#a lot of tourists know it’s bullshit but they’re just there for holiday stories | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anistarrose · 4 years

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Summary: Winters running the Mystery Shack are difficult, but two unexpected guests improve Stan’s day.

Characters: Stan Pines, Mabel Pines, Dipper Pines, Ford Pines

Relationships: Mabel Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Stan Pines, Dipper Pines & Mabel Pines & Stan Pines

Happy Holidays, @halogalopaghost! I'm your Secret Santa, here to mash together a couple different prompts through the power of time travel (and Mabel)!

***

It doesn’t take Stan many years to learn that winter’s no good for the rural Oregon tourist business.

Granted, he can hardly blame the tourists — he has to drive on Gravity Falls roads himself, much to his disgust. Between the paved, plowed streets that always turn slick with ice where you least expect them, and the winding gravel roads that you might as well ignore when road and wilderness alike are under identical four-inch blankets of snow, he knows no gallery of fake haunted paintings or taxidermied coyote’s ass is worth the trip in these conditions.

He’s on his third winter in town, now — not counting the first, worst one he arrived at the tail end of — and if there’s a right way to run a business this time of year, he hasn’t found it yet. He always scrapes together just enough to pay his bills, thanks the occasional local who wanders over to purchase a seasonally appropriate if overpriced snow globe — but he’s lucky if he breaks even in December, and knows January through March are a lost cause before they begin. He’ll make it back within the next year, sometimes even before summer ends, but it stings to know he’s about to fail at his one goal for the next three to four months straight, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It might sting less if he had another way to spend these winters — if he had a good reason to formally close the Shack for a few months, like an experienced business owner making a grounded and responsible decision. But he can’t even search for Ford’s journals in this weather — he’s learned from his mistakes, his countless brushes with frostbite, throughout those cold, desperate months in the wake of the portal shutting down.

He’s useless right now, and worse, this season’s shaping up to be the bleakest yet. His usually-scammable neighbors have already lined their shelves with winter knicknacks from Mystery Shack visits past, and the bulk of Stan’s meager sales have come from shivering out-of-towners who’ve never tried to take a Pacific Northwest road trip in December before, and probably won’t be keen to try again.

What seasonal merchandise hasn’t he sold yet? Bumper stickers for miscellaneous holidays, maybe — but neither timely bumper stickers nor the usual selection of tchotchkes will convince people to visit the Shack in the first place, under these road conditions. He can’t even walk around selling merch door to door, for the same reason he can’t look for the other journals — he’d freeze to death, presuming he could make it through the snowdrifts to somewhere worth visiting in the first place. Even with snow chains on the Stanmobile’s tires and a bucket of salt in her trunk, grocery runs alone are perilous enough.

Damn it, Ford, he thinks, why couldn’t you have gone missing in Florida?

He could always do what he does best and lie, maybe — send out word that there’s free hot chocolate or something with every purchase at the Mystery Shack, and hope that people hand over their hard-earned cash before they pick up on the false advertising. He might draw in some local customers that way, and even if he loses their trust for the next few months, they always seem to forget about his cons eventually — as if he never scammed them, and they’ve never so much as heard the words caveat emptor.

He’s just about to dial the local paper’s number on the phone, hoping to flatter Toby into letting him run another ad for free, when he hears a telltale knock at the gift shop door. The bell atop that door doesn’t ring, which means that despite the hostile winds and snow they braved to get here, his visitors are still out loitering on the porch — or so Stan thinks for a moment, before it dawns on him that he doesn’t even remember unlocking the door this morning. He’d just been that pessimistic about even seeing a customer.

“Hello?” someone calls — a fairly young voice, probably approaching the tail end of puberty. “Are you there, uh…Mr. Mystery?”

“On my way!” Stan shouts, throwing on his fez and bolting for the door. His neighbors in Gravity Falls might forget and forgive a lot, but he doesn’t want to risk the wrath of a parent whose teenage kid froze to death on the local grifter’s doorstep, so he unlocks and flings open the door as fast as he can. “Welcome, travelers! Prepare to be baffled and bemused by our mind-boggling boreal mysteries, here at this last refuge at the edge of the Arctic we like to call the Cryptid Cabin!”

His visitor — no, his two visitors — both blink slowly, proving to at least be baffled, if nothing else. Both are bundled up in what Stan assumes to be several sheep worth of wool garments, lovingly knitted into sweaters, hats, and scarves.

“But you call this place the Mystery Shack,” the girl speaks up, and the boy nods.

“Yeah, and we’re nowhere near the Arctic! This is Oregon, not Alaska!”

Stan groans — the only customers he might see all week, and of course they’re teenagers. “Look, punks, business is slow these days! I’ve had a lot of time to think about a seasonal rebranding, and not a lot of chances to workshop it, alright?”

The teens’ expressions instantly soften, and the girl exclaims: “Well, you can workshop it with us!” She grabs the other kid — her brother? — by the hand, and pulls him into the gift shop.

Maybe Stan’s judged them too quickly — he’s still not thrilled to have strangers pitying him, of course, but he’ll take it over strangers mocking him any day of the week.

“Dang, you’re right,” the boy comments once inside, and face-to-face with shelves of untouched merchandise. “It really is empty in here in the winter.”

With little light coming in from the windows, and a flickering bulb overhead that will soon need replacing, the often-bustling room is now dim and eerie — aside from the junk food wrappers on the floor, which Stan hastily kicks under his desk.

