Chapter Two-Hundred Thirty-Seven: Drive-in Thoughts

Chapter 237

Drive-in Thoughts

Tristan and Deimos gaped at what they saw in Deimos’ parents’ bedroom. Sleeping in their bed was Lazaros, bundled in the sheets, creating his own little cocoon. He wore Konstantina’s long-sleeved pink floral nightgown with a matching nightcap. Clutched to his chest was another nightgown she had worn, an orange negligee.

Deimos: “What the fuck is this?! I’m getting his ass up!”

He marched in, but Tristan placed his hand softly on his shoulder. Deimos shivered and froze in his tracks, feeling his prince’s soft palm on his hard muscles. He turned to Tristan, who shook his head.

Tristan: “Deimos, I don’t feel like dealing with his tantrums, and he’s sound asleep… Can’t you leave him?”

He whispered.

Deimos: “Why?! He has his own house! WHY is he here and wearing Mom’s nightgown and cuddling a fucking negligee she wore on hers and Dad’s honeymoon?!”

He whispered back. Tristan cupped his mouth, glancing at Lazaros and at Deimos.

Deimos: “Do you think he’s trans?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “That thought never crossed my mind…”

He closed the door over.

Deimos: “Then what is this?”

He asked him.

Tristan: “Deimos, he has gotten worse since your mother died.”

He said evenly. Deimos threw his arms up.

Deimos: “Yeah, I know. He could have acted somewhat normal, and now he can’t at all.”

Tristan: “...This seems like an Oedipus Complex.”

Deimos gaped at him.

Deimos: “Don’t fucking tell me…”

Tristan stroked his ponytail.

Tristan: “Do you recall how he didn’t want to let Ashley out, keep them in one place, feeding them, and wanting them to be miserable?”

Deimos shifted his eyes.

Deimos: “...How could I forget?”

He replied with irritation.

Tristan: “...He wanted Ashley to become your mother… A blob who sat around eating and feeling sorry for themself while putting Lazaros on a pedestal.”

Deimos rolled his eyes.

Deimos: “Yeah, no wonder all of his partners left his ass. There was no one quite like Mom.”

He huffed.

Deimos: “So much so that Dad cheated on her and had to find other company when her own son wants a woman just like her. I fucking hate my family so much.”

He growled. Tristan reached out and caressed Deimos’ shoulders. Deimos felt his anger fade with Tristan’s soft, gentle touch. He clasped his hand over Tristan’s.

Tristan: “He needs help, Deimos.”

Deimos swallowed hard.

Deimos: “Yeah, so did Mom. In fact, Dad and Grandpa wanted her to get help after…”

He glanced back at the room where the nursery once stood.

Deimos: “...After Diamantina died.”

He cleared his throat.

Deimos: “But she didn’t. She did nothing until I destroyed her nursery and confronted her. I sometimes think she forced herself to have a heart attack and die so she wouldn’t have to face what she did to… Lazaros and me.”

He admitted, with strain.

Tristan reached out, hugging Deimos. Deimos softly caressed Tristan’s white hair, wanting this for a long time and so very glad that he held his beloved prince in his arms. This was pure bliss for him. So much so that he had forgotten his mentally ill fraternal twin brother slumbered in the room where their parents slept.

Deimos reached out to hook a finger through one of the loops of Tristan’s earrings.

Tristan’s breath hitched, a small, knowing smile spreading across his face as he watched Deimos. Tristan didn't pull away; instead, he leaned into Deimos, his long, white hair spilling over his shoulder like a cascade of silk.

Deimos didn’t hesitate. He crowded Tristan back against the wall of the corridor, his hand coming up to cup Tristan’s jaw. The contact was electric, a surge of warmth that seemed to harmonize the blue and purple light surrounding them. When their lips met, it was a claim—possessive, deep, and fueled by the undeniable bond they shared as a couple.

