Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paintbrush loves their housemates more than anything, but in their opinion, the fact that they survived the move-in process without killing any of them should earn them a gold star from their therapist.

Fan has about half a million posters and Funko Pops and what have you that he’s very meticulous about having set up the right way, Lightbulb can’t seem to touch anything without breaking it, both of them keep distracting each other with things like bickering about the music choice or showing one another funny Tumblr posts they found, and Baxter keeps trying to “help” in the way that cats do, by getting underfoot or sitting on whatever Paintbrush is trying to use.

Test Tube was actually helpful, when she was here, but she had to leave part way through. The four of them arrived quite early to make sure they’re settled in by the time classes start, and today also happens to be the move-in day for new students. A close family friend of Test Tube’s–basically a sister from another mister, as Test Tube called it–is part of the freshman class, so Test Tube is helping her move in.

Even now that they’re all finished, and on the couch going through texts, they’re not relaxed. Marshmallow is also back early because she’s an RA, and she’s blowing up their phone complaining about one of her residents. Apparently it’s someone who was in the year below her in high school, and they really did not get along for some reason. Paintbrush doesn’t know the full situation, but in their opinion, Marshmallow needs to grow up and actually talk to the person instead of just complaining to them about someone she hasn’t seen in a year. They’re not going to say that of course, because they’re not that much of a dick, but they’re very tempted.

They hear the door open, and immediately jump to their feet, yelling, “DON’T LET BAXTER OUT!” As expected, the furry little escape artist makes a break for the door, but thankfully, one of the people at the door is Test Tube, who knows the drill and scoops Baxter up before he can run for the hills.

“You,” Test Tube tells him, “are a little menace. An absolute jeebweezer, you hear me?”

“He’s a cute jeebweezer, though,” the other person at the door coos, reaching over to stroke Baxter’s head. Paintbrush doesn’t recognize her–she’s small, and dressed almost exclusively in bright pink, to match her fuschia hair that’s tied into long pigtails with ribbon. 

“Hey, I don’t think we’ve met,” Paintbrush says. “I’m Paintbrush. You must be Bow. Test Tube’s told us a lot about you.”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” Bow replies cheerily. 

Fan wanders in, catches sight of the group, and comes over. “Oh, hey, you two! How’d moving into the dorm go?” He stayed with Test Tube’s family part of the summer, so he’s met Bow before.

“Pretty good, pretty good!” Bow replies. “I really like my roommate, Goo. He’s kinda weird, but so am I, so it works out!” She grins. “Speaking of, don’t you guys have another housemate?”

“Yeah, Lightbulb just left,” Paintbrush tells her. “She has to lead one of the opening week groups.”

Bow’s eyes widen. “Oh shit, I have to go to one of the opening week groups!” She gives Test Tube a quick hug, and then waves to Paintbrush and Fan. “Bye, guys! It was super nice to meet you, Paintbrush!” She rushes off.

“Seems like a good kid,” Paintbrush remarks. “Are you gonna recruit her into stage crew?”

“Oh, naturally,” Test Tube replies. “We’re going to need more hands on deck. I keep getting told I’m nuts for still doing lighting design while double majoring in chemistry and engineering, so I could definitely use some backup to keep me from going even more nuts. Plus, a few crew members graduated or transferred, and what with the big Taco blowup last semester, I doubt she’ll be back.”

“Yeah, and the most important person in our design crew is betraying us!” Fan exclaims, shooting Paintbrush a glare.

Paintbrush rolls their eyes. “I’m not betraying you. I’ve acted in shows before, and you haven’t had a problem. Besides, there’s no guarantee I’ll get in, and if I don’t, I’ll be back with you guys.”

“Oh, you’ll get in,” Fan assures them. “You’re a damn good actor, and Ballpointlikes you, so you’re basically a shoo-in.” He pauses. “Wait, no, not Ballpoint, it’s whoever this new guy is! MePhone, or whatever.” He flops dramatically down on the couch. “Everything’s changing now! What’s happened to the theatre department that we used to have?”

Test Tube lays Baxter down on top of Fan’s chest. “We’ll be fine, Fan. The show must go on, right?”

It takes Bow a bit to find where she’s supposed to meet her opening week group. However, once she gets there she’s the only one, aside from a tall, cheerful-looking girl with a round face, even rounder glasses, and natural hair that’s vibrant yellow and pushed back with a silver headband. She waves at Bow. “Hey, you’re right on time! I’m Lightbulb.”

“I’m Bow. Aren’t you another one of Test Tube’s housemates?”

“Yerp, that’s me! I’m also Painty’s partner, you met them yet?”

“Yeah, I have! They seem nice!” Bow had known beforehand that Paintbrush was nonbinary, and she can’t quite put her finger on why, but she always finds it cool hearing people use singular ‘they’ pronouns. She also notices Lightbulb herself has a trans pin on her jacket, which cheers her up as well. It’s just neat that people are comfortable in their own skin, she thinks.

“How ‘bout the real head of the household, Baxter?” Lightbulb asks.

Bow giggles. “The cat? Yeah, he tried to make a break for it when I got there.”

“Classic Baxter.” Lightbulb glances around, and Bow does too, noticing that the rest of the group has trickled in. “Alright, I should probably get started, now everyone’s here.” She claps her hands to get peoples’ attention. “Alright, hey everyone! My name is Lightbulb, my pronouns are she/her, and I am here to introduce all you wonderful baby bird freshmen to the world of college.”

“Correction,” one student next to Bow jumps in, “not all of us are freshmen. Transfer students, such as myself, are also required to come to these events.” 

Lightbulb shoots her a finger gun. “Right you are, my friend whose name I don’t know! Hey, could you get us started with intros?”

“Absolutely. Cabby, she/her pronouns. Nice to meet you all.” She speaks primly, with her chin held high in a manner that matches her very put-together presentation. Her periwinkle hair is perfectly neat, and she’s dressed more like she’s going to a job interview than college. She has a pencil behind her ear and a notebook in hand, and the bag slung across the back of her wheelchair seems to have a plethora of similar notebooks in different colors.

“Okay, wonderful, let’s go this-a-way.” Lightbulb gestures clockwise, which means Bow is next.

“Um, hi, yeah, I’m Bow, and uh, she/her, I guess,” she mumbles, as fast as she can speak intelligibly to get it over with. She doesn’t know why she hates introducing herself, especially with pronouns, it just always feels a little wrong. Whatever. Not a big deal.

The rest of the group go around and introduce themselves as well–Bow learns that the cheerful girl with the butterfly shirt is Clover, the sickly-looking boy is Tissues, the gloomy guy in all dark blue and black is Blueberry, the girl with the southern accent is Hay Bale, and the other two who seem joined at the hip are Clip and Toilet Paper.

Cabby seems to spend the whole time buried in one of her notebooks, writing furiously. She continues this as they set off on a tour around the campus, putting the notebook in her bag when they start moving so she can turn the wheels of her chair, but pulling it back out the second they’re stopped. 

Just for the sake of making conversation with someone, Bow taps her on the shoulder. “Whatcha writing?”

Cabby startles a little, but then smiles. “Oh, hello! I just like to keep track of everything I hear, you know? Always good to have things to look back at later.” Clearly, Bow thinks, glancing at Cabby’s bag. There sure are a lot of notebooks. Cabby pulls out one of them to replace the one she has in her hand. “You said your name was Bow, yes?” When Bow nods, Cabby flips a few pages. “You know, I’ve been looking into some of the history of this school, and–”

Bow cuts her off. “Yeah, I know, there was another Bow that went here that supposedly died somewhere in the theatre building, and yes, we are related, she was my aunt, and I was named after her.” She doesn’t mean to be snippy, but she’s gone her entire life being told she looks exactly like her aunt, and it’s only gotten more common as she’s gotten closer to the age she died. Bow would never say so to her family, of course, but she’s kind of sick of it.

“Good to know,” Cabby replies, writing something down. Lightbulb calls for them to follow her again, and Cabby puts her notebook back in her bag. “I was actually interested in getting involved with the theatre department myself, you know. I’ve been talking with the faculty about being a dramaturg for the upcoming production of The Winters’ Tale.”

“Yeah, I wanted to do some tech stuff!” Bow giggles. “I mean, it feels kinda cursed to, like, work in the building where a relative who looks uncannily like me and has my name died. Theatre people have so many superstitions I can’t keep track of them, but that definitely can’t be good luck.” She shrugs. “But my, um…” Bow trails off. She always finds it hard to describe her relationship to Test Tube. ‘Friends’ seems not quite the right word–they’re more like family than anything–but describing them as ‘sisters’ is just incorrect and confusing. “I have a really close family friend I grew up with, Test Tube, who’s been here a few years, and she does tech, so I wanted to do it with her.”

“Well, I’d be happy to work with you!” says Cabby cheerfully. “By the way, what you said about superstitions reminded me, I’ve been doing some preliminary research on the topic of Shakespeare production, and I found out that the infamous Scottish Play superstition is suspected to have come from the fact that Macbeth was so popular in its era that it was often the go-to play that struggling theaters would put on to bring in money, but was also expensive to put on and would also often bankrupt said theaters. Interesting, no?”

“...uh,” is all Bow can think to say.

Cabby laughs. “Oh, look at me, going on. I get so caught up in my ramblings, it slips my mind that not everyone is as much of a nerd as me about these things.”

“No, Test Tube is a big nerd too, so I’m used to it.” Bow laughs as well. “You know, you two would really get along, now I think about it. She’s kinda awkward, but she’s super smart and a great friend if you get to know her. I should introduce you if I get the chance!”

“I’d really like that, actually,” Cabby replies. “Even outside of having just transferred and all, I’m…not always good at making friends, and I want to change that.”

“Well, I don’t see why anyone wouldn’t want to be friends with you,” Bow tells her. “I know I just met you, but I definitely do!”

Cabby smiles and writes something down. “I could say the same to you.”

They chat for the rest of the tour, and Bow can’t help but feel relieved. Between Cabby, and Goo, and all of Test Tube’s housemates, she already has a solid selection of friendly faces here. Maybe this college thing won’t be so hard.

Bow: tt. omg i just met your dream girl

Test Tube: ??? Explain please?

Bow: she was in my opening week group

she’s really smart, it seems like she knows about like literally everything? she has a bunch of notes on all sorts of stuff, she showed me some and theyre really in depth and she sounds just like how you get about your science stuff  when she starts talking about something she’s interested in

she’s also like. exactly your type she looks like if you took every girl you’ve ever had a crush on and made them into one person

Test Tube: And just how do you know that?

Bow: bc you’re really bad at hiding when you’re into someone

Test Tube: Fair point. What does she look like, more specifically, though? So I can recognize her if I see her.

Bow: uhhh she has like shortish blue hair and she uses a wheelchair. also she’ll probably have a notebook or smth. her name’s cabby, lmk if you run into her

Test Tube: Will do! Thanks, Bow!

Bow: thank me when youre walking down the aisle

Silver lays the last of his many bags down on the bed and lies down on top of it, staring up at the ceiling and trying to keep his eyes open. It’s 6:30 in the evening, and he knows he should go for dinner before the cafeteria closes, but he’s not hungry at all. His internal clock thinks he’s still across the pond, and is trying its damnedest to convince him it’s the middle of the night rather than dinnertime. 

He’s alone in his room for now, but that won’t be the case for long. Of course he did know that applying to special interest housing meant that there was a chance he’d be in a double, and luckily the room does have a division, but in his personal opinion, as an upperclassman, he should have been placed in a single. God forbid his roommate is messy, or annoying, or–

“Well, well, Silver Spoon. This is just like the Renaissance Faire all over again, isn’t it?”

Silver sits bolt upright at the familiar voice. For the past two years he’s been selling the jewelry he makes in his spare time at the school’s Renaissance Faire. And each and every time, he’s been next to a tarot booth run by none other than…

“Candle?” He smooths his hair and straightens his shirt. “Don’t get me wrong, my dear, it’s lovely to see you, but…what are you doing here?”

Candle raises an eyebrow. “I am….moving in? To this room in which I live? Did you not get the email informing you I would be your roommate?”

“Ah. Perhaps my inbox ate it.”

“Perhaps,” Candle replies with a shrug. “I’m mostly just surprised his highness would deign to live on campus with us plebeians.”

She’s baiting him, and he doesn’t want to go for it, but he’s too tired to think of anything to say other than, “Well, outside of tuition and necessities, I’ve been mostly cut off, so having my own house isn’t really an option.” Oops. A bit too much for someone he’s barely ever talked to outside of Ren Faire, but there’s no taking it back now.

Candle’s brow furrows, and Silver braces for too many personal questions about his family life, but instead, she simply says, “You don’t look well, Silver.”

“I don’t feel well,” he admits. “I only just got in a few days ago, and it’s 2:30 in the morning in London. I was waiting for you to arrive so I could get some sleep.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Candle replies. “If you sleep and eat when your body wants you to, you’ll never get used to the time difference. Have you had any dinner?”

“No,” Silver grumbles, curling up on his side. He knows she’s right, that he should eat, but his stomach is killing him. 

“Perfect! You go get some food, and some natural light, which will help your body adjust, and I get some space to unpack.”

Silver sits back up. “Are you kicking me out? You can’t do that! I live here too!”

“It will benefit the both of us,” Candle replies, rolling one of her bags into her room. “But yes, I am.”

Silver groans and pulls himself to his feet, wobbling a little but catching himself. His eyes are so bleary he can barely tie his shoes, but somehow he makes it out the door.

He certainly still wishes he got a single, but…it could be worse, right?

Microphone is trying her best to listen to her gender studies professor explaining the syllabus for the semester, but there’s a girl across the room who just will not stop staring at her.

It’s not an “I have a crush on you and I’m trying to suss out if you’re interested in women” type stare–it’s more, “I’m trying to figure out if I can take you in a fight” type stare. It’s very disconcerting.

Mic comforts herself with the fact that Scary Girl probably could not take her in a fight–she’s at least a whole head shorter than Mic. She isn’t very intimidating-looking in other respects, either, with chin-length blond hair and a smattering of freckles that read more as cartoon character than ax murderer. Her dress sense is what really makes her stand out–business casual meets early aughts Hot Topic, complete with, of all things, a bright green hat modeled after that little robot guy in Invader Zim. Having someone who looks like that staring daggers at you for a full hour and a half is, needless to say, distracting.

So distracting, in fact, that Mic doesn’t notice that the professor has dismissed them until she sees the people around her getting up. When she does, she slings her bag over her shoulder and hurries out the door.

It takes her until she’s already out of the building and en route back to her dorm that she realizes someone has fallen into step beside her.

It’s Scary Girl. Shit.

Microphone might as well try to be friendly, on the off chance this girl isn’t an ax murderer, so she asks, “Do you live in this direction too?” When Scary Girl nods, Mic adds, “My name’s Microphone, by the way. Most people call me Mic, though. What about you?”

Silence. Maybe she didn’t hear or understand the question. Mic can’t fault her for that. She still sometimes has to remind her friends that they need to face her when they speak, because her hearing aids aren’t magic and she still has to read their lips to understand them. So she taps Scary Girl on the shoulder and, once she has her attention, repeats the question. Still nothing–Scary Girl just turns away and keeps walking.

“Ooookay,” Mic says slowly. “Not much of a talker, are you?”

Shrug.

“Well, I definitely am, so do you mind if I talk while we walk?”

Head shake.

“Is that no, you don’t mind, or no, you do mind?”

Scary Girl holds up one finger to indicate the former. 

Mic breathes a sigh of relief. Talking always helps her relieve anxiety. “So, yeah, like I said, I’m Microphone. I’m a sophomore, and I haven’t officially declared yet, but I think I’m definitely gonna major in music. I like trying a bunch of different things, though. Like, I haven’t taken a gender studies class before now, but it seemed cool, so I was like, what the hell, why not, y’know? And I’m thinking I’m gonna audition for the main theatre department play this semester, ‘cause my best friend and roommate did a lot of theatre last year and she said–whoa, are you okay?”

Scary Girl has stopped in her tracks, and her expression is unreadable, but it’s not good. It’s somewhere between frustration and distress, with a furrowed brow and pursed lips. Whatever it is, she shakes it off after a second and keeps walking. Mic wants to ask more questions, but she doubts she’ll get a response, and anyways, they’re at the door of the building.

Mic turns towards the stairs, but Scary Girl turns the other direction, unlocks one of the dorm room doors, and slams it shut before Mic can say, “Oh, okay, bye…?”

Before going back to her own room, she goes back to the door and glances at the name. Taco. Huh, okay.

As she walks upstairs, Mic decides she’ll ask Soap about Taco. Taco did seem to have a reaction when Mic mentioned the theatre department. Maybe Soap knows what’s going on there.

When she gets to their shared divided double, though, Soap isn’t in the front room. (Excited as they both had been to share a room, they also both knew an undivided room was a disaster waiting to happen. Call it the neurodivergent oil-and-water effect–Mic’s ADHD thrives on a kind of controlled chaos that Soap’s OCD certainly does not.)

Mic waits around for a bit, but eventually she figures she might as well get started on some homework. By the time Soap gets back, she’s completely forgotten about what she wanted to tell her in the first place.

“How’s it goin’, mate?”

Baseball jumps, dropping the pencil he’s been using to fill out his audition form. “Man, Floory, you’ve gotta stop doing that. You’re gonna give someone a fucking heart attack one of these days.”

“Well, hello to you too.” Floory flops down next to Baseball on the comfy lobby couch, who picks up the pencil and gets back to work on the form.

After a moment, he asks, “Why are you even here? You’re always on crew, unless you’re having a senior crisis."

Floory shrugs. “Nope, no crises here. Just wanted to see who we’re looking at here.” He glances around. “Lotta familiar faces here–you, OJ, Lightbulb et cetera–but a lot of new people too. Mostly freshmen, I’m assuming, but I’ve seen that punk looking girl hanging out with Soap, the girl with purple hair was in my psych class two semesters ago, and I think I’ve seen that buff blond guy around campus.”

Baseball follows where Floory is indicating. “Ugh, Trophy? He sucks. Me, him and Knife were on the track team together last year, and he and Knife had some kinda beef, so to retaliate Trophy tried to out him.”

Floory raises an eyebrow. “I…wasn’t aware Knife was in the closet last year.”

“That’s the funny thing, he really wasn’t!” Baseball laughs. “Everyone was like, ‘uh, yeah, we know.’ But obviously everyone who hadn’t already realized what an asshole Trophy is, because seriously, who the hell does that?”

“Yikes,” Floory mutters. He opens his mouth to add something, but his attention is caught by a girl who’s suddenly standing next to them. “Oh, hey, what’s up?”

“Um, hi, is this the right place for auditions?” The girl’s face is the classic ‘lost freshman’ expression turned up to eleven. Everything about her seems to be an attempt to make herself unseen, from her curled-inward posture to her clothes in all shades of brown other than a few gold accents on her hijab and skirt. She’s also shaking like a leaf. Poor kid.

“Yep, this is the place!” Floory tells her. “Fancy meeting another Aussie here! I’m Floory, and this is Baseball.”

“I’m Suitcase, nice to meet you.” She smiles shyly. “So, do you know what I’m supposed to do, or…?”

“All you gotta do,” Floory explains, “is fill out an audition form, and then when it’s your turn, MePhone will call your name and you’ll go in and do the piece you prepared, and then at some point you’ll get an email if you get a callback.”

Suitcase’s eyes widen, and she sinks down on the couch with a groan. “Oh no! I didn’t prepare anything.” She pulls her knees to her chest, looking like she’s about to cry. “I don’t know why I even wanted to do this. I can’t speak in front of people without going into a panic anyways. I just wanted to meet people, and–”

“Hey, don’t worry!” Floory interrupts. “You know, you don’t have to act to get involved. We over on the tech side can always use more people.” That gets Suitcase’s attention, and she looks over with wide eyes.

“Yeah!” Baseball adds. “My friend Nickel is doing scenic design this year, and he could definitely use an assistant.”

“Nickel?” Floory repeats. “You’re going to feed this poor innocent baby lamb to the wolves?” Suitcase opens her mouth like she’s going to protest against the “poor innocent baby lamb” comment, but closes it again.

“He’s not–” Baseball grumbles, but then sighs. “Ignore that, Suitcase. Nickel is…abrasive for sure, but he’s not bad once you get to know him.” Maybe he should have a more glowing review for his best friend, but yeah, Floory’s kinda right, Nickel can be a lot.

Suitcase sniffles, blinks, and smiles. “Thanks, guys. I’ll see you around.” She stands up, straightening her skirt before walking off.

Things go on as they do—auditions, callbacks, offers are sent and accepted, prospective crew are contacted, and eventually, the final cast and crew lists are sent out. Which means, of course, the Bright Lights household has to convene for a gossip session. 

Lightbulb marches into Fan’s room with Paintbrush and Test Tube in tow, flops down on the bed, and declares, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours. By which I mean emails, obviously.” 

Paintbrush rolls their eyes as they sit next to her. “Jesus, Lightbulb, are you in college or middle school?”

Test Tube laughs, sitting next to Fan and leaning against him. Inane as it is, she has to admit, their goofy little tradition makes her feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “You guys first. Let’s see that cast list.”

“Alright, we’re starting out strong with–” Paintbrush tosses their hair and strikes a pose, “--yours truly as Leontes.” The rest of them let out a little cheer–they already knew, obviously, because Paintbrush told everyone as soon as they got the offer, but they’re all so proud.

“Next up we have Candle as Hermione, okay, she’s cool as far as I know, and–ugh, Silver Spoon as Polixenes.”

Lightbulb nudges their shoulder. “You’re gonna have to learn to be civil with him, Painty. Teamwork makes the dream happen, as they say.”

“First of all, they don’t,” Paintbrush says. “Second, I’ll be civil with him when he’s civil with me. He’s a complete stuck-up prick who thinks he’s above everyone. He’s never once been to strike, which is, like, the number one indicator of a complete douchebag actor.”

“Eh, at least you get to try to have him poisoned. Okeydoke, moving on.” Lightbulb scrolls on her phone for a second. “Uh, Soap as Perdita–makes sense, she’s pretty good–and OJ as Florizel.”

“Ooooh, Salt’s gonna be jealous,” Fan singsongs.

“Let’s see, Balloon as Camillo, sounds good, sounds good…Microphone as Paulina, who I think is a friend of Soap’s…some girl called Lightbulb is playing Autolycus, don’t know who that is!” She winks. “Baseball is the Shepherd, Cheesy is the Clown, and Clover, she’s a freshman this year, is Antigonus–”

“Huh, really?” Paintbrush interrupts. “I overheard some of her audition, and she’s, like, really good. That seems like a smaller role than I would’ve expected.”

“Funny you say that,” Lightbulb says, “she was in my opening week group, and we got to talking about theatre. She says she just likes going for smaller roles anyway.”

Paintbrush looks down at their phone. “Okay, then there’s a few more people playing smaller ensemble-type roles. Salt and Pepper, Trophy–ew, I hate that guy–Tissues, who I think is Soap’s younger brother, and Apple, who I’m pretty sure is the freshman Marshmallow has beef with, so that’s gonna be…interesting. Oh, and Mamillius is someone named Cherries, who has the same last name as Apple, so given that Apple’s from in town like Marshmallow is, presumably that’s, like her kid brother.” They glance up at Fan and Test Tube. “Your turn! Who’ve you got on tech?”

Test Tube gestures to Fan to begin–she knows he lives for this kind of stuff. 

“Okay,” he mumbles, pulling up the email. “So first of all, we’ve got this new MePhone guy directing, and everything’s gonna be different and weird but it’s–” he breathes in sharply through his nose, “--fine. At least the rest of the faculty is the same–Tea Kettle for costumes, Lifering for scenic. We’ve got MePad stage managing, and Floory as ASM, and then there’s another ASM I don’t know, Toilet. And then, of course, the amazing Fan and Test Tube as sound and lighting designers, respectively, with Bow doing lightboard op and her roommate Goo doing soundboard op.”

“And they’re going to be kind of like Fan’s and my assistants throughout the whole process,” Test Tube jumps in, because she needs it to be acknowledged that Bow is going to be doing cool stuff. “Sorry, Fan, continue.”

“Knife and Marshmallow on scenic design, Nickel is the props master with Suitcase, who I also don’t know, as assistant props master, Paper on costume design, Pickle and Bomb are spot operators, and Yin-Yang and Blueberry are run crew. I don’t know either of them, I guess they’re probably freshmen. Oh, and we have a dramaturg this year! Her name’s Cabby, I don’t know her either.”

Test Tube doesn’t mean to make a little squeaky noise, but she does, and now everyone is looking at her. Wonderful.

Lightbulb raises an eyebrow. “She was in my opening week group too, but I didn’t know you’d met her, Test Tube!”

“No, we haven’t met,” Test Tube sighs, “but Bow knows her, and…I guess I should just show you this.” She pulls up her conversation with Bow and hands it to Fan. The others crowd around to read it, and break into giggles.

Test Tube rolls her eyes. “It’s not that funny.”

Paintbrush snorts. “Well, I guess you’re gonna find out whether she really is your dream girl pretty soon, since we have a cast and crew meeting literally in half an hour.”

Test Tube goes back to her email, and sure enough, there’s a new one from MePhone telling them to meet in the design classroom at seven. She shoots her friends a death glare. “You guys have gotta promise me you’re gonna be normal, right? I don’t want to be caught up in any drama because you’re being all weird about her.”

“C’mon, Tube, when have we ever not been normal?” Lightbulb asks, with a grin that borders on maniacal. 

This is going to be a nightmare.

The thought keeps going through Test Tube’s head for the next half hour, until she finally has to reluctantly make the short trek with her friends to the theater building. When they get there, a few people are already seated around the table. One of them is Bow, who is in deep conversation with–

The first thing Test Tube can think is, oh wow, she was right.

She doesn’t know exactly what it is, but something about Cabby’s clean-cut appearance juxtaposed with the way she’s leaning on the table and clearly very excited about whatever she’s explaining is undeniably attractive to Test Tube. So much so that she’s frozen in place until Bow glances up. “Oh, hey! Cabby, this is Test Tube, Fan, and Paintbrush! You’ve already met Lightbulb, of course.”

“Wonderful to meet you! I’ve heard great things from Bow about all of you. Especially you, Test Tube!”

Test Tube tries to formulate a response, but she’s immediately sidetracked by Cabby’s eyes. She doesn’t normally notice people’s eye color–she’s always thought of that as something that people only do in the fanfics Fan sends her, not real life–but Cabby’s are something else. Test Tube can’t quite put a finger on what she’d call the color, maybe somewhere between hazel and copper, but whatever it is, it’s beautiful. Trying to get herself to snap to, she shifts her gaze to Cabby’s nose instead, but that’s no less distracting, because it’s covered in the cutest little freckles. 

She forces herself to say something rather than just staring, but maybe that’s a bad idea, because what comes out is, “Yeah, I’ve heard good things about me as well! I mean, uh, I’ve good heard things–golly, I really can’t talk today, huh?”

Thankfully, Fan jumps in to save her just in time. “Hey, I really like all the pins on your bag! I’ve got, like, a million stickers on my laptop, so we’re kinda twinning!” He gets his laptop out of his backpack to show her.

“Wow, that is a lot of stickers,” Cabby muses. “Definitely an interesting selection. Fan, I hope I’m not being too forward in saying this, but looking at those stickers and considering what they say about your interests, may I say that…I like your shoelaces?”

To Test Tube, it seems like an innocuous question, if a confusing one–Fan’s shoelaces are plain white, and rather beat up at that. Fan, however, doesn’t seem to take it as such, sighing like he’s just lost years off his life. “Thanks, I…stole them from the president,” he replies through gritted teeth. “My URL’s inanimateinsanityfan, what about you?”

“Oh, I haven't touched it since high school,” Cabby replies. “I was just curious how you’d react.” She pulls out a notebook and writes something in it, giggling a little.

Test Tube is about to ask what on earth language the two of them are speaking, but MePhone gets their attention. “Okay, everyone, I guess we have to get started if we want to go home before stupid o’clock at night. We’re gonna have a presentation from our dramaturg, and then go into the table read. Designers, you should probably be taking notes and thinking about what you might want to do. Or don’t, I guess, but it’s your funeral if you have more work for yourself later on. Up to you.” 

Test Tube isn’t sure she likes the vibe MePhone is bringing to the room, but the thought disappears as soon as he says, “Okay, take it away, Cabby,” and Cabby rolls to the front of the room and begins her presentation.

Test Tube has never had much of an interest in Shakespearean history, but Cabby just makes it so captivating. She’s clearly so invested in what she’s talking about, and Test Tube is transfixed by every gesture. She could watch Cabby forever, but unfortunately, the presentation does eventually end and they move on to the table read. Test Tube barely hears a word, flipping between staring unseeingly at her script to look like she’s doing her job and sneaking glances at Cabby. Bow really was right–she’s never had a crush this intense before, especially at first sight. 

She’s so out of it that it takes Fan shaking her shoulder to notice the meeting is over. “Hey, uh, we’re going home now.” His mouth is quirked up in the corner, as though he knows exactly where her mind’s been for the past few hours.

“Yeah, I’m just gonna run to the bathroom,” Test Tube manages to say. “You guys don’t have to wait for me.”

Once Test Tube is in the bathroom, she just stares at herself in the mirror, taking deep breaths. “Get a grip, Test Tube,” she mumbles. “If you can balance two separate STEM majors without losing your mind, you can handle a silly little crush.”

She stays there for a minute, then starts to go back out into the lobby. Before she turns the corner, though, she realizes she can hear someone talking, and when she glances out, she realizes it’s Cabby. She doesn’t want to eavesdrop, per se, but she’s too embarrassed to walk in now, so there she stays.

“No, I know I should call him,” Cabby sighs into the phone. “It’s not that I don’t want to talk to him, he’s just, you know–” She chuckles darkly. “Yes, ‘helicopter parent’ is exactly the term I would use. I understand why, I just…I hate feeling like I’m not trusted. I know that’s not fair, because I barely even trust my own brain, it’s just, I’m not a child anymore, and this won’t be freshman year all over again. The professors here have been more accommodating to my needs, and the students are…kinder.” She listens for a minute. “No, I haven’t. There are definitely people I would consider friends, or at least potential friends, but nobody I’d trust to tell about that. I don’t need to be dumping all my baggage on these people I just met.”

Speaking of baggage–to Test Tube’s horror, her grip on her backpack unintentionally loosens, and it falls to the ground with a clatter. She hears Cabby pause as she hastily scoops it up. 

“Alright, I have to go now,” Cabby finally continues. “But thank you for calling, Cork. I’ll talk to you soon.” She pauses for a second again, and then laughs a little as she says, “Love you too.” Then after a few more seconds: “Hello again, Test Tube. I suppose you heard all of that phone call?”

Test Tube is utterly mortified, but she has no choice other than to walk out into the lobby. Cabby isn’t visibly disappointed–her face is almost entirely neutral, her eyebrows just slightly raised inquisitively. Somehow that just makes Test Tube more nervous. “Uh, no, not all of it. Just the last few minutes. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, by the way. I just, um…” She doesn’t have an end to that sentence, so she just trails off awkwardly.

“Oh, it’s no big deal,” Cabby promises. “I can’t say I’ve never stuck my nose where it doesn’t belong before.” She laughs–a warm, hearty laugh that makes Test Tube’s stomach tingle. “I was just talking to my younger sister, Cork. She’s just started eighth grade.”

“Golly, good luck to her,” Test Tube says with a shudder. “Middle school is such a nightmare. What I wouldn’t give to completely erase those years from my brain, huh?”

Cabby goes tense for a second, something flickering over her face, but it passes so quickly Test Tube figures she might have imagined it. “I don’t know, I think Cork is tough enough to make it through unscathed. Maybe I’m just biased, though.”

A weird energy lingers in the air, and Test Tube feels the need to say something to break it. “So, uh, what are you majoring in, do you know?”

“History and English,” Cabby replies. “The humanities have always been some of my favorite subjects, so it just seemed natural.”

“Oh hey, another double major!” Test Tube says cheerily.

“Yes, although I’m certainly not going for–” she extracts a notebook from her bag and flips through it to find a page, “--chemistry and engineering, is I believe what Bow said you do?”

Test Tube blinks. “You have stuff about me in there?”

“Of course I do. I try to keep a record of anything that catches my interest, and you do nothing if not catch my interest.”

Test Tube doesn’t even know where to begin with that, but her crush is just getting bigger and bigger with every word Cabby says and every thing she does. She decides to take the conversation back a couple of steps to safer ground. “So, is studying history and English how you got into dramaturgy?”

“Mm-hmm,” Cabby hums. “I’ve always wanted to try it, so I’m excited to get the opportunity. How about you? What brought you to lighting design?”

“I took a tech theatre class freshman year just to get a fine arts credit out of the way, and I kinda ended up falling in love with it,” Test Tube explains. “It’s like–I’m coding, and working with machines, and all that stuff I’m good at, and I can use that to help make a work of art. I think that’s kinda neato.”

“I agree,” Cabby says, and writes something down in her notebook.

Test Tube is snapped out of her romantic daze by feeling her phone buzz in her pocket. She glances at it–it’s a text from Lightbulb that reads, “yo tt where are you did you die? If you did can i have yr room”

Test Tube sighs. “I guess I should get home so my housemates don’t think you murdered me or something.”

“Oh, please. If I wanted to murder you, they’d never trace it back to me.” She attempts to wink, but doesn’t quite pull it off, accidentally closing her other eye as well. She’s so adorably nonthreatening that Test Tube can’t help but giggle, and Cabby joins her. 

“So, uh, I’ll probably see you soon,” Test Tube says awkwardly.

To her surprise, Cabby takes her hand in a firm handshake. “See you, Test Tube. It was lovely to meet you.”

Test Tube doesn’t trust herself to talk, given how much Cabby’s touch is making her brain explode, so the two of them exit the theater together in silence before heading out in different directions. 

Test Tube is in a daze the whole walk back to her house–when she gets there, Paintbrush and Lighbulb are watching something in Paintbrush’s room, but Fan’s door is slightly ajar. Test Tube enters without knocking and flops onto his bed.

“Whoa, what’s with you?” Fan asks, poking her gently.

Test Tube sighs. “She’s exactly as perfect as Bow says she is. I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.”

Fan cocks his head. “You know you have to tell me everything about her now, right? It’s codified into the law of being best friends. I’m sending you to friend jail if you don’t.”

“What, exactly, would friend jail entail?”

“You have to listen to me explain the entire history of Dr. Who.”

Test Tube doesn’t actually mind listening to Fan infodump about whatever it is he’s into–she enjoys it, honestly–but she still scoots up next to him and begins explaining her conversation with Cabby from earlier. Even just going back over it, she feels like she’s crushing harder the more she tells. 

When she goes back to her own room, she notices she has a text.

Unknown Number: Hi again, Test Tube.

Test Tube: I’m sorry, who is this? I don’t have you in my contacts.

Unknown Number: My apologies, I should have clarified right away. This is Cabby.

Test Tube: Oh, hey, Cabby. How’d you get my number?

Cabby: It was on the department contact sheet.

Test Tube: Oh right, yeah.

Cabby: So, how are you spending this fine evening?

Test Tube: Engineering homework while hanging out with Lightbulb’s cat.

[A picture of Test Tube with Baxter curled up against her chest.]

Cabby: How cute!

The cat, I mean.

Test Tube: Wow, okay, rude :)

I take it you’re a cat person, then?

Cabby: My heart says yes, but my immune system says no.

Test Tube: Aw, that’s too bad!

Cabby: It’s not too bad of an allergy, thankfully. Hives, sneezing, runny nose and eyes, what have you, but not anaphylaxis or anything like that. If I take my medicine I’m fine being around other people’s cats with little to no discomfort.

Test Tube: So if you hypothetically wanted to come meet Baxter at some point, you could?

Cabby: Hm, perhaps, hypothetically.

Test Tube: Actually the four of us have a tradition on Halloween of watching The Rocky Horror Picture Show together. This year Bow wants to come too. Would you be interested in coming over?

Cabby: Sounds like a lot of fun! I don’t have any other Halloween plans.

Test Tube: Great, it’s a date!

Friend date. Thing we’re doing as friends.

Cabby: I’ll put it on my calendar now.

I’ll let you get back to your homework/cat time now. Have a good night.

Test Tube: Night!

Chapter Text

Marshmallow is beginning to wonder why she even bothers doing section teatime if nobody ever shows up.

She knows this is what she signed up for when she decided to be an RA, and it’s not like she ever went to teatime last year, but seriously, she has so many things she could be doing rather than just sitting in the lounge twiddling her thumbs as she waits for the off chance someone could show.

She’s staring listlessly at her phone when she hears the door open, and her head snaps up. “Hi, are you here for…oh.” Of all the people to come–

“I’m just heating up some ramen,” Apple grumbles. “Get off my case.”

“I’m not on your case!” God, how is it Apple always manages to rile her up instantly?

“Yes, you are!” Apple slams the full kettle down, water going over the side. “It’s been a year since I’ve even seen you, and you’re still being a total jerk.”

Is she seriously doing this now? “You’re one to talk. You just started randomly hating me in high school for no reason! We used to be friends before that!”

Apple blinks, putting down her ramen. “Wait, what do you mean no reason?”

“I mean what I said,” Marshmallow replies. “You just started being a dick me out of nowhere. What was I supposed to do other than fight back?”

“It wasn’t out of nowhere.” Apple turns fully to face Marshmallow, leaning against the counter. “You kept making fun of me every time I messed something up in class or didn’t know something, and it made me feel really dumb. That’s not how a friend should act. I guess I just eventually snapped.”

“I…did?” Marshmallow tries to look back on what Apple is talking about, but, “I don’t remember that at all.”

“Yeah, because you weren’t the one who it really mattered to,” Apple mumbles.

Marshmallow’s brain is still trying to catch up with the conversation, so she’s not exactly sure what to say, but there’s one thing she knows she needs to tell Apple. “Wow, that was…really messed up of me. I guess I probably thought it was funny or something, and I didn’t realize you didn’t. It’s probably not much help now, but…I’m really sorry.”

Apple smiles a little. “It does help! And I guess I can stop holding a grudge, since you’re my RA and we’re in the same show, so it’d probably make things awkward.”

Marshmallow laughs. “Yeah, that’s right, you’re in the show! And little Cherries, too! How old is he now?”

“Thirteen,” Apple replies. 

“Whaaaat, he’s a teenager? No way! Wasn’t he just, like, a tiny kid doing his weird reverse Parent Trap bit?” Back when Marshmallow and Apple first became friends in sixth grade, Cherries would always pretend that he was a twin to everyone outside his family.

Apple giggles. “Yeah, and you totally fell for it!”

“No, he was a little kid, and I was humoring him,” Marshmallow huffs. She’s lying out her ass, but Apple doesn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, sure.” The kettle beeps, and Apple pours the hot water onto her ramen and adds the flavoring. “Okay, I gotta go do my creative writing homework. It was good to talk to you, though. Thanks for apologizing.”

“Of course!” Marshmallow replies. “And, uh, if you ever want help with classwork or don’t understand something about college life, let me know and I can help.”

“Yeah, I will!” Apple picks up her ramen, waves, and goes back to her room.

“Well that was really sudden,” Marshmallow mumbles to herself once Apple’s out of earshot. She picks up an Oreo from the teatime snacks and flops backward on the couch.

The second the actors are dismissed, Toilet immediately jumps up and starts putting the rehearsal props away as fast as he can. 

As he puts their shockingly ugly baby prop away (he can’t wait until that one gets replaced, it’s going to give him nightmares, why do they even have that?) someone comes up behind him.

“That goes in the other prop cabinet!” Mr. Phone chides him. “That’s why there’s a label in there that says, ‘baby.’ Because you’re supposed to put the baby there.”

“Oh, sorry, Mr. Phone!” Toilet scoops the awful little baby doll into his arms and rushes it to the other wing, then comes back once it’s safely away. “Did I do it right this time?”

Mr. Phone sighs. “Yeah, you did. Ideally someday you’re going to do it right the first time, but maybe that’s too much to hope for.” Under his breath, he adds, “completely incompetent.”

Toilet slumps as he picks up his backpack. He’s trying his best, but he can’t seem to do anything right in Mr. Phone’s eyes this entire time. 

“Hey, can’t you be a little nicer?” asks Floory as he wanders in and starts locking the cabinet.

“You stay out of this,” Mr. Phone replies. 

MePad comes in as well. “Professor, if you’d like to go home, I’m sure the three of us can handle locking up.”

Mr. Phone pauses for a moment, then relents. “Okay, whatever. I trust you, MePad. Night.”

Floory spends another moment fiddling with the lock after MePhone leaves, then when it fits into place, huffs in annoyance. “What a dick.”

MePad’s brow furrows. “You’re not wrong, but why do you say so now?”

“He was being completely rude to Toilet!” Floory replies. “He kept criticizing everything he did, even when it was right!”

“I’m sure Mr. Phone has a good reason–” Toilet tries to cut in, but Floory talks over him.

“C’mon, there’s no reason to act the way he did.”

MePad sighs, shuffling back and forth. “I’ve…worked with MePhone before, and he’s a lot to deal with, for sure. His directorial vision is good, but he’s not always the nicest person. Both of you, keep in mind that what he says is not always the truth. Especially you, Toilet. You’re just a freshman, and you can’t let him get to your head.”

“Hang on, where’d you work with him before?” asks Floory.

MePad blinks, staying still for a moment, and then says, “I should be getting home. I have to write my rehearsal report before bed.”

“Wait, uh–okay,” Floory flounders as MePad leaves. He turns back to Toilet. “Don’t know what that was, but he’s definitely right that you shouldn’t let MePhone get to your head, yeah? You’re a good kid, and you got a lot of potential.”

“Really? Oh my gosh!” Nobody’s ever said anything like that to him before.

“Yeah! You keep at it!” Floory nudges his shoulder. “You have a good night, okay?”

“You too!” Toilet replies cheerily as he picks up his bag and heads out of the building.

As he walks, though, he can’t help but feel like he has more questions than he has answers.

Suitcase hurries up the stairs into the shop. All students can sign up to work in the costume or scene shop, and she’s been trying to sign up for as many slots as she can, in order to prove that she’s dedicated.

Once she makes it upstairs, the only people there are the faculty, Tea Kettle and Lifering. They both smile and wave. “Hi, kiddo,” says Tea Kettle cheerily. “Suitcase, right?”

“Yeah,” she gasps, trying to catch her breath. “I’m the assistant props master.”

“Well, welcome!” says Lifering. “We’ve got two other students signed up for today, so we’re gonna wait until they get there to get started.”

“While you wait, why not take one of these brownies?” Tea Kettle holds out a plate. 

Suitcase takes one and has a bite. “Oh, wow, these are really good!”

“Aw, thank you, sweetheart!” Tea Kettle then notices someone over Suitcase’s shoulder. “Oh, hi there, Balloon! You want a brownie too?”

The person she’s addressing–one of the actors, a shortish, plump boy with a salmon colored sweatshirt and similarly colored hair–shrugs. “I think I’m okay.” He turns to Suitcase. “Be warned, if you finish that you probably won’t have room for dinner. They’re weirdly filling for how small they are.”

Suitcase laughs. “Eh, I’d say it’s worth it.”

“I’m Balloon, by the way! You’re a freshman, right?”

“I’m Suitcase!” she replies. “And yeah, I am. I’ve never done crew before, but I’m the assistant to–”

“Oh, great, I’m on the same slot as Balloon.” Suitcase looks to the doorway and sees none other than Nickel.

“Hi Nickel!” she calls. “Are you here to work in the shop as well?”

“Well, I have to put my hours in sometime, so I guess so,” Nickel grumbles. He sidles up next to Suitcase. “Listen, Suitcase, don’t bother with this guy, yeah? He’s not worth your time.”

“I thought he seemed nice,” Suitcase argues.

“Oh, he seems that way,” Nickel says. “But take it from me. I’ve survived this department with him for two years already, and he’s not the guy you want to hang around.”

“Oh, come on!” Balloon jumps in. “I don’t get why you still have this beef with me! Freshman year is in the past, and I’m a whole new person.” 

“Yeah, not new enough!” Nickel tries to storm away from the table, but trips over a cardboard box that’s on the floor. He scrambles to his feet with a huff.

“Hey!” Lifering exclaims. “You see what you just did? With all your fighting, you almost hurt Box!”

“I didn’t do anything, Nickel did!” Balloon argues. “Isn’t that right, Box?” Suitcase doesn’t know why they both keep referring to the box like it’s a person, but she has to assume it’s some kind of weird theatre inside joke she isn’t in on yet.

“You’re both acting like children,” Lifering tells them. “You’re upperclassmen now, and you’re supposed to be role models for new students like Suitcase, not putting the safety of your crewmates at risk by arguing all the time!” He puts his hands on his hips. “You know what I say, what’s so funny about safety?”

“Nothing’s funny about safety,” the boys grumble in unison. However, once Lifering turns away, they both glare at each other over Suitcase’s head.

How did she already manage to get in the middle of drama, even when she’s been doing her best to stay out of it?

“Okay, if nobody has anything else to say, I guess we can wrap up here,” MePhone announces, typing one last thing and putting it in his bag.

“Finally.” Knife groans, standing up to stretch. “Who the fuck sets a production meeting on Halloween night of all times?”

“I the fuck do,” MePhone replies, “and I’m the one grading you, so you’d better watch yourself.”

