Chapter Text
Buck thought he knew what rock bottom felt like already. Between a lightning strike, a belated dead brother acquisition, a thirty-thousand pound vehicle crushing his leg, and a goddamn tsunami, he figured he’s experienced all life has to offer.
Turns out, he’d been achingly wrong.
Because here he is, lonely and left behind, at three in the morning and four beers down, purchasing a ticket to a queer speed-dating event. Not just any regular ticket. No. A whole weekend getaway, the premium pack with a fancy restaurant booking and SPA included.
This. This is rock bottom.
It’s been twelve days, seven hours and twenty-two minutes since Buck watched Eddie drive away in a U-HAUL. Twelve days, seven hours and twenty-two minutes since a hole ripped and spread in his chest, restraint poisoned his tongue and otherwise riddled him useless.
Just enough time to come to the conclusion that everything in life is temporary. And that’s okay. It’s fine.
Departures are part of one’s existence — your favorite show ends with a god-awful finale; your favorite musician stops producing music that tickles your fancy (look, Buck’s been watching a lot of British TV lately); your friends come and they go, and you keep on repeating the quirks they taught you to have something to remember them by.
Buck buys the same cereal Christopher favors, drinks the only beer that doesn’t make Eddie gag, and he’s fine. Mourning, sure. Deflecting, maybe. But he’s fine.
And he signs up for speed-dating. Because what else is he supposed to do?
He needs to fill a metaphorical hole. Is it about Tommy dumping him? Not in the slightest. Is it about being lonely? Yeah, kind of.
But mostly, it’s about the fact that Buck comes home to his empty loft, and not the house he’s secretly considered his real home since twenty-fucking-eighteen.
The house currently on the market, with offers coming through daily, but never ones that stick. Buck acts like he isn’t pleased at the fact when Eddie rambles on to him, Jeez, when will it finally sell?, and he’s perfected the art of it. Eddie hasn’t a goddamn clue that he wishes the house never sells, even if the combination of mortgage and rental fees keeps his best friend on his toes.
He’s clinging on to an idea. A fantasy. Perhaps, if the house never sells, Eddie will be forced to return and reclaim it for himself. In the fantasy, Christopher returns as well, paints the walls of his bedroom a neutral color fit for a teenager, instead of the bright blues of a young boy.
And he’ll cling to it, through bliss and dismay, for as long as Eddie tells him, no one’s buying the house.
He’ll cling to it to stay sane.
He’ll cling to it until Christopher’s room is no longer a sanctuary, but a home.
The event hall smells of scented candles and medium-priced bourbon. It looks like you’ve walked straight into a Wes Anderson movie, a static display of a vibrant crowd, each and every individual situated with a purpose to serve in a seamless juxtaposition of moving pictures.
Buck likes his movies well enough, but this isn’t his favorite scene. It’s too on the nose for him. A pretend world where only rainbows exist and no rain.
He scans his ticket at the entrance, accepts the lanyard with his name and pronouns, and is welcomed with a bag of snacks and the organizing charity’s merchandise, distasteful and bland. Maybe he’ll wear it to sleep, when no one sees him, when nothing but comfort matters.
He’s arrived conveniently early to get his act together before the first activity of the day, but late enough for his usual cocktail of choice to only offer a virgin version at the self-serving bar. He grabs one anyway, anything to soothe the discomfort in his throat, dried out from nervously swallowing spit the whole drive over.
Buck empties the tiny glass in one satisfactory gulp and carries it over to the stage, deciding to familiarize himself with the weekend program.
The blindingly colorful banner tells him, SPEED-DATING: LIKE YOU’RE SWIPING ON TINDER, ‘CEPT YOU DEAL WITH REJECTION FACE-TO-FACE. Which, you know, doesn’t particularly warm one up to the idea.
BREAKING THE spICE is supposed to start in — Buck checks his smartwatch — six minutes, which is just about enough time for him to find a seat, kick back and relax before he’s forced into interacting with strangers.
Or, you know, not forced. He chose this after all. Halfway to a miserable drunk on a lonely night or not, some part of him craved this. Probably has since the night that kicked off his baking escapade.
The words have been floating around in his head like a riddle he’s too incompetent to answer. Tommy’s I don't think you’re ready, his what you’re feeling right now is new and exciting, and most famously, I’m your first, not your last. They make him feel infinitesimal, like he climbed out of his mother’s womb only yesterday and all he knows is to be nursed.