There was only the heat of the kiss and the familiar scent of cologne that clung to their clothes. Tristan let out a soft sigh, his hands coming up to grip the fabric of Deimos’s tank top, pulling him even closer as if to bridge the gap between them entirely.

When they finally broke apart, both were breathless, the silence of the hallway returning to claim them. Deimos kept his forehead pressed against Tristan’s, his gaze intense.

The heavy air of the corridor seemed to shrink as Deimos took Tristan’s hand, his grip firm and possessive. Without a word, he led Tristan away from the hallway and into the expansive, dimly lit sanctuary of his bedroom. The space was a reflection of the man himself—bold and unapologetic.

Once inside, the door clicked shut behind them, effectively cutting them off from the rest of the hacienda and Lazaros. Deimos didn’t waste any time; he turned, backing Tristan toward the edge of the bed until Tristan’s legs hit the mattress, causing him to sit back onto the soft linens. The silver light from the moons filtered through the high windows, catching the pale shimmer of Tristan’s hair and the deep blue highlights of Deimos’ own.

Deimos stepped between Tristan’s knees, his presence dominating the small space. He reached down, his hands finding the collar of Tristan's waistcoat, and with a slow, deliberate motion, pushed the fabric off his shoulders. It pooled onto the floor, discarded, leaving Tristan in his white pressed shirt and black tie, a stark and elegant frame for the man Deimos claimed as his own.

Deimos didn’t wait for more. He leaned down, capturing Tristan’s lips in a kiss that was deeper and more insistent than the one they had shared in the hall.

The intensity in the bedroom shifted slightly as Deimos sat on the edge of the bed and began to pull off his boots, tossing them aside with a thud. With a sigh of relief, he reached down to pull off his socks, his expression relaxed as he exhaled the tension of the long night.

However, a pungent, unmistakable scent immediately filled the room. Tristan, who had been leaning back on the bed, recoiled slightly, his nose wrinkling in immediate protest.

Tristan: “Deimos! My God! What on Reona have you been doing to your feet? It smells like you walked through a swamp!”

He laughed, though he quickly squeezed his nose. Deimos looked up as he tossed the offending socks toward the corner of the room.

Deimos: “Tristan, this was a beautiful night! You don’t have to ruin it!”

He huffed.

Tristan: “Well, get in the shower and get those stinkers clean.”

He waved his hand.

Deimos: “It’s not that bad, Tristan!”

He whined.

Tristan: “Deimos, yes, it is.”

Deimos: “All right, fine, you win, your highness!”

He huffed dryly and stormed into the bathroom.

Tristan sighed and made a face at the stinky socks in the corner.

~

The drive to the outskirts of town was electric. With the top down, the wind whipped through the cabin, tangling Lena’s hair and forcing Jaxon to keep one hand firmly on the wheel and the other occasionally darting up to push his own dark locks out of his eyes. Neither of them spoke much, but the silence wasn’t awkward; it was charged, filled with the kind of unspoken weight that hangs in the air between two people who are on the verge of admitting everything.

As they neared the edge of the county, the iconic, towering drive-in screen came into view, illuminated by the projection booth's hum. It was a massive, glowing beacon against the darkening purple sky.

Jaxon slowed his car as they rolled into the gravel lot. He scanned the rows until he found a spot near the back—secluded enough, but with a perfect, unobstructed view of the screen. He pulled in, the gravel crunching loudly under the tires, and killed the engine.

Jaxon: “This is good…”

He remarked, his voice steady, though his fingers drummed a nervous, erratic rhythm against the gear stick. He turned in his seat to face her, his elbow resting on the center console.

Jaxon: “Are you cold? I can put the top back up, if you want.”

Lena shook her head, looking up at the vast expanse of sky above the car.

Lena: “No, it’s perfect. I like gazing up at the stars.”

She looked over at him. The ambient glow from the screen, which was just beginning to play a series of local advertisements and old, grainy snack-bar commercials, cast flickering shadows across his face. He was staring at her, his expression uncharacteristically serious.

