we keep him?" Bdubs begs, and Skizz shakes his head. 

"It's bad for ghosts to stick around. It's not really living, what they do, and the longer they stay, the more the good memories fade. The best thing we can do for them is to help them move on."

He should've expected that, Bdubs thinks, but it still feels like a fresh kind of grief. He'd only just accepted it - the idea that they had Tango back, if only in this half-form - but he's going to disappear again. 

That's the thing about death, isn't it? The only happy ending is for the person who's gone. He just has to live with what Tango's left behind.

"How can we help?" Etho asks when Bdubs doesn't respond.

Skizz exhales, distress visibly darkening his gaze. "We have to help him move on," he states, "which means that we'll have to talk to him. The sooner the better."

"Tomorrow," Bdubs blurts, and Skizz and Etho share a look. It's not one Bdubs can decipher, but a silent understanding passes between the two of them before they turn back. 

"Tomorrow is fine," Skizz slowly replies, "but are you-"

"You said 'the sooner the better', right?" Bdubs challenges, and Skizz's frown twists in discomfort. 

"Yeah, but-"

"But what?"

"You don't seem okay," Etho points out, which is, quite honestly, a stupid thing to say. 

"Of course I'm not okay!" Bdubs retorts, because yeah, okay, it's been a long night! His hand hurts, and he and Etho apparently have problems, and he's apparently got something going on with Skizz that Skizz isn't happy about, and there's Tango who, oh yeah, still dead, and Bdubs had just accepted it was his fault before this conversation, which added all kinds of new problems! Of course he's not okay! "I just- you said 'the sooner the better', and here it is! This is sooner!"

"If you go in with bad energy, it'll just make things worse," Skizz points out, which, frankly, sounds a bit ridiculous. What does bad energy even mean? 

"You said 'the sooner the better'," Bdubs mulishly points out, "and this is sooner."

Skizz and Etho exchange another, longer look in response - one that Bdubs desperately tries to intercept. They're saying something about him, he thinks - something in the setting of Skizz's jaw and in the faint angle of Etho's head - but he doesn't know what. 

It makes a part of him twist in a feral kind of jealousy - a part of him that desperately wants to be included. Why can't they say it out loud? What are they hiding from him?

Etho angles his head again - sharper, this time - and Skizz sighs, reaching up to drag his hands down his face.

"We'll talk to the guys," he says, voice muffled slightly by his palms, "tomorrow. If they say yes, we can go. Tonight, though, we need to go to bed. I need to go to bed."

"Fine," Bdubs relents, and Skizz gives a short, jerky nod. 

"If you guys wanna stay over," he continues, "you can borrow some of my stuff."

Etho glances at Bdubs, and Bdubs glances back. It does sound nice to stay, he thinks - nice to exist in proximity to Skizz, and nice to sleep somewhere outside a hotel room - and when Etho shrugs a bit, Bdubs takes that as agreement.

"We'll stick around," he replies, and Skizz nods in agreement.

Despite all that's happened, they cram together on the couch.

It wasn't entirely something Bdubs was expecting - something he was hoping for, yeah, but not really expecting. Still, though, Etho'd laid down on the couch, propped his head up with a throw pillow, and opened his arms a bit in invitation, and who would Bdubs be to refuse? Etho offering physical contact is rare at best, and Bdubs certainly isn't going to turn it down.

He ignores how it feels like the end of something, feels like a last hurrah before everything falls apart. 

They're both wearing Skizz's clothes, and this, too, feels familiar - feels like pulling out a pair of pants and a top from the closet and not really knowing whose they were until the legs were either way too long or way too short. He remembers the day Etho went around wearing Tango's pants, not even realizing they weren't supposed to be capris until Tango told him at dinner.

Tango. 

He's- he can feel Tango's ghost lingering, he swears, can almost feel it sitting on the other end of the couch, watching them. He's not sure what expression Tango would wear were he here - would he look at them with fondness or with disdain? Would he look at them like something to keep or something to throw away? Would he look at Bdubs with anger or with love?

"I still care about you."

He thinks about those words and thinks about Skizz's expression an hour ago, thinks about the way he'd said "Bdubs", like some kind of wounded animal. He thinks about the way Etho'd looked as he'd driven off, thinks about the way Etho looks now, lying underneath him, gaze pinned on the painted ceiling.

He thinks about what Etho said, and what he didn't.

"It's been hard," he'd said. "I miss Tango."

Underneath it, in the subtext of his words that Bdubs somehow thinks he was meant to hear: "I can't do this anymore."

The question, really, is what that means. Does that mean they're over? Does that mean they're done? Does that make this the part where Etho turns and walks away, calls Bdubs on the anniversary and only lets him in as far as any other stranger? Does that mean they start over, trying to cut two people out of a relationship they'd shifted to accommodate them? Does that mean they try again?

He thinks about this and listens to Etho's heart beating under his head, a soft "dum-dum-dum-dum" that feels almost like tapping out rhythms of four. 

He thinks about this, and he finally asks:

"Were you going to leave?"

He doesn't add the pronoun - doesn't need to say me because they both know what he's saying. 

Etho shifts, exhales a bit. He pauses for a moment, thinking it through, before finally replying, "I don't know."

It's not an unexpected answer. It's the answer he deserves, he thinks, after all he's done. Even so, there's another question lingering at the back of his mind, snapping at his spine like a starving tiger-

"Are you still going to?"

That's the real question, he thinks, the question that brings to life the tension in the air between them. There's him and there's Etho, and there's Skizz upstairs, and there's the ghost of Tango in the home they all built together. There's him and Etho, even though they'd given up on him-and-Etho when they'd first talked about Skizz. 

"I don't know."

Bdubs exhales, grits his teeth, tries to swallow back the surge of emotion those words bring about. He shuts his eyes for a moment, listening to the pounding of Etho's heart below him - timing his breathing to that soft dum-dum-dum-dum - and continues.

"Do you still love me?"

There's a pause for a moment - just a moment - and in that moment, Bdubs thinks his world might just shatter.

Who is he without Etho? Who is he if not Bdubs-and? He's not meant to be alone, he thinks, and he's not even sure if he knows who he is when it's just- just Bdubs. Who is he, when it's just him and the ghosts of his mistakes?

Then, before Bdubs's mind can spiral too far, Etho replies: "I do."

"Is that enough?"

He doesn't mean to say it - doesn't even really mean to consider it, honestly - but he's lying there with Etho, thinking about their life together, thinking about the way Skizz'd looked at him and the way he'd said his name. Is that enough?

It wasn't enough for Skizz. 

"I don't know," Etho responds, and that feels like it breaks something in him anew.

Etho reaches up to put a hand on his back, spreading his fingers wide over Bdubs's shoulder blades. It feels like a grounding force, like a tether ready to yank him back from outer space, and Bdubs breathes, focuses on the rising and falling of Etho's hand on his back.

He wants to be a plant, in moments like these - wants to exist in a world where his only job is to breathe and to keep breathing. Inhale, exhale.

That was something that, of everyone, Tango probably understood best of all. 

It's hard to think about him, Bdubs knows - hard to think about him without the shadow of the end turning everything black-and-white - but this was one thing that Tango understood best of all. The feeling of being overwhelmed, of having things slip out of control - Tango knew that well.

It was part of the reason they'd clash, he thinks, because he knew how best to press Tango's buttons. He knew what to say and what to do to get a reaction, and Tango knew how to hit back in turn. They both knew how to hurt each other, because at some time or another, they'd loved each other.

Does he still love Tango?

It's a hard question to answer. The way things'd ended- he can't just not remember that. He can't stop thinking about the way Tango would yell back at him, can't stop thinking about the way they'd pick at each other's weaknesses, peeling them open for the world to see. He remembers Tango saying that he only cared for plants because they'd need him, remembers him saying that not being able to understand his work didn't mean it was useless, that Bdubs just wasn't smart enough to understand the intricacies of code or that he didn't give enough of a shit to bother trying to. 

He remembers one fight - one in particular. He doesn't remember when it was, but he remembers why it was. 

Tango'd been working for a couple of days on something or another, and Bdubs still wanted to try and fix things - wanted to try and put things back together. He'd reached out, because he cared, and asked Tango to go on a walk with him, and how did he respond? 

He blew up. Accused Bdubs of devaluing his work and not caring about his goals. 

