KIROKAZE
One Nice Bug Per Day
Kiana Khansmith
oozey mess
Not today Justin
taylor price
❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
Show & Tell
Love Begins
Fai_Ryy
ellievsbear
ojovivo
blake kathryn
Cosmic Funnies
The Bowery Presents
pixel skylines
NASA
noise dept.
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
gracie abrams
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from Italy
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from Spain
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Brazil
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Ecuador
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
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seen from United States
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seen from Panama
@hyperfix-wip
Hello, welcome to my blog! I'm Hype, a 20+ year old amateur writer trying to improve my skills through contributing to fandoms I enjoy :)
I tend to write a lot of comedy and fluff, but I am also trying to write other genres like hurt/comfort and angst!
Masterlist:
Series:
Hobie Brown:
Webbed Together (Ongoing)
The Prowler Chronicles Collection
One-Shots:
Octobie 2024
Next to You
Slipping Through My Fingers
Out of Time
Original Characters (Ongoing):
Mei Prak (Spiderverse)
Cheers to 3 years! May I propose Something Blue? Spider people fem!R and Hobie come across a proposal searching for an anamoly. They realize it's a different version of them, right as the anamoly crashes the proposal.
Spider! R and Hobie!! Thank you so much for requesting!! ❤️
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 3k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, cw food mentions, established relationship, cw blood and injury, cw suggestive, talks of marriage, hurt/comfort.
Navigation
3rd anniversary celebration 🎉
“Alright, catch this one and I’ll buy you another pack.” You toss the sour candy into the air as you watch Hobie move his head side to side to catch it. It bounces on his tooth, but he recovers and manages to get it into his mouth. Laughing, you clap above the rooftop, legs dangling on the side as he raises his hands triumphantly but the sour look on his face says otherwise. “Good catch, Hobs!”
“Fuckin’ hell, love, that one was extra sour.” Sitting back down, he snatches your soda and takes a gulp as you continue to laugh at his scrunched face. “Don’t buy me another one of those, I could feel my teeth rattlin’.”
“So not even the chocolate balls?” You pop one in your mouth as the burst of sweetness envelopes your mouth.
“I have a couple of chocolate balls ‘ere for you, love.” His pierced brows wiggle whilst you almost choke on the treat. It’s Hobie’s turn to laugh at you, handing the drink over to you as he pats your back.
“You asshole!” Coughing, you smack his thigh, garnering another laugh from him.
“What? I do have ‘em ‘ere for you!” The plastic package crinkles in his hand, shaking the unopened treat in your face. “See.”
“You’re so annoying.” You groan, rolling your eyes as he scooches closer to you, now hip to hip, an arm behind you protectively as his hand rests on the ledge beside you.
“You love me.” He teases, chin stabbing right at your shoulder as he grins lopsidedly at you.
“I do but you’re still annoying.” Scrunching your nose, Hobie really wants to kiss the folds on your nose as he chuckles, lips a hair’s width away from your own. The sunset drapes upon the two of you in warm light, adding to his sweetened gaze that you return with the same saccharine look. “How many more hours until our patrol ends?” You ask, tone soft, eyes glancing down at his lips that are lightly dusted with sour candy sugar. If you kiss him now you can bet that you’ll be able to taste the candy on his lips.
“An hour. A whole agonizin’ hour.”
“What do you want to do when we get to your place, hm?” Your finger twirls around a stray curl on his nape as he sighs in content.
“I think you already know, love.”
“Nope, I don’t. I need you to tell me in great detail, Hobie.”
A grin spreads across his handsome face as his hand finds your waist, fingers curling around you tenderly. “First I’m goin’ to snog you until—”
“Hey, lovebirds!” Lyla’s hologram suddenly appears in between you, blocking Hobie’s half lidded eyes. “You’re still on the clock, remember?” She says with a lilt as the two of you pull away with an annoyed groan. “We have an anomaly at Earth—”
“Yeah, yeah, Lyla, we see the bloody alert.” Hobie waves her away, her hologram flickering. “We’re on it.”
Rubbing the ache blooming in between your brows, you stand up and stretch, putting your mask on as Hobie calibrates his watch.
“Don’t you two wanna hear what you’re after?” Lyla perches on your shoulder, looking skeptical over her glasses.
“An anomaly that clearly doesn’t belong in that dimension.” You answer flatly, the warmth in your chest sizzling out from the intrusion. “It’s not our first rodeo, Lyla.”
“Wishin’ that it’s our last though.” Hobie mumbles under his breath, sighing loudly as the orange glow of the portal hums. “C’mon, lovie, let’s get this over with.” Pulling his mask on, he gives you an open palm.
You take his hand in yours, and his whole demeanor softens from that alone.
—
The two of you swing from building to building searching for the anomaly. It’s been twenty minutes of blindly looking around for a needle in a haystack in a dimension not so different from your own. Maybe you should’ve listened to Lyla and asked what the hell you’re even hunting.
Whilst swinging around, you can tell that Hobie’s getting frustrated. The easy conversation fizzles out, from asking what you want for dinner to small grunts as a reply after you asked him if he’s doing okay. You don’t blame him, you want to go home and relax in his arms just like how he desperately wants to fall asleep beside you, but alas, the anomaly is a hide and seek champion.
You land on the side of a building as you check your watch, the blinking dot on the map stays still somewhere down the docks. Hobie sidles beside you, crawling over to you as he takes a peek at your watch.
“That him?” He asks, forehead resting against your bicep. You could practically feel his exhaustion through his suit.
“Yeah,” the same fatigue rolls in your taut muscles, a hand gliding along the top of his mask, fingertips rolling around and in between the spikes. “Fuck, I’d give anything for our bed right now.”
“We better hurry up then, love.” Pecking you through your mask, Hobie inhales deeply before swinging away.
Blowing a raspberry, you unstick yourself from the building, free falling as the wind blows around you. Before you hit the ground, you’re swinging away and following right behind Hobie.
The dimension is awfully familiar to Hobie’s, same streets, same houses and even the same corner shop you two go to whenever you have a hankering for snacks in the middle of the night. It’s all the same, except the fact that people here speak some sort of alien language, and their written language is in hieroglyphics like writing. Plus the fact that the people here still dress like they’re in the 50’s, 1850’s that is. It’s weird but definitely not the weirdest dimension you came across.
You almost collide into Hobie as he hangs onto his web, staying still and just hanging there.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Your hand kneads at the space between his shoulder blades like always. “Do you see the anomaly?”
“No,” there’s something laced in his tone.
It’s an unusual reaction from him, one that you’ve only seen a few times. So you follow his gaze, only to garner the same reaction from you.
There, on a floating houseboat like his own, are a couple. The sight is sweet, the man is on one knee, proposing to the love of his life as she sobs on her hands, whilst speaking in the language you can’t understand.
“Lyla, translate.” You probably don’t need to know what they’re talking about when it's clear as day, when it’s clear who those two people are— it's you and Hobie, dressed in the dimension’s fashion, and looking so in love with each other.
“On it.”
Your ear piece cackles to life, glitching before turning into the English you understand. The first thing you two hear is your name from this universe’s Hobie, said in that sickly saccharine timbre you've heard your Hobie whisper in your ear.
“Will you make me the happiest man in the world and be my wife?” This Hobie asks, accent different, intonation different, but his voice is the same as your Hobie, with the same sweetened tone whenever he asks you to stay for breakfast, whenever he calls your name in the society. It’s him and you, but different, more in love, in a different phase of their lives. When you two have only been together casually, a few months, a few blissful months. It’s going great, he’s amazing, and you’re falling for him hard, probably already are but as you stare at the side of his mask, the way his breath hitches in his throat, the scene before him doesn’t seem to give him the same warm feeling in his chest as you do— it wakes him up.
“Anomaly on your right!” Lyla screams in your ear piece. That’s the last thing you hear before a hurling boulder hits you dead on.
—
There are dust and debris all over the docks. Large rocks have found their way into the water, slowly sinking down into the muddy depths. Smoke belches from somewhere, the air acrid in your lungs as you try to take a deep breath only to cough harshly. Ears ringing, body aching, your head hurts, pain blooming right on your temple as you touch the spot. Finding blood right on your fingertips as you bring your hand to see.
“Oh, fuck…Hobie…” coughing, rolling around on the cracked docks, you feel the splintered wood against your back as you face the gloomy sky. “Hobie!”
The shrill ringing still blocks your hearing, as you wince and groan on the ground. There’s a faint pressure on your shoulder, a familiar hand, a familiar squeeze.
You turn to face the source, and you see Hobie, looking down at you with concern. He’s saying something, mouth opening and closing but you can’t hear anything he’s saying.
His head turns towards his right, yelling something before the sound of a muffled thump against the shattered dock echoes in your muffled ears.
Your own face appears in your vision, gasping as she says something to Hobie, no, this isn’t your Hobie, it’s her Hobie, the one that gave her the sparkling ring on her finger.
“Congratulations…” you mumble, tongue dragging along your dry lips.
“Love!” Hobie, your Hobie in his familiar accent, in a familiar language and the familiar sound of his boots against the wood, runs towards you.
Your body feels heavy. You’re so sleepy.
“Oi, oi, don’t close your eyes!” He takes off his mask as your hearing slowly returns. Hobie’s face is marred by his terrified expression, hands grasping onto you as he yells into his watch. “Where the fuck are they, Lyla?!”
“Oh, hey, Hobie…” you reach for him, but your arm doesn’t move. You’re so tired, so so tired.
“Stay with me, lovie, yeah? We have to go home.” Your eyes fight to stay open just as the orange glow from the portals open beside you. “No, no, wake up!” His voice fades away as you fall asleep.
—
You wake to the sound of beeping and a hand wrapped around your own. Cracking an eye open, you find everything too bright, everything is too loud, and you could feel every pain and ache in your body.
Wincing, the hand around your own immediately moves. Hobie enters your line of sight, a face contorted into worry, still wearing the same suit with various battle damages. Shit, the fight.
“H—Hobie—”
“Shh, it’s alright, don’t talk.” His voice is almost as hoarse as yours. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in days. “You’re okay, you’re at the society’s hospital.”
“What—” you smack your dry lips together as he leaves your sight for a moment. The sounds of water rushing in your ears is loud whilst you wince, coughing out from the dryness of your throat. “Hobie, where are you?”
“‘m ‘ere, ‘m ‘ere, don’t worry.” Gently, like a feather upon your skin, he lifts your head up to help you take a drink. “There, slowly, love.”
You gulp down the water, letting it wash away the dryness. Droplets dribble from your chin and Hobie wipes it away with his hand.
You finish the whole glass as he smiles tiredly at you. “Better?”
“Much.” You manage a smile before a wave of pain from your temple beats at your skull. “F–fuck.”
“I’ll call doctor spider—” your weak hold around his wrist stops him. “Love, you need to be seen by him.”
“I’m okay, just— stay for a bit, just us.” You lick at your lips as you watch him weigh both options inside his head.
Hobie notices you squinting, he always notices every minute detail about you, anything that he could help with in making you feel better or just to make you smile.
“Can I dim the lights?” He asks lowly, almost a whisper as his thumb gently brushes around your IV line.
You nod and he reluctantly pulls away. Hobie goes to the far wall and dims the light until he could see your eyes relax. He immediately goes back to your side, already reaching for your hand to hold.
“Hi.” You tearfully look up at him with a smile.
“Hi, love.” He hides his own tears with a well timed sniff.
“Do I look okay?” Your hand hovers above your head, where you feel a bandage wrapped around it.
“You look bloody fit as always.”
“You’re a charmer.” You squeeze his hand as tight as you could. “A lying charmer.”
“Still a charmer.” Hobie sits down, scooches his seat closer to the edge of the bed, too afraid to sit beside you on the bed as if his added presence will exacerbate your injuries. “Five minutes and I’ll call the doc in.”
“Okay, have you eaten yet?”
“Love, you’re the one with all these wires on you.”
“You know I worry when you skip meals whenever you’re too worried or busy.” Your voice is small, and Hobie wonders if he’ll ever hear your real voice again once you recover.
“Gwen dropped off some food yesterday, and a sandwich today. I took care of myself, don’t worry.”
“He says while he’s still in his suit. I can see my blood on you, Hobie.”
He chuckles, looking down at himself before gazing at you again as if he’s afraid that if he leaves his gaze from you for too long you’d be unconscious again. That you’d fade away from his sight.
“Yeah, well, I have my limits. I don’t look too bad, right?”
“No, still handsome.” Your palm grazes his cheek, still too weak to fully raise your hand.
“I smell, don’t I?” The corner of his lips tug into a small smile.
“No, not in the slightest.” You shake your head with a snort.
“Good, because Miles came in ‘ere and sprayed me down with his cologne.”
You’d laugh harder if you don’t feel the pain pound right at your head. “I hope it’s not the one he wears.”
Hobie chuckles, bringing your hand to his lips for a heavy kiss. For a beat, he just sits there with your hand on his lips as you feel the quiver of his lips against your skin.
He opens his eyes and it’s filled with unshed tears. “You scared me there, love.” His tone breaks at the edges, he clears his throat, sniffing and smelling the antiseptic on your skin. “I shouldn’t— I shouldn’t have froze.”
“It’s okay, I’m okay, please,” you squeeze at his hand, index brushing along the apple of his cheek. “Please don’t blame yourself. I froze too, Hobie.”
Shaking his head, your hand upon his forehead, he sniffs and kisses your hand again before bringing it to his cheek. “We both fucked up.”
“Yeah, we both did.” You chuckle, feeling your enhanced healing do the work. “I’m feeling better already, so please don’t blame yourself.”
“Can’t help it, love.”
“I know,” you would be doing the same if the positions were reversed. “What…” you clear your throat and he turns to ready another cup of water for you before you gesture for him to sit back down. “What happened to the couple? The ones who were proposing on the dock?”
He smiles, an easier one this time as his head tilts, hand still clasped in his. “You mean us?”
You bite your cut lip to stifle a giggle. “Yeah, a better dressed version of us.”
“They’re good, they helped you actually. They held pressure on your wound while I was beatin’ the shit out of dapper Kraven.”
“The anomaly was Kraven? No wonder why he was so quiet.” You try to piece together all the snippets you saw while you were in and out of consciousness.
“Not jus’ him,” your brow furrows. “There was a Sandman too.”
“What?” Your eyes widen, immediately concerned for him. “T–two? Hobie.”
“‘m good, love. I got them both.”
You scoff, more akin to a shocked laugh. “Shit, I want to see the footage of that.”
“You’ll be jumpin’ my bones in the middle of watchin’ it then.”
“That’s why I want to see it.” You regain enough strength to take his hand instead and press a kiss right on his broken knuckles. “I’m sorry for leaving you all alone to fight them by yourself.”
Hobie shakes his head, leaning closer to you now, almost on the bed as he smiles at you. “None of that.”
“I should’ve seen that boulder coming from a mile away but I got distracted.” You chortle, pulling him closer to you, wordlessly telling him to get on the bed beside you.
He understands as he lays himself gently beside you, avoiding all the wires attached to your body. The hospital bed is too small, but you two make it work with his hand on your other side to prevent you from falling whilst you grip at his vest to keep him from falling.
“It’s a canon event.”
“No, it’s not.” Your laugh echoes around the hospital room, a balm to his soul.
“It’s not.” Hobie chortles back, an arm thrown over your middle, so careful and mindful of his weight on you. “The love birds distracted us.”
“An understatement.”
“Do you…” his eyes wander over to the wall as his fingers run along the length of the blanket on your side. “do you think we’ll get to that point someday?”
“Yes,” you answer without uncertainty. “Yeah, I definitely see us getting to that point.”
“With a ring and everythin’?” Turning his gaze at you, his eyes shine, as you feel his heartbeat against your side. “If you want.”
“With a ring and everything.” You smile back, resting your forehead against his own. “I thought you froze because you didn’t want that for us.”
“No, I froze because…” once he meets with your eyes his nerves ease. “‘cause I saw us, and I thought, ‘shit, do we really look at each other like that all the time?’ because it was too sweet, lovie, and it made me realize that they could be us someday. Then I thought you might not want it.”
You kiss the tip of his nose, tangling your leg around his leg and pulling him close. “I want it too, seeing them made me realize that it was an option for us. And they looked so in love it was sickening.”
You both laugh into each other’s lips.
“Someday, yeah?”
“Someday.”
DONT SCARE ME LIKE THAT 😭😭😭 DONT MAKE ME CRY OVER ALMOST DYING FROM WATCHING A VARIANT OF US GETTING PROPOSED TO BY OUR LOVE—
Webbed Together
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.2k
Author's Note: I really need to get better at uploading at a more consistent pace 🥲 but honestly, this part kinda hit me hard when I finally broke through that writing slump. I missed these girls so much, and I'm glad I actually rewrote this chapter for them! I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie and Ramona, aa well as @pinksugarscrub for sticking with me through this chapter!
Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader, Fluff, Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort, TW Anxiety
Chapter 7: Heart to Heart
<< Chapter 6 Chapter 8 >>
Mum’s alive.
Those words skip in Billie’s mind like those old vinyl records her dad kept in his room, scratching with each iteration. The only noise that breaks through the constant loop of revelation is the crinkling of the old photo in her hand, with the smiling faces of you and Hobie hanging over her. Her eyes drift over to the printed image of you– frozen in time, forever young on paper. You’re grinning ear to ear as you hold up a black t-shirt, one with an old graphic design for the band at the time– a red web inked across the chest with the band name trapped on it in white. Billie’s fingers fidget with the worn photo as she glances to the floor, all the content from her trunk still crumpled around her. Scattered photos and papers, strewn pens and pencils, haphazardly-tossed shirts and pants– Billie winces at the sight of them on the clean hardwood floor. A nagging image of Ramona comes to mind: dirt caked on her cheeks, clothes smudged with grime, dust clouded around her as she aired the cabin out.
With a reluctant sigh Billie pushes herself up and starts to clean, starting with the tin box next to her.
The photo of you slides out of her fingers and flutters back into the box, your beaming face slipping into dark shadows. Billie looks away to the other photos on the floor and pushes them into a pile, ignoring the imaginary looming pressure from your printed presence before dropping the photos on top of you.
Tingles crawl over Billie’s skin, her hands restlessly fidgeting across the floor– straightening crumpled papers, tossing pens and pencils into her trunk, piling her clothes to the side. Her big toe twitches back and forth under her electric blue sock. Her fingers wriggle every time an item drops from her grasp. Her head jerks in micro-headbangs as her face pinches in a troubled frown.
Mum’s alive. She’s actually alive.
Billie’s mind rings in her head in bombarding echos like cymbals, drowning out any background noises around the cabin. Her body moves on autopilot– almost robotic and erratic– while she tosses her belongings in her trunk. The urge to run and thrash around thrums in her leg muscles, but the image of Ramona cleaning the cabin still lingers in the back of Billie’s head. She tucks her legs further in to stave away the urge, but her fingers and toes still twitch in anticipation. Butterflies swarm in Billie’s stomach, and a burning tightness creeps up the back of her throat. The cymbals in Billie’s head clash harder in her eardrums, loud and unrelenting, while her fingers tremble against a cotton shirt.
Mum’s alive. She’s really alive. And I might actually see her.
Wrinkles crease along the fabric as Billie struggles to fold her shirt, attempting to fold it the way Ramona did before. Her brows furrow when the shirt slips from its fold, her nose crinkles when the sides droop over weirdly, and her mouth curls into a dissatisfied scowl when her fingers accidentally tug at a fold and pull a sleeve out of it. She’s not gonna make her clothes look like those fancy department store’s– she doesn’t know how Ramona was able to– but she needs something to occupy her fingers. The cymbals gradually cease their clangor as she tosses her sorry attempt of a folded shirt into her trunk, but the thoughts still hum in the background.
Mum’s alive. She wasn’t dead this whole time. And she has another daughter– I have a sister! A sister around my age? Maybe younger? Is Mon-Mon around my age?
Billie’s fingers clumsily fly through folding her trousers, catching themselves into the ripped sections and snapping some frayed denim.
Mon-Mon looks like me, obviously, so she has to be Dad’s daughter too, right? I mean, Dad would tell me if I have a sister, right? But why didn’t he? Why wouldn’t Dad tell me about Mon-Mon? Why wouldn’t he talk to me about Mum? Why did they split us up?
The thrumming itch to move in her stalls from the thought. Billie’s fingers freeze mid-fold, the denim rough against her skin. Her stomach twists the longer those thoughts buzz like low static.
What actually happened between Dad and Mum?
A click rings through the silence surrounding Billie, and she looks up to the door as Ramona freezes under the doorway. Her hand clenches the leather handle of her bass case, the metal hinges softly rattling, the case barely swaying against her leg. Ramona’s eyes, shadowed underneath by a hint of purplish-black, waver under Billie’s stormy scrutiny. The tension looms heavy within the cabin, so thick that Billie can cut through it with her bow string. The faint chirping and rustling leaves outside barely register in Billie’s ears, even as Ramona walks inside and closes the screen door behind her. The cymbals clash back in Billie’s head, all the spiraling questions and thoughts festering in her chest and clawing up to her throat, but the walls behind Ramona’s eyes render them useless on Billie’s tongue. The urge to move intensifies in Billie, but at the same time her body is anchored to the hardwood under Ramona’s gaze.
Her eyes mirror Billie’s, they mirror her dad’s– their dad’s.
Billie swallows the lump in the back of her throat as Ramona finally averts her eyes, but the uncomfortable festering still lingers for the pink girl.
The moment Ramona saw that photo of you– the you before her, captured in the past she seemingly knew nothing about– Billie saw whatever ember in Ramona’s eyes flicker out. She avoided talking to Billie for the next few days– staying out longer for her bass lessons; eating breakfast before Billie woke up; going to bed earlier before Billie came back from her violin lessons.
Hell, Ramona never even touched her mp3 player after that, so the silence within the cabin was even more stifling. No muffled acoustic playing in the background as Billie’s alarm, no faint synths and snare kicks echoing in the background during break times, no hushed pianos and violins to lull Billie to sleep.
And especially no song from Dad blaring out in the cabin.
Billie gets it– being blindsided isn’t fun at all. She’s still grappling with the bombshell of you being alive. But Ramona? She didn’t even get a single story about Dad from you, no hint of him ever revealed in Ramona’s life. The only way he was ever involved in her life was through his music, but you never even mentioned that you knew the band, let alone were involved with them from the beginning. Wouldn’t someone normally brag about that? Or at least mention that part of their life to their daughter? And not only did Ramona have to find out about Dad being alive, but she had to find out through a stranger who happened to be her sister? Of course Ramona would be scared off and avoid Billie at all costs.
Billie gets it, she really does.
It doesn’t mean she has to like it though.
Billie glances back up at Ramona shuffling back to her side of the cabin, the soft clinking of the metal handles echoing as the bass case sways against Ramona’s leg. Rubber soles drag against the hardwood as Ramona approaches her bed, gingerly dropping the case down next to her trunk. She flops onto her bed, her long legs hanging off the edge. Dark coils splay over from behind her ponytail, cascading over her back and onto starched white sheets. The curtains from a window flutter from the gentle summer breeze, and the fading sunlight creeps through the sheer fabric and dapples over the girl amidst looming shadows, as if trying to protect her with its fleeting presence.
It’s like a dramatic painting Billie would see in those big art books Auntie Yuri keeps.
Billie’s face pinches up into a grimace, her eyes narrowing and her mouth curling into a small pout. Prickles fester in her chest as she stares at her melodramatic double– sister? Twin? – before she tosses her poorly-folded jeans onto the floor. The punk girl pushes herself up with a grunt, almost toppling back down from the sudden rush of blood through her leg. Wincing from the pins and needles assaulting her leg, she stumbles towards Ramona, one foot slogging with all of Billie’s weight while her other foot drags behind.
Billie can’t let this go on– if not for Ramona’s spiraling mental state, then for Billie’s own sanity.
Heavy combat boots finally stop in front of the occupied bed. Billie’s shadow looms over the sprawled figure, and it takes everything within Billie not to yank Ramona out of bed.
“Oi.”
Ramona ignores her, burying her face into her pillow. Another sharp prick stabs into Billie’s chest as she nudges Ramona’s leg.
“Oi, Mon-Mon.”
Ramona weakly kicks Billie’s hand off before she curls up on her bed, draping her duvet and pillow over her like a makeshift shield.
The pins and needles in Billie’s leg swarms up to her chest, the prickling growing unbearable to the punk girl. With gritted teeth and hardened eyes, Billie slaps her hand on the fleshy part of Ramona’s rear. A startled scream muffles under the duvet before Ramona scrambles out of her cocoon. Angry tears well up in Ramona’s eyes as she glares at Billie, a hue of red creeping up her skin.
“What was that for?!”
Hot waves of pain emit from Billie’s hand. Frustration claws up her throat, poisoning her tongue with an acrid taste as she struggles not to yell. “I am done with ya ignorin’ me! We are talkin’, ‘n we are talkin’ right now–!”
A harsh scoff slips through Ramona’s lips as she slips out of her bed away from Billie, covering her butt from future assaults. “There’s nothing to talk about–”
“Like hell there is!” Billie chases after Ramona as she storms around the cabin. “Ya t’ink avoidin’ me’s gonna fix any of this?! Jus’ ‘cuz ya don’t wanna talk ‘bout it don’t mean ‘s gon’ go away!”
Ramona storms towards the shared wardrobe cabinet, flinging the doors open until they slam against the sides. She angrily snatches a basket full of crumpled clothes and stomps away before Billie can grab her.
“There is nothing to talk about, Billie–”
“Really? ‘Cuz findin’ out we have t’ same parents seems like somethin’ t’ talk ‘bout–!”
Billie rushes in front of the exit before Ramona could, holding her arms out to block the way. An exasperated groan rumbles through Ramona’s chest as she turns her back from Billie, but the punk girl is not having it. “Are ya really gon’ blank me on this?!”
A tempest brews within the confines of the cabin as the two girls continue their cat-and-mouse game. Loud stomps reverberate throughout wooden walls. Angry groans creak from the floorboards. The windows rattle, stained glass threatening to pop off their panels.
“Damn it, Mon-Mon, talk t’ me!” Billie’s voice thunders against the walls. “Ain’t this a good thing–?”
Ramona slams the basket down, the clothes spilling onto the floor. “In what world would this be a good thing?! How is finding out that your parents lied to you a good thing?!”
Hurt flickers in the punk girl’s eyes as she stumbles back, but she quickly stands her ground again, “I dunno, but there had t’ be a reason–!”
“What reason would they have, then?” Ramona’s counter strikes through Billie like lightning. Frustration storms behind russet eyes, tears welling up before Ramona angrily wipes them off. “Why would they split us up and not tell us about each other?”
The pins and needles worsen in Billie’s chest, but she swallows the bile in her throat as she chases after Ramona again, accidentally kicking the clothes away. “Like I said, I don’t know! But there had t’ be somethin’!” Static crackles in the air as Billie grabs Ramona’s arm and yanks her back. “Stop try’na walk away from me–!”
“Stop touching me!”
Ramona yanks her arm out of Billie’s hand just as hard, fire crackling behind her glistening eyes. A sharp hiccup wracks her body, and stray tears threaten to roll down her cheeks.
“You don’t get it! My mom never lies to me!”
The prickles in Billie’s chest surges up her throat as she stares at her trembling double, her tongue heavy like lead in water.
“My mom never lies to me!” Denial clings to Ramona’s voice, straining it into a hoarse cry. “She doesn’t keep secrets from me! Why would she keep this from me?!”
Another sharp hiccup wracks her body again as more tears bead up along her lashline, threatening to spill over. She trembles under the pressure, the scrutiny, from her stranger of a sister– the one who was raised by a father she never met.
“She never told me anything about Dad,” Ramona’s voice trembles with each hitch of breath. “Not about him being in a band, not about making his merch, nothing!”
Betrayal and hurt flashes in her eyes as the tears finally roll down her cheeks. “It’s not fair! Why do you know something about Mom that I don’t? Why do you get to keep pictures of her and Dad together and I don’t? Why do you get to know about Mom but I don’t know anything about Dad?”
Sharp sobs wrack her body as tears continue to fall, dripping onto the hardwood floor. “Why am I being left out?”
Billie stands frozen as the sounds of sniffles echo within the cabin, the mirror image of her trembling and struggling to breathe with each sob. A dull ache lingers in a void in her chest, rolling and thundering like a storm cloud, rendering her speechless. She takes a tentative step towards Ramona, as if her presence would set off another eruption of tears if she takes the wrong step. The back of Billie’s eyes burn, but tears refuse to surface, not when some are already shed in front of her. Each footfall creaks on the hardwood, muffling the shallow hitches of breath, until Billie stands solemnly in front of Ramona again.
The punk girl gingerly grabs onto her sister’s wrist before pulling her into a tight hug.
Ramona stiffens in the sudden embrace, long, lanky arms wrapping around her like a vice. Despite having a similar build, Billie feels more solid, more steady, more reassuring. A scent of citrus and leather wafts into her nostrils, comforting to the point of bringing her to tears again, before she wraps her own arms around her double. Burying her face into Billie’s shoulders, Ramona blinks away more tears as she clings tighter. More sobs bubble up in her chest, and her body trembles as she gives into her warring emotions.
Billie’s never seen anyone cry before. Granted, she knows what being sad looks like– mainly through her dad whenever Uncle James or Auntie Yuri talked about you– but she’s never seen someone actually cry until now. The ache in her chest is suffocating, crushing her lungs and blocking the back of her throat, as she hugs Ramona tighter.
What would make her feel better? What would make her stop crying? Hugs usually make Billie happy, but it’s just making Ramona cry more. The only other thing that Billie can think of is–
Billie’s eyes widen from the brief epiphany before she gently pulls Ramona back. “Do ya want a choc’late orange?”
“...a what?”
—
Ramona doesn’t remember how she got trapped under a tight blanket cocoon.
One moment she’s being manhandled by her long-lost sister into a bear hug, the next she’s sitting on the floor wrapped in Billie’s blanket. All the while, Billie dumps a pillowcase full of colorful snacks Ramona doesn’t recognize. Disbelief flickers in Ramona’s red-rimmed eyes as she watches Billie tuck an edge of a chocolate bar between her teeth before rummaging through the rest of the snacks.
“Dad always gives me sweets whenever I feel bad,” Billie mutters through her teeth. Her fingers rake through the plastic covered treats and mini cardboard boxes, hunting for one that piques her fancy. “He says sugar can kickstart t’ do…do–hm…”
Billie’s face curls into a frustrated scowl as she snatches one of the cardboard boxes, tucking her finger into the top tab. “He always says t’ word really fast, but ’s basically t’ feel-good feeling in yer brain–”
“...dopamine?”
“Yeah, that–”
She easily rips the top off and tilts the small box, letting an orange-foiled ball tumble onto her awaiting palm. The scent of orange wafts towards Ramona as she leans closer, her eyes lingering on the reflective tangerine-shaded glint. Little dimples cover the ball, and Ramona can already feel the ghosts of them grazing against her fingers, conjuring the image of the actual fruit in her mind.
“Billie, is this the thing you were talking about–?”
SMACK!
Ramona flinches back when Billie slaps her palm against the ball, crinkling the foiled barrier and flattening the inside before unwrapping it.
“It tastes t’ best when ya break it in pieces–”
“Why’d you have to be so violent with it though–?”
“ ’s fun,” the punk girl shrugs as she pulls a small piece out, revealing an orange wedge-like shape. “Plus they’re hard t’ break otherwise.”
Billie lets the chocolate bar drop from her mouth before popping the wedge in, and elation lights up in her eyes. She bounces in place happily, a goofy grin curling up her lips, before she presents the– admittedly perfectly sectioned– pieces of chocolate.
Hesitation flickers on Ramona’s face, her brows furrowing and her mouth curling into a slight frown. Her hand tentatively slips through the blanket barrier around her before grabbing the smallest sliver she can find. The aroma of orange drifts towards Ramona again, the chocolate slowly melting under her touch, the intricate orange-like details running away from the heat of her fingertips. She slowly slips the sliver into her mouth, her tongue lapping up the remnants of chocolate off her fingers.
Milk chocolate coats her tastebuds, melting on her tongue as the taste of orange suddenly floods her senses. The scent lingers the back of her nose while the flavor meshes with the chocolate, a confusing clash within her mouth. The citrus is biting while the chocolate is cloying, almost fighting for dominance in an awkward dance.
Ramona can’t help but let a grimace flicker on her face.
“...it tastes weird.”
“Oi–!”
Billie stares at her double with a flabbergasted stare, as if her very existence was just insulted. “I gave ya t’ best tastin’ flavor too!”
“It still tastes weird. The orange flavor is trying to overpower the chocolate–”
“No it doesn’t! It just brings out a different side of it!” Billie’s cheeks puff out as her lips jut into a frustrated pout. “L-like, it brings out different notes or something–”
Billie’s mind races in a fluster, the sudden urge to defend her favorite sweet charging her sugar-coated tongue. Brief moments of her dad and the band flash in her mind, of how Uncle James would talk about things like “flavor profiles” or “food pairings” with different alcohols and whatnot– but oh god, she for the life of her can’t remember how he said it.
“It’s like…like a mature flavor! Like the kind adults like!”
Ramona’s face curls up into a disbelieving frown, coupled with a dissatisfied groan. “I don’t think I wanna be an adult if that’s something they’re supposed to like–”
“That ain’t what I meant–!”
A loud groan rips through Billie’s throat as she drops her face into her palms, frustration festering in the punk girl’s chest. Even with her face obscured, Ramona can see Billie sulking behind her hands.
“This is Dad’s favorite sweet too…”
Ramona’s frown drops. A heavy pressure looms over her shoulders from the mention of their dad, the image of him in her head now clearer and more daunting than before. What was once a blurry figure with the same eyes as her, a dark shadow lurking in the corner of her mind, suddenly morphs into that man in the picture. Long thick locs, dapples of silver on his skin, a cat-like grin similar to Billie’s– his lack of presence before now prowls closer to the forefront, demanding to be seen, refusing to be ignored.
But somehow with a weird orange-shaped chocolate, with the bitter flavor of white pith and sugary chocolate still lingering on Ramona’s tongue, manages to keep his punkified existence at bay, his demeanor more…Billie-like as he backs away from her mind.
Ramona really doesn’t know how to feel about that now.
She glances at the crinkled orange foil, and another scene comes to mind– a younger girl who looked like her sitting on the lap of the younger Hobie in Billie’s photo. The little girl giggles with delight when the young punk man smacks the chocolate orange with his hand, easily unraveling the pre-sectioned pieces in front of her. A warm smile curls on the fatherly stranger’s lips while the little girl shoves a chocolate wedge in her mouth.
Would Ramona have been like that if she grew up with Hobie Brown?
Her stomach drops from that lapse in her mind, the scene cutting like an old film in a movie theater. Guilt bubbles up Ramona’s throat as an image of you flickers in place– of a younger Ramona sitting on your lap, with you quietly humming and rocking her to sleep. A ghost of chocolate and cardamom lingers in the back of Ramona’s nose, enveloping her into a bittersweet and forgiving embrace. However that reprieve is short-lived, with taunting whispers worming into Ramona’s ears, tugging her back into the reality before her.
She swallows the acrid lump in her throat.
“You really do love your dad.”
For once Billie stays still, the tweeting birds and rustling leaves outside their cabin doing little to offset the charge in her presence. She peeks through the spaces between her fingers, the same russet eyes reflecting back to Ramona.
“...he’s yer dad too.”
Doubt still plagues Ramona’s mind, but the undeniable proof in front of her waves the hushed taunts away from the forefront. Even with wild dark tresses and swatches of denim and plaid on Billie, Ramona can’t deny how they’re like mirror images of each other, how both of them bear resemblance to the man whose music echoed in Ramona’s life in the background.
“...then why didn’t he want me with him?”
The world outside wooden walls muffle in Ramona’s ears, the silence between them growing too heavy to bear before Billie responds with a shrug.
“...probably t’ same reason as Mum with me.”
The bitter lump claws its way back up Ramona’s throat, lodging itself back with a vengeance. Billie’s blanket weighs Ramona down on the ground, trapping her in a suffocating chokehold, while she’s under her long-lost sister’s scrutiny.
“...Mom wouldn’t do that.”
“Neither would Dad.”
The familiar playful grin is nowhere on Billie’s face. The same earthy brown eyes Ramona shares is shrouded with an unfamiliar shadow, dimming the usual glint in Billie’s eyes. A bittersweet smile curls on the punk girl’s lips before she averts her eyes from Ramona.
“ ‘m sure Dad would've loved ya t’ same if ya stayed with us.” Billie shifts onto the hardwood floor until she’s kneeling, her hands trembling as they start to shovel the rest of the candy and snacks back into the pillow case. “Uncle Ned, Uncle James, ‘n Auntie Yuri too. Probably would’ve had both of us travel ‘round with ‘em in Uncle James’s van, havin’ us eatin’ jaffa cakes ‘n monster munches ‘til we’re sick of it, all ‘til we get to the next new city for ‘em t’ perform.”
Her voice wavers with each scoop of treats retreating into the cotton sack, her smile trembling while her eyes refuse to look back up. “Dad would’ve had us watch backstage, callin’ it our personal front row seats while they take over t’ stage…”
A sniffle breaks the fragile silence, but Billie continues to clean, her wild coils shielding her face from Ramona’s eyes.
“...d’ya t’ink Mum would’ve done t’ same? Keep both of us if she could?”
The thought of you rocking Ramona to sleep creeps back up in her mind, this time the background slowly piecing itself together– the small studio apartment filled with old nicknacks and framed sketches, with patched up quilts and numerous photo albums, an ever-evolving time capsule just for you and her. The scent of chocolate and cardamom lingers back, calming the whirling anxiety in Ramona’s chest. Even as a new little girl flickers into her memories, crawling into your lap next to the younger Ramona, a bittersweet warmth creeps up in Ramona’s chest.
“...Mom definitely would’ve.”
Billie freezes mid-tying the end of the pillowcase. Her curls slowly part as she lifts her head, her eyes clouded with wary hope.
“Yeah?”
The lump in Ramona’s throat shrinks down, and she manages to swallow it down with a trembling smile of her own.
“Yeah.”
Billie’s eyes still waver, but a reassured smile curls up on her lips as she crawls away and tosses the pillowcase into her open trunk. A sigh of relief slips through Ramona’s lips despite herself, and she glances back at the reflective orange foil on the floor, the misshapen chocolate wedges beckoning her back with its citrus scent. With an uncertain frown, she reaches for another piece. Her eyes linger on the detailed etchings of the chocolate, the orange-like stamping still a visual marvel to the girl, before she pops it in her mouth again. And like before, her face contorts into a harsh grimace.
“...yeah, it still tastes weird.”
“Don’t eat it then!”
—
Billie can’t sleep.
Lying in her bed, shrouded in darkness and dappled moonlight through her window, Billie stares up at the ceiling with a solemn frown marring her face. Storm clouds whirl in her head, thundering and weighing her down in a muggy haze. The only thing keeping her grounded is the feeling of silicone earbuds tucked in her ears and the sound of a familiar guitar solo echoing into her head. Billie gently squeezes her hand around Ramona’s mp3 player, the plastic tabs on it a reassuring pressure for her, while she glances across the cabin towards Ramona’s bed.
A sheen of green glints under the moonlight as Ramona soundly sleeps, her bonnet reflecting the silvery light Billie’s way. Ramona’s facing away from Billie, like she usually does when she’s asleep, but after these past few nights it still feels like a wall. But Ramona giving Billie her mp3 player before heading to bed is a step to the right direction, right?
A guitar riff quietly croons in Billie’s ears, that familiar string improvisation beckoning her back to the music. As her eyes drift back to the ceiling, her body slowly sinks into the creaking mattress, starched linen and soft cotton brushing against her skin. The riff gently vibrates through her bones, melting away the tension in her body. Billie flutters her eyes shut with a deep sigh, and the music conjures up another scene in her mind– a tall, lanky figure lies next to her, strumming his web-lined guitar, losing himself to the music. Moonlight brightens into a stark-white spotlight over the figure, silver metal glinting on his face and dread cuffs. Long, calloused fingers dance across the fret in a frenzied grace, bending the sounds around him to his will.
Dad is always electrifying when he performs, even through a small speaker.
Billie glances back over to Ramona’s sleeping figure, and the imaginary punk rocker soon follows her sight, sauntering over to Ramona with his trusted guitar in hand. The guitar grows softer in Billie’s ears as the figment of her imagination sits on the edge of Ramona’s bed, moonlight chasing away the shadows from his face. His piercings glint under the silver beams, but tender warmth behind his eyes shines the brightest as he gazes down at Ramona. He sets his guitar down beside him when the strings fade away. His ring-covered fingers tentatively reach towards the slumbering Ramona, but they flinch away when she curls into a ball with a soft snort.
For once, her dad– even as a figment of Billie’s imagination– looks at a loss.
A dull ache creeps up in Billie’s chest at the sight. Her thoughts start to scramble and clash against the music in her ears now, muddling the transition with more questions.
What happened between Mum and Dad? Why would they split up? Why would they split us up? Does Uncle Ned know? Uncle James? Auntie Yuri? Why didn’t they say anything? Do they even know why? Did Dad tell them not to? Would it be too hard to raise both of us together? Would Dad’ve raised us both if he could? Would Mum? Do they still love each other? Does Dad still love Ramona?
The dull ache in Billie’s chest sharpens into a festering prickle.
Does Mum still love me–?
“Bee, I can’t tell if you’re recording–”
“Shit–”
A soft laugh silences the thoughts in Billie’s head, and a new figure settles beside Billie. The punk girl keeps her eyes on Ramona and her imaginary dad, the new presence near her too fragile for her to turn to. Her dad’s muffled groan vibrates in her ears in a nostalgic embrace, but the unknown woman’s voice tugs at Billie’s heart even more.