“Um, actually, we’re not being graded,” Test Tube feels the need to add, “it’s credit/no credit. And it’s really hard to not get Production Practicum credit–you’d basically have to actively try to fail. You could accidentally set the fire alarm off during a show and still get credit.” Remembering that Cabby is here and she doesn’t want to embarrass herself, she adds, “Ahem, not from personal experience.”

“Yeah, sure, you totally didn’t make everyone have to evacuate the theater and ruin Spring Awakening ,” Nickel jumps in. “Why do you even care anyways? I can’t imagine you have any big Halloween plans.”

Test Tube has to stop herself from “well, actually”-ing him again. She was roommates with Nickel freshman year, and she knows giving him attention makes him that much worse.

“Hey, I said we’re done!” MePhone calls out. “Get outta here so I can go home too!”

Fan, Test Tube, Cabby and Bow start making their way to the exit together. As they get to the door, Fan says, “Alright, Cabby, see ya around!”

Cabby blinks. “Hm? I thought I…Test Tube invited me to your movie night, did she not tell you?”

“Shoot, no, I didn’t!” How many times is Test Tube going to embarrass herself today? “Silly me. Sorry about that, I’m kinda forgetful sometimes.” She knocks on her head with what she means to be a goofy laugh, but it comes out more nervous.

“No, it’s no problem.” Cabby’s voice is oddly terse, and she has the same expression that had momentarily passed over her when they were talking about her little sister, when she and Test Tube first met. It passes just as quickly as it had then, though, as she turns to Fan and says, “I hope that’s alright with you.”

“No, yeah, of course!” he says. “The more the merrier. It’s a longstanding tradition, and it needs people to carry it down.”

“A longstanding tradition of three years?” Cabby asks, looking a bit amused.

“Try a few decades,” Test Tube explains. “My parents and Bow’s parents all went to college together, and they used to go see Rocky Horror at the movie theater, but there’s no theater near here that plays it on Halloween, and plus we’re all weird little misanthropes, so we do it at home.”

“Hey, speak for yourself!” Fan chastises her. 

“Fan, I love you so much, but you are absolutely a weird little misanthrope, and I say this because I am too.”

“Well, yeah, I know that! I was talking about Paintbrush and Lightbulb!”

Test Tube giggles and messes up Fan’s hair affectionately. He dodges out from under her and sticks out his tongue. Test Tube glances back at Cabby, a little embarrassed about being so childish in front of her, but she returns Test Tube’s gaze with a smile and a laugh, cute as usual.

By that point they’re in sight of the house, and when they reach the front door, Test Tube opens it for her friends. “Home sweet home!” Immediately, as she should have expected, a fuzzy orange blur rushes past her. “Oops, cat sweet cat as well.” Test Tube tries to grab Baxter, but fails. Fortunately, he doesn’t run for the hills, but less fortunately, he immediately jumps onto Cabby’s lap.

Cabby picks him up in one swift motion and holds him out to Test Tube. “Make no mistake, my feline friend, I do intend to snuggle with you later, but for now I need to take my medicine so I don’t turn into an allergy-ridden mess, hmm?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Test Tube agrees as Cabby roots around in her bag. “Sorry about that, by the way. I grew up with cats, and there’s no scientific reason for them to have some kind of second sense for who’s allergic to them, but I swear they do.”

“It’s actually a behavioral thing,” Cabby explains, reading from one of her notebooks. “People who have an allergy, fear, or general dislike of cats generally don’t try to engage with them, but cats prefer to initiate interactions themselves, so they see that lack of engagement as friendly.” She looks for a second like she’s going to add something else, but instead sneezes into her elbow, almost dropping the notebook. “Ugh, I suppose I should just stop rambling and take the medicine, huh?”

“Probably a good idea,” Test Tube says, although she could listen to Cabby ramble forever, but it’s not like she’s going to say that.

Cabby finally finds the box of allergy medicine, but when she looks at the front she just sighs. “Damn it.”

“What?”

“I meant to grab the non-drowsy kind of medicine, but no such luck.” She shrugs. “This stuff always makes me feel kind of loopy, but I’m sure I’ll still be able to enjoy the movie.”

“‘Kind of loopy’ is the best way to enjoy this movie, my good friend Cabigail!” Lightbulb sticks her head through the doorway. “Welcome to our humble abode.”

Cabby laughs her wonderful laugh. “My name isn’t Cabigail, but thank you.”

Everyone heads into the living room, where Paintbrush is glaring at their computer like it’s their arch nemesis. “C’mon, you motherfucker, work with me here–oh, hi, Cabby.”

“Hello, Paintbrush.” Cabby giggles. “Computer trouble, I take it?”

“You could say that,” they reply with a sigh. “I’m the one who has to make this fucking DVD play because I’m the last one of us who still has a laptop with a disk drive in this day and age, and we can’t use the streaming version because it’s only the US version, not the UK version, so it’s cut out ‘Super Heroes.’ We simply cannot have Rocky Horror night without ‘Super Heroes.’”

“Oh, absolutely, that would be a travesty,” Cabby agrees. “A controversial take to be sure, but I might even say it’s my personal favorite song.”

“Seriously?” Fan asks. “I mean, I like it,  but…over the Time Warp? Sweet Transvestite? Rose Tint My World?”

Cabby shrugs. “I don’t know, I like how it takes a more somber tone. Like, I know it’s a fun, trashy movie for the sake of being a fun, trashy movie, but given how the movie starts with showing how Brad and Janet are poster children for heteronormative, conservative all-American culture, I think it only makes sense to show how shaken up their worldviews have been by the end.”

Test Tube is doing her best not to swoon right now, because golly, how can Cabby be so cute? “Huh, I don’t know why, but I assumed you hadn’t seen the movie before.”

“Why, because you assumed I was an uptight academic?” Cabby raises an eyebrow and smirks a bit, which is really not fair. “I could have said the same for you.”

“No, I mean, I didn’t–” Test Tube stammers.

“I know, I know.” Cabby laughs again. “I did watch it for uptight academic reasons, though, so you’re half right. At my previous college I took a class on the history of queer cinema, and we watched it as part of the class and discussed the culture around it. Really interesting if you’re as interested in queer history as I am.”

Sensing an important chance is in front of her, Test Tube blurts, “I mean, you know I’m more of a STEM gal, but I’m also an ace lesbian, so it’s not completely out of my wheelhouse, I guess?”

“I mean, anyone could guess you’re not cishet by the fact that you live in this house,” Paintbrush mumbles, glancing up from their fight with their laptop to raise an eyebrow at Test Tube.

“Still, good to know,” Cabby says, pulling out a notebook and writing in it. Test Tube is absolutely not reading into that. Nope, no way. 

Suddenly, the opening notes of “Science Fiction, Double Feature” blast out of Paintbrush’s computer at top volume, making everyone jump. Paintbrush hastily pauses it and turns the sound down, then breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank fucking god. Okay, get over here, everyone!”

Test Tube, Fan, and Bow all crowd onto the couch around Paintbrush, and Test Tube pulls a blanket over her lap. She’d expected Cabby to stay in her wheelchair, but instead she transfers to the couch as well, and takes the other side of the blanket. She and Test Tube are now very close, so close that their shoulders are pressed together.

Cabby seems to notice how squirmy Test Tube is all of a sudden, and says, “Oh, I’m sorry, am I too much in your personal bubble? I thought I’d be better able to see from the couch, but if I’m bothering you I can–”

“No, no, I don’t mind!” Test Tube interrupts a little too fast.

Paintbrush sighs and glances in the direction of the kitchen. “Lightbulb! What’s taking you so long? We’re all ready to start!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” Lightbulb appears from the kitchen precariously holding several bowls and plates full of various snacks, as well as a pitcher full of a familiar bright pink drink and a few cups. She puts it all down on the coffee table and comes up behind the table to kiss Paintbrush on the cheek. “You of all people should know you can’t rush art, Painty,” she tells them. 

Fan leans forward and picks up the pitcher. “Oh, hey, you made the Lightbulb Special?”

“That I did! You want some?”

“You know it!” Fan replies.

Lightbulb pours him a glass and hands it to him. “How about you, Painty?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Bow?”

Bow frowns nervously at the pitcher. “What’s in it?”

Lightbulb raises an eyebrow. “It’s a secret. If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Yeah, she’s never told any of us, not even me,” Paintbrush says. “It’s really good and it’s never poisoned anyone, though, so whatever.”

“I’ll have a little,” Bow says tentatively. Lightbulb pours her a bit, and she takes a sip. “Oh, it is good!”

“See, this is why you never doubt me!” Lightbulb replies cheerily. “How ‘bout you, Tube?”

“Nah, I think I’m okay.” Test Tube is a lightweight if there ever was one, and the lowered inhibitions that come with drinking plus being around Cabby sounds like a recipe for disaster.

“Suit yourself. Cabby?”

“Oh, no, I’m alright as well,” Cabby replies.

“Probably smart,” Fan muses. “At least by tomorrow morning the two of you will actually be able to remember how much fun we had tonight.”

Cabby does that tensing-up thing yet again, but nobody seems to notice except Test Tube, who finds herself wondering what the deal with that is. Clearly there’s something upsetting her, but what, and why? Test Tube knows she shouldn’t ask, but she also wishes she could just know so that there’s no chance she’ll accidentally say whatever it is that’s bothering Cabby so much.

Cabby’s posture loosens again and she lets out a little startled gasp as Baxter jumps onto her lap. “Well, hello there, Baxter! We meet again!”

“Are you okay with him doing that?” Test Tube asks. “I can take him if you want.”

“No, I’m fine,” Cabby says, stroking Baxter’s head. “He’s only on the blanket, so he’s not getting any allergens on my clothes, and the medicine is doing its job. I’m still feeling a little sniffly, but that’s it, and I’d take that over hives any day.” She watches Baxter in silence for a minute, and then sighs. “Although I am feeling just a tad jealous that you get to have a cat right in your house all the time.” She giggles a little as she scratches Baxter’s nose and he licks her hand. “I mean, look at him! He is the absolute cutest living being on the planet.”

“You’re extrapolating from insufficient evidence,” Test Tube teases. “You haven’t seen every living being on the planet, so you can’t really prove he’s the cutest.”

“Well, I certainly can’t think of anything cuter, can you?”

Test Tube suddenly feels extremely confident in her decision not to drink, because even stone cold sober, she is this close to blurting out something she really shouldn’t.

Thankfully, Paintbrush comes to the rescue. “Are we ready to start?” When they receive an affirmative from everyone there, they hit play again. 

“Fair warning to the uninitiated,” Fan says as the classic disembodied lips appear on the screen, “we’re all gonna be messing around and talking over the movie. Probably yelling over it, actually.”

“I know exactly what I signed up for,” Cabby promises. “I learned about some of the history of Rocky Horror screenings in my class, and I also did a bit of extra research when Test Tube invited me.”

“Is there anything you do without a little bit of research?” Bow asks, not in a mean way but more as a friendly tease.

“Where’s the fun in that?” asks Cabby with a little chuckle, and golly, Test Tube could kiss her right now.

The experience of watching the movie is just as fun as it’s always been. Fan, Test Tube, Paintbrush do all the same bits they’ve always done, and Bow is quick to catch on, and is pretty soon calling back “castles don’t have phones, asshole!” right on beat with the rest of them. Cabby is a little more reserved at first, but she seems to get more outgoing as she gets sleepier, and by the time they’re all doing the Time Warp, she’s laughing and smiling as much as anyone. Once Dr. Scott comes in, Cabby mumbles drowsily, “Say what you want about Frank-n-Furter, but I could name several buildings on campus that could take a leaf out of his book in terms of wheelchair accessibility.”

Test Tube snorts–how is it fair that Cabby is not only cute, smart, and polite, but funny to boot? “Yeah, fair, but Dr. Scott does go through a wall, so…”

“And? Who doesn’t want to make an entrance?” Cabby’s voice is beginning to slur.

Fan laughs. “Allergy medicine is starting to hit hard, huh?” He’s clearly not much more with it–he’s several glasses of Lightbulb Special in, and very red in the face.

“Mm, I suppose so,” Cabby replies. She yawns and stretches, but instead of putting her arm back to her side, it ends up on Test Tube’s shoulder. It takes everything in Test Tube not to react, because Cabby’s arm is around her shoulder!

What’s more, partway through “I’m Going Home,” Test Tube feels a weight on her other shoulder, and turns to find Cabby’s head leaning against her. She’s dead asleep, curled around Baxter and snoring a bit.

“Guys, look,” Test Tube whispers. Her friends turn and let out little “awws” at the sight. Test Tube looks back at Cabby and watches her sleep for a minute (it isn’t creepy, she tells herself, what else is she supposed to do when someone falls asleep on her?) She’s never been able to look at Cabby’s face up close like this before, and as she takes in her strong angular features, the freckles that are even cuter up close, her shiny periwinkle hair that’s falling into her face, all Test Tube can think is, “Golly, she’s beautiful.”

She doesn’t realize she’s said it out loud until another gasp goes up from among her friends, and looks back up to see five sets of wide eyes on her. “Seriously, guys? What are you, twelve?”

“Yeah, outta ten.” Lightbulb clicks her tongue, doing finger guns.

“Lightbulb,” Paintbrush sighs. They turn back to Test Tube, shooting her a smile. “I dunno, we all just like seeing you happy.”

Test Tube smiles back, and then looks down at Cabby again. Cabby stirs a little, and presses her face even more into Test Tube’s shoulder, and Test Tube could stay in this moment forever. 

Once they get to “Super Heroes,” Test Tube gently shakes Cabby awake.

”Hmm? Test Tube?” Cabby blinks, adorably groggy, and rubs her eyes. “Did I fall asleep on you?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay,” Test Tube responds. “I just wanted to make sure you were awake for your favorite song.”

As the credits start to roll, Test Tube notices Cabby is watching her intently. She turns to face her, planning to ask what’s up, but then she realizes just how close their faces are. After a second, Cabby moves just a little bit closer. Test Tube is frozen in place, heart going all over the place. To keep herself calm and present, she starts going over what causes the body’s response to anxiety or excitement like she’s experiencing now (because yes, her main focus is chemistry and engineering, but she loves all branches of science, and they’re all connected!) She only makes it to the release of adrenaline before Cabby’s hand comes up to touch her cheek, and any ability to think she may have had is out the window. Cabby is even closer now, close enough that their noses could practically touch, and Test Tube can feel Cabby’s breath, and Cabby seems to be looking at Test Tube’s lips, and–

There’s a squeak and a thud. Both of them jump, remembering that there are other people there, and turn to see that Lightbulb has fallen off the arm of the couch. “Oops, sorry, don’t mind me!” she says as she scoops herself off the ground.

Cabby’s warm, sleepy expression is gone, replaced by wide, panicked eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–that is, I shouldn’t–you weren’t–I should go,” she stammers. She starts to move back into her wheelchair, making Baxter jump off of her with an affronted meow. When she puts her hand on the couch to steady herself, her hand brushes Test Tube’s, and she jerks it back, nearly losing her balance. 

“Whoa, hey, don’t worry!” Test Tube reaches out to hold Cabby steady until she’s sitting, hoping that isn’t making things weirder. “You didn’t do anything wrong, I…” she trails off. What she really wants to say is, I wanted you to kiss me, but the words stick in her throat. 

Cabby pulls out a notebook, seems to realize it’s not the right one for whatever she needs to write, sets it aside, shuffles around to find another, and scribbles something feverishly. Then she turns back to the group, smiling a bit again and seeming calmer. “Thank you so much for having me over. It was a wonderful evening. I hope I can come back next year.” Before anyone can respond, she turns and wheels away and out the door.

There’s a minute of silence, which Paintbrush breaks by saying, “Okay, what the fuck was that?”

“I…I don’t know,” Test Tube replies blankly. “I think she was trying to kiss me.”

“Yeah, no shit, Sherlock!” Paintbrush replies. “Why were you sitting there like a dead fucking fish?”

“Okay, stop swearing at me,” Test Tube grumbles. She doesn’t usually mind it–just because she doesn’t personally like swearing doesn’t mean she cares if other people do–but she’s feeling very high-strung at the moment and it’s grating on her for some reason. “I just, I froze up! I wanted to kiss her, but I felt like my brain was shorting out.”

“Well, that’s no good!” Lightbulb exclaims. “If you’re interested, you gotta take the initiative!” She flops down on top of Paintbrush. “Inissssshative. That’s a funny word.” Test Tube can’t tell if she’s really drunk or just being Lightbulb.

“I’ll talk to her soon, I just…need to get my thoughts in order.”

Cabby cannot get her thoughts in order.

She’d desperately raced back to campus as fast as her arms could take her, trying her best not to dwell on everything that had just happened. However, as she got to her dorm, she noticed her eyes and nose were beginning to itch, meaning her medicine was starting to wear off and some cat hair had probably made its way onto her. Which meant that before it got any worse, she’d have to take a shower.

If there’s one place it’s impossible not to dwell, it’s the shower.

Currently–and she’s not especially proud of this–she’s curled up in a ball on her shower chair, breathing shakily and trying not to spiral, to no avail.

She can’t believe she tried to kiss Test Tube. What was she thinking? Why would she think Test Tube wanted that?

Sure, maybe there were a few moments where she had the tiniest gut feeling that Test Tube could maybe, possibly, have a bit of a crush on her, but Cabby is not one to rely on gut feelings. Emotions are volatile and untrustworthy, and everyone expresses them differently. They’re all well and good for the stage, but in real life what matters is hard evidence. Cabby has none of that.

When Cabby is out of the shower and back in her room, scrutinizing her notebook entry on Test Tube, another even worse thought pops into her head.

Even on the infinitesimal off-chance that Cabby’s gut feeling is right, Test Tube only knows Cabby on a very surface level. An acquaintanceship, a casual friendship is one thing, but if they were together, surely Test Tube would somehow find out about the baggage Cabby tries so hard to hide, and then what?

Who would want a girlfriend who’ll never be able to so much as remember her name without writing it down?

And just then, when Cabby thinks her panic is at its worst, she goes to put the notebook back in her bag and realizes with a dull horror that there’s one less than there should be.

She counts, and recounts, and it’s still not there. It isn’t just any notebook, either–it has a lot of important things in it. All the entries on Test Tube’s housemates, which she needs if she wants to maintain friendships with them, and which could be disastrous if one of them happened to see their own entry. There are also notes on a few other students, and some of her class notes, and her dramaturgy notes, and all of those things pale in comparison to the very most important entry.

She’s spent so much of her life throwing herself into keeping her mother’s memory alive in some way, shape, and form, ever since the day she passed. She’s asked her family and friends, re-compiled the notes she made as a child, collected as many photos as she can get her hands on. None of that makes up for the fact that words on a page can’t fully reflect the real experience, but it’s all she has, and she cannot lose it.

Okay, she thinks to herself, trying her best not to break into tears. It’s going to be fine, right? She must have left it at the Bright Lights house. Which means all she has to do is…

Steeling her nerves, she gets her phone out.

Cabby: Hello, did I leave a notebook at your house?

Test Tube: I think so! I remember seeing one on the coffee table.

Do you want to meet tomorrow so I can get it back to you?

Cabby: That would be great.

May I ask that you don’t read any of it? Some of it is very personal.

Test Tube: Of course!

Cabby: Thank you so much, really. It means a lot.

I also wanted to apologize for earlier. I was way out of line. I wasn’t thinking straight, but that’s not an excuse for invading your boundaries like that.

Wasn’t thinking correctly, I should say. That wasn’t meant to be a joke.

Test Tube: If it had been, it would have been a good one!

Seriously, though, I promise, I don’t mind. 

Actually, there was one thing I wanted to ask about.

Cabby: Fire away.

Test Tube: Why’d you stop?

Cabby: Because I didn’t think you wanted me to kiss you. I thought that much was evident.

Test Tube: You could have asked me.

I don’t know what you humanities people do, but when I have a hypothesis, I gather evidence before coming to a firm conclusion.

Cabby: Well, I’m asking you now, did you want me to?

Test Tube: I feel like this is a conversation that should be not over text.

Also, Fan wants something so I have to go.

Talk to you tomorrow when I give your notebook back?

Cabby: Looking forward to it.

Test Tube looks up from her phone to talk to Fan in the doorway. “Hey, what’s up?” At a second glance, she notices that despite his generous partaking in the Lightbulb Special, his face is uncharacteristically somber, hands behind his back. “Whoa, hey, are you okay?”

He takes out what he was hiding behind his back with a slow breath. Test Tube sits bolt upright. “Fan, why do you have Cabby’s notebook?”

Fan sits down next to Test Tube, and before she can stop him, flips to a tab with his own name on it. “I need to show you something.”

Chapter Text

"Fan, this doesn’t feel right to me.”

Test Tube has repeated that time and again, since before they got to the theater lobby to wait for Cabby, and it’s beginning to grate on Fan. He understands where she’s coming from, but, “No, what’s not right is the fact that she wrote down all that rude shit about me and Paintbrush and Lightbulb.”

“I know, I just…I promised Cabby I wouldn’t look at her notebook.” Test Tube shifts from foot to foot, worrying her lip with her teeth. Fan really does feel bad that this is causing her so much distress, but he can’t just not say something.

“I can take the blame for that,” Fan tells her. “I mean, it was my decision.”

“Yeah.” Test Tube wrings her hands for a minute, then says, “I’m going to the bathroom,” and walks away.

Fan sinks down on a couch. He has to admit, at first it did feel a little weird going through Cabby’s stuff, but he hadn’t even realized what it was until he picked it up, and noticed a tab with his name on it, and how was he not supposed to look at that? And then he saw Lightbulb’s, and Paintbrush’s, and those are his friends, and he had to know what she said about his friends too.

“While Lightbulb’s friendly nature makes her likable, she’s also unpredictable and rarely takes anything seriously.” “Paintbrush possesses a terrible temper that leads them to lash out at even their closest loved ones.”

“Fan tries to make up for his difficulties with social situations by throwing himself into his obsessions, to no avail. He is not one to keep his composure, and frequently gets so far in his own head he can be insensitive to others.”

That was true in previous years, sure, but he’s not that same person anymore. He’s trying not to be, at least. Seeing his personal growth devalued like that…it really stings.

“Fan?”

Fan jumps as he looks up to see Cabby heading towards him. Shit. “Oh, hey, Cabby, how’s it going?” he blabbers, trying his best to come off as friendly.

“Hello, Fan,” replies Cabby with a smile. “To be honest I haven’t been at my best, but better now that I have–” she takes the notebook out of Fan’s hands, “--this. Thank you for bringing it to me.”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Fan stammers. “Listen, Cabby, there’s something I–”

“I must admit, I expected to see Test Tube, though,” Cabby interrupts, looking around. “Not that I don’t enjoy your company, of course, it’s just that it was she who said she’d be here, and there were…other things I wanted to discuss with her.”

“Um, she’s...” Fan takes a deep breath. “Cabby, can I ask you…why you wrote all that stuff about me and my friends in your notebook?”

Cabby freezes. “You…you read my notebook?”

“Well, Bow says you’ve shown her some of your notes, so I figured it wasn’t that bad–”

“That’s not the same! I was doing that on my terms!” Cabby squeezes her eyes shut for a second, clenching her fists and shaking like she’s trying to take control of herself. Then, quietly, she asks, “How much did you read?”

“Just the entries on me, Paintbrush and Lightbulb.” He finally gets up the courage to look her in the face as he says, “I promise.”

Cabby lets out a slow breath, looking still upset but just a bit relieved. “Okay. Just…promise you won’t do it again, and we’re good?”

“I don’t know,” Fan replies, fighting the urge to fidget too much. “You wrote a lot of really rude things.”

Cabby opens her notebook to Fan’s page, perusing it. “None of this was meant to be judgemental in any way. I was simply stating facts, and besides, it isn’t all negative. I outlined your passion for your interests, your creativity, your analytical skills…”

“And I appreciate that, I really do, but it kind of feels like a moot point when you’re also talking about how insensitive and uncomposed I am.” He sighs. “Where’d you even learn all that about me? It just feels kinda creepy.”

“I can assure you, my methods were nothing untoward,” Cabby insists. “Some of it was observation, some of it was from asking around, and some from your public social media–including the Tumblr that, may I remind you, you freely gave me.”

“So the shoelaces were entrapment ?” Fan exclaims, a little louder than he means to.

“Wha–they weren’t entrapment!” Cabby shoves her notebook back in her bag and crosses her arms. “Prior to today, you seemed more than happy to be friendly with me, so I don’t see why you’re suddenly so insistent on villainizing me–” She cuts off suddenly, looking over Fan’s shoulder with an expression like a deer in the headlights. Fan follows her gaze to where Test Tube is frozen in a similar expression.

There’s a moment of silence thick enough to cut, and then Cabby says in almost a whisper, “So you were in on this too.”

“There’s nothing to be in on.” Test Tube’s voice sounds strangled. “I just…Fan was upset, and he’s my best friend.”

“I never meant to upset anyone,” Cabby says, her face pained.

“How was that not supposed to upset anyone?” Test Tube asks. She takes a step forward. Fan recognizes her expression–it’s not the annoyance that comes with a mistake in an experiment or a missed light cue. Rather, it’s something he’s only seen when she’s gotten in a real, serious fight with someone. All of a sudden, she’s undeniably furious.

“I was simply writing objective facts,” Cabby argues. “As I said to Fan, I mean no judgment. I just–”

“You wrote really hurtful things about people I care about,” Test Tube snaps. “Do I even want to know what you wrote about me? Did you even mean it when you said you wanted–!” Her voice breaks, and she puts an arm around Fan, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Fan’s brain is reeling from Test Tube’s sudden outburst of emotion. She had just been the one trying to tell him not to confront Cabby, and now she’s angrier than Fan has ever seen her, and he’s beginning to have second thoughts. He still thinks it’s wrong, what Cabby wrote, but Cabby looks absolutely crestfallen. All he wanted to do was have a civil discussion to clear things up, and now this? It isn’t at all what he wanted.

“Test Tube,” he hisses, and she snaps out of it a little. Fan takes a breath in, then asks Cabby, “Look, could you just…not? If you get rid of these pages, don’t write something like this again, I guess we could put it behind us.”

Cabby opens her mouth and closes it a few times, and says, “I’m sorry, but that’s not an option.” She sounds so genuinely regretful that Fan can’t help but believe her.

“Why not?” Test Tube presses.

“I…can’t tell you that either.”

“Well I can’t just let you badmouth my friends without any explanation,” Test Tube says quietly. “Morally, it’s out of the question.”

Fan wants Cabby to say anything that can fix the mess he’s created by even bringing this up, but instead, her grip tightens around the strap of her bag as she softly says, “I suppose that puts us at an impasse.”

“Yeah, I guess it does.” Test Tube turns and walks out of the theater building, not pausing to wait for Fan. 

He doesn’t go right away, though. Instead, he lingers in front of Cabby for a minute. “Hey, listen, I…don’t get me wrong, I’m still not super happy about the notebook thing, but Test Tube kinda went rogue on me there. I thought you two seemed sweet together, and what she said just now…that wasn’t what I wanted to happen.”

“Yeah, me neither,” replies Cabby. She rubs at her eyes and sniffs.

“I should probably,” Fan points his thumb towards the door, “go talk her down.”

“Fan, you don’t have to implicate yourself–” Cabby starts.

“No, she’s my best friend, and this is kinda my lot,” Fan cuts her off. “Besides, I’m sure she’ll come around eventually.”

“Are you sure?” Cabby asks. “I mean, given the situation with the rabbit, last year–” she trails off. “Ah, I apologize, I heard about that from Bow, but I don’t mean to pry into your personal issues again.”

“No, yeah, that’s…” Truth be told, the little bunny Fan found outside his dorm last year is still a bit of a sore subject. He had wanted to keep it, but Test Tube had fought him about it because animals aren’t allowed in the dorms, they didn’t know what diseases it could be carrying, et cetera. Eventually he did end up relenting and taking it to the shelter, but it was the biggest fight they’d ever had and it still kind of stings to think about it. “The thing is that she was kinda objectively right about that, I was just being stubborn. This is…different. She was way out of line.”

Cabby sighs, rubbing her eyes again. “Either way, I appreciate you trying.”

“Of course. I’ll see ya around.” With that, he leaves the building and begins to head home, glancing over his shoulder to see Cabby through the glass door, slumped over and scribbling away.

Once he gets back to their house, Paintbrush accosts him at the doorway. “Okay, what’s wrong with Test Tube?”

“Why, what happened?” Fan asks.

“She stormed in here looking like I probably do when I’m in a bad way,” they explain. That’s no small thing–Cabby wasn’t wrong about Paintbrush’s temper. It’s a large part of the reason they started going to therapy. “She started making herself tea in, like, the most aggressive possible way to make tea? And I tried to ask her what was going on, but she completely ignored me, and then she dropped the cup, said ‘goddamnit,’ and stormed away without finishing the tea.”

That knocks Fan back a step. “Test Tube swore ?” Even something as innocuous as “goddamnit” is really out-of-character coming from her.

“Yeah, it was weird,” Paintbrush muses. “I’ve never seen her like this.”

“Jesus, I should go check on her,” Fan mumbles, and hurries upstairs.

When he gets up to Test Tube’s room, he can hear crying from behind her door. Even weirder–she never cries.

There’s a TVTropes page, Fan recalls, entitled “OOC is Serious Business,” the general gist of which is that a character doing something they normally wouldn’t do is an indicator that something is very wrong. If Fan was writing the TVTropes entry for his own life, that’s definitely how he would describe whatever is going on with Test Tube right now.

(And now that he thinks about it, the fact that this is how he conceptualizes his own life probably means Cabby is still more right about him than he’d like to admit.)

He knocks on the door, and Test Tube calls out, “Paintbrush, please leave me alone.”

“It’s Fan,” he calls back.

There’s a pause, and then, “Okay, you can come in.”

Fan opens the door, and…the sight is not good. Test Tube is curled in on herself on top of the bed, hugging her knees. Her eyes are bloodshot, she’s clutching a box of Kleenex like they’re keeping her alive, and the expression on her face when she glances up at Fan is painful to look at.

Despite his conflicted feelings about how Test Tube has been acting, Fan can’t just see his friend hurting and not do anything about it. So he sits next to her, wraps an arm around her and lets her cling to him as she cries silently for several minutes.

Once she seems to have caught her breath, Fan awkwardly asks her, “Do you wanna, uh, talk about what’s going on?” He’s bad at this, and admittedly it’s not all compassion–he wants to know why Test Tube flipped from not wanting to confront Cabby to losing her shit about it.

“I dunno.” Test Tube sighs shakily. “I guess it kinda didn’t sink in how messed up it is that she wrote all that stuff about you until I actually saw her in person again. Rose-tinted glasses, or something.”

Fan leans against her. “So where are you gonna go from here? Are you gonna talk? Has she texted you or anything?”

“If she has, I wouldn’t know.” Test Tube holds up her phone. “I blocked her, so if she wants to talk to me, she has to find me.”

“Wait, really?” Fan asks. He tries to find a nice way to tell Test Tube that she needs to step off a little, but he can’t think of anything, so he settles for, “Are you even allowed to do that, like, with the show and all?”

Test Tube shrugs. “Probably like half the department owes me some kind of favor, so if anyone makes a problem about it I’ll deal with it.”

“Yeah, but don’t you think that’s kind of…drastic?” Fan asks tentatively.

“No, I don’t,” Test Tube replies. “I don’t want to talk to her if she’s just going to use everything I say for…whatever it is she does with those notebooks.”

“I don’t like it either,” Fan says, “but you two seemed so sweet together.”

“I thought so too,” Test Tube whispers, “but it turns out she was just–!” Her voice breaks, and she dissolves into tears again.

As Test Tube cries into Fan’s shoulder, his stomach twists. He’s trying his best to comfort her, but he can’t shake the feeling that what she really needs is brutal honesty. He just doesn’t have it in him to tell her that she’s being ridiculous when she’s in such a state.

Cabby and Test Tube’s relationship has fallen apart in the blink of an eye, and it’s partly his fault.

The longer Fan listens to Test Tube’s sobs, the more he wants to cry himself.

Knife is already having quite a shitty day, and it’s still morning.

He had to wake up at stupid o’clock in the morning, because it was the only time the shop was unoccupied, and a crow tried to steal his headphones on his way here, and he realized he forgot to turn in an assignment, and Marshmallow started working on a project he wanted to work on and did it all wrong, and it turned out there were actors rehearsing where he was trying to work, and now he’s in the bathroom running cold water on the burn he got from the fucking hot glue gun he thought wasn’t warmed up yet.

And on top of all that, who should walk into the bathroom but fucking Trophy.

“What are you doing here?” Knife snaps, shutting off the water. He knows it would probably be smarter to not say anything and just let it be, but if he didn’t pick a fight every time the smarter option would be not to, he wouldn’t be Knife, would he?

“I’m at rehearsal, dumbass,” replies Trophy. 

“That’d be a first,” Knife grumbles. From what he’s heard, Trophy’s attendance record is far from spotless.

“Oh please, like you do jackshit,” Trophy says. “Nobody’s gonna actually care about the set, anyway.”

“Well, some of us care more about doing a job well than getting attention.” Knife glares at Trophy’s reflection in the mirror, refusing to give him the satisfaction of actually turning to look at him. “So I don’t have to get my kicks by doing shit like trying to out someone who’s already out and embarrassing myself in the process.”

“Yeah, it’s not like you’re the star of the show or anything,” a new voice adds. One of the actors–the punk-looking girl Knife is pretty sure plays Paulina–comes out of a stall and goes to the sink to wash her hands, making sure to bump Trophy with her shoulder on the way. “Everyone knows you’re just here to get a credit out of the way, and we’re only tolerating you in the name of keeping some kind of civility.”

Trophy rolls his eyes. “Oh, fuck off, Mic.” He flips her the bird, but he also seems to realize he’s outnumbered, because he sidles out of the bathroom and slams the door.

“What a douchebag,” Mic grumbles, grabbing a paper towel. Knife has his burned hand resting on the wall he’s leaning against, which Mic notices and says, “Whoa, dude, what happened to your hand?”

“I got in a fight,” Knife lies without hesitating.

Mic raises an eyebrow. “Glue gun?”

Knife sighs. “Yeah, it was the goddamn glue gun.”

“Hey, every interaction with a glue gun is basically a fight you can never win because one of you is a pain machine,” Mic remarks. “Y’know, when I was in elementary school we weren’t allowed to use glue guns by ourselves until fourth grade, and I felt so grown up and then immediately burned myself and cried for like an hour.” She snorts. “You’re the set guy, right? Your name starts with an N or something?”

“Knife,” he replies.

“Huh, okay, not N, but an N sound, so I was close?” She shrugs. “Man, I feel like I’m still playing catch-up with everyone in the department. It’s my own fault for not doing the show last year, I guess. And it was a musical, too. That would’ve been cool. Not to toot my own horn, but I think I’m a pretty good singer.”

“Eh, you weren’t missing out,” Knife says with a shrug. “Spring Awakening was fun–well, as fun as a musical about teenagers dying can be–but the drama offstage kinda ruined it all.”

“Ooh, what drama?” Mic asks, leaning on the sink.

“One of the crew members basically told everyone she never liked us, stole a bunch of shit from the department, and then ditched us all.”

Mic blinks. “Oh shit. I was expecting, like, a doomed showmance, not a fucking robbery.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Knife agrees. “Didn’t even get expelled or anything. People kept trying to report her, but nothing went through. Could be good old fashioned useless admin, could be she was messing with it somehow. I wouldn’t be surprised either way.”

“So she still goes here?” Mic’s eyebrows shoot up. “Goddamn. She could be, like, in one of my classes and I would have no idea.”

“Yeah, if you run into a girl named Taco who dresses like she was on her way to a job interview and Hot Topic threw up on her, run the other direction.”

Knife means it as a joke, but Mic goes still, eyes wide. Huh, maybe Taco really is in one of her classes after all.

“I’m gonna go back to rehearsal,” she says, her voice suddenly terse. “See you around, Knife.” She brushes past Knife and leaves before he can respond.

Knife stares at the door for a moment, wondering what the hell just happened. He’s way too tired for this shit.

Bow should probably get out of the habit of doing homework in the booth.

Everyone else is long gone, with the exception of MePhone and the stage management team, and here Bow is doing a journal entry for her first-year seminar. She doesn’t know what it is, but something about the booth makes it easier for her to focus. Something about being in a small, comfy soundproof space with nothing better to do.

In fact, the chair Bow’s in is very comfy…and she’s been here for hours, it’s getting close to midnight…and she hasn’t slept well recently, all the drama between Cabby and Test Tube is stressing her out…maybe she can lay her head down on the table for a minute…

“Hey, get up.”

Bow blinks awake, unsticking her face from the table as she turns to see MePhone. “Huh, what?”

“Get up,” MePhone repeats. “I need to lock the theater up.”

“Mmkay.” Bow stands up, and starts putting her papers into her folder.

There’s a moment of awkward silence, and then MePhone says, “So I’ve been meaning to ask, there’s this picture in the lobby of–”

Bow sighs, cutting him off. “Yeah, we’re related, that’s my aunt, and yes, I’m named after her, and yes, the rumors about her dying in the building are true.”

“Jeez, touchy.” MePhone holds his hands up in front of him.

“I dunno, I hear it a lot,” Bow replies. “I’m just kinda sick of it, you know? I mean, I don’t want to speak ill of the dead or anything, since I never knew her, but that’s the thing. I never even knew her, and everyone who did keeps comparing me to her, and it’s shitty, right? And I feel like even doing theatre like she did, I’m just one step closer to becoming her, and I don’t want to become some dead girl I never met.” She grimaces as she hears how that comes out.

MePhone doesn’t seem to know what to say, but after a second he comes up with, “Wow, that’s…a lot.”

“Sorry,” Bow blurts. What the hell was she thinking, venting on her professor like that? “I don’t even know what I’m doing here, y’know?”

“I don’t either,” MePhone remarks. “I only even got this job because I know Ballpoint, and he referred me when he decided to go on sabbatical, and yeah, I obviously have my teaching certificate, but that was just in case, I guess. I wanted to work with professionals, not college students.” He seems to remember who he’s talking to, because he throws in a “no offense”, which surprises Bow. MePhone usually doesn't seem to care who he offends. He’s kind of a dick. “But hey, that’s the industry, right?”

“Right,” Bow agrees. There’s another awkward silence, and for some reason Bow feels compelled to fill it rather than just leaving like she actually wants to, so she asks, “How’d you get into theatre, anyway? Do you come from, like, an artsy family?”

“No,” replies MePhone with a kind of finality that indicates that the subject is not one he intends to speak further on.

“Oooookay,” Bow says slowly. “I guess I should go home so I can do my homework and you can lock up, then?”

“Yeah,” MePhone responds. “Have a good one, Bow.”

“Thanks, you too,” she calls as she slings her bag over her shoulder.

Maybe, she considers as she hurries back to her dorm, deep down MePhone isn’t as much of a dick as he comes off.

Chapter Text

Now that she’s sitting in on a rehearsal, Suitcase is beginning to be a bit glad she didn’t audition. Not that she doesn’t think it’d be fun to act someday, but wow if this isn’t perfectly cast.

Paintbrush and Silver are royally terrifying in their own ways, Baseball, Cheesy and Lightbulb’s antics make Suitcase laugh out loud, Candle is regal and mesmerizing to watch, Microphone commands the room with every word, Clover manages to portray the panic of being chased by a hungry bear even without any effects yet, and OJ and Soap embody awkward teenagers perfectly. The ensemble is a bit more split–Apple and Tissues seem to be giving it their all, Salt, Pepper, and Trophy not so much.

The actor who Suitcase really finds herself watching most, though, is Balloon. Most of the cast is pretty good at speaking Shakespeare, but Balloon speaks it like he was born in the Elizabethan era himself. Funny enough, Suitcase herself was thinking of auditioning for Camilo, thinking he seemed kind of boring but easy enough to play, but Balloon makes himself incredibly compelling to watch.

Once the rehearsal is over, MePhone has given some frankly quite harsh notes, and the actors start heading backstage again to get their stuff, Suitcase decides to go track him down and tell Balloon that she thinks he did really well. Nickel wouldn’t approve, thanks to some unexplained beef between them, but Nickel isn’t here anyways, and it’s not like he can fire her over it. Besides, what he says about Balloon being a “double-crossing dickwad” (yes, his exact words) just doesn’t seem to line up at all with what Suitcase has seen of him. He seems very sweet, and a bit anxious just like her.

Once she makes it backstage, she decides she should probably check over the prop cabinet while she’s there, given that it is in fact her job. There are some rehearsal swords and such that will probably need a bit of jazzing up, some specific plastic flowers she’ll need to track down, and she wrote down that she needed some things for Lightbulb to steal throughout the show that they don’t seem to have yet, but there aren’t all that many difficult props in the show, all things considered.

Oh right, and they need a new baby, because the one they have is exceptionally awful

It already looked weird from a distance, and stuck out like a sore thumb whenever a character would talk about how supposedly pretty it was, but up close it kind of looks like it’s been stung in the face by a frankly absurd amount of bees. Suitcase leans in to get a closer look, giggling to herself.

“Are you and Nickel planning on replacing that monstrosity?” asks a voice from behind Suitcase. She turns and finds the speaker is Soap.

Suitcase giggles again. “Yeah, I think we’re gonna have to. I think it might ruin the vibe juuuust a bit.”

“No kidding.” Soap laughs too. “Given that it’s supposed to be baby me, I kinda have a personal vendetta against Ugly Baby.”

“I dunno,” says a new voice. It’s Tissues, squeezing between his sister and Suitcase to put his rehearsal sword away. “I think it’s the spitting image of you, Soap.”

Soap rolls her eyes and elbows Tissues gently in the ribs. “Why don’t you go be a brat somewhere else?”

“Because I am being a responsible actor and putting my props away. Aren’t I being so helpful, Suitcase?” Tissues shoots Suitcase a very fake smile, then sniffs and goes to rub at his nose with his sleeve. Soap swats his hand away.

“Yeah, for sure!” Suitcase replies. “Speaking of helpful, could either of you help me find Balloon?”

“Oh, yeah!” Soap replies. “I think I saw him in the green room a few minutes ago.”

“Maybe he’s napping on one of the couches,” Tissues suggests. “The couches in the green room are really comfy, guys. Plus, despite the name, there’s nothing green in the green room, which is a good thing, because green is, like, the grossest color.”

Suitcase doesn’t really know how to respond to that, so she says, “Cool, thanks!” and goes downstairs to the green room.

When she gets there, Balloon is indeed there, and in fact, he’s the only one there. He’s sitting on the couch with a book open on his lap. Suitcase nervously sits down next to him (whoa, Tissues was right, this couch really is comfy!) and he looks up with a smile. “Oh, hey, Suitcase! What brings you here?”

Suitcase suddenly regrets doing this–is it weird to randomly approach some upperclassman she barely knows? But she forces herself to say, “I just wanted to say, uh, I think you’re a really great actor. Like, I don’t know much about Shakespeare, but I could understand you like you were speaking plain English, which is super impressive. I dunno, I just wanted to say so.”

Thankfully, Balloon brightens at the compliment. “Oh, thanks, that’s so sweet!” He closes his book and sets it to the side. “I’m sure you’re going to do amazing, too. You’re Paper’s assistant, right? In costume design?”

“Um, no.” Suitcase doesn’t like lying, and besides, she figures even though it’s awkward to tell the truth now, it saves her the extra awkwardness if Balloon realized she wasn’t. “I’m working on props, which makes me the assistant to, um…”

“Nickel,” Balloon finishes with a sigh.

“...yyyeah.” Suitcase kicks her feet back and forth, not meeting Balloon’s eye. “Look, I don’t get what his issue is with you, but it doesn’t seem fair. You seem really nice.”

“I mean, it used to be fair,” Balloon grumbles. “Back in freshman year I was a real dick, and even when I realized it and started trying to be better, a lot of people took a while to warm up to me. But now I get along with pretty much everyone, except Nickel! Like he’s one to talk about being a dick!”

Suitcase knows she shouldn’t laugh at that–Nickel is her friend, after all–but she can’t help it. “Ugh, I’m really sorry about that. Maybe I should–”

She’s interrupted by Baseball sticking his head through the door. “Hey, Suitcase, there you are! I was wondering if you wanted to come grab a snack at the campus center.”

“Yeah, sure!” Suitcase replies, and then pauses. “Wait, just us?”

“Uh, no.” Baseball clears his throat and glances awkwardly at Balloon. “Nickel was gonna meet us there.”

“Oh, um, okay.” Suitcase glances at Balloon too. He’s staring down at his lap and fidgeting with his hands. “Just…give me a minute.”

“Sure.” Baseball’s head pops back out of the doorway.

Suitcase sighs and turns to Balloon. “Look, I’m really sorry–”

“No, it’s no problem,” Balloon replies, but his voice sounds unusually sharp. “He’s your friend, I get it.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Suitcase stands stiffly, then flashes him a smile, guilt squirming in her stomach. “I’ll see you around, Balloon.”

  “We were, fair queen,” Silver Spoon recites as he scrolls through Instagram mindlessly, “two lads that thought there was no more behind but such a day tomorrow as today, and to be boy eternal.”

“Was not my lord the verier wag o’ th’ two?” responds Candle, shifting into a seated position on her bed.

“We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun. What we changed was–”

“You forgot, ‘and bleat the one at th’ other,” Candle interrupts. She’s not even looking at the script.

“Right, right.” Silver sighs. “We were as twinned lambs that did frisk i’ th’ sun and bleat the one at th’ other. What we changed was innocence for innocence. We knew not…” He’s run this part a million times, and yet somehow his brain is completely blank. “Damn it! What is that line?”

