#it might sound pathetic and strange to other people for a cartoon character to feel like a profound gift from God

[skinnypaleangryperson]

I love that part whenever I am reaching a point of inner life that was inspired by a piece of media where I no longer feel the need to talk about it in conventional forms, which never really happens for me anyway since I seem to be one of the few that is naturally nuanced, and instead begin to go inside of an incredibly deeply spiritual maladaptive inner life, which can expand for years if not the rest of my life like a personal fantasy that only I can see that is probably more human than 90% of people's experiences.

[grace-writes-shit]

Animal Instinct (Tony Stark x Reader)

Request: Hi! Could I request prompts 64 and 90 for Tony Stark? Thank you!

Words: 1836

Characters/Pairings: Tony x reader, Bruce Banner, Wanda, Vision, Animals

Warnings: A little angst, fluff, cursing

(Y/N) lounged in the comfy daybed nestled in the corner of the bright, spacious room. A book was resting on her knees and flowers danced in her hair. The room was designed to fit her personality – and powers. 

“Mr. Dougal, I already told you, I just fed you.” Her voice rang through the air like wind chimes.

“But Celia ate half!” A tiny voice buzzed from a glass tank on a stand next to the bed. 

“And I feed you both enough to split it,” She told the ornery Leopard gecko. A small humph sounded, along with the scuttle of claws on the basking rock. (Y/N) chuckled before returning to her book.

Animals and plants. That was her power. Talking to animals had come as naturally to her as it had with talking to people. Her parents had pulled her out of school at a young age, for the fear that their child would be ostracized. 

Not long after, she was sprouting flowers from nowhere. Flowers grew in any space they could. From the walls of her bedroom to the banister of the stairs. That was when her parents realized their daughter wasn’t just imaginative. She was a freak. 

   The first chance they had, they shipped her off to some facility for the mentally disturbed. It was there, seventeen years later, at the age of 26, did Tony Stark and Steve Rodgers find her.

   The two heroes showed up when they caught word that the headmaster of the facility was using some of the residents with gifts like hers to rob high profile banks. They saved her. Gave her a home. Gave her a reason to live.

She smiled to herself as she recalled that day when the metal door to her dark cell opened to reveal her salvation.

“Smiles like that might make someone think you're trying to seduce them.” An arrogant voice called from the doorway. She smirked. It took a long time for her to even be able to smile, let alone smirk.

“Only you, Mr. Stark. You’re the only one I’d try to seduce.” Flirting had only just become a part of her social arsenal. “Now, what is it you want? You never come to my room unless you want something.” She set down her book and leveled him with a steady smile.

“You know me too well…” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Listen, it’s for science.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s always for science, with you.” Nevertheless, she stood from her bed, the cat lounging next to her giving her a disgruntled glare.

“I was comfy.”

“Too bad, your Majesty.” The woman waved the Russian Blue off. Turning her attention to Tony she said, “Lead the way, Mr. Stark.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Tony? Mr. Stark makes me feel… I don’t know. Old.”

She chuckled and linked her arm with his as they walked down the hall to the elevator. “Just a few more, Mr. Old Man Stark.” He grunted at her.

Bruce was already waiting for them when they arrived at the lab. He gave (Y/N) a kind smile and thanked her for coming.

“So, what do we have in store for today?” She tilted her head. Bruce observed the slight color change on Tony’s cheeks as the bachelor watched his female companion, their arms still linked and he breast lightly brushing his arm. Bruce hid his smirk by taking a quick sip of coffee.

“Just some normal stuff, hooking you up to some machines and monitoring the energy waves around you when you use your powers.” Tony stiffly removed his arm from her hold. A small frown took over her face at the awkward action.

“Okay, need me to undress?” She asked Bruce. Next to her, Tony was as still as a board. His heart racing in his chest, hoping she couldn’t sense it with whatever power she had. She could.

“Yes, please. There are some gowns in the other room you can change into.” Bruce waved her to the door to their right. Giving him a nod, she made her way to the room, wondering what was wrong with Tony. 

Once she was gone, Bruce whipped around to smirk at Tony. The man raised a brow at his friend’s strange look.

“What? What?” Tony crossed his arms, shifting from foot to foot. He looked everywhere but at Bruce.

“You know what, Tony! You like her!” Bruce laughed.

“I do not!” Tony scoffed, “She’s like a sister to me!”

“Last I checked, brothers don’t usually drool at the idea of their sisters undressing.” Bruce sassed back.

Tony sputtered, searching for a comeback but failing. What could he say? That the girl he saved just a year ago ended up being the reason he got up in the morning? Just so he could see that sunshine smile and glittering eyes that lit up his world.

“Hey, man, don’t worry about it. She likes you, too.” Bruce reassured him, noticing the increasing panic in the genius’ eyes. Tony’s head snapped up.

“S-she does? Well- well should I- should I ask her out?” Never before had Tony Stark felt so nervous but excited at the same time. Normally, he’d be suave and seductive, but all of that was replaced with butterflies when he thought of the gifted woman.

“To be honest I could care less,” Bruce shrugged. “I just want these stolen glances and longing sighs to stop.”

“What do think this is? Some sappy, low-budget romcom? Or a fanfiction written by some lonely 19-year-old girl?” Tony tightened his stance, biting his lip.

“Okay, that was oddly specific, but no. Just tell her how you feel and get it over with.”

Tony was going to reply when the door to the other room opened. (Y/N) stepped out dressed in the stiff, boxy hospital gown, not showing an ounce of the curves Tony loved so much. She gave them a smile and hopped onto the examination table.

Bruce gave Tony a look and moved to the machine. “Alright, (Y/N), Tony’s going to hook you up and we can begin.” Tony’s head whipped to Bruce, who simply smiled. 

Tensely, Tony took the stick nodes and began sticking them to her temples and chest, careful not to touch her skin.

She noticed his aversion to touch her. When she linked arms with him, and now when he was fixing her up to the machine.

“Are you alright, Mr. Stark?” She asked, tilting her head to look up at his shadowed face. He grunted in reply, not an affirmation but not a denial. Her brows furrowed.

After setting her up and a few tests, (Y/N) was dressed again and storming to her room, slamming the door. It could be heard around the entire compound.

“Jeez, who was that?��� Wanda asked as she enters the kitchen with Vision, Tony, and Bruce already there. Bruce just glared at Tony who only looked down at his bowl of cereal.

“Ugh! Who does he think he is? Every time I try to get closer to him, past flirting, he just shoots me down! Like, if you don’t like me, then just tell me! Rather than just letting me hope needlessly that we would ever be anything!” (Y/N) was pacing her room, animals watching her move from their tanks and perches.

“Maybe he’s scared of you?” Harper the crested gecko spoke.

“Or he’s just shy.” Nesta the Hedgehog piped in.

“Hah, Tony? Scared, shy? Not likely!” (Y/N) chucked a stuffed flower at the wall, a gift from the matter of debate. She paused, staring at that smiling cartoon face adorning the flower. 

“You like him, don’t you?” Mr. Dougal asked.

“I do… I like him a lot…” She hung her head. “I’ve never felt this way for anyone before. I’m scared of the outcome should I ever admit my feeling to him.”

The animals were silent as she slumped onto a beanbag chair, her head hanging back.

