Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chapter One: They Wake Up

It is quiet, eerily so, save for the deep, rhythmic rumble of an unseen generator, thrumming through the walls like a mechanical heartbeat. The air hangs heavy, stale with dust and the acrid tang of old paint. All cloaked in blackness.

And in that blackness lies a child.

He is sprawled across the rough concrete, limbs akimbo as though dropped there without care. He could almost be mistaken for a discarded doll if not for the faint, shallow rise and fall of his chest.

His name is Fanboy. That’s not his given name, but a title he chose for himself. It carries the weight of his dreams, his steadfast belief that heroism is not something bestowed, but declared. His costume, lime-green leotard, purple cowl, gloves, cape, and a pair of briefs worn proudly over the top, is both armor and identity, a patchwork banner stitched from childhood bravado and Saturday-morning television.

For a long while he remains still. Then, with a groggy grunt, he stirs. His body protests the movement, muscles stiff from cold and concrete, but habit wins out. He stretches long and wide, as though rising from a good night’s rest in his beloved Fanlair.

He calls, voice small in the dark, for his sidekick to report for another day of fun. 

No reply. The silence swallows his words whole.

Fanboy frowns, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His surroundings are black and depthless; the air feels too still, too thick. A faint chill seeps into his bones. This doesn’t feel right. The Fanlair has always hummed with the comforting clutter of their adventures. The glow of video game screens, the crinkle of snack wrappers, Chum Chum’s hearty chatter. But here, there’s nothing. No light. No sound. No warmth.

His gloved palm brushes against the floor, and confusion ripples through him. Concrete, cold, gritty, and unyielding. Not the soft bedsheets he remembers. Nor the familiar sprawl of comic books and action figures.

He sits up slowly, blinking into the ink around him. His mind, ever imaginative, begins to spool through possibilities. Perhaps this is a test, an obstacle course designed to challenge his wits and courage. Perhaps he’s been captured by villains and must rely on his superhero training to escape!

He straightens his cape, forcing his voice into its usual heroic register, trying to sound braver than he feels. Super-hero training 101: what does one do in a situation like this?

But no answer comes. Only the generator’s low, relentless growl, echoing in the dark.

A bit miffed, Fanboy calls out again when, all of a sudden, a fist connects with his jaw! The sheer force sends him flying back and he smacks into an invisible wall, holding his cheek and shrieking with shock.

An attacker! Just as he suspected! Fanboy kicks blindly and manages a solid land on the unknown assailant, drawing from it a sharp squeal. 

Relief floods his chest. He recognizes that high-pitched screech. It's Yo, his arch-rival and classmate!

He catches the girl's flailing hands, initially amplifying her panic, but stops her from head-butting him just in time. 

After a quick verification of the other's person, Yo explains she had awoken to the sound of his voice and lashed out in fear.

Fanboy rubs his bruised cheek, well aware and greatly annoyed. Now that that’s out of the way, he asks his first question: what are they doing here?

Yo's follow-up question hangs in the stale air: ...Where is here? Because this place is a far cry from their colorful haunts.

Calmer now, Fanboy and Yo call into the dark, but, like before, there's just the rumble of unseen machinery.

Fanboy cautiously paws at the air, invisible particles swirling around his gloved fingers. It doesn't take long to find the opposing wall with the sole of his black high-top. They're in a room, he deduces, and a tiny one at that.

Yo jerks her hands away from the invisible floor, the surface too icy for prolonged contact. They aren't at HER house, she repeats, but that additional denial rouses Fanboy's budding suspicion. If statistics are to be concerned, they could be in mortal danger BUT is it FAR more likely that this is one of Yo's tasteless pranks. Her reputation precedes her, after all.

As if Yo can read Fanboy's mind, she denies the accusation outright before he can even voice it, but her firm rebuff only strengthens his suspicion.

He proceeds to bombard her with questions and, after a bit of back and forth interrogation, he concedes her innocence. This folly, whatever it is, is too grand to be orchestrated by her hand alone, "prank master" or not.

Nonetheless, he promises to keep a close eye on her. He can’t be too careful, especially after this year’s Prank Day when she’d absolutely pummeled him.

Yo shakes off Fanboy’s suspicion and regards the dark with an uneasy pout. To be engulfed, unable to see even her hand before her face, is a stifling, otherworldly experience. Neither child has been in such a situation before. Neither in Yo's ordinary life nor Fanboy's.

What should they do? 

Fanboy grapples for something inspiring to say. He is Galaxy Hills’s unofficial superhero-in-training, after all. It's his job to make the most of any and all situations and disallow fear to undermine his sensibilities!

Puffing out his chest, Fanboy puts his awesome brain to work. Facts: he isn't at home and he isn't at Yo's house. Somehow, they've ended up in an unfamiliar place without any knowledge of what transpired prior. The place itself is a cold, concrete box with zero light. That's not good, he deduces.

Assuming that's the end of her dim-witted classmate's contribution, Yo scoffs loudly.

Fanboy's not one to be rudely disregarded, much less by a girl, so he finds one of Yo's pigtails and pulls. Yo smacks his hand away. He punches her shoulder. She jabs him in the gut.

The tension grows impossibly thick, though it doesn’t come as a surprise; Fanboy and Yo have always had a rocky relationship. They’re stubborn, proud, and clash over the silliest things. Yo's obsessive crush on Fanboy’s best friend and sidekick, Chum Chum, is the main source of said clashes, as she often tries to steal the sidekick for herself. 

Yo can’t say she particularly likes Fanboy either, but she appreciates his caring devotion to her beloved Chum Chum and his courage to lead when things go awry. Still, he’s more of an acquaintance, a classmate, a fellow Galaxy Hills citizen at the very least. For instance, if he were to die, she might go to his funeral, but she absolutely would show up if he were throwing a massive party. It’s that kind of “friendship zone.” At the most, he’s like a distant, annoying friend-in-law, and that’s generous on her part.

As for Fanboy's feelings towards Yo, they've been conflicting as of late.

On one hand, the girl's a master manipulator and well-aware that her sweet demeanor is advantageous to get her way with adults. On the other hand, she commands a strong presence, offers support when asked, and at least seems to have genuine concern for the welfare of others.

At the beginning of this school year, she was combative and held nothing back when it came to Fanboy, pranks, and fistfights. However, after a spell, her aggressiveness began to ebb and her obsession with Chum Chum settled, unveiling a calm, kind girl that Fanboy didn’t know existed beneath her domineering exterior. 

Whether due to outside influence, hormones, or genuine growth, her positive personality shift should relax Fanboy. Instead, he is ever-wary that she'll revert. He’d be lying to say she didn't put him on edge.

The awkward triangle plants strain among Fanboy, Chum Chum, and Yo, predominantly between Fanboy and Yo, but they try to treat each other with some respect to save face in front of adults, like their teacher, Mr. Hank Mufflin, or Fanboy’s guardian, Ozwald Harmonian. It's no easy task, and traces of rivalry cling to them like leeches.

Even now they begin to bicker and, without the soothing rationale of close friends, the only thing that snaps them back to reality is the rickety groan of the hidden generator.

Off the back of that minor scare, they abandon the trifle argument and agree to work together. Escaping this place is more important than scoring points.

So, first thing's first: they must reach back to the last thing they remember, a surefire way to scrounge for clues. But, for Yo, it's a strange headache to search the far corners of her mind. The newly-hollowed spaces are blurred and sparse, holding nothing but a faint memory of enjoying Man-Arctic Crunch cereal for breakfast.

Fanboy rubs his temples in concentration, but all he can remember is playing with Chum Chum at the local park. They’d flown down slides, sailed over monkey bars, and destroyed the seesaw. After that? Nothing but colorful blobs. His head hurts and his stomach is painfully tight.

Depending on how long he’s been laying here, it could’ve been days since his last meal! He licks his lips, which he finds are dry and chapped. He could chug down a gallon of water if there was a jug handy.  

Time to get out and find a water fountain, he confidently declares. Yo agrees. Then, they can run for the hills and inform everyone what has happened.

Grabbing Yo's arm for security, Fanboy peers into the murky darkness and hesitates. 

What if a monster is poised in the dark ready to gobble them up? Or a scary alien? Or a zombie? He doesn’t want to venture into the unknown where anything could be waiting. His overactive imagination has become a detriment, fueling a newfound paranoia in his gut. Worse is the fact that he is already half-blind; his right eye is completely missing. This new, full blindness, is horrible.

Yo’s anxiety shoots through the roof as she too dreads what could be waiting for them in the dark. However, despite their fear, they get on with what they need to do.

What follows is a strenuous task that pumps their hearts full of terror: they separate and inch their ways around the room and pat the walls, chipping concrete crumpling beneath their shoes. They search for a gap, a hint as to what’s going on, but the walls are as barren as the floor. Their only discovery is a dusty commode where they meet at a junction.

The room is tiny, about twelve by twelve feet. If there's a ceiling, it’s too high for even a tall youngster like Fanboy to reach. Stumped, he and Yo slide down onto their haunches. A drop of water plinks to the ground.

Fanboy stares at his gloved hands, silently willing his powers to awaken. If he could just summon them, he’d bust himself and Yo outta this joint in two seconds flat, even if that meant revealing his powers to Yo. But solitude is his weakness. Without his best friend and sidekick to ignite said powers, he’s useless. Even his glow-in-the-dark garments, which would have provided light, seem to have run out of juice.

He shivers, never feeling quite as vulnerable and afraid than he is now. Equally distraught, Yo buries her face in her knees to stifle a small cry, on the verge of a panic attack. 

But just as all hope seems lost, they hear a click and see a dim flash of light. Another person? Fanboy and Yo blink the spots from their eyes and snap their heads to the source of the light. In the wall across from them irradiates the tinted yellow outline of a single door. 

Their reactions are immediate, practically tripping over their feet to rush for the exit. Try as they might, the door doesn't budge. They mash their faces to the gaps to see through. Nothing but blurry yellow. 

The seam between the wall and the door is so faint, which would explain why they didn’t find it earlier. There’s no knob or handle, but there is a mail slot near the bottom. Now that the room is ample bright, they can just barely see each other’s contours. 

They call out for a response, but get nothing. Fanboy curiously pushes against the mail slot, causing it to swing back and forth with a faint squeak. He and Yo glance at each other knowingly. This could prove useful. 

But, then, they hear another click and the light disappears. 

Plunged back into darkness, Yo peers through the slot and, like before, she sees nothing and nobody. Just an inky blackness that could rival the deepest of trenches. Despite that, she bursts with excitement and points out that someone must’ve turned the light on and off, and that they need to gain that “someone’s” attention.

Nodding vigorously, Fanboy presses his face to the open slot. With deep breaths, he and Yo scream for help until their voices strain. Curiously, there’s no echo, leading them to suspect that the area on the other side of the door is small too, maybe even smaller than the room they’re in, and that means there must be another door. 

Yo groans. On the off-chance they traverse this first door, what if they're unable to escape the next room? 

Fanboy ponders this, then quotes, “If at first, you don’t succeed, try ramming at full speed!”, and rams the door until his shoulders bruise. No luck.

Yo takes a running start and unwisely slams her knee into it. There’s a small moment of quiet before she clutches her knee with a pained shriek and hops in place.

Fanboy tries kicking the door down as well, but his actions harbor the same result. After rubbing the ache from his foot, he impulsively slides his left hand through the slot and gropes about with his fingers.

Fearing his hand could be bitten off by a monster, Yo orders him to pull it back through, but he cockily waves her away. He’ll be the one to save them, thank you.

Yo growls but sits back to chew a fingernail, tensely watching Fanboy push through up to his shoulder with an exaggerated grunt. He bends his spindly arm to feel for a latch, but there’s nothing but empty air and the cold surface of the other side of the door. Reaching straight out as far as he can, he thinks he MAY have felt the slight pressure of fabric, but nothing comes of it. He can’t reach far enough to grab it anyway.

Frustrated, he groans and pulls his arm back through the slot, wrinkling his nose at the sawdust smell.

Yo slumps disappointedly but doesn’t give up. Again, they scour the area, poking and prodding at the walls and floor, searching meticulously for a blemish or a crack—anything they can use to escape, but they find nothing.

Fanboy hits his fist against the wall while pressing his ear to it. The structure is rock solid. Still, he carefully kicks along various spots of the walls hoping to hear a hollow echo. Yo parrots his actions, stomping her feet against different parts of the floor until she’s certain the entire perimeter is immovable.

Yo glances upward at the inky darkness and gets a spark of creativity. Quickly, she orders excitedly, give her four! Fanboy catches on and eagerly hoists her up. She balances carefully atop his shoulders, leaning against the wall for leverage as she gropes for a ceiling. Aha!

Yo grins, feeling the rough orange peel ceiling texture scrape against her fingertips. Now all that’s missing is—! She reaches about and bumps right into the smooth metallic surface of a ceiling register. She drags her fumbling fingers over the bumpy grate, searching for a screw she can untwist. Her heart soon sinks. There are no screws, no nails, no fastening of any kind. It must have been attached via concrete.

With a heavy sigh, Yo tells Fanboy to lower her. He obeys, though, none too gently. Back to searching the walls and floors.

Bumping his leg against the commode, Fanboy gets an idea of his own. On the count of three, he and Yo yank the ceramic lid off its hinges. Armed and ready to ram, they charge at the door and smash the cap against it as hard as possible. The lid shatters to pieces on impact, littering tiny shards of glass all around them.

Fanboy lets out a rather girly scream at the break and then grits his teeth to hold back a groan, his hands throbbing from the use of force. Yo shakes the ache from her palms and feels the unscathed spot where they hit the door. So much for that idea, she scoffs miserably.

Fanboy’s too busy shivering to respond, the cold seeping into his bones like a parasite.

Both he and Yo are adorning their typical flair. Fanboy's wearing his trademark green spandex unitard, violet cowl, cape, gloves, and black converse. Yo's wearing a yellow t-shirt, a green and pink plaited skirt, pink leggings, and yellow sneakers. The type of attire city desert dwellers wear! Not nearly enough to shield against the cold. Yo’s froggy backpack is missing, she realizes with a glum whine. So is her flip phone.

They’re running out of options and failure is not steadying their sanity. To cope, Fanboy hums jingles to himself and Yo plays with her hair as they search. It’s soothing, but panic continues to linger within them like a keg of gunpowder just waiting for a match to light it. Before his nerves get the better of him, Fanboy decides to take a time-out, carefully sweeping the debris away with his shoe before he sits Indian-style. 

Yo is not ready to relax just yet and demands that Fanboy help her. Said demand is met with tense silence, so Yo goes back to exploring on her own, kicking aside the rubble still scattered on the floor to make a path. She explores the walls, getting on her tippy-toes and reaches high.

She discovers a crumbling damp patch of paint, the cold wetness against her fingers catching her completely off-guard, and she screams, which frightens Fanboy out of his skin and, just like that, the keg explodes: he plugs his ringing ears and screeches at her to SHUT UP.

Yo shakily smears the fresh paint between her thumb and forefinger while Fanboy rocks back and forth on his heels. This situation is affecting him more than he would like to admit, amplifying his stress, and dizzying his mind. He needs to go home. He NEEDS to. Chum Chum must be worried sick wondering where his buddy has gone! Fanboy buries his face in his knees and mumbles something about having to get groceries and make dinner.

Yo wipes her hand on the floor and half-heartedly kicks at the concrete wall, leaving a scuff she’s unable to see. There must be a way out, unless... A dark thought pops in her head. What if they're dead?

Fanboy hastily shakes his head. They can't be dead but, even if they are, they weren't bad enough to go to H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks. 

Yo concedes his point. Perhaps they’re in purgatory. A sort of limbo. Her creative ventures don’t engage Fanboy in the way Yo thinks they would. Instead, they nurture his panic until he’s a whimpering mess of dread.

Yo quickly apologizes but Fanboy is already past the point of no return. His mind screams, his body shakes, and his heart beats like a hammer. He pictures a grievous Chum Chum perched atop the roof of the Fanlair waiting for his return for years until he gives up and finds a new best friend.

Fanboy wants to vomit. Coupled with the stifling room, it proves too much to bear. He swallows back bile as his judgment lapses, leading to him jumping to his feet and beating the door with his gloved fists, landing strike after strike with emphatic repetition.

Yo cowers as Fanboy's assault mounts in intensity until he rams his head against the door’s solid surface. It hardly vibrates at the blunt force and Fanboy staggers back onto his rump, stunned but conscious.

Yo holds a hand over her chest in an attempt to mellow out her breathing. A blow like that could have—should have seriously injured Fanboy but he has an extra-thick skull, now an attribute that brings Yo great relief instead of annoyance. She may not admire him, but she wishes death upon no one. At the least, she’s thankful for his conniption’s end and rests on the chalky ground beside him.

Fanboy blinks slowly, sucking in a sharp breath before his eyes clear. He shakes his head, looking back between her general direction and the door before bursting into tears.

Appeased by his return, Yo carefully squeezes his bony shoulder. She can’t help but gravitate toward the only other person with her, even if that person isn’t her favorite. He’s all she has and, if they’re going to make it out, they’ll need to work together. 

Fanboy flinches and wipes his tears away. Even at his darkest hour, he refuses to trust her, be his own stubbornness or genuine wariness. Maybe both.

Yo retreats in case Fanboy rises to strike her, but he just slumps forward to rest his head in his hands. His energy is zapped, leaving only emotional tension to buzz between them. She gives his shoulder another gentle squeeze, partly as a gesture of mutuality and partly just to show that she can, but now the gravity of their situation has become startlingly real. Anything there was to fight, complain, and argue about is irrelevant. 

Yo renounces her afterlife theory, much to Fanboy’s relief. He does NOT want to entertain the thought of dying unless it’s due to some epic battle.

Yo nods, mentally taking note of that. But just as she begins to think Fanboy is more sensitive than she'd thought, he dramatically insinuates that maybe they’re part of a sinister experiment. Maybe they have a dangerous disease and have been quarantined! 

Irked, Yo takes extra time to point out that labs are pristine and white, unlike this shabby dump of a chamber, and asks him to please refrain from making such wild claims. Fanboy simmers at her blunt hypocrisy and refuses to scrap his idea. Perhaps a social experiment then. It’s far more exciting than what she could come up with, anyway, he thinks.

Amid the stewing silence, a wicked thought enters Yo’s head, one that she’s pushed away before it could fully form. But now, with their fanciful explanations collapsing one by one, it won’t stay buried. What if someone put them here on purpose?

Her chest tightens. Kidnapped.

The word doesn’t sound real, more like something from a TV headline or a scary story told under blankets. Still, it sits there between them, growing heavier.

Fanboy hears her before she says the word aloud, and it lands on him like a blow. He freezes in the middle of the room, more than hesitant, almost reverent in his reluctance to let the possibility live. 

Yo asks him. Does that sound plausible?

Fanboy, who has been practicing bravado since he could talk, wavers. His first response is to bluster, to demand explanations as if loudness could supply. But, beneath the show he flattens inward. He tries to laugh, but his throat feels dry. He thinks back. There’s no memory of walking here, no memory of doors opening, no smell of fresh air. Just… here.

Did someone carry us?

The thought chills him. His mind tries to paste over the blank with cartoons and daydreams. Maybe aliens, or secret agents, or a government experiment. But none of it fits. The more Yo talks, the more the pictures in his head twist: grabbing hands, car doors slamming, his consciousness ripped away.

Panic arrives first, hot and animal. Then it turns to a different color: anger, sharp and searing. How dare someone? Who gave him the right? The anger sharpens Fanboy’s focus, gives him a center to stand on when everything else threatens to drown them. He wants to confront this unseen captor, to throw open the door and demand answers. To give him what for!

But before the fury can carry him headlong into something reckless, Yo’s voice cuts through. She doesn’t raise it, but the tremor beneath her words stops him cold.

Whoever brought them here had to be strong. Strong enough to take both of them. And careful enough to make it look like they just vanished.

Fanboy stares at her. He hates how right she sounds. The thought shrinks him, makes his fists feel useless. Whoever it is, he had to know things. How to grab them, where to put them, how to keep them here without anyone finding out. He looks at the door, then the ceiling, half-expecting hidden eyes to blink down.

Yo hugs her knees, voice trembling but steady. If they try something dumb, the person will just catch them again. They have to wait. Someone has to notice they’re gone.

The way she says someone almost breaks him.

Fanboy lets out a guttural moan of frustration, dragging both hands down his masked face. He hates waiting. Waiting feels like losing. His brain flashes with escape plans: kick down the door, tunnel out with a spoon, swing from the rafters like a hero! But each one dies under the weight of reality. Without Chum Chum, he’s just… him. Not fearless. Not invincible.

He slumps beside her. Fine. The words taste bitter.

The silence grows heavy again, pressing against their ears. Every tiny noise sounds louder now that there’s nothing to distract them.

Then, a sharp pulse throbs at the back of Fanboy’s head, slicing through the haze. He winces, fingers brushing a swollen bump he hadn’t noticed before. The skin beneath his cowl is tender, the ache deep. His adrenaline must have buried it until now. He glances at Yo, and she’s doing the same: rubbing a faint bruise along her hairline, eyes wide with realization.

Fanboy swallows hard, his throat dry. He feels small in a way he never has before, and for the first time, the idea of escape doesn’t sound brave. It sounds like the only thing keeping them from falling apart.

Fanboy jolts out of a restless sleep and cries out for Chum Chum, having momentarily forgotten their situation. After a moment to recoup, he rests a hand over his heaving chest in a bid for calm. He's unsure as to how many hours he slept but, if the crick in his neck and the ache in his back is anything to go by, he can guess the number is high. Oh, if only this had been a nightmare.

He groans and stretches, wincing at his flaring back pain. He feels around for Yo and sighs in relief as he finds the hem of her sleeve. Despite his intense dislike for Yo, he’s happy he isn’t facing this alone. Ultimately, he decides to go back to sleep. He’ll need his rest if he’s ever going to break them out of here. But falling back under is more difficult than either of them had thought. The generator constantly groans its awful song as if to spite them and the biting cold causes them to rattle like frozen tins.

Fanboy wraps his cape tight around his head but the buzzing in his skull is inescapable. He shivers, rubbing his arms to get some warmth back into them. He briefly considers snuggling up to Yo to conserve body heat, but his pride wins out. As of now, he’d rather freeze than willingly surrender his dignity.

Dead tired, Yo yawns. She has propped herself up against the wall and bunched her legs to conserve heat, but the position has left her body sore. Upon waking, she too nearly forgets what has happened and timidly calls for Fanboy until he answers. Yo settles herself back into her position and screws her eyes shut, the gelid air attacking her skin, but the roar of the generator erases all chances of sleep. 

What a lonely, dreamless existence. Deprived of everything, sleep is a rare and passing gift, one that Yo, until now, has taken for granted. She sighs at her past self for having wanted to stay up late on school nights and rise at dawn to watch cartoons. Now, she’d give all the money in her kitty-bank to rest for two straight hours.

Despite the cold air of the room, her skin is peaky with sweat. She brushes her fingers against the bangs falling over her brows and touches the beads of moisture there. Thirstily, she licks the salty sweat from her fingers. Her rump is both numb and freezing.

It’ll be a miracle to find comfort on this hard, cold floor. Supply Fanboy’s ridiculously loud bruxism alongside the groaning generator and Yo doesn’t think she’ll ever sleep. The darkness is another component she doubts she’ll ever grow used to, though, not of the dark itself, but what is IN the dark. She regards her sweaty pigtails, undoes the bands, and ruffles her mane to cool off.

How weird, she thinks, is it to be both hot and cold at the same time. Her best guess is it might be attributed to a lack of sleep.

As miserable as this place is, Yo’s secretly appreciative of Fanboy’s company, however antipathetic. He is a human nightlight, offering security just by being present and, for that, she’s grateful. She just won’t admit it.

Days pass like melted wax. The air in the windowless room grows heavy, thick enough to taste. Hunger comes first—sharp and mean—then dulls into an ache that spreads to every limb. Dehydration is crueler still; it turns their mouths to paper, their thoughts to fog. Words shrink to murmurs. Even breathing feels like effort.

The water sitting in that commode is tempting, but they stubbornly hold back until they fear death is imminent. What followed was too mortifying an affair that Yo would rather forget.

Yo lies half-curled against the concrete, counting heartbeats to distract herself from the hollow pit in her stomach. Fanboy sits nearby, cross-legged and vacant-eyed, humming tunelessly under his breath to keep from crying. His tongue scrapes against cracked lips. He can’t remember what day it is.

Then–!

A noise.

It cuts through the stillness like breaking glass. Yo jerks upright, blinking through dizziness. She holds her breath, listening. The sound comes again: a dull, rhythmic thump from somewhere behind the walls. Too steady to be the building settling. Too heavy to be rats.

Her heart stutters, and she whispers Fanboy’s name. 

He doesn’t stir at first, half-convinced she’s teasing (she has a cacoethes to prank at inopportune times), but there’s no mistaking it: the sound is that of a footstep, and it’s close. 

But then the sound repeats, closer now, and his body goes rigid.

Footsteps.

Real, deliberate footsteps.

Yo’s pulse hammers in her ears. She grabs his sleeve, pulling him to his feet with trembling hands. Someone’s here! They’ve been found!

Fanboy’s caution flickers to life. His gaze darts to the corners, half expecting a shadow to detach from the wall. What if it’s the bad-guy-kidnapper-dude? The person who PUT them here? 

Yo shakes her head. Hope blinds her reason. It's a rescue. It has to be.

The footsteps echo again, heavier now, so close the walls seem to hum. Yo presses her ear to the door. She can feel the vibrations this time, the tremor of each step shivering through her bones. Fanboy hovers beside her, both terrified and desperate to believe.

Then—light.

A golden slit opens across the floor as the door creaks inward, flooding the room in warm yellow brilliance. The children recoil, shielding their eyes from the sudden radiance after endless days of darkness. Shapes blur, then sharpen—and a tall silhouette stands framed in the glow.

Boog!

Yo gasps, disbelief giving way to joy.

Fanboy’s knees nearly buckle with relief. 

There he is: Boog Shlizetti, once their tormentor, now haloed in light like a savior. In his hands, plates laden with food: crackers, bruised apple slices, a half-empty water bottle. To starving eyes, it might as well be a banquet.

Yo lunges first, shoving a handful of crackers into her mouth. Fanboy follows, gulping water so fast he coughs. Boog laughs, the usually boisterous guffaw a strangely soft sound, and pats their heads with a clumsy paternal gentleness. 

They ignore him. For a few dizzy, beautiful minutes, the world is nothing but flavor and light and the promise of rescue. Yo licks salt from her fingers. Fanboy closes his eyes, whispering a shaky prayer of thanks. The dread that’s clung to them for days begins to dissolve.

When their hunger dulls, they finally look at each other—really see each other—in the dim yellow glow. Their faces are sallow, hair matted, eyes ringed with fatigue. But they’re alive. And together.

Fanboy croaks, clutching his rescuer’s wristband. They knew someone would come. They just knew it! He has no idea–! 

Yo’s tears glimmer. Where are they? How’d Boog even find them?

For a moment, Boog only smiles. His grin is big and bright and somehow wrong, stretched too wide. Then his hands, those massive hands that once dealt out punches on the playground, settle gently, deliberately, atop their heads.

When he speaks, his tone is soft. Too soft. But the words land like stones.

Yo blinks, smile faltering. Fanboy laughs nervously. 

Boog’s eyes gleam, humorless. His arms drop, blocking the doorway. The light shifts behind him, casting his face into partial shadow. 

Yo’s pulse spikes. She inches sideways, forcing a winning smile. She needs to run home. Feed her kitty. But when she moves, Boog’s arm shoots out, a wall of muscle stopping her cold.

It takes Fanboy only a heartbeat to understand. He grabs Yo’s hand, yanking her forward, but Boog’s shove sends them sprawling. They scramble, dizzy and desperate, but the door slams with an iron clang before they can reach it.

Fanboy howls Boog’s name, pounding on the metal until his fists sting. 

Yo joins in, her screams raw, echoing into the void. They kick, punch, and plead, but the door remains immovable, and through the tiny mail slot they can only glimpse Boog’s blurry silhouette walking away.

Then, silence.

No footsteps. No laughter. Nothing.

Yo’s fury breaks into sobs, her small fists bruised and trembling. Fanboy presses his forehead to the cold door, the words coming out in a whisper now. Why? He thunks his head once, twice. How is he supposed to get back to Chum Chum now?

The light beyond the door fades, snuffed out one bulb at a time, until all that’s left is darkness thick as ink.

And in that darkness, two children, once so full of bravado, curl against the wall, the illusion of safety finally gone.

Fanboy’s breath shudders. He doesn’t want to admit it, not even to himself, but Yo was right.

Yo weeps, wishing for once that she hadn’t been.

Every horrible thing she’d guessed, every whisper, every suspicion…was true.

They’ve been kidnapped.

And Boog Shlizetti is their captor.

For a long time, neither of them moves. The only sound is their ragged, uneven breath, catching like torn fabric.

Fanboy is the first to break. He lets out a sound that isn’t quite a sob, not quite a word, just a strangled, desperate noise that tears from his throat before he can stop it. He slumps lower, fists still pressed to the concrete door as though he could force it open by sheer will.

Yo slides down beside him, her back thudding softly against the cold surface. Her eyes burn, her chest trembles, but she’s too hollow to cry yet. Her mind can’t hold the pieces together. The light, Boog’s grin, the food that still coats her tongue with salt. Rescue had felt so close she could taste it. 

Fanboy’s breath comes shallow, uneven. Boog was supposed to help them. He whispers that as though the words themselves might wake him from this nightmare. Boog fed them.

Yo doesn’t answer. She can’t. Her throat feels like sandpaper. Somewhere beyond the walls, a pipe groans. The air grows colder, heavier, until every breath stings.

Finally, Fanboy’s voice fractures. He doesn’t understand. Why would Boog do this? He pulls his knees to his chest and buries his face in them.

Yo turns her head, watching him through the dimness. Even in shadow, he looks small, smaller than she’s ever seen him. His masked face is pinched, his cape limp and gray with dust. The sight breaks something inside her.

Without thinking, she crawls closer and lays a trembling hand on his arm. She tries to give assurance, but her voice collapses before she can finish. A sob escapes instead, thin and shaking. She presses her palms to her eyes, but it only makes the tears spill faster.

Fanboy lifts his head, eyes wide and glistening. He’s seen Yo cry before, like when she scraped her knee or lost a toy, but this is different. There’s no defiance in it, no spark. It scares him more than anything else.

He reaches out awkwardly, patting her shoulder, then, finally, wraps his arms around her. She stiffens at first, then sinks into him, their bodies shaking together in the dark.

They cry until their throats ache and their breath runs out.

Eventually, exhaustion dulls the edges of their terror. The room is cold; the concrete steals warmth from their skin. Yo’s head finds Fanboy’s shoulder, her hair damp against his cheek. Fanboy stares into the black, vision swimming with phantom colors that flicker and fade.

He thinks of Chum Chum’s laugh, of the Fanlair, of sunlight.

They have to be searching. Yo whispers that after a long stretch of silence.

Fanboy hesitates. He wants to say yes—he wants to fill the void with certainty—but his voice trembles when he agrees.

Yo nods against him.

They stay like that, side by side, two small figures swallowed by the dark. The silence no longer feels empty. It hums, alive, as though the room itself is breathing around them. Every few minutes, one of them shifts or sniffles or lets out a shaky sigh, reminders that they are still here, still alive, even if the world beyond feels impossibly far away.

Sleep comes only when their bodies can’t fight anymore.

Yo drifts first, her fingers clutching the edge of Fanboy’s glove like an anchor. Fanboy stays awake longer, listening to the distant drip of water and the faint hum of electricity somewhere above. He imagines Boog’s footsteps returning, the door opening again, not with light this time, but with something worse.

He doesn’t pray aloud, but the thought flickers through him like a spark: Please, someone find us.

When his eyes finally close, the darkness feels endless.

But beneath it, just barely, there’s the fragile rhythm of their breathing, proof that hope, however small, still exists.

Boog does not return for three long days. Nobody comes to the rescue.

Hunger gnaws at what little strength Fanboy and Yo maintained, and thirst turns their mouths to parchment paper. Their tempers, once merely frayed, now unravel completely. Every word becomes an argument, every movement an offense. In that narrow cell, even silence is hostile. They retreat to opposite corners: two small, suffering opposites, each determined to freeze the other out.

But the cold is relentless, and it does not take sides.

Fanboy, thin as a matchstick and clothed in a costume meant for play, not survival, begins to tremble uncontrollably. His breath fogs faintly in the stale air, and his cape offers no defense against the chill that creeps through concrete and bone alike.

Yo watches him from across the room, arms wrapped around her knees. For a while, pride holds her still; resentment flickers in her chest like a dying ember. Yet compassion, stubborn and undeniable, soon eclipses it. With a small, abashed flush, she shifts closer, and calls for him.

Fanboy hesitates, his stubbornness always a match for hers, but the cold makes its own argument. After a few minutes of silent defiance, he gives in. They inch toward each other, awkward and uncertain, until their shoulders touch. The warmth is immediate, startling. They settle, wordlessly, into a fragile truce, two frail creatures huddled together like emperor penguins braving the dark. Slowly, the trembling subsides.

Under any other circumstance, they would have blushed, laughed, and pulled apart. But here, shame is a luxury they cannot afford. The quarrels seem childish now, meaningless against the enormity of their fear. They even whisper promises to be kinder, to stop fighting, at least until rescue comes.

Then, without warning, a sharp metallic clang slices through their fragile peace. It echoes through the chamber like the strike of a hammer on iron, reverberating in their chests. Both freeze, hearts thudding. Their eyes dart to the door.

For several agonizing moments, nothing follows—no footsteps, no voice, only silence stretching thin as wire.

When it’s clear the sound will not repeat, they exhale as one. Fanboy loosens his grip on Yo’s sleeve. The tension drains slowly, leaving only weariness.

His stomach growls lowly, insistently, almost ferally. Fanboy scowls at it, then lets out a small, humorless growl of his own.

Yo almost smiles.

Fanboy, accustomed to giving up his share for Chum Chum in leaner times, had thought he knew hunger. Nights of curling into bed with an empty stomach, clutching himself against the growls and the ache, had once felt unbearable. Compared to this, those nights had been paradise. 

Yo, by contrast, had never truly gone without. She had always been provided for, more than provided for, Fanboy thinks bitterly as his eyes flick from her slender frame to the lingering softness of baby fat that still clings to her. She looks better-fed, sturdier. But for once, he swallows his envy, choosing instead the rare path of gratitude. In a tone as flat as he can manage, he thanks her for keeping him warm, for being the barrier between his bones and the freezing dark.

She blinks at him, caught off guard by his sincerity. She studies him for a heartbeat, then simply nods and rests her head against his. For a moment Fanboy thinks she hasn’t heard him, until she murmurs that he would’ve done the same. His face burns despite his effort to stay stoic, but Yo does not tease him as she normally would. Not this time. She knows the moment is too fragile, too bitter. Instead, she saves her fire for hating the man who has put them here.

Boog. She spits, the name like a disease on her tongue. Rotten, horrible, evil Boog. She has always hated him, but now it’s cemented forever.

Fanboy huffs in shaky agreement, though secretly part of him wishes the man would return. If not to release them, then at least to offer food, water, something to quench this torture.

Neither of them could have ever imagined him as their captor. Boog, the sleazy bully of Galaxy Hills, quarter-thief, fist-swinger, lazy Frosty Mart employee whose true passions had always been insults, beatings, and his beloved Chimp-Chomp machine. He was cruel, yes, but petty-cruel. A nuisance, not a nightmare. Not…this.

The town knows him well, too well. Most would walk into Frosty Mart resigned to terrible service, praying only to be ignored rather than targeted by his fists. He was nobody’s favorite, but he had never been…this.

Fanboy scratches at his chin, searching his memory for missed signs. Other than that absurd incident where Boog had once trapped him and Chum Chum in Frosty Mart, nothing stands out. Except…he shudders at the thought…the look in Boog’s eyes when he thought he’d won. That glazed, gleeful stare. A look Fanboy had brushed off as ridiculous at the time. A look he now wishes he’d taken seriously.

Because surely, Boog wasn’t capable of this. He was selfish, lazy, obsessed with burritos, tormenting his coworker, Lenny, and maintaining his highscores on the Chimp Chomp machine. Not interested in kidnapping. Not in anyone, really. 

Their thoughts gnaw at them until desperation forces them into delusion. This has to be some kind of prank, they tell themselves. Boog can’t actually be a monster. He’ll let them go eventually. He has to. 

Fanboy insists. Yo echoes him, though both their voices are paper-thin. 

But if he doesn’t come back, they know they’re finished.

---

When Boog finally does return, Fanboy and Yo are husks of themselves, their bodies weak, lips cracked, stomachs twisted with hunger. The only water left to them is from the rusted commode in the corner, and they only force themselves to drink when the headaches become unbearable.

Still, despite their weakness, desperation sharpens into resolve. They devise an escape plan—flawed, risky, but a plan all the same. Again and again, they whisper through it, position themselves, and prepare. Boog must not catch them by surprise.

And then: light.

The glow under the door sends their hearts hammering. They stagger to either side, legs trembling but spirits burning with what little strength remains. Boog may be strong, but he is slow. If they are fast, if they are clever, they might stand a chance.

The door creaks open, heavy on its hinges. In a flash, they bolt.

But Boog is quicker than they expected. His meaty hand shoots out, yanking Yo back by her greasy pigtails. She screams, shrill and furious, thrashing in his grip in a desperate attempt to buy Fanboy the chance to escape. 

For a moment, it almost works. Boog falters, startled, but then his other hand catches Fanboy by the cape. Both captives are dragged back into the dark. 

The door slams shut with finality. Boog exhales, shaking with relief, and hoists them both high, one in each hand by their scruffs. They kick, claw, and curse, fury and terror blurring into one. Boog only laughs, a harsh, ugly sound that rattles the walls. The glint in his eyes does the rest.

That had been a close one. Boog dangles them by the scruffs on each hand, hoisting them up to eye-level and out at arm’s length. It’s amusing to watch them switch between fury and terror as they fight for their freedom. Boog grins suddenly and lets out a haughty, even gleeful guffaw as they punch and kick at him. It’s an awful sound, his laugh, putting fear into their hearts. It’s almost as scary as his eyes' glint, the one that promises pain.

He waits them out. Pressed against the wall for support, he dangles them until their bodies go slack, their meager strength finally giving way. He lowers them to the floor like discarded toys. Swallowing peals of breathy sobs, they collapse in a heap, weaker than they have ever felt in their lives.

Fanboy hides his face, ashamed of his tears. Yo mutters bitterly about their ruined plan. Before Fanboy can argue, another headache stabs through his skull, silencing him. For a fleeting second, he wants to beg Boog for water, but pride keeps his mouth shut.

Boog crouches, pats their heads mockingly. The touch chills them like ice. Yo jerks away, curling into a corner, but Boog’s smile lingers. It’s distant and strange, as though he is looking somewhere far beyond them.

Fanboy tries anyway. In a trembling voice, he pleads. Let them go. Let him see Chum Chum again. Please. He lets the tears spill; there’s no use in suppressing his frustrations. In fact, crying may have invoked Boog as a man of power, a bit of patience.

For one heartbeat, it seems to work. Boog’s expression flickers, his brows furrowing, his eyes darting to the small body in his grip. Concern? Regret? Fanboy dares to hope; they have a five-year history, after all. And he used to be nice. He used to guide the small children to the Frosty Freezy Freeze machine. He was even respectful to Lenny.

But if there was any humanity left in Boog, it’s gone now. Huffing distractedly, the man stares at a random spot in the room and vacates, leaving the duo in silence.

The moment he’s gone, Fanboy breaks. He falls back on his haunches and stares unseeingly into the dark void of a ceiling, sobbing. He just doesn’t understand.

Sensing the coast is clear, Yo scrambles to Fanboy and clutches him protectively. Usually, she’d make space, but she has never seen her classmate like this: feeble, drained, and hysterically sobbing. The maternal instinct within her blooms, and it’s all she can do to hold back from nuzzling his blotchy, tear-stained face. She simply holds him and whispers it’s okay. It’s okay to cry.

Fanboy lets her. Too tired to resist, too tired to care.

But when calm returns, dread follows. What if they aren’t the only ones? What if Boog brings Chum Chum here too? The thought sends him spiraling, gasping, clutching at his face. Yo denies it, but fear betrays her trembling at the thought of her beloved Chum Chum suffering in kind. She takes a deep breath and tries to reason. Boog may be able to outmatch two kids but not three. He isn’t stupid enough to bring in a third party, another member who would help them, lest his own captives swarm him. It's risky enough to hold them here. It’s unlikely he will try again. At least, that is what she hopes and prays for.

Fanboy considers her words but ultimately the traces of rivalry come back to haunt him. He demands with authority for her to stop sugar-coating their situation. Be realistic. No more theories, no more games, no more manipulation.

Yo pulls back surprised, then angry. She is just trying to help. And he’s a hypocrite for condemning her theories when he too was making them. Remember the “deadly disease” theory? Quarantine?

Fanboy snarls suddenly, realizing she’s right but too proud yet to admit it. Without another word, he tears away from her and plants himself before the door, pretending to prepare himself for Boog’s next visit. Yo’s nostrils flare and, with a muffled sob, she curls up at the opposite end of the room.

It’s only when Fanboy’s own crying begins to wane that she opens one eye. Fanboy’s contours are just barely visible. He’s cross-legged and silent, his back to her. His form jolts as he sniffs and sometimes a gloved hand will rise to wipe his eyes and nose before dropping back down into his lap.

After stewing for a while, Yo drags her feet, aching and cold, and finally rejoins her cellmate. Fanboy says nothing, but Yo can detect a hint of relief in his relaxing posture. She knows the feeling.

After a few hours, Yo brings up the obvious: they need to strategize. If they don’t, there’s no telling how long Boog will keep them here. He isn’t at all the person they thought he was and attests to a greater adversary than a typical bully. In here, there’s nothing holding him back from wielding the worst types of pain. For all they know, he could actually kill them.

It’s Yo who finally breaks the silence: they need a strategy. If they don’t plan, they may not survive. Boog is far more dangerous than they ever believed. Maybe even capable of killing them. Yo has seen news articles about children who’ve been kidnapped and killed. Sometimes by strangers, sometimes by friends, enemies, or even family members. If Boog delights in beating them all in broad daylight, there’s no telling what he could do to them in secret. 

Her words leave an awful silence between them. Fanboy wraps his arms tighter around himself, his stomach queasy. To think they could end up like one of those poor kids found dead and rotting by a nuclear riverbed... If only he had his powers back; he’d bust them out in a matter of seconds and beat Boog black and blue for good measure. But, without Chum Chum, his powers are all but dormant. Useless. He is useless. He braves a glance at Yo, wondering if he should tell her, but decides against it. There’s no use in revealing powers he can’t use. Just thinking about it all makes him feel sick.

Sick…

Then, just as despair begins to drown him, Fanboy startles upright. A bulb above his head flashing for a split second before going out. He leaps to his feet. Of course! It’s so obvious! 

Yo gawks at him. 

Fanboy taps the side of his skull with a grin that feels half-mad, half-brilliant.

He has a plan.

---

Boog slips inside, whistling a jaunty tune as he shuts the steel door. The bolt clicks into place with the precision of ritual. Always the backup lock. Always. He grimaces at the thought of them slipping past him again—no, not this time. Never again. His fist flexes at his side, eager, almost longing. If they try, he knows exactly what he’ll do.

But the cheer drains from his face, and the glass plate slips from his hands, shattering on the floor, when he sees what waits for him.

Fanboy kneels on the ground, shoulders heaving, tears cutting through the grime on his cheeks. His small body shields Yo, who lies curled tightly into herself, limp, unmoving.

Boog freezes. Then, as Fanboy lifts his head and glares with a venom so raw it makes him flinch, panic shudders through his chest. He bolts forward, the echo of the slammed door ringing like a gunshot behind him. Too hard. He’d hit her too hard.

His voice cracks as he crouches, pressing a hand to her forehead, shaking her shoulder.

Her lips twitch. A faint wince. She’s alive. Conscious. Pretending.

Relief doesn’t come. Only confusion. Boog blinks, and then pain detonates across his skull, white-hot and absolute. The world goes black.

Fanboy staggers backward, rubbing the now aching flat of his skull where bone met bone. Agony throbs, but then he sees it: Boog sprawled motionless on the floor. He’s done it. He’s really done it. They have a chance to get out!

Then Yo whimpers. Her chest jerks beneath the man’s enormous weight, breath stifled, eyes wide in silent terror. Fanboy shrieks, scrambles, and hauls at her arms until, with a final heave, she slips free. She collapses beside him, gasping, her frame shaking. She hasn’t a moment to process before Fanboy shakes her by the shoulders.

GO.

Together they hurl themselves at the door, shoving, clawing, slamming their bodies against the steel. It doesn’t budge. Fanboy’s palms blister beneath his gloves. Yo rakes her nails down the frame until they bend and split. Fanboy’s shoves become unfocused as his panic mounts, as does Yo’s as she grabs at her hair.

No.

Yo screams into the slot, her voice ragged, pleading for anyone—someone—to hear. The sound tears from her throat like it might break her ribs. Fanboy joins in, uncaring if the noise wakes their captor, but it's no use anyway. Nobody comes.

Distress skyrocketing, Fanboy pounds his fist against the steel door, each strike heavier than the last until his knuckles throb, until he is sure the bones themselves might shatter.

He screams for the door to open, the demand reverberating like a challenge, and then the worst possible outcome takes form: Boog stirs.

Yo gasps and clamps a hand over her mouth, her scream half-swallowed. The children scatter instinctively, scrambling for corners, desperate to hide from his gaze.

Boog lifts his head slowly, eyelids fluttering, a hand dragging over his bruised temple. The swelling blooms blue-green, an ugly reminder of Fanboy’s defiance. Fanboy swallows hard. He’s gonna get bopped for that one.

Yo weighs the thought of striking him while he’s weak. Just one good kick while he’s down, but her courage collapses before she can act.

Boog steadies himself against the wall, glazed eyes narrowing into focus. Anger rushes in to fill the space left by dizziness.

With a guttural roar, he surges forward, fists fused together into his infamous weaponL the H-Bop. Everyone in Galaxy Hills knows it, feared it; it was outlawed after the Bubble Incident. But this is Boog’s world. Here, there are no rules.

BOP.

The blow sends Fanboy flying into the concrete wall with a sickening crack. His body pratfalls, unconscious, before sliding to the floor. Yo lets out a strangled cry, both hands flying to her mouth, her body trembling so hard she can barely stay upright. Boog whoops in triumph, laughing like a maniac, reveling in the destruction. 

Yo covers her ears and presses up against the wall opposite of Fanboy. She can’t bear to witness Boog’s glowing smile nor listen to his delighted crows. She can’t believe it. She just can’t, and yet a part of her is unsurprised that Boog is proud of himself. Any man who publicly lines up children and beats them to the rhythm of Beethoven is bound to lay claim to something much eviler in secret, but still!

STOP! She explodes, her knees giving out.

Boog smirks at the other captive and cracks his bloody knuckles anew, stalking toward her like a predator savoring the final pounce.

Tears leak down Yo face. She feels small, insect-like beneath his stare. A bug about to be crushed. She crab-walks back until her spine hits the wall, but he follows, step by deliberate step, delighting in her terror.

Yo pleads with all her might, making her eyes as big and glittery as possible to invoke some pity, but to no avail.

Sporting that horrible grin, Boog takes another step. Then, another. Then, another. And another. All the while, he revels in Yo’s beseeching cries and convulsions.

When Boog comes to a stop, Yo is an exhausted, sobbing mess at his feet. She’s too terrified even to run. All she can do is curl up into a tiny ball, an innate way to show that she is no threat and he needn’t hurt her.

She chants brokenly for her safety, for her freedom. She promises the world. 

Boog rubs his chiseled chin. Anything? He repeats this aloud to himself, pretending to ponder over it.

Emboldened, Yo peeks out from under her arm, her eyes flickering with fragile hope. She nods desperately.

Deciding to bait the poor girl, Boog makes a show of pretending to mull over it, huffing and sighing and pacing back and forth before finally coming to a stop.

Pointing to the discarded plate of food, Boog orders Yo to clean it up. She obeys without a second thought, scrambling on all fours to the glass plate (which is miraculously intact) and food items.

She obeys at once, crawling across the floor on shaky hands and knees. The glass plate is intact, the scraps of food scattered. She gathers them quickly, sneaking in a desperate nibble, praying he won’t notice. Her eyes keep drifting to Fanboy’s limp body. Please wake up. Please.

She doesn’t expect a “thank you” or a “good job”, but some sort of reaction would rather suffice than the unusual silence. 

Yo’s last bout of hope sparks the courage needed to lift her head. Her heart freezes. Boog’s face is blank but his eyes are glinting with madness. Worse yet, his arms are raised high above his head.

Yo has only a moment to process before he brings his arms down and smashes the plate right atop her crown.

Her body jerks and sways.

Boog watches, unfazed. 

Yo breaks. Her screams rip through the room as she stumbles in circles, clutching her stomach, hysteria spilling unchecked. Boog watches with idle detachment, yawns, stretches, and announces it’s bedtime. With a guffaw and a mocking wave, he strides out, shutting the door on her pleas.

Yo claws at her hair, pacing the cell, kicking shards away in frantic bursts. Her chest heaves, her breaths too fast, too shallow. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. She’s home. She’s safe. She’s curled in bed with her cat.

But the concrete is cold. Fanboy’s body is cold.

She slumps against him, exhausted sobs dwindling to broken breaths. 

It’s all a dream, she tells herself faintly. Just a dream. Any moment now, she’ll wake up.

But she never does.

Chapter Text

Chapter Two: In a Black Pit

Fear-laden exhaustion gnaws at what little patience Fanboy and Yo have left. They've never been a model of harmony. Getting along was rare even under normal circumstances. Trapped in a room with no way out, the chasm between them widens. They begin to blame each other for everything and scrounge low for biting insults. At first, the barbs are sharp, petty names tossed back and forth. But, soon, the names rot into something uglier.

Yo latches onto Fanboy’s tired slurring and short-fused temper. 

You sound even dumber than normal! Maybe Boog bopped out the last of your brains!

The jab lands. Fanboy stiffens, his whole face twisting, rage surging, and he spits at her. The instant it leaves him, his gut twists with revulsion, but Yo has already reacted. She slams her fist against the side of his head, right where the bruise lingers.

White pain explodes across Fanboy’s vision. His restraint finally snaps and, with a guttural noise, he drives his fist into her soft, tear-stained face. Yo reels, staggering back. She wants to strike again, but exhaustion overtakes her, and she stumbles into the corner to curl in on herself.

Fanboy exhales hard through his nose and scoffs to cover the flood of shame. She started it. That was a slap well-deserved. But deep down, he knows. The venomous words, the reckless swing... Chum Chum would be horrified to see how low he’s sunk.

For a long while, silence reigns, broken only by Yo’s muffled sobs. Fanboy’s breathing slows and the heat of anger ebbs, replaced by a cold, crawling regret. He shouldn’t have touched her. He shouldn’t add to the violence Boog already deals out. He should be better.

Sorry. The apology scrapes from his throat, pride splintering with every syllable. Yo doesn’t reply.

But then, just as his eyes drift shut, her own hoarse whisper threads through the dark. Sorry.

Fanboy startles at the sound, then grunts in acknowledgment, pretending the exchange has settled everything. He leans his back against the door, staring into the shadows. Let her think he’s moved on. After all, when they get out of here, they’ll go their separate ways.

Still, the image of her tearful face lingers behind his eyelids. He promises then and there to Yo that he won't ever strike her again.

With the likelihood of help arriving shrinking by the day, Fanboy and Yo sink into despair. Time stops moving as it should; hours stretch to eternities, and days collapse into a blur. They lose track of how long they’ve been locked in, and the inescapable present feels like a cruel illusion.

Galaxy Hills is too quiet of a town for disappearances like theirs to go unnoticed. There isn’t enough crime to stretch the police thin so, by all rights, someone should have found them already. Boog must have covered his tracks if even Agent Johnson, head of Galaxy Hills’s security, hasn’t picked up their trail.

Yo keeps her chin up when she can. She tells herself they’ll be found soon and even spares sympathy for the rescuers she imagines combing the desert or searching dark alleys. When she finally slumps into her awkward sleeping position, she closes her eyes and aches for the comfort of Ms. Yukakitty’s fuzzy orange face. She longs for her father too, for the familiar distance of him. Even that would be preferable to the silence now.

Meanwhile, Fanboy spirals. Chum Chum is all he has. The longer he is kept from him, the more the absence gnaws. Sometimes, in selfish flashes, he wishes Chum Chum were beside him, even if it meant sharing the prison. At least then he would know Chum Chum’s fate, at least then he could hold on to something solid. At first, he’s indignant. How could anything, even Boog, separate them? But indignation gives way to hollow panic. He is just a kid! Why should he suffer like this? 

Sluggish and starving, the two shiver against the dank concrete. The walls press in, hard and unyielding. The hum of a generator drones on, relentless, pounding against Fanboy’s skull until he plugs his ears and curls up in a ball. Yo adapts to the noise, but she can’t escape the constant panic ticking under her skin.

When she wakes after another broken stretch of sleep, her body aches. A crick in her neck stings when she turns her head, and to her left, Fanboy snores. She stares at him jealously.

By the start of the second month, Fanboy develops an odd habit. He sits silently before the door, unmoving, staring at nothing for hours. At first, Yo shrugs it off. Fanboy has always been weird. But deep down, she knows this isn’t him. His glassy gaze, the way his words stumble when he does speak, the irritable distance that has replaced his usual cheer; they’re all signs of something else.

Talking is a lifeline in the silence. Yo tries to draw him out, but he won’t answer. She pokes him, flicks his glass eye, blows raspberries in his ear, hurls insults that normally would have sparked a dozen comebacks. Nothing. His stillness creeps her out.  Whatever the cause, she can't stand the cold shoulder treatment for much longer.

Yo hasn't slept in days. At least, that is what she assumes. For all she knows, it may have been weeks. Without the rise and fall of daylight, she cannot distinguish one endless hour from the next. When she was first dragged into this stark, airless room, a blindfold had shrouded her vision for what felt like an eternity. That small deprivation lingers, leaving her sense of time forever distorted. 

Fanboy sits brooding in the corner, his face shrouded in a stillness that is more unsettling to Yo than any tantrum. The silence he cultivates swells until it presses against the girl's ears. She can hear her own blood moving.

If only he would speak. Any voice would break the spell. She longs for it, desperate to be reassured that she still exists, that she is not merely another pawn in Boog’s game.

Her attempts at coaxing him have long since soured. Pleas turned to barbs, barbs to snarls, each word designed to cut deep enough to provoke a response. Yet he remains unmoved, eyes fixed on the door, as if in a trance.

At last, frustration gives her a cruel idea. She remembers what Chum Chum once told her, half in warning, half in jest: Fanboy does not tolerate certain noises. Back then she had scoffed. How could someone so obnoxious and loud have “sensory issues”? But now, armed with that knowledge, she stretches herself flat on the floor and begins to pound her heels against the wall.

The methods are harsh, but Yo feels that Fanboy deserves this for ignoring her. 

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound reverberates harshly in the small chamber. Fanboy flinches, the slightest tightening of his jaw betraying discomfort, but he otherwise remains still. He can endure the constant din of chewing, of squealing, even his own ceaseless chatter, but scraping, drilling, shrill rhythms like this burrow into him, twist his nerves until he trembles. Under normal circumstances he could retreat, ask for help, find an adult to intervene. Here, there is no escape.

Yo kicks harder. Still nothing. He just sits there, like a statue. But Yo sees the way he rubs at his temple, as if his skull is packed too tight. She’s noticed this before, the way he winces at certain noises, or blanks out mid-sentence as if his brain misfires. Ever since Boog cracked him across the head that first week, something’s been different about him. Slower. Moodier. Sometimes his words jumble.

She’s wondered, secretly, if it’s serious. But now, caught up in fury, she bites down on the thought and weaponizes it.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Fanboy does not move. He only stares at the door, fingers curling faintly into fists.

Yo’s chest aches. Does Fanboy hate her that much? Her stomps accelerate, wild and furious, until at last his composure cracks. He turns, slow and deliberate, and fixes her with a look that makes her foot freeze midair.

After a short pause, Fanboy asks in a mocking tone if she's done throwing her temper tantrum.

Tears prick Yo's eyes and, out of spite, she gives the wall one final, punishing kick.

Fanboy rubs his temples feeling as though the noise has left splinters in his skull.

Yo swallows hard, nails tearing at her fingertips, but resists the urge to lash out physically. They have both endured enough under Boog’s fists. So instead she talks. Her words spill out haltingly at first, then in a torrent: fears, grievances, small desperate wishes. A bath. Freedom. Friends. She misses them, Chum Chum most of all.

Fanboy scoffs, unable to stop himself. Of course she’d bring up Chum Chum. But Yo surprises him. She admits outright that his bond with Chum Chum is sacred, something she could never rival. To have it torn apart by Boog must be devastating. Yo has Lupe, to whom she has shared secrets and played with many a time, but their friendship pales, therefore by some margin curtailing the value of her own heartbreak.

Fanboy does not turn to her, but he also does not cover his ears, and that thin allowance feels like hope. Her lip trembles as her hands twist in her lap. Embarrassment burns her face, but she forces it out before shame can strangle it back.

She needs him.

Fanboy pauses. For a second, he almost believes her. But the stubborn part of him remembers Yo’s talent for manipulation. She’s faked sincerity before. Why not now? His walls rise back up.

Yo lowers her head while hot salty tears gush from her eyes and drip-drop to the floor, momentarily ashamed to have divulged her rival like this when she knows he won't respond in kind. She thinks she sounds pitiful, and angrily swipes at her tears as if they’re acidic, but the pain in her heart is too great, and it's not long before she's openly sobbing.

Fanboy’s good eye stings. Her words hit deeper than he wants to admit. Ignoring her now feels cruel, no matter what. He remembers Chum Chum, his kindhearted sidekick, and thinks of what his friend would do in his place. Chum Chum would never let her cry alone. He would comfort, embrace, speak gently until her tears dissolved. Yo isn't asking for even half of that. She just wants his acknowledgment but he's ignoring her. And for what? He doesn't even know. 

Fanboy hesitates. Then, slowly, he rises and crosses the short distance between them. His hand comes down awkwardly, hesitantly, to pat her head. Yo gasps at the unexpected touch. When his thin arms encircle her in a clumsy embrace, her sobs deepen, but she clings to him all the same.

A bit embarrassed and about to cry himself, Fanboy gives a most sincere apology, one that Chum Chum would be proud of. More impressive: he promises that he'll talk to her. Clamming up like a, well, clam, is not what a superhero-in-training should do. That, he will do, as long as she NEVER stomps the wall again.

Yo hiccups a laugh through her tears, nodding fiercely. His words, his arms around her, this human interaction, are what she needed. The knowledge that she isn't alone in this horrible place. That she has a friend in her corner. She apologizes as well, promising that she'll try to give him space when he needs it.

Fanboy pats her head again, a surprisingly sweet gesture compared to Boog’s creepy manhandling, and pulls back. Then, to lighten the mood, he challenges her to play a word game, to which she gratefully accepts and wipes away the last of her tears.

With the years-long rivalry dulling into something quieter, Fanboy and Yo begin to sense the fragile outline of trust forming between them. It grows hesitantly, like a fragile plant twisting toward light. They no longer resist the closeness of each other at night. If Fanboy’s cape proves too thin, they shift and settle, heads pressing together, shoulders leaning, bodies used as pillows. It is strange, unfamiliar, and a little frightening, yet survival demands it. And, if Yo admits it to herself, the comfort is not entirely unwelcome.

The same can’t be said for Boog, a man of little patience and less empathy, his bulk filling the space like a looming shadow. He tries, absurdly, to engage them in chatter, but they are children emptied of tolerance, acknowledging him only by accepting the food he pushes through the slot. His voice, once loud and crass, becomes background noise, stripped of authority the moment they cease to respond.

Sometimes Yo wonders if Fanboy had stayed in his earlier silence, she might have, out of sheer desperation, sought Boog’s attention. The thought sickens her to the core. 

Thankfully, it hasn’t come to that. Instead, Fanboy speaks, and even his smallest words tether her to something familiar. The void inside her chest feels less cavernous. She doesn’t need Boog. She has Fanboy. She has her classmate.

Boog notices, of course. Frustration flickers and, when his overtures fail, he punishes. Meals vanish. Days pass. Hunger gnaws through their insides like rats. When at last Yo slices her palm on a shard of ceramic, and Fanboy clutches another piece like a weapon, Boog appears in person to sweep away the remnants, more keeper than captor. He is deliberate, methodical, waiting until six empty days have stripped them thin enough to pledge their compliance. Only then does he relent.

He brings them down, fussing as though they are pets, smoothing their hair, touching their hands. Yo endures it stiffly, nausea bubbling at the feel of his skin in her tangled hair. She leans faintly against one side of him, Fanboy on the other, their little hands twitching with restraint until the food is finally offered.

The meal is grotesquely simple: fried chicken, raisins, apples, two cups of cold milk. It tastes of Heaven and Hell together. They devour it greedily, yet too fast, each bite threatening to come back up. 

Fanboy closes his eyes, trying to savor, but Boog’s nearness turns every flavor to ash. Yo lets her tears fall silently as Boog strokes her scalp with mock gentleness. Her throat tightens. She wishes-no, begs for something to interrupt.

Fanboy answers. In a swift, clumsy motion, he snatches the empty plate and lifts it high, prepared to strike. For a heartbeat, Yo almost believes he will succeed. But hunger has stolen his strength. Boog catches his arm easily, strips away the plate, and slaps the boy hard enough to leave a red bloom across his cheek.

Yo chokes mid-bite, coughing violently, her chest convulsing. She claws at her throat, desperate for air. Fanboy groans, clutching his cheek, and tries to swing again, but Boog traps his fist with one enormous hand. The boy’s face pales as Boog squeezes, voice rich with menace as he tells him how easily he could break the fragile bones. Fanboy squeaks in terror, eyes darting to Yo, who convulses still, retching. He pleads for release, desperate to reach her. By luck or sheer will, she hacks up the shard of meat herself, gasping wetly for air.

Boog laughs at Fanboy's efforts and drags him back down next to Yo, who clutches her companion. To Boog, the scene is absurd: two starved little bodies clinging to each other in their misery. He plucks up the half-chewed piece Yo just expelled and, with mocking care, shoves it into her mouth. She squeals, gagging at the scrape of his callused fingers against her tongue. Her teeth snap down instinctively, but he pries her jaw open with brutal ease, forcing the greasy strip down her throat before slamming her mouth shut.

Her eyes blaze, furious and wet, but she swallows.

Fanboy clutches her waist, shielding her as best he can, glaring through his tears with a stubborn fire that has not yet been extinguished.

Giving another small chuckle at their tear-streaked, hollow faces, Boog asks if they enjoyed their first date.

The children squint, having trouble reading the implications, and merely respond as to how children do when confronted with an accusation or question hinting towards romance: disgust. They quickly pull apart, wishing to, if anything, dispel the suspicion that they may like each other "like that".

Dismissing the thought, Boog wrinkles his nose as he crouches before them. They reek, he decides. He does not care to have them fall ill. He orders them against the wall. The promise in his voice is simple: obey, or he will hurt them.

An oval basin of dented metal is dragged inside, its weight groaning across the concrete. It looks like a horse trough. Three feet high, three feet wide, and its purpose is clear. Boog slips a hose through the narrow slot of the door and begins to fill the vessel. Soon the basin steams, its surface trembling with warmth, the air thickening into a faint mist.

Fanboy and Yo remain frozen, too frightened to make a move. Escape is impossible; the door has never budged beneath their weight. So they watch in silence as the water rises, gleaming like a prize they had nearly forgotten existed.

When it is full enough, Boog retracts the hose, slicks his hair back, and praises their good behavior. He drops two water bottles, two packets of club crackers, a bar of pink soap, ratty towels, and half a bottle of shampoo at their feet. These are small luxuries, a godsend in the dim monotony of captivity. Neither child thinks to thank him. Gratitude, after all, would make it seem as though he were kind.

Thankfully, Boog does not ask for it. He leaves them in the dark without the promise of a swift return.

They don’t move until they hear the sounds of his footsteps recede. Only after do they dare approach the basin sitting stoutly in the center of the room.

Fanboy’s gloves come off first. He plunges his bare hands into the steaming basin and gasps sharply at the sensation. The heat prickles his skin, almost painful after weeks of cold, and he shudders as if he were stepping into sunlight after a long winter’s hibernation. 

How could he ever have hated baths before this? To wash is no longer a chore, it is deliverance. His skin feels oily, his cowled hair glued to his forehead with grease. He longs to be rid of it, to scrape the filth from himself until he somewhat resembles the aspiring hero he was before.

Yo shares his hunger for cleanliness. She has felt grime clinging to her since the third day and envies Fanboy’s childlike joy at the basin. She pities him, too, for the way he suffers the cold; she has always borne it better. But this will be a treat for her no matter what.

First, they drink until their stomachs feel ready to explode.

Then they strip with fumbling haste, bickering over who should wash first until neither can endure another second shivering in the dark. At last, they slip into the water together, underclothes clinging like makeshift swimsuits. It is awkward, sharing the basin, but privacy has long ago become a relic of their lives. They settle on opposite ends, knees pulled up to their chests, careful not to intrude.

The warmth envelops them like a spell. Fanboy curls inward, feeling for a moment like a bird tucked inside an egg, cocooned and safe. He exhales, the sound ragged, and dips his face until only his eyes remain above the surface. When he lifts his head again, his smile falters halfway, as though the effort of holding it strains him. He wonders how Boog has managed to heat the water, if the hose has been rigged to some hidden boiler. Then the thought drifts away. 

All that matters is the heat. The Heavenly, skin-tingling heat. He will cling to it until the water cools, store it in his core for as long as he can manage.

In the meantime, they scrub with desperate energy, fingernails scraping grime from their skin in gray ribbons. They agree that soap is the best option for toothpaste, and they use their fingernails to scrape away the building plaque. Fanboy removes his cowl in the pitch black to soap his hair, wincing as knots tug against his scalp. 

Soon, they’re clean. Passable at least, to feel a semblance of comfort after stewing in their own filth like animals for goodness knows how long. 

Yo, content at last, leans her arms on the rim of the basin and sighs. For the first time in a while, she feels human. More than that, even. She feels normal.

Fanboy scrubs the bar over his hand, humming a crooked little jingle. He stops mid-song as if he’s forgotten what part comes next. A strange silence follows before he randomly picks up the tune on the jingle’s latter bit.

Yo pretends not to notice the flounder, but she tucks the memory away, a seed of worry she will later gnaw on. For now, she smiles at Fanboy's dark silhouette and tells him she doesn't think she could do this without him, keeping her sanity meter at safe measures.

Flattered and unsure, Fanboy quietly responds that even if one of them were alone, things would turn out okay, because they're both tough. His tone takes on a smug edge. They'd outlast Boog and escape, even solo. 

Yo perks. Just imagine, she sighs, if Fanboy were to actually possess the superpowers he so desperately, well, "fanboys" over. Then he could pick Boog up by his scruff and smash him through the very walls keeping them contained. How awesome would that be?

She hears Fanboy hum, unsurprised to hear a touch of sadness in the noise, and figures that sharing her fantasies may just be bringing the mood down.

But then— Imagine, Fanboy says, if Kyle used his magic to track them down. That kid can summon griffons, dispel demons…what’s stopping him from taking his wand and "poofing" them back into the town square?

Yo stills. If that were the case, why Kyle hasn’t done it after all this time?

Fanboy doesn’t have an answer to that, other than “Kyle’s not a big fan of us”, so sulks in disappointment. 

Hoping to save the mood, Yo nudges his foot with hers. Just as she said before, she's happy Fanboy’s here. No matter what.

Fanboy sticks out his tongue with playful disgust, begging her to quit being mushy.

Yo laughs and, with a quick flick of her wrist, splashes him. The water slaps his face. He sputters and blinks into the darkness, then retaliates, sending a wave over her chest. Soon the basin rocks with their battle, water spilling over the sides, slapping the floor in noisy puddles. Their laughter, hushed and frantic, fills the air.

It ends only when Yo notices their pile of clothes growing damp. She scolds him and they stop, giggling mischievously.

The water, gray and lukewarm now, has lost its magic, but they don’t leave until its warmth has receded significantly. Then, they reluctantly climb out, shivering on the concrete, and rub themselves dry with threadbare towels before slipping back into their clothes. The air bites cruelly after the bath’s embrace, and they shiver in each other’s arms like emperor penguins, wondering what to do next.

As if on cue, the dim light outside flicks on. Boog returns, arms burdened. Fanboy and Yo flinch together as he spreads a thick comforter on the floor and sets down two pillows. A lantern follows, its amber glow softening the room into something almost tender. Last of all comes a children’s book. He sits cross-legged at the blanket’s center and pats the spaces beside him.

Ever-hesitant, they obey, silently grateful at least for the warmth their captor’s body provides. 

Boog sniffs the air, nods in approval, and begins to read The Witches. The children are rapt, hearts beating in rhythm with his words, afraid to miss a syllable for fear of punishment. It’s not a long story, but they’re exhausted. Boog's sharp grunt is all it takes for them to stand alert. When he finishes, he strokes the crowns of their heads with unexpected gentleness before leaving.

Joy of joys, he leaves the comforter behind. For what reason, they do not know, but it is a blessing nonetheless.

Fanboy shrieks happily but Yo's suspicions hold her back, so she shakes out the blanket to determine if there's any mischief. It wouldn’t be shocking if Boog has planted something, but the comforter shows no signs of tampering. Still, as a talented prankster, she's satisfied that it has been checked.

Fanboy cannonballs on. Yo joins him, and together they wrap themselves up like a cocoon. Fanboy trembles with glee as he settles next to his friend. At last, warmth. Finally, softness. Their eyes drift closed, lulled by the beat of each other’s hearts and the faint, impossible hope that one day, someone will find them.

Chapter Text

They stop counting the days somewhere in the second month. Or maybe the third. 

When Yo first thinks to scratch tally marks into the wall, it's too late to be accurate. 

Fanboy keeps moving. Six steps from one corner to the other. Turn. Six steps back. Kick the wall halfheartedly. Nothing thuds back.

Yo joins in one day, just to break the monotony, and their steps become the only thing alive in the room.

Boog’s shadow hangs over them even when he isn’t there. His visits are irregular. Sometimes days apart, sometimes hours, and he never comes with the consistency of a man meeting needs. Food is an afterthought, or a weapon. He looks at them the way a child examines an insect in a jar, curious at first, then bored, then cruel. When their hands shake too much to lift a crust of bread, he raises his brows in mock surprise.

Fanboy’s form-fitting costume hangs off him like a discarded skin. His frame is all bones and tremors now. He spends most of the day cocooned beneath the comforter, his breath warm in the fabric but nowhere else.

Yo’s body holds its weight longer, her slower metabolism giving her a dangerous kind of resilience. She becomes Fanboy’s heat source without intending to, their bodies pressed together under the blanket when the temperature falls far enough to make the air hurt in their lungs. Fanboy hates needing her, hates the way dependency settles on him like another layer of grime.

In the dark, they can’t see each other’s breath, but Fanboy can hear his own, the sharp hitch of panic. On the worst days, the room seems to shrink, the air too thick, his skin too tight. He cries without warning, without the dignity of hiding it, his tears soaking the cold concrete until the wet spreads under his cheek.

At this point, he isn't even embarrassed to be crying in front of his frenemy. Not that she would have any gal to make fun of him anymore.

Yo’s coping is different. Anger is her insulation. She pictures Boog’s face breaking under her fist, the crowd roaring as she knocks him flat. She clings to that imagined moment until the edges dull, until reality bleeds back in. Then she goes quiet, the rage cooling to a sullen hum.

Every time she returns from her fantasy, the same thought waits for her: Someone is looking for us. She repeats her prayers and doesn’t dare imagine the alternative.

The generator’s low, guttural hum has been gnawing at their skulls for a while now.

Fanboy is fraying worse than before. The cold has been eating at him for months, hollowing him out alongside hunger and the constant press of fear. He grinds his palms into his eyes until colors burst behind them, hissing through clenched teeth, growling low at himself to hold it together. For a little while, the act works just long enough to fool Yo when she asks if he’s okay. He even finds the strength to smile.

But hours stretch here like warped glass, and the cracks in him begin to show. The tears rise, hot and sudden, and he thinks about all the people who must be worrying. He considers breaking out, shoving at the walls with his powers, but without Chum Chum’s presence to feed them, the idea is useless. Still, he apologizes in silence, pressing his thoughts outward as if his best friend might hear them. The effort leaves him with a sharp, ringing ache behind his eyes. Concentration or dehydration; it doesn’t matter. The pain is the same.

He groans and folds himself into a ball. Now all he can think of is water. He imagines the weight of it in a cup, the sound of it pouring, the way it would run across his cracked lips. His mouth is dry enough to burn. His tongue rasps against the roof of his mouth like paper against sand. How long since the last sip? A day? Two? How long will Boog make him wait? Surely, nothing he’s doing could be so important.

Chimp Chomp. That’s Yo’s guess.

Fanboy’s chest locks, his teeth clench, and the tears finally slip. He tries to catch them with his tongue, desperate for even that tiny relief, but the drops vanish too quickly. His breath hitches, turns to heaving.

The sound pulls Yo out of whatever half-sleep she’d been in. She turns toward where she feels him small, shivering, and folded in on himself. Her hand finds his shoulder, cold against cold. She doesn’t speak, but the touch slows him, just a little. His crying softens to a low, shaky rhythm.

Despite everything between them, Yo hates seeing him like this. Then, she has an idea. He needs a distraction. Something to pull him out of the spiral.

Without warning, she takes his hands in hers and asks how he got his glass eye. The question is strange enough to make him pause, to make him roll over and face her.

For a second she wonders if she’s gone too far, but he sits up, nods. He’s wary, but open. And, for the first time in hours, they lean back-to-back and talk.

Five years ago, he tells her, he and Chum Chum didn’t even know each other. First day of kindergarten, Chum Chum got too excited, too handsy, and jabbed a finger straight into Fanboy’s open right eye. A hospital trip later, and he was half-blind with a prosthetic to fill the space.

Fanboy smiles at the memory. He and Chum Chum have been inseparable ever since.

Yo listens, gnawing at a nail. She asks if he’d ever been angry, or scared. He shrugs. What kid wouldn’t be? Losing the eye had been hard, the adjustment worse. Months of counseling. Pain that still comes and goes. But here, in the dark, it doesn’t matter. Yo can’t see him, and he can’t see her. Besides, Chum Chum had lost his left leg in the kindergarten’s rocket incident. If his friend could make do with one leg, Fanboy could make do with one eye.

That, Yo remembers. And now she remembers watching them, back before all this, seeing the way his left eye never quite moved like the right. It had never occurred to her it could be false, not until she’d seen it slip free from its socket. She touches the skin beneath her own eye, wonders what it would feel like to have glass in place of flesh.

Without thinking, she asks if she can feel it. Silence blooms between them, then Yo’s nervous laugh, her voice stumbling as she assures him he doesn’t have to let her. It’s his eye.