In a way, the two of them were like ships passing in the night - always talking past each other, always getting too caught up in their own feelings to stop and think. They'd talk past each other, avoid each other, meet in fleeting moments where Bdubs's early days crossed with Tango's late nights - sunrises, where Tango's day ended and Bdubs's day began. It was always passing, always missing each other, always talking past each other without ever fully meeting.

But, then, did he love Tango? 

He did, he thinks - can trace that much, at least. He thinks he might've loved Tango on some level from the first time they met - when they'd gone bowling together, the two of them had locked eyes, and Bdubs remembers thinking "oh, he's like me."

He thinks he did, and that wasn't enough. Does he still? 

He thinks about Tango's words, and feels something in his chest ease, relax like an overtensed muscle.

"I still care about you."

Yeah, he thinks. He still does. 

"We can talk about this tomorrow," Etho murmurs, and Bdubs finds himself jolted back to the present, dragged back by the tether of Etho's hand on his back. "For now, let's get some rest."

He wants to, he does. It's just- 

It's just Tango, right? Because it's always about Tango. There's a part of his mind that will always, awfully come back to Tango. 

But he does as Etho says and shuts his eyes, pressing his face into Etho's chest to hear his heartbeat. 

Even the dum-dum-dum-dum of his heart, though, can't dispel the image that paints itself on the back of Bdubs's eyelids - a cracked photo, the image split into too many fragments to count. 

Bdubs and Etho showed up at some point last night.

Huh. That's new.

Gem only really notices them when she sits down at the kitchen island and an unfamiliar hand passes her the sugar - a pale hand, pale in a way none of her friends are. She looks over, and her gaze lands on Etho, his white hair messy and eyes shadowed.

She probably should react. In hindsight, she really should've reacted. In the moment, though, all she does is accept it and start to sip her coffee.

Thankfully, Grian reacts for her. He enters the room yawning, one arm stretched over his head and the other wrapped around it, and Gem gives him a lazy wave.

"Hey, Gem," he greets, lowering his arms to rub his eyes. "Hey-"

He breaks off into a truly impressive shriek, physically leaping backwards into the nearby wall. His head cracks into the door, and he yells again, spinning around to glare at it before drooping in apparent relief.

"Oh my god," he gasps, reaching up to rub at his chest. "Oh my god. I think- what are you doing here?"

"Location tracking," Etho replies, as if that's a non-concerning response to that question. 

"Right," Grian wheezes, kneading his chest as if to stir his heart back to life. "That's normal. Great. Okay."

"Coffee?" Etho asks, and Grian blinks at him for a long moment before shrugging.

"You know what? Sure. Fine. Whatever. Guy who broke in wants to make coffee? Fine by me."

"I didn't break in," Etho replies, and Gem's not sure if she's imagining a hint of offense in his voice or not. "Skizz let me in."

"Oh, well," Grian dramatically responds, "if Skizz let you in." Then, apparently processing that, "wait, Skizz let you in?"

"Let both of us in," Etho adds, thumbing in the general direction of the couch. Gem follows his gaze, and yep, there's Bdubs, starfished out over their lovely couch and drooling into the throw pillows. 

"How is he still asleep?" Grian whispers, although it's more of a stage-whisper than anything else.

Etho shrugs. "He won't wake up, no matter what you do. You don't need to be quiet."

"Really?" Gem asks, and Etho nods.

He then slides off his chair, pushes it a bit back from the counter, and smacks it as hard as he can.

The resulting noise is truly- something! There's the screeching of the chair on the floor, the thrumming of the metal, the thwack of Etho's hand- and Bdubs doesn't react a bit.

There is, however, a thud from upstairs. 

Gem and Grian turn to glare at Etho, who looks entirely unapologetic. "You asked," he shrugs.

There's another thump from upstairs, and the door at the top of the landing flies open as Impulse tumbles out of it. "What's going on?" he demands, hair sticking up in all sorts of odd ways and face still creased from sleep. "Who's dying? What happened?"

His gaze lands on Etho, then, and Gem can almost see his brain stop working. He just stares for a moment, expression blank, as Etho waves amenably at him. It's almost as if he's a parent trying to remember when their child said they were bringing a friend home, Gem thinks, or else a roommate who's just been unfortunately surprised - which is actually exactly what's going on here.

"No one's dying?" he finally responds, and Etho nods. 

"Not right now."

"Great," Impulse replies, reaching up to scrub at his face. "Hoo boy. That- that gave me a heart attack, dude!"

"They told me to," Etho responds, like a tattletale. 

"Hang on," Gem protests, "we didn't tell you to do anything!"

"They asked," Etho corrects, and okay-

"You're such a liar!" 

"You literally asked!" Etho protests, but Gem isn't listening.

"You come into my house, drink my coffee-"

"Hey, I made this coffee-"

"-wake up my friends, and you blame it on me? I can't believe this!"

"It's the truth," Etho replies, and it's a bit impressive, Gem thinks, just how much he manages to look like a cat left out in the rain as he says it. 

"Yeah, well," she huffs, "you don't have to say it."

"Snitches get stitches," Grian adds, and Etho shrugs. 

Impulse, for his part, just shuffles towards the coffee machine, all awareness seemingly having left his mind along with the adrenaline. He grabs a mug and picks up the pot, apparently not realizing it's empty, and goes to pour himself a cup, only to just... stare in some kind of wearied misery as nothing comes out.

He looks at the pot, then at the machine, then back at the mug. He puts it back in the machine, as if that'll immediately fill it back up, and goes to pour a cup again. Nothing comes out.

"Oh my god," Gem sighs, "just take mine." Then, to Etho, "look what you've done! You stole his coffee!"

"I made it!"

Gem sighs, pushing herself up and scooping up the mug before her. She rounds the counter, presses it into Impulse's hands, and pats his shoulder. "There you go."

Impulse, in a moment of uncharacteristic emotionality, looks over at her like she's given him the gift of eternal life. He doesn't say thank you, but the look of watery-eyed gratitude he gives her is enough.

"You still owe us money," Grian says to Etho behind them, "and now you owe us coffee."

"Don't we get a friends and family discount?" Etho tries, and Grian stares at him in apparent confusion.

"No?"

"Not even when I made you guys coffee?"

It's around then that Gem gives into her inner demons and finally just kicks Etho in the shin.

An hour or so later sees all of them in the kitchen, the air thick with tension and words unsaid.

Skizz, for his part, is leaning against the refrigerator, hands in his pockets and expression unreadable. Bdubs, sitting at the kitchen island, keeps glancing between him and Etho, some kind of anxiety evident in his widened eyes, and Etho?

Etho's still sipping away at his coffee, even though it's long-since gone cold.

It's strange, Gem thinks, seeing the three of them together like this. Even for an outsider, she can tell they know each other - can tell that from the little things, like the way Bdubs leans ever so slightly towards Etho, or the way Skizz's gaze never fully seems to leave either of them, like he's always keeping watch on them out of the corner of his eye. 

The others seem to think the same - or, at least, she thinks they do. Grian and Scar keep glancing at each other and at her, and Impulse just seems mildly uncomfortable with the entire series of affairs. 

It's Skizz who ends up breaking the silence, Skizz who ends up clearing his throat and glancing around the room like he's summoning a court to order. "So," he starts, "I talked with these guys last night."

That- that in itself brings up a lot of questions, actually, like why are they here? But Skizz doesn't really seem interested in those questions, especially not when he just glances over at the rest of his team before continuing. "They want to go exorcise Tango tonight."

That's a particular way to phrase it. 

They want to do that, Gem notes, not we. Skizz doesn't seem sold on this at all. More to the point, exorcise - as in, deal with it all. 

As in, put an end to all of it.

That, though, means they have to talk about it - have to drag out the truths that all three of them have seemed so damn intent on keeping under wraps. 

Skizz must pick up on their collective hesitation, because he just sighs, glancing back at Bdubs and Etho once more before casting his gaze up to the ceiling. "If they're willing to talk about it," he states, and it's phrased both as a question and as a statement - "if they're willing to talk about it, we can go."

Only Bdubs and Etho don't look all too willing to talk about it, do they? Bdubs looks at Skizz like a deer in headlights, and Etho just stares at the counter, expression going blank.

They're going to make Skizz do it, Gem thinks in a moment of sudden clarity, and finds that she can't entirely handle the prospect of that.