Is that all Tommy saw him as? A baby queer? Or just a baby? Did Tommy consider Buck inexperienced with men or in life?
Sure, dating men is inherently different from dating women because of societal pressure alone. But at its core, it’s a relationship like any other. Shouldn’t similar rules apply? You meet, you connect, you develop feelings, you date, you grow together, you move in together, and… Whatever follows. Buck doesn't know. He’s never made it that far.
The voice in his head is nagging. It sticks like superglue to the fibers of his brain, sweats his palms, and quivers his voice. A man flirts with him on a call, at a coffee shop when he’s volunteered to pick up the station’s order, at gym, anywhere, and Buck holds his tongue to refrain from saying, maybe you shouldn't bother. I’m just as bad at dating men as I am women. Turn around and leave before the departure starts to sting.
In moments like those, Buck figures Tommy must’ve been onto something. He’s been beating the same dead dog for a long time. He’s stuck riding the front seat of the hamster wheel until he finally falls off into his doom. Not even an angel in the heaven that — hopefully — follows could grant him what he desires — a person to call his own, a person to belong to, belong with. It’s too much even for a celestial being to accomplish.
Or so he thinks.
Because it’s at that moment he claims a seat in the back row, right beside someone…striking in appearance. A brunet whose long waves fall in their face, hiding more of their features than their black-framed glasses. They’re wearing a tight black skirt and a matching top with a lace sleeve that exposes their silky, nearly shiny skin.
Buck peeks at their lanyard.
Anathema, THEY/THEM
And it’s then that this Anathema catches him staring, arching a brow at his emptied drink before meeting his eyes.
“You’re doing this thing sober?” they ask, deadpan. Their accent isn't from around here. Some kind of Scottish accent, maybe? Welsh? Buck isn't all that familiar with British accents. “Seriously? You got a death wish?”
Anathema themself is handling a glass of what smells like pure tequila rather than a tequila sunrise. It might be eleven in the morning, but who’s he to judge?
“They were out of my favorite,” answers Buck, shrugging.
Anathema clicks their tongue, giving him a once-over. Their lashes are crazily long, eyes — fierce and piercing, like they’re staring right into Buck’s soul.
“Let me guess… Mai Tai?”
Buck blinks. “Uh. Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Just a good guess,” they say, in that same bored drawl. Buck would pry about where they’re from but he gets distracted, for at that time a server dressed in an all-white tux comes up to them, offering a tray of—
Mai Tais. Huh.
Buck picks one up and gives his thanks, discarding his empty glass. He swooshes the drink around before taking a small sip, the familiar flavor slamming into his taste buds deliciously. And—
“Woah. This tastes just like the Mai Tai I made in Peru!” Buck’s nose wrinkles as he sniffs it. “I swear it even has my secret ingredient.” He lowers his voice to a whisper, leaning closer to his new acquaintance. “Just a hint of grenadine. Don’t tell anyone, though.”
“How curious,” Anathema chimes in, though their expression remains blase.
Buck notices then, that alongside their glass, Anathema is also handling a silver locket. Its chain is wrapped around their fingers tightly enough to leave an imprint. Perhaps a nervous tick, perhaps something to ground themself with.
But Buck doesn’t have the time to question it, for the host, a hippie-looking man his age, introduces himself onstage by the name of Bart Jr.
“Welcome all to our bi-annual queer speed-dating event,” he tells the crowd through the microphone, and is met with a few cheers. “I’m pleased to see so many of you. I promise you that, by the end of the weekend, you’ll all have come out of this having learned something new about yourself. And you know, maybe even found someone to take home!”
Bart Jr. regards the wolf-whistle someone blows with a pleased grin. “But before we start, there are some rules we should establish. We want to make this a safe space for all, and remain respectful of each person’s boundaries. Therefore—”
For the next few minutes, Buck listens to Bart’s safeguarding rules as he taps his foot against the unoccupied chair in front of him. He only stops when Anathema fixes him with an irritated glare.
Soon enough, Bart Jr. concludes his recitation and lowers his clipboard. “For our ice-breaker activity, I’d like you to split the hall and yourself into groups according to the color of your lanyard’s strap. Those with a red one, please keep to the left. Greens — to the right. Go on now.”