Hours passed with her staring at her ceiling, thinking about that damn billionaire, playboy philanthropist. Her animals had long abandoned her for their warm cubbies and hiding holes. The flowers growing has also closed up for the night.

A knock at the closed door had her finally looking away from the white ceiling, her eyes burning a bit. She hefted herself up and dragged her feet to the door, not really in the mood for company.

“Yes?” She asked tiredly.

“Hey…”

She stopped at the sound of his voice. She took a step back. 

“What do you want? Here to show me how much you actually don’t like being around me?” She sounded so pathetic to her own ears. But she couldn’t hide the disappointment anymore.

“Wha- no. No, of course not. Why would you- why would you think that?” He was shocked. Was that what she really thought of him? That he doesn’t like her?

“Well, you’re always stiff and awkward and you never want to… touch me…” She sniffed rubbing a hand over her nose, hiding her face with her hair. “I thought we were- I thought you wanted something more, from all the flirting… But I guess I was wrong…”

“(Y/N) …” Tony reached for her but hesitated. Would she even want to be touched by him? Maybe not… But… Tossing caution to the wind, Tony pulled her into a tight embrace. 

“I know- I know I’m not the most pleasant guy to be around. But you’re always so… caring. You care more about me than I do for myself. And I – I love that about you. I don’t hate you… in fact… “He took a deep breath, “I love you so fucking much.” He buried his face in her hair, refusing to see her expression.

“T-Tony…” Tears leaked from her eyes, dropping like liquid diamonds into his chest. His arc reactor seeming to glow brighter. Her arms constricted tighter around his torso, her lips pressing into his neck.

Her hair, running his fingers down her spine. Goosebumps rose in their wake. She shook her head, pressing herself closer to his body.

“It doesn’t matter anymore… Just knowing the man I love, loves me back… it’s enough.” A small smile grew on her face. His fingers brushed her cheek, drawing her to look up at him. His eyes were like fire and the intensity burned her to the core.

His eyes dropped down to her lips, his gaze causing her to lick her lips. Biting her lip, she rose closer to his face. It was all he needed to crush his lips against hers in a searing kiss that imprinted both of their souls.

Down the hall whispers and cheers could be heard. 

“About time!” Sam’s voice called. Breaking apart, Tony rolled his eyes and tilted his head up, talking into the room.

“JARVIS, set off the sprinklers in the hall.”

“Yes, sir.”

Screams filled the hall.

[frederator-studios]

Derek Iversen: The Frederator Interview

Derek Iversen began his unlikely career in animation as a PA on the very first season of Spongebob Squarepants. You might say he was got by The Hook: he spent about a decade with the show, on the production staff before becoming a writer on Seasons 6-9. Since then, he’s written on countless awesome TV shows, become an elected official in the neighborhood of Valley Glen (business card and all!), and created his own Nickelodeon short, “Carrot and Stick” inspired by his dog Rosie, whose image blesses the end of this interview. In honor of his episode of Bravest Warriors premiering tomorrow (5/18), Derek and I sat down to discuss sketch comedy, time travel, and a certain absorbent (and yellow and porous) friend.

Did you always want to be a writer? What’d you want to be growing up?

First I wanted to be a fireman. Then a police officer - huge jump there. Then I wanted to be an astronaut, until I realized I get motion sickness. So I thought I should be an astronomer - a little safer, little less barfing. But in 5th grade, my English teacher Mrs. Carrol gave me high marks on a short story assignment. I got really encouraged by that; I thought, “Hey, maybe I’ve found something I’m good at!” So pretty much from then on, I wanted to be a writer.

Wow, 5th grade? Were you a wunderkind, writing a ton as a kid?

Nah, I wasn’t that ambitious. In high school I took Theater with another great teacher, Mrs. Carrick. She encouraged us to write our own scenes and monologues. So I had the opportunity to try stuff out with my fellow students, and hopefully crack them up with idiocy. Then in college at University of Arizona, I joined a group called Comedy Corner and got really into sketch comedy. I thought if I could make a living doing that, THAT’s what I want to do. There’s nothing like doing live comedy before an audience. It’s thrilling.

Did you stick with comedy after college?

Some friends and I formed our own group! The People Who Do That. We became the kings of Tucson comedy… which, shockingly, didn’t pay the bills. So some of us decided to truck it out to LA to try to make it in the big city.

Did you have a job when you got to LA?

Nope, but I got a really stupid one: phone customer service for a pager company. Let me just say, the introduction of cell phones was NOT the only thing that killed off pagers… but I had a friend working at Nickelodeon, so I managed to get a job as a driver on The Angry Beavers. This was back in the olden days, when if artists needed reference materials, someone had to actually go pick them up from libraries or - RIP - video stores. Soon after, I got a job as a production assistant on a show that Nick had just picked up: Spongebob Squarepants. At the time we all thought, ‘This is a strange little show that hopefully will get a cult following.’ It did a little better than that. So that was kind of my ‘big break’. But it took me 7 years of working on the show to become a writer on it.

How did that path look?

Long and meandering. Because for some time, I thought I wanted to do sketch comedy, and that animation was my day job. I was a PA on seasons 1 to 3 and a coordinator on seasons 4 and 5. In that time I started chipping away at animation writing, because I had to actually learn how to write cartoons. I was used to writing for the stage, and animation is a visual medium. Much more so than even other kinds of TV, let alone theater, so I had to learn to tell stories visually. And stories that kids could relate to—I’d always written for adults, so my stuff went right over kid’s heads. But I wanted to write and kept knocking on the door, and in season 6, became a staff writer. I was one until season 9.

Do you think your background in sketch comedy aided that transition?

Oh yeah, absolutely. When you do a sketch in front of a big throng of crazy college students, it’s clear when it works and when it doesn’t. Sketch taught me not to waste the audience’s time: you get in, do the joke, and get out.

How was working on Spongebob? Any stories, secrets, lore?

It was a wild ride and a lot of fun. I’ve gotta be the only one who remembers this, but I swear it’s true: back in the first season, Steve (Hillenburg, creator) had a sign on his door that read, “Have fun or you’re fired.” It sounds cruel, but it actually set a good tone. We did have a lot of fun! And there wasn't much firing—it’s not like the hatchet fell every time somebody frowned. The crew had awesome camaraderie, and I think that’s reflected in the show. I sincerely believe the environment of a show, how it’s made, affects how it turns out. If a show is made with a tense crew where everyone fears the creator, it shows on-screen. Conversely, if the crew has fun and makes each other laugh, that’s clear on-screen too.

(Season 1 Christmas party: Ennio Torresan, Carly Benner-StClair, Bruce Heller, Mica Nataami, Carl (CH) Greenblatt, and Derek with the devil horns.) 

So despite the sign, no one was afraid of Steve Hillenburg?

No, no, the sign is misleading. He’s a total sweetheart. Success couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy: just a thoughtful, funny, sincere human being.

That’s exactly what you wanna hear about your heroes. What’s your favorite thing about the show?

Well Spongebob is definitely a reflection of Steve! As are the other characters, but mostly Spongebob. And to me, the greatest thing about the show, and the reason I think it’s been such a huge success, is that Spongebob is genuine. He’s without guile. He’s enthusiastic without any reservation. And I think, especially when the show came out, a lot of cartoons in the kid realm starred adults disguised as kids. And Spongebob was never that; he was always for kids, always had a kid’s spirit. That’s part of why we never defined his age: he has kid and adult qualities. He’s just sincere—and sincerity is underrated.