They may not be able to tell the toll this is taking on Skizz - Bdubs and Etho, that is - but that's just because they aren't looking. Like this, Gem can see the brittleness in Skizz's expression, the way the tendons of his fingers stand out even through the fabric of his sweatpants as he balls his hands into fists. He looks like he's about to snap.

So she starts. 

"What happened that night?"

It's directed at Bdubs - Bdubs, who seemed the most hesitant to speak of all of them - and she knows he hears it. His shoulders jerk, eyes going wide for a moment, and Gem doesn't let up - just keeps staring at him, jaw set and expression schooled into careful neutrality. 

Bdubs glances back at her, then at Etho, then at Skizz, each time almost searching for someone to help him. Instead of interjecting, though, Skizz just stares, and Etho- 

Etho turns away. 

Bdubs's throat works as he swallows, and he turns his attention to the counter, expression flickering for a moment before he turns back to face her. "It was late," he starts, "and it was raining."

Outside, the rain carries on, pitter-pattering against the windows in an infinite, recursive pattern.

"We'd gone out," Bdubs continues, "and we'd been drinking. I'd been drinking. And we- we were havin' a good night, y'know, but then we got out to the parking lot, and Tango started sayin' I was too drunk to drive, and I-"

He falters, and Gem almost expects Etho to pick up the story- but no.

No, it's Skizz who continues, voice rough and thick with sleep. 

"They got in a fight," Skizz states, "and I told Tango to stop."

Those words seem to rip something out of him as they're said. Skizz curls in on himself ever so slightly, hair falling forwards to eclipse his eyes, and when he continues, it's with his gaze pinned on the floor. It doesn't suit him, Gem thinks, looking destroyed like this, but he's still talking, so she forces herself to pay attention.

"Bdubs and Tango started fighting again in the car," Skizz murmurs, "and then Bdubs swerved, and we skidded, and..."

And. 

"He died on impact," Etho whispers, voice sounding almost as distant as Tango's ghost. "The doctors said he didn't feel a thing."

Skizz nods gravely, and Bdubs, who himself looks close to tears, follows suit.

It's... it's somehow worse than Gem'd expected, and yet somehow better at the same time. She didn't know what to expect, honestly - didn't know what to anticipate other than car crash - but hearing it laid out like this- it feels more like an accident than anything. 

It feels both like something they'd brought about and something out of their control. There's not much room for her to judge, since she doesn't know the details, but something about it-

It feels tragic, she thinks. It feels like something that didn't need to happen. Like something that shouldn't've happened. Bad luck or bad action, she's not sure, but she's pretty sure it was a combination of both. 

Is she absolving Bdubs? Maybe. Skizz and Etho sure seem to, at least on some level. 

How would Tango tell this story? She doesn't know, so she's just left to wonder. What would he highlight? Would he highlight Skizz stopping him, or Bdubs being drunk, or Etho's apparent lack of involvement? Would he highlight his death? 

What did he think about when he died?

That, actually- that's macabre as hell. Definitely not something she needs to think about, actually. 

"So," Grian starts, leaning forwards on his elbows, "are we going there tonight?"

Impulse's expression tightens, lips pursing together in a thin line. "I don't know," he slowly replies, and Gem can't help but think it's him that's unsure about this - him more than any of the three who actually knew Tango himself. 

"Why not?" Gem challenges, and Impulse's expression further tightens, making him look almost constipated. 

"I just- I feel like we should wait a day or two, y'know? Wait until feelings aren't so... high."

"We can't just leave him there!" Bdubs protests, and Etho and Skizz exchange a glance behind his back. "I mean, who knows how long he's been stuck there?"

"Going in when we're too emotional might just make things worse," Impulse counters, and Bdubs shakes his head.

"It's never not gonna be emotional. And it's- it's Tango."

He looks like he's about to say more, Gem thinks, but he falters at the end, leaving that sentence hanging in the air. "It's Tango."

She wishes she could've met him for herself. Maybe then she'd understand what that means.

"Yeah," Etho agrees, though there's a faint undercurrent of bitterness to his voice. "It's Tango."

Impulse glances between them, then, before his gaze finally lands on Skizz. They've always been able to communicate without words, those two, and as Gem watches, the two of them just stare at each other, expressions flickering through numerous micro-expressions before Skizz finally nods. 

"Are you sure?" Impulse asks, and it seems almost sacrilegious to say out loud, somehow, but Gem knows why he says it. He wants to make sure he's not misunderstanding, and he wants to hear it from Skizz himself - wants to have the verifiable words to keep in his mind, to replay and tell himself that yes, Skizz agreed to this. 

"Yeah," Skizz simply replies, and, well, that's that, isn't it?

Impulse sighs, long and slow, and runs a hand down his face. "Fine," he relents, and Gem glances over at Grian and Scar, who look just as uneasy about this as her. "We'll leave around six."

"There's not room in the van," Grian points out, which definitely isn't what he was going to say, but is a good enough point anyways.

"I have my car," Bdubs replies, and Etho and Skizz give him twin looks of confusion. "Hey, what's that for?"

"Your car without a stereo?" Etho drawls, and Bdubs flushes positively crimson.

"That doesn't mean it can't drive!"

"There's metal in the seats."

"Well, if you're gonna be a jerk about it, then you can sit in the back!"

"There's metal in the seats?" Scar whispers at her. Gem just shrugs - why would she know what the hell they're talking about?

"Great," Impulse concludes, sounding like he'd really like to just go back to sleep. "Six o'clock. I'll make dinner. Or we can get takeout. Whatever. Six. I'll see you guys then."

With that, he heads back upstairs, presumably to corral his emotions into some semblance of order. 

Bdubs and Etho look at Skizz, then, who just shrugs. "Did you bring any clothes?"

"We'll run back to the hotel," Etho interjects before Bdubs can reply. "Six, yeah?"

"Six," Skizz confirms, and Etho nods. 

"Alright. Bdubs, are you done?"

"Yeah," Bdubs replies, the words sounding slightly limp. He looks a bit like an underwatered plant, Gem thinks, all weary and drooping at the edges.

Etho angles his head towards the door, and Bdubs nods, pushing himself upright and rounding the kitchen island to drop his cup in the sink. They leave like that, neither of them saying another word save for a pair of half-hearted "bye"s directed in the general area of the others. 

Then, it's just herself, Grian, Scar, and Skizz.

"So," Gem starts, "do you wanna talk about it?"

"Nope," Skizz simply replies, and takes another sip of his coffee.

The drive to the house is a quiet affair.

Skizz rides in the truck - which is to say Skizz does exactly what he usually does, and in the moment, he can pretend there's nothing different. He can pretend, if he really tries, that they're just going off to do another ghost hunt that has nothing to do with his own personal history and requires no additional emotional investment.

It's not very easy to do. It's not really doable at all, actually - not when thoughts of the others are so fresh in his mind. 

He's in the passenger's seat while Impulse drives, staring out the windshield and watching as the trees streak past. It's still raining, and Impulse occasionally makes sounds of mild annoyance as the wipers make minimal headway against the onslaught.

It's been raining for a long time, Skizz thinks. 

It almost makes him wonder if it'll ever clear up, or if the sun will just be something of the past, buried forever under a thick blanket of clouds. It's a stupid thing to think - it can't rain forever, obviously - but in the moment, it certainly feels true. What else is he supposed to think when it rains and rains and rains like this? 

Impulse, for his part, is just drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, lips pursed in concentration and gaze visibly pinned on the horizon. It's not easy to drive like this, Skizz thinks, and he wouldn't want to distract him-

And there it is again, Tango swimming back into his thoughts like the sea returning from low tide.

God, everything seems to come back to that. He thinks he's thought about Tango more the past few days than he has in over a year - thinks that now that he's let Tango back into his mind, he'll never be able to shut him back out. It's like he's lingering even now, hovering just outside the window or sitting somewhere behind Skizz, ready to lean in and chat.

He misses him. 

He misses all of them, he thinks, but he misses Tango differently. Not just because he's dead, but because, well-

It was him and Tango first. 

He always did his best not to think about that - tried to put all three of his partners on equal footing - but the simple fact is that, for a time, there was just him and Tango. He knew Tango first, and despite trying to put everyone on perfectly equal footing, there's still a part of Tango that'd stretched roots into a deep part of Skizz's heart - a place that Bdubs and Etho couldn't reach.

He loved them all the same - still does, he thinks, still couldn't put a number to it or say he loved anyone more - but he loved Tango longer, and that means something.