The shuffling of chairs and feet fills the room for a few seconds, before Anathema stands and addresses the host.
“What if I’m colorblind? You know, reds and greens are easy to mix up.”
Bart Jr. opens and shuts his mouth a few times, awkwardly scratching the back of his neck. “Well, anyone is more than welcome to inquire about their color. Just in case, I see that yours is red.”
“Perfect,” says Anathema. “The color associated with blood, desire and anger. Just to my fancy!”
Bart Jr. pales a little, but quickly moves on to further crowd control.
Buck, bearing a green lanyard, eventually finds himself sitting in front of a small woman, dressed in all-black as though she’s in mourning, which Buck guesses he can kind of relate to, what, with Eddie’s departure from his life.
Her name tag reads, Diane, she/her.
When the buzzer goes off to count down three minutes, he smiles at her, using the introduction he practiced before a mirror that morning to kick off the conversation.
“I’m Evan Buckley, Buck to friends. I’ve never done this before, but I’m open to new experiences,” he tells Diane and watches as she squirms in her seat uncomfortably. The event hall has otherwise broken into several stilted conversations. Really, the host should've given them some pointers.
“I’ve never done this before either,” Diane confesses, hands forming fists over her lap. “My friends forced me into it, after—” Her lip quivers just slightly. “Anyway. What is it that you do, when you’re not attending speed-dating events?”
Buck perks up at that. “Oh! Well, I’m a firefighter. Nearly eight years running now. I love it. Gives my life purpose, you know? What about you?”
Diane stares at him, her eyes welling up with tears. He frowns, unsure what he said wrong. He’s about to question her, when a sob parts her lips and she starts rambling incoherently.
“My late husband, he was— He was a firefighter,” she manages through tears streaming down her cheeks. “He died two years ago, saving a little girl’s dog from a house fire. Except, the roof caved in before he could— He could make it out.”
Buck wonders how he could comfort this stranger, what kind words he could offer her. But all that parts his lips is, “Oh, sh—oot. I’m really sorry for your loss, Diane. It sounds like your husband was a brave man. You must miss him.”
Diane’s tears stutter and she levels him with something resembling a glare.
“I must miss him? Of course I miss him! He was the love of my life! No one could possibly compare to him,” she spits at him angrily. “But you wouldn’t know, right? You’re the one who willingly walks into danger and cares little about how that makes your loved ones feel! Shame on you!”
Buck watches, puzzled, as Diane grabs her purse, rushes up from her seat and stomps out of the event hall.
Well, this is not off to a great start.
Buck’s next three partners are no better. Merilina gives him the silent treatment after she discovers he’s not Jewish, Linda is against the idea of someone tattooing themselves, and Edward huffs at his answer of I don’t think this is appropriate so soon after meeting, after he questions Buck about his preferences in bed.
Each and every time, Buck prays for the sound of the buzzer to come sooner, so that he could extract himself from the conversation and move on to someone hopefully more to his taste.
But it’s only after lunch, during their second activity, when they’re meant to ask their partners about their go-to karaoke songs, that he forgets all about said buzzer.
He’s face-to-face with Anathema, looking just as collected as they did earlier, while Buck’s own curls are ruffled from anxious twirls and his carefully ironed shirt has creased unattractively. Anathema doesn’t seem to mind though, as they take him in appreciatively.
“It has to be a classic,” Anathema tells him. “You’d hear this song on the radio growing up and hum along while your parents chastised you for the inappropriate meaning of its lyrics. Am I warm?”
Buck doesn’t give it away immediately. He teases a loose thread on the sleeve of his button-up, keeping his face neutral. “That could be any 90s song. You have to be more specific for me to believe you’re a real psychic.”
Anathema huffs. “I’m not a psychic. There is no such thing as psychics.”
“What are you then?” asks Buck. He’s screwed around with the thread too much now, and the button of his cuff falls off, meeting the ground with a thud. Embarrassed, he picks up the button and pockets it, then rolls up the sleeves to hide the damage.
A flash disturbs his mind, unwelcomed. Chimney’s Bachelor party, the plastered part of it. Way too many tequila shots floating around. Buck smashing his shot glass of pineapple chaser with Eddie’s, before it spills over his shirt. Eddie, giddy and laughing, rolling up the sleeves and exposing the tattoo that so perfectly lines up with Buck’s.