“How come you’re recording by yourself anyway?” the new voice chimes in Billie’s ears with a mirthful lilt. “I thought you were gonna head to James’s place–”
“Lost t’ key t’ his flat, Cherry,” her dad’s voice grunts back, “ ‘n t’ bloody knobhead wouldn’t answer t’ door. His bloody van’s parked out front, so I know he’s home–”
“Then maybe you could’ve gone later–”
“I don’t wanna–”
“Why not?” The voice in Billie’s ears envelopes her in a comforting warmth. “You can have James work on the mixer while you’re in the booth–”
“I wanna do this m’self,” Billie can hear the petulant pout from her dad’s voice, a rare break from his usual nonchalance. “James’ll jus’ fuck around too much–”
“You know he wouldn’t, Honeybee. Not when it comes to the girls.”
Billie’s eyes glisten as the new figure drapes her arm over Billie’s stomach, gingerly pulling her into an embrace. A ghost of a kiss presses the crown of Billie’s head– she swears she could feel it– while the voice continues to lull her into a relaxed state.
“See?” A strained huff slips through in the voice. “At least one of them agrees with me. Damn, I think Billie was the one who kicked hard–”
“Oi, no, Billie Jean! Be nice t’ yer mummy!”
Soft shuffling echoes in Billie’s ears as she watches her imaginary dad in front of her turn his eyes to her. His usual cat-like smile softens as he stares at her before he pushes himself up from Ramona’s bed. His long, languid strides back sets Billie’s heart thumping, his eyes reminding her of warmed treacle, before he sits on the edge of her bed. He reaches out, but his hand hovers past Billie and to the figure behind her.
“I t’ink Billie wants ya to join in–”
“Hell no, you know I can’t sing–”
“Oh c’mon, Cherry, ya sing t’ ‘em all the time–”
“When we go to bed–”
“Still counts–”
“Bee, I’m not a professional,” the voice chides with another melodic chuckle, “This is more of your lane–”
“But it’ll be more meanin’ful if it came from both of us.”
Billie’s heart twinges, her eyes starting to glisten. She pulls the mp3 player up to her face, only to see a random numbered file name. Was this supposed to be in there? Was this just some mistake mixed into the numerous songs on this player? Did Ramona skip this file because she didn’t know what it was? Is Billie even supposed to listen to this?
“C’mon, Cherry, sing that pretty song–”
“What, no!”
“Please? F’me? For mac ‘n cheese–”
“Don’t use the girls against me! They’re not even here yet– Hobart Brown, don’t you dare–!”
A startled shriek makes Billie flinch, but she soon relaxes at the chimes of laughter from both parents. The weight of both imaginary figures disappear from Billie’s sides, only for the two figures to dance in front of her in laughter– a younger version of her dad hugs the version of you in the old photo, but your stomach sticks out under your shirt like a watermelon. The voice slips through your lips in a giddy laugh while her dad spins you around the room, the dapples of moonlight dancing across the figures like some kind of fairy tale picture. A muffled ‘please’ echoes into Billie’s ears as her dad buries his face into the crook of your neck.
A long silence soon follows, and a sense of dread starts to sink into the pit of Billie’s stomach. The idea of you refusing to sing stings, even if you didn’t have to. What would you have sounded like? Would you only sing in private, with no prying ears from strangers trying to hear you?
Would Billie be a stranger to you–?
Your voice croons into Billie’s ears in a soft melody, your words laced in tender love, chasing away the thoughts muddling her mind. The lyrics stir a sense of nostalgia despite it being Billie’s first time hearing it, the ache in her chest growing bittersweet.
You sing so beautifully to Billie.
A stray tear rolls down the side of her face when she hears her dad’s deep timbre quietly join, an even rarer moment for Billie. Hobie Brown never sings– he only hoots and hollers on stage, only hums around her and the band. He claims his voice would shatter people’s ear drums until their ears bleed, that it’ll condemn the band’s songs like a wretched curse, that it’ll leave everyone deaf if they’re subjected to his singing.
This is a side of Hobie Brown Billie never knew existed.
Billie pauses the audio and rewinds it to the beginning of the song before slipping out of her bed, the figures of you and her dad disappearing. The elastic from Ramona’s borrowed bonnet around her head digs into her skin, but she ignores it as her feet pad across the room towards her sister. Billie’s hand trembles around the mp3 player, her throat tightening with an incoming sob, her eyes glistening even more. When Billie finally reaches the edge of the bed, she hesitantly nudges Ramona.
“Mon-Mon?”
A quiet grunt rumbles from Ramona as she shrugs Billie’s hand off. With a sniffle, Billie nudges her again, more insistent than before.
“Mon-Mon, listen t’ this with me.”
Another disgruntled groan slips through Ramona’s lips as she scoots away from Billie’s offending hand.
“Can’t it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“No, ya hav’ta listen t’ it now.”
Ramona sluggishly kicks her feet in her bed with a whine before she turns towards the punk girl, her eyes still slightly swollen and glued together. Billie sits on the edge of the bed, earning another whine from her sister as the mattress sinks under her weight, before she tugs an earbud out of her pierced ear.
“Scoot over.”
“Wha– no, there’s no room–”
“Mon-Mon, please?”
The slight break in Billie’s voice briefly rouses Ramona, her eyes barely cracking open, before she closes them again with a relenting sigh. She scoots over to the other side of the bed, and Billie climbs in, leaving little room for them inside the twin bed. Billie gingerly tucks the free earbud into Ramona’s ear before pressing play.
“Slipping through my fingers all the time, I try to capture every minute…”
Your voice whispers in a serenade again through the small speakers. The slight frown on Ramona’s face starts to soften, and her body slowly sinks into the mattress as you beckon her to sleep, as if already familiar with your melody.
Billie ignores the prickling in her chest, focusing on the shift on her sister’s face as Dad quietly joins in.
“Do I really see what’s in her mind? Each time I think I’m close to knowing, she keeps on growing…”
The deep timbre of his voice hums through Billie’s ears, harmonizing with your own hushed one, lulling Billie into a trance-like haze in the cramped space. Ramona’s face relaxes even more from the lullaby-like song until she falls back into slumber, soft snores vibrating from her.
Billie’s eyes soon grow heavy the longer she listens, the beads of tears clinging to her lashes retreating back while your voice beckons her to sleep as well.
“Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture and save it from the funny tricks of time…”
Warmth slowly creeps into Billie’s chest as her consciousness slips from her fingers. Clinging to the last of your words, Billie finally dozes off with a final bead of a tear dripping from her lashes.
“Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning, waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile…”
----
British Phrase of the Chapter:
Blank - blatantly ignore/ refuse to talk to someone
https://www.britannica.com/dictionary/blank#:~:text=the%20hockey%20game.-,2,the%20street%20after%20the%20scandal
---
Song of the Chapter:
“A sister around my age? Maybe younger? Is Mon-Mon around my age?”
baby you look like her, she looks like you
“What actually happened between Dad and Mum?”
that’s what we all want to know
“It doesn’t mean she has to like it though.”
that’s fair honestly
“Denial clings to Ramona’s voice, straining it into a hoarse cry”
owhh my poor baby 🥺
Billie’s childhood is full of swag
R’s apartment seems soo cool and cozy
slipping through my fingers 🥹
Omg, glad you got to read webbed together again! 🥹
The lingering denial of these girls is real ngl 💀 these babies are gonna need eah other more and more 😭
Their childhoods are so different, and lowkey I can't wait to write them living each other's lives 😭
Yeah, I was crying with that song playing on loop 😭
Anemoia
Pairing: Bobby Franklin x fem! Reader
Word count: 11.9k
Synopsis: After days of wandering around, you and Bobby are much closer to the exit than you thought. But something doesn’t want you getting out.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW unsolicited touching (not from Bobby), CW dark themes. CW recreational drug use. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 4 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 3 <<< Part 4 >>> Part 5
The walls don’t hum here. It doesn’t let out that strange warm frequency that eases you. The walls here are dark with peeling paint. There are faded murals on the walls, some depict child-like story book fantasies, the big bad wolf, little red riding hood, Jack and the beanstalk, and painted woodland creatures all decorate the peeling colourful walls. It’s like you two walked out of the pool rooms and into a foreclosed building that used to be a daycare that now has black mold growing on the walls.
You and Bobby waded through knee deep water for days that drenched your shoes and socks and made you two smell like chlorine like after a day out at the public pool, limbs still wobbly from the waves. The area was almost never ending. You two have lost count of the days spent here, it could just be two or maybe three days, or it could be more than that. You slept on lounge chairs whilst he watched over the perimeter with sunken tired eyes. He always lets you sleep a couple more hours than intended like you do for him, a wordless decision that you both adhere to. The food isn’t as scarce, sometimes they appear out of nowhere, placed by the doorway where you’re about to go through, or bottles of almond water resting beside a sunken beach umbrella. You and Bobby don’t starve nor get thirsty. It’s a mystery that you both stopped questioning.
There were twirly colourful slides that led to somewhere and nowhere that are placed here and there, it’s the one place you and Bobby would never dare go into even if you two are being chased by an entity.
The places you walked through had weird architecture like the yellow offices, stairs leading to nowhere or going down into a void, random platforms, half walls in the middle of a pool, pools with wooden decks, and some had waters as green as algae right next to purple waters. It gave you a headache, but Bobby was enthralled by it, admiring the tiled arches and trippy pools that he muttered to himself about wanting to take pictures of it. You wish your phone still worked so he could take snapshots, you wanted to see how he views the place from his perspective.
Compared to the pool rooms, this place is more akin to reality that it’s incredibly odd. Every step has to be careful so that you don’t accidentally step on shattered glass. And the place is awfully cramped and dirty with scattered broken down furniture and trash. It’s a maze here, you’ve been wandering around with Bobby for an hour or two as the flame on his lighter illuminates the way. Your jeans are still damp from the pools, and he still smells like chlorine, your socks feel disgusting as it squishes with every step.
You’ve stumbled a few times, apparently more than enough times that Bobby has resorted to tugging you to his side and holds onto the hem of your jacket to keep you from face planting on the dirty ground. His warmth beside you is a welcome reprieve from the awful place you two are exploring. Bobby is a good alternative to the warm song of the walls, helping keep your mind quiet.
“Where is that fucking yellow wallpaper. I can’t believe I want to see it again.” He mutters to himself, quiet and yet echoing around the hallway. “This place is fucked, it’s like an old pre-school.”
“Every place here is fucked.” You answer, sniffing the still air that smells perpetually like drying paint. “D’you want to retrace our steps and go back to the pool room?”
Tugging you away from the edge of a random desk in the middle of the corridor, Bobby shakes his head. “No, we’ll get there eventually. I’d rather not go through the demonic doggy door. I swear I heard something move in there.”
“Demonic doggy door?” You stifle a chuckle, swallowing your laughter. The tension between you two still weighs heavy, lingering in the middle like a third person.
“Yeah, that’s what it looked like.” Bobby shines his light into a room, scanning the emptiness before moving forward. He does this unconsciously now, already so used to looking over his shoulder with his head on a swivel and eyes alert. This place has that effect on the ones that wander through its halls. “Have you been anywhere else than the yellow wallpaper rooms?”
“There was one time I fell into a really long hallway with flashing red lights.”
You answer him because you want to mend the heaviness between the two of you. Because you want to do better, just like he said, for the team. Kat’s supposed rescue team, what else is there to rescue when her remains could be scattered around? Maybe her other hand could be laying beside the rubble of this place. It’s horrid to think about her like that, but you can’t help but wonder where the rest of her are. Is it with Clark? Did the pirate eat her? Or worse, there must be a worse fate in this place, you saw it when the wall started absorbing you.
What happened to you in that bathroom doesn’t linger in the pit of your stomach, in fact it opens more questions for you rather than horror when it should be horrifying for you. The arms that held you weren’t human, it was from this world that shouldn’t even exist in the first place. Even though the real person based on him is real and unaware of his copy here. You wonder why the backrooms even made a version of him when he was merely a blip in your life, a brief encounter on a random night. Does everyone who has been in the laundromat have a copy down here? If so, do you have a version of you here? But why would there be a mirror of your grandfather here when he has only existed in your memory?
“A long hallway like this?” Bobby gestures around him using the flame. The fuel is bound to run out, you just hope that you get somewhere lit when it does.
“No, it’s much longer like a never ending hospital hallway, I ran for what seemed to be for hours and there were… things running after me.” Your voice echoes as glass crunches underfoot.
“That sounds fucking great.” Sarcasm rolls off his tongue. “Like paradise, how’d you get out?”
“I just ran.”
Bobby flutters his lips, he seems to be far calmer than usual. Maybe because this place feels much more like reality than the other places you’ve been to. Although a dilapidated reality, it feels real, like if you two could just find the exit sign you’ll get out into the chilly night air and hear cars honking outside. Like a couple of urban explorers, not two people trying to survive the pits of mono yellow hell.
Bobby stops abruptly, and you almost stumble into a fallen shelf. “Like that?” He lifts the light into a room, he probably doesn’t need to when the red light emanating from the singular window on the far wall was enough to illuminate.
Through the glass are trees and even buildings, but instead of sunshine or moonlight, there is only blood red. Crimson skies, red clouds and a reddened sun. Bobby’s face is harsher under the red light, taut, pulled at the edges. Terrified.
Goosebumps rise on your arms. “No, not like that, but it was as red as that.”
“Yeah, fuck that.” His hand curls and uncurls into an unsure fist, a subtle tremble in his finger. Tugging you away, he guides you towards a corner, and you two almost fall into a deep chasm if not for you both holding onto each other. “Holy fuck!” The tips of Bobby’s shoes are on the edge of the void.
“Fuck…” holding onto the side, you peek around, only to see thousands of rooms missing a wall that are all stacked on top of each other, like an apartment building was cleaved into two, leaving a giant hole in the middle. “What now?”
“This place is fucked.” Bobby shudders a breath, shaking his head at the chasm.
You really want to feel the hum rumble through your bones again.
Bobby looks to the left, the chasm is as dim as the rest of the place you walked through, and he had to squint just to see a random set of stairs on his left that is rising up to the ceiling and leading up to a door, looking as if it’s held up by nothing.
“There.” He squeezes your jacket sleeve, taking your attention away from the deep end. “There’s a door up on the ceiling.”
“How do we get up there?” If you could just tilt a little bit forward you’ll fall. But with Bobby holding onto you, you’ll take him down with you. You don’t want that, nor desire that.
“There’s some space to walk on,” he points the light on the wall to his left where a sliver of the floor is there to be walked on. “we just need to hug the wall to get to the stairs.” He gulps down, hands suddenly clammy.
“Please don’t tell me that you’re afraid of heights.”
“I never liked skyscrapers.” Craning his neck, he gives you an apologetic look. “One team, right?”
You nod, moving your hand so you could bracelet around his wrist. Holding his hand feels like a betrayal. “I’m right here. I won’t let you fall. Tit for tat, teammate.” The casualness in your tone eases the tightness around his shoulders, albeit not enough.
“Okay.” Taking a sharp breath, Bobby slowly shimmies on the ledge and with his back sliding against the wall. “I shouldn’t have taken Clark’s money.”
“Keep talking, Bobby. And don’t look down.” You follow closely, squeezing his wrist gently to remind him that you’re still with him. “What did Clark say that was so convincing?” The height gives you vertigo, stomach doing flips.
Bobby breathes hard, heaving and keeping his head held high and his lighter lit. “He said it was for research, that he’ll pay us double.” His foot slips, and you drag him back, an arm over his chest, feeling his heart beat rapidly. “Fuck me!” Bobby instinctively took hold of you, fisting the collar of your jacket. “Shit, I almost—”
“Keep going, you’re doing great.” Patting his heart, Bobby trembles and blindly takes hold of your hand, weaving his fingers around your own out of his own fear.
“I’m sorry, is this okay?” His blue eyes are blown out, panicked, panting and grasping for air.
“Yeah, just keep going.” You reassure him with a small smile and a squeeze. “Tell me something else, nothing that’s related to Clark or this place.”
“Okay, uh…” Bobby slowly starts to move after your gentle coaxing. “Back in high school, I got in trouble for smoking behind the bleachers.”
“You were a real rebel, huh?”
“Not really, I just fucking hate algebra.” He chuckles bitterly, swallowing down the bile rising in his throat when he gets to the foot of the stairs. “I want to go home—fuck!” Yelling, he lets out his frustration out into the void, a hand rubbing at his contorted face. Head turning to you, his sad eyes bring a heart wrenching ache to your chest. “I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can, Bobby.” Your hand squeezes his once more despite the burn on your palm painfully aching under the bandages. “Come on, you made it this far. Just take one step at a time.”
“When we get out of here…” his eyes scan your face, maybe trying to find an ounce of fear in your expression, but he finds none. You’re acting braver than you are in front of him, but he doesn’t need to know that or need to see it. “I owe you dinner, or maybe a fucking blunt or two from my own stash.”
You can’t help but chortle, the sound dragged down by the void below. “I’ll take both actually.”
“You’re not scared of heights?” His trembling legs betray him as he stands frozen on the spot.
“No, I’m scared of falling. May I?” With a gentle hand, you grasp at his cheek, palm feeling at his sharp edges as you caress his skin gingerly like how one would calm a puppy. Your fingers run over the shell of his ear, jaw loosening, fingers grasping your own, Bobby’s breath staggers in his throat, maybe from your touch or the height, you may never know. “I won’t let you fall, Bobby.”
“That’s j–just another way of saying you’re scared of heights.” And yet the gentle coaxing works as he finds it in himself to lift his foot up on the first step. “Don’t fucking let me fall, hero.”
“I won’t.” If he does, if he missteps or staggers and free falls below, then you’d jump after him, isn’t that what heroes do? You take the lighter from him and light his way so his other hand is free to grasp onto a step. “Go, I’m right behind you.”
“Okay.” Slowly, he turns back to the hanging steps, taking it one second at a time. “Can you t–talk about something?” His legs shake underneath him but he continues, hand still holding onto yours.
“Like what?” You wait behind him patiently, shining the light as close as you could beside him without burning him.
“Anything, you in high school? Were–fuck my life—” he takes a pause to breathe, looking over his shoulder as you nod at him. “Were you in a club?” Bobby continues bravely, almost on all fours as he climbs up.
You’re forced to crouch behind him when he refuses to let go of your hand. “I was in a sewing club.”
“You fucking nerd.” He chuckles breathlessly, a bead of sweat dribbling on his temple that you could see clearly under the flame.
“Well it was the only club that was available when I took too long to choose.” Smiling despite the situation you’ve found yourself into, his nervous laugh got to you. “And my grandfather always said that it’s good to learn how to sew, to make and mend your own clothes.”
“He sounds like a practical man.” Bobby’s hand is clammy around your own, but you don’t mind when you still hold onto him. He doesn’t mention how willing you are to hold him now when you were averting his touch as much as you could before.
“He is.” Was, is, it doesn’t matter now when you’re stuck in this place. “He was one of those guys who thinks the world will end during their time.”
“Shit, like making a bunker type of doomsday prepper?” You two make it halfway there. And if you could just peek over, the vertigo alone will make you fall down.
“Kind of.” Your smile wavers at the conversation. “He liked to get away and not be cooped up underground.” His sailboat was his bunker, the words get stuck in your throat. “Anyway, we’re almost there, Bobby, keep going.”
Taking a breather, his forehead rests atop his arm and over a step. “Fuck me.” His unsteady palm meets the steady stair and bravely continues on. “W—were you in a clique back then? I could see you with the band nerds.”
You chortle under your breath, arm aching from the prolonged position. “No, I was mostly bouncing around different friend groups. Do I seem like the type to be in a band?”
“Yeah, l–like a xylophone player or a trumpet.” Voice croaking, Bobby inhales and exhales through his mouth.
“Just a few more steps.” Your thumb over the back of his hand kneads tenderly. “I’m flattered but I don’t even know how to play an instrument, any kind for that matter. I always wanted to learn though.”
“I can play the guitar!” He didn’t mean to exclaim but he was so surprised by finally making it to the top step, he had to let it out. His hand presses against the wood of the door, smiling up at it like a madman. “Holy fuck, we made it.”
You grin, for the first time in a long time, you smile widely, a genuine one, a wholehearted smile that when Bobby turns around to face you, he catches it too and a mirrored grin spreads across his handsome face. It’s a lopsided smile, deeply endearing that makes you smile even more, eyes crinkling in the corners, proud of him.
“You did it, Bobby.”
“Yeah, when we get out of here I’m teaching you how to play the guitar.”
“You have to push open the door first, Jimi Hendrix.”
“Now that’s a great fucking compliment.” With a wobbly smile, he pushes the door open, it falls from its hinges and clatters to the ground next to it as the yellow tinted lights shine down upon the two of you. “Fucking lucky.” Bobby’s face is illuminated, giving you a full view of his relieved expression.
He never thought smelling damp carpet and hearing the annoying droning of the lights would bring a smile to his face.
The song in the walls greets you in that familiar dissonance. It slithers up your spine and around your chest, holding you in its warmth like a man dying of thirst who finally found an oasis. It welcomes you back.
He lets go of your hand briefly to climb up, not missing a beat to immediately help you up the ledge with the same hand. His arms take hold of you, a half embrace, patting your back with bone crushing relief.
“You good, Bobby?” You’re in slight shock from the sudden embrace.
Nodding, his body still trembles from the aftershocks of his fear. “We’re never doing that again.”
“No arguments here.” You’re helped up by your feet, and he’s so close to you that you could smell the chlorine on his skin, that you could see your own reflection in his blue eyes like you’re drifting aimlessly on the surface of the water. You give him a faltering smile before moving away from his warmth.
As Bobby shuts the door so you don’t fall in, you freeze in place. It’s not the familiar yellow wallpaper or the hum that makes your limbs still, it’s what’s in front of you.
“Bobby?” His name twists around your tongue.
“Yeah?” You could still hear the smile on his face from his tone. “You hungry? I’m kind of hungry after that—” his shuddered breath rattles your ribcage. “— what the fuck.”
There, right in the middle of the room are telephone poles lined in a sequence, each sinking into the carpet. But it’s not the poles that strike right at your companion’s heart, it’s the posters nailed right on the wood. It’s all placed on each telephone pole, printed in black and white, a xerox copy of the original— his own missing poster.
Bobby takes a tentative step forward, eyes never leaving the poster. The pads of his fingers glide along the paper, tracing the words on it, tracing his own face then Kat’s printed face.
Grief cripples, it’s apparent on his face. But hope keeps you upright, helps you see and feel so much when that hope pops like a balloon and decays like a rotten fruit in your mouth when the bitter end comes, it kills. That’s what you’re giving him, false hope. It’s a noose that is slowly tightening around your neck. Hope could kill, it just delays the inevitable. You’re delaying the inevitable in hopes of Bobby getting out of here before the truth comes out. You don’t even need to get out with him, you could stay trapped here or die trying. You just want him to survive, for you to actually make all that fighting worth something. An equivalent exchange.
You stare at the posters, lips quivering when your eyes glances at her picture, then over to his photo, they’re both smiling, despite where their picture is printed on. You almost crumble, for Bobby and his loss, and for Kat, a young life lost.
Someone reported them missing, someone remembered them and cared enough to put those posters up. Maybe on the surface, in real life, there are telephone poles with the exact missing posters containing the same faces and same information right on the blanched paper. Or maybe this is the backrooms playing you for a fool when you have no one out there that would do this for you. No one to report you missing, no one to notice your absence or to look at their side and think that something is missing.
“At least they got my information right.” Bobby’s voice cuts through the silence. He breathes her name, quiet, guilty, grieving. He said it quietly, and yet loud in your ears. Sighing, he clears his throat, clammy hands shoved in his pockets. “I look good for a missing person…”
“Now who’s emotionally constipated?” You attempt at a joke, smile wavering, unsure how to talk to him about what lies ahead. This must feel like seeing your own gravestone right in front of you. “Are you okay, Bobby?”
“Yeah, I uh,” he sucks in his teeth, shaking his head and shuffling his feet with unease. “I think my mom did this. She would–she would remember.” She would notice him gone. Someone is waiting for him on the other side, a loved one that would be devastated if Bobby never gets back home.
“I’ll get you back home to her.” You utter determinedly, even though you could hardly believe it yourself.
“Fuck, what do I tell her?” There’s a sullen edge to his tone that you’re awfully familiar with. You’ve heard this in group therapies where you never spoke a word even after gentle coaxing, even after all the eyes land on you. “What do I tell Kat’s parents?” There were people waiting for her as well, and they’ll never see her again, they’ll never hear her voice again. It cuts you more than the razor ever did. “They never liked me but—that’s fucking understandable.”
“Bobby, I—”
He turns on his heel and looks at you with an undistinguishable expression, his hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you, but decides not to.
“D’you want to smoke with me?”
—
You and Bobby walk around the yellow wallpaper corridors, it still reeks of the same damp carpets that lingers in the back of your throat but it’s a more familiar scent that shouldn’t make you feel like it should be comforting but it does. And so does the hum, that soft timbre rolling around in the walls, calling for you to press your ear against it like before. But after you felt the walls curl around your skin, trying to absorb you into the sea of yellow, you resist the call.
The lights above hum in that same dissonance, that flat fluorescent drone, a prickly sound akin to crickets singing in the summer heat at night. It turns into mere background noise the longer you hear it. Bobby seems to feel the same way when he walks around the weird hallways with you side by side. He keeps his hands inside his pockets, back slightly hunched, an invisible heaviness lingering between his shoulder blades. His midriff is showing between the fabric of his white crop top and the jean shorts, hip bones catching the light, lighting him in that sickly yellow.
Bobby doesn’t look the same when you first met him, he’s missing his camera that you know he misses the heaviness of it in his hand. The gaze through the lenses, a shield between him and reality is no longer there, and he is forced to face what’s in front of him, to truly see reality with his own eyes.
His blue eyes are duller, you’ve noticed it ever since you both fell into the pool, it still has that spark but it doesn’t shine the same when you saw him in that corridor. His sharp edges are sharper, more intense, even though he eats enough, maybe it’s the stress wearing him thin.
“When you asked to smoke with me, what do you mean exactly?” You ask tentatively, too afraid to breach through the silence. “What are we even looking for?”
“Here.” He stops in front of a pair of double doors with a low slope leading to it. It descends downwards, and the similar sight doesn’t escape him. “This could be it. Somewhere we can relax.”
“Bobby, we’re supposed to be looking for the outpost.” You tell him calmly, brows knitted in worry.
“We are.” He’s already sliding down, keeping himself steady with his hands on each side of the wall. The previous slope he encountered was deep and descends into darkness, this one doesn’t look like that as he could see light filter through the crack under the doors. “I just— just need a fucking break.”
“Hold on, Bobby, we should be careful—”
He throws caution into the wind as he shoulders the door open. Nothing attacks him or yanks him into the room, instead, he opens the door wider, and what greets you inside makes you raise your brows.
Rows upon rows of velvet lined seats are inside, all perfectly lined up as the warm yellow light shines up front. Bobby opens the door even wider, and you both see a lit theater stage complete with an orchestra pit and those familiar red velvet curtains.
Bobby whistles lowly, the sound carries into the expansive room. “C’mon.” He simply coaxes you in, a hand reaching for you whilst the other holds the door open. “It looks like it’s safe.” Fingers flexing, head tilting, he huffs out a breath. “Please, hero, I know you need the rest too.”
“Fine,” your hand slides over to his palm, warm, smooth, with the pads of his fingertips calloused from years of playing the guitar. Now you know the reason. “But only because you asked nicely.”
“See how far being nice gets you?” His gentle hold helps you slide down the slope whilst he keeps an eye on your back, watching out for any malignant entities. That has become a recent habit of his.
“I could be nice.” Letting out a strained breath, you make it inside and Bobby follows behind, shutting the door closed with a click.
“Only sometimes,” he walks ahead, eyes roaming around the large room, from the wooden rafters above to the fine filigree decorated around the stage. His voice echoes around the empty space, it’s like you two snuck into the theater at the dead of night just to make out. “Come on, let’s find our seat.”
“Remember when you said you’re going insane?” You watch at the edge of the seats as he shimmies into a row like how one would at a packed movie theater. “I’m starting to think that you are.”
“Don’t be a party pooper.” Scoffing a laugh, he pulls the seat down and plops himself onto the plush cushion before doing the same to the one beside him and patting the seat for you. “Saved you a seat.”
“How did you even know about this place?”
“I didn’t.” Shrugging, he huffs, head turning around the silent theater. “I just had a feeling. This place…fucks you up. Nothing makes sense, up isn’t up and down isn’t down, it’s instinct and trusting your gut that makes more sense to follow. So, I don’t know, hero, I just felt that this place is safe.”
Maybe that’s how you thought the sailboat room was safe, a gut instinct, something inherently natural to humans to feel if a place is a safe haven or not. Or maybe this place just heard his wants and gave him a room to rest in, like how you wanted water and you fell into one. You’re probably truly insane if you think that the backrooms are granting your wishes.
Sighing, you relent and follow him. After dredging knee deep pool waters to walking through hazards and osha violations, the theater room is a nice reprieve. It’s beautiful in a way, like staring at an empty backyard at night where the moonlight shines on the bushes and you could only hear the scampering of little critters hidden behind it. It’s creepy, yet it gives off the same feeling as walking around a school at night where you’re used to seeing a lot of people and instead you just see empty classrooms and dark corridors. You expect some noise, like someone practicing on stage where their footfalls clatter on the hardwood floors, or a violinist tuning their instrument’s strings. But it’s as quiet as the rest of the places you’ve been through.
Yet the hum is much stronger here. More persistent. You would press your head against the velvet walls but you use the sight of Bobby as your guide, keeping your eyes on him and giving him your full attention, it helps in ignoring the song of the walls.
He pats the seat again when you reach his side, feeling your apprehensiveness. “It’s not going to eat you.”
“What if there’s something lurking in here too?” You look down at him worriedly, seeing the warm golden light illuminate the side of his face, exacerbating the dark circles underneath his eyes. “Like last time?” Your voice drops a timbre, the pads of your fingers grasping at your neck that is slowly scabbing over after your nails broke skin.
“Then we run or I beat the shit out of it like the one before it.” Bobby swallows thickly, patting the seat again. His eyes pleads, he needs this.
“Okay, just a few minutes.” Nodding, you sit down beside him, the chair creaks under you, and it gives off that unmistakable squeak at the hinges as you sit back and the seat tilts back from the movement. “What now— what the fuck?”
“What?” He chortles, looking at you through his lashes when he has procured a rolled up joint from his pockets, there’s a ziplock on his lap containing a couple more inside. “Are you a goody two shoes like I thought?”
You roll your eyes, lift a leg up over the other as you shake your head. “I’m just confused, you had that the whole time?”
“Yeah,” shrugging, he places it in between his lips. The lighter clicks as sparks fly against his face, lighting him up in warmer light. “It got wet when we took a swim, but…” he manages to light it when the flames finally billow out from the lighter. “Thankfully it’s in a ziplock bag.” Taking a long drag, wispy smoke dancing in the air, and filling it with the unmistakable earthy smell, his shoulders relax and he reclines back, keeping it in for a moment before exhaling. Bobby moves his hand over to you casually with the joint tucked in between his index and thumb. “Do you want one? No peer pressure trust me, I’d like it more if I have it all to myself.”
“How generous.” A laugh escapes from your huff, rolling your eyes as you flutter your lips. Weighing your options, you suck in a breath. “You know what, fuck it.” Biting your lip, you look around you, watching for the tell tale signs of an entity keeping watch, you find none. So you take it, your fingers brushing along his warm hand.
“Atta girl.” His legs perches up on the seats in front of him, one foot over the other comfortably, completely relaxed.
You place it between your lips, tasting him accidentally, the taste of the sweetened almond water hits your tongue first before the smoke does. You let both linger, the earthy smoke that is slightly sweet hitting the back of your throat. Taking a long drag, you feel his eyes on the side of your face.
Bobby whistles lowly, chuckling and smiling at you. “Not a goody two shoes like I thought. Don’t fucking hog it all.”
Your eyes flick at him, glimmering under the light as you exhale. You feel the fuzzy feeling wrap around your skull, tugging at the back of your head, but it doesn’t hit as well as the ones back home.
“I didn’t know you smoke.” Bobby licks his lips, mouth already turning dry.
You hand the joint back to him and he hums in thanks before taking a puff, exhaling out spheres of smoke into the air. “It helps.” You don’t need to elaborate when he knows perfectly well what it means. “You?”
“High school, junior year was hard for me.” He gives it back to you lazily as he rolls his shoulders and completely sinks in his seat.
“Yeah, high school is either a shit time for someone or the best time of their life.” You take a quick puff as the burn settles on the roof of your mouth, nose filling with the earthy scent. “There’s no in between.”
He scoffs out a laugh as you pass the joint over to him. “I think I fit in the ‘in between’ category. It was good until it wasn’t. D’you think we would be friends back then?”
“Probably not.” Shaking your head, you see him stare at you in your peripheral. When you turn to look back, he’s already looking away.
His tongue flicks over his lips, eyes staring at the empty stage. “Have you ever seen a play? Like a real one, with a big production, not the ones made by theater kids at school.”
“Like Broadway type?” He hums in reply, taking a long drag before passing it to you. And you could see it in his eyes how much it’s melting all his worries away, for now at least. He lets the smoke settle on his tongue, letting it singe his insides before exhaling out. “No, I wish I had.”
His neck cranes to you, eyes half lidded, giving you a strange look. “I’ve got a confession to make.”
“Okay…” you chortle atop the joint, inhaling and exhaling. You feel the slight tug at the back of your head, that warm lazy feeling encompassing you enough to dull your instincts and send tingles through your body. “I’m not a priest but okay.”
“Obviously you’re not.” Bobby snorts, chuckling deeply, a rumble in his throat as he rubs his clammy palms on his jean shorts. Your brow rises to your forehead. “I mean it as a compliment. You’re too pretty to be one.”
“Fuck,” you scoff out a laugh. “so you’re flirty when you get high.”
Bobby snatches it from your hands, his touch searing hot, hotter than before. “Shut up, I’ve got a fucking confession and who knows if we’ll get out of here.” His head tilts back against the plush seat like it’s heavier than usual. He smiles lopsidedly, the same smile you briefly saw before he saw the missing poster. He takes a long drag, smoke coming out in puffs between his lips.
“We’ll get out of here but go on.” He’ll get out of here. Your eyes drag along his jaw as it flexes with an inhale and exhale.
“Your optimism fucking scares me, hero, but, confession.” Looking at you through his lashes, he uses the joint between his fingers to point at you for emphasis whilst he leans on the armrest to get closer to you. “I’ve always wanted to be a director, like for films and shit. And I thought the theater plays were just a cheap shit copy of cinema until my mom got me and…” he blinks, licking his lips before continuing on. “...she got me tickets for my birthday to see fucking Phantom of the Opera and it was…” he takes another drag, head lolling back to exhale the smoke away from your face, neck flexing, the light catching it. “...it was fucking great. I missed out on good shit because I thought theater was for nerds.” The buzz has completely melted him. Turning back to you, he has a lazy, comfortable smile. “So, when we get out of here we’ll watch a show, whatever you want, Cats or fucking Rocky Horror Show, your pick, hero. My thanks for saving my ass.”
“You’ve got a lot of promises for me, Bobby.” You say warmly, leaning close, head tilted with a gentle smile. And mouth filled with cotton. “First it was the guitar lessons, now a show.”
He shrugs, finally giving you the rest of the joint, his touch lingering a second more. “I just want to show you what you would’ve missed if you…” he pauses, a weighted gaze on you as he smiles tenderly. “...it’s my way of being nice, okay? Don’t read too much into it, dude.” Leaning back into his seat, his cheeks are flushed warm, inflated before letting out the air. “It would be great if a show suddenly played here right now!”
His sudden scream makes you jump in your seat, heart thudding, a hand instinctively holding onto his arm. “Fucking hell, Bobby.” You look around you, scanning the area for threats, you find the place as empty as before.
“What?” He laughs, a true guffaw that echoes as he grins. “It was worth a shot.”
You shake your head at him with a subtle smile. “I’ve got a question.” Leaning back, you finish the rest of it as the aftertaste lingers in the back of your throat, the buzz giving you a hazy feeling, like you’re in between dreaming and wakefulness. Bobby makes a finger gun gesture at you, eyes still looking forward at the stage as if actors in costumes would suddenly appear. “Bobby, were you getting high this whole time? Is that why you’re so relaxed?”
He slowly faces you, nose scrunched, puffing out a laugh. “Fuck you, no.” Turning his head away, he sniffs, a hand squeezing his nose before his palm hits his lap with a soft thud. “Twice, when you woke up in the boat and we talked about the fake stars. Then at the pool before…when I was swimming and you got all…” his fingers wiggle around in front of him, “y’know. Sobered up real quick when you screamed my name though.”
You just stare at the side of his face, features softer under the warm yellow light, softer when his guilt marrs his expression. “Fuck, Bobby…”
“I know, I shouldn’t, but…” his fingers play at the plastic on his lap, dragging his thumb and index right at the seam. “it’s fucked. I know it is.”
“Yeah, I don’t blame you.” The ash falls from the paper and right onto your jeans, leaking warmth onto the skin underneath. You flick the rest of the ash away and stamp out the flames right on the arm rest and toss it into the cup holder. “Just don’t do it again until you know that we’re in a place that’s completely safe. And yes I’m being hypocritical right now for saying it but— fucking whatever.” Fingers kneading at the space between your brows, you feel the buzz right there.
A moment passes and he stays silent, his blue eyes that seem to glow even bluer against the red velvet seats glances at you every so often, gauging out your emotions without the comfort of a camera lens in his hand.
When you hear the familiar slosh of water against a plastic bottle, you turn to him as he passes you the rest of the almond water. “You hungry?”
“A little.” Taking the bottle, you watch him rummage through the backpack, cans and plastic bags clinking against each other. “Your weed is weak as shit, Bobby.”
“Oh fuck off.” A laugh escapes him. “If this is weak to you then what do you smoke, fucking meth?”
You laugh, a sound lingering in the room that has good acoustics for something that shouldn’t exist in the first place. Bobby gives you a look that you’re not privy to before taking out a small bag of potato chips you two found atop a solid beach ball. “No, fucking hell, no, that’s horrible. What do you take me for?”
He opens the bag and the scent of sour cream and onions fill the room amidst the lingering earth scent. “A survivalist whom I thought was a goody two shoes. Turns out you’re as bad as me, hero.” Shaking the bag, he offers it to you first as you dig your hand in, getting a couple of chips.
“Okay, Robert Franklin.”
“Fuck, you saw that?” His reddened eyes widen, taken aback.
“Yeah, Robert Franklin,” you say his name with a giggle, chin atop your palm as you pop the chips in your mouth. It tastes exactly the same, except for the old aftertaste. “sounds like a politician’s name.”
“Yeah, that’s why I go by Bobby.”
“It’s better honestly.” The chips crunches in your mouth, chewing and letting the taste settle beside the lingering burning taste. “Like a jolly baby boy’s name.”
Bobby almost chokes on a chip, chuckling and patting his chest. “Fuck you.”
“What do you want to be when you grow up, little Bobby?” Teasing, you nudge his elbow and he makes a face, nose scrunched, shoveling more chips in his mouth when the retort he has in mind short circuits. “Were you a newspaper boy, Bobby? Just doing rounds on your little bike with a bell all over the neighborhood?”
Snatching the almond water from you, Bobby chews loudly to annoy you. But it only makes your grin wider, a laugh in your throat. “Shut up, no I wasn’t.” He chugs the water before facing you with what he probably thinks is an intimidating look. You only smile at him wholeheartedly, endeared. “What do you want to be when you grow up, huh? ‘Ms. Sewing club president.’”
“I wasn’t the club president, I was actually shit at sewing.” Your eyes turn at your lap, downcast as the smile faints, and yet the softness stays. “I don’t know actually. I never thought I’d live this long to be honest.”
Bobby’s breath hitches in his throat, wiping the trickling water from his chin with his shirt, he looks at you solemnly. You expect him to say sorry, for him to pity you or say the same words you’ve heard from people who don’t know how but tries to anyway just to say something or to try to make it all better. Instead, he takes your hand on your lap, a hand so gentle you didn’t register the touch right away as he envelopes his fingers around your palm.
“When we get out of here,” His voice lowers, a mere whisper just for your ears as he ducks down to meet with your eyes. Your vision is filled with blue, his blue eyes, Bobby blue. “we’ll figure out what you want to do. I promise you.”
“What if I never figure it out?”
He shrugs, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then we’re stuck together until you do, sorry.” It’s a halfhearted apology, and yet it’s better than a whole one. “Together, we’ll figure it out together, hero.”
Your brows fold together, lips wobbling. “Why?” Why help, why me, why do this for me?
“Because you deserve to live too.”
Your eyes search those brilliant blue eyes for a lie, a tease, an untruthful thing tucked in his irises that intends to hurt. Something that says, ‘I’m only saying this to you because I don’t want you to leave and fend for myself.’ or, ‘because I can, not because I want to.’ And yet you only find truthfulness in his eyes, he truly believes that you deserve it, to live for yourself not just for others, not just for him.
It’s one thing to die for someone, it’s heroic. But living, staying alive for someone is for yourself too. And it’s just as heroic. Staying alive despite everything is heroic.
“So three things now,” his hand squeezes you once, clearing his throat as his breath trembles. “three things I promise to do with you.” Bobby laughs nervously.