“Maybe you’d know if you were more focused,” Candle replies, ignoring Silver’s complaints as she gently pulls his phone out of his hand and lays it on the bedside table. “Let’s start again from the top.”

“From the top?” Silver flops dramatically down onto the bed beside Candle. “Must we?”

“Yes, we must,” replies Candle. “Repetition is the key to memorization. The off-book date is the last rehearsal before winter break, and it’s already mid-November.” 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine in the end.”

“Silver Spoon,” Candle huffs, more annoyed that Silver’s ever heard her, “this is exactly your problem. You’re so used to coasting through life, you refuse to try. I know you’re smart, and an incredibly competent actor, but that’s not enough. No matter how talented you are, putting yourself above the rest of the cast and crew rather than seeing them as your collaborators will make you no friends and only work to your detriment.”

Silver scoffs. “Well, I wasn’t asking for a psychoanalysis!” He also slightly wants to point out that there are certain things he’s never been able to coast through, but…no, that’s still too personal. 

“If you didn’t want that, why are you talking to the psych major?” Candle asks with a chuckle.

Silver can’t help but smile a little at that. “I mean, you are the most convenient person to run lines with, given that we live together.” He pauses for a moment before adding, “And…I do consider you my friend.”

“I consider you my friend as well,” Candle replies. “However, I think it would be in your best interest to have more than one friend in the production.”

“Like whom?”

“You’re not going to like the answer.”

Silver takes a moment to mentally go through the cast and crew before he can figure out who she’s talking about. “Candle, I… appreciate… your concern, but I have been perfectly friendly with Paintbrush. Any animosity that exists between the two of us is purely on their part.”

“Silver,” Candle sighs, placing a hand atop his head like he’s a grouchy puppy, “your idea of friendly is very British.”

“And just what does that mean?”

Candle smiles. “It means, you naturally come off as quite standoffish. It’s understandable that people might read you long, particularly someone like Paintbrush who tends to be on the more sensitive side.”

Silver sits back up, leaning against the wall. “How are you always right?”

“I’m not always right,” Candle corrects him. “I know I can tend to have perfectionist tendencies and come off as too direct as a result. We all have things we’re working on. What matters,” she raises an eyebrow, “is whether you’re actually working on them.”

“Point taken.” Silver stands, goes over to his side of the room and brings back his script. “I think I’m going to look back over this scene before we go on, if you don’t mind.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea,” Candle replies. “I can wait.”

Cats, Paintbrush has discovered, make terrible models.

They assumed Baxter would be great to paint–he’s very photogenic, and he tends to sit like he’s posing for an old-timey portrait for hours on end, like he’s just waiting for someone to take the opportunity. However, in true feline fashion, as soon as he realizes someone wants him to do the thing he’s doing, he decides he has better things to do. Paintbrush has spent the better half of the day chasing the little fuzzball around trying to get him back into position.

And yet again, they look up from their canvas with a sigh and there’s no cat where he was a minute ago. From the hallway, they hear a meow followed by “yes, you are a cute kitty!” and follow the noise to find not just a cute kitty, but a cute girlfriend as well. Paintbrush walks up to kiss Lightbulb, and in the process, snatches Baxter from her arms.

“How dare you!” Lightbulb gasps dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest. “Seduce me and then steal my cat from me, will you?”

“He’s currently slacking on the job,” Paintbrush says as Lightbulb follows them back into the living room, where they plop Baxter back in place and go back to their easel.

Lightbulb sits down on the couch. “Ooo, can I be in the painting too?”

Paintbrush rolls their eyes, but they can feel a smile spread across their face. “As long as you don’t tell me to draw you like one of my French girls.” She says that every time they try to paint her. It stopped being funny after the first five times.

“Yeah.” Lightbulb strikes a goofy pose, but then drops it and goes back to petting Baxter. As Paintbrush studies her face, they realize she looks a bit…off.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Paintbrush asks absently as they begin mixing colors.

Lightbulb chews her lip for a minute, and then asks, “D’you know where Fan and Test Tube are?”

“Production meeting,” Paintbrush replies. “Why?”

“Eh, it’s just…” Lightbulb squirms a little in her seat. “So, this is like, serious o’clock, okay?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Paintbrush knows the phrase well–because Lightbulb tends to talk in a goofy manner even when she’s not trying to, “serious o’clock” has become her code phrase for when she’s being, well, serious.

Lightbulb sighs and fidgets with her hands a little more before saying, “The whole Cabby situation, I dunno, I don’t feel right about it.”

“Yeah, none of us do,” Paintbrush agrees as they follow the line of Lightbulb’s jaw with their brush. “It’s fucked up that she wrote all that stuff about us when we all thought she wanted to be friends with us.”

“No, that’s not it.” Lightbulb takes a long, slow breath through her nose. “I don’t feel right about Test Tube just cutting Cabby off like that without even giving her a chance to explain.”

Paintbrush’s hand slips, the bright yellow of painting-Lightbulb’s hair smearing across her face. “What–you’re taking her side?”

“It’s not about sides,” Lightbulb argues. “I just feel like we shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

“Yeah, like she jumped to conclusions about us!” Paintbrush feels themself start to breathe faster–a warning sign their therapist told them to watch for. They try to slow their breathing. They really don’t want to lose it at Lightbulb.

“Well, yeah, it was rude the way she wrote it, but it wasn’t wrong, was it?”

“But that doesn’t make it okay to act nice to our faces and then be a complete dick about us behind our backs!”

“I just don’t feel right about it!” Lightbulb reaches up to adjust her headband, then her glasses, then finally mumbles, “And I’m not the only one. Fan doesn’t either.”

“Well, Fan’s always been a bleeding heart, and unlike him, at least I have some self respect!” Paintbrush doesn’t even realize they’re slamming their hand down on the table until Baxter hisses and runs away from the noise.

Lightbulb stares at them for a moment, then stands. “Listen, Painty, I think you need some space. Talk to me when you’ve cooled down, okay?”

Paintbrush doesn’t say anything as Lightbulb scoops Baxter up and heads upstairs to her room. They don’t trust themself to speak right now.

All they can do is try to finish their painting.

By the time they make the final stroke, they feel much calmer. They don’t want to just barge in on Lightbulb, so they pull out their phone.

Paintbrush: Hey

Lightbulb: heyo! u feelin better?

Paintbrush: Yeah thanks

Can I come up and talk?

Lightbulb: ya! get yer ass up here ive got the good place on

Paintbrush smiles and goes upstairs to Lightbulb’s room.

When they get there, they immediately go to sit next to her, and thankfully she grins. “I’m really sorry,” they tell her. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“I know. Thanks.” That’s one of many things Paintbrush really respects about Lightbulb–she always thanks people for apologizing to her, rather than saying “it’s okay.”

“It wasn’t you I was mad at, you know that, right?”

“Yeah,” replies Lightbulb, then cocks her head to the side. “Who were you mad at then? Cabby?”

“I’m not really sure,” Paintbrush admits. “You know how it is–once I get like that I don’t even know who or what I’m mad at.” They sigh. “The worst part is that I feel like by getting angry, I proved her right about my temper.”

“I mean, that’s what I said earlier,” Lightbulb says. “She is right, even if it’s not fun to hear. We can agree to disagree about this stuff, huh?”

“I guess.” Paintbrush leans their head against Lightbulb’s shoulder. They’re silent for a minute, then glance over to Lightbulb’s laptop. “What episode is this?”

“Season one finale,” Lightbulb tells them.

“Cool, the one where they find out they’re actually in the Bad Place?”

Lightbulb gasps dramatically. “Painty! Spoilers!”

Paintbrush can’t help laughing at that. “Wha–have you not been on the internet in the last, like, seven years?”

“I know, I know, I’m just messin’ with ya.” Lightbulb elbows Paintbrush gently, giggling.

Paintbrush suddenly remembers they’re still holding their canvas, and hands it to Lightbulb. “Oh, by the way, I finished this.”

Lightbulb takes it, stares at it for a moment, and then scoffs. “‘Oh, by the way, I finished this,’ they say, as if they didn’t just hand me an absolute masterpiece. It’s like getting handed a painting by frickin’ Michelangelo, and he’s like, ‘oh hey, here’s this thing I did.’”

Paintbrush feels their face heat up. How is it that after over a year of dating, Lightbulb still manages to make them flustered? “I take it that means you like it.”

“I do not at all like it,” Lightbulb insists. “I love it, and I love you, and now I want you to shut up so we can watch.”

She pulls Paintbrush into a quick kiss, and then hits play.

Chapter Text

Bow is a little late to leave the designer run, as she got distracted by her phone while she was trying to take notes. However, Marshmallow and Apple are still chatting in the lobby when she starts to head out.

She’s just about to wave to them when Apple says, “Oh, speak of the devil.”

“Huh?” Bow spins around. “Were you guys talking about me?”

Marshmallow shuffles a little, grimacing. “Well, not you, exactly, but it has to do with you.” She gestures at the familiar photo on the wall.

“Oh. Yeah.” Bow sighs, turning to look at the face so much like her own that she’s been trying to avoid.

“Did you know her?” Marshmallow asks.

“Nope,” Bow replies, trying to keep her voice friendly. “She died, like, way before I was born.”

“Did you ever wish you could?” 

“Um…” Bow fidgets in place, not sure how to answer. 

“Chill out, Marsh,” Apple interrupts. She turns to Bow. “She’s been, like, super obsessed with the whole Bow thing. The other Bow, that is.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Marshmallow snaps. “It’s just, like, the idea of leaving a mark on a place that lives on after they die, I find it kinda cool. I get why there are ghost stories and stuff about it. Sorry, Bow, I know it’s your family, and it’s probably making you feel weird.”

“No, it’s fine.” Bow smiles a little, feeling less uncomfortable now. “I really like ghost stories, so I get it. I’m actually writing a few of my own.”

“That’s cool!” Marshmallow replies, standing up. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

“Yeah, I dunno, I’m thinking of majoring in creative writing. Or maybe art. I want to write graphic novels someday.” Bow shrugs. “I can tell you about my story ideas, actually, if you wanna go get a snack.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot the campus center is open until 11 pm now!” Marshmallow gestures to Apple. “Wanna come with?”

“Yeah, sure, but I gotta–” Apple cuts off for a second, suddenly shivering. “Um, I have an a capella rehearsal starting soon, so I have to be ready for that,” she brushes it off as though it was nothing.

It wasn’t nothing, though. Bow felt the weird chill that suddenly came over her, and she saw Marshmallow shudder too. She wants to ask if the two of them felt what she felt, if they think the building really could be haunted.

Instead, she says, “Wow, a capella rehearsal starts this late?” and the other two must want to change the subject, because they both jump on the new topic and chat about it the whole way to the campus center.

Bow tries not to think much of it. They were all talking about ghosts, so it was top of mind, and everything is creepy in an empty theater at night.

It’s probably a coincidence, right?

 Microphone is this close to a panic attack.

 She’s supposed to be off book, but she hasn’t had time to practice much on her own between finals and rehearsals and the various trappings of trying to keep her body functioning like a human being and now she’s up in front of everyone and has completely gone up on her lines.

“If you can bring tincture or luster in her lip, her eye…” Microphone tries her best to keep her head high, even though she’s shaking. “In her lip, her eye…um, line.”

“Heat outwardly or breath within,” MePad cues her from the stage manager table.

“Heat outwardly or breath within, I’ll serve you as I would do the gods. But o, thou tyrant…fuck, I’m sorry.” Mic knows she shouldn’t apologize or break character, but god, she feels so awful. She’s trying her fucking hardest here, and yet even Paintbrush, who has by far the most lines, hasn’t called for line half as much as Mic has.

“Everyone, how about we take a five?” MePad calls, and is met with unenthusiastic “thank you, five”s from the cast.

As Mic is leaving the theater to get water, she runs into Baseball. “Mic,” he says seriously, “you need to get more on top of your cues. One actor who isn't putting in 100% is going to hold everyone else back.”

“Fuck off, man,” Mic snaps. “I am putting in 100%. You don’t know jackshit about me.” She brushes past him before he can respond.

She runs into Floory as she finishes her water, and on a whim, tells him, “Hey, I’m not feeling super great. Can you let MePhone and MePad know I’ve gone home?”

“Aw, I’m sorry.” Floory’s brow furrows. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s probably just, I dunno, food poisoning or something.” It’s not a great lie, but Mic doesn’t have the energy to care.

“Alright, sure, you go home. I’ll let them know. You feel better, yeah?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” At least someone seems to care about her, rather than just seeing her as a collection of mistakes standing on top of each other in a trenchcoat.

Once she gets back to her dorm, Microphone has only so long to lie on her bed staring at the ceiling and wallowing before she gets a text from Soap asking where she is. She almost repeats her “sick” lie she told Floory, but she doesn’t want to cause Soap the undue panic that she’d feel if she were sharing a room with a potentially contagious person, so instead she lands on, “my uterus hates me :///” (which as a bonus, isn’t actually a lie, and now that she thinks about it, is probably a factor behind Mic’s awful mental state.)

A minute later, her phone pings with a text from Soap. It’s a gif of Prince Zuko saying “that’s rough, buddy.” Mic can’t help but giggle a little at it, and it helps pull her out of her spiral a bit.

All of a sudden, something slides under her door.

Mic stands up–it’s her script, which must have fallen out of her backpack as she walked. There’s a note stuck to it.

I believe this belongs to you. You should keep better track of your belongings.

Taco

Mic immediately starts feeling nauseous again. She hasn’t interacted with Taco since she heard about the weird theft situation from Knife. It’s not like Taco has ever spoken to her, anyways. Mic has no idea what the hell Taco wants with her.

But whatever, at least she has her script back.

How is it that Nickel and Balloon always seem to wind up on the same production shop shifts?

Nickel might have assumed it was deliberate entrapment if it weren’t for the fact that Balloon seems to dislike it as much as he does. Maybe they just have really similar class schedules or something. Or maybe Tea Kettle is meddling in another futile attempt to get them to make amends.

Either way, they’re accompanied today by Paper and Knife, neither of whom seem to particularly wish to deal with this either. Nickel and Knife are having a conversation about the all-important art of sarcasm when Balloon comes in, and Nickel doesn’t bother to suppress his groat. “Oh, wonderful. Can’t I have one shift in peace?”

“Well, it’s almost winter break, so at least you don’t have to see me for another month,” Balloon grumbles. “And I get a month off from your assholery.”

Before Nickel can reply, Paper arrives with Tea Kettle and Lifering in tow. “Alright, you three! You have the very important job of helping me find the things I need in the costume closet and bringing them back up to the costume shop! Let’s get going!” He claps his hands, and everyone starts heading downstairs.

Once they get to the closet, Nickel slings a few of the items on Paper’s list over his shoulder, and goes to bring them back upstairs. But of course, because the universe hates him, Balloon smacks straight into him with a cardboard box and the clothes slide off onto the ground.

“Watch where you’re going,” Nickel grumbles, putting the clothes back where they were.

“You were the one not looking,” Balloon snaps.

“Okay, okay, break it up!” Knife interrupts, shoving past the both of them. “We all want to be done so we can go home, and your stupid bickering is only making it take longer!”

“Fine, whatever,” Nickel replies, storming past Balloon. As he does, though, he deliberately bumps Balloon’s shoulder.

It’s when Balloon drops the box he’s holding and it starts thumping down the stairs that Nickel realizes he may have fucked up.

When it lands with a thud, it’s collapsing in on itself. Nickel doesn’t know what to say other than, “Um…was anything important in that?”

Balloon blinks, and says blankly, “Nickel, that box is Box .”

“Oh, shit.” Nickel hurries down the stairs to where Paper is trying to get Box back together, to no avail.

“He’s in pretty rough shape,” Paper sighs. “Once Lifering comes down, we can–oh thank god, there he is.”

“Whoa, what happened?” Lifering asks as he rushes to kneel beside Nickel and Paper.

Nickel opens his mouth to say that Balloon dropped Box, and Balloon opens his to presumably blame Nickel. Before either of them can say anything, Paper stands and points to the both of them. “Nickel and Balloon got in an argument, Nickel bumped Balloon and Balloon dropped him.”

Lifering turns to Nickel then to Balloon, who’s still frozen at the top of the stairs. The look in his eyes could cut glass. “I’ve told both of you, countless times, that your fighting would make something like this happen. You’re grown adults and you should know better. What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Somehow, although it’s practically physically painful for him to do so, Nickel finds himself saying, “...yeah, this one was kinda my bad. I’m…sorry about that, Lifering.”

Lifering looks quite taken aback, which, hey, it’s not like Nickel has never apologized in his life! He’s apologized for, um…well… okay, he can’t think of anything right now, but he redirects his train of thought, deciding that there are more important things to worry about. 

Balloon looks a little stunned too, but shakes himself out of it and dramatically puts a hand to his chest. “Box, if you don’t make it out of this, I want you to know–”

Lifering blinks. “Wait, why wouldn’t he make it out of this? He’s just cardboard. I can just tape him up and he’ll be good as new.”

“Oh. Um, okay then.” He shrugs. “Was there anything inside Box, though? I didn’t check.”

Paper opens Box to check, then gasps. “Not only has Box been grievously injured, but we’ve also lost…Ugly Baby.” He holds up the baby doll and its head, which has popped off from the body.

“Oh, thank god,” Nickel and Balloon both say at the same time. Their agreement startles Nickel, and when he looks up at Balloon, his expression says he feels much the same.

Lifering turns to Nickel. “Props, you do have a replacement baby, right?”

“Yeah, I’m sure I can rustle something up,” Nickel replies. “There are so many various babies throughout this building. A verifiable wave o’ babies.”

“Ha, like in Homestar Runner,” Balloon mumbles. That actually was what Nickel was referencing, but it’s not like he’s going to admit that. Having things in common with Balloon feels weird.

Thankfully, Lifering saves Nickel from having to come up with something to say. “Alright, gentlemen, your shift is officially over. Where’s Knife, by the way?”

Paper shrugs. “I think he already left.”

Lifering pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment. “Welp, it’s his paycheck, I guess. Have a good afternoon, everyone!”

Balloon leaves the theater at the same time as Nickel, and opens his mouth for a second as if he’s about to say something, but closes it again and walks again. It’s for the better, Nickel decides. Whatever it is, he doesn’t want to hear it.

Cabby: Hi, could I ask for a favor?

Bow: go ahead!

Cabby: Would you mind helping me get my luggage loaded onto the shuttle?

Bow: ofc!

wait are you taking the 6pm shuttle?

Cabby: I am indeed.

Bow: aw sick so am i!!! omg we can sit together

Cabby: That sounds wonderful!

Cabby ends up blocking out more time than she needs for packing–all she really has to pack to bring home are her clothes, toiletries, wheelchair, and notebooks. She ends up being ready half an hour early, so she gets out her laptop and does some of her dramaturgy research until there’s a knock on the door.

“Heeey!” Bow chirps.

“Hello, hello!” Cabby replies. “Good to see you!”

“You too!” Bow shifts her own two bags into one hand and picks up one of Cabby’s that’s sitting by the door. “I’ve got this, can you take the backpack?”

“Mm-hmm,” Cabby replies. She puts her laptop in her backpack, her notebook in her satchel, slings both over her shoulders, and gathers up her crutches. “You ready to go?”

“Yep!” Bow says, and off they set.

The two of them make small talk as they make their way towards the campus center. Once they’re almost there, Bow gasps. “Cabby, look! It’s snowing!”

Sure enough, when Cabby puts a hand out, a couple snowflakes land on her glove. “Oh, wow, so it is!” 

Bow sticks out her tongue to catch the flakes like a little kid, then giggles. “Snow would be nicer if it didn’t need to be so goddamn cold for it to happen. You wanna go inside and get cocoa?”

Cabby smiles at the offer–at least, she’s pretty sure she does. Her face is starting to go a bit numb from the cold. “I would, but look, they’re starting to load bags.”

The two of them go to check in with the dean of students so she can check their names off and show that they’re present, then put their bags under the shuttle and get seated in the closest seats to the front.

“Thanks for sitting with me,” Bow tells Cabby.

“Of course!” Cabby replies. “So, how are things going for you in terms of the show? Settling into your job well!”

“Yeah!” Bow says. “I’ve been having a lot of fun learning the ropes. I had this weird conversation with Apple and Marshmallow after the designer run the other day, though. About the other Bow, the one who died. It really made me think about–” She cuts off all of a sudden, staring dead ahead. Cabby follows her gaze to find…

Test Tube’s hair is sparkling with snow, and she’s visibly shivering as she comes up into the shuttle. For a minute, Cabby allows herself to live in an alternate universe where she would have brushed the snow off Test Tube’s head and wrapped her jacket around her. Maybe even pulled her into an embrace. 

But Test Tube’s eyes meet Cabby’s and her expression turns to surprise, then bitterness, and Cabby is all too aware that she lives in this universe instead.

Test Tube’s eyes shift to Bow next to Cabby, and she looks even more hurt than before. She opens and closes her mouth a few times, then finally says, “I’m gonna sit a little further back. You’re welcome to join me, Bow .” She puts emphasis on the name Bow, as if to really drive home that the offer does not extend to Cabby.

“Nah, you know how carsick I get.” Bow squirms in place, not meeting Test Tube’s eye.

“Yeah. See you once we get back.” Test Tube walks past them without another word.

There’s a moment of tense silence, and then Bow says, “I’m really sorry. I should have remembered that she would be on this shuttle too.” 

“No, that’s alright. I should’ve…” Cabby almost finishes that with “checked my notebook,” but thinks better of it. “I don’t know.”

Bow grimaces, shuffling uncomfortably again. “I kinda haven’t brought it up to her that we still hang out. I feel kinda gross about that, because I’m not ashamed of you or anything, I just…really don’t wanna get in the middle.”

“I understand,” Cabby replies. “You don’t deserve to be in the middle.”

“Yeah.” Bow sighs. “I’d talk to her, but she’s such a brick wall whenever your name comes up.”

Cabby tries to say something to that, but there’s nothing. She stays silent for a minute, until she feels the bus start to move–an opportunity to change the subject. “Well, looks like we’re on the road.”

They don’t talk much on the shuttle, and Cabby mostly stares out the window, taking notes on the landscape here and there. It starts to rain as they get close to home, and by the time they get to the stop it’s a downpour. Once they finally get off, Bow pulls Cabby into a hug. “Have a great break!”

“Thank you,” Cabby replies, a little startled. “You too.”

Bow grins and waves over her shoulder as she heads for a car.

Cabby’s phone buzzes in her pocket–her dad is calling. She picks it up. “Hi, Dad, is everything alright?”

“Hi, kiddo.” Cabby smiles at the name–she’s turning 21 over this break, but she’s still ‘kiddo’ to her dad. Some things never change. “I’m running a little late, you know how traffic is. I know it’s raining, but will you be okay to wait?”

“Mm-hmm,” Cabby replies. “My wheelchair is all packed up, but there’s a bench nearby, so I can sit there.”

“That’s good. I don’t want you putting strain on yourself. Alright, I’ll see you soon, Cab. Love you.”

“Love you too.” Cabby hangs up the phone and goes over to sit on the bench. It’s uncomfortably wet, but it’ll have to do.

A flash of green catches her eye, and she sees Test Tube carrying a large duffle bag into the trunk of a car. All the while she’s chatting animatedly with a woman in the front seat, who from the strong resemblance is presumably her mother.

For a second Cabby’s mind goes back to that alternate universe–one where she’d be there at Test Tube’s side, introduce herself to Test Tube’s mom as her girlfriend, kiss her on the cheek, wish her a nice Hanukkah, promise to call or maybe even visit.

The door slams shut, the car drives away, and the fantasy is shattered.

It’s all Cabby can do to squeeze one of her bags to her chest and take heavy, shaking breaths. She doesn’t want to cry. Crying alone in the rain is ridiculously cliche, and she doesn’t want her dad worrying about her.

She feels so utterly, painfully pathetic that it could choke her.

Chapter Text

“Test Tube!”

It’s raining so hard that between the mist and her drenched glasses, Test Tube can barely see anything but a pink blob before she feels someone collide with her, wrapping her in a hug. “Bow! Hi! Golly, you scared me!”

“Sorry! I’ve just missed you. It’s weird that I didn’t see you at all over break!” Bow shudders. “Let’s keep talking inside, though, so we don’t get soaked through.”

“Good point.” They go inside the theater lobby, and Test Tube wipes her glasses off, then continues wiping them much longer than she needs to just to have something to do. She doesn’t really know what to say. It’s not that she didn’t want to talk to Bow, it’s just that every time she thought about it, she remembered their interaction on the shuttle and didn’t want to deal with that just yet.

“Kinda weird that the lights didn’t come on,” Bow finally remarks. “I thought they were motion sensors.”

“Huh, yeah,” Test Tube replies absently.

“Oh, thank god, Test Tube” MePhone interrupts them, rushing in from the design classroom. “The power went down. Can you go check the electrical panel to see if it’s something you can fix? If you can’t, no big, we can reschedule the production meeting.” He runs a hand over his face. Now that Test Tube gets a look at him, even in the dark she can tell he looks absolutely awful. His hair is even messier than usual, his clothes crumpled and messy, and he has visible bags under his eyes.

Bow must notice as well, because she says, “Whoa, Mephone, are you okay? You don’t look so hot.”

MePhone barks a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine, I just haven’t been sleeping too well.” He’s silent for a moment, staring blankly into space like he forgot Test Tube and Bow were there, before suddenly snapping into the present again. “Hey, what the fuck gives? Test Tube, I told you to do something, and I’m the director, so what I say goes! Hop to!”

“Okay, gee, whatever,” Test Tube grumbles. He really is impossible sometimes.

“I can come with,” Bow offers, and follows Test Tube towards the basement.

They’re mostly quiet as they make their way towards the electrical room, Bow holding up her phone camera so neither of them bump into anything. Eventually, she says, “I hope the power isn’t out on this whole side of campus. I was going to study at the library for a while after the meeting.”

“Oh, good idea!” Test Tube replies. “Golly, I need to study too. I have a chem test coming up.”

“You wanna come with?” Bow asks.

Test Tube stops in her tracks as she sputters out, “Um, I can’t go to the library–I mean, uh, I’m busy today.”

Bow’s brow furrows. “You can’t go to the library?” She doesn’t meet Test Tube’s eye as she adds, “Does that have anything to do with someone who happens to work there, or…?”

Test Tube can’t lie to Bow–she does take care to avoid going to the library during any of Cabby’s shifts. Instead, she just shrugs.

“Yeah.” Bow’s voice is sad, and she still isn’t looking at Test Tube as she walks onward.

Test Tube feels compelled to add something, so she says, “I’m sorry I was…snippy with you on the shuttle. I know I’m not the boss of who you hang out with, I’m just worried about you, I guess. I know the old adage is that you spend your sophomore year trying to get rid of your friends you made your freshman year, but I’d rather you just start off with friends you can keep. Friends who really care about you, and don’t have some ulterior motive.”

“Ulterior–!” Bow reels back as if she’d gotten an electric shock, and Test Tube feels the slightest pang of regret for how she phrased that. “You’re right, Test Tube, you’re not the boss of who I hang out with, and you don’t have to do the whole protective big sister schtick anymore. I’m an adult, and I can handle myself.” Test Tube tries to cut in, but Bow won’t let her, which is maybe for the better because Test Tube doesn’t know what she’d even say. “You know, maybe you should just check the electrical box by yourself. I’d hate to get in the way, and I should get a head start on my studying anyways.”

Test Tube still can’t think of anything to say–Bow’s never spoken to her like this before. Eventually, she manages to blurt, “We don’t even know if the production meeting will be canceled yet.”

“Fine. I’ll wait in the design classroom, and you can text me if the power really is out.” With that, Bow turns and walks away. Just before she goes upstairs, she turns over her shoulder and says, “I hope you’re able to fix things.”

Test Tube tries to convince herself Bow is talking about the electrical box, but in her gut she knows that isn’t the case.

“Hey, Bow!”

Bow must jump a foot in the air at the greeting. Needless to say, she’s a little on edge after the less-than-optimal conversation she just had, and for a split second, she thinks Test Tube came after her, but lets out a sigh of relief as she recognizes her roommate’s voice. “Oh, hey, Goo.”

Goo is grinning when Bow turns around, but his brow furrows when he sees her face. “Whoa, what’s got my favorite roomie down? Who do I gotta fight?”

Bow laughs a little. Goo’s goofiness never fails to cheer her up. “No, no, nobody to fight.”

“Okay, thank goodness! I’m a lover, not a fighter.” Goo giggles as well. “Seriously, though, what’s up? You wanna talk about it?”

“Eh, not really. It was just a stupid argument with Test Tube about the whole Cabby situation.” She shrugs.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Goo replies. “That sucks. By the way, what’s the deal with the power?”

“Not sure,” says Bow. “Test Tube is checking whether it’s just a flipped breaker or whatever, or if the power is legitimately out. If it’s the latter, MePhone’s just gonna cancel the production meeting.” She gets a closer look at Goo’s face and notices that all of a sudden, his eyes have gone wide. “What, that’s not that weird, right? How would we do the meeting if we don’t have any power, just sit around in the dark?”

“ Bow,” Goo hisses, and doesn’t elaborate.

“What?” Bow asks, and then freezes when she realizes what she just heard.

Almost at the exact same time, another voice, one she doesn’t recognize, had said the exact same thing.

Bow turns slowly, having no idea what she’s about to see, but she’s definitely not ready to see a girl who looks uncannily like her, let alone one who’s transparent and hovering several feet above the ground.

“What the fuck?”

“I could say the same to you,” says the mysterious figure, crossing her arms. “Why do you, like, look just like me?”

“More important question,” Bow asks, trying to keep herself from spiraling into panic, “why are you…like that?”

“Like what?” the figure asks, then pauses for a moment to think. “Oh, right, you mean why do I look like a ghost. Well, that’s ‘cause,” she opens her arms and spins in a circle in midair, “I am one! Okay, now your turn, answer my question.”

“Okay.”  Bow is sure her head is going to explode later because apparently ghosts are real, but for now, she might as well go with it. That, or she’s having a really weird dream and maybe this is a sign from the universe that she should bite the bullet and start looking for which therapists are covered by her insurance. “Are you…Bow?”

“...yeah. So?”

“So, I think you’re…” god this is so weird, “...my aunt who died before I was born?”

“Oh, okay.” Ghost Bow shrugs. “That still doesn’t explain why you dress like me.”

“I don’t know, I’ve never even met you before now!” Bow snaps. Truth be told, her parents had bought her a lot of clothes like that when she was a kid, and once she had gotten old enough to choose her own clothes she had just never bothered to change her style.

“Okay, it just seems like you’re, like, pretending to be me or something. Kinda weird, girl.”

“Don’t call me that!” Bow snaps. She’s not sure herself why she says it, it just comes out.

“Okay, so what am I supposed to call you? It’s not like I know what your name is.”

“It’s…um, it’s also Bow,” she says, gritting her teeth.

“See?” Ghost Bow points dramatically, as if her point has just been proven. “You totally are pretending to be me!”

“Like I said, I’ve never even met you before! That’s just my name, I’ve had it since I was born!” Bow exclaims. “I’m not pretending to be anyone.”

Ghost Bow’s eyebrows shoot up. “Uh, okay, maybe you’re not pretending to be me, but you’re definitely pretending something . I can tell, because I’m,” she tosses her hair, “totally such a great actor.” She huffs. “Whatever, I’m gonna go see if there’s anyone less boring around here. Well, actually, you’re not boring, little blue guy. You’re kinda cute, I like you.” She floats over to Goo, who hasn’t said a word this whole time, and tries to pat him on the head, but her hand goes straight through. With that, she disappears with a wisp of pink smoke.

Bow and Goo are both silent for a long time, and then Goo says, “So, um, that happened. You okay?”

“Not really,” replies Bow. “I mean, getting in a fight with Test Tube was bad enough, but seeing a fucking ghost is just too much for me to process right now. I’m sure I’ll have some big freakout about this later, but for now I’m just feeling kinda numb, I guess?” She shrugs. “I am kinda weirded out by the fact that the ghost of my dead aunt hit on you, though.”

Goo giggles. “I don’t think she was hitting on me, I think it was like how a puppy is cute!”

“If you say so,” Bow teases, feeling a little calmer. “She’s way too old for you, anyways. She was born in the seventies.”

“Does that even count if she’s a ghost? I mean, it’s not like she’s really aged since she was like nineteen, right?”

Bow is about to respond, but she’s interrupted. “Hang on, did you say a ghost?” 

Both Bow and Goo scream as they spin around, but stop once they see who it is. “Oh, hi, MePhone!” Bow squeaks, still trying to get her bearings. “That wasn’t anything, it’s just an inside joke.” Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she takes it out to check it. “Oh, Test Tube says the power is out for realsies, by the way.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, okay, whatever.” MePhone is facing Bow, but he seems to be less looking at her, and more staring into space that she happens to be in. He looks like he’s seen a ghost himself. “I guess you guys can blow this popsicle stand, then. Have a good one.”

“Okay.” Before she leaves, Bow asks, “Um, are you sure you’re okay?”

MePhone doesn’t seem to have the energy to lie, because he just shrugs and walks away.

Thankfully, the rain has cleared up as Bow and Goo walk back to the freshman dorms, and the sun is peeking through the clouds. If it weren’t for the damp grass, petrichor in the air, and scattered branches that had been blown off trees, one wouldn’t have been able to tell there was just a storm.

“Can I ask you kinda a personal question?” Goo says once they’re almost back.

“Shoot.” There’s nothing Goo could say that would possibly make Bow’s day any weirder.

“Okay, so, when the ghost called you ‘girl,’ it seemed like you got really mad about it. What was that?”

Bow finds herself tensing up even thinking about it. “I dunno, wouldn’t that make you feel weird too?”

“Yeah,” says Goo slowly, “because I’m not a girl.” He shrugs. “I was just curious. No big deal.”

But Bow can already feel wheels turning in her brain, wheels she doesn’t have the time or energy for. She has a show to put on and classes to pass, not to mention that she just saw an actual ghost, and she doesn’t have it in her to question things like this after the world’s weirdest day.

Still, though, there’s a feeling deep inside her that something is happening that’s been coming for a long time.

Bow: hey paintbrush! mind if i ask you a quick question

Paintbrush: Yeah, go ahead

Bow: how’d you know you were nonbinary?

it’s for a class

Paintbrush: Idk it’s kinda hard to put an exact moment on it, there was a long time where I could tell there was something going on in the gender department but it took me a while to actually put a name on it

The moment I remember most strongly is when someone didn’t know what pronouns I used so they used they/them by default and I was like. Huh, that felt good actually

After that I reached out to some trans friends to just kinda, like, “hey what the fuck is happening”

I think i might’ve used some shitty transparent excuse like “it was for a class” 

Bow: …

…okay you caught me

i don’t know anything for sure i’m just having a moment idk

Paintbrush: There’s no hurry for any of it, you don’t have to rush to find labels or anything

And you can always ask me if you have more questions, no judging here I’ve done this whole rodeo

Bow: thanks! i appreciate the help of my queer elders <3

Paintbrush: Oh fuck off I’m literally 21

Bow: heehee >:)

Of all the times for Marshmallow to realize she dropped her wallet in the production shop, it had to be when the power was out.

She’s shivering as she feels around in the dark, and her shins ache from where she’s bumped them on various pieces of furniture. “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she grumbles to herself.

“Hey, don’t say that!” interrupts a voice she doesn’t recognize from behind her. “You gotta have, like, positive self talk or whatever.”

Marshmallow spins, and when she sees who’s talking, she can’t quite wrap her head around it. It’s a pale, transparent figure, glowing pink, but upon closer inspection she looks remarkably like, “...Bow?”

“That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” The ghostly girl does a loop-de-loop in midair.

“But…the other Bow?” Marshmallow asks, realizing she looks less like the living crew member and more like the memorial photo in the lobby. “Are you, like…some kind of ghost?”

“Um, duh,” Ghost Bow sighs, crossing her arms. “And I think by ‘the other Bow,’ you mean the original Bow. Not like that weirdo who says she’s my niece or whatever. Oh yeah, and ghosts are real, don’t freak out or whatever.”

“I’m not freaking out,” Marshmallow says, kind of freaking out. Candle or someone would probably know how to deal here, but herself, she has no idea what the fuck she’s supposed to do with this information. “If I’m being honest, I think I’ve sensed your presence here before. I always liked the idea of haunted theaters.”

“That’s me, the theater ghost!” Ghost Bow giggles. “So, like, y’all are doing a show right now, right? How’s that going?”

“Pretty okay,” Marshmallow replies, still trying to brain the fact that she’s making small talk with a ghost. “I’m doing scenic design, so we’re trying to get the set pieces situated in a way that works with the turntable.”

“OMG, the turntable?” exclaims Ghost Bow. “I have so many memories of that turntable. Like, one time, there was a heavy wall that was placed wrong, so when someone tried to move the turntable, the wall fell on me and I died! I’ve been trapped in this building ever since!”

Marshmallow shudders, taken aback by how Ghost Bow’s chipper tone was despite saying something so morbid. “That…doesn’t sound like a very good memory.”

“Eh, it wasn’t great, but at least I can fly now!” Ghost Bow does another loop-de-loop to demonstrate. “It gets kinda lonely, though. I try not to make myself seen too often, ‘cause I know it freaks people out, but that means I’m just here by myself all the time.”

“Oh.” Marshmallow thinks for a moment, then an idea pops into her brain. “I could come and visit you, if you want. I’m in here all the time, anyway.”

“You would?” Ghost Bow’s face lights up. “Oh my god, I wish I could hug you! You’re, like, totally my best friend now, what’s-your-name.”

“Oh, um, it’s Marshmallow.” She sinks down on the sofa, then feels something under her. She reaches for it, and her hand closes around… “Oh, thank god, my wallet! I guess since I have this now, I should probably head back out, but…it was really nice to meet you.”

“Okay! It was good to meet you too, Marshmallow!”

Marshmallow’s head is spinning the whole way home, and she just wants to get back to her room to process whatever just happened, but she doesn’t even make it to the hallway before Apple comes out of nowhere, making her jump. “Oh, hey, Marsh, what’s up with you? You look really out of it.”

“Oh, yeah, it’s just…” Marshmallow knows she’s going to sound like she’s out of her mind, but she just has to get it off her chest. “I, um, I saw the ghost of the dead Bow in the theater, so that was…weird.”

Right on cue, Apple bursts out laughing. “Man, Marshmallow, you’re so funny!”

“I wasn’t–ah, whatever.” Marshmallow figures there’s no point in trying to explain.

After a minute, Apple stops laughing and says, “Seriously though, you need to cool it on this weird obsession with that dead girl. It’s kinda creepy.”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Marshmallow wasn’t expecting to be believed, but her friend calling her creepy right to her face?

“I don’t know.” Apple looks uncomfortable all of a sudden. “I mean, you’re treating it like some kind of true crime thing, and like, that’s the relative of someone we know. It’s weird.”

“I mean, it’s not…” Marshmallow is at a loss for words. This came completely out of nowhere. “I don’t get why you’re being like this.”

“Like what?”

“Being an asshole again! I didn’t even do anything!” She sighs, not trusting herself to continue this conversation without saying something she’ll regret. “I’m gonna go back to my room.”

“Okay, bye,” Apple mumbles behind her as she leaves.

Marshmallow slams her door and flops down on her bed, incredibly pissed off. Her only consolation is that if she’s screwed everything with Apple up, at least she has Ghost Bow.

Clover has been sitting in this one spot, staring blankly at her class Canvas page, for at least five minutes.

She feels like she’s out of her body, and she can hear herself hyperventilating. She would probably be crying audibly if it weren’t for the fact that Suitcase, her roommate, is praying in the other side of the room and Clover doesn’t want the noise to interrupt her.

She’s never bombed a quiz like this before. She’s always been so good at school, in pretty much any class she put her mind to, and now she might screw up her grade for the whole class. Maybe she’ll fail and have to take an extra semester, or maybe–

“Clover?” Clover jumps as she notices Suitcase is peeking through the door separating their sides of the room. She realizes there are tears running down her face and desperately tries to rub them away before Suitcase sees, to no avail. “Whoa, are you okay?”

Clover sniffs. “No, it’s nothing, don’t worry. Don’t you have a production meeting or something?”

“Nope, it got canceled. Power’s out that whole side of campus.” Suitcase sits down next to Clover, eyebrows furrowing in concern. “Seriously, do you want to talk about it?”

Clover says nothing, just turns her laptop towards Suitcase to show the grade.

Suitcase grimaces sympathetically. “Oh, yikes, not as good a grade as you wanted? That sucks, I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” Clover rubs her eyes. “I probably didn’t study enough, I just…I dunno, I expected it to be easier.”

Suitcase cocks her head to the side. “How d’you mean?”

“I dunno,” Clover repeats. “I always got good grades in high school. And middle school. And elementary school, actually. I never even had to try. I don't think I’ve ever failed a quiz before in my life, and now this? What if I keep failing and I can’t graduate?”

“Aw, Clover,” Suitcase consoles. “That won’t happen. It’s just one bad grade, it won’t wreck your entire GPA. Besides, graduation isn’t for four years, so don’t worry about that yet! I’ve had a couple academic screw-ups in my time, but you learn from what you did wrong and practice that so you get it right next time!”

“Thanks, Suitcase.” Clover lets out a big sigh. “Sorry for dumping this all on you. I know you have enough of your own drama going on. How’s that all going, by the way?”

“Urgh.” Suitcase huffs. “My friends hate each other, same old, same old.”

“That really sucks,” Clover tells her, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“Yeah, it does.” Suitcase leans back against the wall. “I don’t really wanna talk about it right now.”

“Fair,” Clover replies. “If you ever do want to talk about it, though, with someone who isn’t involved, I’m always open.”

Suitcase grins. “Thanks! Same to you. Also, I don’t mean to put something on you while you’re having a rough time, but would you mind helping me out with the assignment for first year seminar? It isn’t really making sense to me.”

“Sure thing!”

As the two of them go over the assignment together, Clover feels a little calmer. Maybe she doesn’t have to be perfect at everything to make it through the next four years.

MePhone wakes up with a start, a sick feeling already settling in his stomach.

It must have been Bow telling him she and Goo saw a ghost that, combined with other recent happenings, reminded him of the specter he’d seen in his childhood home years and years ago. It appeared in his dreams again last night, still repeating that same phrase he heard it begging that day.

“Please, Cobs, don’t.”

MePhone hasn’t heard his father’s name in god knows how long, and the memory sends a shiver down his spine. He grabs his phone to distract himself, and finds that he has a text from MePad: We need to meet, now. Come to the design classroom as soon as possible.

He does not at all want to go to a meeting on his day off, but MePad seems pretty insistent, so here he is, stumbling into the design classroom at 8 in the goddamn morning.

Still, he might as well try to be amicable, so he greets MePad, Tea Kettle and Lifering with, “Oh, hey guys. Glad the power’s back on, huh?”

Silence. The three of them glance at one another, clearly in on something that MePhone isn’t.

MePhone’s stomach squirms. “So, uh, what’s up?”

There’s another second of tense silence, and then MePad speaks up. “Professor, to be perfectly frank, we wanted to talk to you because we’re concerned about you.”

He might as well have hit MePhone in the back of the head with a brick. “Huh? Is this some kind of fucking intervention?”

“Well,” Lifering hedges, “intervention is such a negative word…”

“No, it is an intervention,” Tea Kettle jumps in. “MePhone, answer me honestly, when was the last time you slept more than five hours? Because I’ve barely seen you go home for longer than that.”

MePhone really does try to think, but it’s been at least two weeks, probably longer. Instead of answering, he just snaps, “None of your business.”

“It is our business,” Lifering insists. “Because you’re our friend, and we care about your well-being.”

For a moment, MePhone is genuinely touched. Nobody ever says things like that about him–he knows he’s a dick, and a slob, and obnoxious, and generally not someone most people think of as friend material. 

He shakes it off, though, because the sooner he can end this whole situation, the better. “Just because we’re coworkers, doesn’t make us friends.” With that, he rushes out of the room as fast as he can.

MePhone doesn’t end up leaving the building–he finds himself sitting on the floor of the booth. He’s just sitting there, staring at the wall and shaking. Where do those assholes get off, pestering him about his self-care habits? He can handle himself.

He has no idea how long he’s been up there when he hears the door open. “Professor?”

“God, why do you call me that?” MePhone grumbles. “All the other students just call me by my first name, and you’re literally my cousin. It’s weird.”

“I try to maintain a sense of professionality,” replies MePad. “Regardless, that’s not what I’m here to discuss.”

MePhone sighs. “If you’re here to tell me I should get more sleep or whatever, save it.” He shoves past MePad and storms out the door.

“Professor, has your father called you recently?”

That has MePhone stopping in his tracks, the sick feeling from this morning flooding back into him. “W…what?”

“Your father.” MePad’s affect is, as usual, frustratingly flat, making it impossible to ascertain what the hell he’s playing at. “You only ever get in a state like this after interacting with him.”

MePhone opens and closes his mouth a few times, but he can’t force a lie out. Eventually, he gives up and says weakly, “He didn’t call. It was a letter.”

“Ah,” MePad replies. “Maybe that’s for the better. At least you didn’t have to talk to him.”