He blinks the sudden memory away, focusing instead on Anathema before him.
Anathema, who’s still deflecting.
“Mine’s Toxic by Britney Spears. Totally ace,” they accompany ace with a rolling hand gesture, momentarily hypnotizing Buck with their sharp, red-painted nails. And then, seemingly out of the blue— “You ever watch Glee?”
Buck stifles the urge to groan. What is this — is Glee really that essential of a watch, that everyone keeps bugging him about it?
“I have not,” he confesses grimly.
“Perfect. Let’s play a game, then,” Anathema suggests, stirring in their seat to get more comfortable. “I tell you a potential storyline from Glee and you tell me if it actually happened. For the sake of the event.”
For the sake of the event, Buck’s willing to sit through pretty much anything.
He nods.
Anathema flashes him a toothy grin. “Alright. How about… There is an episode where several characters visit a dentist, so that they could envision an anesthesia-induced fever dream, where they play out iconic Britney Spears moments. Oh, and. One of said characters is actually named Brittany S. Pierce.”
“Um. False?”
Anathema reenacts the sound of a buzzer going off. “Wrong.” Buck scrunches his forehead in confusion. What is this show about?
“Okay, next one… The school’s cheerleading coach traps two characters in an elevator and uses her own version of Billy the Puppet to tell them they won’t be let out until they reconcile with a passionate kiss.”
“That can’t be real,” says Buck. “It violates— What doesn’t that violate?”
There goes the wrong buzzer again.
“I was with her on that one. Kurt and Blaine needed to get their shit together,” says Anathema. “Okay, final one. In the first season, there is a sequence of a teenage girl delivering her baby while another glee club performs the iconic What I Like About You by The Romantics at the Regionals.”
“True!” Buck exclaims, thinking he’s got this in the bag.
Wrong buzzer, for a third time now.
“It was actually Bohemian Rhapsody,” says Anathema, looking awfully pleased with themself. “And there’s your answer.”
Buck watches them, slack-jawed as he realizes. “How could you have possibly known my exact go-to karaoke song? Another good guess?” he adds sarcastically.
Anathema winks at him. “Exactly.”
It’s then that the real buzzer goes off. And Buck’s got two choices — move a seat over or remain in his in hopes that Anathema follows suit.
Buck doesn’t move.
Neither does Anathema.
They both grin at each other when the buzzer announces the next round.
“Let’s take a walk, Buck,” Anathema suggests, and next thing Buck knows, he’s being dragged out of the event hall and into a— Huh, broom closet.
Neither of them bother switching on the light. The tension between them has reached a high enough point for Buck to have stopped thinking all that clearly. He revels in the fact that he’s hiding away with another person, on their way to hooking up, if Anathema’s nails digging into his chest is of any indication.
It’s been a while since he’s even kissed anyone, so when Anathema ghosts their breath near his mouth, he dizzies with anticipation.
“We took speed-dating very literally,” he manages, right before Anathema shuts him up by pressing their mouth hotly against his.
Kissing, it’s supposed to dizzy you.
But not like this.
The ground below Buck shudders, a much fiercer wooziness taking over.
Earthquake?
He reaches out to hold onto something in the dark and stabilize himself, except—
There’s nothing to hold onto.
Just air. An emptiness.
And then, just as suddenly as the ground started to shake, it stops, with Buck landing face-first into a pink fluffy carpet, softening the blow.
He picks up his chin, still light-headed and growing more disoriented by the second as he takes in his surroundings.
He’s in what is evidently a teenage girl’s bedroom. There’s glittery make-up on the vanity, posters of boybands Buck forgot existed covering the walls, and a bookshelf filled with young adult novels featuring characters whose names sound like Cat Piss.
Buck gets the sense that he’s seen this room, maybe even been in it before, but he doesn’t have long enough time to place it, for it’s then that Anathema materializes on the Edward Cullen themed bed sheets, clearly displeased at something.
“Oh, you must be fucking joking!” they exclaim, kicking the sheets until they’ve formed one jumbled mess.
Buck, still on the floor, simply watches the scene unfold.
Anathema is addressing the ceiling when they carry on.