The temperature dropped further. A breeze stirred the air, and Lena shivered.

Without missing a beat, Jaxon reached into the back seat and grabbed his leather jacket he’d brought along just in case. He draped it over her shoulders, his hands lingering for a second longer than necessary. He let go and drummed his fingers on the wheel.

He glanced over at Lena, who was smoothing out the skirt of her dress and clutching onto his jacket, her hair perfectly framing a smile that made his heart race.

Jaxon: “You ready to be scared out of your mind?”

He asked, his voice low and teasing. Lena laughed, a bright, melodic sound that cut through the low rumble of the idling engine.

Lena: “Not with you here.”

Jaxon smiled at her and pursed his lips.

She leaned in slightly, the soft light from the drive-in speaker reflecting off her heart-shaped necklace. The screen ahead began to flicker with the opening credits of the latest horror blockbuster, the towering images casting long, distorted shadows across the hood of the Celica.

As the movie progressed, the tension on screen began to mirror the unspoken intensity between them. Every time a jump-scare sent a thrill through the audience, Lena would instinctively shift closer to him, her delicate hands clasping together.

Jaxon kept his hand on the gear shift, his pulse quickening not because of the gruesome scenes unfolding on the screen, but because of the way Lena looked at him whenever she dared to glance away from the film.

When the final act reached its crescendo, Jaxon rested his arm along the back of the seat, his fingers brushing the fabric of her dress. Lena didn’t pull away; instead, she looked up at him, her eyes searching his for an answer to the question they had both been asking themselves.

As the final credits of the first feature rolled and the giant screen flickered with static, the drive-in transition provided a brief, breathless pause. Jaxon reached over to adjust the hanging metal speaker, the tinny sound clicking into a new, pulsing rhythm as the trailers for a second horror feature began to play. Lena shifted in the passenger seat, her posture softening as she turned toward him, her hair catching the ambient light of the projection.

Jaxon noticed the tremor of excitement in her hands and chuckled, the sound low and steady. He shifted his weight, closing the physical distance between them as the horror movie’s soundtrack swelled into a crescendo of discordant synths.

Lena brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.

Lena: “Jaxon…? Are you… Are you ticklish?”

She murmured. The sudden, playful question hung in the air, catching Jaxon completely off guard. He turned his head away from the flickering screen, his hair falling slightly over his eyes as he looked at Lena with a smirk that was equal parts amused and wary.

Jaxon: “N-No! No! No, I am not!”

He shifted in his seat, his hand still resting near the back of her chair, and arched an eyebrow at her. The neon blues and purples of the film’s climax washed over them, but the real electricity was centered between the two of them. Lena bit her lip, her eyes sparkling with a mischievous curiosity that suggested she didn't believe him for a second.

Lena: “Is that right?”

She countered, her voice soft but daring. Jaxon’s heart hammered in his chest.

Lena didn’t hesitate. With a mischievous glint in her eyes, she lunged forward, her fingers darting unerringly toward his ribs and stomach.

The effect was instantaneous. Jaxon let out a sharp, involuntary gasp, his body jerking with laughter that he clearly couldn't suppress. He twisted in the driver's seat, his back arching as he tried—and failed—to block her hands.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAA!!”

He wheezed, his voice rising an octave as he squirmed against the seat upholstery.

Jaxon: “WAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! NOHOHOHOHOHOHOHOHO!!!!”

He was incredibly, devastatingly ticklish, and he knew he had absolutely no defense against her assault. He tried to grab her wrists, but he was laughing too hard to coordinate his movements, his head falling back against the headrest while his signature dark hair whipped around his face. He was completely incapacitated by a few pokes to his midsection.

Jaxon: “AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! STAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAP!!”