Do you have a favorite Spongebob episode?

Man... that’s like choosing a favorite child. But I’ll go ahead and do it. I have several favorites. One is “SB-129”. I’m a bit of a sucker for time travel - it’s part of why I enjoy Bravest Warriors so much. “The Fun Show” is awesome too, it’s a classic. Of episodes I wrote, “Not Normal” was my first and still a favorite. It’s a bit autobiographical: I was a weird kid and always felt like I needed to conform to some idea of normality. After a while, I decided that didn’t matter and I was going to accept being my weird self. And the same is true of Spongebob.

(Mr. Lawrence (aka Plankton), Vincent Waller, and Derek.)

How did you come to write for Bravest Warriors?

After Spongebob, I was a staff writer on Sanjay and Craig, which Will McRobb and Chris Viscardi executive produced. They’re great guys and a blast to work with. They'd also produced Bravest, so I found out about the show through them. I watched it and just thought it was madness in the best possible way. Last year Will mentioned they were looking for writers, so I gave it a shot. I really wanted to be part of the show and feel lucky that I got to be!

What are your favorite things about Bravest Warriors?

I love time travel and sci-fi, and you get both of those in BW. That’s a treat. But I love that it also goes right to the heart of teen angst. That’s a sandbox I don’t get to play in a lot, as I’m usually writing for kids or preschoolers. It’s a lot of fun to deal with broken hearts, romantic attraction, all that gooey hormonal stuff.

Do you have a favorite character from the show?

I like Danny a lot, because he’s kinda pathetic. I just want to help him out. But I can’t resist Catbug. He’s amazing. And I’m a big fan of Impossibear. Something about his gruffness... he’s selfish in a way that reminds me of Bender from Futurama. If I ever got to do another BW episode, I’d want it to be about Impossibear. Finding the mushy heart he hides inside.

What is your episode, “A Apple, B Banana, C Chili” about?

I did a sort of anti-consumerist screed cleverly disguised as a Bravest Warriors episode. The team succumbs to the power of marketing. They have to escape the clutches of a Costco-like superstore. It seemed like a uniquely weird challenge they hadn’t faced before. I think that’s why it was chosen from the ideas I pitched—when you’re pitching on a show with a lot of episodes, you’ve got to find the part of the floor that hasn’t been painted yet.

Aha - don’t they go in that store to grab Wallow a snack?

Haha yeah. Wallow gets hangry on a mission so they go to buy him some chips or a granola bar or something and it goes terribly wrong. I love episodes like that - we did it on Spongebob too - where it’s the simplest possible objective. The goal of the episode is one tiny thing, and then it balloons out from there and becomes ridiculously huge in a way it never deserved to be.

What would you be if you weren’t a TV writer?

Maybe a lawyer. Or a crazy activist trying to make the world a better place and not getting very far. I’d probably be quitting my job at the EPA right now out of sheer frustration. At least writing cartoons, I can express the absurdity of our world—but hopefully to make people laugh, instead of cry.

What are your favorite cartoons?

Well, Spongebob’s pretty darn good. I always loved Ren and Stimpy, the latest news notwithstanding. I’m a simple man: I love Road Runner. I couldn’t resist the simplicity of the gags. You always know what’s going to happen - Road Runner’s gonna get away and Wile E. Coyote is gonna eat it. But you don’t know how he’s gonna eat it. The magic is in the details. I’m a big fan of The Simpsons. And I enjoyed Aqua Teen Hunger Force; Master Shake cracks me up. I love how stupid and petty he is.

After writing for so long, is it ever still challenging?

Absolutely, it’s always a challenge. I think a lot of people struggle with being too precious with their ideas. It’s a collaborative medium: stories change and change and change again. You can accept compromises and look for the good in them, or you can fight against them. My view is, you have to choose your battles. Even the creator doesn’t have complete control. And the best creators and showrunners delegate responsibilities. They trust the people they’ve hired.  

Do you pitch show ideas around?

I haven’t as much lately; I’m busy story editing a preschool show now called Hanni and the Wild Woods. But I made a Nickelodeon short a few years back with my friend Miles Hindman, called “Carrot and Stick,” about a pair of buddies who live in a junkyard. Their nemesis is a dog named Rosie, based on my own dog Rosie. It’s a mixed media show - a combination of puppets, live action and 2D - so we wanted her to play herself. It didn’t work out. She’s cute and all, but cute doesn’t make you a good actor…

(Rosie, sweet and perfect in every conceivable way aside from acting ability.)

What else are you working on?

Well besides Hanni, I just got back from teaching an Animation Writing class in Jamaica for a few weeks - that was amazing. It was through The World Bank; they’re trying to build an animation industry over there. I’m glad they found me, it was a ton of fun and some of the student’s ideas were really cool. I also have a YA sci-fi book I really want to write. The trick is finding the time to do it; it keeps eluding me. Earlier I said animation is very collaborative - not so with this book. I have a very specific vision, and I’m excited to tell exactly the story I want to tell. I also write as Spongebob and Patrick on their Twitter accounts - which is a tougher gig than it sounds! All of the 140 character zingers have to be contained to their universe. But it’s fun and keeps me connected to the characters, and I love that.

Thank you for the interview Derek! So much fun talking with you. Good luck on all your many projects, I’ll be on the lookout!

- Cooper

[redditnosleep]

Two Facts You Should Probably Know

by DoubleDoorBastard

Here are two facts you should probably know:

Fact the first: When a human being is driven into a corner, you should never underestimate the levels of stupid and dangerous they will resort to in order to escape.

Fact the second: If a deal seems too good to be true, it is.

Normally, I wouldn't be the kind of guy you should be taking advice from. If I wrote an autobiography, it'd be called "Jesus Wept." But in this very specific instance, I have some valuable experience. It started, as most tragic stories tend to, with a series of short-sighted mistakes.

About a decade or so back, I was a few years out of college and trying to build a life for myself. I was single, educated, and driven - all the qualities someone needs to succeed in life. Well, not the "single" part, but you get the idea. I had prospects, some real potential - but, like Oscar Wilde once said, I can resist anything except temptation.

Yeah. I was an English major.

I didn't get hooked on meth or porn or anything like that. No, my vice was the thrill of chance. Gambling was the greatest rush I'd ever experienced - just giving up control, letting the gods of probability and randomness decide your fate. I got hooked, kept going to those damn casinos night after night. Looking back, I was naive, I was foolish. It'd take an idiot, blinded by a lust for sensation, to not realise another crucial fact: the house always - I repeat, always - wins.

To make a long, painful story short, at the tender age of 24 the local pit bosses had taken me for all I was worth and then some. As a result, I was indebted to some unsavoury characters who were not all that keen on giving me some leeway on the money I owed them. I managed to pull together just shy of a hundred dollars in a week doing odd jobs, but that was a fraction of a fraction of what I was in for.

At the time, it seemed like a better idea to just piss away what money I had at a local bar rather than carrying on my sad little exercise in futility. So that's exactly what I did, and by virtue of a few gallons of the cheapest spirits you can possibly imagine, I can't remember a great deal of what happened after that.