“Are you serious? He knows where I fucking live! That’s why I’m barely going home when I can help it!” MePhone cries, his voice cracking on the last word. He sniffs hard, and takes his glasses off to wipe his eyes. “Whatever, I don’t expect you to get it.” He turns and walks away, his eyes squeezed shut. MePad says his name several times, but ignores it.

That is, until he hears him cry out, “MEPHONE!” with more emotion than MePhone’s ever heard him use.

Then there’s suddenly no more floor under him, and his eyes pop open to watch himself, as if in slow motion, trip off the edge of the staircase he didn’t realize was there and begin to fall towards the concrete landing.

Man, this blows! I’m gonna die like Box! runs through MePhone’s head, and then, well, if I do die, I don’t want that to be my last thought, and then he feels his body hit the concrete and everything goes black.

Chapter Text

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Winters’ Tale Update

Dear cast and crew,

It has come to my attention that MePhone has recently suffered a concussion and will be out of commission indefinitely. Rest assured, he will almost definitely be cleared to return before tech week. In the interim, I will be staying in contact with him and taking over his duties until his return, and Floory will be taking over mine. Thank you for your patience in this time.

Sincerely, 

MePad (he/him), Stage Manager

Pickle has a million ways he’d rather spend his afternoon than sitting in the lobby staring blankly at a poster and feeling like he’s about to barf.

What he’d actually expected to be doing was helping clean up the green room, because it was reaching the point of being a tetanus risk (seriously, people need to stop leaving fucking nails all over the floor!) However, when he got there he found Soap had already done most of the heavy lifting, and there wasn’t really much left to do.

As he’d gone into the lobby, he’d noticed that there were a bunch of new posters up featuring pictures of the cast and crew of Spring Awakening from last year, presumably because of the tour coming through in a few days. Most showed pictures of students hard at work or having fun, emphasizing how great the theatre department was to prospective students.

The poster that has Pickle in such an awful state is one with letters proclaiming, “Join the IIU stage crew!”

The students in the photo are himself and Taco, dressed in their stage blacks with comms on, grinning and giving thumbs up like they’re the happiest people in the world.

Funny, for a crew member, Taco was a damn good actor as well. She played the role of Pickle’s friend so flawlessly he never figured out it was an act until he said so.

“You okay, dude?”

Pickle jumps, and turns around to find Knife behind him, leaning on the back of the couch. “Eh, yeah, I’m okay. I’m just…” he gestures at the poster.

Knife grimaces. “Ah. Yeah.”

“Plus, it’s like…” Pickle sighs. “I haven’t really been back to the theater since last year, and it’s kinda bringing up some shit.”

Knife goes around the back of the sofa and sits down next to Pickle. “You know what, man?”

“What?”

“That girl deserves zero space in your head. She was a shitty friend–not a friend at all, really–and now she’s still taking up your time and ruining the things you like. Don’t let her do that.”

Pickle snorts. “Easier said than done.”

“Yeah, but–” Knife shrugs, “--isn’t it worth it to try? Rather than just ignoring it until it all blows up?”

Pickle considers that for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right.” He sighs. “Since when do you give good advice?”

“I’ve always given good advice. You all just need to learn to listen to me more.” Knife stands up and stretches. “You wanna go grab boba with me?”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Pickle gets to his feet as well.

As they leave the theater, Pickle flips the poster the bird. Knife smiles when he sees it, and Pickle has to admit it does make him feel better.

Paintbrush is on their last straw with these fucking lines.

They don’t make sense, and they’re ridiculously long, and the worst part is, they’re almost in iambic pentameter, but they aren’t quite. Many of the lines are a little longer or shorter than ten syllables, and if Paintbrush had a time machine right now, they’d most certainly go back to rip Shakespeare a new one about it.

They give their script one more vitriolic glare, then take it in hand and peek into Fan’s room. “So hey, remember how you said you’d practice my lines with me when I was ready?”

“Oh, yeah,” Fan muses, typing something on his computer. “I’m kinda in the middle of something, just give me…an hour, give or take.”

“An hour?” Paintbrush repeats. “Fan, I don’t have an hour! I have another class! And you’re just…” they walk over to see what he’s doing, “writing fanfiction instead of helping me?”

“Well, yeah, but I can’t stop now!” Fan exclaims. “I was on a roll, and now you’ve thrown off the emperor’s groove!”

“That doesn’t matter! This is more important, and you’re just fucking blowing me off! God, you’re just so–!”

Suddenly, Paintbrush realizes what they’re saying. Shit, okay. They clench and unclench their fists a few times, trying to stay in their body. “Fuck, I’m…I need a minute, Fan.” They don’t look at Fan’s face as they leave Fan’s room and go back to their own.

Okay, okay, Paintbrush is handling this. They’re safe, they’re present, nothing bad is going to happen. They bury their face in their pillow for a minute, then get up and tear a page out of their notebook (not the one with the nice paper.) Then they slowly and deliberately tear it to bits. It’s one of those quiet, repetitive motions that rarely fails to get them grounded.

They go back up to Fan’s room and knock on the door. “Fan, it’s Paintbrush. Can I come in?”

“Sure!” Thankfully, he doesn’t sound mad, and when they push the door open, he’s smiling.

Paintbrush sits on the edge of Fan’s bed. “I’m really sorry I almost blew up at you earlier. I was totally out of line.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t great,” Fan admits. “But honestly, I was being a dick. Like, I would have been pissed off at me if I were you, too.”

Paintbrush laughs a little at that. “I’m still sorry, though.”

“Thanks. Also, yeah, you almost blew up, but you didn’t! Last year, you might not have caught yourself like that. That’s some real character development right there.”

“Heh, yeah. You’re still saying stuff like ‘character development,’ though,” Paintbrush teases.

“Yeah, yeah.” Fan grins. “I was acting like a real last-year Fan, though, and you responded like this-year Paintbrush. I’m proud of you, PB.”

“I’m proud of you too,” Paintbrush responds, and they really do mean it. “You’ve really matured since I met you. Earlier was maybe not the best demonstration, but I think right now you’re showing it.”

“Yeah, thanks!” Fan holds out his fist for a fist bump, and Paintbrush accepts. “I’m really glad we’re friends, you know that, right?”

“Yeah, I’m glad we’re friends too.” Paintbrush smiles back at him. 

“You wanna run those lines now?”

“Ehh,” Paintbrush shrugs, “I think I kinda burned myself out a bit getting all worked up. Maybe after I take a nap.”

“Sounds good.” Fan gives them a thumbs up. “Have a nice nap.”

Paintbrush is so much calmer now than they were before, that almost as soon as they flop down on their bed, they fall dead asleep.

Test Tube has had a long day, and she’s so glad she finally gets to go home.

She gathers up her things, leaves the booth, and is in such a rush to get to the door that she bumps into someone on her way out.

“Oh golly, I’m so sorry–” she begins to say, then sees who it is.

Cabby doesn’t say anything, just silently puts the notebooks she’s dropped back in her satchel.

Test Tube doesn’t say anything either, just stands silently as Cabby finishes packing her things and begins to roll her wheelchair away. 

However, she notices something on the ground, and squats down to see what it is.

Cabby’s ID. She must not have seen it when she was putting everything back in her bag.

She can’t just leave this, right? Sure, she doesn’t like Cabby, but she needs this to be able to get food, or get into her building, and Test Tube may be mad but she isn’t cruel.

“Cabby, wait, your ID!”

Cabby stops and turns around, eyes wide as she takes the card from Test Tube’s hand. “Why are you being nice all of a sudden?”

“This isn’t nice,” Test Tube replies, not looking Cabby in the eye. “You just need it to, like, not die.”

“Well, it’s certainly the most kindness you’ve given me recently.” Cabby’s voice is icy, and she turns her head away.

“Yeah, well, I don’t act nice to people’s faces and then talk crap about them behind their backs,” Test Tube grumbles back.

“That was not my intention,” Cabby replies. She’s clearly trying to keep her voice level, but it’s beginning to shake. Test Tube feels a tug in her stomach, and she tries her best to ignore it. “If you would actually listen to me, rather than convincing yourself you know anything about me, I’d be willing to offer you an olive branch.”

“An olive branch?” Test Tube replies. “Sure, maybe whenever you get rid of that…that slander you wrote about my friends, and apologize for it. You need to get your head out of those notebooks and look at all the people you’re insulting.”

Cabby goes stock still, opening her mouth and closing it again. Finally, she chokes out, “I suppose I’ll go back to leaving you alone, then. Provided you allow me the same courtesy.” With that, she turns and leaves, shoulders visibly tense.

Test Tube watches her, getting smaller and smaller until she turns the corner and is out of sight. Her stomach is killing her all of a sudden, and she tries to convince herself she’s just hungry or something. She doesn’t feel guilty. She can’t, because she’s not in the wrong. 

And yet, once she gets home, yet again, she locks herself in her room and cries.

“Goo, can I ask you something?”

Goo looks up to where Bow is leaning against the doorway in the middle of their shared room. She’s worrying the edge of her dress with her hands, like she often does when she’s anxious.

“You just did, but I’ll give you one more,” he teases, hoping the joke will cheer her up a little. Thankfully, it does–a little smile flits over her face.

“I just–” Bow twists the edge of her dress even more, chewing her lip, “--I don’t really know how to put this into words.”

“That’s okay!” Goo chirps. “Words are hard sometimes! Like…” he thinks for a second. “Like, as hard as a rock covered in metal!”

Bow giggles at that too. “This is gonna sound weird, but um…if I sent you some sentences, would you mind reading them out loud?”

“Sure!” Goo waits for a moment while Bow sends the sentences. “Okay, let’s see what we got… ‘Bot is a college student, and they want to major in creative writing.’ ‘Bot loves theatre, and they work backstage.’ ‘Bot likes dogs, and they have a dog at home called N/A.’” It takes a moment for his brain to catch up with what he’s just read. “Wait, Bot is you, right?”

His roommate nods, sniffling and rubbing their eyes. “I haven’t really told anyone yet, but, um, I think I might be nonbinary.”

Without hesitating, Goo jumps off his bed to go give them a hug. “Whaaaat? Your new name is so cool! It’s probably the second coolest name ever, after Goo! But it would be weird if you were also named Goo.”

“Thanks.” Bot giggles, sniffling again. “You don’t think it’s weird, right?”

“Why would I think it’s weird?” Goo asks. “One of my parents is nonbinary! It’s totally normal!”

“Well, yeah, but,” Bot wipes their eyes, “I kinda feel like I don’t count as trans, since I don’t want to get top surgery or hormones or anything. I would never even want to cut my hair.”

“I don’t think that means it doesn’t count as transitioning!” Goo says. “My parent always says it’s up to you how you express yourself, and that doesn’t mean you are or aren’t a certain gender. I mean, I love dresses, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a guy!”

“Yeah, I guess.” Bot lets out a slow sigh. “I haven’t even told anyone yet, except you. Well, and Paintbrush, but that was kind of on accident, and I only said I was questioning.” They pause for a moment, fidgeting again. “Even Test Tube. I’ve known her for so long, it just feels… weird.”

“I’m sure you’ll be up to it soon!” Goo consoles them.

“Yeah, I will,” Bot says, sounding a bit calmer. “Wanna watch something? I’m officially done with emotions for, like, the next century.”

“Sure thing!” Goo pulls up his computer. “The Guy Who Didn’t Like Musicals?”

“Um, duh!” Bot settles in next to him, and he hits play.

Goo finds a lot of comfort in the fact that they came to him first. 

Microphone is already in a pretty crappy mood.

She’s still not doing as well as she’d like–she has her lines down a bit better, but not perfect, and her grasp on blocking is shaky at best. What’s worse is that, for some reason, Cheesy has been an absolute pain, making fun of her every time she messes up. He doesn’t seem to realize how much it grates on her.

And now to top it all off, she’s getting yet another call from a phone number she doesn’t recognize.

For some reason, since the beginning of the school year she’s been getting an absolute shit ton of spam calls. She must have clicked on some shady ad or something, but either way, it’s annoying as hell.

She’s about to hit “decline,” but then a notification pops up to show they’re leaving a message.

Since when do spam callers leave messages?

Once the caller is done, Microphone clicks on the message, curious what it says. It’s probably nothing, but she might as well be sure.

“Microphone, there are some things I need to clear up. Call me back to let me know when and where you can meet in person.”

The voice is sharp, prim and British. Microphone has never heard it before, but she suddenly knows exactly who it is.

She hits “call back,” and waits anxiously as the phone rings. When the person picks up, before they can get a word out, Microphone blurts out, “Taco?”

“Very astute, Sherlock,” Taco replies with a chuckle. “Now, let’s talk scheduling.”

Chapter Text

Cheesy is really not great at this whole “serious” thing.

He really was just goofing around yesterday with Microphone. He didn’t expect her to get so upset about it, let alone start crying.

Still, maybe telling her the show would be better off if she’d stuck with music was…overdoing it just a touch.

So, he steels himself and plonks down on the bench next to her. “Hey, Mic.”

Mic practically jumps out of her seat and looks up from where she seems to have been anxiously staring at her phone. It isn’t even turned on. “Jesus, Cheesy, don’t do that!”

“Oh, my bad,” Cheesy says. “I just wanted to say…I was a real asshole yesterday. I was trying to mess around, and I took it way too far. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah.” Microphone sighs. “I appreciate that. You really kinda were a real asshole.” She’s smiling a little, but sadly. “Thanks for apologizing.”

“Of course,” Cheesy replies. “Hey, are you doing better, by the way? You still seem a little out of it still.”

“I am a little out of it,” Mic admits. “It wasn’t just what you said that set me off. I’ve been having a…a really weird semester.”

“How so?” Cheesy asks, tilting his head to the side. He still feels weird being so solemn, but he might as well take a stab at being a good friend.

“I dunno.” Mic shrugs. “I’ve just…been making some friends that I’m not sure how to feel about, and I guess I just feel pretty conflicted and under pressure.”

Without even thinking, Cheesy hums a few bars of the Queen song, then claps a hand over his mouth. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make a joke while you were having a moment! It just popped into my head when you said ‘Under Pressure!’”

Mic laughs a little. “No, that was actually funny. It wasn’t at anyone’s expense, so…”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right!” Cheesy breaks into a grin.

“Hey, by the way,” Microphone adds, “you remember that rhetoric class I got into that you wanted to take?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Cheesy grumbles. There had been a class on stand-up comedy in the rhetoric department that he had really wanted to take, but the class filled up literally one minute before his registration slot had opened, because apparently the universe hates him.

“Well…” Mic grins. “Someone just dropped out of it. If you want to try and grab that seat, you should get on that, since I think the add–drop period ends this week.”

Cheesy smiles back. “Thanks, Mic. I’ll check that out for sure. Also, do you know why Hamlet never used a pencil?” He’s been saving this one for a while.

Mic sighs, but she doesn’t seem genuinely annoyed. “I don’t know, why?” she asks flatly.

“Because he can’t decide what kind of pencil to use, 2B or not 2B! Ayyyyy!” He slaps his knee, cackling.

Mic rolls her eyes dramatically. “Alright, get outta here before I have to kill you.”

Cheesy is still laughing as he walks away. That went better than he was expecting.

Candle shuts the door of the room as gently as she can, but Silver still blinks and wakes up. Ah well, at least he’s not dead.

“Candle…?” His voice is barely a croak.

“Yes, Silver, it’s me, nobody is breaking in,” Candle teases lightly. “That, or I’m a very nice robber who brought you lunch because I knew you would pass out if you tried to go yourself.”

“Hmm,” Silver replies. He takes a small bite of the bagel she brought him, then a sip of the tea. “Earl Grey?”

“Yes indeed,” Candle replies. Even in the sickly state he’s in, she can’t resist teasing him a little more–he just makes it so easy. “Surely a polite young man such as yourself would have something to say to this? Perhaps something that starts with ‘thank’ and ends with ‘you?’”

Silver seems up to giving it back a little, because he rolls his eyes affectionately. “Alright, don’t tell me off like I’m a child. You’re not my mother.”

“That’s right, I’m not your mother, so I’m under no obligation to provide you with food when you’re feeling ill. I chose to take time out of my day and do this for you as a friend.” Candle turns away and starts going back to her room.

“Fair. You and the rest of my friends are also much kinder to me than either of my parents, so that’s another added bonus, I suppose.”

Candle freezes and turns on her heel. “...what?” From the few details she’s heard about Silver’s parents, she doesn’t think she’d like them.

“Nothing!” Silver dives under the covers and shuts his eyes. “I’m sleeping now, don’t interrupt me.”

“Alright, alright, have a nice rest.”

As she turns back again, Candle hears a quiet, “thank you.”

She has to admit, she’s finding herself oddly endeared to this sad wet cat of a man.

Cabby often finds herself going to the green room to do her homework.

It seems almost antithetical to what one would usually want from a study space–people are constantly in and out, hustle and bustle all around. But that’s actually kind of what Cabby likes about it. She likes to listen to the snippets of conversation around her as she works, and she learns about the people around her at the same time.

All of a sudden, though, she can hear someone crying.

Cabby follows the sound, and manages to trace it to a rack of clothes in the costume closet. She pushes some of the clothes aside to find one of the crew freshmen curled in on herself in a ball.

“Hey,” Cabby whispers. “It’s Suitcase, right?”

The girl looks up, blinking, and nods.

“Is there anything you need me to do?”

Suitcase chews her lip. “No, I think I’m okay. I was having a panic attack, but it’s mostly passed, I was just crying it out just now.”

“Well, could I walk you back to your dorm?” Cabby asks, as Suitcase doesn’t seem in the most stable state right now.

“Yeah, I’d really appreciate that.”

They both get on the elevator together, and head out into the crisp, cold air. They walk together for a moment before Cabby asks, “So, do you want to talk about what was going on, or would you rather not?”

Suitcase thinks for a moment, then says quietly, “Actually, I get, like…auditory hallucinations, sometimes? I’m on meds that mostly help, but it still happens from time to time, and it really throws me.”

“Oh,” Cabby mumbles softly. She isn’t really sure how to comfort Suitcase, but she feels like she should say something.

“I’m…I’m sorry,” Suitcase sputters. “That was too personal, and I shouldn’t have said anything, and I probably made things weird–!”

“No, no, you didn’t!” Cabby insists. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You can’t help the way your brain is wired, and you’re clearly struggling with it enough as it is. You don’t deserve to have shame for something you can’t control piled on top of it.”

The word hypocrite floats through Cabby’s brain, and she tries to ignore it. She’s a different story. Suitcase is a good kid, and deserves comfort, whereas Cabby is just a fraud pretending to be smart enough to be here.

“Thank you, that means a lot.” Suitcase’s voice is barely a whisper.

All of a sudden, a green blur practically bowls both of them over. “Oh my god Suitcase are you okay?” Clover exclaims practically all in one breath.

Suitcase laughs a little. “Yeah, I think I’m okay. I had a bit of a moment in the costume closet, but Cabby helped me out and walked me home.”

Clover grins at Cabby. “That was really nice of you!”

“Oh, it was no problem,” Cabby promises. “I need to go back and get my things from the green room, but it was good to talk to you, Suitcase.”

“You too!” Suitcase is finally smiling fully.

As she wheels away, Cabby finds herself feeling a little conflicted. On the one hand, she’s glad she was able to help Suitcase, on the other…she’s suddenly all too aware of how much she’s in need of help herself. 

Not that she deserves it.

Soap is unsurprised to find that Tissues’ room is an absolute disaster.

It’s always been one of the many things they haven’t had in common–despite the fact that her little brother is a spitting image of her, they’ve never had much in the way of similarities. That’s often for the better, though–they both tend to balance out each other’s worst tendencies, and Soap isn’t sure either of them would be alive without the other. He’s the only one who knows how to keep her grounded when she starts spiraling, and she can keep on top of making sure he’s not doing anything to make himself sicker.

Also, she’s the one of them with a driver’s license, so he does kinda need her to drive her places, which is why she’s here today.

“Tissues, I need to steal you for a bit,” she announces, turning to where her brother sits next to Yin-Yang, both playing a video game on his laptop. 

Before Tissues can respond, Yang jumps in. “NO! How dare you try to steal my friend!”

Soap smiles, a little amused. She really does think it’s sweet how Tissues and his roommates seem to have clicked, especially since Tissues didn’t really have any friends in high school. “Sorry, but it’s a doctor’s appointment, so it’s kind of a necessary evil.”

“Okay, can we tag along?” Yin asks.

Tissues shrugs. “Ehh, I mean, it’ll probably be boring, guys.”

“I don’t care, I don’t have anything better to do!”

Tissues glances questioningly at Soap, who shrugs and says sarcastically, “Far be it from me to invoke the wrath of a five-foot-two Italian.”

“That’s TWO five-foot-two Italians to you!” Yang snaps, to which Yin says, “Hey, don’t implicate me in your shenanigans!”

Soap rolls her eyes as the boys follow her out to her car.

Once they get in, Yin-Yang picks up a basket from the backseat. “What’s this?” asks Yin.

“Oh, a few people threw some things together for me to take to MePhone since we’re at the hospital today anyways,” Soap explains. “Kind of as a ‘sorry you ate concrete and broke your face’ present.” 

She doesn’t know how much Yin-Yang is aware of the various happenings of the theatre department drama, but they nod. “That’s so sweet!” Yin exclaims.

“Ehhh, not really,” Tissues grumbles, plugging in his seatbelt. “He kind of sucks, guys. I don’t know who would’ve put stuff in here anyways.”

“Jesus, no need to be so rude,” Soap tells him as she pulls out of the parking spot. Privately, she thinks he’s kind of right. She’s pretty sure at least three-quarters of the contents of the gift basket are from Toilet.

“I’m not being rude, I’m being factual!” Tissues argues. “I heard Cabby saying, verbatim, ‘he kind of sucks,’ and she’s basically always right!”

Soap decides not to argue with him, just tries to keep her mind focused on driving. Naturally, this is when her brain decides to go rogue with her, and her eyes keep drifting back to her brother. Is it just her, or does he look sicker than usual? He always has eye bags, but they’re worse now, and what if he hasn’t been on top of taking his meds, or sleeping or eating enough? Or worse, maybe he’s coming down with something new, she knows Silver’s been out sick, and as much as a little cold could knock Tissues out for god knows how long with his immune system–

“Hey, did you hear that someone saw Steve Cobs on campus?” asks Tissues apropos of nothing. “Like, the tech CEO, literally just walking through our campus like it’s nothing.”

“What?” The statement is so weird that it throws Soap out of her spiral. “Who did you hear that from?”

“I dunno, someone on YikYak.” Tissues shrugs.

“Rule number one of college, don’t trust anything said on YikYak,” Soap tells him.

“What ever .” Tissues sticks his tongue out at her and goes back to messing with his phone. It isn’t until they pull into the hospital parking lot that Soap realizes he was probably just trying to get her out of her head.

She takes out her phone and glances at the picture of her family on the lockscreen. No, she was wrong, he doesn’t look worse than normal. Just her mind playing tricks on her.

Thankfully, Tissues’ appointment doesn’t last long, because Soap really doesn’t know how to talk to YinYang. It’s only around 15 minutes to half an hour of awkward silence before the door to the waiting room opens and Soap spots a familiar face peeking out between messy white hair and a well-loved teal sweatshirt.

He flops down between his sister and his roommate. “Welp, that was whatever, guys, I’m still not dying or anything, so.”

“Okay, good. Let’s find where MePhone is to give him this basket and then get a move on.” Something about hospitals always makes Soap’s skin crawl, so she’s pretty eager to be done and get back to campus.

“Wait, hang on a sec,” Tissues says, and rushes over to where his primary care physician has come back into the room. “Hey, Dr. Fizz, uh, do you happen to know where someone would be if they had a concussion? We’re trying to visit our professor.”

Dr. Fizz looks rather miffed at the interruption, and sighs. “Yes, you would find him on the third floor. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Tissues, I have important work to do.”

“Cool, thanks.” Tissues goes back to the group. “Man, you guys know that Brian David Gilbert healthcare thing where he calls his PCP his ‘boring doctor?’ I understand that more every day here.”

“Eh, I heard last year that Lifering used to date a doctor at this hospital, maybe it was him,” Soap jokes with a shrug.

“It’s a small town, but I don’t think it’s that small,” Yin remarks.

The group takes the elevator and signs themselves in to visit MePhone, then make their way to the room where he’s supposed to be staying. When they get there, however, they can hear him talking to someone.

“You’re sure he’s in town?” he asks, voice laced with desperation. “He can’t come here, if I–if he–I don’t want to–!”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much, MePhone,” another voice assures him. “Your father doesn’t know you’re here, and given how busy he is, surely by the time you’re out of the hospital, he’ll have other responsibilities to attend to.”

Tissues and Yin-Yang don’t recognize the voice, but it’s very familiar to Soap, and before she can think about it, she blurts out, “Professor Ballpoint?”

Both voices fall silent, and Soap realizes she’s accidentally revealed their eavesdropping. Ashamed, she shuffles out into view, followed by Tissues and Yin-Yang. Both Ballpoint and MePhone are staring at her blankly. “Um, hi, sorry. I just…I thought you were on sabbatical.”

“Well, I am, but I came to visit my friend when I heard he was injured.” Ballpoint raises an eyebrow. “It’s good to see you, though, Soap. Who are these gentlemen with you?”

“This is my brother, Tissues, and Yin-Yang, his roommate. Um, roommates? Anyways, we came to give this to MePhone.” She holds out the basket, her posture looking more like she’s offering him a grenade than a gift.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” MePhone sits up a little from where he’s been propped in bed to take it, sucking a sharp breath through his teeth as if the motion’s causing him pain. “Is this all from Toilet?”

“Not all of it,” Soap flounders awkwardly. “Uh, I guess we should go now, so, um…” The, she grabs Tissues and Yin-Yang by the hands and makes a break for the elevator to get out of having to talk any more.

Once they get into the elevator, Tissues flops onto the floor, out of breath and coughing hard into his arm. Shit, did she push him too hard? “Are you okay?” asks Yin.

Tissues gives him a thumbs up and fumbles around in his pocket before pulling out his inhaler. He shakes it, takes a puff and counts down from 10 on his fingers before letting out his breath. “Okay, is anyone gonna tell me what the fuck that was?”

“I would if I knew,” Soap replies. “Ballpoint said something about MePhone’s dad being in town…? And MePhone seemed pretty upset about it.”

Yang gasps dramatically. “Conspiracy theory, what if MePhone’s dad was actually Steve Cobs this whole time?”

“Oh, ha ha, you’re so funny.” Tissues rolls his eyes, elbowing Yin-Yang gently as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. “C’mon, I wanna get out of here.”

Soap couldn’t agree more.

Floory is sitting with Toilet in the lobby, chatting casually, when someone comes in.

It takes him to register that said person is famous CEO, Steve fucking Cobs. 

He and Toilet both stand up, but Floory makes a gesture to Toilet to indicate letting him do the talking. “Um, hi, sir, is there anything you need us to help find?”

“Are the two of you part of the theatre program?” asks Mr. Cobs.

“Uh, yeah, we are, actually.” Floory and Toilet glance at one another. This is a really weird interaction.

“Good. Do you happen to know where I could find your professor, MePhone?”

Floory is about to respond, but Toilet interrupts him. “Mr. Phone hurt himself and he’s in the hospital!”

“Yeah, he fell down a flight of stairs and got himself concussed,” Floory adds. “Poor guy.”

“Good to know, thank you,” Mr. Cobs says, as calmly as he had spoken the rest of the conversation, but as he’s leaving Floory almost swears he can hear him grumble something akin to “typical.”

Toilet and Floory stare at one another in shocked silence for a moment, until Toilet breaks it. “What do you think the CEO guy wants with Mr. Phone?”

“I’ve got no idea,” Floory admits. He takes his phone out, considering shooting MePad a text about it. He knows MePhone the best out of all of them, of course–if anyone knew, he would. But…what with having to take over MePhone’s responsibilities while he heals, MePad has enough on his plate.

It’ll probably be no big deal…right?

Chapter Text

Paintbrush is done with their homework well ahead of time, and having nothing better to do, they wind up going to rehearsal early.

Once they get into the theater, they’re relieved to see MePhone sitting in the front having a conversation with MePad. Not that they particularly like MePhone, of course, but so close to tech, they kind of do need a director. Plus, they did mean to get some clarification on some line changes that had been made.

“Oh, hey, you’re not dead,” they say by way of greeting as they sling their backpack down in a seat.

“Glad to see you too, Paintbrush,” MePhone replies. “It’s good that you’re showing up early and all, but MePad and I were planning on meeting with Zoetrope about box office stuff before rehearsal, so you’re gonna have to wait a little.”

“Okay, but actually, I had a question about–”

“Actually,” MePad jumps in, “I do have a task for you, Paintbrush.” He turns to glance at someone else in the audience, who Paintbrush realizes to their annoyance is Silver Spoon. “Given that Silver has been ill and missed a few rehearsals, he needs catching up on the blocking fixes we made last time. Paintbrush, would you mind going to the black box and walking him through it?”

Paintbrush very much would mind, but they sigh, grit their teeth, and reply, “Not at all.” 

“Oh, wonderful.” Paintbrush can tell from Silver’s voice that he wasn’t just lying about being sick to slack off–he still sounds pretty croaky and congested–but just as smug as ever. “Of course you wouldn’t mind, given that as one of this department’s most loyal members you wouldn’t dream of jeopardizing that by disobeying a stage manager, would you, dear?” He stands and brushes himself off. “Come now, Painty, shall we go?”

Paintbrush follows him to the black box, feeling very glad their therapy is tomorrow. If this goes how most interactions with Silver do, they’re going to have plenty to talk about.

Once they get inside and turn on the lights, they heave a huge sigh. “Okay, I can show you what I have in my script and then walk you through anything you’re confused about, I guess.”

“If that’s how you’d prefer to do it, dear,” Silver replies as he takes the script from Paintbrush.

“Ew, the fuck?” Paintbrush blurts. “Don’t call me that, it’s weird.”

“Ah, of course, are pet names reserved for this one?” He points to a sketch in the middle of the page, and Paintbrush realizes to their embarrassment that it’s one of Lightbulb.

Paintbrush’s cheeks burn hot as they shove the script away. “Let’s just get started.”

They barely make it one page, though, before an alarm goes off on Silver’s phone. “Damn it.”

“What’s the matter? Didn’t get your Earl Grey tea this morning?” Paintbrush snarks.

“Must you always go for the lowest possible blow?” Silver Spoon grumbles. Paintbrush is about to tell him that he’s one to talk, but he keeps going. “If you really need to know, the alarm was for the other kind of T, if you will. I usually take my dose at around this time, I just forgot when I left for rehearsal early.”

It takes Paintbrush’s early morning brain a minute to catch up to Silver’s meaning. “Wait, when you say ‘the other kind of T…’”

Silver raises an eyebrow. “Yes, Painty, I do mean testosterone. I assume you’ve heard of it.”

“No, but I just…how did I never know you’re trans too?” To say Paintbrush is feeling conflicted right now is an understatement. They’re usually excited to meet another trans person, but they also usually prefer to have as little in common with Silver Spoon as possible.

“Well, I suppose the hormones are doing their job,” Silver replies. “It’s a good thing, too, given that they cost an arm and a leg.”

The statement seems odd coming from Silver, and Paintbrush can’t help taking another shot at him. “I’m sure your mommy and daddy can afford it with their zillions of pounds or whatever.”

To their surprise, Silver doesn’t snap back with his own sassy remark. Instead, he just looks…genuinely injured. Paintbrush has never seen him like this before.

Fuck. Paintbrush doesn’t like Silver, but they’ve never wanted to do worse than just get under his skin a little like he does them, not actually hit a nerve like it seems they’ve done now. “Oh shit, do they not know…?”

“No, they do know, they would just rather not fund my ‘degeneracy.’” He puts the last word in air quotes, and he won’t meet Paintbrush’s eye.

A wave of nausea passes over Paintbrush. They’ve always assumed everything came easy to Silver because of his family’s money, but…their own family has always loved and respected them for who they are, and Silver has never had that. 

“Holy shit, man, I’m…” Sorry doesn’t seem like enough–nothing seems like enough, but they find themself doing something they never thought they would–stiffly opening their arms to him. “Hey, uh…bring it in.”

The hug is brief and exceptionally awkward, but Paintbrush is glad they did it when they see Silver is smiling a little. “Really, Paintbrush, I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t new to me or anything. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Paintbrush insists. “It’s absolutely fucking abhorrent that any parent would ever treat their kid like that. You’re an asshole and all, but you don’t deserve to be treated like that by your own parents.” They shudder. “Do you still live with them when you go back to England?”

“Thankfully, no. I’ve been living with my aunt. If my parents don’t want a son, then they won’t have one, on my terms.” Silver sighs. “I came out and left home in sixth form. I think they’re hoping I’ll ‘see sense’ before I finish my education, but clearly that’s not in the cards.”

Paintbrush doesn’t meet to let out a snort of laughter, but it slips out before they can stop themself.

Silver looks a bit affronted at the noise. “What on earth is funny about that?”

“No, no, it’s not funny,” Paintbrush promises him. “It’s just…your parents expected you to go to liberal arts school and come out of it more cis than before? It usually goes the other way.”

Silver giggles a bit at that too. “I suppose it is rather flawed logic.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. “How did your family feel about you being nonbinary?”

“Oh, uh.” Paintbrush almost feels a bit guilty as they say, “I mean, they took it really well. They’re kinda hippie artist types, y’know, and besides, I don’t think it came as much of a surprise. I think they probably knew before I did.”

“Mm,” Silver hums. “I must admit, I am a little jealous.”

Paintbrush doesn’t know what to say to that, so they try to lighten the mood just a bit. “Damn, never thought I’d see the day you admit to that.”

“I never had reason to before,” Silver retorts, smirking.

“Oh, please, you have plenty of reasons,” Paintbrush teases him. “I’m a better actor than you, I have a girlfriend and you don’t, I have better hair than you…”

“I’m sure I could achieve that last one if I put in the effort,” Silver huffs.

“Uh, no the fuck you couldn’t,” Paintbrush says, taking their hat off and dramatically brushing their yellow locs out of their eyes (they’ll admit it, they’re a bit of a show-off.) “You’re, like, the whitest man on the planet.”

“I know that!” Silver leans his elbow on Paintbrush’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean the exact same, I meant a different hairstyle of equal splendor–”

“Oh, so you agree I have splendid hair?” Paintbrush shoves him away. “And get out of my face! I can’t afford to catch whatever you just had right before we go into tech.”

“But you were more than willing to hug me earlier–”

They’re interrupted by the door to the black box swinging open to reveal Lightbulb. “Yo, guys, MePad’s been texting you to tell you to come back to the main theater, but you haven’t been–” She gasps suddenly, cupping her face in her hands. “Ohmygod, have you guys been bonding? That’s so sweet!”

Paintbrush shoots Silver a smile. “I…guess you could call it that, yeah.”

And that’s true, Paintbrush reflects as they walk back to the other theater. They’ll probably never be Silver’s bestie or anything, but they certainly see him in a different light than they did before.

Balloon is starting to regret having texted OJ.

He’s realized that he has to talk to someone about the situation with Nickel before it gets any worse, but MePad and MePhone are both so overworked trying to pick up the slack from when MePhone was injured (and besides, going to MePhone with his social problems sounds like an absolute nightmare.) So, the next person would be the cast and crew’s democratically elected Non-Equity Deputy, who in this case happened to be OJ.

In theory, Balloon thinks it’s a great idea to have someone to report to when you’re having issues with another member of the production, in case the stage manager or director are busy and/or kind of a dick. And in theory, OJ makes sense–he’s responsible, practical, and knows the department inside and out.

However…Balloon really would have preferred someone who hadn’t been in a show with him freshman year. It feels like everyone who knew him back then was prejudiced against him–and, yeah, he was an asshole to a lot of people, but he isn’t like that anymore!

No more time to mull, though, because suddenly OJ is opening the door of the building. “Oh, hey, Balloon. You said you needed to meet with me. Did you want to run some lines?”

“No, actually, I was kinda coming to you in your capacity as NED, or whatever it’s called?” He sighs, shuffling back and forth. 

“Oh, okay,” OJ replies. “Let me guess, is it about Nickel?”

“Yeah.” Is he that transparent? “He’s just…he’s being a complete dick to me! I know he’s a dick to everyone, but he just seems to hate my guts specifically, and it’s making this whole show…not that fun anymore.”

OJ lets out a breath. “Look, Balloon, I sympathize, I really do, and I’ll talk to him, but…do you really think that’s gonna help?”

“I don’t know, but it wouldn’t hurt to try, right?”

“I guess.” OJ shrugs. “But wouldn’t it be a better use of your time to try and make new friends, rather than trying to cling onto people who still have issues with you from your freshman year?”

“That’s not what I’m trying to do!” Balloon argues. “He’s the one who’s making problems!”

“Yeah, okay, but I still think it’d be better if the two of you just kept your distance for a while.” Before Balloon can interrupt that that’s what he’s trying to do, OJ glances at his watch. “Listen, I have a class, but I’ll talk to him, okay? Have a good one.”

“I will,” Balloon says, trying to sound cheerful. As soon as OJ is out the door and out of earshot, however, he grumbles under his breath, “Did I vote for OJ to be the NED? Noooo, I thought Candle would be better, but everyone else thought he would be sooo good at it!” Ironically, he notices he sounds a little like Nickel, but he puts that thought aside.

As he walks back to his dorm, he’s suddenly interrupted by a familiar soft, Australian voice. “Oh, hey, Balloon! What’s going on?”

“Hi Suitcase.” Balloon gives her a tired smile. “Not having a super great day. I had a meeting with OJ about, um, stuff…” he doesn’t really want to shit-talk Nickel in front of her, no matter how concerned he is about her friendship with him, “but he wasn’t receptive at all about it.”

“Man, that sucks.” Suitcase grimaces in sympathy. “I’ll tell you something that’ll cheer you up a bit, though.” She takes her wallet out of her backpack and shows him a brightly colored card. “I just got a punch card for the boba shop in town, and I need someone to help fill it. Can I get you something and we can talk?”

“Sure!” A real smile spreads over Balloon’s face. OJ’s advice wasn’t great, but maybe he was right about the whole “new friends” thing.

Fan is wandering around campus, taking advantage of one of his last free afternoons before tech, when he stumbles upon a familiar face.

“Bow! Hi!” he calls out, smiling and waving.

Bow looks startled, and then grimaces a little. “Oh, uh, hi, Fan.”

It takes Fan a moment to clock what it is that seems different about her. “Whoa, you’ve got a whole new style going, I love it!” Rather than her usual pink ensemble, she’s wearing an off-the-shoulder green t-shirt with a video game controller on it and denim shorts, as well as ballet flats that look similar to her usual, but in teal. 

“Oh, yeah!” Bow sticks her hands in the pockets of her shorts. “Goo and I went on a costume excursion with Paper and Tea Kettle over the weekend, and I figured I might as well grab some things for myself while I was there.”

“Nice!” Fan smiles. “Not as into pink anymore, huh?”

He considers it a relatively innocuous question, but Bow squirms a little. “I dunno. I still like it just fine, I just wanted to, um…mix things up a little. New school, new me, right?” She grins, but it seems a little forced. “Actually, on that note, would you mind helping me with something? I would ask Goo, but he’s got a test coming up, and between that and tech being next week I don’t want to put too much on him.”

“Okay!” Fan shrugs. “What’s up?”

“Could you, um…” Bow takes a deep breath, “help me dye my hair?”

Once they’re in the bathroom of Bow’s dorm building–she insisted on doing it there instead of the Bright Lights house for some reason–Bow brushes her hair while Fan mixes the dye and reads the instructions. “So,” he asks casually, “any reason you wanted to do this now? Having some kind of freshman crisis?”

Bow shrugs. “Yeah, you could definitely call it that.” Man, Fan was just joking! When will he stop putting his foot in it?

There’s a tense silence as Fan puts on gloves and starts to apply the dye into Bow’s hair, but after a minute, Bow says, “Hey, Fan, I have kind of a weird question.”

“Shoot,” Fan replies.

“How’d it go with you and your friends when Paintbrush first came out to you as nonbinary?”

Fan thinks back to his freshman year as he begins to dye another section of Bow’s hair. “I mean, it wasn’t really a big deal,” he muses. “All of us are queer ourselves, and I think everyone kinda suspected anyway.” He chuckles. “Why’d you ask?”

Bow drums her fingers on the counter, chewing her lip. “I’m, um…I think I might be nonbinary. Or, uh, actually I kinda prefer genderqueer? But that doesn’t really matter, it’s just…I realized that using she/her and Bow doesn’t really feel like me anymore, and using they/them and Bot does.”

“Oh!” A smile spreads over Fan’s face. “Bot! What a cool name!”

“Thanks!” Bot smiles as well–a real smile, not the stiff, forced one they had given Fan earlier. “I haven’t really heard anyone else say it out loud before. Well, aside from Goo.”

Warmth settles in Fan’s stomach at the fact that even though he doesn’t know them all that well, he’s one of the first people Bot told. “I’m glad you got to tell Goo,” he says. “It’s always good to have a friend you can tell everything to. It’s always nice having a friend you feel like you can tell anything to. I know I feel like that with Test Tube.”

Bot flinches so hard it makes Fan drop part of their hair. Once they get their bearings, they say slowly, “About telling Test Tube things, could you, um…not tell her? About me being Bot?”

“Yeah, sure,” Fan tells them. “I’m kinda surprised you told me before her, though. Haven’t you two known each other since you were, like, infants?”

“Yeah, but that’s kind of the problem.” Bot sighs. “She’s thought of me as basically her little sister for so long, I feel bad jeopardizing that. Besides, I’ve never thought of her as not judgemental exactly, but I always thought she only was judgy towards people who deserved it. Now…” they trail off.

“Because of Cabby?” Fan asks, his stomach twisting when they nod. He still feels like Test Tube’s grudge against Cabby is partially his fault.

“I don’t know why Cabby has all that stuff on everyone, but I feel like there has to be a reason, right? But Test Tube didn’t consider that. She just jumped straight to conclusions. And if she’s like that about someone else, why wouldn’t she do that towards me?”

Fan clears his throat. “Yeah, the Cabby situation is…it’s not great, but I know Test Tube wouldn’t be so judgy about you. She really cares about you, no matter what.” He finishes up the last little bit of hair dying and takes his gloves off. “Okay, how’s this look?”

Bot’s apprehensive expression melts off their face, their eyes widening. They’re practically glowing as they gasp, “I look like… me !” They sniff and wipe a tear out of their eye. “Thank you, Fan, seriously.”

“Of course, it’s no probl–” Fan is cut off as in one fell swoop Bot flings the towel off their shoulders and almost bowls him over with a hug.

Fan just stands there, frozen, as Bot clings to him–he’s pretty sure they’re crying a bit. For once in his life, he’s pretty sure he’s done something right.

Candle is generally known for being one to stay cool-headed in the most dire situations.

When MePhone ends the rehearsal with “don’t forget, the next rehearsal is the first tech run,” however, that’s enough to strike a moment of panic through her.

As people file out of the theater, Candle slips into the bathroom to splash water on her face, taking a few shaky breaths. She counts down from ten on her fingers, still slowly breathing in and out. She’s generally pretty good at getting control over herself again once her worries take hold of her.

“Whoa, Candle, what’s up with you?”

Candle jumps and spins around to find Lightbulb leaning against the doorway of the bathroom, a concerned expression on her face. “Oh, Lightbulb! Yes, I’m alright. I just had a bit of a moment there, I guess you might call it.”

Lightbulb tilts her head. “You wanna talk about it?”

Candle pauses for a moment, trying to find the right way to put what she’s feeling into words. “I mean, I’ve struggled with feelings of perfectionism for quite a long time, and when MePhone reminded us that tech rehearsal is impending, I had a moment of worrying because I felt like my performance is not necessarily up to par for this part of the rehearsal process. And I didn’t want to show that in front of other people, because I feel that I have a reputation of being a calming presence that I didn’t want to disrupt. Which I’m aware isn’t healthy, but it’s something I’m trying to work on.”

Lightbulb raises an eyebrow. “You know you talk like you’re trying to get a good grade in therapy, right?”

Candle chuckles a little in response. “Well, given that I’m a psychology major, I suppose that is something both normal to want and possible to achieve.”

Lightbulb laughs as well. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.” She sobers up, looking at herself in the mirror. “I totally get what you mean, though. Like, I guess everyone kinda thinks of me as, like, just goofy Lightbulb, and I love being goofy, but I’m also, like…a person, y’know? And I feel like for a while I just pretended that was me all the time. Even to myself, I guess. A year or so ago, my friends were like, ‘dude, I’m pretty sure you’re super clinically depressed,’ and it took me a while to believe them and actually get help.” She stares in the mirror silently for a moment before shaking herself out of it. “Whoa, now who’s talking like she’s trying to get a good grade in therapy?”

Candle puts a hand on Lightbulb’s shoulder, smiling. “Thank you for sharing that with me, Lightbulb.”

“Yeah.” Lightbulb smiles back. “And by the way, I don’t think you have anything to worry about. You are absolutely crushing it onstage every day.”

“Thanks. You’re quite a talented actress as well.”

“Who, me?” Lightbulb puts a hand to her chest, her jaw dropping in mock surprise. “Alright, I gotta bounce, but I’ll see you around!” She gives Candle a little salute and leaves before she can respond.

Candle looks in the mirror again and lets out a slow breath before she leaves as well. Not only is she feeling much more in control of her life, but she got to make a new bond with a castmate.

Microphone can’t get her brain in order.