Outside, the horror movie continued to play, but the terrifying screams from the screen were entirely drowned out by Jaxon’s own breathless, frantic laughter inside the cramped confines of his car. He was completely at her mercy, pinned by her playful persistence, with a grin on his face that was far more genuine—and vulnerable—than the fake smile he’d been wearing earlier.

Lena pulled her hands back, her own breathing a little ragged from the sheer fun of it, and watched as Jaxon slumped against the driver's side door, trying to regain his composure. He was still chuckling, his chest heaving as he wiped a stray tear of mirth from his eye.

He looked over at her, his expression a mix of mock indignation and genuine fondness. He smoothed down his shirt, which had become slightly untucked during the scuffle, and leaned his head back against the seat, finally catching his breath.

Lena just smiled at him, leaning back in her seat with a look of pure, victorious satisfaction, clearly waiting to see if he was actually going to try anything.

As Jaxon leaned his head back, finally slowing his racing heart, the playful adrenaline settled into a comfortable, quiet hum. Lena leaned over the center console. She rested her hand firmly, yet gently, on his chest.

The touch was grounding. Jaxon went still, his breath catching in his throat for an entirely different reason than before. Jaxon’s face turned a deep shade of red. Beneath her palm, she could feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat as it gradually returned to a normal pace.

He then placed his own hand over hers, holding it against him. In that moment, he looked at her with an expression of pure adoration, the playful teasing of the tickle fight dissolving into something much deeper and more permanent.

She leaned in further, sliding her head across his shirt until it rested gently against his chest, right where her hand had been.

Jaxon went completely motionless, stunned by the sudden, tender closeness. He looked down at her—at the way her purple hair fanned out against his shoulder. Slowly, carefully, he moved his arm from the back of the seat and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him.

Jaxon: “Lena?”

He whispered, his voice uncharacteristically soft, barely audible over the hum of the car’s ventilation.

She hummed a small, sleepy affirmative against his chest, not making any move to pull away. Jaxon closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the weight of her leaning on him, the scent of her perfume mixing with the familiar smell of the car’s interior.

Jaxon recalled the night at Seashell Cove when he played his bass guitar for Chelsea and tried to lift her spirits. He pursed his lips and inhaled sharply. He had flashbacks of her turning into a richonoid, having to put her out of her misery, and everything that followed. Tears dripped from his eyes as he silently sobbed.

~

As the credits finally rolled on the second horror feature, the drive-in began to come to life around them. Engines sputtered to life, headlights cut through the dark, and the low chatter of departing patrons filled the lot.

Jaxon felt Lena’s steady, rhythmic breathing against his chest as she slept on his chest. He was glad she slept through his crying. He didn’t have the heart to wake her. Instead, he reached over with his free hand and gently turned the key in the ignition, letting the engine purr to life just enough to keep the heater running against the cooling night air.

Jaxon carefully adjusted his position, resting his chin lightly atop her purple hair while keeping his arm protectively draped around her. He watched the last few cars pull away, the red glow of their taillights fading into the distance until the field was mostly empty.

He moved with practiced care, his movements slow and deliberate as he eased his car into gear. He didn’t want to break the spell of the moment or startle Lena awake, so he navigated the gravel lot of the drive-in with an extra measure of caution, his eyes occasionally flicking to her sleeping.

The drive home was quiet and peaceful, a stark contrast to the earlier laughter and the frantic, high-pitched screams of the horror movies. The city lights of Pink Top City blurred past the windows of his car, casting long, rhythmic shadows across the dashboard. He looked at her one more time, now resting peacefully with her head against his shoulder.

When he finally pulled up to her house, he killed the engine, letting the silence settle around them once more. He didn't move immediately; he just sat for a heartbeat, savoring the weight of her presence before gently nudging her awake.

Jaxon: “Lena? We’re home.”

He whispered. As she stirred, blinking awake and adjusting to the dim porch light, the lingering sleepiness in her eyes slowly gave way to a soft, genuine smile. She looked at him, then at the familiar surroundings, and realized the date had officially turned over into a brand-new day.