Next thing I know, I'm waking up in a puddle behind the bar, having been turfed out for making an ass of myself. The electric buzz of the neon signs above my head felt like I was taking a power drill to the frontal lobe, while the cold, filthy water below my face helped to sober me up a smidgen. Just enough to make me aware.

It was right then, in my lowest possible moment, that I met him.

"Hey there, buddy," He said, his voice pleasantly cheerful and melodic, "You look like you need a helping hand. Thankfully, I've got two."

There was a gentle tug on both of my shoulders, pulling me upright. He leaned me against a wall; I could finally take a better look at him.

To begin with, I wondered if I was hallucinating. He seemed so strange, so out of place.

My Good Samaritan was about six and a half feet tall, but he was built like a pack of uncooked spaghetti. A long, lean, string bean of a man. That being said, the black-and-white pinstripe suit he was wearing still somehow managed to be form-fitting, like it was just painted directly onto a featureless body. Above his collar - fastened to the top button and held in place by a large and ugly bow-tie - sat a pale, grinning head with black hair parted in the middle.

Truth be told, my initial thought after properly taking in the sight of him was as follows: holy shit, I died in that puddle, and this is death himself come to collect my pathetic soul. Sadly, that was not the case, I was, in fact, still alive.

"There we are, pal, that's a lot better, isn't it?" He said, kneeling down on his long, rail-thin legs to look me in the eye, "We'll have you feeling like a million bucks in no time. Never fear!"

While back then I just assumed that it was my drunken mind playing tricks on me, I remember his eyes seeming strangely...yellowish. They had a kind of jaundiced sheen to them, like sclera and iris just melted together into a single, formless mass. Eyes like goddamn egg yolks.

"It's always such a shame to catch folks in a pickle, such a shame," He said, largely to himself, I think, "Whatever happened to helping people out, you know? It's a good feeling."

"Who are you?" I managed to choke out.

The kind stranger smiled and turned his sulphuric eyes towards me.

"You're asking the wrong person there, amigo, I'd tell you if I knew. Honest!" He replied with a laugh, "What's your name, though?"

"Nate," I said, wondering if I was about to vomit or not, "Nate Wilson."

"Oh my god, that's such an awesome name!" The stranger said, as the sudden explosion of interest on his face told me that he wasn't faking his misplaced enthusiasm, "Nate Wilson. It has a ring to it, don't you think? God, what a great name. You're a lucky guy, Nate. Lucky to have such a great name."

"Uhh, thanks, I guess."

There was a long, awkward silence after that. I sure as hell didn't know what to say, and the stranger seemed more than content to just stand there and stare at me, grinning like a freak. It felt like it was my responsibility to break that irritating silence.

"Look, I really appreciate you helping me, buddy..." I began.

"Wait, you consider us buddies?" He asked. His tone was, at that stage, ambiguous.

"I mean, you saved me from breathing alley-water, so I guess so, yeah."

This might seem hard to believe, because I definitely didn't believe it at the time, but the stranger literally jumped up into the air and whooped loudly. A grown man, behind a dive bar, doing that. It was like something out of a strange dream that your one boring friend always wants to tell you about.

"This is fantastic!" He said, grinning ear to ear like he'd just won the fucking lottery, "It's so wonderful to make new friends!"

He extended a spindly arm towards me, his hand open and his spidery fingers outstretched.

"Put her there, friendo." He said.

And because that night wasn't weird enough already, you better believe I did.

"That's what I'm talking about," He said with another childish cackle, pulling me to my feet with disarming levels of strength, "Through the power of friendship, anything is possible."

Sure, he may have spoken like his only experience with the outside world was watching Saturday morning cartoons, but he seemed innocent enough. A benign weirdo, just trying to help people along his way. Though I must admit, the fact he was reluctant to tell me his name was somewhat of a red flag for me.

"Now, I'm going to be completely honest with you, Nate," He began, his amber gaze turned downwards in what might have been embarrassment, "There was a reason I followed you out here. It wasn't just a stroke of good luck."

My heart immediately sank. I knew he was too good to be true - this was when he stabbed me, cut me up, wore my skin as a suit and turned the rest of me into a makeshift lasagna. Nobody was ever that happy at that hour of the night if they had all their psychological ducks in a row.

"Well, if you're being honest," I said, swaying on my feet, still too drunk to defend myself, "Would that reason happen to be my murder?"

He seemed shocked at first, then began to laugh.

"Do you think a murderer would be this friendly?" He asked.

"Molestation, then?"

"Jesus, no way, Nate. You're a good-looking guy, don't get me wrong, but you're not really my type."

"Then what does a guy like you have to do with a guy like me?" I asked, the needle on my internal emotive scale creeping from 'curious' to 'irritated.'

"Well..."

He paused again, as though searching for the proper words. He was looking at everything but me.

"The bar," He finally said, "How much of what happened in there do you remember?"

"Somewhere in the margin of nothing, I think." I said, now leaning against the wall for support.

"You were talking to the bartender. Loudly," He said, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, "I wasn't eavesdropping, not at all, I just happened to overhear. You were talking about some kind of...money troubles."

I'd almost forgotten about them myself, but the second he said it, all the memories came barreling into me like some nauseating tidal wave. I'd ranted and raved, screamed at the top of my lungs. Debt. Debt. Debt. I got belligerent when I felt they weren't showing me enough sympathy, and when I got belligerent, I was rightly thrown out on my inebriated ass.

"Oh, don't worry about those," I said, my cheeks reddening with shame, "That's not your problem. I'll deal with it."

"But Nate, you didn't sound like you could deal with it."

"What the hell is it to you?" I snapped back.

The stranger stopped talking, and began reaching into his jacket. I got a sudden flash of paranoia that he worked for one of the casinos, and he was going to put a bullet between my eyes.

"You're my best friend, Nate," He said, "And friends are meant to help each other out of sticky situations, aren't they?"

He produced a stack of bills from a pocket inside his suit, and passed it over to me.

"Will this be enough?" He asked.

It was at this point that I was most open to the idea of this all being some crazy dream. With the ferocity of a madman, I quickly counted the money this total stranger, calling me his best friend, had handed to me.

Twenty-fucking-grand. It could bail me out, and then some.

"Holy shit," I said, though I can't remember if it was out loud or in my head, "I...I can't possibly accept this."

"Please do," He said with another ear-to-ear grin, "You need it an awful lot more than I do."

A sober me might have been too proud to indulge him, but - funnily enough - drunk me had a far more realistic take on my level of desperation. I was a desperate, desperate man, trapped in a corner.

Fact the first: When a human being is driven into a corner, you should never underestimate the levels of stupid and dangerous they will resort to in order to escape.

"But why?" Was the only question I could summon.

He smiled and shrugged.

"Because I like you," He said, "And I like helping people."

"But you've only just met me."

"So what? A friend is a friend is a friend. Why overthink it?"

I collapsed back against the wall, holding the stranger's twenty grand. It was a way out of my dire situation.

"I'll pay you back. Every penny, with fucking interest, I swear to god." I said.

The stranger laughed.

"No need. I've got no shortage of money. Just take it and bail yourself out, okay? Then promise me you'll stop gambling."