But then there’s the faint sound of shifting, the brush of his gloved hands against hers. Slowly, he guides her fingers up, up, until they press to something smooth, faintly warm, slick with the damp of his eyelid. She can feel him blink beneath her touch, feel the twitch of nerves still alive beneath the glass. A shiver runs down her arm. She pulls her hand back, breath quick, heart strange in her chest.

He squeezes her fingers once before letting go.

The silence after is thick, strange. Beneath the comforter, side by side, both of them feel it: a tiny flutter, like something trapped inside their ribs. Fanboy tries not to name it. He only knows that for the first time in months, Yo’s presence doesn’t feel like a burden at all.

The door opens without warning and Boog steps inside without food. In his hand, a lantern glows red, the kind campers might use, but here it looks like an ember stolen from somewhere far below the earth.

He shuts the door. The generator hum fades into the background, replaced by the lantern’s low hiss. When he turns it on, the room blooms in a bruised orange haze. Fanboy shields his good eye. Yo blinks rapidly, her vision prickling as if the light is needling straight into her skull. The shadows it casts look stretched, alive, and trembling in the corners.

Boog stands still, arms crossed over his barrel chest. His eyes catch the light in strange ways, blue one moment, brown the next, and his face is a blank wall with something glinting behind it. Fanboy whimpers. He doesn’t know why, but this quiet Boog, this still Boog, feels worse than the one who yells.

They curl into each other instinctively, two small creatures hoping the predator will pass them by. It doesn’t work.

Boog’s hand closes in Fanboy’s scruff, wrenching him up with a sharpness that makes Yo’s stomach drop. She squeals, reaching for him, but he’s already swaying on unsteady legs under Boog’s gaze. Those eyes rake over him slowly, like they’re weighing how much is left to take. Then, perplexingly, Boog smiles, pats him on the head, and shoves him toward Yo, planting him above her with his arms braced on either side.

Boog retreats to watch, folding one leg over the other, fists resting on his knee. The lantern makes his shadow stretch across the wall, its head grazing the ceiling.

Fanboy trembles where he’s placed. Yo covers her ears, squeezes her eyes shut. She tries to shrink the moment down to nothing. But Boog wants interaction. He jabs Fanboy in the ribs, tilting his head as though examining a bug.

And then he moves them. Closer. Nose-to-nose. Fanboy can smell her breath, feel it against his lips. He stays still, counting his own heartbeats, willing himself invisible.

Boog doesn’t like stillness. His hand closes on the back of Fanboy’s head and crushes their faces together. Fanboy twists away just in time, but the heat of Yo’s skin still sears his cheek. Yo manages to drift into a strange, blank silence. Fanboy, though? Fanboy is unraveling. His mouth goes dry, his stomach turns over. His arms quake from the strain, from the heat of Boog’s attention pressing into him like a second gravity.

When they fail to give him whatever twisted reaction he’s looking for, Boog lets go. Fanboy collapses to the floor, rattled and aching. Something in him shifts, fear contracting into a sharper, hotter thing. He stands again, staring straight at Boog. Yo tugs at his hand, pleading, but he squeezes back as if to say not this time.

It becomes a standoff. Two locked pairs of eyes. Two different kinds of hunger. Yo’s voice wavers into the space between them, desperate—and it’s all Boog needs. His fist crashes into Fanboy’s face. The sound echoes in the walls, metal against metal, before Fanboy’s body hits the floor with a crack.

Yo screams. Her voice rings in the lantern-lit air, and she hates the sound of it, hates that it gives Boog what he wants.

With as much vigor as possible, she shouts at Boog to leave them alone. At first, Boog ignores her in favor of massaging his bruised knuckles, a testament to how hard he’d struck Fanboy, but then, he smiles. About two seconds pass before Yo realizes that she has made a big mistake

Some time passed before wipes his knuckles on the comforter, leaving a smear of red, then tells them he’ll bring dinner later.

He leaves the lantern behind. Its light is wrong without him—too still, too heavy. Shadows on the walls seem to keep swaying, as if Boog is still in the room.

Fanboy sobs quietly, each breath a knife between his ribs. Blood drips from his nose in slow beads. He forces himself to crawl toward Yo, but she’s a crumpled shape in the corner, her breath catching unevenly. Halfway there, his glass eye falls free, hitting the floor with a faint clink. It rolls until it stops at her shoe. He scoops it up and clutches it like a charm against his chest.

Everything hurts.

Yo's in even worse shape, breathing hoarsely and unevenly. Boog seems to understand that Fanboy, while taller than his female counterpart, is frailer, so Boog cannot be as rough with Fanboy as he can be with Yo. She has a tougher frame and can withstand a far worse beating than Fanboy can. 

Yo’s bruised, slack face tears him open. It’s deeper than physical pain, older than the sadness that usually flickers through his mind. It’s something buried until now, something that burns when exposed.

What kind of hero am I?

He muffles a sob into his hand, curling up beside her. The lantern hums faintly in the silence. His glass eye has a new fracture, a pale vein running along its curve. He holds it anyway.

At some point, exhaustion drowns him. When he wakes, Yo is still unconscious. The air feels colder now that the light is fading, its glow softening into the dark. He puts the eye back in and tries to think of the positives, the way Chum Chum would.

Weekly baths. A comforter instead of concrete. And Yo. Her warmth, her stubborn heartbeat.

He ties her worn shoelaces while she sleeps. The movement is small, mechanical, but it keeps his hands from shaking.

When she finally stirs, whimpering, he whispers her name and helps her back to the blanket. She clutches his collar with a trembling hand, murmuring that if she’d woken alone all those months ago, she wouldn’t have survived.

Somewhere beyond the door, the generator hums again. But now, in the edge of his hearing, Fanboy thinks it’s whispering.

A few days pass, or, at least it feels that way. Time here is slippery, like trying to hold water in their hands. Day, night, and the moments in between bleed together until there’s no telling which is which.

When Yo tries to sleep, she hears Fanboy again. He’s crying quietly, but the room carries sound strangely, stretching it so the sobs seem to come from far away and right inside her ear at the same time. His lips form his best friend’s name, over and over, but each repetition sounds slightly different, as if the name itself is changing. Sometimes she swears it isn’t a name at all, but a word she doesn’t know.

Fanboy’s nightmares leave him shaking and gasping, pupils blown wide in the dark. Yo holds him when he lets her, murmuring meaningless things until his breath slows. But when he’s truly lost to the terror, she just waits, because here, waiting is sometimes the only thing you can do. Eventually, he drifts back into an uneasy half-sleep, twitching like something is chasing him even there.

Yo misses her friends. That part is real. She can picture them so clearly that it almost hurts: the crooked teeth of Chum Chum’s grin, the smell of the school’s asphalt during dodgeball, the sound of Lupe’s laugh. Some kids might take for granted that constant company, but she’d give anything for a minute, even a few seconds, with them.

Most days, the same question circles like a bird that won’t land: are people looking for them? She and Fanboy imagine search parties in a hundred different shapes: faces on milk cartons, missing posters stapled to telephone poles, policemen with dogs sniffing the streets, Man-Arctica’s rallying forces, voices calling their names until they echo through Galaxy Hills. In her mind, the voices sound right. They sound warm, real, but Fanboy sometimes tilts his head, listening harder, as if he can actually hear them in the walls.

He comes up with grander theories: maybe they’re in a secret bunker in Maine. Maybe an abandoned basement in Wisconsin. A laboratory in Antarctica. A sewer under New York. A haunted house in Colorado. The list changes every day, as though he’s reading it from a book only he can see.

At first, he wants to turn it into a game: “guess the weirdest place we could be”, but the ideas begin to take on a strange edge. When he says haunted house, Yo swears she hears a door creak somewhere behind them. When he says Antarctica, her breath clouds for an instant, though the air had been still and warm a moment before.

She pulls the comforter tight, forcing her breathing to slow before the rising panic catches her throat. Fanboy notices, hesitates, then steps back. He gives her space, awkward and silent.

Yo burrows deeper into the blankets, shutting her eyes. But behind the lids, the imagined search party has changed into something wholly unfarmiliar. And somewhere in the echo, she hears Boog’s unmistakable laugh.

Boog never pulled his punches for anyone who got between him and his precious Chimp Chomp. He didn’t even need a reason. An arm’s length was all it took, and his reach was impressive. But Fanboy and Chum Chum have been his preferred “bopping” targets since the day they first wandered into the Frosty Mart at ages six and five.

Fanboy has long lost count of the chases through the aisles, the fake “free candy” promises, the stolen pocket change to feed Boog’s gaming habit, and the beatings set to Beethoven’s finest. All of it under the unblinking eye of the security cameras. A miracle, really, that Boog has never been fired, especially considering the company has acknowledged, in writing, over forty thousand separate incidents of him bopping customers.

And yet… here they are. Maybe hope has no business being in Fanboy and Yo’s hearts at all.

Fanboy hugs his knees, sniffling. He and Chum Chum had tried—really tried—to “cure” Boog of his bopping addiction. Electro-shock therapy had been their last and worst idea, making things infinitely worse. Maybe that’s why he’s here, locked away in this dim room. Maybe this is Boog’s revenge.

But then there’s Yo. She’d never been part of those “cures,” though she has tasted Boog’s fists more than once. Still, she’d never been hunted the way Fanboy and Chum Chum were. Her capture doesn’t make sense unless it's revenge for the Prank Day pie incident. No… unlikely.

More likely she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maybe she’d seen too much. Maybe Chum Chum had escaped while Boog grabbed her. But if Chum Chum had been there, why isn’t he here? Why hasn’t anyone come to help?

A thought slithers in, dark and unwelcome: What if Chum Chum didn’t make it out alive? Fanboy shoves it away. No. His buddy is safe at the Fanlair, waiting for him to come home.

He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay.

After swallowing the lump in his throat, Fanboy rubs the back of his head where the swelling has completely subsided.

Boog must have been brutal with them the day of the kidnapping, because Fanboy cannot recall what happened before he woke up in the room. Yo can’t remember either.

The door slams open, startling Fanboy from his reverie and Yo out of her uneasy slumber.

Boog’s massive silhouette fills the doorway. Fanboy’s body curls in on itself. Yo’s hand shoots to his arm, trembling.

Something in her touch sparks a flicker of duty in Fanboy’s chest. He shifts forward, trying to shield her, though his shaking betrays him. He’s no match for Boog, and they all know it.

Boog advances like a hulking bear. He seizes Yo by the hair and yanks her away. She screams, clutching at the huge fingers digging into her scalp. Fanboy lurches to his feet but freezes, torn between a locked door, a hopeless rescue attempt, and the certainty of losing in a fight. Boog decides for him by hoisting Yo into the air.

Fanboy watches horrified as Yo’s mouth falls open in a silent scream. Her body twists and jolts on its own as her eyes widen to impossible sizes. Boog narrows his eyes challengingly at Fanboy and gives the girl a shake, augmenting her whisper-squeals of pain.

Boog is baiting him. 

Fanboy takes it.

The violence comes fast and merciless. Fists, kicks, slams into the floor. Bruises blooming purple, skin splitting under the impact. They cry, beg, but Boog keeps going, careful never to hit their heads too hard, because he wants them to feel every single blow.

Then, at long, long last, the torment comes to a temporary end. Boog picks Fanboy up by the ear and throws him back to rest against the wall beside an unconscious Yo. 

Fanboy slumps over immediately, dancing in and out of consciousness as the pain from his most recent beating washes over him like a wave, steady and pounding. He can’t breathe properly, he can barely see, there’s a ringing in his ears, and his entire body aches.

This perhaps the cruelest torment of all. Not only does their abuser come sporadically to bop them, but he also subjects them to long bouts of isolation where their bodies recover and ready themselves for the next beating.

Boog wordlessly takes his leave and smiles over his shoulder before closing the door behind him. 

Fanboy lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, mind buzzing with the questions.

What did they do wrong? Why them? It wasn’t the pranks. It wasn’t stolen Frosty Bus or pranks. Surely not.

Neither of them are angels, but they have good hearts. Yo’s pranks don’t deserve this kind of punishment. Fanboy’s classroom shenanigans aren’t worthy of such hurt.

Right? 

Yo’s faint moan cut through his thoughts.

Bad luck.

That’s all it was. From the moment they’d first met Boog at the Frosty Mart to failing to escape him.

Fanboy flexes his aching fingers. Bad luck doesn’t explain why Boog has specifically chosen Yo to suffer this torment alongside him…and not Chum Chum. 

Even if it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, Fanboy wants to know so badly; he’s not even wondering with retribution on his mind! He just wants to know. He just wants to know the reason behind this madness. He can’t cope without one. Why them? 

As those thoughts and questions roll on through his throbbing noggin, the darkest thought of all finally rears its ugly head:

What if all of this is in vain?

The idea that this life is all he will have is numbingly horrific. There is so much he'll lose if he never escapes. It’ll all just…go darker, and he’ll never get to see his best friend again. The unforgiving blackness will be his last sight and the concrete floor will be his final resting place.  

Something in Fanboy’s brain cracks suddenly under the pressure.

And then, amidst all the darkness and despair, the softest of voices calls out to him.

Fanboy? 

It’s nigh impossible to hear, but Fanboy manages to catch the faint echoes and recognize their baritones. Chum Chum. He’s out there somewhere persistently searching for Fanboy.

Fanboy relaxes as the voice's caressing whispers wash over every inch of him. He basks in it, allows the words to swirl all around his body and mind. 

He can’t give up. The hero-in-training would be remiss to let his little buddy down by surrendering.

I love you, Buddy.

His words alert Yo back to the present, and through the pain and agony, she's able to inquire her friend with a sharp, worried tone.

Fanboy snaps out of his dizzy stupor to find Yo staring at him in alarm. He doesn't sense her concern. He licks his split lip and smiles.

Time drags on, each hour stretching like taffy until the days blur. Fanboy says nothing about the shadowy visitor, and Yo doesn’t press him. Whatever it was, he’s locked it away.

Boog’s rations dwindle to nearly nothing, less than the meager scraps they had before. Hunger becomes a constant ache, gnawing at their insides. Their lips split and peel, tongues rasping over parched skin as they lick for moisture that isn’t there. Their bellies cramp and burn, the pain sharp enough to jolt them from restless sleep.

Consciousness comes and goes in ragged waves. When they do wake, it’s often to Boog looming in the doorway, checking to see if they’re still alive and yanking them up if they’re not alert enough. The little urine they pass is dark, almost black.

They chew at themselves to keep the hunger at bay. Fingernails bitten to the quick, the insides of their cheeks ragged and coppery with blood. One glass of water each per day is all they get, just enough to keep them breathing but not enough to stop the headaches that pound behind their eyes.

Fanboy dreams of cheeseburgers: thick, sizzling patties dripping grease onto toasted buns. Yo dreams of towers of sandwiches: baloney and ham stacked miles high. Waking from those dreams is the cruelest part.

Boog’s cruelty deepens, pushing them to the edge of what they can endure. Instinct drives them to fight back, not with fists but with words. They try everything: insults, sweet-talk, fake sympathy, sudden questions meant to trip him up. They watch his eyes for the smallest flicker of doubt.

Once, they get it. Boog stumbles. But the victory is fleeting. He recovers fast, and the beating that follows is worse than any before. They lose what few privileges they had left.

Still, the desperation doesn’t fade. It swells inside them, frantic and loud. Every thought, every move, every breath is bent toward one thing—getting out. And the longer they wait, the riskier their ideas become.

Boog slams Fanboy against the wall, forearm crushing into the boy’s throat. Suspended above the floor, Fanboy kicks wildly, gagging and gasping for air. Yo pounds her little fists against Boog’s arm, clawing at it, but the man doesn’t so much as flinch. His eyes burn.

It had started minutes earlier. Fanboy had shrieked at a “roach” skittering behind the toilet, clutching Yo and begging Boog to kill it before it “got them.”

Boog, skeptical as this room was too sealed for pests, stooped down to see for himself. That was when Fanboy slipped free, crept behind, and drove his foot square into Boog’s groin. Yo gripped the edge of Fanboy’s cape, ready for the next step.

But the kick only staggered him. Boog recovered fast, snatching Fanboy up like a rag doll. Rebellion, to Boog, is not mischief. It’s treason. 

Growling, he presses harder on Fanboy’s neck, demanding submission while staring into his watery green eyes. Yo breaks her silence to plead for Fanboy’s release, not for her own sake, but so Fanboy can hear she’s with him.

Without glancing, Boog backhands her. She hits the floor reeling and sucks her retort back between her teeth. She gains a measure of consolation by knowing that Fanboy can hear her words, that they’ll niggle their way down into the roots of his mind and summon the last bastion of strength he'll need to carry the rest of the plan out.

Fanboy’s face purples, his breath scraping through a pinched windpipe. And then Boog drops him.

Fanboy collapses. Dizzied, he gulps in tremendous peals of air, clutching at his tender throat and touching his jugular, which had suffered the worst of Boog's assault.

An apology. That's what Boog wants as he drops to one knee, grips Fanboy's chin, and forces him to look up until their eyes lock again, steely green against cerulean blue. An apology, not only for kicking Boog but for daring to fight at all.

Fanboy's eyes lose some of their distance. A light flickers to a steady burn behind his eyes, the light of recognition, the light of anger.

Yo spots it and blurts. Don't apologize. None of this is their fault. She shrinks back and scolds herself for saying a word when Boog tenses with anger. Luckily, he does not turn.

Boog's grip tightens until his fingers are nearly crushing Fanboy's face. The youngster gives a small sound of acknowledgment.

Louder, Boog demands. Fanboy's eyes lower, his face crumpling. As Boog leans in to accept Fanboy's final humiliating submission, something in Fanboy snaps. The feeling is visceral, animalistic, in its own way, nearly a reflex, an instinct, but an instinct that comes from within.

Boog's face is now inches from Fanboy's, ears primed, eyes wide, ready to receive. Yo observes the scene with rapt attention. She watches as Fanboy's eyes take on a strange look. His reddened eyes light up, and he smiles outright. Boog smiles back, sensing a victory.

Yo's words hit their mark, alright. As Boog readjusts his grip, Fanboy purses his lips and spits squarely in Boog's face.

Oh.

Yo's immediate reaction is blunt elation, but these feelings of joy are immediately washed away by the flood of dread that surges into the pit of her stomach.

What happens next seems to play out in slow motion. The spittle slowly, languorously dripped down Boog's trembling lips, down his iron-set jaw, and onto his collar– a foamy rivulet of shame announcing to the world that his charge has defied him.

As he stares into the now glinting eyes of his opponent, Boog's whole body grows tensile, his muscles winding tight and his hands balling up into fists, crushing his thumbs inside strangling fingers. But it is his rage-widened eyes that would rivet Yo. Boog holds his face taut, though, behind his eyes, his other captive perceives a rumbling volcano ready to burst forth with murderous violence. Meanwhile, Fanboy's face carries no look of regret toward his jailer but the fiery spirit of a determined hero. Fanboy knows his actions were impulsive and most likely regretful, but he does not drag his eyes from Boog's glacial stare. Big mistake, as it turns out since Fanboy's brilliant orbs enrage his tormentor even further. They remain suspended in time for endless moments: Boog out of shock, and Fanboy out of defiance.

Yo watches in mute horror, nearly forgetting the plan. She expels a whistling breath through gritted teeth and feels every weak muscle in her frame pull tight as a bowstring.

Boog slowly, deliberately wipes the spittle off his disbelieving face with the back of his hand. Not for a moment does he tear his eyes from Fanboy. He smiles scarily, then says his name, low and cruel. 

Fanboy.

Fanboy cocks his head in abstract curiosity, wondering if he's hearing Boog say his actual name for the first time and of what might happen next. His sights are so bolted upon the pale blue flames flickering in his captor's eyes that he does not observe Boog drawing his fist back and plunging it with savage force into his own unsuspecting jaw. The crack of fist meeting bone rings so loud it echoes off the walls, a sound that is followed by Yo's audible gasp.

Again, Fanboy is hoisted off his feet and slammed back into the wall by his throat. Boog is so determined to maintain his dominance that he doesn't notice Yo sneakily hooking Fanboy's cape around his long neck before it's too late.

Startled, Boog drops a near-unconscious Fanboy to the floor as the cape tightens around his jugular and cuts off his air supply. Gasping, he claws at the soft fabric. His mind goes wild, and all he can think is to get this dweeb off his back. 

Yo uses all of her strength, seething as he coughs and retches. She’s ready to kill Boog if that’s what it takes to escape. Gasping and twitching weakly, Fanboy observes the chaos through blurry vision, silently cheering for Yo. This is the last straw, he thinks. If they don’t escape now, they’ll surely die. 

Boog gasps, his face going red. Fanboy’s heart pounds with hope and excitement. 

Notwithstanding her lack of strength, Yo's assault on this monster seems to be producing results. She thinks she has things under control for an exciting moment, but the sound of the cape ripping steals her back to a grim reality. She yelps and regrips the fabric, but it only tears more. Boog senses this and bucks harder. That’s when things take a turn for the worse. 

Yo grunts in pain, her weedy muscles burning. The fabric of Fanboy’s cape cuts into the grooves of her sweaty fingers as she struggles to hold on. Unfortunately, pure willpower isn’t enough to slay the beast. With a mighty roar, Boog slams back against the wall crushing Yo under his rock-solid weight. The physical trauma causes the girl to loosen her hold, stunned, and drop to the floor right beside Fanboy with a solid thunk. 

No.

Fanboy trembles, crushed by the failure, his mind having difficulty accepting. 

Their captor staggers and yanks the satin cape from around his neck.

Fanboy’s gloved hands twitch at his sides as Yo sits blinking one eye at a time like a braindead frog.

It’s over. He inclines his body to rest against hers in a comforting gesture before more pain can befall them.

Then, the guilt. He should have been the one with his cape around Boog’s throat! But then, that would have left Yo to be the one nearly strangled to death. He doesn’t think he could have put her through that; he’s not that selfish. Besides, for what Yo lacks in strength, she makes up for in endurance. It’s impressive that she hung on for as long as she did. Fanboy knows he never could do that.

Boog crouches down on one knee again, coughing and wiping his mouth as he regains his breath. There is a deep red line circling his neck that is sure to leave a bruise. Fanboy hopes that someone outside will notice and ask questions.

After the shock of the attack wears off, Boog growls hard at the cape in his fist. Losing his inhibition, he grabs Fanboy’s collar and drags him forward across the concrete. 

Nose to nose, Boog seethes and spits and rants.

Fanboy quietly waits to be beaten. It’s hopeless. His dwaal, weary stare drifts away from Boog’s livid one as he gives up. 

Boog doesn’t like this listlessness coming from the superfan. He shakes him hard, watches his masked head loll back and forth like a lifeless puppet’s. When he stops, Fanboy’s forehead comes to rest against his forearm. For a alarming moment, Boog thinks he killed him, but the pulse in Fanboy’s chest tells a different story. 

A small whimper draws his attention to the female child.

Slumped against the wall, Yo slowly reemerges from her dizzied state but makes no move to rescue her friend. She just crawls over to their blanket, collapses, and cries.

For what seems like an eternity, Boog does nothing but stare at his handiwork: Yo is a sobbing wreck, Fanboy is a hollow shell, and both are seriously injured. Aside from the thrill, a flicker of concern kindles in his gut.

Perhaps, just this once, he has gone too far. It isn’t impossible; he’d been rough with his childhood pets. The hairless mouse he crushed. The hairless hamster he threw. The hairless cat he drowned. Boog bites his lip and slowly lowers the boy, who lays unmoving as if he is dead, not even bothering to join Yo on the blanket.

Boog sighs, his anger slowly draining away as he sits beside his male captive. There is comfort in his tone as he promises that he’ll bring food for them. His giant, bruised, and bloody hand strokes Fanboy’s pitiful face as if he is a small puppy. Fanboy's lips move silently.

Yo sniffles as Boog sets the youngster down to lay beside her with all the gentility he can muster. She doesn’t dare look up into his baby-blue eyes for fear of a harsher beating. Instead, she curls up next to Fanboy and hides her face under her bruised arms. The man sighs, gives her a small pat on the head, and leaves the room.

Once he’s gone, Yo dizzily gathers Fanboy into her arms. Holding back a shocked gasp at the state of his condition, she nuzzles his forehead and murmurs his name to coax him back from the void. Finally, recognition returns to his face, which scrunches up with despair. His eyes are like dull rainclouds and don't even seem to notice that she’s there. All he can think is that they've failed.

Fanboy painfully moves out of her grip and utters it aloud like a curse. If only he'd been stronger, he could have been a bigger help. If only he were grown up like Boog, he'd knock the man flat! Fanboy looks at her wistfully stroking his hand and sobs, moving to huddle into a somersault position, his masked forehead touching his knees. He wants to curl up and disappear into the floor, let the cold consume him; his guilt is that potent. 

Yo nudges his arm out of the way and squeezes beside him. Ashamed, Fanboy apologizes profusely, wishing he was smart enough to figure a way to get out of this place.

Yo nuzzles the side of his face and comforts him as best she can. They will be okay in the end. They will get out of here. They will get a happy ending. Eventually...

Off to the side, Yo hears Boog’s approaching footsteps. The door opens. She allows herself a peek.

Boog's eyes are red-rimmed and shiny. Yo quickly buries her face in the crook of Fanboy’s neck.

There are soft sounds of a bag rustling, plastic crinkling, glass clinking, and even the occasional sniff from Boog before he vacates.

Yo waits until his footsteps fade away before she rolls over to see what he’s done. A savory scent fills her nostrils, and her heart leaps. She gasps and hurriedly pats Fanboy’s shoulder so he’ll look. He does, and he too gasps. Surely, that can’t be—?

FOOD!

The children limp toward the platter, ignoring the ache in their bodies. Eyes shimmering with tears of joy, they reach for the gifts, hands trembling, lips parting in disbelief.

A single bulb sputters beside them, then steadies into a warm glow. Boog, in a rare show of mercy, has left the lantern behind. The light spills over the bounty laid out before them: a small bowl of strawberries and blueberries, another brimming with hastily cut apple slices smeared thick with peanut butter, and a third crowded with goldfish crackers. Two glasses of ice-cold orange juice bead with condensation, beside two unopened bottles of water. At the center sits a plate of crispy golden chicken, and, best of all, two iced-monster bun buns, frosted and glistening like treasure.

It is a feast, plain and simple, and whatever reason Boog has for this generosity is lost beneath the roar of hunger in their bones. They know better than to eat recklessly, but the temptation is unbearable. With deliberate care, they divide the meal, carry it to the comforter, and spread it out as if preparing for a picnic.

They begin with the fruit: slow bites, measured chewing, though their hands twitch with impatience. Apples crisp and sweet. Strawberries soft and dripping. Blueberries bursting tart between their teeth. Fanboy’s gaze keeps darting to the chicken, but Yo shakes her head, her own hunger gnawing yet disciplined. Together, they work through the fruit, the peanut butter, the goldfish, swallowing each morsel like it might vanish.

Fanboy drains his orange juice in a trembling gulp, his emerald eyes locked on the golden meat. Yo watches him, ready to step in if he caves to his stomach’s demands. But he doesn’t. Somehow, he holds back.

When Yo swallows the last drop of her juice, their restraint crumbles. They fall upon the chicken, tearing into it with the abandon of wild animals. Bones are stripped bare and tossed aside. Grease glistens on their fingers. Fanboy noisily chews the juicy bird meat, leaning against the wall, while Yo’s sharp teeth rip the last scraps from a wing. It is the best thing either of them has ever tasted—even better than Frosty Freezy Freeze!

The bun buns are devoured next, sugar exploding on their tongues. Their bodies hum with pleasure.

For the first time since their captivity began, Fanboy feels full. He stretches out on the comforter, chewing on a leg bone, pretending to study the ceiling when Yo’s eyes meet his. He’s already shaping the bone in his mind, planning to keep it.

Yo licks her fingers clean and sighs. Strange how, in this tiny room, with only Fanboy for company, she feels a rare, fleeting ease. Maybe it’s just the food. Or maybe it’s the way Fanboy sits there humming softly, eyes closed, a faint smile playing on his face. It's peaceful in a way she hasn’t seen in a long time. Something tugs at her chest, but she pushes it down.

She starts collecting the dishes. Fanboy joins her, stacking the empty bowls into a neat pile for Boog. They’ve been licked spotless, and the sight makes them laugh.

Fanboy jokes they should open a business cleaning dishes with their tongues. Yo wrinkles her nose, laughing in disbelief, but admits it sounds pretty good right now. He insists he’ll do the work and she can lure customers with her cuteness and charge outrageous prices. Genius!

Not a chance, she fires back. She’ll do the cleaning; he can bring in the customers with song and dance. That perks him up. He can’t remember the last time he danced.

Yo tells him that he can dance whenever he wants, as long as he teaches her how so she can dance with him.

The offer catches Fanboy off guard. He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks pink.

Yo grins, sensing his embarrassment. With a giggle, she asks if he thinks she’s cute.

Fanboy blinks, caught off-guard yet again. How can he say she is without sounding like he is in love, or say she isn’t without being gratuitously rude? 

Thankfully, Yo takes pity (subconsciously disappointed) and jests that he doesn’t have to tell her—she knows she’s adorable! Fanboy accepts the mercy with a smile. 

They are bruised, battered, far from home, yet for this moment, they are content. Yo yawns and curls into the blankets. Fanboy settles beside her. Bellies full, bodies warm, they drift into the deepest sleep they’ve had in weeks.

Six months into their captivity, the children learn to tread carefully through the rhythms of Boog’s moods. He is gentle again, in his way, doling out morsels of food and shallow cups of water.

They thank him in small voices, fragile as paper, and he rewards their gratitude with more scraps of kindness. A cycle forms, predictable enough to lull them into the faint hope that perhaps if they are good, if they are obedient, he might relent. Perhaps he might release them. And if not, they will bide their time, build their strength, and wait for another chance to flee.

For a while, things are almost bearable. Until Fanboy, in an unthinking moment, makes an offhand remark about how ragged they both look. His words tumble out without malice, but they land sharp.

Yo laughs as if she doesn’t mind, yet a small wound opens inside her. The truth of it festers: their skin is blotched with grime, their clothes sour with sweat, their hair limp and matted. Fanboy hides his under his cowl. She cannot. Her tangled mane is always on display, her shame knotted into pigtails.

Boog, overhearing, brings them shampoo and conditioner. A token kindness. But without a brush, Yo’s hair remains a snarl of knots, and she begins to fear it will soon rot into dreadlocks.One night she sits cross-legged, undoing her pigtails and pulling her fingers through the thick mats. Fanboy watches her quietly, his head cocked at an odd angle, his eyes unfocused.

Yo yanks harder, her face scrunching with pain. When at last she rubs her eyes to smother her tears, Fanboy suggests, softly, that she ask Boog for a brush. She scoffs, but eventually gives in. For hours, she rehearses the question, whispering it, reshaping it, as if the perfect phrasing might disarm their captor.

The next morning, over dry cereal and powdered donuts, she tries. Her voice trembles, but she forces it steady. A hairbrush, she says, almost casually.

Boog’s expression flickers, unreadable. He always ignores their requests and insists that one bath per week is enough to sustain their hygiene. The only time he has ever made accommodations were for their dental regimen, allowing them toothbrushes and a bottle of mint toothpaste, but only because he doesn't want their teeth to rot out and cause a whole tirade of other issues. 

Fanboy tugs at his sleeve, explaining, pleading.

Boog runs his thick fingers through Yo’s snarled hair, and she must force herself not to recoil. Then he rises and leaves. Deflated, Yo clutches her filthy pigtails in despair. Fanboy, already weary, only sighs. A brush, he thinks, is such a small thing.

Fanboy sighs resignedly and swallows down the last of his cereal. Tangled hair is a small quandary, and he's too tired to fret. Instead of worrying, he tries to relax and go back to sleep. He welcomes Yo to join him and, although she is sulky, she accepts the invite, snuggling up beside him. He assures her that it doesn’t matter what her hair looks like. It could be much worse. Like, lice. She half-heartedly agrees.

But later the door groans open again. Boog stands there, heavy-shouldered in the frame, rusty garden shears dangling from his fist. The blades glint, catching the thin light, and in that instant Yo knows terror with a clarity she has never known before.

Chaos unfolds quickly. Boog seizes them both, flinging Fanboy aside as though he were weightless. The boy hits the floor with a crack that leaves him dazed, blinking stupidly up at the ceiling. Yo’s scream is muffled by his fist tangled in her hair. The shears creak open, their jagged mouths yawning beside her ear. Tethered, Yo screams, believing in her heart that she will be killed right then and there.

With a single brutal snip, her pigtails fall away. Dislodged, the girl flies forward and crumples to her knees on the concrete, stunned, staring at the black locks discarded like waste on the concrete. Fanboy drags himself upright, his head swimming, his words slurred as he tries to reassure her—though whether she hears him, or whether he even makes sense, is uncertain.

Boog is not finished. He wrenches another handful of hair from her scalp with his bare hands, reveling in her agonized wails. Fanboy vaults forth and sinks his teeth into Boog’s arm. The man howls, then cuffs him aside again. Blood beads from Fanboy’s nose, yet he barely flinches, too flooded with adrenaline, his mind sluggish, dulled, almost detached from the pain.

Yo is anything but. She falls to her hands and knees, eyes wild and unfocused. Her breath quickens. Run? Hide? Cry? She doesn’t know. She can’t think. All she knows is fear. Fear and pain.

Shaking like a leaf, she throws back her head and releases a bone-chilling scream of pain and anguish. The sound is horrible, like the wailing of an unknown animal. Neither Boog nor Fanboy have ever heard anything like it before. The man watches ensorcelled while the boy covers his ears and retreats to a corner.

Yo stares up at nothing, her choppy bangs falling like a curtain over her wide, crazed eyes, before she curls in on herself on the hard concrete floor. Rubbing at the broad bloody bite mark on his arm, Boog relishes the spectacle with the amusement an owner has while watching their puppy whine over something trivial. 

Highly disturbed, Fanboy tries to calm her from his corner, but Yo’s too far gone to even register his voice. Hyperventilating, she empties her bladder there on the floor and writhes. 

Satisfied, Boog leaves the unpleasant scene behind.

An hour later, Yo's screams dwindle to small cries. They wrack her frail body, and she has nearly managed to break a rib or two in her fit.

Mute, Fanboy slowly uncovers his ears and crawls to where she's curled up into a ball. Hesitantly, he brushes his gloved hand against her shoulder. She furiously wrenches away from his touch. The rejection pierces him deeper than the blow to his chest. In his muddled mind, it is his fault—all of it. If he hadn’t made that careless remark, if he hadn’t urged her to ask…and a club of guilt slams into his chest, making it hard to breathe.

Fanboy needs to do something; he can't just ignore the miserable mess he has left her in.

Still, he cannot leave her. He settles beside her, cooing brokenly, pressing his cheek to hers, rocking them both against the stench of urine and blood. Yo does not resist. For the first time in hours, her sobbing eases into hiccups, her body surrendering to exhaustion. Fanboy holds her tighter, as though his fragile, battered body might form a shield against the man who has already broken them both. He presses his cheek to her forehead.

Yo hiccups, her body trembling with the aftershocks of terror. She opens her bloodshot, red-rimmed eyes glazed with tears and stares past the room, past Fanboy, into nothing at all. The emptiness in her gaze terrifies him more than her screams had. She looks hollowed, scraped bare of whatever brightness once flickered inside her. Utterly destroyed.

Fanboy’s heart hammers in his chest, each beat loud enough that he swears she must hear it. But he forces his voice to steady, smoothing the tremor that threatens to betray him.

She's still pretty. He whispers that, as though the words alone might mend what has been taken from her. Even prettier now. Short hair suits her.

The lie hangs in the air. He swallows hard, then blurts the confession he has long carried, though the timing feels absurd. He thinks she's cute.

Her eyes dart suddenly to his, wide and crazed, as if she cannot decide whether to believe him, to laugh, or to strike him. For a suspended moment, the space between them crackles with something volatile.

Then her strength falters. Fanboy slips his arms beneath her armpits, hauling her up with awkward determination. She yields, limp and pliant in his grasp, allowing herself to be guided like a rag doll. He drags her to the comforter, the thin blanket that has served them through too many cold nights, and lowers her with as much gentleness as his clumsy limbs can muster.

He settles beside her, tucking her head beneath his chin. She winces at the contact, a distressed whimper breaking from her throat. Fanboy shifts, noticing the rust-colored patches across her scalp where Boog had ripped the hair out by the roots. He adjusts his hold carefully, mindful not to press against the tender wounds, and instead wraps her into his narrow chest. Together they bask in each other’s warmth, small bodies clinging as if the closeness itself could fend off the memory of violence.

Yo sighs hoarsely, a sound scraped raw from her lungs. With what little energy remains to her, she raises her hand and brushes her fingertips against Fanboy’s pale cheek. Her touch is featherlight, reverent, and then she wipes gently at the streak of blood smeared beneath his nose. Her lips twitch into an empty smile, brittle and weightless, before she presses her forehead against his.

Relief rushes through Fanboy like breath after drowning. His eyes flutter shut, a long sigh escaping him. In this fragile communion, he understands: she does not blame him. Not for the remark, not for the shears, not for the failure that gnaws daily at his spirit. Despite the ruin of their bodies and the splintering of their minds, they are still each other’s only refuge.

In pain, in shame, in terror, they can count on one another. And for now, that is enough.

Chapter Text

Optimism had once been Yo’s stubborn shield, her dog-eared talisman against despair. She carried it like a battered toy soldier, dragging it through ruin after ruin, convinced it would protect her still. Now it lies broken in the dust. Whatever glow once warmed her spirit has guttered out, leaving only the pale wax of her body and the void in her eyes.

Fanboy studies her face with unease, his stomach twisting at the hollow vacancy where her bright smile and stinging wit used to flare. He waves a gloved hand before her, hopeful, coaxing. No response. Not even a flicker. Her gaze is an open wound, raw and dull, and it swallows him whole.

Boog’s satiated for the present, granting his captives brief freedom from torment. Even he can recognize when his captives need rest to prepare themselves for his next visit.

He is a patient predator, observing closely the girl he’d hurt beyond recognition. Her pale face is blotched with tears, her once bright blue eyes like dull puddles.

Sometimes Boog pulls the pair onto his lap and observes them like a touchy zoo-keeper. He takes the time to yank their limbs and pinch their skin, testing the waters to see what will make them cry. Other times he treats them like pets, stroking their faces and heads. Fanboy and Yo don’t know which they prefer; every single interaction with Boog thus far has been nothing short of horrific.

After thirty-one days, Yo’s psychological burnout prevails like a stubborn weed. Her hope is gone, vanished alongside her motivation. Conversation with Fanboy is virtually impossible, as is exercise. She opts to lie still and stare blankly into the void.

When Boog visits, he has a grand time trying to provoke a reaction from the girl. He taunts her, maneuvers her about like a toy, and throws her against the wall multiple times. It doesn’t work.

Thinking she’ll react to her cellmate’s abuse, Boog grabs Fanboy around the neck and forces him to the ground. Boog keeps his eyes on Yo as he chokes the poor boy, waiting and watching for any sign of emotion. 

Yo brooks no reaction, no protest. She sits still with the temperament of a cobble-stone wall. Impressed, Boog released the choking boy after a few more back-handed smacks. Then, he leaves smiling ear-to-ear.

When the loneliness becomes too much to bear, Fanboy forces a laugh and clutches at the tatters of cheer he once relied upon her to supply. If Yo will not carry the torch, he must. So he speaks. He speaks endlessly, even when his throat cracks and the words blur together. He tells her about adventures they’ll have when they get out, about the digital pets she used to rave about, about how she’d tease Kyle for tripping over his shoelaces. He hums theme songs. He cobbles together puns, giggling at his own wit when silence greets him. If her lips twitch, if her breath catches, he calls it a victory, however fleeting.

Because her stillness unnerves him more than Boog’s fists ever could.

Sometimes he leans in close, whispering his fears into her ear as if she might store them for him. He confesses how much he misses Chum Chum, how strange it feels not to have him here, how that absence aches like a missing tooth he can’t stop tonguing. He admits he knows nothing of his parents beyond whispers, that there is a vast empty place inside him where love should have lived. His voice hitches when he tells her that Chum Chum has always been his family, his tether, his safe place.

She does not answer. He invents her answers anyway, fumbling into impressions of Chum Chum’s squeaky voice, playing at a call-and-response that only deepens the cavern of silence between them. He suspects she thinks he’s lost his mind, but even that suspicion is a mercy: at least it imagines she’s listening.

Following his latest pun, Fanboy wipes away a rare tear of laughter and lays beside Yo and bumps her shoulder with his own.

When his lids grow heavy, Fanboy settles down beside Yo and snuggles her, rubbing heat into her arms and whispering words of comfort into her ear. He assures her that everything will be okay and that she needs to be strong. It is unclear whether or not his words make a difference, but he likes to imagine they do.

When Boog visits with a rare meal, Fanboy wraps Yo up into a little cocoon so that he may deal with their captor alone. 

Curious, Boog reaches out to touch the blanket. Fanboy will not allow it, draping himself over her as a human shield. That’s protective nature charms Boog, and he decides to be patient. 

When food comes, Fanboy’s lips burn with want, but he offers it to Yo instead. She chews only when he presses it past her teeth, her jaw slack and reluctant. He tells her egg-puns until his voice grows hoarse, congratulates her when her mouth quirks, wipes her chin like a nursemaid. He convinces himself this is enough, that caring for her gives him purpose, that so long as he is moving, talking, giving, he will not unravel. Yet every time he presses his fingers into her bird-thin wrist, the frailty beneath startles him: she is fading, and he cannot stop it.

It does not occur to him until too late that he is fading too. His knees shake when he stands. His head swims when he laughs. Sometimes his speech slurs without his notice, his thoughts lagging two beats behind his tongue. Still he hides this from her, burying his weakness beneath a clown’s mask of chatter.

The basin offers Yo a rare reprieve. Fanboy washes her hair, careful around the patches Boog has torn bare. She lets him, limp as a doll, while his own arms tremble from the effort. He hangs their clothes on the rim and tries not to think of the way his vision blurs, of the sparks that bloom at the edge of sight when he stands too quickly.

Yo slips beneath the water, air bubbles wiggling to the surface. Her thoughts don't make much sense. Fanboy nearly panics before she bursts upward, coughing and spluttering, and his relief is so sharp it scalds. She dresses herself, climbs beneath the covers at last, and, miracle of miracles, her arms come around him.

And for the first time in days, Fanboy allows himself to close his eyes, to rest his weary head against her shoulder. His body, gaunt and trembling, sings with gratitude at the warmth of her touch. He does not care that his ribs jut like a birdcage, or that his own strength is dwindling. She is here, and she has not abandoned him.

He makes a small, victorious sound, muffled against her collarbone. To him, her embrace is proof enough that they can still survive this. That his optimism is not a hollow trick after all, but something real, something binding, something they can share between them like breath.

After a little while longer, Yo eats on her own again, and she tries to keep up a steady rhythm of conversation with her friend. But it feels like speaking into fog.

Fanboy is wasting away. He has thinned into a wraith, his skin waxen, his limbs birdlike and trembling beneath the loose fabric of his costume. He can scarcely sit up before exhaustion drags him back down. His words, once endless and quick, now falter into whispers, half-finished, as if the very act of thinking taxes him.

Yo adjusts the lantern Boog left them, shadows bowing across the wall, and sets her jaw. His collapse must be the culmination of the past weeks. That can be solved, she tells herself. He simply needs to eat.

But when she presses food into his hands, Fanboy recoils. His masked face drains further, his lips trembling as if nausea itself has taken root inside him. Yo tries feeding him, coaxing morsels toward his mouth, but he jerks away, skeletal fingers clamped to his face and trembling, as though the food were poison.

Yo’s throat tightens. What kind of starvation is this, where the body denies itself even the chance to live?

Close to tears, she pulls him into her arms. The shock nearly undoes her. He is so light, so frail, so bitterly cold. She strokes his head, fingers slipping against the silky satin of his cowl. His bones jut sharply under her hand as she trails down his back. He slumps against her, his shivering violent, his exhaustion complete.

Yo whispers that he has to eat. But she knows he won’t. Not now. Perhaps, after sleep, his mind will right itself.

Some time later, Fanboy convulses, jerking her awake. Yo rushes to him, lantern blazing, and what she sees freezes her blood. His face is chalk-white, his ears and nose a violent red, his single eye bloodshot and rolling. Her heart plunges. She lays a palm to his masked forehead, then slips her fingers beneath the seam. The heat sears her.

Fever.

Yo whispers his name. His eyes blink one at a time as he slurs her name, semi-delirious and falling in and out of a state of lucid dreaming. Yo clasps her hands together and looks around helplessly.

Without medicine, the only thing Yo can do is wait for Boog's return.

As the day goes on, Fanboy's condition continues to deteriorate. He blinks at her unevenly, one eye lagging, then slurs her name as though it were a word he’d half-forgotten. His voice fractures into nonsense. Sometimes he thinks she’s Chum Chum and tucks her beneath his arm, stroking her hair with shaking fingers. His lips crack into a delirious smile.

I found you, Buddy.

Yo lets him. To deny him would be cruel. Yet every time he calls her by the wrong name, something in her breaks.

Later, he claws at his mask, pressing his palms against his temples, and asks why he can't remember Chum Chum's voice, the color of his own eyes, or the taste of Frosty Freezy Freeze. Yo covers her ears and grits her teeth. She cannot bear the horror of his mind crumbling piece by piece.

She wraps Fanboy up in all the blankets. When he begs for water, she has none. When he shakes from chills, her arms cannot warm him. She whispers empty promises: soon, home, sleep. He listens, nodding faintly, before crying himself silent.

When she next wakes, he is hunched over the commode, retching though nothing comes. She rubs his back, whispering comfort, guiding him back to their bed of rags. His hands are ice, his shivers unyielding. He needs medicine. Without it, he will not last.

The stink of the room clogs her throat. How have they endured this long? Stress, grief, filth; these walls are killing them.

Then, finally, Boog’s footsteps. Yo tenses, preparing for torment, but when their captor sees Fanboy, the grin drains from his face. For once, he says nothing. He leaves, returns with orange bottles that rattle. Yo surrenders Fanboy without protest.

Boog cradles him with startling gentleness, coaxing down pills with sips of warm water, tilting his chin just so to ease the swallow past the swelling in his throat. Deglutition is laborious.

Yo watches from the corner, stunned. She has witnessed Boog's paternalistic capability, but its sharp rebound after her brutal treatment is a whiplash.

Fanboy, half-asleep, moans and nuzzles against his captor. Boog frowns, swaddles him in a clean blanket. He brings water, extra food, even a spare cover for Yo.

Yo forehandedly accepts all of it with a nervous half-smile. Boog gently pats her on the head, causing her insides to go cold. She supposes she hasn't recovered from her break, and perhaps she never will. Taking care of them like this, it's clear that Boog doesn't want them dead, so what does he want? Yo stares down at her glass, at her dim reflection. It stares back at her, all dull eyes, hollow cheeks, and greasy hair stuck in every direction. She thinks about what Fanboy insists—she's still pretty—and looks away from the ugly thing in the glass before despair consumes her.

In a matter of days, after semi-careful monitoring from their captor, Fanboy regains his senses and defervesce occurs. There's a weird moment where he forgets their situation and panics, but Yo is there to calm him down and jog his memory. Fanboy slowly gains awareness and grows sullen at their predicament, but then, he turns to Yo with the sincerest expression he's ever worn. 

Without warning, he wraps his skinny arms around her neck, squeezing tight and whispering gracious thanks. Perplexed, she returns the embrace, wondering what she could have done to warrant this behavior, especially when he gently kisses the corner of her mouth.

Whoa. Yo stills, her heart thudding as he pulls back. He gazes hesitantly at her. For a moment, all is still, but then he's beaming at her, hugging her, kissing her cheek, practically showering her with affection, and she can't understand why. Is he still delirious? She swallows hard and presses her hands against his chest to interrupt.

She asks him, her voice wavering, why.

Fanboy considers her baffled expression. Then, he gently takes her hand and strokes it, not unlike how she had with his when he was sick. With tears welling in his eyes, he tells her about his fever-induced nightmares. He clings tighter, whispering that in his sickness he thought she had died, that she had abandoned him, and that he, alone, would perish. Tears glaze his lashes.

Yo cups his hand, pressing it to her cheek, her sorrow threaded with something sharper. Seven months have stripped them bare, carved them into each other’s only constant. They are each other’s fragile worlds.

She leans close, brushes her lips to his cheek, whispers back a vow: she will not leave him. Not now. Not ever.

Fanboy’s grin is weak, giddy. He sinks beneath the covers, trembling still but at peace. Yo tucks the blanket tighter, watching as his eyes flutter shut.

For the first time in a week, he sleeps without convulsions.

Nine months pass, but Fanboy and Yo have no way of knowing because time loses all meaning in this dark room. Boog has switched back to barely feeding them; his paternal care, once again, is gone. What caused the switch, the children don't know.

They down the water like wild men but slowly chew the food to degust every last morsel. Boog notices their developing apathy but does nothing to help. After every time he leaves, Fanboy marches over to the door and kicks it with all his might. Boog doesn't seem to mind the act of defiance because he doesn't come back to beat him, and it becomes routine.

With little to no stimulation, the children become depressed, aching for the little things they used to take for granted. The heat of the sun and the chill of the wind. The giant blue skies and fluffy white clouds. The squeals of seagulls, the laughter of their friends, radio jingles. The scent of asphalt, flowers, and mint. The feeling of soft grass and fur. The sweetness of candy, the savoriness of steak, the chilliness of Frosty Freezy Freeze, the crunchiness of sugary cereal, and the chewiness of bubblegum. 

For all these, they crave like mad, but it's out of their reach, and Boog won't give it to them when they work up the courage to ask.

Boredom is worse than physical pain, Yo rules. Bruises heal, but boredom latches at the mind and eats away at it like a parasite. They resist the powder keg within them by chatting, but topics run short, and the past is too painful to talk about. On top of that, they are continually edging towards dehydration. They aren't sure how badly, but talking aloud certainly gives them dry mouths. 

They make an admission to doze as much as possible to futz, napping in small sporadic intervals curled up together. When neither of them can sleep another wink, they pace in circles to exercise their atrophied muscles. 

When they aren't exhausted, they try tag, which is fun until someone trips over the commode and falls flat on their face. After cleaning up the nose blood with toilet paper, they settle down to play word games: 20-Questions, Would-You-Rather?, Truth or Dare, the ABC game, Rock-Paper-Scissors, and many more until they lose their voices. When they're stuck silent, they lay supine and stare at the ceiling side by side. Fanboy scathingly comments about the conditions of their living quarters, to which Yo bitterly shrugs.

She likes to count the fissures. So far, she has marked 278 on the left half. Only a million more to go, she sniffs dryly.

Fanboy takes advantage of the dim lighting to try and make pictures of the bare ceiling's cracks. A duck on the left, a cat on the right, the Battle of the Bulge in the center... Sometimes, the shapes in the ceiling move. That frightens the boy, and he turns over to lay on his side when it happens more than once. 

Ten months have passed, and Boog has taken the lantern back. Blind, the children swallow their pride and ask Boog to provide them with entertainment. They don't expect him to listen, but he brings back a giant coloring book and crayons. Surprised, they accept the gifts and give their thanks. After the villain leaves, Fanboy wonders aloud why he had these items. Yo suspects that he was waiting for them to ask. 

Then, it occurs that they can't color in the darkness. 

Fanboy snarls and bashes his forehead into the door. Yo is shocked but quickly collects herself to drag him away from the door before he can hurt himself further. Jarred, she shakes him by the shoulders and interrogates him for a reason behind his actions. He just shrugs, his emerald eyes dismal.

Before she can ask again, a muffled laugh from the other side of the door captures her attention. Hastened, she seizes a startled Fanboy and whispers that Boog is listening. Curious, the superfan quiets down and strains his ears to listen. Sure enough, he hears the faint sound of cackling. He feels bile creep up his throat while Yo curses their captor's name under her breath.

Boogregard Dolomite Schlizetti. At nineteen years of age, he stands at 6'5 and weighs just over 175 lbs of ripped muscle. His obsession with dominance is demonstrated in everything he does. He holds the absolute power he has over the children with the ferocity of a hungry cat pinning a mouse.

He is quite thrilled that he's managed to pull off this scheme without anyone in town knowing tit for tat. He's sneakier than what people give him credit for. Behind his loud, boisterous front lies a poised snake ready to strike. Nobody pegs him as a smart person, so to have snatched these two children out from everyone's noses gives him such a thrill. His chest swells with hubris, and he is motivated to express himself accordingly. He does have to be careful not to gasconade. One mistake could mean a world of trouble.

In reality, Boog is a weak person with little self-confidence.

The children are proud, stubborn, and spend every waking moment plotting to escape. They can outsmart him if he isn't careful. However, what Boog lacks in care, he makes up for in strength. He can allow for slip-ups, but there will be trouble if they ever manage to outwit him.

In the beginning, he endeavors to assert his paternal authority over them. He's gentle, speaks softly, and handles them with the tender care that he never exhibits outside the room. His goal is for them to yield under his control, but to his frustration, they resist.

After many months of asserting his dominance in a gentle manner, he slowly gives up his parental role. The children remain weak but spirited. This infuriates Boog. He can't fathom the reason why they aren't compliant. The book he reads suggests that children respond better to positive reinforcement, so he doesn't know what he's doing wrong. Listening to them giggle and play when they think he's absent discourages him because they won't ever exhibit behavior like that when he's present. Instead, they clam up and clutch each other for protection, staring at him like he's a beast preparing to gobble them up.

Even in his warped mind, Boog must comprehend how disgusting his treatment of Fanboy and Yo is. He stares down at his fists, slowly furling and unfurling them. He has always been panurgic about drawing reactions from people with pain. Why doesn't affection work? 

The question eats at his mind, all day every day until finally, he gives up. This is the last straw. He has wanted to try something different, but failure steers him back to what he knows best. Hearing them laugh at each other, Boog feels betrayed, his disturbed mind clouding over.

The man clenches his giant fists so hard that his knuckles turn white. He vows to cast aside his restraint and inflict the worst possible pain he can onto his prisoners. His head lowers as he opens up the door. Just as he suspected, all merriment stops as soon as he arrives.

Fanboy and Yo scoot away until their backs hit the wall, their arms wrapped around each other. Boog says nothing. He shuts the door behind him, shrouding the room in darkness once again. Inhaling through his nose, he snatches the children before they can wriggle away.

Inspired by how the stray dogs in town assert dominance, Boog smashes their weak bodies against the floor and pins them by their throats. He swallows thickly as they writhe beneath him. He wills for them to submit and be still, but their struggle intensifies. His eyes blaze, his lips curling back into a snarl as his grip tightens.

Fanboy lets out a little gasp and Yo squeaks, panicking as Boog cuts off their air supplies. They thrash harder still; submitting is the last thing on their minds as they fight to breathe.

It's sheer luck that he lets them go before they run out of air because he can't see their lips turning blue in the dark. He sits on their backs, gritting his teeth while they gulp in tremendous peals of air. Out of habit, their hands slowly entwine beneath his domineering glare, as if to drive his failure deeper.

Beatings aren't enough. He leaves them to slowly regain their senses, and he thinks hard about what to do next, becoming enthralled with mental torture. He wants to see them dissolve from happy, bright kids to sullen, miserable lumps right before his eyes. It is a never-ending fascination that resonates with something tragic in his mind. He doesn't want to separate them; they would never survive without their partner, but he has other methods to experiment with.

Curious to see how they would react, he turns off ALL of the lights outside the rawky room. Abandoned to suffer in pitch blackness, the recovering pair can't see anything and have no choice but to interact solely through sound and touch. Without vision, they develop paranoia and clutch each other for security, enduring numerous fits of anxiety together. They insulate themselves in the blankets for consolation, but even that isn't enough to stifle their deteriorating stability. 

Yo is certain that Fanboy screamed for a full hour into the gloom until his voice gave out. 

Fanboy is sure that Yo tore at the skin of her arms until she bled.

Boog limits his interaction with them as much as possible, shoving meals through the slot instead of strolling in personally. He doesn't see nor speak to them in any shape or form. They don't mind that, but the darkness is too much.

After a few days of this, their nerves DO eventually settle. It helps that their eyes can see clearer having gotten used to the darkness. They take advantage of this new superpower. Taking out their coloring book and crayons, they get busy. 

Fanboy colors the right pages, and Yo colors the left ones. He rarely stays inside the lines, scribbling madly, while she colors with surgical concinnity. They snort and laugh at each other's styles in a lighthearted, almost flirtatious moment, each claiming to be the better artist. Things playfully escalate from there when Yo pounces on Fanboy, and they wrestle on the floor, laughing and making a loud ruckus until-

The light from outside turns on.

Boog opens the door without warning, and light floods in. They freeze and shield their sensitive orbs by burying their faces in each other's napes. The man observes them for a moment with a peculiar look in his eyes while they try to catch their breaths. With a small smirk, he sits and motions for them to continue. They don't move. Fanboy holds onto Yo as tight as he can, staring at their captor with distrust. 

Boog sighs and smooths his highlighted hair back. He thinks that perhaps they'll comply if he explains what he's looking for. From then, he provides a lengthy explanation as to why he likes to watch them play, using big scientific words that sound bizarre coming out of his mouth.

The children are confused by specifics, feeling that this might be above their age group. Despite their ignorance, they understand that something seriously sinister is going through their captor's mind. 

Boog smiles faintly and looks off to the side. He says he's happy that they get along so well, that he had made such a great decision in choosing them and not the others, and that their compatibility will be excellent for when they grow older. 

Fanboy's cautious, but Yo is tempted to speak up. She asks why it matters to Boog why they get along. He smiles at them, a gleam of pride shining in his eyes. He doesn't give a direct answer. He just says that it'll all happen naturally and he needn't intervene for that. Yo looks up to Fanboy for help, but he looks just as lost.

Boog chuckles and moves over to pat the tops of their heads. He tells them that despite the bumps in the road, he's happy with them. They can't believe it and flinch under his touch. Impressively, they manage to remain calm until Boog leaves them alone again.

The event sticks with Fanboy and Yo for several days after it occurs, and during that time, they opt to keep their distance from one another. It doesn't last long, and soon they're clinging to each other again.

When Boog was a child, his severe allergies meant total isolation. He couldn't go out and play, nor could he eat most foods or drink most liquids. All he had was Chimp Chomp, the game he grew obsessed with. Confined to his plastic prison, Boog's hate kindled and grew into an inferno by the time he was an adult. He beat anyone he could get his hands on, was socially inept, and talked to Chimp Chomp the game as if it were a person, calling it his "baby." In his sickness, Boog was convinced that it was real and loved him back. 

Speculating his past, Fanboy and Yo wonder. Is Boog trying to recreate his childhood for them? Is keeping them isolated, feeding them a narrow menu, and beating them ways of reconciling with his past? Is it revenge? A coping mechanism? They are uncertain. Whatever the reason, he is sick, and they need to get away before he beats them to death.

Later, Yo's eyes open to Boog's silhouette standing in the doorway. Her heart pounds as he enters and shuts the door behind him, leaving them in the pitch-black. Fanboy's breathing remains calm and even--he's still asleep.

Yo's adapted eyes stare hard at the man and she shrinks in fear. The glazed look has returned. He stares at them, his hands slowly clenching into fists. Yo watches him stand stationary and leave. She waits for a long time, but he doesn't return to beat them. She shudders and snuggles back into the blanket, concentrating on the steady breathing of her prison mate.

Three months later, they reach the end of their first year in captivity. They miss birthdays, Icemas, Tanksgiving, All Saint's Day, Halloween, Leprechaun Day, and goodness knows what else. It's especially dismaying when they can't even pinpoint what time of the year it is. 

They guess what days correspond to which holiday and celebrate in their way.

For birthdays, Fanboy chooses a random time to celebrate turning twelve, as does Yo, because her birthday comes a month after his. They sing birthday songs, eat imaginary cake, play games, make fun of each other, and have a genuinely good time even if they have nothing.

For Tanksgiving, they get stuck at what they're "tankful" for. At first, it seems as if they have nothing, but then they remember that they have each other. They cheer to that and scarf down imaginary Thurkey. 

For Icemas, they try to give each other gifts. Fanboy gives Yo a huge hug and a supply of club crackers he'd managed to stash. She gives him a full kiss on the lips, to which he backs away after a few seconds, and they crack up about how gross it was. Boog doesn't know it's Icemas for them, but he gifts them a daily dose of Vitamin Fist anyway.

Prank Day is a holiday Yo's itching to participate in, and Fanboy dreads it more than ever. At least there isn't anything in this room she can use to prank him with.

In the long hours of the wake, they get a little better at communicating with each other. In the months before, silence would make them antsy, but now they use the time when it's quiet to lay side by side and just daydream.

In one of their many conversations, Yo voices her worry about their education. She wonders what school will be like after they've missed so many criteria. It's an idea that stresses her out quite a bit. The thought of missing school doesn't bother Fanboy as much; he isn't a scholar. He mostly worries about Chum Chum, about who is taking care of him, about if he's eating properly and getting proper sleep. He vents this to Yo, who reminds him that Chum Chum is super smart, fully capable of taking care of himself.

He thinks about that and relaxes. Yo understands that it's not the best reassurance, but that's all she has. After a quiet hour of pacing to exercise their nonexistent muscles, Fanboy asks her how much time she thinks has passed.

She contemplates and looks down at herself. She rationalizes that she hasn't grown that much, so they probably haven't been here that long. A few months, she guesses. They shouldn't be here much longer. Until they're rescued, she grins, he can teach her how to dance.

Chapter Text

Fanboy brims with a pent-up energy that aches for release, as if some hidden bomb inside him has been ticking these three years, begging for a spark. His limbs itch to move, to express something wordless and defiant, some wild, childlike fire that even this place cannot extinguish. For a moment, he feels it rising: the urge to dance.

The thought jolts him. He has not truly wanted to dance since Chum Chum vanished from his side, since silence became their daily diet. Music has always been his second heartbeat, and its absence gnaws at him with the same hunger as loneliness itself. The generator’s throb, the drip of water; those are poor stand-ins for jingles and jamz, for the radio’s silly clutter. Even his voice, bright as it once was, feels hollow without its counterpart.

So he paces, steps chewing the gloom. Yo watches, distressed. She feels the lyrics slipping from memory like butter off hot bread, once-beloved lines evaporating before she can mouth them. To her, life without music is a sky without birdsong, a storm without thunder. It is emptiness.

Fanboy, sensing her anguish, feels another piece of his identity crumble. But crooked souls can still knit themselves together, and Yo, fragile but bright, offers a cure. A request: teach me to dance.

The words ignite something. A shy smile quirks at his lips; he bows with all the pomp his skinny frame can muster, gloved hand extended. Yo, amused, answers with a curtsy so exaggerated it makes him blush scarlet. Their laughter mingles, a brittle but genuine sound, and then her hand rests in his.

Fanboy takes a deep breath. The dance requires little skill, but he hasn't performed it with anyone besides his best friend. Holding Yo steady, Fanboy guides her to stand about a foot away from him in the room's center.

The air feels different now, almost sweet. He sets her a pace: slow, swaying, cautious. She hums to keep them steady, and the hum becomes their orchestra.

At first their movements are tentative, stilted, as though mimicking what they imagine adults must do. But something shifts. Fanboy’s palm finds her waist; her hand drifts to his collarbone. He mutters encouragements, voice breaking like a young teacher’s, and she giggles softly, pressing closer. Their swaying thickens into warmth, into a pulse shared between them.

She finds his bashful expression curious. They nestle, hug, and even kiss, though that's a rare phenomenon that usually ends in goofy gags and giggles. Perhaps the source of his restlessness is that this is the first time they will be, well, conventionally romantic (despite Fanboy's reserved insistence that it won't be). 

Yo beams, feeling exceptionally friendly, and inches closer until the toes of their shoes touch. Fanboy snickers to release some pent-up nerves and tucks his right elbow beneath her armpit, effectively bringing them closer still before resting his other hand on her waist. Yo's humming hitches in surprise at the touch. Her hands fidget, unsure of where to go until Fanboy takes hold of one and places it at his nape. Yo gets the idea and does the same with her other hand, resisting the urge to tickle him. 

They sway to her soft hums, using minimal foot movement to slowly rotate on the spot. Fanboy is steady and strong, carefully guiding her through the movements. Yo drifts off into the moment and leans forward to rest her head against Fanboy's collarbone. The maneuver is startling but strangely comforting, and Fanboy's unsure if that's more embarrassing than the act itself. Whatever it is, he doesn't object.

Yo beams against his uniform's latex fabric, and feels his heart beating like a hammer, the noisy palpitations nearly visible. They quicken when she lifts one of her hands from his neck to caress his scorching cheek. Their rhythm stutters, then reforms as “hug-and-sway,” their limbs less precise, their breathing louder, their hearts hammering.

And then Yo, flushed and trembling, lifts her face and presses her mouth to his.

The world detonates. Fanboy gasps, hands flailing as if the kiss itself were a blow. He tumbles backward, dragging her with him, and they collapse onto the floor in a graceless heap. His first instinct is irritation, a little smack to her arm, but her insistence, her humming into the kiss, drowns that complaint. His limbs soften; his breath falters. A warmth unfurls in his chest, vast and terrifying.

This kiss is different. This is much more intimate, much more passionate than the soft pecks he has grown used to. Her full weight on his torso, her hands clutching his face, her passion: it’s all fueling something inside him that he has never felt before. Not a gag, not a prank. Something raw, something perilously close to love.

Time blurs. They kiss until the lantern sputters and dies, leaving them in velvet dark. In need of breath, Yo pulls away with a gasp, taking a moment to consider her actions before plunging back in. Fanboy is in a world of mush. His limbs are putty, his mind is blank, and his blood is rushing all around inside him. With a new urge to further proximity, his shaky hands find purchase at her hips. Above him, Yo feels equally strange, unsure as to what's driving her actions other than an intense yearning for closeness, but enjoying them all the same. 

Their lips part, their lungs seize air like swimmers breaking the surface. Yo sighs and collapses onto the comforter, giddy and light. Fanboy, by contrast, wheezes and squirms, lost in the thunder of his own heartbeat. He wipes his mouth again and again, as if unsure what to do with the sensation still lingering there.

Well, that certainly hadn’t gone as planned. Dancing with Chum Chum had never ended with a giant smooch. Fanboy squirms, feeling as heavy as a two-ton weight. He glances in Yo’s general direction, the warmth in him as steady as ever. What should he do now? Laugh? Pass out? Declare his love?

He remembers watching teenagers smooch at street corners. Back then, he’d found it repulsive. Now, he doesn't know what to think about this persistent fluster. If he has hearts in his eyes, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

In the blackness, Yo finds his hand. Her voice is sugar when she thanks him, hopeful they’ll dance again soon. Fanboy squeaks a reply, masking his shiver with a ridiculous finger-gun she cannot even see. Electricity still crackles through him.

Her giggle seals it. Play wrestles into laughter, then subsides into breathless quiet. When she finds his hand once more, he holds it back without hesitation.

But joy here is brief. Three years already a curse; four, a calamity. Their days are stripped of learning, of play, of care. Boog gives nothing but neglect, cruelty, absence. They are children aging into despair.

Dreams haunt them, visions of what could have been, echoes of loved ones lost. Fanboy sometimes screams himself hoarse without realizing, until Yo’s frantic hands shake him back into his body. Yo sometimes sees sparks of light in her periphery, only to turn and find nothing. Their minds fray at the edges.

They have tried everything to escape, but nothing has worked. How pathetic, they think ashamedly, to have failed themselves, each other, and the ones they love.

Chum Chum is out there, alone, moving through life without his best friend. Yo's kitty is without her owner, and might not even be alive anymore, having been approaching elderly right before the kidnapping.

They are miserable, the burden of failure creating an immense amount of pain, depleting them emotionally, mentally, and physically.

Yo replays the what-ifs, filling the voids between breaths and leaving her utterly decimated in her wake.

Fanboy suffers these thoughts likewise but comforts his companion the best he can, ever insistent on their innocence. Life wasn't easy before; they both dealt with normal childhood trials like homework, friendship problems, and bullies, but they were happy and blameless. Life was filled with an endless array of adventures with minor setbacks. Now, life is the opposite. Neglected by the only adult figure in their lives, they are left to their own devices with unanswered questions.

That's made ever-apparent when Yo's first bleeding comes.

The shock terrifies them both: crimson where none should be. Fanboy is frantic, convinced she is dying. Boog arrives to find them shivering with panic, and laughs. The sound rings like a death knell. Yo breaks, dribbling in fear. Fanboy burns with hatred he cannot voice.

Finally. Boog shakes his head and smiles like an amused parent. The expression makes Fanboy want to slap it right off the man’s face, but with Yo as vulnerable as she is, he daren’t.

Sheet-white and glued to the commode, Yo trembles uneasily as Boog crudely teaches them all he knows of feminine hygiene basics. Fanboy pays close attention, but can hardly believe what he is hearing, jaw hanging with shock. Surely, Yo's insides have imploded, but Boog swears on Fisty and Slappy that he's telling the truth: this will happen every month for the rest of her life. Yo, having yearned to hear any reason as to why she is bleeding other than a disease, is relieved.

Her relief is short-lived. Boog explains his crude solution, mock-parental. Yo trembles naked while he demonstrates, hands cold on the basin he brings for her. She obeys, sobbing, sinking onto the icy metal under his gaze. The decree is cruel: she must stay there, separate, until it ends. Fanboy whispers promises through his teeth, vows of blankets and comfort, but his heart is a pit.

Boog tells her that this painful bleeding will last a few days and that she needs to keep the room clean by staying put. Only when she stops bleeding will she be allowed to rejoin Fanboy in the comforter. Boog’s smile at Fanboy, the pat on the head—it chills him worse than the tub chills Yo. He cannot bear it. Memory swallows him: cocoa, blankets, Chum Chum’s grin. For a moment, he is home.

When he returns, tears stain his face, Boog’s hand grips his skull, forcing him upright. But Fanboy resists. Shuts his eyes, curls in, whines like a wounded dog, desperate to vanish into that other world where his sidekick still exists. Yo cries across the room, fragile as a glass figurine, and Fanboy’s heart tears. He misses his buddy more than words can contain.

Boog shakes him roughly, repeating over and over an order that Fanboy just can’t understand, nor does he care to understand. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to let go, to retain that cloudy emptiness that opened the door to the realm of pleasant remembrance. Boog, however, is making it impossible.

Overwhelmed, Fanboy weeps, and Boog carefully withdraws his hand from the teen. He doesn’t want his captive to fall into a mental coma as Yo had, so he backs off before he can. He soon exits, leaving a sniffling girl to bleed out and a semi-coherent boy to wallow in the misery he has caused.

Yo peers over the rim of the tub and whispers Fanboy’s name. He doesn’t answer, but rather unsteadily stands and tosses the blanket in the tub to land atop Yo. He settles beside her on top of the blankets and hugs the girl close.

Has she ever shared someone’s dream? That’s what he asks her in a broken, nostalgic drawl.

Yo opens her mouth to inquire about what has happened, but decides to leave it be. Fanboy’s alive and responsive, and that’s all that matters. She won't even complain about the bleeding if she can help it.

Some years later, when the silence of the room feels heavier than the air itself, Yo asks if she might see Fanboy’s face. It is not the first time; for weeks she has pressed him with curiosity, and each time he has batted her away with the same stock refusals.

He tells her, theatrically, that a hero must guard his identity at all costs. If revealed, he explains, enemies could strike at those he loves. The words sound noble, but even to Yo’s ear, they are hollow here where no villains stalk but the one who already owns them. She points toward the door, toward their miserable quarters. What enemies could there be but Boog?

Fanboy flushes but holds his ground. His costume is no longer mere play, but the last thread tying him to another life, a shield against despair. To let go of it would be to let go of freedom itself.

Disappointed, Yo rolls onto her side and begins counting by fives. Counting has become her ritual, her frail defense against timelessness in this place without windows or clocks. Numbers tick away where hours do not. Yet today even numbers fail to amuse her. To see something new, anything different, would have been a gift.

Sensing her gloom, Fanboy sneaks close and blows a rude raspberry against her ear. Yo yelps, batting at him, while he falls back in a fit of laughter. It sparks a war. She playfully lunges, pinning him to the floor with knees against his arms. He wriggles, plants a foot, and nudges her off. It is gentle, but enough to unseat her.

They collapse together, again and again, until sweat streaks their temples and breath deserts them. At last, Fanboy yields, wheezing beneath her. Yo, triumphant, sprawls across him until a sound tears through the air.

RIIIIIIIP

The two freeze. Yo stares at her hand, at the seam of his sleeve, now gaping open.

Fanboy bolts upright, clutching at the wound in his costume as though it were his own flesh. His breath catches, panic rising sharp and choking. He wants to rage at her but cannot; this accident is not her fault. His body is changing, growing against the prison of his clothes. Even Yo’s garments, stretched by her own growth, testify to the passage of years they no longer perceive.

Despite Fanboy’s frantic attempts to conceal it, Boog notices upon his next visit. He summons Fanboy beneath the lantern’s glow, forcing him to display the tears. Humiliation burns deeper than the hunger in his stomach. What will Boog do?

The man studies him, rubs his heavy chin, and leaves. When he returns, he bears a pale blue shirt. It‘s his own, by the look of it, and he thrusts it at Fanboy. This will be his garment, he says, until repairs are made.

Fanboy trembles. The fabric in his hands feels foreign, an invasion. To part with the costume is to part with himself. He stalls, stammering, but under Boog’s shadow he obeys, undressing and folding his beloved attire with reverence until only the cowl remains upon his head.

Boog is not satisfied. He demands that as well.

Fanboy refuses, his voice raw, but Yo stiffens, memories clawing her. She whispers for Fanboy to comply, but he only crosses his arms, jaw set.

Boog studies him with a predator’s patience. The boy has bent under suffering before, but never snapped, not completely. Beatings, insults, starvation, sickness, isolation…Fanboy has been through it all but clutches his fighting spirit with a toddler's fierceness clinging to his favorite toy. That stubborn flame intrigues Boog. He can't decide whether it's due to false hope, pride, or deluded valor, but whatever the reason, Fanboy is presenting himself as an invincible force, a challenge. Boog wonders how much pressure it will take to snuff it out.

His verdict comes swift: Yo will pay the price if Fanboy refuses.

The words crush Fanboy. To strip his mask is unthinkable, yet the sight of Yo trembling in her corner breaks his will. Quietly, shamefully, he surrenders.

With trembling fingers, he peels the cowl from his head. His greasy, golden-brown hair spills long and tangled to his shoulders, the curtain of bangs falling into his eyes. He clutches the mask as though it still might shield him, before placing it beside the folded costume. Naked and bereft, he hides his face behind his bare hands in a futile attempt to protect it.

Boog does not allow even that dignity. He orders Fanboy to look at him. A sound escapes the younger male, raw and ragged, as Boog pries his trembling fingers away from his face.

This is worse than a beating. This is ripping away a portion of his soul. A pure panic, a deep, intense dread pushes to the forefront of his brain. He's cracking.