“Look at all the lonely snowglobes in need of homes!” the girl pipes up, swiping a glass-encased antelabbit off the shelf and giving it a hearty shake. “Good thing I’m here to adopt this lucky little guy — how much is he?”

Stan takes a second to run the numbers — the maximum amount of money a teen would have on hand, versus what Stan needs to charge to make a profit — and replies: “Twenty-nine ninety-nine and nothing more. We don’t do sales tax here, ‘less you’re a cop.”

“Bet there’s a lot of other taxes you don’t do, either,” the boy snorts, rummaging through a shelf of hats until he unearths one with the old Murder Hut logo on it. “Aha! Now here’s a collector’s item!”

“Oh, did you come here before the rebrand and forget to grab a souvenir?” Stan asks. He doesn’t remember these two, but it’s been a couple years since he painted over the last Murder Hut sign — and they do seem pretty familiar with the building, not to mention Stan’s whole… business model.

“Oh, uh, that’s a funny story, actually! Real funny!” the boy stammers with a whole lot more trepidation than the topic should’ve warranted, and looks to his sister for help.

Sure enough, she steps in. “We lived here for a while — in Gravity Falls, I mean! Not here in the Shack, obviously — wouldn’t that be ridiculous, if we lived in your house for months without you knowing? Could you imagine —”

“That is to say, we still visit sometimes!” the boy supplies. His eyes are a whole lot more fixated on the snowglobes than with anything in Stan’s general direction. “You probably don’t remember us — we weren’t in town for very long, or anything…”

Stan sighs. They’re lying, obviously — but hey, there’s no cops in the Mystery Shack, and he doesn’t have a dog in whatever fight compelled the duo to spew this bullshit. He’ll keep an eye on the cash register, of course, but these kids are tolerable company when they’re not being suspicious as hell — so if they want to invent a bad cover story for a low-stakes tourist trap visit, more power to them.

“Well, the hat’s vintage, so that’ll be double price. Twenty bucks,” he announces matter-of-factly, and the boy groans — but there’s a smile behind it, like he’d expected this and now he’s just playing along. If there’s one thing Stan’s willing to believe, it’s that these kids have been to the Mystery Shack before.

“You’re a highway robber, old man, and I’m the coward who’s gonna let you get away with it,” the boy declares, and Stan can’t help but laugh. The kid reaches under several layers of sweaters to pull out a wallet, with a blue pine tree embroidered on, and miscellaneous charms of fantasy characters hanging off a chain on the side. Stan doesn’t recognize any of them, but they still tug at his heartstrings, because he can tell they’re the exact kind of nerdy references Ford would love.

He does take note of the pine tree design, though — it’s generic enough that slapping it on some shirts and hats wouldn’t quite be plagiarism, and in Stan’s eyes, those are always the best souvenir designs.

The kids put their money forward, hovering awkwardly as Stan rings up their items — the girl busies herself attacking a loose string on her brother’s scarf, nimble fingers tying it back in its approximate place, while the boy twiddles his thumbs and stares at the snowy, gray scene out the window. At the moment, only light flurries fill the air, but tomorrow night promises a blizzard… and Stan, grump with a soft side that he is, can’t help but hope that if these kids are really on vacation, then they aren’t planning to drive anywhere tonight.

With it being winter, and him running the business that he does, he doesn’t have much charity to give — but, if he’s going to play along with his customers’ little lie, then he should probably at least bring up the topic.

“You’re not hittin’ the road any time soon, are you?” He makes eye contact only with the green illustrated presidents in his hands, so not to come across as overly invested. “Weather forecast says tonight’s gonna be a doozy.”

“Aww, you’re worried about us?” the girl coos, because apparently both parties here are damn good at picking up on each other’s lies. “That’s so sweet — but you don’t have to be! Our great uncle’s waiting for us in town, and he’ll… well, let’s just say he’s planning to bring us back home before the blizzard hits.”

“He’s, uh — he lived here back in the seventies, so he knows what he’s doing,” the boy adds. “On the roads, that is. Mostly.”

“Well, you two take care,” Stan tells them, hastily adding on: “So you can come back when the weather isn’t terrible and buy more keychains, that is.”

“Oh, we will.” The boy grins, sharing a conspiratorial glance with his sister. “Maybe don’t count on it being next year — or the year after that, even — but you can count on it.”

“Well, uh…” Stan stops himself, resisting the impulse to divulge things he really shouldn’t. “You just shouldn’t count on me running this place forever. Be sure to get your novelty cryptid pins while they’re hot, y’know.”

He’s never really wondered what he’ll do with the Shack when he gets Ford back — and yes, he has to believe that statement deserves a when, not an if — but he figures the Shack’s fate will depend more on Ford’s own whims. If reality lands somewhere between the nightmares of Ford wanting him gone and the fantasies of finally sailing around the world, if Ford doesn’t hate him but still wants to spend more time with Important Science Experiments than with his brother, then Stan could see himself returning to a mediocre life in his moderately successful tourist trap… but with the search for the journals still coming up empty, Stan can only try not to think about the future, and accept that he’ll just cross — or burn — that bridge when he comes to it.

“Okay, Mr. Mystery,” the girl suddenly declares with a tone that frankly reminds Stan of his mother, “you look like you could use a pick-me-up!”