Is it longer, though? Is it longer when Etho's looking at him like that and when Bdubs says "take you to dinner"? Is it longer when Tango's gone and they're still here?

He's thinking about Tango and Bdubs and Etho and about time and relationships and everything else when they pull up to the house, still thinking about it when Impulse cuts the engine and turns to face him.

"Listen," Impulse starts, and oh, Skizz thinks, this is going to be something, "I want you to let us find the ghost room first, alright?"

"Hey," Skizz protests, because what? This is his investigation, in a certain kind of way, and why should he sit out? "I can handle this, dude-"

"I know you can," Impulse quickly replies, and something in Skizz eases, bristled fur smoothing down, "I just- you're all having... feelings right now, and if you go in looking around with all that, it could make things worse. Plus, if you go in, the others will want to as well, and..."

"They're not exactly trained for this," Skizz fills in, the words settling heavy in his gut. He knows Impulse is right, knows he's saying what needs to be said, it's just-

He wants to get in there. He doesn't want to hesitate. He wants to put all of this to rest, wants to finally look Tango in the eye like he never has and say "I'm sorry, I should've done better". 

But Impulse is right, and Skizz can accept that.

He nods, and Impulse visibly relaxes, lips curling into an easy smile. "Thanks, dude," he replies, and Skizz nods. 

That's all that has to be said, really. They pull up the hoods of their rain jackets and hop out of the cabin, rounding the truck to meet the rest of the team in the back. Grian, Gem, and Scar are already setting up, and Bdubs and Etho are lingering by Bdubs's car, apparently unsure of what to do with themselves. 

Skizz takes the incentive, then, making eye contact with Impulse and angling his head towards the truck - a sort of "you go do that, I've got this". Impulse's expression flickers, lips settling into a frown, but Skizz angles his head further, and Impulse sighs, apparently relenting. 

"We'll wait for you to check in before we go inside," he states, and Skizz grins, reaching out to pat his shoulder. 

"Thanks, buddy."

With that, Impulse heads over to finish setup, and Skizz approaches Bdubs and Etho.

"So," he starts in lieu of greeting, "they're gonna head in and find Tango while we wait in the van."

Bdubs bristles at that, puffing up like an angry cat. "What do you mean, they're headin' in while we wait in the van?" he demands, and Skizz is about to explain the whole ghosts-energy-killing-you thing, but Etho just nudges him. 

"They're professionals," Etho reminds him, and Bdubs huffs, folding his arms over his chest. 

"Well, it's our ghost. I think we should get to do it."

He's saying that, but he's saying that without any hint of really arguing, and Skizz knows him well enough - even now, he thinks, even after all this time - to tell the difference. 

"We can watch what they're doing in the van," he adds, and Bdubs seems mollified by that, although he still puts on an act of being offended. "There's only one chair, though..."

"Etho should get it," Bdubs blurts, and Skizz glances over at Etho, who just looks pleased. 

"You're not gonna kick me out of it, are you?" he teases, and ah, Skizz thinks, there's some of the lightness that's been missing from him all this time. "You're gonna make my old bones stand for that long?"

"You're the same age as us," Skizz grumbles, and Etho sighs, half-swooning against the car.

"Yes, but I'm aged, Skizz. I'm washed. These old bones aren't meant to handle things like standing."

"Yeah, yeah," Skizz snorts, and Etho gasps again.

"Are you saying you don't believe me?"

"Maybe."

"I can't believe this," Etho continues, tucking his hands in his pockets and strolling towards the van. "Such disrespect."

For an instant, it's as if they're like they used to be. 

Then Skizz catches sight of his friends in the van, washed-out by the LEDs in the cabin, and feels almost brutally yanked back to the present - as if he's been pulled back so harshly that a part of him got left in the past, torn off like a strip of paper. 

"Yeah," he lamely replies, and it's not a proper answer, but it's all he can think to say.

The others wave at them as they enter, all of them in various stages of checking and arranging their equipment. Impulse gives him a meaningful look as he leans against the sanity board, eyebrows raising as he glances at Etho and Bdubs, and ah, Skizz thinks, he should announce that.

"We'll be your guys in the van until you find our ghost," he proclaims, because saying "until you find Tango" is something he definitely can't handle right now. "You've got three of us, so you'd better do a good job in there!"

"We'll be the best," Bdubs proclaims, apparently ignoring what he's actually said. 

Skizz and Etho wince in tandem, and when Bdubs's mind catches up to what he's said, he winces as well. 

"We'll be the most good," Etho corrects, and honestly? That's good enough.

"Right," Impulse slowly replies. Then, turning to glance at Skizz, "are you good with this, dude?"

The short answer? Not really. Sitting and talking to Etho and Bdubs in an enclosed room while paying attention to the others? Also not great. All of this? Far from ideal!

But, well, Impulse doesn't need to know that. He's worrying enough already, Skizz thinks - no point in adding more to that burden.

"We'll be good, dude," he insists, and Impulse slowly nods.

"Right. I guess we'll head out, then. Everyone got their cameras?"

There's a brief moment of fussing as everyone makes sure they've got a little video camera strapped to their heads - not something they'd normally do, but something that just seems useful for a situation like this - before the group heads for the door. Impulse pats Skizz's shoulder as he goes, gaze boring into his for the briefest of seconds, and Skizz understands what he's saying - "if you need me, just call". 

He shouldn't have to, he hopes. This should be fine. 

And it is fine, for a time. Etho does end up in the chair while Bdubs and Skizz watch over his shoulder, and there's a whole lot of nothing. The group chatters over the radio as they search, but they're not really saying anything important, and in the space between them, silence just grows.

Skizz can tell when it reaches a critical mass, because that's exactly when Etho clears his throat and, in an almost painfully awkward tone, asks "so, what is all of this?"

"Uh," Skizz eloquently replies, because there's a lot of things in all of this, honestly. "You mean the cameras?"

"Sure," Etho replies, and wow, Skizz thinks, he doesn't really know anything about this.

"Well, we use these so the guys in the van - that's us - can see what's goin' on inside the house."

"And why do you wanna do that?"

"So we can keep tabs on what's happening," Skizz replies, "or see ghost orbs if they've got them."

That second part earns him a blank stare, and Skizz internally sighs. Boy, they're in for a long night if he has to explain every aspect of ghost hunting. 

"They're tiny floating ball thingies."

"Oh," Etho replies, in a tone that doesn't necessarily invite further explanation. 

Bdubs, for his part, doesn't really seem too interested in what's going on. He just keeps staring at the camera, watching as the images move - or, Skizz thinks, seeing their house through the fresh eyes of his friends. Things that were banal to them gain new significance as the rest of the team moves about, furniture and objects turned from insignificant parts of life to items worth examining in their own right.

He notices someone lifting up a stack of poker chips - Scar, he thinks, up in the bedroom - and a lump forms in his throat, expanding almost to block his windpipe.

Etho must have the same idea, because he clicks over to that feed, and they sit there for a moment, watching Scar turn Skizz's old poker chips this way and that, as if to see them in the different angles of the ceiling lamp. 

"You kept them," Skizz finally murmurs, and Etho nods. 

"Yeah," he replies, and says no more. 

Skizz looks at the chips for a moment longer, then, and thinks about everything that happened there - thinks about how he'd left them in his rush to leave, thinks about how he'd thrown some clothes and his computer into a bag and rushed out of the house - and the feelings they'd left behind.

Then, a thought: do they know about the feelings?

"You guys know that the ghost in there," he starts, then pauses, putting the words together - he doesn't want to say isn't Tango because that's wrong, but he can't really think of a better way to phrase it - "isn't really Tango, right?"

Etho and Bdubs turn to stare at him, then, Etho with confusion and Bdubs with some kind of hostility. "What do you mean?" Bdubs demands, and ah, Skizz thinks, he should elaborate.

"It is," he clarifies, "just- okay, you remember what it was like? After Tango?"

With the way both Bdubs and Etho's expressions darken, Skizz thinks they do. 

"That kinda negative feeling in the air?" he clarifies, and both of them nod. "We think - or, well, Impy thinks - that all that negative feeling kinda... stuck around Tango as a ghost. Made him angrier. And because we were all upset at each other..."

"He's upset at all of us," Etho fills in, and Skizz nods.

"Yeah. So if he says something, it's not him talking. Just... remember that."