“Can’t I get one — just one! — day to myself?! I merely wanted to have a little bit of fun with a sexy firefighter. Is that too much to ask for, huh, Big Guy?”
So, they’re addressing God. Totally normal, given the predicament. Which— Well, Buck’s not entirely certain what kind of predicament they’re in. Only that they somehow teleported into a teenage girl’s bedroom from a broom closet.
He’s breathing heavily, and Anathema catches on. They jump off from the bed and approach him with fire in their eyes.
“Who is it?” Anathema barks at him.
Buck settles on his knees, mostly to get the chance to distance himself from them in case Anathema jumps him.
“Who is what?” he asks.
Anathema hisses, and Buck swears he sees a sliver of a snake’s tongue parting their lips briefly. He must’ve hit his head too hard.
“Who are you in love with?” Anathema demands.
And— Huh?
“I— I’m not in love with anyone,” Buck says intelligently. He fails to see how that could be of importance at the moment.
“Cut the crap, Buckley.” Hey, how the hell do they know his last name? He never introduced himself with it to them. “Just admit who you’re in love with already, so that we can have this over with.”
Buck gets defensive at their tone. “I swear on my mother’s life, I’m not in love with anyone.”
“Then you mustn’t like your mother very much,” Anathema fires back.
“Well—” starts Buck, tilting his head. But before he can get into his problematic relationship with his mother, he catches sight of a picture frame on the nightstand. It slams into him at once, where he’s seen this room before. He’s been in it, so long ago now that the memory had locked itself in a dusted corner of his mind.
“Wait. Is this Michelle’s house?” he asks Anathema, hoping they have the answers.
What they offer to him is a crazy answer.
“Yup. In human terms, we’re in Hershey, Pennsylvania, on June 21st, 2008.”
Buck stares at Anathema for a good minute, before a laugh bristles out of him.
“Okay. This is funny. A good one. What are you? Some kind of hypnotizer?”
Not a muscle twitches on Anathema’s stern face.
“I wish this were a joke, Buck,” they tell him. “This is not my preferred way of spending a weekend off-duty.”
Buck huffs. “You’re not seriously trying to convince me that we’ve time-traveled?”
“No,” says Anathema. “We haven’t time-traveled. We’re simply… Visiting.”
“Visiting,” Buck echoes.
“Visiting your memories,” they clarify. “We can’t change anything. The past remains the same. No one can see us. We’re simply taking another look to see if the current you can discover something new about the old you.”
This, in British terms, is a bunch of bollocks.
“You can’t expect me to believe that,” says Buck. He’s not necessarily like Eddie, who only believes in what science has proven, but this— This is simply too much for his human brain to handle.
It’s then that Anathema removes their glasses and pinches their nose.
Buck gasps.
Their eyes, previously brown, aren’t such anymore. They’re not… Human. Like anything Buck’s ever seen. They’re a shiny, glimmering golden, ones that Buck thinks a person could drown in if they got any closer.
And instead of a human pupil, a sharp oval splits the iris in the middle.
“What the hell,” manages Buck, panic clawing its way up his throat. He retreats as far to the wall as possible, blinking erratically at Anathema. “Who are you? Are you some kind of witch? Wizard?”
Anathema barks out a laugh as they wipe gunk off their glasses before putting them back on.
Just like that, their eyes return to the previous brown.
“Please. As though witches exist. Obviously, I’m an angel,” they add, like Buck’s stupid not to have come to the conclusion himself. They offer up their hand for a shake. “Fallen Angel of Coquette, so very pleased to meet you.”
Buck doesn’t accept the hand. He merely stares at it.
“Coquette? As in, the bird?”
Christopher once did a project on the hummingbirds in Southern America. Buck spent a whole week reading up on the various migrant birds of the region, the tufted coquette having been one of them.
“No. As in, a manipulator. A flirt. I charm people into giving me what I want,” Anathema reveals, clicking their tongue. And, oh. It is indeed that of a snake. A piton, Buck thinks. “That is, when I’m not interrupted with this dogshite curse. Ugh.”
They fall back onto the bed and gruff at the sight of the Twilight vampire.
“The curse being…?” Buck prods.
“Kissing people like you,” Anathema offers up at once, turning the covers over so that they don’t need to look at Edward any longer. Buck briefly wonders what all that’s about.