She really wants to listen to what Soap is saying about her eventful trip to the hospital, because she really does care about what her friend has to say, but she can’t get her mind off of her impending rendezvous with…

The clock tower chimes, and Mic must jump a foot in the air. It isn’t exactly on the hour–it’s a couple minutes off–but it still leaves her with very little time. She quickly flounders for an excuse to leave.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I need to go put an essay in the dryer.”

“Huh?” Soap blinks, clearly trying to make sense of that statement. Great going, Mic.

“I mean, uh, I need to take my Adderall!” Mic tries again, starting to back away.

Soap raises an eyebrow. “At 8 PM? In the opposite direction from our dorm?”

“No time to talk!” Microphone exclaims, and makes a break for it before she can fuck this up any more than she already has.

The meeting place Mic chose is one she’s very familiar with–a little bench by a pond, hidden away from the rest of the campus by a patch of trees. She’s gone here to calm down in stressful moments ever since she found it last year. When she first discovered it, she thought she might be the only person who even knew it existed.

That is, until a few months later when she found that someone had left a condom wrapper there. It did make sense that couples would use a pretty, secluded place for some intimate alone time, but it somehow had never passed through Mic’s aroace head.

This time, of course, there’s a person there, sitting on the bench and watching the ducks with the same rapt attention she’d watched Mic with when they had first been in class together.

Mic has to clear her throat several times before she says, “Hey, uh…Taco?”

Taco snaps her head up, making Microphone shudder a little under her gaze. “Ah, Microphone. I was wondering when you were going to show up.”

“Hey, c’mon, I was totally on time, the clock tower is slow.” Mic sits down next to Taco on the bench, her stomach twisting in knots. She has no idea what to say–after all she’s heard about Taco, how is she supposed to bring that all up? “So, uh, it’s been a minute,” she flounders.

“Indeed it has,” Taco agrees. “And let’s cut the pleasantries–surely the reason you've been avoiding me up until now is that you’ve been informed of some of my…misdeeds, shall we call them?”

Well, that’s one way to do it. “Uh, yeah. In case you expect me to do the same, I’m gonna head that one off at the pass. I don’t want to hurt anyone, or jeopardize my reputation in the theatre department.”

“Your reputation?” Taco chuckles. “That’s cute. Microphone, I’ve been watching closely enough to know that your oh-so-prized reputation is less than positive. You’re talented, sure, but inexperienced, and your castmates seem to think you’re holding them back. That’s where I come in.”

“Yeah, because your own criminal methods have worked out so well for you?”

“Look, if I could go back I would have done last year differently, I’ll admit. But I did have my reasons. The theatre department was, and still is, rife with favoritism and toxicity. Tell me, Microphone, do you think nepotism is at all ethical?”

Microphone rolls her eyes–is she for real with that question? “No, but I also don’t think theft is ethical, either?”

Taco’s eyebrow raises a bit. “Bold words, Inspector Javert.”

“Okay, well, within reason,” Microphone concedes. “But get to the point. You’re gonna help me fix my reputation, whatever, but what’s the catch here?”

“I only ask of you what you ask of me,” Taco replies smoothly. “As I said, I have some…regrets about how I left things last year, the prime one of which is that when someone makes a plethora of enemies within the department in which she’s majoring, it makes it rather hard to participate in the productions she needs to graduate.”

“You’re just in it for the production credits?” Mic says slowly. “Not…the people?”

Taco flinches, hard. The look on her face for a split second is pained, almost scared. It fades just as quickly, and she clears her throat, brushing her bangs out of her face, and puts out a hand. “Don’t change the subject, Microphone. Do we have a deal, or no?”

Clearly Taco didn’t want Microphone to see her like that–but it’s that brief moment that softens Mic to her a bit. She feels like she’s gotten a glimpse behind what she already knows about Taco–not just a thief or a traitor, but a person. A stressed-out college girl just like herself, lost and out on a limb, just trying to make it through.

It’s that thought that makes Mic take the hand Taco is offering and say, “Deal.”

Chapter Text

Bot is so stressed out they might as well start crying right now.

They’re currently curled up under the lightboard, panic-shoveling the remains of the curry they got for dinner into their mouth. God knows they need to get control of themself before–

The door swings open, and just as they feared, it’s Test Tube. 

“Huh,” she says aloud to herself. “Did I leave the lights on over the weekend or…?” 

This is the worst possible moment for Bot to have to sneeze, but apparently the universe hates them.

Test Tube glances around to figure out where they are, and eventually squats down until her head is on Bot’s level. “What are you doing down there, silly?”

Bot cautiously unfolds themself and gets up, wincing at the realization that their foot is asleep. Test Tube offers her arm for them to steady themself, but they find themself ignoring it and leaning on the table instead.

“I love your hair, by the way,” Test Tube says with a grin.

“Thanks,” they reply, sinking down in their chair. “I dunno, I guess I’m just feeling a little nervous about my first tech rehearsal. I mean, the schedules are fucking nuts!”

“Yeah, they are kind of, um, forking nuts,” Test Tube agrees, and Bot giggles a little despite the anxiety churning in their stomach. Test Tube’s weird insistence on never cursing is still kind of funny to them after all these years. “But you get used to it. Just as long as you make sure you’re making time to eat and sleep.”

“I’m eating!” Bot gestures at the empty curry container. “And I’m sleeping, too, just ask Goo! There’s just…there’s stuff on my mind.” They almost tell Test Tube the thing they’ve been waiting to say to her ever since she knew, but their mouth goes rogue at the last minute. “I don’t feel like I’m gonna measure up to what you and the other returning crew members can do. I mean, I’m so new to all this, I feel like I’m gonna mess something up.”

Test Tube shrugs. “I mean, that’s a possibility, but everyone does it.” She laughs. “You know, haven’t you heard about how I set off the fire alarm last year? You can’t do much worse than that.”

Bot laughs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“Besides, I think you’re smart and capable and incredibly brave, and I would know since I know you like the back of my hand.” Test Tube ruffles Bot’s hair gently. “You might be all grown up and have fancy new hair now, but you’re still basically my little sister, and you’re still the same Bow you’ve always been.”

Bot swallows hard, trying to keep themself in check. Of course, Test Tube doesn’t know that what she said was the worst possible thing she could have. She was just trying to be nice.

They choke on their words for a second, trying to get out the thing that they really want to say. Well, actually, the thing is, I’m not…

“Thanks, Test Tube,” is what actually ends up coming out. “I need the bathroom, be back in a minute.”

Once they get into the hallway, they lock themself in the single-stall gender neutral bathroom, curl up against the wall, and cry into their arms.

Incredibly brave, their ass. They’ve never felt like more of a coward.

Once MePad calls to take a ten, Microphone storms out into the lobby in a huff.

She still feels like she’s falling behind, despite the so called guidance she was supposed to get. But Taco’s been a total ghost.

Microphone feels her phone buzz in her pocket, and pulls it out.

Taco: Do you want to know what your problem is, Microphone?

Well, scratch that last thought. 

Microphone: sure whatever

Taco: Script closet.

Mic rolls her eyes as she puts her phone back in her pocket. She begins wandering in the direction of the script closet, pretending to get a drink of water, then makes a break for the door the second nobody is looking. She rushes down the stairs of the weird, cramped little script closet, almost bonking her head on the low ceiling.

“I’ll repeat my question,” Taco says calmly. “Do you want to know what your problem is?”

“I mean, I already said yes.” Microphone sinks down on a chair, absently staring at an old poster to avoid Taco’s nerve-wrackingly intense gaze.

“Your problem,” Taco says, leaning her chin on her hands, “is that you don’t know how to listen.”

Microphone can’t help but scoff a little. “Yeah, never heard that one before.” Between both being Deaf and having ADHD, listening’s never particularly been her strong suit. That’s verbatim what every shitty teacher she’s ever had has said to her, and somehow it’s never been helpful.

“Not what I mean,” Taco says brusquely. “You haven’t been getting to know the other people in the play–their strengths, their weaknesses, their secrets. Knowledge is power, after all.”

Microphone blinks. “How do you mean, getting to know them? You mean like…just making friends, is what normal less creepy people would call it?”

“That’s part of it,” Taco agrees. “But there are other methods to get to know people.” She taps a vent cover and gestures for Mic to come closer. “I chose this room because you can use this vent to hear the conversation of whoever in the lobby is closest to the other side of it. Let’s see what your castmates are spending their break on, hmm?”

Microphone can hear two voices that she identifies as Paintbrush and Marshmallow, but she can’t make out what they’re saying without being able to read their lips. She opens her phone to a speech-to-text program.

“I don’t know why she’s being like this!” Marshmallow is complaining. “I thought Apple and I had come to some kind of understanding, and we were actually becoming really good friends, and then she starts pulling this shit?”

“Yeah, that sounds rough,” replies Paintbrush. “I’m really sorry about that.”

“I just, I dunno, why did she switch like that all of a sudden?” Marshmallow huffs. “It feels like she wasn’t being genuine in the first place!”

“I hate to say it, but I gotta wonder if that’s true,” Paintbrush muses. “I mean, you’re pretty well-liked within the department, and she’s a freshman who didn’t know anyone. Maybe she was just being friendly with you for the sake of making more friends?”

“Like, using me for popularity?” Marshmallow heaves a sigh. “Yeah, I gotta say, I was thinking the same thing, I just didn’t want to even say it aloud.”

Taco pulls her face away from the vent, grinning. “Did you hear that?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mic replies, “but I don’t see what that’s supposed to do for me.”

“The thing about a feud between others,” Taco tells her, “is that by making someone think you’re on their side of the situation, you gain their trust. Being trusted goes a long way, Microphone.”

“Okay…?” Mic says slowly, choosing not to mention the fact that she would be doing exactly what Marsh had just been complaining about. “Well, I have to go back, anyway. What’s your expert advice on how I’m supposed to not fuck up out there?”

“Simple.” Taco folds her hands on her knee. “You’re getting too caught up on going through the right words and motions, and you’re not allowing yourself to be there emotionally. You’re brilliant once you get there, but you rarely let yourself live in the moment.”

“Huh.” Microphone blinks. That’s actually pretty sound advice. “Uh, thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

And what do you know, her advice works. It goes against her every instinct, but Microphone tries to draw herself out of her racing mind, to take all the frustration she feels over how overlooked she’s been throughout this entire production, and channels it instead into Paulina’s righteous anger. She really does feel a difference, and she’s sure everyone else does too–at the end of her every line, there’s stunned silence onstage. 

Maybe she’s actually good at this.

When they’re in a hold, Paintbrush leans over to her. “Holy shit, dude, you’re knocking ‘em dead all of a sudden!” they whisper. “What happened?”

Mic shrugs, a grin spreading over her face. “I guess I just decided to change a few things about my performance.”

“Well, it’s really working.”

That has Microphone glowing until they hit their next break, when Marshmallow approaches her as well. “Hey, I just wanted to say, I think you’ve been doing really great today!”

“Thanks!” Mic smiles. She deliberates for a second, then thinks, if Taco’s advice was right once, why wouldn’t she be right another time? “By the way, I, um, I overheard you talking about Apple earlier.”

Marshmallow grimaces. “Yeah, that’s…yeah.”

“For the record, I think you’re totally in the right. I don’t know the exact situation, but it really sounds like she’s being an asshole.”

“Yeah, she kinda is. Thanks.” Marshmallow smiles. “You know, I don’t feel like I know you that well, but…you seem really cool. We should talk more.”

“For sure! I have to go right now, though, TTYL!” Mic gives a little wave as she pretends to go for the water fountain, and then when the attention is off her, she makes for the script closet.

She’s glowing so much with the success of both her acting and several interactions with production members, that when Taco glances up from her book and says, “So, how’d my advice suit you?” Microphone’s first impulse is to pull her into a hug.

She kind of regrets it as soon as it happens–it’s what she’s used to doing with Soap, but once it’s happening she realizes she doesn’t know Taco well enough to be at the hugging stage yet. Still, it’s not like she can un-hug her, so she hangs on for a moment and then awkwardly pulls back. “Sorry, um, I don’t know why I did that.”

“Well, I can’t say I feel unappreciated, so that’s a positive.” Taco readjusts her jacket and belt, but she seems to be smiling, so that’s something. “If we’re considering today a trial run on our working together, I’m assuming your decision is a yes?”

“Yeah.” Microphone lets out a slow breath. “Yeah, it is.”

Maybe she stands a chance to fix things for herself around here.

Suitcase waves cheerily at Balloon when he comes out of the theater.

“Hey!” He flops down next to her. “How’s your first tech rehearsal treating you?”

“Stressful, but pretty good!” She giggles. “It’s cool to be here with all of us together.”

“Eh, you’ll get sick of it by the time we have our twelve-hour weekend rehearsal in a few days,” Balloon jokes.

Suitcase is about to respond, but she’s distracted by Baseball sitting down next to her. “Hi Suitcase!” It takes him a second to notice the second person there. “Oh, um, hey Balloon.”

“Hi.” Balloon shifts awkwardly in place. He and Baseball don’t have any specific conflict as far as Suitcase can tell, but with Nickel and Baseball being best friends, it makes things kind of tense between the two of them.

“You guys are doing really great out there,” Suitcase says to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Thanks!” Baseball says. “God, I’m tired, though. So much hurry up and wait. I’ve heard the word ‘hold’ more than I ever want to in my whole life.”

“That’s for sure!” Balloon laughs. “And then MePhone will go, ‘okay, I’m gonna let you guys run this part without stopping,’ and then 30 seconds later, we’re holding again.”

“That’s, like, the number one lie directors tell you.” A smile spreads over Baseball’s face. “Second only to maybe, ‘we’re gonna run this one more time and then be done.’”

Suitcase smiles as well, happy to see that they’re getting along. The conflict between her friends has been really weighing on her, and she’s glad to know that things might not always be this way–

“Oh, there you guys are.” Nickel wanders over, casting a disapproving glance at Balloon. “Ugh, what’s this asshole doing here?”

“I’m allowed to be here,” Balloon grumbles. “You don’t own this place.”

“Whatever.” Nickel rolls his eyes. “At least I deal with my own issues instead of going straight to OJ like a tattling little kid.”

Balloon mutters something under his breath that sounds like ‘yeah, you’re clearly dealing with things so well.’

Nickel opens his mouth to say something, but Suitcase cuts in before he can. “Hey, Nickel, I think Lightbulb told me earlier she needs more stuff to have in her cart. Do you have anything that might work?”

“Eh, I’m sure there’s some crap I could rustle up.” He gets to his feet and glances at her and Baseball. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere else.”

Suitcase wants to tell him to back off, maybe learn to be a bit less of a dick, but instead, all she can say is, “I think we should go back in. Break is almost over.”

“Okay, whatever.” Nickel follows her back in, but Suitcase slips away so she doesn’t have to sit next to him. She is definitely not in the mood to talk to him right now.

As the rehearsal goes on, Suitcase finds it harder and harder to focus on watching and taking notes. If she can hang out with Balloon, or with Nickel and Baseball, separately, it’s fine, but together, it always turns out like this . The reminders of the trainwreck that is her social life always gets her into a state where she’s anxious and shaky.

She needs to get out of this room, she realizes, before she gets to the point where her mind starts playing tricks on her. Periods of high stress tend to be a trigger for her hallucinations, and she really can’t take that on top of everything else right now.

As discreetly as she can, she gets out of her seat and makes her way backstage. Thankfully, Clover is back there. She looks surprised and concerned to see Suitcase. “Whoa, are you ok?”

“Um.” Suitcase swallows. “You’re not on at all after this, right?”

“Nope, I’m already bear food,” Clover replies. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not feeling very…stable right now. Can you take me home, if you wouldn’t mind?”

Suitcase hates bothering her with her issues, but Clover puts a hand on her shoulder. “Oh, sure! Just a second.” She hurries out of the wing, and Suitcase follows behind.

She stops to talk to MePad while Suitcase watches from a distance. He nods, and Clover smiles as she goes back to Suitcase. “Sorry, I was just checking in to make sure people knew we were leaving.”

“That’s good,” Suitcase mumbles. “I wouldn’t want either of us to get into trouble.”

“Yeah.” Clover snorts. “Didn’t Cheesy literally leave rehearsal for like an hour last week? MePhone was practically gonna kill him.”

Clover keeps talking about this and that as they go back to the dorm, and Suitcase is grateful for it. Listening to it helps keep her grounded.

Test Tube is about to break down.

The post-rehearsal meeting only just got out, and it is 12:06 in the gosh darn morning. Test Tube is of the opinion that production meetings should operate on a Cinderella principle–once the clock strikes midnight everyone’s pressing questions need to magically transform into emails that can be responded to during normal people awake times–but apparently not everyone agrees.

And to make matters worse, when Test Tube went to switch off the lightboard, she discovered that a bunch of the buttons were suddenly, mysteriously nonfunctional.

With a normal, awake brain, she would be able to easily find and fix the problem, but she’s simply not with it enough for that. The only solution for right now is to tell Lifering that it’s broken and that she’s going to fix it in the morning.

Before she enters his office, though, she realizes she can hear him talking to someone.

“You can tell me what’s up, don’t worry,” he promises. “Whatever it is, I can help with it.”

“No, it’s not necessarily about the production,” the other person sighs. “I mean, there have been…situations with other people I’m working with, but it’s just been kind of a trying year.”

Test Tube’s stomach sinks as she realizes it’s Cabby.

“Alright, if you think you can handle things,” Lifering tells her. “Just as long as you’re taking breaks when you need them.”

“I am,” Cabby says. “And…thank you for checking in with me.”

“Of course!” Lifering replies. “I always try to check in with students who seem like they’re having a hard time. Besides, you’re a good kid. You deserve people in your corner.”

Test Tube suddenly realizes she can’t just hide here outside the door forever. So she does her best to seem like she hasn’t been eavesdropping as she walks in, keeping her eyes on Lifering and not letting herself look at Cabby at all. “Um, excuse me, Lifering, but I just wanted to let you know that something’s going wonky with the lightboard. I’ll deal with it in the morning, but right now I mostly just wanna go home and go to bed.”

Lifering gives her a thumbs-up. “Sounds good. You have a good night, Test Tube.”

“You too!” Test Tube rushes out of there as fast as she can.

Once she’s a little way away from the building, she chances a glance over her shoulder, just in time to catch a glance of Cabby coming out the door. Thankfully her dorm is in the other direction, so there’s no concern that they’ll cross paths.

As Test Tube watches from a distance, Cabby seems kind of sad. She certainly sounded sad earlier. Test Tube finds herself thinking that if Fan had never found that notebook, the two of them might have been walking side by side, laughing and chatting.

But she’d dug her own grave before they could be like that.

That being Cabby, Test Tube reminds herself. She can’t afford to let herself get all conflicted over this. She has too much to do. She can’t spend time wishing things were different.

Chapter Text

Cabby shows up early, as usual, to get some homework done. It’s better to be at the theater than to stay at home getting too far into her own head.

However, unusually, she’s not the only one there.

Even before she gets into the building she can hear a voice with a thick Italian accent arguing back and forth with itself, so she’s not surprised when she comes in to see Yin-Yang pacing around the lobby, bickering. She doesn’t know them well, given that they’re run crew and thereby only started joining rehearsals at the beginning of tech, but she’s heard about them around and as she always does, noted down what she heard.

Cabby checks her notebook entry on Yin-Yang before approaching them. “Hi, gentlemen! What brings you here so early?”

Yang huffs. “Because Yin is a goody two-shoes who always insists on getting everywhere early!”

“No I’m not!” Yin replies. “It’s just respectful!”

“Not if you get here before the director even does!” Yang snaps back. He turns back to Cabby. “And why are you so nosy about it when you’re here just as early as us? What are you doing here?”

“I suppose I’m a goody two-shoes as well,” Cabby muses. “How are you two doing with your first foray into the rehearsal process?”

“Fine, I guess.” Yin shrugs. “Well, except, I don’t really know anyone except my roommate and his sister.”

“Ah. That’s rough. I…don’t really have friends either. People don’t really like me.”

“Huh?” Yin’s eyebrow raises. “It never seemed to me like anyone didn’t like you! Well, except maybe that green-haired girl. Test Tube or whatever.”

A wave of nausea passes over Cabby. “Did…did she say that?”

“Not exactly,” Yin says. “It just seemed like she was grouchy every time your name came up.”

That helps a bit, but not much. “I…I suppose that makes sense. She’s never particularly liked me.” Which is, of course, a bald-faced lie. Test Tube had liked Cabby. As a friend, and maybe even something else.

But that’s all gone now, because of Cabby and her notebooks.

“Well, I think that’s DUMB!” Yang exclaims. 

“Huh?” Yang’s outburst startles Cabby a bit.

“You seem way nicer than anyone here! Test Tube thinks she’s so smart because she’s good at science and stuff, but if she doesn’t like you then she’s a big…dumb…face.”

Despite the flimsy attempt at an insult to Test Tube, Yang’s kind words about Cabby make warmth spread through her. “Well, I…that’s very kind of you. I know I’m pretty new too, but I’ve been to quite a few rehearsals and meetings, and I know my way around relatively well at this point. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

Yin-Yang breaks into a huge smile, and before Cabby knows it, they’re pulling her into a hug.

Cabby smiles back at them once they break away. “C’mon, let’s go get comms from the booth before anyone else gets there.”

Knife is really regretting sitting behind Nickel, Balloon, Baseball and Suitcase. 

Well, more accurately, Balloon sat in front of him, since he got there first. Then the rest of them had joined because Nickel seems to always go out of his way to bother Balloon, and the other two seem unable to unjoin from Nickel’s hip. Same as it ever was.

But all of a sudden, there’s a new variable.

Mic’s swishy costume dress makes her presence immediately evident as she comes down the vom and perches on the chair in front of them. “Ugh, are you guys fighting again?”

“No,” Balloon sighs, “he just came up and started arguing with me, I didn’t want to!”

Mic rolls her eyes. “Don’t blame your problems on someone else, dude. You can always back off.”

“I’m trying, but he doesn’t let me!” Balloon folds his arms and sinks down in his seat. “Why is this any of your business, anyway, Mic?”

“Uh, because I’m part of this production too, and your bullshit is gonna tear it apart?”

“You know, you’re smarter than I took you for, Mic,” Nickel interrupts before Balloon can say anything. “Maybe Balloon should try listening to you.”

“Thank you,” Mic replies primly, despite the backhanded compliment. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m getting a call, so…” With that, she marches back up the vom again and into the lobby.

Knife doesn’t know what possesses him to do so, but he follows.

Mic is in the middle of a FaceTime call—she has headphones on, so Knife can’t hear the other person. “Yeah, I’m just…I’m trying something different. It’s a change of plans, but I think if Nickel–” She trails off, listens for a moment, then says, “Okay, well, anyways, I probably have to go in for warm ups now, so I should hang up.”

A split second before she hangs up, Microphone shifts a little, and Knife can see the screen over her shoulder.

Wait, hang on, is that…?

Oh, shit.

Microphone notices him behind her as she turns. “Oh, hey, Knife. What’s going on?”

Knife is absolutely not taking any of her casual small talk bullshit. “Who were you on the phone with?”

Mic’s smile melts off her face, and she glares at him. “Um, none of your beeswax? Whatever, I’m going back inside.” She shoves her phone back in her pocket and shuts the door heavily behind her as she goes.

Knife sighs and pinches his forehead. He did try to warn her. If she ignored him, that’s her problem.

After a moment, the door opens again, and this time it’s Suitcase. She doesn’t seem to see Knife as she flops onto the sofa and curls herself up into an upset little ball.

Knife sighs. Much as he wants to be done with trying to deal with anyone else’s problems, he can’t just leave her like this.

He sits down on the couch next to her. “Alright, kid, what’s going on?”

Suitcase shrugs. “I don’t know. My friends hate each other, same old, same old. I just want it to be over.”

God, Knife is so sick to death of stupid theatre department drama. “It feels like there’s an obvious solution here.”

“If it is, I haven’t spotted it.”

Knife moves so he’s looking her in the eye. “Look, cut the bullshit. Do you honestly think Nickel and Balloon have an equal rivalry here?”

Suitcase hesitates, trying out several words before landing on, “...I mean, no.”

“Yeah, exactly. I’ve seen you problem-solving during production meetings to know you’re smarter than this. If you know Nickel is the problem, why are you still hanging out with him?”

Suitcase freezes, eyes wide. “I…I mean, he’s fine when it’s just me and him and Baseball, he’s funny and interesting to talk to and all that, it’s just when Balloon is there…”

“Suitcase,” Knife says firmly. “You know what the bystander effect is, right?”

“Yeah, but that’s not what’s happening…” Suitcase says weakly. Knife can tell she doesn’t believe herself.

“Whatever, if you say so. I just know that last year when I was on the track team with Trophy, a lot of the people I called my friends at the time just acted like his homophobic bullshit was okay, and I didn’t stay friends with those people. Balloon and I aren’t close or anything, but if I were him, I know I wouldn’t feel like you were being a particularly good friend.”

Suitcase huffs. “I mean, it’s not like Nickel is homophobic or anything! He’s just…” She winces, breaking Knife’s eye contact. “Ugh, I do know what you mean. I should…I don’t know what to do.”

“That’s for you to work out. I can’t really help you there. But if you keep trying to let things stay as they are, they’ll all blow up in your face instead.”

Suitcase stands up. “Yeah, I’ll think about that. Thanks, Knife. You’re pretty good at advice, you know that?”

Knife can’t help but give himself a little self-satisfied smile as he watches Suitcase leave. Damn straight, he’s pretty good at advice.

Suitcase’s whole body won’t stop shaking.

Knife is right, she knows he is, but Nickel is…unlikely to be receptive to criticism. She can’t shake the feeling that everything is going to fall out from under her feet.

She grabs her bag and starts for the door as soon as they’re released, deciding she needs to at least wait to confront anyone until after she’s gotten some sleep, but…

“Hey, Suitcase, c’mere a minute!”

…no such luck.

Suitcase grits her teeth and turns around to go talk to Nickel. “What’s up?” she asks, trying to keep her voice cheerful.

“I was just gonna say, if you had that spare sword you said you were gonna work on painting at home, it’d be a good time to bring it in. The handle on the one Tissues had is a little loose, and it’ll probably hold up a little longer, but with our luck it’s gonna give out on stage.”

“Oh!” Suitcase’s heart lightened a little. He’s not trying to be friendly–it’s just show talk. Show talk, she can deal with. The rest waits until tomorrow. “Okay, yeah, I’ll do that as soon as I can.”

“Cool,” Nickel replies. Suitcase thinks he’s done, but just before she can say goodnight, he tells her, “Y’know, I wasn’t super excited about the idea of working with a freshman with zero experience this year, but you’re pretty good at your job. If you wanted to do props again next year, I’d totally be down for that.”

Before she can overthink it, Suitcase forces herself to say, “Actually, I have kind of a request if we’re working together again. Well, really less of a request and more of an…ultimatum, I guess you could call it.”

Nickel’s eyebrow raises. “An ultimatum? Jesus, because that doesn’t sound intense. Alright, whatever, lay it on me.”

Suitcase takes a shaky breath in. Moment of truth. “Can you lay off Balloon a little? I don’t know what your problem is, but it’s way too much and he doesn’t deserve it.”

Nickel stares at her for a minute, then bursts into laughter.

Suitcase doesn’t know how long it takes for him to calm down, but each second might as well be a year before Nickel says, “Look, Suitcase, I know you’re new here, and it’s sweet you’re trying to see the best in people or whatever, but seriously, that ship has long sailed. Balloon’s made his choices in life, and he gets to live with the consequences, one of those being that not everyone’s gonna fucking like him. He needs to get over it.”

With those words, something snaps in Suitcase, and her feelings bubble over.

“Yeah, you’re right, I’m new, and I don’t know everything, but you’re being completely ludicrous! I don’t know all of how Balloon acted in the past, but honestly, I don’t care! That was years ago, and I’ve never seen him be anything but kind, which is much more than I can say for you. You don’t just make choices once and then it’s over with forever. He’s making better ones now, and you’re acting like some kind of elementary school bully, and you have the nerve to claim he’s in the wrong? Balloon at least actually tried to be my friend and get to know me. You don’t know anything about me.”

Nickel’s face is frozen in stunned silence. Eventually, he says, “What–Jesus, dude, what is your damage? Where the fuck did this come from?”

“Just…never mind.” Suitcase feels the rush start to drain out of her. She just wants to get out of there. “Get back to me once you’re ready to try being a decent human being.”

She leaves before Nickel has a chance to respond, storming all the way back to her dorm.

She puts on her pajamas, brushes her teeth, and flops down on her bed, staring blankly at the ceiling until her phone buzzes. She turns it over to check who it is, and her stomach drops.

Baseball: Just talked to nickel

What happened?

Suitcase stares at her phone for a second, trying to get up the energy to respond, but it isn’t there. Instead, she just puts down her phone, rolls over in bed, and waits for sleep to come.

Marshmallow is about to get ready for bed—she doesn’t have any homework, and tonight is OJ’s night for RA duty—but it suddenly occurs to her that she hasn’t checked on Bow in a while. So she grabs her ID, throws on her jacket, and starts out for the theater.

Once she gets there, unfortunately, she runs into MePad at the door. He must have been locking up the props and stuff, and he looks rather confused to see her there. “Oh, hello, Marshmallow. What brings you here so late at night?”

“I was just, um, I had to do something real quick,” she flounders. 

MePad raises an eyebrow. “Well, is it something you can do tomorrow, once rehearsal starts? We have slightly more strict rules than we have in previous years about people being in the building after hours, given…certain events.”

Oh, right, the Taco thing. “I’d really rather do it tonight. I lost my, um…my bottle cap collection.” She cringes the second it comes out of her mouth. Really, Marsh? Not, like, your laptop or something? Your fucking bottle cap collection? “I’m worried about someone taking it when I’m not there, so I really wanna get it as soon as possible.”

MePad looks like he does not at all believe her (because why would he? It was an awful excuse!) but he’s maybe too tired to argue, because he opens the door and lets her past. “Turn the lights off when you’re done, please.”

“Will do!” Marshmallow gives him a thumbs up and heads off backstage.

Once she gets there, she looks around her and whispers, “Bow? Are you here?”

There’s silence for long enough that Marshmallow is about to just go back home when suddenly, there’s a flash of pink, and Bow is hovering in front of her. “Hey girl, what’s happening?”

“Finally,” Marshmallow huffs. “Took you long enough. I was just about to give up the ghost and leave.”

“Give up the ghost?” Bow crosses her arms. “Geez, watch your mouth! That’s ghostphobic!”

Marshmallow clamps a hand over her mouth. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize!”

Bow cackles. “Nah, I’m kidding, I’m just messing with ya. So, what are you doing here at what-the-fuck o’clock at night?”

Marshmallow shrugs. “I dunno, I just figured I’d check in?”

“Aw, sick!” Bow does a loop-de-loop in midair. Then she pauses. “You look kinda gloomy, though. What’s the deal?”

“Just tech week stuff.” Marshmallow isn’t sure she sounds very convincing.

“You wanna talk about it?” Bow asks. “Is it that Kumquat girl or whatever? I know you’re buddies, but she seems like a real drag sometimes.”

“Apple? Yeah, she’s been a bit of a dick lately. I mean, things were going good between us, but now she’s being all weird about me again.” Marshmallow sighs.

“Yeah, for real.” Bow crosses her arms. “I mean, calling her so-called friend creepy and obsessed, just for being interested in learning more about me? That girl needs to learn to stay in her lane.”

“Totally! I feel like nobody else has…” Marshmallow trails off as the sentence catches up with her. “Wait, how did you know about that? You weren’t there! That was in my dorm, not here!”

Bow freezes, as if she’s realized she made a misstep. “So, um. I have kind of something to admit, and it’s not gonna make me look great, but can you try to stick with me?”

“...yes,” Marshmallow says slowly, her stomach churning. She has no idea where this conversation is going to wind up.

“So, how much do you know about ghosts?” Bow asks nervously.

“Um, nothing,” Marshmallow replies. “I didn’t even think ghosts were real until I met you.”

“Okay, so.” Bow lets out a sigh. “Yes, I’m tied to this theater, because it’s where I died. But if someone takes an object out of the theater, or if they bring something in and then take it back with them, I can kinda, like, tether myself to it for a while? Not sure exactly how long, but it fades after a while and I just end up back here.”

Marshmallow blinks, trying to make what she’s saying make sense. “So…you tethered yourself to the wallet I left in the theater and when I brought it back you listened in on my conversation with Apple?”

Bow looks away from Marshmallow. “Okay, so, it’s worse than that.”

“Worse how?” Marshmallow is trying her damnedest not to panic, but she’s not doing a great job.

“Um. I’m assuming you know what possession is?”

Marshmallow’s mind spins, and she takes a second to process what she’s hearing. “Are you saying you possessed Apple and made her say all those things to me?” When Bow nods sheepishly, anger rises in her stomach. “Why the fuck would you do that? Why would you meddle in my life and mess up my friendship like that?”

“I wasn’t trying to do that!” Bow insists. “Okay, well, kind of, but I was just scared! Everyone I ever talk to abandons me for their friends who are still alive, and I didn’t want you to do that too!”

Much as Marshmallow finds Bow’s actions to be terrible, that knocks her back a little. With anyone else, she would have found it inexcusable, but Bow’s situation is…unique, to say the least. “Have you really been alone all this time?”

“Mostly,” Bow admits. “Like I said, there have been a few people like you over the years, but they all left eventually, and I couldn’t.” She thinks for a moment, and then says, “Also there was this other ghost that got here somehow and hung out for a bit. Don’t know where he is, but he sucked, so, whatever.”

Marshmallow blinks. This conversation keeps getting weirder and weirder. “Why did he suck?”

“I mean, he kept saying he was my brother or something? But he wasn’t, he was just some loser. For one, I think he said he was, like, Vietnamese? And my family is Korean, so like, c’mon, dude! And also, I don’t even have a brother. Just a sister.”

“Oh, yeah, a sister,” Marshmallow mumbles absently. “That would be Bot’s mom, right?”

“Who?” asks Bow, and then, “Oh, yeah, I think I know who you’re talking about. That kid has some serious baggage, man.”

“Yeah,” Marshmallow muses, “but I think they’re working some of it out. I mean, I don’t know them all too well, but they seem like a pretty good kid.”

“Yeah, that makes sense. My sister was always the nice one, and I was the jerk.” Bow laughs. “Like, when I was a little kid, I used to threaten to file my nails so I could scratch her—I never actually did it, of course, but Jesus, I was such a weirdly violent six year old.”

Marshmallow smiles as she listens to Bow tell more stories about her and her sister as little kids. She’s still kinda mad about the Apple thing, but she also knows Bow feels bad enough about it that she’d rather not rub it in any more. Marsh just feels so bad for Bow, and just wants her to have a friend. She doesn’t want her to be alone anymore.

Chapter Text

When Test Tube wanders into the living room first thing in the morning, Lightbulb is on the phone.

“Okay, yeah, that sounds great! See you then, girl!” Lightbulb says cheerily into the phone. Test Tube wonders who it could be she’s talking to. 

She’s just about to go about her morning routine when Lightbulb reveals the answer.

“Yeah, thanks Cabigail! Peace out!”

Test Tube freezes in place. She doesn’t mean to say anything, but as soon as Lightbulb hangs up the phone, she blurts out, “Why were you talking to Cabby?”

Lightbulb jumps, and puts her phone down on the table. “Oh, hey, Tube. You know I can, like…talk to whoever I want, right?” She looks really uncomfortable, and she’s not meeting Test Tube’s eyes.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that!” Test Tube assures her. “I was just…curious?”

“Yeah.” Lightbulb scratches the back of her head. “We’ll talk about it later, yeah? I gotta get ready, I got a 9 am.”

“Okay.” Test Tube watches Lightbulb walk towards the bathroom, hoping she hasn’t upset her.

“Later” winds up being at rehearsal, when almost all of the cast and crew are gathered in the theater. Looking around, though, Test Tube doesn’t see Lightbulb.

“Paintbrush,” she hisses, perching on the chair next to them. “Do you know where Lightbulb is?”

“I think she’s still in the dressing room,” Paintbrush tells her. “There was a situation with her costume, so I think she’s fixing it.”

“Cool, thanks!” Test Tube gives them a thumbs up before she goes backstage and down into the dressing room.

Once she gets there, though, she finds that Lightbulb isn’t alone.

“Ugh.” Salt rolls her eyes dramatically upon seeing Test Tube. “What are you doing here?”

“Can’t you see we’re busy?” Pepper adds.

She can, actually—they’re both crowded around Lightbulb, clearly going to town on her stage makeup—but still! “Why, though? That’s not your job!”

“We’re just being helpful!” Pepper huffs. “This production is in desperate need of a hair and makeup team.”

“And nothing beats H&M from S&P,” Salt jumps in. Golly, it’s so creepy how they finish each other's sentences! “So what are you doing here?”

“Trying to talk to my friend!” Test Tube exclaims. “So scram already!”

Salt and Pepper share a look, roll their eyes, and flounce out of the room.

“Gadzooks, do those two ever give me a headache,” Test Tube grumbles.

“Yeah, but my makeup has never looked better, so I’d say it’s a mixed bag.” Lightbulb shrugs. “So what’s so important that you can’t say it with the biggest gossips in the cast directly in front of us?” She laughs, but then realization passes over her face, and she looks away uncomfortably. “Is this about what happened earlier?”

“Yeah.” Test Tube squirms. “I just wanted to…check in, I guess. Can you tell me what the deal is?”

“I dunno, I just wanted to talk to her!” Lightbulb picks up a tube of mascara and messes with it in her hands, twisting the cap around. The makeup is getting all over her hands, but she doesn’t seem to care. “I feel like we might have been misjudging her, and I wanted to hear her out.”

“We were misjudging her?” Test Tube asks, a little snappier than she means to sound. “What about the misjudgments she made about us? About you? You saw what she wrote, why would you just forgive that?”

“I dunno, I was never that mad about it in the first place?” Lightbulb sighs. “Like, it stung, for sure, but I kept thinking, people don’t do things like that without a reason, you know? I mean, all her information is crazy meticulous, and there’s gotta be some reason she’s keeping track of all that.”

“Okay, I guess that’s your prerogative.” Test Tube looks away from Lightbulb. “I just still don’t really see why you’re doing this, but whatever.”

“Because…okay, full disclosure? And this is serious o’clock.” Lightbulb waits for Test Tube to nod before she goes on. “I can see how your grudge against her is tearing things apart between us and our friends, and I’m not into that energy.”

“Huh?” Test Tube feels as though she’s been hit in the back of a head with a baseball bat. “Tearing things apart?”

“Yeah, dude!” Lightbulb puts down the tube of mascara and wipes her hands on the table. “I mean, I had the first argument with Painty in a long time about it a while back, and I’m pretty sure Fan feels guilty about how stuff went down, and…” She trails off, clearing her throat. “Other people, too.”

It takes Test Tube a minute to process her words. “Truth be told, I have been noticing Bow is drifting away from me a little, and she’s still friends with Cabby…we had kind of a fight about it, but I thought she was over it. Do you think she’s not?”

“Oh, jeez.” Lightbulb flinches. “I mean, I think the fact that you don’t know that—um, there’s something that…that person…has obviously not told you, and the fact that that person has trusted pretty much everyone but you with that maybe kinda speaks for itself?”

Test Tube’s brain is going too fast for her to keep up. “What…what is it?”

“That’s not my secret to share,” Lightbulb admits. “We should probably get back. Folks are waiting on us.”

“Yeah,” Test Tube mumbles. Feeling like she has to say something as they go up the stairs, she adds, “Lightbulb, I’m…I’m really sorry.”

“I’m not the person who needs to hear that the most,” Lightbulb replies. “But I’m sure you’re gonna figure it out. You’re smart and stuff, y’know?” She turns to Test Tube with a tentative grin. “Hug it out?”

“Yeah.” Test Tube leans into the hug, and she just wants to burst into tears. She doesn’t know how to feel about any of this.

Microphone peeks over from the other side of the dressing room and gives Taco a thumbs up. “We’re clear!” She laughs a little despite herself. “Man, I can’t believe they didn’t think to check if there was someone in here.”

Taco smiles. “People rarely look for something they’re not expecting. And now you have a rivalry to mine—that’s power over some of the most prevalent connections in the department.”

Something about that doesn’t sit right in Mic’s stomach, but she doesn’t have time to say so, because she can hear someone humming softly in the hallway. “Shit, one second.” She slams the door shut behind her, and goes out to check who it is. Speak of the devil—it’s Cabby.

“Oh, Microphone!” Cabby laughs. “Why aren’t you upstairs?”

“I’m not on for a while, so I figured I’d hang out.” Mic laughs as well, hoping she doesn’t sound too nervous. “How about you?”

“Just looking for a laptop I’ve left down here.” Cabby turns to the green room table, and picks up the laptop sitting there. “Ah-ha, there it is. I suppose I should get going. Nice to talk to you, though!”

“Yeah, you too.” Before Cabby can leave, entirely on an impulse, Mic calls after her. “Hey, hang on.”

Cabby turns back around. “Huh?”

For some reason, what winds up coming out of Microphone’s mouth is, “Are you okay?”

“Am I okay?” Cabby blinks, face blank. “I mean, I found my laptop, so…yes?”

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Microphone clears her throat, trying to find a way to broach an awkward topic. “I mean…I’ve heard there’s some drama between you and Test Tube, and that must be really shitty for you, especially in your first year here.”

“Oh.” Cabby chews her lip. “I suppose I’m alright, but you’re right, it is…ahem, shitty.” The way she says the word as if she’s never sworn in her life makes Mic want to laugh, but she manages to stop herself. “Thank you for checking in, though. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah. Test Tube is like that. I think she doesn’t really like me either.” Microphone snorts. “I wouldn’t place too much stock in her opinion. She’s smart and all, but also, she seems like someone who just holds stupid grudges for no reason. People like that aren’t worth your time.”

“I know you’re right, but…” Cabby looks away. “Feelings aren’t that easy, you know?”

It takes Microphone a moment to understand what she’s just heard. “Oh, feelings like… ohhh .”

Cabby claps a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. “Oh, no, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No, it’s okay!” Microphone promises. “I won’t tell a soul.” She glances back towards the dressing room doors. Even though you can hear pretty well between the two dressing rooms, from the green room it’s pretty soundproof. Taco can definitely tell they’re talking, but she won’t know exactly what was said unless…Mic tells her. “That’s pretty rough, though, dude. I mean, I’m super aroace, so I absolutely cannot relate, but here’s hoping you’re able to move on, yeah?”

“Yeah. That’d be…nice.” Cabby smiles. “I really should go, but it was good to talk.”

Microphone stares after her, not wanting to move. But the skeletons in the closet—or rather, the Taco in the dressing room—won’t wait for her forever, so she takes a deep breath and opens the door.

“Was that Cabby?” Taco immediately asks. When Mic tentatively nods, Taco follows up with, “Did you talk to her about the Test Tube situation?”

“...yes,” Microphone mumbles. “I was offering her support—trying to show I was in her corner so she’d be in mine, y’know?” Taco opens her mouth, but Mic talks over her. “I know, I know, it would make more sense for me to take Test Tube’s side since she has more standing in the department, but like I told Cabby, I’m pretty sure I get on her nerves, so I might as well use that to get on Cabby’s side, right?”

“Right.” A smile flickers over Taco’s face as she says, “You’re learning how I work. Did Cabby give you any information that could be useful?”

Mic opens and closes her mouth—she knows she’s been more than willing to act in ways that maybe aren’t the most ethical in order to make the ends justify the means—but spilling Cabby’s crush is a step too far. “Eh, not really. I got the gist that she wants to make amends with Test Tube, though. Like, all the animosity was on Test Tube’s part.”

“Hm.” Taco drums her fingers on the table. “Okay, interesting. We can work with that.”

The phrase sends a shudder up Microphone’s spine. “God, why are you so skeevy sometimes?”

“Oh, so it’s skeevy to try and help you gain social standing?” Taco rolls her eyes. “Please. You can’t make an omelet without cracking a few eggs, you know.”

“What about cracked friendships?” Mic argues. “We’re not actually helping anyone fix anything. We’re just making things worse for our own gain. Isn’t that kind of fucked up?”

“No, trust me, some friendships can’t be fixed.” Taco isn’t looking at Microphone—Mic isn’t sure she’s even talking to her anymore—as she says, “If that wasn’t the case, I wouldn’t be hiding in the dressing room like some coward, I’d be…in there with everyone again. The way it used to be, even if it wasn’t ever real. It was better, maybe. I had friends.”

Mic is thrown off by this sudden vulnerability. She doesn’t know what to say, so she just puts a hand on Taco’s arm. “Are you okay…?”

Taco stares blankly at Microphone, as if in a trance. It takes a few seconds for her to snap out of it, and she pulls her arm away. “Yes, I’m fine. Relax, will you?”

“I…okay, but you can talk to me.” Mic takes a breath and voices something that’s been on her mind for a while. “I know I just called you skeevy and all, but if I’m being honest? I really do value you, like, as a person. I want to be friends for real, not just as some transactional thing.”

Taco looks so genuinely offput by this that it takes her a second to open her mouth and formulate a response. 

And of course, the second she tries to start talking, the door to the dressing room swings open.

“Hey, Mic, was there a hammer that was—” Knife freezes in the doorway as he realizes who else is in the room.

“Well, damn. If it isn’t the girl who singlehandledly took a sledgehammer to the camaraderie left in this department. How’s that worked out for you, Taco?” Microphone is glad he isn’t looking at her, because holy shit, his glare could kill.