Boog's lip curls and, before Fanboy can protest, seizes the garments, hoists them high, and rips them to shreds. He stands there victoriously, clutching the items in each hand high in the air before ripping them to shreds.

Fanboy’s gasp is silent and endless. His eyes widen, emerald pools shattering, and all he can see is the ruin of his past, the severed tether to Chum Chum, to freedom, to himself. Boog’s laughter is a distant roar, blurred by the red haze consuming him.

He explodes.

Yo cries out as Fanboy launches himself at Boog, clawing like an animal, shrieking, scratching at his face. For the first time in years he fights not with schemes or meek rebellion but with raw fury. Boog falters, then seizes him, crushing him against the concrete.

Boog is jarred. Except for a couple of failed escape attempts, Fanboy hasn't dared to attack him like this.

The struggle is brutal, primal. He's more vulnerable than he has ever been in his life yet fighting harder than he has in years. It's invigorating, and Yo is half-tempted to join in, but her fear is crushing. She instead begs for mercy, offers herself in his stead, but Boog ignores her. He roars in Fanboy’s face, slamming him down, demanding submission. Fanboy writhes, wild, unrecognizable, until at last his strength gutters out. His limbs fall limp, his sobs choking.

Boog shifts cautiously, feeling the boy's rapidly fluttering heart below his palm, but Fanboy doesn't move; his body is expired. Boog rises, strands of Fanboy’s hair tangled in his flexing fingers. He spits on the ground, then turns his gaze to Yo.

“̴̨̟̆͝G̷̍̈ͅo̴̘̩̔ṱ̸̮̏͌̅ ̸̝̫̐̕ȃ̵̙͋n̷͓̉͋̀y̴̛̮͌t̷̞̥̀̎h̵̜̱̐̀̿i̷͍̮͆͒n̶̜̣̝̎g̷̼̃ ̵̨̰̺͘f̷̝̮͛o̴͖͘̚r̷̪̓̐͒ ̴͓̬͂͜͝m̸̤̘͕̐͑e̴̫̽̽?̷͈̾̋͂”̸͖̐

His eyes flick down her thin clothes. The words mean nothing she can put into sense, yet the way he says them chills her marrow. A wrongness prickles over her skin, nameless but undeniable. She shakes her hear. The question hangs, as heavy and sour as the stink of Boog's breath, before he grins and lumbers out the door.

Yo rushes to her friend, who's now near-comatose. She gathers his frail body into blankets, shielding what little dignity he has left. For the first time, she sees his face fully revealed. She touches his cheek with trembling fingers, guilt cutting her. Fanboy has never looked so small and frail. Should she even look? Should she have done more? But she knows: neither of them could have stopped Boog. Fanboy's secret identity was doomed from the start.

She gently runs her fingers through his hair, wordlessly coaxing him to awaken from his stupor. His face, although scarred and bruised like her own, it is nearly free of natural blemishes, and his long hair is soft and silky against her dirty fingers. Yo traces the contours of his face, feeling warm despite the circumstances as she catches every dip, crevice, and texture.

When Fanboy stirs at last, his eyes fluttering open, his first question is for the costume. Yo cannot speak. Their eyes meet, and he understands. His grief is bottomless. He covers his face and calls his best friend’s name again and again, as though to conjure the boy who once stood beside him.

Yo gently kisses the poor boy, puts a hand on his bare shoulder, and promises that he is still a hero, with or without the cowl. He is still hers. Still Fanboy.

Fanboy manages to sit up on his own, his hands slowly sliding down his face until they come to a stop above his lap. Sniffling, he asks if she means it, to which Yo seals her promise with a deep kiss. Her actions have the desired effect. Fanboy cries but accepts her, holding her close to ensure his faith.

Yo graciously welcomes the sun: a giant yellow orb of light beaming over her and the grassy field at where she stands. She hasn't seen the sun in years, and her bright, blue eyes smart with pain by the exposure to natural light, but the gentle warmth comforts her broken soul. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, and her inky hair cascades down her back like a veil. She's adorned in a long, loose white dress that flutters in the cool breeze. The grasses beneath her bare toes are soft and green, the clouds above white and fluffy. Overhead, seagulls squawk.

Her friends are mere dots on the horizon, faceless smudges of color, but warm and inviting as they beckon. Behind them, the great beautiful buildings of Galaxy Hills tower dominate the horizon, bordered by hazy blue mountains that curve at the peaks. 

A pink blossom flutters past and lands at her feet. She doesn't know how she got here, but despite that and the sorrow lurking within, she has never felt happier.

Fanboy stands nearby, holding clusters of flowers he has picked from the field. He is wearing a long, pale blue shirt that drapes over his shoulders and hangs down past his knees. Despite Yo's inability to turn her head to see, she knows that his smiling face is without a mask.

Yo feels a physical tug at her chest after a spell, an invisible force drawing her forward. She knows what it means. It's time to go home, return to her school, her pet cat, her friends, and pick up where life left off. 

Stalwart and strong, she takes Fanboy's ungloved hand and steps forward, the soft green blades folding beneath her weight. Homeward bound--no obstacles, no hindrances, just sunny skies, and a beautiful green grass path speckled with white, gold, and pink flowers.

A calm settles over Yo's tired heart, clearing her mind. Eyes closed, she lifts arms to embrace the world back in its tender hold as she marches on. She feels Fanboy copy her stance, embracing the warmth of the sun.

At the twelfth step, the crisp breeze stills, and her long hair cascades to its natural perch. Yo freezes and Fanboy stops as well, his arms going slack and releasing the flowers to flutter to the ground. A part of Yo panics as she tries to move her feet, but she is frozen solid in time. 

Unable to go any further, locked hand-in-hand at the edge of freedom, they wait.

Hours pass, and the sun disappears behind the clouds. The last of Galaxy Hills sinks out of view, and Yo's friends are no longer calling. Fanboy and Yo remain standing side by side, the grass frosting over beneath their toes, the sky overcast. As Yo stares at the horizon, the panicked part of her diminishes, and a scary calm washes over her. Then, the rain. Icy cold droplets plummet from the cloudy skies and soak the frozen youngsters.

Yo closes her eyes, finally accepting her fate as salty tears run down her face. There is no hope. She can't escape. 

She is forever lost.

At that, her feet can move freely. She shifts, grateful, but makes no move toward the horizon. Fanboy lingers as well, shielding his eyes from the rain. She catches him shiver, feels him give her a quick nuzzle before he retreats.

The breeze picks up anew. Yo turns her back on the world. She now fronts a meadow of tall grasses, stretching out as far as the eye can see. Her sodden dress sticks to her emaciated legs as she stumbles over to the brush's entrance: a minute opening in the plain where she can enter. 

Yo plods on her hands and knees through the shaft until she arrives at the clearing where Fanboy is waiting. The clearance is dome-shaped, entirely made of green. The grass is stiffer and shriveled here, and it pokes at Yo's hands, but it is sheltered and will keep her dry and warm. Just above, rain patters against the grassy roof, but not one drop leaks in.

Yo can't see above Fanboy's neckline, but she hears the smile in his voice as he whispers her name and takes her soft hand in his. He's the source of warmth, of energy. He speaks soothingly, and she kens the warm tone. They sit beside one another and feast on an assortment of wild berries and bread. Her stomach has felt empty for ages, and she's overjoyed to have her fill. Between bites, Fanboy sneaks a quick peck to her cheek.

After licking the last of the berry juice from her fingers, Yo watches Fanboy gather a bounty of cotton and construct a soft nest for them to retire. He flashes a fervid smile, the implications clear as he pats the material. 

Heat blossoms in Yo's gut. Face warming in tandem, she touches the plush cotton as Fanboy saddles up from behind and kisses her temple. Her heart pace quickens as he takes her hands in his and pushes her to lay back upon the nest. From there, they lose themselves in a fervid haze of pink and red. The storm rages on outside, but they ignore it, solely focused on making the other person happy. From there, the roof disappears, and the rain comes pouring in as they reach the pinnacle—

Yo jolts awake, her body seized by an unexpected warmth that leaves her damp and trembling. Sweat beads across her skin, her heart pounding like a hammer, the remnants of another strange vision scattering into darkness. The room is cold, yet the chill feels merciful compared to the fire that has surged through her.

She groans and presses the heel of her hand to her brow, her long bangs plastered to her clammy forehead. To her right comes the soft murmur of Fanboy, blissfully asleep, undisturbed by the storm that racks her.

Yawning, Yo rubs the sweat from her face. She longs for rest, but sleep is an unkind visitor these days, leaving her with dreams that burn her throat dry and leave her trembling in their wake. She slips from beneath the blankets, the concrete biting at her bare feet, and savors the cold pressing against her overheated skin. Her yellow shirt, little more than tatters stained from years of blows, hangs loose on her frame. She paces, arms crossed over her widened hips, trying to steady her breath. At last, with a quiet impatience, she pulls the ruined shirt over her head and lets it fall away.

Her gut lurches. She stumbles toward the commode in the dark, barely reaching it before retching, her body purging itself with harsh, miserable spasms. When it passes, she slumps against the wall, eyes swimming with sparks of light.

Fanboy stirs. His lids flutter, and his hand reaches instinctively for the space beside him, finding it empty. He sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his nose wrinkling at the sour smell. He calls softly, lifting the edge of the blanket in invitation.

She blinks at the sound of his voice, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, and crawls back to him without a word. She buries herself beneath the blanket once more, pressing close to his warmth. Whatever storms roar in her body or her mind, she has learned not to give them names. Perhaps captivity does that: twists the heart until affection becomes both a balm and a hunger, and the only comfort left is the soul that endures beside the self.

Their love has always lived in that in-between: not merely physical, not merely spiritual, but a bond that binds them past reason. Sometimes they lie for hours, hands entwined, hearts thundering with a strange mix of shyness and certainty.

Fanboy stirs drowsily and gathers her against his chest, his chin resting atop her head where once a brutal wound had healed. His hands settle gently against her stomach, and though his thoughts are muddled, their weight is careful, reverent. A flinch betrays him, but Yo soothes his hand with hers, murmuring a question about his health. Dreadfully abashed, he laughs it off, though uneasily, as if the truth of what he feels is too strange, too guilty to confess.

To him, she is beautiful, achingly so. Not just the girl he remembers but a person who suffered beside him in this darkness. When she presses close, warmth against his side, his heart stammers, seized by a flood of feelings he can neither hide nor explain. Yo, too, is bewildered by her longings, the way her body yearns for touch as much as her soul does. Neither has words for it. They only know it feels like love. At least she hasn't had a "period" (as Boog calls it) for a while.

Fanboy presses a clumsy kiss to the back of her head, his buckteeth grazing her nape, and she giggles softly at the sensation. She turns to face him, her blue eyes meeting his green, and they lean together until their foreheads touch. Yo takes his thin hand in hers and presses kisses across his cold fingers, one by one, as though willing life into them. Fanboy's working pupil dilates as she presses her lips to his ring finger. Fanboy's chest tightens with wonder, and a question escapes him before he can stop it:

Could they get married one day? The question is so sudden and so innocent that Yo actually laughs.

Fanboy’s smile falters, wounded, until she kisses his nose in reassurance. When she thinks they're grown up, yes, she would love to.

His joy is bright and boyish. He squeals and pulls her into his arms, nuzzling into her neck as she squeaks and wriggles beneath his tickling hand. 

In time, the little world warms. It's primitive and pure amplified by a perfect balance of shyness, innocent curiosity, passion, trust, and love. Fanboy lifts his head to smile fondly at her. Yo smiles back and raises a tired hand to run her fingers through his sweaty hair. 

I love you too.

Saying it aloud alters everything. Yo drifts back to the schoolyard, faint recollections of chasing boys through sunlight and dust, her heart already yearning for someone to hold, to kiss, to share in her games. To her, love had always seemed bound to a spark of attraction, the thrill of a crush. The memories color her cheeks, draw a wistful smile to her lips. She turns to Fanboy, curious, and asks what love had meant to him back then.

He answers with a crooked smirk, confessing he’d hardly spared it a thought, that most boys don't. Still, he admits with a shrug, he found some girls cute.

Yo grins, asking if she was one of them, but Fanboy shakes his head with a smirk. Not a chance.

She scoffs and rolls her eyes, delivering a light smack to the back of his head. He bursts into cackles, the sound breaking through the heaviness of their world, if only for a moment. However, the sound rattles out of him sharper than she remembers, laughter with an edge that doesn’t quite fit. Yo whips her hand back to her side, momentarily horrified that she'd hit him, even playfully.

Over the years, their love has ripened beyond a crush, settling into a bond that feels inevitable. The risk is real, as Boog always looms, but the danger only sharpens what they share. Once, Yo had feared that love here was false, that the world outside would dissolve it. Now she understands that risk itself is part of its truth.

They have weathered the waning of infatuation, the quieting of fire into familiarity. Their personalities sometimes clash, but their souls and bodies fit like pieces of a puzzle, imperfect yet inseparable. When Fanboy doubts, wondering if he would have chosen her outside these walls, she answers gently: not everything needs a reason. Sometimes, what feels right is enough.

And together, they remind each other of who they were before. They make lists: likes, dislikes, memories, dreams. Yo recites her love of pinecones, of Scampers and Yuka-Kitty, of counting and blankets and crackers. Fanboy remembers Chum Chum, comics, sunshine, and Frosty Freezy Freeze. Naming these things does not heal them, but it anchors them, keeps them from drifting into nothingness.

After going over those pointers, Fanboy felt a little better despite misremembering his old peers' names. 

Sensing an improvement, Yo made a list for herself. Unfortunately, it put a damper on her mood as she thought of how her future would have been promising if not for Boog. Fanboy also tried not to think about what could have been. It was depressing, and the last thing he needed was to shut down. He was so thankful to have Yo there with him. 

In the present, they can accept the good with the bad, allow themselves to believe it is a choice of theirs to make. When the lapses of life begin to manifest, there's really no way around them. They need to be faced head-on, and Fanboy can't ask for a better partner to jump those hurdles with. He trusts their bond will last. Building that was no easy feat, but that makes it all the more special. He supposes that all relationships take work, and once they reach sincere, unconditional love, it'll all come together.

Now, in the present, they lie side by side. Fanboy’s voice breaks the silence, hesitant but sincere. If they get married, does that mean they could have...babies?

The word hangs between them, soft and impossible. Yo’s eyes sting as she shakes her head. She has long dreamed of motherhood, yet no stork, no miracle, will find them here. Fanboy frowns, then brightens with remembered wisdom from Oz: babies come when a mom and dad pray hard enough, he recalls, when God grants them a child to grow in the mother’s stomach until she gives birth and POOF! A new person! He giggles, perking up a little. Whoever heard of a stork?

It's a magical stork, Yo argues but smiles at Fanboy's delight, even as she reminds him that such dreams cannot live here, not in this dark place.

But later, when they are free, when they have a house and sunlight and space, then yes. They will have many children. Six, perhaps, Fanboy decides gleefully, three boys and three girls. Their babies can have an Uncle Chum and Aunt Lupe! It would be so cool! They laugh at the thought, imagining their future family, pretending for now. Playing house in the dark. 

Fanboy hums a half-remembered lullaby, words falling softly over her as his fingers drift through her hair:

O'er the mills, fall stars of Galaxy Hills.

Sparkling their greetings, they plunge from the knolls.

Down they go, down they go.

Bright diamonds beside my lovely abide,

They will guard thee, under soft moonlight.

Here they come, here they come.

The comets streak o'er and take all thy fear,

Burning and flying, my darling, they're near.

Up we go, up we go.

My lovely, my star, of Galaxy Hills.

His voice trails into a kiss at her temple. She yawns and blinks tiredly, taking the cloud ferry back to Sleepy-Time Island. Fanboy stays awake just a little while longer and runs his gloveless fingers through her long black hair.

Now that the thought of children has taken root, it refuses to leave him. It stirs something long-buried, a tenderness from the days he watched over Chum Chum, when a strange paternal instinct had already begun to surface in him. Fanboy smiles faintly as he strokes Yo’s hair, a warmth swelling in his chest. Protection, he realizes, has always been at the heart of him. It is why he once dreamed of being a hero, caped and brave, standing guard against the world’s cruelties.

With Yo, the feeling is both familiar and transformed. Guarding her recalls the loyalty for Chum Chum, yet it runs deeper, sharper, as though her safety has become the very measure of his own existence. He cannot quite explain it, only that the urgency is different now, heavier. It is not that her protection was ever unnecessary, but now it feels as though something greater hangs in the balance—something fragile, sacred, and impossibly precious.

Fanboy and Yo lie curled against each other, face to face in their small cocoon of worn blankets. Their bodies are clean from yesterday’s bath, their skin still faintly carrying the scent of soap. The long shirt Boog left for them lies abandoned in a corner, gathering dust. They will not wear it. Better to go bare than clothe themselves in their keeper’s charity.

When Fanboy wakes, he finds Boog crouched at the foot of their bedding, smiling with a tenderness that chills rather than soothes. His gaze is pinned to Yo. Fanboy’s breath catches, and in a heartbeat he is upright, his thin body interposed between her and the man. The meaning of his stare is unmistakable: stay away, or I'll hurt you. 

Boog only looks amused. He has come to expect this shift in Fanboy, the feral protectiveness that burns brighter with each passing day. He sees instinct where once there was only childish dependence. He'd assumed that a male protecting the female was a learned behavior and not a trait that could be inborn. As far as he's concerned, neither Fanboy nor Yo has had a parental figure in their lives. Oz, Fanboy's "guardian," was more of a friend than a father, and Yo's parents were nowhere to be found. Boog knows this; he'd joined the searches years ago. 

Left to their own devices, Fanboy and Yo fall into patterns that echo something almost traditional: the boy standing sentinel, all wiry tension and teeth, while the girl offers what comfort she can, smoothing fear with soft words and gentle hands. Whether this rhythm is born of instinct, temperament, or some entangled fusion of both fascinates Boog. He watches them as one might creatures in an enclosure, cataloguing their habits with the indulgent air of a keeper.

Fanboy’s hostility, sharp and immediate as a striking snake, Boog attributes to learned behavior. Years of his own cruelty have etched themselves into the other male’s marrow, and now that cruelty comes back at him, warped into defiance. It is mimicry, nothing more; a child rehearsing the only script he has ever been given.

Yo, however, is harder to examine. To touch her, to even glance too long, requires prying Fanboy away, and Fanboy has grown into his height, his body lean but volatile, a spring wound tight. To soothe him, Boog tries explanations, outlining plans in the slow, patient tone one uses on the simple-minded. But uncertainty is tinder in Fanboy's mind; it catches fast, flaring into rage he cannot contain.

Breakfast distracts: waffles dripping butter and syrup, two glasses of juice. The rich smell rouses Yo; she stirs, yawns softly. Fanboy leans in at once, nuzzling her temple, whispering something that Boog cannot hear. There is a light in his eyes then, but it flickers strangely. It’s something fierce, possessive, not quite the innocent adoration it once had been.

Boog waits. He has come extra prepared this time, hiding a length of extension cord behind his back. 

Yo swallows nervously and rises from the blankets to nab a waffle, exposing her stomach. Boog's heart nearly skips a beat at the sight and eyes a seemingly unaware Fanboy, who, in turn, is staring him down. Boog stares right back and, clutching the cord behind his back, reaches out with his fingers to touch Yo's shoulder.

Fanboy's reaction is immediate. His eyes go wild, he bares his teeth, snarls, and leaps for Boog to protect his beloved.

Boog presses Fanboy down, restraining the thrash of limbs and the guttural cries. Boog knows he must be cautious. He towers above them, yes, but he is not invulnerable. Fanboy’s strength is no match for his own, yet if the male were angry enough, reckless enough, he could still leave marks that invite questions. And questions are the one thing Boog cannot afford. He ties the other end of the rope to the commode. Then, he reaches for Yo.

His expression softens, as though he were coaxing a shy child rather than a captive. He croons her name, gentle as a lullaby, his tone deliberately tender, an invitation meant to unravel her fear.

Silence answers him, save for a small whimper that Fanboy returns with a growl of his own. Boog recalls how, two months past, the pair began communicating in low growls, sharp yelps, animal noises that served as their private code. He has not decided whether this is madness blooming in isolation or a small rebellion meant to needle him. Either way, it amuses him.

Patience frays. With a swift tug he strips the thin blanket away, exposing the young woman’s frail body, folded in on itself for warmth. Her knees draw to her chest, her shoulders quake in the draft. From the corner, Fanboy snarls and yanks so hard at the cord that it bites into his wrists.

Boog ignores him. He crouches at Yo’s side, lowering himself with deliberate care, and guides her upright as though assisting an invalid. She trembles violently, refusing to lift her eyes, shame painting her skin as starkly as the cold.

Then Boog inhales sharply. His hand stills. His eyes widen.

There is no mistaking it. Beneath the fragile lines of her starved frame, there is the faintest protrusion. Yo is with child.

The words leave his mouth in a stunned whisper: pregnant.

Across the room, Fanboy’s ragged howls cut off in an instant, swallowed by a silence far more terrible.

Yo blinks, bewildered, and looks to the enlarged part of her body as if she's seeing it for the first time. Boog sits there gaping and then rests his large hand over her abdomen, causing Yo to flinch. Aside from her belly, her breasts have also slightly swelled.

Fanboy thrashes against his bonds, voice breaking with rage, the sound raw and animal. But when Boog repeats himself, slowly, savoring it, and Fanboy’s fury falters. He stares at Yo’s stomach, his face tightening with confusion. For the first time, something inside him does not know how to react.

Boog unties him eventually, guiding him back to her side. Fanboy obeys too quickly, his eyes never leaving Yo’s form.

Š̴̞̙͈̎ȩ̷̾͜͜e̷̹̬͛?̷̩̹̫̏ ̷̛͎̀S̷͍̜̗͗h̶̬̟̽͜è̷̤̈ ̷̱͑̑͝h̷̢̖̼̑ą̵̦͔̏̾̍s̶̨̛͎̉́ ̶̛̹͉̈́̋ä̵̤̦͚́ ̶̧̛͓̙͌b̶̡̩̉͗͆a̸̜̭̪̍b̷̟̯̓̔y̶̑͗̄ͅͅͅ ̴̳̮̓i̷̡̓̋͌n̶̼̟̗̄s̷̺͇͂̌̆ǐ̶̡͋̌ḓ̷̤͇̌ě̶̡̪͎̔̇ ̵̛͇h̶̨̥͐e̷̟̓̚ͅṙ̷͍̤.̵͈̥̄̋

When Fanboy settles beside her again, his hand hovers trembling over the curve of her belly, as if he expects it to vanish should he touch it.

It has finally come to pass. After all these years, Yo and Fanboy are to have a child of their own. Boog exhales a long, satisfied sigh, pride swelling in his chest as if he were a father witnessing some milestone. He leans back from the girl, who has blanched to the color of ash, her body quaking in his shadow.

They’ve grown so quickly, he thinks, almost wistful. To him it feels inevitable, astonishing only that it had not occurred sooner. He had never burdened them with knowledge of what such carnal acts meant; he had simply let time run its course. Alone, with nothing but each other and endless hours to fill, they had sought warmth the way children seek blankets. They had stumbled into the ancient rhythm, blind and instinctive, never knowing what seed it carried.

Fanboy’s breath rasps. His silence is not stillness but collapse, the weight of realization crushing him. The word Boog uttered, "pregnant" rings in his skull like an iron bell, each toll cracking his mind further. He had thought himself a guardian, a shield; now his body has betrayed Yo, exposed her to something he does not understand but feels in his marrow to be irrevocable. His chest heaves, his mouth opens, yet no sound comes. Terror coils through him, mingled with an awe he cannot name.

Boog smiles at the sight, as though admiring animals maturing in his private menagerie. To him it is natural, inevitable...beautiful, even. To them, it is a revelation too vast and too cruel to bear.

¥̷̟̩̞̳̭͒̔̈̔͘ð̵̨̝̬̣̠̈́͛̉̽͠µ̶̛̺̭͖̠̪͆̀͆͝'̷̨̮̰̠̮̌́̂͊̊r̷̦̼͖͔͕͗̔̓͘͠ę̸̻̬̟̂̈́͗̽̀̀͜ ̷̛̬͕̥̠̭̾̈́̈̚g̶̢̘͇̺̱͑͆̾̈́͑ð̶͔̩̣̩͈͐̏̌͗͝ñ̸̘̰͉̰͇̀̀̐̈́͝ñ̸̩͇͇̦̘́̔́̕͠å̶̛͔̣̯̳̒͒̉͘ͅ ̴͎̹̣̖̦͋̇͑̋̿ß̷̧͎͍͖͒̓͌͑͝ͅê̷͉̞̯̳̲̅͆̃̍͂ ̶̭̪͎͕̣̊̒͛̐͠å̴̧̙͈͕̙̂̀̇̈́͌ ̵͓̦̼͙̝͋̎͗͘̚Ð̵̨̘̥̖̦̒̊͐͌̒å̵̩̦̼̺̗͌̈̍̎̑Ð̶̩̭͎͖̳̈̾͒̀͠.̴̡̟̭̠̜̓͋͐̄͝

Fanboy's eyelid twitches.

Boog rambles on about food, bedding, and supplies, pacing the cell like an expectant father rehearsing for a role that was never his. His tone is feverish with pride, but neither captive stirs. They sit petrified, more stunned by revelation than by threat. When at last he departs, the silence left in his wake roars louder than his voice ever could.

Yo moves first. With trembling urgency she loosens the cords binding Fanboy’s wrists, their fumbling hands colliding as though even touch itself has turned unfamiliar. They do not speak until the knots are undone. The word itself lingers, unspoken yet suffocating. Pregnant.

Fanboy laughs, a brittle sound, sharp as glass. He shakes his head too quickly, too violently, as if denial alone could shatter the meaning. But then his gaze drops, and he sees what Boog had seen: the faint swell, undeniable now that it has been named. The color leaches from his face.

After a long, stunned pause, Yo whispers if he ever saw a stork. He blinks, confused, and mutters no, then asks if she had prayed for a baby. Her eyes fall to the small curve of her belly, a curve she had ignored until now. She thinks of the endless sameness of their meals, the way her ribs still jut like knives. And yet, something grows. No, she lies, her voice no louder than a breath.

Fanboy brushes his fingertips against the fragile swell. His mouth bends toward a smile but fractures halfway. If it is true, if a child is forming inside Yo, then it is theirs. His. His baby. His splintered mind strains to frame the thought, the impossible convergence of horror and dream.

Yo breaks before he does. A sob rips through her chest and she hides her face in her hands. What if the baby is born here?

No.

Fanboy presses his teeth hard into his knuckles, a muffled scream strangled against bone. Her tears unravel him. He clutches her shoulders with frantic urgency, his voice a desperate tremor, each word a vow drawn in blood: Boog will never touch her, never touch their child. Whatever pain is coming, he will bear it. He will burn before he lets either of them be harmed.

Yo looks at his bruised, skeletal frame and feels her heart wrench. His promises sound like oaths carved out of his own destruction.

He drags her into an embrace, crushing and trembling, every muscle taut with adrenaline. He is already remaking himself in this new role, reshaping terror into purpose, whispering fever-bright visions into her ear. They will leave. They will run. They will see stars. They will dance. They will raise their child in freedom.

Yo quivers in his arms, her mind a tempest that will not quiet. The swell beneath her ribs feels like a verdict, like a weight she cannot lift. His hope is impossible, radiant and cruel, and she cannot believe in it.

Inside her skull, one word beats louder than all the rest, drumming with every breath:

Baby. Baby. Baby.

Chapter Text

Yo's pregnancy cleaves the room's ambiance in twain. Affixed to the hope and thrill of meeting a new, uncontaminated life, there's a pang of tremendous guilt for having created it in the first place. For forcing that life to be born into such a tragic situation.

Fanboy and Yo hadn't intended to bear a child in here, thus expanding Boog's collection of victims. It just happened. And there isn’t anything they can do now, just offer their little one regrets for bringing him or her into this dark prison.

The more they ponder, the more horrifying theories come to light. Boog’s jubilation at the news is grotesque, unmatched by anything they have seen in their years of confinement. His eyes lit as though he were witnessing a miracle of his own making, his voice softened, his fist withheld. Could this have been his plan all along? A gambit? A child as the crowning achievement of his dominion? The thought sickens them. His pride is not paternal, but possessive. The baby, like them, would become a trophy.

Control.

Fanboy scratches at his forearms without realizing it, the itch rising from inside rather than out. Everyone craves control in some small measure, even he and Yo. But for them it is tempered, bridled by the awareness that others have rights, feelings, limits. What is that thing in his head that stops him from pushing Yo past her will? He cannot remember the word. It teases him from some half-forgotten corner of his mind, as if language itself has withered in captivity.

Boog’s mind does not know such boundaries. Behind those bright blue eyes and that easy, smiling face lies only appetite, only want. His stare is glacial, merciless, devoid of human warmth. Once he was nothing more than a bully swinging fists in a schoolyard; now he has hardened into something monstrous, a predator who thrives on dominance.

Yo has learned the only weapon against him is indifference. A blank mask unsettles him; feigned detachment blunts his pleasure. If she offers him no reaction, he loses interest quickly enough. But even this bitter strategy falters, for the moment his gaze slides from her, it lands on Fanboy. And Fanboy recklessly cannot help but look back. The hero in him still believes in the fight, even when every fight ends in bruises. He meets Boog’s stare as if it were a contest.

Fanboy thinks of the swell beneath Yo’s ribs, of the fragile heart fluttering unseen inside her. A child. His child. And he envisions those merciless blue eyes turning one day upon their baby, piercing it with the same void stare, grinding it beneath the same heel.

The thought makes him ill.

A few days after the grim announcement, Boog seeks to remind his captives of his dominion. He arrives carrying buckets, rags, and brushes, his grin stretched wide as though generosity guides his hand. For the first time in years, the room is scoured from top to bottom: sprayed, mopped, disinfected, and finally given a coat of soft yellow paint, a shade chosen to mimic warmth. The transformation is no gift, but a demonstration: a performance of power dressed in the costume of mercy.

Boog orders Yo to stay while putting Fanboy to work. Boog had never grown used to the stench of their confinement, and now with the promise of a baby on the way, he feels compelled, in his twisted duty as their “keeper,” to prepare conditions fit for survival.

He whistles as he paintes, his strokes uneven, drips streaking the walls, while Fanboy bends to the floor with a brush. The young male scrubs until the acrid chemicals crack his skin, blisters rising red and angry across his palms. Still, he labors on, jaw clenched against the sting. Watching him falter, Yo tries to rise, offering her help, but Boog waves her down with a smirk. She's expecting, after all. She must conserve herself.

Yo's soul awashes with dread at every mention of her pregnancy. She’ll often, like now, protectively hug her middle and beseech the man under her breath. Boog does not appreciate such gestures. His smile thins; his shoulders tense. For an instant the air thickens with the threat of a bop. The couple braces. But then, just as suddenly, Boog’s posture slackens, and he laughs. It's tired, weary, stripped of its usual sharpness.

Fanboy shakes his head, confused, and studies the man. It is a wonder, Fanboy thinks to himself, that as much as he and Yo have grown and changed, for however long it has been, Boog too has changed. His once chiseled features are sunken. He doesn’t wear his Frosty Mart uniform much anymore and the last time he did it was wrinkled and musty. His muscles, while mighty, are growing weathered. He has some paunch and his hair has curtained his long neck. Boog’s eyes have gone under the least amount of change. They're icy, glazed, predatory, unsettling in every glance.

Fanboy fingers his own shaggy locks, wondering how long before Boog will shear it short again. He's still staring when he realizes Boog’s gaze has caught his own. The man’s lips stretch back to reveal a grimy smile. Fanboy falters and clutches his rag to his chest. Boog couldn’t be proud of that.

Yet the work continues. Together, captor and captive drag the foul old comforter to the door. In its place, Boog lays down a fresh one, pale blue, scattered with white stars, impossibly soft beneath their hands.

Resisting the urge to cheer, Fanboy traces the pattern, unable to remember the last time he has seen a star. Yo buries her greasy face in and inhales the fresh linen. This, they could have had years ago. Lord only knows how much dirt and grime had built up in the last one. For a fleeting moment, she remembers what soap once smelled like in the girls’ bathroom at school.

She then sits back and cranes her neck to marvel at the changes. They're not enough to erase the room's prison walls, but enough to mimic something else. A nursery. 

Boog smiles at the sight, fragmented and grotesque. 

ñ̵̘̪͕̥̘̏̂̂̕̚ð̷̫͉̱͈̌͑̀̓͜͝w̴̡͍͚͖̮̄͛̋͒̚ ̴͎̭̠̭̼̄͂̈͝͝ï̶̧̘͇̦̑͊̇̕͠ͅ†̴̞̞̞̘̻̐̇̋̀͝'̵̬͓̫̝͌̂̈́̃͜͠§̷̪̳͎͕̬̾̍̓̈́͝ ̵̛̫̲̭̗̲̌́̌͂†̴̢̡͈̼͎̈́̄̅̒̔į̶͉͚͓̈̆̅̾̈́̓͜m̴̡̗̜̦͇̒̓̓̍́ê̶̡̟̘͈̣̽̔͌̏̚ ̴̢͉̲̣̥̓́͆̓̿£̵̦̬̰̪̹͋͛͑̉́ð̴̧̘̦͓̮͋̐̈́͂͆r̵̹͖̠̦̭̈̈́̆̓͠ ̶̪̯͖͚̻̉͛̀͠͠å̶̛̠̘̻̥͊̋̏̀ͅ ̷̥͉̙͈̣͋̔̉̐̀ß̶͈͙̩͚̯̿̊̿̈́͝ą̶̻̠͇̊͐̽̓̈͛͜†̷̪̟̲̟̖̓̂͒̈́̂h̵͇͖̳̭͉̽̆̈́̉͊.̸͚̬̞̹͍͆̓̈́̂̊

Fanboy heaves a sigh of relief. Thank goodness. He’s been feeling extra cold and grimy as of late.

Sitting still unprompted, the captives impatiently wait while Boog clears the room and returns with soaps, shampoos, even brushes. Such abundance is almost unthinkable. Yo accepts a soft-bristled brush with wonder, dragging it through her tangled hair. Fanboy plays with the teeth of a plastic comb, delighted by the clicking sound against his own teeth.

Dragging the hose through the door slot, Boog briskly refills the metal basin. Looking back and forth between it and his prisoners, he realizes how considerably smaller it seems compared to years ago when Fanboy and Yo were young.

When the basin is filled with steaming water, they climb in together, cautious on the slick floor. Fanboy gushes with relief as always when he's embraced by all-encompassing heat. Yo leans back into him with a tender smile as he rests his chin on her shoulder. Such peace is a rarity; when it comes, they cling to it.

Boog lingers, watching them with narrowed eyes. He sees Fanboy nuzzle at Yo’s neck, animal-like, kissing her with feverish urgency. Yo pushes back into his doting hold and sinks into the water until only her shoulders and head are visible. For a breathless span of minutes, they seem to forget their captor exists at all.

It's rarer than rare for Boog to witness them all content like this instead of huddled in fear, and their ignorance fascinates Boog all the more. They're blind to the truth, blind to how those same carnal instincts have brought them to pregnancy. He leaves them to it, taking the hose and the stink of his presence with him.

Fanboy and Yo don’t miss him. As soon as the door shuts, they intimately embrace, hands entwined as tightly as possible. After they've finished, Fanboy hugs Yo's large waist and gently kisses her. Yo melts into it, hooking her arms securely around his neck. Then, softly, she urges him to wash. She's right. It might be many long weeks before they're afforded such luxury again. And so they bathe each other, careful and tender, scrubbing until their skin glows white. For a little while, they're human again.

Fanboy has begun to brood. The thought of escape clings to him with the persistence of a fever, growing hotter each day following the pregnancy announcement.

Yo, heavy with weariness and resignation, begs him to leave it be without revealing that she has long ago surrendered the notion of freedom; the idea of sunlight and open air is a phantom that hurts too much to conjure. But Fanboy can't yield. His resolve, born of desperation, stiffens into a mission: if not for himself, then for her, and for the child she carries.

Weeks pass before the tension breaks.

Boog enters for his routine inspection, his expression carefully softened, his movements deliberate, his voice pitched low and calm as though he might coax trust from his captives by sheer pretense.

He crouches near Yo, and though his hands no longer strike her, she shrinks back all the same, eyes lowered, body taut with dread. He has exchanged brutality for a counterfeit gentleness, and it unsettles her more deeply than his bops ever have. His smile is almost tender. His tone, reassuring. His presence, intolerable.

Yo is dumbfounded. Does he truly believe this masquerade can erase the years of torment? Does he truly expect her trust? Yo’s silence is her answer, her heart cold within her chest. She will never grant him what he seeks. Yo is no fool. She may be dependent on this monster, but she will never accept him. Not as guardian, nor as mentor, nor as friend. Whatever wall Boog has built inside his mind to conceal his crimes, she will not step across it. He has the nerve to look annoyed.

Fanboy, however, cannot bear to watch. To see Boog lean close, his eyes lingering too long, and his voice dripping false care, ignites something raw and primal in him. His child, his Yo, must never belong to this man. They've suffered beneath him for a decade; the thought of surrendering their newborn to that same fate was unbearable. A baby deserves skies, not ceilings. Grass, not concrete. The warmth of sun, not the choke of recycled air. Noise, laughter, the world alive, not the endless hum of a generator. To rob a child of that is a cruelty beyond cruelty.

And so Fanboy steels himself. If escapes costs his blood, so be it.

When the moment comes, it erupts like lightning. Boog enters carrying a paper plate of food, his guard lowered in ritual. He does not expect the shriek; the sharp, high-pitched war cry that splits the air like glass. Nor does he expect the sudden weight that slams into him, fists and nails raking with feral intensity.

The plate falls, its contents scattering across the floor as Fanboy strikes at him with a wildness years in the making. His nails gouge flesh, his knuckles crack against bone, his wiry frame trembles with the force of each blow. Boog reels, large arms raised in defense, bellowing orders that are drowned beneath the younger male's ragged screams and Yo’s horrified sobs.

This is no childish tantrum, no feeble burst of rebellion. Fanboy does not shrink back at the first shout, nor cower at the first counter. He holds his ground, eyes burning into Boog’s with a savage intensity that mirrors the man’s own.

It takes longer than Boog anticipated to pry Fanboy's sharp nails out of his flesh, longer still to pin him against the concrete, forever to bellow for submission over the volume of Yo's frightened cries. Unlike usual when Fanboy cows in submission immediately, he holds out, staring right into Boog’s eyes with matching intensity. At last, silence thickens, broken only by Yo’s trembling cries.

Boog rises, breath ragged, his arm streaked with shallow cuts, his shirt torn at the collar. He stares down at Fanboy, no longer a child stunned by the threat of a single bop, but a creature lean, angular, sharp-edged, unwilling to bend.

For the first time in a long time, Boog feels something shift in his gut. Not fear, not yet. But unease.

He rubs his chin, eyes narrowing at the younger male who still glares at him from the floor.

Boog will not yield. They are his. His. He cannot punish them via starvation; Yo’s health matters too much, and he will not jeopardize her pregnancy in some hollow game of discipline.

No. If Fanboy insists on hurling himself into the fire, then the flames will consume him alone. Let him bleed, let him bruise, let him learn.

Boog straightens. His voice, low and cold, cut through the heavy air.

“̸̼̏͛I̷̖̭̔f̸͉͉̀̐ ̷͙̓̈i̴̱̍̚t̴̢͚͒’̶̠̖͗s̷̬̃ ̷̟̞͑p̵̨̩̄͐u̷̲͕̓n̴͇͕̔̚ï̵̦͇s̶̱̀ḧ̸̻́ͅm̶̨̠͝ȩ̸͛̃n̴̳̐̒t̶̢̾ ̸̪̐y̷̛͉͂o̵̥̳̐͆u̵͉̯͗̒ ̷̘̖̓͝w̵͍͚͆͠a̷̯̪̚n̵̜̋̐ṱ̷͋,̴̛̱ ̷͉͝D̴̛͔̪w̷̯͚͂̄e̸͉̎ê̵̢͎̌b̷͔͉͝…̶͇͛͊ ̴͍̻̀t̴̥̪́h̴̹͖̉̎ẽ̶̜n̷̗̪̓̽ ̸͕̽̕y̵̱̿ǒ̷͕͈u̷̬̓̉ ̶̭̒́m̸͉͎̍̔i̶̠̋͊g̶̝͐ḧ̴͖́t̴͓͆̽ ̷̡̢̿j̴̢̬̎͝u̸̡̩̚s̴̭̐t̵̯͐̑ ̷͕͍͐g̵̨͈̈́̽ę̸̼̃̿t̷̡̥̍͂ ̴̲̟̎̓i̵͕͐t̴͔̿̀.̸̞̍"̷͔͒͠

The cell falls quiet once Boog’s footsteps fade, the echo of his threat lingering like smoke. Yo’s body uncoils slowly, as if she had been holding herself stiff throughout the entire skirmish. Her ears still ring with Fanboy’s shrill war cry, her throat raw from screaming.

She scrambled to him where he lay sprawled on the floor, chest heaving, skin marked with bruises already blooming. His knuckles are raw, streaked with his own blood and Boog’s alike.

Why? Her voice cracks as she pulls him upright, her thin arms trembling with the effort. 

Fanboy laughs, breathless and delirious, his grin split wide though his lip bled. Did she see him? He made Boog bleed! He scared him! 

Yo's anger mingles with grief. She dabs at his face with the ragged hem of her blanket, her hands frantic, desperate to mend what she could. Fanboy's going to get himself killed. And then what? What will she do?

He catches her wrist, forcing her to pause. For a moment his gaze steadies, sharp and burning through the fog of exhaustion.

Yo's heart twists. She wants to shake him, scream sense into him, force him to abandon this reckless war against an unbeatable captor. But even as she searches for the words, she feels something bloom: dread’s twin, fierce and stubborn. Pride.

She presses her forehead to his, silent tears streaking down her face. She hates him for fighting. She loves him for it more.

Fanboy’s hand slipped to her cheek, his touch clumsy but tender.

Boog should never have revealed his reluctance to harm Yo. The moment Fanboy realizes she is safe, every restraint falls away. Not even the looming threat of punishment can temper his fury.

Bring it on, he thinks with unshakable resolve. I can take it.

Amid the flurry of fists and feral snarls, Boog catches the blaze rekindled in Fanboy’s eyes and understands that unless he changes course, the fight will only spiral into greater violence.

Day after day, Boog arrives with food and water only to be met with a storm of violence. Fanboy lunges the instant the door opens, nails raking flesh, teeth sinking deep, his forehead driving forward with savage precision. The hard flat of his skull shatters against Boog’s nose, sending him staggering back in a spray of blood. Before the man can recover, Fanboy is already on him, a feral blur, pounding and clawing with relentless fury.

On the sidelines, Yo watches, sometimes silent, sometimes pleading for him to stop. Boog grants her a grudging respect; she has the sense to see the futility, even if her voice cannot sway him. Fanboy, though, refuses to relent. Every strike makes it clear: he values Yo’s life far more than his own. In another world, Boog might admire such devotion. Here, it only fuels his rage.

The assaults stretch on for months, each encounter leaving Boog more battered, more humiliated. At last, his restraint fractures. One careless, rage-fueled decision snaps the cycle and brings Fanboy’s relentless onslaught to a sudden, brutal halt.

Boog snaps like a cornered animal, snarling through his teeth as he seizes Fanboy by the hair and slams him to the ground. The male thrashes beneath him, clawing, biting, grunting like a beast. Boog’s nerves are fraying fast. The moment he stepped through the door, Fanboy had gone for his eyes, fingernails raking so close they nearly blinded him. He’s already been sweating over how to conceal his wounds, but this ambush drives him over the edge.

Then the kick lands. Fanboy’s foot connects squarely with Boog’s groin, white-hot pain detonating through him. He folds with a guttural cry as Yo’s voice cuts through the chaos, pleading, screaming. To Fanboy, it’s victory: even with his scalp burning from Boog’s grip, he grins through the pain, a feral triumph in his eyes.

Boog tries to leash the fury boiling up in him. But Fanboy doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, keeps striking, keeps taunting.

This is what Boog has been doing for years! Isn't it annoying? Fanboy yells at the man.

That line is the breaking point. The words burrow under Boog’s skin like barbed wire. His vision flashes red, the roar in his ears deafening. With a guttural bellow, he seizes Fanboy’s leg, grips with both hands, and snaps it like a toothpick.

The sound is sharp, obscene, like a crack like a gunshot. For an instant, the room is frozen in shock. Yo’s eyes go wide. Boog stares at his own trembling hands. Fanboy goes slack, blank-eyed, as though his mind can’t yet comprehend the horror.

Then the scream comes. It rips out of him, raw and piercing, shredding the silence to pieces. Yo collapses against the wall, sobbing his name. Boog blinks, dazed, as if waking from a trance, and drops the mangled limb. It hits the ground with a sickening jolt, drawing another scream from Fanboy that seems to shake the walls.

He writhes helplessly, face white and slick with sweat, tears pouring down his cheeks as he chokes for breath. Yo trembles in the corner, green at the sight of his twisted leg. Fanboy’s screams come again and again, ragged pleas for it to stop, for her to save him, but she can’t.

Boog staggers back, chest heaving. His pulse is racing, his thoughts a blur. He knows what he’s done, knows the break is catastrophic, knows it will need more than anything he can provide. Without a surgeon, Fanboy is crippled. That truth gnaws at him. But as the panic swells, another thought slithers in: crippled means contained. Dependent. Harmless.

Leaning against the door, trembling, Boog begins to see the angles. Fanboy won’t risk another ambush now, not if this is the consequence. And if he does… Boog smiles, lips curling with cruel interest. He’s not above breaking the other leg.

Yo will suffer, of course. The strain might unravel her fragile mind. But separating them has never worked before, and Boog has no intention of starting now.

He drags in a shaky breath, forcing his body to calm. His mind leaps through justifications, desperate to find one that spares him self-loathing. At last, he seizes on it: he had only meant to feed them, to check on Yo’s health. Fanboy was the one who lashed out, wild and territorial, like an animal defending its mate. Boog had acted in self-defense.

Yes. That was it.

He nods to himself, the story settling like balm over his guilt. This isn’t his fault. All he needs to do is stay dominant. Don’t reason. Don’t negotiate. Dominate.

It’ll be a breeze.

But when Boog returns the next day with a plate of food, the ambush is waiting. Fanboy surges across the floor with surprising speed, his teeth sinking deep into Boog’s leg. The pain is sharp, electric. Boog reels, the savage intent clear in the younger male’s glare. His face is ghostly pale, tight with fury and agony, while his swollen, broken leg drags uselessly behind him. Yo sobs from the corner, begging him to stop, but her words dissolve into the air.

Boog wrenches himself free, ripping his leg from Fanboy’s jaws. In a flash of rage, he boots him away and hurls the plate against the wall. Glass explodes, shards scattering, one piece slicing the air inches from Yo’s head. She ducks, hands flying over her skull. Boog freezes, realizing he’d nearly hit her.

Fanboy tries to crawl to her, voice hoarse and broken, but Boog seizes his shattered leg and twists. The sound that bursts out of Fanboy is not quite a scream, not quite a whimper, just a thin, ragged noise that cuts deeper than either. He flops like a caught fish, body jerking helplessly against Boog’s iron grip.

Snarling, Boog’s hands move to the other leg. His fingers tighten. He means to break it clean, but his sweaty palms slip. Instead, his grip snaps down on the ankle. The crack reverberates through the room. Fanboy’s world goes white-hot, then black. His body slumps into unconsciousness.

Panting, Boog shoves the limp leg aside. His chest heaves as his gaze drifts to Yo. She is pressed into the corner, chalk-white, her whole body trembling. Between them, Fanboy lies broken, breath shallow, his dignity stripped to nothing. Boog studies him a long moment, realization dawning: this can’t go on. Not like this. The scratches, the bruises, the bite marks…people will notice. He lifts his pant leg to reveal the bloody imprint of Fanboy’s teeth, and his jaw tightens. He needs control. Permanent control.

He moves quickly. Chains, bolts, tools. In minutes, Fanboy’s ruined leg is shackled to the wall opposite Yo. When he stirs, consciousness returning in shudders of pain, panic seizes his face. He tugs weakly against the chain and pleads, desperate, for release.

Boog answers with a curt bop to the face. Fanboy collapses again.

Then Boog turns his attention to Yo. She recoils, pressing herself tighter into the wall, but he pulls her forward with surprising gentleness. His eyes scan her frame, taking inventory. Her cheeks are fuller now, no longer hollow. Her belly has grown, swollen to nearly twice its size. No fever. No infection. Progress.

Satisfied, Boog tidies the room. He sweeps up the glass, clears the food, returns with another plate. This time, he sets it only before Yo.

She hesitates. Meekly, she asks if she may share. Even chained, even bleeding, Fanboy shakes his head, more concerned for her than himself.

Defeated, she eats in silence, her eyes never lifting from the floor. Boog stays until she swallows the last bite, watching closely, making sure nothing is left. Fanboy groans, hunger twisting in his gut, but the pain in his mangled legs drowns everything else. Yo, swallowing down the final morsel, pleads weakly for him to be taken to a hospital.

Boog doesn’t answer. His icy eyes glaze, drifting to some far-off place where her voice can’t reach.

When she finishes, he pats her head like a father rewarding a child. Then he rises, exhales slowly, and leaves the room without a word.

Yo waits until Boog’s footsteps fade into silence before crawling to Fanboy’s side. The sight of his twisted leg and swollen ankle breaks her composure, and she collapses into tears. Fanboy, trembling, tries to assure her it doesn’t hurt, but the mottled bruises, the grotesque swelling, and the tears slipping from the corners of his eyes betray the truth.

Desperate, Yo seizes the new blanket and tears a strip from its edge. Fanboy bites down on his own bony wrists to smother his screams while she works around the chain, binding the breaks with trembling hands. When she finishes, his body is shivering violently, his eyes glassy, and he hovers on the verge of unconsciousness.

Now, they both need a doctor. Yo's jest falters, but Fanboy offers her a crooked grin before slipping into her arms and losing consciousness altogether. Yo, still rattled, shifts him so his head rests against her lap. It's an awkward fit now that her stomach is swollen and heavy with child.

She stiffens at the thought. Their baby. Their precious child. This little life will be born into chains, into shadows, into pain. Yo and Fanboy have clung to the dream of escape, to the belief that the wide world still waits beyond these walls. But to raise a child here? It is more than cruel. It is wicked. For Boog to imagine their son or daughter enduring what they have endured feels unspeakably evil.

Her chest tightens, breath coming in stutters. Panic claws at her as Fanboy lies senseless against her. She tries to convince herself she hasn’t surrendered to this fate, but hope itself feels heavy, unreachable. Her thoughts unravel. She has never been equipped for this. Years of deprivation have stunted her, left her mind underfed and unformed. Her speech is halting, underdeveloped; Fanboy’s condition is worse, his words slipping, sentences breaking into fragments and gaps. Their minds, like their lives, are fractured.

Yo closes her eyes and begins to count by fives, her fragile method of grounding herself. Slowly, steadily, the jagged edge of her panic dulls.

The room is quiet without Boog. Yo breathes deeply, stroking the sharp ridge of Fanboy’s skull with her thumb. She worries for him nearly as much as for the child inside her. She cannot measure the damage to his mind, nor her own. She cannot fix it. She can only wonder what scars will follow them all, what marks will linger for the rest of their lives.

A sudden kick inside her belly startles her. She chews at her fingernail, tears pricking her eyes again. The hopelessness aches. If only she could glimpse the earth—the sky, the grass, the sun—she could die happy. If Boog released them, she knows they would soak up the world like sponges, drink in its wonders, laugh again among their friends. But all of it remains just beyond reach.

Her panic rises once more, and she returns to her ritual.

Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five, forty, forty-five, fifty…

The repetition calms her. The buzzing in her brain quiets. She exhales slowly, relief washing through her fragile frame.

And then, like a blessing, Fanboy’s weary eyes blink open. He gazes at her with an expression so filled with love it steals her breath. Despite the torment wracking his body, he smiles. Earnest. Pure. The sight shatters her all over again, and Yo’s tears flow anew.

As usual, the cell is cloaked in gloom, but for once, the quiet is soothing. The generator’s ceaseless hum has fallen silent, granting Fanboy and Yo a fragile peace. Yo nestles into his warmth, mindful of his broken limbs trailing stiffly behind him like splintered branches: the cruel reward for daring to defy a madman. They check Fanboy's leg often, but it doesn't seem to be healing at all. He does his best to keep his weight off of it, and Yo rewraps it daily, but they're worried that he won't be able to walk again. 

Yo never voices her disapproval of his violent confrontations with Boog, but inwardly it festers. She admires his courage, loves him all the more for his stubborn determination to protect her, yet she cannot help wishing he would stop. Fighting that brute can only bring greater harm. Worse still, why antagonize the hand that feeds them? A single careless blow could end both their lives, their bodies left to rot unseen in this forgotten place.

None of this is truly his fault, and Yo knows it. Still, she feels guilty. Granted, she always does, even when there is no reason. She hides behind quiet routines of self-discipline to manage the weight of her thoughts, unwilling to stir his own gnawing guilt by confessing what she really believes. 

Then, a subtle flutter interrupts her brooding. Against all odds, a smile breaks across her lips.

At first, the movement had terrified her, her own body feeling like a stranger. Now those delicate kicks bring joy. In this decaying place that has stripped them of so much innocence, the child inside her shines like a final ember of purity.

Another kick—stronger this time. Fanboy jokes often that only a boy could kick so fiercely. His delight betrays his hope, and Yo lays her hand over his, resting warm and protective across her stomach. The darkness inside her gives way to something steadier: faith. For the first time in years, life has granted them new purpose. Her childhood dream of becoming a mother and his boyhood longing to be a father are no longer a dream. Soon, their child will arrive, and it will be their duty to give it everything.

Fanboy embraces the task with reverence. He dotes on Yo tirelessly: slipping his rations onto her plate despite her protests, massaging her aching limbs, bathing her frail body, and never tiring of discussing the baby. Its name, its face, its future. He falls in love with this unborn child as though he already holds it in his arms. His vision of the world may be simple, but his devotion is pure, and Yo treasures him for it.

And yet, her heart hides a troubling truth. She is growing used to this confinement, as though her soul has accepted a life sentence. Fanboy does not share this surrender. When he discovers her resignation, he rails against it, emerald eyes blazing with the conviction that they cannot give up.

Yo listens quietly, carefully, and she tells him what he cannot bear to hear. They have been here too long. Every attempt at escape has failed. There is no one left to search for them. Her voice remains flat, resigned. We are never leaving this place. Better to adjust the sails than to fight an unbeatable storm.

Fanboy recoils as if struck, his heart freezing in place. Her words slice through him, unbearable. Depression is speaking, not Yo, but Fanboy can't understand. Finding the strength or motivation to carry out an escape without her physical support was unfortunate, but this betrayal is a deep stab to the gut. His voice rises, pleading, furious, but Yo does not waver. In fact, she mistakes the inferno in his eyes and the tremble in his hands for worry, and she gently reaffirms her verdict to roll with the punches.

At last, something inside him snaps.

Fanboy's hand decelerates a moment before impact, but it's too late. The sound cracks in the silence, shocking them both.

Yo stares, stunned, fingers pressing against the heat blossoming across her face. Fanboy gapes at his reddening palm as if it belongs to another person, the echo of the slap ringing in his ears. His broken brain struggles with itself, trying to concoct a reason for the assault, but nothing is justified. It doesn't make sense. He would never hurt Yo! He wouldn't! He couldn't, and yet—Yo blinks back tears—he has. 

Words fail him. All that bursts forth are apologies, frantic and useless. Yo pulls away, wrapping herself tightly in the blanket, refusing his touch. His heart caves in on itself. He retreats to the far wall, covering his face with trembling hands. The guilt crashes over him in waves, heavier than any he has felt since losing Chum Chum.

This is not her fault, not the way she thinks nor the pain they're suffering. Taking anger out on her is unfair. She's carrying their baby! What is he thinking?! He heaves, appalled at himself for having injured his only light in the dark. What a horrible person he is to have struck her, he thinks miserably.

He stares at his hands, the same hands that struck her, and revulsion overtakes him. He'd promised he'd never hit her, never stoop to Boog's level. He drives his fist into the concrete floor. Once. Twice. Again. The skin splits, knuckles cracking, blood pooling, but he keeps going, punishing the body that has betrayed the only person by his side.

Crack. Crack. Crack.

When at last he collapses, his hand a mangled ruin, he does not care. So much of him is already broken. What difference does one more fracture make?

Without Yo’s faith, without her hope? He cannot bear it.

He cannot.

Boog notices it first in the stillness. They are always pressed together, inseparable in their misery, yet tonight they lie apart like discarded dolls. Yo curls herself into the corner, bundled tight in the threadbare comforter, while Fanboy sits hunched on the opposite side, arms cinched around his waist in a pitiful attempt at warmth.

Boog clears his throat, sharply and deliberately to remind them of his authority, but neither stirs. Their silence is uncanny. He sets the plate of food down and lingers, waiting. Nothing.

Suspicion prickles the back of his neck. This could be another ploy. He crouches before Fanboy, fists clenched in readiness, and presses a hand against the boy’s face. The skin is chilled. His complexion, waxen. Dull eyes meet his own, empty of fire. Alarm yields to something stranger: unease.

He demands what's wrong, as if the question itself isn’t absurd.

Fanboy’s chest heaves once before laughter bursts forth, manic at first, then hollow. What’s wrong? The words echo inside him like a cruel joke. A hundred torments crowd his throat, but the fury drains from him like air from a punctured balloon. 

What's the use? He hasn't the energy to point out the million-mile-long list of evils they've endured anyway, nor the drive to withstand another beating, so he just breathes out a dull "nothing."

Boog studies him, frown deepening. He almost turns to Yo for confirmation but stops himself. Her silence is louder than denial. He pieces the evidence together: Fanboy’s apathy, the distance between them, and the conclusion is unavoidable. They have quarreled.

For years he assumed their bond unbreakable. No matter what cruelty he devised, it only drove them closer, the two of them clinging like shipwrecked survivors. But now? Now they sit apart, separated not by chains but by choice.

Boog folds his arms, unsettled by the miscalculation. The sight of them fractured leaves a cavity gnawing in his gut. He withdraws, abandoning them to their silence, though the image lingers long after the door closes.

Fanboy and Yo don't stay apart for long. For as heated as their argument has gotten, the cold is a merciless mediator. By nightfall, they are forced back beneath the same blanket. Yo does not turn toward him; she offers no word, only a muted grunt. Fanboy edges closer, tentative, slipping his broken frame under the covers.

He whispers her name, hand brushing her shoulder. No response. He tries again, softer. Nothing but the rhythm of her breathing.

He apologizes again and again, peering over his shoulder to see if she’ll react, but her silence remains absolute.

Believing she has drifted to sleep, he finally lets exhaustion take him too.

The rift festers. Days bleed into one another, their minds unraveling in the quiet. Even Boog, who prides himself on calculated cruelty, cannot ignore the danger. He once feared their differences would tear them apart; now the prophecy is fulfilled, and the poison of isolation seeps deeper than his punishments ever could.

Boog eventually moves on. Their personal plight isn’t enough to move his heart and change his mind about letting them go. Oh-ho, no.

Fanboy still obeys orders but only just, performing tasks with a mechanical lifelessness. Gone are the outbursts, the lunges, the fists flying at every opportunity. He scarcely raises his head, drained of all spirit.

Yo fares no better. Where her body once bore resilience, her mind crumbles without Fanboy’s support. Anxiety wracks her daily, attacks shaking her like seizures. With no one to steady her, she turns inward, whispering reassurances to herself in the darkness, clinging to fragments of reason.

Boog watches, perplexed. It is odd, almost disappointing, to see them so disconnected. And he cannot help but wonder how long until they disappear entirely?

In the dark, silent dreamscape, Fanboy is a mute statue. He cannot see, cannot breathe, cannot even form a cry. He feels only the sting of wind on bare skin, cold enough to bleach him white and blue. His hands try to close into fists, but they are numb, brittle, frostbitten beyond repair. The pain is familiar, yet multiplied tenfold.

The wind surges and shoves him backward. He stumbles, gasping his first ragged breath. Fire sears his feet as though the skin has torn away, left clinging to the ice beneath. He staggers, lurches forward without aim, each step a jagged dance of misery. He knows what it is to hurt, to suffer. And so he continues, because what else is there?

H…H…

The cold warps his memory and freezes his vocal chords. He tries to retain warmth by wrapping his arms around himself, but to no avail.

Where’s Yo?

The thought strikes like a blow. He pushes forward. She needs him. She has always needed him.

Not anymore, whispers a traitorous voice. She gave up.

Tears burn his frozen cheeks. All the more reason to endure. What kind of hero abandons the one who depends on him? That would strip away everything—everything that makes him Fanboy.

So what? Go without her, his mind whispers, and Fanboy’s eyes finally open to beautiful blinding light.

Light blossoms. Warmth floods his body, thawing his numb limbs. For the first time in what feels like eternity, he feels safe enough to loosen his own desperate grip. Freedom, warmth…he has prayed for this. But… what about Yo?

Fanboy heaves a sob.

A boy dressed in purple and green stands before him like a guard. His arms are crossed and his glowing peachy face is a little red with annoyance. The area surrounding his converse shoes is teeming with life; grasses and daisies and poppies galore. He looks miles different than the disgruntled broken figure his counterpart has become. Fanboy’s heart wrenches. He wants to warn him. He wants to preserve him.

It’s been like, what, how long? The boy counts off his gloved fingers one by one. Oh, only a billion years! He tilts his head expectantly and puts his hands on his hips. I'd like to leave right about now.

Fanboy—Lance—forces a shrug.

The young boy groans. That’s just too long to wait, he exclaims as if the elder of the two has spoken aloud. I wanna go home right now! Chum Chum's waitin' for me! He stamps his foot indignantly, and Lance’s slight grin falls before he gasps and smacks himself in the face.

Yo! Of course! How could he forget? They need to find her, Lance hurriedly tells the boy. Where is she? He receives an exasperated shrug in response.

I dunno. I wanna go home!

Home. Yes. That was the destination, wasn’t it? But it's out of reach. The boy’s glow fades, his skin paling, eyes hollowing, bruises rising like ink. His small arms wrap around himself in a mirror of Lance’s own stance.

How much longer? The child collapses. Lance rushes forward, catching his younger self in his arms as the flowers vanish into ash.

I don't understand. The young child gurgles. What’d I do wrong?

Nothing, Lance eases, his heart banging.

Fanboy whimpers in return, body limp in his adult counterpart’s hold. I hurt her.

Lance swallows the sob clawing up his throat. You...you lost your temper.

What do I do?

You ask forgiveness, Lance tells him, voice steady despite his shaking. And you try to be better. Every day. That’s all anyone can do.

It's not enough!   

Lance smiles through tears. Maybe not. But it's all ya got.

The boy sags in his arms, lighter, fading, bruises deepening until his body flickers out of existence. Lance is left clutching air. No trace remains but the echo of a voice in his head. He looks at where the grasses were only to find a barren floor of icy rock. There’s no evidence at all that there could have once been a person named Fanboy but for the echo of the voice in his head.

Light opens above him, warm and inviting. He spreads his arms and lets it bathe him, almost ready to surrender. To fall would not hurt. It would be gentle.

But then an infant’s cry shatters the stillness.

Lance freezes. It’s different now, he reminds himself. 

He drops to his knees, out of reach of the light. He cannot abandon Yo. Not even for Heaven.

Agony slams into him; a piercing headache, a cacophony of drums, a scream reverberating inside his skull. He clutches his head, bashes it against the frost once, twice, anything to silence it. Finally, he collapses, curling on a floor of black ice.

Fanboy jolts awake, his whole body stiff with cold, as if he has carried the ice of his dream into the waking world. He curls into himself, clutching his arms as though to piece together his scattered bearings.

Ordinarily, a nightmare like this would stir Yo from her sleep, draw her to his side with quiet words and warmth. But tonight, she lies turned away, her small frame pressed against the wall, one foot twitching in unconscious protest. She dreams on, unaware of his silent collapse.

He shivers, teeth chattering softly. He feels as hollow as his stomach, stretched thin like butter scraped across too much bread. A whimper catches in his throat. He whispers her name, tentative, but her breathing remains steady, untouched by his plea. The absence cuts deeper than any blade.

It strikes him that perhaps this is his punishment. Perhaps he has finally lost the last piece of himself he ever strove to protect. He is wired to reach outward in times of despair, to lean on another when his own strength fails. Without her solace, the only place left to look is inward. And what he finds there is guilt, sharp and unrelenting.

The weight of it cracks him open. Broken, he begins to sob ugly, wet, hysterical tears that shake his whole frame. The sound is impossible to ignore. Yo stirs, then startles awake, heart twisting at the sight of him undone.

She sighs, her voice thick with regret. Deep breaths, she says. Breathe.

But he cannot. He is a ruin of guilt and tears, saliva glistening on his chin as he gasps for words.

After a few more wet heaves, Fanboy begs her to tell him what to do so she won't hate him anymore.

Yo sits up and stares at him, her eyes large with shock and hurt. That’s crazy, she insists, to say that she hates him. Nothing could be further from the truth!

The confusion on his face cuts her deeper than any insult. His eyes search hers, desperate, and she realizes with horror that there is no counterweight in his mind, no belief in forgiveness, no anchor beyond penance. Guilt has devoured the boy whole. He's no better than Boog now. He's a bad person.

Not at all, Yo insists, reaching for his icy hand. The scabs across his knuckles are red and raw; she strokes them gently, wincing at the damage. Oh, Fanboy…

Fanboy wipes his eyes with a free hand. He just wants to know why. Why does she think giving up is the right choice?

Yo stiffens at the word choice, but she forces herself to answer. She has spent hours gnawing at that question herself.

She's just...tired. Tired of the fight. Tired of Fanboy hurting every time Boog arrives. Tired of hoping and wishing for rescue. She's just sick of... being, to be honest. Sick of being alive, being a liability, a piece of bait for Boog to use against Fanboy. She is utterly useless in this room. Life in here is nothing more than an endless scroll with an empty inkwell. There’s nothing.

There’s something, Fanboy fiercely interrupts. Their unborn baby is worth fighting for. If anything, he's the useless one, losing every fight against Boog while invoking more wrath upon them all. At least she can provide him comfort when he needs it, but he's incapable of doing even that for her. Fanboy hangs his head with shame. Instead, he hurt her, and he's so, so, so sorry.

Yo smiles. She knows he never meant to hurt her; he just lost his temper. Likewise, she never meant to hurt him; she just needed a little alone time. She chuckles. Now that’s an impossibility if they’ve ever heard one. She lifts his chin with gentle fingers and presses a kiss to his parted lips. He's a beautiful person, she says once she pulls away, and he's forgiven.

He stares at her in awe, bewildered by the vastness of her mercy. He cannot comprehend how she could give him this.

Yo wraps her arms around him, pulling him close as he crumbles against her shoulder. She murmurs into his hair, steady and sure.

Everything will be okay. 

Month nine arrives sooner than expected. Time slips by with cruel velocity, and Yo has grown impossibly large, her body stretched to its limits. Boog speculates: perhaps she carries more than one child, or perhaps their baby will emerge heavy and robust. Neither Fanboy nor Yo grasp the implications; Boog keeps that knowledge to himself.

Other concerns gnaw at him, concerns he has neglected too long. Labor. Pain. Blood. The yawning specter of death. He resolves that on this visit, he will finally speak of it.

Yet when the moment comes, he falters. He clasps his hands together, searching for words that do not exist. Silence pools around him. Fanboy draws Yo against his side, resting his chin on her tangled hair, and glares with a defiance that belies the ruin of his body. His arm trembles slightly, though whether from the effort of holding her or from a deeper unrest, even he cannot tell. Yo does not lift her eyes at all; she hides her face in the hollow of Fanboy’s neck, waiting for Boog’s presence to dissolve.

The sight should pierce Boog. It should unravel him. Instead, he feels only a faint twinge of unease as his gaze drops to Yo’s swollen belly. He swallows hard.

Boog knows all too well the relentless pain, suffering, and chance of death that comes with childbirth sans medical supervision. That scares him because he covets control.

Yo is strong, but strength does not rewrite anatomy. She and the infant could die, leaving Fanboy alone. And Fanboy, fragile, fevered with love, clinging to her as though she were the last scrap of earth in a flooding sea, would crumble. Boog knows it. He has seen how Fanboy’s eyes hollow whenever Yo speaks of surrender, of hopelessness. Already, Fanboy pushes himself too far, hiding panic beneath brittle bravado. Already, the cracks are spreading.

Boog rubs the bridge of his nose, sighing. Fanboy watches closely, his suspicion sharpened by fatigue, his stare hardened yet flickering with some unspoken dread. When Boog finally lowers his hand, their eyes meet—green against cold, sunken blue. The captor glimpses something unsettling in that gaze: intelligence honed by suffering, a spirit burning even as it falters.

How the years have warped them. Once, they were jubilant children, bright, shrill colors darting in the sun. Now they sit haggard, worn thin, drained to husks by confinement. Boog feels the sting of it, though he cannot name the ache. He clears his throat, choking on the emptiness of his own yearning.

He does not want their bodies now. He wants their loyalty, their laughter, their affection. He longs for the day Fanboy’s weary glare might soften into trust again. The hunger is unbearable. He groans and buries his head in his hands, aching for a past that cannot return, for devotion that will never be given freely.

No use pretending.

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The words seem to seep from his very marrow, lingering like smoke in the air. Fanboy’s stomach knots; Yo flinches against him.

Boog recovers enough to mutter that he will be gone for a time—leaving the area altogether. For the first time, he cannot meet their eyes. Fanboy’s and Yo’s expressions remain guarded, though sparks of something—hope? fear?—stir within.

Fanboy, ever deliberate, asks how long he will be gone. The question is simple, but Boog stiffens as if struck by lightning. Fanboy notices. His lips tighten, his arm tightens around Yo. His eyes flick toward her, shadowed, as though he is silently preparing himself for a storm only he can feel gathering.

Boog forces a taut smile and replies that he will return when the time is right. No further details. No reassurance. With that, he delivers a stiff farewell and leaves them to the silence of their prison.

Fanboy kisses the crown of Yo’s head, but his jaw is clenched, his eyes restless.

It doesn’t take long for Yo to believe Boog has abandoned them. She accepts it with a weary certainty, as though she had always known it would come to this. Fanboy, however, is stunned. He cannot reconcile it. After years of obsessive care and torment, why would Boog suddenly walk away? It makes no sense.

Yo rests a hand on her taut stomach, flinching as the baby shifts within her. She is ravenous—more than ravenous—but all that remains are a few plastic bottles of water and half-empty boxes of club crackers. Boog had left them scraps, nothing more.

By the third day, hunger gnaws at her ceaselessly. Fanboy watches it hollow her cheeks and dim her voice. His heart breaks each time she presses her lips tight, pretending she isn’t dizzy with need.

Even a week later, he clings stubbornly to hope. Maybe he's just late. Fanboy suggests that with the same unconvincing brightness, and Yo only rolls her eyes. She knows better. Boog has always left them behind. Only now, it seems, he has left them for good.

Yo worries constantly about how to nourish both herself and the child. She feels selfish for craving more than her share, even though her body demands it. She tries to deny herself—tries to endure the sharp emptiness twisting inside her belly, but one night, the ache wins.

She waits until Fanboy is asleep, his breaths shallow and uneven, then creeps toward the stash in the corner. Her fingers tremble as she pulls a sealed column of crackers from the box. The cellophane crackles in the stillness. Yo freezes, heart hammering.

It’s okay.

Her head snaps back. Fanboy is awake, watching her with hollow eyes that try too hard to be gentle. She stammers, beginning to replace the package, but he shakes his head. His voice is low, soothing. It’s practical for her to eat more. His calmness steadies her, though guilt clings as she devours four crackers in quick, desperate bites. She stops herself before finishing the pack, cheeks burning. Fanboy only smiles faintly, as though her shame pains him more than the hunger clawing his own stomach.

When morning comes, he presses a kiss to her nose and greets her with exaggerated cheer. Good morning.

Yo smiles faintly, forehead resting against his. He launches into talk of baby names, claiming he’s already started a list, and asks if she'll help.

To his surprise, she shakes her head. The dismissal stings, though he hides it with a lopsided shrug. If she won’t dream with him, he’ll dream for both of them. In that case, can she try opening the door?

She stares at him, incredulous. It’s a serious ask, but ludicrous. That door has never been unlocked, not once in all the years. And even if by some miracle it were, she is in no state to force it open. But his eyes, those wide, pleading eyes that refuse to let go of hope, wear her down.

She shuffles to the door and throws her weight against it. The metal does not budge. Sweat gathers at her temple; her breath comes short. She wipes her brow and crouches to peer through the slot. Nothing. Only the same void.

Fanboy sags, his face twisting with disappointment before he forces it smooth again. Yo returns to the blanket, sinking against him with a sigh. He wraps his arms around her, trying to warm her shivering frame with his own wasted body. His chin rests atop her hair. He hums softly, but the sound wavers, unsteady.

She sighs, rubbing an eye. There really is nothing left to do but wait.

Fanboy gives a small sound of uncertainty and carefully pulls away. They can pretend, he suggests, at least for a little while before Boog comes back, right?

They can pretend, Yo agrees, that they aren't doomed.

That they aren't a lost cause.

That they aren’t doomed.

And though she closes her eyes, surrendering to the fragile illusion, Fanboy’s remain wide open—burning, restless, and afraid.

Chapter Text

The darkness that imprisons them both is paradoxical, at once the forge of their bond, and the shroud of their undoing. It can coerce cooperation, yes, but to nurture love within such a void is rare: like a radiant lure tethered to an anglerfish. In another life, Fanboy and Yo might have matured into fine adults, a finer couple, even parents prepared for the labor ahead. But reality is merciless. Years of isolation have dulled their wits, blunted their tongues, and stripped them of the very clarity they once took for granted. The dark is not just absence of light, but the absence of awareness.

Yet in their ignorance, they prepare. They stretch what little Boog left behind: two water bottles, three boxes of crackers, gone within ten days despite careful rationing. Fanboy labors to remain a beacon, forcing cheer where none exists, trying desperately to pry a smile from Yo’s lips. He tells himself that half the battle is mental. Yo does her best to seem calm, but resignation corrodes her resolve. Each day, her spirit ebbs further, her eyes averting whenever he dares to speak of the child.

Fanboy hides his own hunger behind lists of names, reciting them as though they are charms to ward off despair. Toby. Ian. Zack. Lance the Fourth. Yoko the Second. His stomach snarls, but the sound of possibility is sweeter. Yo, meanwhile, cannot permit herself to dream. Why grow attached when she expects only death?

As days stretch into weeks, even Fanboy concedes what Yo accepted from the start: Boog is gone. Whatever his reasons: cowardice, fear of losing control, or flight from the law, he has abandoned them on the cusp of the birth he once so eagerly awaited. The realization stokes Fanboy’s fury. His pale fingers squeeze the last water bottle until the plastic groans, and for a moment he is certain he has never hated anyone more.