“Hey, now. Am I that bad of a kisser?”
Anathema narrows their eyes. “I mean, people like you, who are kissing the wrong person.”
Buck is utterly lost, and the angel seems to notice, for they carry on.
“I get dragged into people’s minds and have to figure out who the right person for them is. So, let’s see,” they flick their fingers and an aged scroll materializes in front of them, hanging in the air by an invisible force. Buck edges closer, finding a list of names on the yellowed paper.
“Michelle Card, the first person you ever kissed,” Anathema reads, then considers Buck from above the frame of their glasses. “Is she the one?”
And it’s stupid to even entertain the idea, but he’ll give Anathema the benefit of the doubt. What else is he supposed to do?
“Honestly? I kind of forgot she existed,” Buck admits.
“Wonderful,” Anathema sighs out and flicks their fingers again, making the scroll vanish. They face Buck again. “Well, we have to sit through this regardless. We can’t leave the memories until you learn something about yourself.”
“Why?”
They shrug. “Don't ask me, I didn't come up with the rules.”
“Are there any other rules?” Buck wonders.
“Devil, you’re impatient. How about you just wait and see? Put a party hat on while you’re at it?”
Buck’s more confused than ever. “Why?”
A blood-red party hat magically appears on top of Anathema’s head.
“Because—” And, huh, Buck feels the tight string of a party hat choking his own neck. He spares a glance at Michelle’s vanity mirror, and finds it to be a similar red. The same he wore for that awkward call with Christopher. “—we’re attending a birthday party.”
The door to Michelle’s bedroom falls open and, all of a sudden, the beat of an old Katy Perry song bounces from wall to wall, throwing Buck back into a time he rarely thinks about anymore.
Anathema tiptoes towards the door, impatiently waving Buck over when he doesn’t move. Eventually, Buck rises from the carpet and follows after them.
They find themselves in Michelle’s living room, decorated in pinks and blues and purples, all of what Buck remembers to be her favorite colors. A small crowd of Buck’s old classmates have gathered on the floor, and Buck watches as an emptied champagne bottle spins between them.
He shudders as he takes in the scene.
The people.
There’s Anthony, who always bullied a volleyball at his face in gym class. Lily, who scored straight A’s and everyone copied their homework off from. Georgie, who picked his nose in class up until the Senior Prom. Clarise, the cheerleader captain. Andy, the class clown. Gabriella, who never did grow out of wearing her hair in pigtails. Michelle and her twin brother Rylan, near carbon copies of each other, both bearing matching scorns.
And there’s Buck himself, giddy and nervous as he waits for the bottle to land on his crush.
Buck stares at his younger self, specifically the birthmark adorning his eye that is a much darker red than now — somehow, it’s faded over time.
Almost sixteen-year-old Buck — or Evan — is worrying his lip the same way thirty-three year old Buck does nowadays, so harshly that blood pools at the cracks.
And then, the bottle makes its final round of the circle, and lands on Rylan, earning gasps from nearly every person within the circle.
Buck doesn’t remember this part. He remembers the aftermath, those seven minutes in heaven he spent in Michelle’s broom closet. He doesn’t remember the bottle landing on her twin brother instead.
He watches as his younger self’s cheeks turn a bright, embarrassing pink. Can practically sense the sweat burdening his hands.
“Oh,” is all younger-Buck can manage. He meets Rylan’s gaze across the circle, who’s sitting awfully still, like the new predicament’s dragged all life out of him. He doesn’t appear displeased at what’s transpired, though. Perhaps, even a little cheeky.
Then, the tense silence is broken.
“Obviously, Evan doesn’t want to do Seven Minutes with Ry. No one wants that,” says Andy, loudly and proudly, puffing out his chest. “He could make out with the next best thing, though,” he adds, winking over at Michelle.
“Ew,” says Clarise, souring her face. “I know you see all girls as objects, Andy, but don’t call Mich a thing.”
Andy sticks his tongue out at Clarise like a child.
Meanwhile, younger-Buck visibly sweats through his light blue button-up, oversized enough to probably belong to his dad. He looks between Michelle and Rylan, considering both of their expressions. Michelle’s pretty pink flush and Rylan’s stone-blank stare.