“Les Misérables.”
“What?”
You squeeze him back, it sends shockwaves through his arm. “That’s the show I want to watch with you when we get out of here.”
The grin spreading across his face lights up your vision like how the sun would.
—
“You good?” He asks, a hand clasped around your own unabashedly. You don’t know why he’s holding onto you, maybe he’s still wobbly from the joint you two shared, or he fears that you’ll get taken right from his side. Either way, you let him.
“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as the sound bounces off the yellow wallpaper. You’re nervous as you feel his warmth right on your palm, like clasping onto a lit light bulb, warm and light at the same time. “Bobby?”
“Yeah?” His eyes wander around the corridor before taking a turn to the right, randomly choosing the path for the two of you for a while now.
“Why are you holding my hand right now?”
“Sorry.” Flinching, Bobby’s fingers release you. “Sorry, it’s just when we stopped by that weird room with the square pitfalls, I— nothing, I forgot to unhand you.”
“It’s okay.” You smile at him, the lights above flicker in and out before steadying. “I understand.” Holding out your hand to his side, pinky brushing along his palm, you invite him. “May I? If it helps you calm down.”
Bobby lets out a sigh he didn’t know he was holding before taking your hand again on his own. His hold has more thought put into it, tender yet filled with trepidation. “Yeah, sorry I’m being such a little bitch right now.”
“Maybe we should hold off from smoking before exploring.”
“I took a nap and I thought that was enough.” He shakes his head rapidly, trying to shake off the haze over his eyes. “Why aren’t you all antsy?”
“I told you, your weed is weak as shit, Bobby—” something catches your attention. A scent, something so familiar, that old laundry smell that sticks in the back of your nose. You know it too well when you spent days in that room just listening to the hum in the walls.
Bobby stops abruptly when you freeze on the spot and the intertwined hands hang in between the two of you. “What? You’re doing that thousand yard stare again.”
“Can you smell that?” Your eyes flick to his blue ones.
Bobby takes a whiff of the air around him, head tilted up, nose up. “Like cat piss?”
“I think that’s just the carpet…” mumbling, you use your nose to find the room. You turn a corner, leading Bobby this time around, hand in hand.
“Hero, what are you doing?” He chuckles nervously, letting you guide him through different corridors.
“I think I know this place.” Your hand brushes along the wall, and right beside it is a washing machine dial embedded into the wallpaper. The hum entices you, but Bobby’s hand on yours ground you to reality.
“What?”
“Follow me.” With quicker strides, you walk past rooms that are quite familiar to you, like you saw it in a dream once, too foggy and blurry at the edges, but you know you saw it even when the adrenaline inside your veins were helping you run.
Bobby follows behind, head on a swivel, keeping watch for the both of you. His thumb brushes along the back of your hand, making your mind stutter as you pause in the middle of a junction.
Taking a deep breath, a hand running along the wall, you see it, a ship’s wheel stuck into a wall.
“We’re close.” Muttering, you concentrate on finding your way.
Peter was right, it’s a directionless place. There are doors leading to another wall, windows with no glass, just a wooden frame sinking into the wall. You got lost once and had to turn back, somehow, the hum quiets down for you, refusing to help you unlike before when it warned you or helped you find a way to get away.
It refuses to help you leave this place.
“Holy fuck.” Your breath hitches in your throat when the smell grows stronger when you find a crevice in between two walls where the lights are brighter on the other side. If you squint you could just see it— the radio.
Bobby tilts his head, narrowing his eyes. “What is it?”
“I think you need glasses, Bobby.” You laugh victoriously, tugging him into the sliver of space tucked in between. “Come on.”
“Don’t be a cryptic motherfucker.” He chuckles back, albeit wobbly. “Seriously, are you gonna kill me here? Are you trying to find a torture chamber?”
“Bobby,” you turn to him, body already shimmying into the niche. Your smile makes him more confused. “Lay off the weed for a bit, yeah? It makes you anxious.”
“No, this place makes me anxious. Weed makes me flirty and horn— fuck, is that what I think it is?” The hand around your own trembles as he laughs. “You did it. I can’t— you really are a hero, hero.”
“Don’t thank me yet, Bobby.”
The two of you move in tandem, carefully shimmying, clothes rustling, backs dragging along the wall from the tight squeeze.
You bolt from the walls immediately after getting out, already reaching for the radio. Bobby stands beside you, marveling at the technology and equipment left by the researchers.
“Async.” Bobby reads out loud, he finds a clipboard filled with documents on it whilst you calibrate the radio frequency. “Almost everything on here has been redacted. Not the government my ass.”
“Hello?” There’s an electric buzz on the other side, the radio in your hand is heavy, all metal as you wet your dry lips. “We need help.” Bobby has his full attention on you now, breathing heavily, unease mar his features whilst his head is on a swivel. “Please, if someone’s listening we need help.” Your voice catches at the edges, eyes glancing at Bobby. “There’s two of us, I— Peter Tench sent us. He’s alive, he told us to find a radio, an outpost. Please respond, tell us how to leave, or fucking get us out of here.” There’s only static. “Hello?”
You let go of the button, more electric buzz, more hum, nothing.
Bobby snatches the radio from you, pressing the button as he curses them out. “We’ve been stuck here for fucking days, I know you’re listening, you fucking cu—”
You tug at Bobby’s sleeve, looking directly at the wooden wall that you broke once upon a time. The wood is all patched up, replaced with another slab of plywood. The radio is worthless when just beyond that door is the ceiling you came from. You’ve been too hyperfixated on the radio that you forgot that the exit is nearby.
This place is directionless, this place makes your memory foggy, blurred, like a dream you have forgotten once you wake up. But your sense of smell is a powerful reminder of a memory. Like your mother’s perfume, the smell of freshly baked cookies from your childhood, the scent of salty air, and Bobby’s cologne.
“What, hero?” He clicks his tongue, pausing from hurling all the curses he knows at the radio.
You’re taking the hammer from your belt, weighing it in your hand when you lift it above your head and smash the plywood.
“Fuck!” Bobby shrieks in shock.
Just like last time, you let everything out with every hit of your hammer. Shards of splintered wood rain down upon you, some landing on your hair, a few caught in the fabric of your jacket. Yet you continue on despite a shard coming too close to your eye.
Heaving, you make a big enough hole to go through. You slowly turn to Bobby, panting with a wide grin. “Leave the radio, I found the exit.”
Bobby blinks at you like you grew two heads.
“That’s the same radio I found, Bobby.” You step through the hole and gesture around you. “And this is the same place I walked through to get here.”
Realization flickers on his face. “You mean—?”
“You wanna get out of here and watch Les Misérables with me?” Holding out your hand through the broken down wall, you smile at him, a genuine warm smile that you haven’t seen on yourself in years.
“Yeah.” Is all he could say when his mind rushes a thousand miles per hour. Bobby takes your hand, fingers slightly trembling as you pull him through. “We’re going home?” There’s a childlike disbelief in his tone and expression.
“Yeah, Bobby, we’re getting out of here.” With his hand in yours, you guide him through the room.
The black sludge is still on the floor, this time it has numerous shoe footprints on the muck, as if a group of people passed by here. Judging from the repaired wall, it seems that’s the case. The camera is still on the wall, pointed right at a lifesized caveman cardboard cutout, or what’s left of it on the floor when it has been ripped to shreds with its speakers broken and shattered by your feet.
Bobby carefully jumps over the sludge when you just walk through it, leaving your own footprints on the carpet.
“What’s that?” He points at a space in the wall with a piece of it propped up beside the entrance. “Are those hangers?”
“Yeah, that’s the long way, let’s not go there.” You continue to lead him and the relief that washes over you is palpable when you see the dangling climbing rope you dropped through the ceiling. “I can’t believe it.”
“Is that where you came from?” Bobby’s voice trumps over the incessant drone of the fluorescent lights. Head tilted up, he grimaces at the scent of the laundry pile.
“Yeah, come on.” You’re practically bouncing on your feet, tugging him towards the rope. You could already feel the cold chilly air through the ceiling. You’re one climb away from home. The dangling rope doesn’t make you scratch at your neck until it bleeds, nor turn your limbs numb. The sight of it, especially with Bobby beside you brings you hope. You made it, you saved a life. “You go first.”
“No, you first.” Bobby squeezes your hand, taking your attention away from the ceiling. “I’ll help you climb up.”
“I thought you’d be eager to go first.”
“What can I say, I’m a changed man.” Sending you a wink, you both climb up the hill of clothes, helping each other as you two go up. You could feel him tremble with tamped down excitement as you put your hands on the rope, foot in the footholds and start to climb up. “Careful.” His palm is on the small of your back, warmth felt through your jacket, then hovering under you when you’re nearly up the rope. “You got it?” Bobby readies to climb up.
“Yeah.” Smiling widely, your hand is mere inches away from the ceiling when you hear it— the rustling, that fabric shifting against the other. The familiar shuffling that turns your head from calm to flight. You pause, watching the hallway you two came from.
There’s a shadow, a lumbering form. And it shuffles closer to you.
Bobby is saying your name, tugging at the rope for you to wake up from your stupor. “Hero— fuck!” He’s climbing up with you and you jolt awake, fingers tingling, chest heaving. “Go! Fucking go!” He’s halfway up, head turning back and forth from the shadow and over to you.
“Fuck!” You reach up to leave, and you hit a solid ceiling.
Dread washes over you like the tides on the beach.
“What are you doing? Go!” Bobby holds onto your ankle, he turns frantic, panicked when the sound grows closer. The shuffling, the rustle sends your whole body into an unsteady shudder.
Your palm meets the smooth ceiling tile. Over and over again, you feel how solid it is against your hand.
Panic sets behind your ribcage. Slithering up your heart as it pinches and squeezes, trying to burst open your hammering heart.
Patting it wildly, your hand doesn’t go through, no phasing through.
You scream in despair, accidentally punching a hole right through the ceiling where the ventilation is supposed to be when there is only darkness behind it. A sliver of space for the lights that goes on for miles, the plenum where there are no wires connecting each light, no source of electricity. And most importantly, no laundry shop, no familiar smell of detergent, and no chilly air. No threshold. No reality.
It’s closed.
Your way out is closed. You’re locked out of reality.
“Fuck!” You cry, forehead pressed against the rough rope.
“Why—” Bobby croaks out, still clinging to the rope, still clinging to hope. He calls your name, body trembling as a stuttered breath leaves his lips.
You look at him and it’s enough to shatter his hope.
“We need to go.” He completely lets go of the hope of reaching home. Scrambling down the rope, Bobby panics, movements too frantic as his foot gets stuck on the footholds just like you had.
“Bobby!” The rustling grows nearer, you’re afraid to look.
Bobby falls backwards, flailing and trying to stay upright as he dangles above the pile of clothes. His shirt is hitched to his chest from gravity pulling at it, muscles straining and taut. He turns to the sound, he didn’t mean to, he’s just as afraid to look, or maybe his morbid curiosity made him look.
The rope dangles from side to side, it turns towards the rustling, and upside down he sees— you.
Not the you he knows, with those guarded smiles and uneasy hands. Eyes looking at his forehead whilst you pretended to look into his own, he always noticed it, but he never said anything because saying it opens something that he’s afraid he can never close. Bobby pries, but he doesn’t force it out when he knows it would be harder to close, breaking what is already built between you. You’re alive and that’s what matters to him because you fought against yourself, you fought to stay in this world and he’s glad that you did because he met you. You’ve become an invaluable friend, a companion in this hell, he found himself caring for you, a fondness. But as he stares at this version of you, he’s terrified beyond belief, not the calm and ease he feels when he is around you.
This you is mangled, damp, dead.
And you just entered its home.
“Wh–what the fuck!” Bobby shrieks, trying to fold himself to pull his foot out of the footholds. “Hero!”
He calls for you, asking for an ounce of hope that once slithered in his chest. But the look on your face dashes whatever is left, you freeze, completely still on the spot, like a vine curled around a rope, dangling there, moving as the rope moves, getting carried by the wind. You look at the entity like you’re looking at your own tomb.
Emptiness, dread, grief, you stare at yourself, a ghost of what could’ve been, of what you might’ve ended up as. It’s not like pirate Clark with its large form and gangly arms, this you is much more akin to real life. Whereas the pirate came from your nightmares, this came from the past.
The entity’s head is hanging from its broken neck, looking at you upside down as the head hits its chest with every movement. The neck is twisted and marred, skin folded atop the other. And it wears your face, not a memory of your face that’s all wrong, or a photograph of you whilst you moved mid shutter. No, this is undoubtedly you, a face that is contorted into sheer agony, a hurt that you are familiar with.
Lines of red rope are tied around its arms, sporting the same flowery bomber jacket that rustles and shuffles, and underneath is a pair of swim shorts and a rash guard, the same one you wore that day, a blue one, the same shade as his eyes. Its hair is damp, perpetually wet as it clings to its dangling face and chest with its slouched shoulders.
It doesn’t speak, it doesn’t make a sound other than the rustling, even the footsteps are silent, almost afraid of being perceived.
One thing breaks through your mind, a thought— you bore this being, you made it exist, and you believe that you did, that you made it so, and it has been hunting you ever since you fell in this place. It waited for the right time, watched you with its reddened eyes, always around a corner that you didn’t take, behind a wall that you didn’t press your ear to, always there, like a ghost that haunts every room you are in.
It’s a distorted mirror of you.
Your name echoes around you as the lights flicker in and out. Bobby grasps at your ankle, his warm clammy hand clawing at your skin. The hum is stronger, a tug at your sternum as it sings at a higher dissonance akin to an alarm. It wakes you, it screams, it tells you to run.
The entity’s hand reaches for Bobby’s face, its body half climbing up the mountain of fabric like a spider on wet tiles, trying to find steady ground as its fingers curl in and out around itself, trying to grasp at your companion, your friend.
If this is the end, Bobby will forgive you.
So you jump from the rope, arms wide, landing right on its back, and taking it down with you.
Your body sinks down onto the pile of clothes, dragging you down along with it like quicksand. The more you struggle the further you sink.
Bobby screams for you on the surface, and you feel its arms wrap around you.
It embraces you like the one before it, trying to take your warmth as the smell of mold encompasses you, scampering into your nose as the acrid smell suffocates you. Its palm grasps at your face, long nails digging in, its fingers are unnaturally long, oddly long as it holds your entire face, and you see in between its fingers as Bobby falls from the rope harshly, landing on his shoulder. He groans, the sound barely heard from the fabric in your ears.
He screams your name with a desperation that curdles the words on his tongue. clawing his way to you, digging desperately.
His frantic blue eyes are what’s left of the surface as you see it in between cottons and polyester.
You don’t thrash around when any movement makes you sink even deeper, eyes wide, begging for Bobby to leave you behind and run. You granted him time, and he’s wasting it all to save you.
Light breaks through, and his hand reaches for you to take.
Bobby looks at you like you’re worth saving.
So you reach up, the pads of your fingers grazing his own, a mere brush against his calloused fingertips. Still, you sink further and further, the mountain of clothes burying you alive, the stench of sweat and grime suffocating you like the hand atop your face. The entity drags you down, enveloping your whole form as you feel its arms and legs wrap around you, if it wasn’t sinister, it would’ve been comforting, a shield against the world, a hug from yourself.
You scream Bobby’s name, trying to extend your hand as far as you could but he’s getting farther away from you, like looking up from inside a deep dark well that has the lingering stench of rot.
Bobby, your hero Bobby, jumps after you. Why would he? He could just leave you there to die in your own rotting arms, and yet he digs himself down, straining, heaving and desperate to get to you.
Until finally, he gets a hold of your hand, locking his fingers around your own as the entity’s back hits solid ground with a hard wooden thump. There’s a knock, barely heard from your muffled screams. But Bobby heard it, and something flashes in those ocean blue eyes of his— hope.
Bobby groans, his other hand reaching for something behind you, and his mouth opens, saying something, too quiet for you to hear above your own fear.
“Hold on!” He screams and the door opens behind you with a resounding click.
Suddenly, the ground falls behind you, the clothes go first, then the legs around you, then the arms as you go down along with it.
You’re dangling from the ceiling once again, fifty, a hundred feet off the ground as red encompasses around you. Your mirrored self hangs on around your waist, nails digging into your flesh, whilst clothes flutter out of the doorway.
Gasping, you hold onto Bobby’s hand, looking down you see a city, concrete skyscrapers with glass windows all around, and streets spanning around it complete with street lights and idle cars like any other city. All except for the red light illuminating around it, the crimson sun, the scarlet sky, like a dark room you’ve seen in old movies.
“Bobby!” With a shriek, vertigo takes over you, vision swirling, stomach churning from the height. You could feel Bobby’s hand turn clammy around your own. Looking up, you see him struggle to lift you up with one arm, whilst the other keeps him in place so you both don’t fall off.
“Just—!” His skin is aflame, red as he strains himself. “Fuck! Hold on!”
There’s a groan under you, a simple huff of breath, like a dying man trying to say his last words on his deathbed. When you look down, look at yourself clinging to you, it lets out a breath again, trying to say something, trying to communicate. It shocks your core, the others never let out a breath nor a single word, but this entity, this horrifying copy of yours tries to when it doesn’t even need to breathe.
“Wha—?”
“Fucking kick it!” Bobby yells gutterally, sweat dribbling off his brows.
Mouth clamping shut, you raise your leg and kick. And kick, and kick at its mangled neck with a resounding squelch of flesh that is too soft, too pliant to be one. And yet blood trickles out of its nose and mouth, its flesh and blood. Just like you.
Bobby has managed to lift you by your elbow, and with one last kick against its nose, it lets go. You watch as it falls, your own self falling down, down, down into the pavement with a sickening thud. For a moment it flew, just like you have.
You’re lifted up, and you suddenly find yourself tucked into Bobby’s arms. His whole body trembles, the aftershock that rattles his bones.
“You’re okay, fuck, you’re okay.” Bobby utters like an answered prayer against your skin, as if he’s trying to comfort himself rather than for you. His face hides against the crook of your neck, breathing you in, his sweat sticking to your skin, but you don’t mind as you tentatively wrap your arms around him. Just like how the entity wrapped itself around you. His fingers bunches up your jacket with a rustle of fabric.
It has always been you that was watching you. The one that made you run further into the mono yellow and into the arms of the warm hum. It was you who was watching you from the corner, the shuffling and the rustling has always been you.
You drove yourself into this place, you ran from yourself, you hid from yourself, you almost died because of you.
“I’m o–okay, Bobby.” You exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Bobby wants to be somewhere safe with you, anywhere, even if it’s a room in this place like the theater or the sailboat room where you tended to him and let him drink the last of your water even when your lips were dry and you were starving. Anywhere but here, as long as it doesn’t smell like old laundry that leads to a doorway that plunges you from the sky.
And all you want is for him to hold you.
Bobby leans away, moving the stray hair that sticks on your skin as he swallows the lingering adrenaline away. His blue eyes wander around your features, and he lingers, his gaze lingers before he brings himself against you again, holding you in place, a hand cupped on the back of your head whilst you can feel his chest rise and fall.
Your knuckles drag along his back, eyes closing for a moment before opening it.
There’s a door on the wall that wasn’t there before. An anomaly. You know it wasn’t there when it’s the same wall that you rested against it to feel the hum, to hear this place sing, where there’s a patch of dry carpet that is warm, where the tone lingers right in your sternum. The door is green with patches of blue, the same color as his eyes.
“Bobby.” You say after a minute of holding each other and staring at the door that has appeared out of nowhere.
“Yeah?” His chin moves atop your shoulder as he sniffs. Leaning away, his lashes clump together from the unshed tears.
“There’s a door.” Is all you could say, mind still frazzled from everything that transpired, from how he held you— still holds you on the damp carpet that has less clothes now.
There’s nowhere else to go.
Bobby follows your gaze, looking over your shoulder as he exhales a breath. “What do y–you think?” His tone is still wobbly, still shaking with unease.
“Together?” You look into his eyes.
“Yeah,” his hand cradles your cheek, warm, clammy, gentle. “Together.”
The two of you walk in together through the door, hand in hand, stride matching the other. The sun greets you, the green grass crunches underneath your feet, and birdsong filters in your ears.
You’re back home.
But the warmth is wrong, artificial. There is birdsong but there are no birds in the sky nor on the trees.
The smell is odd, the grass doesn’t smell like grass, nor the air feels like air. A mere copy of it, a distorted mirror of the woods.
There’s a pink house in the middle of the clearing, and it beckons you and Bobby over.
Bobby’s hold tightens around you, fingers laced together, hands trembling together. One look at him and you both know— You’re not out yet.
And you may never get out of here.
Bruh. Just. Bruh 😭
HEYY BAE!!! its been a while!!! How are u? I hope ur good!! I was just wondering if u liked creepypastas?? It may not be your thing but you never know😝 heh also saw that ur requests are open🥹 PLEASE I WILL GIVE YOU MY KIDNEY AND LUNG FOR A FIC OF GOTH READER TAKING THIER MAKEUP OFF AND HOBIE IS LIKE HUGGING AND KISSING THEM AND THEY GET DISTRACTED pretty please🥹🥹 anyway ilysm katy ur such an amazing human and I hope that u have an amazing day!! BYE💗💗💗
Hiii bestie!!! I'm okay how are you? I do like them! I used to be really into creepypastas way back when! I even have a slenderman keychain which is probably a relic now lmaoo I was also into scp! Does the backrooms count? Bc I'm obsessed with that now lmao I hope you like your request! ❤️ Now gimme lung and kidney 🤗
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Reader/ Spider-Punk x Reader
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader, reader can be read as any gender, established relationship, Goth! Reader, lovestruck! Hobie, fluff!
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Third anniversary celebration 🎉
The shower runs in the background as you start to take off all your accessories. The silver rings clink against the vanity table whilst you hear Hobie’s humming stop from the bathroom. You immediately hurry up, knowing that you’ll never be done before your eyes grow heavy with sleep.
Hobie has the habit of distracting you whilst you’re getting ready for bed. Whether you’re brushing your teeth, his arm would be around yours whilst he joins you by your side, brushing his own teeth to the rhythm of yours. Sometimes when you’re showering you’d see his silhouette behind the curtains, just standing still, waiting for your permission to join you. Whenever you open the curtains and give him the green light, his whole face lights up like a kid in a candy store. Then there’s you taking off your makeup, just sitting in front of the vanity with the day shown on your tired face. And yet somehow, Hobie sees you as the hottest thing in the whole world, even when your eyeliner is all smudged around your eyes, or even when you look more like a panda than a goth.
It’s not just before bed either, he’s the same while you’re getting ready for the day. He trails after you like a duckling has imprinted on you. You ask him to pick an outfit and he chooses the best one for you after getting distracted by you in your underwear of course. Then he’d help you get ready, whether to help with your hair or with your makeup, he’s always a part of your routine. You don’t remember a day where he wasn’t a part of it. He distracts you to no end with kisses and soft touches, of course who could complain when you love it too. He’s clingy, but that’s because he doesn’t see you for the rest of the day when you’re both apart from each other.
For today though, you really want to get into the shower quickly to wash off the day’s gunk and burrow under the covers with Hobie cuddling you. But alas, you’re not quick enough when he gets out of the shower, a towel hanging loose around his hips, water droplets sliding down his bare torso and a face that lights up the moment he sees you.
You’re only halfway done in wiping off your makeup when he sidles behind you, chin resting on the crown of your head as his arms wrap around you. Hobie smells like citrus and your coconut shampoo as he takes a whiff of your hair. He’s the best kind of distraction.
“You smell like smoke, lovie.” He says tiredly, voice gravelly than usual as his hands squeeze your hips.
“I went on a walk today to go to the shops, and a smoke belching car fucking billowed smoke all over me.” Sighing, you lean against his damp chest, looking up at him briefly through your lashes.
Hobie continues to knead at your sides, easing you further against him. Distracting you even more with his warm touch. “D’you remember the plates?”
You chuckle, tilting your head at him through the mirror whilst you wipe the lipstick off of your lips, “you gonna key his car, friendly neighborhood Spider-Man?”
“Maybe.”
“Well, that’s not very friendly of you.”
He hums, smiling softly as he takes a new make up wipe from the table to gently wipe away at your under eyes. “Spider-Man cares for the environment too. If keyin’ the bloke’s car helps stop the smoke then that’s jus’ me bein’ a hero.”
Smiling, eyes closed, you feel his feather light touch all over your face. “That makes sense.”
“I’ll write your name on the car for you as my declaration of love.” His index and thumb on your chin keeps your head in place, a touch so gentle and loving you could fall asleep right there.
You chortle, whilst he wipes at your jawline. “Please don’t do that.”
“Too late, already planning on it.” Once he gives you a much needed peck to your lips, you know that he’s done with wiping your make up off. “You off to shower?”
“Thank you, baby.” You chase his lips as he leans back down for another quick kiss. Taking the dirty make up wipes, you throw it in the trash whilst his hand never leaves your skin. “Yeah, a quick one, I just want to cuddle in bed.”
“...can I join?”
Your brows furrow as his thumb presses in between your brows. “You just showered.”
“Who says I can’t shower again? I fought the Lizard in the sewers today, y’know.”
“No, you didn’t, I saw the news, you fought Mysterio today.” You poke his lean stomach.
“Fuck the news,” Hobie’s nose scrunches, fluttering his lashes at you. “they don’t care about my lesser achievements.”
“You just want me to lather you up.” You coo, reaching over to cup his face as he leans down for you.
“That’s not a crime.” He answers smugly with a scoff.
“I didn’t say it was.” Kissing the tip of his nose, you could still smell the soap on him. “Just keep your hands to yourself inside the shower, Spider-Man.”
Grinning from ear to ear, he heaves you off the seat. “C’mon then so we could properly snog in bed.”
I’m pretty sure Hobie’s gonna ask for a third shower after their “cuddle session” 🙄🤭
helllooo! could i have some ttn hobie and r 🤭 its a few days after she just came back home and they’re just soo happy to have each other back 🥹
Thread the needle hobie and r my beloveds 🥰 I hope you like it!
Pairing: Hobie Brown x fem! Reader/ Spider-Punk x fem! Reader
Word count: 1.3k
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, set in my thread the needle series, best friends to lovers, cw food mentions, cw drinking mention, cw suggestive, fluff!
Navigation
Hobie feels like he just woke up from the best dream in the world only to be yanked away by his blaring alarm clock. As he groans atop his pillow, blindly reaching for the clock, he feels the cool metal of it, pressing the off button. But the ringing doesn’t stop, the volume seems to increase even more as it deafens his ears. Annoyed, especially after a good dream, he takes the alarm clock and with a flick of his wrist, he tosses it over the wall, shattering it into pieces.
Hobie rolls over in bed, he takes a deep inhale of the chilly morning air and gets a whiff of your perfume. It’s as if his dream is still lingering in his sleep-addled mind. Turning over to the bedside table all limp limbs moving sluggishly, Hobie opens the drawer and takes out another alarm clock identical to the one he broke and brings out a polaroid of you he took at the airport before you left. You were looking over your shoulder with a sad smile, eyes still glistening from the tearful goodbye as you lug behind your suitcase.
“Mornin’, love.” He says to the picture of you, bringing it to his lips before gently placing it down on the bedside table right next to your perfume you purposely left so he could spray it all over the houseboat whenever he misses you. He’s on his sixth bottle, but whenever you two call, he shows you how much of the so-called original bottle is left.
Reluctantly sitting up, skin rising from the cold when the blanket falls from his bare torso, he has an intense urge to give you a call as he reaches for his phone. He’s already out of international minutes for the month even though it’s just the second week, but he could still send you the traditional good morning text he sends you every morning. He just feels irritable the whole day whenever he forgets to do it.
With one bleary eye open, he yawns and checks his messages. There’s one from Ned and it’s just a simple, “what are you two doing tonight?” from him. He leaves it unopened to remind himself to reply to it later once he’s got some caffeine in him. There’s one from Yuri, and it’s all just exclamation marks for some reason, to which he just replies a bunch of question marks. James left him a voice message, and when he plays it it’s just him screaming on the phone and telling him to wear protection. His brow raises at that, maybe the bloke is just drunk again. But not a single one of those messages is from you, not even a goodnight on your end, or the usual retelling of your day.
Hobie immediately feels like his day is going awful. For one, he woke up from a dream where you came home as a surprise, and two, it seems that you’ve forgotten to send him a text. He figures that you’re just busy, he understands that, but that doesn’t mean he’s casual about it, nope, he’s not even nonchalant about it, he’s very chalant about it. He misses you so much that he could even hear you humming from the kitchen.
Wait. He’s sure he’s not going insane.
Eyes widening, he flings the blankets off of him and rushes out of the bedroom and over to the kitchen with a slam of the door that he’s sure broke a part of the wall from the sheer force of it. He ignores the biting cold on his bare legs and torso as he sees you standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old band tees and basking in the light whilst you make breakfast.
Hobie died in his sleep from all the beating from Doc Ock the other day and he has gone to heaven. Or that’s what it feels like when he sees you.
“Love?” His voice is sweet and tender as he braces himself on the doorway.
“Hey, morning, Hobs.” Your eyes glitters underneath the sunlight, head turning towards him, before your eyes roam down with a chuckle and a low whistle. “Damn, good morning to you too, Hobie junior.”
Ah, yes, that’s why he feels cold, he’s as naked as the day he was born. Then he remembers, that wasn’t a dream, you coming back home was real. He’s never making drinks ever again when he makes them with too much alcohol to chaser ratio. He could blame you for distracting him too much whilst he made it and you were basically pawing at him, but he can’t lie that it was a good distraction.
“Fuckin’ hell, you’re real.”
“I knew that third G and T was too much.” Chuckling, you open your arms to him, and he grabs the nearest clothing from him— your cardigan on the dining chair, as he ties it around his waist, walking over to you, eyes never leaving your form. “Hi, Wallace.”
“My Gromit.” Hobie wraps his arms around you, face burying in the crook of your neck, nuzzling his nose right at your pulse. “I thought I was dreaming.”
You coo, palms rubbing up and down his bare back as you warm him up with your touch. “Drinking was definitely a bad idea.” Giggling above his temple, you pepper the side of his face with kisses. “I’m here and I’m real, Hobs.”
He sighs in relief, shoulders slacking, muscles easing as he cuddles close. “‘m so fuckin’ glad it wasn’t jus’ a dream.”
“Me too,” pecking his cheek, you cup his face in your warm hands and pull him away gently. The softened look on his face almost made you pull him back against you if not for the pancakes sizzling in the pan and teetering from becoming burnt rocks. “Did I hear something crash in the room?”
“...no.” he pouts as your hands leave his skin so you could turn to flip the pancakes with ease. His arms still hold onto you, his chest against your back as you feel him breathe and rest his chin on your shoulder. “It was the alarm clock.”
“I’ll get you an indestructible one.”
He hums, lips finding the hinge of your jaw as his kisses trail from your face down to your throat. “I have enhanced strength, lovie.”
“Hobie, we need to have breakfast first…” you utter in between hitched breaths as his hands rub along your sides lovingly. “You told me that you wanted pancakes last night.”
“Did I?” He pauses, lips just underneath your ear lobe. “I can wait. ‘m not that hungry. For pancakes anyway.”
“What do you think you’re doing, hm?” Giggling from his kisses, you lean against him, careful with the spatula in hand.
“Makin’ sure that ‘m still not dreamin’.” His eyes are fully closed, kissing you blindly, as if he’s trying to remember your face through his lips.
“I can tell you that you’re not, Hobie.” You feel his rough palms go under your shirt, caressing your stomach affectionately.
“Jus’ shut the stove off, lovie.”
Who are you to say no as you feel heat bloom in your stomach? You close the stove, turn around to face him and he pulls away briefly to lift you by your legs, hands underneath your thighs as he looks up at you with reverence.
“There’s one thing we need to do to prove that we’re not dreamin’”
“And pray tell what is that?” Arms thrown over his neck, you beam at him, lower lip bitten to stifle a laugh.
“It’s in the bedroom though.” He feigns innocence, head tilted, the corner of his lips tugging into a not so subtle smirk.
Your grin was well worth the wait as your fingers gently tug at the curls on his nape. “Show me then.”
Hobie laughs, a hearty chuckle that you could feel reverberate through his chest as he carries you over to the bedroom and shuts the door closed with his foot. It’ll be a long and warm morning for the two of you.
I feel that the morning would continue on into the evening 🌝🤭
Come can get your summer companion here!
Hi everyone!! My plushie campaign is now up on ACGGoods! You can start pledging for only $2.98 today (*´∀｀)ﾉ
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Thinking about Hobie walking into the houseboat's kitchen on a random sunday morning when the air is still chilly and not humid yet and seeing you in your old ass oversized shirt, hair still a mess with gunk in the corners of your eyes and yawning widely like a feral cat while making tea or coffee and he's so in love with how soft you look and how the light shines from the window that needs cleaning and bathes you in the cool early morning light and he's making heart eyes at you like "damn, lovie, don't tease me like that" and you haven't even brushed your teeth yet and you're looking at him like ???
He doesn't look too bad himself btw 😍
Why you gotta call me out like that ✋😭
Lost
Pairing: Bobby Franklin x fem! Reader
Word count: 12.1k
Synopsis: Two encounters. One has you both running away, the other giving you hope.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, reader has nicknames, CW blood and injury, CW food mentions, CW unsolicited touching (not from Bobby), CW dark themes. Eventual Bobby romance, slow burn, Part 3 of my Bobby series. Set during the movie (spoilers)
Navigation
Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 2 <<< Part 3 >>> Part 4
The sounds of wood thumping on metal rings through the tight corridors. You’ve named this place the boiler room, the whole place is covered in metal and steel, some are made out of copper that is slowly turning teal around the edges. It’s dank and smells like petrichor, like it’s about to rain inside. There’s a reason why you haven’t explored this place as much as the yellow wallpaper rooms— it’s hot here, not like a comforting warm summer heat that’s slightly muggy, a weather for the beach, or maybe for sailing out in the open seas, no, this place is searing hot, it’s humid, the type of heat that you could see make waves in the air around you.
Beside you, Bobby struggles to breathe through the hot air, just like you are as you’re still in your bomber jacket, refusing to take it off. The two of you wait for the pirate to move on, for the sound of thumping to fade from your ears as you hear its body scrape against the steel pipes. It’s too large for this place as it shambles around awkwardly.
The chase has you and Bobby winded, even more now that the heat isn’t helping you take in air. You’re drenched in sweat, the beads of sweat drips down from your chin down to your pants as it leaves little dark droplets on the fabric. Bobby is faring better than you, still sweaty and breathing heavily but not as bad as you when you feel like you’re being cooked from the inside out.
“Just take off your fucking jacket.” He whispers, too close to you when the curling pipes hinders him from moving away from you as you both hide inside a small crevice in the wall. “I won’t judge you if you have shitty tattoos.”
“Shut up before it hears you.” You shush him, swallowing nothing when the inside of your mouth is drier than a desert.
“You’re going to die of heatstroke.” You turn to him, glaring at Bobby as he glares right back. “I’m not a fucking idiot, I know shit too.” He takes a deep inhale of the hot air, regretting it when he almost chokes from the heat. “Just take off the jacket, you’ll feel better.”
“I’m fine.” Wiping away the sweat dribbling on your forehead, you strain your ears to try to hear the entity walking around. You don’t hear anything other than the leaking pipes and Bobby’s breathing. “I think it’s gone.”
“Thank fuck.” He shimmies out, passing by you as he stretches his legs from the prolonged crouched position. “Come on, let’s get out of the devil’s armpit.” Holding out his hand to you, you reluctantly take it as you feel your shirt cling to your skin from how drenched in sweat it is. “Before you faint again.”
“It happened one time and you’ll never let me live it down.” You start to walk through the hallways lined with pipes, you suddenly miss the yellow wallpaper instead of this creepy boiler room that makes you claustrophobic.
When the previous corridors felt like an abandoned office space, this one is more industrial, more metal and steel than wallpaper and carpet. There is an occasional hiss from the pipes, letting out warm air, and there are manholes on the floor, randomly dotted around, some look like it’s two in one, melted together like it’s in the middle of mitosis. You’d take the sailboat room more than this place.
“This place looks like it’s out of a Nightmare on Elm Street.” Bobby helps you search for the hasty marks you left when you two were being chased by the pirate. “I’m gonna ask now because it’s fucking eating at me but, did that fucking thing look like Clark to you?”
“Yep.” You pop the letter ‘p’ in your mouth as you struggle to look through the waves of heat ahead. “And don’t ask me why because I don’t know either.”
“Do you think it steals faces?” Bobby’s crop top sticks to his torso and you avoid your gaze from staying too long on him.
“I don’t know, Bobby.” You lumber towards a corner, your hand touching the hot wall trying to look for the mark you left with your marker. “Why are you so talkative?”
Bobby shrugs, keeps walking behind you as he uses his shirt to fan himself. “It helps to distract myself.”
You make the mistake of looking behind you as you see him completely drenched in sweat, his white crop top clinging to his torso like second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. His lean stomach is in full show, heat singes your cheek and it’s not from the heat. Averting your eyes, you continue to walk forward, searching for the same door you two came out of. “It’s annoying me and the thing might hear you—”
Fumbling, stumbling on your own two feet when the heat makes your vision foggy, you hold onto a pipe for balance. Your palm is immediately seared as you scream in pain, taking your hand away. “Fuck!” You hold onto your wrist, keeling over, and crouched down onto the hard ground.
“Shit, let me see.” Bobby crouches down in front of you, gently taking your wrist in his hand. When you don’t budge, he clicks his teeth and calls you by your name. You didn’t even know if he remembered your name. “C’mon, hero, let me see.”
“Hero?” You ask through clenched teeth and tears in your eyes as he examines your reddened hand. “Really?”
“Yeah, you saved my ass, so you’re a hero. And you did that hero jump.” His eyes narrows at your palm, wincing for your sake. “Fuck, I don’t know much about burns but this looks gnarly. You’re gonna need ice for this.”
“Ice isn’t actually good for burns.” You let out a shuddered breath as the pain radiates from your palm down to your wrist, a slithering burn inching downwards to your elbows. “Running tepid water is.”
Bobby starts to unzip your bag, taking out one of the bottles of water for you, to which you instantly stop him with a shake of your head.
“I didn’t know that, but we don’t have either of them, so. Can we just use this instead?”
“N–no,” gritting your teeth, you make the mistake of glancing at your hand, seeing your flesh burn, bubbling up in angry reddened skin. “We need to conserve it for drinking. I—” you take a deep yet wobbly breath. “—I can handle this.” You’ve felt a lot of pain in your life but the burning sensation makes your stomach turn and the back of your eyes burn.
“You’re fucking stubborn.” Bobby stands up, knees creaking as he tries to help you up with his hands cupped around your elbows. “I have an idea.”
“You’re getting ideas now?” Brow raised, you try to focus on his face when your vision is starting to wobble like your legs. The combined heat and the throbbing pain in your hand has turned your body into jello.
“Yeah, you’re not the only one who’s allowed to have them.” He rolls his eyes, a hand reaching into his pocket for something before his palm comes up empty. “You said there’s a pool here? We can use the water for your hand.”
“That’s actually not a bad idea. But I don’t know how to get there from here.” You don’t mean to lean against him but you do as the pain takes hold of you. He lets you use him to steady yourself. He smells the same, just more sweat than cologne, and the scent of weed has almost faded away from his crop top. You try to keep your mind off the pain and heat, to try to recreate the comforting hum of the walls that doesn’t reach this searing place.
“You sound condescending.”
“I’m not,” swallowing down the bile in your throat, you take a deep inhale. “That’s just how I sound when I’m in blinding pain.”
“How about taking some of the pain meds—” you’re shaking your head at his idea as your eyes glance narrowedly at him. “It’ll help. You need it.”
“We need to ration—”
“Well, you fucking need it now, hero.” Bobby stops walking abruptly, feeling you tremble against him has him moving to open your backpack, taking out the little orange pills and handing it to you with a bottle of water. “Don’t be a hardass.” He gestures with his eyes, encouraging you to take it. “I took one before so you take one, equality.”
“Didn’t peg you for an activist.” He’s insisting, and you won’t get a move on if he refuses to walk. So you take a pill, pop it in your mouth and gulp down a mouthful of water.
“I get that a lot.” Bobby simply shrugs, putting the supplies back inside the backpack with a resounding zip before gently yanking down the straps from your arms. “Let me take the load off of you.”
You relent, letting him take the backpack as you watch him sling it over his shoulders. “Thanks…” mumbling, you hear something move, something’s hitting the pipes as the sound reverberates through the tight corridors.
You both simultaneously look back with fear in your eyes. “What was that?”
It’s an incessant tip tapping, almost like morse code, you don’t know much about it to know what they’re saying if it is.
Your feet move backwards, away from the sound as you instinctively grab hold of Bobby’s arm. “Were you a boy scout?”
“No,” he keeps his eyes on the empty corridor as the sound grows nearer. “Why?”
“Does that sound like morse code to you?”
“I don’t fucking know.” He hisses, walking backwards with you as a shadow, one with four legs, and a very large head slithers on the walls. “We should run.”
You’re already bolting away, tugging him away as he runs alongside you. The stench of rusted metal hits your nose, as numerous pipes whizz past the two of you.
You’re going deeper and deeper inside the boiler room. You shouldn’t be, you should be going back to the yellow walls, the familiar ones instead of running deeper through the copper scented hallways.
Your rushed footsteps alert the being as the tapping hastens, following right after you through the winding corridors.
The heat makes it hard to find your breath as you struggle to run this time. Your bomber jacket clings to you, drenched from your own sweat as your hand slips from Bobby’s arm from his clammy skin.