"He's feelin' all the stuff we felt?" Bdubs asks, and Skizz nods again. "Oh..."

Bdubs just stares at his hands, then, something further withering in his expression like a plant curling up in the sun. "He's like this 'cause of me," he mumbles, and for the briefest of moments, Skizz just feels awful.

It's not even wrong, is the thing. He can't tell Bdubs he's wrong, because he's not. The environment in the house was partly his fault, just like it was partly Skizz's and partly Etho's. Just-

"It's not just your fault," he replies, placing a hand on Bdubs's shoulder. The shorter man looks up at him, then, dark eyes wide and searching for some kind of absolution, and Skizz gives him a small smile. "It's all of our faults, dude. Just like the accident. Don't... you don't gotta take all that on yourself."

Bdubs sniffs, then, reaching up to scrub at his nose. "It's mostly my fault," he mumbles, and Skizz shrugs. 

"Yeah, maybe. I don't know. It just matters that we help Tango now, though."

"You said 'if he says something'," Etho interjects, and Skizz turns, confusion at the change of topic mixing with dread. "Did he say something to you?"

There's the dread. Oh, boy.

"Um," Skizz replies, like someone who definitely knows what to say. 

They're both looking at him, now, searching his face for something like the truth, and the words Tango-not-Tango had said back then ring through his mind like a pealing bell - "your fault". He knows it's not Tango saying that, he knows, but he'd said it all the same, and hearing that from his mouth in his voice-

"He said it was my fault."

The words come out like a blade, come out like something ugly ripping through his chest. Etho's expression shutters, and Bdubs's goes distant, something pained settling into his eyes. 

They all know whose words those are. They all know what Tango would say to each of them, because they all know what they've said to each other. Hearing each other's words in Tango's voice, though - that's its own kind of hurt.

"Oh," Bdubs simply replies, and leaves it at that.

It's not what Skizz wants in that moment - not necessarily needs, because he can handle his feelings of guilt on his own damn time - but there's a part of him that wasn't expecting anything, and that part of him just feels vindicated. There's no point in hoping for Bdubs and Etho to be something they're not. 

"So yeah," Skizz lamely finishes, "just- just consider that."

They do consider that, at least for a moment, silence hanging thick in the air between them. Etho and Bdubs keep staring at the screen, watching as the pictures bob and shift. Skizz doesn't say a word.

"How are we gonna help?" Etho finally asks, words soft and almost uncertain, as if they're not sure they've been said. 

"I don't know," Skizz admits, and though Etho and Bdubs look almost concerned by that, they don't bother saying anything else. 

Maybe they never had any faith that he had a plan. Maybe they trust him enough that they're not worried. Skizz doesn't know which, and he doesn't want to ask. Nothing good can come of knowing. 

Then, a report over the radio. 

"Boys!" Gem calls, and Skizz jolts to attention, reaching out to grab the radio on the desk. 

"Yeah?"

"We found the ghost," she confirms. "It's in the kitchen, if you guys wanna come in."

"We'll be right there," Skizz reports, flicking off the radio and clipping it to his shoulder. He turns to Etho and Bdubs, then, both of whom are still staring at the cameras, apparently lost in thought. "Are you guys good to go?"

Etho seems to shake himself awake, then, before reaching out to poke Bdubs in the arm. "We're good," he replies, and Bdubs, after blinking a couple times and shaking himself in a way he must've picked up from Skizz at some point, nods in agreement himself. 

"Alright," Skizz replies, trying for confidence. "Let's get this show on the road!"

It's cold.

It's cold, cold in a way besides the rain outside and the frigid air inside. It's cold in a way that somehow extends past the physical, down into the very marrow of his bones.

Bdubs shudders, pulling his coat tighter around himself in a vain attempt to ward off the chill. It's cold, cold enough that he can almost see his breath despite the heating being on, and the rain that's seeped into his shoes and down his collar doesn't help at all.

The lights are on, but they don't seem to do as much as they used to, somehow. It's as if the force of all their feelings has dampened the lights, turning the house even darker than before. 

From outside, Bdubs can see the truck's headlights, illuminating raindrops as they fall. He turns away.

"How are you feeling?" Impulse asks, striding up to greet them. He looks a bit harrowed, but somehow professionally harrowed, if that makes any sense? It looks like he's in chaos that he's prepared for - that's probably the best way to put it.

"Cold," Bdubs grumbles, burrowing deeper into his coat. 

"Yeah," Impulse laughs, "that's probably Tango." Then, apparently second-guessing himself, "or the rain."

Okay. Great! Tango's making the house cold. Ghosts can do that? Apparently ghosts can do that. Bdubs didn't know ghosts could do that, but he guesses that's about where they're at, huh?

"So," Etho asks, "what's the plan?"

Great question. Bdubs does not have a plan, actually. He was expecting Skizz to have a plan. 

Although, looking at Skizz's face, it doesn't look a lot like he has a plan, which is... great. This is great. Only good things are happening here, really, which is great! This is great. 

Bdubs is perhaps in way over his head. 

Who's he kidding? He's not a ghost hunter. He doesn't know what he's doing. Literally all he's done so far is make things worse! Why is he even here?

But- 

But.

But Etho's looking at Skizz, then, with something approximating trust. But Skizz is looking back at him, the edges of his expression turning to fondness like a well-worn jacket. But they're here, and Tango's here, and it's all cold. 

But there are worse places to die. 

"Go in and talk to him?" Skizz offers, and heck, that sounds like a good enough plan to Bdubs. 

Impulse does not seem to agree. "You don't have a better plan?" he asks, sounding almost pleading as he says it. 

"Nope," Skizz confirms, and Impulse buries his face in his hands. Skizz reaches out to clasp his shoulder, though, and Impulse lifts his head, looking Skizz in the eyes. "Trust me, Dippledop," he assures him, voice turning oddly severe, "it'll go alright."

"It'd better," Impulse replies, but there's not really any anger to his words. He just puts his hand over Skizz's for a moment, like a moth to a flame, before stepping back and gesturing to the kitchen. "It's all yours."

Bdubs reaches out for Etho, then, seeking out- something, though whether it's comfort or not, he doesn't know. 

Etho, though- Etho pulls his hand away. Bdubs tries and fails to feel nothing about it. 

"Right," Skizz starts, rolling his shoulders like he's preparing for battle. "Here we go."

With that, he steps into the kitchen.

There's a moment where nothing happens, and Bdubs almost thinks it'll be a comedic anticlimax. Nothing moves, nothing rattles, nothing tries to kill them - nothing at all.

Then, of course, he and Etho enter the room. 

The lights start to flicker, and the doors and table start to rattle. Silverware clanks against itself, and plates fly off counters to crash into the wall. Bdubs ducks as a bowl smashes into the space his head used to be in, and next to him, Etho hits the floor as a fork shoots through the air. 

There's a dark figure in the center of the kitchen, Bdubs realizes - a kind of silhouette that always seems to face them. He keeps his eyes pinned on it as he and Etho crawl under the table, pulling the chairs between them and the flying objects. 

Maybe he hasn't seen them? That's possible, right?

A heavy napkin holder promptly smashes into the chair in front of Bdubs's face, and he decides that yes, Tango definitely has seen them.

Skizz dives under the table next to them, and Bdubs and Etho scoot over to give him some more room. The sound of clanking cutlery and smashing porcelain fills the room, and under it is a kind of humming roar that sounds almost vaguely like Tango's voice as heard through a blender. 

"Your fault," he thinks he hears, and his heart plummets like a stone. "You did this."

"Hey!" Skizz shouts, and Bdubs blinks, gaze focusing on the pair of snapping fingers in front of his face. "Hey! Dubs!"

"Yeah?" he shouts back, words barely audible over the din of destruction.

"The candle on the counter!" Skizz replies. "When'd it go out?"

"Uh," Bdubs starts, trying to rifle through his memory and find the answer. Then- 

"Choose. Me or him."

"I blew it out."

Skizz stares at him for a moment, just long enough for Bdubs to wonder if that candle is important or something, before he just shakes his head and turns his attention back to the flying objects. "We've gotta relight that!" he shouts, which, what? Has he seen the flying stuff everywhere? He's not stupid, so is he just being funny? 

"Are you crazy?" Bdubs nearly shrieks, something that's punctuated by a kitchen knife embedding in the chair behind him. "He's tryin' ta' kill us!"