“What?” It’s starting to freak Stan out how well she can read him, and there’s no telling whether it’s just a sharp intuition, or something significantly more Gravity Falls-y. “If I look tired, kid, it’s because it’s December in Oregon, I haven’t seen the sun in a week, and I am tired. Only pick-me-up I need is for you to get out of my hair, and let me go back into hibernation like nature intended.”

“Okay, but counterpoint: you hear us out,” the boy insists. “We’ve got a little something up our sleeve to really light up your winter —” He winks at his sister. “Don’t we?”

“You bet we do!” She pulls a bag of marshmallows out of not her sleeve, but her backpack, and grins. “Prepare to be amazed and astounded by the natural wonders of this town, and also the miracle that is processed sugar and gelatin!”

“Are you imitating my sales pitches?” Stan asks, dumbfounded. “And do you carry those on you at all times?”

“In winter in Gravity Falls, I do!” the girl replies, already heading for the exit with her brother. “C’mon! If this doesn’t put a smile on your face, nothing will!”

“We all know you’ve got time to spare, Stan,” the boy adds, cracking open the door. “Get a move on!”

“Spare time doesn’t mean I’ve got spare limbs to lose to frostbite,” Stan grumbles, but follows them anyway. There’s something captivating about these little punks — not so much this mysterious phenomenon they’re trying to sell him on, as if they could really out-charlatan Mr. Mystery himself, but rather the way they’re not put off by his frigid facade. They see right through him, showering him in alternating kindness and acerbic wit.

Stan can’t help but wonder if their uncle’s kind of like him — tired, bitter, and pretending to be indifferent, but secretly soft on the inside, like a marshmallow that’s burnt on the surface but melted within. It would explain why they’re so good at calling him on his shit — but then again, Stan and this mystery guy can’t be too alike, because if Stan had a niece and nephew like these two, he’s sure he’d be living his life a whole lot differently.

He exits the Shack, and all his questions are immediately replaced with new ones when he sees the teens just hurling marshmallows towards the edge of the woods. The wind’s in their favor, so some of those sugary little fuckers fly far.

“Okay, so I’ve already got a couple concerns,” Stan tells them, shivering. “First off, what the hell?”

“It might take a couple minutes before one shows up,” the girl admits, as if it’s a totally reasonable stand-alone explanation for whatever the hell’s going on here. With about a third of the marshmallows now blending into the snow on Stan’s lawn, she and her brother stop with the throwing, though they still hold onto the bag. “Our grunkle theorized that they move slower in winter, to save energy — oh wait, never mind! Here comes one now!”

“Sorry, what? And where?” Stan squints out into the woods, terrified to lay his eyes upon a woodland monster these kids just lured to his doorstep — but all he sees, at first, are a few wisps of smoke dispersing in the wind above the trees. He’s not even convinced it’s smoke, really, because these aren’t the right conditions for a fire — but to his surprise, he glimpses an orange light within the woods, glowing steadily brighter until the trees and bushes around it are all casting faint shadows.

When it steps into the clearing, Stan realizes he has seen something like it before, albeit only from the overcautious distance he tries to keep from all anomalies. It’s an otherwise normal campfire perched on wooden, spiderlike legs, and it melts a path in the snow as it trots forwards, then lowers itself to the ground to absorb the first of a dozen marshmallows.

It lets out a satisfied little sound — a low, steady crackle that sounds almost like a purr — then scampers up to the next morsel of food to repeat the process.

“It’s called a Scampfire!” the girl explains, beaming. “There’s a bunch of them out in the woods, and they’ll always wander over if you leave out enough campfire food — especially sugary stuff! Isn’t that cute?”

“Our great uncle figured out this amazing trick when he used to live here, and he passed it down to us!” the boy adds, practically bouncing up and down in place. “If you leave them a trail of food, they’ll follow you around until you run out — which means they can clear your driveway, warm your hands, even save your car if you drive into a snowbank! Or help you make s’mores, of course.”

“Our grunkle says he even skipped paying his heating bill a couple winters,” the girl adds with a grin, “but I dunno if we can recommend that in good conscience.”

As the scampfire draws a closer, continuing to purr as it consumes more of the sugary trail, the boy slaps a handful of marshmallows into Stan’s palm. “Give it a try!”

Stan’s not thrilled about bringing a fire onto the wooden porch attached to his wooden house, even as cute as said fire is, so instead he tosses his ammunition at something much more disposable — the golf cart, since if this one croaks, he can always just steal another from the insufferable rich family up on the hill. His aim isn’t great — he blames his cold fingers — but exactly one marshmallow lands right in the cart’s driver seat.

The scampfire breaks course from its path towards the Shack, clearing a path through the snow before it crawls into the cart, absorbing the final morsel and curling up atop crossed legs. Nothing explodes, and in fact, a few of the icicles on the awning start to melt, dripping water into the patch of bare muddy ground surrounding the cart.

“Huh,” Stan mutters. Dozens of harebrained schemes flash before his eyes — if he could find a slingshot, or even better, some kind of cannon to mount on the cart’s front hood, then he’s sure that with practice, he could entice some scampfires to clear a path through any snowdrift…

But no matter his exact solution, it’s a way to get into town consistently. He can finally go door-to-door selling knickknacks, instead of sitting in the gift shop every day and hoping some poor soul would get bored enough to brave the roads and visit. He can actually work out a way to line his pockets even in the winter, instead of constantly waking up from nightmares about getting foreclosed on —

“See? They get food, and we don’t freeze — classic mutualistic symbiotic relationship!” the boy declares, and his sister gently socks him in the arm.

“Nerd!”