“Here!” Bobby grabs you by the scruff of your neck, yanking you away from a dead end and towards a room with rusted pipes lined around the brown walls. There’s a familiar sight right in the middle of the room, half embedded in the walls as the door swings creakily in the stale air. “C’mon!”
Bobby shoves you inside the industrial sized washing machine, before climbing in with you and shutting the door closed with a resounding clack of metal.
Heaving, you feel the stitch blooming on your side as your wide eyes stare at the yellowed glass panel of the washing machine door.
“What the fuck is that?” Bobby whispers, voice laced with fear as you both watch the creature stalk towards you.
This isn’t like the pirate with its eerie face borrowed from Clark, nor a docile one like your old man at the helm. No, this one is different, like it was meant to be a dog, a copy of it if the dog went through the shredder and blasted with radiation. This thing, is just as wrong as everything else in this place.
It snarls with an opened maw, rows of sharp canines combined with human teeth is in full show. It bites at the air, as if that’s the way it smells when you can’t see a nose where it’s supposed to be. The fur is mangled, dark and rusted just like the walls around it. It’s a moving shadow with four pointed ears, six legs with paws the size of your hand. The three tails, two longer, and one shorter, all seemingly from different dog breeds, stand on its end. It barks like a dog that doesn’t know how to. A mere echo of it, like it’s being played through a broken speaker that ends up spitting out a garbled mess of sounds.
As if things couldn’t get any worse, one more show up, this one is leaner, eyes more hungry and yellow than the first. It has three eyes, all wrong, all looking directly at you and Bobby.
You just now noticed that he’s still holding onto the back of your jacket, fingers bunching up the fabric in his tight hold in an attempt to calm himself.
One word glares brightly in your mind, ‘run.’ Run like you always have in your life. Instead of hiding and cowering in place while you wait for the hounds to get you and tear you to pieces. But there’s nowhere to run when you feel for the end of the washing machine, half expecting a door when you only find warm steel.
“Bobby, what—!” You both yell when the angrier one leaps up to smash its head against the glass.
The window doesn’t budge nor crack at the sheer force. The creature shakes its head, staggered by what it did.
“They can’t get in.” Your companion chuckles, a rising laugh that fades away the moment one of the hounds bashes its head against the glass again.
This time it leaves a crack in the glass and a smattering of black ooze.
You feel for your hammer, readying it in your hold. Bobby turns to you, locking eyes with you as his fear is palpable within the small confines of the washing machine.
You two reach an understanding. You and Bobby might die right here.
Another strike at the glass, another crack. Then another and another. Each hitting you right at your chest.
The glass looks like a mess of cracks and blackened blood as you both could barely see the hounds waiting on the other side.
You fix your hold onto the hammer and wait for another strike that doesn’t come.
A minute passes, a long agonizing minute of staring at a dirty window.
Then another minute, two, three, nothing happens.
You both look at each other, and you slowly inch your way closer to the window, crawling over Bobby’s legs as you peek through the side of the glass where it’s clearer. There, sitting right on the floor, hind legs spread out, are the two hounds sitting on both sides, as if guarding you both whilst their yellow eyes never stray too far from the washing machine. They don’t move a muscle or feel the need to breathe, they’re as steady and uncanny like your grandfather as he stared into space at the helm atop the half sunk boat.
“What do you see?” Bobby whispers beside your ear, raising gooseflesh on your skin despite the heat as his breath flutters your lashes.
“They’re not moving, just…just standing guard.”
Bobby tilts his head up, trying to find a spot on the glass that he could see through. His brows knit together, lips pursed tightly. “What the fuck are they doing?”
“Waiting for us to come out.” Your back hits the metal with a groan, and you stretch your aching legs, too long for the machine as the heels of your feet rise up to the other side of the wall. “I guess they got tired.”
It’s getting hard to breathe in this heat, especially when you’re starting to feel claustrophobic inside. You ball your uninjured fist, opening and closing it to attempt to calm your nerves. If only you had the song of the walls to press your ear onto.
“So we’re just fucking stuck here?” Groaning, he kicks at the wall with a resounding metallic thump. “Dying in a washing machine, how fucking funny.” His blue eyes flick over to you as you look like you’re dying from the heat, panting and sweating. “Shit, you need water.” Bobby takes the backpack off, unzipping it and taking a water bottle for you. “Drink, and don’t give me the rationing bullshit.”
“Has anyone told you—” you shut your eyes for a moment as sweat trickles down your face. “That you have a very unique way of showing how you care?” Uncapping the cap, or trying to at least with your injured palm, Bobby clicks his tongue and opens the bottle for you.
“No, shut up we need to conserve our air.” Watching you take gulps of water eases the tension in between his shoulders for a bit.
Your rising laughter bounces off the metal walls as Bobby looks at you with a raised brow. “Sorry,” wiping your sweat with your sleeve, you continue to chuckle to yourself. “This is actually a bit funny because I’ve had a recurring dream of getting locked in a washing machine.” You take a generous swig, letting the sweet after taste of the almond water coat your tongue. It helps a little bit.
“Okay, Nostradamus.” Swallowing his spit, you notice and hand him the water back. “And yes, I know who the dude is.”
“The dude.” You chortle. “You know a lot of things, Bobby.” Patting his knee, your head reclines back, thumping against the wall whilst he drinks. He takes it as sarcasm. “Never judge a book by its cover I guess.”
“Your hand needs to be bandaged.”
“I’ll do it later.” What’s the point when you’re gonna suffocate in here?
“No, it’ll get infected.” He rummages through the supplies and brings out a gauze and medical tape. Bobby still holds out hope. “Can you tell me how to treat it?”
“I don’t have burn cream…” Your chest lines with warmth and around your heart from the gesture. “Just put the gauze on my palm then wrap it as loose as possible with the tape. Keeping it clean is the only thing we can do.”
Bobby nods, moving closer, legs cageing you in as you sit between them. You give him your hand, the reddened flesh peeling whilst he’s slow and clumsy with his movements. Your skin pulsates with warmth and pain, like a bleeding heart.
Your eyes flick over to him, through the haze of heat, you really look at Bobby. At his chiseled jaw, broad shoulders, sandy blonde hair and pretty blue eyes that always seem to really look into your own. If you squint, he really does look like the guy you talked to for two hours straight whilst he waited for his laundry to finish. Maybe that’s why you’re helping Bobby, a redo of your fumbling.
He’s handsome. You just now realize that he’s good looking, the type of face that would have people giving him a second look on the street, or a face you see up on a billboard. He wears the crop top well, like he just shrugged it on in the morning without an afterthought, without sparing an effort on how he presents himself when his whole face and how he carries himself is enough to draw eyes on him. But he’s not like the frat boys you remember back in college, he doesn’t talk like he owns the ground you’re walking on, unlike them in their snooty letterman jackets and tuition paid for by mommy and daddy, Bobby actually talks to you and even listens. He makes conversations, notices things when you think he’s not paying attention. He’s kind enough to remember your name when no one even bothered to try. Even Janet just calls you kid when she forgot it months ago even though she has your resume on file.
He’s far kinder than you thought he would be. All that crisp angles and handsome features made you think he wasn’t when in truth his kindness was wrapped in his sharp angles and intense stares that is always keenly aware of the details around him.
You wonder why he even went with you in the first place when his ankle got better when he seems to be capable enough on his own. Never judge a book by its cover, but the verdict is still out when you’re both stuck here slowly running out of air.
“Why are you still with me, Bobby?” Your words tumble out of your tongue as your lungs struggle to take in air. “You could’ve gone on your own way to find Kat without me. Seriously, why are you helping a stranger?”
“Because you helped a stranger, idiot.” He says matter-of-factly, jaw tightening at the mention of Kat. Finishing dressing your wound, his adam’s apple bops up and down, admiring his handiwork before tossing the supplies back inside the bag. “I’m not a complete fucking asshole to leave you all alone here when you didn’t leave me. I should be the one asking you that question. You already saved me once and you don’t need to again. I’m no one to you and so is Kat.”
You wet your lips, smiling faintly at him, testing your hand as you open and shut it slowly. It still hurts but at least it’s contained. “You look like someone I knew.” Your words hang in between you as he blinks at your words. “And I’m not a total asshole to leave you wandering around here by yourself. There’s strength in numbers you know.”
You two are quite similar in that matter. You both don’t want to be alone in this place.
“I know that’s not all.” Somehow, Bobby could see right through your eyes and into your very soul.
You wince, looking at how his knee knocks against your own. “Because…because it looked like you needed someone and Kat…Kat was nice to me.”
Bobby glances away, looking at the hounds outside briefly before nodding at your words with a tensed jaw. “It’ll be better when we find Kat.” Everything will be better when they reunite.
It’s an arrow to your chest, your own lie striking you where it hurts. You’ve never been really good at lying or hiding it, but for his sake, you have to bite your tongue until you taste copper. “Yeah.”
“Y’know, I wanted to fucking throw shit at you when you left Kat and Clark in the laundry room.” Bobby turns to you and gazes into your eyes as you glance at the space between his brows instead of locking eyes with him. “I thought you could’ve just taken them with us. That you could’ve, I don’t fucking know…save them.” Shaking his head, Bobby wets his lips. “Then you left me and my thoughts all alone, and shit, I think–I think I would’ve done the same. Probably bolted out of there myself if no one was in my reach.”
“Still,” you sniff, struggling to breathe as you wipe the sweat hastily from your eyes when it stings. “I wish I could have saved them both.”
“Yeah,” he holds his breath for a moment before letting it go and handing you the half empty water bottle. “I don’t know what kind of adrenaline you have but I want some of that too, you could lift a fucking fridge when you’re panicking. Hell, you lifted me off my fucking feet like I weighed nothing.”
You smile after taking big gulps of water. “It’s a subconscious thing, people who are…more cautious tend to be better in situations like that.” Or that’s how your doctor put it when you survived drifting in the water for days.
“Like when a walking horror show tries to rip you apart?”
You manage a scoff akin to a weak laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”
Silence hangs in the air between you, his knees knocks against your own, the space too small for two people as he sits, or more like folded himself adjacent to you. In the cramped space and the dappled fluorescent lights filtering through the cracks of the window, his sharp features look softer.
“We’re gonna die here aren’t we?” Bobby says under his breath, too afraid to say it out loud.
“I hope not.” Hope, hope could be blinding that leads you to disappointment. But sometimes, it’s a driving force to keep you moving forward, even when it’s too dark to see, hope will be the guiding light. You hope for his sake when he has people waiting for him on the other side. You don’t care if you die inside this place, but it’ll crush you if he dies, because you failed to bring him home, you failed to save a life again.
You already failed with Kat and Clark, you don’t want Bobby to end up like them. Or like your grandfather still waiting for you at the bottom of the sea.
“Fuck me.” Bobby rubs his face harshly, leaving his cheeks flush with red. When he opens his eyes, concern mar his face. “You don’t look too good, hero.” He scooches closer, taking the bottle from your weak grip to pour some of it out on his palm and splashes it on your face. “Hey, stay with me.” He says your name gently, coaxing you to keep your eyes open with a pat to your cheek. His palm is warm, silken, with the pads of his fingertips calloused, blazing against your clammy skin.
You want to live for him.
Something moves. A warp in the walls, a metallic groaning of metal sliding against steel. Like nails on a chalkboard that grinds your teeth together.
Bobby hears it too, “what was that?” You know it was real this time, not like the humming in the walls.
“I don’t know…” Head craning towards the far wall, at the other end of the machine, you don’t see rusted metal anymore, just darkness, pitch black, a void that stares back.
“Do you have a flashlight?”
“No, it ran out of battery on day six.”
Bobby fishes out a lighter from his pocket. He flicks his thumb, letting sparks fly as a flame blows out from the lighter. “Stay here.”
He crawls over you then towards the darkness.
“Bobby, wait—”
When he’s supposed to hit the wall, he continues to move inside. “It’s a way out.”
“What the fuck.” You follow him, crawling on all fours as your knees hit the metal.
It’s so dark inside that you could only see the small flame in front of you. Your arms wobble from your weight, and when the flame flickers away, Bobby curses under his breath.
“Hold on.” With a hand rummaging in your jean pocket, you take out your phone whilst Bobby tries to light the flame again. You press the on button, waiting for your phone to come alive, wishing that the screen turns on.
“What are you doing?” You could only hear his voice and feel his warmth on your side.
“Turning the light on—” the screen flashes and you immediately swipe to open the flashlight. You two blink at the sudden light.
“What the fuck is that thing?” Wincing, Bobby has one eye open, adjusting to the light, trying to get a look at what’s in your hand.
“My phone, duh, c’mon.” Patting his shoulder, you crawl by him when you’re now the one leading.
“That’s a weird looking phone, man.”
More crawling, more metal squeaking underneath you, and with your palm fully bleeding as it leaves bloody handprints on the floor, you finally get out of the washing machine.
You almost fall down if not for Bobby’s hand on your ankle stopping you from falling from the hole. Hopping off, shutting your phone off again and shoving it in your pocket before helping Bobby out, you feel heavier, woozy from the heat and pain. You slouch, folding against yourself when you feel like crumpling on the floor.
It looks like you two crawled out of a metal pipe. It doesn’t make sense one bit.
“Jesus, your hand.” Bobby puts the backpack on, and gingerly takes your wrist with a wince and a grimace. “Fucking gnarly.”
“I’m fine.”
“It doesn’t look fine.” His eyes rake around the bloodied gauze. “You need fucking…something. A doctor, you need a fucking doctor.”
“Bobby, I’m fine—”
You heard him before you saw him. A shuffling of feet on the metal floors, tentative, wary.
There, standing in the corridor, looking worse for wear, sweaty all over with a relieved look in his eyes is Clark.
“Bobby?”
Your companion turns to the voice, following your shaky gaze, landing right at the man, who dragged you on the damp carpet.
“Jesus, Clark.” Bobby puts his arm instinctively in front of you, taking a step forward, apprehensive, unsure of his decision. “Where did you come from?”
“The pipes, f—fuck, you have no idea how relieved I am to see someone—”
“Stay the fuck back.” Despite your injured hand, you grasp the hammer in your bloody grip, shaking, pointing it right at him. “Bobby, don’t trust him.”
“Where’s Kat?” Bobby stays beside you, yet his attention is on Clark. “Is she with you?” Hope is laced within his wavering tone.
“I–I don’t know, we got separated.” His hands wring in front of him. He looks normal, better than the last you saw him. Clark doesn’t look as starved, he does look exasperated like you and Bobby, but his eyes are just as frantic and panicked as yours, not steady and calm like before. He looked like the Clark you met, the one that tied Bobby’s rope too tightly around his waist. Not the Clark that hauled you around and tried to give you to the being. “I’m sorry, I tried.”
There it is, tried. The same word he uttered to you in the room with Kat’s severed hand, sounding too calm, looking too calm for someone that’s starving.
Something’s amiss.
You’re missing something. He shouldn’t look like this, he shouldn’t sound like this, if the Clark that tried to take you was real, then who the fuck is the one standing before you?
If it’s the heat that’s messing with your mind, then it’s affecting Bobby too when he also sees this Clark, nervous Clark, terrified Clark.
“What the fuck do you mean you tried?” Bobby hisses, fists balled at his side. “What happened to Kat? What did you do to her?”
“What? I–” Clark’s eyes find yours, and you falter, heat clinging to your skin, drying you out even more as you feel woozy. “I wouldn’t hurt her! Why would I do that?”
“I don’t fucking know, man.” Bobby scoffs, shaking his head as his tone rolls out sarcastically. “The same reason you did this to her.” He gestures at your neck, scratches reddened at the edges, pulsing with a dull ache. Clark looks confused. “Did you feed Kat to that–that thing like you tried with her?” Voice cracking, his words breaking in the middle. “Where the fuck is she, Clark?”
“I didn’t fucking do anything!” His hands land on his chest, eyes wild, swallowing thickly. “I didn’t do that to her!” Clark now points to you, hands shaking. “Please, I just need some water, we’ll get out together.”
Bobby snatches the hammer from your hand, staining his own palm with your own ichor. “Where the fuck is Kat?” He repeats, heavier this time, more threatening.
“I don’t know, okay!” Sweat dribbles off his clammy face, hands trembling around him. “I heard her through the walls, I really did try to help her but I couldn’t see her but—but she could see me. I don’t know what happened to her, Bobby, and I didn’t do anything to her.” He sounds desperate, heaving, almost keeling over himself. “Please, let’s just get out together.”
“Bobby, we need to go.” You take him by the arm, walking backwards as Clark starts to walk closer to you both. “Bobby, we can’t stay here. We can’t trust him.”
“Just tell me where she is, man.” Bobby breaks, lips wobbling, hand trembling around the hammer. He suddenly brings it to the wall, smacking a pipe as it leaves a dent on the metal. You and Clark wince at his action.
“I don’t know, Bobby. I’m sorry.” Clark holds out his hands in front of him in surrender. He seems genuine, but he also sounded genuine the last time you saw him.
From behind Clark, you hear the shuffling of fabric. A quiet rustle, too silent to be heard by the two men. Your heart rate immediately picks up.
“Bobby,” you whisper, clutching onto his arm, tugging him away, getting more exhausted by the second as you inhale and exhale out hot air. You feel your brain getting cooked inside your skull. “Bobby, it’s here.”
“Is she even alive?”
His trembling words strike right at you when you have the answer to his heartbreaking question.
“I don’t know…” Clark shakes his head, eyes averting from Bobby’s tensed form. “Why are you so scared of me? I didn’t do anything! I’m just me!”
You catch a glimpse of a pair of reddened eyes just around the corner of a wall, it stares at you, watching, observing. Waiting for you to break. “Bobby, on the wall, left side.” Voice trembling, head falling to his bicep, too hot to hold yourself up, you watch Bobby reluctantly take his eyes off of Clark, expression contorting into pure horror when he sees it.
He takes you by the hand, twisting around and running away with you in tow.
Clark screams, followed by his rushed footsteps, trying to keep pace with you and Bobby.
You don’t have the energy to sprint, more so to even lift your feet up. You’re so tired, too hot, your muscles strain under your clammy skin as you heave.
Bobby leads the escape, shoes scraping against the metal as he hides a wince. A pipe bursts near his face, and he shrieks at the sudden puff of warmth on his cheek. But he continues on, holding you up.
Because you would’ve done the same for him, you already had.
He turns a corner, blindly running in the heat soaked boiler room. Turning his head behind him, he doesn’t see Clark following anymore, but he does hear the rustling, the fabric scraping against itself, running, following.
Saliva covers your mouth, coating it as bile rises from your esophagus. Your legs turn wobbly under you. Bobby throws his arm around your shoulder, helping you run alongside with him when he could’ve just left you in the corridor to fend for yourself. He’s not giving up on you so you don’t give up for his sake. Your feet drags along the metal floors, trying to keep pace with his long strides. Your head dips down to your chin, unable to keep it up as you see the floor rush under you, the rusted floors, teal copper spread across it and the occasional manhole covers.
Vision blurring, you want water, you need water, to dive in it, to swim in its depths and stay underneath the currents.
You’re dying of thirst. Heatstroke, you’re gonna die of heatstroke after everything you went through. It’s comedic.
“Stay awake!” Bobby jostles you in his arms, you’re dead weight. “Fuck, c’mon!” He steps onto a manhole cover, and you both suddenly fall inside.
You gasp, flying mid air, twenty feet, fifteen, twelve, watching the hole you fell in get smaller and smaller, a mere dot in your vision.
Wind rushes around you, stale air that smells like chlorine.
You feel Bobby’s hand try to grasp at you mid air, but you feel so light weight, so light, free, like you’re flying, soaring, and you close your eyes, hearing him scream your name as you both plunge into the cold depths.
—
“Hey, princess.” You look up and see him, your grandfather, smiling down at you. Or you think he’s smiling when the sun behind him blinds you, covering his features. “You’re cooking here, you should get under the shade.”
His voice sounds far, muffled, like it’s playing on an old cassette tape that’s been played a hundred times before. Weathered, the movement of time marring the edges of the tape.
“I put sunscreen on.” You mutter, eyes squinting up at him as the popsicle in your hand melts, staining your hands raspberry red. “I miss you.”
He chuckles, that familiar laugh right from his belly that you’ve always told him was too loud and garners too much attention. You shouldn’t have told him that because he doesn’t let his laugh out like that anymore.
“I’m right here, sweetheart. What’s there to miss?”
There’s a seagull flying above him, the sky is blue, the clouds don’t move. And your eyes follow the bird, attention taken away, watching it fly until it hits a wall made to look like the horizon. It falls, leaving a smattering of blood amongst the blue.
It squawks loudly, an ear piercing cry of pain as it lands harshly on the ocean painted floor.
When you turn to look at him again, his face is mere inches away from your own.
Your breath shudders, gazing into those wrong eyes in the wrong face. He looks like someone who just moved as you press the camera’s button and the lens captures his blurred features that melt together.
“What’s there to miss?” He asks, garbled, the words stuck in his esophagus, choking on his own broken tone.
You wake up with a start, eyes opening to tiled ceilings and walls. It’s startlingly bright inside, a bright blue that encompasses around you, a deep contrast from the rusted boiler room. You take a deep breath, heaving, a palm to your chest as you smell the acrid chemical chlorine permeating the air around you as it tickles your nose.
The first thing you notice is how drenched you are, your clothes cling to your skin uncomfortably, soaked as droplets of water drip from your bare arms. You don’t have your jacket. Your arms are bare, the scars lined around your flesh. Old, but still there.
Gasping, you cross your arms around you, eyes panicked, frantic as you feel the familiar numbness climb from your legs to your chest, suffocating you.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, you’re okay!” Bobby appears from behind, arms hovering around you as his eyes rake around your panicked face. “It’s okay, just breathe, we’re safe here.”
“Where’s—” you struggle to find your words when your lungs don’t work. “Where’s my jacket?”
Blinking, he looks at you like you’re a fish out of water. “I took it off you, I’m sorry, I had to, you were cooking in it.”
“P–please, just— just give it back to me.” Tears sting your eyes as you fold your legs against you, trying to press further into your chest as if you’re absorbing your legs into yourself.
“What? It’s wet—”
“Bobby, please!” Your nails dig into your forearms, leaving crescent shapes on your slick skin.
“Okay, okay!” He rushes away from the pool lounge chair where you have found yourself. There’s some rustling behind you, and your first instinct was to run. “Here, I’m sorry, I was hanging it over a chair to dry it out.”
“Give it to me.” You don’t extend your arms as your hand opens and closes. He passes it to you, turning away when your shirt clings to your front, it’s white and shows him too much of everything. Once you’ve put on your jacket, you hug yourself, collapsing onto the pool lounge chair that squeaks under you. “Thank you.” You wheeze out, a hand around your throat as you take deep inhales and exhales.
“Yeah, you’re welcome.” Bobby walks away, clearing his throat, scratching the back of his flushed neck as his wet hair clings to his nape and temples. His torso is bare, showing off a lean body, probably drying his shirt just like what he was doing to your jacket before you woke up. “You thirsty?” He asks after a beat of awkward silence.
Smacking your dry lips together, you feel your strength return as you sit up. You’re still wobbly, trembling slightly, and your head still has that dull throbbing ache as you rest your forehead against your folded knees. “Please.”
A second later there’s a bottle of almond water nudging your thigh. “This one’s yours. I found a couple more here.”
Where is here exactly?
You lift your head, eyes roaming around the new environment you both fell in. The walls are covered in white symmetrical square tiles, all lined perfectly, the grout in between is black, and it reminds you of a comic with the tiles lined in thick black lines. From the pillars down to the floor, it’s covered in the same tiles. Right in the middle of the expansive room is an Olympic sized pool, rectangular in shape, with various pool toys floating on the blue water. It would look normal if not for the random colourful slides sticking out of the walls and some on the ceiling that has a drop that would have your stomach churning.
As you gaze at the ceiling, you see the manhole cover above, now closed, the other side showing you the underside of the rusted metal.
“It’s not going to drink itself, y’know.” He shakes the bottle, looking down at you with a faint smile as the fluorescent lights shine behind his head, a halo of light lined around him. You blink owlishly at him, and his face contorts into deep worry as he squats beside you. “Shit, did you hit your head?” A hand cups the side of your face gingerly, like he’s afraid you’ll break in front of him from his touch alone. “Was it dilated pupils or pin point that says someone has a concussion?” He says more to himself, mumbling, looking into your eyes.
“Neither, the pupils should be equal in size, not one bigger than the other.” You answer, voice hoarse as you look into the blue depths of his eyes. You could drown in them. “I’m okay, Bobby, just shocked, where are we?”
“Oh, thank fuck.” His hand falls atop the lounge chair, head lolling down to his clavicle with a relieved sigh. “I thought the impact broke your head.”
“Did we fall?”
“Yeah,” he sniffs, a hand raking through his drenched tresses. “From that manhole.” Pointing up, you both look up, twenty feet from below, you squint from the harsh white lights. The manhole cover remains on the ceiling, a brown dot amidst the stark white tiles. “I don’t know how though, I stopped trying to figure out how things work here ever since we got out of the washing machine. But thankfully we fell into the water and we didn’t turn into a pancake.”
You crane your neck down, looking at him as he still gazes at the ceiling. His lean neck is stretched out, a sharp jawline that moves at the hinges when he purses his mouth. “You swam us out of there? On your own?”
Your gaze stretches from both ends of the deep pool, wondering how he managed to get you out and himself without drowning. You’re impressed by his feat. And he knows it from your tone alone.
The water is so clear that you could see the bottom, but it’s deceptive, you know it’s far deeper than it seems. This place is bigger than any of the rooms so far, it’s as big as a football field, probably twice as big when the pool stretches so far. There are three doors in this place, one adjacent to you, painted in deep emerald green with three odd doorknobs on it. Then the other two are on the far right end of the wall, both having signs on it. Then there’s the wrong door right in the middle of the far wall. It’s small, like a doggy door, painted in blood red. Something tells you that you shouldn’t go there. You guess the two doors beside each other are the bathrooms or shower rooms from the looks of it like in public pools, but you can’t tell what the signs says from where you sit.
His eyes crinkles in the corners, smiling gently, a nice reprieve from the fearful look on his face that you’ve gotten used to. “Not to brag but, I was on the varsity swim team during sophomore year.”
“Just sophomore year?” You can’t help it when the corner of your lip tugs up.
“I flunked chemistry.” Bobby winces, chuckling at himself. “And they had to kick me out because my grades weren’t as good.”
“I should be the one calling you hero now. And chemistry sucks anyway.”
His eyes softens from your words. “Please drink, I’m tired from wetting your lips with your own jacket. It was like I was feeding a baby bird.”
“That’s not embarrassing at all.” Shaking your head, you hide your smile as you gulp down the sweetened almond water. You let it coat your insides with that odd saccharine taste.
“Trust me, it was more embarrassing for me than for you.”
“At least you didn’t use your own shirt.” You wipe your mouth with your sleeve.
“Yeah, or you’d be drinking remnants of my sweat.” Bobby gives your shoulder a pat before rising, knees creaking as he stretches. “I’m preparing dinner.” Those are the words you thought you’ll never hear again.
“What?”
“I found a bunch of food in this place, just under the sink in the bathroom. It’s like someone left their stash here. I’m sorting through it, just rest, you were really out of it.”
“You think someone else was here?” You call out over your shoulder, watching the clear undisturbed water.
“Probably, I don’t know which one is scarier, us being alone here or someone else was here, wandering around just like us.” There’s a clang of metal behind you, and you twist around, ignoring the pang of pain radiating from your feet up to your knees. Your palm still aches, but more tolerable rather than the blinding pain. Bobby is trying to break open a can of peaches with your hammer. “Shitty fucking thing.”
“Use the other side of the hammer. Stab at the corners.” You simply say, body folding against yourself as you still feel the heaviness weigh you down. “Fuck…”
“You good?” He pauses from his hammering, looking at you as you wince, a hand grasping your forehead. “I told you to rest, lay back down, hero.”
“Did Clark…did he follow us?” You hug the back of your legs, half lidded eyes staring at him.
Bobby shakes his head, turning the hammer and stabs at the corner of the can just like you instructed. “You were right, something was up with him. He was hiding something, I could tell.”
You’re hiding something from him. “Yeah,” twisting around, you lay back down on the lounge chair when you feel the heaviness in your chest weigh you down. “You okay, Bobby?”
“Yeah, just starving.”
“Back in the sailboat room,” you hear him hum in reply, telling you that he’s listening. “Who do you think left the food and water?” The metal scraping against metal pauses. When he doesn’t reply, you call out to him. “Bobby?”
“I don’t know.” You could hear the confusion in his tone. “Why didn’t we ask that? It was left right there on our doorstep. It was clearly for us.”
“We have a mysterious benefactor.” Your eyes close, embracing yourself as your muscles relax to the sound of Bobby’s ministrations and the scent of chlorine. It should bother you more, but it doesn’t.
Your wet clothes should make you uncomfortable at how it sticks to your skin, but it does the opposite, it comforts you, reminding you of the days where you would swim for hours and let the air dry you as you doze off on the deck.
“I wonder who it is. It can’t be Clark or that thing.” Bobby is only met by silence. Worry slithers up his chest as he leans back until he could see you on the lounge chair, sleeping soundly, curled around yourself and more importantly, still breathing. He lets out a sigh, before trying to open the can quieter this time around.
—
Bobby floats aimlessly in the water as it laps around his face, eyes closed, breathing steady when he has stripped himself bare except for his boxer shorts. He’s unashamed, while you avert your eyes as you dig through the can of peaches.
There’s only silence around the pool room, save for the gentle scraping of your finger against the side of the crinkling metal can and the gentle lapping of water, it’s stifling. You miss the quiet comforting song of the walls, that slight tremble within the wallpaper that is warm to the touch. Bobby helps, his presence is a good alternative to the hum, but how long will that stay when you’re withdrawing important information from him? Something that might break him and ruin his peace.
He looks softer as he floats on the water, his arms are spread around him, legs floating as he lets out a breath. The lights illuminate him, the chain around his neck catching the light, making him look ethereal, almost akin to a renaissance oil painting. One that bears tragedy underneath all the brush strokes and pretty colours.
“I think I’m going insane. The tiles are starting to melt together in my eyes.” His voice cuts through the silence, echoing as his eyes open, head craning to look at you slouched on the lounge chair. “You look like a camel.”
“Thanks?” You slouch some more as he snorts out a chuckle. “Sounds something like an insane person would say.”
“Slouching is not good for your back.” Bobby stops his floating and swims over to the edge of the pool, arms over the tiles as he rests his chin above his arm. His blue eyes sparkles, head tilted as he gazes at you like he’s trying to read your mind. “Do you think someone created this place?”
“I don’t think so.” You lick your lips, grimacing slightly at the taste the peaches left. “No one’s smart enough or this crazy to invent something like this place.”
Bobby sucks in his teeth, legs floating behind him as he watches the water lap at the edge of the pool. “Back in the laundry room where we…fell.” You hum, eyes staring at the floating peaches inside the can. “I saw my own shirt on the pile of laundry. It was fucked up, it was dumped there like some kind of trophy.” He waits for your reply, and yet when he glances at you, you’re just staring at your dinner. “Earth to hero? Am I annoying you?”
You flash him a smile. “No, just thinking.”
“Penny for your thoughts?”
“You don’t have a single penny.”
“Not right now, but I have money in the real world, y’know.” He flutters his lips at you, blowing an annoyed raspberry as he pushes himself away from the edge of the pool and floating again on his back.
“This is the real world, Bobby.” You don’t mean to sound calloused or bitter, it’s just the truth.
“And they both suck.” His wrist flicks at the water, splashing some water upwards as if it’ll reach the manhole cover on the ceiling. “Do you know how to swim?”
“Yeah.” The slice of peach doesn’t go down your throat easily and you have to take a swig of water.
“Oh yeah, you lived near water.”
More silence, a tension brought back by your dry replies.
“There’s more food in the backpack if you’re still hungry.” He says, prodding at you with his gaze. You hum in reply, and he purses his lips.
Bobby sighs, swims over to the edge of the pool again and looks at you over his arms. “You know that I won’t judge you, right?” His words cut through you when his gaze flickers towards your covered arms. “We’ve all got shit we don’t want to talk about. And that’s okay, I understand you, I won’t ask you about it or judge you for what you did. I’m just glad you stuck around, hero.”
You instinctively hug yourself, the taste of the tart peaches makes you gag. You never liked peaches. “Where’s the bathroom?”
Bobby’s face falls, your name falling on his lips quietly, swallowing thickly as he looks away from you, perhaps guilty for bringing it up, or maybe pity. “Far wall, the signs are fucked so choose whatever.”
You vault from your seat, placing the half eaten can of peaches down on the lounge chair with a clang before walking carefully on the damp tiles. You could feel his eyes follow you, and you could finally breathe the moment you reach the bathroom door.
He’s right, the signs are weird. The usual female and male signs are wonky and turned upside down, it looks like it melted under some heat and you could barely tell what it originally was. You don’t pick which one to go into when you shove your way inside.
The bathroom is dimly lit compared to the bright pool room outside. It’s clean, filled with stalls and sinks, some have showers just like you surmised. And it looks normal, like a public bathroom at a dying mall or an airport bathroom during a red eye flight when there’s no line. For a moment there you thought that you got out, that you’re back in reality instead of being stuck here with a stranger that has saved your life twice now. But when the smell of mold hits you, and you catch sight of a painted sun with a face on the mirror, you know you’re still here, where the air is still, and the monsters in your mind have come alive and are out to get you.
You take deep breaths, grounding yourself, counting how many things you can touch in the place, how many things you can hear, what things you can taste, and all the things you can see. You come up with less and less as you grip onto the sink, opening the squeaky faucet as it splutters out cold water.
Yanking off the jacket, the fabric is still damp to the touch when you toss it haphazardly onto the counter as it clangs loudly, bouncing off the walls. You don’t look at yourself for a while, maybe the feeling will go away if you don’t look.
Taking out your phone from your pocket, you try to turn it on, to find comfort through the pictures, but just as you suspected, it doesn’t turn on. You should toss it against the glass and break it into pieces, but it’s the only thing you brought from home that reminds you that there is still something for you when you get back. Even if it’s just a gravestone, or an empty apartment, or a dead end job. So you shove the phone back in your pocket, maybe if you get out of here you can get it repaired and see the old pictures again.
Unwrapping the bandage Bobby wrapped around your palm, you place your injured hand underneath the water, letting it drench your hand with a wince. Biting your lip, you whimper, eyes glazing over with tears let out by the pain in your hand and in your chest. You unstick your gaze from your reddened flesh, reluctantly staring at yourself in the mirror, you look worse for wear, tired even though you’ve slept long enough and ate enough to keep you going. You still refuse to look at your arms.
You must keep going for his sake, you have to bite through the pain and live on, even when it hurts. Even when he has seen why it hurts.
Head tilted down, you listen to the rushing water hit the porcelain, watching the water collect on your palm as it overflows and hits the sink with a splash. You let your breathing even out when you’re starting to feel the bone aching numbness spread through your limbs. You’re antsy, and you feel your throat close up, static poking right at your fingertips.
Your mind rushes a thousand miles per hour, you just can’t help it. From thoughts about Clark to Kat, to Bobby and the exit, you didn’t hear the sound of the cubicle door opening right behind you.
You feel cold arms wrap around your middle, featherlight at first that you thought you were imagining it, that you’re so touch starved that you were day dreaming about a gentle embrace. But when the pair of arms wrap tighter around your torso and arms, you jostle awake.
Your heart stops when you look at the mirror, there, situated right behind you is a man.
He’s awfully familiar, but unfamiliar at the same time. His face peeks behind your head, and it’s wrong, like the ink on a picture that has faded out. Like Janet down here, just like the memory of your grandfather that stays still at the helm. It’s just like them, it’s not alive.
And it’s wearing the exact same shirt as you.
“Fuck!” You stagger away from the sink, trying to wiggle out of its hold. “No, let go!” Your elbow meets its stomach, but it continues to hold onto you for dear life, not even feeling your striking blow.
The sounds of your shoes squeak across the floor, and you feel it grasp onto you tighter, fingers interlocking on your front, digging you further against its chest like it’s trying to absorb you within itself.
You struggle, kicking around, managing to shuffle to the wall as you push it against it harshly, knocking it against the tiles, trying to make it let go. All it does is make it sink its head against the crook of your neck.
It doesn’t breathe, it doesn’t blink, it doesn’t speak, it just presses itself against you, embracing you like it knows you, trying to take your warmth.
“No!” You shriek, tears blurring your vision as its arms hold onto you so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe. You have no choice as you claw at its arms and face. “Bobby!” Your nails hit something soft, digging into something akin to a foam than flesh.
Your guttural screams echo around the walls.
“Bobby!” You hear something crack, a bone, maybe yours as your breath leaves your lungs with a dry cough. It holds onto you like velcro, and your legs weaken from the lack of air. It turns you around, pressing you against the wall and further into the tiles. Something in the walls shift, you could hear it hum, you could feel it move. The coldness parts against your cheek as it absorbs you, one by one, cell by cell. “Bobby!” Your screams turn dull with every press against your chest. “Bobby—”
There’s a loud thwack from behind, and the arms let you go.
You keel over, taking deep breaths as you push yourself out of the walls. Crawling backwards and away from it, fingers grasping at your neck, desperately dragging air into your lungs. You see Bobby wield your hammer, standing tall, drenched, striking right at the entity.
“Motherfucker!” He brings it down with a force so harsh that it breaks its face, cleaving it open. “Fuck off!” He strikes again and again until it staggers backwards into a stall.
It’s hand tries to reach for you as if asking for your help, pleading for your help.
Bobby stalks over it, anger rolling off of him from his posture alone as the muscles on his back tense with every rise and fall of the hammer.
The cubicle door swings close behind the two similar looking men, and you could only hear the sound of the hammer meeting whatever it’s made of. Not flesh and bone, something else, something you can’t tell.
You flinch with every smash, metal hitting it in decreasing intervals when Bobby’s ragged breathing echoes around the bathroom.
Your eyes glance at the wall, and you see the tiles close in time before it returns to normal. Or what normal is around here.
The door swings open, and Bobby wipes the sweat off his face with his arm, standing over what remains of the thing that took the form of a man you met and talked to once.
Its face is smashed in, leg twitching, fingers opening and closing. There are stuff around it that bears a resemblance to its cut open face. It looks like foam, like what’s inside a mattress instead of blood and bone.
Bobby heaves, crouches down in front of you, the hammer clangs against the tiles as it falls from his grasp before his hands take hold of your face gingerly, making you look away from the carnage. “Are you okay?”
Your lips wobble, but you keep a brave façade. “Yeah, it— it came out of nowhere.” The lack of air made your voice hoarse, cut at the edges, almost broken.
“I swear that I checked this whole place and there was no one else here.” He sounds guilty, face contorted into a mix of guilt and ebbing fury, the edges of his eyes are reddened, crimson amidst blue. “Did it…did it hurt you?”
Shaking your head, you feel an ache between your ribs that you decide to ignore. “No, it just—it was pushing me into the wall.”
“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
You don’t know why you did it, maybe it was his genuine bone aching worried expression or maybe it was because he saved you again, either way, you break, opening your arms and pulling him against you for an embrace, as if he was the one in need of comfort. Maybe you shouldn’t when you could still feel the entity’s arms around you, so unfamiliar, so cold. But Bobby is so warm, so familiar, and he lets you, you haven’t held onto someone in so long that your body has forgotten how real warmth feels like. Not from the walls, or whatever nonsensical thing you could fill your days with in the real world. This is humanly real that it sends your mind into a state of calm, a quiet that you’ve only felt through the song of the walls.
Bobby holds you gently, taking you in his arms in a softer and kinder way as his palms rest on your back gingerly. His hand shivers slightly from the adrenaline or from the unfamiliar affection from you.
“I’m not going to break.” You mutter near his ear, watching the thing twitch on the bathroom floor. Bobby squeezes you, letting out a relieved sigh. He holds onto you for a moment, his knuckle gliding along the length of your back, the other cupping the back of your head, waiting for you to pull away first. Once you finally gather your breath and your trembling seizes, you pull away. “Thank you.”
“I heard you call for me and I thought—” his lips purses together, a palm patting your cheek. There is an unsteady tremor from his touch that isn’t as well hidden as he hoped. “nothing, I’m glad you’re okay.” Eyes flicking down your torso, his brows knit together.
“What?” You look down at yourself, expecting blood, or for him to be staring at your arms.
“It was wearing the same shirt as you…” Bobby’s blue eyes meet yours, confusion swimming in them. His mouth forms a question, until.
“Hello?” A voice calls from somewhere. Echoed, like speaking through an old speaker.
“What the fuck?” Bobby instinctively shields you, a hand grasping at your bicep as you both frantically look around the source. “Who the fuck?”
“Holy shit, you guys are real.” Relief is palpable in the stranger’s tone.
“This place is fucked, let’s go.” Bobby helps you up, cautiously walking away.
“Wait, no, please! I’m human! I’m stuck here just like you guys!”
“Can you see us?” You ask tentatively, holding onto Bobby’s elbow to stop his frantic movement. Looking around, you see nothing out of the ordinary, except for the being on the floor. “Where are you?”
Bobby side eyes you, asking what you’re doing through his expression. You reassure him with a squeeze of his arm.
“In some fucked up looking house.” He sounds ragged, exhausted. “I could see you but you can’t see me, right?”
“Yeah.” You could see the cogs in his mind turn as you both recall what Clark told you two in the boiler room. “Who are you?”
“My name’s Peter.” He takes a deep breath that you could hear everywhere around you. “Peter Tench. I… I worked here, still work here.” He laughs bitterly. “I’m a researcher.”