"Trust me!" Skizz shouts back, and man, why'd he have to say it like that?

Bdubs stares at him for a moment, words failing to come. He- he's scared, okay? He's scared and wet and cold, because it's even colder in here, somehow, and Skizz is looking at him like that, and Bdubs-

"Bdubs," Etho murmurs, and Bdubs turns, gaze landing on Etho's face. He looks- he looks almost desperate, which itself is jarring enough that Bdubs almost stops cold. 

"Etho?" he asks, voice coming out horribly, awfully small.

"It has to be you."

It's the truth. Bdubs thinks it might've been the truth this whole time - that this entire haunting was fixed around him at some level, that he himself was the eye of the hurricane. This all started because of him - because of his actions, because of his feelings, because of all the things he'd ruined - and hey, what was it again? There are worse places to die?

This was all his fault, and Etho and Skizz know it. This was all his fault, and this is what he has to do to fix things.

He knows where the lighter is - knows from back when Tango used to grill out back. It's in a drawer near the window, a foot or so away from the candle. He'll be totally exposed while he goes for it.

But, well. He has to, doesn't he?

He looks at Etho and Skizz again - hopefully not for the last time - and wraps his fingers around the chair, ready to shove it out and run.

"If I die," he starts, then pauses. He's not sure how he was planning to end that, really - not sure what, if anything, he could say.

But Skizz finishes it for him, lips curling into a small smile. "You'll be fine," he promises, and so Bdubs takes a breath, shoves out the chair, and runs.

It takes about three steps before a flying coffee cup smacks him in the head.

He curses, stumbling sideways as the pain spreads through his skull. There's something hot spreading over his forehead, something that feels a little like blood, but he stumbles forwards, ducking under another flying plate as he yanks open the drawer. 

The wind seems to almost pick up at that, and Bdubs jolts to the side, watching as another knife impales the nearby drawer. He yanks the lighter out, and in the distance - just over the din - he thinks he hears someone shout "hey, over here!"

It's Skizz, Bdubs realizes, with no small amount of relief. It's Skizz, putting himself in danger for Bdubs's sake. 

Of course it's Skizz. Who else would do that for him in this situation? Who else would put themself in the line of fire of an angry ghost? Of course it'd be Skizz. 

He stumbles back over to the candle, pushing the switch forwards and pulling the trigger. The lighter clicks once, twice, and doesn't catch, and Bdubs curses, shaking it as if to jiggle the fire loose. 

"Come on, come on," he hisses, pulling the trigger again.

This time, the fire bursts to life. 

The ghost screams, and Bdubs shoves the fire towards the candle, pleading for it to catch. More plates fly past his head, and a couple pieces of cookware hit him in the back or the arm, but Bdubs is just watching the flame, hoping and praying for it to catch.

Finally, finally, the candle sparks to life.

The roar stops in an instant, the room going immediately silent. The lights click off, leaving only the single candle burning. Outside, Bdubs can hear the pounding rain.

He turns, looking for Skizz and Etho, but then he sees him. 

There, in the center of the room, glowing like a flame, is Tango. 

It's Tango.

It's really Tango.

Skizz isn't sure what to say.

He looks nothing like he did the first time he appeared. He looks- he looks like he could be alive, Skizz thinks, spine bent in the right direction and clothes free of any blood. If not for the way his hair floats around his head like a candle flame or the slight wavering of his form at the edges, he could be alive. 

It's really him. 

What is there to say?

Tango smirks - smirks! Skizz had almost forgotten the way that looked, the way his lips curled up just a bit at the edges and he tilted his head like their confusion was its own kind of entertainment - and visibly glances around the room, apparently taking it all in. "I know I'm hot," he states, a teasing lilt to his voice - which itself sounds both a bit distant and a bit crackly, as if accompanied by a fireplace - "but I didn't think I was hot enough to make you speechless."

Skizz can hear a sniffle from nearby - Bdubs, he thinks - but he doesn't have it in him to look. He feels almost as if looking away will make Tango disappear, will turn this entire situation back into a dream. 

"Tango," Etho whispers, and Tango just smirks again, rocking back on his heels.

"Yep. In the- well, not really in the flesh, but you know what I mean."

"Tango," Skizz echoes, and oh, he thinks he might be crying himself. The world's growing a bit blurry, and there's a hot stinging at his eyes that he doesn't think is from the cold.

"Hey, hey," Tango snorts, "what's with the waterworks? I thought you guys were here on business!"

"What do you mean, 'what's with the waterworks'?" Bdubs nearly shrieks, tears fully dripping off his chin. "You were- you're dead, you idiot! Excuse me for having a reaction!"

"Well," Tango shrugs, "you kinda get used to it. It's not really a big deal."

"Not a big deal-"

"You're really calm about this," Etho notes, sounding almost faint even as he cuts Bdubs off. 

Tango shrugs again, apparently much less bothered by this than everyone else. "Like I said," he replies, "you get used to it. Lots of time to think, y'know?"

Etho just stares, then, and Tango snorts again. "Ahh, well," he shrugs, "let's get down to business, right?"

"No," Skizz blurts, because actually, the business can wait. Exorcising Tango - and everything else that's happened - feels almost secondary to this small miracle, this blessing of having all four of them in the same room once again. He wants to live in this moment forever, wants to dance in these seconds for a small eternity. 

Seeing Tango here feels like it's ripped the scab of his death open all over again, leaving his emotions to bleed out on the kitchen floor. They can't just get onto business, he thinks - not when Tango's here. 

"We should talk about what happened."

He's not even entirely sure why he says it - not sure why, instead of lingering in this moment, he's dragging them back to the past - but it feels like what needs to be said. It feels like that even as Tango's expression scrunches up, form wavering a bit more at the edges.

"Do we have to?"

Oh, Skizz is about to drop it - about to say "no, we don't have to" because it's Tango looking at him, Tango asking, Tango saying new words that aren't just a recorded message or old video, and he doesn't care what happens here as long as it ends well - but someone else pushes on for him.

"I think we should," Bdubs states, and it feels like a pronunciation.

Tango sighs, rocking back and forth in an apparent attempt to burn off some energy, and it's so him that Skizz nearly sobs. Tango's never been still, never been one content to just stand still and talk, and even as he replies, he starts to meander around the room in an achingly familiar way. "I mean," he starts, "I'm not exactly mad about it anymore, y'know? I mean, I probably could be, but it is what it is, right? I'm dead."

"I'm still mad about it," Bdubs retorts, and Tango snorts, turning his gaze on him.

"Yeah. I know. I can feel all your feelings, remember?"

"Wh- you were listening?" Bdubs blurts, and Tango laughs - laughs! He laughs, and it sounds just like it used to, that same amusement threading through his voice, that same light sound that Skizz hadn't even realized he'd missed.

"Nah. I guessed, though."

"You jerk!" Bdubs shrieks, and for an instant, it's like it used to be - the four of them, back in the good times. 

But that can't last, can it? It can't last, because Tango's dead.

Tango's expression turns a bit more serious, then, and he steps back, spinning in a slow circle. "I mean, don't get me wrong," he continues, "it sucks that I died, but... I don't know. It was worse to see what happened afterwards, somehow. Like... I thought it'd be alright, 'cause you guys had each other, and then..."

He makes a vague gesture as if to encompass all of what's happened, and Skizz feels that old guilt in his stomach fester like an open wound. 

"I almost wish you guys hadn't come around," he continues, sounding so casual that Skizz wants to scream. "I mean, it's nice, but... I wish you guys had just moved on. Gone on to bigger and better things, y'know? Not... stuck around, thinkin' about me."

"I wish you guys had just moved on."

"Don't you say that!"

He doesn't realize he'd shouted until everyone turns to stare at him, all wearing equally stunned expressions. He's only got eyes for Tango, though, and he marches up to him, poking him in the chest - or, well, in the space his chest would be. "Don't you say that we should've moved on from you," he hisses - or tries to, at least; the words come out thick and wobbly with fresh tears. "We can't just- we can't just move on from you."

Tango looks a bit shocked at that, but his expression soon turns into something fonder. "That's nice," he smiles, "but really, dude. You should focus on what's still around."

"What Skizz said," Etho interjects, and oh, Skizz realizes, he's feeling that grief afresh again - can tell from the way his voice trembles at the end like he's standing on unsteady ground. "Don't... don't just say that. We can't just- just move on like that."