Yo, in contrast, has grown frighteningly calm. She gnaws at his bony shoulder with absent contentment, a habit born of despair. Her serenity terrifies him, though he tricks himself into thinking otherwise. He strokes her tangled hair, and in the silence, he realizes how far they have sunk: greasy hair, skin caked in grime, wounds that never heal. Perhaps they will never know the warmth of a bath again. Yo hardly notices. She is already comfortable with the thought of dying.

The thought of having lost their humanity.

Fanboy, however, is not. He embraces her primitive gestures, her biting and licking, as if they are proof of life, even as his own mind falters. He is unraveling, though still clinging to scraps of optimism. His broken mind works overtime to compensate: if they all die, it'll be over. No more suffering. No more pain. No more fuss. Before long, they will live together in a white flower field: Fanboy, herself, and their son or daughter, peacefully nestled in a warm heavenly glow, gifted with eternal happiness, full bellies, freedom, and sanctuary.

Yo hardly responds, but wonders how Fanboy will fare at the moment of her death. It's no mystery that he'll be devastated. To be trapped with her lifeless body, the baby's cooling form, Fanboy would die sooner of a broken heart. Yo shudders, her callus imagination picturing the young man wailing in agony, cradling his cold baby in desperation to wake it up in his last moments of life before perishing broken and alone.

Dying in the same spot they woke up so many years before…that will be a fitting sendoff. Three dead bodies locked away to crumble to dust, never to be found. Abandoned. Forgotten. Erased from existence and the memories of those who used to know them.

Yo shoves those tainted thoughts away before sinking her fangs into the pale flesh of Fanboy's shoulder. Listening intently to his labored breathing, she kisses the broad bite mark that she left behind and licks up the last specks of blood. Inside, her heart calms.

Rubbing his shoulders, Fanboy risks the stabbing pain in his leg to make himself comfortable. He hisses and narrows his eyes at the darkness, the shackled limb burning like fire as he inches it away from Yo. Boog didn't even need to chain him, he thinks exasperatedly. At least with Yo's help, he can reach the commode to relieve himself, but even that trip is agony. 

Soon, he collapses under the weight of their own spirits, trembling, sobbing, begging for promises Yo can no longer make. She finally snaps, her voice a thunderclap in the dark:

STOP.

He falls silent, shattered by the rejection. Alone with his despair, he prays for rescue, for absolution, for anything. And then, from the shadows, comes a flicker: the faint, childish visage of Chum Chum. A hallucination, a ghost, a mercy his mind conjures. Fanboy cannot remember the details. Not his voice, eyes, even the shape of his face, but the apparition radiates innocence, hope. It is enough to break him open all over again. He sobs, declares his love to the phantom, and reaches out—only for it to vanish. The absence slices him deeper than any wound.

It's too much. Everything is too much.

A mad smile twists across Fanboy's face as he slams his fist into the floor again and again, each blow blooming blood across his knuckles. Pain is preferable to despair. At last, Yo seizes his wrist, grounding him. The contact drags him back from the brink. Slowly, the frenzy fades into exhaustion. Hours later, he is limp, drenched in sweat, whispering apologies she refuses to accept.

This cycle is familiar. She binds him not with words but with presence by pressing his hand to her lips, reminding him softly: it is not his fault. Never has been. Beneath the covers, they lie entangled, licking wounds both literal and unseen. She bites his neck with gentle finality, a command for silence. And for once, Fanboy obeys.

Fanboy grows quieter in the days that follow, retreating further into himself. The silence, at first, feels like a reprieve, but it festers. With no outlet for the storm inside him, the grief swells until it can no longer be contained. At night, when he thinks she is asleep, he weeps into his arm, muffling the sound. But Yo hears him. She always hears him.

After two days of dead quiet, she realizes she must be the one to reach across the void. Following another meager meal of crackers and water, she curls close, tucks her head into the crook of his neck, and presses a kiss against the half-healed wound there. Her voice is soft, almost afraid. Are you okay?

For the longest time, Fanboy says nothing. His breath is steady, his body taut. She strokes his chest gently, waiting for an answer.

Inside him, a war rages. He touches the rough stubble growing on his face, a reminder of years lost, time stolen. The weight of it breaks him.

Yo feels the sudden tightening in his body and stills, sensing what’s about to surface.

When at last he pulls from her grasp, the pain in his leg sparks something far worse: the floodgates burst. What does she think? Does she think he's okay? How in the world can she ask if he's doing okay if SHE won't answer him the same question? How can she think he's doing okay after making sure he won't believe there's a sliver of hope left for them? His voice isn’t raised, but it burns with restrained fury. His words come like blows, each one sharper than the last. He fights for her. He holds on for her. Can’t she at least pretend for him? Give him something, anything, besides this dead silence?

Yo sits stricken. Fanboy hasn’t spoken like this in forever.

He presses on, shaking, eyes wet with unshed tears. Stop saying they're going to die! She doesn't know that! They could be rescued, or at least Boog could come back! Yes, he’s a monster, but he’s the only reason they're alive at all. How can she wish him away when she's carrying their baby? That's crazy! Think of the child! Think of Fanboy! Think of the people waiting for them out there!

His arms fold tight across his chest, a fragile shield. His breathing comes ragged, his lone eye glittering. Then, suddenly, everything collapses. The fury drains out of him all at once, leaving him slumped and hollow. His voice dwindles to a whisper, cracked and breaking. What’s wrong with him?

Fanboy makes a futile attempt to hold in his sobs, clutching his face and scratching at it with his sharp fingernails. The sobs tear out of his chest like something primal, uncontainable. Yo gathers him into her arms, cradling his head against her chest. Her chin rests on his crown as he shakes against her. He resists for a heartbeat, but the need is stronger. He clings to her.

With a small kiss to his temple, Yo quietly asks him what he wants. 

Fanboy grapples for words. Suddenly, his heart explodes in the most horrible feeling as he cries out to the cruel, unforgiving world. 

Home. He wants to go home. Everything he loved, everything he wanted to be, it was all ripped away by that monster! His hopes, his dreams, everything he owned, everything he strived for.

He wants to go home.

Yo smiles sadly through her tears, stroking his hair as his grief pours out. She tells him she knows. She knows how desperately he wants that life back. That if she could give him freedom with her own life, she would do it without hesitation. To her, he is not a prisoner, not a failure. He is her strength, her shield, her hero.

For a moment, Fanboy breathes easier. But Yo’s voice falters as she confesses her own truth: that she wakes every morning wishing she hadn’t. That the thought of death shadows her constantly. She grips him tight, admitting he is the only reason she endures. That, without him, she would have slipped away long ago. He is her light, her angel.

Fanboy trembles. He cannot fathom the desire to die; his mind rejects it outright. To him, life is always something to grasp for, even if it hurts. He supposes that's another difference between him and Boog. Captor and captive. Death and life. Pain and peace. Yet hearing her confession chills him. She is suffering more deeply than he ever realized.

Yo squeezes him tight. She means nothing to Boog and, likewise, Boog means nothing to her, but Fanboy means the world to Yo.

The shame that'd built up in Fanboy's gut cowers to Yo's doctrine, her. He lets himself melt into her arms. She rocks him gently, victorious in her quiet way, stroking his back as though to soothe the child still hidden within him.

They both know they cannot save each other, not really. Freedom lies far beyond their reach. But tonight, at least, they have this: the fragile refuge of one another.

Later, when Yo drifts into uneasy sleep, Fanboy lies awake, staring into the dark. The guilt lingers, but so does a fragile resolve. If these are to be their final days, he will make the most of them. He will never give in. He will never surrender hope.

And when his mind drifts toward the light, toward Heaven, he imagines the three of them together: himself, Yo, and their child, wings outstretched, chasing one another across endless skies of gold. It may be a broken, childish vision, but it is his. And for now, it is enough to keep the fire alive.

They are drawing perilously close to the due date. Yo presses her body against his frail frame to keep him warm, though it's like clinging to a bundle of sticks wrapped in paper-thin skin. She cannot see the damage, but her fingers tell her everything: each rib sharp against her palm, each joint jutting like a warning, each scar slashing through what remains of his flesh. His bones rattle with cold no matter how tightly she holds him. Stroking his greasy hair with one hand and rubbing his skeletal arms with the other, Yo tried in vain to coax some warmth back into him.

She fears he will not survive long enough to meet their child. He's withering before her eyes, a hollowed figure clinging to life by the barest thread. The thought of outliving him is intolerable; the notion of enduring birth without him, unthinkable. She cannot console the vision of a future where Fanboy lays silent beside her, skin turned to stone, while she cradles an infant doomed to die in her arms. In dreams, the nightmare already plays out. Only the soft rhythm of his snores upon waking assures her he's still fighting to remain at her side.

He talks about the future constantly. With a goofy, faraway grin, he dreams aloud of all the things he wants to do with their son or daughter: ski trips, soccer games, rounds of tag and checkers, bedtime stories, afternoons filled with crayons and paper. Every word carries a pulse of life back into his hollow frame. Yo can feel his heart quicken under her hand whenever he drifts into these daydreams, as though hope alone can keep it beating. When she gently reminds him of their grim reality, he only waves her off, eyes bright with a stubborn spark.

Just imaging them gathered around a roaring fire, sticky fingers reaching for s’mores, laughter spilling between them. Imagine Chum Chum there too, and maybe Lupe, maybe even Len... or… what was the braces kid’s name again? It doesn’t matter. The picture is already whole in his head, and he sees it so clearly that Yo almost does too.

He imagines strolling through Newclear Park, hand in hand, swinging their child between them as radioactive gulls wheel above. He describes the warmth of the sun on their faces, the scent of oak, the rush of the glowing rivers, the sound of their baby’s squeals of delight. For a moment, Yo can almost feel it herself, and her chest aches with longing.

Fanboy’s voice grows soft, reverent, when he paints the picture of a full picnic basket. Meats, fruits, vegetables, sweets; more food than they could ever need. Their child, he insists, will never know hunger. Never. In his vision they live in a small, quiet house, filled with books and laughter. He teaches their child games in the yard while Yo teaches words in the living room and recipes in the kitchen. He talks about showing their child how to pray, how to dance, how to swim, how to live with joy.

There will be tantrums, of course. Messes. Bruises. Mischief. Fanboy chuckles and nudges Yo, saying if the child is anything like her, they’ll be impossible. She rolls her eyes, but her lips curve upward in spite of herself.

He imagines school days, siblings, birthdays, graduations, even weddings and grandchildren. Each imagined milestone pushes reality further away, lets him linger in the warmth of a life they may never touch.

Yo listens, smiling faintly at his excitement, but inside she is breaking. She has already accepted their fate; the cell is their coffin, and time is closing in. She cannot summon the same hope he does. She has run herself dry clinging to possibilities that never come.

Every time Fanboy speaks of futures they will never see, it cuts her open anew. She wants to believe him—oh, how she wants to—but she knows better. The world beyond this room is merciless, and their bodies are too frail to keep pace with his fantasies. Her fingers trace his scars, his fragile ribs, and she knows he will not last much longer.

Yet how can she take that hope away from him? His dreams are the only fire left in him. If she smothers them, what will keep him alive long enough to meet their child?

So she says nothing. She lets him talk about roasted marshmallows and sunlit parks and children laughing in the grass. She lets his voice paint pictures of a life that grows brighter the more impossible it becomes. And all the while, her heart sinks further beneath the weight of truth.

At night, when Fanboy finally drifts to sleep, Yo lies awake with his head against her shoulder, staring into the dark. She wonders which would be crueler: to let him keep dreaming until the end, or to tell him the truth: there is no park, no house, no future. Only this room. Only death.

Her hand rests on the swell of her stomach, feeling the faintest stir of life within. The child deserves better than despair, but Yo cannot help it. She has already begun to mourn the world her baby will never know.

It starts small: just a cramp, hardly noticeable as Yo slumbers in Fanboy’s arms. She’s had them before, fleeting squeezes that fade as quickly as they arrive. But then, a sudden pop in her gut snaps her awake, like an internal balloon bursting. She barely has time to register the sensation before warmth gushes between her legs. Embarrassment flickers—did she wet herself?—before a sharp lance of pain in her lower back makes her cry out.

Fanboy stirs. His confusion dissolves the moment Yo gasps her condition. Breath catching, he bolts upright, fumbling at her swollen belly. Yo flinches, the prodding harmless but unbearable beside the ache splitting her spine. When his palm presses the soaked comforter, a manic light sparks in his eyes. He cups her face, kissing her feverishly. The baby is coming!

Yo forces a smile. She’s eager as well to meet her little one, but the dread gnaws deeper. The truth curls cold in her gut: they don’t know what they’re doing.

Hours pass. The cell shrinks into a crucible of pain. Yo’s body writhes under forces she cannot control. She clings to Fanboy, begging for help, but what can he give? His ignorance is terrifying—his hands shake, his words stumble. He is a child playing coach in a game neither of them understands.

By the third hour, her screams scrape her throat raw. Her insides churn like graters, her pale skin several shades lighter and drenched in sweat. No medicine, no respite. Just her, her body breaking itself open. Fanboy wipes her brow, whispering encouragements.

By the sixth, she is near delirious. The generator rattles, syncing its groans with her own. She moans through gritted teeth, nails shredding fabric. The fire between her legs consumes her; the convulsions never stop.

At the seventh, panic overtakes her. She claws at her own abdomen, begging to make it end. Fanboy pins her arms, terrified, whispering through his own sobs. Yo spits curses at Boog, hatred spilling raw and venomous. The hysteria threatens to drown her, until exhaustion drags her into shuddering quiet. Fanboy licks away her tears.

Time blurs. Her voice collapses into broken pleas: I can’t do this. I’m going to die.

Fanboy won’t let her go. He cradles her face, swears she is stronger than pain, stronger than death. He promises everything: names, futures, and miracles until at last she pushes again, teeth bared, body splitting.

And then she slips away. Her eyes roll back, her limbs go limp. For a breathless eternity, Fanboy believes she is dead. He shakes her, calls her name, sobs against her clammy skin. At last, with a groan, she stirs, weak, dazed, but alive. He clutches her as though she has returned from the grave.

Then, a sound cuts through them both: a tiny cry. Thin, sharp, like a kitten’s mewl.

Fanboy freezes. Another cry joins the first. He fumbles downward, hands trembling, and feels not one but two wriggling, slimy forms. 

When it clicks, his breath explodes in a laugh, half hysteria, half joy. Twins.

The newborns wail, small lungs straining against the cold. Fanboy cups them close for warmth, dizzy with love. His children. His. He presses kisses to their damp crowns, tears streaking his hollow cheeks.

After severing the umbilical cords with a gnawed-down chicken bone, Fanboy uses a corner of the blanket to wipe away the babies' slime until they're somewhat dry.

The firstborn is a boy, a tiny little thing with a quiet whimper. The other child is a little girl with a stocky build and powerful voice. She clutches her brother, the only thing she knows, having spent nine months beside him. 

Yo exhales a ragged sob, her hand blindly reaching until she feels them. So small. Too small. Fragile as moths’ wings. Her heart swells with love and breaks in the same beat. She knows, with a certainty that guts her, they will not last long.

Still, she draws them to her chest. Instinct takes over. They latch, tiny mouths searching, suckling.

Fanboy gawks, astonished, almost envious, but he doesn’t dare interfere. He only strokes Yo’s hair, whispering how proud he is, how beautiful she is, how their family is real at last.

Yo rests a hand over their son's head and strokes her thumb along the sharp edge of his skull.

With a small huff, she jokes that HE was why the birth was so painful. Fanboy flinches, feeling momentary guilt for passing his skull's shape to his son, but Yo just smiles and strokes his greasy locks, brushing against the sharp flat of his head that matches their son's. 

Curiously listening to the eager suckling, Fanboy supposes it should be obvious that THAT is how babies eat. However, it comes as a wonder (and a relief that his children are gaining any sustenance at all).

After waiting for a couple of minutes, Fanboy tries to hold his son, but Yo refuses.

Fanboy swallows his hurt. His hands are clumsy, rough in all the wrong ways, and he knows it. The last thing he wants is to be the reason their fragile lives are cut even shorter. But the truth burns inside him—he wants to hold them more than anything. His arms ache with it, his chest feels split open by it. He longs to pull them close, to feel their little hearts hammering against his skin, to prove to himself that they are real and alive and his.

Still, he relents. He lets Yo cradle them first, because she is steady where he trembles. Instead, he wraps his arms tenderly around her waist, pressing himself into the curve of her body, and sneaks a careful hand over to stroke the downy crown of his daughter’s head. The sensation makes his breath catch. This will do, he tells himself. No, it’s more than enough. As their father, it is his sacred duty to protect them, keep them warm, keep them loved.

Yo exhales, her forehead pressing against his, her body sagging under the weight of exhaustion. He feels it...their shared weariness, the ache of starvation, the ceaseless thirst...but for once, those things seem far away. For now, there is peace. Despite the pain, despite the blood still seeping down her leg, despite the sour odor thickening in the air, this moment is whole. Another chapter, however brief, has begun.

When the infants finish suckling, their tiny mouths release with soft pops. Yo guides them into the space between their bodies. Fanboy helps as best he can, awkward but reverent, patting their minuscule backs until frail burps escape their lips. Together, he and Yo curl around them, a cocoon of warmth against the cell’s chill. Their family. His family.

Fanboy gazes at them as if they were spun from light. Every detail arrests him: the way their fists curl and uncurl against Yo’s chest, the twitch of their miniature lips, the rise and fall of impossibly small ribs. He has never known such terror or such joy, tangled so tightly together. He kisses Yo’s damp forehead and whispers into her hair, voice breaking with gratitude. He tells her how proud he is, how honored—how blessed—to be the father of her children.

Her smile is faint, worn through with pain, but it reaches him. She closes her eyes, surrendering at last to the pull of exhaustion. Fanboy stays awake, his arms forming a fortress around all three of them. He listens to the tiny sounds of soft hiccups, mewling breaths, and Yo’s tired sighs, and lets them carve themselves into his memory.

He does not care about the filth beneath them or the chains rattling just beyond. For once, the world has narrowed to what truly matters. His children are here, alive, against every cruel expectation. And as long as they breathe, he swears he will not fail them.

Yo wakes from the pain to discover Fanboy has inched the children toward him. She bites her lip, mightily nervous that the new, inexperienced father may be too rough. Fanboy, she knows, has kinda gone off the deep end. He's just so hopeful, radiant, and optimistic; it's a borderline delusion. No, it IS delusional. She knows he thinks they can survive this, live on as a family, despite the impossible conditions, so a gentle reminder is in order. Plus, he might hurt—...be too rough with them.

Fanboy's mood doesn't somber. He just continues to coo at his children, a subtle plea to Yo to drop the issue. A moment later, he promises he won't pick them up.

Yo feels she should relax at that, but her emotions are a wreck. On the one hand, she cares for her children's safety, but on the other hand, that underlying fear, knowing that they will die in here anyway, quells the urge to WANT to care, to get attached to people she knows will perish in a day. With a small mumble, she rolls over and tries to hold back tears. She's so conflicted, it hurts.

Fanboy cocks his head and quietly gathers the infants, curling around them like an envelope instead of picking them up. Deep down inside, a part of him knows they're destined for death, but… A tiny hand latches around his finger, and the gesture makes him want to cry. He can't waste these precious moments. He never knew it was possible to feel this much love for someone, but it makes sense. Parents love their babies. He grasps the hand between his thumb and forefinger as gently as possible, curiously feeling around the tiny fingernails.

While he wonders in amazement at these miracles, Yo begins to sob. How long exactly will they be able to keep their children alive in this environment where she and Fanboy are barely hanging on? She doesn't think she can enjoy these precious moments, no matter how much she wants to, and worse yet, her thoughts are turning against her. 

Why aren't you holding your babies?

Yo squeezes her eyes shut and releases a guttural moan, feeling like the most selfish monster ever.

You're not a very good mama…

She wants to love on her babies, but how can she with what she knows?

Stop acting like a victim.

Yo crumples into a cold lump of flesh, her blue eyes dulling to almost grey. Her own thoughts are killing her. The darkness edging at the corners of her mind near the center.

So selfish…

You don't even love your babies!

Poor Fanboy.

He deserves better than you.

A pained grin spreads over her blotchy face, her mind going haywire. She feels dead outside her own body as she eases into the cold. Fanboy does deserve better… Her babies deserve better…

I'm an awful mom…

Yo mumbles that aloud without thinking clearly, grabbing Fanboy's attention. He gently turns her over to face him, wiping the tears away from her cheeks and pressing their foreheads together in a chaste display of affection. 

You're an awful GOOD mama!

 Fanboy cups her cheeks in his hands and whispers it, again and again, wanting Yo to feel it, to remind her that she isn't alone, and he will always support her. The proofs are the two brand new lives whimpering between them, a perfect blend of him and her. Little miracles… Fanboy praises her for her hard work, for taking care of him when things looked bleak, for being his star.

The best ever.

Fanboy repeats that, firmly and confidentially, despite the absence of a mother in his own life. Something inside him is secure knowing her good intentions, her kind, broken soul, and kindred spirit. In time, Yo's sobs fade. Fanboy rocks gently back and forth, lulling her to calm. Through the last of her sniffles, she whispers that she doesn't want to die here, that she's terrified of her babies sharing their fate. For once, she leaves out their inevitable demise, only implying said fate as a prospect, and Fanboy gratefully kisses her.

They shouldn't be here, she whispers. They should be in a nursery with a soft cradle in a lovely warm house.

Fanboy nods against the top of her head, humming that old lullaby under his breath. Their fates have become startlingly real: with the last of their water supply gone, it will only take a day or two for them to perish. These last few hours will be priceless, and what they choose to do with them will not only be the most important but the last decisions they will ever make. Call him a dreamer, but they owe it to each other and their children to make their last moments together mean something. 

Realizing the babies have fallen asleep, Fanboy coos. Their shrill cries have settled along with their mother's, and now they are locked together and sleeping soundly. Yo stares dully at her babies, her chaotic mind working overtime to figure a way out of this. Fanboy presses his cheek against her forehead and hums that lullaby until they too fall under.

So, what now? The club crackers have run out. The water is completely gone. Yo doesn't need to point this out to Fanboy; he already knows and is doing wonderfully blocking it out, focusing all his attention on his precious children. Propped up on one elbow and nuzzling his shivering boy, he doesn't even seem anxious about his rapidly approaching death. Well, neither is Yo, but only because she has accepted it wholeheartedly. He's terribly thirsty. She can tell by the way his voice cracks, by the way he constantly clears his throat. How he can keep a happy face is beyond her.

She asks him, what now? Because there are times when a mother and father must consider their children's futures or lack thereof. Fanboy's smile falters. Aha, Yo realizes, a chink in his armor.

Well, she asks again, what do they do now that they've got the room to themselves? Are they destined to outlive their children, or will their children lay helpless among their dead parents? Which is crueler?

Fanboy's gaze flickers up to her dark outline, mightily apprehensive. What does she mean by asking him this? Why?

Yo tries not to look in the direction of her children. She explains that it isn't fair to them that they should be left alone when she and Fanboy die. As adults, they must…intervene.

Fanboy's heart leaps to his throat. He cannot bear to ask how, but Yo makes a suggestion anyway.

"…"

This idea…is so vile…so utterly depraved that Fanboy isn't sure he hears correctly, so he asks her to repeat.

 "…"

 Yo hurriedly explains why this is in the babies' best interest, but Fanboy refuses to listen to another word, bearing his teeth and clutching his children to his chest. He may be passive, but he will NEVER cave to this. Yo sucks in a breath, her heart crumbling all over again.

 They are NOT murdering his children. That's what he screams, startling her and the babies, who start to bawl in fear.

Yo awakens with a strangled gasp, jolting upright and blinking into the dark. The cold hit her first, then the weakness of her joints. She can barely move.

Beside her, Fanboy's rubbing her back, comforting her in a worried tone. Between them, the children, sleeping soundly.

In shock, Yo gasps for air, pawing at Fanboy's face like an insane person. Th-…The babies! Yo grabs blindly for her children, almost injuring them as she wildly presses one of them to her chest. Sh-She won't hurt them, she gasps, her blue eyes blazing with madness as her stiff muscles protest. She would never hurt her babies! She—She—

Confused and afraid in his mother's arms, the son begins to wail. Yo cries out in a panic, pleading for a dumbfounded Fanboy to understand. She didn't mean it! She doesn't want them to die! Please! Don't hurt! Don't—! Don't die! She won't eat him! She promises she won't eat him! PLEASE!

She's screaming, breaking down as one of the last reserves of sanity in her head breaks to pieces. Fanboy's afraid she may accidentally injure their son, so he takes her into her arms and carefully feels for his child, who's alright, if not a bit spooked. Yo shakes, sweat trickling down her forehead as she gasps into Fanboy's collarbone.

Please— Please— Please— She chants, and Fanboy relocates his son behind him along with his daughter. There's still a small part of him that's sane, that values the safety of those he loves.

Please— Please— Please— Don't let her hurt them— Please— Yo gasps as Fanboy sinks his claws into her arms, stares her dead in the eye.

He knows she won't hurt them. She won't kill them. If she does—Fanboy bears his teeth—he will never forgive her. He isn't kidding. She isn't the only one worth protecting now that they have children.

Now, calm down…

Yo swallows another scream, yanks her hair. It was just a nightmare. An awful, horrible nightmare. With a sharp inhale, she lies back down, her heart beating like crazy as tears trail down her face. 

Fanboy smiles tenderly and begins the process of dragging her back to a rational state of mind: he cuddles her, kisses her, whispers how much he loves her. It does take a good few hours for his love to return, and when she does, she's very quiet.

Time is warping. It couldn't have taken both a week and a minute to calm down, but that's what Yo feels. Her brain clicks, desperate for its owner to regain sustenance. Dazed, she nervously reaches for Fanboy's hand, which he takes.

They're dying.

Fanboy rests his hand over her arm.

It won't be long now. Maybe a day. Maybe an hour.

Despite how often Yo insists that she's accepted their fate, she feels a rush of panic.

Fanboy kisses her bangs, his raspy voice small and resigned. Now that death has become a reality, he can entertain acceptance, but he's going to hold out for rescue until the moment he dies. Yo shuts her eyes, too exhausted to roll them. That's okay. It's all going to be okay. Maybe he wasn't ever meant to… Fanboy suddenly laughs, slipping a hand under his son's skull for support. He was never meant to be a hero, after all.

That ought to bum out Chum Chum. 

Yo smiles and strokes the top of her daughter's fuzzy head with her pointer finger. Even now, on death's doorstep, Fanboy is still able to laugh, and Yo can still smile. Maybe this isn't all bad. After all, they'll be in Heaven soon. 

I'm proud, Yo says. But Fanboy can't hear. Soon, Fanboy's mind is entirely open and empty. There isn't a single ounce of resistance left in him. He has finally, truly, surrendered his entire being from his control. What follows this total surrender of body, mind, and maybe even soul, is the strangest sense of peace that he has ever felt, as though Fanboy has given up every last little piece of himself, but somehow, other feelings soon came back to fill that void. By letting go, suddenly, Fanboy knows what he had to do…

He finally makes the decision, right then and there, to let himself die. He won’t fight anymore. Maybe with this surrender of his body and mind and choice, he’ll become a hero. Maybe this surrender will mean the question of what his afterlife destination will be eternally put to rest. Maybe, if Fanboy truly, truly, truly let's go, he will finally be granted the stairway to the heavenly kingdom.

His cause? Yo. His one true love and partner, having survived this torture by his side. His children, nameless pictures of innocence and true blends of him and her. Chum Chum, best friend and more, having been with Fanboy longer than anyone before the kidnapping. His family…

But even though Chum Chum is gone, he is still here. A soul never truly leaves the place it feels most tied to because, even after ten years of no Chum Chum, there are moments between the shadows of sanity and insanity that Fanboy is certain he can hear Chum Chum still whispering to him. Yo...It has been Yo who pulled him through each and every torment long enough for him to survive up until this point. It had been Yo who whispered to him in the cover of darkness, keeping him company when their tormentor did not visit their cell. It was both Chum Chum and Yo and all the beautiful memories Fanboy shared with them that allowed him to retain some level of who he used to be despite how degrading his tortures were.

Now, they were going to become Fanboy's cause, his reason for living and then dying, for enduring this Hell with total acceptance. Yo had carried him this far already, now he will carry Yo to the end. With Chum Chum's spirit at his side, Fanboy will face his fate with all the willful courageousness and hopeful resoluteness that a hero required. 

So, Fanboy will die for Chum Chum, Yo, and the babies. He can pretend that this surrender will redeem them all and set them free. He’ll pretend that this sacrifice will mend every lost bond and then Chum Chum will finally be able to see him again. Any past bad blood among them will be eased out until only love and forgiveness remain.

Then, together, they will leave this place and never look back, no matter what. Fanboy no longer lives for himself. He thinks towards the future that he will never see, praying that once he’s dead, nobody else will ever have to stand trapped in this place again. He thinks of Chum Chum, the boy he wants so desperately to be reunited with. He’s coming home very soon…

Fanboy asks the phantom voice to promise, tears pricking his bruised and bloody eyes, that he’ll be there for them.

Yes.

Chum Chum's voice murmurs lovingly in return.

I miss you.

Fanboy coughs through sore and chapped lips, less afraid because now, he finally has a cause.

I love you.

There isn't much else to say; they've had years to give their goodbyes. Fanboy's voice, as well as the rest of him, is whispery-thin as he whispers a prayer. Yo can feel him slipping away as her eyes flutter close. He murmurs happily, eyes glazing. Beside him, his son wriggles unhappily, as if he can sense his father leaving him. Fanboy weakly touches the top of the baby's head, wishing one last time that his children could meet their uncle.

I'll wait up for ya.

Fanboy stills.

Soft white light brightens the little room.

Yo is too far gone to react. Fanboy's blank gaze witnesses the glow as it shines like the sun.

Angels.

"Yoko? Lance?”

Chapter Text

Yo surrenders her lingering world to darkness. Her vision’s edges blacken with each passing second. Death’s tendrils curl for her soul.

“Yoko…”

She hears a faint calling of her name, though neither by Fanboy nor Boog. The source could be Lupe, an angel, or even God himself. It’s a tolling bell, an echo, a long loud peal. 

"Oh my goodness."

The baritone sings with hesitance, fear, and blissful suspense as the edges of Yo’s vision begin to clear, her subconscious struggling.

She hasn't the strength to lift her limbs, but she can move her eyes to revere in the swarming, colorful nonsense. Blues and greys and peaches and reds and browns; some small, some larger than life. Specks of white dart in and out of her peripheral like gnats, dreamlike and otherworldly. 

All at once, a billow of warm air rustles the lasting stillness of the room. It tickles Yo’s brow as her nostrils sting at the smell of old paint and sawdust.

“Oh my g—!” The sound of gagging.

She swallows as a bead of sweat trickles down her pallid brow, her sweaty palms clutching at the comforter, hollow, drifting on waves of fabric, both sensitive and numb. Pins and needles attack her toes and fingers as if they’re awakening from a deep sleep.

She wonders if this is what it feels like to die: this out-of-body experience she’d deem unthinkable in all but a dream.

At that, Yo feels a pang of great guilt. She hopes her children’s deaths will be quick and, for even hoping such a thing, perhaps purgatory is the appropriate summon for her spirit to adjust to heaven’s glow.

"That’s them, isn’t it? Yo and Lance.”

Her name sounds foreign but reinforces her sense of self just as a solid hand, warm and callused, brushes against her shoulder.

For a flicker of time, instinct screams for Yo to retreat into the safety of silence and comfort of her mind, but she can’t will herself to move away from the touch.

“They're frozen solid…”

Yo’s face pinches. She's trying hard to achieve that bodiless rapture, to escape the pain. 

"Poor things…”

If it IS Boog, and it is him, yes? It must be, for Fanboy has slipped away into paralysis, she thinks. It simply can’t be anyone else, and now, she doesn’t even want to hope. But a shriveled, nearly lifeless part of her tentatively embraces the call. She tries to speak, to cry out, to bark, but her throat can only manage a hoarse squeak. Startled, the hand withdraws.

"She’s ALIVE—!"

Yo swallows. This new voice is appalled and by no means angelic, but it’s not Boog’s.

More voices arrive but they are too precise, too close, and too loud. Doubt builds in Yo as her ear presses against the ground, the vibration of heavy footsteps too clear to be visceral. She cannot bear to think that Boog has returned with cronies. The idea that he disappeared just to arrange a belated playdate with other bloodthirsty psychos is too much to bear.

Yo peers quivering into the tumult and burning light. Shadows stretch around their quarters, and groans of sad disgust reverberate amid the not-angels, but then:

"Hey. Hey. It’s okay, Miss. You're safe. We’re getting you outta here."

It sounds too kind and genuine to be anything but an angel.

Encouraged, Yo lifts her gaze. Something in the back of her mind resonates with the blue uniforms, the shiny grey holsters, and the dark batons.

"Have some water." A cold funnel presses against her chapped lips.

As the water soothes Yo's burning throat, her teeth close around the neck of the canteen. She swallows half of its contents before the being gently tugs.

"Not so fast." But Yo stubbornly clamps her salvation. Someone sweeps aside the blanket to reveal Fanboy's skinny little body.

"He's chained!"

There's another series of gasps and pitiful groans, and Yo bursts into tears. The cries of anguish feed off each other and intensify.

“Cheech has a bolt-cutter. Stand back.”

Yo’s ears perk at the mention of someone’s name other than her own, Fanboy’s, and Boog’s. Beneath her, the babies wriggle, growing nervous from all the commotion.

"What kind of freak does this?"

Another being approaches holding a massive metallic tool in its hands. 

Yo instinctively braces for a blow, but the device dismantles the chain and breaks it off Fanboy's leg.

A separate group of white-clad beings swarms the tiny space, giving orders and working quickly. As a familiar being drapes a long, fluffy towel over Yo, she clutches the tiny newborns in her arms, and they squeal.

In a faint memory, Yo remembers someone in its likeness: Agent Johnson. As a little girl, she was quite intimidated by him marching down the street and, if he waved, she’d giggle and take off.

She doesn’t know if he remembers her, but if he does, how different she must look to him. He certainly looks foreign to her: older, rugged, tired... She can barely make out his face through her sluggish haze. Yo eyes his badge and presumes that he is the head of this angelic force...

“10-45c,” is what Yo’s ears pick up from afar, though her muddled mind understands little of what is being said. “We’ve got two live infants in need of care, two adults in critical condition, one male, one female; 10-52, ambulance needed; the male is a possible 10-54.”

Yo bleats, the reopening of old wounds and hopeful mirth too much to handle. She's on the cusp of screaming and laughing simultaneously, powder kegs of emotion igniting in her mind because they are finally here. After so long of wallowing in the darkness, praying to be found, their dreams are finally coming true.

She rests her head against his golden badge. If not concerned by her newborns, she would have coiled her arms around his neck. The angels HAVE come for them.

A fairer being wraps the babies in a fluffy white towel, eliciting their cries before Yo can contemplate her thanks. Her hedonistic brain frightens for their safety despite the being having nothing but good intentions.

She falls into one of the officers' arms but, despite his gentility, his body's broad and masculine form reminds her too much of Boog, and she cries out in alarm. Agent Johnson notices this right away and directs the female police officers to transport the young woman to the hospital.

Since she is unable to walk, the paramedics lift Yo off the ground and strap her onto a padded stretcher. It feels heavenly against her blotchy skin. Thanks to its adjustable base and retractable wheels, it’s easy for paramedics to whisk her away.

To protect her eyes from the light, someone covers them up with a heavy gauze. Meanwhile, everyone is asking her name, asking if something hurts, and inquiring about her conditions. Yo just barely manages to breathe out a response, and it's rejuvenating.

"Yo… Yo…"

A waft of fresh oak hits her nostrils, and the sounds of a bustling city and sirens reach her ears. A frigid wind sweeps across her skin. It isn’t a stale, suffocating cold but a crisp, brisk freeze. A murmuring like a thousand hums blends together in a gorgeous melody.

Yo sucks in a breath and feels herself begin to fade away.

And after what feels like forever, she’s escorted into the light.

Yo awakens to darkness, clicks, and hums, the familiar sensations tossing her into a panic. Her arms thrash, only to be grabbed by invisible hands and pinned to her sides. She tosses her head from side to side, disturbing the layer of cloth obscuring her vision and allowing a great ray of light to peek in. She stops, for the chance of light this brilliant is near-impossible and so very welcome.

She bleats weakly with joy, twisting her body and ignoring the pain it brings. She hardly notices the prick in her arm before she falls back under with a smile.

The staff usher Fanboy, Yo, and their children into separate examination rooms. Yo resists with every shred of strength left in her. Even after repeated assurances that her infants will be cared for by the hospital’s finest physicians, she clings to them with a desperation bordering on feral. Only a sedative loosens her grip, and at last she slips into merciful unconsciousness, her children carefully lifted from her arms.

Fanboy, however, is rushed straight to intensive care. Lowered onto the examination table, his one good eye cracks open, glassy and unfocused. The flicker lasts only seconds before unconsciousness reclaims him.

The nurse freezes at the sight of his body. Every inch of him a map of violence and neglect. But she keeps her composure, sponge in hand, and begins to bathe him gently, mindful of his grotesquely swollen leg. An IV drips pain relief into his arm, but still his body twitches at her touch.

“CHG,” barks the lead physician, a broad man with a faint lisp. “Use CHG.”

The nurse obeys, working quickly until Fanboy stirs again. This time the physician rushes to his side, the stern command dissolving into a gasp.

“Hey! Hey, Lil’ Dude! Can you hear me?”

For a moment, Fanboy shivers and blinks up at him, gaze clouded, unable to reconcile this familiar, bearded face. His lips part; a hoarse squeak escapes, more animal than word.

The doctor’s expression buckles. “Oh, Lance…” His voice cracks with the weight of years. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn't there.”

Dr. Oz, once a comic-store owner and now a physician hardened by loss, presses his broad hands to the table to steady himself. He had buried the boy in his heart long ago, and now here he is, broken but alive.

When peroxide hisses across his open wounds, Fanboy jerks weakly. Dr. Oz steadies him, voice low, almost pleading. “I know it hurts, lil’ dude. Stay with me. We’re not losing you again.”

The nurse, Pam, pushes forward with her work. She parts his tangled hair, inspecting the scalp for wounds, then checks his teeth with quiet dismay. His molars are ruined by neglect, but dentistry will have to wait. She moves on to his hands, skin paper-thin, fingers marked with bloody indentations. She swabs his shoulders and neck, finding bite-marks (Yo’s survival-driven doing) and douses them in peroxide. Fanboy whimpers, weakly twisting, but Oz steadies him with broad, gentle hands.

“I know, Lil’ Dude,” Oz soothes. “I know it hurts. Just breathe. We’re almost done.”

At his request, Pam washes Fanboy’s hair. Warm water trickles down and, for the first time, his face softens, lips twitching with the ghost of a smile. He whispers a mangled version of Yo’s name.

Oz swallows his grief and examines the leg. It's swollen and battered, far older than a fresh break. “This isn’t recent,” he mutters.

“X-ray will tell,” Pam replies. “At least it isn’t open.”

Oz pages the order, then carefully removes Fanboy’s ocular prosthetic, setting it aside to be cleaned. “Dear God,” he whispers. “What happened to you?”

When Pam towels him dry, his patchwork skin reveals every horror he has endured: sores, welts, bruises, bedsores blooming across his fragile frame. Oz cannot hide his tears. The exuberant boy he once knew is gone; in his place lies a ravaged young man, barely clinging to life.

“Almost done,” Oz murmurs. “Almost numb.”

Fanboy calls again for Yo, his voice weak, his confusion raw. His panic grows at the strange lights, the strange voices. He thrashes feebly until Oz clasps his hand, huge and steady.

“We won’t let you go, Lil’ Dude,” Oz vows. “Not ever again.”

Fanboy drifts through a white maze, wheels humming beneath him as the chair carries his wasted frame along endless corridors. He tilts his head back, gazing at the cubic lights that streak past above him. They look like stars, and he feels as though he’s floating, caught between clouds and dust. Maybe he’s dreaming. Maybe he’ll wake to Boog’s fist. Maybe he’s already dead, carried to Heaven by faceless saints.

Strangers bend over him, voices murmuring, hands pressing. He glimpses a glow so bright it devours everything. A mask seals across his mouth before he can resist, and he sinks, weightless, into black.

When he opens his eyes again, he is thinner than a shadow, draped in a gown, head lolling weakly as he is wheeled into a clean, square room. Nurse Pam eases him onto the bed, startled at how light he is, how fragile, as if a careless touch might shatter him to pieces. She wraps him in an electric blanket and tucks thick covers around him. An IV line snakes into his wrist, dripping warmth back into his bloodless body. “Rest and warmth,” she says, her voice steady but her eyes damp.

Across the hall, Yo sleeps beneath the same cocoon of blankets, an IV feeding strength into her veins. Even unconscious, her face looks tight with old grief. Pam thinks of the twins down in maternity, dressed in pink and blue, clinging together with mittened hands. Safe. Fed. Unaware.

Her duty now is simple but relentless: to keep watch over these two survivors, to guard them against further harm while their bodies reclaim what was stolen.

But the mind? That is another matter altogether. Years of isolation, of torture, of stolen time...those wounds lie beyond Pam’s reach. She can only tend to their bodies. The rest? Only time will tell if healing is possible at all.

“Yo? Yo, can you wake up, Sweetie?”

The voice is soft, unfamiliar. Yo’s crusted eyes creak open, finding a blurred figure beside her. She groans, startled into the instinctive panic of fight-or-flight.

The blob’s mouth shapes words. “There you are…”

She blinks until the world sharpens: a bed draped in white, her own thin legs raising two small hills beneath the sheet. One wrist bears an IV, taped and swaddled in gauze; the other, a red vinyl bracelet. She turns it, lips moving as she stares at the scribbles:

Name: Yoko Sakura
Sex: Female
Bed: Six
Date: December 15

Words. She hasn’t read words in years. Sex—what does that mean? Female is “girl,” right? That much is true. December—last month? Or the second? Her sluggish mind clutches at the thought, her mouth twitching. It is the last month! She hasn’t missed Icemas this time.

A smooth hand rests on hers. She jerks.

“You’ve been sleeping for a while. How’re you feeling?”

A woman kneels at her bedside, white-crowned, smiling. Yo croaks, blinking one eye at a time. The light is overwhelming, but unlike anything she’s seen in forever. A gentle weight bridges her nose: green lenses pressed into rubber frames. She blinks clearer, focuses.

The woman’s face blooms into color: short brown hair with sweeping bangs, ruby lips, kind eyes framed with lashes. A woman. A living, breathing woman. Yo’s chest surges. She hasn’t seen another female in years.

She opens her mouth, a million questions surging at the back of her throat like an overflowing keg. Who is this woman? What is her name? Is she the angel that rescued her? Is this Heaven? Is this Purgatory? The desert-dryness in her tight throat squanders her efforts to speak, like sandpaper rubbing against her raw skin. Thankfully, the woman has a water bottle in hand.

Just a few sips are enough for Yo's to throat to open. She moans with relief after finishing off the bounty, feeling so much better than she had just moments before.

“Better?” the woman asks, pulling the water away.

Yo nods.

“Terrific. I’m Nurse Lady Pam. I’ve been taking care of you and Lance this past week.”

“Fan!” Yo squeaks, startling herself by sitting upright. “Fanboy!”

Pam steadies her. Yo forces her throat to work. The sound comes guttural, like a bullfrog bellow. “N-Nah… Dead!?!”

“No, Honey. No one’s dead. You’re all safe now.”

Yo sinks back into the pillow, trembling. Fanboy's alive. She’d been so certain he was gone. 

“I’m going to take you to someone who’ll answer questions,” Pam says gently. “But, if you’re too tired, we can wait. Do you want to go now?”

Yo stares. Answers. That’s always been the dream. Rescue, explanations, a chance to start over. Dreams that ended with waking back in the room. If this is another, she’ll wring what she can from it before it collapses.

“Now,” she croaks, clutching her throat.

“Let’s do it,” Pam says.

Two hours of examinations later, of which Yo drifts through unconscious, Pam wheels Yo into a modest office. A different clean-cut woman with ginger hair and glasses rises to greet her, hand extended expectantly and Yo takes it after cautious consideration. In the corner, there is an officer, Agent Johnson, setting up what looks like an audio recorder.

“Hello, Yoko,” the woman says warmly. “I’m Dr. Olive.”

Yo sneaks a shy wave at the officer. He nods.

“How are you feeling today?”

“G-Good,” Yo clears her throat. “I mean…well. Bedder.” It’s true enough. Her voice is steadier thanks to vapor treatments and honey tea, the sweetest thing she’s ever tasted. But her mind still floats in fog. She strokes her borrowed clothes. “Th-Thanks fo’ these. They’re real soft.”

Dr. Olive hides her heartbreak behind a smile. “Of course. We’re here to help.”

Help. The word tastes strange. Bitter, but welcome. With Pam’s aid, Yo shuffles to a small couch. She sinks gratefully, petting the cushions, hugging a pillow to her chest, and rocking back and forth like an eager child.

“Soft, huh?” Dr. Olive laughs kindly. Yo scans the room, her foggy eyes rife with marvel at the vivid stickers and comic strips decorating the walls.

“She’s been interested in just about everything,” Nurse Pam explains. “The moment we put on her goggles,” she gestures to the thick green lenses sitting across the bridge of Yo’s nose, “she's absorbed everything like a sponge.”

Dr. Olive watches Yo. The young woman does appear to be scrutinizing everything in sight, touching all within reach with painstaking care. The potted succulents perched atop the side-table, the colorful bandages strapped all over her arms, and even the carpeted floor enthrall Yo the way they would a primitive recluse.

“Well, I do have a nice office," Olive prides. "I’m thinking about getting some butterfly stickers for the window.” Yo glances over her shoulder to said window, only to find it draped with a thick blue curtain. It's likely a precaution the staff made to protect her eyes, but she catches slivers of light peeping through the sides like fog sweeping over a mossy hill and is reminded instantly of the door back in the room.

“Let’s jump in,” Dr. Olive says briskly, regaining Yo's attention. “Can you tell me your full name?”

Yo jabs her thumb in her mouth and chews noisily. “Yuh-huh. M-My name’s Yoko,” she responds slowly, her voice trembling. “Yoko Sakura, b' ya can call m’ Yo. H-How ya doin’? Where’s Fanboy?'' 

Agent Johnson flinches at her accent: a rough New York twang.

“I’m doing very well. Lan—I mean, Fanboy just had surgery and is recovering well.”

Yo twitches. “L-Leg?” 

“Yes."

Yo’s lips pinch. She draws her shoulders in like a bowstring. “Good." Her smile tightens before disappearing entirely. “C-Can I feed my babies? I needa feed my babies. Wh-Where are my babies?”

"Safe if the maternity ward. Now, do you know where you are?”

Yo pauses to think. “A-An ‘ospital.”

“Uh-huh! Rockwell’s Hospital, just off the 95-South.”

That name sparks. Home isn’t far. A fragile smile breaks her face.

Dr. Olive glances at her clipboard. “Yo, the nurses say you talked in your sleep. You believed you were in Heaven. Is that true?”

Yo’s dull blue eyes drift from the doctor’s face to the wall opposite of her. “Not anymo’,” she says. "But iss not bad like th' room."

At the mention of “the room”, Agent Johnson’s face hardens. 

"The room?"

Yo shrugs. “Issa room. Hadda door. Toilet. A vent. A slot in th’ door.”

"Could you leave when you wanted?”

"No," Yo answers, her lip curling. "He didn' let-" She stops short.

“Did someone keep you there? Against your will?”

Yo’s face contorts. “I can't tell,” she says finally, voice shaking. “’Cause if I tell, he’ll hurt Fanboy an’ our babsies.”

“You’re safe now,” Dr. Olive soothes. “Nothing can touch you here.”

Yo hesitates, but if naming her captor means justice... Boog in a cell: the sweetest, most ironic verdict a man like him could get makes the edges of Yo’s mouth curl.

“Boog,” she declares, lifting her chin even as the sound of his name sends a tingle of fear down her spine. “Boogregard Dolomite Shlizetti.”

Johnson’s fist cracks against his knee. The doctor’s glare silences him. “Pardon,” he apologizes, sinking back into his chair with a cough. 

“Thank you, Yo,” Olive says gently. “Can you tell me what happened?”

Yo chews her lip, overwhelmed. “I jus…can’t ‘member everything.”

“That’s alright. Just start where you can.”

As usual, when confronted by something new and scary, Yo’s mind goes blank and her stomach becomes a snake pit of twisted nerves. “I-I…” she fumbles around a bit. “I was fine ‘fore everything happened. I had breakfast an’ stuff an’ I…I woke up next t’ Fanboy in...th’ room.” She licks her lips and stares nervously at the floor, searching for other memories but coming up short. She elects to skip ahead. “We tried t’ get out, but we couldn’t. Boog locked us in and hurt us all time. He hurt us lots.” Her lips quiver, lacking the proper vocabulary to scream out every single detail of her torment. But the doctor doesn’t seem to mind. She even helps out.

"How did he hurt you?" 

Yo tells all. She pauses to take a breath and steal a glance at the nurse, who’s listening stoically, and then at the officer, who’s leaning back with a troubled expression. Dr. Olive takes a moment every now and then to jot all of it down on some sort of shiny thin box that the younger woman does not recognize. Occasionally, a shared graphic detail will trigger a visible flicker of alarm on the doctor's face, but Yo is unable to read her expressions well.

“How long were you there?”

Yo sprawls on the carpet despite the sting it brings to her lady parts. “I dunno. I don’ even know how olds-s I am."

“Well,” Dr. Olive supplies, “when were you born?”

Yo grasps hold of that faint piece of information floating around her noggin. “April 13, 1999."

The cop, nurse, and doctor fall into a bit of a trance whilst they scrutinize Yo’s emaciated, under-developed form. The wretched young woman squirms beneath their stares and scratches her wrist, attempting to grasp at what that implies. 

“How long we were down there? Whas happened t’ time p-passing? Th’ year now?” she demands, tripping over the rush of words spilling from her mouth. “Whazzit now? Tell me!”

The doctor is calm against the abrasive plea and hastily scans a clipboard packed with crinkled parchments, some old and some new. “You were reported missing Thursday, June 11th, 2010. Your...Your classmate at the time, Lance Corporal, was reported missing on June 12th.” She gives the nurse a pointed look and discloses the span. "Today is December 15th, 2020. Ten years, six months, four days."

Yo exhales, long and heavy. The date swirls about in her mind searching for a place to take root, but it just doesn’t make sense. She digs her knuckles into the rug and stares at her wristband.

No, not ten years. Four? Perhaps. Five at MOST, but TEN? She shakes her head, her breathing hard and fast. She knows her body changed. She’s grown. But to hear it confirmed—ten years stolen—shatters her. She gapes at the officer's disturbed expression with agonized passion.

“You’re twenty-one years old.”

Yo lurches and grips her hair, blunt fingernails digging deep into her scalp. She shouldn’t be surprised—only adults can have babies, only adults can get married! So... It’s official, the journey from childhood to adulthood all but skipped. "N-No! No, I'm not!" she hiccups.

Dr. Olive hurries to her side. “I’m so sorry, Yoko,” she murmurs. “I am so, so sorry, my love. I can’t imagine how painful that must be.”

Yo is rightly inconsolable, tears spilling from her bloodshot, sensitive eyes. “Where! Where! Where was…where WAS ya?” she blubbers, helplessly searching their faces for an explanation. “Where?! We wa’ waitin’ fo-forever f-fo’ ya! Why’dja take so long!? I-I-I don’ get it!” Yo shakes her head and wrenches out of the doctor’s gentle hold. “Nobody CAME!” she howls, pounding her fists on the carpet like a drum. "NO ONE! NO ONE! NO ONE!" The nurse struggles to reel in her shoulders.

Yo dips forward, her head touching the floor. “Boog’s a block or two from th’—the school an’ Frosty Mart! F-From SCHOOL!” she shouts raggedly into the carpet. “YA MISSED US! You FO’GETTED ‘bout us!”

For the first time, Agent Johnson gets a word in. “NO." The doctor gapes at him, but he disregards her in favor of addressing Yo directly. “We never ever forgot. There hasn’t been a day, not a single day, when I haven’t thought about you two,” he divulges. “Not a single day when I didn’t work to bring you home.”

Yo crumples. "It's too late," she bawls.

“We took too long," Johnson admits. He sinks back into the chair, depleted. “And I can’t tell you how sorry I am, how sorry we ALL are that we didn't find you... We poured all our assets into this investigation but came out with nothing. Course, the '19 defunding didn’t help, but if it weren’t for Mr. Schlizetti’s fender-bender, I don’t suppose we would have discovered his dirty little secret. He was right under our noses, and we didn’t even suspect him. That was disgraceful and I’ll never forgive myself for that. But I never forgot you. Never.”

There’s a short silence as Yo trembles. “S-S-Sorry,” she whispers.

“Never apologize. You’re not to blame.”

Yo wipes her blurry eyes behind the lenses, her broken-hearted expression nearly breaking Johnson’s own. “You saved-ed us.” She sees his badge. “I ‘member. Ya gave me a hug. Thank ya,” she whispers. “Thank ya, thank ya, thank ya."

“You saved yourselves. Don’t sell that short.”

Yo shakes her head. “We tried t’ ‘scape. Even when we was hungry, cold, so tired. We tried.”

“That was very brave,” Dr. Olive tenderly interjects.

“No. Jus’ made him madder. I wanna go home! See Fanboy…see m’ babsies!” Yo scratches furiously at her arms. The nurse gently takes her hands and pats them.

 Johnson glares accusingly at the nurse.

“Really?” he mouths indignantly.

Olive kneels before her. “You will. Soon. Your children are safe. But they need a healthy mother.”

“I ain’t healthy,” Yo laughs hoarsely. “Fanboy ain’t neither. He’s all messed up.” Tears streak her face. “Poor thing…I love him. I wanna see m’ babsies.”

Olive smiles gently, signaling the session’s end. “Soon, Love. You did wonderfully. Let’s get you back to bed.”

Through hiccuping sobs, Yo nods.

Fanboy sleeps for an indeterminable stretch, heavy with exhaustion. He slumbers so deeply that neither the generator’s drone nor Yo’s muffled whimpers of terror disturb him. Now and then, faint impressions slip into his delirium; airy whispers in some garbled tongue and the pulse of medical beeps, but they dissolve into the haze of his fatigue.

He is quite mentally and physically drained by the time he gains full awareness, and, when he does, it’s rather sudden, and he’s unaware of anything particular calling him out of his sleep.

When full awareness comes, it is abrupt, unbidden. A sound stirs him, gentle and insistent: the sleepy murmur of his beloved. Beyond it, rain patters faintly against the world outside. He does not open his eyes. He is too warm, too comfortable, too afraid that the comfort is a fragile dream his mind has conjured. He twitches, reaching instinctively for Yo, but she is not there.

Yo… the children… The thought pricks him with guilt. He shouldn’t bask in dream-comforts while they suffer. And yet—

“Unff…” he murmurs. “Stay ’sleep…”

But something urges him upward: a current of air, a faint light.

“Aw… don’ wanna wakes,” he whispers, clinging to the dark. But his eyes part at last. “H-hoo, never minds,” he whispers, levering onto his elbow. “Still dreamin’ on Sleepy-Time Island.” For surely it must be a dream. Boog would never dress their prison so sweetly.

The room glows soft and strange. The ceiling is hung with plastic stars, their light spilling across gentle blue walls. Two beds face each other, draped in linens and surrounded by stuffed animals. A vent breathes warm, pine-scented air. It feels like a nursery: safe, impossibly peaceful.

Fanboy studies his leg, bound in a cast and hoisted on a pulley. His thumb rubs the rough plaster. His ankle too is swaddled, heavy in a medical boot. But then he notices the scent of food wafting from a small table piled with trays beneath the glow of toy stars.

“It can’ be,” he breathes. He lurches upright, pain burning through him, and sinks gratefully into a waiting wheelchair. “I’m dreamin’,” he insists, spinning slowly in awe. “It feels real—but izn’t. Or I’m nuts. But I don’t care! I wanna keep dreamin’!”

Every detail compels him: the teal octopus night-light, warm beneath his touch; the walls, the blankets, the play-mats. Breathless, he presses everything, testing its solidity.

He kneels by Yo, sleeping in the opposite bed, and strokes her face, serene at last in the soft light. His chest flutters. He clutches the hem of his gown to his cheek, weeping softly.

"Isso warm!” he almost sobs. "Iss real. Gotta be real!"

By his bedside lie a pair of purple mittens. He slips them on over his bandages. A perfect fit.

"Iss…iss… it's real, too! Iz all real! I'm NOT dreamin'! It’s HEAVEN! I’m in Heaven!"

A stack of toys and comics waits on the playmat. He grabs one with a squeal, flipping pages greedily. Man-Arctica, Crabulous, the whole gang! His eyes sting with joy.

Then he sees it: a plain parchment atop the table, smudged with printer ink.

Dear Lance and Yo,

Upon reading this, you’ve been rescued and should be resting. I’ll be with you as soon as possible and I’ll never let you go again.

Sincerely, Edmund Chumerson

Stunned, Fanboy stares at the passage, reading and re-reading it. He puts his face down upon the page and sobs with love. "B-Buddy…" he weeps. "Buddy…"

Wiping his eyes, he carefully opens the leaflet up and chortles. If memory serves, the picture that lies inside was perched atop Fanboy’s old bedside table in the fanlair all those years ago: two boys in crime-fighting uniforms, Frosty Freezy Freezes raised in triumph. Behind them, a younger Yo caught mid-scheme, trying to steal Chum Chum for herself.

Adult Fanboy smiles through tears, tracing each innocent face. More papers tumble out, letters of different ages, written across years. He clutches them to his chest until his eyes catch a date.

“Oh…”

The first was written not long after his abduction. His stomach twists. Boog’s shadow looms in his mind, as if the monster lurks even here, waiting. He resists the urge to hide under the table.

“No… thas stupid,” he mutters, forcing a grin. “Boog’s not in Heaven with us. He’s alive. An’ even if ’e was dead, ’e wouldn’ be ’ere.”

But paranoia coils, unshakable. Shivering, he sets the letters back down and hurries to Yo’s side, clutching her arm.

“Yo, Yo!” he whispers urgently. “Wake up!”

Yo startles at the urgency in Fanboy’s voice. She jerks upright, eyes wide, her cheeks streaked with the remnants of a nightmare. A fresh tear slides free, which Fanboy tenderly wipes away, his own face lit with ecstatic relief. To him, even disheveled and trembling, she has never looked more beautiful.

“Oh, Yo—!”

He pulls her into a fervent kiss, gloved fingers threading through her dark hair. She melts against him, heart pounding, until he breaks away with a breathless laugh.

“’Mon,” he urges, casting a wary glance around the chamber to assure themselves Boog is nowhere near.

Still shaken, Yo doesn’t speak; she rises silently, a faint limp in her gait, and follows him into the softly glowing playroom. Warmth and light envelop them, stirring their appetites as much as their wonder.

Fanboy gently draws her into the warm, glowing midst when they cross the threshold into the play area, thereby making their brains reel and appetites surge.

The morning proves heavenly. They settle at the play table, Fanboy in his wheelchair and Yo across from him, drawn close to the vent that breathes out pine-scented heat. Under the tray covers wait steaming bean-bacon soup, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, blueberry muffins, and cups of cold milk. Each bite tastes unreal, too rich and sweet to belong in their world.

Accustomed to guarding against scarcity, they eat slowly, savoring everything. Yo straightens her back primly, humming as she chews, awash in the novelty of peace.

“This is what bein’ normal is like,” she whispers. “Just sittin’ an’ eatin’ at a table—no beatin’, no starvin’, no scaredness. Just…normal.”

Fanboy gazes at her, mystified. Yo studies him in turn, brushing her hand across his face.

“Ya don’ look how I ‘member. Yer taller. Yer hair… it’s golden.”

With a mouthful of muffin, Fanboy mumbles, “Shou rook jiffern oo!”

Yo laughs softly, stroking his newly clean hair and the stubble roughening his jaw. “Heheh… yer growin’ a beard.”

Fanboy swallows. “Itchy as heck. Worse than th’ armpits.”

“I like it.”

Color floods his cheeks. Flustered, he mutters, "Oh, you," and she kisses his knuckles.

A sound steals their attention: the rain outside. They tilt their heads together, listening.

“Ain’t it beautiful?” Yo sighs. “Sounds like hummin’."

Fanboy closes his eyes and imagines himself outside standing on asphalt, getting pelted by raindrops, splashing...laughing… The sound alone is bringing back memories. It’s like a spitting, a whispering, a pair of ballet shoes pattering across a stage… So soothing and tranquil.

Yo smooths the front of her fresh gown, marveling at its soft cotton. “I’m so glad we got clothes now. I was so sick of bein’ naked.”

Fanboy agrees. “Wish I still ‘ad my uniform. I miss it.”

She nods with understanding. “I miss my backpack.”

Fanboy brightens, showing her his cast. She ducks under the table, grinning. “Thas real neat! When I find a pencil, I’ll sign it.”

“Aw, with lil’ hearts?” he giggles.

Their laughter carries as they survey their strange new chamber.

“Izn’ this awesome, Yo? So much more awesome than Boog's shabby ol’ dump. An’ biggerer! I can walk ‘round without freezin’ to death, an’ also, I can sleep inna bed! A BED, Yo! An’ there’s one fo’ ya an’ fo’ me! They’re so soft and bouncy! We got beds an’ comics to read, an’ clothes t’ wear, an’-” he sighs, swoons, “-oh, iz everything’ I imagined Heaven t’ be. Well, maybe not like this, but itz still awesome!”

Yo smiles, though unease flickers in her eyes.

Then Fanboy remembers the letter. He eagerly presses it into her hands.

“Chum Chum,” he explains, radiant. “He’s—he’s gonna see us!”

“Chum Chum?" Yo squeaks, a tingle of nostalgia fluttering in her sternum. “Are ya sure?”

“Obvousy!” Fanboy beams.

“When’s he gon’ visit?”

“Dunno. Whenever he kicks the bucket. But he’ll come!” His eyes shine with faith. “An’ our babies too! One day…”

Yo studies him quietly, hesitant. “Fanboy… do ya really think we’re in Heaven?”

“Yeah!” he answers, sounding surprised to have been asked such a question. “Where else would we be?”

Yo bites her lip, reluctant to break his delusion, but understanding how crucial it is to do so. Gently, she reaches for his hand. “Fanboy, we’re inna hospital. Not Heaven. It feels like it, sure, but Heaven’d be brighter. Angel-y.”

Ah. “Well, yeah,” Fanboy concedes, glancing about doubtfully. “Cloudyish too. Brightish and cloudyish. And there’d be angels. Lots an’ lots of ‘em. So…” His face pinches with fear. “Are we in H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks?” Nothing is impossible. “Or—nah, we gotta be in Purg or somethin’.” Fanboy blinks, slow to process. Then his gaze catches on the wheelchair, the monitors, the crutches. The realization clicks. "So if it ain’t Heaven, an’ it ain’t a trick, that means—” His breath hitches. He stares at her, eyes widening.

“We… made it.”

The words detonate inside him. He leaps up, fists pumping. “WE MADE IT!”

Yo gasps as he sweeps her into his arms, spinning with reckless glee. His joy is contagious. She laughs, clutching him tight.

“YES! We DID do it, Fanboy!” she cries, smothering his pale, hollow face with kisses. “We really did it!”

Fanboy returns her sentiment by planting rough kisses on her lips. “We did it, Yo!” he pants between each kiss. “We made it! We survived! I toldja! I knew we'd be rescued! I knew it! Hip, hip, HOORAY!”

“Hooray!” Yo chants, hugging his neck tightly as he dances about. She suddenly remembers his legs and worries for the strain they must be under from all this movement. “Let’s celebrate sittin’ down,” she advises, not at all wishing to dampen his morale but to avert him from causing further harm to himself.

At last he drops into his wheelchair, still giddy, slapping the table in rhythm. “We made it, we made it, we made it! 'Cuz we're the best!”

Yo rests her chin in her hands and gazes adoringly at her partner and his radiant countenance. It fills her with so much consolation that despite losing a chunk of his soul, Fanboy is still himself. Despite everything, she realizes, it’s still him.

“Say it ‘gain,” she teases.

“WE’RE TH’ BEST!” he bellows, arms raised. “SET OFF TH’ FIREWORKS!”

His energy soon drains to leave behind a satiated buzz. He leans forward to caress her cheek.

“...Whassup?” he smirks.

“Nothin’,” she murmurs, resting her palm over his. “I’m jus’… happy we’re alive.”

Fanboy’s grin softens. “Our powers prevailed. We’re awesome, wha’ can we say, Baby?” Suddenly, a flurry of panic washes over his face. “Wait! Kids!” he shouts, pounding his palms on the table in an effort to lift himself. “Where’re th’ kids!?”

Startled, Yo is wrenched back into the present.

“Th–They’re—wait! Fanboy!” she stammers.

“Where?!” Fanboy blurts, terror flashing across his gaunt face—a heartbreaking reminder of how deeply paranoia has dug its claws into him. “They ain’t still back in th’ room, right? Ain’t they?!”

Yo reaches across the table, gripping his bony shoulders. “No,” she says firmly, summoning the steadiest voice she can. “Tha’ I know fo’ sure. They’re safe in th’ materny ward. It’s a special hospital room fo’ babies.”

Fanboy blinks, disoriented, the residue of fear clouding his reason. “Special room? B-But they need t’ be with me! I—I need t’ protect ’em!” His voice cracks as dark possibilities churn in his head. “What if they get hurt an’ I’m not there? What if someone drops ’em? What if—what if they get stolen?”

He hunches forward, face pale, eyes darting toward the door—the exit. Yo feels his body coil as if he might bolt, and she tightens her grip.

“Fanboy,” she orders, sharp as a whip, “look at me. Right now.”

He obeys, trembling beneath her nails digging into his fragile shoulders. “No!” he pleads, wrapping his arms around himself. “I need t’ get t’ ’em—now!”

“NO.” Her voice doesn’t waver. “I get tha’ ya wanna be there fo’ them. I do too. But we need t’ heal first.”

His lips quiver. “I don’ care…” He must know, deep down, that he cannot see the children yet, but fear trumps reason. His eyes brim. “I don’ understand. I thought you’d be outta here the second ya knew where they were. Don’ ya wanna see ’em too?”

“YES. With every inch of me,” Yo affirms, lifting her hands to his face, holding his gaze steady. “But we can’t risk makin’ ’em sick. We need our strength back. How ya gon’ protect ’em if ya can’t even walk?”

Fanboy squirms, nervous energy thrumming through him, but her forehead rests against his and, gradually, his breathing slows.

“They’re safe, Fanboy,” she repeats, resting her forehead against his. “Trust me.”

“I trust you,” he whispers at last. “It’s everyone else I don’ trust. I don’ want strangers near ’em.”

“Doctors,” Yo corrects gently. “They’re gonna take good care of our babies till we’re ready. Then we’ll have ’em back.”

“Oh…” His voice dips to a fragile murmur. “Thas good… Thas…” He trails, still uneasy. Yo senses he might unravel the moment a nurse enters, but for now, he lapses into silence. He settles stiffly into his wheelchair, shoving the last of a muffin into his mouth, chewing too hard. Yo lets the subject go. Forcing him would only drive him deeper into himself.

She turns the heater so it faces them both. Fanboy, too weak to manage it, gives her a grateful nod before draining his milk.

In the hush, Yo confronts her own quiet truths. Watching professionals outside this room, hearing their easy speech and confidence, has shown her how stunted she and Fanboy are. Not in body, but in mind. He most of all. She doesn’t fault him; how could she? Yet the thought of guiding children through a world she barely understands herself weighs on her like lead.

Yo thumbs at the padding on her chest and grimaces at the sudden dampness spotting the curves, startling her with the reminder of what’s ahead. Will she be enough? Will he? Fanboy rocks in his chair, humming faintly, and she wonders if eagerness alone can ever make a father.

“C’mere,” he says suddenly, snapping her from her thoughts. He pats the space beside him. She perches there with her crust of bread. He enfolds her in wiry arms, chin on her shoulder. “At least I ’ave you,” he murmurs. “Yer gonna be sucha great mama.”

Despite her worries, she smiles. “We’ll see.” She sinks into his warmth.

They eat together, wrapped in the glow of the heater. Fanboy hasn’t regained his old spark; his eye remains dim. Yo strokes his hand. “I’m sorry we don’ getta see the babies righ’ away,” she whispers. “If it was up to me, I’d see ’em now.”

He groans softly, sagging against her. She pats his back. “But iss like you said: we’ve got each other. We’re safe here. Boog can’t get us. Cameras everywhere.”

Fanboy shifts uneasily. His eyes glint.

“But if—” His voice falters. He shoves his mittened hand into his mouth, chewing the knuckles. “What if issa trick?” His breath quickens. 

Yo frowns. “Too risky. Why would ’e move us t’ a whole new place jus’ t’ trick us? He’d be caught. He couldn’t hide us forever.”

Fanboy stares into a corner, suspicious, then down at his crippled legs. Slowly, he nods. “Yer right. Boog never moved us. It wouldn’ make sense…” His voice lowers, almost childlike. “I thought angels saved us.”

Yo’s lip trembles. Faded memories of uniforms surface. “We were rescued,” she says softly. “By policemen.” Saying it steadies her; yes, they are safe. Still, she can’t help laughing at herself, for how quickly she judged Fanboy’s mistrust, only to doubt herself as well. She replays the moment of rescue until it lodges firmly in her mind.

Then: “Fanboy… has anybody told ya how long we were gone?” she asks quietly.

His comfort drains away at the question. “Nuh-uh. Um, five years? Four? Seven? A billion?” He scratches his cheek, vacant. “It’s hard t’ think. I feel empty in th’ head.”

Yo understands the hollow feeling, though not quite as gravely as her partner. “It’s been ten years. From th’ day we went missing t’ th’ day we were found.”

As Fanboy blinks, Yo can almost see the gears in his head grind to a halt. His eyelid gives a subtle flicker and all of a sudden he is shivering and sweating.

“Whoa,” Yo whispers, clutching his hand. “Easy. Easy.”

The poor young man can’t answer; he’s gritting his teeth so hard Yo’s afraid they’ll shatter. She knows what’s going on, she just hasn’t had the “privilege” of witnessing it firsthand in visible light. He’s having a panic attack.

“T-....T-...!” he tries to force out, but Yo shushes him.

Yo pulls him close, guiding his breath. “Shhh… jus’ breathe. In and out.” She lends him her calm, cradling his head to her chest. He gasps, uneven, but little by little the tide ebbs.

When the attack comes to an end, Fanboy’s a sweating, boneless mass sagging into her arms like a ragdoll. She can’t see his face, but the dampness coagulating on the collar of her gown spells tears. Poor thing… She gives him a gentle kiss on the top of his head.

“Better?” she asks, and he provides a tiny noise of reassurance. Contented, she lets him go, ignoring the sparse trickle of blood dribbling down her inner thigh.

“S-So...so, who told ya that?” Fanboy rasps, fragile but curious.

“The doctor lady,” Yo answers. “Said it’s been a very long time.”

His expression wavers between astonishment and acceptance. “Ten years,” he echoes. “That’d make me… twenty-one.” The number tastes foreign. He grins faintly. “Guess we really were old enough t’ get married, huh? We already got babies… so, wedding?”

Yo laughs, amazed by his resilience, or his denial. “I’d love that, Fanboy. I really would. I can’t wait t’ do everythin’. I can’t wait t’ see outside.”

“Me too.” His sigh is wistful. “What did they say about that?”

“Somethin’ ’bout th’ sun hurtin’ our eyes. Can’t let us see out yet.” She glances at the curtained window above her bed. Not even a sliver of daylight can enter their quarters. All they have are the glowing plastic stars dangling above their heads.

“Aww…” He mops his brow. “I so wanna see outside. Bet it’s all shiny an’ futurey! Flyin’ cars, talkin’ milk cartons…” He trails, blinking. “Wait—who’s ‘they’?”

“The doctors."

“Mm,” Fanboy hums, nuzzling her, “I’ll keep tha’ in mind.”

The sleepy comfort, which at length effectively overpowers them, is a blissful feeling. It’s the drowsiness of happy, well-fed adults, and they relish in it until Fanboy finds himself tuning out for the time being. “Yo?” he yawns, stretching his long arms out. “I’m tired.”

Yo smiles and helps him into her bed. They collapse together, groaning with relief. She clasps his hands against her empty, folded abdomen, and commits the room to memory.

"On the teeny-tiny chance that we wake up and iss all a dream, I’ll never forget it.” She looks at each particular item as if to commit it to memory.  “But iss not a dream. We...We’re safe…we are really safe now."

Fanboy wraps himself around her, chin nestled on her cheek. “I think so.” Shadows hover at the edge of his mind, but he pushes them away. “From now on, I’ll make sure it’s safe. Nobody’s layin’ a finger on ya. Nobody.”

His grip tightens, fierce as when he fought Boog. Yo strokes his arm, gently reminding him, “The babies’re safe, Fanboy. You don’ need t’ hurt anyone. I love you. So much.” She promptly passes out, leaving Fanboy to watch over and protect her from the darkness lurking. He curls around her and rests his chin on her cheek, gazing lovingly at her weathered face.

“I love ya too,” he whispers and kisses her brow. Then, to keep awake, he smooths out the rest of the letters and begins to read. Despite a lack of practice, he tries his best given old information he retains.

July 12, 2010

Deer FB, the most bestest, coolest, awesomest guy ever,

Hi! I don’t rilly know why u wanted to run away withowt telling me, but it better be important because I don’t like playing withowt you. Kyl is nice and all, but it isn’t the same. He doesn’t like talking about comics or playing outside or anything, but u know that already haha! But he’s been nicer to me ever since I let him know u ran away, so that’s good! He even let me help him with his magic tricks! Did u know Kyl could do magic? Haha!

Don’t worry about Yo stealing me, because she’s been absent. Thank goodness for that, or I’d be a sitting duck! Also Mr. Mufflin wants to talk to me with a ACTUAL police officer after class! He came in and tried to talk to me before recess, but Mr. Mufflin stopped him and sed “afterword”. He was wearing a black suit with sunglasses and stuff. Isn’t that awesome?! I bet they want me to help solve crime and serve justice. U R missing ooooouuuuut haha!

B back soon, ok? I’m giving this letter to Oz as soon as I’m finished because he probably already knows where u r and where to deliver it.

From,

Your bestest friend forever, Chum Chum

PS: Check the box if you miss me

PSS: Oz walked me to school today. He sed it was to keep me safe and I sed y??? Im not in danger! He’s so silly haha!

Fanboy presses a hand to his mouth to stifle the bubbling laughter threatening to escape him. He can see it so vividly: Chum Chum perched at a too-small desk, legs swinging, humming off-key as he scratched his crooked letters across the paper. The image warms him, tugging at his chest with fondness. He lays his palm over his heart, eyes softening as he whispers, “Oh, Buddy… yer justiz awesome as I ‘member.”

But then his gaze falls upon the date, scrawled in wavering pencil at the top. July 12, 2010. So long ago—and yet it presses against him with the sharp immediacy of yesterday. His smile falters, his stomach sinking with the realization of just how many years had slipped away.