“Better than your moral high ground has for you, Knife.” Taco’s strange, insecure shakiness is gone, replaced by her usual smooth tone. “And singlehandedly is a bit rich, don’t you think? I mean, I appreciate the credit, but it’s just a touch of overkill.”

“Whatever. Waste your life messing with people, I don’t care.” He turns on Mic, and just as she expected, his expression makes her feel like her insides are liquifying. “But I expected you to be smarter than this, Mic. I told you what Taco did last year, and you’re just fine with being besties with someone like that all of a sudden?”

Microphone breaks eye contact and scoffs. “C’mon, man, you’re not the boss of who I hang out with. Can’t you keep your nose in your own business?”

“Fine, whatever.” Knife shrugs. “You’re digging your own grave, but whatever.” With that, he turns and walks away.

Mic blinks, trying to process the interaction. Finally, she turns to Taco. “That was…interesting. D’you think he’s gonna snitch on us, or…?”

“No.” Taco shrugs. “Knife knows well enough that he’s in no place to lecture anyone about morals. He has a history of being a bit of a bully, and he knows it would be too easy to remind others of his misdeeds. He won’t try anything.”

“Okay,” Mic mumbles. “So, what you were saying earlier about your ruined friendships or whatever…?”

“Microphone,” Taco interrupts. “You should go back to the group. You don’t want anyone else to come looking for you, do you now?”

“‘Kay, whatever.” Microphone sighs and starts to go back upstairs. As she does, she can’t stop thinking about Taco’s face from earlier—startled, regretful, and above all, lonely .

Taco clearly didn’t want Microphone to see this under-the-surface her, but Mic finds herself thinking that Taco needs her help much more than vice-versa.

MePhone is so fucking done with this job.

He should be working with professionals, not college students. The kids are dedicated, sure, and really good at what they do, but goddamn, if they don’t keep letting their personal bullshit get in the way! It seems like every other episode, some kind of argument breaks out, someone winds up hiding in the bathroom crying, or OJ and the stage managers wind up having a conflict resolution meeting with some unruly assholes.

Which is why he’s maybe being a little overly harsh on the students. It definitely has nothing to do with his own personal issues—and the fact that those personal issues still may be somewhere in town, waiting to find him when he’s most vulnerable. He definitely hasn’t been googling his dad’s name every day, desperately trying to figure out what the fuck he’s doing.

Nope, it’s the cast and crew who are emotionally unstable. Not him.

The actors all sit stock still while he gives his notes, as if frightened. Good, they should be. The state this production is going in should be existentially terrifying. “Apple. You should not still be calling line this close to opening, especially since you barely have any. Fix it. Salt, stop staring at OJ like an idiot whenever you’re both onstage at the same time. Cheesy, you can’t make shit up in Shakespeare. This isn’t your improv class. Soap, there’s this thing called projecting your voice, maybe you’ve heard of it? I’d suggest trying it out.” He sighs, pinching his forehead. “Alright, go home. And maybe try to learn some professionalism before you come back tomorrow.”

As soon as the cast leaves, he turns on the crew. “Just because you’re not actors, doesn't mean you're exempt from getting lectured. The trainwreck we just saw is your fault as well.” He claps his hands. “Suitcase and Nickel. The swords are still wonky, and you said you were going to fix them, and yet.” He notices that the two of them, who usually seemed to work well together, are sitting as far apart as possible, but whatever it is, he doesn’t want to know. “Fan and Goo, I don’t know what’s going on with the scene change music in Act 4, but whatever it is, you better get your asses in gear and figure it out. And Toilet, if I listed everything you messed up, we’d be here all night.”

“Okay, hang on,” Floory interrupts. “Everyone else go on with the meeting. I’m gonna talk to MePhone for a minute. He stands and walks towards the door, before making a beckoning motion at MePhone. MePhone sighs, and follows him.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Floory crosses his arms. “What the fuck, MePhone? Where do you get off, talking to everyone like that?”

“Have you seen how much of a trainwreck everything is right now?” MePhone asks. “Clearly being gentle with them is not going to work. They need a little tough love to get them on track.”

“I wouldn’t call this love,” Floory argues. “It seems like you’re just being a dick for the sake of being a dick.”

“What makes you think this is any of your business?” MePhone snaps. “You’re not the director! Stick to doing your own job!”

Floory sighs, rubbing his forehead. “I mean, part of my job is to deal with the problem if a member of the production is acting inappropriately, and you’re acting…pretty inappropriately. Maybe this is a MePad problem more than a me problem, though.”

MePhone wants to say that his cousin would take his side, but honestly? He’s not so sure. MePad has never hesitated to be critical of him when he thinks MePhone is doing something wrong, and he didn’t miss the concerned expression on his face during notes.

“Besides…” Floory looks away. “We have one acts in the spring, and if you’re this impossible to work with, nobody’s going to want to participate. Everything falls apart when one person gets on a power trip.”

Damn it, he’s kinda right.

“Okay,” MePhone sighs heavily. “I guess I could do to be a little softer on them.”

“Good man!” Floory bumps his shoulder slightly. “And…I gotta ask, how have you been doing? I know it’s been kinda a shitty semester for you, what with you being in the hospital and all.”

“Uh, yeah.” MePhone is a little thrown off by the sudden change in tone—and to be entirely honest, the concussion was the least of his worries. “Thanks, I guess.”

All of a sudden, students flood into the hallway. “Oop, looks like the meeting’s over,” Floory remarks. “You should probably go home.”

“Alright.” MePhone gives Floory a tired wave. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

“You too!” Floory calls after him.

Despite this, when MePhone goes home, he feels the usual spike of fear as he comes upon his mailbox and finds a letter inside. He doesn’t even have to look at the name to recognize the Meeple return address sticker.

He tears it to pieces without opening it and throws it in the trash.

Then he falls onto his bed, without changing or brushing his teeth, and falls dead asleep.

Cabby’s hands are shaking so badly that she can barely turn her wheels as she makes her way up the path to the Bright Lights house.

She arranged this time with Lightbulb yesterday, and Lightbulb had assured her that all of her housemates, as well as Bot, would be present. With the exception of Test Tube, of course, which is definitely for the better. She’s not ready to face Test Tube yet—she can barely face everyone else.

But it’s really time this happened. She doesn’t want to make too many enemies. So she steels her nerves and knocks on the front door.

The fact that the door is answered by the person who clearly resents her the most out of the whole household (again, with the exception of Test Tube) doesn’t bode very well, but at least they’re being civil. “Oh, hey,” Paintbrush says, their face set in hard lines as they move to let her in. Then they walk over to the sofa and sink down at the farthest end of the sofa, curling their legs up as though trying to get away.

She gets a better reception from the rest of them—Bot exclaims, “Cabby!” as they run over, Lightbulb gives her a finger gun and a “yo, Cabitha, glad you made it!” and even Fan gives her something of a grimace-smile.

Cabby takes a breath in and out, steeling herself. “Alright, I suppose I should say what I came here to say. I wanted to apologize for what I wrote about you all in my notebook. I didn’t expect you to see it—” Fan looks away guiltily, “---but that’s no excuse. I wrote those things when I hadn’t gotten to know you, and I fully plan to edit your entries to reflect the more positive things I’ve learned about you since. I hope we can have a more positive relationship moving forward.”

Well, that wasn’t as hard as she thought.

That is, until Paintbrush asks, “Why even have the entries in the first place, though? Why do you need to write everything down like that?”

“Well, I find it helps me to keep track of things if I write them down, and…” She cuts herself off. She can’t just keep avoiding the truth. She has to learn to open up to people, or she’ll never learn to trust anyone. “Alright, I can explain, but there’s rather a long story behind it. Do you all have time?”

She silently hopes for someone to say no, so she has an excuse to leave this terrifying conversation for later, but alas, everyone nods. So, stomach churning, she locates her own entry in her notebook and looks it over, making sure she has every detail correct, then closes her eyes so she can’t see everyone else’s reactions.

“So, as you’re obviously aware, I can’t walk or stand very much, hence the wheelchair. It’s extremely painful for me to bear weight or walk for long distances. The reason for this is that I was injured in a car accident when I was six years old. Less evident, though, is the fact that the incident caused quite significant brain damage. Afterwards, my parents noticed that I was struggling to remember even very basic information. The term my doctors described it with was anterograde amnesia. They also suggested I keep track of information I find with notebooks like these, so that I can more easily get around and live my life.”

She chances a glance at everyone else in the room, and finds that they’re all staring at her in shocked silence. She feels the need to add, “Oh, you needn’t look at me like that. None of this is news to me—it’s been my reality for over a decade. I’m not…I’m not…”

And yet, she’s suddenly wiping tears away from her eyes, her voice breaking down into sobs.

She feels Bot lean against her, and then Lightbulb’s arm goes around her shoulder. Fan takes her hand and squeezes it, and even Paintbrush puts their hand on her back. They all stay like this until Cabby gets a hold of herself and can talk again.

“Ah, I’m so sorry,” she sniffles. “I came here to apologize to you, and here I am crying all over the place.”

“You don’t need to be sorry!” Bot says. “That sounds really scary, and I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe telling us.”

“No, it’s not you that made me feel unsafe,” Cabby insists. “I rarely tell anyone—I mean, it’s embarrassing, right?” She tries to pass it off with a chuckle, but she doesn’t get any back.

“Not embarrassing at all,” Paintbrush mumbles. “You can’t help it. And I could have been kinder to you. I had no idea, but I’m still really sorry.”

“Me too,” Fan adds. “It was really fucked up that I went through your stuff like that, too. I was in the wrong here, not you.”

“I…” Cabby doesn’t even know what to say. She doesn’t feel like she deserves such kindness. All she can do is start to cry again.

Test Tube really needs to check her email more often.

She made it all the way to the science building, clear on the other side of campus from her house, and found the classroom completely empty. Then she’d gotten out her phone and found that the professor had sent an email that their car had broken down and class was canceled. So she had to walk all the way back home.

Once she gets there, she sees a very strange sight through the window.

All her housemates are there, as well as Bow. And they’re all crowded around a crying Cabby, clearly comforting her. 

Test Tube has no idea what to do with this picture.

However, she’s pretty sure she’ll be able to hear through the front door if she gets close enough. It’s kind of a gross thing to do, but they’re talking in her own house! Why shouldn’t she be able to listen?

“No, no, I’m being silly.” Cabby sniffles and hiccups a little. “I mean, you were right in saying that the files were intrusive on your lives. I’m sure I could try and figure out an alternative situation—”

Test Tube is just thinking, well, at least she admits it, when everyone else interrupts Cabby with resounding “no”s. She can even pick out Paintbrush’s voice in there. What is happening?

“Okay, hang on a second.” Lightbulb’s voice rings out. “You see these glasses? They’re very cool, very round, I love them. I used to call them my Harry Potter glasses, now I call them my ‘fuck you, Joanne Kathleen, my trans ass is hotter than you’ glasses.” Lightbulb has said this a million times, and Test Tube almost laughs at the familiarity. “They’re not a super strong prescription, so I can technically kinda get around without them. But why would I want to? Not only do they make me look awesome, I can also do stuff like drive and read, which is generally important, y’know?” Test Tube has no idea what this could be relevant to.

Cabby seems to agree, because she laughs wetly. “Lightbulb, I appreciate your efforts to comfort me, but I don’t think it’s at all the same. Plenty of people have glasses, nobody has…this.”

“Well, I think they’re similar enough!” Lightbulb argues. “If you need the notebooks to get around a lot of your everyday life, you should keep ‘em! To hell with if nobody else has stuff like that. We don’t need it, because we don’t have anti-whatever amnesia, but you do need it, so you gotta use what you got!”

“Anterograde,” Cabby corrects softly.

Lightubulb continues like she hasn’t heard. “Like, if Paintbrush uses my glasses it doesn’t do anything for them, because they got that sweet, sweet, 20/20 vision, but those of us who aren’t so lucky, we gotta find solutions that work for us.”

Paintbrush laughs and says something in response, but Test Tube doesn’t hear it. Her head is spinning too fast to take anything else in.

Anterograde amnesia? Is that why Cabby needs to use notebooks—because she can’t create new memories on her own?

And Test Tube has held it against her for months. That’s…kind of horrifying.

She’s so caught up in her head about the recent revelations that she can barely hear the rest of the conversation. She vaguely clocks Cabby saying something about having to go, but she doesn’t process what that means until the door opens.

Cabby stares at her, eyes wide, and is silent for a long moment before she whispers, “Test Tube? How long were you…how much did you hear?”

“Cabby, I…I…” Test Tube’s voice is barely working. She feels like she might just throw up or pass out or something similarly awful.

Instead, she does what may not be her maturest decision in the world, and just flat out makes a run for it.

She doesn’t stop running until she gets to the other side of campus—ironically, right near where her class would have been—and curls up on a bench, breathing hard.

Her phone buzzes several times, and it takes her a few minutes to get up the nerve to look. There are messages from all of her friends.

Fan: tt you good? do you need space or 

Paintbrush: Is everything okay?

Lightbulb: what’s up tubester? just checkin in

Bow: test tube do you want to talk?

The last message is by far the scariest, and it sends Test Tube’s heart plummeting into her stomach.

Cabby: I’d like to have a conversation about what just happened. Let me know when you have a minute to talk.

Upon seeing it, Test Tube curls back into her little ball, not caring that it’s cold out and people are probably staring at her.

She’s starting to consider that she might be a horrible person.

Chapter Text

MePhone’s earliest memory is when he was first adopted at five years old.

He remembers the massive, fancy manor, which reminded him of the house in Annie more than anything. He had a mental image of his life turning out like that—the plucky little orphan being taken in by the billionaire with a heart of gold, and living happily ever after.

“Impressed?” MePhone hadn’t even noticed Mr. Cobs coming up behind him until he spoke. (He was still “Mr. Cobs” to him, but MePhone had imagined that someday he’d feel comfortable calling him “Steve,” or even, “Dad.”)

“Yeah!” MePhone broke out into a grin. “I can’t believe I’m gonna live somewhere like this. It doesn’t feel real.”

“Well, it is.” Mr. Cobs put a hand on his back. “Who knows, maybe someday when you’re doing what I do, you’ll have a house like this of your own!”

MePhone had been so excited at the idea, his little five-year-old brain hadn’t clocked the fact that he had said, not if, but when. As if following in his footsteps was a condition for his being here.

Microphone can’t believe she has a rehearsal from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. today, and she’s getting there fucking early . 

“The things I do to help you,” she grumbles as she storms into the shop where Taco is waiting. “And in the stupid scene shop, to boot. It feels like a weird cursed dungeon.”

“You’re here to help both of us,” Taco corrects, interrupting Microphone’s complaining. “You wouldn’t be here if it didn’t, would you?”

Her tone is breezy, but Microphone can’t help but remember the events of yesterday. “I’m your friend, remember?”

“Right.” Taco clears her throat.

“And…do you still not want to talk about what you were talking about yesterday?” Microphone ventures cautiously.

Taco bristles. “Not particularly.”

“O…kay. Well, if you ever do, I’d listen.”

One of Taco’s eyebrows quirks upwards, and she says softly, “...thanks.”

At the worst possible time, footsteps click on the concrete floor in the hallway.

“Damn it,” Taco hisses and drags Mic under a table just seconds before the door opens.

And wouldn’t you know, it’s fucking Knife.

Of course, he goes over to the table where Mic and Taco are, and of course, in picking up whatever tool is on top of it he upsets a container of screws, and of course , he squats down to clean them up and comes face to face with Mic and Taco.

“Oh, great,” he grumbles. “Exactly who I wanted to run into, yet again.”

“I could say the same to you,” Taco replies, brushing the sawdust off her pants as she gets up. Microphone does so as well—there’s really an absurd amount of sawdust, enough to make her nose itch and her eyes sting. She’s also freezing—why do they keep this place so cold, even in early March? She fucking hates the scene shop.

Microphone shakes off her distraction and turns to Knife. “Why are you even here so early? We don’t start for another hour.”

“I’m just trying to do my job,” Knife grumbles. “One of these chairs has a broken leg, so if you two will get off my back…” He takes up his tools and goes to start working on the chair that’s sitting next to the table.

Mic is more than happy to oblige, but for some reason Taco seems to want a fight—and why she thinks it’s a good idea to do so to a man with power tools in his hands Microphone will never know. “Get off your back? Did you not clearly notice that we were here first? Or are you so insistent on avoiding culpability for absolutely anything, that you decide I’m just here to create problems for you?”

“You’re one to talk about avoiding culpability,” Knife snaps back. “I might not have been the kindest to everyone, but at least I never lied to anyone about who I am! And I’m actually willing to stay and face people, instead of running away.”

Taco is about to retort, but Mic jumps in. “Oh my god, both of you, shut up!”

It startles both Taco and Mic into silence—Mic has gotten plenty of criticism from MePhone, but it’s never been for lack of vocal projection. Once she has both of their attention, she looks at Knife. “Look, I wasn’t here last year, but whatever I’ve heard about that Taco, she’s not this Taco. She may not be the most morally sound person, I mean, she kind of talks like a cartoon supervillain—don’t look at me like that, Taco, you know it’s true—but she’s no liar. We’re just helping each other out with something. And you don’t have to like her, but you could at the very least do me the courtesy of not shit-talking my friend right to my face.”

Mic glances at Taco, catching a small smile out of the corner of her eye. It fades, though, when Knife scoffs, “Friends, huh? Yeah, because that worked out so well for Pickle.”

“Enough!” Taco snaps, lunging forward at Knife. For some reason Mic finds herself laying a hand on her head to keep her back, like she does when one of her cats at home tries to steal her food. She has to bite back a laugh at the fact that it actually works. 

“What, too low of a blow?” Knife crosses his arms, glaring at Taco and then turning back to Mic. “Tell me, Mic, have you talked to Pickle at all?”

“The run crew guy?” Mic wracks her brain. “I think he helped me with a quick change once, so, uh, technically yes?”

“Well, your buddy Taco might know him as the guy she let believe the two of them were best friends for years, and then told him she never actually cared about him!” He spins to glare daggers at Taco again. “And then you had the gall to keep texting him until he rightfully blocked your ass!”

“Huh?” It’s all Mic can think to say. She knew about Taco’s conduct in the past, but this explains…a lot. And things aren’t the same between the two of them, right? If anything, Taco seemed shocked at the idea that Microphone thought of her as a friend, but then, maybe that’s just... Mic really has no idea how to feel, now that she thinks about it. Things are getting so complicated, it practically makes her want to transfer to a school where everyone’s a bit less high-strung.

Taco marches up to get in Knife’s face—a difficult enough feat given that she’s much shorter than him—but whatever retort she’s about to give him is cut off. There’s more of that fucking sawdust underfoot, and she slips, crashing into him and sending them both sliding across the floor.

Panicking, Microphone manages to catch Knife by the wrist, but Taco slips out of her grasp and careens into the table. To Mic’s horror, there’s an audible crunch as she crumples to the ground.

“Holy shit, are you okay?” Microphone rushes to Taco’s side, helping her into a sitting position. Conflicted feelings be damned, her friend is hurt, and she needs to help.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” Taco insists. It’s not very convincing, though—when she tries to take a breath in, she breaks out into a cough, and curls over on the floor, clutching her chest in pain. If anything, Mic would guess she might have broken a rib.

“You look awful, Taco,” Mic mumbles. “C’mon, I’m gonna take you to the health center.”

“No need,” Taco croaks. “If someone we know happens to come in while we’re there, it’ll create more problems than anything.”

“Okay, fine,” Microphone huffs. “What if I get you back to your dorm—don’t try to argue with me, I doubt there are too many college students out and about before 9 am on a Saturday morning—and then I go to the health center and bring you back some Tylenol or something? You have this whole ‘excruciating pain’ face going on that’s kind of scaring me.”

Taco hesitates, and then sighs heavily, wincing again as she does. “Alright, fine.”

Mic lets Taco lean against her as the two of them begin to leave, but she’s interrupted by Knife. “Mic, wait.”

Mic tries not to groan as she turns around. He absolutely cannot be trying to start shit right now. “What is it now?”

“Jesus, so defensive. I was just gonna say…if you don’t make it back by the time rehearsal starts, I’ll say that you texted me that your key got stuck in your lock or something like that.”

Mic blinks, taken aback. “Thanks, dude, seriously! Especially since you and her aren’t, y’know…”

Knife rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t for her, it was for you. You did just kinda stop me from doing what she just did.” He makes a gesture to indicate sliding across the floor and crashing into something.

“Asshole,” Taco rasps.

“Yeah, but I’m an asshole who’s doing you a solid right now. You two should probably go.”

Mic obliges, exiting the theater with Taco in tow. She looks around the whole time the two of them walk back to the dorm, terrified of running into anyone, but thankfully, they make it back to their dorm building unnoticed. Taco unlocks her door and sits down on the bed, clutching a pillow to her chest and breathing heavily.

“You hang tight for a minute, okay?” Mic asks. “I’m going to the health center to get you some painkillers and an ice pack, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Taco gives her a thumbs-up without opening her eyes. It’s really weird to see her like this. Mic tries not to shudder as she closes the door and walks away.

As predicted, it takes her past 9 am to get to the health center and back, as their dorm is pretty far away. Once Mic gets back and gives Taco her stuff, she notices she has a text.

Knife: Yo

Excuse made

You’re welcome

Microphone: Omg seriously you’re a lifesaver dude

I owe you one

Knife: I’ll keep that in mind

How’s the douchebag

Microphone: She fucked up her rib really bad but she’ll live

I’m p sure it’s broken but her stubborn ass is not going to the doctor lmao

Surprised you’re worried though

Knife: I mean I’m not I was just curious

I don’t really wish physical pain on her, just emotional

Microphone: Haha fair

I’ll be right there

Mic glances back at Taco, who still doesn’t look at all well. “Are you gonna be okay here?”

“I’ll be fine.” Taco’s voice sounds strained. “You should go back to dissuade any further suspicion.”

“If you feel any worse, you’re gonna go to urgent care, right?” Microphone prompts her. “And you’ll call me if you need someone to drive you?”

“I can handle myself, Microphone.”

“That isn’t an answer,” Microphone points out, but decides to drop it anyway, shutting the door behind her as she goes back to the theater and tries to assure herself that everything will be okay.

When MePhone was 9, he first discovered his love of theatre.

His class went to a play—ironically, the play in question was The Winter’s Tale—and had a conversation with the director afterwards. From that instant, MePhone knew that was what he wanted to do.

But he knew, even then, that his father would never approve. So he would have to do with watching videos of plays on YouTube. The filming was usually not of the best quality—sometimes he could barely make out a face or a word—but he still watched with rapt attention, unable to look away as if it were magic.

He was so caught up into it that he didn’t notice as his dad came into his room. “What are you doing?”

“Watching this.” MePhone gestured at the show he was watching, the musical Matilda. It was one of his favorites, and he’d watched it enough that he practically knew it by heart by then. “It’s really good. It’s about a little girl who—”

“MePhone.” Cobs’ tone was the one he used when he didn't want to hear any argument. “Have you done your homework yet?”

MePhone’s stomach sank as he glanced to the unfinished worksheet by his side. “Uh, not yet, but I will after I finish this.”

Cobs leaned over and yanked the phone out of MePhone’s hands, making him jump. “You’re going to do it now, and not watch any more of this trash until you’re done.”

“It isn’t trash!” MePhone argued.

Cobs ignored him. “Your grades have been disappointing recently, and you need to bring them up. Otherwise you won’t be able to get into a good middle school, or a good high school, or a good college, and any hope of following in my footsteps are out the window. All your silly theatre stuff isn’t going to make that happen.”

MePhone wanted to retort that he didn’t have any hope of following in his father’s footsteps, and this is what he wanted to do with his life, but he knew better. Instead, he picked up the worksheet and began to write.

He hated doing schoolwork—it just seemed to be harder for him than anyone else in his class, for reasons he didn’t understand. (As an adult, he would wind up getting diagnosed with several learning disorders and everything would suddenly make a whole lot more sense.) 

But it’s not like he had another option. He was too afraid of his father’s disappointment to even consider disobeying.

In an attempt to avoid both Nickel and Baseball as much as possible for the duration of rehearsal, Suitcase finds herself wandering the hallway during the run, looking absently at the posters on the walls. 

She’s so lost in her worries that she starts to tune out the voices coming over her headset, until she hears Fan’s voice cut in, sounding rather strangled. “Fan off comm.”

Test Tube’s voice comes in as well, worry lacing her tone. “Oh, golly–hang on a minute.”

Suitcase is wondering what happened when she notices the two of them coming downstairs. Fan is leaning pretty heavily on Test Tube, and he’s visibly shaking. Test Tube gets him settled with his head between his knees, lays his headset down next to him and gives him a water bottle. She then pulls out her phone and types something, then taps Fan on the shoulder and shows him what she wrote. When he raises his head and gives her a thumbs up, she puts an arm around his shoulders, so presumably she was asking if it was okay to do so. 

Suitcase doesn’t want to intrude too much, but just to make sure, she comes over to whisper, “Is he okay?”

“Feeling a little overloaded,” Test Tube whispers back, “but he’s usually good in a couple minutes when this happens.”

Suitcase and Test Tube both jump as Bot’s voice comes over their headsets. “Hey, uh, Test Tube? We’re having kind of a situation. Bomb messed something up with one of the practicals when he brought it onstage and nobody’s quite sure how to fix it.”

“Be there in a minute,” Test Tube hisses back, then types something on her phone and shows it to Fan. When he gives her another thumbs up, she turns back to Suitcase. “Can you keep an eye on him for a minute?”

Suitcase feels rather in over her head, but she can’t just leave him alone or keep Test Tube from doing her job, so she says, “Um, sure thing!”

After Test Tube leaves, Fan and Suitcase sit in silence for a while, Suitcase watching Fan carefully as his breathing slows. Eventually, he lifts his head and gets out his phone. A second later, Suitcase’s phone pings.

Fan: hi suitcase :))) 

Suitcase: hi fan!

are you feeling better?

Fan: a bit

talking is still. not good though sorry

Suitcase: you’re ok dw!

i get panic attacks too 

do you know what happened?

Fan: idk it was just kinda a sensory thing

shit happens yk?

like everyone talking on the headset and i kinda started freaking out about it

plus tech in general is always like, it completely throws off my internal schedule

Suitcase: that makes sense

There’s a moment where they just sit side by side, doing nothing, before they’re interrupted by the person Suitcase wants second-least to see.

Baseball gives her a smile that looks more like a grimace. “Oh, hey, uh, how’s stuff?”

“I’m just helping Fan out.” Suitcase wills her voice to stay steady. “I don’t think it’s a great time to talk right now. Um, sorry, it’s just, since we’re in the middle of…”

“Yeah, I get it.” Baseball sighs. “And, uh, thanks for replacing my staff. The other one was too short for me.”

“No problem,” Suitcase mumbles. Baseball nods and walks away.

“Everything good?” Fan’s voice is raspy and stilted, but it’s there.

“Uh, yeah, just like, personal drama.” Suitcase laughs nervously.

“I’m sorry, that sucks.”

Suitcase shrugs. “It…is what it is. And hey, you’re talking again!”

Fan nods. “Yeah, I do feel better. I think I’m gonna refill my water and then go back up. But…thanks for hanging out. It was nice to kinda talk to you.”

“Yeah, you too!” As Fan gives her a little salute and walks away, Suitcase smiles her first real smile in days.

When MePhone was 12, his project won a local science fair.

He didn’t quite know how it happened—it was just a weird Rube Goldberg machine he made for his class. It worked about 50 percent of the time, and he happened to be lucky when the judges came by.

And, of course, with this had come many many comments on how he must have inherited some of his dad’s genius. He wasn’t holding out much hope on that front, but he never said so, of course, instead basking in the praise. Finally, he’d succeeded at something in school.

Better yet, when he’d gotten home and showed his dad the award, he had smiled. “See, this is the kind of thing I’ve been wanting you to do, kid. Something I can be proud of.”

MePhone was so happy at the time to get such a compliment from his dad, he never even considered how backhanded it was until he thought back on it as an adult.

Not that he tries to spend much time thinking about his childhood or his dad as an adult. He mostly tries to avoid doing so, when he can, but that doesn’t always work out.

Fan spends a couple minutes of his lunch break with Goo in the booth, writing down the cues he missed while he was out. He’s about to wrap up and go to break when Cabby peeks into the room. “Fan! Good to see you. I’m sorry to hear you weren’t doing well earlier. If you’re up to it, can I borrow you?”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” Fan says as Goo waves goodbye and leaves. “I mean, I do need to eat at some point, but…”

“Already got you covered.” Cabby holds out a sandwich she must have gotten from the on-campus cafe. “It’s sun butter, not peanut butter, so you needn’t worry about eating it. I checked the label thoroughly. I assumed you would prefer a lunch that wouldn’t kill you.”

Fan tries not to allow himself to feel thrown off by her knowledge of everything about him—she did a nice thing for him, and he should be grateful. “Wow, thanks, Cabby! So, uh, what’s the matter?”

“Ah.” She brushes her hair behind her ears. “Well, now that I’m here, it feels rather silly, but I had a bit of a personal question, if you don’t mind.”

“Um, shoot! I doubt there’s much you don’t already know, hah, but if you’re curious…”

“When you read the notebook I left at your house, and showed it to your housemates,” Fan’s stomach sinks guiltily when she says this, “did you do so because you were jealous of me?”

The question startles Fan so badly he almost drops his sandwich. “Jealous, what? Why would I be jealous? I mean, I was certainly never interested in Test Tube, or anyone for that matter, in the way you were, so I don’t see how that would even be a possibility!”

“I mean, you wouldn’t necessarily have to be,” Cabby ventures. “It’s possible to be jealous at the idea of someone being in a relationship with your closest friend, because the societal idea of a hierarchy that falsely puts romantic relationships above platonic could make one assume that that person would put their new romantic relationship above your platonic bond.”

“I, um…” Fan just stares blankly at her for a moment. He was so certain that he did what he did because he thought it was the right thing to do, and admittedly partly out of anger at what had been written about him, but…now that he’s looking back, he does remember the worry going through his head that Test Tube would spend all her time with Cabby rather than him. “Damn it, you’re kind of right. How are you always right?”

“I’m not,” Cabby replies. “I certainly think that talking to you now, you’re very different from the Fan who I described in that notebook. I obviously wasn’t here last year, but from what I can tell, you’ve matured a lot since.”

“Thanks.” Fan smiles.

“And aside from that, I know it’s…a moot point now, given the circumstances,” Cabby looks down a little sadly, “but if there ever were a chance for me and Test Tube—or indeed anyone and Test Tube—you would still be the most important person in her life. The love you have is unique and irreplaceable. I can’t imagine there’s anything that would sever that bond.”

It’s such a sweet thing to say that it takes Fan a moment to think of anything to say. “I…yeah, I’d like to think so. But I really appreciate you saying so. And…she hasn’t talked to you since the, uh, situation, right?”

“No.” Cabby sighs, and Fan has to fight the urge to roll his eyes. He means this with love, but typical Test Tube , going into such a state about having been wrong.

“Well…would it help if I tried to nudge her in that direction? I know she feels terrible, she’s just kinda stubborn about saying so.”

“That she is.” Cabby smiles softly. “And…you’d do that for me?”

“Yeah, it’s the least I can do! I mean, uh,” Fan’s brain says “I fucked up your social life and your potential relationship so I kind of owe it to you to help fix it,” but his mouth says, “you brought me a sandwich.”

“I did bring you a sandwich,” Cabby agrees. “And, Fan, you know I don’t hold any resentment about, ahem, bringing you this sandwich, right? I’ve never been one for holding grudges, and I can tell you feel bad enough about…my having to bring you the sandwich. I don’t think it’s productive to keep rubbing it in. We really do have a lot in common, and I’d rather just be friends, despite the…sandwich…situation.”

“Uh, yeah, the sandwich,” Fan stammers. “I’d like that too. You’re really cool, Cabby.”

“As are you,” Cabby replies. “Now I should probably go get some of my own lunch before break is over. I’ll see you soon, Fan.”

“Yeah, I’ll see you.” Fan nods. “I’ll wrangle Test Tube in your direction soon, I promise.”

“I really appreciate that.” And with that, she starts making her way down the ramp away from the booth.

Fan leans back in his chair and stares at the ceiling as he finishes the last of his sandwich. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he feels like things might be starting to slot back into place they way they should be.

When MePhone was 15, he failed one of his classes.

It was an advanced math class that he had just barely qualified for, and he spent every period feeling like he shouldn’t be there. Of course, his dad had pressured him into taking it, and it wasn’t like saying no was much of an option. 

His teacher had been patient with him—he suspected she knew that he was here against his will—and had tried to suggest tutoring, or accommodations, or anything else that would help him. Each time he’d declined, because those things had to go through parents, and he didn’t even want to think about the repercussions of his father finding out.

And now, of course, he had to pay the piper. 

His dad didn’t get home until dinnertime, which was a blessing and a curse. The storm got put off for longer, but the waiting was almost worse than getting it over with.

The silence at dinner was so painful MePhone could barely bring himself to eat. Eventually, just for the sake of breaking it, MePhone mumbled, “Are you mad about the grade?”

“I didn’t think I’d need to say anything.” His father’s voice was icy. MePhone would much rather he’d just yell. “It’s an embarrassment, frankly. Any hopes of you getting accepted to any of the colleges I planned for you to go to are practically nil, and I hope you don’t expect me to pay for you if you don’t.”

“Okay,” is all MePhone could manage to say.

Cobs stood. “You can be as much of a failure as you want, and I can’t stop you. But don’t expect me to coddle you for any longer than I have to. If you keep going down this route, I’m done with you once you graduate high school. I don’t need a disappointment of a son staining my name.”

As his dad left the room, MePhone wanted nothing more than to curl up and cry, but he knew that would do nothing but make things worse.

Once they go on their dinner break for the day (how are they only at dinner break? How do they still have hours of rehearsal left?) Fan and Test Tube walk to the cafeteria together, as they usually do. Test Tube notices that Fan seems a little…off, and she can’t quite place why. 

“What’s eating at you?” she asks him. “Is it just, like, residual stress from your panic attack earlier, or a different thing?”

“Man, you really start to notice how much cafeteria food costs when you’re not on the meal plan anymore,” Fan remarks as he peruses a menu.

“Fan!” Test Tube exclaims. “Are you ignoring me?”

“No, what, ignoring you?” Fan laughs anxiously. “I’m not ignoring you, I’m purposely avoiding the question, there’s a difference!”

“Okay.” Test Tube sighs. “Why were you doing that, then? Seriously, I’m just concerned about you!”

“Nothing’s wrong with me,” Fan assures. “It’s just…I wanted to ask you to do something that you might not like.”

“What is it?”

“So, it’s…” Fan chews his lip. “I was talking to Cabby earlier, and I maybe kinda said I’d push you in the direction of talking to her?”

Test Tube’s stomach sinks. “Wh–I’m not ready to… Why would you…?”

“Tube, it does kinda have to happen at some point.” Fan looks away. “It’s probably better you talk now than leave it until during or after the show.”

Test Tube wants to argue, but honestly, she knows he’s right. It’ll probably be easier to get it over with. It’s not like there’s much to lose.

And besides, maybe there’s something good to come out of it.

“Okay.” Test Tube sighs heavily. “You’re right. I’ll do it. Do you know where she is?”

“I think I saw her at a table outside when we came in. C’mon.” Fan leads Test Tube outside, where, indeed, Cabby is sitting eating dinner with Yin-Yang. 

Test Tube tries to go over, but she feels like her feet are frozen to the spot. “Fan, I…this isn’t a good idea. She probably wants nothing to do with me.”

“Nah, that definitely isn’t what it sounded like when I talked to her,” Fan replies, uncharacteristically calm for him. “I think she’ll be happy if you try to make up. Besides, you’re the smartest person I know. You’ll figure something out.”

“I’m not smart at people!” Test Tube groans, sinking into Fan’s shoulder. “But…okay. You’re right. I’ll suck it up and do it, and then it’ll be done and things’ll be better, right?”

“Right!” Fan holds onto her for another few seconds, then pulls away. “Now, I have to go eat my overpriced food. Good luck!”

“Yeah.” Test Tube tries to smile, but she’s sure it’s rather shaky. Then she steels her nerves and walks up to the table.

Before she can say a word, Yin-Yang jumps to their feet. “What the fuck are you doing here?” Yang demands.

Test Tube backs up a step. “I just came to—”

“You think you can treat my friend the way you do and get away with it? I swear to god—”

“Yang!” Cabby interrupts. “It’s alright. I was expecting to talk to her anyway. Would you mind giving us some space?”

Yin-Yang trembles in place for a moment, as if debating within themself. Finally, Yin says, “Yang, if she wants us to give her space, we should! That’s what good friends do!” and Yang begrudgingly replies, “Ugh, fine.”

Yin-Yang leaves, and now Test Tube and Cabby are alone.

Test Tube sets down her plate and clears her throat. “So, um, as you probably know, I haven’t—uh, that is to say, Fan and I were talking—um, I mean, I’ve been trying to—well, I guess where I should start is, I’m really sorry. I’ve been awful to you all year, and you didn't deserve any of it. I’m such a hypocrite—I held it against you how you misjudged us, while all this time I had this perception of you that was completely wrong, and…if I had known about, well…but that’s no excuse. I really messed up, a whole lot of times, and there’s nothing I can really do to make up for that, but I just…I hope you’re okay?” She can’t look at Cabby’s face once she’s done.

A hand lands on top of hers, and she inadvertently jerks her head up, meeting Cabby’s lovely hazel eyes. “I…I am okay, I think. I’ve been through a lot this year that I would have much preferred not to, that much is true. And I won’t pretend you aren’t responsible for any of that. But…it’s not exactly the worst reception I’ve received, either. I have friends, and things to occupy my mind, and that’s…that’s enough for me.”

“It’s not the worst?” Test Tube blurts before she can stop herself. “Sorry, I mean, you don’t have to—”

“So, you know I graduated high school the same year as you, right?” Cabby asks.

“Uh, no, I didn’t.” Test Tube is a little thrown off by the non sequitur. “Did you take a gap year?”

“Of a sort.” Cabby shrugs. “My freshman year, something fell through with my accommodations. I wasn’t able to access the materials I needed to level the playing field between me and the other students, but I was much too self-conscious to bring it up. In my mind, I should have been able to do things the way everyone else could, and if I couldn’t, I just…wasn’t smart enough. And trying to do that…it destroyed my academic performance, my social life, my mental health. I made it to the end of the year, and dropped out. I had to take a year off, last year, in order to recover before transferring here.”

Test Tube’s mind drifts back to the phone conversation she had heard between Cabby and her father, months ago. I’m not a child anymore, and this won’t be freshman year all over again. The professors here have been more accommodating to my needs, and the students are…kinder. “You thought it’d be better here,” she mumbles. “And I made it…this.”

“It is better here,” Cabby promises. “Like I said, I have friends. Not to mention the actual accommodation plan I needed in the first place, which certainly helps.”

“I’m so sorry,” Test Tube repeats. “I wish I had…done literally anything differently from what I did.”

“I know,” Cabby replies. “But you can do something different now. Unlike present company, I’m not one to hold grudges.” She raises her eyebrow, a little teasingly.

“Heh, I guess I deserved that.” Test Tube stabs at her food awkwardly. “But even after everything, you’d really be willing to…” She almost says “forgive and forget,” but fortunately, she realizes what an incredibly inappropriate choice of words that is and catches herself.

Less fortunately, the phrase she ends up replacing it with is, “...kiss and make up?”

Her face immediately heats up, and she desperately hopes Cabby doesn’t take it the wrong way. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to. “As long as you’re respectful, and don’t pull anything like you did before, all I really wanted was to make friends. That offer is still open.”

Test Tube studies Cabby’s face closely. There’s a crease between her eyebrows, betraying her nervousness about Test Tube’s response. Test Tube doesn’t personally feel like she should be forgiven, but that’s up to Cabby, and Cabby seems to really want things to go back to how they might have been. After everything, Test Tube owes it to her for things to go her way.

(She also notices, in her studying, that Cabby has a very nice jawline. And a cute nose as well. But that’s entirely irrelevant.)

“Yeah.” Test Tube breathes out slowly. “I’d like that.”

When Cabby wheels out from the table and closer to Test Tube, she’s expecting a handshake or something like that. She’s certainly not expecting to be pulled into a hug.

She doesn’t mean to freeze up, but Cabby’s arms are just tight enough around her without being suffocating, and she feels perfectly warm against Test Tube, and her hair is so soft where it brushes against Test Tube’s chin, and whatever shampoo she uses, it smells wonderful, and—

Cabby pulls back. “Ah, I’m sorry, I should have asked first. You’re clearly uncomfortable. That was too much.”

“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” Test Tube tells her, trying desperately not to sound so strangled. “Just caught me off guard a little.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to—” They’re interrupted by the distant sound of the clock tower on the other side of campus. “Oh no.”

“The clock tower is always a couple minutes early,” Test Tube reassures her. “But we should definitely kinda book it.”

Cabby does, indeed, book it—Test Tube didn’t realize she could roll her chair that fast. Fast enough that Test Tube, being far from athletic, finds that her heart is racing and her face feels hot as she attempts to keep up.

Yes, that’s definitely the reason. It certainly has nothing to do with the hug from earlier.

Oh, who is she kidding?

Test Tube is trying desperately not to have the revelation her mind seems intent on having, so it takes her a moment to realize Cabby is trying to get her attention. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you were going back up to the booth,” Cabby clarifies.

“Oh, yeah, uh, I guess I should do that. I kinda need the lightboard to, uh, run the lights, and the lightboard is in the booth, so…” Test Tube desperately wants her mouth to stop running itself without consulting her brain.

Cabby smiles. “Well, then, I’ll bid you farewell for now.” Who says farewell ? How is she like this?

“Ahem, yeah, bye.” Test Tube turns sharply before she can make any more of a fool of herself and heads for the booth.

Once she gets there, the only person up there is Fan. He glances up. “Whoa, you look…something. You okay? Was there a disaster?”

“Yes,” Test Tube sighs, flopping into her chair and faceplanting on the table.

Fan lays his head on the table as well, so he’s eye to eye with Test Tube. “What kind of disaster?”

“A lesbian disaster,” she groans.

“Oh, no, a lesbian disaster!” Fan sits up and hauls Test Tube into a sitting position too. Well, more accurately, she’s leaning pathetically against Fan, but his presence is calming her significantly. “So, are we talking a ‘feelings from the beginning of the year are making a surprising comeback,’ type of lesbian disaster?”

“Mm-hmm.” Test Tube sniffs. She’s absolutely not going to cry about this. That would be ridiculous. “Maybe kind of a ‘the feelings never really went away, I just covered them up with heaps of resentment’ lesbian disaster?”

“Ah, that kind.” Fan nods faux-wisely. “Aw, Tube, are you too nervous to shoot your shot?”

“I don’t have any shot to shoot,” Test Tube replies. “I didn’t expect…this to happen. And even if she does want to be friends now, anything…else she might have felt must have been squashed by how awful I was.”

Fan tilts his head. “So, would you, like, bet money on that?”

Test Tube raises his head to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“Eh,” Fan shrugs, “when we were talking earlier, I was picking up, like, a vibe, y’know? I mean, obviously I don’t have crushes and all that jazz, but I’ve read enough mutual pining fanfic to get a feel for it.”

“Fan.” Test Tube rolls her eyes. “This isn’t some college AU of one of those cartoons you like, this is real life. If I mess up, I could really hurt Cabby’s feelings. Again.”

“I know, I know,” Fan replies. “And I know I’m the last person who should be giving advice on people, because that’s neither of our strong point, but…I dunno, you just made up again. You never know where things could go if you give them some time.”

“I…guess there’s no harm,” Test Tube says slowly.

“That’s the spirit!” Fan squeezes her shoulder. “The Test Tube I know is no quitter! The OTP may well be canon yet!”

Test Tube snorts, feeling much better. “You are so weird.”

“That’s why you love me!”

Test Tube smiles as she leans back onto his shoulder. He’s completely right about that.

When MePhone was 18, he saw something that changed him for the rest of his life.

His dad wasn’t home at the time, and he was going through things to pack for college. He still couldn’t believe he got into a college his dad approved of, but his warning that day had certainly scared him straight. His mental health had fallen to shambles, but at least he did it.

He was trying to reach a box out of his reach when he slipped and upset a different box. He bent down to pick up the context, and realized it was full of photos. Looking closer, he realized they all featured one specific boy, from young childhood to probably an age similar to MePhone’s. Cobs was in several of the photos as well.

Who was this kid?

Under the photos, there were countless awards for different academic achievements, things MePhone could never hope to achieve no matter how much he tried, each with the name “3GS.” Under that, a newspaper clipping of…

An obituary?

MePhone scanned the text, shuddering a little as he took it in. Apparently 3GS had been 18, the same age as MePhone, when he had taken his own life. All those impressive achievements, and clearly they hadn’t been enough to make up for whatever pain had driven  him to do such a thing.

That wasn’t even the most horrifying part of the obituary, though.

“He is survived by his adoptive father, Steve Cobs.”

MePhone hadn’t been the first. Cobs had adopted another kid before him–a kid who had faced the same pressure MePhone did, and played the part much better than MePhone could ever dream of doing, and it literally killed him. 

It was just when MePhone didn’t think he could be questioning his reality any more that he saw him.

The boy from the pictures was hovering in front of him, a ghostly glow emanating from him as he regarded MePhone with wide, curious eyes.