Tango's expression softens further, his lips curling into an infinitely affectionate smile. "You guys," he sighs, putting on his I-can't-believe-you're-doing-this voice that never sounds real, and oh, there's another thing Skizz missed, another small detail that became indistinguishable from others in the haze of time. "I'm serious, you know? I never want to hurt you guys, and- and I'd rather you grow with what happened than linger in it."

Skizz isn't sure what to say. 

"I'll still be stickin' around," Tango grins, reaching out to poke Skizz's chest in return - and that feels weird, feels like a localized ice cube stuck in his chest. "In here. Keepin' an eye on you. But you've all gotta move on."

"No," Skizz blurts before he realizes he's said anything, words filling his throat like an ocean. What can he say? How can he properly explain what this feels like? How can he- how can he express just how badly he'd wished to see Tango one more time before all this happened, and now that he's here, all he wants is to see him again and again and again? He wants a future of one more times, wants to open his eyes and see Tango every day, and now he's here and all Skizz can think is that he's not ready to let go yet. 

"I don't want you to go," he admits, tears now spilling down his cheeks in earnest. He's sure he probably looks ridiculous, but that's the furthest thing from his mind. "I don't- I want you to stay. I'm not ready to let go yet. I- I still don't know what to do without you. I don't- I keep expecting to see you there, and I- I want you there, I need you there. I don't- I don't know what a future looks like without you in it, Top."

Tango smiles, and Skizz isn't sure if he's imagining it or not, but he thinks Tango might be crying in turn. "You're an idiot," Tango replies, gesturing out towards the hallway. "You've got a new family, idiot. Plus, you've got these two losers here, and even if you aren't together, you've still got each other, right? So don't be stupid. You've got a whole other family to make a future with."

"But I want you there," Skizz almost begs, and Tango's expression turns even softer, an unfamiliar tenderness seeping into his eyes.

"I know. Trust me. If I could be there, I would. But what's happened has happened, you know? And I just- I just want you to be happy. I don't want you to be alone."

"But you're alone," Etho murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

Tango turns to him, then, expression turning from tender to teasing. "I'm not that alone," he shrugs. "I've got you guys to keep an eye on. And eventually, I figure you'll all show up again and we can bother each other like old men."

Like old men. 

Tango's never going to get to grow old.

Tango's never going to get to grow old, because he's dead. Because he's dead, and this is the last time Skizz will ever see him. 

Because this is it. It's over.

"I'm sorry," Bdubs gasps, and Skizz turns, watching as Bdubs stumbles towards Tango, a desperate look in his eyes. There's tears dripping off his chin, and even as he reaches up to scrub at them, dozens more take their place. "I'm so- I'm so sorry, Tango."

"Dude," Tango replies, "it's fine. I already told you I'm not mad anymore, right?"

"But you should be!" Bdubs nearly screams, voice thick with regret and desperation. "I- it's my fault. I killed you. If not for me, you'd be alive right now- you should be mad at me!"

Tango blinks, apparently confused. "Do you want me to be mad?" he asks, and Bdubs stares at him, uncomprehending.

"Kinda?"

"I mean, I'm really not," Tango replies, "'cause I just kinda want you to take what you learned and grow from it, y'know, but if you really want me to be mad..."

He seems to consider it for a moment, tapping his chin, before he shrugs. "Nah. Can't really do it."

"Why not?" Bdubs almost demands, and Tango grins, a lazy, teasing thing.

"'s like I said. I don't really blame you anymore. I just want you to learn from this."

"You're dead," Bdubs retorts, voice thick with grief. "You're dead, and you just want me to move on? I- I killed you. I killed you! How can I just- I killed you! You should be mad! I should- I shouldn't be able to move on!"

"That's why you've gotta move on," Tango retorts, and Bdubs stares at him, eyes wide. "You killed me, so you've gotta live life enough for the both of us. I'll be mad at you if you die and you just wasted your entire life being depressed."

"Why don't you hate me?" Bdubs begs again, still apparently uncomprehending. "I don't- you should hate me. Why?"

Tango just smiles, then, and leans in close to Bdubs's ear. Skizz doesn't hear what he says, but based on the way Bdubs's eyes fill with fresh tears, it's exactly what he needed to hear. 

Tango steps back after a moment, planting his hands on his hips and glancing between each of them in turn. "What I said goes for all of you," he adds. "You'd all better live your lives to the fullest. And if you don't, I'll kick your butts when you die."

"You can try," Etho mumbles, voice wet even as he tries to sound threatening.

Tango snorts, amusement evident. "Nah, don't forget I'll have at least a few decades of being a ghost on you."

Where do they go after this? Where is the other side? 

"We'll meet again?" Skizz asks, almost desperately seeking confirmation.

Tango looks at him, then, before shrugging. "Heck if I know. That's kinda beyond my pay grade."

"You're dead," Etho points out, and Tango shrugs again. 

"Yep. I dunno what happens after this, though. Just know that you'd all better keep on living."

It sounds like a goodbye. It sounds like they're running out of time.

As if to prove his point, Tango turns to Bdubs, reaching out to clasp his hands. Bdubs shivers as the chill runs through his body, but he looks at Tango, tears streaming down his face, and doesn't look away. 

"Dubs," Tango starts, and Bdubs chokes on a sob, "you're more than what happened back then. Trust me. And you won't be betraying me if you move on. You hear me?"

Bdubs nods, but Tango doesn't seem satisfied. "Say it back to me," he demands. "'I'm not betraying Tango if I move on'."

"I'm not betraying Tango if I move on," Bdubs woodenly repeats, and Tango smiles, all soft and caring in a way that just makes Bdubs sob even harder. 

"And remember what I told you, okay?"

He gives Bdubs's hand a spectral squeeze - which makes Bdubs shiver again, but he doesn't complain - before turning to Etho, smile only softening at the sight of him. 

"Etho," he starts, "I want you to find what being happy means to you, okay?"

"Tango," Etho starts, but can't finish, words breaking off at the end.

"And for the record," Tango continues, "I don't blame you either."

Etho looks about to say any number of things, but in the end, all he says is "I never got to play Decked Out 2."

Tango snorts, smile sliding into an amused smirk. "There'll be time for that later," he grins, "and besides, you've gotta do market research for me, huh? If you don't play all those games, how'm I gonna know about the new mechanics?"

"I want to play them with you," Etho murmurs, and it's the closest he'll get at this moment to saying "I want you to stay".

Tango's smile turns sad, and he reaches out to clasp Etho's hands himself. "You'll find other player twos," he promises, and Etho's eyes glisten with tears. "And you'd better keep playing. For me."

Etho shakes his head at that, but doesn't reply. 

Tango turns to him, then, and something in Skizz's heart stops. 

It reminds him of the first time they met. It reminds him or approaching Tango and asking what he's always working on at the local coffee shop, and Tango telling him he codes video games, and the two of them sitting and then walking for hours, talking about games and stories and work and everything else, and when Tango'd turned to him, lit in shades of red and gold by the sunset, he looked just like this.

"Skizz," Tango murmurs, and the way he says it has Skizz choking back fresh tears.

"No. Tango-"

Tango moves to take his hands, then, and Skizz desperately squeezes back, even though all he can feel is himself. He wants to hold Tango's hands again. He wants to hold him close. He wants more time. 

"I don't blame you," Tango whispers, and Skizz shakes his head. 

"I don't want you to go."

"I would do it all again," Tango continues, and Skizz chokes on a sob, tears now streaming down his face. "Even knowing how it ended. I'd spend forever in the bad times if it meant I got to be with you."

"Don't go," Skizz pleads, and Tango just smiles. 

"I'd die a thousand times again if it meant I got to know you."

"Please," Skizz begs, because it's not fair. It's not fair that Tango's gone. It's not fair that they don't get another chance. It's not fair that it has to end like this.

It's not fair. They should've had more time. 

He can see it now - can see that Tango's edges are fading, can see that the fine lines of him are blurring into the background. He tries again to squeeze Tango's hands, and the air they occupy isn't as cold as it used to be.

"What I said to Bdubs applies to you too," Tango continues, and Skizz shakes his head, because no, no, it can't. Tango can't go. He can't let him go again. "You've gotta live your life to the fullest."

"I don't wanna live without you," Skizz begs, and Tango smiles again, tears now streaking down his face.

"You've got a life, buddy. You've got friends- you've got a family. And besides..."