Restless, he rifles through the stack of letters, watching the numbers at the top corner shift as the pages turned—months into years—until he reaches the one that had first caught his eye.

Dear Fanboy and Yo,

This is Chum Chum. Upon reading this, you’ve been rescued and should be resting in Galaxy Hill’s Hospital. If you aren’t in the hospital as I think you are, don’t fret. I’ll be with you as soon as possible, and I’ll never let you go again.

Sincerely, Edmund Chumerson

It’s a mood-changer. Fanboy swallows the lump growing in his throat and sniffs. The date isn’t listed, but he can tell just how much time stands between the childish, cheerful letter and the solemn, adult note. He regards all the correspondences in between with a nervous stare. He knows he shouldn’t be shocked that their absence would take a toll on their loved ones, but seeing proof of it, even a glimpse of it, makes him want to vomit. With a shaky inhale, Fanboy reads on.

August 10^th, 2010

Dear Fanboy,

I hope the adventure is going good well. It’s gotta  got to be more exciting than boring old class. It’s been way too long for u to have an adventure withowt me and I’m scared about spending night-morning withowt u again! Yo’s gone too so everyone is looking for her. I got this super cool pen from the book fair today! It’s It has invizsible ink, so now I can write secret messages: If ur you’re reading this, Fanboy, I miss uyou. Wwait, this isnt invisible ink! Its permanent ink! Oh, darn it! Ok, nevermind.

Lupe has nobody to play with so I’m inviting her to play dojball with me and Kyl. She’s really sad withowt Yo to jump rope with. Me and her have more in common than I thought since we don’t know where r best friends r. Now I’m worried about  Please come back soon. I wanna give u a hug and I miss u and ur soup. Kyl is offering to proof read my letters but I sed there super-duper secret and that only heros and sidkicks can read them.

I miss u you anyway and Kyle is allowed to proofread this since I’m not gonna say anything secret in it. Now I’m even sadder. I’m gonna see if I can write with Kyle’s toy stick. No, he absolutely shan’t.

From Best regards, Chum Chum, and his proofreader, Kyle the Conjuror. Please return home post-haste.

Fanboy can’t help it; he bursts out laughing, which unfortunately jostles Yo out of her light sleep. She groans and slaps a hand over her eyes.

“Shhhhhh,” she grumbles tiredly.

Nearly tearing up in mirth, Fanboy giggles an apology. “Ya gotta read these! Ch-Chum wrote a lot more letters than I thought and it’s over years and years, I think!” Interested, Yo tilts her head into his nuzzle.

“Read it out loud,” she yawns.

Fanboy pats her head, strokes her hair behind her ear, and gently eases her back down. "You got it."

September 5^th, 2010

Dear Fanboy,

I’m not letting Kyl reed my letters anymore. It was kind of annoying to see all those red marks so I’m just gonna tri harder with my spelling and grammer. I used his toy stick, Kyl doesn’t wanna talk to me. He just reads at the lunch tables all day by himself. To be fair, I snapped it on accident, so I understand why he is being a grouchypants. I sed SORRY a million times but he’s still mad.

Lupe isn’t so sad anymore. She has friends with Cher and they play cheerleader at recess. I’m playing by myself now. I like the sandbox mostly because of buried treasure but it’s more fun with u.

Dollarnator hasn’t really been himself lately. I tride to talk to him but he won’t activate. I asked Oz what to do, but he’s really busy for once. Oz’s mom sed to talk to her but she’s old and doesn’t know how to do science. Do u know how to activate Dollarnator? Ur gonna make him in the future and all, so yeah. I need ur help 4 this one, buddy. B bk soon, ok? I’m a little lonely. Btw, Chimp Chomp 2 is coming out soon! I’ll save you a seat!

From, Chum Chum

Fanboy groans, throwing his head back and kicking his legs as best he can with his casts. “Ugh, I can’t believe we missed it!” he complains. “W-We are gon’ watching—watch that movie no matta what when we get home!” he declares, thrusting his hand skyward.

“But wha’ about—?” Irritated that Lupe’s name is only mentioned in passing, Yo snaps, “Who cares ‘bout th’ movie?!”

“Uh, hello?” Fanboy jerks a thumb at himself. “A’ least ya got t’ see th’ first one!” He sticks out his tongue, recalling the ticket ordeal with Boog, how they’d forced him to do all those demeaning tasks in revenge for his constant bullying. He shivers, not wanting to think about it.

Yo closes her eyes and says nothing else, permitting Fanboy to continue.

December 11^th, 2010,

Dear Fanboy,

Soooo Chimp Chomp 2’s “Gone ‘Nanners” premiere happened and u kinda missed it! WHY?! It wood hav been so much more fun if u were there!!!  I miss u so much buddy when are u coming back????

Boog was being SO LOWD and annoying!! He kept shouting at the screen and throwing popcorn and Lenny. Poor Lenny had to clean up aaaaallllllllll the popcorn and spilled soda. After the movie I asked him if I could help but he just looked real sad at me and said no. Boog stayed in the theater after the movie was over. I think he wanted to watch it again, but that’s not allowed! U need to pay for another tiket if u wanna watch the movie again. I told him he was stealing, but he just laughed and called me a dum dum. I got rilly scared.

So I ran out and slipped on the soda! I accidentally crashed into Lenny and he crashed into Oz, and then Oz crashed into Kyle! I was so guilty but tecnicly it was Boogs fault since he spilled the soda. But when I turned around Boog was gone! I told Lenny wut happened and for some reeson, he was rilly nice about it. He even gave me a cup of water! That was nice of him! And then, Oz walked me home. Poor Kyle has to go to a dentist now. I feel rilly bad so I’m gonna buy him a frosty freezy freeze tomorrow. Bye! I hope I get to see you soon!

Love, Chum Chum

PS: Gone ‘Nanners was super funny! I can’t wait to buy a DVD.

Fanboy pauses, his voice wavering. Yo looks closely at his newly re-gloved hands, which are shaking. “Why don’ ya take a lil’ break?” she suggests quietly.

Fanboy’s bottom lip trembles as his eyes scan over Boog’s name, written multiple times by the innocent hand of his best friend. He feels such an overwhelming dose of nausea that he must comply with Yo’s advice: setting the letters aside with care and collapsing beside her in a whimpering heap. 

“I know…” falls her woeful whisper. “I know…”

The young man lying against her sniffs heavily and clutches her gown. “He coulda been—Chum Chum coulda been—”

“But he wasn’t,” Yo assures, finding a surprising amount of clarity as she tilts his chin up to look into her eyes. “He wasn’t. Boog didn’t want him. It was only ever gonna be us, okay? Only us. Boog never got him.”

With a small sniff, Fanboy peeks up at her with an uncertain gaze. “Y-Ya sure?”

“Positive. Lupe, though…I dunno. There any letters fo’ me?” Yo asks, half-joking. Fanboy shoots her a look of uncertainty and Yo’s face crumples with hurt. Fanboy feels his insides freeze. He hasn’t really thought about it: Yo hasn’t heard from anyone.

Fanboy stares at the letters in his loosening grip, his stomach churning something awful as he reaches for something comforting to say, but before he can, Yo speaks, her voice rampant with forced cheer.

"I thought Lupe…” she trails off, smiling dully. “I thought she woulda left me somethin’ too. Guess she forgot."

“No way!” Fanboy disagrees, shaking his head so hard his teeth rattle, but Yo looks set in the idea that she’s been abandoned. “Yo, thas ridiculous; h-how could she forget?”

“Maybe not forget… Moved on,” Yo amends, scratching absently at her broken-hearted face.

“Yo—” Fanboy tries, but the young woman rolls onto her side and says no more.

October 11^th, 2011

Dear Fanboy,

It’s been a long time since I wrote a letter, but u still haven’t answered the ones I sent. Oz told me u were stolen and I told him that’s just silly and he gave me back the letters I wrote. Aparently he had them all along!!!!! There was over a hundred but since u never read them anyway, I threw a lot of them in the trash. What? Again, it’s not like you read any of them.

Sorry I’m rilly mad right now and I don’t even know why. Maybe I’m mad at myself for ever being mad at you for not being here. It’s probably my fault you’re not here. But I can’t remember being bad.

How does Oz know your stolen!??!?!?!?? I told him you ran away but he said the police said that you were kidnapped. I don’t what else to write. I’m not giving my letters to Oz anymore. From now on I’m giving them to the mailbox myself. Then we can write like pen pals! But I’d rather you come home. Please come home, Fanboy. Nothing is the same without you. I’m SOOOOOOOOOOOO BOOOOOOOOORED! Today I played battle subs all by myself. It was lame.

Love, Chum Chum

January 3^rd, 2012

Dear Fanboy,

It’s been a long time, huh? I still haven’t heard anything about where you might be. I saw your face on the news today though. Oh and I also saw Yo’s too. I didn’t watch a lot of it because Oz turned it off and hid the remote. I feel gross, like my stomach’s empty and full at the same time. Oz says it mite be because of stress. I think I’m starting to act like Lenny almost haha!

Actually, Lenny’s been acting pretty weird lately too. He looks nervous all the time. It’s not like I’m not sure why he’s acting like this. Whenever I try to talk to him, he just tells me he’s sorry. Maybe he has the flu.

Boog’s been better, though. He hasn’t bopped me in months and he even let me play a round of Chimp Chomp (he made me disinfect but still)! I asked around, and people are saying that HE’S saying he likes to do exercises at home and that’s more fun than bopping! Can you believe it? He’s stopped bopping! It’s so awesome! I asked what hNO-running out of room!!! Come home, Fanboyahhhhh!

Oh yeah. I have really sad news. Kyle went back to Milkweed yesterday. I think I told you in my last letter that he aced the MAT’s. He hugged me for the first time ever and told me he was sorry and he’d be back to visit as soon as you come back. He got his braces off the day before he left and cut his hair. It was getting super long. He took his apartment with him. It was actually pretty cool to watch him shrink it down and fly away, but I miss him.

I didn’t want to tell you at first (added pressure and all), but why won’t you come back? Haven’t you been gone long enough? Where are you? Why won’t you answer me? At least I can count on Oz to deliver these! Why can’t you deliver yours? It’s not like you were actually stolen or something! People are nice to me and stuff, but I don’t have any friends left. If Yo didn’t move away, I’d date her. Actually, I bet you and Yo ran off without me. She left the same time you did! I’ll bet you secretly liked each other and ran away so you didn’t hafta hear people barf when you kiss!

From, your ticked “friend”, Chum Chum

PS: It looks like

Fanboy swallows the lump in his throat and tries not to take offense.

June 13, 2012

Dear Fanboy,

I’m so sorry for what I said last letter. It was mean and I was just mad and sad. I don’t actually think you like Yo. BUT if you do, that’s okay! If it’s true, she’ll be off my back forever! Haha! Will you forgive me? I really wanna see you guys again.

Please don’t be mad anymore! I’m so sorry I was mean and I’m so sorry for whatever I ever did. It was wrong and I regret it and I’m so so so so so so so sorry buddy! I don’t want to suffer the rest of middle school without you right there with me, you know? Haha. Please respond. Please please please. Please please PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE WITH SPRINKLES ON TOP.

From YOU KNOW WHO, DARN IT!

From, your sorry sidekick, Chum Chum

Fanboy stifles a sob. “Buddy…”

He's almost relieved to have not been on the receiving end of these heart-breaking letters during his involuntary stay at Boog’s. He’d had his speculations, but if he’d been 100% aware of the pain his little buddy was suffering through, he might’ve died of guilt knowing he couldn’t do anything to help. Even now, knowing that he isn’t to blame, a creeping sorrow constantly prods at the edges of his brain, just waiting for an opening so that it may overflow his senses.

“I’m so so sorry, Chum Chum,” he thinks, tears trailing down his face. “I don’t think I wanna know these things.”

Is reading more worth these unpleasant sentiments? If Chum Chum knew that this information was hurting Fanboy, he surely wouldn’t mind if he stopped.

“But what if he does?!” He spasms, biting down hard on his newly-gloved fists. “NO. Control yourself, Fanboy,” he thinks warningly as his body begins to shudder. He hastily tosses the letters to the foot of the hospital bed and tucks his hands underneath him. Still, the letters beckon him like an unknown force.

“No,” he warns himself aloud, but it’s too much to resist.

January 1^st, 2013

Dear Fanboy,

Guess what? The world didn’t end like everyone thought it would in 2012 and now it’s 2013, the year of unluckiness. It feels so weird to start a new one withowt you. I miss you. I think the reason my chest and stomach are hurting so bad is because of how badly I miss you.

Oz was telling the truth after all. Your stolen. Rambling now because I can’t sit here for another hour staring into space. People say I’m not as nice as I used to be. That’s okay. They aren’t either. Wherever you are, I hope you’re not in high school. It sucks.

Oz made me stop wearing my costume because it’s not socially acceptable. HIS words, not mine, and his mom agrees with him. He’s one to talk. I still wear it inside. He can’t force me to stop wearing it all the time so HA. Oz also wants me to start trying harder at my classes at school. I mean, whatever. I don’t really care anymore. I’m really starting to hate him. He NEVER stops working now which would be fine except I don’t have anyone to talk to. I hope you have someone to talk to that isn’t your kidnapper, if you are actually kidnapped.

I can be brash, can’t I? It’s not like this will ever reach you anyway. I hate Oz. I hate Lupe. I hate everyone. I mean not really but still. This awful feeling in my stomach won’t go away no matter what I do. You’d Every time I go outside or try to play videogames or read something, I can’t stop feeling this way. Oz calls it anxiety. His mom calls it depression. I think they’re both right, because I’ve never felt so horrible before in my life. I don’t have any energy and I’m sleepy all the time. I miss the way things used to be when I was a kid.

Kyle keeps in touch like he promised but he hasn’t actually come back yet. I miss him too. I even miss Yo. I have so many weird nightmares, and since we share the same dreams, I thought it would help finding you, but it obviously hasn’t. It’s just a bunch of scrambled nonsense. Maybe that means you’ve been in charge of our dreams all along without knowing, because I haven’t had a nice dream in forever. I mean those weird ones with Yo are telling. Are you guys like, “with” each other? Or do you not know where she is too? I have so many questions, but I’m too tired to ask. Maybe you’re dead. Maybe that’s why my dreams suck.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I have so many nightmares and I’m scared you’re being hurt and I can’t do anything to help. I’ve joined the night searches. The force arranges them almost every weekend and I ride my bike to help look. Oz doesn’t like me doing that but I really don’t listen to him anymore. He can kiss it. Tonight, I don’t really I don’t I don’t feel good anymore I don’t. I think you’re dead dead dead dead. But that means you’re in heaven, so that’s a good thing. I’m gonna try to see you soon. I love you.

See you soon, hopefully.

-C.C.

Fanboy wants to puke. He swallows it down.

March 14^th, 2014

Dear Fanboy,

Long time no see. I haven’t written in months, and that’s my own fault. A lot of crazy stuff has happened and I’ve been in a really dark place for a while. Don’t worry. I’m a lot better now than I was last year. I don’t feel as bad all the time and I’m gaining more weight. The staff at Rockwell’s are super nice and understanding. Today, Oz picked me up and took me back home for the first time in months. I was afraid to see him since the way I’ve acted and the scare I gave him last November, but he was so happy to see me again. He’s saving up to go to medical school. Isn’t that amazing? All his hard work is paying off and I told him I’m super proud. He tells me he’s proud of me too, and he’s gonna help me more.

I’ve accepted a lot. First, that you HAVE been missing for a few years and may or may not be dead. There never was an adventure, huh? It hurts At first, I was a little apprehensive to start writing again, but Dr. Practula looked over the letters I’ve saved and thinks it’ll be good to write out my feelings. I’m going to start a journal maybe. For myself. You know, I think I’m going to start writing these letters for you to read when you’re found. That’s much better than mailing them off to nowhere, you know? I’ll save these, give them to Agent J, and he’ll deliver them to you when he finds you. That’ll be so great! Then, I can find you and we can paint the town red!

Wow, I can’t believe I used to believe you went off on a mission to save the universe. I can’t believe how jealous I was! You’ll need to pardon me for that. And I’m positive you’ll understand when you read this, but still. I’m sorry. If I’d known you were kidnapped, I would’ve worded some things differently. What I’m going through is probably nothing compared to what you are going through, if my worst suspicions are true. I hope you and Yo have been together all this time and that you aren’t dead.

The general theory among the authorities is that you are together, since you were reported missing at nearly the same time. At least, that’s what the news stories have been reporting. I thought it was so cool to see you on the news at first. It was comforting, you know? To see so many people out there looking for you was so great, and filled me with so much hope that I was 100% confident you’d be found. now I don't know. I’d rather see your face in person than on a screen.

I wonder what you look like now. You’ve probably gotten a lot taller lol. I hope you’ve been taking care of Yo. I know you didn’t like her much, but maybe things have changed. All I know is that it’s up to you to keep her safe. I feel that deep down. I miss having powers but I miss you the most. I’ll bet you feel the same way.

Can’t wait to see you again, Buddy

-Your best pal, Chum Chum

December 24^th, 2014

Hi.

Brrry Icemas, Fanboy.

Bye.

March 20^th, 2015

Dear Fanboy,

Oz told me to stop writing to you. He’s been very strict about it, so now I’m stuck writing in the school library where he can’t find me. I spend a lot of time here nowadays. It’s a great place to study. I don’t know. It’s kind of nice writing to you. It makes me feel hope, you know? I feel like you’re with me, like you’re reading this right next to me and smiling, and that’s enough reason to do it.

Francine and Cheech are dating, just fyi. I don’t know, I thought it was interesting. They invited me to go with them to the movies. Chimp Chomp 4 “The Final Split”. The reviews online all said it was a good movie, so I said yes. Nancy’s coming too, which is weird since she and Francine aren’t friends anymore, but whatever. I just needed to get out of the house. So I got all spruced up and met them at the theater. Boog was there of course, why wouldn’t he be? haha. It turns out Francine and Cheech were looking to set me up with Nancy. I didn’t even realize until after the movie when Nancy tried to hold my hand. Dude I’m kicking myself now for pulling away… Nancy’s actually really cute, so maybe I’ll try asking her out tomorrow if she isn’t still embarrassed about what happened. I’ll let you know how things turn out.

From, Chum Chum

Fanboy blinks, an amused smile stretching across his face. The next few letters tell a tale of a love-sick sidekick, until:

November 1^st, 2015

Hey Dude,

I think I’m gonna stop writing for a while. It feels like I’m writing to an imaginary friend at this point, because you aren’t actually reading any of it.

I’ve been feeling a lot better lately. Nancy and I are officially boyfriend and girlfriend now and she invited me to hang out with her friend group: Cher and her sisters, Chuggy, and Neil. They don’t mind me wearing my costume and we like talking about books and movies. Duke and the guys sometimes make fun of us, but I don’t really care, haha.

I’m getting better at wrestling—I absolutely destroyed Chris the other week! And I’m also planning to run for student gov. I joined the Repuglicans club already so that’s giving me a boost. I hope I win, but if I don’t, I hope the experience will be fun.

Wish me luck.

July 20^th, 2017

Can you guess who’s graduating, elusive, visceral reader? You guessed correctly: me. Can you guess who’s valedictorian? That’s right: me! I am relieved that I finished strong last year, and I am so grateful that I mastered every task.

Oz and I are so proud of each other. How does one anticipate obtaining his or her medical license? Oz has spent the entire week working out, something I have never seen him do before. Seven years of perseverance resulted in his achievement, so I am enormously proud. It seriously took him a while to get his act together after we lost Fanboy. He doesn’t like to discuss the matter, but I can suppose he felt a terrible amount of guilt, and although I never understood it, his suffering rivaled my own.

We’ve grown very close over the years. Through trials and hurt, we were there for each other, and I’m honored that he’s officially made me his adopted son and Fanboy his honorary son. I know Fanboy would have been so excited to call Oz “Dad”.

I’m taking Nancy out after graduation. She’s such a wonderful person, and I’m so lucky to have her by my side. We’ve applied to the same University; she’s planning to run for state gov.

I was lost but I found my way. I understand I know my calling now.

Edmund Chumerson

Emotions in turmoil, Fanboy frantically devours the last of the letters and slams the leaflet shut. His chest heaves; sweat glistens at his hairline. It’s taxing enough simply to read—he hasn’t read much of anything in years—but what truly breaks him is learning what Chum Chum has endured. The suffering feels almost as real as if he’d borne it himself. He would have done absolutely anything to shield his best friend, but he simply couldn’t.

“Izit finished?” blurts a newly awakened Yo.

Fanboy shrieks, jerking in surprise.

“Oh—my bad. Did I scare ya?” she cringes, covering her ringing ears.

“J-Jus’ a lil’,” Fanboy gasps, clutching his chest to cage his pounding heart. Realizing how clammy he is, he wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “S-Sorry… yeah, I’m done now.” 

“Did ya… was there anythin’ for me?” Yo squeaks, hope flashing in her eyes. The sight tears Fanboy in two. He hates the silence, the invisibility, Yo is forced to bear. He considers lying, but she’d want to read them herself, and the truth would cut deeper later.

“No,” he admits. His heart sinks as her smile falls away. “Yo, maybe Lupe didn’ know we was in th’ same place. Maybe she thought ya were…”

“Dead,” Yo says flatly, fists clenching. “Well. Well, tha's real easy t’ jus’ fo’get ’bout me. I mean…” She exhales hard, deflating. “I already knew tha’. I shouldn’ be mad.”

“Now ’old on justa sec!” Fanboy protests, setting aside the papers to clutch her sleeve, trying to see her face. “Ya can’t jus’ expect Lupe would do tha’. Ya don’ even know what she’s doin’ rie now, rie—right?” The excuses are flimsy, and he knows it, but he can’t stand her despair.

Yo stares forward, her eyes vanishing into shadow. Fanboy feels a knot rise in his throat when she scoffs. “If I waited all tha’ time,” she stresses, “tha’ woulda sucked th’ soul outta me. I-If I had t’ wait fo’ ovah ten years n’ know nothin’… If Lupe disappeared ’n I had t’ wait ’n wait ’n wait, I-I think I woulda given up a looooooong time ago. I said it an’ I’ll say it again.”

Her tone is so bleak that Fanboy fears she truly believes it. When her eyes lag up at him, dull and listless, his chest tightens.

“Why do ya look shocked? I probably woulda gotten bored,” she goes on before he can reply. “We been waiting fo’ so long that we forgot th’ world outside couldn’t wait fo’ us, but we was trapped all th’ same.” She wrinkles her brows, struggling for words.

“Iz like… we been frozen in ice, an’ everyone else was movin’ forward all along… without us.”

Fanboy thinks of Thorvald, the Viking he and Chum Chum once discovered frozen in their freezer. How terrifying it must’ve been for the man to wake into a world a thousand years beyond his own. At least Thorvald slept through it. Fanboy and Yo have had to bear every agonizing minute.

“Lupe’s an adult now,” Yo murmurs, more to herself. “Why would she wanna jump rope with me, or play hopscotch, or run a lemonade stand, or play dodgeball or freeze tag?”

Fanboy shrugs helplessly.

She takes it for admission. “Ya see?” she sighs. “Why would Lupe wanna do any o’ those things?” She slumps into the pillow, wishing it would swallow her whole. “Kids love those things, but grown-ups? No, notta chance. Grown-ups like ’er… they wouldn’t waste time with us.”

Perhaps she’s right. Perhaps their friends have outgrown them. Perhaps—even Chum Chum. Fanboy’s stomach twists, but he forces hope into his voice.

“Well, I fo’ one still ADORE all tha’ stuff!” he declares. “An’ I’m a grown-up. Thas gotta mean somethin’, right? An’ even if our ol’ friends don’ like th’ same things we still do, I think they’d spare some time t’ make us happy. Even fo’ a lil’ while.”

Yo grunts, unconvinced.

Fanboy rubs absently at his mangled hand. “B’sides,” he says, “if Lupe don’ wanna run a lemonade stand or play freeze tag with ya, I will.” He smiles and lays that same hand over Yo’s heart. “If ya think yer broken,” he adds, “then I’m happy t’ be broken right nexta ya, an’ we can get fixed together.”

“Yes!” Fanboy nods, fierce. “Even if it feels like a bajillion bops. I don’ wan’ ya t’ go through anythin’ alone. Anythin’. An’ I don’ wanna do anythin’ alone neither. It wouldn’t be… normal. Or fun.”

Normal. The word tastes foreign to Yo. It feels far too late for a normal life. “Mm.” She shrugs, eyes misted. “I wonder where we’d be if nunna this ever happened. Prob’ly in college or work or somethin’.”

Fanboy squirms, staring at his powerless hands. “Maybe. Maybe we’d be married anyway. With kids an’ everythin’.” He clings to the belief that their love would have bloomed regardless. That they’d have had dates, dances, laughter—without all this pain. He sighs, knowing they’ll never find out. That’s a life denied them. But he can’t regret their babies.

He flops beside Yo and drapes a skinny arm across her stomach. Hindsight is a cruel tormentor.

“Why do ya think Boog did it?” Yo asks suddenly, resting her hands over his.

Fanboy bites his lip. He’s asked himself that question for years. “I don’ know. Did he ever say why?”

“People don’ jus’ do bad things fo’ no reason,” she frowns, though the words feel hollow. Some do. Some inflict horror for nothing but self-gratification. “He was just evil, I guess. Evil an’ greedy an’ mean.”

“Amen,” Fanboy mutters. “Do ya remember back when we firs’ woke up an’ ’e tried bein’ nice?”

“Barely, but yeah.”

“Why do ya think ’e did tha’?”

Yo wrinkles her nose. “Who knows why he does what he does? Prob’ly jus’ tryin’ t’ trick us.”

“He DID stop bein’ nice real quick,” Fanboy recalls, hugging her close, nibbling her ear. “Maybe ’e quit ’cause he didn’ wanna feel bad when he hurt us. Because… I think, maybe at first, he wanted us t’ be his kids. Or his siblings.”

Yo rubs her forehead. “I dunno. It’s been too long. An’ anyway, it still don’ explain why he stole us an’ kept us. Gimme SOME credit. At least I only took Chum Chum fo’ an hour atta time.”

Fanboy traces her collarbone. “…Maybe he was lonely.”

Yo snorts, nips at his shoulder. “If he was lonely, he coulda stopped boppin’ people an’ started bein’ nice. Made some friends. Couldn’ be THAT hard. Maybe fo’ HIM.”

Fanboy nods faintly. “Yeah… guess it was easier fo’ him t’ kidnap us. Maybe he wanted us t’ be his friends.”

“Sad,” Yo grumbles. “’Cause he never had a friend in me. He almost killed us so many times.”

“Do ya think he ever wanted t’ kill us?”

She thinks it over. Boog had dragged them to the brink more times than she can count. “Nah. If ya wanna kill a fly, ya smush it. Ya don’t tear off its wings.”

Fanboy flinches, shifting his broken leg.

“Don’ worry. A broken wing’s fixable,” Yo says, tapping his cast. “Broken brain, though? Heh… that’s a whole ’nother thing.”

“Oh, c’mon, Yo.” Fanboy forces a laugh. “I’ve had my brain outta my head TWICE. I think it can handle some bad times.”

“Bad times,” she repeats, half a laugh, half disbelief. “Terrible times. Worst times. Nobody deserves wha’ we went through. ’Cept Boog.”

“Maybe,” Fanboy concedes softly. “But it’s ovah now.”

Yo swallows bile. She tells herself she should feel relief. Safety. Gratitude. After all, the nightmare is over—she and Fanboy are free, the bars are gone, the locks unlatched, the monster defeated. No more iron doors slamming, no more dread with every footstep in the dark. She should feel light. She should feel whole. “Izzit? We still hurtin’. Boog messed us up so bad we’ll never be th’ same.”

“Well, I guess, but… we still us, righ’?” His eyes glisten. 

Yo squeezes her eyes shut and twists away in an effort to evade his pitying gaze. What churns inside her isn’t lightness, but a strange, gnawing weight. Fear, anger, exhaustion, grief—layered atop one another like sediment. She had believed freedom would wash it all away, that walking into sunlight would burn the shadows from her bones. Instead, the shadows cling tighter, as though the brightness only sharpens them.

“I...don’ KNOW!” she bursts, her eyes popping open, glistening and hopeless.

Fanboy presses his forehead to hers and shuts his eyes.

“I…” Yo swallows. Sweat trickles down her temple. "We're safe now! I should be happy, righ’? W-Why aren’t I?" She trails off. “Why can’ I jus’...? Why can’ I jus’ be happy like you? Then it wouldn’ ‘urt so much.”

Fanboy stays quiet, listening intently. He combs Yo’s hair with his fingers as she goes on, hoping the gentle touch will conquer some of her tension, but the voices in her head murmur ugly things. That she’s ruined. That she’s useless. That Boog carved something out of her she’ll never get back. The world outside the room kept moving while she was trapped, and she cannot shake the sickening sense that she has been left behind—rotting, unfinished, broken.

“I’m ß̷̫̐ŕ̶̖ð̶̠̅k̴̘͗ê̵̮̏ ̶͉̓ now, a ß̷̫̐ŕ̶̖ð̶̠̅k̴̘͗ê̵̮̏ ̶͉̓†̴̺̿ð̵̧́¥̴̝̌--µ̸̡͋§̴͙́ê̵̦̏l̷̼͆ȩ̷̂̃§̴̔͜§̴̢̌, whatevah Boog said,” she croaks. “I-I’m r̷̩̅µ̴͇͊ï̵̼̓ñ̴͔̈́ê̴̡̅Ð̵̯̊. He r̷̩̅µ̴͇͊ï̵̼̓ñ̴͔̈́ê̴̡̅Ð̵̯̊ me. Ya say we still ‘us’? Why's that a good thing? I don’ even like me anymore!” Yo sobs, fists flying to her temples. “How could I? HOW? HOW?”

“Oh, Yo,” Fanboy whispers, clutching her tear-stained cheeks in his gloved palms. He isn’t completely ignorant. He understands Yo’s suffering, and he wishes he knew how to help. He doesn’t believe he can love her any more than he does now. “I’m a-scared too.”

“W-W-We’ feedin' off each other’s Ð̷̰̂Ú̴͚͝M̵̻̌ß̷͈̊! W-We-We ain’t... We aren’t EVER gon' make it! It’ll NEVAH be th’ same! NEVAH! NEVAH! NEVAH!”

“Yo,” Fanboy gasps. “Of course we’ll make it! We ain't gon' be in this hospital fo’ th’ restuv our lives! When we get all better, Oz will meet us, an’ we’ll live with him an’...his mom. We’ll see Chum Chum again an’... An’ we’ll see what happens. We got th’ whole world ahead of us! Th’ sun, th’ grass, th’ ocean! We can walk in New Clear Park like we imagined… have a picnic… all those awesome things.” His face falls at her silence. “Ya know we can, Yo. Ya do.”

Yo stares, saying nothing.

“It’s okay,” Fanboy whispers. “I know ya scared we're behind in everythin’. Maybe it’ll take forever t’ catch up. Maybe we’ll nevah catch up. But we can still try. If we try an’ make it, it’ll be th’ best. If we don’ try—we’ll regret it forever. Yo…” He kisses her knuckles. “Can ya try with me?”

Tears shimmer in her eyes, but no spark answers. That’s okay. He understands.

“It’s okay if ya don’ know yet,” he says, kissing her nose. “I love ya, Yo. I’ll nevah go on withoutcha. Even if Chum Chum don’ want nothin’ t’ do with ya, I’ll explain everythin’. He’ll understand.”

Yo clutches him wordlessly, holding on like a lifeline. Fanboy nuzzles her jaw, voice hushed but fierce:

“I love ya. I love ya… an’ I’ll nevah leave ya ’lone.”

Chapter Text

It’s a pipe dream to think Yo’s faith could rebound overnight. Her morose demeanor makes that clear. Fanboy still clings to hope, though he knows deep down she needs more than words—she’s broken in ways he can’t mend. In her mind, she’s a stone at the bottom of the sea, dragging him down by his loyal heart.

After seldom deliberation--her partner will vehemently deny any implication that she is a burden, but perhaps she can coax him into understanding--Yo ventures, “D’ ya ever...feel like a...rock?”

Fanboy giggles. “Can't say I do!” 

Yo deflates against the headboard. "Tha’s what I feel like: a heavy ol' rock.”

Despite the discomfort squirming in his gut, Fanboy braves a smirk. “Yer not that heavy."

Yo doesn’t laugh. "I'm like a rock in a lake draggin' everythin' down with me." 

“Oh, so ya think I’m bett’r off withoutcha? ” His voice cracks. “Yo! How could you?” He grips her cold hand. “YOU make it all worth it. YOU.”

“No," Yo whispers, eyes hot with tears. “I’m justa ß̷͈̺̔̚ŗ̶̊̾͜ð̵͇̰̔̂ķ̸̬̈́͘ệ̷̤̉͂ñ̷̩̩̔͋—“

“Stop,” Fanboy says. “Yer gon' stop sayin’ tha’, cuz ya ain’t-- yer not ß̷͈̺̔̚ŗ̶̊̾͜ð̵͇̰̔̂ķ̸̬̈́͘ệ̷̤̉͂ñ̷̩̩̔͋. Yer fulla promise, an’ th’ fact that yer tryin’ so hard proves it.” He slides a hand to cup her cheek and tilt her head to face him.

“I’ll always be here t’ help ya. Remember that.” He forces a grin. “Now, quit fishin’ fo’ compliments. I’m outta stock.”

Yo regards Fanboy with humble disbelief. "Ya don' feel bad 'cause o' me?" 

“Not like that! I might be Ð̸̝͙͆͝µ̶̬̟̈́͠m̵̟̿̐ͅß̴̠̱́̓, bu’ I know how I feel. We c’n fix us!”

Yo refrains from pointing out that "fixing us" contradicts his earlier statement. Instead, she says, “Yer not Ð̸̝͙͆͝µ̶̬̟̈́͠m̵̟̿̐ͅß̴̠̱́̓, Fanboy. I'm not marryin' an idiot."

“Aw,” Fanboy giggles, kissing her pudgy nose. “Man, if we hadn't been stolen, I'd still findja every bit as strong, smart, beautiful, an' awesome as I do now.”

Yo believes he would. "Weren't ya outta compliments?" she teases.

"I found extra in th' back,” Fanboy teases back, capturing her hand and playfully biting down on her fingers. “Ha! Foolish mortal! Yer stuck with me fo' good!"

Yo pretends to swoon. At that, both the atmosphere and her playful smile dim, her blackened heart unwilling to allow her even a little bit of solace for this moment of ease, having been unintentionally reminded that she's incapable of being his crutch. Only vice versa.

"D’ ya really think I can get better? Honest an’ truly?”

“Is concrete hard?!" Fanboy enthuses without missing a beat. "Yer the second mos’ strongest, bestest person in th’ world! Actually, THIRD mos’ strongest, bestest person in the world, after me an’ Chum Chum, obviously, but tha’s pretty darn good!” He flashes a winning smile and kisses her hand. “Ya got this.”

Yo sinks even further into his hold. “Thanks,” she whispers, letting her head fall against his chest.

Fanboy frowns, mildly disappointed as she yawns in clear exhaustion. He's been endeavoring to discuss matters further, but Yo can't help if she's tired. “Yer welcome.” He runs a gentle hand through her hair and gives her hand one last squeeze. “A’right. Go t’ sleep, Crazy-Pants. I’ll be ‘ere when ya wake up.” 

He has so much else to say but lacks the knowledge retained to do so eloquently. Instead, he says, “Don’t let th’ bedbugs bite,” he teases, tickling her ribs, “cuz they might!”

Hitching a laugh, Yo yawns again. Fanboy’s gentle assurance and rocking motions push her demanding anxieties aside and soon her eyelids grow heavy. As she passes out completely, Fanboy feels the tension leave her worn-out body. 

With all the gentility he can muster, Fanboy untangles Yo’s fingers from his sleeve and hikes the bedcovers up to her shoulders. As if she cannot bear to part from the man for even a moment, Yo snuggles deeper into the warmth of his hold. 

Fanboy’s heart soars. He finds solace in that she’ll have the chance for welcomed respite in her dreams.

“I love you,” he whispers, brushing her bangs out of her withered, tear-painted face.

Perhaps he’s being unreasonably optimistic for a man in his situation, but what good is a man if he can't be the hero his family needs? Despite everything that’s happened, he is still Galaxy Hills’ superhero in training!

Inhaling deeply, Fanboy combs back his sweaty hair and goes through the rounds.

He is eternally grateful to have been rescued from that horrible room, but part of his mind doesn't have the faintest trust in any of these people. No one asked if they could take the children. They just...did it.

Fanboy frowns, his ever-active imagination illustrating a grand scene: just when all hope seems lost, he heroically smashes through a wall to where his children are eagerly awaiting him. After a loving embrace, he scoops them up in a strong, fatherly hold before bursting out through the roof and flying into the sky with Yo in tow. He grins, tickled by the fantasy. 

“They’ll be so prouda me.” Fanboy props his chin on his palm and sighs a dreamy sigh. “Ho-ly cow. I can’t believe I’m a DAD. Who knew it’d be possible? I mean, Yo and I haven’t even tied the knot!” Glancing up, Fanboy laces his fingers together. “It was because I asked, wasn’t it? Thank you, thank you, thank you!” 

A hopeful smile accompanies the fresh memory of snuggling his two newborns in the darkness. When he had first felt them in his palms, he felt a surge of love so strong it surpassed all he had for Yo and Chum Chum tenfold. Suddenly, nothing else mattered. His freedom, his health, and his safety all paled in comparison to the lives of these two innocent little humans. 

Fanboy freezes, realizing that he and Yo haven’t discussed in depth what to name their own babies! They need to take care of that, rekindle those paternal and maternal bonds, and give the children happy, healthy, vibrant lives. 

“We c’n do that,” Fanboy mutters. “We’re gon’ be th’ best parents ev’r. We’re gon’ ome up with th’ bestest names, an’...we’ll all be together.”

It’s settled. Come morning, Fanboy will embark on a rescue mission, just like in the movies. It could be dangerous, but he will do whatever it takes to ensure his children’s welfare. 

Fanboy erects his posture and rolls his shoulders in preparation for a sleepless eternity. “Put yer game face on,” he mutters determinedly. Hours pass. Fanboy remains vigilant despite his exhaustion, throbbing skull, and creaking joints. His experience in the room has taught him to be ever-mindful. The smallest oversight can cause serious damage.

Unwilling to move but terribly thirsty, Fanboy frowns at the small sink just feet away. He can’t risk the venture. This bed will protect him from all snares, and for Yo, will act as a shield.

It’s easier said than done. The decade-old erosion of Fanboy's mind and soul can't be mended overnight. Boog's erratic visits has invoked in Fanboy a constant, parasitic fear. It feels as though at any moment Boog's calloused palms will settle over Fanboy’s head in anticipation to strike. Fanboy rubs the fabric of his collar between his spidery digits in an odd jerk of nerves. 

“C’ntrol, Man!” he grits, having never been so fed up with his emaciated body. “Keep yer composure!” 

Fanboy risks reclining against the squeaky headboard while Yo snuggles up close. He brushes his thumb along the hollow of her pale, sweaty cheek and sighs. 

“I can’t fool ya, can’t I?” he sighs. “I’m w̶͚̞͘͠ễ̴̡̜̋å̸̻̼̊́k̷̗͕̂̏. I'm w̶͚̞͘͠ễ̴̡̜̋å̸̻̼̊́k̷̗͕̂̏, I admit it. But tha’ won' be fo’ long." In a cheerful tone reminiscent of his childhood, he assures, "So, fear not, Yo. You can coun’ on me.”

Soon, the rain eases into light drizzle, and Fanboy's resolve to stay awake is beginning to waver. In spite of the meal providing substantial energy to the recovering body, it still needs to rest. His limbs ache, his skull buzzes, and there is a burning sensation in his eyes, all of which are impelling him to sleep. 

“Oh-ho, no you don’t,” Fanboy thinks. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he watches the shadowy tendrils reach for the bed. “Unless you’re already asleep...” The room HAS taken on a dreamlike quality, like looking through a kaleidoscope. 

Dizzy, Fanboy shakes his head and blinks through heavy eyelids. 

But the rain, the comforting breathing of his love, the warm air, the soft blankets… Fanboy’s afraid it won’t be long before he falls under. The fatigue he feels goes beyond exhaustion, and if not for his task, he would happily pass out. 

Just as the room begins to tilt, a blessed distraction: Yo coughs in her sleep, her face scrunching up in response to a dream. Fanboy regains concentration and rests his chin on the top of her head. Another distraction: his red wristband. 

Name: Lancelot B. Corporal (III) 

BD: 05/09/1999

Sex: Male

Bed: Nine  

Date: December 15

The publicizing of his secret identity is slightly irritating. His flighty thoughts soon latch onto the possibility that Chum Chum might have broken their super handshake of trust: the world’s most trusted super shake, and blabbed. 

He wonders how much else the public knows. For the good intention of finding him when he went missing as a child, his legal name, age, and face must have been plastered all over the news. His gratitude is mixed now, yet more aspects of what made him Fanboy ripped from a veil of secrecy he'd kept to Chum Chum alone.

It makes him uncomfortable to think, “Ol’ Chum really blabbed, didn’t he?” because he KNOWS it’s unfair, especially if the tables were turned. A strong urge to strike something compels him to bite at his gloved hand for relief instead.

“Rott’n Boog,” he mumbles aloud. “Evil, ‘orrible. I hate you. Hate-cha, hate-cha, hate-cha,” He scrunches up a little tighter, the buzzing in his skull becoming progressively louder. “Buzz off,” he hisses, and the shadows make a momentary retreat from the corners of his rapidly hazing vision. Fanboy knocks a hand against his temple but the buzzing resumes. 

Fanboy hears Boog jovially cackling from the corner at his efforts. “Sh-Shuddup,” Fanboy growls and swipes at the air. The momentum of his hand propells him back and forth; he nearly passes out right then and there, but jolts to attention in a last-ditch effort to remain conscious. Fanboy snaps his teeth at his hand—the newly healing one. Ignoring Boog’s rising cackles, he shimmies off the glove and bites into the purplish, healing flesh, igniting a raging pain that travels along the length of his wrist and up his arm. 

Thunder claps. Bulbs buzz with electricity. It’s wild and reminiscent of the generator from back in the room. Coupled with Boog’s unbearable laughter, it’s all Fanboy can do to keep from falling into a frenzy. 

Without thinking, he leaps to hover over Yo, hackles raising and limbs quaking with tension as Yo mumbles incoherently in her sleep. He nuzzles her reassuringly as the shadows regain their bearings, their fingers curling and stretching toward him and his love. Helpless, Fanboy bears his teeth. He must protect Yo. He must.  

“...?”

A voice, its whereabouts unknown, but its owner all-too familiar. It seeps into the chinks of Fanboy's armor and drowns his resolve. Overwhelmed, he bursts into tears and falls back against the headboard. He’s losing the battle, his lids too heavy to keep open, Yo’s presence too comforting to ignore, the voice too real to disregard as a work of his imagination.

“...!” A muddy blob coagulates before him, erratic and jumpy, and a large warm column of air reaches for his cheek. Fanboy shuts his eyes to prepare for a blow, but the touch is gentle. Firstly cautious, Fanboy soon leans into the touch, moaning quietly.

“...Go to sleep, Lil’ Dude. You’re safe.”

The shadows slink away into the dark and Boog’s cackles fade.  

Fanboy’s relief ends at the a sharp sting in his wrist. “No…” he croaks, making a last-ditch effort to sit up. 

The muddy blob leans forward; Fanboy feels a warm pressure against his chest easing him down.

“I can’t sleep!” he pleads. “Doh...Don’ make me!"

“Shhhh…”

“I’m no’ listenin’ t’ y’...” Fanboy slurs, somehow managing to find Yo’s hand and clutching it for dear life. Soothed by the voice of his best friend and comforted by the woman’s warmth, his resolve crumbles at last. His heavy lids collapse as he slumps against the soft, welcoming pillow. With one last shuddering breath, he's out like a light.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

The faint pitter-patter of rain showers a greeting to Fanboy like an old friend as he slowly comes to. He imagines it wrapping around his head if he closes his eyes. For a moment, he lays unmoving as the gears in his head slowly churn back to life, and then he feels an overwhelming flash of anxiety. 

“Hospital. Warm. Safe.” The last semblance of rationale in his mind is a saving grace. All tension in his body releases and he allows himself to breathe. He’s still here, alive. “Heh-hey, relax! Everything’s dandy.”

A look to his left reveals that Yo too is unharmed. In the dim light, her eyes appear less puffy and her expression is more relaxed. It’s all enough to draw a sense of contentment from the bleak static of Fanboy’s mind.

“Good morning,” he whispers. After giving her a soft kiss on the cheek, he watches a soft grey-pink light peek through the curtained windows. In the distance, seagulls bleat, and cars honk. It’s daytime. Fanboy’s eyes widen to the size of dinner plates. 

He’s really here, witnessing daylight, and unable to contain his excitement. “I-I-I--!” he stumbles, feeling about himself. “It wasn’ no dream!”

He observes the bedside table and gasps. There’s a blue alarm clock reading 6:29 AM. 

“Six twinny-nine ay-em!” he chirps. “Ay-em, ay-em, ay-em! Wha’ does th’ “A” stand fo’? Apple? Wha’s th’ M stand fo? Mango? A Morning? Apple Meringue?” He giggles and gives the blue plastic of the clock a gentle stroke.

Behind the clock sits an old brown stuffed bear with a red bow wrapped around its neck. “Mr. Bear!” Fanboy giggles, nodding its sagging head and tucking it against his cheek. The aged material is softer than anything he's ever touched! Even softer than the blankets! 

Someone out there has taken the time out of his or her day to send gifts. Fanboy tucks the bear under Yo’s nape. “There!” he whispers, patting the bear. “Snug as a bug in a rug.” An elastic band ties a small greeting to the bear's wrist. He opens it and reads.

Dear Lance and Yo,

I do hope Admiral Fluffington keeps you in good spirits. I will be seeing you shortly. Best wishes for your continued health and well-being. 

Kindest regards, 

K.B.T.

“Kentucky Bourbon Trail?” Fanboy incorrectly guesses. “Awesome!” 

There is one more gift on the bedside table: a tall glass vase filled with flowers. Their beauty in unequivocal. Soft white lilies. Bright pink, orange, and yellow tulips. Two large sunflowers with yellow petals like flaring sun rays. Violets, Fanboy notes, mashing his face into the bouquet and inhaling deeply. 

He plucks a pink flower from the bunch and tucks it behind Yo's ear. "There. The prettiest mama tha’ ever lived.” 

With a swelling urge to run, he catches wind of the door, complete with a working knob and rectangular window in its center. His children could be on the other side. 

“Oh m’ gosh, oh m’ gosh!” he blurts, the anticipation building and building to the point where tears well up in his eyes. He shifts aimlessly from side to side until he remembers to wake Yo.

“Yo!” he whispers, gently shaking her. “Yo, wake up!”

The young woman jolts awake with a breathy gasp but relaxes as she locks eyes with her partner. “Oh! Hey, Fanboy,” she exclaims, and a tender smile spreads across her face at Fanboy’s visible thrill.  

“Gooooood morning, Beautiful!” he sings, giving her a long deep kiss. “Guess what, Yo? We’ still ‘ere!” he squeals. “We’ free!”

It’s a wonder what a few words can do to a person. Despite the dark cloud hanging above her head, Yo’s face instantly brightens and her blue eyes sparkle with joyous relief. She doesn’t say a word, just hooks her fingers into the collar of Fanboy’s hospital gown and pulls him down into a cuddle. Fanboy falls into the embrace, eager to reciprocate. 

“I see,” Yo sighs. “Oh, lookee how pretty everythin’ is…” The walls are a soft baby blue, the plastic stars hanging from the white ceiling are glittery-white, and the floor is a sort of seamless shiny white stone. As it had the night before, it feels like Heaven. 

Fanboy just nuzzles into Yo’s hair, adrenaline settling. Holding her has always been a favorite pastime of his, and now he can do it without the possibility of Boog bursting in and interrupting. But he ignores the stirring in his stomach in favor of simply embracing the woman he loves. “We made it. We really made it. We held out long enough to be saved.”

Yo giggles at Fanboy’s dreamy expression. “I think we migh’ be in Heaven after all."

Fanboy sticks out his tongue. “Now yer catchin’ on." He brushes a strand of hair out of her face and plucks the pink flower from behind her ear. “Ta-da!”

Yo's jaw drops. “I-Is tha’ a flowah?” She practically snatches the offering and explores it perhaps a bit too roughly with her fingers, but she doesn’t care. She needs to experience this. Fanboy isn’t too bothered; they have plenty of flowers now, but a part of his insides winces when she tears a petal with her fingernails.

“W-Where’dja get it?!” Yo asks, pressing the discarded petals against her nose. “Ou’side?!”

“Someones sent us presents! Don’ ask who, ‘cause I ‘ave no clue,” Fanboy explains giddily, holding up the little stuffed bear for her to see. “Look!”

Yo touches the toy, a bud of hope blossoming in her chest. “How’re yer legs?” she asks, resting a hand on the cast and scraping her fingernails against the rough texture. 

Fanboy tests them. “A lil’ itchy. Ha! It’ll take mo’ than some broken bones t’ keep ME down! An’ you?”

Yo gives some semblance of a nod. 

“Awesome!” Fanboy cheers, clapping his hands. “Now we c’n go!”

Yo tilts her head, curious. Then, she freezes, Fanboy’s intentions suddenly dawning on her. “To th-the “materny war”?”

“Iss an elephant heavy?” Fanboy hooks an arm around Yo’s shoulders and points to the door. “Th’ only thing between us an’ sweet, sweet freedom. Oh, can’ ya picture it?! Green grass, op’n skies, a thousan’ skadillion air particles! Th’ very essence of freedom.”

“Um...”

Freedom. As a mild rush of anxiety floods Yo’s system, she questions her misgivings. Again, just as it was the night before, her happiness is absent. Where’s that adrenaline rush? That joy to have finally escaped the room and eagerness to go? 

Apparently, Fanboy has enough excitement for the two of them, because he drops into his wheelchair with a hearty, “Le’ss go!” 

Yo panics. “Er—F-Fanboy!” she croaks, grabbing one of the chair’s handles. “Wait!”

“Hey, don’ leave me hangin’! Ya think I c’n do this withoutcha?” Fanboy gawks, turning to give her hand a comforting squeeze. “I mean, maybe, but why take a chance, ya know?” Before Yo can protest, Fanboy tugs away, knocking into a few bed posts before reaching his destination. “Oh, iss been forever since I used one-a these!” He sighs nostalgically and places his gloved hand on the door knob.

Swallowing down the lump in her throat, Yo blurts, “WAIT!”

Fanboy groans impatiently and throws his head. “No time fo’ chit-chat, Yo! We got babies t’ see!”

Distraught, Yo opens and closes her mouth a few times.

Fanboy knits his brows. "Wha’s wrong?” Excitement waning, he wheels back to her bedside, but she won’t look at him. “Yo?" A pit forms in his stomach. 

Yo cowers at the touch of his hand, but Fanboy holds tight, unable to fathom why she wouldn't be the first one out the door. “Don’ ya wanna come with me?”

For a long time, it appears that Yo will leave the question unanswered, but then she licks her lips and whispers, “Not really.”

The dumbfounded expression on Fanboy’s face would be funny under different circumstances. “Not really?” he repeats. Yo doesn’t elaborate. “C’mon!” he coaxes. “We’ll all be t’gether!” 

Nothing.

Fanboy studies her face, dismayed to find not a smidge of determination. He swallows, recalling her confused feelings from the night before. If there’s a disconnect, he’s anxious to solve the problem, but Yo won’t answer. Unsure of what to do, he asks, “O-Oh! Does yer...area still hurt? Er, are ya still scared ‘bout everthin’? Or…are ya scared someone’ll hurtchya?”

Yo’s face crumples and she answers in a small, monotone voice, “I dunno."

“...Okay. Well, then, I'll jus' go by myself! Yeah! I can do it. Yer talkin’ to th’ one an’ only Fanboy, here!" He pats her hand assuredly. “Sit tight an’ hold down th’ fort. I’ll be back with th’ babies befo’ ya know it.”

Somehow, Yo can’t imagine that going smoothly. “How ‘bout we wait fo’ th’ nurses?” she advises. Her hands frame his face, ghosting along his jaw bone. Her fingertips have long memorized the feeling of his skin, the shape of him. Here in the hospital encompassed by light, it’s different, somehow. Smoother, warmer to the touch. “They’ll ‘elp us.” 

Fanboy makes a face, painfully unconvinced. The mere mention of the nurses makes his insides tense. Before he can weigh his options, however, there comes a knock. After that, the door opens without warning. A bright white light floods the area, filling all its dark nooks and crannies and nearly blinding its occupants.  

“Good morning!” calls a honey-sweet voice, and the door closes.

Fanboy rubs the spots from his eye. For the past ten years, every time a door has been opened, Boog’s been there ready to hurt them. Fanboy’s experienced it hundreds of times in total fear. That same fear overwhelms him now, and he finds himself thrown back into the room as if he’d never left. Yo grabs his shoulder.

Two individuals step forward: a curvy woman and a large man. They are wearing light blue scrubs, white shoes, and holding two covered trays of delicious smelling food. The man has raven hair slicked back into a bun and is wearing a stethoscope around his neck. The woman has short brown hair, ruby red lips, and a clipboard tucked under her armpit. Her name-tag reads Nurse Lady Pam.

At first, all Fanboy can do is stare. These are the first humans besides Yo and Boog he’s seen in ten years. The wonder soon wears off to give way to fear, and Fanboy stiffens in his wheelchair. He feels a strong urge to cover his face but ascertains that these people must have already borne witness to it long before he’d regained consciousness.

Yo offers a whisper of comfort as Fanboy glances at the two food trays. He can't help but salivate at the scent, and his stomach growls. In keeping his strength up, his main concern has been to eat, but these strangers give him pause. 

“Hey, Lil’ Dudes!” the man greets. His lisped voice sparks something nostalgic in the younger male, but it’s too insignificant to be considered.

Fanboy’s handsome face twists into an ugly expression, causing Yo to worry. She knows the nurse and doctor have nothing but good intentions, but Fanboy doesn’t trust them. How can he?

“Wh-Where're my babies?" Fanboy's hostile tone takes the doctor aback but the nurse responds warmly.

“I’m glad you asked. They’re healthy and safe in the maternity ward. A tad underweight, but growing fast. They’ll be ready to see you again before you know it.” 

Relieved to finally know for certain that his children are alive and well, Fanboy makes a mental note of the location and stares intently at the door. Picking up on his intentions, Nurse Pam holds out a hand. “Ah! Hold that thought, Honey! It's breakfast time!”

“Why can’ we see ‘em right now?” he asks cautiously. “Iss there a toll o’ somethin’? Ya wanna tip?” 

The nurse laughs kindly, but while Yo offers a polite half-smile, Fanboy snarls and makes a miraculous leap from his chair into the bed, startling the other adults as he holds his partner close. “Don’ move,” he whispers. Yo obeys. “I’m gon’ try t’ get ‘round ‘em an’ bolt.”

Nurse Lady Pam steps forward, hand tentatively outstretched. “Yo?”

Yo smiles at the woman she recognizes from their previous encounter, but Fanboy's reaction is quite different. He drapes himself over his partner and arches his back, bracing himself for pain like a human shield. “I’m alright,” Yo tries to answer, but Fanboy covers her mouth.

“Whoa, there,” Oz chides. “Lance. Leave her be. You’re supposed to be in bed resting anyway.”

The sound of Fanboy’s real name sounds so foreign and wrong. “I am in bed.” His snappish reply does little to boost morale as he removes his hand from Yo’s mouth in favor of covering her ears. 

“Your own bed,” Oz corrects patiently. “Wanna take one of your new toys with you?”

“No! I don' wanna!” Fanboy whines. “I dunno who ya’re, but yer not “in charge” of us.” 

Oz stops short. Fanboy ...doesn’t recognize him at all. Perhaps it should come as no surprise given how long it's been, but Oz’s heart breaks still. He’d even been confident to forego a name tag. How naive. 

“Technically, we ARE in charge of you as long as you are in our care,” Nurse Pam gently corrects. “Even if you didn't initially ask for it. So, when you’re finished with your checkup, it’s straight back to bed.” Ignoring Fanboy’s irate glare, she strides across the room and sets the plate down at the table. 

“Escort time!” Following that proclamation, she retrieves a small device from out behind the curtain and taps it. Instantly, the sound of rain disappears. 

Yo doesn’t even seem to notice a difference, but Fanboy’s insides go cold. He stares at the small box in the nurse’s hands and recoils. The rain isn’t real? What else could be a lie? Their beautiful room?! Chum Chum’s letters?! His freedom?! His children’s safety?!

“N-No… No… NO!” Fanboy’s small, frail voice morphs into a thunderous bellow, catching everyone but Yo off-guard, so preoccupied is she with calming down her partner. “Give it back!”

“Fanboy!” Yo scolds. She tugs him down by his collar to whisper something in his ear. Oz watches them quietly converse, Fanboy’s sharp tone having caught him severely off-guard. He’d been expecting happy thanks, but it’s evident that the trusting nature in Fanboy is all but gone. Yo has been willing to speak to the staff, but Fanboy has only resisted medical attention thus far.

“H-Hey!” Oz braves, voice rife with hope. “It’s me!” 

Nurse Lady Pam grabs his arm. Yo is doing an excellent job keeping Fanboy’s attention away from the staff and judging by his relaxing stance, her words are doing wonders. Soon, she’s the one scooching out from under the covers, clumsily and weakly. 

Wanting to help, Fanboy too moves off the bed but loses his balance and collapses to the floor. Oz jumps but Pam swiftly hooks her arms beneath Fanboy’s armpits and hoists him into his wheelchair. Her sudden rescue causes him to squawk with indignation, Oz follows Pam's lead and gently walks Yo to the table.

Fanboy grits his teeth at the large hand resting just above Yo’s shoulders. His eyes flash and he’s about to leap out of his chair when Yo turns to him with a smile. “C’mon, Fanboy,” she urges, beckoning him. “Come eat with me!”

Fanboy freezes, torn between listening and doing whatever it takes to protect her. Yo jumps on his silence. “Iss okay,” she reassures. “Look! We ‘ave scrambled eggs, strawberries, muffins, an’ sugar toast!”

“French Toast,” Nurse Lady Pam corrects, “with syrup and powdered sugar. We’re going to slowly increase your portions until you’re ready to eat a full-sized meal.”

Yo gaped. Was what they had eaten the night before not a full-sized meal? Because it certainly felt so. “Yay!” she giggles, a spark of joy igniting in her chest. A normal breakfast at a normal table with semi-normal portion size. Normal. 

“Go nuts!”

Fanboy tenses in his wheelchair, gripping the armrests so tightly that his knuckles turn white. Nurse Lady Pam studies him, tilting her head to the side.

“Are you alright?”

Fanboy grits his teeth. He still can’t believe that had been a trick. “Ya turned off th’ rain.” 

At first, Nurse Pam doesn’t understand the reason behind his intensity. “Want it back on?”

A short pause. Fanboy nods. The nurse does what she says and like magic, on comes the rain. 

Fanboy wistfully shuts his eyes and tries to recreate that comforting blanket from before, but it isn’t the same. 

“Iss good,” Yo promises, waving at Fanboy assuredly, “Iss okay.” She knows these people won’t try to hurt them. “I-Iss not like th’ last time. They’re gon’ help us.”

Skeptical, Fanboy peers over his shoulder and narrows his eyes at the broken-hearted expression on the other man’s face. “It ain’t gon’ work,” he spits, remembering all the times Boog had used their hunger against them. “You’ll jus’ take it away!”

“Never,” Oz insists. “This is your food and nobody’s gonna take it from you. Seriously.”

Unpersuaded, Fanboy snatches his plate and hides it on his lap beneath the tabletop.

Nodding to Nurse Lady Pam, Oz says, “Pam and I will stand back here and give you space. When you’re done eating, we’ll take the dishes away to be cleaned.”

Fanboy rotates his body and stares unblinkingly until they reach the door. “Leave,” he snaps, but Pam shakes her head. 

“We’re supervising,” she explains, but won’t elaborate further than that.

Fanboy considers his options and decides he and Yo are far enough away from the other two to be safe. Declaring this a win, he relaxes and beams at Yo as if to say, “I did a good job!”

“Fanboy, jus’ give ‘em a chance. They’ really nice an’ helpful. They- They’re makin’ sure th’ babsies are gon’ be ‘kay too.”

Fanboy frowns.

“They’re safe,” Yo repeats. “D’ ya trust me?”

“Well, yeah! But—!”

“No buts!” Yo interjects. “C’mon. Let's eat. ‘M starvin’.” 

“...Okay,” Fanboy finally concedes, setting his plate back onto the table. The food does smell irresistible and his appetite catches up with him. So, keeping an eye on the doctor and nurse, he does as Nurse Lady Pam suggests and goes nuts. The French Toast is sweet, spongy, and crunchy, the powdered sugar and syrup exploding with sweetness on his tongue. He ignores the pain in his back teeth, and within a matter of minutes, his plate is spotless. He has scarfed everything down with the ravenous nature of a starving wolf, Pam notes. Yo too scarfs everything down, eyeing her cup when the last crumb on her plate is gone.

“Ooh! Iss hot cocoa!” she squeals and takes a big gulp. Her joyous face falls, then scrunches up. 

“Ya good?” Fanboy asks, smiling at her silly expression and feeling a little more relaxed.

“Coffee ...bleh.” Yo allows the liquid to splash back into her cup and wrinkles her nose, but then her eyes widen. “I-I’m sorry,” she whispers to the two smiling adults standing at the door. “Tha’ wasso rude! Iss all really good an’ delicious, I swear! I didn’ mean to!” 

“No worries, Honey!” Pam assures cheerfully from the door. “I’m not a big coffee fan either. That was Dr. Oz’s idea.” 

A short pause.

“Oz’s?” The three all look toward Fanboy, who stares astonished and unblinking at the aforementioned doctor. Oz can see the mental gymnastics Fanboy’s brain is performing, his expressions shifting and changing as his thoughts race. His shadow lifts, and then, a sign of recognition. “Oz?!”

Hearing Fanboy say his name is a long-awaited blessing, a miracle. “In the flesh,” Oz croaks, his eyes growing hot. 

Fanboy stares at him for the longest time before glancing at the comics, the toys, and it all clicks. He leaps from his chair, hitting the table and nearly knocking over the plate of muffins, and wraps his long skinny arms around the older man’s large neck. Years of emotion flood their hearts unfiltered as the ward and his guardian are at last reunited in a tender embrace. Fanboy wails, voice rife with both relief and grief. Big fat tears roll down his red face and soak into Oz’s doctor scrubs. He howls the name like a wolf to the moon, finally having a reason to say it after all this time.

Nurse Lady Pam takes a step back as Oz embraces Fanboy back as gently as possible. It takes everything in him not to smother the younger man with love—after all, he has missed Fanboy more than anything—but Fanboy is dangerously fragile. 

“It’s cool,” Oz blurts. Losing Fanboy was like losing his own son, and yes, while Oz knows that he wasn’t the best role model at the time before the kidnapping, he loved his “two young wards” as he called them. What’s more, the boys loved him all the same. Sans parents, they looked up to him, wanted to spend time with him, and went to him for advice. 

Now, Oz can be a father Fanboy can be proud of. 

“Oz,” Fanboy blubbers. “I-I missed ya, O-Oz!”

“I missed you too, Dude,” Oz weeps. “I missed you more than anything else in the world. And so did mom. So did mom. She died believing you were still out there. She never gave up.” The news of Mrs. Harmonian’s death only invokes a deeper turmoil in Fanboy, and he cries harder. “I know, Man. I know, I know, Lil’ dude.”

Oz’s mom was a feisty old lady who wanted the best for her son. Fanboy had always been a little intimidated by her. The news of her death hits him hard, and now he is beyond sorting his emotions. One of his dearest friends, one he hasn’t seen in years, is HERE, and his mind can hardly comprehend it, so for a long while, he simply basks in Oz’s warmth and empties out the dam behind his lids.

When he finally tries to speak, he can’t control his own heaving. “Wh-Wh-Wh--?” he gasps. “Ch-Ch-Chum--?” 

“He’s coming,” Oz promises. “He’s coming as quickly as he can.”

At that news, Yo’s heart nearly skips a beat. The joyous cheer that bellows from deep inside Fanboy is long and loud. That confirmation is all he needed. “Yes!” he screams. “Chum Chum’s comin’, Yo! Yo, he’s on his way!” Literal fireworks explode out of his skull as he throws himself into the air and flips.

Yo gasps excitedly and wriggles with glee. “Ooooh! Chum Chum!” she squeals. 

Oz wipes his eyes. “Oh, he’d kill to see your faces... You should’ve seen the look on his face when I told him the good news over video chat! Total shock, Dude! Seriously! I won’t be surprised if he rips this place apart to find you.”

Yo laughs at the unbridled joy glowing upon Fanboy’s face. She wouldn’t be surprised if something of that nature were to occur. 

Overwhelmed with delight, Fanboy slumps into Oz’s large, warm hold. His hopes and dreams have been answered: he’s going to reunite with his best friend. “I...I can’...wait… M-Missed him s-so much!” the young man gasps, moving to clutch Oz’s face and shoot him a terrified look of regret. “I-I’m so sorry I was mean t’ ya, Oz! I-I-I’m s-so sorry! I didn’ know it was you, I swear!”

“Shhh… It’s cool, Lil’ dude,” Oz forgives, his voice breaking as he rubs Fanboy’s brittle back. As a child, Fanboy had always been a twig, but this is unbelievable. Now a man, Fanboy is so skinny that Oz can feel each individual bone through his gown. “I’m just happy you’re alive.” 

“Me too!” Oz isn’t as flabby as Fanboy remembers, nor as scruffy! His once twinkling eyes hold a certain sadness, and Fanboy can guess why. “Holy camoly! I can’ believe we ‘aven’t seen each other in like–!” He stumbles. “H-Has it really been ten years, Oz?”

Oz sees no point in lying. “Yeah. …Yeah, it’s been a while, Man. I mean, look at you! You’re all grown up!” Oz adds in a cheerier tone. 

For the first time since discovering his current age, Fanboy grins with pride and draws up to his full height. “Sheesh.” Oz shakes his head. “You’re taller than me now, Dude, Seriously.” 

Nurse Lady Pam blinks back tears.

Yo is a little less excited than Fanboy to see Oz. A bodacious, lazy comic store owner lingers in the dark recesses of her mind. She hadn’t known him as well as Fanboy and Chum Chum had. Would it be distasteful to join their special embrace? Uncertain, she delicately fiddles with the hem of her gown, a potion of jealousy brewing in her mind. 

Ever-observant Nurse Lady Pam clears her throat. “Do you remember Oz, Honey?” she asks loudly.

Mercifully, good ol’ Oz gets the message. “YO!” he jovially bellows. “Get over here, Babe!” He extends an arm, an invitation to join the huddle. Relieved and flattered, Yo hobbles over and sinks into the hold. It's surprising that she doesn't panic since Oz's arms are similar to Boog's, but it's likely her mind is filtering it out. 

“Are ya th’ one takin’ care o’ us, Oz?” Yo asks after a few minutes of comfortable silence. She lifts her head to gaze at him with an endearing smile. “Are ya th’ one tha’ brought us all th’s stuff?” 

“Just a bit,” Oz allows. "Most of this was donated.” 

Yo isn’t sure what he means but clasps her hands together in gracious thanks. “Thank you so much, Oz,” she whispers. “Thank you thank you thank you! Ya made thiss so good fo’ us! Iss the bestest room we could ev’r ask fo’.”

Oz shrugs, going a little red. “Aw, seriously, I don’t even deserve half the credit.”

“So?! Yer here, arencha?”

Instead of answering, Oz carefully gathers the two young adults in his large arms and carries them to the small loveseat under the window. In the midst of his joy, he is horrified by the sight of Fanboy and Yo's damaged selves. And in the midst of his horror, there’s a pang of sickening guilt.

Oz had searched, yes. He’d led the helm for years! However, when he'd visited the Frosty Mart, he was none the wiser to Boog's guilt. He had approached the bully casually, chatted with him, and looked him right in the eye. Boog had looked back, eyes twinkling. He’d laughed and chatted as he always did after a bop or two. Any niggle of suspicion Oz had had for the man waned, and it was Fanboy and Yo who had paid the price for his ignorance. Malnutrition, mental instability, stunted physical development, eye problems, dental problems...

Oh, what to say? Oz regards Fanboy’s sparkling eyes and wide smile and offers a shaky grin in return. What to ask? It would be unwise to inquire graphic details about their experiences over the past ten years, perhaps even basic details. He can tell just by observing Fanboy’s “quirks” that Boog was abusive at best, and although Yo is harder to read the more time she spends with staff, it’s obvious she’s been hurt as well. The last thing he wants to do is have them relive it.

Luckily, he can count on Fanboy’s eager chatter to fill the silence. “Oz!” the young man exclaims. “Oz, look!” Nurse Pam disallows him from over-exerting his legs so he uses his long arms to snatch the stack of comics piled on the floor. “Look ‘ow many comics we ‘ave now! They’ all new issues too! Issn’t tha’ cool?” 

For an outsider like Oz, there’s no telling how much exactly Fanboy has missed unless either Fanboy or Yo told him. Most of the issues in Fanboy’s hands are no older than nine years, the rest as recent as nine months. “That IS seriously cool! Wanna read one?" 

"YES! Man-Arctica vs. Bio-Ninja!” Fanboy squeals excitedly and shimmies himself under Oz’s wing, not unlike when he was a child. Oz winces at the feeling of sharp bone against his body but maintains his happy face.

“A-he-he-hem!”

Yo doesn’t have as much interest in comics as Fanboy, but entertainment is entertainment, so she snuggles up against his chest and reads along in her head. Oz listens quietly at first, disturbed by the distinct accent the young adults have gleaned from their former captor, and by the way Fanboy struggles with every word. The fact that he is out of practice is immediately clear at this point, so Oz assists him when he gets stuck. 

“Wha’s “vibrant” mean?” Fanboy asks, scratching his nose. It is one of many inquisitive questions both he and Yo are curious to know the answer to. 

“Wha’s… leisurely?

“Diligent?”

“Rural?”

“Current?”

The concern in Oz’s heart worsens with each following question but he answers to the best of his ability. At the table, Nurse Lady Pam writes furiously on her clipboard. At last, Fanboy finishes the last page and firmly shuts the comic closed.

“Whew! Whatta ride!” he remarks, wiping his forehead. “Only...twinny-six pages, huh? Felt like a skadillion. How long ‘ave I been readin’?”

Oz glances at his watch. “About an hour,” he chuckles and gently pats the top of Fanboy’s head. 

“Eh-heh.” Bashful, Fanboy looks away. “Well, iss been a while,” he mumbles, rubbing his forearm out of habit. “Can’t blame a guy fo’ tryin’.”

“Eh, you'll catch back up in no time,” Oz assures. “Yo? Thoughts?” He regards Yo, only to find her fast asleep and slumped against Fanboy’s chest. “Whoops! Someone’s taking a lil’ nap,” Oz teases. “Don’t worry. I’ll put her back to bed.”

“Mmm…” Fanboy protectively wraps his arms around Yo’s torso and rests his chin atop her shoulder. “Nah. Iss cool,” he declines, feeling old scars threading her locks. 

Oz regards the interaction with interest. This is the first time he has seen any form of conventional romance between the two. “You were always the cuddly type, weren’t you?” Oz casually remarks, referring to how clingy Fanboy and Chum Chum were with each other.

“Iss warm,” Fanboy purrs, rubbing his cheek against her temple. “Ya should try it!”

Oz’s eyes flit to the nurse’s, and she gifts him a playful wink. “I’ll take it under advisement,” Oz chuckles despite the obvious painful implications. “So, Fanboy.” He gives the younger man a mischievous smirk while gesturing to the woman cradled in his arms. “You’ve got yourself a gal.”

Fanboy opens his eyes and sighs dreamily at his partner. “Issn’ she pretty, Oz?”

Oz nods, though he can’t objectively say that the gaunt, sickly woman is beautiful, he knows that, from Fanboy’s vantage point, her beauty is unparalleled. “Seriously,” he comments. 

“Uh-huh,” Fanboy grins, using his teeth to toy with her nape before nuzzling some more. Oz regards the strangely open intimate actions with caution but decides not to comment. 

For a while, silence. Fanboy hums and murmurs and purrs under his breath, rocking both himself and Yo back and forth. Oz can’t distinguish the garbled lullaby; most of it is simple animal noises. Fanboy keeps his eyes closed through the silence, seemingly taking comfort in his blindness as he moves and mutters.

“Guess what?"

“What?” Oz smiles. 

“I love her an' she loves me. I asked her t’ marry me, not officially, but when we ge’ betters someday an’ earn a lotta money, we’ gon’ tie th’ knot. Then, we c’n getta house an’ take care of our babies.”

“Dang,” Oz exclaims, taken aback. “No beating around the bush with you.” He reminds himself he has no right to feel unsettled; he’d known Fanboy would be older when they reunited, and it’s hardly shocking that Fanboy and Yo had explored life—and each other. They’re parents now. Fanboy is a father, for goodness’ sake. Still, despite that knowledge, Oz had imagined greeting the same little boy he’d lost years ago. In part, he has—but the man beside him carries a weight, a distance Oz can’t quite bridge.

"That’s a big step. You’re more prudent than I–”

“Wha’s tha’ mean?” Fanboy interrupts.

“I like that you’re making plans, even if they’re…” Oz amends, grasping for something gentle to say, “...not entirely fleshed out.” 

Fanboy shrugs and strokes Yo’s tangled locks. “There’s mo’ t’ it. We talked ‘bout fo’ lots and lotsa time. Didn’ ‘ave nothin’ else to do.”

Oz shifts. He’s dying to know the details of what has happened but that’s for them to tell him when they’re ready and comfortable. “I still can’t believe how much you’ve grown,” Oz digresses softly. “You’re a man. Heh. A fanman!”

“Ew. I’m stickin’ w’th Fanboy,” the younger man turns down, flashing a lopsided grin. “I don’ know, Oz. Ev’n though iss been ten years an’ I’m—“ he wrinkles his nose “—a grown-up now, I don’ feel any different.”

“In what way?” Oz asks, curious. Pam casually leans in, pen hovering above her notepad.

“Well…” Fanboy trails, “…Grown-ups know when they grow up, righ’? They jus’ feel it inside.”

Oz shrugs one shoulder. “In some ways,” he agrees, wondering if now is a good time to discuss puberty, “but they often have a mentor to teach them about the trials of adulthood."

Fanboy's face falls. “Oh.”

“If you’d like, I can be your mentor,” Oz offers. “I’m a pretty smart dude. Seriously. If anyone can help teach you about the wonders of manhood, it’s moi!”

Fanboy perks. “Okay!” He pauses, a shadow of concern crossing his face. “I c’n still play games an’ read comics, righ’?”