“Hey, you knew that too! We’re in the same biology class!”

It’s familiar, but the kind of familiarity that Stan doesn’t treasure anymore. It’s more like the kind that he hides in the basement or in boarded-up rooms whenever he can, and grins and bears with a heavy heart when he can’t, like every time he looks in the mirror or hears someone call him Stanford. He comes so close to asking these teens if they’re twins, because he figures the answer can’t be worse than wondering — but the question dies in his throat, and he tells himself it’s for the best.

“Is your uncle who invented this trick the same one who’s waiting in town for you?” he asks instead.

“Yep!” replies the girl. “He probably won’t get worried about us for like, ten or fifteen more minutes, though — I’m sure he’s got his nose buried deep in a book right now.”

“Do me a favor and let him know he’s a lifesaver,” Stan says. “Also tell him I’m glad he moved out, because he sounds a little too smart to fall for the fake monster wares that I peddle.”

The kids exchange a look that Stan can’t even hope to comprehend, though he’s damn sure it’s worth a thousand words to the two of them. Twins or not, he’s getting an “inseparable” kind of vibe from these two, that’s for sure.

“I’m not sure he’d like the Shack at first,” the brother muses, “but I’ve got a hunch it would grow on him.”

“He does like cryptids — sometimes even fake ones!” the sister chimes in. “Oh, shoot — we still need to grab a souvenir for him! I knew we were forgetting something!”

“Huh.” Stan throws a few more marshmallows in the direction of the woods, and the scampfire stumbles off the cart before trotting along on its merry way back to the forest. “I can get you something, no problem — I don’t call this place a gift shop for nothing, y’know. But for the love of Paul Bunyan, let’s talk about it inside.”

He’s not great at mental math, but he doesn’t have to be to know he owes a lot to these teens and the mysterious uncle he might never meet. Hell, even forgetting the business perspective — he can actually look for the journals in winter without risking frostbite, if he gets one of his fiery neighbors to tag along. Even if he finds nothing, even if he only winds up with more failures to contend with, he’d rather rule out locations than be useless to Ford for months at a time.

None of this weird family that he might never see again, these three benevolent strangers that he can only put two faces to, could possibly know how much they’ve just changed for him — and he can’t tell them, as much as his oversized heart promises he can trust these snarky kids who remind him so much of himself. But he does owe them, so when he reenters the gift shop, he goes straight for a seldom-opened and never-advertised box of knickknacks that he has no intention of charging them for. It’s got the dimensions of only about two side-by-side shoeboxes, so he lifts it onto the counter with hardly a grunt, and opens it up.

“Got lots of goodies in here — mostly stuff that I made or, ahem, acquired in bulk, so they never quite sold out by the time everyone and their mother in town had already bought their own. Take a gander.”

He knows that gander will reveal some Murder Hut-branded shirts with the words written on in marker, plastic six-sided dice with a different cryptids pictured on each side, cheap whistles purported to attract Bigfoot, cheap flashlights once advertised for attracting Mothman, exactly three cool rocks that Stan found in the woods… and the pièce de résistance, a little wooden Mystery Shack-shaped music box, which chirps out a pleasant tune when Stan flips up the roof. That last one’s a rare knickknack that Stan really put effort into personally crafting, back at the height of last winter’s monotony, through cannibalizing parts of premade music boxes and sticking them into brand-new shapes — but he couldn’t sell them for enough to be worth the cost of making more, and could never sell this last one at all.

“Oh, wow!” the girl gasps, clearly delighted. “How can I even choose between —”

“No, take it all. It’s on the house — but don’t you dare tell anyone about this, you hear me? I’ll know if you blab, ‘cause people will start asking me if they can get free crap, too, and I don’t wanna hear a word of that nonsense.”

“Free stuff at the Mystery Shack?” The boy narrows his eyes. “Are you feeling okay, old man?”

“Kid, stuff only goes in the Free Bullshit Box when I can’t sell it anyway.” Stan crosses his arms with a huff, even though he’s technically telling the truth. “The only catch is take it before I change my mind.”

A sudden spark of recognition in the brother’s eyes morphs into a grin on his face, and he nods. “Oh, we will. Don’t worry.”

“I think our grunkle will love this! Especially the dice,” the sister adds. “Hey, maybe we could give all this to him piece by piece for Hanukkah! There’s enough here for a new surprise every night!”

“Whoa, there is! Man, the look on his face the first time we bring out a Bigfoot whistle is gonna be great —” The boys eyes dart to the watch on his wrist, and he coughs into his hand. “But we should probably get a move on, huh? Don’t want to get caught in, y’know, the blizzard tonight.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Stan returns the lid and hands the box over. “You, uh, need a ride back to town? ‘Cause being a man of mystery and all, I know this neat trick to clear a whole road with just a bag full of marshmallows —”

The kids both start cackling, so hard that the box almost escapes the girl’s hands, and Stan laughs with them — not because he thought his joke was that funny, but because the kids’ laughter is absolutely priceless. The isolation’s definitely getting to his head and his heart, but he’ll take whatever reprieve he can get.

“I think we’ll manage on our own,” the boy finally wheezes out, “but thanks for the offer, Mr. Mystery. Thanks for everything, really.”

“See you later!” his sister adds as they leave. “Don’t let the feral gnomes bite!”