Buck watches as his younger self stirs the champagne bottle a little to the left for the head to face Michelle, instead of her brother. Everyone in the circle lets out a bated breath.
“Fantastic,” says Andy, and sets off the apple-shaped kitchen timer in his lap to count down the seven minutes. “Off you go, then. Don’t have too much fun.”
Younger-Buck and Michelle stare at each other for another moment, before the birthday girl grasps his hand and tugs him toward the closet. Buck doesn’t follow. He knows what’s about to transpire in there.
Six minutes and fifty seconds of stilted, awkward small talk, before Michelle finally grabs him and kisses him sloppily for a mere moment, interrupted when they hear the timer go off from the other side of the door.
Instead of reliving his first kiss, he sticks around in the living room, listening in on the conversation between his high school friends.
He’s not entirely sure how this whole thing works, why he’s even able to be witness to something his old self wasn’t privy to, but he takes the opportunity.
“Why so pale, Ry?” asks Andy, taking Rylan into account as he fiddles with the label of the bottle. “I made sure you don’t have to give up your manhood by kissing a guy. You should be thanking me for saving you the embarrassment.”
Rylan snorts. “Is that so?” he challenges him, giving his classmate the stink eye. His chest is heaving with labored breaths. “And what if I went into the closet and kissed him? What then? Would you have told the whole school that I’m a—? A—”
Rylan snaps his mouth shut, unable to finish the sentence.
Andy quirks up an eyebrow.
“Are you?”
Rylan glares at Andy, his knuckles tightened into fists, before he suddenly rises up.
“I’m not in a party mood anymore,” he addresses the circle, everyone but Andy. “Have fun without me.”
And off he goes, thrudding up the stairs to what Buck knows to be his bedroom.
“What a drama queen,” mutters Andy.
At once, Gabriella flips her pigtails back and stands up as well.
“You’re an asshole, Andy,” she spits at him, before following Rylan upstairs.
Quickly after, Lily and Clarise do the same.
Buck watches as Georgie and Anthony don’t exactly know what to do with themselves for a moment. That is, until Georgie suddenly pulls Anthony up to his feet and tells Andy, “Being homophobic is so twentieth-century of you.”
Andy merely huffs, sitting cross-legged as the last of the party disappear to Rylan’s room.
By the time younger-Buck and Michelle step back out into the living room, confused at the lack of their friends in the circle, Buck’s nearly forgotten about Anathema’s lingering presence.
Nearly.
But they’re by the table of refreshments, spiking the punch with tequila. Buck levels them with a glare.
“What? There’s no party without booze,” Anathema tells him.
Buck ignores them.
“What am I supposed to learn about myself here that I don’t already know?” he asks, an antsiness flourishing within his gut. “I know I like guys. We met at a queer speed-dating event. Obviously, I’m aware of this fact.”
Anathema considers him, discarding the now empty bottle of tequila in Michelle’s bin.
“But you weren’t back here and now,” they tell him. “After Tommy, did you ever sit down and think about all of your crushes on guys that you repressed or figured were instead signs of a close friendship? Or are you that afraid of regret?”
Buck purses his lips, holding back from something mean to say. Instead, he focuses on a part that bothers him.
“If you know about Tommy, if you know my favorite drink and my go-to karaoke song, how come you don’t know who the person I’m supposedly in love with is?”
Anathema takes a few steps towards him, their hands falling uselessly to their sides.
“I only know what you know,” they confess, in a broken whisper. “The rest I can only guess. It’s not an exact science, Buck. The farther into your brain we wander, the more truths we can come to. Right now, though? This remains a mystery.”
Buck scoffs. “I’m not a goddamn TV show awaiting the plot twist. Just tell me what you know.”
“What I know—” says Anathema, taking the final step until their hot breath’s tingling his chin. They’re a head shorter than him, but strikingly mighty nevertheless. “—is that there’s a long list of names, and any one of them could be the one you’ve been subconsciously longing after. It’s going to take some time to get through each and find the one.”
Their hand comes into contact with Buck’s chest, his heart beating dangerously behind his ribs.
It’s then the ground shakes once more, and Buck finds himself in the dark broom closet of a fancy hotel in Santa Monica, a few yards away from an ongoing queer speed-dating event, returned back to the same moment like not a second passed.
He crouches down and pukes his guts out into a bucket of brown, used up water.