MePhone is convinced at this point he must be dreaming, but he can’t make himself wake up. Something compels him to take a step forward, holding out one of the photos in a shaking hand. “Is this…you?”

The boy–3GS–nods silently.

“Are you…did you die?”

Another nod.

“How are you here?”

3GS tried to respond, but his voice came out too garbled to understand, like a phone call with god-awful reception. When he became intelligible again, the only words that came out were “Please, Cobs, don’t.”

“I’m not Cobs!” MePhone insisted. “My name is MePhone, and I’m—”

3GS ignored him—or perhaps couldn’t even hear him—as he repeated the same phrase over and over again. “Please, Cobs, don’t, please, Cobs, don’t, please, Cobs, don’t…”

“What did he—how did—is he why you—?” MePhone didn’t know what question to start with, or even whether he wanted to know the answer to any of them.

“Don’t, don’t, don’t!” 3GS’s last scream echoed through the room as he disappeared, leaving no trace that he had been there.

MePhone ran upstairs and immediately curled into a ball on his bed, his entire body shaking. He felt like he might throw up. He hadn’t had any question for years that his dad was far from a good father or even a good person, but…he’d adopted another kid before MePhone, who his mistreatment had driven to take his own life, and had managed to keep it from MePhone for eighteen years. That was flat out fucking terrifying, and MePhone didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do with this information now he had it. Surely whatever stir 3GS’s death had made in the media, it hadn’t been enough to make so much as a dent in his career, so who could MePhone tell? Who would do anything, in the face of one of the world’s biggest tech giants?

His one consolation was that he was leaving for college next week. Once he got there, he was never coming back.

Floory is more than ready to go home after an over 10-hour rehearsal day, but he notices MePad beckoning him over. The job never ends, does it?

When Floory goes over, MePhone and Toilet are there as well. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing in particular,” MePad explains. He looks at Floory and Toilet. “I just wanted to make sure the two of you know how much help you’ve been throughout this process. It’s been hard work, but this production would not be what it is without you.”

To Floory’s surprise—and MePad’s as well, it seems—MePhone jumps in too. “Yeah, seriously. All three of you have taken a huge weight off my shoulders.” He sounds a little begrudging, but uncharacteristically genuine. He’s also been more patient with the cast and crew today. Maybe Floory really did get through to him.

“Glad to hear it!” Floory replies cheerily, and then glances at Toilet, who seems to be frozen in shock. “You okay, mate?”

“Mr. Phone complimented me…” Toilet whispers in awe. This kid needs to raise his standards of basic human decency.

“Uh-huh, yeah, sure.” MePhone brushes him off. “But yeah, we would have been really fucked if you guys hadn’t been here to pick up my slack, so…thanks.”

“Yeah, no problem!” Floory grins. “Nothing we couldn’t handle. A few rough patches that needed smoothing out, a couple bugs going around, a brief celebrity sighting, but that’s all part of the job, huh?”

“Celebrity sighting?” repeats MePad, brow furrowing. “I don’t believe I’ve heard that story.”

“Oh right!” Floory says. “We didn’t bring it up because there was so much going on at the time, but…god, it sounds like I’m making it up to even say it. You remember when there were those rumors going around that Steve Cobs was seen on campus?”

The mood in the room suddenly goes so somber you’d think Floory had just confessed to murder. MePad’s usually neutral expression has turned to stark shock, and MePhone just looks…outright terrified.

Finally, MePad breaks the silence by asking softly, “He came here? What did he want?”

“He, uh,” Floory clears his throat. “He asked whether we were theatre students, and when we said yes, he asked if we knew where MePhone was.”

“What did you tell him?” MePhone’s voice is hoarse and shaky. Floory can’t even begin to speculate what it was about this that put him in such a state.

“We told him you hurt yourself and you were in the hospital!” Toilet chirps, seemingly unaware of the heaviness hanging over the conversation.

Something in MePhone’s expression shifts–not away from fear exactly, but something akin to fear mixed with anger. This isn’t just “the actors aren’t cooperating” type of anger–it’s bordering on flat-out hatred . “You told him where I was?”

Toilet finally seems to realize that something is amiss. He steps back a little. “Yes, but Mr. Phone…”

“Do you have no fucking respect for anyone’s privacy? Where do you think you even get off, throwing around someone else’s information like that? Do you know what could happen if–”

“MePhone!” MePad stands, placing himself in between MePhone and the two ASMs. “Neither of them knew about your…situation. They are at no fault. I understand your anger, but please, cut them some slack.”

MePhone is still shaking, looking like he wants to punch someone, but at least he stops yelling. Instead, his voice is icy as he says, “All of you, go home.” He gestures to Floory and Toilet. “You’re lucky we don’t have enough time to replace you, or you’d both be off the crew just like that.”

“Professor, I’m not leaving you in this condition,” MePad replies evenly. He turns back to Toilet and Floory. “You two really should go home, though. Get some sleep. We have a big few days ahead of us.”

Neither Floory or Toilet need to be asked twice. They both trudge out into the dark and begin to slowly walk home. 

Just before they’re about to head in their separate ways, Floory realizes he can hear Toilet sniffling softly. When Floory turns to look at him, the poor kid’s face is wet with tears.

“Aw, Toilet,” Floory murmurs. “I’m sorry you got caught up in all that. C’mon, I’ll walk you back to your dorm.”

“Thanks,” Toilet hiccups, and the two continue to walk together.

Floory hopes Toilet is going to be okay after all this. And even though he has no idea what just happened, he finds himself hoping MePhone will be okay, too.

When MePhone was 19, he made good on his promise to himself to never go back to his father’s house.

He’d been able to stay on campus for Thanksgiving and spring break, and for winter break he’d signed up for an outdoor program trip he really did not want to go on, just for the sake of having somewhere to go. Summer, however, presented a new challenge.

Then, about a month before he had to move out of his dorm, he’d remembered that his dad had a brother.

He hadn’t frequently seen this uncle of his–he and MePhone’s dad didn’t seem to get along—but he’d always seemed to like MePhone, so…worth a shot?

When he called his uncle, fortunately, he’d received an immediate warm welcome. From what MePhone could tell, his uncle had been worried something like this would happen for a long time.

MePhone hadn’t realized quite how long it had been since he’d last seen his uncle and aunt until he arrived at their house and found they had an entire six-year-old he’d never even heard of.

MePhone was decidedly not a kids person, but as the summer went on, he found himself getting kind of attached to little MePad. He was quite precocious, but not in an annoying way, and he seemed quite calm about this new shake-up in his household.

It was kind of hard to watch him with his parents, though. They loved him so unconditionally, even if he made a mistake or got in trouble (which he rarely did, anyway.) MePhone couldn’t imagine having anything like that.

One night, MePhone’s aunt and uncle went out for their anniversary, and let MePhone look after MePad for the night. MePhone didn’t think he should be trusted to keep another whole person alive for a night when he barely remembered to brush his own teeth half the time, but here he was. He didn’t know how to entertain a six year old, so he decided to put something on TV.

Somehow, he wound up with Matilda.

MePad seemed pretty interested as he watched—well, it was hard to tell if he was interested, because he wasn’t the most expressive kid—but he watched intently and stayed quiet, which was good. 

Once it’s over, MePhone awkwardly asked, “So, um, what’d you think?”

“I liked it,” replied MePad. “I liked how at the end Matilda left her parents and went to live with Miss Honey. She’s a lot nicer. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents.”

MePhone snorts. “That’s pretty astute of you, kid.”

MePad shrugs. “It’s what my dad said about your dad. I heard him and my mom talking.” His little forehead furrows. “Is he like Matilda’s parents?”

MePhone freezes, unsure what to say. He doesn’t know how to explain his entire life story to a six-year-old, so he just says, “You should brush your teeth. Your parents are going to be home soon, and I’d rather look like at least a slightly responsible babysitter.”

“Okay.” MePad stands up, but before he goes, he looks over his shoulder. “I’m glad you came here.”

“...thanks,” MePhone responds awkwardly. He doesn’t really know how to take compliments–lack of practice, he supposes. “Night, kid.”

He has to fight himself not to flinch when he hears the car door slam and footsteps on the stairs. It’s just his aunt and uncle, he reminds himself. He has nothing to worry about. The thought doesn’t entirely stop his fight or flight from kicking in, but at least logically, he knows he’s safe.

Safety is a strange feeling for him, but he much prefers it to the alternative.

Chapter Text

When Microphone’s phone rings, she answers without even checking who it is. “Have you been to the health center about your rib yet, Taco? Or maybe, like, the actual doctor?”

Thankfully, the face that pops up onscreen actually is Taco’s, or Mic would be in a world of hot water right now. Taco lets out a sharp sigh, but her breath hitches with a little cough and a groan. She clears her throat, putting a hand to her chest. “As it happens, Microphone, I have more pressing concerns right now. And generally, one answers the phone with ‘hello,’ or something similar.”

“What- ever .” Mic huffs. “Don’t blame me if you get pneumonia or something.”

“No, I’ll absolutely blame you specifically,” Taco deadpans. “If I die, make sure they write on my grave, ‘this was entirely Microphone’s fault.’”

Microphone giggles a little despite herself. “How are you this annoying? Does it come free with being British?” 

“Yes indeed, what’s your excuse?” Taco’s mouth quirks up at the side as though she’s genuinely amused, but it fades as she says, “Now, let’s cut to the chase. This is the last rehearsal before opening, yes?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Mic shivers. She’s not sure she’ll ever feel ready.

“Yes, well, drama in the drama department does seem to be at an all-time high, and that’s saying something given this place’s track record. Things seem to be on the mend between Cabby and Test Tube, yes, so that went nowhere, but there’s still plenty to be looked into with, oh, I don’t know, the Suitcase, Nickel, Balloon situation? Not to mention whatever it was that MePhone–”

Mic senses someone moving above her and goes stock still. Her hearing loss is pretty significant, but she’s quite attuned to feeling people move around, and she’d bet her life that someone is coming downstairs into the green room. “Shit, I have to go.” Before Taco can answer, she hangs up.

“Oh, sorry, were you on the phone?” the guy says as he comes downstairs. Mic has definitely interacted with this guy before–he’s on the run crew, he has short, curly green hair and a small beard, and his name is…? Nope, she’s got nothing. “I can leave, if it’s, like, a private thing.”

“Nah, it’s, uh, it’s no big.” Mic laughs nervously, shoving her phone in what she thinks is her pocket and missing badly. She clears her throat as she picks up her phone from the ground and tries again, this time successfully.

The guy raises an eyebrow. “You sure? You seem a little jittery.”

“Who, me, jittery?” Mic babbles. “I’m not, uh, I mean, it’s just, like…the show is literally tomorrow, y’know? I haven’t done a play since, like, elementary school, so I’m kinda freaked out about that.”

“Ugh, yeah, that’s real.” The guy smiles. “You’ll probably do fine, though. From what I’ve seen, you’re a really good actor.” He pauses, then adds, “It’s Microphone, right?”

“Yeah! Or Mic for short, if you want, but either is fine. And you’re…” Mic racks her brain, not wanting to seem like the asshole actor who doesn’t learn the crew’s names, but she’s seriously bad with names in general. Her mind is coming up with Nickel, but she knows that’s obviously not right. “Ugh, sorry, I’m having kind of a ‘no thoughts, head empty’ moment right now.’”

The guy laughs a little. “No, it’s totally cool. I’m Pickle.”

Before Mic can stop herself, somehow she finds herself blurting out, “Like, the Pickle that used to be friends with Taco?”

Pickle flinches, and Mic immediately regrets having said anything. “Well, not exactly how I’d like to be known around here, but…yeah.”

Mic clamps a hand over her mouth. “Fuck, man, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Nah, I mean, I get it.” Pickle sighs. “How’d you know about that, though? You definitely weren’t in any shows last year, so I’m assuming you don’t know her or anything.”

“We’ve…met,” Mic flounders, not wanting to outright lie if she could help it. “We’ve been in classes together, and she lives in my dorm, but I found out about her, uh, misdeeds from Knife.” None of that is technically untrue.

“Ah, that makes sense.” Pickle nods. “I’ve been lucky enough to not wind up in any of her classes since last year, but man, it’s wild that she still goes here.”

“Yeah, for sure,” Mic mumbles, trying to school her face into a less nervous one. “Do you mind if I ask exactly what happened? I mean, I’ve heard what I’ve heard from Knife, but if it’s not too personal…” Mic knows she shouldn’t be prying, but she’s so morbidly curious, even though at the same time she doesn’t want to know.

“No, I don’t mind.” Pickle lets out a slow breath. “I mean, Taco and I were roommates in freshman year, and from day one, we were inseparable. She was so weird, but in, like, the best way. We both decided to do a show together, and we kept doing crew together for two years. Then at the end of our sophomore year, she just…snapped. It was at a cast party, and I think she was kinda drunk, and out of nowhere she told everyone that she didn’t even want to be here, she just...was acting like someone else to make people like her because that was the only way to get anywhere in a nepotistic department, and we were all part of it. Even me.” He looks away as he says, “Especially me.”

“Oh.” Mic doesn’t know what else she can say. It lines up with what Knife said, but somehow it’s a whole lot worse coming from Pickle. “I’m…really sorry, man. That’s awful.”

“Yeah.” Pickle shrugs. “And then I heard she, like, stole stuff from the theater, as well? Not even anything she could sell for much, either. Just some random props and costume pieces and stuff. I think she was just trying to make a point. Not that I remember much of that time, anyway, since I was kinda too depressed to leave my room, but…” He trails off. “Shit, that was, like, way too much for someone I just met. Sorry about that.”

“No, it’s fine,” Mic replies, trying to ignore the sick feeling in her stomach. “And she didn’t have anything to say for herself to you?”

“She tried,” Pickle admits. “But it was all over text. Didn’t even have the courage to face me. And it wasn’t even really apologizing, it was just kinda trying to make excuses for herself. I never bothered to respond, and eventually I just blocked her.”

“That’s…yeah, that’s totally fair.” Mic grimaces.

“Listen, Mic…” Pickle looks at her head-on. “I know you said you have classes with her or whatever, and you can’t help that, obviously, but just…don’t give her the time of day, yeah? And definitely don’t trust it if she’s trying to be friends or anything like that. I don’t want what happened to me to happen to anyone else.”

“I’ll, um, keep that in mind,” Microphone chokes out. “I have to…go to the bathroom, but it was good to talk to you, Pickle.”

“Yeah, you too,” Pickle calls after Mic as she rushes away.

Once she gets to the bathroom, Mic curls in on herself, hugging her knees. She’d known that Taco was morally dubious, for sure, and most of this wasn’t new information, but hearing it from Pickle is throwing it into a whole new light.

That’s the worst part, isn’t it? She knew all of this, she knew it was wrong, and she had just gone along with it. She hadn’t been strung along and lied to, like Pickle had—she knowingly messed with people for her own gain, ignoring the nagging cognitive dissonance in the back of her head.

Mic isn’t responsible for Taco’s actions, sure, she’s made her bed and is lying in it. But Microphone’s own choices…those were hers alone. At any point she could have decided it wasn’t worth it, but she never did.

That…doesn’t make her a whole lot better than Taco, she realizes.

At the worst possible moment, Microphone’s phone begins to buzz in her pocket. She checks it, and as it would happen, it’s Taco.

Mic stares blankly at it, unable to accept or decline. It keeps ringing until it goes to voicemail. 

Moral qualms aside, theatrical prestige really isn’t the only reason Microphone kept up this whole thing. At least, not lately. She’s begun to really enjoy spending time with Taco. When she isn’t all business, she has something of a…well, soft side isn’t exactly the right word, but in an odd way, she’s really nice to talk to. Much as she tries to hide it, Mic has been thinking more and more that Taco really just wanted a friend.

But then…isn’t that what Pickle thought, too?

Balloon is more than a little stressed about the fact that opening is literally tomorrow.

The lines aren’t a problem—he loves Shakespeare, and he’s read every play through several times, so it comes practically as naturally to him as plain English. Blocking is his real kryptonite—he always gets mixed up on where he’s supposed to be when, and which entrance is in which scene, and it just gets him into a complete jumble.

In fact, his hands are shaking so badly that he drops a sword onstage, and the handle comes clean off.

“Alright, everyone take five!” MePad calls, and comes over. “Balloon, what happened with the sword?”

“I don’t know, I just, my hands were shaking, and it fell, and it snapped. Maybe Suitcase could…” he looks around. “Wait, where’s Suitcase?”

“She went home early,” Clover calls out. “Wasn’t feeling well.” That makes sense, with what Balloon knows about Suitcase’s mental health and how much stress she’s been under. He makes a mental note to call her later and check in.

He’s thrown out of his thoughts by a new voice. “I can fix it.”

Of all people, it’s Nickel.

“Oh, uh, sure.” Balloon nods awkwardly, and follows Nickel into the shop. What is happening?

Nickel gets out the hot glue gun. “Luckily, it’s a pretty clean break, so we can probably just stick this back on here and be good to go.”

“Okay, back up,” Balloon interrupts. “Why are you being nice to me all of a sudden?”

Nickel raises an eyebrow. “If you think this is nice, that’s seriously concerning.”

“You get what I mean!” Balloon insists. “You basically hated my guts, and now you’re being civil?”

Nickel is silent as he works for a minute, and then he says, “Yeah, and I fucked up on that one.”

“Huh?” Balloon is entirely blindsided by this.

“I dunno!” Nickel shrugs. “I was just kinda being a dick for the sake of being a dick, and I…way overdid it. It’s not freshman year anymore, and it’s probably in both of our best interests if I back off a little. A lot, actually.”

“You’re just realizing this now?” Balloon replies incredulously. “After everything, that’s just barely a band-aid!”

“I know,” Nickel replies. “I’m not expecting to be besties or anything, I’d just rather we be able to tolerate each other for the rest of this show, and I was kind of…the one doing most of the not-tolerating. So…that’s my bad, and I’m done with it.”

Balloon genuinely has no idea what to say to this. On the one hand, all he’s wanted to happen this entire time was for this ridiculous feud to be over, and now he has the opportunity for that to finally happen. On the other…it’s such a nothing burger non-apology that it practically feels like a blow to his dignity to accept it.

What he winds up with is, “Can we…deal with this later?”

Nickel blinks. “What do you mean, later?”

“I mean, like…tolerating each other for now sounds like a good idea, but we’re about to put a show up, and I’d rather talk about it all once that’s over. I don’t want to fight with you, but we also can’t magically fix things with one conversation. I just kinda want space to think about things.”

“That…makes sense,” Nickel replies slowly. “I’m way too tired and overloaded to have, like, a normal human conversation anyway.”

Balloon lets out a snort of laughter without meaning to. “Yeah, me too.”

“You should probably take this, though.” Nickel nods to the fixed sword. “So you can, you know, go back to rehearsal and stuff.”

“Yeah.” Balloon picks up the sword. “Um, thanks.”

“Just doing my job.”

Balloon still has no idea how to feel about whatever that conversation was, except deeply unsatisfied. But if Nickel realizes he was the asshole, that’s at least a step in the right direction. The rest of the steps are a problem for later.

Once rehearsal finally finishes, Bot sets their plan into action.

“Hey, Test Tube?” they call as she leaves. “Would you mind meeting me at the campus center in like…half an hour?”

“Huh?” Test Tube blinks. “Oh, yeah, sure! Only plans I had were a wild night of going to bed at 10:30 PM–” she does weak jazz hands– “but I can do that another time. Why, what’s the matter?”

“It’s, um, I’ll explain it when you get there. I just need a bit to prepare.”

Test Tube’s brow furrows. “Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s not a bad thing!” Bot hastens to explain. “It’s just a complicated thing, I guess. But it’s…it’s a good thing, all in all.”

“Okay.” Test Tube looks a little more calm, but still rather concerned. “I’ll see you then, I guess.”

As soon as she leaves, Bot gathers their things and heads towards the campus center. They buy themself a soft serve, because god knows they need it, and then scan the tables for a familiar head of periwinkle hair.

“Hey Cabby!” they say cheerily as they sit down.

“Hello, Bot,” Cabby responds with a smile. “How have you been handling tech thus far?”

“It’s been okay!” Bot says. “Tiring, but good tiring, y’know? Like, I go home at the end of the day and I feel like I’ve achieved something. It’s nice. Not sure how I feel about opening tomorrow, though.”

“My thoughts exactly.” Cabby chuckles. “Now, you said you needed my help with something?”

“Yeah.” Bot takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna come out to Test Tube tonight, and I just wanted some moral support, I guess.”

“Oh,” replies Cabby softly. “I suppose I assumed you’d already done so.”

“Nope,” Bot pops the ‘p’ in the word. “It’s just…somehow she’s more stressful than anyone else, even my parents. We always had this whole ‘sisters from another mister’ schtick ever since we were little, and I feel like it’s gonna be weird because I’m not, y’know…a woman.”

“I can absolutely see where you’re coming from,” Cabby reassures them, “but I doubt it’s going to make a difference. Your gender isn’t the end-all, be-all of who you are. You’re still the same person she grew up with, just under a few different descriptors.”

“I mean, I know you’re right,” Bot mumbles, poking at their soft serve with their spoon. “Things have just already been so weird between us this year since I’ve stayed friends with you throughout everything, I didn’t want to do anything to make them weirder.”

“Ah.” Cabby grimaces. “I’m…sorry about that.”

“No, Cabby.” Bot puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault in the slightest. She’s the one who made it a problem, not you.”

“I…” Cabby doesn’t seem to know how to respond to this, but she puts her hand on top of Bot’s. Finally, she says, “I appreciate that.”

Bot smiles at her. “You’re a great friend, Cab.”

“Thank you.” Cabby smiles back. “I must ask, though, why was it me specifically you wanted here rather than, say, Goo or someone like that? Test Tube and I are…better now, yes, but given our history I have to say I’m a little surprised that I’m the first person you went to.”

“I mean, I have talked about all this a whole bunch with Goo, just, like, trying to figure out what to say and all that,” Bot explains. “And he was the first person I ever really came out to. He’s the best friend I could ask for. But also…he doesn’t do great under pressure, and what with how stressful tech week and show week and just the general trappings of being a freshman are, I really didn’t want to put anything else on him. And you’re so level-headed, I figured you’d be a good person to have around in case I started freaking out.” Hearing that, they realize how selfish that sounds. “But if you don’t feel comfortable, I totally won’t be offended if you don’t want to–”

“No, Bot, it’s fine,” Cabby insists. “Like I said, things are better with Test Tube. And if having me there makes it any easier for you to come out, I will happily stay here for as long as you need.”

A tingly feeling starts in Bot’s eyes, and they clear their throat. How is it they haven’t even been in college a year, and they already have so many wonderful friends?

They check their phone for the time. “Okay, Test Tube’s gonna show up at 10:30, so we still have a while, and I need to talk about something else or I’m gonna lose it. Um…” They rack their brain and land on a conversation they were having with Goo earlier. “Would you rather be buried or cremated?”

Cabby blinks, startled. “My goodness, Bot, that’s rather morbid. Why was that the first thing you thought of?”

Bot giggles. “It was just something I was talking about with Goo today for some reason. Me personally, I’d rather be cremated. It makes me think of this song that goes, like,” they clear their throat and sing softly, “I’ll tattoo instructions on my ass, that say don’t ever put this body in a casket, burn it and put the ashes in a basket, and throw it in the Puget Sound, I don’t ever wanna be underground…”

Cabby cocks her head to the side. “I recognize that song. It’s by one of my favorite singers, ah…” she trails off, snapping her fingers.

“Kimya Dawson?” Bot suggests. “Yeah, I really like them too.”

“Ahem, yes, that’s correct.” Cabby smiles, but Bot can tell she’s embarrassed about her brief lapse in memory. “As for your question, it’s not something I’ve ever considered. However I’m eventually laid to rest, I’d like it to be near where I grew up.” She pulls a notebook out of her bag, clearly lost in thought. Bot realizes it’s the same one she left at the Bright Lights house all that time ago. “I mean, when I was thirteen and my family scattered my mother’s ashes, it was in a lake she used to go to every summer when she was a little girl. It felt so full-circle, in a way.” 

There’s a silence following that, mostly because Bot has no idea what to say. They hadn’t meant to turn the conversation onto something so sad. Cabby glances up at them and laughs awkwardly. “That said, I’m sure the fish living in the lake appreciated it less than I did. If I were a fish, I certainly wouldn’t want anyone to dump an entire human body worth of ashes into my home.”

Bot doesn’t know what the fuck possesses them to blurt out, “Those fish are eating pretty good.”

“Huh?” Cabby asks, utterly bewildered, and Bot immediately clamps a hand over their mouth. Why did they say that???

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, that was so uncalled for, my mouth moved faster than my brain and I don’t even know why I would say something like that–” Bot cuts themself off when they realize with relief that Cabby is laughing.

“No, no, it was honestly refreshing,” she giggles, catching her breath. “I was worried I would make you uncomfortable by bringing it up, so I was kind of trying to make a joke to lighten the mood. I appreciate your playing along.”

“Okay, thank god.” Bot lets out a sigh. “Do you mind if I ask…what was she like?”

“Ah, yes, well.” Cabby looks back down at her notebook. “She was creative, perpetually in the middle of some project. She had a great sense of humor, she felt everything deeply. She was incredibly loved by everyone who knew her, and deeply dedicated to social justice and making the world a better place. She supported my sister, my father and I no matter what.” 

“She sounds awesome,” Bot replies softly.

“Yes, so I’ve written here,” Cabby mumbles. “But writing something and reading it back is different from remembering them. I have pictures and records of her holding me, playing with me, spending time with me, but I don’t remember what it was like, the everyday experience of having a living mother.” Her voice breaks as she adds, “I want to make her proud, but I don’t know how to do that when I feel like I have so little of a grasp on who she even was.”

Bot scooches up next to Cabby and wraps her in a hug. “If she was as cool as you said, I’m sure she would have been so proud of you. Any good parent would. You’re one of the best people I know.”

“I don’t know whether I deserve that, but…thank you.” Cabby sniffles. “And I’m sorry for getting all wrapped up in my issues when you’re dealing with your own—”

“Stop it with the apologies and the ‘I don’t deserve it,’” Bot interrupts, as firmly as they can muster. “Friends support each other . It’s reciprocal. You deserve people caring about you, and you don’t need to apologize for needing support.”

All Cabby seems to be able to say to that is, “...okay.”

This is, of course, when Test Tube walks into the campus center. 

She sees Cabby and Bot, and immediately rushes over. “Gee, Cabby, I wasn’t expecting to see you here. Are you alright? You look like you’ve been crying.” She grabs a handful of napkins from another table and hands them to Cabby.

“Ah, I’m alright. I was just talking about some, ah, personal things that got me a bit worked up, I suppose. But it’s nothing particularly new, and doesn’t have anything to do with why we’re here today.” She wipes her eyes with one napkin and blows her nose into another. “Ugh, I must look like an absolute fright, huh?”

“Golly, no, you look as lovely as ever,” Test Tube replies, and then her whole expression involuntarily scrunches up. Bot’s known Test Tube for long enough to decipher basically any face Test Tube makes, and this is her “I wish there were a backspace key for talking” face. “I mean, ahem, I’m glad you’re okay.”

“I’m–um, thank you.” Cabby giggles a little, wiping her eyes again. Bot is going to have a conversation with Test Tube about whatever that just was later, once they’ve dealt with this much harder one. Cabby seems to be reading their mind, because she continues, “But this isn’t about me. I’m just here for moral support.” She turns to Bot. “Are you ready?”

Bot nods, takes a deep breath, and begins, “So, um, Test Tube, I–” before their voice cuts off entirely. Not as in, they’re about to start crying, their eyes are perfectly dry, but for some reason it’s like there’s a selective block on their vocal cords, keeping them from saying the one thing they want more than anything to say. They try again, desperate to get their voice to work, but all they can muster is “I—I—I can’t.” Now the tears start coming, and they bury their face in their hands. 

A hand lands on each of their shoulders—one from Cabby, the other from Test Tube. “It’s okay if you’re not ready,” Test Tube comforts them. “I can wait.”

“No, waiting won’t help,” Bot chokes. They feel like this should be their moment, and that it’s the coward’s way out to not come out for themself, but they just…can’t. The only solution they can come up with is turning to Cabby and saying, “Can you, um…can you say it for me?”

“Of course,” Cabby reassures, flipping open a notebook. Bot looks down at the last melted remains of their soft serve, unable to even watch Test Tube’s expression as Cabby speaks. “Test Tube, I’d like you to meet Bot. They use they/them pronouns, they love horror media, tech theatre, drawing comics, and their friends. Especially you. They really care about you, and that’s why this matters to them so much.”

Even though there are still people chatting all around the campus center, the silence between them is thick enough to cut. Bot steels their nerves, takes a shaky breath in, and raises their head to look into Test Tube’s wide, surprised eyes. “That’s me. Um, hi.”

“Hi,” replies Test Tube softly. Bot must look like they’re about to cry again (they are) because Test Tube’s brows furrow in concern. “Aw, c’mere.”

Bot doesn’t need to be told twice—they lean into Test Tube’s arms and just burst into tears. Test Tube mumbles, “I’m really proud of you, Bot,” and hearing their real name come out of Test Tube’s mouth just makes them cry even more.

“I don’t know whether you should be,” Bot mumbles.

“Why would you say that?” Test Tube asks quietly. “Of course I’m proud!”

“Because—” Bot leans out of the hug, suddenly compelled to confess. She’ll find out somehow anyway, and they’d rather she hear it from them. “I’m kind of already out to…basically everyone but you. I have been for a while.”

“...oh.” Test Tube is clearly trying to keep her voice neutral, but Bot knows her too well not to know that she’s surprised and kind of upset by the revelation. “I mean, it’s your coming out, that’s, um…that’s your prerogative.”

“I know, I know.” Bot can’t stop talking now. “I just, like…obviously I know you’re not transphobic, I just…we’ve known each other for so long, and I was scared of changing things between us. And to be perfectly frank, I was so mad about how you were treating my friend, and that was already such an elephant in the room every time I talked to you that I just wasn’t ready for that conversation until now.” They let out a breath, more relieved than they’ve ever been.

“I…get that,” Test Tube says slowly. “And I can’t be sorry enough for everything I did to make you feel like that. I’ve messed up in about a million ways this year, but I love you no matter what.”

“I love you too.” Bot smiles. God, all this is just such a relief.

“Alright, c’mere. You think you were getting out of this with just one hug?” Test Tube opens her arms and pulls Bot close to her again.

Bot turns to glance over their shoulder at Cabby. “You get in here too! I really appreciate your being here and helping me out.”

“I–ah, okay.” Cabby rolls over to where the two are hugging and Bot pulls her in.

The three of them stay there for a moment, and Bot breathes in and out slowly, unable to believe that this is really happening. They did the scary thing, and everything is fine, and they’re safe.

Once the hug breaks apart, Bot wipes their eyes. “Whoo, okay, I think I might head home. I have a lot of stuff to process.”

“Makes sense,” says Test Tube. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Very soon,” agrees Cabby. “Tomorrow, in fact.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Bot laughs. “One scary thing at a time.”

It’s begun to pour with rain when Bot gets outside, and the drops mix with the tears that start to flow down their face again as they walk back to their dorm. By the time they get there, they’re such a mess that Goo sits bolt upright upon seeing them. “Oh no, is something wrong?”

“No, the opposite,” Bot chokes out. “I finally came out to Test Tube, and it went great!”

“That’s awesome!” Goo stands up and pulls Bot into a hug. “I’m so proud of you!”

“Thanks.” Bot smiles. “And thanks so much for being there for me this whole time.”

“Of course! That’s what friends do!”

Bot couldn’t be more grateful for all the wonderful people they have in their life.

When Mic gets back to her building, all she wants to do is flop down on her bed and never do anything for about a million years.

So, of course, it’s the perfect time for her to be waylaid by the person she least wants to see right now.

“Ah, Microphone.” Taco is in the dorm kitchen, and she stands sharply. “We should converse in my room. I think we’d rather both not be overheard, correct?”

“Yeah.” Mic nods, her stomach churning. She does need to talk to Taco too, after all. This is the right thing to do, she reminds herself. She doesn’t want to meddle with people’s lives anymore, and her standing in the department or whatever isn’t worth the ethical qualms.

Her friendship with Taco…isn’t worth it. It pains her to say, but it’s true.

Microphone can’t help but look around Taco’s dorm when she gets there—she hadn’t had the chance to look at it much the one time she’s been there, having been too worried about making sure she got painkillers in her system. (Between the fact that the bottle Microphone left on her nightstand is almost empty, and Taco’s breathing is noticeably wonky, clearly her rib is bothering her quite a bit.)

Taco’s dorm is relatively bare-bones—it looks like she’s barely changed it since moving in way back in September—but there are a couple of personal effects here and there. An impressive collection of different teas on the shelves, with a clear preference for lemon. Plants lined up along the windowsill, looking pretty well taken care of. A stack of books next to her bed, one of which has a rainbow bookmark Mic recognizes as one of the ones the student LGBTQ resource center gives out. Several bags still packed, as though even this far into the school year Taco is still constantly poised to run if she needs to.

Unbidden, Mic’s mind runs back over the times she’s seen Taco’s formal exterior slip. Much as she tries to keep up her callous, closed-off persona, Mic has also seen a Taco who involuntarily chuckles a little when Mic snarks at her, who reminds Mic to bring along extra batteries for her hearing aid every so often, who runs lines with Mic late at night and listens with rapt attention when Mic goes on some personal tangent out of nowhere, before seemingly remembering herself and sternly reminding her to get back on track and not waste time. A Taco who, for all her businesslike demeanor, is desperately lonely underneath.

The Taco who lives here is not the one who Microphone first met, but the one who she’s come to care dearly for, whose friendship she values a lot.

But then her eyes fall upon one last little personal detail tucked in the farthest corner of a shelf—a friendship bracelet in shades of green, the kind that Mic can remember making at summer camp as a little kid. There’s a small bead in the middle with a ‘P’ on it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out who had given it to Taco.

Pickle’s words from earlier float through Mic’s head– don’t trust if she’s trying to be friends. Pickle had trusted Taco with his life, only to be strung along like he didn’t matter.

And even if Taco isn’t doing the same thing she did to Pickle with Mic, that still means Mic has been willing to meddle with other people’s lives to suit her own. Friendship or no, she doesn’t want to be that kind of person.

She has to do this, or she can’t live with herself.

Taco clears her throat. “So what’s our outlook going into performances?”

“It’s…good,” Microphone says slowly. “I’m feeling pretty confident about how this is gonna go, at least from an acting standpoint.”

“And from a social standpoint?”

“Good as well,” Mic has to admit. “I don’t feel so judged by everyone all the time. I think most people like me, or at least tolerate me. I had some…enlightening conversations today.”

“You see, Microphone? You’re reaping the rewards of our teamwork as we speak. I told you you’d benefit from working with me, and lo and behold.” Taco’s smile isn’t reaching her eyes.​​ This is still Business Taco talking. “Out of curiosity, who were you conversing with that was so enlightening?”

Microphone breathes in through her nose, giving herself a split-second to chicken out, before she says, “Pickle.”

From the look on Taco’s face, the name might as well have been a physical object that Mic threw into her chest and cracked another bone. She opens and closes her mouth, but all that comes out is a quiet repetition of, “...Pickle?”

“Yeah.” Microphone nods, keeping her voice as even as she can. “He told me all the details about what happened with the two of you last year, and how much it fucked him up when everything came out. Told me to stay away from you or it’d bite me in the ass.”

“I-it won’t!” Taco finally sputters. “Last year was regrettable, certainly, but our…situation couldn’t be more different! You benefit as much as—”

“You’re totally missing the point,” Mic interrupts. “Meddling with people’s lives, their relationships, their emotions…we’ve been hurting people for our own personal gain. That’s not the kind of person I want to be. If that’s who you want to be, I can’t really stop you, but I don’t want any part in it. I can’t in good conscience keep doing this, even if our friendship was real.”

That last comment has Taco stunned into silence, and she just sits down on her bed, staring at Mic with blank horror.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Mic mumbles. Then she turns and goes back out into the hallway, closing the door behind her.

As she walks upstairs to her and Soap’s room, she notices her hands are shaking. She keeps glancing over her shoulder to see if Taco’s following, but she isn’t. 

Soap is fast asleep when Mic opens the door, and as Mic tiptoes past her to get to her side, she decides it’s for the best. Much as she’d appreciate having her friend to comfort her, that would involve explaining a whole lot of stuff that she absolutely does not want to explain.

Mic curls up on her bed, now shaking from head to toe. She can’t stop running over the interaction she just had, turning it over and over in her head until her stomach starts to cramp from all the conflicted feelings mixing inside her.

She feels simultaneously like a huge weight has lifted off her chest and like a new one has been added in its place, and she honestly can’t tell which feeling is stronger.

As soon as she gets home, Test Tube makes a beeline for Fan’s room.

Fan sits up as soon as he sees her. “Damn, Tube, this is pretty late for you! What kept you? Hanging out with Caaaaabby?” He drags out the name in the most obnoxious, teasing voice that makes Test Tube roll her eyes. “Did she, like, tell you she has seven evil exes you have to fight if you want to date her or something?”

Test Tube snorts. “Thankfully, no.”

“Okay, good, ‘cause I’m definitely not cool enough to be the Wallace Wells to your Scott Pilgrim.” Fan gestures for Test Tube to sit on the bed, and she complies. “But were you hanging out with Cabby? C’mon, spill the juicy deets!”

“Well…I mean, Cabby actually was there, but that wasn’t the main thing.” Test Tube clears her throat. “Bot…came out to me.”

“Oh!” Fan’s face lights up. “Wow, finally! Good for them!”

Test Tube tries not to let the word “finally” get under her skin, but it does just a bit. “How long ago did they tell you?”

“Oh, hm, about…” Fan counts on his fingers. “Right before tech, so maybe like a week and a bit ago?”

Test Tube tries to sound neutral, but she still comes off as miffed when she says, “Oh, okay.”

“Are you mad about that?” Fan’s eyebrows scrunch up. 

“I mean…I dunno.” Test Tube sighs. “Bot explained why they told other people before me, and it totally made sense. I was kind of a jeebweezer for a lot of this year, and I deserve the consequences.”

“Well, yeah, but…you can still feel weird, Tube.” Fan leans against Test Tube’s shoulder. “I spend most of my time feeling pretty weird about everything. As long as you’re not an asshole on the outside, I don’t see how feeling like that makes you one.”

“I just…it feels so gross and selfish!” Test Tube complains. “I want to be proud of them, and of course, I’m so proud of them! I’m so proud of them I could practically explode, but there’s also this other thing, and I don’t want that to be there. It should be about them, and I’m making it all about me.”

“Eh, I don’t think that makes you selfish, I think it just kinda makes you…human.” Fan shrugs. “Would it help if I admitted something much more shitty in solidarity?”

“Hmm.” Test Tube laughs a little. “I dunno, that depends on what it is. Like, if you said theoretically you were an ax murderer, I would not feel better, because now my best friend is an ax murderer.”

“Hey, I could be an ax murderer if I wanted to! You don’t let me have any fun!” Fan huffs. “But seriously, it was, um…you remember how I showed you Cabby’s notebook way back on Halloween?”

“...Yes,” replies Test Tube, not sure about where this sentence might be going.

“Well, I was talking to Cabby about it before you talked to her, and she asked if I did it because I was jealous. And at first I thought, no, obviously, I did it because I thought it was the right thing to do, but the more I thought about it, the more I thought she might be right? Like, that wasn’t consciously why, and obviously I knew you two would make an adorable couple, but I remember there was kinda a voice in the back of my head that was worried you wouldn’t want to spend as much time with me if you had a girlfriend. And I found the notebook, and everything kinda got out of hand from there.”

“Oh,” replies Test Tube softly. That does kind of make sense. “Fan, I’d never not want to spend time with you. Even if I did have a girlfriend, I’d never love anyone the way I love you. You’re special.”

“Aw, I know I’m special!” Fan laughs. “But for real, I know that, but sometimes brains are shitty and they take important stuff for other people and make you feel weird and bad about it. That’s just brains for ya.” He shrugs. “Okay, you know what I think we need right now?”

“What?” asks Test Tube.

“A good old fashioned besties sleepover! You go get your pajamas on, and brush your teeth, and then you get your ass back in here and sleep, young lady!” Fan jokingly chides her.

Test Tube giggles, and does what he says. Then she comes back and curls up sleepily against Fan. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was until now. “You’re the best, Fan.”

“No, I think you’ll find that you are the best,” Fan replies matter of factly. “You’re the STEM one, you should know this. It’s backed up by science.”

“Oh yeah? Show me the evidence,” Test Tube mumbles. She can hear her voice slurring. 

“God, you sound really out of it,” Fan tells her. “I’ll shut up so you can sleep. Night, Tube, I love you.”

“Love you too, Fan.”

Despite how tired she is, Fan falls asleep before Test Tube. The sound of his soft snoring mixed with the rain falling on the roof and his warmth in her arms makes a distinct sense of coziness flood Test Tube’s senses. 

Her last thought before she falls asleep is how lucky to live in a world where she gets to have a best friend like Fan.

MePad winds up staying past midnight to lock up.

He could have been done much earlier, but he stays to finish his rehearsal report in the lobby. Oddly enough, it helps him clear his head, and god knows he needs that.

MePhone seems more…stable today than yesterday, but MePad can’t help but worry about his cousin. He can’t get the thought out of his head that his uncle might try something, even after all these years. Anyone who’s done even a base level of research on the places Steve Cobs puts his money knows that ethics are far from his first priority, and he shudders to think what lengths he’d go to if, for whatever reason, he wanted to find his son again, or what those reasons would be.

And then there’s also what happened with Toilet and Floory. Floory seems okay—he’s a senior like MePad is, and he’s dealt with all kinds of theatre situations over the years. MePad is confident that he has a thick enough skin not to have taken MePhone’s words to heart. Toilet, though? The poor kid barely said a word all day, and visibly flinched whenever MePhone spoke to him. Clearly, what MePhone said to him yesterday affected him very badly, and who could blame him?

Either way, he should probably lock up and go home so he can get enough sleep to survive tomorrow.

As he turns out the lights in the hallway, he realizes there’s some light flooding out of the script closet. Did he forget to turn that off? No, he’s fairly certain he didn’t even turn it on. Why would he, or anyone, have done so? Nobody ever uses the script closet except to run lines if there’s literally nowhere else open.

MePad opens the door, but instead of turning out the light, something possesses him to go down the stairs into the small room below.

It turns out that instinct wasn’t wrong, because there is indeed a sleeping girl curled up on a chair. One who MePad recognizes immediately.

MePad has seen her a few times around campus this year, although they never acknowledge one another, but he hasn’t gotten much of a close look at her since her incident . Her new style is certainly something—although she has some of her more Y2K-style accessories she often wore last year, they're oddly paired with a sharp suit, flawless makeup, and a black bowtie. She’s also absolutely drenched—MePad can hear heavy rain outside, and she must have been out in it. Her fancy clothes are soggy, and her blond hair sticks to her round, freckled cheeks.

MePad walks slowly over and gently shakes her awake. Her eyes immediately pop open, and she stifles a scream into her hand when she realizes there’s someone else there.

MePad doesn’t have the energy to think of anything else to say other than, “Why are you here, Taco?”

“I—ah!” Taco breaks off, clutching a spot on her chest as she grits her teeth, curling up tighter. Whatever pain she’s in, it seems excruciating, but she regains her composure after a couple moments. “Ahem, I didn’t realize anyone else was still here this late.”

“Are you alright?” MePad asks. “You seem very unwell.”

“Just a slight bit,” Taco admits. “I was trying to get some rest, before I was so rudely interrupted.”

It certainly doesn’t seem to be a slight bit, but MePad realizes she still didn’t answer his earlier question. “May I ask why you’re doing that here, rather than in your own dorm?”

The question seems to throw Taco off guard, and MePad suspects her answer is more honest than it would have been, were she not distracted by her pain. “I…can’t. There are other residents I’d rather not run into.”

MePad suspects that whatever the reason for this is, she’s likely being a bit overdramatic, but of course, he’s not going to voice that. “Do you truly have nowhere else to go?”

Taco lets out a little snort of laughter, then flinches badly with what must be another spell of pain. “If I did, would I be here?”

A thought suddenly comes to MePad, and he’s almost certain he should dismiss it immediately, given Taco’s untrustworthy past. And yet, he can’t bring himself not to voice it, to offer someone in such a miserable state at least a bit of respite. “You know, I live in a suite in senior housing, and my roommates are both out of town this week. I have plenty of free space.”

Taco’s eyes stretch wide in shock. “Are you…offering to let me stay with you?”

“Yes,” MePad replies. “You certainly can’t stay here, and you said yourself you had nowhere else to go. What else was I supposed to do?”

Taco considers for a moment, eyes darting to and fro. She seems much more nervous about trusting MePad than he does her, but eventually she says, “...alright.” She reaches under the chair she’s on, and pulls out a duffel bag. She really wasn’t kidding about not going back.

The walk back to MePad’s building isn’t that long, but it’s still pouring down rain the whole way. Once they get inside and MePad shows Taco to her room (he should probably have asked his roommate about letting her use their room, but it’s too late to care about that now) he notices she’s shivering so badly her teeth are chattering. “Do you need some dry clothes, or…?”

“No,” Taco replies primly, wrapping her arms around herself. “I have plenty.”