There were big, swollen tears running down my burning cheeks. The stranger's kindness was baffling, but it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever experienced. He was a true Saint in flesh and blood.

"I'll never gamble another penny." I said.

Without another word, I lunged forward and hugged him. A long, warm, tight embrace. By the end, I could feel his emaciated limbs wrapped across my back.

"Thank you so much." I whispered, my tears dripping onto the shoulder of his suit.

"What are friends for, right?"

When I finally prized myself off of him, I just couldn't stop laughing - it was nerves, probably. The stranger watched me, a kind of eccentric joy burning in his big, yellow eyes. He seemed to like just observing.

"Oh, one more thing," He said, reaching into his jacket again, "A little something I wrote up in the bar, just to help you out."

He passed me a piece of paper, folded into the size of a pamphlet. I didn't even think to check it at the time, I just shoved it into the pocket of my filthy coat and carried on thanking him. I needed that money, lord knows I did, but I couldn't just take it without giving something in return.

"There must be something you want, man," I pleaded, palms open in deference to his generosity, "Anything. I owe you my life, man, you just name your price. I can't thank you enough."

The stranger grinned and stroked his narrow chin in contemplation.

"Now that's an irresistible offer," He said, almost jokingly, "You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Wilson. Leave it with me, okay? I'm sure I'll think of something."

He began walking away after that, whistling - of all things - "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows" as he did so.

Now I was laughing again. Half out of giddiness, half in acknowledgement of the sheer strangeness of the events transpiring around me. Right then, as I sat outside a shitty bar, covered in dirty water, my own tears, and more than a little puke, I was the luckiest human being on the planet,

"What do you give to the man who has everything?" I said aloud.

The stranger looked over his shoulder at me one more time, his odd eyes meeting mine.

"Almost everything, Nate," He corrected, "Almost everything."

And just like that, the stranger was gone. Almost funny, isn't it? How someone like that can have such a profound impact on your life, then just up and disappear just as quickly. Like a comet, just trailing past. You only catch its light for a brief instant, then it's dark again.

Using the stranger's money, I paid off my gambling debts in full, and still had a little left over. I swore to stick to my promise, for my own sake and his. In the ten years that've passed since that day, I haven't gambled a cent.

Once I was all square with the house, I finally took a moment to check the piece of paper that he'd left me with. At first I only sort of skimmed it, and it didn't make a great deal of sense to me: just a list of dates from 2007 to 2017, each accompanied by a sentence fragment. It was only when I sat down and took a long, hard look at what those fragments actually were that I realised the stranger couldn't possibly have been human.

No, he was so much more than that.

It was a list of instructions, specific down to the days, minutes, hours, and seconds. Where to be and what to do in order to maximise success at that given moment. He'd left stock tips for companies that didn't exist, but would come into existence exactly when he'd predicted they would. He'd left exact instructions on which house to buy, and how to get it at the best price. Clothes to wear, jobs to take, friends to make.

Fifth of October, 2009. Go to Starbucks in town. Meet Jessie O'Brien. 3:51:17 PM.

Two years later, Jessie O'Brien became Jessie Wilson. The stranger had even engineered me meeting the love of my goddamn life, precise to the exact second we'd first make eye contact.

I invested in the right stocks and pulled out of the wrong ones, avoiding company deaths and market crashes like some financial Houdini. My capital skyrocketed and my personal wealth just grew greater and greater.

Eighth of June, 2011. Buy House 10 Aspen Way. Don't Rent. 6:14:43 PM.

And so I did. Jessie and I moved into that big, gorgeous house once our honeymoon was over. We were wealthy, healthy, and deeply in love - but something was missing, something the stranger had accounted for, too.

Seventeenth of August, 2012. Conceive child with Jessie. 8:31:19 PM.

Our little girl is called April. The stranger picked it, not me. She's four now, and I love her with all my heart.

The stranger, a man who I'd known for less than an hour, had steered the entire course of my life in the best possible direction, out of nothing more than the kindness of his heart. He'd saved me, he'd saved all of us. Even though it'd been ten years since that day and I was drunk out of my mind at the time, I remember every detail vividly.

That's why, as I was walking down the street this morning - my arms full of grocery bags - when I heard someone singing "Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows" a few feet behind me, I recognised the voice instantly.

"Sunshine, lollipops, and rainbows, everything that's wonderful is what I feel when we're together!" His melodic voice sang, his tone screaming joviality, "Brighter than a lucky penny, when you're near the rain just disappears, dear, and I feel so fine!"

Without a moment's hesitation, I turned to face him. It looked like that strange, strange man hadn't aged a day in an entire decade. He even wore that same pinstriped suit that he had on the first night I met him.

"Just to know that you are mine." He finished the verse with a smile, and threw open his arms.

"Jesus Christ," I said, my face cracking into a smile impossible to hide, "It's actually you."

"The one and only, baby," He said with a laugh and a grandiose hand gesture, "How's Jessie, by the way?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but he raised a hand, as though to politely silence me.

"I'm sorry to drop in after - gosh, has it really been ten years? Jeez Louise, time really does tend to get away from me," He said, "Anyway, the reason I'm here is because I finally figured out what I wanted from you."

"Beg your pardon?"

"Ten years ago, you said you owed me something, anything," He replied, though I almost heard it back in my own voice as he said it, "I couldn't decide at the time, but I think I know now."

"Oh, of course! That's wonderful to hear, man," I said, my heart filled with a sudden trepidation, "So, uh, what is it you want?"

The stranger gave that same ear-to-ear grin that he was wearing back behind the dive bar in 2007.

"Well, I've thought about it for a long time, amigo, and I've finally made my decision," He said, "I know what I want from you, Nate."

He paused to take a step closer to me. His eyes were just as golden in the daylight.

"I want your name, Nate."

I almost laughed to begin with, but I soon realised he wasn't joking. He was deadly serious.

"My name?"

"Yes, Nate, I've always loved your name, it's so wonderful," He said, wringing his hands with glee, "See, I've never had a name myself, and it's always left me feeling a little left out, you know? I've wanted a name for so long, and I decided just recently that the name I want is yours. I think it'll fit me just right."

This man had given me my entire life. He saved me from getting killed by casino sharks back in '07, and every wonderful success I'd had since I owed entirely to his decade-long itinerary. With all this in mind, who was I to turn him down this last batshit crazy request?

If he wanted to go around calling himself Nate Wilson too, what right did I have to stop him?

"Sure thing, buddy." I said with a smile.

He leaned forward and embraced me, almost crushing the groceries against my chest.

"You have no idea how happy you've made me."

"It's the least I can do after all you've done for me." I replied.

The stranger - or rather, Nate Wilson - extended another spidery hand towards me.

"Let's shake on it." He said, his voice elated.

And I did.

We went our separate ways after that. I walked home, and he ran off into the city, singing and cackling with mirth. It brought me some peace of mind to know that my debt to him was finally repaid, and that some simple token gesture was all that I needed to do it.

When I arrived back at 10 Aspen Way, I saw April playing around with her toy lawnmower in the front yard. I smiled and called to her, but she didn't respond. She was too wrapped up in her fictitious duties.

I made my way inside with the groceries. Jessie was in the kitchen, cutting up carrots. Sunshine, Lollipops and Rainbows blasted out of the radio. Today just kept getting weirder and weirder.