“You take care, too,” Stan replies, not nearly as loud — but he figures that the kids can read his lips. They can read so much about him, and know so much about the town, that he’s honestly a hair’s breadth away from assuming they’re two more anomalies from the woods themselves, just in more recognizable shapes than most…

Though if Stan’s honestly considering that theory, then more of Ford must’ve rubbed off on him than he likes to think about — which is to say, it’s a good a reason as any to stop thinking about it. What or whoever they were, the duo were actually pretty tolerable for teenagers, and Stan’s pretty sure they didn’t put a curse or whatever magic mumbo jumbo on him — because if they could manage that, they could definitely tell some less conspicuous lies, right?

He kinda likes the idea of one goddamn supernatural force in this town that’s actually benevolent, actually watching his back when his mood’s at its bleakest, and coming to his rescue with — no, he’s dropping that train of thought. No baseless hoping, just letting himself down easy before he gets up.

It does occur to him, several minutes after the gift shop door swings closed, that Hanukkah has already come and gone this year. Which probably just means the kids are prepared to hide that box for another twelve months… but maybe, when Stan finds the other journals, he’ll double-check for entries on helpful teenage cryptids who can’t lie. Just to be sure.

***

Mabel, Dipper, and Ford barrel into the living room so suddenly that Stan almost drops his mug of hot chocolate. They’re all covered in a ridiculous amount of snow, considering how briefly they were just outside, and Ford looks awfully delighted for someone whose glasses are someone whose glasses have just turned opaque with fog.

“Grunkle Stan!” Mabel shouts. The cardboard box in her arms has seen better days, but she’s cradling it like an infant. “You’ll never guess when we just were!”

Dipper points a gloved finger in the air. “You mean, when we just — oh wait, did you already —”

“Yeah, I beat you to it this time!” Mabel pumps her fist. “Anyways, Grunkle Stan — you’ll never guess who we just visited!”

#gravity falls #stanley pines #mabel pines #dipper pines #stanford pines #gravity falls secret santa 2020 #rosalia writes fic

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staticscreenwriting · 6 years

Text

Waves of sound, waves of static - Billy Hargrove

Synopsis: A beach is just a beach and a sunset is just a sunset unless you experience them with the right people. Billy realizes that on his last night in California.

A/N: Hi, this is my entry for @moonstruckhargrove ‘s 1k writing challenge. My prompt was “Tell me this when you’re sober”. Hope this is kinda enjoyable to read.

“As the summer came and left with the rain Pushing shadows down the road In this old beach town when the sun goes down All the gray turns into gold”

" Come back to me! “

It’s not a request, it’s an order. It’s spoke with teary eyes and fingers clasped in his shirt. He can feel her heart beating through her chest, she’s that close. His skin is sticking to hers but she’s nowhere close enough.

“ I can make it until graduation but then I need you to come home. To come back to me “

It’s breaking his heart, to see the devastation in her eyes, hear the pure unfiltered agony in her voice. To know he’s the one that put it there, that’s just the twist of the knife.

The sun is slowly setting behind the horizon, turning the grey sky into various shades of reds and pinks and draping everything in a golden hue. Dusk, he thinks, always holds a special kind of enchantment. Everything seems to calm down, like the world stops spinning for a mere second and gives people the chance to really take it all in, to take a deep breath.

His hometown is tiny but it’s gorgeous. It’s located right by the beach and lives mostly off of tourists trying to make it a new holiday hotspot from june to september. They spend a shit ton on fake seashell necklaces and silly straw hats made in China. When he was younger, Billy used to sit by the beach and watch the people pass by, making up stories for all the ones he didn’t know. All those that made his home town their little spot of happiness for the summer.

Billy considered himself lucky then, to live in a place that others only got to experience for a short glimpse. He wonders now, if all the magic this town holds comes from the people that he shares it with.

Because a beach is just a beach and a sunset is just a sunset. It’s the people that give it a meaning. It’s (Y/N) that gives it a meaning for him.

There’s a pain settling deep in his stomach and flowing all the way up to his heart. The cars are packed up and most of the furniture the Hargrove-Mayfield household owns is already shipped off to Indiana. It’s his last night in California and he doesn’t think there’s a way to make it last long enough. He wants to do so much, say so much. But he’s stuck. Stuck in a numbing fear of the future and what life is going to be like without (Y/N).

It’s like they’re asking him to leave behind the biggest part of his heart. It belongs to her, it always did, always will.

From the moment they met at the ice cream store her mom used to work at, to the many nights she’s let him crash at hers when things got bad and overwhelming. From when she held him in her room after his mother’s funeral and just let him cry to when they ditched homecoming for a double feature slasher night at the drive in.

All of those moments and all the ones in between. He knows he won’t ever forget about them but that doesn’t mean he’s not scared that time might dull them. Might strip away the magic that they put in beaches and sunsets and leave them as dark shallow memories of what used to be and can never be again.

Billy thinks (Y/N) looks especially pretty in the golden light of dusk. Like some kind of old hollywood movie star from those cheesy black and white movies she adores so much. How in the world he ever ended up with her, he has no idea. He’s nowhere near good enough for her and that’s a widely known fact. She doesn’t seem to mind though. She showers him with love and affection and even though neither of them have said those words before, they’re apparent in everything they do.

In the touches and the smiles and the clammy hands and nervous breaths. It’s in the way her skin feels warm and soft against his hands, how her kisses taste of warmth and cherry chapstick. It’s in the smell of salty ocean air on her hair and the absolute infatuation in his eyes whenever he looks at her.