“Ah. Right.” MePad nods. “I’ll leave you to get ready, then. Have a good night.” She doesn’t respond, so he just shuts the door behind him.

He still can’t quite process the fact that he has Taco herself staying in his suite, after everything she pulled last year, but that’s something to deal with when it’s not so late at night.

He’s lucky staying calm is his strong suit.

Chapter Text

Taco wakes up horribly disoriented. 

She takes a moment to take stock of her surroundings—it’s definitely not her dorm room, it’s…oh right, she’s staying in MePad’s suite. It’s a nice room, that she can’t deny. It’s more spacious than her own, clean, and the bed is very comfortable. Although it feels somehow simultaneously uncomfortably warm and stuffy, and yet rather chilly as well.

Then again, maybe that one’s more her than anything. She feels even worse than she did yesterday, and that’s saying something—she can’t seem to stop shaking, and the pain in her chest is accompanied with a new tightness that makes it hard to breathe. She wouldn’t be surprised if, with how badly her injury has messed with her breathing, she’s picked up some kind of infection as a result. If that’s so, she’ll never hear the end of it from Microphone. She might as well tell her she’s rather more under the weather than expected, though, or she’s sure Mic will figure it out herself. 

She’s already got phone out and her messages open before ice-cold realization washes over her, triggering a whole new kind of pressure in her chest.

Mic’s words from yesterday return to her all in a rush. Meddling with people’s lives, their relationships, their emotions…we’ve been hurting people for our own personal gain. That’s not the kind of person I want to be. If that’s who you want to be, I can’t really stop you, but I don’t want any part in it. I can’t in good conscience keep doing this, even if our friendship was real.

Yes, of course they were messing with people! Taco had been nothing but upfront about that! And Mic had been more than willing to go along. She’s impulsive, yes, but far from stupid. She knew what she was doing, and…what had Pickle said about Taco that made her change her mind? Taco shudders to think. She hasn’t spoken to him once since last year, and whatever he thinks of her, it must be…far from pleasant.

But then, maybe she should have known it wouldn’t last. Despite the fact that she’d willingly taken part in Taco’s pulling of strings in others’ relationships, Taco knows deep down Mic is a kind person. Too kind for Taco. That much is evidenced by how much Mic seemed to worry about Taco, how she genuinely wanted friendship, not just a partnership for the sake of a goal. It was inevitable that she’d realize Taco wasn’t the kind of girl she should be friends with. 

Taco finds herself scrolling back through her messages with Mic. While many of them are rather…incriminating, to say the least, others seem like conversations any pair of friends would have. 

Microphone: Hows your rib doing?

Taco: I’ve been worse. You needn’t worry.

Microphone: That actually makes me worry more tbh

Taco: Well, don’t. You have bigger fish to fry at present.

I assume Nickel and Balloon are still at each other’s throats?

Microphone: Yep, as per usual

Something with Suitcase too maybe? She’s been avoiding Nickel but idk what that is

Taco: Hmm. It’ll be a delicate manoeuvre , but surely we can turn this in our favour.

Microphone: I’m sorry

A delicate fucking WHAT???

Taco: Surely you know the word manoeuvre?

Or maneuver, as I believe you write it over here.

Microphone: Well yeah I know the word maneuver!!!

That’s such a weird fucked up spelling though there are so many letters that don’t need to be there

If I tried to say how that looks like it should be pronounced out loud, someone would think I was choking

Taco: Perhaps in that case they’d try to perform the Heimlich Manoeuvre.

Microphone: You are the actual worst

Ok I gotta run

Feel better!

And if you don’t I’m dragging you by force to the doctor, don’t try me I’ll do it

Taco: Duly noted.

Thank you for your concern, Microphone.

Mic: Ofc!

What else are friends for?

Taco’s brain once again replays the killing blow of her final conversation with Mic. Even if our friendship was real. Funny enough, that word is Mic’s alone, not Taco’s. Taco has never once referred to Microphone as a friend, even after all the times Mic has said it to Taco. Friendship is a fool’s errand, she’s learned that well enough. Having people in your corner is vital if one wants to get anywhere in this world, but getting attached just makes you vulnerable.

She’d made that mistake once. She thought that by starting her partnership with Microphone without pretenses of friendship—a deal to benefit them both, nothing more—she’d circumvent it this time.

No such luck, though. Maybe if it had been someone other than Microphone, it would have been fine, but Mic was so persistent at trying to dig under Taco’s surface, to coax some trust out of her, and the feeling of being cared about was just as addictive as before. Without even realizing it, she’d allowed herself to get sucked back into the trap of being used to it.

Like picking at an old wound, Taco finds herself, practically without thinking, opening her photo app and navigating to an album she always finds herself gravitating to when she feels her worst. Not because it makes her feel better—quite the opposite, in fact.

She scrolls through countless pictures from her freshman and sophomore years, all featuring herself and Pickle. Working backstage, eating ice cream together, hanging out in their freshman dorm, sitting together on the field. Rarely ever separate, always laughing at something or other. Taco can’t remember the last time she smiled like that.

It was an act, certainly, but it was also more complicated than that. Taco hadn’t realized how much she genuinely enjoyed Pickle’s companionship until it was too late.

And now she’s gone and done the same thing again. Maybe she was a fool to think it would be different with Mic.

She’s snapped out of her thoughts by a knock on the door. “Taco?” MePad calls softly. “Are you awake?”

Taco wants to stay silent so he’ll leave her be, but because she’s apparently incapable of learning from her own mistakes, she replies, “Yes.”

MePad opens the door and immediately, his eyes drift to Taco’s shirt. Taco glances down at it—she had grabbed the clothes she slept in at random from her duffel bag, caring less about what she was wearing and more about changing out of her cold, wet clothes.

It’s her crew t-shirt from last year’s production of Spring Awakening. How apropos.

MePad raises his eyes to meet Taco’s, and his eyebrows furrow. Does she really look that bad? “How are you feeling this morning?” he asks, tone even as ever.

Taco swings her feet around to sit on the edge of the bed, ignoring the head rush that comes with being upright. “I’m just swell, thank you, so if you’ll leave me to get dressed, I’ll be on m—”

She certainly isn’t proving her own point, because she can’t even finish the sentence without bursting into a violent fit of coughing (which is…a worrying new development, she must admit.) Even worse is the pain in her rib that follows, worse than any she’s felt. All attempts at feigning health are forgotten—it’s all she can do to curl up in a ball on the bed, tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

A good thirty seconds must pass before the horrible feeling dulls to a manageable ache, and Taco opens one eye to find MePad looking down at her. “You…need medical attention.”

“Preposterous,” Taco grits out. “I can handle myself.”

“Nobody can handle everything by themself,” MePad replies. “There’s no shame in having needs. It’s simply part of being a person.”

Taco would sigh exasperatedly at this platitude, but in her state that would certainly feel like being stabbed. “You’re not going to leave me alone until I comply, are you?”

“No,” MePad says simply. Well, he doesn’t mince words, that’s something to be said for him.

“Fine,” Taco grumbles. “But I can drive myself.”

“Do you…have a car?”

Damn it. Taco doesn’t even bother to respond.

“That’s what I thought. I’ll let you get dressed, and you can come out when you’re ready to leave.”

Taco’s clothes from yesterday are still pretty waterlogged, so she pulls out a fresh button-down shirt and slacks. She even does her makeup looking in her phone’s camera for good measure. She still doesn’t look very well, but she prefers her appearance to be neat and tidy. Any turmoil in her head is damn well going to stay there, rather than being clear from the moment anyone looks at her.

Although, that’s a bit ruined by the fact that she can barely walk upright. She has to brace herself against the wall to make it out to the living room. MePad’s face is as unreadable when he sees her, but he nods sharply and asks, “Are you ready to go?”

“If I must,” Taco mumbles.

Taco follows MePad out to the car and gets into the left side of the car, before MePad blocks her. “If you don’t mind, I don’t think you’re in any state to drive.”

“Ah, right.” Taco grimaces as she goes around to the other side of the car. She’d rather not embarrass herself any more by admitting that she’d forgotten American cars had the driver on the left and the passenger on the right, rather than the opposite way she was used to.

They drive in silence for a bit, broken only by the occasional cough from Taco. She tries to play off how painful each one is, but she’s not sure she’s doing a good job.

Eventually, MePad pipes up, “You don’t need to answer if you don’t feel comfortable, but may I ask what exactly is causing you such pain?”

“I fell into a table ribs-first,” Taco replies as breezily as she can muster. “I’m relatively certain I broke one. I heard a crack, at least.”

MePad is quiet for a minute. Then: “That…is only part of what I was asking.”

Taco bristles. Why must everyone try to pry into her personal life? “Then what, pray tell, was the other part?”

“I’m unsure how to phrase it delicately, but, Taco…” MePad pauses for a few seconds, “Are you unsafe in your current living situation?”

The question takes Taco aback. “I—” she coughs into her sleeve— “why would you think that?”

MePad shrugs a bit. “You left your dorm with nowhere to go because there was someone you didn’t want to run into. Surely you can understand why I ask?”

“I suppose I can,” Taco concedes. “No, I’m not in any danger. It was more that I had…rather a messy falling out with someone, and I want to avoid her for the time being.” It’s more honest than she’d like to be, but she can’t just give him nothing, or he’ll never leave her be.

“Forgive me for being so frank,” MePad tells her, “but that does seem to be something of a theme for you.”

That actually triggers a shocked laugh out of Taco, which turns into more painful coughing. Once her breathing is mostly under control, she chokes out, “You’re not wrong.” She clears her throat. “Either way, it won’t happen again. I’m not looking for friendship anymore.” Part of her hopes MePad will take the hint, the other part of her is all too aware she’s entirely full of shit. She does like having someone to talk to, she’s just learned that doesn’t tend to go well for her.

“Taco, I don’t know your exact situation,” MePad says, “but I can think of a much simpler solution.”

Taco raises an eyebrow. “Oh? Do enlighten me.”

“Talk to them about it. You can’t make anyone forgive you, but I don’t see how trying to honestly apologize could make it any worse.”

Taco can’t resist rolling her eyes. “How quaint. Yes, because that worked out so swimmingly with Pickle.”

“As I recall, though, that didn’t happen in person. Perhaps that was a hindrance.”

“MePad,” Taco huffs, “I appreciate your driving me, but while you’re so focused on literally staying in your lane, might I suggest you do so metaphorically as well?”

MePad finally catches her drift, and they spend the rest of the car ride in silence.

Taco makes it through her appointment in relatively little time, thankfully—god, she hates doctor’s appointments, she can’t stand how vulnerable it makes her feel—and soon enough she’s getting back into MePad’s car. “How did it go?” he asks. 

“Just as I thought,” Taco replies. “The rib is fractured, and I’ve also developed a mild chest infection as a result. All they could really do for me is give me painkillers and antibiotics and tell me to rest, ice the rib, and try to do some breathing exercises.”

MePad nods. “Would you like me to take you back to my suite?”

Taco wishes she had an option where she didn’t have to rely on others again, but, “...yes.”

The drive back is again mostly silent, and once they get to MePad’s building, Taco hurries inside before anyone can see her and flings herself down on the bed she slept in last night. The feverish feeling of simultaneously being too warm and too cold at the same time has worsened since this morning, and she’s not sure whether her body or mind feel more exhausted, but either way, she just wants to curl up in a ball and rot into nothing without ever having to interact with another human being again.

Her plan is thwarted by a knock on the door from MePad, though. “What is it?” she grumbles. 

MePad pushes the door open and sets something down on the table next to her. Taco tilts her head to see a cup of tea. “I wasn’t sure if you still liked lemon. I can give you something else if you’d prefer.”

For much of her freshman and sophomore years, there had been kind of a running joke in the theatre department that Taco was rarely seen without lemonade in her water bottle. It had been part of her persona, sure, but she does genuinely enjoy the taste. Even if nowadays the memories associated with it leave a rather…well, for lack of a better term, a sour taste in her mouth.

She picks the tea up and takes a slow sip. “No, this is fine.”

“One more thing, and then I’ll leave you to rest,” MePad tells her. “Helping people resolve conflicts is part of my job as stage manager. If you’d ever like me to facilitate a discussion between yourself and anyone else in the department, that would be in my wheelhouse.”

Even though it goes against everything Taco is trying to do, she hears her own voice saying, “I may take you up on that.”

The more she thinks about the idea, the more appealing it seems. If it doesn’t work, she’ll just be right back where she is now. And if there’s any chance it goes right…

She wouldn’t be alone again, this time for good.

Test Tube is definitely not nervous.

She’s just arriving an hour before her call time to check the lightboard for good measure! She’s absolutely not having mental images of something going horribly wrong and the show being ruined and it all being her fault.

Maybe she should take a breather before she gets to work, now she thinks of it.

She steps into the design classroom to get a handle on her racing thoughts, and almost steps on someone lying on the ground. “Oh gee, I’m so sorry, I didn’t—oh, Cabby! You alright there?”

Cabby giggles, rolling to look at Test Tube. (Even though the lights are out, there’s enough light coming in through the window to see Cabby’s freckles, and thank goodness for that. They’re very cute.) “Hi, Test Tube! Yes, I’m alright, I was just feeling rather stressed about opening, and sometimes lying on the floor tends to ground me, no pun intended.”

Test Tube sits down next to her. “Mind if I join you?”

“No, of course not! Please do!”

Test Tube stretches out on the floor next to Cabby. “Huh, you’re right, this is kinda calming.”

“Isn’t it?” Cabby laughs again. Her laugh is so nice. She’s really not being fair to Test Tube, being so adorable.

Test Tube looks Cabby up and down for a minute. “Oh, golly!”

“What?”

“I didn’t realize you were nearly as tall as me.” Test Tube is on the taller side, so that’s no small thing.

Cabby smiles. “Not a lot of people realize, since I’m rarely out of my wheelchair in public, but I am rather tall.”

“Wait, hang on, are you taller than me?” Test Tube asks. 

“No, I think you’re a bit taller,” Cabby replies.

“Here, let’s check. Scoot so your feet are level with mine.’’ Test Tube furrows her brow. “Okay, yeah, you might be right, I’m a bit taller. That could just be my hair th–whoa.” She didn’t realize how close Cabby was until now.

“Everything alright?” Cabby scoots even a little closer, putting her hand on Test Tube’s back. Is she trying to kill Test Tube? Maybe Test Tube was right not to trust her, she mentally jokes to herself. Maybe Cabby is some kind of murderer who wields her cuteness as a deadly weapon.

“I’m fine,” Test Tube replies, her voice wavering a bit. Shakily, she reaches out and wraps an arm around Cabby’s back as well, and Cabby leans into the touch. Now they’re so close Test Tube can feel Cabby’s breath, curled into one another’s arms on the floor. Test Tube could stay like this forever.

“Test Tube,” Cabby whispers, “do you know you chew your lip so much I can see bite marks? You should probably stop that.”

A tingle goes through Test Tube’s entire body at the fact that Cabby is looking at her lips , and she has to fight not to shiver. “Heh, yeah, it’s kind of something I do when I’m thinking, and I do that a lot. Um, thinking, I mean.”

“I know,” replies Cabby. “That clever brain of yours is always going full speed, huh? I love that about you.”

The word “love” might as well have been a bat to the back of Test Tube’s head. Something tugs in her gut, and she’s suddenly tempted to confess everything, even if she’s sure she’s ruined any chance of Cabby feeling the same way…wouldn’t it be better to have it out there?

“Cabby,” she breathes, unable to bring her voice above a whisper, “I want to tell—”

Both girls jump as the door to the design classroom slams open. 

“Hey Test Tube, do you know where to find—oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt!” Bot scrambles back as they see where Cabby and Test Tube are lying on the floor.

“No, you weren’t interrupting!” Test Tube flounders. “We were just…hanging out.” The word doesn’t feel like it quite fits whatever just passed between them, but Test Tube doesn’t want to put a label on anything, only to find out Cabby’s not on the same page and make her uncomfortable. She never wants to do anything to hurt the brilliant human being in front of her again.

“Oh, okay.” Bot clears their throat. “I was just gonna ask where the charger for the headsets is.”

“I can show you, just give me a second.” Without extricating herself from Cabby’s arms, Test Tube helps Cabby into her wheelchair that’s sitting next to where the two were lying.

“I could have done that myself, you know,” Cabby tells her. “I wouldn’t have gotten down there if I didn’t know I could get back up.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Test Tube exclaims. “I didn’t mean to patronize you! I didn’t think you couldn’t, I was just so comfy snuggled up with you like that I didn’t want to stop.” She realizes how that sounds as soon as she says it. “I mean, you know how my friends are, we’re cuddlers! It’s kind of my default mode now.”

“Aw, that’s sweet.” Cabby laughs, and pulls Test Tube in for another hug. They fit so nicely in one another’s arms, it’s almost like they were made to hug one another. Not that that’s scientifically possible, of course, Test Tube reminds herself. “Well, I should let you help Bot, but let’s make some time for one another soon, alright?”

“Yeah, I’d really like that.” Test Tube’s voice comes out like she’s in a daze. 

The second Cabby is out of earshot, Bot turns on Test Tube. “What the hell was that?”

“It was nothing!” Test Tube insists a little faster than she means to.

“No it wasn’t!” Bot insists. “You were lying on the floor, snuggling !” They point a finger dramatically at her on that last word, as if snuggling with a cute amateur historian is a crime and they’re testifying against her in court.

“So what? I told the truth, I snuggle with all my friends all the time! You barely see me and Fan in the same room if we’re not cuddled up together!”

“Yeah, but you don’t look at Fan all starry eyed like that!” Bot giggles.

“I wasn’t–ugh.” Test Tube sighs. There’s no use denying it. “It’s just a silly crush. Nothing is going to come of it, and I’m fine with that.”

Bot raises an eyebrow. “Okaaaay, if you say so.”

Test Tube sighs, ruffling their hair. “Let’s go grab that charger.”

Once they have the charger and are walking back through the wings, Test Tube catches sight of Cabby again. Cabby waves, and Test Tube inadvertently lets out a little giggle as she waves back. Who is she turning into? She’s a scientist, gosh darn it, not a silly schoolgirl from a bad teen movie.

“ Starry eyed ,” Bot stage-whispers to Test Tube.

“Shush, you.” Test Tube rolls her eyes.

She’s starting to feel the smallest seed of hope, though, that maybe Cabby returning her feelings isn’t…entirely impossible.

Lightbulb feels like she’s about to hurl.

Despite the tumultuous state of her friendships, she’s been having a great time with the show. She’s felt throughout the whole process like she’s really fitted for her role, and other people think so too! She’s felt good at what she does!

Now, though, just when being in top form is most important, the impostor syndrome is hitting like a semi truck.

She’s currently lying listlessly on the green room couch, mindlessly playing 2048 on her phone because it’s the only thing that’s keeping her from losing it. Get it together, Bulbster, you’ve done this before. You’re gonna make it.

“Hey, Lightbulb?” Paintbrush’s interruption takes Lightbulb so much by surprise, she yelps and throws her phone at them on pure reflex. Luckily it doesn’t hit them, or break, and they hand it back to her. “Jesus, you’re jumpy. What’s with you?”

“Juuust thinkin’!” Lightbulb wipes her phone screen on her shirt. “Thinky thinky thinkin’!”

“About what?” Paintbrush asks.

“About how I’m gonna absolutely bomb this show and maybe I should quit and/or change my major and/or drop out of college and/or run away from society and go join a pirate ship!” Whoops. She didn’t really mean to do that.

“Lightbulb,” Paintbrush says softly, sitting down next to her.

“I know, I know,” Lightbulb mumbles. “It’s just my brain being shitty, like it always does for stuff like that and when I get out there my instincts will kick in and it’ll be fine. But damn, does my brain have to be shitty so loud?”

Paintbrush sighs. “Yeah, I totally get that. Anything I can do to make it shut up and stop being such an asshole?”

Lightbulb racks her brain, and she honestly has no idea what she needs right now, so she shrugs. “I mean, just you being here is nice.”

Paintbrush is silent for a moment before saying, “You know, you impress me every day.”

Lightbulb blinks, and a smile breaks out over her face. “Huh, I do?”

“Yeah! You’ve been knocking ‘em absolutely dead. You have a really hard role, and you get it exactly on point. I don’t think I could ever do what you did.”

“Pff, I have a hard role?” Lightbulb snorts. “You’re the one with all those big ol’ chunky boy speeches!”

“Um, yeah, so do you, and they’re completely in prose, so you don’t even have rhymes and stuff to help you!” Paintbrush argues. “Plus, you have to be funny, and do that audience interaction stuff, and sing… ”

“You can sing,” Lightbulb points out. “We were both in the musical last year, you did your whole gay German schoolboy song with Silver, and it kicked ass!”

“That’s not the point,” Paintbrush sighs. “The point is, you’re pretty amazing at what you do. You make it seem so effortless, but I’ve seen how hard you work. I promise, it’s gonna pay off. The audience is gonna lose their absolute shit, I’d bet anything.”

Lightbulb can’t resist joining in just a bit. “Anything, huh?”

“Do your worst, I’m not scared!” Paintbrush elbows her.

“Okay, if you lose you gotta, mmm…” Lightbulb chews her lip. “Give Baxter his pills for the rest of the semester.” The little bastard manages to put up an impressive fight every time. You’d think he’d be used to it, given that he’s had to take them ever since he got an ear infection as a kitten, but he acts like he’s being subjected to medieval torture every day.

“You drive a hard bargain, but deal,” Paintbrush agrees. “Not that it matters anyway, because I’m going to be right.”

“Oh yeah? Name your terms.” Lightbulb stabs a finger at them.

Paintbrush shrugs. “No terms. I just get the right to say ‘I told you so.’”

Just then, Floory peeks into the green room. “Five till places, folks.”

“Thank you, five,” reply Paintbrush and Lightbulb.

“I guess I should probably go.” Paintbrush stands and stretches their arms.

“Could not be me,” Lightbulb says, flopping back on the couch. “I get to chill here for like three more acts.”

“You’re gonna be okay here, right?” Paintbrush asks. “You’re not gonna wallow too much?”

“Nope, this is a no-wallowing zone.” Lightbulb gives Paintbrush a finger gun. “Anyone caught wallowing in this area will go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect 200 dollars.”

Paintbrush snorts. “Alright. I’ll see you later, and I will tell you I told you so.” They kiss her cheek and then head upstairs.

Lightbulb goes back to playing on her phone, trying her best to stay out of her head. She doesn’t want to go to Wallowing Jail, even if it is a thing she just made up!

Paintbrush is right, she tells herself. She’s done this a million times before, and she can damn well do it again. She’s going to knock the audience’s socks off, because she’s Lightbulb, and she isn’t here to get caught up on doing everything perfectly, she’s here to do what she loves.

She’s not quite sure if she believes herself yet, but the more she repeats it, hopefully she’ll get there.

Once intermission rolls around, Silver is in a solidly awful mood.

The rest of his day hadn’t been too bad, but the first thing that had started to set it in a bad direction was when he’d been doing his makeup and overhearing a conversation between a gaggle of freshmen nearby.

“Yeah, basically my whole family’s gonna be there,” Apple was saying. “Perks of going to school in your hometown, I guess.”

“Mine are driving up!” Goo added. “They said they were super excited to see me in the play, and I was like, ‘well, I hope you don’t see me, since I’m up in the booth, haha! If you see me, that probably means something went horribly wrong!’”

“My parents live too far away, but like, that’s fine,” Tissues mumbled. “I love them and all, but my sister is on my case enough. I don’t really need to be micromanaged any more than I already am. They did text me to break a leg, so that’s nice.”

“My parents live close enough to drive, but they’re busy this week,” Bot said. “I’ve been talking to them on the phone a bunch lately, though. They’ve messed up my name and pronouns a couple times, but pretty rarely. They’ve been so cool about it, and it’s just so nice to hear them answer the phone and call me Bot.”

If the rest of the conversation had felt uncomfortably like a display of all the things Silver would never have, that last comment had been the absolute nail in the coffin. Trying not to make himself too obvious, Silver had put his makeup down half-finished and walked out of the room.

Whenever he hears other trans people talking about getting along well with their families, it never fails to make him feel conflicted. He doesn’t want to resent them—cognitively, he knows that this is a good thing and the more common it is, the better. But there’s always this small seed of anger in him—a voice in the back of his mind that says, why them, and not me?

That feeling sat with him for the rest of the performance, and he was…not at the top of his game. He tried to stay with it, but he kept flubbing lines and scrambling to cover for himself.

As soon as the beginning-of-intermission rush kicks off, Silver slips into the bathroom and finds himself staring blankly at his reflection in the mirror.

Somehow this always grounds him, looking at his own face—which would certainly make him sound vain to say out loud, but he comes off that way enough on his own, and he honestly doesn’t mind. If others have a problem with his personality, that’s their issue. But in this case, it has nothing to do with that.

Looking in the mirror and seeing the face looking back at him—the face that, over the years, has become one that strangers call “him” and “mister” and “young man” without even needing to ask—he reminds himself that he looks this way not just because of the random genetics his parents passed on to him, but he made himself this way, and his parents had no hand in that. When he’s at school they’re an entire continent away, and even when he goes back home he doesn’t have to live with them. Who he is now has nothing to do with them, and there’s nothing they can do about that.

His train of thought is interrupted by the door opening. “Silver?”

“Candle!” His voice cracks a bit, and he clears his throat. “How did you know I was in here?”

Candle shrugs. “You’ve seemed very off today, and then you were nowhere to be seen. I know well enough from experience that if you’re going to have a panic attack anywhere in this building, this bathroom is the best place.”

Silver isn’t sure what to say, but somehow he ends up blurting out, “From experience?”

“Yes,” Candle replies evenly. “I’m no stranger to anxiety, Silver Spoon. No more than you are, and I’m not ashamed to admit it.”

“Hm, the more you know,” Silver murmurs. “But I’m not having a panic attack, I’m just…reflecting.”

“Nice try.” Candle smiles softly.

“Eugh, I don’t know!” Silver lets out a breath, leaning against the counter. “Today has just been not going my way, and I’m taking a minute to get back on track. Is that such a crime?”

“Not at all,” Candle replies. 

There’s a long silence, and then Silver asks, “There’s a ‘but’ after that sentence, isn’t there?”

“Not exactly,” Candle says. “I just hope you know that you don’t have to run away every time you’re the slightest bit upset. There are people you can talk to.”

Silver raises an eyebrow. “People like you, you mean?”

“Certainly.”

For some reason, Silver finds himself saying, “Well then, that makes you something of a hypocrite, does it not, my dear?”

“A hypocrite?” Candle blinks, taken aback. “Why so?”

“Well, you’re not exactly an open book yourself, are you? What you said earlier about your anxiety that you’re supposedly so unashamed of…I’ve never seen anything shake that perfect calm of yours, and I live with you.”

Candle lets out a sharp laugh. “I—you’re not wrong.”

“I’m not?” That comes out more surprised than Silver would have liked. “I mean—I’m not .”

Candle pauses for a moment, looking into the middle distance. “I suppose…I’m so used to being there for others and their issues, it doesn’t come naturally to me, doing things the other way around. That’s something of a work in progress for me.”

“That…explains a lot,” Silver says slowly.

“Tell me, though, Silver—if I were to come to you when I needed help, would you actually listen?”

Silver generally isn’t one to pay much attention to others’ problems—he usually writes them off as neither his circus nor his monkeys and moves on—but he surprises himself by saying, “Yes, I believe I could.”

“Well then,” Candle smiles, “I suppose that’s something we both could try. Confiding in one another a bit more often.”

“Perhaps,” Silver agrees.

Outside, Floory’s voice calls all the actors back to places. “Perhaps when we have a bit more free time,” Candle concedes.

“Ah, yes, free time, I vaguely remember what that is,” Silver jokes as the two of them head out of the bathroom. 

As the two part ways, Silver thinks to himself that maybe the idea of confiding in someone wouldn’t be so bad. Even if it’s embarrassing sometimes, perhaps a small loss of dignity wouldn’t be the end of the world.

Suitcase does her due diligence saying hi to the various friends and classmates congregating in the lobby and thanking them for coming, and then nopes out of there as soon as she can. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate their presence, because she really does, but there are so many people she feels like she’s going to get crushed in the human tide.

Luckily, there’s a familiar face back in the theater. “Balloon! Hi!”

“Hi Suitcase!” he calls back. “Man, I haven’t seen you in a while! You went home early at the end of yesterday, were you okay?”

“Oh yeah, I’m okay, I just…needed some space to decompress. I got overwhelmed.” She wants to tell him, really she does, but she has this mental block about it any time she tries. She’d only told Cabby that one time because she was in such a state she didn’t have it in her not to answer. “You were really good today. As usual.”

“Thanks!” He smiles. “At least I did it without breaking a prop like yesterday. Makes your job a lot easier, huh?”

Suitcase raises an eyebrow. “You broke a prop yesterday?”

“Yeah, I dropped a sword and the handle broke clean off. Luckily, um…Nickel fixed it, and it’s been fine today.”

Suitcase grimaces—she’s barely spoken to Nickel unless necessary since her outburst. “Yikes, that must’ve been awkward. Sorry about that.”

Balloon gives a humorless little laugh. “Oh yeah, big time, but probably not in the way you’re expecting?”

Suitcase tilts her head. “How’d you mean?”

“He…well, apologized maybe isn’t the exact right word, but he said he was going too far with me and he wanted to dial it back. I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Suitcase’s brain can’t quite process what she’s just heard. “Huh.”

“Yeah, weird, right?” Balloon asks. “It felt like it came totally out of left field. I have no idea what could’ve prompted him to do that.”

“I…hang on.” Suitcase tries to wrangle her thoughts into some semblance of sense. “A couple days ago, I kinda…reached my limit with Nickel, and chewed him out for how he was treating you, and told him I’d never work with him again unless he backed off with you.”

“Whoa, you did?” Balloon’s eyes widen. “That’s kinda badass.”

Suitcase giggles a little. “Thanks. But still, it doesn’t feel like it could be a coincidence, you know?”

Balloon’s brow furrows. “You think he was only doing it so you’d work with him?”

“That’s the thing, not really,” Suitcase mumbles. “Maybe I really did get through to him, because honestly, I didn’t think he respected me enough to care.”

Balloon is about to say something, but someone comes in, and they both fall silent when they see who it is.

“Hey, um.” Baseball won’t meet either of their eyes. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. I was just gonna grab my stuff and go downstairs to change.”

Suitcase watches him go, but somehow she finds herself calling out, “Baseball, hang on.”

Baseball turns back around, eyebrows raised. “What’s up?”

“What has Nickel…told you?” Suitcase asks, not sure she wants to hear the answer.

“I mean, I think most of what you said,” Baseball mutters. “You said you wouldn’t work with him again unless he was nicer to Balloon, and then that Balloon was actually a good friend to you and Nickel just acted like a bully. Is that true?”

“Yeah.” Suitcase looks at her shoes. “Did you say anything?”

“Nah.” Baseball shrugs. “I didn’t really think I should intervene.”

Before she can stop herself, Suitcase replies, “That was kind of the problem, if I’m being honest.”

Baseball blinks. “How do you mean?”

“I mean…” Suitcase takes a deep breath. If she’s doing this, she might as well do it. “Why did you never say anything about how Nickel acted? Yeah, he’s your best friend and all, but did you really never think it was messed up?”

“Well—” Baseball doesn’t seem to know how to answer. “I mean, I guess kinda, but that’s just Nickel! He’s kinda abrasive, and I’m used to that!”

“So you were fine with just standing by, because that’s just Nickel? I feel gross enough for doing that as long as I did, but have you really been doing that this whole time?”

“I…I don’t know,” Baseball stammers. “I mean, sometimes I tell him when he’s going too far, but, I mean, maybe not as much as I probably should? I don’t know. I really did want to be your friend, I just…yeah. Stuff happened, and I’m…sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“I wanted to be your friend too,” Suitcase admits. “I do really like hanging out with you, when…Nickel isn’t there. I still want to keep doing that, at some point when things are easier.”

“Yeah.” Baseball sighs heavily. “I know your mental health hasn’t been too good this year, and I know that’s Nickel’s fault, and I guess kinda my fault by proxy. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do to make up for that, but if there ever is anything that could at least help…”

“That’d be really nice,” Suitcase replies. And since she’s being brave today, she manages to make herself add, “And…it’s not only Nickel’s fault. I had some other underlying stuff as well.”

“Are you okay?” Balloon asks softly beside her, and she jumps a bit. She’s been so much focused on getting her feelings towards Baseball off her chest, she has to admit she forgot she’d been talking to Balloon before.

“I mean, yeah, it’s, um…” Suitcase steels her nerves. “I have, uh, it’s like, a psychotic disorder? Mostly auditory hallucinations, occasionally visual, and I’m on meds that help a lot, but with the new environment of college, all that was kind of triggering things, and it’s worse when I’m anxious, so…”

“Suitcase,” Balloon says after a moment, “I had no idea.”

“Me neither,” Baseball adds quietly.

“I don’t really like talking about it,” Suitcase admits. “But yeah, if I’ve seemed really out of it at any point this year…that’s why.”

“I can’t believe you were dealing with that all on your own,” Baseball murmurs. “I wish I had been paying better attention, so I could’ve helped instead of making it worse.”

“You can do that now,” Suitcase tells him. “I mean, not literally now, we should all probably go home and get some sleep. But…going forward, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Baseball smiles. “I guess I should go change.”

“Me too,” Balloon agrees. “But once I’m done, want me to walk you back to your dorm?”

“That sounds great,” Suitcase tells him.

Once Balloon comes back up in his street clothes, him and Suitcase go together out into the night. They walk in comfortable silence for a while, and then Balloon pipes up, “You’re one of the toughest people I know, you know that?”

That makes Suitcase inadvertently let out a little giggle—she’s never been described as tough before. In fact, she’s pretty sure most people see her as kind of a wimp. Still, she takes the compliment. “Thanks. That means a lot.”

Then again, the Suitcase who moved into her dorm at the beginning of this year never would have been able to say anything she said tonight, let alone what she said to Nickel.

Maybe she has toughened up.

Chapter Text

When Bot’s alarm wakes them up, there’s a grinning face looming over their bed.

Once Goo sees they’re awake, he cheers, “Happy birthday!”

“Mmm, thanks.” Bot rubs their eyes, yawning.

“Wait right there!” Goo runs back into his side of the room, and comes back with a box full of cupcakes. They’re red velvet—Bot’s favorite.

“Aw, Goo!” Bot breaks into a grin. “When’d you get these?”

“I made them!” Goo replies. “In the middle of the night, last night!” He gives Bot the one in the middle, with candles that read… “I know it says 16 instead of 19, I accidentally grabbed the wrong candle and I didn’t realize until just now.”

Bot laughs. “It’s fine, I already get mistaken for being like sixteen all the time. I guess I just have a baby face.” They shrug. “Maybe I should get a tattoo or something.”

Goo gasps. “Wait, I have an idea!” He takes the 6 candle off so it just reads 1. “Since it’s your first birthday as Bot, and your first birthday we get to spend together, it kinda works, right?”

Bot clamps a hand over their mouth, at a loss for words. All they can do is put the cupcakes to the side and pull Goo into a hug.

Truth be told, they’ve dreaded being nineteen for years now. That was how old Bow was when she died, and somehow the age feels kind of cursed to them. But if this is how it’s starting out, it can’t be that bad, can it?

Things only keep getting better once they arrive at the theater for this afternoon’s matinee—everyone who sees them stops to wish them a happy birthday. Test Tube must have told everyone.

When they find her, she’s helping Cabby, Paper and OJ sort through some costume pieces. “Hey, is that a birthday Bot I see?”

“Looks like it,” Cabby agrees, pulling a pin with ‘19’ on it out of her bag and handing it to Bot. 

Bot laughs. “Aw, thanks!”

“It’s too bad you can’t celebrate tonight, but such is the life of show business.” Cabby shrugs, smiling.

“Well, you do get to experience one of our legendary IIU Theatre Department Cast Parties soon!” Paper jumps in. “Or as I like to call it, our ITDCPs!”

“Wouldn’t that be IIUTDCP?” asks OJ.

Paper looks a bit affronted at this, and turns back to his work, but Bot swears they hear him grumble something akin to “always have to be right.” Huh, weird, they always seem to get along, and Bot usually finds them to be a pretty sweet couple. They’re not sure they want to know whatever’s going on there.

Test Tube doesn’t seem to want to either, because she changes the subject, pulling out a wrapped gift. “Anyway, I made you a little something. Well, Cabby helped me put it together.”

Cabby laughs softly. “Well, it was your idea, don’t let me take too much credit.”

Bot carefully tears the paper away, to find…

“Oh my god.” They clamp their hand over their mouth as they flip through the massive photo album. There are pictures from the first picture of them together—a two-year-old Test Tube studying the newborn Bot with a comically serious expression—to a recent selfie of the two of them, and every age in between. If they flip through, they can watch the two of them grow up together.

“So…what do you think?” asks Test Tube.

It’s all Bot can do to pull her into a hug.

“I’ll take that to mean you like it,” Test Tube chuckles softly.

“I love it,” Bot sniffles, their voice choking up. “It’s the best present ever. I love you so much.”

“I love you too.” Test Tube ruffles their hair a bit.

Bot wipes their eyes with their arm. “I’m gonna go put this in the green room so I don’t accidentally leave it anywhere. I don’t want anything to happen to it.”

Once they get down there, Apple is helping Cherries with his makeup, and looks up at the interruption. “Oh, hey! I heard it’s your birthday!”

“Yep!” Bot grins. “I’m officially nineteen. Wild.”

“Me too, obviously,” Cherries jokes, puffing his chest out. “I just got held back a bunch of times.”

Apple rolls her eyes. “Okay, okay, you’re done. Go set your props, little punk.”

Cherries flips her the bird as he leaves.

“So, how is being nineteen?” Apple asks. “My birthday isn’t until the summer.”

“All 12 hours of it?” Bot laughs. “Yeah, I mean, it’s been a really good day so far, so hopefully that bodes well for the rest of the year.”

“Yeah, you say that now, but after 30 years of being nineteen it gets kinda old, y’know?”

That…definitely wasn’t Apple’s voice.

Apple screams and scrambles back as a familiar pink specter appears in the corner of the room. “Oh my god, you all are so boring! Haven’t you ever hung out with a ghost before?”

“No?” Apple sputters. She turns to Bot. “Have you?”

“Uh, duh,” Bow answers for them. “Of course I got to talk to my little namesake!”

Bot doesn’t know what to say except, “I’m, um…not your namesake anymore. I go by Bot now.”

“Aw, that’s cute!” Bow smiles. “Plus, there can only be one Bow, so like, no offense, but as it should be.”

Bot laughs softly. “None taken. It is as it should be.”

Bow turns to Apple. “Okay, so I think I’m supposed to like, apologize to you or something.”

Apple’s brow furrows. “Huh? For what?”

“So, I kinda sorta possessed you a while back to try and split you and Marshmallow up? I was being maybe a little jealous over your friendship or whatever, but that wasn’t the move, so like…my bad?”

Apple considers for a moment. “Ohhh. That makes sense. I was wondering why Marshmallow was mad at me again for no reason.”

“So…” Bow floats back and forth. “We good?”

Apple shrugs. “I mean, I get why you’d do it. I’d probably get pretty clingy if I was stuck here forever with nobody else. Just don’t do it again, and we’re fine.”

“Aw, you’re so sweet!” Bow pats Apple on the head—or rather, through her head. “I don’t know why I ever looked down on you, Kumquat.”

“...it’s Apple.”

“Whatever.” Bow floats back over to Bot. “By the way, how’s Ribbon doing? She still besties with that Eyedropper girl or whatever?”

“Yeah, actually!” Bot can’t help but grin, thinking about their mom and Test Tube’s first becoming friends back in college. “Our families are basically one and the same.”

“I love that!” Bow grins back. “You’re making me proud, kid, you know that?”

“Thanks,” is all Bot can get out before she vanishes.

They’ve heard on and on growing up about whether they’d be making Bow proud or not, and they’d grown pretty sick of it. Actually hearing it, though…it feels nice, somehow.

They’re pretty sure nineteen will be a good year for them.

When Baseball has a moment offstage, he wanders over to Nickel.

“Hey,” he mumbles awkwardly, not sure how to start this conversation.

“Hey,” Nickel replies. “How’s it going out there?”

“Pretty good,” Baseball says. “I skipped a chunk of a line, but other than that it’s been fine.”

“Cool.” Nickel nods.

There’s a long, uncomfortable silence, before Baseball clears his throat. “So, uh, I talked to Suitcase yesterday.”

Nickel stiffens a bit. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Baseball grimaces. “I feel really bad about…everything. She’s been through a lot this year, and it’s kinda my fault.”

Nickel snorts. “I mean, Suitcase was pretty clear with me that she blamed me, mostly.”

“Well…yeah.” Baseball shrugs. “But if I had been more attuned to how awful everything was, maybe I could have fixed it before it…did this.”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Nickel replies. “At least you’re graduating this year, so you won’t have to deal with this anymore.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” Baseball sighed. “I don’t even want to think about what the fuck I’m gonna be doing next year.”

“You’re telling me,” Nickel grumbles. “I still have to figure out what I’m doing for my thesis.”

“Hey, if I survived it, you will,” Baseball tells him.

“Yeah.” Nickel nods. “Baseball…” He opens and closes his mouth, and then trails off. “Never mind.”

Another silence stretches out, until finally, Baseball says, “Well, uh, my cue is coming up.” His cue is not coming up.

Nickel knows this as well as Baseball does, given that he’s also heard this show a million times, but he must want this conversation to be over as well, because he just says, “Okay. See you later, I guess.”

“Yeah. See you.” Baseball hurries off to his place, then lets out a slow breath, staring blankly at the wall in front of him.

In the nearly three years he and Nickel have known each other, they’ve almost always been inseparable. With how disagreeable Nickel is with basically everyone else, the fact that he gets along with Baseball has always been oddly gratifying, like befriending a cat who usually hates all humans. It’s so offputting to have this weird distance between them when they talk, to skirt around this massive elephant in the room. Baseball almost wishes things could go back to the way they were, but…was the way they were ever good, or was Baseball just pretending they were because he wasn’t the one being hurt?

Either way, he graduates in a few months, and he just has to make it until then.

“Hey, Paper!”

Paper grits his teeth. He very much does not want to talk to his boyfriend right now, and he’d hoped retreating to the costume closet would give him an out, but he has to be civil. Keep it together, try and make it to the end of the semester. “Hi, OJ. How’d the show go?”

OJ shrugs. “Pretty good. The audience was kinda unresponsive, but matinees are just kinda like that. Hopefully it’ll be better this evening.”

“Hmm, yeah.” Paper tries to focus on sewing up the seam Cheesy ripped in his costume, but his hands are shaky, and he stabs the needle a little too forcefully into his finger rather than the fabric. “Ow, fuck!” he hisses.

OJ looks a little taken aback—Paper is usually one to save profanity for only situations that really need it. “Whoa, are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Paper sticks his finger in his mouth. “It’s just a little cut.”

“You sure?” OJ asks. “I probably have a bandaid somewhere…”

Paper bites back a bitchy comment about being surprised OJ even cares. He’s not in his best mindset right now, and he needs to watch himself so he doesn’t say anything he regrets. “I said it’s fine. Nothing to have a breaku—um, break down about.” Oops. Case in point.

“...okay.” OJ clears his throat. “Can I talk to you about something kinda serious?”

Paper is in no way in a good place to have a serious conversation, but for some reason he blurts out, “Sure!”

OJ lets out a breath. “I was just thinking…we should have a talk about, y’know, next year.”

Paper tries to keep his voice steady. “What about next year?”

“Well, you know.” OJ circles his hands in midair. “I’m gonna be traveling a lot after I graduate, so we should probably figure out sooner or later how we’re gonna be doing this whole long-distance thing.”

This time, Paper can’t stop himself from saying, “You mean, how I’m gonna be doing this whole long-distance thing.”

OJ blinks. “Huh?”

Well, now that he’s started, Paper might as well follow through. “It’s gonna be exactly how it’s been every summer! I have to do all the work to stay in touch, and you practically forget I exist until I call you! Hell, this year it’s practically been like that over the school year! I feel like I’m basically your boyfriend in name only, because you certainly haven’t been acting like a boyfriend to me!”

“I’ve been super busy this year!” OJ argues. “I have this show, and my thesis, and RA duty. You’ve been busy too, that’s just how college is! And where is this even coming from? If you really felt like this, why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I’ve tried, but you barely even register it!” Paper’s whole body is shaking with anger now. “You’re so allergic to listening to anyone except yourself! You just can’t not be the one in control of everything!”

“Wh–I’m–ugh!” OJ flounders. “I’m not trying to ignore you, there’s just a lot on my plate!”

“Yeah,” Paper grumbles. He considers not saying the thing he keeps thinking, but if he doesn’t, it’ll just keep weighing on him. “Kinda seems like you don’t have time for a relationship.”

That has OJ dead silent for a moment, staring at Paper in shock. When he’s able to talk again, he softly asks, “So…are you saying we should…?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, and despite how pissed off he is, Paper can’t bring himself to either. Instead, he just replies with, “Figure it out.”

OJ takes a deep breath in through his nose, as if he’s preparing a response, but his expression changes to one of confusion. “What the fuck?”

“What now?” Paper huffs.

OJ sniffs again. “Can you smell that?”

“Are you seriously changing the subject right—whoa.” The scent hits Paper out of nowhere. It’s unmistakable, but…he has to be mistaken, right?