“I fucking knew it!” Bobby seethes, still shielding you from the unseen Peter. “The fucking government made this shit.”
“No, no, we’re not the government, we’re far from it.” He sounds increasingly tired with each word he lets out. “Listen, I don’t have much time, it’s out there.”
“What is, Peter? Maybe we can help you.” Bobby turns to you with a befuddled expression.
“We don’t know this fucking guy, don’t be a hero, hero.”
“I didn’t know you either and yet I saved you. And you didn’t know me but you still saved me.” Your words has him clamping his mouth shut. His jaw clenches before he turns away, and yet he doesn’t leave your side.
“No, he’s right.” Peter shudders a breath, “you shouldn’t trust me but I do know a way out of this place.”
“Tell us.” Bobby demands, standing steadfastly, adrenaline still rushing through him. His eyes are narrowed to slits, fury still rising from his skin like steam.
“There are CB radios scattered around this place, there’s one in every outpost. it’s our…” he pauses, trying to gather his breath. “Our way of communicating with the outside world. If you could find it you can contact my people. I only ask for you to tell them that I’m alive and to come get me. It would be impossible for us to meet up so don’t waste your energy in trying to find me yourself. They know this place better than you ever will.”
“That’s not ominous at all.” Mumbling to himself, Bobby licks at his lips. “And who exactly are these people of yours.”
“You’ll find out.”
“Cryptic motherfucker.”
“Peter, I’ve come across one of those radios and I tried it but no one answered.” You add, taking a step forward and away from Bobby as he watches the side of your face.
“Fuck, it was probably the wrong frequency. Things here like technology don’t work as well for some reason.” He laughs, an ugly laugh that sounds half humourless and half pained. He almost sounds insane, hopeless. With a wobbly breath, he tells you the frequency, just three digits, saying it twice for you and Bobby to memorize it. “Did you get it?”
“Yeah,” your eyes rake around the walls, trying to figure out how he could see you but you can’t see him. Clark said the same thing. Nothing makes sense here, and Bobby’s right, you should stop trying to understand it. “Do you know where any of these radios are?”
“They’re mostly in level zero with the yellow wallpaper.” Your breath hitches at the mere mention. “Your best bet is to just wander around and hope for the best, me giving you direction to a directionless place is a waste of breath.”
“Or you could try giving us a landmark, fucking anything, man.” Frustration rolls off Bobby’s shoulders as you feel his adrenaline fading away.
“Chairs, a ton of wheels from a boat, and I remember a banner that says ‘everything must go,’ once you see those you’re near one.”
“Well, that’s fucking helpful.” Bobby scoffs, walking towards the fallen hammer and picking it up together with your discarded jacket on the counter. “Any other helpful tips, mister scientist?”
“Yeah, don’t get lost.” Peter chortles, a sound from the back of his throat that you feel your skin rising from his laugh. “I have to go, I could hear it shuffling outside.”
“Peter, wait!” There’s a sound of rushed footsteps on the other side, retreating away as you and Bobby are now left alone in the bathroom. “What the fuck just happened?” Turning towards Bobby, he looks at you with furrowed brows, frowning right at you. You feel self conscious as you cross your arms over your chest. “Bobby, I—”
“Are you really okay?” It’s not pity in those pretty blue eyes of his, it’s remorse, it’s guilt marring at his face, it’s empathy that cinches at his heart whilst he holds the jacket close to his chest, your scent clinging on the rustling fabric. “Hero…what happened—”
“I’m fine, thank you but I’m fine.” You would break in front of him, to cry in his arms or hold onto him again but you don’t give yourself that when you’ve been lying to him with an excuse of saving him from the hurt. Stepping towards him, his concern grows, he doesn’t seem to be so convinced. Why is he so worried about you? “I’m okay, worrying won’t get us anywhere.”
“Am I not allowed to worry about you?” Bobby’s eyes flicks towards the entity’s feet as it peeks through the stall, still twitching, still trying to get up. “That’s what people do, hero, they worry about other people. That thing could’ve killed you, and I—” shaking his head, he turns his head away and the fluorescent lights shine right on his glimmering eyes. He’s still soaking wet from his swim, he must’ve rushed here when you called him. “You said that we’re a team. I really don’t want to lose my only teammate, or lose you to insanity like that Peter guy.”
You swallow his words and tuck it in your heart, keeping it there, not knowing how to respond. “You don’t believe him?”
He scoffs at your reaction, biting his lower lip as he shakes his head. “Let’s just get out of here. You are the most frustrating woman I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot.”
“I’m sorry that I’m emotionally constipated.” You meant it as a joke, but he doesn’t find it as funny as you.
Bobby licks at his teeth, head falling down on his clavicle with a chortle akin to a scoff. “You said it, not me.” Taking a deep breath, he hands you your jacket back. “You didn’t finish your peaches.”
“I hate peaches.” You awkwardly shove the jacket on.
“See? That— you should’ve said so.” He shrugs, frustration right on his movements. “Don’t shut me out, man. You don’t have to tell me everything but at least tell me *some of the shit. Like how you don’t like peaches or that you’re dying from the heat or about the radio thing, you didn’t tell me that.”
“I didn’t even know it still works. Bobby, I’m sorry, but I’m really trying, I…” clutching at the hem of the jacket, you shut your eyes for a moment before looking at him, not between his brows or the wall beside him, but right into those blue eyes that remind you of the ocean you once sailed on. “I’ve just been alone for so long that I have no idea how to… I’m sorry.”
Bobby’s shoulders ease, a hand raking through his wet hair as he bites the inside of his cheek. “No, don’t be sorry.” The heel of his palm kneads at the space between his brows. “I keep prying you with questions when you know as much about this place as I do. Kat tells me that I could be an annoying ass sometimes.” Pausing, he lets out a sigh, looking at the wall behind you for a moment before meeting with your eyes. “I—I just want you to look after yourself for a change.”
Shaking your head, you reach for his hand, you shouldn’t, but something in you told you to, that you should show him that you understand, that you care. “You’ve been nothing but pleasant so far, Bobby.”
The corner of his lips ticks up into a sad smile. His fingers squeeze you weakly. “Kat would be happy to hear that. Just— just don’t forget that you have to survive too, you need to take care of yourself, not just me. I’m not a kid, don’t sacrifice your comfort for me.” He takes a pause, fingers flexing on his side. “I need you to fight for this. Like you already did before.”
“Okay.” You feign a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Let’s go find that radio.”
Bro, the way I was hooked throughout the whole thing 😭 Bobby's becoming more of the mvp with every installment fr
which ao3 tag are you?
So... i made this quiz
Are we surprised? Not at all....
two of my moots also did it... so this is my awkward invitation to more of my friends to also do it..... if you want....
@targlocket @aemondsbabe @king-baelor @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @sepherinaspoppies @the-dendrophile-bookdragon @moonlights-muse
ty for the tag val!! we’re twinning 🤭
tagging some moots but anyone is welcome ♥️
@zaldritzosrose @sylasthegrim @targaryen-dynasty @schniiipsel @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @thought--bubble @sepherinaspoppies @dreamilypurplepillar
Thanks for tagging me @aemondsbabe 🫶
Tagging, no pressure!
@thought--bubble @mermaidofdragonstone @the-dendrophile-bookdragon @vhagar-balerion-meraxes @multyfangirl @exitpursuedbyavulcan @ghostlybfgf @theerogueprincess
Loved this😍 Thank you for the tag🫶🏻
Tagging, no pressure 💛 @frederissa @the-kr8tor @sylasthegrim @zaldritzosrose @slytherincursebreaker @sconniebelle and anyone who wants to share😘
Thank you for the tag!!!! Mine was mutual pining and I'm not even surprised 😂😂
Tagging everyone who wants to try!!!! @yumeaoka-chan @hyperfix-wip @pinksugarscrub @hobiesval
…idk how I feel about that since I was told I needed more whimsy in my life 💀🤣 fuck it, we ball
Tags (if you want 👀): @pinksugarscrub @yumeaoka-chan @youmiyoumo
IT'S WIP WEDNESDAY MY DUDES
Is it still wip Wednesday when there has only been one wip 🤔 I'm too lost in the sauce with the backrooms fic lmaoo it's the only thing I've written this week 😂 (and it's been hectic when I've suddenly became a mother of 3) I've written bits and pieces of the lyonel what if ending 2 and the daeron fic but it's not worthy yet. I will upload pt 3 of the bobby fic on fri and the first angst ending of the aerion what if fic on sun!
“Go, I'm right behind you.” “Okay.” Slowly, he turns back to the hanging steps, taking it one second at a time. “Can you t–talk about something?” His legs shake underneath him but he continues, hand still holding onto yours. “Like what?” You wait behind him patiently, shining the light as close as you could to him without burning him. “Anything, you in high school? Were–fuck my life—” he takes a pause to breathe, looking over your shoulder as you nod at him. “Were you in a club?” Bobby continues bravely, almost on all fours as he climbs up. You're forced to crouch behind him when he refuses to let go of your hand. “I was in a sewing club.” “You fucking nerd.” He chuckles breathlessly, a bead of sweat dribbling on his temple that you could see clearly under the flame.
Damn, not me immediately thinking of r using her sewing skills to stitch up an injury for this story 👀
WIP WEDNESDAY 07/08
Hey guys! How's everyone doing? 👀 Lowkey be forgetting how many one shot WIPS I have on stockpile, especially when I also have other wips for the series I started 😅 hope you enjoy them though!
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Moots game ! Tag your to know them better !
Last song:
Last series/movie:
Last thing I ate:
Last place I go to:
Last video game:
last song: wherever you are by one ok rock
last series/movie: goodmorning call ⊹⁺⸜(ᐡ⸝ɞ̴̶̷ ·̮ ɞ̴̶̷⸝ᐡ)⸝⁺⊹
last thing i ate: chocolate cake !! n ice cream
last place i went: target LOL
last video game i played: minecraft~
tags 💬 : @yumanohime @yumangel @fumaid @takiyoru @jyuugoyasmine @kvegawari @okamitenshi @ikigaijo (not required!)
last song : talk - beabadoobee \(//∇//)\
last series / movie : obsession!
last thing i ate : churros
last place i went : asian mart !
last video game i played : tomodachi life :3
tags : @7yataki @nichozzystuffs @makizdoll @jyuugoyasmine @wanyangii @hwadulce @minhosimthings @junifi3d ( not required !! :3 )
omg omg @yumangel & @fumaid thank you for tagginggggg
Last song: like i need you by keshi
Last series/movie: rewatched aot s4
Last thing I ate: strawberry ice cream!!
Last place I go to: uni
Last video game: roblox...
tagging: @aquas-heart @fumasannn @hironoshimura @ikigaijo @loviesevol @n1conekoz @sunmoonnie @wanyangii (not required!)
thank u for the tags lua, izzy and nika ♡
last song: come 2 me - uhm junghwa
last series/movie: tarot
last thing i ate: banana 🍌
last place i went: college
last video game: apex
tagging: @preachersdaughterx @yukiglow @solairemelo @hironoshimura @eu1joo @junifi3d @takiangel @yukiglow (no pressure!)
thank you for tagging me mimi!! x
last song: no luck - tiffany day 😛
last series/movie: law and order svu
last thing i ate: dried mango 🥭
last place i went: hmv
last video game: the sims
tagging: @frolickingd33r @4phroditeee @enlov3vampxo @cryinginmytiara @anglholic (no pressure!)
Thank you so much for the tag @preachersdaughterx
Last song: Mariah carey obsessed
Last series:hilda hurricane
Last thing i ate: coffee counts?
Last place i went: supermarket
Last video game: escape from the shadows
Tagging: @dadasimjaeyun @ni-kichromeheartzz @virtualfangs333 @anglholic @sunmoonnie @sunoovamp @miellette @tsumiinum @son13ic @angllvq @boyttde @lovedove00 @lunaflorel @jaesim @sakiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii @snoopymyung @unsvripted
(no pressure<3)
And anyone else!!
Tysmm!
Last song:it's me illit
Last series: wensday
Last thing i ate: dounuts
Last place i went: university
Last video game: animal crossing
Tagging
@keotaa @jjumars @meganswhxre @cinnamxncrunch @julesheh @ptolemaeiia
Thank you so much for tagging me!!!
Last song: Paw, paw - illit
Last series: If wishes could kill
Last thing I ate: pasta
Last place I went: airport
Last video game: poppy playtime 3
Tagging: @theydontknowaboutus20130613 @momnjam @aqwatixx
i am late aint i??
sorryyyy sweetiee 🥹🥹 also tysm for tagging meh
Last song: moths by conan gray
Last series: doctor slump
Last thing I ate: mango XD
Last place I went: shopping mall :3
Last video game: roblox (forced by my sis)
tagging: @cinnamxncrunch (cause free will :D), @thvwithpro, @lackingdopaminesince2007, @lluciboo, @spiritedghost4, @metioo
(answer if u want to :3)
It’s okay I’ll be late too lol
Ty for tagging <3
Last song: swim BTS
Last series: our blooming youth
Last thing I ate: salt and vinegar crisps
Last place I went: Tesco’s
Last video game: Roblox
only one but im tagging: @star-froggie
THANK YOU FOR THE TAG <33333
Last Song : Make Some Noise for the Desi Boys (Hindi song btw)
Last Movie : Where Evil Lurks (Horror movie watched it at midnight)
Last Thing I ate : Chilly Paneer
Last Place I went : A mall in another city I was visting lol
Last Video Game : Rhythm Hive
No pressure Tagging- @holyymoly @imkindasleepdeprived @asexual-lemonade @wolfstarisareligion @ineffablelyqueerwolfstarshipper @iamawolfstarsimp @aiexh @hamzakamehroomkurta @femmour @linnielemon+anyone I forgot + anyone who is seeing this and wants to do it and didn't get tagged. go ahead, act like I did tag you
Thank you so much for the tag!!!
Last song - Open arms (from epic)
Last movie - Descendants 2 prolly
Last thing I ate- Roti and Ladyfinger ki sabji (bhindi)
Last place I went to - The shell petrol pump
Last video game - Either valo (last year prolly) or pandemic on board game
Moots-
@moonandstarshangoutinbars @moonyisnotonfire @istillwishforyouateleveneleven @adduptosomething @moonyluvrr @fantasyfiend222 + anymore I forgot to add+ open to all
ty for tag <333
last song - currently listening to like real people do by hozier
last movie - uhhhh. uhhhhhhhh. I don’t actually know tbf, I think last movie was when I pirated fantastic beasts and where to find them because I missed my little crush on newt scamander ngl
last I ate - chive & onion twists. currently munching on them. yummy
last place I went to - corner store bcs I ran out of lipbalm
last video game - stardew valley I think??? or maybe minecraft. forgot which was last
tags !! no pressure ofc !! - @andromaex @merthurtrenches @epic-sorcerer @frederissa @frogmerthur @wingsstilldontwork + open !!!
Thank you for taghing me bestie 😚
Last song: Far Longer Than Forever - The Swan Princess soundtrack.
Last series/movie: Ron Kamonohashi's Forbidden Deduction
Last thing I ate: Fried chicken and rice
Last place I go to: A coffee shop near my apartment
Last video game: I don't recall playing a game these days. Does Duolingo counts?
tag (no pressure): @guashjam @tiredtypingtitan @sapphireleo @multyfangirl @huhjinn + open tags 🫶🏻
Thank you for the tag😘
Last song-"Des Fleurs" by Tove Lo and Stromae
Last series/movies-a movie-"Finding Emily", quite good tbh
Last thing I ate-Toast with Philadelphia spread
Last place I went to-Theatre yesterday
Last video game-not a gamer but I love the Solitaire on my phone🤣🤣
Tagging, no pressure @punk-in-docs @the-kr8tor @ghostlybfgf @sconniebelle @zaldritzosrose @schniiipsel @sylasthegrim 🩷🩷
Thank you for the tag bestie 😘❤️
Last song: State side by pink pantheress
Last series/movie: House of the dragon
Last thing i ate: rice porridge with hard boiled eggs 😋
Last place i went to: the cinema!
Last video game i played: a cat merging game lmaoo
Tagging my pookies: @hyperfix-wip @pinksugarscrub @yumeaoka-chan @hobiesvalley and anyone who would like to participate!!!
Oop 👀👀👀 Thanks for the tag!!
Last song: You're No Good by Linda Ronstadt
Last series/movie: ...Kill Blue (Not by choice 💀 I can tell the manga would be fire to read, but the actual dialogue is very manga coded. The opening is actually fire tho)
Last thing i ate: A double chocolate loaf cake slice with iced coffee 😫
Last place i went to: Besides work...I went to this new korean chicken place 😩 lowkey would get again when i'm not broke
Last video game i played: Pokemon 🤣
Tags (if you want 👀): @yumeaoka-chan @pinksugarscrub @youmiyoumo + anyone who wants to join!
Webbed Together
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.5k
Author's Note: I'M BACK, BABY!!!!! 😩 I missed writing these girls frfr, and I've lowkey been locked in for the past week for the last scene alone with a specific song stuck on loop 🥲 I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie, Ramona and another original character that you'll see later in the chapter, as well as @pinksugarscrub for beta reading this chapter!
Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader, Fluff, Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Taglist: @yumeaoka-chan , @vanilla-bean-18 , @hobiesvalley
Chapter 8: I Saw Sparks
<< Chapter 7 Chapter 9 >>
The first thing Ramona wakes up to is a foot shoved against her face.
An exhausted groan rumbles in Ramona’s chest as she blinks the sleep out of her eyes. Dull sores pulse all over her body when she finds herself being squished between a wooden wall and a sprawled out Billie. Quiet snores rumble from the punk girl, her mouth hanging open with drool coating a corner, while the patched up comforter is halfway on them and on the hardwood floor. Billie’s warmth adds onto the creeping heat from the late-morning sun, the wooden cabin slowly baking Ramona alive.With an annoyed whine, she sits herself up, pushing Billie’s foot away from her. She winces from the soft pops crackling along her spine while she stretches her arms up to the ceiling.
A heavy fog swirls in Ramona’s head. Pressure looms over her shoulders as her arms drop to her sides, leaving her in a hazy vertigo. She struggles to crawl out of her occupied space through her bleary vision, her fingers sliding against wrinkled sheets until they curve onto the edge of the bed. With as much grace as a teetering bowling ball, Ramona tumbles onto the hardwood floor with a grunt, her face planted on wood grain and lint.
A loud snort rings above Ramona before her bed creaks again, the springs groaning under shifting weight until Billie’s foot hangs over the edge near Ramona’s face again.
Ramona’s face pinches into a grimace before she rolls away from the offending appendage, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Throbs lap over her head while swirling greens and blues bloom and fade from her vision. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes before she sits herself back up, her bonnet slowly slipping back from her head until frizzy baby hairs peek under the elastic headband.
Her sleep has been getting worse.
Ramona rolls over onto her hands and knees, crawling towards her unlatched trunk. Hazy memories flicker in the girl’s mind as she flips the trunk open, voices both familiar and foreign crooning in her ears while she pulls out a clean change of clothes. Your hushed, honeyed voice sends a bittersweet warmth through her at the sight of one of your embroidered cardigans— pink-petaled flowers and cherries dancing across the sleeves on cream-knitted polyester. At the same time, a deep timbre gently rattles through her bones as she fishes out some patched jeans.
She’s not sure why she can hear the man’s voice so clearly in her head, but it tickles a nostalgic part of her conscience just as much as your voice.
As she pushes herself onto her feet with her clothes in hand, Ramona’s eyes trail back to the slumbering punk girl in her bed. Ruby-hued bonnet halfway off her head, wild curls spilling onto crumpled sheets, black earphones tangling in long nimble fingers— Billie made herself at home in Ramona’s space a little too much. Ramona presses her lips together with a disgruntled sound before heaving a sigh.
Ramona has a sister. A long-lost sister. And she’s sprawled over Ramona’s bed like a carefree dog in their owner’s bed.
As the small mp3 player slips from Billie’s hand, Ramona gingerly grabs it and tugs the earphones out of her sister’s pierced ears. Billie quietly whines as she rolls over to Ramona’s indent on the bed. She buries her face into the pillow, her half sock-covered foot jerking against the headboard.
With a relenting shake of her head, Ramona toes her sneakers from under her bed before stumbling towards the door.
–
Ramona is used to the stares by now.
The tinny ring of a bell spikes in her ears when she enters the camp office. Wood of different shades and grains wall around her, decorated with strings of color-faded flags and taxidermied animals that would haunt Ramona’s subconscious if she stared for too long. Floorboards creak under her scuffed white sneakers. Small dust bunnies hop across the hardwood while the smell of mildew tickles her nostrils. Some counselors quiet down and peek over from the open kitchen area, a rarity for a kid to come into their domain so far into the camp season. The only person not paying Ramona any mind is the receptionist behind the desk, the older woman’s eyes locked in on the old, dusty computer monitor.
With a wrinkle of her nose, Ramona slowly approaches the desk, her fingers toying with the small black mp3 player in her cardigan pocket.
The older lady glances up from the box-like monitor, a wary acknowledgement, before turning her attention back.
“Back for another charging session?” Loud clacking rings behind the desk when the older lady resumes her typing. “It’s a little early for you this time, isn’t it?”
A sheepish smile curls up on Ramona’s lips as she pulls her mp3 out. “Just used it a lot more than usual last night, Ms. Janet.”
A noncommittal hum rumbles from the receptionist before she reaches over the desk for the device, her eyes still locked onto the monitor. “I swear, Georgette needs to redo the electrical wiring in that damn cabin. Can’t just throw two kids in there and expect them to deal with only three working outlets.”
Ramona’s hand twitches as the player slips from her grasp, but she pulls her hand back with a slight frown.
“It’s not like we have a lot to charge, so I don’t really mind—”
“It’s still not something to overlook though.” Ms. Janet lets out a scoff as she shoves a charger port into the device. “If she’s not careful, she’ll have a snot-nosed brat make a complaint to their parents and have them sick a damn lawsuit on the camp.”
Heavy footsteps bounce off wooden walls before another figure steps into the room. Another older woman stares at Ms. Janet with a deadpan as she stirs her coffee mug.
“Janet, c’mon, why do you have to speak like that to a camper?”
“Don’t act like they’re innocent angels, May.” Ms. Janet resumes her typing with a snort. “You’ve heard those kids cursing worse than some war-torn sailors out there without a thought behind their eyes.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to join them.” With an exasperated sigh, May approaches the back of the reception desk, her long white doctor’s coat fluttering right behind her. “Whether they know it or not, they still look to us for guidance—”
“Trust me, they’re not paying attention to old biddies like us.” Ms. Janet twirls her swivel chair to May with a deadpan of her own. “They’re just focused on their assigned lessons and whatever camp activities are available for the day.”
“You have no faith,” May rolls her eyes before she turns her attention to Ramona with a tender smile. “And how’re you doing today, Ramona dear? Do you need a restock on allergy pills?”
Ramona adamantly shakes her head, her tied dark coils swaying behind her back. “I’ve been airing out my cabin, so I should be okay, Nurse May.”
Another scoff reverberates in the room as Ms. Janet swivels back to the desk, shuffling through some papers. “You shouldn’t have to air out your own cabin if Georgette actually properly maintained the campgrounds—”
“Janet—”
Ms. Janet rolls her eyes as she drops some papers onto the desk one by one in different piles. “You and I both know it, May. The only reason why those old cabins are being used in the first place is because of her bad ass grandson and his shenanigans.”
May narrows her eyes at the curt receptionist before turning back to Ramona with an apologetic smile. “Is there anything else you need, sweetheart?”
Ramona’s hands drop to her sides, her fingers toying with the hem of her embroidered sleeves. “Did any letters come for me and…”
What is Billie to Ramona? Obviously she’s her sister, but it’s still too sudden for her, too jarring for her to say out loud.
“…my roommate?”
With a low grunt, Janet pushes herself back on her swivel chair towards the colorful array of cubbies behind her. “Give me a second. It was you and…?”
“…Billie Brown.”
Another low grunt of acknowledgement rumbles from the receptionist as she rummages through one of the cubbies, more mumbled expletives tumbling from the older woman’s mouth. With an exasperated sigh, May leans against the desk and cups her coffee mug, eyes training back onto the preteen.
“Your other friend’s also doing well,” the nurse’s eyes soften as she takes a sip. “There weren’t any issues after his initial concussion, so he’s clear for the rest of camp. He’ll just have to pop in every now and then, but I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Relief flickers in Ramona’s eyes, the tension rolling off her shoulders for a brief reprieve. “That’s good.”
Arnold peeks from the back of Ramona’s mind, the shorter boy’s sheepish gapped smile flashing behind her eyes before he rushes back offstage. A few other figures pop up and disappear soon after— Billie with her mega-watt cat-like grin, you with your calming voice. However, one towers over Ramona in the back of her mind, tinny vibrations of guitar strings crooning in her ears while the rest of the world retreats from her. Billie’s smile curls along his lips, but it looks foreign to Ramona— sharper, more perceptive. She snaps back to reality once her ears pick up the sound of wheels scraping wood.
Ms. Janet spins her way back on her rolling chair to the desk with a fat stack of envelopes bulging out against a single rubber band. “Well damn, whoever your roommate is, she either has a big family or a very doting one.”
Ramona reaches for the stack, the sudden heft against her palm nearly making her drop it before her other hand saves it. A myriad of envelopes grab her attention— fiery reds, electric blues, citrusy yellows, gem-like purples. Only one white envelope atop the stack stands out against the rainbow palette in her grasp.
“Don’t worry, your usual mail’s on top,” Ms. Janet dismisses with a wave of her hand, but her eyes soften behind her metal-rimmed glasses. “I’m sure you don’t wanna shuffle through all of that just to find that one letter.”
The small smile falters on Ramona’s lips, a lump-like weight bobbing in the pit of her stomach. The image of you flickers back in her mind— your sketchbooks towering over you at your desk, ink and charcoal staining your skin, the scent of chocolate and cardamom trailing around you. The you in her mind smiles just the same, the smile you always have around her every time you meet her eyes.
That smile pricks a bittersweet sting in Ramona’s chest.
“Thank you,” the girl ignores the taste of ash on her tongue as she tucks the stack of letters against her chest. “I’ll come back tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, same deal, same routine.” The receptionist waves Ramona off as she turns her attention back to the ancient monitor. “I’ll keep your mp3 player out safe and sound until then.”
A disgruntled sigh echoes behind Ramona as she retreats to the door, the nurse and receptionist’s voices muffling in her ears with complaints and disagreements before the door shuts behind the tween.
—
Your handwriting stands out amongst pop art cutouts and garish envelopes against the dark hardwood floor.
Ramona leans against the edge of her bed, her lower back and rear growing sore on the wooden floor, while she stares at the letters scattered before her. Most of the letters scream for her eyes’ attention— cut-out photos and letters from magazines plastered over some yellow and purple envelopes, messy pen smudges stain the bright blue ones, and sketched out webs and music notes border along the reds.
But the one that keeps beckoning her back is the unassuming white envelope in the middle, comically orderly and clean compared to the hodgepodge of envelopes. Your familiar cursive adorns the blank canvas, ink etched onto the paper with clean strokes and a steady hand. The way your ‘o’s and ‘a’s loop around in tight circles, the way you squiggle through your ‘m’s and ‘n’s, the way the dot above your ‘i’s skews off to the side— they all well up warm nostalgia in her chest.
Ramona Diane. Her name from your hand.
Snores rumble beside her ear. Ramona turns towards the head of the bed as Billie rolls towards the edge in blissful slumber. The crimson bonnet is nowhere on the punk girl’s head, her wild coils tangled and frizzy from her sporadic movement. Silver glints beneath dark tresses, the small stud lodged in her earlobe glittering under the late morning sun filtering in the cabin, before Billie burrows herself under the covers.
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind.
She flips the envelope over and tucks her pinky under the sealed flap. With a quick flick, she rips through, revealing the folded papers of your recent thoughts and tales.
Rustling sheets echo into Ramona’s ears again before thin calloused fingers brush against her shoulder. She fights off a flinch as Billie’s head lolls over, her eyes barely cracked open. Her morning breath ghosts Ramona’s cheek like a humid hiss from old pipes. The punk girl slinks her arm out of her cotton cocoon and points at the envelopes on the floor.
“…red.”
“…which one?”
“All‘em…”
With a relenting sigh, Ramona gathers all the red envelopes and hands it to her sister— still a strange revelation, but one Ramona cannot run away from. Loud rips echo into her ears as Billie retreats into her temporary haven. Rustling sheets and creaking springs overtake the quiet of the outside world, bubbling the duo in their shared world of scratched inks and torn paper. Bright crimson shreds flutter over Ramona like confetti, erupting out of Billie’s blanket cave like papery red ash, before they land atop your folded pages. The scrawled ink across the red canvas is illegible to Ramona’s eyes— jagged, angular, heavy. She can make out indiscernible words pressed against the paper, the inkless grooves pimpling throughout the paper like hairline wrinkles.
Hobie Brown must have a heavy hand when he writes, at least to Ramona.
Her eyes drift back to the bound letters in her hands, weighing heavy with the red petal-like scraps sitting on cream papers. She brushes them off, fingertips lingering on his invisible words stamped into the scraps, before she tugs your multi-paged letter out of the envelope.
Inked cursive dances across lined paper. Every thought written down by you is jam-packed within the lines, almost spilling out of the pages. As she reads, images roll through Ramona’s mind like a film reel in a movie projector. Rolling waves lapping at sandy shores, vanilla ice cream melting over waffle cones and fingers, glass and steel skyscrapers towering up to blue skies. Stills of executives in suits in your meetings morphing into silly caricatures in your prose— a pot-bellied old man with a wall of mustache cloaking his upper lip; a spindly elderly lady with bright red lips and an enormous plume tucked into her hat; a towering giant with broad shoulders and skinny stick legs. Ramona’s lips press into a thin line to cage the bubbling giggles.
Before she flips over to another page, loud rustling and giggles suddenly bombards her ears while the comforter gets yanked against her back. She looks over her shoulder, only to be greeted with two peaks repeatedly kicking the blanket in the air. Each kick props the patched comforter higher, the edges jerkily pulling away from the bottom, until Billie’s beaming face surfaces. A thin stack of glossy card-like paper hovers over her face as her smile brightens. Russet eyes dart over to Ramona’s own as a beam of sunshine shines over Billie’s. Flashes of copper and amber glitter under the light, as if the sun itself decided to pool over darkened honey.
“Mon-Mon,” Billie calls to her in a hush, as if preparing to unveil a secret, “d’ya know where Washin’ton D.C. is?”
Ramona stares back at her giddy double with a befuddled pinch of her eyebrows.
“…Like, around Maryland, I guess?”
“Yeah, but where?” Billie scoots closer until half her body hangs off the bed. “Like how far is it from here? Like an hour away? Or is it ‘cross t’ country? Is it true that ya can pass through like ten different states in a whole day—?”
“Billie, I don’t have a map—”
Despite Ramona slowly backing away, Billie continues to invade her space. “Anyway, Dad went there earlier. He sent alotta pictures ‘n everythin’.”
Some photos slip from Billie’s grasp and flutter onto the floor. Blurred captured moments are inked onto the resin-covered papers, each one revealing at least one member of the band. A burly blonde man with rose-tinged skin pointing up at a hanging fighter plane with jagged teeth painted at the front. Another man with liberty-spiked hair staring up at a skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex. A ravenette woman with sharp eyes in front of a gate flipping off a far away White House.
But the one that catches Ramona’s eyes is of a towering man with gravity-defying wicks holding a carrot out to a giraffe. His chiseled profile warms through the printed ink— a giddy smile curling his pierced lips, awe glinting in russet eyes, a tattooed and scarred arm reaching out before the majestic spotted creature lowering its head. The image of the famous guitarist crumbles and rebuilds itself in Ramona’s mind one by one, no longer the enigmatic rockstar out of her reach, but a man slowly unveiling through a sister she barely met. Instead of complex guitar riffs, a deep timbre of his voice croons in Ramona’s ear. Harsh, dark eyes in black and white posters shift into warm russet browns. A nonchalant smirk morphs into a bright grin, lighting his face up amidst the hazy darkness of her subconscious.
It’s strange how much Hobie Brown looks like Billie to Ramona now.
Technically, by that logic, it should apply to her too— of Hobie and her looking alike. But she still can’t see it, not fully at least.
“They went t’ a lot of touristy places this time,” Billie’s voice breaks through Ramona’s pondering as the punk girl slides further over the edge of the bed, blindly pawing for the dropped photos. “T’ last photos Dad sent me were mainly hikin’ trails ‘n Uncle Ned passed out on a huge boulder.”
A snort sneaks up on Ramona before she covers her mouth, her body trembling from the bubbling giggles in her chest. The letters in her hand gradually slide out of her grasp before they flutter onto the floor.
“Honestly, this is probably t’ first city where they actually found a whole bunch of t’ings t’ do ‘stead of bein’ holed up in an airbnb.” Billie rolls over on the bed until she hangs upside down over the edge, her dark coils tangled from her slumber-driven moving. “Normally, Dad ‘n Uncle James would get bored ‘n hunt down whatever seemed fun, ‘n Uncle Ned would drag Auntie Yuri with him t’ hunt ‘em down right after.”
Another snort slips through Ramona’s nose before a sputtering wheeze escapes her lips.
“At least with this place, ev’rybody got t’ have fun in their own way.” Billie holds out another picture to her twin, gently wobbling it. “They’ve been tryin’ t’ find diff’rent places fer me t’ go t’ after camp…”
Ramona gingerly grabs the photo, the glossy shine reflecting light before the image reveals itself. Hues of pink, purple and blue catch her eye as she brings it closer— hundreds of balloons flooding the floor within indigo walls with a manmade lotus flower towering over. Blurry figures linger at the bottom corner, one of a startled ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-scream and mid-fall with ‘Uncle’ James tackling him from behind with a feral grin. In the far background, a tiny ‘Auntie’ Yuri points at them mid-cackle while more balloons float in the air around her.
Ramona trembles as she swallows down the giggle bubbling up her throat. “They’re like big kids…”
“Basically, yeah.”
A cat-like grin curls up on Billie’s face as she leans closer. The punk girl tilts her head to the side until it rests against her sister’s, her wild dark coils cascading over Ramona’s shoulder. “But they make travelin’ more fun. Dad doesn’t like stayin’ inside fer too long durin’ tours, so he ropes Uncle Ned int’ researchin’ different cities with ‘im while Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri drive ‘round.”
Billie tucks her chin against Ramona’s shoulder. “I t’ink Dad’ll want t’ take me t’ DC first. He sent me a lot of photos from this bubble place alone, but I t’ink he likes t’ zoo more…”
Ramona hums out in absent acknowledgement as she drifts her eyes between the photo in her hand and your letter on the floor.
“Does…”
Her words crumble to ash before Ramona can breathe life into them. What can she even ask? Does she even have a right to? Would Billie even care if she did?
A gentle nudge against her head buoys Ramona out of her thoughts. She glances at her sister, expectant curiosity glinting in Billie’s russet eyes.
“Does…?”
A small pebble lodges itself against Ramona’s throat. It doesn’t choke her, but it burrows itself against her esophagus before she struggles to swallow it down. Her question burns acrid on her tongue as she wills herself to utter it out.
“…does he have any pictures of his concerts?”
It doesn’t sit right for Ramona, the way she worded it. She can’t bring herself to say it despite the festering creeping up in her chest.
Billie’s eyes continue to stare back, eyes mirroring each other in some uncanny valley moment for Ramona, before she responds in a hush.
“Dad?”
The pebble pulses uncomfortably against Ramona’s throat, but she slowly nods.
“Yeah. Dad.”
The word tastes foreign to Ramona, a word that she never thought would leave her mouth. Her stomach churns as she shrinks away from her double, averting her eyes back to the letters by her feet. Tingles thrum under her skin from Billie’s scrutiny as Ramona curls into a ball.
“…prob’ly not for this concert yet.”
Billie’s voice ghosts against the shell of Ramona’s ear, more solemn and wistful than it should be. Lanky arms wrap around Ramona before Billie’s chin digs deeper in her shoulder, dark coils tickling the side of her neck.
“I t’ink I got some pictures of his other concerts though.” Billie tightens her embrace as the rest of the photos slip off the edge of the bed. “Ya wanna look while I go through ev’ryone else’s photos?”
The pebble grows bigger, pushing against the walls of Ramona’s throat until it cuts the airway from her lungs. Heat tingles the back of her eyes before she blinks it away, her vision blurring at the edges until the sheets of your handwriting go unfocused. She swallows around the lump little by little, inching it down her esophagus until it plummets into her stomach.
“…okay.”
—
Water laps over Ramona’s dangling feet. The wooden swim dock creaks under her weight with every swing of her legs. Gradients of purple, pink and orange drape across the forested skyline, the rippling surface of the lake glittering from the setting sun. Paper crinkles drift in the air when Ramona shuffles through your letters, your inked words scrawled through the pages under the fading sunlight, while she tries to find where she left off.
All the photos Billie showed her earlier still flicker in Ramona’s head, bleeding into the forefront with every roam of her eyes. Flashes of neon lights bubble in her head in tandem with your retellings, stuffy caricatures of your potential investors suddenly thrown into a balloon pit before being tackled by punk-like figures. Dinosaur bones surface under sandy shores with every ocean wave lapping over. Skyscrapers erupt from the ground around the White House, towering over the governmental building, until it sits under their shadows. Wild animals prowl through the boardwalk, licking ice cream off their maws with saltwater air breezing through their manes and furs.
Ramona shakes her head from the fantastical daydreams.
A lot of the captured moments weren’t like the family photos Ramona usually sees in movies. They weren’t the picturesque ones with amusement parks or picnics, nor were they the staged photoshoot ones with the white backgrounds and mini props. The photos were chaotic. They were blurry, random, probably morally illegal at times. Even with the typical touristy backdrops, the band somehow commands an anarchic energy with every inked paper. One image of a flushed ‘Uncle’ James being piggybacked by an exasperated ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-falling onto the street flickers. Then another of a giddy ‘Auntie’ Yuri climbing over a wire fence towards a neon-lit venue. And then another with Hobie— Hobie? Dad?— screaming at something off-camera with a makeshift sign in hand and paint smeared across his face at a protest. These moments weren’t staged, nor were they censored or edited to make themselves more like normal adults in her mind.
They were themselves. With all their grit and bite. Without a shred of fear or care.
Ramona wonders how they all got to that point.
Her eyes drift back to the scrawled ink on the lined paper. The tips of her fingers drift over your writing, your words permanently branded into the fibers. You weren’t really the type to take photos of yourself, preferring to be behind or away from the camera, but you always made sure to take note of whatever caught your eye. Whether it was a fabric that caught the sunlight just right, or an art piece that inspires a new pattern, or just a silly moment Ramona would laugh at— you would always write it down.
A bittersweet smile curls up on Ramona’s lips before she finally finds the paragraph she left off.
Music creeps into her ears— not her usual curation on your mp3 player, but nostalgic syncopated beats played on the radio when she gets picked up after school. A new figure emerges in the forefront of Ramona’s mind, leaning over Ramona’s shoulder with warm eyes and paint-splattered freckles across his cheeks. Paint fumes and graphite ghost along her nostrils as the figure’s presence warms her back. Soft scratchings of pencil against paper fill in the background of the hip-hop instrumentals, a myriad of colors spraying into the edges of her periphery. A canvas erupts from the ground and towers over her mind, spray painted sunflowers and vibrant comic book art tagged across it. The figure slowly pushes himself up and approaches the mural, amber-like caramel eyes lighting up at the art. Another familiar figure approaches the first, you standing beside him with a giddy smile, a sheen glinting over your eyes at him before you turn to the vibrant art. Warmth creeps the back of Ramona's eyes from the awe in your writings, the pride you weave through pressed ink for—
“Uncle Miles?”
A scream rips through Ramona’s throat from the intruding voice. Frantic eyes dart to its direction behind her, greeted by mirrored russets. Billie stares back at her sister as she sits back up on her rear, the wooden dock creaking out in protest by the sudden weight distribution. A shaky breath wheezes through Ramona as she slowly loosens her grip onto the crumpled letters.
“Billie, why—?”
Billie shrinks from the exasperation in Ramona’s voice, her shoulders hunching in as she crosses her legs together. The spike of irritation extinguishes within Ramona.
“Billie?”
The punk girl stays quiet, a habit slowly becoming more common around Ramona. A gentle breeze drifts between the long-lost twins with a piney, earthy scent, but neither takes notice, only scrutinizing each other behind a setting backdrop. Billie’s eyes waver in Ramona’s sight, flicking between Ramona’s eyes and the letters in her hands.
“I didn’t mean t’…”
Billie trails off as she curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around her tucked knees. “Didn’t mean t’ look. Was gon’ check on ya after ya left t’ cabin, but ya were really focused when I found ya, ‘n I jus’ ended up…”
The punk girl shrinks even more, her voice getting lost in the summer breeze.
“S’from Mum, right?”
Ramona’s face drops, and a faint ache creeps up within her ribs.
“…yeah.”
Rubber soles tap against the grained wood as Billie’s boots fidget against the wooden dock.
“Ya didn’t really talk ‘bout her earlier.” Billie tucks her chin between her knees, caution flickering in her eyes. “Didn’t really talk at all, t’be honest. Kinda jus’…stayed quiet t’ whole time.”
Her arms snake around her knees tighter. “Didn’t really ask a lot ‘bout Dad or nothin’. Or ‘bout Uncle Ned, Uncle James, Auntie Yuri either.”
“…there’s not really much to ask when you already answered them for me.”