He reaches up to tap Skizz's chest again, and this time, it almost feels warm.

"I'll be right here," Tango finishes, voice soft like a distant breeze. "As long as you love me, I'll be right here."

"No," Skizz begs, and Tango's almost gone now, almost faded into the background. "Tango, please-"

"And you know," Tango murmurs, voice fainter than faint, "I'll keep loving you."

Skizz lurches forwards, as if to try and keep Tango here - as if to try and hold him in place with his arms, as if to try and tether him to this plane - but he reaches through empty air. 

Tango's gone. 

He lands on his knees, and when he looks up, there's nothing there. Just some floating motes of dust, twirling in the air.

He sobs, then, sobs in a way he hasn't since Tango died- hasn't in as long as he can remember. He sobs and he screams, and somewhere along the way, Bdubs and Etho are there with him, all of them sitting there, in the home they used to share, holding each other. 

Tango's gone, and they're still here. 

Outside, the rain finally slows to a stop. 

They meet at Tango's grave. 

It felt like the best place to meet when they'd first spoken about it a few months prior, and now - standing here, one year to the day after Tango disappeared for good - those feelings have proven true. 

It's a pretty grave, Skizz thinks, as much as any grave can be pretty. They'd managed to get a spot under a tree, and in this late afternoon light, the branches cast waving shadows over the headstone. 

Skizz looks at the tombstone, then - looks at Tango's name etched into the stone, at the dates under it, and then to the small ravager he'd asked to go in the corner. It's a bit less visible now than it was, age already starting to take its toll - and the rains of the year prior certainly didn't help - but he can still see its snout and large horns.

The thing about grief is that it never necessarily goes away. It's not that he feels any less grief looking at Tango's tombstone now than he did years ago when they'd first buried him, it's just that- it's just that he's learned to grow around it, as stupid as that sounds. The grief sticks around, and maybe the sharpest edges blunt a bit, but it still lingers. 

"Hey!" someone calls, and Skizz turns, gaze landing on Bdubs and Etho. 

"Oh," he replies, like an idiot. 

Maybe it's stupid, but he hadn't actually expected them to show up together. Especially not like this - not walking shoulder-to-shoulder, easy as anything.

"I thought you guys...?" 

"We're trying something," Etho replies, and Skizz snorts. "What's that for?"

"Easier for me," he laughs, and Bdubs squawks, dramatically offended.

"Hey! Can't I go and text a friend about my love life?"

"You don't usually text your ex about your shared ex," Skizz points out, and Bdubs makes another annoyed sound that sounds rather like a cat being pulled backwards through a door. 

"Well, you should be grateful. How else were you gonna know what was goin' on, huh? Besides, he's not my ex anymore, so-"

Etho kicks him in the shin, then, and angles his head towards Tango's grave. 

"Hey!" Bdubs protests, spinning to face his- his boyfriend again, apparently. "What was that for?"

"Tango would've done it," Etho replies without a hint of shame. "I'm just filling in for him."

Something in Skizz's heart still twists at the mention of Tango, that old grief still forming some kind of pit in his chest, but it's not the same. It's not quite the same, because time has shaved down the sharpest edges, and for once, it feels like a promising day. 

"You're still with the guys, right?" Etho continues over Bdubs's sputtering protest. "I swear I heard about you from someone..."

"Oh, yeah," Skizz replies, feeling almost a bit touched that Etho'd remembered. "We got a promotion, actually, as much as anyone can really get a promotion- Impy's running things now! We've got our own business!"

"Nice," Etho hums, and he seems to really mean it. 

It feels like a moment where Tango would've jumped in to say something, and all three of them feel it. They turn to his grave as one, and Skizz tightens his grip around the flowers in his hands, something in his chest twisting and tangling like a bundle of string.

"I started working again," Bdubs blurts, this time directing his words at Tango's grave. "Finally using my degree. It's... it's going well. I should've listened to you."

Skizz isn't privy to what, exactly, that argument in particular was about, but he does know that Bdubs has started working at an architecture firm - heard about it from him when they'd met up for coffee at some point or another. It seems that he's wound up in the strange situation of being both Bdubs and Etho's closest friend, which isn't even just weird because they're exes and they're all somewhat still in love with each other - no, Etho and Bdubs had added their own extra layer of weird by breaking up (well, "taking a break") and sharing both sides of it with Skizz, continuously, until he'd asked them to stop.

That's probably why they didn't tell him they got back together, he thinks, and isn't sure whether to feel touched or a little annoyed.

"Me too," Etho adds. "Picked up some work with an old buddy. You'd've liked him."

"You hear that?" Skizz murmurs, gaze fixed on the name on the headstone. "We're all doing fine. So you don't need to worry so much about us up there, okay?"

He bends down, then, to place his flowers on the grave. He's not even really sure what they mean, or even really what kind of flower they are, but Bdubs'd suggested they pick up some flowers that reminded them of themselves, and they just seemed right. They're big and dark blue, and Skizz can't help but think that Tango would've teased him about them.

"They're nice," Etho notes, placing his alongside Skizz's. His are smaller and white, with streaks of color near the center. 

Bdubs places his last - and his are green, somehow, contrasting oddly with the blue and the white. They all look a bit strange together, but they don't look half bad. 

"I told you it'd be a good idea," Bdubs proudly proclaims, and Skizz nods. 

"Thanks for suggesting that, 'dubs."

"Of course!" Bdubs crows. "I have great ideas!"

"Yeah, you do!"

"Why do we bring flowers, anyways?" Etho asks, and Bdubs grins, clapping his hands in excitement.

"That's the fun thing! I heard somewhere that when flowers die on graves, they go to the person in the afterlife!"

"Is that why you had us bring flowers that reminded us of ourselves?" Etho asks, and Bdubs's grin only grows.

"Yep! Figured it'd be kinda... therapeutic, I guess?"

"That's really thoughtful," Skizz notes, reaching over to clasp Bdubs's shoulder. "Thanks for that."

Bdubs smiles at him, then, a bright, beaming look that seems to almost reflect the sun. "Of course!"

It's at just about that moment that a raindrop falls on Skizz's head.

He blinks, turning up to stare at the sky. The sun's still out, and it doesn't look like a storm, so-

"It's raining?" Bdubs protests, sliding closer to Etho as if the taller man is an umbrella. "Come on! I didn't bring an umbrella!"

"It's a sun shower," Etho notes, staring up at the sky. Skizz follows his gaze, and he can swear, off in the distance, that there's the faintest hint of a rainbow streaking through the sky. 

In that instance, for the faintest of moments, it almost feels like Tango's standing at his side. For the briefest of moments, it feels like there's all four of them standing together again, watching the sunshower and looking at that distant rainbow. Maybe that's where Tango is - wherever it is that rainbows end - or maybe he's somewhere else entirely. 

The moment shatters as his phone buzzes, and he grumbles, fishing it out to check who's texting him. It's Impulse, of course, and man, Skizz can't really be mad at him, can he? Not when it's Impy. 

"I've gotta go," he states, and Etho and Bdubs look at him, visibly disappointed. Skizz feels disappointed too, honestly, but then again, maybe he doesn't have to go right away. Maybe he can stick around for a bit longer. 

"Do you want to get coffee before I go?"

"Yeah!" Bdubs grins, bounding over to Skizz's side. "Come on! I know a great place around here!"

"You're like a puppy," Etho teases, and Bdubs squawks, offended.

"Excuse you! I am enthusiastic! I am showing enthusiasm!"

They start towards the exit, then, but even so, Skizz can't help but glance over his shoulder. There, behind the flowers, just barely visible behind their petals, is that old memorial candle, and next to it, the old lighter. 

It's a testament to all that's happened - all that happened and all that brought them back together, back to this point. It's something about how you have to feel pain to heal, Skizz thinks, or else the ways in which grief sticks around like a burning candle. It's proof that they won't forget. 

Even though he's dead, Skizz thinks, he'll never be able to forget Tango. No matter how much time passes, or how much things in his life change, he doesn't think he'll ever be able to forget. 

"Hey, slowpoke!" Bdubs calls, and wow, when'd they get so far away? They're just about at the exit now, while Skizz just stopped halfway. "You comin'?"

Skizz glances once more at Tango's grave - at the candle, at the lighter, at the rainbow arcing overhead - and smiles. 

"Yeah. I'm coming."

With that, he runs after them, leaving Tango's grave behind.