Lena: “Did I fall asleep?”

She asked, her voice hushed and still thick with sleep. Jaxon laughed softly.

Jaxon: “Yeah… But I didn’t mind.”

She brushed his jacket away from her shoulders. He hopped out of his car and walked around to her side, offering a hand to help her step out. As they walked toward her front door, the shadows of the trees stretched across the path, but they stayed close, the earlier intimacy of the car still lingering between them.

Jaxon’s energy shifted into something much more protective and sincere as he guided her toward the porch. When they reached the doorstep, the porch light cast a warm, golden glow on them. Lena turned to face him, her dress swaying slightly in the gentle night breeze.

Lena: “I had a really good time tonight, Jaxon.”

She said softly.

Jaxon: “Me too…”

He replied.

Jaxon: “It was the best night I had in a long time.”

He leaned against the porch column, his eyes never leaving hers.

Jaxon: “I’d love to see you again.”

He added softly, gazing at her with beseeching eyes.

Lena: “Me too!”

She chirped.

He watched as she fumbled briefly with her house keys, then turned to face him once more before slipping inside.

Jaxon: “Night, Lena.”

Lena: “Night, Jaxon…”

She replied softly, her voice filled with a warmth that stayed with him even after the front door clicked shut.

He turned and walked back to his Celica, the cool night air feeling different from how it had been a few hours ago. As he slid into the driver’s seat, he didn’t immediately turn the key. Instead, he took a moment to look at the empty passenger seat where she had been sitting—the same seat where, just hours earlier, they had been captured in the shared, vibrant energy with Lena.

~

The drive back to his own place was a blur of neon streetlights and quiet contemplation. Jaxon pulled into his driveway, killed the engine, and let the silence of the night swallow the neighborhood. He put the top back up on his car and stepped out.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and his brushed-chrome Zippo, the weight of it familiar and grounding in his palm. With a flick of his thumb, the lid snapped open with that distinct, metallic clink, and a quick strike of the flint wheel produced a steady, orange flame. He touched the tip of his cigarette to the fire, inhaling deeply as he snapped the lighter shut.

He inhaled deeply, the ember glowing bright in the darkness, and let out a long, steady plume of smoke that drifted up toward the starlit sky. It was a moment of pure, solitary decompression after the chaotic, high-stakes fun of the drive-in. He replayed the evening in his mind: the way she had leaned on him, the tickle fight, and the way her smile looked in the moonlight at her door.

As he finished the cigarette and flicked the butt away, he gazed at Fabien’s house. He noticed his car was not in the driveway. Jaxon raked his fingers through his hair. Is Celeste with him? Isn’t it late for Danny Donger’s to be open? He wondered.

Jaxon stepped inside, the house quiet and cool as he made his way toward the bathroom. He removed his Chelsea boots, sheer socks, pants, underwear, and shirt, tossing them into the laundry basket in the hall.

He turned on the shower, the sound of the water hitting the porcelain filling the room as he stepped under the spray. As the water cascaded over him, he just stood there, letting his mind drift.

When he stepped out of the shower and dried off, he walked into his bedroom and climbed into bed. He gazed up at the ceiling and turned over to where Celeste had slept. Jaxon’s eyelids dipped, and he heaved a deep sigh.

~

The air in the deeper levels of the sewers didn’t just smell bad; it tasted like ozone, old copper, and a thousand gallons of industrial run-off. This was where the city’s discarded things—and forgotten people—found their way.

The two, being in the sewer, were there because Professor Stewart Murphy informed them about missing sewer maintenance workers. He told Celeste and Fabien to investigate the cause.

As the two ventured further into the sewer, the smell of rotting flesh, old blood, and death lingered in the air. Fabien’s jaw tightened.

They rounded a corner, the putrid, brick-lined environment perfectly matching their quarry’s lair. The air grew hotter, and a low, bubbling sound echoed. Ahead, it lumbered: a large monster—a massive, grotesque pile of bile, fat, and tentacles.