Oz laughs and ruffles Fanboy’s locks. “You’re talking to The Oz. I read comics and play games every chance I get and I’m an adult. Heck, it’s awesome to be an adult! You can drive, vote, watch R-rated films, travel, earn money, go out with friends wherever you want…”

Fanboy favors freedom but is doubtful still. From what he remembers before the kidnapping, adults had always told him to enjoy his youth while he had it, because being an adult would be the end of fun. Oz is completely contradicting those statements. “I c’n still do kid stuff?” 

Oz nods solemnly. “Within reason. When Chum Chum comes to visit, you can arrange-”

Fanboy’s eyes flash. “CHUM CHUM!” he gasps, causing Yo to jolt awake in his arms. “I forgot!”

“Nnf… Wha’ ‘appened?” she squeaks, eyes darting wildly. “Iss Chum Chum ‘ere yet?”

“Whew! No’ yet. Sorry,” Fanboy apologizes sheepishly. “Gettin’ kinda excited!” He carefully sets Yo to rest beside him before grabbing the letters from where they fell on the floor. “Th’ letters say he’s comin’!” Fanboy squeals. “When’s he comin’?! When’s he comin’?! When’s he comin’?!”

Yo perks, equally excited. “Yeah Oz, where’ m’ little sweetie?” She giggles at Fanboy’s dumbfounded expression. “Don’ worry, Fanboy. Jus’ a nickname.”

“Hmph!” Fanboy crosses his arms and pretends to pout. “I see no appeal. Besides, he’s got a girlfriend. He said so!”

All this talk of Oz’s officially adopted son causes a proud, melancholy smile to spread across his face. “Soon, Dudes. Soon,” he assures. “I’ll give you a heads up when I know for sure.”

Both nod furiously. “YES,” Fanboy affirms. “Tha’s all we want, righ’, Yo?” She gives a thumbs up. "So, when’s he comin’?!”

A short pause. Pam is confused, Yo is unaffected, and Oz is alarmed. “Uh, soon?” the older man repeats, studying Fanboy’s body language. “I told you already, I don’t have the exact date on hand.”

“Ya have a phone in hand! Lemme talk t’ him!” Fanboy pleads, clutching Oz’s collar in a death grip. “Ya gotta ‘ave his phone number; ya live righ’ next door! C’mon Oz, help a fella out!” Oz leans back at Fanboy’s intensity and glances at Yo for hints as to how to deal with the young man, but she stares back just as intensely. 

Taking a chance, Nurse Lady Pam steps in and puts a gentle hand over Fanboy’s. He stops short and stares. “Wha’?” he demands. “Wha’ gives?”

“Edm—Chum Chum is overseas,” Nurse Lady Pam says, glancing quickly to Oz, “on a business trip. It’ll take a while for him to come home.”

Fanboy slowly releases Oz’s collar, mulling over this new information. “Oh. Right. He’s a grown-up too now.”

Reality slams into Oz like a truck: Fanboy and Yo have been wholly cut off from everything and everyone, and now they've awoken from, essentially, a decade-long coma and thrust into an entirely new world. Introducing them to basic news, the technology that’s already been integrated into everyday society, what movies have come out, what local and worldwide events have transpired. It will be a lot to mull over, so for now, Oz sticks to what they’re now semi-aware of, like Chum Chum.

He gives a thorough explanation as to what has been going on in the world, how difficult it has been for Chum Chum to travel due to restrictions. Of course, that leads Fanboy to question exactly WHY Chum Chum is traveling, so Oz must explain Chum Chum’s career drive.

Taking in the news is like digesting a truck. Fanboy has never truly pictured his long-lost best friend as an adult. “Poor lil’ guy,” he laments, bringing his folded hands to his chest. “I needa see ‘im as quick as I can. Yo, hand me tha’ phone, will ya?”

Yo spares a glance at Pam’s phone and then at the woman’s warning gaze. “M-May I?” she squeaks, only to be given the negative cue. Fanboy clenches his fists, temper flaring. 

Oz isn’t ready for this. “International travel isn’t easy these days, Dude. I know that isn’t what you wanna hear, but seriously, I don’t know what day Chum Chum’s coming. Your guess is as good as mine. Seriously.”

Fanboy’s face darkens eerily. “Whaddaya mean?” he strains. 

“I’m not a fortune-teller,” Oz says dumbfounded. “I’ll keep you updated but, other than that, my hands are tied.”

Fanboy purses his lips, gloved fingers digging into his bandaged arms. He just doesn’t understand. “His letters said he’d be ‘ere,” he snaps. “H-He said he’d be with us as soon as possible and th-that he wouldn’ let us go.” His voice wavers slightly at the end, and Oz feels a great degree of sympathy for the young man.

“Oh, Lance…” he sighs.

“Fanboy.”

“Fanboy, right. Sorry,” he apologizes. “He always kept his letters private, Dude. I never wanted to invade his–” he tries to explain, but Fanboy’s bubbling frustration boils over.

“Ya shoulda!” Fanboy barks, jabbing an accusatory finger in Oz’s flabby face. “An’ ya shoulda known when ‘e was comin’! Ya’ve been with ‘im! Ya could call! Ya ‘ave a phone! Wha’s my excuse?! I ‘aven’t seen ‘im fo’ TEN stinking YEARS!” He slams his fists repeatedly onto the soft couch cushions. Oz rears back, shocked at the sudden aggression.

“So lemme call ‘im!” Fanboy demands, shaking a finger. “Lemme call ‘im or I’ll—!” The unfinished threat rings clear like a bell. Astounded by his own gall, Fanboy feels a momentary pang of guilt in his gut for intimidating Oz like this, but the yearning to see his best friend is stronger than his shame.

As for Oz, he once again finds himself on the defensive side of the ball, and though the objective is always to make a play at the turnover and put the offense on defense, Oz knows he must be patient. He can’t be overwhelmed. He can’t be moved. 

“Lance B. Corporal,” Oz says quietly, folding his hands in his lap. “I know you’re in pain, and I can’t imagine how angry and confused you must feel. But if you threaten me—or any of the staff—you’ll be in serious trouble. Everyone here follows the rules, no matter their circumstances. You’re not exempt.”

Feeling as though he’d spoken with measured authority, Oz is unsettled to see Fanboy recoil, wide-eyed, as if his basic human rights had just been revoked. Beside him, Yo discreetly slips a muffin under her gown.

Sensing the tension, Pam steps forward. “He’s right, honey. Just so you know—if you act aggressively toward us or the other patients—” she nods toward Yo, “—you’ll be moved to a more secure location. Separation is a last resort, and we don’t want that. So let’s all take a deep breath.” 

“Sep’ration,” Fanboy mutters selectively, swallowing the lump in his throat. Yo sneaks another muffin under her gown.

Oz nods sagely, knowing his words will land poorly. “Temporary separation. But we want to work with you as a team to make sure that doesn’t happen. Believe it or not, we want you with your babies. Our goal isn’t to split families—it’s to make sure both parents are stable and healthy.”

To Fanboy, it sounds like the walls are closing in. His face burns crimson with anger. Yo shrinks beside him, knowing there will come a point when she can’t rein him back. Once that line is crossed, he’ll be gone to fury.

“So tha’s wha’s gon’ happen?” Fanboy growls, tears gathering in his working eye. “Yer gon’ tear us apart? Ev’n Boog didn’—” He stops himself before he can finish.

Yo winces. She knows all too well that Boog had kept them sealed away from society, intending to cage them forever, while Oz and Pam are only trying to mend what was broken. But Fanboy’s rage clouds that truth.

Oz’s nostrils flare, hands tightening in his lap. He knows the young man doesn’t understand procedure, nor the weight of his words. But to be compared to the monster who’d ruined so many lives—it stings. Pam holds her breath.

“No, he didn’t separate you,” Oz says, voice clipped and cool. He should stop, but the words keep spilling. “But he didn’t let you leave either.”

Fanboy bristles. Pam opens her mouth, “Uh, Honey—”

“He didn’t let you do anything without his permission,” Oz presses on. “Not even when you were sick, when you were dying. He didn’t care if your babies were—”

Fanboy lunges at Oz, claws outstretched and teeth bared as all the hidden, pent-up rage he’s felt towards the outside world boils over. Oz, though shaken by his own words, reacts instinctively, catching the man's skinny wrists. “Whoa, whoa!” he protests, more concerned about the younger man injuring himself than his own person sustaining an attack. 

“He wouldn’a DONE any o’ tha’ if ya’d found us!” Fanboy thunders. “‘He left before th’ babies were born, but YOU took my babies!”

Oz nearly falters under the accusation. Fanboy’s wild, traumatized eyes lock onto him. “Ya STOLE ‘em!”

That makes Oz’s heart drops into his shoes as the young man before him unravels into something completely feral, biting and wrenching and turning with an unnerving strength, and for this, Oz is to blame. Fanboy, or Lance, has become in the span of a second a wild animal operating on fury and pain alone. Oz can’t see any similarities between this creature and the little boy who smiled and laughed at everything, the little boy who’d bounce up and down whenever a new shipment of toys came in, the little boy who hugged him, who played and wrestled with him, who called him “The Oz-Man”, who looked up at him with adoration and trust. The only emotions left within the damaged man for him are rage and contempt. 

Yo curls up at the couch’s arm, armadillo-like, as she had during Fanboy’s fights with Boog. Watching closely, she notices something strange: with Boog, Fanboy’s attacks left bruises and blood. Here, Oz remains untouched.

She chews her thumb. Fanboy isn’t giving Oz his all. For all his anger, some part of him still admires the man—and perhaps doesn’t want to hurt him. 

Pam rushes forward, syringe in hand, but Oz barks, “No! Stay back!” She falters, staying ready.

Oz takes the blame squarely on himself. “That’s enough,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry, Dude.”

But Fanboy doesn’t hear. His growls deepen, his thrashing intensifies—until suddenly, Oz’s face shifts. The kindly old comic-store owner vanishes, replaced by Boog’s cruel grin. Fanboy jolts, teeth snapping at the hallucination, strength doubling in an instant. Oz strains to hold him back.

Then Oz finds the words that cut through. “You’re right. We took your kids without your permission. That was wrong.”

Fanboy falters, his fight losing momentum.

“I would’ve told you the moment you were admitted,” Oz continues, seizing the opening. “but you were practically dead, Dude! You couldn’t understand a thing I was saying and, even if you did, you were in no shape to be a father!” 

For the longest time, there’s silence as Fanboy and Oz stare each other down. Nurse Lady Pam clutches the emergency syringe, but, thankfully, all the tension in Fanboy withers. Oz carefully lowers him back to sit against the couch. Breaking out of her defensive stupor, Yo wraps her arms around her partner, who immediately sinks into her hold.

“Iss not fair,” Fanboy mutters, limbs shaking from the exertion. “Iss jus’ not fair.” His teary eyes flicker up to Oz and glare menacingly. “You—!” 

“Fanboy didn’ mean it,” Yo whispers to Oz, tears threatening to spill. “He’s jus’—he don’ wanna ‘urt ya, he just….he just…!” She doesn’t even have the words to defend Fanboy’s actions; they aren’t in the room anymore. “P-Please, don’ take him ‘way from me!” 

Oz’s mouth falls open and shuts. “No. I’m sorry,” he says, shooting an apologetic glance at a tight-lipped Pam. “I didn't mean it either. It’s none of my business anyway.”

“It is,” Yo croaks defeatedly. “You needa know ‘ow we’ve been ‘urt so ya can help us, right? I know ya tryin’ t’ help, bu’ no matta wha’ I tell Fanboy, he’s too scareda everyone t’ trust ‘em!”

“M’ not s-sc’red!” Fanboy shouts into his hands, shoulders heaving. “I’m mad ‘cause ev’ryone keeps tellin’ me I can’t, can’t, can’t.”  

Oz isn’t good at coming up with solutions on the fly, the last having been a total fluke. “I know things have been hard,” he begins quietly. “Lance—”

“Don’t,” Fanboy interrupts, “call me tha’. This dumb ol’ wristband means nothin’, Buster-Brown.”

“Okay, whatever, Fanboy,” Oz relents. “Just listen. You and Edm—Chum Chum were and are the brightest things in my life, and I was too selfish to realize it until you were taken from me. Sure, it made me shape up and work my tail off to make something of myself but, seriously, Dude, I’m so sorry I wasn’t good enough for you when you were here. I wanna be better for you now. Can you give me another chance?” 

Fanboy buries his face in his gloved hands, tears seeping out from between his fingers and an immense guilt bubbling up in his gut. Yo nuzzles his temple, making small sounds that neither Oz nor Pam can decipher. 

“I dunno! Ya was always good ‘nough fo’ me,” Fanboy strains. “You was AWESOME, Oz! Y-You was— were one of m’ best friends! I-I jus’ thought…! ...I thought tha’ I could fin’lly see him! I thought tha’ if I fought ‘ard enough, it could ‘appen! I could... hug ‘im again and tell ‘im how much I missed ‘im! I could see my kids,” Fanboy wipes his nose and shoots Oz a look so wretched and full of despair the man has to look away, “as long as we escaped!”

Yo tries to find that broken optimism inside herself. “Can we at least call ‘im on th’ phone?”

Oz holds his ground. “It’s standard procedure. We're going to give you tests,” he pauses, noting Fanboy’s disgusted expression, “and based on your performance, we will determine when you can see your children.”

Yo’s eyes flash. “Seriously?” she deadpans on Fanboy’s behalf. 

“Seriously,” Oz regretfully reaffirms. “I know. I know it sucks, but you gotta be patient. Trust me on this, Dudes. You won’t regret a thing.”

Fanboy throws up his hands in overwhelming frustration and drags them over his tired eyes. Regret. Patient. As if Oz has forgotten that Fanboy and Yo have been patiently waiting for rescue for the past ten years. Fanboy would laugh if he weren’t so royally ticked. Instead, he groans, violently pulling down his lower lids.

“An’ if we don’ pass, wha’ happens then?” Yo asks, swatting Fanboy’s hands away before he injures himself.

Oz and Pam share a look. “If you’re found to be mentally incapable, the children will be taken into custody by either a close relative, or, if all relatives are unavailable, by the government,” says Oz faintly.

“They’ll become wards of the state,” Pam clarifies. “Fosters.”

Wards of the state. Those words are not unfamiliar to Fanboy. Before the kidnapping, he’d heard them used by adults to describe his and Chum Chum’s situation: abandoned, discarded, forgotten. No parents or siblings to speak of. No aunts, uncles, or cousins in close proximity. Nobody to claim guardianship over these two boys trapped in a barely-functioning local foster system, living day by day on their own without parental guidance.

If Fanboy and Yo are deemed unfit, that is what will happen to their babies. They’ll be separated for good.

Fanboy goes pale, then green. Slowly, he hobbles over to the nearest trash can and vomits. Yo covers her ears as the sound of violent retching assaults her. Nurse Lady Pam rushes to the young man’s side and makes sure he doesn’t pass out as he clutches the rim in both hands and heaves. 

“Wards,” Fanboy coughs, his mouth sour. “Wards a’ th’ state…like me.” 

“No, no, no! Not like you,” Oz rushes, taken aback by the sudden sickness. 

“I'm not your kid,” the young man counters, and he spits. “Tha’ never counted. Ya didn’ raise me.” He encapsulates the voice of a corpse perfectly with his next words. “I…I did.”

There’s quiet.

“Eheh. Ma’be ya did, an’ look ‘ow great I turned out!” Fanboy jokes, his voice edging towards hysteria. “No. No, no. Yo an’ Chum Chum an’ my kids are m’ family, bu’ now yer sayin’ I might not ‘ave ‘em!” Fanboy shudders, face obscured by the rim of the trash can. “Why? ‘Cuz I’m ¢̸̬͎̑͗̐͜r̴͍̬̱̋͂̉å̵̡̧̞͆̈́͊z̸̢̘̫̓́̐¥̴̨̮͚̽̐͂? ‘Cuz I’m §̴̬͖̂͑͜͝†̷̝̱̖̄̽̆µ̵͕͍͕̈́̅̋þ̸̖͙̼̇͑̇ï̴̛̘͓̬͌̈Ð̵̨͓̓̎̓͜?” Oz begins to object, but Fanboy picks up with a cynical, “Is tha’ wha’ yer tellin’ me?” 

“No."

“Then—!” Fanboy strikes the ground. “Just—!”

“Lance–” Oz reaches.

“SHUT UP!” Fanboy screams, slamming his fists into the wall. “SHUT UP! SHUT UP!” Stunned into silence, Oz stands and Pam grips her syringe. Fanboy twists his neck around, his bloodshot eyes wild and broken. “You don’ get t’ call m’ tha’!” he gnarls, jabbing a finger at Oz, and then at Pam. “None-a ya’ll do! Yer no’ my mom, an’ yer no’ my dad!” 

Silence. The pain flaring in Fanboy's hand is easier to bear than the apparent betrayal. He shouldn't be shocked. The time that’s passed between them is too great. Fanboy should have run to his children when he had the chance. Now, he knows he’ll be thoroughly prevented at every turn.

“I hate you,” Fanboy whispers with resounding clarity, his tears plopping into the trash can to join his breakfast. The silence that follows is so thick Yo feels it smothering her brain. 

Slowly, Pam releases him and stands. “Take your time to weigh everything out,” she murmurs. “We’ll be back at nine-thirty to take you to your check-ups.”

Oz gathers the dishes in a robot-like manner. Soon, the room is empty again, save for its two inhabitants.

Uncurling from her scrunched position, Yo helps Fanboy to the sink so he can rinse out his mouth. In doing so, Fanboy feels regret creep back into his mind, but his bitterness is too raw for him to feel true sorrow. After he brushes his teeth with a spare toothbrush and toothpaste, Fanboy clutches his partner as she leads him back to the loveseat. 

“Urk. I botched tha’,” he croaks. “Hold down th’ fort. I’m gon’ get our kids whether Oz likes it or--!”

“No!” Yo angrily responds. “Fanboy, stop an’ use yer brain fo’ a second! Whaddaya think’ll happen if ya do tha’, huh?"

Fanboy falls back against the cushion and trembles. He’s inclined to claw at his face and whine, try to keep himself from getting lost in a never-ending void as the world around him distorts over and over, folding in on itself, disappearing and reappearing as the walls close in on him and—geez, he might throw up again—he’s shaking and the bed is shaking and he can’t feel his arms, legs, or face. He’s so sore... Why is he so sore? Why is this happening? He isn’t supposed to be a prisoner anymore!

“Iss not fair,” he whispers, staring wide-eyed at nothing. “Iss jus’ not fair!" 

A blood-curling scream rips from his raw throat, thick and trembling with tears and emotion he cannot name because he’s so dumb and stupid and everything hurts so much! “I-I can’t think!” he screams, scratching at his temples. “W-Wha’s WRONG wi’ me?!”

His heart-it’s beating too quickly and loudly, practically beating out of his chest. He writhes, thrusting his chest upward and begging it to stop but it won’t; it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. Everything is too loud, too bright, and he’s dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Before he can pass out, Yo presses her entire weight against him. “Look a’ me!” she hisses desperately. “Don’ go t’ sleep! Ever’thin’s gon’ be fine, like ya said!” 

Had he? Fanboy’s too scatterbrained to recall. “I-I-I dun-n-n-no,” he stutters, scratching his face. 

Sensing the danger, Yo tucks Fanboy’s head against her and rocks him back and forth. She doesn’t need to say a word, just holds him as he breaks down into uncontrollable sobs and wails. He’s trying so hard to be strong, to be optimistic, but there’s a time in everyone’s life where strength and positivity is inapplicable. Yo knows the feeling intimately.

“Wha’ happened?” she murmurs. 

Once calm, Fanboy curls his lip. “I-Iss diff’rent now. An’ wha’ ‘bout you? Yer all chipper with Pam an’ Oz around bu’ back in th’ room ya wanted to—!” He doesn’t finish his sentence. “...Y’ know!”

Yo flinches, knowing full well what he’s implying. “Tha’s not fair,” she protests. 

“Nunna thisiz!” Fanboy proclaims, wrapping his arms around her waist. “What’re we s’pposed t’ do!?” 

“Not be idiots?” Yo rudely suggests under her breath. Inhaling deeply, she tries again. “Let ‘em help us. Ya said yerself las’ night otha people c’n help us if we need it. An’ we NEED it, Fanboy. We really do. I don’ know if ya’ve noticed, but we’re kinda…ṃ̴͇̂̉ę̶͍̂͗̐§̸͓̳̋͑§̵͚͚̽́ê̶̘̲͑͠Ð̶̙̳́͗ ̷̖͉̄̂µ̸̙̞͌͠þ̵͉̣͛̌."

Fanboy tries to argue the point, but realizes she’s right. When she’d been a hysterical mess; he’d assured her that they could get through anything together and could afford outside help along the way. He hasn’t the heart to tell her he had only said it because she'd brushed aside his hope, his optimism, and that in truth, he hasn’t any trust in anyone anymore. 

“My brain’s all over th’ place,” he mumbles, not admitting fault but allowing her the satisfaction of being right. “Evah since I woke up, my thoughts’re like PFFFFTTT!” He sporadically flails his arms and slumps back against the couch. “Y-Yo, I jus’ wanna hold ‘em! I felt ‘em in my hands; they were so small, an’ I-” He grits his teeth, salty hot tears running down his cheek and over Yo’s hand. “—I just w-want ‘em back. W-What kinda dad am I if I can’ even keep my babies safe?!”

“Lance,” Yo soothes, kissing his tears away, and Fanboy doesn’t even reprimand her for using his birth name. “Them bein’ away is not yer fault. Ya know that. An’ fo’ wha’ iss worth, I think yer gonna make a wonderful daddy.” In a moment of rare, happy nostalgic memory, she chuckles. “I think ya’ve always had it in ya. Th’ way ya looked after Chum Chum is proof. Ya fed ‘im, protected ‘im… Ya made him happy.” 

“I was selfish,” Fanboy bemoans, “an’ I was mean t' ya.”

Yo concedes a shrug. “Sometimes. So was I. We were...jus’ kids, after all.” A soft nuzzle. “D’ ya remember ‘ow many times I tried to steal Chum Chum fo’ myself? A-An’ when ya traded noses with him? We were so silly, weren’t we? Th’ point is, all th’ great stuff aboutcha is still there. Ya changed, but yer still yourself. Even though everything happened, iss still you. Yer a great person tha’ wants th’ best fo’ his kids, but ya have t’ say yes to Oz’s help. Understand?”

When Fanboy doesn’t answer, Yo pokes his chest warningly. “I wanna see ‘em again, too,” she reminds him. “Please, promise me you’ll at least listen t’ Oz. Ya know ‘im more than I do. Trust him if ya don’ trust anyone else. He cares ‘bout ya; I c’n see it, even if ya can’t.”

There isn't much room for disagreement. A squiggly smile emerges from Fanboy’s pale face after he swallows hard. “Okay,” he exhales, tucking Yo back against his chest. “Y-Yer righ’.”

Satiated, Yo snuggles into his warm embrace and tries to unearth that intrepid ol’ cousin buried in the back of her brain. It’s not as easy as Fanboy makes it look, but she tries her best. If he’s in a rut, she’ll force herself to think positively, for his sake. 

“Good. Tha’s my handsome honey-bunches,” she coos, feeling a spark of joy at his reddening complexion. “All ya need is a lil’ cheerleader." 

Suddenly, a lightbulb suddenly flickers above her head. She thinks about all the times Fanboy had fed her words of encouragement and comfort, compliments, and kindness. He called her pretty when he couldn't see, took care of her when she was ill, taught her to dance, and gave her love. Perhaps in this moment, at what seems like Fanboy’s darkest hour, she can offer him a bit of that back.

“Fanboy?”

“Yeah?” Fanboy smiles, and Yo cups his cheeks in her palms. She is so enchanted by his pale skin, laced with scars and aged by stress and years of insomnia. The vulnerability and bareness of his body are so apparent, more so than when he had been naked in the pitch black. Darkness had been a barrier, keeping their witness at bay. Locking eyes was something they’d never had the privilege of doing back in the room, but now, they can gaze straight at each other’s blue and green orbs and soak up all of their beauty. 

“Th’ best part ‘bout th’ light? I get t’ see ya.” She encircles his neck with her arms and pulls him into a passionate kiss. Fanboy graciously melts into the tender maneuver, eager to reciprocate any form of passion his partner initiates. After pulling back, Yo settles her face into the crook of his neck, pressing against him and swaying.

The faux rain sounds permeate throughout the room. For once, Yo allows her imagination to take her to happier places. She envisions an outdoor patio, she and Fanboy spinning to music, all under gray skies and raindrops. Yo wears something pink and glittery, Fanboy sports a colorful suit, and both are perfectly healed. They’re smiling, they’re strong, they’re happy.

Yo's anxious heart finds peace as she visualizes the idyllic scene, and she continues to hum, faintly recalling the Glacially Slow Jamz album and trying to follow its tempo by thumping her feet. The ghostly beat flows into her body and she feels a surge of confidence.

Grabbing Fanboy’s hand and settling to rest on her waist, she settles her hand at his nape. "Jus’ like ya taught me," she whispers against his ear, drowning her thoughts in the music as she feels him look around them rapidly, his brain processing how to accomplish a slow waltz on a couch with shocking speed, despite everything that’s happened this morning. Slowly, they sway, from left to right, simple and lovely.

His arms pull closer and Yo smothers a laugh. "Wha’s so funny?" he murmurs.

Yo shakes her head and burrows it into his neck. "Nothin’. Once tha’ cast comes off, we’re dancin’ for real," she promises, her lips moving against his skin. 

“Oh!” Fanboy groans wistfully. “I’m gonna moonwalk into th’ sunset.”

“Take me with ya!” Yo sings, her hums gradually quieting.

“Yooo!” Fanboy sings, goofily sticking his tongue out. “I see ya walkin’ in th’ distaaance! I’ll take ya by th’ haaand, and looove’ll sweep us awaaay!”

It takes everything in Yo to not bust up laughing, but Fanboy breaks down her last vestige of resistance by winking and clicking his tongue. 

In a haze of laughter, Yo remembers the last time Fanboy had sung those lyrics; it had been at the school dance, where the theme had been daylight savings time, and the one on the receiving end of such a song? A janitorial mop. He has certainly come a long way. The memory brings both painful nostalgia and laughter to her heart, and she hums. 

"Whaddaya saaaay?" Fanboy sings, face morphing into countless dramatic expressions. "Take a chance on this dreamer, fo’ ol’ times saaaaake!" He punctuates the last line with an “Owwww!” akin to a rockstar and beams proudly at Yo’s reddened-from-laughing face. His body moves against hers and she’s helpless but to follow his lead.   

“Speechless, huh?” Fanboy giggles and nuzzles her temple. “Don’ say a word, Yo. Jus’ bask in th’ glory of my hilarity.” 

Yo waves at him, unable to catch her breath. 

“Man,” he whistles. “I haven’t seen ya laugh like tha’ before.”

“Its been a while,” Yo says, happy that the mood has brightened. “Feels pretty good.” She can only hope it will last. “Wanna muffin?”

An hour isn’t enough. A month won’t suffice, and yet, it feels like only a minute has passed when Oz and Pam return with personnel. Just before the door opens, the couple is relaxing in bed under the covers.

Fanboy is deeply engrossed in another comic and Yo is busy drawing a picture with supplied crayons. Fanboy’s previously blank cast is decorated with little doodles of hearts, happy faces, and other tiny messages. If one were to pass by without context, all would look right with the two patients, but Oz and Pam know better.

First, there’s a knock. Fanboy’s head snaps up but before he can decide to chase away the visitors, Yo calls out to them. “Come in!” 

Fanboy shoots her a worried gaze, but she pushes herself against his front in a comforting display of affection. It’s almost strange to do so in the light. “Iss okay,” she whispers, lapping his nape out of habit. “Be brave fo’ us.” She feels him tremble, feels all that they’ve discussed beginning to be forgotten. In hindsight, she should’ve known that the happy mood would pass. 

None of the staff are threatening or lacking in pure professionalism, but Fanboy’s jocular attitude drops like a bass when they enter his territory and remove the covers. Oz only catches a glimpse of Fanboy’s handsome face before an angry snarl twists it into an ugly mask. It is much easier to listen and obey without question in principle, but Fanboy is not easily intimidated, not even with the threat of losing custody of his children looming overhead.

It's unclear what Oz and Pam will need to do in order to gain Fanboy's compliance. He has a severe lack of social understanding and emotional intelligence and will have to learn through trial and error how to differentiate between friend and foe, respond to a problem without aggression, and navigate the world, but even Yo’s words are insufficient. 

Oz keeps a close watch over the situation. A blonde male nurse volunteers to take the former superfan to his daily check-up, and a female nurse with round glasses volunteers to tend to Yo in a separate room. It sounds like such a simple routine, but prying the two apart proves most difficult.

The moment separation is implied, Fanboy clings to Yo with unearthly strength, and it takes a security guard with a crowbar to get the job done. Yo doesn’t put up much of a fight after that, just shuts down into a quiet lump while the staff carefully heave Fanboy to his chair.

Fanboy sits stiffly, for if he were to try to escape, three full-grown men would use their entire weights to keep him strapped in. Since he can’t make a run for it, Fanboy has another objective: absorb all surroundings and deduce where the babies are, but that plan is thwarted when they wrap a blindfold around his face. Plunged into darkness, Fanboy grips the arms of his wheelchair so tightly it begins to rattle. Oz insists that the blindfold is only there to protect his sensitive eyes from the fluorescent hospital lights, but Fanboy doesn’t take comfort in that. 

As a precautionary measure, they strap Fanboy down before wheeling him out of his room and down the hall. As Yo’s voice fades with distance, Fanboy’s courage quickly wanes. He strains hard against the restraints pinning down his wrists, but to no avail. 

“W-Wait, wait,” Fanboy whimpers, his ears straining for any infant cries. “G-Go back! Please!” he begs, shaking his head to try and displace the blindfold. “Wh-Whoever’s there, take m’ back!”

“Hey, no worries, Man,” says a young, gruff voice, presumably belonging to the man pushing Fanboy’s chair from behind. “We’re going to do a brief physical and you’ll be back with your girl before you know it.”

“No! Y-Ya don’ understand!” Fanboy protests, shaking his head so hard his teeth rattle.  

The nurse doesn’t offer any responses except to ask, “Think of any good names yet?” 

Briefly stunned, Fanboy blurts without thinking, “I’m gon’ run when ya let me loose!”

“Then I won’t let you loose,” the nurse calmly replies, and Fanboy curses his impulsivity. “This won’t take long anyway. You’ll be in and out five minutes tops.” 

Oz trails the two, idly wondering if this is just par for the course or if he’s making things worse.

Yo’s cries mellow out as she finds herself seated on the plush couch in Dr. Olive’s office. The familiarity is a comfort. She curls up in the corner, clutching Admiral Fluffington, the brown teddy bear, to her chest. The attending nurse wishes her well and makes an unexpected exit, leaving Yo alone in the office to wait for the doctor.

Solitude has been both an absolute and an impossibility for Fanboy and Yo. On one hand, they’ve been cut off from everything and everyone they held dear, and on the other hand, they were never completely alone. If nobody else, they had the occasional visit from Boog, but importantly, they had each other. Here in this office, Yo realizes that for the first time in ten years, she is truly alone.

Without Fanboy’s warm body glued to her hip, Yo feels an impossible sense of disconnection. She frowns, stands, and contemplates leaving to go find her partner, but something about departing this small area triggers red flags in her head.

She mutters under her breath, shaking her head and backing away from the door. “I’m, I’m…” She squeals suddenly at a sudden solid mass hitting her from behind. Amidst her shaking, Yo gulps in a peal of breath and tries to relax. She’s backed into the desk.

“Yo, whaddaya doin’?” she scolds herself. “Yer scarin’ yo’self to death! Jus’ calm down an’...”

The door swings open and in walks Dr. Olive. Yo freezes where she stands.

“Why, good morning, Sunshine! It’s lovely to see you again!” the doctor greets warmly. She shakes Yo hand and sits at her desk. 

Normality. A friendly face. Yo sighs with relief and makes her way back to the couch. “Y-You too.” She scratches at the goggles covering her eyes. “I-I like yer new stickers.”

“Thank you! I’ll be sure to give you some if I end up with extras. Anyway, how’ve you been adjusting? Are the staff treating you well?”

Yo is eager to provide her input. “Y-Yeah, good! I think so, an’ th’ food’s really good.”

“I’ll drink to that! The greenhouses out back supply fresh produce for our in-house cooks. When you’re ready, you can go out and see the greenhouses!” 

Yo’s heart drops. “U-Um… N-Not righ’ now, thanks,” she risks with a squeamish half-smile. 

Dr. Olive studies her for a moment, nodding. “This must be very overwhelming. You’ll have plenty of time to become accustomed to larger spaces while your eyes adjust. The snow could easily blind you!”

“Oh.” Yo shudders, both disturbed and grateful to know. “Y-Ya know, I thought this was justa...fashion thing,” she admits, fingering the goggles. “They’re cute.” 

“They suit you,” Dr. Olive observes. “Green is your color, no?”

“Mostly pink,” Yo reminisces with a soft smile, “an’ yellow don’ hurt either.”

Dr. Olive taps her clipboard and winks. “I’ll remember that. Now, I need to ask you some procedural questions. Make sure to keep your answers as truthful as possible, okay?"

Yo straightens up, intrigued. “Yeah!” The questions that follow are so personal and intrusive that they stun the young woman into an uneasy silence.

“Have you had thoughts about harming yourself or others?” 

“Are you having thoughts about wanting to die or going to sleep and never waking up?”

“How often do you have these thoughts?”

“How long have you had these thoughts? A few weeks? Months? Years?”

Yo’s answers are brief, simple ones that only serve to quicken the interview until it ends, and by the end, she is squirming with discomfort. Why this lady would want to know such intimate things about her is beyond comprehension. At least she has kept her answers truthful.

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“Some time ago.”

After some elaboration, Dr. Olive staples her papers and closes them inside a desk drawer. “Thank you, Yo. Symptoms often overlap for people in your circumstance. I believe cognitive therapy will make a good alternative, and if there’s a chemical imbalance in your brain, I'll see if I can prescribe you Mellbutrin down the road.”

“W-Wha’s all tha’ mean?” Yo interrupts, her mind latching onto the words “therapy”, “chemical”, and “brain”. Although she does not understand everything, she is able to gather context clues and paint an accurate picture. 

Dr. Olive is delighted to explain. “Oh! Of course. You’re showing signs of post-traumatic stress. It develops after someone experiences a traumatic event: assault, domestic abuse, kidnapping,” Olive looks pointedly at her patient, “the worst. Fear will trigger the body to make split-second decisions as a defense mechanism. Flashbacks, nightmares, severe anxiety… Again, the worst. Do you understand?”

Yo shrinks back into the couch and meekly twiddles her thumbs. “I-I think so. C-Can I go back t’ Fanboy now?” she asks. Absorbing all that information is quite tasking and none of it appealing. 

“Of course,” Olive exclaims, getting up to shake Yo’s cold pale hand. “Always a pleasure, my love. I’ll see you again soon.”

“You need a shot, Man,” the nurse reminds Fanboy sternly. Fanboy’s been putting up an impressive fight thus far to avoid getting stuck with the ol’ needle, snapping his teeth at anything that draws near. “I swear it’ll only sting for a second.”

Just as the nurse is about to throw in the towel, Fanboy sticks out his arm for the administered vaccine. A second could mean a week for all Fanboy knows, but if getting a shot is something he needs to do to see his children, he’ll comply. The nurse sighs in relief, rolls up Fanboy’s sleeve, and applies the cold rubbing alcohol over the bony right shoulder. “Thanks, Man.” 

Close to passing out from stress, Fanboy hears the nurse ask him what his children’s names are to distract from the pain of the needle, but he refuses to indulge. Once the shot’s been administered, the nurse quickly applies a bandaid and asks if he’s in any pain.

“No,” Fanboy mumbles.

The nurse glances down. “Can I check your hands?”

Fanboy shifts, wiggling his fingers of the hand he’d bitten the night before. He feels a sharp degree of reservation as the nurse carefully removes the glove and whistles lowly at the purplish bite mark. “Dang,” he comments, gently pressing the surrounding areas. Out of line with all expectations, Fanboy sits impassive and rigid as the nurse cleans and rewraps the hand. 

“A’ight. Fixed!” the nurse exclaims, and pats the hand. “Leave it alone now. The last thing you want is an infection.” 

Fanboy jolts, losing his nerve. He’s been making it abundantly clear that he doesn’t care about his own health, only Yo's and their children’s.

“Oh, geez.” The nurse rears back from Fanboy’s erratic movements. “Uh, don’t flip out on me, Man! I’m just the intern.” He laughs a little, then makes a strange inquisition. “Say, ya went to Galaxy Hills Elementary, right?” 

Fanboy glowers. His name is apparently common knowledge now, why wouldn’t his former place of education be?

“Hey, do you remember anyone named “Duke”?”

“NO,” Fanboy answers shortly, oblivious to the intern’s disappointed face. Oz, who is standing quietly in the corner, smiles sympathetically.

“Okay. Just curious,” the intern dismisses, giving the blindfolded man a pat on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, Man.” Misinterpreting the gesture, Fanboy shies away and releases a warning growl, causing the intern to retreat. “That’s a sweet lookin’ cast, by the way. What’s it say?”

Fanboy continues to growl as the nurse bends down to read the messages Yo had scripted with a pink crayon. “Let’s see… “I love u, my starr.”, “Get well soon!”, “Keepe smilyn”, “Alwayz brush yor teeth”,” he reads. “Heh. What a sweet gal!”

Despite agreeing, Fanboy kicks with his booted foot to get the nurse away from the cast. Oz jumps but gets waved away.

“M’kay,” huffs the nurse. “Time to check your blood pressure. Ready?”

Fanboy reclines back in his chair, impatiently awaiting the procedure’s end so he can return to his partner. After a series of tests, each longer than the last, the nurse welcomes an infirmed dentist named Dr. Plaqula to check Fanboy’s teeth. Despite the nurse's anxiety about Fanboy biting, the experienced dentist remains unconcerned.

Fanboy is perturbed with the idea of someone poking around inside his mouth but he resists the urge to clamp down onto the gloved fingers prying his jaws open. 

“They aren’t in good shape,” says the dentist after a few minutes of inspection. He pushes his glasses up his long pointy nose. “That’s to be expected. Fortunately, an extraction will not be needed, but you should seek professional cleaning as soon as possible.” 

Fanboy clenches his jaw shut and glares hard at nothing. “Oh, no,” he growls. “No dentist is comin’ an’where near me.” Oz slumps, wondering how in the world this is going to work when the dentist flashes his pointed canines and brandishes a large syringe.

Oh. That’s how.

Fanboy wakes from his groggy stupor with his mouth tasting of copper and mint and his body feeling sluggish. He groans, blinking blearily up at the ceiling before lifting his head and sighing in relief. He’s in his hospital bed back in his room. What happened? He drags his tongue across the front of his teeth and feels a momentary surprise. “They’re smooth!” he thinks. 

For a moment, he fears he’s alone but senses the weighted space beside him. Yo is sitting comfortably to his right, deeply engrossed in finishing her crayon drawing that she’d started that morning.

“Yo!” Fanboy exclaims. The woman puts down her crayon and smiles a wide, toothy grin. Fanboy gawps. Her teeth are whiter and smoother than when he’d seen them just hours before.

“Hello, Fanboy!” she cheerfully greets, flashing that dazzling smile. “Didja ‘ave a nice nap?”

It takes a moment for Fanboy to fall out from under the hypnotic shine of Yo’s newly-cleaned teeth. “Uh, tha’ remains t’ be seen,” he teases, thinking the worst is over, but after attempting to sit up, he finds himself bound to the bed by his wrists.  “W-Wait, what th’?” he cries, pulling futilely at the light leather straps, which now appear in his mind as metallic and as heavy as any chainlink.

He turns, overwhelmed by panic, his mind flashing back to when he’d been chained to the wall by his broken leg.

Yo’s dazzling smile drops at his panicked state. She tosses aside her art supplies and grabs his wrists to keep him from thrashing. “Fanboy! Fanboy, iss ‘kay! Yer safe!” she soothes, catching his panicked gaze. “I’m ‘ere. I’m ‘ere with ya.” She tucks her head against his bony chest, feeling the nervous thrum of energy beneath his hospital gown. 

Fanboy yelps, tugging futilely. “I-I’m stuck! Help me, Yo!” 

Yo’s grip on him tightens with resolve. She has been preparing for this moment, but one look into his terrified eyes dismantles all her willpower. This differs from his previous breakdown because now she can’t help him without putting the custody of their children in jeopardy. She can only salvage the words that are left behind. “I...can’t.” 

“Why not?” Fanboy breathes, a rapid blankness overtaking his face because he already knows the answer. Deep down in his heart, it should come as no surprise that this would happen, but it still hurts tremendously. 

Comfort is promptly administered. Yo collapses onto and showers him with love the best way she knows how. 

In the room, they'd primarily communicated with sound and touch. Visibility, and facial cues; such facets are so foreign that they’re clueless as to how to properly utilize them. Closing her eyes to plunge into a familiar shadow, Yo gently nuzzles Fanboy’s sharp jawline and presses tender kisses into his nape. Her hands cradle the back of his head, fingers combing the long tresses of golden-brown hair. In light of her recovering body, she refrains from tangling their legs together. Instead, she wraps her arms around his waist and rubs her cheek against his collar. It would be better if they could hide under the covers, but Fanboy is immobile. 

She rumbles, purrs, gently bites, licks, all in an effort to calm her partner. It appears to work; when she pulls back to search his face, his tear-painted face spells calm. His body follows suit and goes slack in the restraints. Under her palm, Yo feels the frantic beating of his heart begins to mellow out. 

He’s been strapped down for a reason. If broken memory serves, Oz had implied that if proven unfit, Fanboy and Yo could lose their children to the state. He needs to stay put. She needs to make sure of it…but in truth, she fears that it is too late. 

It is likely that Fanboy has unintentionally committed a variety of infractions without realizing how his behavior could warrant grave punishments for those around him. If he realizes that his actions directly spelled the end of his fatherhood, he’ll be devastated. Worse, he’ll blame everything on himself and fall into such a deep pit of self-destruction that even Chum Chum won’t be able to pull him out. 

Feeling like the most selfish monster to have ever existed, Yo hides her face behind a cascade of her hair. She had acted indifferent to her children back in the room because she thought love would make their deaths feel worse. Now, she’s reluctant to meet them because of her predetermined incompetence as a mother. The risk of becoming attached to the children is too great, and now that it is now feasible that she may never be able to meet them, never hold them in her arms...or nurse them...or sing them lullabies, she wonders if she even has the right to this sadness. What has she ever done to earn the right to grieve? 

“Enough,” her mind spits. “You don’t have the right to cry! Look at what you’ve got! A beautiful room with toys and books, soft pillows and blankets, warmth, and protection. You have a partner to hold you while your babies are alone and scared! How dare you cry, you selfish thing! Your children have been crying for their mother while you’ve been busy stuffing your face and whining. How dare you feel sorry for yourself, you disgusting pig! You don’t even deserve to call yourself their mother! How dare you! ”  

It’s harsh, unrelenting, cruel, and Yo believes it. She truly does.

“Augh!” she shrieks with anguish, her tears soaking into Fanboy’s gown and creating wet patches. 

“I’m horrible. Selfish. I don’t deserve to see the babies, but Fanboy does. He’s a good person. He’s brave and determined...”

“...He’s the only one that truly loves our…”

Yo can’t even finish for fear of entertaining that huge of a lie. She does love her babies. Unbeknownst to Fanboy, as soon as he’d brought up the concept of marriage, she’d prayed for children. That was back in the room and she was in a different state of mind, but she wanted them. Under different circumstances, she’d be confident in her maternal abilities. As the circumstances are now, however, she despairs and laments what could have been. 

Hopeless, Yo takes one of Fanboy’s hands and squeezes. He doesn’t even register the touch, his defiance officially squashed by a simple measure. Fighting and rebelling won’t work. It only makes things worse. Submission, on the other hand, has granted him leniency and access to his offspring. Submission is the only way now. Instead of thinking, Fanboy will merely go through the motions, turn off his brain, and tune out all but Yo. He will not beg. He will not argue. He will not feel. He will not cry. He will not shout. He’ll answer with a “yes” or “no” and roll with the punches, the latter his forte. He will ingest whatever sustenance is provided. Such robotic behavior will be dehumanizing, perhaps humiliating, but he will do anything to at least hold his babies again. 

“I’ll be back soon, Yo.” Just as Fanboy prepares to retreat into the furthest reaches of his mind, Oz suddenly opens the door and walks in, a spring in his step and a triumphant expression on his face.

Fanboy locks down any negative and positive emotions left for the man and stares straight up at the ceiling. Yo lifts her head, her face painted with tears and snot. Oz’s expression fades as she locks eyes with him and unevenly sobs.

A brief pause. 

“Sheesh, what did I miss?” he asks, partially because he has to and mostly because he is genuinely concerned. Yo tries to give a coherent answer but breaks down into another round of uncontrollable sobs. “Okay, okay. As long as you aren’t hurt–” he pauses to look them over, “–Okay. You’re good.”

He works swiftly and silently to unfasten the straps from his honorary son’s arms and tosses them aside entirely. He expects a jovial or perhaps an annoyed reaction from the younger man, but Fanboy’s impassive expression is stagnant. He doesn’t even bother to move, his entire body scarily limp and lifeless.  

Oz kneels beside him. “Hey, Lil’ Dude. Is it cool if I talk to you for a minute?”

“I don’ hate ya, Oz,” Fanboy unexpectedly mumbles. “I'm sorry I upset ya.”

Fanboy’s apology is totally unexpected, so much so that Yo’s breath hitches. “Oh, Dude,” Oz breathes. “I’m not upset.” 

“Regardless,” Fanboy maintains, and Yo is stunned into silent hiccups, “I’m sorry. I know ya don’ make th’ rules an’ iss not yer fault what happened t’ us.” In hindsight, he can’t believe he ever made the comparison between his caretaker and captor, polarizing opposites in everything they’re comprised of. To have said such a thing, even in a moment of relapsing judgment was unbecoming. 

“C’n ya fo’give me?” he risks, stony expression breaking for a fraction of a second. “I-I know I’m n-not smart, an’ I-I know we was jus’ dumped on ya, but please...don’ hate me.”

“That’s enough,” Oz lisps, taking Fanboy’s fragile hand and cradling it to his chest. “I'm the one who owes you an apology. What I said to you was unacceptable. I should've been more considerate of how you felt."

"Oh..."

"Yeah. Seriously. I couldn’t have asked for a greater gift than you, Fanboy.”

Fanboy’s impassive mask breaks in shock. “Wh—? How c’n ya say that?” he chokes. 

Oz hardens his gaze. “Because, like it or not, you’re my son.”

The entire room quiets save for the soft sound of Yo’s hiccups. Fanboy feels a contradiction begin to bubble up in his throat. “Y-Ya didn’ grow me up.”

“I know, but I care about you and Edmund more than life itself. Seeing you like this makes me wanna break into the police station and kill that monster with my bare hands!” He inhales sharply through his nose and Fanboy cowers, though it does give him a huge bout of satisfaction to imagine Oz beating Boog to a pulp. 

“Ya don’ hate me? Even though I said awful stuff?”

 “I love you!” Oz exclaims, eyes growing hot. “Always have, always will, no matter what ya do or what ya say!”

In a moment of stupefied delight, Fanboy looks rapidly back and forth between Oz and Yo. “E-Even when I was gone?” he tests, genuinely cautious.

“Of course!” Oz says incredulously. He leans in, his stare intensifying tenfold. “I never stopped loving you. Never. I love you.” 

“Oh,” Fanboy whimpers, struck dumb by the older man’s conviction. He doesn’t remember if back in the room he’d ever doubted his friends’ love for him; those memories have been lost to time and brain damage, but Oz is so serious, so meaningful, Fanboy believes him. At the crux of what has happened, both Fanboy and Oz have lost each other, and despite Fanboy suffering a great deal more both physically and mentally, sympathy begins to blossom in his chest. 

“I-I love ya too, Oz,” he blurts, and that’s all it takes for the doctor to break down into tears. They embrace, better now, and Fanboy finds himself content in the warm, enveloping hold. 

After pulling away and wiping his eyes with the crook of his arm, Oz fixes his gaze on Yo, who looks down as soon as their eyes meet. “Hey, Babe,” he smiles tiredly. “You know…you probably feel pretty lost right now, and that’s seriously justified, don’t get me wrong, but you haven’t lost your place in the world. We remember you.”

Yo recalls her lack of letters and starts to voice her doubt, but after a moment of reflection realizes the technicality of Oz’s words. Acceptance isn’t the same as forgetting or moving on without care. As much as Yo wants to believe her childhood friends have pushed her memory out, she can’t imagine Nancy, Lupe, Francine, and the rest of the girls doing that, at least not for convenience's sake. A chance exists that they aren't even aware of her rescue. She whimpers, and Oz cups her cold little hand in his own.

"Even if things never go back to the way they used to be," Oz says, "you still have a partner who loves you. You have Chum Chum, Pam, and of course, me, an added bonus,” he jokes, delighted when Yo smiles, “and most importantly, you have your children. They will always love you.” 

A range of emotions passes over Yo’s face. Grace, relief, doubt. If she was the same girl she’d been before the kidnapping, the mere thought of having a partner and family would have sent her into a love-crazed tizzy. She wouldn’t have doubted their love for even a moment, because she was an awesome person worthy of love. “Things change,” she whispers. “I don’ think I’m good ‘nough fo’ them.”

Fanboy jolts. “I disagree! STRONGLY!” he snaps.

“Oh boy,” Oz croaks. “I’m with Fanboy on that one. Seriously.” He pauses, swallows back a sob, and smiles. “Yo, you’re a marvel. You’re so polite and gracious, so understanding and patient. You’re going to make a wonderful mother.”

Yo flushes and buries her face in the teddy bear gift from that morning. “I tell ‘er tha’ ev’ry day!” Fanboy announces proudly, hooking an arm around her shoulder. There’s a trace of sadness on his face, and Oz knows why, knows he can make things better right here and now with just a few words.

“The plan has changed."

Yo tilts her head. “O-Oh?” she blurts nervously. “T-Transfer?”

“No! Nothing like that,” Oz assures as their eyes widen with fear. “Seriously. I’ll resign before I permit you two to be separated.”

Fanboy releases a shuddering breath and Yo nearly melts with relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she whispers, finding Fanboy’s uninjured hand and squeezing it. “Wha’ changed, Oz?”

A crooked grin squiggles across the man’s round face. “I figured out something that should've been obvious from the start. Pam knocked some sense into me.” He snorts and rubs his slightly aching scalp. “Literally.”

“So, wha’ IS gon’ happen?” Yo braves, and then, miraculously, her dormant optimism begins to rekindle at the sight of the doctor’s delighted smile. 

“We’re kicking off Ice-Mas with a family reunion,” announces Oz. “In a week, you’re going to be with your kids again.”

Fanboy shoots up, nearly knocking Yo off balance. “WHAT!?” he shouts in such joy and hope as if he had just heard the trumpet call to the second coming. “Whoops! Sorry, Yo,” he quickly addresses the dizzy woman, “but WHAT?! Seriously!?”

“Y-Yeah! Seriously! Take it easy, take it easy,” Oz cautions, a little jarred from the sudden shouting, but in retrospect, he should have seen it coming. “We’re waiting a week and using that time to prepare you for the real world. The physicals and therapy sessions will need to continue, you’ll have to eat what we give you, and–”

Fanboy cuts the older man off by clutching his collar. “I don’ care. I don’ even care what I ‘ave t’ do. Jus’ don’ take it back, Oz,” the younger man whispers. “Don’ take it back.” Oz carefully wraps his arms around Fanboy and pulls him close. Yo watches, expression akin to one about to cross a rickety bridge above a rocky canyon.

“I won’t,” Oz promises, pulling back to put his hands on Fanboy’s brittle shoulders. “What happens next is all up to you now.” He’s delighted to see a fierce determination overtake the younger man’s emerald eyes. Freedom of decision has extraordinary effects on one who has been long deprived. “But if you ever veer off course, I'll help guide you back.” He gives Fanboy some space and carefully releases his hold. “I’m your mentor now, remember?” He grins. “Dude, you’re gonna feel great once you get your clocks back on track! Pam and I are making schedules, so prepare yourselves for a busy week!” 

“W-We’d love tha’!” Yo blurts, nodding along with her teary-eyed partner.  

“Awesome!” Oz exclaims. “Then it’s settled. We’ll take things slow, one thing at a time, day by day, and ease into a productive, steady pace. And Fanboy?” He winks. “Try to sleep for at least four hours tonight.” 

“Wait, wait,” Yo exclaims flatly, waving her hands. “Hol’ on a sec. How much sleep didee get las’ night?!” Fanboy burns red and looks away.

Oz glances between them, realizing there have yet to be words exchanged about the night before. “Oh, ya didn’ know? Fanboy was up until 5:45 AM. You didn’t tell her, Dude?”

Yo swivels her head to glare pointedly at her partner, who looks like he wants to curl up under a rock and disappear. “Fanboy,” she growls warningly.

Before the situation grows more awkward, Oz grabs Yo’s hand and shakes it. “Alright, I believe everything’s been sorted. For now, finish your meals and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll go over your new schedule in detail tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

Despite the last little bit of awkwardness, the meeting ends harmoniously, and for the first time in a while, Fanboy and Yo have a mutual enthusiasm for what lies ahead. Just six more days until they meet their children. 

Of course, when night falls, Yo is ready to rip Fanboy a new one and distract herself from the upcoming reunion.

“WHAT were ya thinkin’!?” 

Fanboy flinches under Yo’s furious posture, guilty as charged. 

“Ya stayed up all night on PURPOSE?!” she shouts, waving her arms. “Why?! Actually, ya know wha’? I don’ care why!”

“Well, Yo, someone needed ta keep watch!” Fanboy argues. 

“Fo’ wha’?!” 

No answer.

Yo simply gapes, and if she weren’t still so worn out, she would have throttled him. “Yer sleepin’, Sweetie, from now—“ she points to the alarm clock which reads 8:47 PM, and sets it to ring at the appropriate time “—’till 7 o’ clock tomorruh. Lay down righ’ now!”

“B-But, Yo—!”

“THA’S FINAL, Fanboy!”

Realizing the deep hole he’s digging himself, Fanboy backtracks before Yo has a fit. “Okay, okay, Boss!” He carefully hobbles across the bed, and with Yo’s help, wriggles beneath the warm fresh covers. “I can’ help if I ‘ave “insomiya”!”

“Don’ pull tha’,” Yo snaps, going into full mama-bear mode as she snuggles up to his right and smacks the teddy bear in his face. “We both know ya sleep like a rock when ya don’ decide t’ play guard. Yer choosin’ to stay awake. If I fin’ out ya do it again, I-I’m gon’--! I-I’m gon’ call ya only “Lance” from now on!” Yo grins triumphantly at her partner’s horrified face. “Tha’s right! So ya better hit th’ hay...b’fore I hitcha with th’ name.” 

Fanboy lifts the teddy bear away from his eyes and glowers, unwilling to risk calling her bluff. Yo means what she says; she’ll resort to, in her eyes, inconsequential threats to get what she wants. “She’s a viper, ain’t she, Admiral Fluffin’ton?” he grumps to the bear. 

Yo allows herself a sense of pride as the man begrudgingly nestles into her hair. “Sorry, Fanboy,” she chirps unapologetically, “but yer health iss more important t’ me than yer supersona.”

Fanboy pinches her shoulder and she retaliates with a childish raspberry. In a matter of seconds, they’ve exhausted all their frustration towards each other. They lay side by side, both exhausted but too hyped to fall under just yet. Yo thinks to herself about how intensely Fanboy’s been protecting her.

“Ya don’ always ‘ave t’ be th’ hero, Fanboy,” Yo says in a softer tone of voice. “Sometimes, when iss outta yer hands, ya gotta be willin’ to give th’ people ‘round ya a lil’ bit o’ trust.”

Fanboy gazes up at the glow-in-the-dark stars hanging beautifully above their heads. “Iss not just ‘bout bein’ a hero anymore,” he says, stuffing the bear under the covers. “Iss...It actually means somethin’ when I’m choosin’ t’ keep ya safe, keep th’ babies safe. Iss not ‘cause I wanna feel good ‘bout m’self.” He absently plays with his wristband. “I mean, tha’s a part of it, but ya’ll are what matter in th’ grand scheme o’ things. I ‘ave to.” He inhales, voice beginning to break. 

“In th’ room, I couldn’ save us no matter ‘ow hard I tried. I didn’ ‘ave a chance in there, but here?” he covers his eyes as they begin to grow hot. “I thought... maybe... if I c’n jus’ save us this time, everything else’ll work out.”

Yo listens to Fanboy intently, absorbing every word.

“I don’ wanna make ya mad at me,” Fanboy sniffles. “I jus’ want ya t’ have hope. If I can prove tha’ I’m capable, you’ll believe you are too.”

Under the covers, Yo gently tugs off his glove and laces their fingers. “Lance,” she says softly, tone free of malice and mockery, “ya’ve already proven yerself a thousand times over; ya’ve shown that yer literally willin’ to die for yer family, but ya need to remember that, whether yer a hero or not, I love ya, an’ when our children meetcha, they’ll love ya too.” She pauses to allow her words to sink in. “I’m so, so, so sorry you believed tha’ that was somethin’ ya felt ya had to hurt yerself t’ earn.”

Against all that Yo has come to believe her inability to be a crutch for Fanboy, her assurance has the power to change his entire perception. Her words alone cause Fanboy’s distress to fold beneath an unwavering serenity, his unfocused fatigue to wane, his self-confidence to make a subtle rebound. Just by watching his expressions shift, a sadly unfamiliar experience for Yo, she can discern that she’s made a difference.

A huge weight of worry lifts from Fanboy’s psyche, and he steals a glance at Yo’s equally tired eyes.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

Chapter Text

Monday, December 19th, 2020

A soft knocking rouses Yo into the anxious beginnings of a brand new week. First comes surprise, surprise that Fanboy managed to sleep through the entire night. Then comes the disappointment in herself for not having slept at all. Lastly comes the relief that it’s not their tormentor poking his head through the door, but Oz.

“Rise and shine, Sleepyheads!” the man calls. “You ready to start the day?”

Yo forces a smile and salutes. “Yes, Sir!”

“Wazzat?” Fanboy mumbles drowsily. His eyes pop open in momentary panic before settling. “Oh, phew. We’re still ‘ere!”

“Seriously? Shyeah. Where else would you be?” Oz momentarily cringes. Fanboy leaves the tactless jest unanswered, instead focusing on Yo curled up on his lap. She’s a welcomed sight after a night of unpleasant dreams.

“Why, good morning, Crazy-Pants!” He playfully boops their noses together. “Feel refreshed?"

Glancing sideways at their mentor, Yo teeters her hand. “Eh. You?”

Fanboy’s working eye sparkles with joy. “I slept all night! Isn’t tha’ awesome?!” 

“That’s awesome, Lil’ Dude,” Oz praises, “because we have a busy day ahead of us!”

Fanboy gasps. “Is Chum Chum here?!”

“Not yet.” 

Nurse Lady Pam sashays in holding two platters, the enticing aroma of pancakes, eggs, and bacon permeating the air and triggering a ravenous hunger within the patients.

“More food!” Fanboy salivates, holding his hands over his heart like he can’t believe it. Yo licks her chops.

“Of course!” Nurse Pam flexes. “You wanna get strong?” She sets the platters atop the play table and uncovers them to reveal the in-house prepared feast. “Feed those muscles!”

Fanboy and Yo happily comply. As usual, table manners are a second priority. Yo holds her pancakes in a burger-like fashion, tearing them to bits and making snarling sounds with every bite. Fanboy scoops up his scrambled eggs with his hands and shovels them down his throat without chewing.

Though stunned into silence by the ravenous display, Oz and Pam gather their bearings and give a quick crash-course regarding proper utensil use. In addition, Oz offers them two cups of coffee. Yo takes a polite sip, only to be pleasantly surprised by its overwhelming sweetness.

Oz proudly watches her swallow down the rest and shoots Pam a smug grin.

Pam scoffs. “You loaded that sucker with sugar, Hon. There’s hardly any coffee in it.”

Fanboy doesn’t share Yo’s enthusiasm. He takes one sip and his hollow face twists into an ugly grimace. “ACH!” he retches. “GUH-ROSS!”

Yo gasps. "Fanboy!"

“Well, at least I didn’ spit it out!” Fanboy protests, and adds onto Yo’s embarrassment by wiping his tongue off with a napkin.

“Simmer down,” Pam soothes, handing each of them a bottle of brightly colored pills. “Everyone’s taste buds are different; you don’t have to drink it.”

“I don’ have to…?” Fanboy repeats curiously, dumping two pills into his palms as instructed. He stops raising the coffee cup to his lips. “Whaddaya mean?”

Pam tilts her head. “You don’t have to drink the coffee.”

Fanboy is dumbstruck and it’s Yo who has to ask, “We getta choice?”

Pam holds her composure. “Absolutely,” she assures. “I’m not going to force you to–”

“Wait, wait,” Fanboy interrupts, waving his hands. “You’re tellin’ me I coulda said “no”? And that woulda been okay?! I don’t understand.”

Despite the situation’s jocular undertones, Oz and Pam truly realize how foreign “choice” must be for the two individuals deprived of it for half their lives.

“Part of our job is to help you make your own decisions.”

Fanboy wrinkles his nose, uncertain. “Like what?”

“Oh, SO many things!” Pam provides. “Future living situations, schooling, healthcare, employment opportunities, childcare—the works!”

A short silence. “Still not gettin’ it.”

Swallowing down his anger for Boog, Oz reminds his honorary son that, “What happens next is all up to you–”

“Unless I make a “bad” choice,” Fanboy grumbles, having trouble embracing this new reality.

“If you veer off course,” Oz pledges, “I’ll always be there to guide you back.”

Fanboy huffs.

“Anyway,” Oz ebbs, “who wants some ice-cold water?”

“ME!” Yo shouts, desperate to change the subject.

The conversation ends on a sour note but what follows is worth it. Fanboy and Yo are able to choose what they want to drink and snack on. Not since their early childhood have they felt so in control but it isn’t long before surges of doubtful hornets swarm to undermine the couple’s courage with stinging uncertainty.

“Issit really okay if I wear these?” Fanboy checks as he slides on his new pair of gloves. Similar hesitation is evident in Yo's reluctance to drink her milk glass. The pair anticipate a punishment for declination or at least a firm reprimanding if they show even the slightest hints of insistence. But:

“It’s fine, Lil’ Dude. Seriously,” Oz assures, placing his large hands over Fanboy’s scrawny shoulders. “You’re like, adults now. You can make your own decisions.”

“Our own decisions,” Yo repeats. It’s a nice thought, but how will they know if they’re right or wrong? She bites the inside of her cheek, hesitating for only a second longer before gulping down her milk.

“Th-There,” she croaks, setting the empty glass down hard. As she prepares to be beaten, she feels a sharp rise in tension in her muscles. But, to her pleasant surprise, nothing happens.

“Ooh, that’s good satin!” Fanboy gushes, flexing his good fingers inside his new glove. “I could get used t’ this whole “makin’ decisions” thingy!”

“You have to,” Oz says, his tone tinged with regret as he gently squeezes Fanboy’s shoulder. “You’re a dad.”

Fanboy flashes a proud, toothy grin. “Sooooo, when can we wear real clothes again?”

Oz arranges a joint therapeutic session with Dr. Olive so Fanboy can both be a part of the conversation and encourage Yo to open up. His plan garners semi-success:

When Fanboy and Yo meet Dr. Olive, Fanboy is eager to chatter while Yo at first remains quiet, exhibiting a fake cheer to hide the morbid sadness plaguing her brain.

It’s only Fanboy for whom Yo lifts her veil, both because that man has an uncanny ability to read her now VERY visible expressions and to have him listen. His understanding—as he’s the only one who can truly understand—is a major comfort, but even then…

Once Fanboy’s sitting beside her on the couch, Yo feels more confident in sharing her feelings with Dr. Olive, but only a little bit.

Dr. Olive sees right through Yo’s faux smile and knows her suffering isn’t exclusive. Fanboy too is very troubled. She can see a wildness in the green of his working eye and subtle dips at the corners of his ever-present smile. She can hear a prominent edge to his hoarse voice. While shaking his hand, she can feel the tightness in his sinewy muscles and the thrum of nervous energy coursing through his veins. It’s all so blatant that Yo worries she may be unconsciously displaying similar traits.

“There’s no doubt,” Olive says after a while, “you’re both wonderful people and I think you have the potential to become incredible parents.”

“Really?” Fanboy breathes, eyes sparkling with hope.

“Really! With lots of hard work and dedication, you’ll be able to take care of yourselves and your kids, and live on your own, totally independent.”

“Wait, wait!” Fanboy exclaims, holding up his hands. “Hol’ th’ phone! “Indebendent”? You mean, we c’n live by ourselves?!” He grins and whispers to Yo, “It’ll be jus’ like before, ‘cept we’ll be married!”

“Ooh!” Dr. Olive’s eyebrows fly up. “Married?”

Yo beams, shimmying up Fanboy’s side and nuzzling his cheek. She can never resist the urge to swoon when Fanboy speaks like that. The very idea of marrying her best friend fills her with a sense of giddiness that takes her back to her childhood. “That’s right, Ma’am,” Fanboy proudly affirms. “Tying th’ knot an’ driving off into the sunset!”

“That’s a big step!”

“Oh, yeah!” Fanboy agrees. “We’re gon’ live in th’ Fanlair ‘til we buy th’ bigger’er building underneath for us grownups an’ the kids can stay in th’ Fanlair. Chum Chum’s gon’ be their uncle and play with ‘em an’ live with us.”

Fanboy’s eager smile tinges with sorrow. “It’ll be jus’ like before!”

“Why do you think that?” Olive asks.

“Because I do! And I’m always—…“ he sneaks a glance at Yo. “…almost always right!”

“Darn right!” Yo teases, but the pure passion in her partner’s voice invokes both peace and worry to her heart. She shares many of Fanboy's ambitions but is doubtful that they will come true.

“I’m gon’ teach ‘em the alphabet an’ countin’, an show ‘em ‘ow to color an’ Yo c’n show ‘em how t’ write an’ stuff! Ooh!” Fanboy’s smile brightens ever more. “An’ Oz can show ‘em his shop! They’ll love it there!”

“We could take ‘em to the park too,” chimes in Yo.

Fanboy applauds. “The park, the playground, th’ Frosty Mar–!” He stops suddenly and the room’s joyful atmosphere dissipates in the blink of an eye.

Dr. Olive knows immediately the cause of this mood change and watches Yo reflexively scrunch up into her wary partner. “The Frosty Mart,” she surmises, reinforcing her suspicions when Fanboy becomes a statue.  “Are you worried about Boog?”

Fanboy inhales sharply, and just like that, his joyful inflexion is gone. His working eye gleams with caution, ever alert for impending danger. It appears that even in the safety of a hospital, his paranoia hasn’t abated. “Mm!” he ejects. “Nope! Not me! I’m totally over it. Uh, what DID ‘appen to Boog? J-Jus’ askin’ for a friend. Is he still…?”

Olive flips through another set of notes sitting on her desk. “Boog's employment under King Frostius Corp was terminated four months ago due to excessive customer complaints. He was arrested for assault on the Frosty Mart CEO, bailed out by a fellow coworker, and gathered unemployment checks from the government until his second arrest.” She gestures to Fanboy and Yo.

A short pause.

“So he’s in jail.”

“Yep!”

“For sure?”

“Absolutely!”

“Okay,” Fanboy says, rather breathless. “Maybe I’m not over it. ‘Cuz my brain is tellin’ me he’s around th’ corner. But if Boog’s not workin’ at the Frosty Mart no more, then it’ll be safe fo’ the babies.” A hopeful smile crosses his face as another person comes to mind. “I hope I get t’ see Lensy again.”

Dr. Olive narrows her eyes at her notes. “Lensy?” she repeats under her breath. “Oh, Lenny!” Fanboy ponders the doctor's intense expression, but the moment passes quickly. "Well, you have a lot to look forward to, and not just in the short term but the long term, too. You’re gonna face a lot of big challenges; it’ll be difficult to handle alone.”

Yo shivers with anxiety before she can stop herself. "W-We'll be fine!" She assures, disguising her stress with calm. Olive looks convinced enough, but then Fanboy gawks at Yo as if she’s gone insane, and she knows her cover is blown.

“Well, there’s a change of pace! What happened t’ us being §̸̡̭͋͋†̴̹̎̈́͜µ̷̮̥̓͠þ̸̭̠̈͠ï̷̖͈͐́Ð̷̢̌̌͜  n’ ¢̷͖̫̐͝r̴̡̛̙̔ą̷͇̊̈́̾z̷̛̫͚̆¥̵͔̠̇̑ ?”

Yo could kill him for that question. Her face erupts in such rage that he shrinks in fear.

“I-I mean…tha’s what we are, right?” Fanboy asks hesitantly, “Ain’t we? A… l̷̬̑ð̸̦̾§̸͙̕†̵̻͂ ̸̣̅¢̵̩̂å̴̲͊µ̸͖͗§̴̤̚ê̶̗̆ ?”

Dr. Olive sets her clipboard aside and rolls her desk chair directly before them. “No. You are NOT a lost cause. You’ve gone through something most people won’t ever have to, but this isn’t a battle you have to fight alone. Not anymore.”

Fanboy’s lips soundlessly part.

Olive reaches for him with her hand, expecting no form of reciprocation, but, shockingly, Fanboy takes it. “You’re not a lost cause,” she repeats, letting the sentiment be absorbed amidst the hanging silence.

“You’re not a lost cause.”

Those words send a hopeful tremor through Fanboy’s body and, gracious beyond measure, he squeezes Olive’s hand.

Smiling warmly, Olive rolls back to her desk. “You should be proud. It takes a lot of bravery to open up like that.”

Emboldened by the additional praise, Fanboy puffs his chest and even Yo matches the doctor’s gaze.

It remains to be seen how much they will be able to accomplish during their hospital stay, but looking over her extensive notes, Olive is optimistic.

After the appointment, Fanboy and Yo part to undergo their respective health checks.

Fanboy finds himself in a familiar predicament. When he must be apart from his partner for any myriad of time, he simply cannot suppress his hostility, and it becomes increasingly plain to see once he’s being wheeled blindfolded to the nurse’s office rattling like a frozen tin.

Oz understands that Fanboy’s lack of social awareness is not monocausal for his erratic, aggressive behavior, but is a dominant contender and must be corrected quickly. He will learn the consequences if ever he should seriously injure an innocent person, but until then, Oz hovers throughout the checkup.

It breaks his heart to witness Fanboy sit so tensely through basic blood-pressure checks, vaccines, and x-rays, to feel the fear radiating off the younger man akin to water vapor.

It’s obvious by now that Fanboy hates being touched—so different from when he was a warm, tactile child. He flinches when the nurse rewraps his hand, growls when the stethoscope presses against his chest, and snaps his teeth when strange hands approach his broken legs, just as he had when he’d first arrived.

However, there is restraint. Each jolt and growl is followed by a sharp withdrawal and stony lull. Fanboy is making a tremendous effort to curtail his movements, so desperately tense that tears tremble at the corners of his eyes.

In an effort to quell the younger man’s panic, Oz sets himself at Fanboy’s side and gives constant encouragement and praise. Despite his best efforts, they seldom help. All the more reason why Fanboy and Yo’s temporary separation is non-negotiable. Oz can’t imagine would Fanboy willingly restrain himself if he saw the nurses touch Yo.

After the checkup, Oz wheels Fanboy to his room, doing his best not to crumble while hearing the unintelligible mumbles and mutters emanating from his patient. It’s made even harder when Fanboy’s blindfolded head begins to rock back and forth. Oz tightens his grip on the handles, which vibrate from Fanboy’s shaking.

“Just a little further, Lil’ Dude,” he assures. “You’re doing great.”

The changes are promising, even inspiring. Fanboy is cracking his rigidity in the interest of reuniting with his children.

“Oz. How was it!?”

Oz is just about to shut Fanboy and Yo's room door when he hears his fiance's voice. “Gah!” he exclaims, holding a hand over his heart. “Hey, a little warning next time! Seriously!”

An amused half smile spreads across Pam's lips as she pushes a drowsy Yo in a wheelchair. “I called your name twice, you silly goose.” Pam helps Yo to get up from her chair and join her partner in their room. “Ya need an ENT?”

Oz sputters with embarrassment but holds his tongue in front of his patients. It’s only when Pam rejoins him in the hallway that he’s ready to rebuke.

“How’s Lance?” Pam quickly whispers.

“B—! …Better,” Oz asserts with lacking conviction. “A work in progress.” They watch the couple passionately embrace on the loveseat like they've been apart for weeks.

“What about Yo?” Oz asks, shutting the door and leaning against it.

“Whew, where to start?” Pam groans. “She's tired, sore, malnourished—that marasmus is no joke—but improving. Slowly.” Pam's posture shifts. “While we’re on the topic, and, this may sound odd, but we need to give them the talk.”

Oz freezes. “The talk?” he repeats shrilly. “Like, THE talk? Why?”

“Yo thinks a magical stork put the babies in her stomach.”

Oz stares. “Uh?”

Pam crosses her arms, anger fisting her gut. “I don’t think either of them understands the purpose of intercourse. At all.” She squints at his unsure expression. "You think so?”

“Shyeah,” Oz reluctantly replies. He begins to sweat. “They’re parents."

Pam bites her fist, for once pessimistic.

Oz hears soft titters coming from the other side of the door. He wonders if at any point in Fanboy and Yo’s ten years together trapped Boog brought up the idea of intimacy, or worse yet, encouraged it in any manner between his captives. The thought causes a wave of nausea to sweep through Oz’s system and he suddenly fears that the abuse may have extended past what the reports have disclosed.

“You don’t think Boog–?” he croaks, unable to finish the ugly assumption. 

Pam wavers with sickened discomfort. "We’ll never know unless we talk.”

“Okay,” Oz concedes reservedly. He’s dreaded this moment for as long as he held hope his son was alive. Borderline interrogation… The more he sees how Fanboy and Yo have been affected, the less he wants to be the one prying for answers. “You’re right.”

“We can do this. Be strong.” Oz tries to match her determination, but upon reentering the couple's room, his hesitation worsens.

Fanboy and Yo are locked together and in the process of disrobing. It appears they haven’t gotten the memo regarding post-labor intimacy or modesty.

Oz clears his throat. The patients acknowledge his presence with quick glances but their prepping continues without pause.

“Uh, hello?”

Fanboy spares Oz a flushed, annoyed glare and Yo leisurely reclines against the armrest, giving NO indication she cares if there are others present. The implications are horrifying at best and at worst…Pam and Oz loathe to delve into the possibilities.

“Guys, can you put a pause on that?” Oz asks awkwardly.

His query is met with a few begrudging groans and grumbles as the two untangle. Fanboy’s annoyance far surpasses Yo’s as a result of her exhaustion. She fixes her gown and gives Pam an innocent smile. “Hi!”

Pam manages to smile back, but barely. “Sorry to interrupt, but this is too important to postpone.”