Ramona hesitantly scoots over to the side, the water rippling from her feet’s sudden movements. She pats her hand with a tentative drum beside her. Billie’s eyes briefly widen before she slowly scoots up to the edge of the dock, steel toes peeking over and knees tucked against her chest. Silence permeates between the girls. Lapping water and rustling leaves muffle into white noise in their ears. The last of the warmth in the sky cools to a blue-tinted palette, oranges and pinks giving into indigos and violets. The moon peeks over through the sky, its silver light peeking behind fading golden rays, while the sun slowly sinks further behind the trees.
They stare at the sunset, but even the tranquil beauty of nature can’t burrow its roots through the tension.
Ramona glances to the side, eyes lingering on her sister, while Billie absently fidgets her boot laces until they come loose.
“…I don’t know what you expect me to ask, to be honest.”
Ramona’s voice wavers as her gaze drifts over to the rippling water before them. “Technically, I already knew about him and everybody through Mom. Or at least their music. And with all the photos and stories you had, I think I got a gist of it—”
“That ain’t t’ same, though.”
Billie’s paint-chipped finger twirls a black bootlace around itself as she continues to stare off to the sunset. “S’like ya were jus’ sittin’ back ‘n takin’ in whatever I told ya, but ya weren’t really…into it, I guess.”
The punk girl’s dark tresses flutter in the breeze, shielding her face from her newly-found twin. “Ya don’ really listen t’ Dad’s songs either, not on yer own.”
A tingling itch creeps up the back of Ramona’s throat. Two ghostly hands clamp onto her shoulders, long calloused fingers slowly pressing into her flesh, while the scent of citrus sneaks up her nostrils.
“I mean, I get it.” Billie’s fingers move on to the other boot laces, tugging an end by the plastic aglet until the knot unravels. “It ain’t easy, dealin’ with some life-changin’ chance meetin’ like some main character in a bizarre story, but…s’our life right now. ’m still tryin’ t’ wrap m’head ‘round it too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
An acrid tinge lingers on Ramona’s tongue as she averts her eyes back to the water. She slowly kicks her submerged feet against the lapping waves, the lake’s intended direction stronger than her resolve against the current. “I still don’t know how you’re okay with all of this. With Mom and Dad keeping us a secret from each other.”
Dad.
The word still leaves an uncomfortable feeling on Ramona’s tongue— almost drying and heavy with a metallic taste.
“I don’t know if I’m being a baby about this whole thing, but I can’t just accept this on the spot. I can tell he’s a good guy with all your stories, with all your guys' photos, and I want to learn more about him and everything. But…”
Chilled goosebumps prickle over Ramona’s skin as her feet prune in the water, but a wave of heat creeps up behind her eyes as the apparition’s hands grip onto her shoulders tighter.
“I can’t just see him as my dad. Not like how you already see Mom as your mom.”
The ghostly hands slowly slide off her shoulders, leaving behind another chill on Ramona. She bundles herself up with your cardigan to chase the cold away.
“…s’not as easy t’ t’ink ‘bout Mum fer me.”
Billie pushes her hair out of her face, revealing the telltale sheen over her eyes. A melancholic smile tugs at Billie’s lips, but it looks wrong on her to Ramona.
“Tha’ recordin’ of Mum ‘n Dad in yer mp3 was t’ first time I actually believed she was real. All t’ stories Uncle Ned, Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri would tell me were jus’…stories t’ me. Not really memories fer me t’ look back on.”
With a sniffle, Billie tugs her boots and socks off. Setting her footwear aside, her feet join Ramona’s in the frigid water. “Sometimes I thought they were jus’ makin’ her up t’ be some super-mum fer me, like s’gon’ make me feel better ‘bout not havin’ her in m’life.”
Billie’s watery eyes drift back to Ramona’s. “Then I come over ‘ere ‘n end up findin’ out she’s alive, ‘n I got a sister who has all these memories of her I never got t’have.”
A bead of a tear clings to her lashes, but Billie blinks it away before it can roll down her cheek.
“Is it really that bad t’ feel t’ same way ‘bout Dad fer ya?”
Ramona’s vision starts to blur as she stares back at her sister, but she blinks her own tears away before they can escape.
“It’s not like I don’t, but…it’s still kind of hard for me to believe that a punk rock star is my dad.”
Her hand clutches onto your letter again, tingles festering against her palm. “I didn’t know you wanted to know about Mom that bad, though.”
Billie shrugs as her feet bob up to the surface.
“Can’t really ask while yer strugglin’ with it, can I?”
A rock slowly sinks in Ramona’s stomach. The festering in the back of her throat grows stronger, ebbing in tandem with the burning tingle in her hand. The jagged folded parts of your letters scrape against the flesh of her palm, almost begging to be read more. Ramona glances at the crumpled papers in her trembling hand, and with another blink of her gleaming eyes, she carefully flattens them on the wooden deck before sliding them to Billie. The punk girl furrows her brows at the letters before Ramona quietly speaks.
“Uncle Miles isn’t really my uncle, but he’s kinda like how Uncle Ned, Uncle James and Auntie Yuri are to you.”
A wavering smile curls up on Ramona’s face. “Other than that, I think you can get an idea of how Mom is through this.”
Hesitation flickers in Billie’s eyes as she stares at your wrinkled handwriting, like a forbidden Pandora’s box beckoning her, before her hand hovers over the letters.
“…her handwritin’s pretty.”
Billie’s eyes latch onto your first words as she grasps your pages, slowly taking in every line with awe. “She writes a lot, though…”
A trembling huff slips through Ramona’s lips as she turns away to the sun finally leaving the sky, painting all the remaining light in blue.
“Yeah, she kinda does that. She’s not really a picture person.”
Ramona lifts one of her feet out of the water and props it on the edge of the dock. Rivulets of water trickle down her paled wrinkled leg, pooling beneath her naked sole and seeping into the wood and the denim over her inner thigh.
“Mom doesn’t like being distracted from the moment. She said she’d rather take it all in and remember it before telling me. But I think it’s also her way of saying she doesn’t wanna take pictures of herself, though.”
The sounds of chirping crickets and lapping water respond back to Ramona. With a quick side glance, her eyes land on a quiet Billie shuffling to the next page. Her eyes are hooked onto the letters, devouring your every word as if starved for a different adventure. Entranced under the moonlight, lips curling and dropping depending on what part she reached, Billie refuses to pry her eyes away from the crumpled papers. When she finally reaches the last page, her eyes slow down their pace, almost savoring the last of your words until the bittersweet end. And even then, she still stares at the last page as the moon finally takes its place in the night sky.
A small drop drips onto the crumpled last page before Billie quickly hands the letter back with averted eyes.
“Mum should’ve been a writer or somethin’,” Billie hiccups as she wipes under her eyes.
The festering in Ramona’s throat screams louder at the sight of her sister’s tears, but Ramona swallows it back before taking the letters.
“Yeah, but Mom said she barely makes her deadlines as it is with her designs. I don’t think she’ll be happy adding writing deadlines into her routine.”
A quiet, broken laugh trembles through Billie while she pulls her own feet out the lake, splashing some of the water back onto the back of her jeans. “Then maybe she’ll write those stories famous people write ‘bout ‘emselves.”
“I doubt she’d wanna write a full-on autobiography.”
“Maybe not, but she’ll at least have somethin’ interestin’ t’ write ‘bout…”
Billie’s smile strains under the moonlight when her eyes drift back to the letters. Warm russets dim and glint with more unshed tears before the punk girl averts her eyes back to the lake. Crickets and faint waves croons back into the twins' ears, chasming the distance between them. Finally, when amber lights from the campsite flood behind them, Billie’s voice bridges them back together.
“I wanna meet Mum.”
A cool breeze brushes against their skin, prickling their skin with more goosebumps and chills. Small beads of tears cling to Billie’s lashes before she looks back at Ramona with a resigned smile.
“I know ‘m bein’ selfish, but I really wanna meet her.”
Sharp shrapnel stabs into Ramona’s throat. Her stomach churns and eats itself alive, and her heart squeezes until a dull ache ebbs through her chest. For a moment, Ramona doesn’t see Billie, nor does she see a guise of Hobie Brown over her.
She sees you.
Not obviously, of course. Billie still looks like a mini copy of Hobie Brown, but Ramona can’t help but see your smile on her— the faraway one, where you’re lost in thought when you thought no one would notice.
A brief inkling whispers in Ramona’s mind before it sneaks away and slips through her mouth.
“…maybe you still can.”
IM HERE, POOKS, AND IVE BEEN MISSING MY GIRLS💕💕💕
Janet spotted🫵🏾🫵🏾
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind. –WHY DO YOU WRITE LIKE YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME? WRITE DAY AND NIGHT LIKE YOU'RE RUNNING OUT OF TIME🎶
All the pictures they sent Billie sound so chaotic and so sweet🥺
I fear R is me cuz I don't really like taking pics of myself😮💨 Shh, just ignore my pfp literally being a pic of me tho
Sunflowers? Miles??? Is that my son– IT IS MY SON❤️❤️
Aww, Billie choosing not to ask questions bc Ramona was so upset🥺
Oh? OH??? THE TRAP PART OF THE PARENT TRAP AU IS IN THE WORKS, I CAN SMELL IT😤 Or, at least, the switcheroo is, lmao
WERE BACK, BABYYYYYYY 😩
Damnit, Janet, I love you 🥺😭 but fr, I lowkey wanna write more janet now 🤣
BAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA I know this song is gonna be stuck in my head all day again lmaoooo
Bro, fr 😭 I looked at all the photos that these places actually had, and I knew I had to include their twist on them
We are all R 💀😭🤣 (but you look so pretty 🥺)
YESSSSS I had to include him 🥹🥹🥹
Billie is such a sweet sunshine child 😭
YEAHHHHHHHH WERE GETTING THERE 👀👀👀
Webbed Together
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.5k
Author's Note: I'M BACK, BABY!!!!! 😩 I missed writing these girls frfr, and I've lowkey been locked in for the past week for the last scene alone with a specific song stuck on loop 🥲 I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie, Ramona and another original character that you'll see later in the chapter, as well as @pinksugarscrub for beta reading this chapter!
Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader, Fluff, Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Taglist: @yumeaoka-chan , @vanilla-bean-18 , @hobiesvalley
Chapter 8: I Saw Sparks
<< Chapter 7 Chapter 9 >>
The first thing Ramona wakes up to is a foot shoved against her face.
An exhausted groan rumbles in Ramona’s chest as she blinks the sleep out of her eyes. Dull sores pulse all over her body when she finds herself being squished between a wooden wall and a sprawled out Billie. Quiet snores rumble from the punk girl, her mouth hanging open with drool coating a corner, while the patched up comforter is halfway on them and on the hardwood floor. Billie’s warmth adds onto the creeping heat from the late-morning sun, the wooden cabin slowly baking Ramona alive.With an annoyed whine, she sits herself up, pushing Billie’s foot away from her. She winces from the soft pops crackling along her spine while she stretches her arms up to the ceiling.
A heavy fog swirls in Ramona’s head. Pressure looms over her shoulders as her arms drop to her sides, leaving her in a hazy vertigo. She struggles to crawl out of her occupied space through her bleary vision, her fingers sliding against wrinkled sheets until they curve onto the edge of the bed. With as much grace as a teetering bowling ball, Ramona tumbles onto the hardwood floor with a grunt, her face planted on wood grain and lint.
A loud snort rings above Ramona before her bed creaks again, the springs groaning under shifting weight until Billie’s foot hangs over the edge near Ramona’s face again.
Ramona’s face pinches into a grimace before she rolls away from the offending appendage, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Throbs lap over her head while swirling greens and blues bloom and fade from her vision. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes before she sits herself back up, her bonnet slowly slipping back from her head until frizzy baby hairs peek under the elastic headband.
Her sleep has been getting worse.
Ramona rolls over onto her hands and knees, crawling towards her unlatched trunk. Hazy memories flicker in the girl’s mind as she flips the trunk open, voices both familiar and foreign crooning in her ears while she pulls out a clean change of clothes. Your hushed, honeyed voice sends a bittersweet warmth through her at the sight of one of your embroidered cardigans— pink-petaled flowers and cherries dancing across the sleeves on cream-knitted polyester. At the same time, a deep timbre gently rattles through her bones as she fishes out some patched jeans.
She’s not sure why she can hear the man’s voice so clearly in her head, but it tickles a nostalgic part of her conscience just as much as your voice.
As she pushes herself onto her feet with her clothes in hand, Ramona’s eyes trail back to the slumbering punk girl in her bed. Ruby-hued bonnet halfway off her head, wild curls spilling onto crumpled sheets, black earphones tangling in long nimble fingers— Billie made herself at home in Ramona’s space a little too much. Ramona presses her lips together with a disgruntled sound before heaving a sigh.
Ramona has a sister. A long-lost sister. And she’s sprawled over Ramona’s bed like a carefree dog in their owner’s bed.
As the small mp3 player slips from Billie’s hand, Ramona gingerly grabs it and tugs the earphones out of her sister’s pierced ears. Billie quietly whines as she rolls over to Ramona’s indent on the bed. She buries her face into the pillow, her half sock-covered foot jerking against the headboard.
With a relenting shake of her head, Ramona toes her sneakers from under her bed before stumbling towards the door.
–
Ramona is used to the stares by now.
The tinny ring of a bell spikes in her ears when she enters the camp office. Wood of different shades and grains wall around her, decorated with strings of color-faded flags and taxidermied animals that would haunt Ramona’s subconscious if she stared for too long. Floorboards creak under her scuffed white sneakers. Small dust bunnies hop across the hardwood while the smell of mildew tickles her nostrils. Some counselors quiet down and peek over from the open kitchen area, a rarity for a kid to come into their domain so far into the camp season. The only person not paying Ramona any mind is the receptionist behind the desk, the older woman’s eyes locked in on the old, dusty computer monitor.
With a wrinkle of her nose, Ramona slowly approaches the desk, her fingers toying with the small black mp3 player in her cardigan pocket.
The older lady glances up from the box-like monitor, a wary acknowledgement, before turning her attention back.
“Back for another charging session?” Loud clacking rings behind the desk when the older lady resumes her typing. “It’s a little early for you this time, isn’t it?”
A sheepish smile curls up on Ramona’s lips as she pulls her mp3 out. “Just used it a lot more than usual last night, Ms. Janet.”
A noncommittal hum rumbles from the receptionist before she reaches over the desk for the device, her eyes still locked onto the monitor. “I swear, Georgette needs to redo the electrical wiring in that damn cabin. Can’t just throw two kids in there and expect them to deal with only three working outlets.”
Ramona’s hand twitches as the player slips from her grasp, but she pulls her hand back with a slight frown.
“It’s not like we have a lot to charge, so I don’t really mind—”
“It’s still not something to overlook though.” Ms. Janet lets out a scoff as she shoves a charger port into the device. “If she’s not careful, she’ll have a snot-nosed brat make a complaint to their parents and have them sick a damn lawsuit on the camp.”
Heavy footsteps bounce off wooden walls before another figure steps into the room. Another older woman stares at Ms. Janet with a deadpan as she stirs her coffee mug.
“Janet, c’mon, why do you have to speak like that to a camper?”
“Don’t act like they’re innocent angels, May.” Ms. Janet resumes her typing with a snort. “You’ve heard those kids cursing worse than some war-torn sailors out there without a thought behind their eyes.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to join them.” With an exasperated sigh, May approaches the back of the reception desk, her long white doctor’s coat fluttering right behind her. “Whether they know it or not, they still look to us for guidance—”
“Trust me, they’re not paying attention to old biddies like us.” Ms. Janet twirls her swivel chair to May with a deadpan of her own. “They’re just focused on their assigned lessons and whatever camp activities are available for the day.”
“You have no faith,” May rolls her eyes before she turns her attention to Ramona with a tender smile. “And how’re you doing today, Ramona dear? Do you need a restock on allergy pills?”
Ramona adamantly shakes her head, her tied dark coils swaying behind her back. “I’ve been airing out my cabin, so I should be okay, Nurse May.”
Another scoff reverberates in the room as Ms. Janet swivels back to the desk, shuffling through some papers. “You shouldn’t have to air out your own cabin if Georgette actually properly maintained the campgrounds—”
“Janet—”
Ms. Janet rolls her eyes as she drops some papers onto the desk one by one in different piles. “You and I both know it, May. The only reason why those old cabins are being used in the first place is because of her bad ass grandson and his shenanigans.”
May narrows her eyes at the curt receptionist before turning back to Ramona with an apologetic smile. “Is there anything else you need, sweetheart?”
Ramona’s hands drop to her sides, her fingers toying with the hem of her embroidered sleeves. “Did any letters come for me and…”
What is Billie to Ramona? Obviously she’s her sister, but it’s still too sudden for her, too jarring for her to say out loud.
“…my roommate?”
With a low grunt, Janet pushes herself back on her swivel chair towards the colorful array of cubbies behind her. “Give me a second. It was you and…?”
“…Billie Brown.”
Another low grunt of acknowledgement rumbles from the receptionist as she rummages through one of the cubbies, more mumbled expletives tumbling from the older woman’s mouth. With an exasperated sigh, May leans against the desk and cups her coffee mug, eyes training back onto the preteen.
“Your other friend’s also doing well,” the nurse’s eyes soften as she takes a sip. “There weren’t any issues after his initial concussion, so he’s clear for the rest of camp. He’ll just have to pop in every now and then, but I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Relief flickers in Ramona’s eyes, the tension rolling off her shoulders for a brief reprieve. “That’s good.”
Arnold peeks from the back of Ramona’s mind, the shorter boy’s sheepish gapped smile flashing behind her eyes before he rushes back offstage. A few other figures pop up and disappear soon after— Billie with her mega-watt cat-like grin, you with your calming voice. However, one towers over Ramona in the back of her mind, tinny vibrations of guitar strings crooning in her ears while the rest of the world retreats from her. Billie’s smile curls along his lips, but it looks foreign to Ramona— sharper, more perceptive. She snaps back to reality once her ears pick up the sound of wheels scraping wood.
Ms. Janet spins her way back on her rolling chair to the desk with a fat stack of envelopes bulging out against a single rubber band. “Well damn, whoever your roommate is, she either has a big family or a very doting one.”
Ramona reaches for the stack, the sudden heft against her palm nearly making her drop it before her other hand saves it. A myriad of envelopes grab her attention— fiery reds, electric blues, citrusy yellows, gem-like purples. Only one white envelope atop the stack stands out against the rainbow palette in her grasp.
“Don’t worry, your usual mail’s on top,” Ms. Janet dismisses with a wave of her hand, but her eyes soften behind her metal-rimmed glasses. “I’m sure you don’t wanna shuffle through all of that just to find that one letter.”
The small smile falters on Ramona’s lips, a lump-like weight bobbing in the pit of her stomach. The image of you flickers back in her mind— your sketchbooks towering over you at your desk, ink and charcoal staining your skin, the scent of chocolate and cardamom trailing around you. The you in her mind smiles just the same, the smile you always have around her every time you meet her eyes.
That smile pricks a bittersweet sting in Ramona’s chest.
“Thank you,” the girl ignores the taste of ash on her tongue as she tucks the stack of letters against her chest. “I’ll come back tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, same deal, same routine.” The receptionist waves Ramona off as she turns her attention back to the ancient monitor. “I’ll keep your mp3 player out safe and sound until then.”
A disgruntled sigh echoes behind Ramona as she retreats to the door, the nurse and receptionist’s voices muffling in her ears with complaints and disagreements before the door shuts behind the tween.
—
Your handwriting stands out amongst pop art cutouts and garish envelopes against the dark hardwood floor.
Ramona leans against the edge of her bed, her lower back and rear growing sore on the wooden floor, while she stares at the letters scattered before her. Most of the letters scream for her eyes’ attention— cut-out photos and letters from magazines plastered over some yellow and purple envelopes, messy pen smudges stain the bright blue ones, and sketched out webs and music notes border along the reds.
But the one that keeps beckoning her back is the unassuming white envelope in the middle, comically orderly and clean compared to the hodgepodge of envelopes. Your familiar cursive adorns the blank canvas, ink etched onto the paper with clean strokes and a steady hand. The way your ‘o’s and ‘a’s loop around in tight circles, the way you squiggle through your ‘m’s and ‘n’s, the way the dot above your ‘i’s skews off to the side— they all well up warm nostalgia in her chest.
Ramona Diane. Her name from your hand.
Snores rumble beside her ear. Ramona turns towards the head of the bed as Billie rolls towards the edge in blissful slumber. The crimson bonnet is nowhere on the punk girl’s head, her wild coils tangled and frizzy from her sporadic movement. Silver glints beneath dark tresses, the small stud lodged in her earlobe glittering under the late morning sun filtering in the cabin, before Billie burrows herself under the covers.
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind.
She flips the envelope over and tucks her pinky under the sealed flap. With a quick flick, she rips through, revealing the folded papers of your recent thoughts and tales.
Rustling sheets echo into Ramona’s ears again before thin calloused fingers brush against her shoulder. She fights off a flinch as Billie’s head lolls over, her eyes barely cracked open. Her morning breath ghosts Ramona’s cheek like a humid hiss from old pipes. The punk girl slinks her arm out of her cotton cocoon and points at the envelopes on the floor.
“…red.”
“…which one?”
“All‘em…”
With a relenting sigh, Ramona gathers all the red envelopes and hands it to her sister— still a strange revelation, but one Ramona cannot run away from. Loud rips echo into her ears as Billie retreats into her temporary haven. Rustling sheets and creaking springs overtake the quiet of the outside world, bubbling the duo in their shared world of scratched inks and torn paper. Bright crimson shreds flutter over Ramona like confetti, erupting out of Billie’s blanket cave like papery red ash, before they land atop your folded pages. The scrawled ink across the red canvas is illegible to Ramona’s eyes— jagged, angular, heavy. She can make out indiscernible words pressed against the paper, the inkless grooves pimpling throughout the paper like hairline wrinkles.
Hobie Brown must have a heavy hand when he writes, at least to Ramona.
Her eyes drift back to the bound letters in her hands, weighing heavy with the red petal-like scraps sitting on cream papers. She brushes them off, fingertips lingering on his invisible words stamped into the scraps, before she tugs your multi-paged letter out of the envelope.
Inked cursive dances across lined paper. Every thought written down by you is jam-packed within the lines, almost spilling out of the pages. As she reads, images roll through Ramona’s mind like a film reel in a movie projector. Rolling waves lapping at sandy shores, vanilla ice cream melting over waffle cones and fingers, glass and steel skyscrapers towering up to blue skies. Stills of executives in suits in your meetings morphing into silly caricatures in your prose— a pot-bellied old man with a wall of mustache cloaking his upper lip; a spindly elderly lady with bright red lips and an enormous plume tucked into her hat; a towering giant with broad shoulders and skinny stick legs. Ramona’s lips press into a thin line to cage the bubbling giggles.
Before she flips over to another page, loud rustling and giggles suddenly bombards her ears while the comforter gets yanked against her back. She looks over her shoulder, only to be greeted with two peaks repeatedly kicking the blanket in the air. Each kick props the patched comforter higher, the edges jerkily pulling away from the bottom, until Billie’s beaming face surfaces. A thin stack of glossy card-like paper hovers over her face as her smile brightens. Russet eyes dart over to Ramona’s own as a beam of sunshine shines over Billie’s. Flashes of copper and amber glitter under the light, as if the sun itself decided to pool over darkened honey.
“Mon-Mon,” Billie calls to her in a hush, as if preparing to unveil a secret, “d’ya know where Washin’ton D.C. is?”
Ramona stares back at her giddy double with a befuddled pinch of her eyebrows.
“…Like, around Maryland, I guess?”
“Yeah, but where?” Billie scoots closer until half her body hangs off the bed. “Like how far is it from here? Like an hour away? Or is it ‘cross t’ country? Is it true that ya can pass through like ten different states in a whole day—?”
“Billie, I don’t have a map—”
Despite Ramona slowly backing away, Billie continues to invade her space. “Anyway, Dad went there earlier. He sent alotta pictures ‘n everythin’.”
Some photos slip from Billie’s grasp and flutter onto the floor. Blurred captured moments are inked onto the resin-covered papers, each one revealing at least one member of the band. A burly blonde man with rose-tinged skin pointing up at a hanging fighter plane with jagged teeth painted at the front. Another man with liberty-spiked hair staring up at a skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex. A ravenette woman with sharp eyes in front of a gate flipping off a far away White House.
But the one that catches Ramona’s eyes is of a towering man with gravity-defying wicks holding a carrot out to a giraffe. His chiseled profile warms through the printed ink— a giddy smile curling his pierced lips, awe glinting in russet eyes, a tattooed and scarred arm reaching out before the majestic spotted creature lowering its head. The image of the famous guitarist crumbles and rebuilds itself in Ramona’s mind one by one, no longer the enigmatic rockstar out of her reach, but a man slowly unveiling through a sister she barely met. Instead of complex guitar riffs, a deep timbre of his voice croons in Ramona’s ear. Harsh, dark eyes in black and white posters shift into warm russet browns. A nonchalant smirk morphs into a bright grin, lighting his face up amidst the hazy darkness of her subconscious.
It’s strange how much Hobie Brown looks like Billie to Ramona now.
Technically, by that logic, it should apply to her too— of Hobie and her looking alike. But she still can’t see it, not fully at least.
“They went t’ a lot of touristy places this time,” Billie’s voice breaks through Ramona’s pondering as the punk girl slides further over the edge of the bed, blindly pawing for the dropped photos. “T’ last photos Dad sent me were mainly hikin’ trails ‘n Uncle Ned passed out on a huge boulder.”
A snort sneaks up on Ramona before she covers her mouth, her body trembling from the bubbling giggles in her chest. The letters in her hand gradually slide out of her grasp before they flutter onto the floor.
“Honestly, this is probably t’ first city where they actually found a whole bunch of t’ings t’ do ‘stead of bein’ holed up in an airbnb.” Billie rolls over on the bed until she hangs upside down over the edge, her dark coils tangled from her slumber-driven moving. “Normally, Dad ‘n Uncle James would get bored ‘n hunt down whatever seemed fun, ‘n Uncle Ned would drag Auntie Yuri with him t’ hunt ‘em down right after.”
Another snort slips through Ramona’s nose before a sputtering wheeze escapes her lips.
“At least with this place, ev’rybody got t’ have fun in their own way.” Billie holds out another picture to her twin, gently wobbling it. “They’ve been tryin’ t’ find diff’rent places fer me t’ go t’ after camp…”
Ramona gingerly grabs the photo, the glossy shine reflecting light before the image reveals itself. Hues of pink, purple and blue catch her eye as she brings it closer— hundreds of balloons flooding the floor within indigo walls with a manmade lotus flower towering over. Blurry figures linger at the bottom corner, one of a startled ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-scream and mid-fall with ‘Uncle’ James tackling him from behind with a feral grin. In the far background, a tiny ‘Auntie’ Yuri points at them mid-cackle while more balloons float in the air around her.
Ramona trembles as she swallows down the giggle bubbling up her throat. “They’re like big kids…”
“Basically, yeah.”
A cat-like grin curls up on Billie’s face as she leans closer. The punk girl tilts her head to the side until it rests against her sister’s, her wild dark coils cascading over Ramona’s shoulder. “But they make travelin’ more fun. Dad doesn’t like stayin’ inside fer too long durin’ tours, so he ropes Uncle Ned int’ researchin’ different cities with ‘im while Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri drive ‘round.”
Billie tucks her chin against Ramona’s shoulder. “I t’ink Dad’ll want t’ take me t’ DC first. He sent me a lot of photos from this bubble place alone, but I t’ink he likes t’ zoo more…”
Ramona hums out in absent acknowledgement as she drifts her eyes between the photo in her hand and your letter on the floor.
“Does…”
Her words crumble to ash before Ramona can breathe life into them. What can she even ask? Does she even have a right to? Would Billie even care if she did?
A gentle nudge against her head buoys Ramona out of her thoughts. She glances at her sister, expectant curiosity glinting in Billie’s russet eyes.
“Does…?”
A small pebble lodges itself against Ramona’s throat. It doesn’t choke her, but it burrows itself against her esophagus before she struggles to swallow it down. Her question burns acrid on her tongue as she wills herself to utter it out.
“…does he have any pictures of his concerts?”
It doesn’t sit right for Ramona, the way she worded it. She can’t bring herself to say it despite the festering creeping up in her chest.
Billie’s eyes continue to stare back, eyes mirroring each other in some uncanny valley moment for Ramona, before she responds in a hush.
“Dad?”
The pebble pulses uncomfortably against Ramona’s throat, but she slowly nods.
“Yeah. Dad.”
The word tastes foreign to Ramona, a word that she never thought would leave her mouth. Her stomach churns as she shrinks away from her double, averting her eyes back to the letters by her feet. Tingles thrum under her skin from Billie’s scrutiny as Ramona curls into a ball.
“…prob’ly not for this concert yet.”
Billie’s voice ghosts against the shell of Ramona’s ear, more solemn and wistful than it should be. Lanky arms wrap around Ramona before Billie’s chin digs deeper in her shoulder, dark coils tickling the side of her neck.
“I t’ink I got some pictures of his other concerts though.” Billie tightens her embrace as the rest of the photos slip off the edge of the bed. “Ya wanna look while I go through ev’ryone else’s photos?”
The pebble grows bigger, pushing against the walls of Ramona’s throat until it cuts the airway from her lungs. Heat tingles the back of her eyes before she blinks it away, her vision blurring at the edges until the sheets of your handwriting go unfocused. She swallows around the lump little by little, inching it down her esophagus until it plummets into her stomach.
“…okay.”
—
Water laps over Ramona’s dangling feet. The wooden swim dock creaks under her weight with every swing of her legs. Gradients of purple, pink and orange drape across the forested skyline, the rippling surface of the lake glittering from the setting sun. Paper crinkles drift in the air when Ramona shuffles through your letters, your inked words scrawled through the pages under the fading sunlight, while she tries to find where she left off.
All the photos Billie showed her earlier still flicker in Ramona’s head, bleeding into the forefront with every roam of her eyes. Flashes of neon lights bubble in her head in tandem with your retellings, stuffy caricatures of your potential investors suddenly thrown into a balloon pit before being tackled by punk-like figures. Dinosaur bones surface under sandy shores with every ocean wave lapping over. Skyscrapers erupt from the ground around the White House, towering over the governmental building, until it sits under their shadows. Wild animals prowl through the boardwalk, licking ice cream off their maws with saltwater air breezing through their manes and furs.
Ramona shakes her head from the fantastical daydreams.
A lot of the captured moments weren’t like the family photos Ramona usually sees in movies. They weren’t the picturesque ones with amusement parks or picnics, nor were they the staged photoshoot ones with the white backgrounds and mini props. The photos were chaotic. They were blurry, random, probably morally illegal at times. Even with the typical touristy backdrops, the band somehow commands an anarchic energy with every inked paper. One image of a flushed ‘Uncle’ James being piggybacked by an exasperated ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-falling onto the street flickers. Then another of a giddy ‘Auntie’ Yuri climbing over a wire fence towards a neon-lit venue. And then another with Hobie— Hobie? Dad?— screaming at something off-camera with a makeshift sign in hand and paint smeared across his face at a protest. These moments weren’t staged, nor were they censored or edited to make themselves more like normal adults in her mind.
They were themselves. With all their grit and bite. Without a shred of fear or care.
Ramona wonders how they all got to that point.
Her eyes drift back to the scrawled ink on the lined paper. The tips of her fingers drift over your writing, your words permanently branded into the fibers. You weren’t really the type to take photos of yourself, preferring to be behind or away from the camera, but you always made sure to take note of whatever caught your eye. Whether it was a fabric that caught the sunlight just right, or an art piece that inspires a new pattern, or just a silly moment Ramona would laugh at— you would always write it down.
A bittersweet smile curls up on Ramona’s lips before she finally finds the paragraph she left off.
Music creeps into her ears— not her usual curation on your mp3 player, but nostalgic syncopated beats played on the radio when she gets picked up after school. A new figure emerges in the forefront of Ramona’s mind, leaning over Ramona’s shoulder with warm eyes and paint-splattered freckles across his cheeks. Paint fumes and graphite ghost along her nostrils as the figure’s presence warms her back. Soft scratchings of pencil against paper fill in the background of the hip-hop instrumentals, a myriad of colors spraying into the edges of her periphery. A canvas erupts from the ground and towers over her mind, spray painted sunflowers and vibrant comic book art tagged across it. The figure slowly pushes himself up and approaches the mural, amber-like caramel eyes lighting up at the art. Another familiar figure approaches the first, you standing beside him with a giddy smile, a sheen glinting over your eyes at him before you turn to the vibrant art. Warmth creeps the back of Ramona's eyes from the awe in your writings, the pride you weave through pressed ink for—
“Uncle Miles?”
A scream rips through Ramona’s throat from the intruding voice. Frantic eyes dart to its direction behind her, greeted by mirrored russets. Billie stares back at her sister as she sits back up on her rear, the wooden dock creaking out in protest by the sudden weight distribution. A shaky breath wheezes through Ramona as she slowly loosens her grip onto the crumpled letters.
“Billie, why—?”
Billie shrinks from the exasperation in Ramona’s voice, her shoulders hunching in as she crosses her legs together. The spike of irritation extinguishes within Ramona.
“Billie?”
The punk girl stays quiet, a habit slowly becoming more common around Ramona. A gentle breeze drifts between the long-lost twins with a piney, earthy scent, but neither takes notice, only scrutinizing each other behind a setting backdrop. Billie’s eyes waver in Ramona’s sight, flicking between Ramona’s eyes and the letters in her hands.
“I didn’t mean t’…”
Billie trails off as she curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around her tucked knees. “Didn’t mean t’ look. Was gon’ check on ya after ya left t’ cabin, but ya were really focused when I found ya, ‘n I jus’ ended up…”
The punk girl shrinks even more, her voice getting lost in the summer breeze.
“S’from Mum, right?”
Ramona’s face drops, and a faint ache creeps up within her ribs.
“…yeah.”
Rubber soles tap against the grained wood as Billie’s boots fidget against the wooden dock.
“Ya didn’t really talk ‘bout her earlier.” Billie tucks her chin between her knees, caution flickering in her eyes. “Didn’t really talk at all, t’be honest. Kinda jus’…stayed quiet t’ whole time.”
Her arms snake around her knees tighter. “Didn’t really ask a lot ‘bout Dad or nothin’. Or ‘bout Uncle Ned, Uncle James, Auntie Yuri either.”
“…there’s not really much to ask when you already answered them for me.”
Ramona hesitantly scoots over to the side, the water rippling from her feet’s sudden movements. She pats her hand with a tentative drum beside her. Billie’s eyes briefly widen before she slowly scoots up to the edge of the dock, steel toes peeking over and knees tucked against her chest. Silence permeates between the girls. Lapping water and rustling leaves muffle into white noise in their ears. The last of the warmth in the sky cools to a blue-tinted palette, oranges and pinks giving into indigos and violets. The moon peeks over through the sky, its silver light peeking behind fading golden rays, while the sun slowly sinks further behind the trees.
They stare at the sunset, but even the tranquil beauty of nature can’t burrow its roots through the tension.
Ramona glances to the side, eyes lingering on her sister, while Billie absently fidgets her boot laces until they come loose.
“…I don’t know what you expect me to ask, to be honest.”
Ramona’s voice wavers as her gaze drifts over to the rippling water before them. “Technically, I already knew about him and everybody through Mom. Or at least their music. And with all the photos and stories you had, I think I got a gist of it—”
“That ain’t t’ same, though.”
Billie’s paint-chipped finger twirls a black bootlace around itself as she continues to stare off to the sunset. “S’like ya were jus’ sittin’ back ‘n takin’ in whatever I told ya, but ya weren’t really…into it, I guess.”
The punk girl’s dark tresses flutter in the breeze, shielding her face from her newly-found twin. “Ya don’ really listen t’ Dad’s songs either, not on yer own.”
A tingling itch creeps up the back of Ramona’s throat. Two ghostly hands clamp onto her shoulders, long calloused fingers slowly pressing into her flesh, while the scent of citrus sneaks up her nostrils.
“I mean, I get it.” Billie’s fingers move on to the other boot laces, tugging an end by the plastic aglet until the knot unravels. “It ain’t easy, dealin’ with some life-changin’ chance meetin’ like some main character in a bizarre story, but…s’our life right now. ’m still tryin’ t’ wrap m’head ‘round it too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
An acrid tinge lingers on Ramona’s tongue as she averts her eyes back to the water. She slowly kicks her submerged feet against the lapping waves, the lake’s intended direction stronger than her resolve against the current. “I still don’t know how you’re okay with all of this. With Mom and Dad keeping us a secret from each other.”
Dad.
The word still leaves an uncomfortable feeling on Ramona’s tongue— almost drying and heavy with a metallic taste.
“I don’t know if I’m being a baby about this whole thing, but I can’t just accept this on the spot. I can tell he’s a good guy with all your stories, with all your guys' photos, and I want to learn more about him and everything. But…”
Chilled goosebumps prickle over Ramona’s skin as her feet prune in the water, but a wave of heat creeps up behind her eyes as the apparition’s hands grip onto her shoulders tighter.
“I can’t just see him as my dad. Not like how you already see Mom as your mom.”
The ghostly hands slowly slide off her shoulders, leaving behind another chill on Ramona. She bundles herself up with your cardigan to chase the cold away.
“…s’not as easy t’ t’ink ‘bout Mum fer me.”
Billie pushes her hair out of her face, revealing the telltale sheen over her eyes. A melancholic smile tugs at Billie’s lips, but it looks wrong on her to Ramona.
“Tha’ recordin’ of Mum ‘n Dad in yer mp3 was t’ first time I actually believed she was real. All t’ stories Uncle Ned, Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri would tell me were jus’…stories t’ me. Not really memories fer me t’ look back on.”
With a sniffle, Billie tugs her boots and socks off. Setting her footwear aside, her feet join Ramona’s in the frigid water. “Sometimes I thought they were jus’ makin’ her up t’ be some super-mum fer me, like s’gon’ make me feel better ‘bout not havin’ her in m’life.”
Billie’s watery eyes drift back to Ramona’s. “Then I come over ‘ere ‘n end up findin’ out she’s alive, ‘n I got a sister who has all these memories of her I never got t’have.”
A bead of a tear clings to her lashes, but Billie blinks it away before it can roll down her cheek.
“Is it really that bad t’ feel t’ same way ‘bout Dad fer ya?”
Ramona’s vision starts to blur as she stares back at her sister, but she blinks her own tears away before they can escape.
“It’s not like I don’t, but…it’s still kind of hard for me to believe that a punk rock star is my dad.”
Her hand clutches onto your letter again, tingles festering against her palm. “I didn’t know you wanted to know about Mom that bad, though.”
Billie shrugs as her feet bob up to the surface.
“Can’t really ask while yer strugglin’ with it, can I?”
A rock slowly sinks in Ramona’s stomach. The festering in the back of her throat grows stronger, ebbing in tandem with the burning tingle in her hand. The jagged folded parts of your letters scrape against the flesh of her palm, almost begging to be read more. Ramona glances at the crumpled papers in her trembling hand, and with another blink of her gleaming eyes, she carefully flattens them on the wooden deck before sliding them to Billie. The punk girl furrows her brows at the letters before Ramona quietly speaks.
“Uncle Miles isn’t really my uncle, but he’s kinda like how Uncle Ned, Uncle James and Auntie Yuri are to you.”
A wavering smile curls up on Ramona’s face. “Other than that, I think you can get an idea of how Mom is through this.”
Hesitation flickers in Billie’s eyes as she stares at your wrinkled handwriting, like a forbidden Pandora’s box beckoning her, before her hand hovers over the letters.
“…her handwritin’s pretty.”
Billie’s eyes latch onto your first words as she grasps your pages, slowly taking in every line with awe. “She writes a lot, though…”
A trembling huff slips through Ramona’s lips as she turns away to the sun finally leaving the sky, painting all the remaining light in blue.
“Yeah, she kinda does that. She’s not really a picture person.”
Ramona lifts one of her feet out of the water and props it on the edge of the dock. Rivulets of water trickle down her paled wrinkled leg, pooling beneath her naked sole and seeping into the wood and the denim over her inner thigh.
“Mom doesn’t like being distracted from the moment. She said she’d rather take it all in and remember it before telling me. But I think it’s also her way of saying she doesn’t wanna take pictures of herself, though.”
The sounds of chirping crickets and lapping water respond back to Ramona. With a quick side glance, her eyes land on a quiet Billie shuffling to the next page. Her eyes are hooked onto the letters, devouring your every word as if starved for a different adventure. Entranced under the moonlight, lips curling and dropping depending on what part she reached, Billie refuses to pry her eyes away from the crumpled papers. When she finally reaches the last page, her eyes slow down their pace, almost savoring the last of your words until the bittersweet end. And even then, she still stares at the last page as the moon finally takes its place in the night sky.
A small drop drips onto the crumpled last page before Billie quickly hands the letter back with averted eyes.
“Mum should’ve been a writer or somethin’,” Billie hiccups as she wipes under her eyes.
The festering in Ramona’s throat screams louder at the sight of her sister’s tears, but Ramona swallows it back before taking the letters.
“Yeah, but Mom said she barely makes her deadlines as it is with her designs. I don’t think she’ll be happy adding writing deadlines into her routine.”
A quiet, broken laugh trembles through Billie while she pulls her own feet out the lake, splashing some of the water back onto the back of her jeans. “Then maybe she’ll write those stories famous people write ‘bout ‘emselves.”
“I doubt she’d wanna write a full-on autobiography.”