It’s in everything and all and they don’t need a single word. But she wishes he’d say it and he wishes he could. But Billy isn’t good with words. He never was. The Hargroves hardly talk as it is but talking about feelings is a completely foreign concept to him. Feelings make you weak. Make you vulnerable. And vulnerable is not something Billy ever wants to be. Not even to (Y/N). Especially to her. She’s his biggest weakness, she has the utmost power in breaking him.

But the words are there, on the tip of his tongue. They want to slip out and set in stone what they both know is there. Proclaim it to god and the world.

But he can’t. He can’t.

“ Can we — can we just enjoy tonight ? Don’t think about whatever shit happens tomorrow morning ? “

That’s another thing about Billy Hargrove. He’s a firm believer that ignoring your problems ultimately saves you a lot of trouble and heartbreak.

“ Sure, yeah sure. You’re right let’s — let’s just live for tonight. Huh ? “ (Y/N) agrees and wipes her tears away with the sleeve of her denim jacket that once used to be Billy’s but was now hers. At one point they’ve both decided it looked better on her and so it was hers from then on. Billy thinks pretty much everything looks better on her than on any other person.

Especially a smile. Her smile is magnificent.

As the sun disappears fully behind the horizon, the lights of the pier take over the golden veil previously provided by the setting sun. There’s a buzzing behind them on the boardwalk, with tourists and locals soaking up the last of those long summer nights.

There’s a man softly playing the tune to moon river on his acoustic guitar and (Y/N) looks up at Billy with hopeful eyes.

“ Dance with me ? “

“ Yeah, I don’t dance “ and really, he doesn’t. The last time he danced was probably with his mom in their kitchen, when he was a kid and his mom was playing some kind of 1930 record on their shitty vinyl player.

But it made his mom happy, and seeing his mother happy made him happy. It’s not much different with (Y/N).

“ Sure, but you promised me a dance at prom and you won’t be here for that so that sounds to me like you owe me a dance. “

He knows she means no harm but the idea of not being there to dance with her at prom, sends a little stab through his heart. It’s not that the idea of dressing up in a stupid suit and getting drunk on disgusting spiked punch surrounded by people he doesn’t really give a fuck about, sounds too appealing to him. But it means something to her. He knows she’s been looking forward to this for a long time. He hates himself for missing it. For missing her smile and the sparkle in her eyes and all that cheesy bullshit he thought was only for sissis but actually experiences himself now.

“ I do huh ? “

“ Yup “

“ Don’t complain when I step on your feet though. I’m a shit dancer “ he says and jumps of the little brick wall that separates the beach from the boardwalk.

“ I would never do such a thing “ she replies and follows him down the shore. There’s a laughter in the words and it makes Billy feel a kind of sad nostalgia he’s never felt before. He wants to soak it all up, take it all in. Take her all in. So he never has to forget what it felt like. What it feels like. Never forget her. Her laughter. Her warmth. Her.

Life in Indiana looks bleak. There’s no beaches and sunsets over the ocean and meaningless things that he can put meaning into because he experiences them with a person he loves.

It’s just gonna be Billy and a family that really doesn’t care for him as long as he’s staying in line. As long as he doesn’t ruin that picture of the perfect family that found each other in the ruins of their broken marriages and came out of the ashes stronger and with more love and happiness. It’s a whole bag of bullshit if you ask him. And he doesn’t really understand why it’s so important to Neil and Susan to seem like the perfect family.

Neil has always been an asshole. And a shitty liar. People might be stupid but Neil is so bad at pretending to be a good guy, they’ll see through it soon enough and realize the absolute asshole he really is. And Susan, she can pretend as much as she wants to but what she has with his dad is not some epic love story that people write books about. This is just her trying to sooth her guilty conscience over fucking a married man while his wife was dying in the hospital.

Billy would rather they be upfront about their fucked up family situation. He hates acting like everything is fine. It’s all he’s ever had to do with his dad but god, does he resent it.

Everything that brought them here, were conscious decisions. He doesn’t really get why the adults can’t just stick to it. Why they gotta run from the mess they made. And especially, why they have to pull him with them. Away from his home. Away from his heart. Away from (Y/N).

The strumming of the guitar still echoes through the night and Billy takes a last swig of the bottle of whiskey (Y/N) took from her father’s liquor cabinet. He owes her so much more than just a dance. But if this makes her happy, then he’d give it to her.

He places the bottle in the sand that’s still warm from the sun, and reaches out his hand to her.Softly he circles his arms around her waist and pulls her closer.

With (Y/N), there’s magic in ordinary things and he hates how cheesy it sounds. He’s learned so long ago, that life doesn’t necessarily give you a lot of good moments, a lot of moments that make you feel perpetually happy. So the ones you do get, you need to get lost in. Indulge. Enjoy.

“ You know, “ (Y/N) speaks up as they softy sway to the sound of the guitar “ I think people don’t slow dance nearly as much as they should “.

“ Is that so ? “

“ Yes ! This is nice, isn’t it ? “

“ Sure, every time my hand is this close to your butt I’m nothing but content “

It’s true really. He also really likes having her in his arms and looking into her eyes and seeing the little smile on her lips when she gets lost in the motions, the music. He doesn’t tell her that though. That’s for him to know. For him to feel.

“ Pfff now you ruined the mood “ she says it not with malice but with unwavering adoration and thinly veiled amusement.

“ Did I now ? “

“ Uh—huh “

“ Oh if that’s the case “ Billy replies and in one swift motion he lifts her up into his arms and twirls around before walking towards the waves crashing against the shore.