"Hey, babe," I called to her, putting the groceries on the kitchen table, "You'll never guess who I ran into this morning."

Jessie didn't respond. She just carried on chopping, and hummed to the tune.

"Babe? Everything okay?" I asked.

Still no response. At this point, I was beginning to get a little...worried.

With a peculiar heaviness to my every movement, I walked over to Jessie, and placed a tentative hand on her shoulder.

It just went straight through. Straight though her goddamn body - like she was a hologram, or I was. I recoiled with a short, sharp yelp, and fell against the kitchen table. Again, no response from Jessie.

What the hell had happened?

"Honey, I'm home!" I heard a familiar voice call from the hallway outside.

Jessie suddenly perked up, turning her head towards the noise.

"Hi, sweetie," She said, "You were a while out there. I was beginning to get worried."

The stranger walked into the kitchen, a smile stretched across his waxen face.

"Sorry about that, honey-bunny," He said, "I met an old friend in town. We had a little catch-up."

As he said that last part, he threw me a sickening wink with one of his piss-yellow peepers.

"Huh," Jessie said, "Anyone I know?"

She leaned forward and gave the stranger a kiss. The kind of kiss she always gave me.

"Nah," The stranger said with a chuckle, "I don't think you've ever met him."

I felt like my mind was going to implode. Nothing going on was making any kind of goddamn sense. The whole world had gone crazy.

April called from outside, something about the grass.

"You mind taking over the carrots for a sec, babe?" Jessie said to the stranger, "I better go check on April."

"No problem, honey." He said, taking the knife from her hand and giving her another kiss.

Jessie left the room, leaving just me and the stranger, all alone. I quietly fumed, and he chopped carrots.

"What the fuck is going on?" I finally asked him, when I'd gained the modicum of composure required to do so, "What have you done, you crazy fucking weirdo?"

He carried on chopping the carrots. His eyes never left the chopping board.

"My name is Nate, stranger," He said, "I'd really appreciate it if you called me by it."

In my state of fury, I tried to grab him by the shoulder and turn him to face me. I could actually touch him, but he wouldn't budge. It was like trying to move a mountain.

"That's my name. This is my house. And that's my wife," I said to him, rage and confusion rendering my voice a crackly mess, "I want you out of here and out my life."

The stranger chuckled.

"See, that's where you're wrong, slick. All that changed hands," He said, "This is Nate Wilson's house. Jessie is Nate Wilson's wife, and this is Nate Wilson's life. And, by the terms of our recent deal, I'm Nate Wilson. And you, good buddy? You're nobody."

"I won't accept that." I yelled, slamming my hand down onto the kitchen countertop.

Without another word, Nate Wilson rammed the knife through my hand. There was no pain, no blood. It just phased through, as though I no longer even existed.

"Word to the wise, stranger, reality marches on regardless of whether you accept it," He said, as I pulled my hand away from the knife, "Everything you have, everything you've tricked yourself into believing you earned, you got from my instructions. You never owned this life, stranger, you just rented it from me, piece by piece. Now, it's mine, and there's not a thing you can do about it."

He stuck the knife into the chopping board and turned around to me.

"Except, of course, leave, and let me, my wife, and my daughter get on with our lives. Do you understand, stranger?"

I stood in crushing silence for a minute or two.

"But can I see them again?"

"Sure you can, you can see them any time you like, but only I can see you. Just like, up until around an hour ago, only you could see me. It doesn't feel good, does it? Being nobody. Being nameless."

The gravity of it all was finally closing in. I fell onto my ass and began to cry.

"God, I was so fucking stupid," I said, "How did I fall for all this?"

Nate Wilson shrugged and ate a piece of carrot.

"Don't blame yourself, buddy," He said, "I was waiting for centuries before I found someone who I could interact with. It isn't your fault you happened to be that person, or that you had such an awesome name at the time."

"My name..."

"You were only going to waste it, friendo. If I wasn't there that night, a heavy would have broken your legs the next day, you'd have gotten into painkillers, and OD'd a few months later. Nate Wilson becomes gravestone fodder. What a waste that would have been, huh?"

"But what do I do now?"

"What I did, stranger," Nate Wilson said, eating another piece of carrot with undue relish, "Ask around, find someone you can talk to. Might be this afternoon, who knows? Sure, could be a week, month, year, decade, century, but I'm an eternal optimist."

"A century?" I said, trying to ebb the stream of tears flowing out of me, "I can't wait that long."

"You'd be surprised, pal. Patience is something you'll learn, being nameless. When you finally do manage to wrangle yourself a name, you'll appreciate it a little more this time. You'll make something of yourself."

Fact the second: If a deal seems too good to be true, it is.

"So is that it?" I asked, "Is that all you have for me?"

Nate Wilson nodded.

"I'm afraid so, good buddy," He said, "But you seem like a nice enough guy. I'm sure you'll figure something out. You can always depend on the kindness of strangers, don't you know."

As the man who had just stolen my entire existence carried on hacking up vegetables, I left the room, walking out of the kitchen, through the hallway, then out of the house entirely. I stole one last look at Jessie and April, my - no, his - family, playing on the lawn, totally carefree. All smiles. They'd never even know that I was gone.

Perhaps it was better that way, no heartache.

I whispered a goodbye that they'd never hear, and closed my eyes in a pointless attempt to shut off the tears I knew would be coming either way. I set off into the city after that, walking alone, in search of something - hell, anything - to call myself.

And that was that. The story of my un-naming. Perhaps Nate was right, perhaps it was his life all along. Maybe he'll live it better, live it kinder. He might be a better father, a better husband, a better Nate.

I don't feel so attached to that name anymore.

But, if you know all this now, that means one good thing: you can read what I'm writing. If you can read my words, perhaps you can hear them? And if you can hear them, perhaps you can reply.

If so, I hope to hear from you soon. We have a lot to talk about, you and I, a lot to discuss. I think I can do some great things for you, dear reader, dear friend. I'll help you out of any bind you need, and I'll barely ask for anything in return.

Barely anything at all...

[eldestlynch]

scarecrows.

Peter awakens to the familiar sight of the ceiling. Plaster, cracked, cheaply applied with the hope that some sorry bastard like him will lie awake and stare up at it, worry that it will fall into his eyes, and keep them open anyway. Like anyone would actually have a convoluted motive like that. He doesn’t have to roll over to know that the bed’s other occupant has gone. This is also a familiar thing to wake up to.

Somewhere on the streets beside this pathetic remnant of an apartment building, cars go by. Lights filter unevenly through the blinds, cast shadows across the room. Make it look bigger than it is. Makes him feel bigger than he is. Were he a score younger, he’d have been afraid of the uncertainty cast by the shadows. As he got older, he realized the only thing he should be afraid of was himself.

He turns on his side then, and lets his gaze fall across the indention in the mattress, watches the foam slowly rise like bread. The door of the room was ajar, and Peter stared through the crack into the hallway. A sliver of light ran down, angled off the baseboard, slithered into the room. He knew he should get out of bed, should check the bathroom, but the bed was empty. He stretched out, took the position of the Vitruvian man. Despite waking up often to find himself alone, the bed was actually almost never empty; two people occupied it at least 80% of the time. And, yes, Peter was being a selfish shit, but he was so rarely alone. Should he check on his puking boyfriend, down the hall? Yes, he should, he definitely should, but the moment was too great to pass up. He dreams for just a brief window of time that he was in another bed, in another apartment in another part of the city, with someone else. And then he lets responsibility engulf him once again and struggles to get out of bed.