“Maybe not, but she’ll at least have somethin’ interestin’ t’ write ‘bout…”
Billie’s smile strains under the moonlight when her eyes drift back to the letters. Warm russets dim and glint with more unshed tears before the punk girl averts her eyes back to the lake. Crickets and faint waves croons back into the twins' ears, chasming the distance between them. Finally, when amber lights from the campsite flood behind them, Billie’s voice bridges them back together.
“I wanna meet Mum.”
A cool breeze brushes against their skin, prickling their skin with more goosebumps and chills. Small beads of tears cling to Billie’s lashes before she looks back at Ramona with a resigned smile.
“I know ‘m bein’ selfish, but I really wanna meet her.”
Sharp shrapnel stabs into Ramona’s throat. Her stomach churns and eats itself alive, and her heart squeezes until a dull ache ebbs through her chest. For a moment, Ramona doesn’t see Billie, nor does she see a guise of Hobie Brown over her.
She sees you.
Not obviously, of course. Billie still looks like a mini copy of Hobie Brown, but Ramona can’t help but see your smile on her— the faraway one, where you’re lost in thought when you thought no one would notice.
A brief inkling whispers in Ramona’s mind before it sneaks away and slips through her mouth.
“…maybe you still can.”
Oh my god. We are getting to where they start plotting and pretending to be each other.
IM SSOOOOOOO EXCITED. This was so good. Man i missed this series
YESSSSSS 🤣 I didn't realize how much of a slowburn this series was gonna be when I first started this ngl
Thank you so much for reading 🥺
Webbed Together
Pairing: Hobie Brown x Fem!Reader/ Spider-Punk x Fem!Reader
Word count: 6.5k
Author's Note: I'M BACK, BABY!!!!! 😩 I missed writing these girls frfr, and I've lowkey been locked in for the past week for the last scene alone with a specific song stuck on loop 🥲 I'd like to thank @the-kr8tor for Billie, Ramona and another original character that you'll see later in the chapter, as well as @pinksugarscrub for beta reading this chapter!
Tags: Parent Trap!AU, Dad!Hobie AU, Twin!AU, Billie and Ramona!AU, Older!Hobie, Mom!Reader, Older!Reader, Fluff, Slight Angst, Hurt/Comfort
Taglist: @yumeaoka-chan , @vanilla-bean-18 , @hobiesvalley
Chapter 8: I Saw Sparks
<< Chapter 7 Chapter 9 >>
The first thing Ramona wakes up to is a foot shoved against her face.
An exhausted groan rumbles in Ramona’s chest as she blinks the sleep out of her eyes. Dull sores pulse all over her body when she finds herself being squished between a wooden wall and a sprawled out Billie. Quiet snores rumble from the punk girl, her mouth hanging open with drool coating a corner, while the patched up comforter is halfway on them and on the hardwood floor. Billie’s warmth adds onto the creeping heat from the late-morning sun, the wooden cabin slowly baking Ramona alive.With an annoyed whine, she sits herself up, pushing Billie’s foot away from her. She winces from the soft pops crackling along her spine while she stretches her arms up to the ceiling.
A heavy fog swirls in Ramona’s head. Pressure looms over her shoulders as her arms drop to her sides, leaving her in a hazy vertigo. She struggles to crawl out of her occupied space through her bleary vision, her fingers sliding against wrinkled sheets until they curve onto the edge of the bed. With as much grace as a teetering bowling ball, Ramona tumbles onto the hardwood floor with a grunt, her face planted on wood grain and lint.
A loud snort rings above Ramona before her bed creaks again, the springs groaning under shifting weight until Billie’s foot hangs over the edge near Ramona’s face again.
Ramona’s face pinches into a grimace before she rolls away from the offending appendage, lying on her back and staring at the ceiling. Throbs lap over her head while swirling greens and blues bloom and fade from her vision. She blinks the sleep out of her eyes before she sits herself back up, her bonnet slowly slipping back from her head until frizzy baby hairs peek under the elastic headband.
Her sleep has been getting worse.
Ramona rolls over onto her hands and knees, crawling towards her unlatched trunk. Hazy memories flicker in the girl’s mind as she flips the trunk open, voices both familiar and foreign crooning in her ears while she pulls out a clean change of clothes. Your hushed, honeyed voice sends a bittersweet warmth through her at the sight of one of your embroidered cardigans— pink-petaled flowers and cherries dancing across the sleeves on cream-knitted polyester. At the same time, a deep timbre gently rattles through her bones as she fishes out some patched jeans.
She’s not sure why she can hear the man’s voice so clearly in her head, but it tickles a nostalgic part of her conscience just as much as your voice.
As she pushes herself onto her feet with her clothes in hand, Ramona’s eyes trail back to the slumbering punk girl in her bed. Ruby-hued bonnet halfway off her head, wild curls spilling onto crumpled sheets, black earphones tangling in long nimble fingers— Billie made herself at home in Ramona’s space a little too much. Ramona presses her lips together with a disgruntled sound before heaving a sigh.
Ramona has a sister. A long-lost sister. And she’s sprawled over Ramona’s bed like a carefree dog in their owner’s bed.
As the small mp3 player slips from Billie’s hand, Ramona gingerly grabs it and tugs the earphones out of her sister’s pierced ears. Billie quietly whines as she rolls over to Ramona’s indent on the bed. She buries her face into the pillow, her half sock-covered foot jerking against the headboard.
With a relenting shake of her head, Ramona toes her sneakers from under her bed before stumbling towards the door.
–
Ramona is used to the stares by now.
The tinny ring of a bell spikes in her ears when she enters the camp office. Wood of different shades and grains wall around her, decorated with strings of color-faded flags and taxidermied animals that would haunt Ramona’s subconscious if she stared for too long. Floorboards creak under her scuffed white sneakers. Small dust bunnies hop across the hardwood while the smell of mildew tickles her nostrils. Some counselors quiet down and peek over from the open kitchen area, a rarity for a kid to come into their domain so far into the camp season. The only person not paying Ramona any mind is the receptionist behind the desk, the older woman’s eyes locked in on the old, dusty computer monitor.
With a wrinkle of her nose, Ramona slowly approaches the desk, her fingers toying with the small black mp3 player in her cardigan pocket.
The older lady glances up from the box-like monitor, a wary acknowledgement, before turning her attention back.
“Back for another charging session?” Loud clacking rings behind the desk when the older lady resumes her typing. “It’s a little early for you this time, isn’t it?”
A sheepish smile curls up on Ramona’s lips as she pulls her mp3 out. “Just used it a lot more than usual last night, Ms. Janet.”
A noncommittal hum rumbles from the receptionist before she reaches over the desk for the device, her eyes still locked onto the monitor. “I swear, Georgette needs to redo the electrical wiring in that damn cabin. Can’t just throw two kids in there and expect them to deal with only three working outlets.”
Ramona’s hand twitches as the player slips from her grasp, but she pulls her hand back with a slight frown.
“It’s not like we have a lot to charge, so I don’t really mind—”
“It’s still not something to overlook though.” Ms. Janet lets out a scoff as she shoves a charger port into the device. “If she’s not careful, she’ll have a snot-nosed brat make a complaint to their parents and have them sick a damn lawsuit on the camp.”
Heavy footsteps bounce off wooden walls before another figure steps into the room. Another older woman stares at Ms. Janet with a deadpan as she stirs her coffee mug.
“Janet, c’mon, why do you have to speak like that to a camper?”
“Don’t act like they’re innocent angels, May.” Ms. Janet resumes her typing with a snort. “You’ve heard those kids cursing worse than some war-torn sailors out there without a thought behind their eyes.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to join them.” With an exasperated sigh, May approaches the back of the reception desk, her long white doctor’s coat fluttering right behind her. “Whether they know it or not, they still look to us for guidance—”
“Trust me, they’re not paying attention to old biddies like us.” Ms. Janet twirls her swivel chair to May with a deadpan of her own. “They’re just focused on their assigned lessons and whatever camp activities are available for the day.”
“You have no faith,” May rolls her eyes before she turns her attention to Ramona with a tender smile. “And how’re you doing today, Ramona dear? Do you need a restock on allergy pills?”
Ramona adamantly shakes her head, her tied dark coils swaying behind her back. “I’ve been airing out my cabin, so I should be okay, Nurse May.”
Another scoff reverberates in the room as Ms. Janet swivels back to the desk, shuffling through some papers. “You shouldn’t have to air out your own cabin if Georgette actually properly maintained the campgrounds—”
“Janet—”
Ms. Janet rolls her eyes as she drops some papers onto the desk one by one in different piles. “You and I both know it, May. The only reason why those old cabins are being used in the first place is because of her bad ass grandson and his shenanigans.”
May narrows her eyes at the curt receptionist before turning back to Ramona with an apologetic smile. “Is there anything else you need, sweetheart?”
Ramona’s hands drop to her sides, her fingers toying with the hem of her embroidered sleeves. “Did any letters come for me and…”
What is Billie to Ramona? Obviously she’s her sister, but it’s still too sudden for her, too jarring for her to say out loud.
“…my roommate?”
With a low grunt, Janet pushes herself back on her swivel chair towards the colorful array of cubbies behind her. “Give me a second. It was you and…?”
“…Billie Brown.”
Another low grunt of acknowledgement rumbles from the receptionist as she rummages through one of the cubbies, more mumbled expletives tumbling from the older woman’s mouth. With an exasperated sigh, May leans against the desk and cups her coffee mug, eyes training back onto the preteen.
“Your other friend’s also doing well,” the nurse’s eyes soften as she takes a sip. “There weren’t any issues after his initial concussion, so he’s clear for the rest of camp. He’ll just have to pop in every now and then, but I’m sure he’ll be just fine.”
Relief flickers in Ramona’s eyes, the tension rolling off her shoulders for a brief reprieve. “That’s good.”
Arnold peeks from the back of Ramona’s mind, the shorter boy’s sheepish gapped smile flashing behind her eyes before he rushes back offstage. A few other figures pop up and disappear soon after— Billie with her mega-watt cat-like grin, you with your calming voice. However, one towers over Ramona in the back of her mind, tinny vibrations of guitar strings crooning in her ears while the rest of the world retreats from her. Billie’s smile curls along his lips, but it looks foreign to Ramona— sharper, more perceptive. She snaps back to reality once her ears pick up the sound of wheels scraping wood.
Ms. Janet spins her way back on her rolling chair to the desk with a fat stack of envelopes bulging out against a single rubber band. “Well damn, whoever your roommate is, she either has a big family or a very doting one.”
Ramona reaches for the stack, the sudden heft against her palm nearly making her drop it before her other hand saves it. A myriad of envelopes grab her attention— fiery reds, electric blues, citrusy yellows, gem-like purples. Only one white envelope atop the stack stands out against the rainbow palette in her grasp.
“Don’t worry, your usual mail’s on top,” Ms. Janet dismisses with a wave of her hand, but her eyes soften behind her metal-rimmed glasses. “I’m sure you don’t wanna shuffle through all of that just to find that one letter.”
The small smile falters on Ramona’s lips, a lump-like weight bobbing in the pit of her stomach. The image of you flickers back in her mind— your sketchbooks towering over you at your desk, ink and charcoal staining your skin, the scent of chocolate and cardamom trailing around you. The you in her mind smiles just the same, the smile you always have around her every time you meet her eyes.
That smile pricks a bittersweet sting in Ramona’s chest.
“Thank you,” the girl ignores the taste of ash on her tongue as she tucks the stack of letters against her chest. “I’ll come back tomorrow—”
“Yeah, yeah, same deal, same routine.” The receptionist waves Ramona off as she turns her attention back to the ancient monitor. “I’ll keep your mp3 player out safe and sound until then.”
A disgruntled sigh echoes behind Ramona as she retreats to the door, the nurse and receptionist’s voices muffling in her ears with complaints and disagreements before the door shuts behind the tween.
—
Your handwriting stands out amongst pop art cutouts and garish envelopes against the dark hardwood floor.
Ramona leans against the edge of her bed, her lower back and rear growing sore on the wooden floor, while she stares at the letters scattered before her. Most of the letters scream for her eyes’ attention— cut-out photos and letters from magazines plastered over some yellow and purple envelopes, messy pen smudges stain the bright blue ones, and sketched out webs and music notes border along the reds.
But the one that keeps beckoning her back is the unassuming white envelope in the middle, comically orderly and clean compared to the hodgepodge of envelopes. Your familiar cursive adorns the blank canvas, ink etched onto the paper with clean strokes and a steady hand. The way your ‘o’s and ‘a’s loop around in tight circles, the way you squiggle through your ‘m’s and ‘n’s, the way the dot above your ‘i’s skews off to the side— they all well up warm nostalgia in her chest.
Ramona Diane. Her name from your hand.
Snores rumble beside her ear. Ramona turns towards the head of the bed as Billie rolls towards the edge in blissful slumber. The crimson bonnet is nowhere on the punk girl’s head, her wild coils tangled and frizzy from her sporadic movement. Silver glints beneath dark tresses, the small stud lodged in her earlobe glittering under the late morning sun filtering in the cabin, before Billie burrows herself under the covers.
Ramona blinks away the warmth behind her eyes as she looks back at your letter. She picks it up, the envelope encasing the usual numerous pages you tend to write every week. Each page throughout her time apart from you spills through in inked words, like you can barely contain every little detail you’ve seen for her before you run out of blank space. You’ve always written like you’re running out of time— a habit from you pushing through your deadlines, perhaps. But even with your scrawls bombarding through paper stationery, your words always paint through every moment you have seen in her mind.
She flips the envelope over and tucks her pinky under the sealed flap. With a quick flick, she rips through, revealing the folded papers of your recent thoughts and tales.
Rustling sheets echo into Ramona’s ears again before thin calloused fingers brush against her shoulder. She fights off a flinch as Billie’s head lolls over, her eyes barely cracked open. Her morning breath ghosts Ramona’s cheek like a humid hiss from old pipes. The punk girl slinks her arm out of her cotton cocoon and points at the envelopes on the floor.
“…red.”
“…which one?”
“All‘em…”
With a relenting sigh, Ramona gathers all the red envelopes and hands it to her sister— still a strange revelation, but one Ramona cannot run away from. Loud rips echo into her ears as Billie retreats into her temporary haven. Rustling sheets and creaking springs overtake the quiet of the outside world, bubbling the duo in their shared world of scratched inks and torn paper. Bright crimson shreds flutter over Ramona like confetti, erupting out of Billie’s blanket cave like papery red ash, before they land atop your folded pages. The scrawled ink across the red canvas is illegible to Ramona’s eyes— jagged, angular, heavy. She can make out indiscernible words pressed against the paper, the inkless grooves pimpling throughout the paper like hairline wrinkles.
Hobie Brown must have a heavy hand when he writes, at least to Ramona.
Her eyes drift back to the bound letters in her hands, weighing heavy with the red petal-like scraps sitting on cream papers. She brushes them off, fingertips lingering on his invisible words stamped into the scraps, before she tugs your multi-paged letter out of the envelope.
Inked cursive dances across lined paper. Every thought written down by you is jam-packed within the lines, almost spilling out of the pages. As she reads, images roll through Ramona’s mind like a film reel in a movie projector. Rolling waves lapping at sandy shores, vanilla ice cream melting over waffle cones and fingers, glass and steel skyscrapers towering up to blue skies. Stills of executives in suits in your meetings morphing into silly caricatures in your prose— a pot-bellied old man with a wall of mustache cloaking his upper lip; a spindly elderly lady with bright red lips and an enormous plume tucked into her hat; a towering giant with broad shoulders and skinny stick legs. Ramona’s lips press into a thin line to cage the bubbling giggles.
Before she flips over to another page, loud rustling and giggles suddenly bombards her ears while the comforter gets yanked against her back. She looks over her shoulder, only to be greeted with two peaks repeatedly kicking the blanket in the air. Each kick props the patched comforter higher, the edges jerkily pulling away from the bottom, until Billie’s beaming face surfaces. A thin stack of glossy card-like paper hovers over her face as her smile brightens. Russet eyes dart over to Ramona’s own as a beam of sunshine shines over Billie’s. Flashes of copper and amber glitter under the light, as if the sun itself decided to pool over darkened honey.
“Mon-Mon,” Billie calls to her in a hush, as if preparing to unveil a secret, “d’ya know where Washin’ton D.C. is?”
Ramona stares back at her giddy double with a befuddled pinch of her eyebrows.
“…Like, around Maryland, I guess?”
“Yeah, but where?” Billie scoots closer until half her body hangs off the bed. “Like how far is it from here? Like an hour away? Or is it ‘cross t’ country? Is it true that ya can pass through like ten different states in a whole day—?”
“Billie, I don’t have a map—”
Despite Ramona slowly backing away, Billie continues to invade her space. “Anyway, Dad went there earlier. He sent alotta pictures ‘n everythin’.”
Some photos slip from Billie’s grasp and flutter onto the floor. Blurred captured moments are inked onto the resin-covered papers, each one revealing at least one member of the band. A burly blonde man with rose-tinged skin pointing up at a hanging fighter plane with jagged teeth painted at the front. Another man with liberty-spiked hair staring up at a skeleton of a tyrannosaurus rex. A ravenette woman with sharp eyes in front of a gate flipping off a far away White House.
But the one that catches Ramona’s eyes is of a towering man with gravity-defying wicks holding a carrot out to a giraffe. His chiseled profile warms through the printed ink— a giddy smile curling his pierced lips, awe glinting in russet eyes, a tattooed and scarred arm reaching out before the majestic spotted creature lowering its head. The image of the famous guitarist crumbles and rebuilds itself in Ramona’s mind one by one, no longer the enigmatic rockstar out of her reach, but a man slowly unveiling through a sister she barely met. Instead of complex guitar riffs, a deep timbre of his voice croons in Ramona’s ear. Harsh, dark eyes in black and white posters shift into warm russet browns. A nonchalant smirk morphs into a bright grin, lighting his face up amidst the hazy darkness of her subconscious.
It’s strange how much Hobie Brown looks like Billie to Ramona now.
Technically, by that logic, it should apply to her too— of Hobie and her looking alike. But she still can’t see it, not fully at least.
“They went t’ a lot of touristy places this time,” Billie’s voice breaks through Ramona’s pondering as the punk girl slides further over the edge of the bed, blindly pawing for the dropped photos. “T’ last photos Dad sent me were mainly hikin’ trails ‘n Uncle Ned passed out on a huge boulder.”
A snort sneaks up on Ramona before she covers her mouth, her body trembling from the bubbling giggles in her chest. The letters in her hand gradually slide out of her grasp before they flutter onto the floor.
“Honestly, this is probably t’ first city where they actually found a whole bunch of t’ings t’ do ‘stead of bein’ holed up in an airbnb.” Billie rolls over on the bed until she hangs upside down over the edge, her dark coils tangled from her slumber-driven moving. “Normally, Dad ‘n Uncle James would get bored ‘n hunt down whatever seemed fun, ‘n Uncle Ned would drag Auntie Yuri with him t’ hunt ‘em down right after.”
Another snort slips through Ramona’s nose before a sputtering wheeze escapes her lips.
“At least with this place, ev’rybody got t’ have fun in their own way.” Billie holds out another picture to her twin, gently wobbling it. “They’ve been tryin’ t’ find diff’rent places fer me t’ go t’ after camp…”
Ramona gingerly grabs the photo, the glossy shine reflecting light before the image reveals itself. Hues of pink, purple and blue catch her eye as she brings it closer— hundreds of balloons flooding the floor within indigo walls with a manmade lotus flower towering over. Blurry figures linger at the bottom corner, one of a startled ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-scream and mid-fall with ‘Uncle’ James tackling him from behind with a feral grin. In the far background, a tiny ‘Auntie’ Yuri points at them mid-cackle while more balloons float in the air around her.
Ramona trembles as she swallows down the giggle bubbling up her throat. “They’re like big kids…”
“Basically, yeah.”
A cat-like grin curls up on Billie’s face as she leans closer. The punk girl tilts her head to the side until it rests against her sister’s, her wild dark coils cascading over Ramona’s shoulder. “But they make travelin’ more fun. Dad doesn’t like stayin’ inside fer too long durin’ tours, so he ropes Uncle Ned int’ researchin’ different cities with ‘im while Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri drive ‘round.”
Billie tucks her chin against Ramona’s shoulder. “I t’ink Dad’ll want t’ take me t’ DC first. He sent me a lot of photos from this bubble place alone, but I t’ink he likes t’ zoo more…”
Ramona hums out in absent acknowledgement as she drifts her eyes between the photo in her hand and your letter on the floor.
“Does…”
Her words crumble to ash before Ramona can breathe life into them. What can she even ask? Does she even have a right to? Would Billie even care if she did?
A gentle nudge against her head buoys Ramona out of her thoughts. She glances at her sister, expectant curiosity glinting in Billie’s russet eyes.
“Does…?”
A small pebble lodges itself against Ramona’s throat. It doesn’t choke her, but it burrows itself against her esophagus before she struggles to swallow it down. Her question burns acrid on her tongue as she wills herself to utter it out.
“…does he have any pictures of his concerts?”
It doesn’t sit right for Ramona, the way she worded it. She can’t bring herself to say it despite the festering creeping up in her chest.
Billie’s eyes continue to stare back, eyes mirroring each other in some uncanny valley moment for Ramona, before she responds in a hush.
“Dad?”
The pebble pulses uncomfortably against Ramona’s throat, but she slowly nods.
“Yeah. Dad.”
The word tastes foreign to Ramona, a word that she never thought would leave her mouth. Her stomach churns as she shrinks away from her double, averting her eyes back to the letters by her feet. Tingles thrum under her skin from Billie’s scrutiny as Ramona curls into a ball.
“…prob’ly not for this concert yet.”
Billie’s voice ghosts against the shell of Ramona’s ear, more solemn and wistful than it should be. Lanky arms wrap around Ramona before Billie’s chin digs deeper in her shoulder, dark coils tickling the side of her neck.
“I t’ink I got some pictures of his other concerts though.” Billie tightens her embrace as the rest of the photos slip off the edge of the bed. “Ya wanna look while I go through ev’ryone else’s photos?”
The pebble grows bigger, pushing against the walls of Ramona’s throat until it cuts the airway from her lungs. Heat tingles the back of her eyes before she blinks it away, her vision blurring at the edges until the sheets of your handwriting go unfocused. She swallows around the lump little by little, inching it down her esophagus until it plummets into her stomach.
“…okay.”
—
Water laps over Ramona’s dangling feet. The wooden swim dock creaks under her weight with every swing of her legs. Gradients of purple, pink and orange drape across the forested skyline, the rippling surface of the lake glittering from the setting sun. Paper crinkles drift in the air when Ramona shuffles through your letters, your inked words scrawled through the pages under the fading sunlight, while she tries to find where she left off.
All the photos Billie showed her earlier still flicker in Ramona’s head, bleeding into the forefront with every roam of her eyes. Flashes of neon lights bubble in her head in tandem with your retellings, stuffy caricatures of your potential investors suddenly thrown into a balloon pit before being tackled by punk-like figures. Dinosaur bones surface under sandy shores with every ocean wave lapping over. Skyscrapers erupt from the ground around the White House, towering over the governmental building, until it sits under their shadows. Wild animals prowl through the boardwalk, licking ice cream off their maws with saltwater air breezing through their manes and furs.
Ramona shakes her head from the fantastical daydreams.
A lot of the captured moments weren’t like the family photos Ramona usually sees in movies. They weren’t the picturesque ones with amusement parks or picnics, nor were they the staged photoshoot ones with the white backgrounds and mini props. The photos were chaotic. They were blurry, random, probably morally illegal at times. Even with the typical touristy backdrops, the band somehow commands an anarchic energy with every inked paper. One image of a flushed ‘Uncle’ James being piggybacked by an exasperated ‘Uncle’ Ned mid-falling onto the street flickers. Then another of a giddy ‘Auntie’ Yuri climbing over a wire fence towards a neon-lit venue. And then another with Hobie— Hobie? Dad?— screaming at something off-camera with a makeshift sign in hand and paint smeared across his face at a protest. These moments weren’t staged, nor were they censored or edited to make themselves more like normal adults in her mind.
They were themselves. With all their grit and bite. Without a shred of fear or care.
Ramona wonders how they all got to that point.
Her eyes drift back to the scrawled ink on the lined paper. The tips of her fingers drift over your writing, your words permanently branded into the fibers. You weren’t really the type to take photos of yourself, preferring to be behind or away from the camera, but you always made sure to take note of whatever caught your eye. Whether it was a fabric that caught the sunlight just right, or an art piece that inspires a new pattern, or just a silly moment Ramona would laugh at— you would always write it down.
A bittersweet smile curls up on Ramona’s lips before she finally finds the paragraph she left off.
Music creeps into her ears— not her usual curation on your mp3 player, but nostalgic syncopated beats played on the radio when she gets picked up after school. A new figure emerges in the forefront of Ramona’s mind, leaning over Ramona’s shoulder with warm eyes and paint-splattered freckles across his cheeks. Paint fumes and graphite ghost along her nostrils as the figure’s presence warms her back. Soft scratchings of pencil against paper fill in the background of the hip-hop instrumentals, a myriad of colors spraying into the edges of her periphery. A canvas erupts from the ground and towers over her mind, spray painted sunflowers and vibrant comic book art tagged across it. The figure slowly pushes himself up and approaches the mural, amber-like caramel eyes lighting up at the art. Another familiar figure approaches the first, you standing beside him with a giddy smile, a sheen glinting over your eyes at him before you turn to the vibrant art. Warmth creeps the back of Ramona's eyes from the awe in your writings, the pride you weave through pressed ink for—
“Uncle Miles?”
A scream rips through Ramona’s throat from the intruding voice. Frantic eyes dart to its direction behind her, greeted by mirrored russets. Billie stares back at her sister as she sits back up on her rear, the wooden dock creaking out in protest by the sudden weight distribution. A shaky breath wheezes through Ramona as she slowly loosens her grip onto the crumpled letters.
“Billie, why—?”
Billie shrinks from the exasperation in Ramona’s voice, her shoulders hunching in as she crosses her legs together. The spike of irritation extinguishes within Ramona.
“Billie?”
The punk girl stays quiet, a habit slowly becoming more common around Ramona. A gentle breeze drifts between the long-lost twins with a piney, earthy scent, but neither takes notice, only scrutinizing each other behind a setting backdrop. Billie’s eyes waver in Ramona’s sight, flicking between Ramona’s eyes and the letters in her hands.
“I didn’t mean t’…”
Billie trails off as she curls into a ball, wrapping her arms around her tucked knees. “Didn’t mean t’ look. Was gon’ check on ya after ya left t’ cabin, but ya were really focused when I found ya, ‘n I jus’ ended up…”
The punk girl shrinks even more, her voice getting lost in the summer breeze.
“S’from Mum, right?”
Ramona’s face drops, and a faint ache creeps up within her ribs.
“…yeah.”
Rubber soles tap against the grained wood as Billie’s boots fidget against the wooden dock.
“Ya didn’t really talk ‘bout her earlier.” Billie tucks her chin between her knees, caution flickering in her eyes. “Didn’t really talk at all, t’be honest. Kinda jus’…stayed quiet t’ whole time.”
Her arms snake around her knees tighter. “Didn’t really ask a lot ‘bout Dad or nothin’. Or ‘bout Uncle Ned, Uncle James, Auntie Yuri either.”
“…there’s not really much to ask when you already answered them for me.”
Ramona hesitantly scoots over to the side, the water rippling from her feet’s sudden movements. She pats her hand with a tentative drum beside her. Billie’s eyes briefly widen before she slowly scoots up to the edge of the dock, steel toes peeking over and knees tucked against her chest. Silence permeates between the girls. Lapping water and rustling leaves muffle into white noise in their ears. The last of the warmth in the sky cools to a blue-tinted palette, oranges and pinks giving into indigos and violets. The moon peeks over through the sky, its silver light peeking behind fading golden rays, while the sun slowly sinks further behind the trees.
They stare at the sunset, but even the tranquil beauty of nature can’t burrow its roots through the tension.
Ramona glances to the side, eyes lingering on her sister, while Billie absently fidgets her boot laces until they come loose.
“…I don’t know what you expect me to ask, to be honest.”
Ramona’s voice wavers as her gaze drifts over to the rippling water before them. “Technically, I already knew about him and everybody through Mom. Or at least their music. And with all the photos and stories you had, I think I got a gist of it—”
“That ain’t t’ same, though.”
Billie’s paint-chipped finger twirls a black bootlace around itself as she continues to stare off to the sunset. “S’like ya were jus’ sittin’ back ‘n takin’ in whatever I told ya, but ya weren’t really…into it, I guess.”
The punk girl’s dark tresses flutter in the breeze, shielding her face from her newly-found twin. “Ya don’ really listen t’ Dad’s songs either, not on yer own.”
A tingling itch creeps up the back of Ramona’s throat. Two ghostly hands clamp onto her shoulders, long calloused fingers slowly pressing into her flesh, while the scent of citrus sneaks up her nostrils.
“I mean, I get it.” Billie’s fingers move on to the other boot laces, tugging an end by the plastic aglet until the knot unravels. “It ain’t easy, dealin’ with some life-changin’ chance meetin’ like some main character in a bizarre story, but…s’our life right now. ’m still tryin’ t’ wrap m’head ‘round it too.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
An acrid tinge lingers on Ramona’s tongue as she averts her eyes back to the water. She slowly kicks her submerged feet against the lapping waves, the lake’s intended direction stronger than her resolve against the current. “I still don’t know how you’re okay with all of this. With Mom and Dad keeping us a secret from each other.”
Dad.
The word still leaves an uncomfortable feeling on Ramona’s tongue— almost drying and heavy with a metallic taste.
“I don’t know if I’m being a baby about this whole thing, but I can’t just accept this on the spot. I can tell he’s a good guy with all your stories, with all your guys' photos, and I want to learn more about him and everything. But…”
Chilled goosebumps prickle over Ramona’s skin as her feet prune in the water, but a wave of heat creeps up behind her eyes as the apparition’s hands grip onto her shoulders tighter.
“I can’t just see him as my dad. Not like how you already see Mom as your mom.”
The ghostly hands slowly slide off her shoulders, leaving behind another chill on Ramona. She bundles herself up with your cardigan to chase the cold away.
“…s’not as easy t’ t’ink ‘bout Mum fer me.”
Billie pushes her hair out of her face, revealing the telltale sheen over her eyes. A melancholic smile tugs at Billie’s lips, but it looks wrong on her to Ramona.
“Tha’ recordin’ of Mum ‘n Dad in yer mp3 was t’ first time I actually believed she was real. All t’ stories Uncle Ned, Uncle James ‘n Auntie Yuri would tell me were jus’…stories t’ me. Not really memories fer me t’ look back on.”
With a sniffle, Billie tugs her boots and socks off. Setting her footwear aside, her feet join Ramona’s in the frigid water. “Sometimes I thought they were jus’ makin’ her up t’ be some super-mum fer me, like s’gon’ make me feel better ‘bout not havin’ her in m’life.”
Billie’s watery eyes drift back to Ramona’s. “Then I come over ‘ere ‘n end up findin’ out she’s alive, ‘n I got a sister who has all these memories of her I never got t’have.”
A bead of a tear clings to her lashes, but Billie blinks it away before it can roll down her cheek.
“Is it really that bad t’ feel t’ same way ‘bout Dad fer ya?”
Ramona’s vision starts to blur as she stares back at her sister, but she blinks her own tears away before they can escape.
“It’s not like I don’t, but…it’s still kind of hard for me to believe that a punk rock star is my dad.”
Her hand clutches onto your letter again, tingles festering against her palm. “I didn’t know you wanted to know about Mom that bad, though.”
Billie shrugs as her feet bob up to the surface.
“Can’t really ask while yer strugglin’ with it, can I?”
A rock slowly sinks in Ramona’s stomach. The festering in the back of her throat grows stronger, ebbing in tandem with the burning tingle in her hand. The jagged folded parts of your letters scrape against the flesh of her palm, almost begging to be read more. Ramona glances at the crumpled papers in her trembling hand, and with another blink of her gleaming eyes, she carefully flattens them on the wooden deck before sliding them to Billie. The punk girl furrows her brows at the letters before Ramona quietly speaks.
“Uncle Miles isn’t really my uncle, but he’s kinda like how Uncle Ned, Uncle James and Auntie Yuri are to you.”
A wavering smile curls up on Ramona’s face. “Other than that, I think you can get an idea of how Mom is through this.”
Hesitation flickers in Billie’s eyes as she stares at your wrinkled handwriting, like a forbidden Pandora’s box beckoning her, before her hand hovers over the letters.
“…her handwritin’s pretty.”
Billie’s eyes latch onto your first words as she grasps your pages, slowly taking in every line with awe. “She writes a lot, though…”
A trembling huff slips through Ramona’s lips as she turns away to the sun finally leaving the sky, painting all the remaining light in blue.
“Yeah, she kinda does that. She’s not really a picture person.”
Ramona lifts one of her feet out of the water and props it on the edge of the dock. Rivulets of water trickle down her paled wrinkled leg, pooling beneath her naked sole and seeping into the wood and the denim over her inner thigh.
“Mom doesn’t like being distracted from the moment. She said she’d rather take it all in and remember it before telling me. But I think it’s also her way of saying she doesn’t wanna take pictures of herself, though.”
The sounds of chirping crickets and lapping water respond back to Ramona. With a quick side glance, her eyes land on a quiet Billie shuffling to the next page. Her eyes are hooked onto the letters, devouring your every word as if starved for a different adventure. Entranced under the moonlight, lips curling and dropping depending on what part she reached, Billie refuses to pry her eyes away from the crumpled papers. When she finally reaches the last page, her eyes slow down their pace, almost savoring the last of your words until the bittersweet end. And even then, she still stares at the last page as the moon finally takes its place in the night sky.
A small drop drips onto the crumpled last page before Billie quickly hands the letter back with averted eyes.
“Mum should’ve been a writer or somethin’,” Billie hiccups as she wipes under her eyes.
The festering in Ramona’s throat screams louder at the sight of her sister’s tears, but Ramona swallows it back before taking the letters.
“Yeah, but Mom said she barely makes her deadlines as it is with her designs. I don’t think she’ll be happy adding writing deadlines into her routine.”
A quiet, broken laugh trembles through Billie while she pulls her own feet out the lake, splashing some of the water back onto the back of her jeans. “Then maybe she’ll write those stories famous people write ‘bout ‘emselves.”
“I doubt she’d wanna write a full-on autobiography.”
“Maybe not, but she’ll at least have somethin’ interestin’ t’ write ‘bout…”
Billie’s smile strains under the moonlight when her eyes drift back to the letters. Warm russets dim and glint with more unshed tears before the punk girl averts her eyes back to the lake. Crickets and faint waves croons back into the twins' ears, chasming the distance between them. Finally, when amber lights from the campsite flood behind them, Billie’s voice bridges them back together.
“I wanna meet Mum.”
A cool breeze brushes against their skin, prickling their skin with more goosebumps and chills. Small beads of tears cling to Billie’s lashes before she looks back at Ramona with a resigned smile.
“I know ‘m bein’ selfish, but I really wanna meet her.”
Sharp shrapnel stabs into Ramona’s throat. Her stomach churns and eats itself alive, and her heart squeezes until a dull ache ebbs through her chest. For a moment, Ramona doesn’t see Billie, nor does she see a guise of Hobie Brown over her.
She sees you.
Not obviously, of course. Billie still looks like a mini copy of Hobie Brown, but Ramona can’t help but see your smile on her— the faraway one, where you’re lost in thought when you thought no one would notice.
A brief inkling whispers in Ramona’s mind before it sneaks away and slips through her mouth.
“…maybe you still can.”
AHHHHHH MY BABIES ARE BACK!!!!!!
The way I felt ramona waking up in that moment 😂 i too have experienced waking up with a foot on my face
Billie is so chaotic 😂😂 me before I discovered sleeping in a fetal position
AUNT JANET AHHHHHHHHHHH She's getting paid the big bucks when she keeps appearing in a lot of our fics lmaooo she's right tho i vote for her to be the next camp president
Awww auntie May!
Ramona having allergies 🥺 that's my daughter right there
The letters!!!! Hobie and R yap a lot confirmed that's why they're perfect for each other
R IS SO ME THAT'S ME IM MAMA
R writes like she's running out of time---- hold up is this story about me??????
Awwwww the pictures!!! 🥺🥺🥺❤️❤️❤️❤️
My babies needs a family hug
Look what you've done to my babies hobie and R!!!!!
Oh the scene at the docks was 🥹
Love the fact that it was technically Ramona's idea for them to switch 🤭
I LOVE IT!!!! AHHHH I CAN'T WAIT FOR THEM TO SWITCH AND MEET MUM AND DAD
YESSSSSSSSS 😭😭😭 THEY"RE COMING HOME (soon)
Bro, the way I felt Ramona so hard after writing that part 💀😭 I lowkey got kicked in the face one time and I fell off the bed lmaoooo
Billie is the inner child everyone had at one point 🤣
Aunt Janet is gonna have her renaissance at this point 🤣🤣🤣
We love Aunt May here 😭
LMAOOOOOO if not allergies, then sensitive skin for Mona 😭💀
R is the sleeper yapper 🤣💀 she needs her mans to talk for her
I WOULD HOPE SO 🤣🤣🤣
I couldnt get that stupid song out of my head while I was writing that scene 🤣💀
The actual story this au is based on is lowkey fucked 💀 there was no implication of trauma the twins had to deal with because of their parents' bs
Billie was gonna be expected 🤣 Mona needs her Hobie moments fr
GAHHHHH WHY AM I NERVOUS GETTING TO THAT PART 😫😫😫😫
Borderline
Pairing: Bobby Franklin x fem! Reader
Word count: 9.9k
Synopsis: After saving Bobby you go out to look for Kat, only to find someone else. Something else is lurking between the walls, watching, observing. Waiting.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, part 2 of my Bobby series, CW dark themes, CW canon typical blood and violence, CW injury, CW food mentions. Eventual Bobby romance, set during the movie (spoilers).
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Bobby Franklin Masterlist
Part 1 <<< Part 2 >>> Part 3
Bobby slides down the side of the half melted sailboat, wincing, tears gathering in the corner of his eyes as his hands tremble around his swollen ankle. The skin around it is red and angry, throbbing painfully, and he could feel the pain with every shift of his body.
His head turns to you, cautious, fear still clinging to his bones.
You peek through the crack in the door, listening for something, anything, footsteps, wood thumping on carpet, or even a scream, something to indicate that you weren’t followed; or better yet, a sign that Bobby’s two companions made it out alive.
You can feel your pulse thump, straining against your skin, beating, beating, pounding, thrumming like the heartbeat within the walls.
But there’s nothing but silence in the corridors. The air is still, and the droning whir of the familiar lights are steady above you. It’s eerily quiet, with nothing but Bobby’s shuddered breath behind you. And the warmth calling to you from the walls. You ignore the latter for now.
You close the door quietly and place a chair under the doorknob like always as you glance at the half melted sailboat to look for the copy of your grandfather. You see him at the helm again, standing still, unbothered. His eyes don’t trail right behind you as you move, you don’t know if that hurts more than being watched by the ghost of him.
The song of the walls greeted you inside the moment you stepped foot, like an old friend with its arms open for you. The humming calms you, easing your sore body as you take in the familiar room.
Crossing the short distance over to Bobby, you finally feel the adrenaline ebb out of you in aching waves. One by one you start to feel heavy with fatigue, knees creaking, your side blooming with a dull ache and your muscles beating like a pounding heart.
Bobby looks at the map on the wall that you drew. Through his tearful eyes, as blue as the ocean, as blue as the walls of your childhood room. His throat bobs up and down, chest heaving as his hand weakly grasps at his ankle. Now that you look at it, and at his expression filled with trepidation, the mural looks like the scribbles of a madwoman.
His eyes turn to you, swallowing thickly, wary of you.
“It’s a map of the place.” You explain simply, standing like a tree that sways in the wind as your feet shuffles underneath you.
“I figured.” He answers, sweat dribbling off his face, drenching his white crop top. He’s a guy probably into fashion you think, like the influencers you see flaunt their style on their page. “You’ve been alone all this time?” His eyes shift all over you, not ogling, just taking you in, truly seeing you like it’s the first time and not through the lens of the camera.
You don’t know what to do with your hands. You put them behind you at first, then you must’ve looked like a timid schoolgirl in front of him so you tuck it in your pockets, but it’s too casual. So you resign to wringing your hands together, fingers playing with the cold zipper of your bomber jacket.
“Sort of.” Your hand grazes at your neck before bringing them down in front of you with a shuffle of fabric from your jacket. “I have him, but he’s not much of a conversationalist.”
“What, who?” You watch in real time as Bobby notices your grandad standing on the sailboat, while he grasps onto the helm like usual. There’s an unnatural stillness to him, like a man in a photograph and somewhere in Bobby’s brain recognizes it as inhuman. “Is he—” He tries to stand up, only for you to gently hold him down by his shoulder.
“He’s harmless.” You explain, searching his eyes, trying to convince him. Your hand flinches above his shoulder after feeling how warm he is, and how his muscles tighten underneath your touch. Taking your hand away, you bite the inside of your cheek, rethinking the interaction like you always do. “He won’t hurt us.”
His eyes glance between you and the old man. “What—” his tongue brush along his dry lips. “What is he?”
“I— I don’t know.” You’ll never tell him that you know him, or knew him more like, unless he asks you. “But he wasn’t like the one that attacked us. He’s dormant, sort of. He sometimes moves.”
Bobby runs a hand through his hair, yanking his shades off and tossing it haphazardly to the side as it slides towards the mural. “What the fuck is happening?”