She half heartedly struggles in his arms but ultimately they both know it’s all fun. The water is still warm enough to take a dip even at night.

When they reach the ocean, Billy walks in far enough so the water reaches up to his waist and slowly lowers (Y/N). There’s something about the sea. The way the waves are crashing with such might against the cliffs and the sand and yet it looks so peaceful. So calm. There’s a fury beneath the surface that can hardly be contained but when it breaks free, it comes with rage and swallows everything in its path.

It reminds him of himself. Of his anger. How all of it is bubbling beneath the surface. How he, so desperately tries to conceal it.

And how (Y/N) is the one person that makes all of it so much easier. And how he’s gonna have to let go of her when the sun rises again.

“ Please don’t cut the mullet “ (Y/N) speaks up and combs her finger through his hair. He hates it with everyone else but when she does it, it’s calming. It’s comforting.

“ I thought you hate the mullet “

“ I do “ she laughs, then takes a breath. “ I do but I know that if you come back, you’re gonna be a different man to the one I know now and I will have changed too. But maybe not everything has to change. Maybe some things can stay. Even if it’s such trivial things as your stupid hairstyle.

“ What do you mean, if I come back ? I’m gonna come back, mullet intact. Handsome as ever. You won’t even notice I was gone “

He’s been trying to tell himself those words for a while now. He wants to believe in them. He hopes she does.

“ Please don’t promise me anything. If — If you promise me stuff and then don’t come back, I’m just gonna resent you for it. And I never wanna do that. Ever “

“ Okay, okay fair enough. So let’s not promise, let’s pretend “

“ Pretend “

“ Yeah. Let’s pretend I come back. Right after graduation I get in the Camaro and drive back here. “

He takes her face in between his hands as he talks.

“ So I show up on your doorstep, right ? What then ? What’s the plan ? “

“ Well for one, I hope my parents aren’t home then because I’m gonna take you up to my room and we’re not leaving my bed for the next few hours “

“ Is that so ? “ he follows his question with a soft, passionate kiss. Every kiss he gives her, makes his heart feel a little lighter. Like if kisses like hers exist, if people like her exist, maybe life isn’t so bad after all. It’s some pussy shit he’s thinking there and he’s never going to admit it to anyone but in his very own private mind, he gets to feel a little cheesy sometimes.

“ Oh for sure. Then we’ll come back here and celebrate the fact that it isn’t goodbye then. Maybe it won’t ever be goodbye again. “

He refuse to believe that this is a goodbye. How can it be ? What they have, what was always there, has barely just started. Then again, life has never been particularly fair to him. To give him love then take it back, that’s something that would happen to Billy Hargrove of all people.

“ I uh — I wanna go see my mom again before I leave. Will you — would you come with me ? “

He’s never really taken anyone to visit his mom’s grave with him. The whole vulnerability situation again. Also there’s the fact that when he’s sad, he gets angry and he hates that version of himself. It reminds him too much of his dad. And he never wants (Y/N) to experience this part of him, ever.

Thought tonight is not a night like any other. Tonight feels like the end and the beginning of so many things. So many firsts and so many lasts. So why not make it a first time of going to see his mom, with his girl.

“ Tonight I’ll go wherever you go “

She gives him one of her signature smiles again and it both makes him happy and hurts him to his deepest core. Because it means so much and he’s gonna have to let it go so soon.

- OOO -

His damp jeans are clinging to his legs and it’s incredibly uncomfortable. Though when (Y/N) sits down by his mother’s grave, Billy can’t think of a place he’d rather be right now, then here.

Instead of sadness, he feels an unfamiliar calm wash over him. It’s strange and unexpected but for a moment, it takes away the weight of what tonight really means.

“ Hey, remember that time your mom took us to the aquarium and I was convinced for a week that I was a mermaid ? “

“ Yeah, you were obnoxious “

“ So ? You weren’t any better when you were pretending to be a pirate that time you broke your leg “

With a laugh he plops down on the grass next to her. “ You have a point “

“ I know “ (Y/N) replies and places a kiss on his cheek.

“ That day, before she took us to the aquarium, her and dad had a fight. You and I were up in my room and I was hoping you wouldn’t hear. Which was bullshit, they were so loud. I just really wanted you to think I was cool. I was so embarrassed. I think you noticed because you didn’t mention it. You just turned up the volume of the music we were listening to and then you smiled and it — that changed everything for me “

“ Billy, you’re pretty much the coolest person I know. “

“ Yeah I’m aware “

“ Wow, I take it back. You’re a huge loser “

For a moment a silence settles upon them. One heavy with words that want to be spoken and yet they’re kept quiet. Because some moments don’t need words. They just are.

And then, in the blink of an eye, that moment is gone.

“ Let’s pretend you come back, “ (Y/N) speaks up “ and you show up at my place and we have sex. “

“ Lots of sex “

“ Yeah, lots of it. What then ? Let’s pretend there’s an after. What then ? “

He’s thought a lot about this, about the future. Their future. In all the scenarios Billy sees her doing great things. The things she was always meant to do. Because the world deserves to know (Y/N) (Y/L/N) and (Y/N) deserves the world. And he, well he’s just a side note in his own future. His own dream.

“ Well you’ll go off to some college and obviously I’ll go with you. Because, let’s face it, you wouldn’t last another period of time without my gorgeous face and sexy ass “.