Fabien: “Jesus Fucking Christ…”

He whispered as he cupped his mouth.

The beast’s massive mouth gaped, revealing a furnace of churning acid. With a roar that felt thick in the humid air, it targeted them. A jet of blindingly bright, fluorescent green sludge erupted from its maw, spraying against the brick wall next to them with an audible hiss and a thick plume of smoke.

She sprang forward, dodging the acidic splatter, and slammed into the creature's massive, flabby leg. It was like punching dense, rubbery gelatin.

But the monster was deceptively fast. A massive, tentacled hand swung, catching Fabien mid-air. It slammed him into the brickwork, and a second burst of acid drenched his flannel shirt. He choked, skin immediately blistering and sloughing off, his regenerative factor screaming as it desperately tried to knit his cells back together faster than they were dissolving.

Celeste: “FABIEN!!!”

She screamed.

She saw the beast rearing back to finish him, its massive mouth filling with another corrosive charge. Ignoring caution, she leaped onto its back, her hands finding purchase in its blubbery, slimy folds. She used its own massive weight against it, wrenching its head back and forcing the acid stream vertically upward, where it dissolved a section of the ceiling in a downpour of rubble and burning slime. The slime splashed on her, burning her.

The creature bellowed, the sound vibrating through her bones. Fabien was still regenerating, groaning, and rolling into a pile of refuse, his torso already rebuilding. Fabien, the flannel shredded, forced himself upright, skin still raw and new.

Celeste shoved the massive head sideways, directly toward the collapsing brick arch. The acid-weakened stone couldn't hold. With a deafening crash, the entire section of the sewer ceiling came down.

Celeste pushed off the beast, leaping to safety. The mountain of brick, stone, and ancient iron completely buried the acid-beast, smothering its attacks. The dust was thick. Her leg was burned, and she collapsed into the debris. Fabien, now fully regenerated, ran to Celeste.

Fabien: “Celeste?! CELESTE?!”

He knelt to her and scooped her up in his arms.

As he carried her out, Ichiro stood by the corner watching them. He scowled and pressed a device in his ear to teleport himself away.

~

Jaxon lay in bed that night, still awake, gazing up at the ceiling. He heard a tap on his sliding bedroom glass door. Jaxon threw off the sheets, grabbed his silk dragon robe, which was draped over the chair, and shrugged into it. He draped it over his shoulders and tied the sash. He pulled the curtain back to see a panicked Fabien cradling Celeste with a burnt leg, and his heart sank.

Jaxon unlocked the door and slid it open. Without hesitation, he knelt to Celeste and put his hands out to heal her. A red glow emanated from his hands, surrounding her as his vitakinesis mended her cells and skin, completely healing her wounds. Jaxon smiled at her, looking at her the way he always did, and how peacefully she slept.

Fabien: “Thanks, Jiro.”

He muttered.

Jaxon: “What happened?”

Fabien: “Professor Murphy said sewer workers were disappearing and it was some acid vomiting monster.”

He replied and scooped up Celeste in his arms.

Jaxon rose with him, and the two men gazed at each other for a moment.

Fabien: “Anyway, good night.”

He said tersely as he carried her away. Jaxon watched them go and heaved a deep sigh.

~

The quiet of the bedroom felt heavy, a stark contrast to the adrenaline-fueled battle in the sewers. Celeste was sound asleep, dressed simply in a black tank top and black panties.

Fabien lay beside her, propped up on one elbow. He was dressed in green plaid pajama pants, the soft fabric a comforting weight against his legs. His eyes remained fixed on the ceiling, his jaw tight.

He looked down at Celeste, recalling her burn marks—marks that would have vanished from his own body in seconds. A bitter, hollow feeling pooled in his chest. He was the one with the regenerative healing factor, the one who could walk through hell and come out whole, yet he was utterly powerless when it came to shielding her.