Oz promptly takes Fanboy under his wing while Pam ushers Yo into a spare room across the hall, making sure the young woman dons her goggles on the way. Despite Fanboy’s initial worry, Oz promises they’ll be back together within a few minutes.

As for the talk itself, Fanboy takes the more graphic details fairly well and has many questions. “Is there a build-up?” Noting Oz’s confused expression, he elaborates, “How many times does it take for th’ girl to ‘ave babies?”

“It can only take one time.” Oz folds his hands. 

Fanboy scratches his head and leans back against the couch cushions. “But tha’ would mean Yo an’ me should ‘ave like, a bajillion babies by now,” he points out.

Oz winces. “Some couples aren’t so lucky. I imagine your malnourishment interfered with fertile–”

“Don’ know what tha’ means,” Fanboy interrupts, “but, sheeshley, if I’d known that would make Yo pregnant, I woulda “astained”! Or, maybe I wouldna.” He proceeds to casually recite some of the many intimate instances between himself and Yo in explicit detail, putting his adopted father in a VERY embarrassing position.

“OKAY!” Oz blurts, waving his hands before he can hear any more. “That is pertinent information—thank you for sharing!”

Fanboy finds Oz’s flustered reaction puzzling. “What?”

“Seriously?” Oz croaks, for a moment forgetting that Fanboy simply doesn’t understand the sacredness of such acts, and to be speaking of the instances between himself and Yo in such a way is about as casual for him as drinking water.

Fanboy's face falls and Oz curses his impetuous nature. “You're okay! It’s okay! You didn't know; you're still learning.”

For a brief moment, he wishes he’d never started the conversation, but it’s important Fanboy be taught the implications of intimacy, spiritual significance, and the sorts. He explains it all to the best of his ability.

Again, surprisingly, Fanboy takes everything in stride, a far cry from his rigid self just two days before. “Are we gon’ get in trouble?” he asks, swinging his legs over the edge of the couch. “Because we didn’ wait ‘til marriage?”

“No,” Oz assures. “You didn’t know any better. Now you do, which brings me back to the other reasons you have this info. Number one: you protect yourselves. Number two: you have to wait.”

Fanboy jolts back as if he’s been slapped. “WAIT?” he squawks. “How long!?”

“Eh, six weeks, give or take.”

Fanboy’s jaw drops. “But–! But—!” he stammers. “WHY?!”

All Oz can offer is a sympathetic half-grin. “Yo’s body needs time to heal, Dude. She just gave birth to twins!”

“B-But Oz!” Fanboy struggles. “We need to!”

“Hey, I get it. Everyone has urges.” Oz stops, looking concernedly into his adoptive son’s eyes and gathers that the panic is rooted in something deeper. “Why do you need to?”

“Because!” Fanboy scrambles. Because it keeps them warm in the icy cold. Because it keeps them busy in the empty hours of forever. Because there hasn’t been an instance where either Fanboy or Yo have felt a greater joy, a greater pleasure, than when they were curled up in each other’s arms connected as one flesh. It’s one of their only beacons of elation, of excitement, and of tender devotion.

“Because,” Fanboy croaks, his arms wrapping around his torso, “iss the only thing tha’ makes us really happy.”

Oz’s heart clenches. He has no idea how to alleviate the younger man at first, but then, it clicks. “I see,” he nods. “It feels really special, right?"

Fanboy wipes his eyes. “An' comfy,” he sniffles, “Safe. He didn’t hurt us when we did it.”

A sharp cold seizes Oz's heart. When he entered Fanboy's and Yo's hospital room while they partook in ordinary activities, Fanboy reacted with suspicion and alarm. But when he walked in on Fanboy and Yo preparing themselves for intimacy, they hadn’t cared. It wasn't just a lack of social awareness that was at play. It is likely that Boog encouraged these behaviors by never harming them during the act. It hits Oz like a ton of bricks.

“Iss the only time I didn’t feel cold,” Fanboy adds, misreading the horrified look on his adopted father’s face. “I forgot ‘bout how ‘ungry I was. I forgot ‘bout how bored an’ hurt I was.” He smiles painfully. “I even forgot ‘bout Chum Chum.”

“I-I see,” Oz says, clearing his throat to regain control. “I get why it’s important to you.”

Fanboy nods, his heart beating with hope.

“But you have to keep in mind that the things that were normal with Boog are not the same with us. In the real world, you keep those things private behind locked doors. And, on top of that, it shouldn’t be your primary source of happiness.” Oz pauses. “I’m glad you told me why it’s so important to you, because now we can help you discover something else that can fill that void. The weeks ahead of you are the perfect time to explore. Live in the moment. Cherish the time you have together.”

“Oh,” Fanboy concedes after a moment. “I guess we can do that.”

More quiet.

“What if we sneak it?” Fanboy asks, staring hard at Oz. “Whaddaya gon’ do?”

Oz matches his stare. “Don’t.”

“Ooh, goody! Another decision I can’t make,” Fanboy concludes sourly. “Knew it.” 

“Lance,” Oz chides, “time will fly by once you have your kids. You won’t even have time to THINK about intimacy. Trust me.”

Fanboy gives that some thought, leading to another question. “But when Yo heals up, can we?” 

“Yes,” Oz sharply inhales, “but I seriously recommend talking to me first.” He looks Fanboy dead in the eye. “Think you can handle six weeks?”

Fanboy smile tightens. “That’s nothing.”

Oz flinches, and he quickly breaks eye contact. “Ugh, I’m so sorry, Dude. This whole situation is so messed up. It’s just, I never thought I’d be having this conversation with you as an adult, but that monster got ya before I had the chance."

His adopted father’s woes do a fine job to drain the bitterness in Fanboy’s heart. All this time, he’s imagined the suffering Chum Chum must’ve endured due to his absence that he hasn’t granted Oz’s plight the same weight.

“I can’t imagine HE ever gave you the talk. Did he?”

Fanboy opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. “Did he?” he repeats distantly.

“He knew you and Yo were “together”,” Oz tests.

“Oh, yeah, he knew that,” Fanboy scoffs carelessly, “but he didn’t say nothin’.”

This new unearthing takes Oz aback. “He knew and didn’t say anything at all?”

“Nope!” Fanboy drags his thumb and forefinger across his lips. “Nada.”

“He didn’t encourage it?” Oz presses, hooked to discover the whole truth.

A strange look crosses Fanboy’s face and suddenly he looks as if he’s gone away. “He…” Fanboy sucks in a shallow breath and glances down at his hands. Adorned in purple satin, they shimmer in the yellow glow and press up against the dirty wall on either side of Yo’s head.

“Uhmn…” he utters blankly, the brightly lit hospital room around him melting into Boog’s basement. “I…”

With the clarity of day, Fanboy is back in the room, young and sporting his uniform. His cold face is slick with hot tears as he hovers shakily over Yo. Behind him, he hears Boog chuckling gleefully. A large hand pushes his head forward so that his face touches Yo's in a mock kiss, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up and his stomach to churn.

Without daring to glance over his shoulder, Fanboy knows Boog is leering at his handiwork.

“Ä̶̹̥͝͝r̵̘̖̊̑ê̴̡̠͌͗ ̶̗̪̊͘¥̵̺̪̅͐ð̶̤͖͌̀µ̸̩̲̓̓ ̶̢͚̎͝ê̶̩͓̊͐ñ̴̻͖́̃j̶͔̱͂́ð̸̦͒̓͜¥̵͔͉̿̂ï̷̪̪̒̀ñ̷̢̗͊̔ğ̶̪̼͠ ̷̡̞̒͘¥̵̨̮͒͝ð̶̠̬̅͊µ̶̩̼̍̈́ŗ̷̼̑͘ ̶̡͉̃̉Ð̵̧̼̔̕å̸͓͖̊̕†̴̭̘̚̕ê̵̢̩̈́͒?̷̹͔̒͑”

A soft touch on his shoulder yanks Fanboy back into the present, the return is so powerful and that he genuinely feels he’s been knocked back and forth between Hell and Heaven. He raises his unsteady hands, expecting Yo’s ghost to be laid out on the floor before him, but the apparition has vanished.

Oz concernedly observes, remembering to page his fellows if anything dire occurs.

Luckily, Fanboy manages to pull himself together. “T-T-Too fuzzy,” he grits through chattering teeth. “C-Can’ ‘member.” He wraps his arms around himself, clearly unwilling to discuss certain details.

“Th-That’s okay,” Oz soothes, the pit in his stomach expanding as he assumes the worst. “Take it easy. You’re safe.” Fanboy obeys, gulping huge peals of air before scooching himself away from Oz’s embrace.

“I don’ think I wanna talk ‘bout Boog anymore.” A subtle flinch in Fanboy’s body indicates that he still thinks he’ll be attacked for going against the tide, and Oz wants to make it clear that THAT will never happen.

“Sure thing, Fanboy,” he assures. “We’re going at your pace. Slow and steady—”

“Wins the race!” Fanboy finishes.

“Exactly.” Oz smirks, feeling it appropriate to change topics, and waits for Fanboy’s rapid breathing to settle. “You really love her, huh?“

Fanboy playfully shoves Oz away. “Oh, stop."

“Your words, Dude,” Oz teases, surprised by how embarrassed Fanboy seems to discuss his emotions instead of his intimate relations. Then, perhaps it isn’t as puzzling.

A sigh fills Fanboy's lungs. Then, flightily, he murmurs, “I can’t believe I’m a dad now."

That makes two of them. Oz straightens. “Are you nervous?”

“Uh, heck no! ...Maybe. I don’ really KNOW…how. I can hold ‘em an’ love ‘em an’ protect ‘em an’ change ‘em easy, but when it comes to everything else, I’m blank. How can I be a good dad if I've never had one? Besides you, I mean.”

"It's a lot of work,” Oz admits. “You need to be a good role model. Instill your core values in your kids." He rubs the back of his neck. “The Oz you knew wasn’t a very good role model, so I’d forget all that.”

Fanboy gasps. “No!” he whimpers. “I don’ wanna forget!”

Oz is quick to backtrack. “Sorry, sorry! Not “forget”. Learn from my mistakes, my past, to become a better father, a better man.”

Fanboy gawps, unable to grasp that the former comic-guru could have been anything but the coolest person ever. 

"Maybe you don't remember." A sombre frown lines Oz’s face. “I valued my toys over everything and everyone. I wouldn’t part with a single one no matter the financial strain that put on Mom, that put on you boys.”

“On me and Chum Chum?” Fanboy echoes, surprised.

Oz flinches, recalling all the nights he’d handed off meager groceries to the water-tower-dwelling duo. The weekly rations were hardly enough to feed them for over half that time. Fanboy often gave his share to Chum Chum, the younger of the two, leaving himself without a bite to eat for days on end. For that, he’d always been an unusually thin youngster.

“I’m not the super cool dude you think I am,” the man mumbles, looking down at his folded hands. “I never was.” He begins to babble, stricken with shame. “I was so selfish and awful and dumb and—”

“Oz,” Fanboy interrupts, breaking from his stunned silence. When the doctor says nothing, he grips the vest sleeve and tugs. “Oz?” he softly repeats. “Oz, it’s okay.”

“None of it’s okay! Nothing that happened to you was even remotely okay! It was crazy, it was evil, and it was wrong!” He buries his face in his hands. “If you think it’s okay for a guardian to not feed his wards, then I did just as bad a job "caring" for you as HIM! Now, who’s to say ya won’t make the same mistakes?”

“I won’t.”

Oz freezes at the stern, authoritative tone emanating from Fanboy’s throat. He slowly looks up to see the the young man's stony expression.

“I won’t,” Fanboy repeats, gripping the vest so tightly his knuckles turn white. "So, stop bein’ so mean to yerself. Ya changed. I read all of Chum Chum’s letters, four times now,” Fanboy tells him. “He said you changed after I disappeared." He clears his throat, delighted at the mood shift on Oz’s face.

“He wrote that?”

“Uh-huh! So ya musta done somethin’ right,” Fanboy concludes. “And he was on th’ money: I’d be so excited t’ call ya my dad. Like, my real dad.”

Oz flushes with endearing flattery. “I’ll help you in any way I can. I'll always be there. The Oz will take care of you."

“I don’t give ya enough credit,” Fanboy half-jokes. “Thanks." His expression softens into a tender mien. “Are they safe, Oz?” 

Oz opens his mouth to assure the younger man that the infants are under constant supervision, but that may not be much of an assurance to someone who has been under Boog's unrelenting supervision for a decade. "I promise they’re safe.”

“You’re feedin’ ‘em?”

“Of course! They’re very healthy.”

“A-An’ they’re together?”

“Absolutely!” 

A short pause. “Are they cute?”

Struck by momentary confusion, Oz realizes that during the rescue, Fanboy hadn’t had the chance to see his children; he’s been unconscious on the very edge of death. Even Yo, who was in a semi-conscious state at the time, hadn’t seen her children either.

“Nah, just the most adorable babies on the flippin’ planet,” Oz teases. “Wanna see a picture of ‘em?” He pulls his phone from his back pocket.

Fanboy’s breath hitches. “Picture?” he repeats, eyes huge.

Oz types in his passcode as Fanboy grips his arm and watches with wonder. “It’s touch-screened,” he explains. “You like?”

“I love,” Fanboy breathes. “Do we ‘ave flyin’ cars too?”

“Dude, I wish,” Oz groans, opening up his photos. “Alright, I've got a whole album here. Wanna see pictures of Chum Chum too?”

Fanboy nods like a madman but, suddenly, a wave of uncertainty hits him. “Actually…” Against every cell in his body screaming at him to look, he tears his eyes away from the screen.

Oz regards him with concern. “You good?”

Fanboy can’t even begin to imagine what has come over him, so he pleads with his eyes for Oz to understand.

“You wanna wait?” Oz asks kindly.

“Uh-huh.”

Oz puts his phone away. “Hey, I get it. No spoilers! It’ll make the reveal all the more awesome!”

“Exactly!” Fanboy exclaims, relieved.

The talk ends on a good note. Oz exits the room and presses the off button on his phone, which had recorded the conversation for Olive.

Across the hall, Yo listens open-mouthed to Pam describe the “gulls and ants”, albeit in a less graphic manner than what Pam believes Yo can handle. Pam would find the younger woman’s baffled expression endearing if the circumstances were different.

With a cheerful bow, she concludes, "Now you know where babies come from. Any questions? Comments?”

The younger woman sits in awe. “Um… I-I guess not?” she croaks, blinking weirdly. Introspectively, she tries to recall if Boog had mentioned any repercussions of her and Fanboy's intimate behavior. “I can’t believe I didn't know.”

“How would you’ve known if you were never taught?” Pam points out.

Yo stiffens in sudden realization. “Of all th’ irresponsible–!” she snaps. “Why didn’t he TELL us?!”

Pam gently sits beside Yo on the spare couch. “Did he want you to know?” she asks, supposing their captor had been well aware of their activities.

Yo’s mind niggles at the idea, but doesn't acknowledge it. “That’s alright,” Pam assures. “I'm always here to listen if you want to talk. Now," she stands up, “are you ready to take a shower?” Yo stares at her hands, drained. She shakes her head.

“No?” Pam is unsurprised. Yo has been passively rejecting self-care, even quietly spitting back pills into her cup. Oz had discovered quite a few pills at the bottom of her empty cup of milk. "I’d hate to let your gorgeous hair go greasy.”

Yo shrugs impassively. “Maybe later.”

Like Dr. Olive, Nurse Lady Pam sees right through Yo’s mask. Her heart breaks for the younger woman. “Later?”

“Mmhm. Don’ really feel like it righ’ now,” Yo mumbles.

Pam ponders for a moment. ”Yeah,” she finally sighs, crossing her arms. “It’s not always easy. There’re some days when you feel great and other days when you can barely climb out of bed.”

Yo says nothing.

“Ignoring your hygiene can become a really bad habit.”

Yo knows. She’d idly thought about asking for a comb to brush her hair, but the words had gotten stuck in her throat. She slides her fingers across the scars in her scalp and clenches.

“Yo?”

“I-I’m a’ight,” Yo stammers, slipping back into her broken english as wet tears trail down her face. Pam’s soft, motherly arms wrap around her shoulders in a tender embrace.

“Breathe, Honey,” Pam murmurs. 

Dismayed that her mask has slipped, Yo shakes her head. She doesn’t understand what Nurse Pam has said that she disagrees with. To be out of Boog’s hands seems so simultaneously logical and yet: “So what? He’s always out there and I’m always in here. He’ll come back. He always does.”

“Listen to me, young lady. He is NEVER–Yo, look at me. He is NEVER going to lay a finger on you ever again.”

Pam’s words are life-rings; all Yo has to do is reach out and grab one. She slumps against the older woman, feeling a thousand tons heavier than she had just moments before. “M’kay…” she barely croaks out, sinking deeper into the lake.

“I’m so sorry. If I could take away all your pain, I would in a heartbeat.”

A comforting silence descends upon the room’s inhabitants. Despite Yo's apathy, Pam knows how troubled and trapped she feels. Yo will need a firm push to take charge of her own decisions if she wants to eventually make them unprompted.

“I know it isn’t this simple, but if you’re looking for permission to heal,” Pam offers, “you’ve earned it. You really have. I know you’re trying to convince yourself otherwise, and, maybe in some way, you’ve succeeded, but you are NEVER going to convince me, Oz, or Fanboy that you don’t deserve to take care of yourself.” Pam takes Yo’s clammy hands and grips them tight.

“And on top of that,” she adds tightly, “if Boog has the time to pop into your life and disturb YOUR peace, then you can take ten minutes, an hour, or a day, or a week or year…like, whatever it takes, to care for yourself. You deserve it.”

Yo grunts softly.

Pam smiles. “And, hey. Moving forward doesn’t have to be some miraculous ‘WOW! Look at me! I don’t have a care in the world!’ No. Moving forward can literally mean…you woke up this morning and got out of bed. You ate a healthy meal. You cleaned up. You read a book. You solved a puzzle. My point is, you’re doing one more thing for yourself and that’s the kind of progress that YOU deserve!” Pam finishes breathlessly.

Yo doesn’t respond for the longest time, just stares blankly at her lap. Pam waits for a sign, any sign, that Yo has at least registered her speech, but there’s none to be had. When Yo finally opens her mouth to speak, Pam understands how gradual a shift Yo’s mindset will undergo. “Where’s Fanboy?”

Tuesday, December 20th, 2020

The first day felt long, but the second day flew by like nobody’s business. At nine o’ clock sharp, Oz quietly enters to discover Fanboy and Yo nestled in each other’s arms on the floor wrapped in all the blankets from their beds. Fanboy is fast asleep wrapped in the cocoon but Yo looks as if she’s been awake for days. She blinks briefly up at Oz through red-rimmed eyes and tries to smile but it comes out looking like a grimace.

“Rise and shine,” Oz whispers, gently patting Fanboy’s shoulder. To the younger man’s credit, he does NOT lash out in alarm, but he DOES jerk awake like something has hit him.

“Whoa! Oz!” Fanboy exclaims, holding a hand over his heart while tucking the teddy bear protectively against his chest. “Ya scared me!”

Dr. Oz shrugs apologetically, scoops the couple up from the floor, and plops them back onto Yo’s bed. “Isn’t the floor chilly?” he asks casually. The blanket slides away, and Oz averts his eyes. Their gowns are missing.

“Nope, not at all!” Fanboy laughs awkwardly. His eyes dart away. “It was getting really hot so Yo an’ me—er, Yo and I decided to move.” Oz nods, glancing back and forth between the walls and the floor. The temperature couldn’t have peaked past 75 degrees and even THAT was considered cool for most denizens in their desert city. Fanboy and Yo must not be properly regulating their body heat.

“Well, next time, let me know if it’s getting too hot and I’ll adjust the thermostat for you,” Oz briskly offers. He briefly considers mentioning their nudity, but decides against it since Fanboy is already pulling his gown back over his head. “And, Yo? Let me fetch you some melatonin.” Yo blushes.

After a spell, Oz finally says, “Fanboy, I told you six weeks.”

“Yeah, I remember,” Fanboy nods casually. Oz waits for Fanboy to explain the nudity, but he doesn’t seem to understand the correlation between the lack of modesty and the initiation of intercourse. Oz exits the room determined to change that.

Thus begins the second day. Breakfast, teeth brushed, checkup, and appointment with Dr. Olive. Yo is already digging their new routine, feeling more and more like a normal person. Despite her aloof response to Nurse Lady Pam’s advice, Yo HAD listened well. This morning she takes the extra time to brush and floss each tooth in the mirrorless bathroom, smooths out her gown, combs her hair with her fingers, and even asks for seconds at breakfast!

Fanboy seems to be in a better mood as well. Pam hangs a monthly calendar above their headboard and marks off Monday and Tuesday with a big red marker. Under Sunday, she writes “FAMILY REUNION” and decorates the square with stars, hearts, and happy faces. Fanboy couldn’t be more excited to be reminded of what’s to come.

“Jus’ FOUR more days?!” he squeals, clapping his hands with joy.

“Jus’ four more days,” Yo repeats with a small smile to show her enthusiasm. “Yer excited, huh?”

“Like a kid on Icemas mornin’!” the superfan tenderly swoons. “Oh, if only Chum Chum were here…” A hint of sorrow creeps into his tone and Yo gives him a loving cuddle.

“He’s coming as fast as he can,” Oz assures, patting Fanboy’s bony shoulder. “How about Pam and I leave you guys alone for a little while to try out some of your new books?”

Privacy? Yo forces herself to meet their eyes. “Thanks!”

Fanboy dives headfirst into all the comics stacked in the corner, determined to read them all while Yo sits at their play table and works on crosswords. For once, they don’t need to constantly talk to each other to fill the silence. On top of that, they don’t need to be touching to assure the other of one’s presence. Yo can see Fanboy laying on his stomach at his new favorite spot in front of the space-heater, giggling to himself as he reads. Fanboy can see Yo slouching over the table scribbling furiously at her crosswords.

Yo chews her thumb. “Hey, Fanboy?”

“Yeeees?” comes his sing-song reply.

“What’s a six-letter word for “period of learning”?” She’s been stuck on it for a while. The crossword itself has a very childish theme with goofy cartoon octopi and starfishes. To be stuck, for her, is a bit embarrassing. To her frustration, Fanboy just blows a raspberry and buries his face back into his comic.

“Fanboy!” she gripes.

Fanboy hides his grin. “Sounds to me like what you’re doing is less “playie” and more “workie”.” He peeks over his pages at a flustered Yo. “Why bother? Iss not like yer getting graded or anything.”

Yo slumps deep into her chair, nearly bending the pencil in her frustrated death-grip. 

“Aw, feeling down in the grumpy-dumps?” Fanboy teases, hobbling to the spare seat beside Yo’s and taking her face in his hands. “I know how t’ get ya smiling! Whaddaya in th’ mood for? Twenty Questions? Tickle Monster? Whammo?”

“Nrr tmm,” Yo mumbles as Fanboy squishes her cheeks. She gently takes his hands in hers and holds them to her lap. “No time. I needa get my smarts back.”

“Get yer smarts back?” Fanboy repeats, scratching his head. “I didn’t know ya had smarts t’ lose!”

"Ha-ha."

“How ‘bout a rousing game of Jengla?”

“No!” Yo snaps, stabbing the crossword with her pencil. “I needa figure this out!” She slumps. “But it’s hard.”

Fanboy rubs his chin. He scoots his chair closer and clumsily wields a crayon. “Bring it on."

Yo’s breathing quells, the wrinkles in her brow smoothing out. 

It’s evening by the time Oz and Pam return with dinner and Fanboy and Yo have solved all but that six-letter word.

“I’m over it,” Yo deadpans while Fanboy repeatedly bonks his head against the desk.

“Why. Are we. So. Ð̶̨̛̤̫͍̆̈́͠Ú̶̢̢̼̈́̄͆̂ͅM̵͚̟͓̺͊̊̉̅ß̴̹̝͓̘̏͊̕̚?!” Fanboy cries half-jokingly into his unfinished open comic.

“Ah ah ah! There’s no such thing as “dumb” here,” Pam cuts in. She sets down their platters and gives each unhappy patient a look.

“Is so,” Fanboy grumbles, rubbing his slightly bruised forehead.

“My smarts are long gone,” Yo agrees with a wistful grimace. “I’m an official Ð̶̞͚̣̄̒̕µ̶̧̧̤̾̑͗m̷̰̞̻̉͒̌-̶̡̼̎̃̊͜Ð̴̟̹̽̓͒ͅµ̵̗̖̖̓̑̍m̸̻̹̱̂̚͝.̶̗̭̎͐͐ͅ”

“No more of that talk!” Oz warns. “Seriously! If you’re that worried about stimulating your brains, reading and writing everyday will seriously help! That, and—” Oz lifts the platter lids “—eating healthy. Enjoy!”

Fanboy and Yo dig right in, and while Yo longingly eyes the crossword, Fanboy quickly forgets its existence. The world around him disappears and all that matters are the small portions of rich, hot, savory bean-bacon soup, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two glasses of milk, and two blueberry muffins. The meal is identical, save in portion size, to their first meal here at the hospital. Oz and Pam supervise them as they elegantly savor their soup and wolf down their solids.

Once every last crumb is gone, Fanboy licks his gloved fingers and sighs, “I’m still ‘ungry.”

“That’s great!” Pam exclaims. 

“Me too,” Yo confesses, discreetly dumping her pills into her glass of milk. “Can we ‘ave more?”

Oz shakes his head. “Sorry, but you’re on a strict diet. Doctor’s orders.” Fanboy and Yo groan. Oz smiles. “I understand. Awesome day today, Guys. Sleep tight!”

Yo and Fanboy let the praise wash over them like a warm blanket. Then, Fanboy realizes something. “Ooh! Ooh!” He raises his hand and bounces in his chair. “Can we stay up? Please? Iss only 7:30!”

Oz glances at their clock. “No later than 9:00, okay? You need to rest.”

“Study?”

Yo tests it out. “Nope. Not enough letters.”

“Hm… Try “class…es”.”

Yo tests it but to no avail. “Too many.”

“Dang it!” Fanboy grouches, hitting the table with his fist. “Any chance issa typo?”

The young woman carefully folds the crossword up. “Nah. We’re jus’ r̵̡̳͎̓̔̚ê̵̗̘̬͛̾̍†̷̗̮̱̍̋̈́ḁ̸͕̜̊̾̅͗r̷̢̖͕̋͊́Ð̵̡̙͈̃̍̌ê̸̪͎̅́͂͜Ð̵̤̗̬̎̈́̔.” She pauses pensively. “Or really outta practice, like Oz an’ Pam say.”

Fanboy bristles at the mentioning of Nurse Lady Pam and clutches his teddy bear to his chest. Yo regards his hardened expression and snuggles her way into his wheelchair.

“Penny for your thoughts, Madboy?” she asks, giving his partially exposed collar a quick nuzzle.

“Hm? Oh, sorry,” Fanboy apologizes, gently petting the teddy’s head. “I’m just…” He gazes longingly at the door. “I’m so tired o’ waiting.” He doesn’t need to clarify for whom or what he’s anticipating.

“For th’ babsies, er, the babies,” Yo concludes, her stomach clenching with unease.

“Yep,” Fanboy laughs glumly. “The more I wait, the more nervous I get.”

Yo sucks in a breath. “You?”

Fanboy hides his face behind his teddy bear, embarrassed to have admitted it.

“Aw, I understand,” Yo assures, resting a scarred hand over his. “But it’ll be okay. Oz an’ Pam will be there to help us.”

Fanboy wrinkles his nose. “Does Oz’s plus-one hafta be there?” he asks curtly. Having only knowing Nurse Lady Pam for a few days, he has some reservations. The idea of her presence at his family reunion, even though Oz trusts her deeply, sets Fanboy’s nerves ablaze.

Yo bursts out laughing. “Uh, DUH! She’s the nurse!”

Before Fanboy can rebut, the door opens and in comes the lady in question.

“Hi, Guys! Sorry I didn’t knock,” Pam whispers, hoisting a large beach bag over her shoulder. She uses her hip to gently shut the door behind her and carefully tiptoes to their table. Fanboy instinctively holds his arm out in front of a bemused Yo.

“What are you doing here?” Fanboy asks, keeping his tone flat and even. “Where’s Oz?”

“Down the hall.” Pam heaves the beach bag onto their table with a strained huff. “I snuck this past him.” Shortly following her unzipping the bag, the savory aroma of protein floods the room.

“Oh, WOW!” Fanboy blurts, momentarily forgetting his reservations.

“Grilled chicken!” Pam carols in a low voice. She hands Yo the plastic container with the fish and winks.  

Pam gives Fanboy the other container, which has helpings of blueberries, avocados, and celery with peanut butter and raisins. Before the kidnapping, he hadn’t been a veggie guy, but he can’t find any fault in the gift he’s been given. “Thank you,” he hesitates, not quite meeting her eyes.

“Anytime, lil’ superhero,” Pam answers kindly. “I’ll be down the hall if you need something. Bon apetíte! Oh, and if Dr. Harmonian asks, tell him it was a “snackscident”.” With that, she slings the bag strap over her shoulder and walks on out, shutting the door behind her.

Yo is already at her seat and wolfing down her portion of chicken by the time Fanboy snaps out of his trance. “Well?”

Fanboy stares hard at his container. “Well, what?”

“Still think th’ nurse issa bad guy?”

“I didn’ say “bad guy”!” Fanboy protests, blushing.

“You made it seem so, but she ain’t. You were too busy worrying ‘bout me an’ our babies to notice.”

Fanboy freezes mid-chew, having the grace to look sheepish but too stubborn to admit any semblance of fault. “Mm.”

“It’s so fun bein’ right!” Yo giggles cheekily. “You know what’s funner? A ‘pology. I think you should give Nurse Lady Pam one pronto.” Before Fanboy can protest, she reaches across the table and puts a hand on his shoulder, her witty expression softens in painful reminiscence. “When I first woke up ‘ere, I was really scared, but Nurse Lady Pam was there. She gave me water, medicine, and said you and th’ babsies were okay. She’s a good guy.”

Fanboy stares at his lap, thoughtful. No wonder Yo has been receptive to the hospital staff. They were there for her when he was out of commission and couldn’t protect her and their children himself!

“Oh,” he whispers regretfully. “I-I didn’… I thought she jus’ wanted to…” He struggles, unable to explain how and why his distrust of adults is so severe.

“She ain’t Boog.”

“I know!” Fanboy cracks. “I know, I know I know! But I jus’ can’t, Yo! I jus’ can’t!”

Yo rounds the table and lovingly wraps her arms around her partner. “I get it, but seein’ ya act all scary an’ nasty makes me feel sad, ‘cause it means you ARE still scared of everything, even of a nice lady like her.”

Fanboy takes a shaky breath, his eyes growing hot. “I’m—I’m not a’scared anymore. I’m—” He can’t even finish, not without bursting into tears, because Yo is one-hundred percent spot on.

Nurse Lady Pam returns around thirty minutes after dropping off the food to retrieve her beach bag. After making sure Oz is still buried in his paperwork, she enters her patients’ room to find them waiting for her.

“Why, hello, my little troopers!” she greets an oddly triumphant-looking Yo and a sheepish, blushing Fanboy. He doesn’t look at or speak to Pam, but offers her a piece of paper.

“Ooh!” As Pam views the parchment, both Fanboy and Yo draw an anxious breath.

It’s a drawing of Pam, poorly but passionately rendered with crayon. At the very top, giant blue letters scribble out “IM SORY”. Below that, her beaming caricature stands tall, a halo of light crowning her head and a billowing red cape hanging off the shoulders of her nurse uniform. At the bottom of the drawing is a rather sad looking stick figure of Fanboy with a rain cloud over his head and his arms outstretched toward Pam. In his stick hands is a bouquet of rainbow flowers, the same as the ones that decorate the ground beneath her feet.

Pam tenderly traces the drawing with her fingertips, not quite understanding the apology until she remembers how hostile Fanboy has been acting. She hasn’t blamed him one bit for his actions, but the fact that he feels self-aware enough to realize the unfairness of it all, the drawing, the gesture, is so meaningful.

“Wow!” she gasps, pressing the paper to her chest. “Fanboy, you’re a natural! Is this for me?”

Fanboy bunches his shoulders and looks down in a rare display of innocent shyness. “Uh-huh. Iss ‘cause I’ve been…er…” blushing, he glances at Yo for help, “...um, “disrespectin’” to ya. I shouldna been even if I didn’ trus’ ya, so I’m sorry I made ya mad. Will ya f’give me?”

Pam’s smile trembles. “Oh, Honey. I was never angry with you. I was sad, because of what a wonderful young man like you is going through.”

Relieved and flattered, Fanboy smiles and Yo squeezes his arm. “Toldja she would like it!” she whispers triumphantly.

Pam beams. “Can I hug you?”

A sudden awe overtakes Fanboy’s hollow face. He grips his wheelchair’s armrests in contemplation, looking Pam up and down and quickly glancing at Yo to search for approval. “Y-Yes,” he braves, surprising himself. He looks at Yo for permission to find her nodding fiercely. “Y-Yeah. Yeah,” he repeats, sitting up straight. “That's cool.”

The unfamiliar yet tender arms embracing him washes Fanboy’s heart in a wave of warmth he’s never experienced prior. The woman’s one hand rubbing circles on his brittle back and the other stroking the back of his head… It’s neither romantic nor erotic, but fills his heart with zeal. Something he’s felt only toward Oz and nobody else. It’s familial, he realizes, embracing Pam back with a breathy shudder. It ends as quickly as it began. Pam respectfully pulls back to embrace Yo with the same tenderness.

“The drawin’ was MY idea!” Yo smugly proclaims after pulling away.

Concealing his awe from the hug, Fanboy laughs. “Alright, maybe it was,” he admitted. “What can I say? I’m not used t’ talkin’ to old people.”

Yo gasps. “Fanboy!”

Pam just smiles. “I understand, Sweetheart. Don’t let that awful Boog warp your perception.”

“I won’t! Promise!” Fanboy swears, feels a burst of admiration detonate in his chest.

“Yay!” Yo swings an arm around her partner and pinches his cheek. “Lesson learned!” She gasps, a lightbulb flashing above her head. “Lesson. Oh my gosh, that’s it, isn’t it? That’s the word! That stupid six-letter one we couldn’t figure out!”

It takes Fanboy a moment to realize what she’s talking about. “Get outta town,” he gapes. Yo rushes for the crossword and messily scribbles out “lesson”. Sure enough, it’s a perfect fit.

“FINALLY!” she screeches, thrusting the crossword skyward. “My smarts are back an’ I’m DONE with this piece-a-garbage crossword!” Fanboy cheers with relief and the atmosphere settles into one of contentment as the three break out into eager chatter. Nobody even notices Oz until after he’s opened the door and walked in.

“Did I miss some—?” He stops short upon seeing the empty food containers on the table. “Agh! Pam! They’re on a diet!”

Pam good-naturedly waves him off. “Oh, what’s an extra ounce of protein?”

Oz groans, face palming.

“Besides, I grilled that bad boy myself!”

Oz tries to argue, but seeing how happy Fanboy and Yo are, decides it’s not a battle worth fighting. He gives Fanboy a set of crutches. “C’mon, Little Dude. You need a shave.”

“A shave?” Fanboy has always hated the itchy fuzzies on his face. “Don’t hafta tell me twice!” he exclaims. Before he follows Oz out the door, he gives Yo a longing look. “Can she come?”

Oz reluctantly allows her presence so she follows them into the nearby washroom. It’s smaller than their hospital room complete with a commode, sink, and mirror.

The mirror is framed behind some sort of thick plastic and the walls and floors are tiled a dark forest green.

Yo stands by curiously exploring the new surroundings while Oz hands Fanboy a razor. He immediately assumes a fatherly role, teaching Fanboy the basic grooming techniques and gently correcting his mistakes.

After he’s finished, Fanboy can’t help but just stare at himself in the mirror. “Whoa.” It’s all he can say, because the reflection staring back at him looks nothing like how he remembers, nor how he’d imagined himself to look like as an adult. His skin is weathered and paler than pale and his remaining eye is sunken in and duller than the faux one he’d grown up with.

Oz nervously watches as Fanboy gives a test smile and slumps in apparent disappointment. “I look µ̷̼͍̜͌̆̽g̶̫̫̮͐͊̈l̸͈̫̹̏̈́̔¥̵͉̭͔̎̄̐,” he complains, flicking the mirror.

“Not ugly. Unkempt,” Oz amends, ruffling Fanboy’s super long hair, “but not for long. I’m getting my stylist past security if it kills me.”

“I could use a stylist!” Fanboy agrees, cracking a grin. “It ain’t easy pulling off the homeless look.”

Unimpressed, Oz puts his hands on his hips. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Yo solemnly reaffirms. 

“You’re being awfully unhelpful, Little Miss,” Oz scolds, but Fanboy just giggles and leans closer to the mirror. “Seriously, though,” he goes on in a softer tone, “don’t be so mean to yourself.”

Fanboy pauses, recognizing those words. “Yo!” he beckons. “Stand next t’ me!”

The woman freezes, a lot less giggly now that she’s been put on the spot. “That’s okay,” she dismisses, hoping that will curb Fanboy’s insistence, but on the contrary. Fanboy takes her hand and pulls. “C’mon!”

Yo tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and nervously approaches the mirror, her heart beating quicker and quicker with every passing second. “I fo’got what I look like,” she confesses.

“You look awesome,” Fanboy promises, and pushes up her chin to look. “See? Wha’d I tell ya?”

Yo promptly bursts into tears.

Wednesday. December 21st, 2020

“You have a visitor!”

Nurse Lady Pam catches Fanboy and Yo's attention as they pause mid-conversation. Her biggest smile yet bursts through the door as she pokes her head out.

Fanboy’s heart leaps. “Chum Chum!?” Yo smooths out her hair and gown in preparation for the mystery visitor while Fanboy cradles the teddy bear in his arms with anticipation.

It is a tall, red-headed man decked out in formal wear, and strangely, a floor-length black cape, who enters solemnly through the door. The expression on his freckled face transforms from one of nervousness to shock to one of sheer relief when he lifts his head.

“Oh, Heavens,” he breathes, holding a gloved hand over his chest. “H-Hello.” He nods at Yo. “Yo.” He looks at Fanboy, “Lance.” Then, his eyes fall on the teddy bear clutched protectively in Fanboy’s hands. He smiles faintly.

“Hi!” Yo squeaks, eyeing the visitor with wonder.

Once he realizes that it isn’t Chum Chum coming to visit, but this stranger, Fanboy’s excitement dissipates like air escaping a balloon. Old habits die hard. Fanboy grows instantly cautious, shifting closer to Yo in case anything arises.

“Who're you?” he asks casually, though there’s a cautious edge to his tone.

The man, Fanboy scoffs, has the nerve to look surprised. “Do you not remember me?"

“Nope!” Fanboy declares. “Ya have th’ wrong room.”

“Oh?” The man’s faint smile spells amusement as he retrieves from his pocket a flat box similar to the one Nurse Lady Pam has. “Pardon, but I must humbly disagree.” He holds up the phone, and on display is what appears to be a class photo. Fanboy squints, then perks with excitement.

“That’s us!” Yo gasps. “Then, that means—! Uh, what does that mean?”

Fanboy scratches his head and shrugs.

The man lights up. “It is I, Kyle the Conjuror!” He performs a mock sweeping bow before straightening up with a chuckle. “Does that jog your memory?”

For a few moments, it looks as if Fanboy and Yo are drawing a blank, but then, like a truck slamming into a freight train, the answer hits them.

“KYLE?!” Yo screeches, her jaw hitting the floor. “No way!”

“No way, José!” Fanboy adds. “Ándale! It’s the Wizboy!”

“What happened to yer teeth?!”

In their reunion, there is a higher level of cordial and politeness than ecstatic and tearful interactions, but that's to be expected. Kyle had only known Fanboy for a few months before the kidnapping, and Yo even less. During their conversations, they update him on how they've been and how they're doing physically, and he does the same for them.

"My visit must be brief, I'm afraid," Kyle confesses, rather put out by the short duration, "but if you have any questions for me, please ask."

“You’re British, right?” Fanboy asks. “Because yer accent is barely there.” Yo bites her lip. That wasn’t quite what she had in mind to ask their former classmate. In fact, now that she’s face to face with the wizard, she’s dying to ask a very important question.

“I’ve been in New York for years.” Kyle smiles at Fanboy’s starry expression at the mention of the famous city. “I imagine I sound quite American by now.”

“Straight outta Compton!” Fanboy confirms. “Have ya seen “Dimes Square”? Are there taxis? How’s the food? Is it expensive?”

Kyle cringes into the onslaught of questions, especially at the last portion. “Erm, yes?”

“Cool! And what about–?”

“Why didn’t ya use your magic to find us?” Yo blurts. Instantly, the atmosphere takes a sharp dive, leaving Kyle trembling under the shadow of Yo’s intimidating but valid question.

“Oh, I tried," he mumbles sadly. "Tracking spells don't work on humans. They trace magical footprints.”

Yo is speechless, stunned by this revelation, but takes it well, even comforted that Kyle had tried to find them to the best of his abilities.

Fanboy tries to save face with humor. “Kyle! A pox on ya!” he scolds. “Disregardin’ my awesome superpowers like that. Hmph!” He turns his nose into the air.

“Well, color me surprised; you haven't changed,” Kyle snips. “A-And I mean that in a good way.”

Yo smiles. "Thanks for trying Kyle. I used to think nobody was looking for us.”

“Well, that's a farce,” Kyle scoffs, “because everyone and their governess searched for you. I would have done more, but I–”

“Moved back to Milkweed!” Fanboy chirps to Kyle’s surprise. “Chum Chum wrote about it to us. How’s it feel bein’ a full-fledged wizard?”

Another pause. “Erm…” Kyle chuckles awkwardly. “Not well. I gave up magic early into my teens.”

Fanboy reels back, shocked. “What?” he squawks. “Why?”

Though uncomfortable, Kyle feels it unfair to leave his hosts in the dark. “Well, to put it shortly, I...had an epiphany. The practicing wizard’s lifestyle is a dark and wicked one. After my experience in Galaxy Hills, I realized what life could be without magic and went cold turkey.”

“Oh!” Fanboy blurts. He and Yo share a baffled glance. “Dang. That’s kinda messed up!”

“Indeed,” Kyle exhales, “as it were routine in the empire. Wizards and witches train every day to manipulate the world around them and I indulged that doleful practice my entire childhood. I’m quite glad I abandoned it.”

From that tirade of large words, all Fanboy can discern that his old schoolmate quit doing something cool. “Cowabummer... Does that mean you can’t do magic anymore?”

“I choose not to. My reserves are inborn,” Kyle explains.

Fanboy tilts his head, face blank.

“Are you…following?” Kyle asks, slightly concerned.

“If I had magic, I’d never give that up!” Yo sighs dreamily. “I’d make food appear outta thin-air and blast through walls!”

Kyle chuckles, moves a lock of red hair behind his ear. “That’s not quite how it works.”

Fanboy ponders. He can’t help feeling conflicted about his old friend so willingly giving up his powers. He can only imagine how magic could have helped himself and Yo escape Boog’s clutches when his own depleted super powers proved useless.

“So…you’re just a regular person now.”

“A flattering presumption!” Kyle laughs. He picks up on Fanboy’s confliction and smiles kindly. “You liked my magic, didn’t you?” He walks over to the bedside table and observes the framed picture of Fanboy, Chum Chum, and their photobomber, Yo. “If memory serves, you and your chummy friend were the only ones who caught my grand entrance.”

For Yo, that memory is gone. For Fanboy, the memory is so faint that he can just barely picture a mirage of fireworks and blue flames. “Yeah. He really liked your magic." He smiles a little. "I can't believe you beat him here."

At that, Kyle's face smooths out. "I'm certain he'll be along. I wanted to visit, not only to catch up, but, erm." He turns to them, expression weary. “I DO have one spell left in my reserves. I’ve saved it for years now for such an occasion.” He quiets, closely eyeing Fanboy’s broken body. “Once spent, that’s it. Zip. Zero. Nada. Goose eggs.”

Fanboy shrugs. “Can’t judge.” He grins, even as Kyle approaches with a serious frown on his face.

“Sit still for a moment, won’t you, Lance?”

“Fanboy,” Fanboy corrects, purses his lips. “W-Whaddaya doing?” Kyle sets one hand on each of Fanboy’s knobby knees and grimaces. Despite the wizard’s calm nature, the alarms blare loudly in the patients’ heads. Yo instinctively shrinks back into the couch and Fanboy struggles to resist clawing at Kyle’s face. “Eheh…Uh, I don’ think you’ll find any treats under there you’ll like!"

Kyle’s concentrated expression falters into deadpanned annoyance, but he narrows his eyes with determination. “Consider this another gift.”

“Whaddaya gon’ do?” Yo asks wide eyed from the arm rest. “Pull a penny outta his—?”

“Quiet, please.” Instead of elaborating, Kyle closes his eyes and mumbles something under his breath. Fanboy stiffens uncomfortably as the hands on his knees suddenly grow hot, close to burning, pulses of dark energy traveling from the palms to the length of Fanboy’s legs. Curious, Yo crawls over to watch.

In a matter of moments, it’s over. Kyle removes his hands from Fanboy’s knees and stands. “There,” he respires, seemingly out of breath. He adjusts his cape. “It is done.”

“Wh-Whaddya do?” Fanboy squawks, but Kyle turns around and begins to head out the door. “Kyle?”

Kyle rests his hand on the knob. “I apologize. I told you my visit would be brief,” he reminds them, his eyes growing hot.

Fanboy and Yo share a look of despair. “B-But you’re the only kid from our town we’ve seen! Please, stay!” Yo implores.

Kyle shakes his head. “I’m sorry. We’ll meet again one day.”

In an act of desperation, Fanboy flings himself off the couch and clambers his way toward the slightly older man. “C'mon, Kyle, please, don’ leave yet! Iss been so long since we—” He stops midsentence and slowly swivels his gaze downward. He’s standing upright with no support, pain, or strain. He stammers, gaping at his legs.

Kyle takes the long moment of confusion to sift away. Before he shuts their door behind him, he gives one last long look to gaze forlornly at his teddy bear.

“Take care of yourselves and your children…and of Admiral Fluffington. I’m glad he found you.”

After shutting the door, Kyle listens to the joyful sounds of Fanboy and Yo celebrating this miracle healing. It takes everything in him to resist the urge to break down, and in the end, it isn’t enough, and he allows himself a good cry.

Thursday. December 22nd, 2020

The next day is a blur, both because of Fanboy and Yo's busy schedules and because the two are still buzzing with excitement after receiving Kyle's gift. In their frenzied states, they couldn’t get a wink of sleep for the entire night. Come morning, Fanboy practically backflips over Oz to show off his healed legs. Pam and Oz are shocked, and despite the x-rays, can hardly wrap their minds around Fanboy’s miracle recovery.

Nothing, not even sleep deprivation can quell Fanboy’s delight. To be up on his own two feet without help is beyond rejuvenating. After breakfast, he bounces around the room and leaps from every which where like an acrobat. 

“Hey, Yo! Looka’ me!” he crows.

Yo, having been prohibited from reckless movements to prevent injury, watches her partner’s wild abandon with an envious sigh.

Her envy continues to show after a visit with Dr. Olive, so Pam figures out a way for them both to exercise. She leads them along the hall full of rooms to an open area at the end. When she opens a set of double doors, Fanboy and Yo are exposed to their fellow patients for the first time. Around half of a dozen adults look up and start chatting excitedly amongst themselves about the recent arrivals. Seeing that all of the other patients have either casts or wheel chairs, Fanboy relaxes.

Eventually, the chatter dies down. The people are seated in chairs reading, playing cards, and conversing quietly. Several hallways run out of four of the eight walls forming an octagonal room surrounded by long stretches of hallways. It’s an intimidating, even dizzying scene for those who’ve been confined for so long. Fanboy feels his heart pound against his ribcage, nausea threatening to overwhelm his senses.

After some encouragement, Fanboy and Yo sit atop a playmat in the corner and curiously pick up a deck of playing cards. Pam takes a seat in one of the benches along the wall and makes herself comfortable.

Initially, Fanboy keeps his head down, but then it dawns on him: there is room to run. Without warning, a surge of energy erupts from inside; he leaps to his feet and blitzes through the halls before Pam can protest. Despite her efforts, Yo can't help but smile as he gallops away.

Fanboy is uncontrollable. The joy in his voice releases years of solitude and silence. He whoops and laughs and screams with joy. He runs from room to room, jumping on every mattress. He bounces atop a chair so high his head bangs against the ceiling, but he doesn't stop. Most of the other patients stare with uncertainty but a seldom few clap their hands, egging him on. Their laughs are not cold, like the snide remarks reserved for him back with Boog, but full of delight and approval.

Fanboy's frolicking ends suddenly when he knocks into a passing surgeon and spins off-balance into a potted plant. Sprinting up to him, Pam grabs his arm.

“Whoa, whoa! Settle down!” she wheezes, prepared to deliver a scolding for the man’s transgressions, but Fanboy covers his face and shakes, his hyperactivity ending as quickly as it had begun. "Are you alright?" Pam quickly releases her grip.

Fanboy stutters lowly, but he can’t formulate a sentence. It takes him a while to realize that the surgeon he bumped into, a tall muscular man with dirty blonde hair, isn’t Boog. The surgeon gets to his feet with a grumble and brushes himself off. “Watch where you’re going,” he warns, and departs.

Pam looks away from the surgeon’s retreating form and sighs at Fanboy. “Welp, that’s what happens when you don’t abide by the speed limit. Come on, Honey. Yo’s waiting for you.”

Fanboy gasps, his face contorting with horror. He’d left Yo! He’d left her alone in a room of strangers!

“Yo!” he shouts, sprinting away before Pam can stop him. As he runs, implausible nightmare scenarios seem all the more conceivable. Sweat trickles down his temples as his slippered feet pound the tiles. Soon, he reaches the playroom, shouldering the double doors and bursting in. Dreading the worst, Fanboy is shocked to find Yo sitting right where he’d left her, completely unharmed, and all the other patients in their respective spots, bewildered by his abrupt entrance.

Fanboy practically melts to the ground with relief, causing Pam to nearly trip over him as she catches up. “Fanboy!” she barks. “Honest to goodness!”

Fanboy scrambles to Yo and falls into her loving embrace, making an assortment of strange animal sounds and scraping his lips and teeth over her face and neck. Pam watches resigned as Oz approaches the pair and delivers that stern scolding to Fanboy, who, unlike before when he was aggressive and dominant towards his adoptive father, docilely accepts the reprimanding. It’s surprising, but perhaps it makes sense considering he feels responsible for leaving Yo.

“Sorry,” Fanboy mumbles, both to Oz and to Yo. He rubs the back of his neck in shame. “I won’ do that again.”

“Maybe we should head back,” Oz suggests as he leads Fanboy and Yo by their arms. “You have a class to attend, anyway!”

Fanboy sags. “Aw, school?”

Soon, Fanboy and Yo find themselves in a different room, a small one with a large, intimidating woman occupying it. They don’t have time to even process their new surroundings before the woman stands like a drill sergeant and regards them with intense prowess.

“WELCOME BACK! ARE YOU READY TO BECOME FIVE-STAR PARENTS?!” she booms, causing the two patients sitting cross-legged on the playmat to jolt back.

“Y-Y-Yes?!” Fanboy squawks, more in shock than fear. He holds a hand over his beating heart, deciding right away to not to tick this person off under any circumstances. At her size, she could rival Boog!

Yo squeaks, both relieved and terrified. She and Fanboy will need all the help they can get, for as deeply important maternal and paternal instincts are, basic principles will take them the rest of the way with their children…but she’s unsure how to perceive this woman as anything other than scary.

“GOOD! My name is Lunch Nanny Cram and I’m here to mold you into the best parents an adorable little baby could ask for!”

Yo instinctively shrinks under the intimidating aura of the woman and scoots closer to Fanboy. How is this person their instructor? How could Oz have given this person permission?

“A…Awesome…” Fanboy exhales, hoping casual conversation will calm this lady down. “Uh, h-how many kids do you ‘ave?”

“FIVE—“ Fanboy and Yo share an impressed glance before their instructor plops two realistic baby dolls into the patients’ arms. “—CATS! NOW GET TO CRADLING!”

By the end of the class, a whopping four hours later, Fanboy and Yo’s nerves are frazzled. They stumble to their feet, bid the woman farewell, and allow Oz to escort them back to their rooms. “How was it?” he asks cheerfully, seemingly unaware of their mental fatigue, even as they drag their feet.

Fanboy and Yo share a long look through their thick protection goggles. “Bad,” Yo mumbles, digging out her poor ear canals.

“Oh,” Oz utters lamely. He knew Lunch Nanny Cram was firm but had no idea just how intimidating she could be. “Uh, how else was it?”

“Loud.”

The one word answers are to be expected, but the annoyed tones attached to them are slightly troubling. Oz presses for more.

“Okay. Loud. And?”

“Scary.”

Oz’s heart sinks. “Uhhh...And?”

“Uhhhh, crazy?” Fanboy jeers, proper put-out that Oz had delivered them into the hands of an insane woman. Truth be told, Nanny Cram had frightened Fanboy quite a bit, had him on edge from start to finish, and he had no plans of ever attending any more of her seminars. “At least she didn’ force-feed us her glop.” He chuckles humorlessly.

Yo throws her hands up. “I KNEW she looked familiar!”

“…Did you seriously learn anything?” Oz groans.

“Eh,” Fanboy answers in a clipped tone, looking anywhere but at the doctor. “Guess so.”

“You GUESS so?!” Oz squawks. “Fanboy, the whole point of that class was so you could learn and ask questions! She was there to give you help, and you didn't take advantage of it?”

Thoroughly frustrated, Fanboy yanks his arm away from Oz’s grip and turns on him with a finger in his face. “Well, YER one t’ talk! Yer big and strong; if she ever screamed atcha, o-or even bopped ya, you could knock her flat!” He pauses, observing Yo’s frightened expression before lowering his voice.

“You could speak up for yourself. Over the yells and stuff…” He frowns, looks down at his emaciated self.

“I mean, look at me, Oz. I’m w̴̧͇͉͓̪̔̄͊̍͝ê̴̲̘̘͓̦̅̿̾͌͝ą̶̹̥̳̮̊͌̍̽̕͝k̶̡̮͕͔̖͋̎̓̕͘, okay?” He laughs painfully. “I know I talk big game, but when I see someone as big as HIM…?” He shakes his head, struggling to find the words, before a sniffling noise draws his attention back to Oz.

The doctor’s face is burrowed in his hands. He’s cursing his stupidity under his breath. Fanboy and Yo watch Oz with dumbfounded expressions, especially when he croaks, “Guys, I’m seriously sorry. I thought she’d be a good fit for you since she used to work at your school, but I was wrong.” He swallows hard. To think that Cram would ever have been capable of adjusting her volume for the sake of his patients. “And now because of me, you haven’t learned a thing and you’re behind. Seriously, I’m so sorry.”

Yo stiffens. “Behind?”

“Gah, I’m so stupid…”

“Oh! Take it easy there, Oz,” Fanboy comforts, his adoptive father’s sudden remorse taking him by surprise, so much so that his initial ire begins to assuage. “It wasn’t ALL bad.” He grins awkwardly and pleads at Yo with his eyes for help. “We learned—! Like…!” He snaps his fingers, scrambling for anything. “Uh…uh, tell ‘im, Yo!”

Put on the spot, Yo tries her best to lay everything out for the glum doctor. Lunch Nanny Cram, despite her flaws, did teach Fanboy and Yo a great deal about infant care, like how to support their babies’ necks, change, bathe, dress, soothe, swaddle, feed, and burp them, and lastly, much to Fanboy’s dismay, caring for a healing circumcision.

“Ya see?” Fanboy urges, giving Yo a thumbs-up. “We’re practic’lly experts now! Kinda!”

Oz wipes his eyes. “That’s a plus. Do you want to continue your classes with her?”

“NO!”

Friday. December 23rd, 2020

Fanboy awakens to the soothing audio of rain. First, he feels with his hands to make sure that Yo is right beside him. Then, he pokes his head out from under the covers to give their room a once-over. “Roger!” he whispers to himself, and taps his wrist. “Ksshh! Perimeter’s been stoutly surveyed. We are clear for–”

“Fanboy.”

The man almost jumps in surprise at the sound of Yo’s annoyed voice. “Oh!” he squeaks, slightly embarrassed. “Good morning! Didja rest well, Sleepyhead?” He giggles, lifting the bed covers up to reveal his love’s unamused, ashen face. His smile drops.

“Whoa.” He takes her hands and is shocked at how cold they are. Instead of notifying Oz, he reverts back into autopilot and tucks himself back under the covers to warm her, grabbing her hands and exhaling hot air onto them.

“I’m fine,” Yo insists, but her her tone is dull and she doesn’t pull her hands away.

“Ya don’ seem fine t’ me!” Fanboy snaps. “I mean, holy cow, Yo! Didja sleep at ALL?”

Silence meets his concern, prompting him to feel a rush of anger. Not at Yo, mind, but at himself for not noticing sooner.

“Oz said the medicine would work!” he recants aloud. He remembers from the night previous Yo popping the melatonin pills into her mouth and washing them down with a few sips of milk.

Fanboy searches Yo’s face for an answer, and what he gets is a sullen reminder that even after all this, the young woman is still greatly suffering. Perhaps the medicine isn’t enough to lull her to sleep. He swallows hard. “Tell me what I c’n do to help.”

There’s no easy escape from this situation. No easy escape from anything. Yo’s bottom lip trembles, her breathing coming a little harder and faster. She can’t think of anything to say to satisfy either of them. Relieve either of them. Fanboy doesn't realize how much pressure he's putting on Yo in his persistent efforts to take care of her.

“I didn’ take ‘em.”

Fanboy blinks. “Come again?”

“The pills. I…I spit them back into my cup.”

Silence. Fanboy’s expression is one of baffled blankness as his mind tries to comprehend what he has been told. He speaks, swift and direct. “Why would you do that?”

No answer.

Fanboy sits up, maneuvering the covers so that Yo is exposed to the light. “Why would you do that?” he repeats, a newer edge to his tone.

Yo looks anywhere but at him, settling on Admiral Fluffington perched on their bedside table. “I ‘unno.”

Fanboy reels back shocked. This doesn’t add up. “I-I-I don’t–! Wh…? Why?! Doncha wanna get better?”

No answer.

There has to be an explanation outside of suicidal idealations or depression. There has to be! “Yo, if th’ medicine tastes gross, ya coulda jus’ said so!”

No answer.

“Remember what Dr. Olive said? There’s no way Boog can get us in here. We’re safe; ya don’ needa stay up and take my place standin’ guard no more!”

No answer.

Fanboy shifts from side to side, frantic. “If yer worried it won’ work, it does! I take it an’ I–!”

“That’s not it,” Yo mumbles.

Fanboy is stumped. “Then what is it?”

NO answer.

Fanboy’s eye twitches. “D-Do ya jus’ not care about yerself? Huh?” He doesn’t expect an answer, but Yo actually gives in to affirm the frustration-fueled accusation.

“...Guess not,” she mumbles so faintly Fanboy has to strain his ears. When her answer sinks in, his nostrils flares with anger.

“Oh, HECK NO!” he barks, waving his finger in a Z-figure. “If there’s one thing Man-Arctica’s Issue 552 taught me, it’s that heroes who self-sabotage will only get worse!” His eyes glint, intense. “Man-Arctica woulda done something to help Sea-Cow if he knew she was sad. Alas, he knew not.” Fanboy’s emerald eyes flash. “But I DO!”

Before Yo can protest, Fanboy stomps out of bed, fetches two of his own prescribed melatonin pills from the countertop, and returns to sit on top of Yo’s torso. “Take ‘em,” he demands, holding the two little white pills between his thumb and forefinger before her eyes. Yo looks away but Fanboy won’t let up.

Yo doesn’t have the energy to fight. She opens her mouth and allows Fanboy to toss in the pills. He goes a step further by holding his hand over her mouth until he’s certain she has swallowed, and even then, orders her to open wide so he can make sure she hasn’t hidden them under her lip or tongue.

“There,” Fanboy says with resigned finality, far from content. “I’m not lettin’ that slip by me again.”

Now that she’s been made to look irrational, Yo is peeved. “Whaddaya gonna do?” she challenges. “S’not like it matters.”

Fanboy doesn’t take the bait. Instead, he focuses on the latter. “Why wouldn't it?” He takes her hands again, resting his entire body atop hers in a suffocating position, and props himself on his elbows to stare hard at her face.

Yo inhales sharply. “I dunno!”

“Oh I see!” Fanboy snaps. “Yer not tellin’ me ‘cause ya don’ want me to feel bad! Ya don’t wanna “drag me down” like “a rock in a lake”!”

Yo seethes, now glaring back at Fanboy with rising intensity.

“Well, guess what? This ain’t makin’ me happy! Ya think if ya put a smile on yer face and pretend yer fine, it’ll be okay as long as I never notice!”

“Stop!” Yo growls, digging her nails into Fanboy’s wrists.

“How is that okay? Oh, right, ‘cause I’m too Ð̸̮͍͇͙̘̊̒̀͛͝µ̸̛̮̭̠͉͔̊̉̈́̐m̵̗̹͈̫̰̍́̌͛̓ß̵̧̛̼̰͕̱̓̐̀́  to notice th’ difference anyway!” Fanboy retorts.

Yo trembles with fury. “That’s NOT–!”

“As long as dumb ol’ Fanboy doesn’t notice me spittin’ out my medicine,” Fanboy mocks in a high-pitched voice, “he’ll be okay with me making myself sick! ‘Cause THAT’S what’s best for us!”

Yo grits her teeth, and, finally, Fanboy lands the fatal blow.

“That’s what’s best for our kids!”

Yo doesn’t see the moment of impact, the way Fanboy’s face snaps to the side with the force of her sharply moving hand. She doesn’t hear her own strangled gasp over the loud smack that echoes impossibly about the room, like shockwaves that send her reeling. She doesn’t see the wide eyes of Oz and Pam staring at the scene playing out like a synthetic affair.

All she registers is a bloody haze that snaps with the burst of pure fury from the dam of withheld emotion. When the haze dispels, everything has changed. She sees Fanboy pressing his gloved hand to his bright red cheek, two horrified spectators, and her own outstretched arm, left suspended midair. It drops to her lap as her vision tunnels onto Fanboy.

I’m sorry. Those are the words Yo wants to say, but her throat closes up so tightly that she can barely breathe. She can’t, staring into Fanboy’s eyes and seeing the confusion, the betrayal, the utter surprise and disbelief. The regret. She can’t, but she needs to.

She did this, after all.

She…

She bolts.

With unearthed strength, she races past a dumbfounded Fanboy, past Pam and Oz, out the door and down the hall with its painfully bright lights and cold tile floor. Yo somehow stumbles her way into a single-person bathroom. There’s a loud buzzing in her head, emptying her thoughts until there’s only white noise.

When she comes to, the door is locked, the lights are off, and she’s sitting on the edge of the commode staring into the void.  

She slapped Fanboy. She hurt him on purpose. He—!

“He deserved that,” hisses a pained inner voice.

Yo clutches her head and whines. A huge part of her wants to be killed, wants Boog to show up and beat her, wants the shadows to tear her apart, the staff to lock her up. No one shows up, unsurprisingly, the lack of attention a bitter reminder of how unlikable she is.

After a long, anxiety-ridden deliberation, Yo unlocks the door and pokes her head out. The hall is quiet and empty.

She opts to return to their room.

She can’t even begin to imagine how she’ll ever make up for what she did. Excuses fill her soul, reasons she hasn’t uttered, confessions she has held back. Head down, Yo slowly drags herself down the hall, ignoring the black shadows cackling at her in the corners of her vision. Once she finds her door, she puts her hand on the knob and pauses, feeling the tendrils of a melatonin-induced sleep creeping into her subconscious.

“YO!”

Her body seizes. “No,” she croaks, turning to the man power-walking toward her. Oh, what wouldn’t she give to disappear.

“Yo,” Oz pants as he finally catches up, “what were you thinking?! Seriously! You can’t run off like that!”

Yo reflexively shrinks back. “…I hit him.”

Oz frowns. “Do you need some time apart?”

“N-No!”

“Then go rest, Yo. Seriously. We’ll talk about it later.”

Yo lets Oz lead her by the arm into her room. Thanks to the melatonin, the lull of sleep has nearly overtaken her mind. Her vision blurs so quickly she doesn’t have time to see Fanboy sitting vacantly on the loveseat holding an icepack against his cheek. She collapses face-first onto the bed in a tired heap and passes out.

Yo stirs, feeling like mush. Peals of red-orange light glow warmly behind the thick tarp veiling her only window to the outside world. She sits up, groggy but in a much better state than she’d been in before passing out.

“Hey, Sleepyhead!” calls a familiar voice. Yo swivels her head to find Fanboy sitting comfortably on the loveseat and reading a comic book. His cheek is sporting a large dark bruise. The sight causes her to glance away at the alarm clock. 4:29 PM. She’d slept for the better part of the day.

She nervously inhales, unable to meet Fanboy’s eyes. Admiral Fluffington is tucked snugly beside her; Fanboy must have put him there while she was out cold. She presses the teddybear against her chest and thinks frantically for something to say.

“Fanboy—”

Before she can apologize, Fanboy joins her on the bed and pulls her into a tight hug. “I’m so sorry I said that stuff,” he whispers. Yo can hear the hoarseness in his voice. He's been crying. “I was so mean t’ ya.”

Yo swallows. She wants to disregard his apology; after all, his words were no excuse for her to hit him, but he sounds so sincerely remorseful that it’d be a crime not to accept his regrets. “You were jus’ tryin’ t’ help.”

“Some help I was,” Fanboy mumbles, ashamed. “All I did was make ya feel crummy when I shoulda been helpin’ ya feel better. I’m so sorry for that, Yo. Will ya forgive me?”

“Aw, Fanboy,” Yo whimpers. “O’ course I forgive ya!” Her lip trembles. “Iss me who needs t’ ‘pologize.”

“No, ya don’t.”

“I do,” Yo insists. “What ya said was no excuse for me t’ hitcha. I’m so sorry, Lance. For hittin’ ya, a-and for puttin’ ya through this.”

Fanboy caresses her cheek for a moment. “It’s not your fault,”  he assures.

Yo rests her hand over his. “Maybe not fo’ how I feel, but my actions are all mine. Even if I don’ care much about myself anymore,” she falters, thinking she’s making the wrong move by confessing such sad things to her partner, but he nods encouragingly, “it ain’t fair to ya.”

For once, Fanboy doesn’t offer any input. He just listens.

“I don’t care about anything anymore.” Yo chuckles humorlessly. “I thought I would once we escaped, but I don’t feel better now and I don’t wanna. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care.” She waits for Fanboy to protest, to raise his voice, to justifiably scold her for her harmful actions, but he doesn’t speak. He does something that makes the ever-present guilt in her chest writhe with agony. He cries.

He covers his eyes, visibly straining every muscle in his body to keep from bursting with sobs, but Yo can see his teeth biting down on his trembling bottom lip, the tears trailing down his injured cheek in rivers.

Yo opens her mouth to speak but Fanboy breaks from his tensed position and embraces her with open arms and wails.

The evening continues in a listless haze. Fanboy and Yo lay cheek to cheek staring impassively up at the ceiling. Few words have been exchanged between them since the apology. Yo appreciates the silence, however stifling, and caresses her partner’s hand.

“Are you gonna tell Oz?” Fanboy asks softly, his eye following the hanging glowing stars hanging above their heads.

Yo makes a small disapproving sound. “He’s gon’ separate us anyway.”

“He isn’t,” Fanboy assures. “He said to “work it out” by ourselves,” he smirks tiredly, “and to, uh, hold off on th’ you-know-what.”

“Stupid,” Yo grumbles, but relieved that her impulsivity wasn’t enough for Oz to separate them. She repositions their hands so that they’re resting between her and Fanboy’s chins. “So, whaddaya do now?” she digresses. “Sourdough-Whammo? Twenty Questions?”

“Don’t change th’ subject,” Fanboy chides. “Talk to Dr. Olive. She’ll know how to help. Besides, don’t you wanna be yer best self when Chum Chum arrives?” He lights up, the mere sound of his best friend’s name elevating his mood into a state of mild gidiness.

Yo doesn’t answer, but she thinks deeply about the latter question. “He’s not coming for me, Fanboy. You know that.”

“Don’t be silly,” Fanboy chides, insulted by the claim. “Fine. Be your best self for th’ babies then. They need ya more than anyone in th’ world.”

Yo’s chest tightens.

“C’mon,” Fanboy urges. “They only have one mama. And if ya want yer babies to be healthy, doncha think you should take care of your babies’ mother?”

“Fine.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, if ya stop talkin’ about it,” Yo sighs, noncommittal.

Fanboy smiles with relief. “Deal.”

“So, we just gon’ lay here or we gon’ have some fun?”

“I feel like we’ve covered th’ whole o’ twenty-questions,” Fanboy admits. They’ve played countless rounds over the years.

Yo bites her thumbnail, mumbling under her breath.

Fanboy sits up. “I have the bestest idea!”

Yo finds herself in Fanboy’s wheelchair, goggles donned and giggling with anxious anticipation. Fanboy winds up behind her, takes the handlebars in both hands, and poises to take off. “Ready!?” he whisper yells, aiming to do this without getting caught. Yo nods excitedly. 

“Blast off!” Fanboy gives a great heave and sends the both of them down the hall at top speed. Yo gasps at the feeling of wind rushing through her hair, a feeling she hasn’t experienced in ten years.

“Faster!” she blurts.

Huffing and puffing, Fanboy obeys, perching himself on the back of the wheelchair to enjoy the same rush of wind. “FOR JUSTICE!” he whoops, shooting his fist out in front of him. Yo cackles with laughter, adrenaline rushing through her veins. Once they’ve reached the end of the hall, Fanboy turns the chair around and flies them back down the hall at an even greater speed.

Fanboy warcries into the wind, feeling the joys of flying for the first time in over ten years. The doors rush past them just a half-second apart. One open door reveals Oz tending to another patient. Against his better judgement, Fanboy waves and calls, “Hi, Oz!” before zooming off past before the man can see him.

Upon their return to their room, Yo is giddy. “That was awesome!” she squeals, taking Fanboy’s hand when offered. “Let’s go again!”

“Tomorrow for sure,” Fanboy pants. “I’m bushed.”

Back into the room they go, dropping off their goggles on the bedside table and collapsing onto the floor. The small exertion has left them practically exhausted.

“Bed?” Fanboy yawns.

Yo snuggles into the cold tile instead. She feels the weight beside her shift and watches Fanboy bring from their beds an assortment of blankets, stuffed animals, and pillows. He stacks them over and around Yo, cocooning her in a world of softness. She giggles under her breath as he joins her beneath the mass, takes her in his arms, and holds her close.

“Comfy, m’lady?”

“Uh-huh!” Yo touches his face, the bruised area, and looks down. “You poor thing. I’m so sorry,” she murmurs. “I really am.”

“We’ll call it even,” Fanboy dismisses with a guilty grin of his own, and Yo suddenly remembers how he’d struck her back in the room. “Let’s never hit each other again, okay?”

Yo buries her face in his bony chest and grimaces. “I’m itchy.”

“Me too,” Fanboy agrees, shedding his gown and helping Yo do the same.

Saturday. December 24th, 2020

“Tomorrow’s the big day,” Nurse Lady Pam beams, throwing fresh sheets over Fanboy and Yo’s shared mattress. “Are you excited?”

Fanboy grins from ear to ear and hugs Yo in celebration. “I was startin’ t’ think I’d never meet ‘em!” Fanboy blurts. He relinquishes his hold on Yo in favor of wringing his hands. “Oooh my gosh if they’re as cute as Yo, I don’t think I can take it!”

Yo giggles behind her hands, both anxious and relieved that the wait is finally coming to an end.

“What about you, Mama?” Pam coos to Yo while fluffing a pillow. “Ready to see your babies?”

Yo has only the vaguest sense that she is being referred to. When she looks and finds herself under scrutiny, she naturally freezes but gives up forcing a smile onto her face. “No,” she says in a low voice, as if speaking exacerbates her wheals. “No.” Despite the intense training she had undergone, the young woman can’t imagine she could ever properly prepare herself for motherhood, but simply saying it causes mountains of guilt to rip through her hollow chest.

No feigned smile can save her from her declaration. She doesn’t dare look to see the surely disappointed faces of her caretakers and partner, but Fanboy slides his arms around her shoulders and nuzzles her temple to show his support. “It’s okay, Sweetheart,” he whispers. “Like ya said: Pam an’ Oz’ll be there t’ help us.”

A silent chuckle ripples through Yo’s body as Fanboy recants the very words she’d given him a few days beforehand. She doesn’t trust herself, her back and forth mentality and inconsistent priors, but she does trust her caretakers in the fields where her competencies lie empty and useless.

“Exactly!” Oz proclaims, proudly placing his hands on his hips. “I’ve had my fair share of changings and rockings. Consider me an expert.”

Fanboy muffles an indignant snort into Yo’s hair.

Oz lifts his chin. “I changed YOU when you were a baby, Lance!”

Yo cracks up in the silence of Fanboy’s sheepish embarrassment and feels her spirits lift a tad from the murk. “If yer so confident, you can take care of the diapers, Oz,” she challenges, but the doctor holds his hands up.

“Anywho, we’re down to last-minute prep here, ladies and gent.” Oz clasps his hand together and all those present straighten at attention to regard the man’s next words. “Fanboy, Yo? I can’t–” he pauses, throat tightening.

Fanboy sucks in a breath and waits. Oz’s brown eyes are a sight to behold, so full of love and compassion that his adopted son and potential daughter and law are brought to near-instant tears. “I can’t even begin to tell you how proud I am of you both. Seriously, proud. Of you, Fanboy and Yo. You’ve come so far in such a short amount of time and I know all that means is you’ll succeed even more in the weeks, months, an’ years to come.”

Yo brings her hands to rest upon her chest.

“I’ll be real,” Oz confesses, “I had no idea what to expect. Last time I saw you guys you were so little and it was hard to let go of that, for me to keep my emotions from getting in the way of what I knew would be best.” Oz regards them with a wistful, nostalgic gaze. “I obviously broke a few times; you guys saw that and, well, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I drudged up bad memories, I’m sorry I ever spoke so harshly, I’m sorry for all the restrictions.” He wipes his eyes.

“Even though I don’t fully trust you, and remember, that is neither of your faults,” he adds sharply when Fanboy and Yo begin to wilt. “...in my heart of hearts, I know you are going to be hardworking, wonderful parents. You are going to live happy, healthy lives, and you are going to do it all despite what that heaping pile of rat-dung did to you.”

A pregnant silence fills the room. Oz waits for his words to sink in. “You’re ready,” he says, nodding like his life depends on it. “Ready to grow, ready to learn, ready to be the best you can be.”

Fanboy opens his mouth a stone’s throw away from irritation. “But ya don’ fully trust us?” Yo squeezes his hand, a gentle warning.

Oz considers his words and Pam steps in to backtrack. “He trusts you, Honey. He’s just a nervous granddad.”

Fanboy takes a moment to mull it over. A natural distrust is what it’s been, then. A logical one. Fanboy can understand.  “I didn’ think of it like tha’,” he admits. “I understand.” He lifts his head then, a burst of determination prompting him to say, “I’ll earn yer trust, Oz.”