“ Wow, your ego is showing “

“ You know it’s true “

“ Oh whatever “ she laughs and again, if this is all he’s ever good at, he might die a happy man.

“ Let’s pretend some more. Say we leave for college and you graduate and I find a job that pays well and that I’m good at. Let’s pretend we find a house we like, we buy some dogs and then for a few years we’re just gonna live our life doing whatever we love. Conquering the world, well you will at least. Then at some point, let’s pretend we are ready, we’re gonna have a kid or two and fuck will we love them. They’re gonna be the coolest fucking kids too. Like their mom is the hottest, coolest person I have ever known and their dad is still rocking a really fantastic mullet and driving a Camaro. “

He’s never told anyone about those dreams of the future. Mainly because he doesn’t really have anyone to tell. His dad would have just made fun of him and (Y/N), well telling her scared him. Because it opens up the possibility of her not feeling the same way, not wanting the same things.

But tonight changes things. Because it’s all pretend, right ? Because maybe there is no future at all. Then what ? What pain could it cause ?

“ Pretend things happen like that, will that make you happy ? Genuinely happy ? “

“ Any pretend scenario makes me happy when you’re a part of it “

They just look at each other. With nothing but absolute love in their eyes. Everything they are and everything they feel is so prominently present in their eyes. There’s no pretending here anymore. It’s the here and now. The bottom of it all. The foundation of all their dreams and all the make believe. There’s love in all of it and Billy really wants to say it. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He can’t.

“ Eugh, this is so cheesy. This isn’t us, Billy. Let’s go get something to drink and fuck in your car or something. “

And who is he to say no to that.

He lets her walk away for a moment. He needs some time with his mom alone. To say goodbye. To come to terms with the fact that he’s about to leave behind his home and everyone he’s ever loved.

Billy fumbles with the necklace he’s wearing, the one his mom gave to him before she died. He softly kisses it then his fingers and touches the gravestone.

“ Love you, ma “.

It’s easy. To tell her. She’s his mom and she knows that he loved her. Loves her. And he’s certain she loved him back just as much. It’s easy with her. He wishes the words came as easy with (Y/N).

- OOO -

They’re sitting in his car, the windows are still fogged up from their exchange of passion but they’re both dressed again and sharing another bottle of booze between them. The sun is slowly creeping up above the horizon and brings with it, the realisation that the night is about to end, and so are the last moments they have with each other for a while.

“ I guess it’s time huh ? “

He just nods his head, there’s nothing to say. They both know there’s no getting around this. At this point, all that’s left is accept it.

Hand in hand they walk along the streets of their hometown, at dawn the entire town is once again draped in a hues of orange and red and pink. He’s holding onto her hand, something he usually isn’t too fond of, but right now he takes all the skin contact he can get. All the affection. All the love. He wants to soak it all up.

As they stand on the steps of her home, he softly takes her face into his hands again. Kisses her once, twice, three times. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. Never.

He needs to say it now. Half drunk on booze, half on love and terribly afraid that he won’t get the chance to say it ever again.

“ (Y/N) listen, I lo—”

He doesn’t get the chance to finish though, as she places her hand over is mouth.

“ Don’t. Don’t say it now. Not like this. Tell me this when you’re sober. When we’re not feeling nostalgic or like we’re running out of time. Pretend you’re coming back after graduation. Tell me then. Because if you tell me now, there’s no way I can pretend like everything’s alright. It’s just gonna make it so much harder. Just know that I’ll say it back. “

So he doesn’t say it. But he doesn’t have to because it’s there. In the way he holds her, kisses her goodbye. The way he smiles when she walks into her house. The way his heart hurts when he walks back towards his own.

There’s love in everything when they’re together.

- OOO -

Dusk colors the streets in golds and reds and makes a calm set over the town. It seems like nothing has changed at all and yet everything is different.

The streets still hold the same magic they did 2 years ago. The same fond memories. None of them have dulled or weakened and for that, he is eternally grateful.

August is turning into september and Billy hopes his slight delay can be forgiven. It’s just that his Camaro broke down and he didn’t have the money to get it fixed, not to get a bus ticket. So it took a little longer but he’s made it and he hopes that’s all that counts.

When he steps up to her door his hands are clammy and his heart is beating at an alarming rate. He’s a different man now and he’s sure she’s changed too, but the bottom of it all is that he’s still in love with her.

It seems like nothing’s changed, when she opens the door and he looks into her eyes. Like 2 years passed and yet not a single second has gone by.

“ Holy shit “

“ Hi “

“ Billy, hey. I — You kept the mullet.“

“ I love you “ It’s been on his mind since the moment he left. He wanted so badly to say it then but he understood her reasoning. There’s nothing that can keep him from saying it now though. If she’s moved on in the two years they’ve been apart, at least she gets to know how much she always meant to him. And if she hasn’t, maybe they don’t have to play pretend no more.

“ Sorry what ? “

“ I love you. And I know that’s fucking cheesy but I thought you should know “.

She takes a moment to reply, to react at all. And that moment feels like a lifetime to Billy. He swears he dies 7 deaths in the time it takes for her to answer. And when she smiles at him, he dies an 8th.

“ You wanna come in ? My parents aren’t home “

“ No more pretending ? “

“ No more pretending ! “

When he kisses her then, it’s like his world shifts into place again.

“ And Billy ? “ (Y/N) says as she pulls away, hands still gripping his shirt.

“ Huh ? “

“ I love you too “

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