He thought of Jaxon. The frustration gnawed at him; he had to go to the man who hurt Celeste to heal her. Watching Celeste hurt, knowing his own miraculous recovery meant nothing for her pain, made him feel useless in the way that mattered most. He let out a soft, ragged sigh.

Then he recalled Deimos. Deimos can now fly, and he recalled that the mystical spirit water had given him an extra ability. Jordi’s girlfriend might have some, he thought. Then he pouted. Nah, she would give it to Jordi, not me, he huffed.

Then he remembered Craig’s ex, Andreas. He’s dating Blake, and Blake is Ashley’s brother, he thought with a smirk. Tristan’s cat, Oliver, walks through walls, he mused.

He quickly rose from bed, pulled his pants down, and started to get dressed.

~

Fabien drove through the streets of Pink Top City with Oliver in the passenger’s seat with his leash on him. He went to Tristan’s house, shook a bag of treats, and Oliver came running through. He snapped the collar and leash on him and took him to his car.

His car rolled up to Måneravn, and he smiled. He killed the engine, grabbed Oliver, and stepped out of the car to go inside. He walked through the store, carrying the cat close, and made his way to the back, where Andreas lived. Cradling the cat, he walked through the door and went up the stairs.

He slowly tiptoed in. He flicked his gaze up to the glass ceiling in the living room to see that the sun was rising. He had to act quickly. He knew the store would open soon. He walked into Andreas’ bedroom to see both Andreas and Blake sound asleep with Andreas’ head on Blake’s chest. Fabien pursed his lips and gently placed Oliver down.

He slowly walked to the dresser. Blake’s snoring startled him. He clung to the walls, only to see him turn over. Fabien swallowed the lump in his throat. Glistening in the moonlight, he saw the vial of the mystical spirit water. He leaped for it, grabbed it, and dashed to the bathroom.

Once inside, he unscrewed the vial cap and poured its contents into his own vial. He shook the crystal to ensure every drop was inside. He screwed the cap on and stuffed it into his flannel shirt pocket. He was about to go to the sink, but he heard heavy footsteps.

His heart stopped. He grabbed Oliver, jumped into the tub, and pulled the shower curtain over. He clasped his hand over Oliver’s mouth as he peered through the shower curtain to see Blake enter the bathroom.

Blake wore a gray sweater with a white vector forest silhouette and red plaid pants. Fabien’s back clung to the top as he stifled a groan, listening to Blake pee. Good God, he thought.

He sat there, hoping he wouldn’t pull the shower curtain back. He heard the toilet flush and Blake leave the bathroom. About time, slow pisser, he thought. He waited to hear him crawl back into bed. He stepped out of the tub, withdrew the crystal vial, and winced as he plunged his hand into the toilet bowl to fill the crystal vial with toilet water.

He yanked his hand back, screwed the cap on, and grinned. He stepped back into the bedroom to see Oliver on the dresser, batting at a purple crystal ball.

When Oliver knocked it over, Fabien leaped and caught the ball before it hit the floor. He tightly pursed his lips, glaring up at Oliver. He placed the ball in its holder and laid the crystal vial beside it. He grabbed Oliver and quietly marched out of his living space and down the stairs.

~

Fabien had returned Oliver to his home and then gone back to his own house. He wore his green plaid pajama pants and grinned as he held up the vial. He popped off the cap and gulped down the contents.

Suddenly, a sharp pang jolted through him. Fabien clasped his hand over his forehead. He trembled all over and fell to the floor. Sweat popped all over his skin, and he felt as if his skin was tearing off. He retched and screamed in horror when he saw all of his organs splash onto the floor. He frantically tried to gather them up and place them back in himself, but found himself disintegrating.

What is happening to me?! He thought, and he looked to his bed where Celeste slept. She’s gone?! He thought in a panic. As he tried to crawl to her, call her name, the floors collapsed under him, and he fell into a pit of darkness.