This is not the first time Peter has awoken to the sights and sounds and signs of self-loathing, and he wasn’t so foolish as to think it might be the last, or even the next to last. He runs through the cycle of actions again. Stands on the uncarpeted, rough hardwood floor for a moment and stretches. Makes his way through the dark to the door, tripping on only one stray controller cord this time. Makes a mental note to clean up after game time, knowing he won’t, knowing he will get distracted as always. He stumbles down the hall, feigning that he’s only just awoken, feigning surprise at the crack of light from the bathroom that illuminates this small sliver of the hall. He pushes open the door, stretches his face into the features of worry and concern and says:

“Theo?”

No one would guess how much thought and careful preparation goes into that one word, how well acted that concern is. Peter thinks to himself, I deserve an Oscar for this performance of Caring Boyfriend.

It’s not that he doesn’t care at all, of course. Just that there are more important things to care about. More important things to take notice of.

Like the fact that, while curled over the edge of the toilet bowl, Theo’s stomach resembles an accordion, folding in on itself. His ribs stick out against his pale skin, and Peter imagines playing the xylophone on them, remembers past high school days of marching band when he would practice the Violent Femmes, just for fun.

Beautiful girl, love the dress, he hums in his head, but he crouches on the tiled floor in front of the sink, places his hand on Theo’s back in a comforting manner. He tries not to think about how he can feel the ridges of Theo’s spine sticking out so slightly, rubbing against his palm.

“I’m sorry,” Theo forces out, his voice strangled and his bangs pressed flat to his forehead with sticky, disgusting sweat. His eyes threaten to spill over with tears, the salty liquid brimming because he knows how this looks, because his insecurities are piling up, because this is all so revolting and he realizes it fully.

Perfect smile, oh, yes, the song continues.

“Everything will be fine,” Peter murmurs in reassurance, but he isn’t thinking about Theo at all. No, he’s thinking about how all he can remember is being in a very similar situation, remember the chill of linoleum leaking through thinly worn fabric, being pressed between the tub and the toilet and the floor and crying and hating himself and being discovered. Just like this.

Well, almost.

Beautiful girl, love the dress.

Peter moves his arm up to surround Theo’s shoulders, and pulls the slim man to his feet. Peter pulls him to the mirror and pause. In the mirror, they are head to head, shoulder to shoulder, exactly the same height. The reflections grimace with a pseudo-normality, and Peter is struck suddenly by the sheer ghastliness of the image. Theo, all tall and sunken cheeks and tight skin, eyes full of the ocean on a clear day; then himself, tall and bleeding lips and warm skin, eyes full of perfectly designed alarm. Two scarecrows, nearly identical except that one has been pecked to death by the crows. The irony of the situation is that one would expect Theo to be the emaciated straw heap, but the one who has been nearly entirely consumed is him. Peter, only a few pecks away from nothingness.

Where she is now, I can only guess.

Eight years ago, Peter is discovered for the first time. He is found shaking and covered in a strange mixture of his own blood and vomit - very attractive - and he is trying not to scream and he is trying not to run, not that he can stand, not that he can speak. He had already cleaned out his wounds, already released his small scrapes into the sweet stinging sensation of hydrogen peroxide, already fished out his stupid Scooby Doo bandaids and checkered his skin with them. He looked down at his arms; Zoinks! Shaggy seemed to say. Like, that’s a serious, like, problem you have there, man!

Peter scowled down at his arm. Like that fucking stoner of a cartoon character had any room to talk.

She doesn’t look disappointed, he can tell, but Peter paints that expression on her face, because isn’t it better that way? Wouldn’t you rather disappointment over that piteous look, that look that tells you you really have sunken to the bottom this time, that you really have fucked up so much that the one person you never wanted to know has finally found you out?

Peter blinks, and it’s Theo again, Theo in the mirror and Theo right next to him, asking with a shaky voice, too much timbre and vibrato, if he is okay, and Peter could almost laugh at that comment alone. No, he is not okay, not by any means nor any stretch of the imagination, but he is hardly going to tell Theo that. Instead, he smiles, presses his cracked, chapped lips against Theo’s cold, clammy ones, and then says, “Yeah, I’m fine, just worried about you, you know?”

Nice, Peter, he thinks. Turn the tables, shine the spotlight back on him, as if he doesn’t already hate himself and feel guilty for all of this, for involving you, for binging and purging and binging and purging again. After all, it’s better than facing my own existence. Better than admitting I can barely handle myself, let alone him. Better than letting him know he’s not the only one drowning in self hatred. It’s better than facing the fact that the only reason I am here is that I can’t be where I really want to be.

Theo smiles at him, though, a sad, eyebrow-furrowing smile that would break Peter’s heart if he still had one left. Theo’s beautiful when he smiles, Peter knows it. Even he can recognize that much. Straight teeth, perfect even if Theo never shows them in his grins. The strong, defined nose of a Frenchman. He isn’t wearing his glasses, and Peter can see the lines under his eyes, but he’s still beautiful. Of course he is; would Peter be here if he wasn’t? That pang of self deprecation again, and he grit his teeth. Hate Theo instead of hating himself, because it’s the only way he can survive all of this.

Eight years ago, he had no escape. He had no one to hate except for himself. He wanted to hate Carmen, wanted to hate her for finding him and for pitying him and for loving him but never enough and never in the right way but he couldn’t. He could never bring himself hate her. It was a shame; everything would be much simpler if he could.

Now, he leans his head on Theo’s shoulder with difficulty, and he wishes he could hate Carmen the way he hates Theo, the way he hates himself. Maybe then he could learn how to love someone else.

The first time he found Theo in the bathroom, he was genuinely worried for the man. They were at dinner with Trace, and with Amanda; a false impression of a double date, though two of them had no romantic interest tying them there. Peter looked at Amanda across the table, and he could see she was there for the same reason he was, and let’s not sugarcoat it - they were there for the sex. Even so, he could hear Carmen in my head, hear the words Don’t hurt him, Peter, so he was extra-observant, noticed the way Theo ate four or five breadsticks before the food even came, noticed the way he binged on salad, how much cheese was grated onto it before he finally said That’s good, noticed the dessert he ordered and how he ate it with way too much vigor. And then Peter noticed the way he got up to use the bathroom before they left.

Peter was not a stranger with this type of behavior. In freshman year of college, his Intro to Modern Dance class, he had friends that suffered from the same symptoms, and yes, suffered is the proper word for it. Someone passed out on the hard wooden floor, right in the middle of rehearsal, and he watched with a callous indifference as she was swarmed by the class. You hear about bulimia all the time, growing up, learn about it in Foods class and in Health and in your AP Psychology course, but no one ever talks about the fact that men can contract it, too, can feel the pressure of the perfect image that they don’t fit into.

Peter’s really only disgusted when he notices that Theo fits into his perfect image; on his knees, choking, even if it’s not what he’d usually be choking on.

Nice, Peter. Reduce him to a sexualized object. Make him out to be nothing more than he believes he is. The one throwing up should be me. No, that’s still giving myself far more credit than I deserve; I should be the vomit. That’s what I really am. Refuse.