“I don’t know, Bobby—”
“You should know, you’ve been here for more than twelve fucking days, you said it yourself. Fuck, Kat, where the fuck—” His anger rolls off him in waves, he lets his words out without a thought, and he regrets it the moment it leaves his lips. Bobby heaves, crumpled, afraid. “I— I’m—”
You wince, eyes closing as your finger picks at your hangnail. “I’m sorry, I really don’t k–know. All…” Clearing your throat, you stare at him with the same fear in his eyes, the same uncertainty. “All I know is that we have to get out of here.”
“Not without Kat.”
“Not without Kat.” You repeat, reassuring him with a nod. “We’ll find her, we’ll go out and find her but you can’t go anywhere with your ankle like that.” There’s a pebble lodged in your throat. “I’m sorry but you’re…you’re dead weight.” Guilt immediately eats at your ribcage.
“I can’t—” his hands gesture wildly, eyes wide and frantic. His face is blanched like he’s about to throw up all over the damp carpets. “I can’t just fucking wait here!”
“What do you want to do?” You step closer, looming over him with the same fear in your eyes. “Limp on out of here? The moment that thing comes after you, you’re dead.” His expression falls, jaw tightening at your words. Inhaling, you crouch down, eyes softening. You remember how terrified you were the first time, you wished someone was here with you to comfort you or at least keep you company. The walls were that comfort for you, even though it wasn’t a person, a living thing, just some tacky yellow wallpaper. Bobby is too late to be that person, but you can be that person for him. “I’m sorry but that’s the truth.”
“Well, you’re a goddamn downer.” He hisses in between his teeth, a hand raking through his tresses, and head thumping against the boat. Deep down he knows that you’re right, but he refuses to say it out loud. Because saying it for the yellow walls to hear is making it come true.
“Just a realist.” You manage a joke, sitting down crossed leg beside him whilst giving him space to breathe. “May I? I have meds with me, but they’re only for the pain.”
Taking your backpack off, you open the zipper as the sound echoes around the room. Your food and water supplies are scarce with nothing left but a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits. But the fortunate thing is that you have enough pain meds to last him a few days and your first aid kit is still unused. You can’t say the same thing for your hammer as it dangles on your hip all bloodied.
Bobby licks his dry lips, an open palm reaching for it. “Just give them to me.”
Handing him a pill, he pops it in his mouth as you open up the bottle of water for him. “Don’t drink it all.” You instruct him before he could down it. “That’s the only water we’ve got.”
Wiping his mouth with his wrist, Bobby gives you back the bottle, eyeing your movements as he takes a peek inside your backpack. “You don’t have enough?”
You could only shake your head. Inhaling, you take out the first aid kit and shut the backpack, changing the subject. “It doesn’t look like it’s broken.”
“You a doctor? A nurse?”
“No, I just watch a lot of TV.” The plastic clicks as you open the first aid box. “Lots of medical shows.”
“That’s reassuring.” Sniffing, his cheek rests against the cold side of the boat. “Are you sure this place is safe?”
“So far it’s been safe. No other entity has been here except for him.” Your head gestures to your grandpa still at the helm. Hands unfurling the brown cohesive wrap, you ask for permission with a glance. “This’ll help relieve the pressure.”
“You know how to do it?” He’s unlacing his shoe, before yanking it out, hissing between his teeth when it jostles his injury.
“Yeah, I was a clumsy kid.” You chuckle lightly, memories flickering in your mind. “May I?”
He nods, slowly twisting around and lending you his ankle. He’s closer to you now, and you could smell his cologne on him, something heady with manly musk amidst sweat and a faint smell of weed on his clothes. His blue eyes watch you fold the wrap around his ankle, with your pinky brushing along his heel so gently that he barely felt every tug.
“I won’t break, y’know.”
Your movements pause, eyes flicking to meet with his eyes. “I just didn’t want to hurt you.”
“I’m guessing it won’t work if you don’t make it tight enough.” Bobby manages a small smile to reassure you. “I’ll be alright. Just do it, the faster I get back on my feet the faster we find Kat.”
“Okay,” nodding and taking a deep breath, fingers grazing his skin, you feel him shiver underneath your touch. Something so human, a reaction that you never thought was possible to miss during your solace here. You cinch the wrap tighter as you see him take a breath between his teeth. You don’t ask him if he’s good in case you annoy him. “Is this okay?” You finish the wrap, palm cupping at his ankle before moving away. “It’s not too tight?”
“No, it’s fine. Thanks.” Bobby tests his ankle, turning it slowly around the joints before wincing and putting his foot back down slowly. He then looks at you, blue eyes staring right into your own as you fidget in place. “You’ve got blood on your face.”
“Oh,” you blink, brows rising to your forehead as you blindly wipe at your face with your sleeve. The fabric of your bomber jacket is now stained with dried blood, dyeing the poppies on it even more red. “Thanks.” You give him an unsure wobbly smile. “Your chin is bleeding. You want me to get that for you?”
Bobby touches his chin, the pads of his fingertips are reddened as he winces. He nods and you start to disinfect his wound with precise movements, cleaning it and putting a gauze and tape over it to keep it clean. He still shivered under your touch, maybe it’s his adrenaline wearing off.
“So, what now?” Touching his chin, he then tilts his head back and he stares at the door on the ceiling, brows folded together as his hand mindlessly fiddles with the chain around his throat. “This place is fucking weird.” You can just tell that his mind is on a lot of things, running a thousand miles per second just behind those ocean eyes of his.
“You haven’t seen weird yet.” You have a lot of stories to tell him, but he probably doesn’t want to hear any of it when he’s still in shock.
“Where did you even get those stuff?” His index points at your bag then over to you.
“I brought it here.”
“What? You said you fell in, that you got trapped here, not bringing camping shit and intentionally staying.” His brows furrow, agitated, terribly guarded because of you. “No sane person would want to stay here.”
“I didn’t want to stay, Bobby.” You muster up the courage to speak up, years ago you would’ve collapsed under his gaze. But not this version of you, this one survived the impossible over and over again. Not even his piercing eyes could make you keel over when you’ve stared death in the eyes. “I brought this so I could explore, just like you wanted, remember? You grabbed me and brought me down with you. Curiosity got the best of us.”
He glances away from you, an arm perched over his knee as he stares at the map before him. “Was everything you said real? Because I just met you and— I don’t know if I can trust you.”
“I just took care of your ankle for you, let you drink from my last water and saved you from that thing.” You collect your things and shove them inside your backpack. “But I get you, you don’t know me, I don’t know you. It’s your choice to trust me but everything I’ve told you so far is real. I fell, got chased, and I got lost. All I want right now is to get home just like you do.”
Bobby remains silent as he looks up at you whilst you stand up on wobbly legs.
You zip everything back in your pack before slinging it over your shoulder. “You should rest, there’s a bed inside the boat if you need it, and here.” You take half of a granola bar from your jacket pocket. “When you get hungry.”
“Wait, where are you going?” Bobby gingerly takes the snack from you, brows knitted.
“To find Kat and Clark.”
He lets out a scoff akin to a chuckle. “Alone?”
“Perks of being here for more than twelve days is that I know the layout, at least some of it.” You fix your hold on your pack as it hangs over your shoulder. “I’ll be back, I’m not planning on leaving you here.”
“Yeah, but you can’t just—” he gestures all around him like it’ll finish his sentence for him. “Go explore all alone when that thing is still out there.”
“I have to while they could still be nearby. This place is a fucking maze, Bobby, they’ll get lost. And it’s better to have at least one person to look for them than to have the two of us doing nothing.”
“Will…will you be okay? On your own, I mean?” There’s genuine concern in his tone.
“Yeah,” you don’t believe your own voice as you nod your head, and pat the hammer by your side. “I’ve got this.”
“Still, it won’t kill it.”
“I know, but it’ll be enough to stagger it.” Inhaling, you take a look at the map and then over to your grandpa before zipping your jacket around you. “I’ll be fine. If not then, try to retrace your steps back to where you got in.” You let out a humorless laugh. While his expression doesn’t change as you clear your throat at the attempt at a joke. “Don’t put pressure on your ankle and keep it elevated.” Turning around, you make it to the door as you take the chair away under the doorknob quietly.
“Wait—!” He stops you, standing up with a struggle as his hand braces against the boat. “Just—if you find Kat first, bring her here then we’ll all get out together.”
“What about Clark?”
Bobby shakes his head, fingers curling around his palm. “He knows this place too, he can get out by himself.”
“That’s a…a loaded sentence if I know one.” You utter dryly as his lips tugs in the corners. “Don’t bother him,” your eyes glances at your grandpa at the helm. “And he won’t bother you.”
The door closes behind you with a click, leaving Bobby behind with the copy of your grandpa. Bobby stares at the environment around him, he’s so sick of the yellow wallpaper already.
—
You stare at a severed hand on the floor.
Your ragged breathing bounces off the yellow wallpaper. The hammer dangles from your fingertips as you feel your limbs go numb.
It took you a while to get here, hours perhaps, and you followed all the signs, a drop of blood in the hallway, a splatter of deep crimson on the wall amidst the sickly yellow. And the stench of mold staying in the still air. You kept to the wall, almost hugging it as you left your mark on it as always to find your way back to Bobby. Your legs were aching even more when you smelled it— decay.
There’s no blood on the hand anymore, left to curdle and dry as the skin over the severed bone has rotted like it’s been here for weeks. There’s a singular fly on it, weakly flapping its wings over the rot, feasting on the cleaved flesh. You know it’s hers, who else could it be when there are only four people inside this place? The beaded bracelet with pink and white beads still hanging on around the wrist tells you it’s really her.
You think of Kat and her grisly end, she was kind to you, or at least civil when the two men only stared at you in disbelief as if you spawned and crawled out from the walls itself. She deserved better than this.
You’re no stranger to death, you’ve seen it before, out in the raging waters in a storm, and as it gripped your neck before the rope broke. You’ve seen it, you’ve felt it, you’ve heard it through the strange hum in the walls, but that doesn’t mean it gets easier, the grief, the bone aching pain in your chest still rumbles and claws right at you. Death is permanent, you know this, and yet you attempted this, you once felt it as the sound of a swinging rope echoed in your ears whilst you dangled. Seeing the remnants of it, what it leaves, even from a person you barely knew, still leaves you in this human pain, this grief that you wish to never feel ever again. But it stays, it always stays, it leaves a mark, pointing and mocking you with the memories that remind you of that heart wrenching grief. You don’t know Kat well, and you’ll never know her. A whole person with memories filled with joy and sadness, someone with dreams and fears, just gone, decimated, damned to a fate worse than anything outside these yellow walls.
It should’ve been you instead. At least no one would miss you.
There’s a sudden pinching pain in your neck, you lift your hand away from your skin, finding blood underneath your fingernails. You’ve been scratching at your throat the whole time, trying to cut into the skin, trying to claw away at the gnawing feeling of death.
The pads of your fingers pat at your neck, wincing when you feel the stabbing pain of the cuts around your skin. Your lips wobble as you sob for a woman you never got the chance to know.
You never wish this on anyone, but you’ll be the bearer of it, the messenger of this grief to Bobby.
“I tried.”
A voice says from behind, so unfamiliar, so broken.
The hammer falls from your fingertips as it clangs loudly on the carpet.
You whirl around and you see him— Clark. He looks exhausted, starved, skin pulled taut around his bones, clothes hanging loosely on his body. Under the yellow reflection of the walls, he looks as sickly as the wallpaper. The light above him flickers wildly before the bulbs burn and he’s draped in darkness.
He couldn’t possibly look like this, not yet anyway when it’s only been a few hours since the separation happened. You understand the exhaustion, but not the hunger in his eyes, the crack in his dry lips and the crackling breath in his lungs. This is the face of a man who was abandoned on a mountain for months without food or water.
“What?” Your brows wrinkle together, eyes raking worriedly at his form. “What happened to you, Clark? Are you okay?”
“Can you come with me?”
‘Can you come with me?’ Not, ‘do you have food?’ or ‘Do you have water to spare?’ or even ‘do you know the way out?’ It’s an invitation, an invitation to somewhere you really don’t want to accept.
There’s something off with him.
“Is this…” you point at the hand laying just behind the heels of your shoes. You ask even though you already know the answer. But you still do, a confirmation, closure for Bobby. “Is this her?”
“My assistant manager.” His voice is heavy with fatigue and you feel like clawing at your throat again. “Can you come with me? I know a safe place.”
You blink at him, breathing heavily. There’s something wrong with him. His eyes are the same as the last you saw him, just tired, heavy with sleepless nights. But he doesn’t talk the same, he talks robotically, like he rehearsed the words in front of the mirror beforehand in case he runs into you, or Bobby for that matter. You expected for him to be frantic or hysterical after what happened, not this, he’s calm, too calm for someone who has seen horrors beyond human comprehension.
“You said… you said that you tried.” Slowly, you move your way down to pick up the fallen hammer. “What did you try, Clark?”
“Tried to save her. But she just…I couldn’t get to her in time.” Clark takes a step forward and you flinch out of instinct. Something shifts in his eyes. “There was a pool and a wall. And she said she could see me but I couldn’t see her.” He swallows thickly. “Are you afraid of me? Like last time? Your hand looks much better.”
“My–my hand?” You shake your head, taking slow deep breaths. “No, this place it…it keeps you alert. I’m not scared of you.” Your foot nudges at the hammer as it clangs lightly. “I’m sorry for what happened. About Kat, about all of this. I tried to tell you.”
His eyes flicks towards the hammer.
“Clark, how long have you been here?” You distract him, jaw tight as you keep your eyes on him.
“A while.” His tone cracks at the edges from his dry mouth. Still too calm, still too normal.
“It’s only been a few hours, Clark. How–how could it be a while since then?” You must’ve picked up something from the numerous doctors you’ve spoken to when you use their own tactics against him. You say his name in a calm manner, telling him that you see him, that you’re staring at him and not through him. That you understand his words, his plights, instead of instigating him. You try to comfort him, this is a man who has been alone here for far longer than you have with no food, no water, and no humming in the walls to keep him company. He has become the very thing he called you. “Where have you been staying? If you’re injured I have meds and first aid. I have a bit of food, and some water if you—”
“I’ll show you where I’ve been staying.” He smiles, skin tugging in the corners. “It’s safe there, and I have food, plenty of it.”
“Where do you get the food, Clark?” Your fingers inches closer to the hammer by your feet as you slowly bend your knees.
“You’ll see, come.” He gestures behind him, still smiling. Still off.
“Where is this place? You can tell me which direction and I’ll just go there with Bobby later.” Your lashes clump together from the unshed tears in your eyes as you feel his eyes on you whilst you crouch down to grab the hammer. You’re inches away from the wooden handle as he takes two steps forward, frantic, worried.
“You’re still with Bobby?” His hand holds out to you as you stop short, fingers mid curled around the handle. “Where is he?”
“Somewhere safe.” With a shuddered breath, looking up at him, refusing to leave your gaze from him, you finally get a hold of the hammer. “Clark, do you know the way out of here?”
Blinking, like a deer in the headlights, he stares at the hammer in your hand whilst you’re still crouched.
“I do.”
“Can you tell me where it is?” You’re careful with your words.
“You’ll tell everyone about this place.” He chuckles with no ounce of humour laced in it.
“No, no, I won’t, Clark.”
“Yes, you will.” He takes a step forward and you’re forced to stand up abruptly, clutching onto the hammer. “I like this place. I know you do too.”
“No, I don’t.” Your hand trembles around the hammer. He’s scaring you. You don’t want him to come closer. “Clark, tell me where the exit is and we’ll leave you alone.”
“I still need you here. You and Bobby.”
The thumping of wood against carpet echoes from a hallway on his left. Clark turns his head at the sound and you take the opportunity to sprint away.
“Hey, no!” He tries to grab at you, managing to grab at your backpack as you’re hauled backwards onto your back with a harsh thud. “I said stay!”
You know this is Clark, not some copy of him like your grandpa or like Janet. He feels real as he looms over you, he’s warm, not cold like the pirate that chased after you, nor does he smell like mold and decay. He’s tangibly real as he drags you by the handle of your backpack towards the clambering sound of a wooden peg leg.
“Clark, no!” Shrieking, you watch as the ceiling moves quickly above you as you’re being dragged. You feel the rug burn against your back as you kick and scream and try to get a hold of his hand.
Your hammer has fallen down on the ground from the struggle, getting smaller and smaller as you’re dragged away.
There’s a chair half embedded into the wall, and you grab it, fingers curling and digging into the wood as you feel the rough edges of it.
“Let go.” He says too calmly.
“No!”
Clark looms over you, leaning down to wretch your hand away from the chair leg. “I said let go!”
With all your strength, you bring your fist to his face, punching him right on his nose as he staggers back, letting you go.
“Ah, fuck!”
You scramble away, crawling on the carpet and getting back on your wobbly feet. You shouldn’t have turned around, maybe it was your morbid curiosity, maybe you just wanted to see if the sounds weren’t from your imagination alone.
But then you see it, real, lumbering from the dark depths of the yellow hallway as it holds onto the sides of the walls, too tall, too long to go through it quickly. It fills the whole corridor with its lanky body.
Pirate Clark has its sights on you.
The light flickers, and you run.
You take the fallen hammer on your way out, bolting out of there as you hear Clark, not the wrong one, the real one, screaming your name gutterally. His scream bouncing off the monotonous yellow walls.
The signs guide you, and the song of the walls turn at an ear piercing dissonance, overwhelming you with the sights and sounds of the backrooms.
You turn a corner, more yellow wallpaper, more ringing.
There’s a junction in front of you, and you stop, hearing the mix of rushed footsteps and the wooden thumping just right behind you.
On your left is unmarked, unexplored by you. On your right has your arrow pointing right down the hallway.
With your breath stuck in your throat, fist throbbing with a dull ache and a stitch blooming on your side, you draw a bigger arrow on the wall to your left with a sharpie from your pocket as it points right at the place you have no idea what it leads to. It’s a stretch, they could still follow you so you mark the right one with an X right over the arrow, before running in that direction.
Clark isn’t stupid, you might not fool him with that alone but fighting a human being is easier than fighting an entity that could rip into you. At most it would disorient whatever pirate Clark is. So you run, keeping the same pace as you make as little sounds as you could whilst drawing fake arrows leading to nowhere right on the walls you pass by.
The best you can do is to keep Clark away from the sailboat room and far away from Bobby.
For a moment you take a breather, holding onto your knees as you pant and breathe in the still air. There’s no sound of running behind you anymore, nor the peg leg knocking on the carpets. It’s just you as you inhale and exhale, watching the sweat drip from your brow and over to the carpet below.
Lifting your head, you hear it first— the shuffling of fabric, a faint rustle. Then you see it, a glimpse of a familiar flowery bomber jacket peeking from the hallway in front of you.
It moves away, replaced by a long hand, too long fingers, long nails with blood matted underneath its fingernails as it grips at the edge of the wall.
It peeks over it, a forehead, then a pair of reddened eyes.
You don’t wait around to see the rest as you run away.
The moment you see the door to the sailboat room you feel lighter. Opening the door frantically, you shove yourself inside, startling a sleeping Bobby as you shut the door as quietly as you could and place the chair right under the doorknob.
“Hey, you okay?” Bobby glances at you as you keel over on the floor, head resting against the wall while you heave. “Did you see Kat?”
You shut your eyes tightly, a hand wiping at your sweaty face as you swallow down the bile rising in your throat.
“...No.” You utter softly, too soft for a blatant lie. “No, I didn’t see her.”
The hope on his expression falls. “What happened then?”
“I—” Bobby reaches for you, taking hold of your elbows as he pulls you back up to your wobbly legs. “I saw Clark.” You’re face to face with him as you watch his brows furrow. “He’s not…fine. There’s something wrong with him.”
“What do you mean?” His eyes search for yours as you look anywhere but him.
You look at your grandpa, or a ghost of him, as he stares up at the drawing of the sun in the corner, looking up at it as if he could just feel its warmth if he could just come closer. Your vision warbles, legs going numb under you, as if you’ve been running around for days. Your stomach grumbles, and your mouth is dry as your eyes fall in the back of your head.
“Shit! Hey!” Bobby catches you in his arms before you could hit your head.
—
The walls take you within itself.
You wake to the sound of fabric ripping and your flesh tearing at the seams. You’re surrounded by the same yellow wallpaper, from the walls to the ceiling, it warps around you, moving, breathing as it absorbs you into the sickly yellow.
You try to scream, call out for help, but no words come out of your mouth, just a guttural wheeze from the back of your throat.
Then you realize, the walls absorbs your voice too.
It takes you in, the wallpaper wrapping itself around your limbs, dissolving you into its warmth. It’s warm, so warm, like a late afternoon at the beach where the air smells like the sea and the clouds are turning pink over you. The water lapping at the sand near your feet, the grains of sand in your hair as you watch a small crab climb the length of your bare leg, you stayed on that beach, waiting for the ambulance to come, to see the pink sky be drenched in the red and blue siren lights. Like that day, you sink into the wall like how you were sinking into the wet sand.
The walls around you breathe, warbling right in front of you like the waves as it rolls around you, like you’re drifting underneath the tides.
The yellow wallpaper slithers up your chest, taking you inside the warmth. It laps at your temples, muffling your ears as you hear the hum at a frequency you could hear so clearly. It’s a sorrowful tone made by no instrument you’ve ever heard before, it’s a song made by something older than you, as old as the walls that are currently taking you in its embrace.
It’s a song you will soon be a part of.
You wake to a touch upon your arm, worried, tensed around your skin.
Your eyes open to the ceiling, where the plastic glow in the dark stars are slowly peeling away at the paint on the walls like the real ones. These ones aren’t stars though, just blobs of green tinted plastic that glows wrong in the dark, too bright, too intense unlike the real ones. It’s glowing in that same hue as the curtains are fully drawn to a close.
Turning towards the source of the hand, you see Bobby’s face sigh in relief when he sees your eyes look into his own. As blue as the waters that day, as blue as the siren lights that flooded the whole beach.
“You were screaming in your sleep.” He says, voice taut, tired as he lays his chin atop the edge of the bed, too exhausted to hold it up.
“Sorry, did I wake you up?” Your throat aches, like you swallowed a pebble, and your whole body still vibrates from the dream.
“No, couldn’t sleep.” His jaw tightens, he was too afraid to sleep, afraid to wake up to the entity that hunted him down, afraid that he won’t wake up.
“I’ll take this watch,” you say, rather than tell him out right to sleep. Sitting up, you see him look up at you with those big blue eyes that feels like it searches for your soul inside those sad eyes of yours. “You take the bed, the floor isn’t comfortable when it’s at an angle.”
“Yeah, I kept sliding down.” Bobby lifts himself up on the bed, back hitting the porthole as he obscures even more light whilst the plastic stars above illuminate the room. “I had those when I was a kid too.” His head is tilted up, the chain around his throat caught in the light.
“Same here.” You answer, unconsciously copying his movements as you rest your back against the wall, watching the fake blob of stars. “Mine kept falling down on my face while I tried to sleep.”
“You should’ve used double sided tape, not the ones that came with it.” Bobby chuckles, a deep rumble in his throat as he runs a hand over his face. “These ones just look weird though. Like someone who has never seen stars tried to draw stars.”
The corner of your lips tug at the corners as you crane your neck to look at him. You find him still staring at the stars, eyes half lidded, back easing with every breath he lets out. “I thought of the same thing too.”
You guess trauma really does bring people together. Even complete strangers who would otherwise never have met.
“Like a kid in kindergarten trying to draw stars.” His head turns to you, giving you the same small smile. You watch as his eyes drift down at your neck, and his face contorts into an expression you know all too well— pity. “Did Clark do that to you? You said you saw him.”
You shake your head, turning away to look at the ceiling again, the same ceiling you gazed at your whole childhood, the same ceiling you placed those stars that never really stuck to the ceiling as you watched each star fall from it, peeling off the paint along with it. You once got so tired of it that you yanked every single star off the ceiling and tossed them right in the bin.
“No,” the fake stars fizzle in and out before glimmering again. “It wasn’t Clark. I don’t think it was Clark.”
“What do you mean? Was Kat with him?”
“He looked…off.” Bobby shuts his eyes and moves his gaze away from the side of your face. “And Kat wasn’t with him.” Not anymore.
“Then,” He shifts on the bed, trying to keep his eyes open. He still smells faintly like weed and cologne. “What was wrong with him?”
Taking a deep breath, you could still feel the rug burn against the back of your thighs when he dragged you across it by the strap of your backpack. “Like he’s been here for years, he didn’t look like himself.”
“Maybe,” his lips smacks, biting the inside of his cheek as he rubs at his injured ankle. “Maybe you imagined it? Like, I don’t fucking know, your mind playing tricks on you? I mean shit, the human mind isn’t built for this kind of stress.”
Your mind has played tricks on you before you fell into this place, you’ve heard things that weren’t there before, you’ve seen things that aren’t truly there, but this, what happened to you in that corridor with the severed hand of Kat laying beside your feet as you felt her severed flesh brush alongside your ankle, was tangibly real. You would know the difference, your doctors taught you how to decipher between what was real and what wasn’t. Clark was as real as the scars along your arms.
“It was real,” you finally turn to face him with a hardened look on your face, fingers scratching at your throat. “He tried to lure me somewhere, but I saw something was up with him and I didn’t go and he just… dragged me on the carpet towards that fucking thing.”
“He did what?” Bobby sits up, face serious and breathing hard. “Clark could be a bit of an ass but he wouldn’t do that.”
“That’s what I thought too. That’s why I thought it wasn’t truly Clark.”
“Like what? He’s like the old man outside? One of those things?”
“No, I’ve seen things like him, they’re mostly dormant, curious at most, but never violent. This Clark was.”
“Did he…” he reaches for your neck before realizing what he’s doing, head tilting, hand retracting, visibly grimacing. “Did he scratch you during it?”
“...yeah, I guess he probably did.” Another lie. How long can you lie to the only person alive who is willing to talk to you?
“I’m sorry he did that. I’m sorry you went through that shit. I’d say that I should’ve been there to help but…” he chuckles, leg perched up on the bed as his elbow rests on his knee, head falling into his hand. “I’d rather not have been.”
“We’d probably both be dead.” You utter with a weak chortle. “How long was I out?”
“I have no fucking idea.” Time here moves differently, and you don’t blame him for losing track of it. His voice is muffled under his palm, before rubbing across his face as his hand rakes through his messy strands. “Three or four hours give or take?” The fake stars illuminate his face, drawing sharp shadows on the wall beside him. In this light, he looks like the boy you talked to once at the laundry shop, the boy whose shirt you found in the pile of clothes and decided to keep it that is now hanging on your torso. “You were out of it, I thought I lost you for a second. I kept checking your pulse.”
Bobby doesn’t really want to be left here all alone.
“That’s a long nap.” You scooch away from the bed, sitting on the floor instead as you see your backpack and the hammer laying neatly on the floor beside you. “It’s your turn, you need your rest for your ankle.”
“I don’t think I can sleep when I’m thirsty.”
“Here,” you’re already unzipping the bag and handing him the last of the water. Bobby’s blue eyes rake from the bottle then over to your face. “I’ll find us something, there’s a room here filled with pools, the water might be safe for drinking.” You found the pool rooms on day eleven, it reminded you of an indoor water park complete with slides that start from nowhere and end into a wall. It smelt like chlorine.
“Or it might give us the runny shits.”
“There’s a room filled with toilets too, might come in handy for that. We get to pick our thrones.”
A genuine smile stretches across Bobby’s face, before flickering away, almost guilty of smiling when Kat is still out there all alone. “I don’t even want to imagine what that looks like.”
“Like a showroom of a bathroom like in those furniture places.” You shake the bottle lightly as the water sloshes. “Just take it, Bobby, please.”
“What about you?” He says with a smaller tone, and yet his hand stretches towards the bottle that only has a quarter of water left inside.
“I’ll be fine, I’m like a camel.”
Bobby pops open the lid, tilting his head to look at your back. “I don’t see a hump back there though.” He takes a small sip, enough to wet his lips and the inside of his mouth before handing it back to you.
“It retracts, like wings.” You joke back, taking the water and capping it close, saving it for when you really need it. The corner of Bobby’s mouth tugs up, a small smirk before plopping his head down on the pillow.
“My ankle is better.”
Your eyes naturally drift towards his injury. The skin around it does look better than before. “Yeah? Can you roll it around now?”
Lifting his foot to prove a point, he rolls his ankle around and around, wincing faintly, like nothing ever happened to it as the wrap still stays on around it. It’s almost miraculous. Maybe it’s the same as your shoulder, it healed faster than humanly possible. Or it probably wasn’t as bad as you thought and that your wrap helped him heal.
“I can run now.” ‘I’m not a burden to you anymore.’ He can look for her, with or without you.
“We’ll look for Kat once you wake up then.” Your tone snags at the mention of her name.
“Wake me up in a few hours, okay?” His cheek is squished against the pillow that smells like you as his eyes flutter close. “And don’t you dare leave again. I won’t be there to catch you if you faint again.”
“Thank you for that by the way.” You say softly, too quiet as if it was meant for the walls instead.
“You saved me, and I saved you from a nasty fall. Tit for tat.” And yet he still hears you, rolling over as his back faces you.
“You could just say, ‘you’re welcome’ like a normal person.” Muttering under your breath, your gaze falls towards the hammer with the cloying blood on the steel.
“Shut up, I’m already asleep.” He utters muffledly. You scoff out a laugh through your nose.
You haven’t noticed the hum in the walls until you heard Bobby snore softly. Once you do, you stand up, leave the boat, look at your grandfather at the helm and hop off the boat before pressing your head against the warm wall.
If it absorbed you before Bobby came along you wouldn’t fight back, you would not have any regrets, you’d accept your fate once the yellow walls form around your face and you’re finally part of the structure of this place. But with Bobby here, you have a reason to live through this place, to continue searching for the exit, more determined than before when he needs your help. Before you were doing it begrudgingly, as if you have nothing else better to do, that you never truly thought you’d get out of here and you were just waiting for that moment where you run into the wrong corridor, where the door doesn’t open for once, where the hum lead you to your death. You were waiting for death. But with someone else here, a reason, it’s necessary to find that exit, even if it kills you, even if it means you getting stuck here forever, as long as he gets out of here. Because that means at least one person in the world would never forget you.
That you’ll be remembered. That you saved a life. A repentance.
—
You let Bobby sleep for some time, longer than you should have as you kept watch over the doors. You listened to the hum and felt its warmth like it would be the last time you’ll ever find peace in this place. It could be as you both are ready to leave the sanctuary of the sailboat room.
“I need to tell you something before we go, Bobby.” Your hand rests on the doorknob, eyes glancing at his shoes before rising to look at his eyes that you immediately regret doing. There’s a lump in your throat, heavy and laden with rot.
“Yeah?” He fixes the chain around his neck for the umpteenth time, and there was still nothing wrong with it like before.
Lips pursing together, the pads of your fingertips press at your throat, a motion that doesn’t escape his eyes as every miniscule movement you do is noted by him. You don’t know if he’s still wary of you, or he’s just naturally observant. Either way, it makes you overthink.
What will happen if you tell him that Kat is dead? Will he spiral? Will he take it in stride and continue on and survive for her? You don’t know Bobby that well to know which one, grief doesn’t manifest the same to everyone. Some falter, some are indifferent, some only fall into the depths after some time has passed. For you, you fell head first into the void of grief, with no sign of slowing down. He could be that too, that he’d become a shell of himself as you tug him around the corridors without hope in his heart. At least if he continues on to live in ignorant bliss, he’d have hope, he’d have a chance to ready his mind for the truth, a privilege you didn’t have.
So you lie for his sake. One that you might end up regretting. “I think…I think there’s another entity here other than the pirate.”
“The pirate?” His brows furrow, mouth pursed in a thin line as he shuffles his weight between his footing.
“You didn’t get a good look at the one that attacked us?”
“No, I was too busy being in pain.” He blinks, face contorting into a questioning look. “It was a pirate?”
“Yeah,” you purposely omit the fact that it had Clark’s face, but wrong. Shaking your head, you let out a deep exhale. “And there’s probably another one roaming around. It’s quieter, like a fucking stalker, you can only hear it coming with the sound of shuffling fabric.”
“As if our lives aren’t already fucked.” He runs a hand through his hair, palm bumping onto the shades on his head as he catches it mid fall. “So we keep a lookout on a pirate and the shuffler, easy.”
You snort a laugh, an attempt at stifling it. “The shuffler?”
“What? It has to have a name.”
“The name’s too cute for what I saw.”
“You saw it?” The already small smile drops. “Shit.” He huffs out a breath. “You shouldn’t have left alone.”
“It didn’t attack me like the pirate did, it was more like…” you recall its reddened eyes as it followed you. “observing me.”
“That’s not creepy at all.” Bobby takes another sweep of the sailboat room as if it’ll be the last time to do so. His eyes lands on your grandfather as it gazes blankly ahead. “Rules.”
You stand more straight as he does it and it makes him shake his head with a subtle smile and a roll of his eyes. Taking your mirroring as teasing.
“We need to stay together, no matter what.” His face hardens seriously, jaw tight at the hinges, eyes boring into you. “No splitting up like in the movies. I walk behind you and you’re always up front because you know this place better than I do.”
“...I bet you say that to all the girls.” You say too flatly to be a joke as Bobby tilts his head, looking at you with a ‘really?’ expression. “Sorry, my therapist says I use humor at the wrong time to cope. And yes, I understand, no splitting up. Sorry.”
“You have a shrink?” His brow raises.
“Everyone needs one at this point. C’mon.” You grow antsy under his gaze as you twist the doorknob and open it quietly.
You stop short when something bright on the floor catches your attention.
“I’m not done yet with my rules— is that a box of cereal?”
“And water bottles.” Instead of elation, you’re wary of the supplies literally laid out in front of you. “What do you think, Bobby?”
“You’re asking what I think?” You don’t have to look at his face to know that he’s raising his brows at you.
“Of course,” you don’t take your attention away from the food and water as if it’ll suddenly grow legs and walk away. “We’re in this together now whether we like it or not.”
“Reluctant allies.”
“What?” You unstick your gaze from the food over to his face.
“It’s a movie trope.” He says dismissively. “We can test it on grandpa over there to check if they’re safe to eat.”
“It doesn’t need to drink, Bobby. And how would we even test it out?”
“We shove it into its mouth.”
You blink at him with a flat look. “We’re not doing that.” Crouching down to take the supplies, you quickly shut the door gently with your foot. “We test it now, I’m fucking starving.”
“I thought you were a camel?” Bobby asks, placing the chair under the doorknob before following you.
You plop down in front of the large map you drew, cautious about the unopened box of cereals. It looks ordinary, all the words aren’t garbled like the books in the bookshelves inside the boat. It’s real and normal and it looks like a gourmet meal to you.
There’s a presence beside you as Bobby sits down beside you, legs crossed, chain swinging around his neck as he tilts his head, ducking to meet with your pensive eyes. “Has anyone told you that you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking?”
You consciously unscrunch your nose. “No,” no one ever paid enough attention to notice it.
With a shuddered breath, you break the top of the box, opening it as you take out the plastic packaging of the cereal. It’s as colourful as the picture of it up front, and it has one of those tiny marshmallows that you always took out of the bowl to save it last.
“It looks fine to me. Thank fuck they’re not spiders.” Bobby takes the cereal from your hands with a crinkle of plastic as he opens it. He takes a whiff of it, and the whole room smells like sweetened cereal flakes and processed marshmallows. “Smells fine.” He notices your silence, pausing mid scoop. “Do you wanna have a taste first?”
“No,” you lean back, resting against the boat. “You’ll be my taste tester, my guinea pig.”
“Oh fuck off.” He chuckles, shoving a fist full of the cereal inside his mouth. Chewing, the sound filling the room and adding to the tension, you two wait as he swallows.
“Feel anything?”
“Yeah…” his palm drops to his stomach, covering his midriff that shows up whenever his torso moves in the crop top that he wears well. “I think…” the fear settles underneath your ribcage, until he shrugs and shoves another hand full of cereal into his mouth. Bobby shakes it in front of you, offering it to you with his cheeks puffed and smiling faintly. “It’s fine.”
“I wonder how you manage to get a girlfriend when you eat like that.” Shoving the backpack off your shoulders, you take the cereal from him and eat a few bites full of it. It tastes awfully sweet, like it’s almost entirely made of sugar. It doesn’t taste odd, but it does leave a weird aftertaste on your tongue, like eating a day old bread left in the sun.
“I don’t have a girlfriend.” His nose scrunches, as if offended at the mere thought.
“You serious?” Your brow raises to your hairline. “Is Kat not your girlfriend?”
“We’re…” his hand twists around, leg propped up, elbow on his knee as he looks at the map in front of him instead of you. “...We’re undefined.”
“Oh, you’re that type of guy, huh?” You scoff out in between chewing.
“What does that mean?” He finally turns to you, it’s his turn to scoff at you.
“That you’re the kind of guy who doesn’t bother in giving the relationship a label. You know, ‘keeping it open,’” you make air quotes with your fingers. “because you have issues or you’re waiting for the right person to come along.” You have no idea where this is coming from within you but talking to him is easy, maybe the trauma you both shared really did help in breaking the ice. “I mean, just one look at you and your slutty crop top tells it all.”
“This is in fashion.” He lifts it by the hem, his toned stomach showing and a small patch of hair you’ve never noticed before trails down from his belly button down and disappears under his jorts. “Everyone is wearing this.”
“And who are these people exactly?” You avert your eyes, picking out the marshmallows and popping it in your mouth.
Bobby snatches the cereals from you, “you know,” he gestures around him, around the yellow walls and the unusual half sunken boat beside him. “Men, people.”
“You’re the first man I’ve ever seen wear one.”
“Do you live under a fucking rock or something?” He makes a face before eating more cereal. “Just walking around Santa Clara and you’ll see like five people wearing this.”
“You live in Santa Clara?”
“Yeah, me and Kat. And Clark too, I guess.” Something in the room shifts between you, the lighthearted air around fades away like water on a sizzling pan. “Why?”
“I—I used to live there, once upon a time.” You crack open one of the water bottles that were left with the cereal.
“Cool. Where exactly?” His voice drops a timbre, not wary, just curious, like he’s asking you about a secret.
“Near the water.” Your eyes glaze over, looking in front of you and nowhere at the same time. You snap out of it like how you snap the cap off and take a swig of the water. “Not anymore though.” The taste isn’t what you expected as your face contorts into disgust.
“What, what is it?” His hand flies to the bottle, taking it away from you like it’s about to blow up. He takes a sniff at it, making a face. “It doesn’t smell like water.”
“It’s fucking almond water.” Taking a handful of cereal and marshmallows, you eat it just to get rid of the surprise taste on your tongue. It wasn’t as bad as you make it out to be, you were just shocked that the water didn’t taste like water at all. Like the rug was pulled under you.
“What the fuck is almond water?”
“I have no idea. I just know it’s not regular water.” Wiping your hands on your pants, you watch him take a tentative taste, his face morphs into disgust, lips smacking together before he makes a ‘not bad’ look then he’s back to sipping at it. You guess he’s not much of a germ freak when he’s drinking at the same bottle you drank from. “So, you and Kat live together and yet it’s undefined, huh?”
Bobby’s eyes flick to you just as you nudge him with your elbow. “It’s complicated. Rent is expensive.”
You hum, “doesn’t sound like it though.”
For a moment there you thought that you weren’t stuck in some alternate yellow hell with a stranger, instead it felt like talking to an old friend while having a snack at home while you tease Bobby.
He feels the same as he chuckles, rolling his eyes at more of your playful jabs. “Well it is, it’s complicated.”
“She probably didn’t think so.” You say in a sing song.
“And you would know this because?”
“We’re both women.”
“Of course, and because you’re an expert on relationships like mine—”
Wood thumps quietly on the carpet, barely there, almost silent, too far, but you hear it as the walls hum in the same dissonance when it followed you. It’s not the droning hum of the lights, the walls vibrate, turning the room warmer than normal.
The walls warn you.
“Shut up.”
He chortles. “Don’t tell me to shut up—”
“Pack the food, quickly.” The serious look on your face has him panicking.
“What is it?” Bobby sits up, rolls the plastic bag of cereal and shoves it inside the bag together with the water bottles.
“You don’t hear it?” Your head is on a swivel as the song of the walls increases, like a choir harmonizing, slowly rising in volume.
“No, hear what?”
Your grandfather, the copy of him, leaves the helm and runs towards the inside of the boat at a speed that startled you and Bobby. His feet were padding across the floor like a startled deer.
“Take the bag, let’s go.”
The thumping gets closer, and Bobby hears it too as his head turns towards the door where it came from.
“Bobby.” His head whips towards you, finding that you’re on the other side of the boat now, right in front of the other door. You whisper yell, ushering him towards the other side, the door that leads to corridors that you’ve only partially mapped. “Bobby.” You yell louder this time as he freezes. “Fuck.”
Bolting to him, you grab the bag on your way to him and take him by his hand, leading him away at the right moment before the peg leg stops right in front of the door.
It starts off as a knock, tentative, testing the waters. Until it hears Bobby’s staggered breathing, a choke, quiet enough to only be heard by you, but you’re not the only one who heard it as it begins to bang at the door frantically, desperate to get to the both of you.
It splinters the wood in a shower of shattered wood.
“Run.” You practically shove Bobby out of the door, before you take one final look at the boat with your grandfather looking through the porthole with his wrong eyes in his wrong face.
You shut the door behind you, and instead of yellow walls, you’re met with walls of metal rusted pipes as Bobby looks at you with wide blue eyes, waiting for you.
Bro, the way I can see it play out like an actual movie 😭😭😭 now I really got to watch the movie to get all the references