Peter noticed far before Trace began to worry, but it was only when he heard Theo’s been gone for a while with that certain tonality of thinly veiled panic that he stood and volunteered to go look for the blonde. What a trooper, Peter! You’ve just earned your Compassion Badge!

He was right where Peter had a feeling he would be; on his knees, yes, choking, yes, but throwing up everything he’d just consumed. It hadn’t even dissolved completely yet. It was a while before Theo noticed he was standing there and when he finally looked up, tears streaming down his face purely from the effort it took to make yourself gag and then throw up several times in succession, Peter just said, You okay? They both know it was a stupid-ass question, and they both knew he was lying when he said Yeah, just a little under the weather, but Peter said nothing to Trace, just as Theo asked; he said nothing about it to Theo, just as he would have asked.

Now, looking in the mirror, Peter still says nothing, still holds his tongue when any sane person, any compassionate person would run and wake Trace the hell up and tell him his baby brother, his mirror twin, his everything was bulimic and self destructive and barely hanging on at this point. But Peter’s not sane. He’s not compassionate. He’s the furthest thing from, reaching for Theo when he thinks about Carmen and wants to either cry or get fucked; usually the latter, because Theo does not get to see him cry, hell fucking no. Not a chance. He has to pretend to be strong so Theo feels like he can rely on him.

He puts too much thought into acting, sometimes. After all, isn’t the truth that Theo doesn’t get to see him be that weak?

Times like these, though, are the best. Times when he wakes up between the night and the day and saves Theo from himself are the best because then he’s insecure. He’s broken, and Peter gets to be the one to tell him, “You’re beautiful,” because he is; tell him, “You’re perfect the way you are,” because that’s true, too, just not perfect for him. And then he get to be the one Theo blows, the one pressing him into the mattress, trying to get him to scream.

Sometimes, self-loathing is totally unwarranted, as in the case of Theo. He has quite a number of good skills. He’s an effective manager, pretty damn good with finances, attractive, bilingual, among all sorts of other things. He’s only a few subjects shy of being a Renaissance Man™. He’s the last person in the world who should harbor any hatred for themselves.

Well, penultimate, maybe.

But Peter?

The next day when Trace asks him how Theo’s doing, if he’s eating properly, if he’s seen him smoking, if anything is going on with him, Peter lies. He says, “Fine. He’s eating at normal times, keeps it all down. Haven’t seen him smoke even once, not even vape. He seems better, Trace, he really does,” and Trace smiles.

Sometimes, self-loathing is totally warranted. Peter can’t even be categorized as a real person; he should care more about Theo. And, really, the truth is that he does care. He goes out of his way to do things for him, buy things he knows Theo would like, surprise him with food and supervise him so he doesn’t go and immediately puke it up. Sometimes, he’s not just playing the role of the good boyfriend. Sometimes, he actually is the good boyfriend.

When he wakes up, there’s a cup of coffee on his nightstand, just the way he likes it; laundry is done, put away, so he doesn’t have to worry; Peter’s taped his work schedule to the mirror so he knows exactly when and who and where.

Before he goes to sleep, Peter takes care of him like he used to take care of so many other people. He puts his big mouth to work and shuts up, for once. He doesn’t joke, he doesn’t play around, he gets straight to the point and gets Theo to finish, hands digging into Peter’s scalp, nails need to be trimmed but the pain isn’t entirely a bad thing.

During the day, Peter texts him to remind him that he loves Theo - because in a way he really does - and tell him about his day, about Ella being perfect in the shop, about the ridiculous customers that come in, about the disgusting new things Amanda comes up with.

Sometimes, he lets himself fall just the smallest bit in love with Theo.

And then he’ll get a text from her, or she comes in to work his shift with him. Carmen. Carmen, his best friend, soulmate, love of his life, the one that got away but never actually left because she was never actually there, never like that, the one he never got over. First and only.

Or maybe he’ll just remember the night she was drunk and he was sober and he straight up lied to her face when he had never in his life had a more perfect moment to tell her the truth.

Or maybe he’ll hear from Cori and that same old animosity, years old, curls into his stomach, eats Peter from inside out because she loved Cori. She loved Cori publicly, when she never did him.

Or maybe he’ll run into Chase, and Peter will want to tackle him, knock him out, sneak into the bar and wreck everything because it was never just girls, it just wasn’t him.

The joke is that it always was him. The joke is that Peter had more than enough chances, more than enough time, and he never said a god damn word.

The joke is that he punched Carmen out, broke her nose, because she loved him right the hell back.

The joke is that a year later, when he finally let himself get over her, and realized he gave a damn about Theo, Theo realized he didn’t care.

In the middle of the night, Peter wakes up to the sound of the cicadas still crying outside. The blankets are on the floor, and he’s shivering to the core. He stretches out his arms to feel for Theo, but he’s not there. He’s not down the hall, throwing up, either. Peter feels like he’s in a dream when he gets up, pads down the uncarpeted hall in his bare feet. Theo’s in the kitchen, eating ice cream. His mouth is a mess; Peter can’t believe how much he wants to kiss him.

The funeral wasn’t that long ago, and she’s buried six feet under, and he felt like a part of him was buried with her but maybe a part of him was also finally dug up and brought to light.

Peter sits next to him, grabs a spoon from the drawer behind them. They open their mouths at the same time, both laugh nervously.

His laugh makes Peter feel warm in a way it never did before. Their elbows knock together, and Peter smiles.

“You first,” he tells Theo, waving the spoon. It drips rocky road onto the counter, the first sign because he never used to eat rocky road ice cream. Never. Not until Theo.

“I was wrong, you know?” Theo shrugs and stares into the melting cream in his bowl. It looks like soup. “I said this was important to me.”

Beautiful girl, love the dress.

“What was important to you?” The ice cream sticks in Peter’s throat, too cold, burning straight through him. He knows, but he has to ask. Has to hear it said.

“This relationship. But you were right, you know? It was just a rebound.”

God, only a month ago he would have loved to hear that. The year Peter spent in his arms didn’t mean anything to him until she was gone.

Perfect smile, oh, yes.

“Sometimes it just happens,” he says in an attempt to sound wise, swallowing the ice and his head bursts into pain. Too much, too fast.

Theo turns to him, smiles sadly. “I don’t love you, Peter.”

He smiles right back.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Me, too.”

Beautiful girl, love the dress.

“I thought so,” he sighs, relieved. He drink the rest of his ice cream soup in one, long gulp, and oh man, Peter used to hate the noise he made when he drank things but now it hits him hard.

“I thought so,” he says again, “from the moment you told me about Carmen.”

“Yeah.”

Where she is now, I can only guess.

“I’m glad that this all works out, then.” He stands, and Peter follows suit, shoves his hands into his pajama pockets.

“Yeah.”

Theo leans in, hesitates before he presses his lips to Peter’s. Peter wants to part his lips, wants to let him in for the first time, wants to be with him. His stomach twists, his head aches from something more than brainfreeze. Theo pulls back, thoughtful. Grins.

“See? Nothing.”

“Yeah,” Peter agrees, swallowing his greed. “Nothing.”

‘Cause it’s gone, daddy, gone, the love is gone away.