Yo curiously tilts her head. Fanboy says Oz’s name but is looking directly at her when he speaks.

“Whatever I gotta do,” Fanboy continues, straightening his posture, “I’ll do it. I’m gonna be th’ best dad in th’ whole entire world!” Again, he stares deep into Yo’s eyes as he speaks, squeezing her hand tight with passionate reassurance. “Jus’ say th’ word,” he whispers low for her ears alone. 

Hearing those simple words jolts Yo out of her content complacency, and a dark realization that has long festered on the outskirts of her mind bursts open and spreads its poison, quenching whatever meekness Yo has acquired in her time captive: in spite of Fanboy’s progress and the wearing down of his aggressive impulsiveness, there is only one true barrier separating him from relapsing. Her.

Looking into his wide green eyes, Yo can see the subdued wildness just waiting to burst forth from its chains at her request. Fanboy may with difficulty subdue his aggressive tendencies, obey his caretakers, and tolerate life under benevolent lock and key, but he is poised. It makes Yo wonder, is he capable even now of breaking Oz’s rules and running amuck for his children?

Yo feels as if icy water has engulfed her insides–because of course he is–and yet a steely air of power comes over her. She has more say in their situation now than back in the room, more than she has ever realized! Fanboy is a dominant force to be reckoned with, but she is his equalizer, perhaps even surpasser. She lifts her chin, trails her eyes from Fanboy’s to his scarred hands clasping hers.

"If you want a happy ending,” she whispers internally, “if you truly want to be the best dad ever, you may have to make the hardest decision of your life.”

 Adoption. That’s what’s been on her mind ever since waking up in the hospital, stemming the pain in her heart until even the mentioning of her babies would make her sick with shame. Before, she hadn’t even considered voicing the notion to her love, as she assumed that there’d be no conceivable way to convey to him that he wasn’t the right choice to father—that she wasn’t the right choice to mother her young.

But NOW, as the weilder of this power over Fanboy, she sees potential for the previously unattainable conversation. Yo is tempted to test the waters now, whether or not it would allay or multiply their issues, but Pam cuts through her thoughts with a loud suggestion.

“—a shower. I hate to be rude, but it’s getting a little musty in here.”

Fanboy draws away from Yo’s suddenly intense gaze and sniffs his underarm. “Fair point,” he grimaces.

After breakfast and checkups, Fanboy and Yo follow Nurse Lady Pam down the corridor. Despite showing a rapid improvement in their physicality, Fanboy and Yo do tire quickly. Thankfully, they arrive at their destination before either collapse from exhaustion.“Here it is!” announces Nurse Lady Pam, throwing open the door. “Now, not to brag, but I think you’re gonna love this.” Yo and Fanboy peek out from under her outstretched arms and gasp.

The shower room is dreamlike, sparkling white, and a lot larger than either patient had anticpated. The white-tiled walls arch up into a dome-like ceiling. The floor is submerged in steaming inch-deep water. Ten porcelain showerheads circle the dome. Where the arches meet in the center of the ceiling there is a circular skylight with white light peeking through its glass, allowing Fanboy and Yo for their first glimpse of real daylight after ten long years.

Oz flicks down a switch so that the only source of light is that of the daylight in the ceiling, allowing Fanboy and Yo the opportunity to remove their protective goggles.

Fanboy takes a tentative step forward through the door and enters the dry readying area. There’s a wooden bench pressed up against the wall, a towel rack, and a shelf supporting an assortment of cleaning products. Fanboy kicks off his slippers, realizing the floor is made of tiny pebbles, and removes his gloves to touch the white wall as he walks out at the top of the steps.

“It’s so BIG!” he breathes. “I could swim laps in ‘ere!”

The area’s circumference is hardly bigger than the common area. “It was installed for—” Oz starts, but Fanboy is too enthralled to listen.

“It’s like a stadium!”

Yo is too overwhelmed to speak as she steps into the room.

“Ah ah ah!” Oz chides, guiding her back with a gentle hand. “One at a time.”

Both Yo and Fanboy whirl around, their expressions morphing into those of pure panic. “No! No, no, no!” the young male exclaims, his arms waving in a turbine-like fashion. “Oz, ya gotta let her stay.” His eyes dart to and fro, the shadows dancing in and out of his peripheral far from gone despite the white of the room. “It’s freaky by myself.”

Oz shakes his head, albeit reluctantly. “I don’t know. You two being in this kind of environment alone… The temptation would be way too strong.”

Yo watches their exchange with a mixture of curiosity and anxiety. She hopes at the back of her mind that Oz’s implied accusations and blunt words will not descend into shoving, clouting, or worse, but then she remembers how Oz praised them for their progress. Are they not all grown adults with the ability to peacefully debate? In fact, Fanboy jumps on his honorary father’s hesitance like a mouse on cheese. “Then, this is the perfect opportunity fo’ me to earn your trust.” He thinks for a moment. “Besides, she an’ I are grownups.”

Oz’s brows twist. “You’re not marr—”

“Ya told us that since we’re adults, we can make our own decisions, right?” Fanboy steps forward with flourish and puts his hands on his hips. “Well I decide that she’s gonna stay.”

“Fanboy, no,” Oz argues. “You’re not going to make Yo’s decisions for–”

“I wanna stay,” Yo murmurs, her meek temperament making a strong rebound as the faces in the room regard her.

Oz looks conflictedly at the young woman balanced precariously on wobbly legs and leaning heavily against Nurse Pam. Technically, Fanboy and Yo have passed the bar; according to Olive, their mental evaluation has produced optimistic results. That, and as much as he derives himself an authoritative figure, he hasn’t the legal jurisdiction over them as he would if they were children.

It seems as though Fanboy is beginning to grasp this as well, because he draws up to his full height, brooking no argument. “I feel safer with her, Oz. She’s stayin’. That’s final.”

In the harrowing silence that follows Fanboy’s bold statement, Pam intervenes, placing a gentle hand on Oz’s elbow and offering her fiance a tender mien. “It shouldn’t be an issue as long as they abstain,” she points out, sending Yo a wink as Oz looks down to contemplate. “I see the responsible dad in him,” she chuckles, referring to Fanboy’s sternness. “Don’t you?”

To his credit, Oz recognizes his limits, and, at last, relinquishes Yo. “You have a time limit in here, though, okay? Thirty minutes max.”

Fanboy smiles, genuinely grateful. “Thanks, Oz,” he rushes, but Oz is hardly finished.

“Remember what we talked about, Fanboy. Six weeks.”

Whether irked by Oz’s admonition or tickled by his own display of assertiveness, Fanboy smirks. “Five now,” he corrects, more cheekily than he had intended.

Oz frowns at his adopted son, his jaw beginning to set with mild irritation.

“Yeah, Oz. We remember,” Yo assures before another argument can arise.

“Good,” Oz says, tone berefit of any real anger. “I’m putting my trust in you. Just wanna make sure you’re both safe and—”

“C’mon, Hon,” Pam interrupts, tugging the man’s arm. “They know the risks.” Against his better judgment, Oz thoroughly relents and allows Pam to lead him out of the shower room. “Seriously, Pam, you’re a menace,” he complains as she shoos him away sans a rejoinder.

In Oz’s absence, Pam wastes no time. She briskly gives a rundown of the knobs before exiting gently shutting the door behind her. Yo stares at the door before locking it with purpose, feeling a great deal of vigor through the action. At last, she and Fanboy have blessed privacy.

Yo kicks off her slippers, climbs down the two steps, and steps into the inch-deep water. A shudder runs through her lithe body at the warmth. Her neck cranes upward as she looks through the skylight. The frosted glass is speckled with tiny snowflakes, reminding her of the winter outside.

“If this isn’t heaven,” Fanboy marvels in a voice laden with awe, “I don’t know what is!”

So preoccupied with staring at the skylight, Yo nearly stumbles and falls, but Fanboy catches her in time.

“Whoopsie-daisy!” he exclaims, an endearing smile dancing on his lips. Yo’s lips curl to match his and they share a little laugh.

“The light’s so pretty!” she giggles, turning on her heels and catching sight of something she hadn’t before. A full-lenth mirror stretching from floor to where the walls begin to arch into the dome. She averts her eyes before they can properly focus on the emaciated beings. “U-Um…Ya ready?”

Fanboy slowly nods, his gaze fixating on said floor-length mirror. Yo leans onto her love, taking short glances at their full reflections until her heart can’t bear it anymore. Fanboy lifts his chin at the mirror and turns with her.

They disrobe in silence. Fanboy hooks his fingers under the hem of Yo’s dirty gown, carefully peels it off of her, and tosses it aside to join his own gown in the readying area. Yo glances about, in this wide open environment feeling an ancient flash of self-consciousness. She ducks her head and crosses her arms over her chest. Fanboy pays no mind to express the presence of his own reservation.

Yo bites her lip as Fanboy approaches the row of knobs. Even though a week has passed and she has born witness to Fanboy’s nakedness multiple times, the distance between his bony, brittle form and his larger-than-life charisma is made ever-more clear in the natural light. The pang in Yo’s heart is softened by the playful smile Fanboy shoots her way.

“Can you believe these things?” he jokes, fingering the knobs. “I feel like I’m operatin’ a space shuttle.”

Yo can’t help a laugh. Though simple in design, the knobs are embarrassingly complex to the minds which’d been extensively isolated from even rudimentary tools.

“Need any help, Einstein?” she teases.

“Hey, all genius robot designers gotta start somewhere,” is Fanboy’s emphatical reply. “Now don’ be a smart aleck! If you’re lucky, I jus’ may be able t’ figure this sucker out.”

“Mm-hm…” As Fanboy fiddles abrasively with the controls, Yo allows herself to sink to the ground and revel in the comforting warmth lapping at her body. She misses a seldom few things from her time back in the room, one of which was her times in the metal basin filled with steamy-hot water. In the long years preceding their discovery of intercourse, bath-time was one of her only comforts. It would lull her into a sense of security, of sleep, like a baby bird inside an egg.

Presently, Yo yawns and gives her eyes a mighty rub, just as Fanboy figures out the settings. The singular knob gripped in his hand activates just one of the ten shower-heads, and it happens to be right above Yo’s head. She sputters with surprise at the sudden downpour and awkwardly crab-walks several feet back.

“Fanboy!”

Fanboy practically doubles over with laughter at Yo’s reaction, but he has to admit the fear of unfamiliarity. “Whoops! My bad!” He tests the water with his healing hand and shudders at the warmth. This water is clean and clear like glass. It surpasses tenfold the murky boiler water Boog had them bathe in. It is safe. Fanboy closes his eyes and ducks into the stream.

Yo curiously watches Fanboy gasp with excitement. The feeling is unlike anything he remembers. The spray is strong, dousing his body in patterns and illuminated by the lights in such a way that looks crystallized. He tilts his head back open-mouthed, eyes closed, feeling as if he were being baptized by heavenly rains. Yo watches, mesmerized.

“Y-Yo!” Fanboy barely manages to croak in his spellbound state. He beckons, reaching for her from under the cascade. Yo wastes no time and carefully joins him. Fanboy lowers to her level and wraps his arms around her neck from behind. For a long while, they sit in the comforting heat without words.

Speech comes back to Yo in the form of a single word: “Wow.” She languidly breathes, closing her eyes in shock at the pleasurable warm wet patter. There’s no comparison between this and the baths she’d been forced to take in the room, the ones where she’d uncomfortably sat in her own filth shorn of a single shred of privacy. She can’t believe Boog had forced them do that— NO.

“No,” she thinks, shaking her head clear of any Boog-related thoughts. “He isn’t here. He’s in jail, right where he belongs. Gone. Forget about him. Forget him. Forget.” She takes a deep breath and opens her eyes to embrace the diamond water drops falling about her.

“This is amazin’!” she sighs.

“Amazin’,” Fanboy echoes happily. He presses his lips to her nape, reveling in the feeling of her soft wet hair against his face. “Amazin’...” Their fingers lace, and Yo senses another source of warmth pressing against her.

“Five weeks,” she quietly reminds him.

“I know,” Fanboy assures. “I just like being close to you. That’s all.” His voice is overly apparent with affection. It nestles deep into Yo’s core and draws from her a shy murmur. His movements match his unashamed fondness; with one hand he gently brushes his fingers against her temple, maneuvering her jet-black bangs behind her ear, and with the other he traces every dip, curve, and crevice of her face.

Under the cascading waterfall, the two lock eyes, green with blue. “You’re a vision.”

Yo smiles endearingly.

“Dance with me?” Fanboy asks.

Yo nods, and they stand.

Under the skylight’s white glow, Fanboy eagerly extends his hand to Yo. She takes it. Fanboy is surprised by his confidence. A few years back he couldn’t have imagined taking Yo’s hand so easily. Holding steady, he guides them to stand close and begin the dance.

Together, they sway and spin under the sparkling water drops, Fanboy carefully guiding them through the space. Yo rests her forehead against his sternum. The comforting maneuver is affectionately returned with a gentle kiss to the top of her head.

After a while, Yo lifts her head, and what she sees causes her breath to hitch. In this moment, all traces of Fanboy have disappeared, leaving only Lance behind. The little boy who clung to her for warmth is but a sliver of matter in the being holding her close. It’s a sight to behold, wrapped with awe, painful regret, and adoration.

“It’s still him,” she reasons, a sharp pang of longing for her goofy, uniform-sporting classmate striking her chest. She feels an even stronger longing for who she once was: a cheerful, boy-crazy lover of pink and all things small and adorable. Who are they now? Cowed, broken adults with a mile long list of mental and physical illnesses.

They are not the same people they were. “But,” she reasons, “nobody is who they were as children. Should I be mourning?”

Fanboy tilts his head and beams, the natural light reflecting stunningly off of his golden-brown locks. Yo stands tongue-tied, ultimately deciding that their past selves most certainly deserve a proper memorial, as well that their present selves should be embraced with all the love, care, and tender devotion they can muster.

“You’re beautiful,” she whispers, palming his pale, hollow cheek with one hand and stroking his long tresses with the other.

Fanboy's emerald eyes grow wide at the compliment. Yo does’t award accolades as often as he, but she does so with steadfast conviction.

“Why thank you,” he purrs, tweaking her nose. “Ya tryin’ to tempt me, Lil’ Lady?” Yo giggles, shrugging a shoulder. Fanboy quickens his pace, pulling Yo around the circumference of the room, all while twisting the knobs activating all the shower-heads at once.

Now they’re really in a downpour.

Yo feels a burst of energy in her core as they twirl and hop and twist in the patter. She chortles, tipping her head back as Fanboy holds up her arm and she gives her cutest twirl. They repeat their movements in an erratic pattern, synchronized with Fanboy’s wild vocals and Yo’s hums. They’ve no defined footwork to their dance, no proper embellishment, but it’s the most exhilarating, liberating thing Yo and Fanboy have done.

Over time, the dance evolves into a chase. Yo pulls away from Fanboy's arms, beckoning him with a teasing glance over her shoulder. Fanboy chases his laughing partner, pretending to catch up but slowing down repeatedly. Yo twirls in and out of the raindrops, just out of her partner's reach. As she passes by the readying area, she snatches the shampoo/conditioner bottle.

“Wuh-oh! Remember this?” She squeezes a bounty of soap into her hands and tosses the bottle. “Catch!”

“Hey!” Fanboy protests, catching the bottle. “Ya can’t call a time out in the middle of a round! Cheater!” He playfully sticks out his tongue. “Cheater-cheater, pumpkin-eater!” Yo shrugs and lifts her arms to massage the soaps into her scalp.

Fanboy dreamily absorbs Yo’s figure, which appears holy in the white light. She gazes back at him through half-lidded eyes, her smile settling into something fairly coy, almost as if she’s purposefully enticing him. Fanboy lets out a small, helpless pant at the the sight of the soapy water trailing down her curves and curses Oz’s stupid rule for the umpteenth time, wanting nothing more than to—

A soapy loofa smacks him in the face before his brain can finish that thought, leaving him temporarily stunned. Yo laughs at his baffled expression. “Start scrubbin’!” she calls, taking a leisurely stroll around the circumference of the room to rinse out her hair.

Fanboy can’t take his heart-filled eyes off her. He’s never had the chance to appreciate her beauty like this, not with his eyes. Back in the room, they could only use their hands to explore each other. Once his hair is rinsed, Fanboy eagerly sneaks over and wraps his arms around Yo from behind.

“Gotcha,” he breathes triumphantly into her ear. Yo shudders at his touch, twisting her head to press their lips together.

Fanboy pants into her mouth and presses back harder, losing himself in a fervid haze of pink and red. He pushes Yo to rest on her back in the shallow warm water and climbs over her with purpose.

For a short while, there’s quiet as Yo gazes longingly up at her partner. She doesn’t protest and, judging by the passion in her eyes, wants to connect to Fanboy as much as he wants to with her, consequences be darned!

In fact, Fanboy actually begins to initiate their coupling when Oz’s voice cuts through the haze.

“I’m putting my trust in you.”

It’s that sharp dose of reality that ultimately drags Fanboy back to his senses. Yo squirms wantonly. “No fair,” she complains. 

Fanboy pulls her to a sitting position and apologetically boops their noses together. “I know, but if I hurt ya, I—...”

“Yeah… I don’t want that either.” Yo concedes with a long sigh. “We can’t do it.” A short silence, and then a a flirtatious smirk spreads across the woman’s flushed face. “Buuuut, Oz didn’t say we couldn’t smooch, did he?”

Fanboy perks with excitement. “Nope!” he giggles, taking Yo back into his arms and tucking them securely against the wall.

They spend the rest of their time in the showers relaxing on the floor and letting the water pour over them.

“I never knew how beautiful ya really are,” Fanboy muses contentedly, his head resting upon Yo’s lap. “I could never see you. Like, really see you, like how I do now.”

Yo strokes his hair, her face still mildly flushed. “Same here,” she murmurs. “But is it weird that it feels more special when I can’t see you?”

Fanboy shakes his head and closes his eyes against stray droplets. “Is it weird that I like it more when I CAN see you?” He yawns, letting the warm mist and Yo’s body envelope his in a loving embrace. “I dunno. It’s us and I wouldn't change a thing.”

Yo’s hand stills. “I would.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think we should start over.”

Fanboy opens his eyes, puzzled. “Start over? Whaddaya mean?”

“Everything’s so different now. We’re so different now,” Yo explains. “What “us” meant back then versus what “us” means now feels like...” she frowns, ‘...peanut butter and peanut allergies.”

Fanboy rests his hands on his sternum. “That sounds like yer tryin’ t’ sep’rate yourself from what happened.”

“Duh. Aren’t YOU?” Yo challenges.

“Heck no, Yo Monroe,” Fanboy snaps, a bit too sharply.

Yo leans in close so that their foreheads touch. “Why not? Ya know you can keep th’ good even if th’ bad’s gone, right?”

Fanboy stares right into her eyes, defiant.

Yo pulls back. “Maybe “separate” is the’ wrong word.”

“Moving on?” Fanboy supplies with a cheeky smile. “Healing? I can roll with that.”

“Alright, fine. Healing. Ya let me know when,” Yo teases, booping his nose, “but really, let’s start our relationship on our own terms, not Boog’s.”

“Ya made it so much easier to forget where I was,” Yo sighs. “I love bein’ with ya. Yer smart, funny, sweet, polite, trustworthy, drop-dead gorgeous…”

“Aren’t I at all?” Fanboy crows, folding his hands behind his head. “Ya know, I always thought if th’ superhero gig didn’t pan out, I’d be a supermodel.”

“With those teeth?” Yo teases, jabbing his ribs. “Dream on.”

“Yes, Ma'am!” Fanboy grins, showing off his buckteeth with a sultry wink.

Yo giggles, hiding her face behind her hands.

“Ya can’t hide from th’ truth, Yo,” Fanboy teases, pulling her hands away from her pink face. “Face it. I’m super awesome.”

“Yer okay,” Yo allows amidst a breathless burst of laughter. “Okay enough for me, I mean!”

“Well!” Fanboy exclaims with a new flourish. “In that case, will you marry me someday?”

Yo wipes her eyes of both tears and shower water. Before answering, she briefly wonders if Fanboy has any clue about her wanting to give the babies up for adoption. He IS smart, smarter than anyone could give him credit for, and sharply observant, but terribly naive. It’s more than likely he has no idea, Yo concludes. Otherwise, would he be asking for her hand in marriage?

Fanboy needs to know her thoughts, for better or for worse, but for now, Yo shoves aside her doubts and focuses on the man smiling up at her with radiant admiration. “You bet,” Yo answers, and kisses him soundly, just in time to hear a quiet knock and Pam’s gentle voice from outside of the door.

“Aw, c’mon. Jus’ five more minutes!” Fanboy groans into Yo’s mouth.

Yo pulls away. “Let’s go eat.”

Sunday. December 25th, 2020

Yo idly stirs at the fresh scent of pine wafting into her nostrils. Her eyes flutter open to a quiet dark and a faint neon green 4:35AM blinking in and out on the alarm clock’s screen. Even with the aid of medication, she’s up far too early.

Glancing at her partner, Yo’s relieved to find the med’s effects are at least working well with him. Fanboy peacefully snores, face softened with calm as he cradles Admiral Fluffington to his chest.

Yo gives the teddy bear an affectionate stroke, imagining one of her children in the stuffed animal’s place. The vision sends a sharp pain to roost in her chest, however, so she turns away.

Then she realizes the state of the room and gasps.

Sparkling blue garland borders the tops of the walls and cabinets, blinking rainbow lights have been strung from corner to corner in a criss cross pattern, and, in the corner, a beautiful green tree festooned with strings of flickering blue lights and a glowing yellow star perched atop it. The decorations are more than just that, but the portal to another world. In her hypnotic daze, Yo’s jaw slackens and she quietly exits the bed.

There are presents too, she notes with compounding glee, piled in droves at the foot of the tree, some wrapped in red and green, others in icy blue, others patterned.

Yo’s slippered feet glide across the tiled floor carrying her until the lights fill her entire peripheral. She is so enchanted; the lights could rival the stars in beauty. Speaking of which, a fainter twinkle catches the corner of her eye. The window to her right is no longer covered by a thick veil, but completely open to reveal the night.

Like a moth to light, Yo flits across the floor and climbs the back of the couch to peek. “Wow…” she breathes, her heart pounding like an anvil striking her ribcage. From the infinite black sky, tiny white snowflakes gently flutter aground and join their siblings. Yo can’t see far beyond the thick blanket of back and blue fog, but just the thought–just knowing her home is out there beckoning is enough to send her into a tizzy.

She graces the crystallized glass with her fingertips, picturing her faceless chorus of friends on an imaginary horizon calling her home.

Home. An acute pain pierces her heart. She raggedly exhales, her breath fogging up the area as she presses her forehead against the glass. She can feel hot tears rolling down her face before she even realizes she’s crying.

Nothing will be the same. Her friends aren’t waiting for her. Her home is gone.

“It’s okay,” she chants until the cadence of her breathing settles its pace. “Buck up. You’re fine.”  

She sinks slowly into the couch and presses a hand to her forehead, silently willing her tears to cease. The reason behind them isn’t lost, but instead of observing, she focuses exclusively on quelling.

After some time, Yo’s weeping comes to an end and she’s left sniffling in the vicinity of  the holiday’s beauty. Unwilling to wake Fanboy and ask for comfort, she carefully crawls back into bed with him and sets her expression to stone. “Just this once.”

Fanboy whimpers softly in his sleep and encircles his arms around his partner to pull her close.

Yo swallows hard, a drop of sweat trickling down her brow. The anticipation of all things to come is overbearing. The reunion, their eventual discharge, and…the talk. Yo shudders, loathing to picture her love’s reaction. The mere mention of adoption would break Fanboy’s heart; she can’t sully the reunion with any conversation of the sort. Only afterward will she feel it appropriate to breach that line. For now, “I owe you one good day with them.”

 When Yo opens her eyes again, it’s because Fanboy is shaking her shoulders. “Yo! Yo! Yo!” he chants like an excited youngster. “Wake up!”

Against her better judgment, Yo lightly bops his forehead. Luckily, Fanboy responds with giggles instead of growls; he gently knocks her forehead.

“Not muchova mornin’ gal, huh?”

Yo throws an arm across her face and grins. “Not anymore,” she replies. “How long have you been up?”

“About 3.5 seconds and counting!” Fanboy declares. He plops a blue santa hat on Yo’s head and heaves her bridal-style from the bed. “Fanboy!” Yo shrieks, not unhappily as he nuzzles the side of her throat before gently setting her down at the base of the tree amongst the presents.

“Well, looky here! The greatest gift of all!” Fanboy croons, snatching a glittery bow from one of the boxes and sticking it to Yo’s collarbone.

“Wow. And I thought I was sappy!” Yo teases, swishing her clean hair back. “Merry Icemas, Sweetie.”

"Merry Icemas,” Fanboy responds, pressing a purposely obnoxious smooch to his partner’s cheek, despite her playful protests.

“Aw, alright! Alright!” Yo protests, pushing against Fanboy’s chest as he blows a raspberry into her cheek. “Eugh! That’s enough!” She can smell their breakfast waiting for them on the table and desperately wants to eat. “I’m starvin’,” she moans.

They promptly seat themselves at their table and happily devour a light meal containing cinnamon buns, bacon, scrambled eggs, blueberries, and orange juice. Though messy and quick, they make a stronger effort to use their silverware. When her plate is clean, Yo sighs happily and leans back in her chair.

“Didja sleep okay, Yo?” Fanboy asks unprompted, and Yo peeks an eye open.

“Yeah, like I said,” she lies, licking her fingers. “You?”

“I slept like a baby,” Fanboy promises. “Speakin’ o’ which?” He leans across the table with a face rife with anticipation, eyes wild and manic. “Iss today! We’re gonna see our babies!” He punctuates his sentiment with a long loud cheer that scrapes at Yo’s eardrums like a trowel.

“Oh, yeah!” Yo agrees offhandedly, digging a finger into her ear. She forces herself to smile before Fanboy notices her lack of enthusiasm. “I’m excited!”

Fanboy cocks his head and playfully bops her noggin. “Are ya? Little Miss Zombie?”

Yo’s smile drops instantly.

“Whoops!” Fanboy backtracks, holding up his hands in defense. “Definitely didn’ mean t’ say that!” He giggles sheepishly, patting the area he’d bopped.

Yo’s stagnant expression remains.

“Sorry,” Fanboy apologizes. “Guess I’m a lil’ overwhelmed. I mean, thissis a huge day!” He points to the tree. “We got presents t’ open, babies to see, th’ whole nine yards!” He squeals, clapping his hands like an exuberant child.

“Mm-hm,” Yo agrees, this time not bothering to hide her indifference.

“Aw, c’mon,” Fanboy whines. He quickly rounds the table and wraps his arms around his love’s shoulders. “Ya know I didn’ mean it.”

Yo knows this isn’t about her morning face, but if she admits her reluctance, it will put a damper on everyone’s mood and break Fanboy’s heart yet again. She doesn’t think either of them could handle that. So, swallowing down her conflicting emotions, Yo offers her partner a gentle smile.

“I know, Fanboy. I guess I’m a lil’ tired after all.”

“Ya poor thing!” Fanboy gasps. “Back t’ bed!”

Before Yo can object, Fanboy lugs her back to their shared bed and gently tucks her in.

“I’m fine,” Yo protests even as she feels her body beginning to settle.

“You’d make ME take a nap,” Fanboy points out, and Yo slumps back into the pillow. He has a point.

“Stay?” she asks. Fanboy scoots close and lays against the headboard.

“Always,” he purrs, stroking her hair with a free hand. “I shall withhold on the present opening until yer one hundred percent well-rested.”

Once Yo falls back under, Fanboy grins triumphantly and kisses the top of her head. “Slept well, huh?” he teases, though with concern.

Yo sifts through her foggy dreamscape, anxieties and fears put to a temporary rest until soft chattering lulls her awake. “What time is it?” she yawns, stretching her aching muscles.

“IT’S BABY TIME!” bursts Fanboy, jolting the sleep right out of Yo’s passive system.

“Shhh!” Yo hears Oz scold. “Ixnay on the outside oicevay!”

Yo fully opens her eyes to find Fanboy sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed, Oz standing just off to the side, and Nurse Lady Pam perched on the edge of her seat at the play table.

That’s right. The babies. Yo swallows hard and sits up against the headboard.

“Are you ready?” Pam buzzes with excitement. “My colleague’s about to bring them in!”

“No!” Yo wants to cry, but she keeps her mouth shut and grips her bed sheets tight.

Brimming with excitement, Fanboy nods and claps his hands like a madman.

“Good, now quiet down,” Oz shushes the younger man, extending his hands like he’s soothing a rambunctious puppy. “Babies scare easily, so loud noises are a huge no-no.”

Fanboy tries to relax but can’t help but tremble with joy.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door. All parties' heads swivel to the left.

“STAY!” Oz barks before Fanboy can leap for it. The doctor approaches the door, keeping an eye on his ward the entire way. “Stay right there on the bed, Lil’ Dude. I’ll bring your babies to you.”

“O-Okay,” Fanboy allows, eyes darting at Yo for support, but her gaze is trained on the door.

“Close your eyes,” Pam ushers, pulling out her phone and holding it up to capture the moment. “Open them when I say, okay?”

“Okay,” Fanboy repeats with a shaky tremor. He doesn’t think he's ever been this excited and nervous in his entire life! Every beat of his heart feels like Boog bopping his ribcage from the inside. Yo finds his hand and grips it tight.

Finally, the door opens. Fanboy’s ears strain to hear the squeaking of wheels, followed by the soft, excited gasps of the nurse. It takes every single cell in his body to keep from opening his eyes.

“Thanks, Placentula,” Fanboy hears Oz say, presumably to the newcomer.

“Alriiiight! Open your eeeeyes!” Pam squeals in a hushed tone.

Fanboy obeys quicker than anything while Yo hesitates for just a moment more. Three feet from the left side of their bed is an unfamiliar nurse pushing a cradle on wheels. The cradle itself has short plexiglass walls to keep their children from rolling off by accident.

As for the children themselves? The moment Fanboy’s widened eyes land on them, his entire body locks up with astonishment. A noise escapes his lips in a short burst. As a long-time lover of all things small and adorable, Yo can’t help but melt.

The two infants are fast asleep, curled against each other and dressed in matching onesies, one pink and one blue. The boy has soft, darkish tufts of brown hair covering the entire flat of his scalp. The girl has pure black locks that curl around her little face and around the headband bow perched atop her cylindric head. It’s easy, almost comically so, to see who takes after who.

Amidst her shock, Yo finds herself looking back and forth between her son and her partner, noting their striking similarities. Fanboy’s wide eyes trail down from the babies’ faces to their tiny mittened hands to their tiny feet. He sucks in a breath, arms twitching.

Dr. Placentula, the man who’d brought in the babies, senses Fanboy will leap before either Oz or Pam does. He closes his large hands around Fanboy’s shoulders just as the young man springs off the mattress with his arms outstretched. Yo cries out and Pam carefully pulls the cart back about a foot away from the excited father, a bit shaken but not at all shocked by the outburst.

“Gentle!” Placentula hisses, straining against Fanboy’s unforeseen strength. “Remember what you learned in class!” At the mention of said class and remembering how demanding it was, Fanboy reels himself back and sits on his hands and knees, staring eagerly at the babies. Meanwhile, Yo stares at him. That had scared her.

Oz and Pam exchange a knowing look. “Mother first,” Placentula murmurs, expertly picking up the girl first and then the boy before placing them into their mother’s arms. Yo freezes up as soon as she and the babies make contact for the first time in over a week. The panic inside her is overwhelming but she won’t allow it to override her other senses. Not if she can help it. Oz diligently observes Fanboy during the transfer, watches him shift from side to side with pure expectant delight. 

And at last, the family is together.

Chapter Text

Nurse Pam places her phone on the windowsill and presses play, filling the room with rainy ambience. The soothing sounds are almost unneeded as Fanboy’s anxieties are swept up in the very images of his children. However, it does provide him something to express beyond exuberant gibberish.

“That’s rain, lil’ babies!” he crows so enthusiastically he might pop. “It comes from clouds and makes all th’ plants grow!”

“Shhhh,” Yo hushes, stilling while the bad thoughts run unabated even amidst this joyful time.

Why scold him? To protect them? Why?  You’re going to throw them away anyway.

“Sh-Sh-Shut it!” Yo stutters. A brief pause. “N-Not you,” she pallidly assures her love. An extended silence ensues and she seeks assurance from her caregivers only to find their faces rife with concern.

Ruined it already.

 "Sorry," she mutters, slouching. “I’m bad at this.”

“Why not give Papa a try?” Pam asks.

Yo shakes her head. Despite feeling she owes Fanboy and the children at least one good day together, it’s only through the absence of a bond that they can remain steadfast to relinquish the babies. 

“Take ‘em,” Yo offers Pam.

“What? Whoa, whoa! Hold your horses!” Fanboy exclaims. He expresses no reason to surrender his mantle.

Blessedly, Oz intervenes. “Chill, Guys.” His weathered eyes bear a knowledge for the alluded to freeze at his command.

Initially, nothing. Yo stares off and doesn’t acknowledge her children at first, but then the baby boy gives an urgent wiggle. Her eyes drop, as does her discontent, leaving behind a subdued tender awe to bloom forth.

Oz beams knowingly at the abrupt change.“She’s a goner,” he whispers out the side of his mouth. Pam puts her hands over her heart, while Fanboy, who’s cautiously optimistic, silently begs his partner to show love to her babies.

Despite Yo's best efforts, she cannot turn her gaze away from the children, her children, fast asleep in her arms, safe and warm. The girl, a spitting image of her, lifts her tiny mittened hands to yawn. Yo's heart swells and her guarded face blossoms into one of genuine affection.

Fanboy is elated. “A-Aren’t they awesome?!” he risks. By such jittery words, Yo's tender trance is broken, causing her to falter into a moment of horror, followed by a resigned sadness.

Fanboy doesn’t quite know how to approach Yo's aloofness, but is hopeful it won’t completely undermine her maternal instincts.

“I can’t wait to go home with them,” he beams, partly to coax more of that tenderness out of Yo and unknowingly achieving the opposite. His baby girl hiccups, evoking from him another love-struck swoon. “Awwww,” he nearly sobs, holding his hands over his heart. “My eyes can’t handle it!”

“Handle what?” asks Oz as he records the moment on his phone.

Fanboy sniffles. “The cuteness! Hey, anyone got a tape recorder?”

“We got you, Hon,” Pam assures, waving.

“Well, zoom in,” Fanboy encourages. “Cram said they’re gonna grow like weeds an’ I wanna measure every second.”

Yo’s briefly suppressed worry screams for air, even as her little girl’s lids flutter. “She’s dreaming,” Yo whispers. Fanboy perks again.

“Ooh! I’ll bet she’s dreamin’ about us!” Fanboy squeals. “Him too! Look!” He points but Yo already feels her son twisting and turning, trying to escape the blankie securing him in place. “He’s tryin’ t’ fly!”

“Seriously strong!” Oz whistles. “Just like his papa. Hold him tight!”

In spite of herself, Yo nuzzles her son with her cheek. The absence of scars and blemishes on his little face is very comforting. She inhales and some innate sweet scent greatly surprises her. “He smells like…bread!” she blurts without meaning to.

“Bread?” Fanboy repeats, eyes wide with wonder. He leans in and sniffs. “White or whole wheat?”

“Er, soap, or milk,” Yo stumbles. She doesn’t know what happened. Suddenly, she feels lighter, more at ease. “I dunno.”

“That’s the baby smell,” Pam coos quietly.

Fanboy is wholly captivated. He doesn't think he could accurately express his emotions. The feeling bursting from within him is indescribable. He has never experienced a biological bond, a love reserved for his kin. His love for Chum Chum was the closest example he had, but it couldn't compensate for a familial bond. The direct connection with his children is the only one he has ever had.

“Oh, they’re just perfect!” He removes his daughter’s mitten to marvel at her tiny fingers.

Yo flinches. “Don’t,” she warns. Fanboy’s ignorance and child-like clumsiness, while generally amusing, is a hazard around helpless infants.

Fanboy sulks while Oz tries his best to coax Yo into allowing her partner a turn, but within their first hour reunited, Yo outright refuses to let Fanboy touch their children. Every time he tries, her apathy explodes into aggression. It seems as though she will never let up, but a chance arises when she slumps into a sudden slumber.

The room goes utterly silent, save for the soft baby noises. Sensing his window of opportunity, Fanboy squirms and pleads at Oz with his eyes.

"You wanna try again, Lil' Dude?" Oz asks with cautious optimism. Fanboy nods so fast his teeth rattle. "Be careful,” Oz warns. “Seriously."

“I’ll be careful! I promise!” Fanboy whispers, doing his best to keep calm as Placentula approaches his family. “Sh-She looks jus’ like Yo!” he whispers excitedly. “A-And he looks like me, Oz! He looks just like me!”

"Uncanny!" Nurse Lady Pam enthuses, quietly taking another round of photos.

“Pity,” Placentula mutters.

"Of course! They’re your kids, after all," Oz remarks, though a part of him still can’t believe that Fanboy is a father.

In response to the quiet chatter, the baby boy makes a squeak-like sound and wiggles harder.

Placentula gently lifts him, eliciting a small cry as he’s separated from his mother and sister. Despite the whimpery song, Fanboy eagerly grasps his son in his large hands.

Shaking off Pam’s picture-taking and Oz’s caution, Fanboy is once again struck by how tiny the newborn is. Because of his time spent cowering under Boog's massive shadow, he has felt small, powerless, and insignificant. Now, as he gently cradles his son, he feels older, stronger, like an actual…adult.

“H-Hey,” Fanboy murmurs, stroking the baby’s cheek with a single finger, “ya lil’ sleepyhead…” He briefly considers unwrapping the blanket from around his son, but, then, the infant opens his eyes to reveal bright-blue spectors. Fanboy freezes as the curious eyes lock onto him.

“Hi! H-Hey, Buddy!” Fanboy coos breathlessly, wholly transfixed. “I-I’m yer dad.” It’s beyond strange for him to say that aloud, regardless of the here and now.

The baby’s hands flit aimlessly until they find Fanboy’s finger. His tiny digits just barely wrap around, and it is at that moment that Fanboy finally, finally realizes just how fragile his children are. The concept has always been there, gnawing at his brain, but until now, Fanboy has brushed it off. Now he realizes how careful he must be.

Fanboy rests the baby against his chest and cuddles him with love. “I’m here, Buddy,” he whispers into his baby's ear and pets the thick brown fuzz atop his head.

The baby hiccups.

Fanboy briefly glances at Yo to make sure she’s still asleep. “I’m gonna protect you from now on,” he whispers, rocking back and forth. “You’ll always be safe an’ have enough to eat, an’ ya won’t live by yourself like me when I was a kid.”

Behind him, Oz rubs his arm and looks down.

“I’ll never hurt ya or hit ya or nothin’. An’ I’ll always make sure ya feel loved.” The young man takes a breath, his throat clogging up. “I haven’t had powers in so long, but, regardless, I’ll always keep you, your sister, and your mama—who’ll probably kick my butt when she wakes up—safe.” He laughs breathily. “Totally worth it.” A lone tear drips from his working eye. “I love you, Buddy.”

“...Is that his name?”

Caught red handed, Fanboy guiltily meets Yo's eyes. He hasn’t a clue for how long she’s been watching and listening.

A long awkward pause ensues. Pam and Oz stand by in preparation to soothe any protests from the new mother.

“I-I…um…” Every muscle in Fanboy’s body locks tight as he scrambles for an excuse, although Yo doesn’t appear entirely upset. Her half-mast gaze drifts down to their son, who is now fast asleep as he lies in his father's loving arms.

A glimmer of hope rises against Fanboy’s internal panic. “You, uh, s-sleep okay?” he stammers, wiping his eyes.

Instead of answering, Yo repeats, “Is that his name?”

“Oh. Oh!” Fanboy realizes. “Uh, I dunno. I-I’m still brainstormin’.”

Yo touches her daughter’s cheek. “Samesies.”

Fanboy’s jaw nearly hits the bed. “Wait a minute. You’ve been thinking of names this whole time and I haven’t heard a-one of ‘em?”

Yo drowns out the silence following her answer. “They’re Japanese.”

“Oh–Pfft. Why?” The tension breaks a bit as Fanboy snorts humorously. “Yer like a fifteenth Japanese.”

“I’ve had all of ‘em ready since I was a tot,” Yo reminds him. The memories of her young self caring for her dolls and naming each one are faint but stoutly present in mind.

“Okay, that I buy.” Fanboy giggles. “Lay ‘em on me.”

Yo is actually proud to share. “First one’s “Yui”–it means “dream”. Second one’s “Yuu”, which means “t’ forgive”—” She pauses and bursts out laughing at Fanboy’s unimpressed expression. “Ya promised me I could name the baby if it was a girl, remember?”

Fanboy’s face draws up in realization. “Oh-no... I DID promise that,” he admits, offering his daughter a sorrowful look. “I’m so sorry, Sweetheart.” He wipes away an imaginary tear. “It’s my fault you're gonna be named after some Chinese cuisine.”

Oz buries his face in his arm to conceal a cackle-fit while Pam rolls her eyes.

Yo sticks out her tongue. “Japanese cuisine, thank you. Besides, yer naming him,” she nods at her son, “anything ya want. As long as it ain’t somethin’ dumb, like, “Kid-Arctica” or Superboy or…” she wrinkles her nose, “...Fanbaby.”

Fanboy perks. “Ooh! “Superboy” sounds fun,” he teases, rocking to soothe his son’s sudden fussing. “How about “Fanboy, Part Two; The Sequel”? Or “Samurai Robot Ninja President”? “Sam” for short.”

As if in protest, the baby boy cries. Fanboy smiles apologetically at him, and, with Oz’s help, swaps children with Yo. Thankfully, the baby settles down once reunited with his mother.

The lump in Fanboy’s throat makes a harsh rebound when he absorbs his daughter’s image. Adorable black locks swirl atop her head and curtain her face complete with a cute pudgy nose and sweet little ears.

“Yer just an itty-bitty gumdrop,” Fanboy coos, visions of snuggles and fun-filled afternoons dancing in his head. “Oh, I can’t wait to go home with you…” Upon hearing that again, Yo’s smile weakens.

Every-observant Pam catches the subtle change and makes a quick note to herself.

“Ooh! I just love you! I love you so much!” Fanboy gushes, booping his daughter’s nose against his pointy one. “I’m gonna teach ya how t’ tie yer shoes, and brush yer hair, and read ya–oh! Oz can read ya comics, just like he read to me an’ Chum Chum. Wouldja like that, Lil’ Baby?” He plants gentle kisses on her forehead.

“Of course ya would. In fact… Hey, Grandpa!” he calls, catching Oz by pleasant surprise. “It’s your turn!”

The enamored stars that overtake Oz’s face is worth Fanboy’s anxiety when offering his honorary father a chance to hold his honorary grandchildren.

“Grandpa?!” Oz lisps. “I never thought this day would come!”

The doctor’s sheer joy should endear Yo’s heart, but only gives rise to her worry as the likelyhood to adopt out shrinks before her very eyes. It’s bad enough for her to fall in love with the babies, but for Fanboy? For Oz? Even for Pam? She doesn’t have time to dwell before the babies start whimpering to nurse.

Oz draws the hospital room curtain around the bed to give the mother respectful privacy while Pam helps her situate.

“Um… D-Do they remember us?” Yo asks. To her dismay, Pam nods.

“Down to your heartbeat.”

Yo’s heart promptly sinks.

While Fanboy “aws”, Pam bunches Yo’s gown around her sternum so that she and the babies can enjoy some much needed skin-to-skin contact. Once they’re lying across her chest, Yo feels her heart pang for the umpteenth time.

Pam takes another note of her conflicted expression. “Alright. I’ll leave you alone for now,” she says briskly. “Pick out your favorite names and Oz will help you register their birth certificates.”

When she leaves, Yo enjoys the peace and quiet while Fanboy sits cross-legged and rests his chin in his hand. Over time, he says nothing, merely relaxing and absorbing the image of his family.

“Sorry I held ‘im,” he suddenly apologizes, rather lopsidedly as he feels no regrets.

“Iss okay,” Yo dismisses. “You did good.”

Fanboy cocks his head, shocked by her easy-going attitude, but decides to let a good thing go. “Say, do they hafta do that?” he digresses. “I mean, I thought babies drank from bottles n’ stuff. Do they hafta drink from your…uh…”

“My what?” Yo teases, an age-old smirk gracing her jaw.

Fanboy blushes and crosses his arms. “Aw, forget it. Oz’ll tell me.”

Yo strokes her daughter’s matching black hair. Back in the room, everything had come naturally: the nursing, the birth, the conception, and the intimacy.

“Nurse Pam told me it’s a “bonding” thing.” Her voice grows smaller. “All moms do it. My mom nursed me, and yours nursed you.”

Fanboy blinks. “Mine?” That gives him something to think about.

“Yeah. At one point or another. Before she–”

“Dropped me off,” Fanboy finishes coolly.

Silence reigns the moment. It's been years since Yo learned about his family, or his grim lack thereof. It was and still is a sensitive topic, so Yo contemplates her next questions carefully.

“Does it still make ya sad,” she asks tentatively, “that yer mom gave you up for adoption?”

Fanboy squints. “Whaddaya think?” He flicks a loose thread in his sleeve. “She didn’t wanna be pregnant at all. At least, not at that time. Wasn’ her decision, so she dropped me off at some random orphanage. Oz said so.”

Yo flits from confusion to shock. She hadn’t known about that. “O-Oh…”

“Yep,” Fanboy grits, clawing his arm. “I thought she didn't have enough money to take care of me. If that was the case, it would still hurt, but I’d get it.”

“Y-You would?”

“Uh-huh. But she didn’t want me ‘cuz of someone else doin’ bad, and that hurts. A lot.”

“Oh, Lance,” Yo whispers.

“It’s okay. I never knew her at all, really.” His voice grows small. “But sometimes I wish I did.”

Yo pushes aside her adoption plans for the present. “Come here,” she beckons, and Fanboy gratefully collapses beside her. He doesn’t cry; years of mourning have indeed hardened his heart, but it aches still. “I don’t know my mom much either. Whenever I asked for her, my daddy would say, “You shouldn’t bother her.” Imagine that.”

Fanboy sighs sympathetically.

“For what iss worth,” Yo risks, “I think your mother loved you.”

Fanboy laughs shortly. “And she ditched me. How loving.”

Yo takes a deep breath and gazes sorrowfully at her children. “Sometimes it’s not that simple. People get hurt. People have problems, includin’ moms, and they make these tough decisions all the time, but that doesn’t mean they don’t care. …Maybe not keepin’ you was the best she could do for ya.”

“Shyeah, well, maybe if she’d kept me, I would’na been stolen,” Fanboy snaps. Yo pales and unconsciously tightens her hold on her children.

“But…” Fanboy’s face softens. “...I wouldn’t have met Chum Chum…or played at the playground, or hung out at Oz’s an’ th’...th’ Frosty Mart... I wouldn’t have met you, and…” He touches his son’s face. “I wouldn’t have them.”

“Do ya think it was better your mom gave you up?” Yo asks gently. “Was it worth it?”

Fanboy folds his hands behind his head and inhales sharply. In truth, the instant bond he and his children share is so powerful that he wants to believe everything was worth it, but he doesn’t know how to word it in a way that sounds sensible.

“Time will tell,” he decides, and addresses his suckling babies with, “Whadda YOU guys think?” He cocks his head, pretending to hear a response. “Eeeexactly!”

“Alright,” Yo relents. “Quit buggin’ them, Stinker. I want ‘em full so they don’ start crying in five minutes.”

Satiated by Yo’s trust, Fanboy tucks himself against her sans argument. “No sweat, you dotin’ little mama you!” he purrs, walking his fingers up her arm. “You know what? Forget our parents. Whatever they did or didn’t do, I know we’ll be there for our kids.”

Yo’s throat tightens. No comfort, not even from the person she loves most in the world, can ease her troubles now. “Guess they missed out,” she manages.

Fanboy kisses her neck. “Amen.”

Despite Yo’s anxieties, the rest of the day is a happy affair. Every qualm is forgotten in the shine of sparkling Icemas lights and sounds of shredding wrapping paper.

In the countless boxes, Fanboy and Yo are elated to find brand new wardrobes: shirts, pants, shoes, skirts, and even accessories like wristwatches, jewelry, and beauty products.

Yo just about passes out from excitement and darts behind the bed curtain to change out of her old hospital gown. She comes out a different woman decked out in a fuzzy pink sweater, soft blue jeans, and leather boots.

“Well, hey there, Good-Lookin’!” Fanboy whistles, blushing warmly at the sight of his partner’s glowing, colorful appearance. He too changes, and although nothing could truly replace his uniform, he comfortably settles on a short-sleeved green plaid button-up, casual blue jeans, and black tennis-shoes. The feeling of cloth against his skin is still so foreign that it takes him hours to fully settle.

Oz comes through on his promise to sneak his hair stylist in. Yo sits stiffly in her chair, clutching Fanboy’s hand for comfort as the stylist combs and cuts her hair. She has to take several breaks due to severe anxiety but the stylist is kind and understanding. Yo manages to hold out until the very end, and after Pam applies a light amount of makeup to her face, Yo is able to actually appreciate what she sees in the handheld mirror.

“That’s me,” she gasps. “Like, the real me.” She touches her locks which fall just above her shoulders. Her part is off to the side which successfully hides her scalp’s scars and uneven hair growth.

“Gorgeous,” Pam says.

Oz grins knowingly at Fanboy’s star-struck expression.

“You’re beautiful,” Fanboy breathes, nuzzling her temple. “But you always were.”

Fanboy is next, beyond happy to shave that excess hair right off. He’d kept the opinion that the long hair made him look girly to himself, but did not hide his relief when he stroked the short fuzzies on the back of his head.

“There’s the lady-killer!” Oz teases when the stylist spins the chair around to reveal the young man. “Look!” he whispers to the baby boy in his arms. “Wave to Papa!”

Fanboy bows. “Do I look as gorgeous as I feel?” he teases back, hopping from the chair and flexing his arms. Yo gives adequate feedback by letting loose a girly squeal and burying her face in his chest. “Ooooh! So handsome!”

“Only the best for my main squeeze,” Fanboy flirts. “And I don’ want my kids thinkin’ their dad’s homeless.” Oz scoffs.

“How about an “after” picture?” he suggests.

Later, the local priest arrives to give both Fanboy and Oz their holy communion, having missed out on Christmas Mass. Fanboy nearly chokes on his sip of wine, prompting a laugh from Yo as she curiously watches the priest bless her partner.

“At my church, we drink grape juice,” she giggles.

“So, when can we go home?” It’s late in the day. Fanboy and Yo have had their checkups, conducted their therapy sessions with Dr. Olive, and have put the babies down for another nap. Most importantly, they’ve registered the birth certificates.

Yo had no issue with the children adopting their father’s last name instead of her own. When asked why, all she had to do was point at Fanboy bouncing excitedly in his chair.

This led to the official recognition of Buddy and Yui Corporal.

“When you're ready,” Oz says as he helps Fanboy clean up discarded wrapping tissue. “We need to figure out how you’re going to finish your education and earn a living.”

Yo is already inclined to the matter and quietly discusses her options with Nurse Lady Pam at the play table. Fanboy, on the other hand:

“Why do that when we have th’ foundation?” Fanboy asks cheekily. Oz had mentioned a sort of charity earlier. “I seem to recall a certain someone saying, an’ I quote, “You won’t have to worry about money for the rest of your lives”.”

Oz holds open a garbage bag for Fanboy to make trick shots. “You still need to learn how to manage that money, otherwise you’ll blow it all on Frosty Freezy Freeze and action figures.”

“Oh, pshaw!”

Oz gives him a knowing look. “You need an education, and whether that's from online school or homeschool, it doesn’t matter, you need to get one.”

Fanboy grumbles. “I've walked that path before.”

“When you were eleven.”

“Lame.” Fanboy half-heartedly plops a torn ribbon into the bag. “It’s no use, Oz; I’m just not a studier.”

“Eh, I wasn’t a strong studier either,” Oz muses, tying the bag closed, “but once I realized my wards needed me, I changed and became a huge success.”

Fanboy eyes the crib where his sleeping children lay. “What a guru,” he distracts, weaving another ribbon through his fingers.

“Maybe I am,” Oz replies. He shakes open a new bag. “Because I know you have what it takes to succeed, Dude, and if you apply yourself, you’ll realize that too. Seriously.”

Fanboy kicks the floor, recalling himself back in a classroom passing notes with friends, chewing gum, and asking his teacher all sorts of outlandish questions that had nothing to do with the lesson.

“Aw, shucks,” he mumbles, a touch embarrassed. “Yo an’ I’ll be the only grownups in 5th grade.” A fresh wave of anxiety hits him. “Who’ll take care of th’ babies when we’re gone?!”

“Me,” Oz offers. “If you’ll allow it. And the class isn’t long. Our town subsidizes special recovery programs for adults in need. It’ll be intensive and quick, not like regular school at all.”

Irked but intrigued, Fanboy pictures a sort of underground unit one would need a password to enter and learn. “Well, it still doesn't suit me, but if there’s a method to joggin’ this ol’ noggin,” he knocks on his temple with a nervous chuckle, “I guess I could give it a shot. Y-Ya really think I could do it?”

“Seriously? Shyeah,” Oz assures, ruffling Fanboy's newly trimmed locks. “And you’ll always have help when you need it.”

Fanboy falls back on the loveseat, resigned. School is not his cup of tea; that much is clear. In spite of this, he is curious to see how far he can go in the next few years. How will such an addled mind adjust to the environment it was stolen from so many years ago?

“Alright, ya got me,” he groans, stretching and cracking his back. “I’ll give it a try. As long as Cram isn't there.”

“I can’t wait to show you up!” Yo teases her partner with a haughty hair-flip.

Fanboy narrows his eyes. “Oh-ho-ho! NOW you’re on.”

Come evening, Yo is visibly restless, prompting Pam to pull her aside to ask some questions.

“What’s the buzz, Hon?” She takes Yo in the empty room across the hall where she’d given the younger woman that infamous talk. “How are you feeling?”

Yo's guilt balloons to an impossible size. She can’t look Pam in the eyes. “About what?”

“Oh, you know. Life in general, motherhood, your children…” Pam trails, and Yo’s face goes white. Without an escape, she begins to retreat into herself, and her face adopts a true genuine blankness.

“I want to give them up for adoption.”

There. As it stands, Yo is safe and sound in the depths of her own mind. Whatever Pam says next couldn’t possibly hurt her.

Her calm answer has surprised Pam. “Ah, I see. May I ask why?”

Yo spreads out her arms expectantly.

Pam tucks a strand of Yo’s hair behind her ear and guesses, “You don’t feel ready?”

Yo stares at her nails, newly painted pink and lime green, and nods.

“Have you told Lance?”

A searing pain burns the outskirts of Yo’s consciousness. She shakes her head.

Pam studies her carefully. “When are you gonna get on that?”

Despite how far she’s retreated, Yo still feels her heart ache. She slouches.

“He’ll find out sooner or later. Why don’t you rip the bandaid off?” Pam coaxes, and just like that, her words hook into Yo’s sunken consciousness and drag it to the surface.

“No,” Yo mutters, jamming a thumbnail into her mouth. “No! I can’t!” Her pupils shrink.

“It won’t kill him to know how you feel.”

Yo clutches her newly-done locks. “It will! If I do this–! I-If I do this…! Yo’s speech devolves to incoherent babble, her grip on Pam’s wrist loosening as she slips from the bed and sinks to the floor.

“Hey, Honey, hey. Listen to me,” Pam urges, rubbing Yo’s back. “Lance is understanding, right?”

Yo wipes her nose. “Y-Yeah.”

“And he cares about you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then he’ll at least listen to what you have to say.”

“He will,” Yo glumly affirms. “He’s an awesome listener. I just…” She covers her eyes. “It’s just so hard… No matter how many times he tells me I’m an “awesome mom” or that he loves me, I always feel like a…a…l̵̼͆ð̸͉̕§̶̱̍†̴̳̏ ̴̟͐¢̵̼͛å̴̻̀µ̷̯͒§̸̥͆ê̶̠̐.”

Pam invites her patient to sit back on the edge of the empty bed. “Depression,” she groans. “It’s awful, isn’t it? Makes you think all sorts of untrue things about yourself.”

Yo sobs, admittedly heartbroken. “Th’ babies deserve a mom with NO depression! A strong a-an’ confident an’ happy mom. Not me!”

“Oh, Honey,” Pam exhales. “Lance needs to know about this.”

“B-But how’s he gonna take it?”

Pam strokes Yo’s hand. “You know him more than I do. What do you think?”

“It’s gonna hit too close to home.” Yo laughs miserably. “An’ that’s another thing. All he’s ever wanted was a family.”

“He’s a good father,” Pam says.

Yo wipes her eyes. “I know. I even second guessed my plan when I saw how careful he held Buddy.”

Pam nods, recalling Yo’s fickle behavior. “It looks like you have a very important decision to make.” She raises Yo’s chin. “But you’re not alone in making it. Hundreds of thousands of women throughout history have chosen to give up their babies for adoption. You need to evaluate your reasoning and determine if what you have is sufficient to make a decision. Whatever you DO decide, we’ll put our heads together and help you in every way we can.”

Yo embraces Pam in a desperate, sudden hug. “Thanks,” she sobs. “I-I thought you’d hate me when I told you.”

“Duh-pression,” Pam groans lightly, causing the younger woman to laugh in spite of herself. “Honey, I could never hate you. Neither could Lance.”

Yo can’t believe how difficult it is for her brain to understand that.

In the days that follow, Fanboy and Yo continue their hospital residence and care for their children under Oz and Pam’s supervision.

When the clumsy and loud Fanboy transforms into a gentle, mature figure, everyone is shocked. Who knew such a character could reel himself back so effectively around his children?

Yo had been extremely nervous about how Fanboy would respond to the near constant crying, recalling how he had snapped and shut down her yamaguchi, Scampers, years ago after only a single night of relentless meows. But to her further surprise, Fanboy maintains the patience of a saint. He’s diligent too and swiftly tends to his son and daughter at even the slightest whimper of distress.

“Chum Chum’s gonna be so proud of me,” he remarks one night while cradling his son. Yo cannot help but agree. His doting nature was prominent even as a child when he cared for his sidekick with the dedication of a mama bear. In the room, he nursed Yo whenever injuries or sickness befell her.

Now, it’s obvious to her, to everyone, how fatherly he is, a trait now fairly attractive to Yo. Just watching him hold and soothe their children and murmuring how much he loves them causes her heart to melt.

During most nights, Yo rarely needs to leave her bed. She will be awakened not by crying but by Fanboy’s gentle nudges, and she will sit up to find him offering a sniffling hungry baby for her to nurse.

When asked how he could detect the noise so early, Fanboy freezes as though caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “S-Super hearing?” he giggles nervously. Yo snorts initially, but his nervous answer makes her wonder if he’s actually serious.

With respect to Fanboy's aptitude for fatherhood, Yo is even more reluctant to disclose her adoption plans. Every morning, Pam stares expectantly at Yo as she eats breakfast, but she never says anything.

Every day, Fanboy wakes up with a cheerful “Good morning, family!” and practically waltzes through the morning with a smile on his face.

“Silver skies an’ starry nights!” Fanboy sings as he scrubs Yo from head to toe, his soprano voice echoing off the walls. “Foggy morns an’ crystal lights!” Yo hugs her knees to hide a secret smile. That happy attitude is him, the real him. It’s like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. It makes her all the more reluctant to bear her plan.

Yo gradually follows suit until she gets a hang of her morning routine. One morning, Fanboy wakes up to see her already up and cleaning their room. They often scatter their new clothes about, forgetting that laundry baskets exist.

On a Tuesday afternoon, Fanboy sighs while cradling Buddy on his lap and Yui to his chest. “Chum Chum’s gonna be so excited to be an uncle. What’s his ETA?”

Sitting beside him, Oz suddenly reaches into his pocket. “Hmm, I'm not sure,” he says vaguely.

Irritated, Fanboy rolls his eyes and begins to snap at Oz but stops when the man pulls a paper from his back pocket. “Is that an “enluhvope?” he asks. From her spot at the play table, Yo sniggers into her crossword.

“It IS an envelope,” Oz affirms, flipping the mail to face his ward, “addressed to you guys with a letter inside.” Yo turns to look, interested. “Oh, and would you look at that?” Oz adds.

Yo gasps and Fanboy nearly faints from sheer astonishment. “Chum Chum?!” he jitters, his pale face breaking into an expression of radiant joy. Sure enough, messily scribbled at the top left:

Edmund Chumerson

2009 Milky Way Lane

Galaxy Hills, TX, 89012

Centered, it reads:

Lance Corporal & Yo Sakura

Providence Rockwells Health Center

2023 Orion Blvd, Henderson, TX, 89011

“Looks new, too!” Oz grins.

“He’s HOME!” Fanboy cries, barely able to point. “Th-That’s our address! He’s only a few miles away!”

Yo jumps from the table. “Ooh! So close!” she squeals, shaking her fists like an excited schoolgirl.

There’s no time to waste. “Don’t hold back on us! Open it and read, Man! Read!” Fanboy exclaims.

“Okay, okay!” Oz laughs, and unfolds the neatly folded letter within. He clears his throat and begins.

“Dear Fanboy and Yo,

 To ensure my own peace of mind, I promise this will be the last letter I send before I visit. I went–”

Oz pauses and scans the next sentence in silence before continuing.

“My preparations for your homecoming are in full swing. Please expect me to arrive as soon as possible.

 Best regards,

 Chum Chum”

“Well, there ya go,” Oz concludes, folding the paper back up and placing it back in his pocket rather quickly.

If not for the fragile infants in his arms, Fanboy would have sprung off the couch and performed a double back-flip. “He’s coming!” he sings softly, swaying back and forth with the children. “Uncle Chum is comin’, he’s comin’ on down to our starry town!”

Yo ponders, noticing the distinct lack of specific dates regarding Chum Chum’s arrival. “He didn’t say when,” she whispers to Oz.

“He said “soon”,” Oz amends just below a murmur, a trifle guilty that he hadn’t exactly read everything aloud.

In spite of the ambiguity, Fanboy is unconcerned. “Uncle Chum Chum’s comin’ to see us,” he whispers to his stirring daughter. “Are you excited, Yui?” The baby burps. “Atta girl!”

Yo looks at the thinly-veiled window. “Are we goin’ outside to meet him, Oz?”

“I don’t think so. You’re still very fragile and the weather is…” he teeters his hand, then lights up. “Actually, there is a way to prepare!”

Fanboy blinks into his blindfold. He clutches the picnic basket on his lap with one hand and Yo’s shoulder in the other as they’re pushed around the hospital in wheelchairs.

Oz’s plan is to introduce them to a nature-esque setting. Wherever it is, he won’t tell to keep it a surprise, which sets Fanboy’s easily frazzled nerves ablaze. Add the dark and lack of mobility and he’s shaking like a leaf. Still, he swallows down the instinct to run and waits.

They travel for a long while, through corridors, down elevators, past reception areas where they can hear chattering people and beeping telephones. Fanboy just about jumps out of his skin when a crackling voice speaks:

"Madame Lavache, your prescription is at the pickup window. Madame Lavache, your prescription is ready for pickup.”

 Soon, after a wee bit more travel, the noises begin to settle and Fanboy calms again. Yo isn’t worried she’ll be led astray by the adults wheeling her around, but about what awaits her at the end of their mini-journey.

After an impossibly long time, they stop. Fanboy and Yo hear a beeping, then the rush of an automatic door opening. Instantly, they are blasted by a crisp, cold air. Fanboy tenses up, trying not to panic as the chill graces his skin. 

It’s too cold. Too dark and too cold.

“Th-The babies!” he cries. “Iss freezing!”

Holding both carriers, Oz quickly reassures the understandably anxious father. “They’re all bundled up, Lance.”

Fanboy bites the inside of his cheek. “Positive?”

“Snug as bugs in rugs,” Oz affirms, and Fanboy exhales. “Okay,” he shivers.

Yo squeezes his hand.

At long last, they come to a stop. “Take off your blindfolds and don’t turn around,” Oz warns. “The snow will blind you. Seriously.”

Fanboy and Yo gratefully push up the thick cloths and stare in awe. The double doors before them are glass. Fanboy and Yo can already see glimpses of greenery through the frosty sheen. “What is this?” Yo asks.

“You’ll see!” With a great heave, Oz opens the doors, dislodging fresh ice from its seams. A pleasant blast of warmth rushes from the inside. Yo has to close her eyes to give her eyes a break from what lies within but Fanboy stares widely into the green.

“Behold: The Nebula Greens!” Oz flourishes, ushering his patients inside.

Without taking his arm from around Yo’s shoulders, Fanboy steps across the threshold and into the heat. Yo follows her partner’s lead and enters.

The vibrant landscape is so overwhelming that she needs to close her eyes again. Fanboy, however, takes it all in stride.

Thick, soft green grass covers nearly every square inch of floor. Thick leafy vines climb the glass walls and stretch toward the top center of the dome. Rows and rows of potted fruits and vegetables line the pebbled pathway that leads to a berry bush clearing. A giant hulking oak tree towers in the center of the garden, its highest leaves brushing against the ceiling while a long, simple board swing hangs from its foliage. And the flowers! They’re everywhere!

The corners of Fanboy’s open mouth reach his eyes and he squeals excitedly. “It’s so bright with awesomeneeeess!” he cheers, and Yo has her share of wonder when she reopens her eyes.

Far too excited for dormancy, Fanboy leaps into the green. As he skips he spins around over and over so he can catch a glimpse of everything as quickly as he can. Upon reaching the oak tree, Oz sees the root before Fanboy does and tries to warn him.

“Fa—!”

Fanboy’s foot catches the oak’s large root and he falls to the ground in a dizzy heap. “Oof!” he exclaims. He recovers quickly, shaking his head clear and smiling widely. “Yo! Yo! Looky how BIG this place is!” He waves. “It’s huge!”

Oz sighs in relief. “Take it easy, Dude. Seriously,” he calls. He picks up the picnic basket Fanboy dropped during his awe and to Yo, humors, “You should probably head over there before he kills himself.”

Yo’s rendered speechless as she tries to take it all in. To think they all could have died in that horrible room and missed this! Yo’s bottom lip begins to tremble. She looks down and sees a little pinecone between her feet. She stares at it, long-lost memories of Ingrid flooding her brain. Moving carefully, she nabs the pinecone and stows it in her pocket.

Oz smiles kindly and gently pats her shoulder. “Go on,” he encourages.

Yo wipes her eyes. “O-Okay,” she whispers.

Fanboy hurriedly spreads out the red and white plaid picnic blanket and sets the basket atop it. Then he hobbles over to Yo and guides her to sit beside him.

“Fanboy?” She gestures to their children. “They need to see this.”

Fanboy carefully unbuckles his daughter from the seat and, with Yo’s supervision, places her atop the blanket. Then, he does the same for his son. Immediately, the two infants clutch at each other and blink open their big eyes and gaze at nature for the first time.

Fanboy’s heart swells with pride as his babies absorb their surroundings. “They make it look easy,” he grumps, unable to eloquently word what he means. Luckily, Yo seems to understand.

“Iss amazin’,” Yo murmurs, cradling her son’s cheek and smiling when he nuzzles into her palm. “They’re amazin’.”

Gazing adoringly, Fanboy spots a beautiful rose bush to his right and plucks a blooming red bud with his gloved hands. “To th’ best mama in th’ universe,” he teases, offering it to Yo, who rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.

“Thank ya,” she says, tapping his nose. “Yer so sweet.” Fanboy giggles, wraps his arms around her neck, and gives her a giant smooch on the cheek. Oz keeps an eye on them and takes a seat on a bench hugging a vineyard wall. He’s sure that Fanboy and Yo would be fine, but he needs to be there just in case.

“I’ll be ev’n sweeter after I eat,” Fanboy jokes, opening the basket. Yo helps him remove the feast and splay it around the blanket. From there, they devour what they can. Fried chicken legs, sliced strawberries, crescent rolls, and two water bottles. Small helpings as usual, but larger than what they started out with. The hollows in Fanboy’s face are starting to fill out and his color has returned.

“Mm,” he hums, closing his eyes to savor the taste. “Thnksh Osh!” he calls with a mouthful. “Th’ fooshhgood!”

Oz winks and waves. “No prob, dude!” he answers, his smile dimming a little as he watches them scarf down their food. Yo’s teeth sink and tear at the juicy bird meat, her eyes wild and ravenous. Fanboy picks every crumb off the blanket and gobbles it down.

They alway eat as though they’ll never be fed again, he notes glumly, and they have all the reason to, given how they’d been deliberately starved. Oz hasn’t the heart to reprimand them for their forgotten table manners.

By the time they finish their food, the babies begin to whimper for theirs. Maternal instinct kicks in. Yo briskly scoops up her son first and casually lifts her shirt to nurse. She finds it fascinating that he knows exactly what to do once offered; he latches on and suckles.

“Hi, Sweetie,” Yo murmurs. “You’re a hungry little guy, aren’t ya?” Buddy makes a small noise and her heart just melts.

Meanwhile, Fanboy carefully rocks Yui until his son finishes eating and they switch.

“Lance?” Yo softly prods once Yui is settled against her chest. “What do we do now?”

Fanboy’s smile thins. “We relax a little,” he answers, looking away. “It’s beautiful here, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Yo agrees, “but we needa talk about what we should do with th’ babies.” Fanboy flinches at the prospect’s ominous inclinations.

Yo bites the inside of her cheek. “So…”

“We’re gonna take care of ‘em,” Fanboy answers with the protective ferocity of any father. “They’re top priority.”

His intensity is hard to match. Yo takes a deep breath. “I know, and that’s the reason why we needa talk. They deserve the best, right?”

“We ARE the best," Fanboy snaps, glaring pointedly, trying to remain rational. "Don’t tiptoe around this guy, Sweetheart; I KNOW you want to give them up for adoption."

It takes nearly all of Yo’s strength to resist retreating into her mind to escape the sickness in her gut. The rest she uses to keep her daughter steady. “How’d ya know?” she asks quietly.

“Please. I know you like the back of my hand,” Fanboy scoffs, bending his wrist. “Well, at least I thought I did.” He sounds nothing short of betrayed.

“Gotcha,” Yo mutters. She says nothing else, and Fanboy breaks.

“How couldja even think about doin’ that to ‘em!?” he blurts. “You’re their mom! Don’ you care, like, at all?!”

“Don’t. You. Dare!” Yo snarls, startling both Fanboy and her children. She pauses to bounce her daughter a little, then, to her partner in a softer tone, “I hear enough o’ that in my head; I don’ needa hear it from you too.”

A short breath.

“Adoption makes perfect sense,” she explains. “It’s best for them.”

“Best for them?” Fanboy repeats incredulously. “Or best for you?”

Yo’s nostrils flare. His accusatory tone is like a stab to the chest. 

Fanboy grinds his palms into his eyes. “Ugh. Iss my mom all over again! What, you think ditching ‘em is gonna make everything better?”

“It’s not ditching!” Yo barks, shoving a finger in his face. 

“Oh, yes it is!” Fanboy barks back, getting nose to nose with her. “And ya know what? You—!”

“Do I need to step in?” Oz meekly interjects from his bench.

“NO!” Fanboy and Yo shout in unison, causing Oz to hold up his arms in defense and the children to whimper. 

Fanboy takes a deep breath, fired up. “Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?!” he asks. “Or the day before? Heck, ya had a whole week!”

Yo grabs her hair. “Because of THIS, first of all! You’re acting like a—!” She stops and takes a deep breath as well. The children have been spooked. “Sorry. Sorry. We’re grown ups. We can figure this out…without yelling.”

Fanboy grips the soft turf so hard it tears from the roots. “No, Yo. I’m not gonna “figure this out”, I’m not gonna negotiate, I’m not gonna strike a deal, NOTHING. I’m never givin’ ‘em up. Ever. Never ever EVER.”

Yo purses her lips. “But I am, so now what?”

Her words spear Fanboy’s heart like a javelin. They sit quietly for a moment.

“What do you want, Yo?” Fanboy asks, wavering. “Money? Teeth? Kidney?”

“Wha—?”

“I will give you anything!” His eyes, once aflame, are now red, puffy, and desperate. “Name your price!” he beseeches, clasping his hands together.

Yo shakes her head, tears streaming down her face. Like spitting out her pills, her subsequent words are purely self-destructive. “No… No, Fanboy. There’s nothing.”

Another long pause accompanied by a defeated exhale. “You want me to take care of ‘em by myself?” Fanboy asks raggedly.

Yo shakes her head. “You can’t.”

In spite of Yo's misgivings, now that she has spoken, she is powerless to stop more from tumbling out of her mouth. “Don’t get me wrong; you’re so, so SO awesome, but you aren’t enough for ‘em. Neither of us are.”

“That’s not true.” Fanboy protests. “They need us.”

“They need better than us,” Yo insists. “We can’t do it!” Her blunt words cut deep, but instead of shrinking back, Fanboy pulls her close. “What?”

For all his lack of social awareness, Fanboy DOES know her well. She’s carrying the same hopeless desperation she had back in the room. Rivaling Boog in its oppressiveness, it keeps her chained to the bottom of a lake, just as she’d expressed to him on their second night here. 

“Why not?” he challenges, gently stroking her hair while she heaves with silent sobs against his chest.

“You know why not!” Yo hisses, then, realizing what she’s affirmed, digresses, “What if Boog escapes from jail?! He’ll know who to look for to find our kids, won’t he?!”

It takes everything Fanboy has to avoid the bait. “I promise to em’—to them, and t’ you,” he says slowly with perfect clarity, “that I’m gonna make our lives the bestest I can. I have you, Oz, and Pam,” he smiles a little, “And soon, I’ll have Chum Chum! Trust me, I know what we’re up against. It’s gonna be awful hard, but life’s always been hard, hasn’t it?”

A ghost of a smile graces Yo’s lips. “Y-Yeah. A little.”

Fanboy takes Yo’s free hand and kisses it. “I know you’re scared. I am too, but they,” Fanboy gestures to the babies, “make the scary things worth bein’ scared of."

Yo’s smile fades. “I wish you were right, but it don’ change a thing." She pulls her hand away and turns, but Fanboy wraps his arms around her shoulders and presses their temples together.

“I’m not changin’ anything, Yo,” he murmurs. “I’m doin’ things th’ way they should, and I’m not givin’ up on you.”

Yo swallows. "You should wanna break up with me ‘cause of this. I wouldn’t blame ya."

Fanboy rests his chin on her shoulder. “I think I’d rather go back to the room."

Yo squeezes her eyes shut, tears dripping from her lashes. “That’s not funny,” she croaks.

“I’m not joking,” Fanboy asserts, turning her head to face him. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t mean nothin’ to Boog, ‘cause you mean everything to me. I wanna raise our children together in th’ same house.” He thumbs her cheek. “What do you want?”

Yo gazes into his hopeful, pleading eyes. Between them, Buddy fusses. He flails his little arms, searching for attention. Fanboy carefully picks him up and tucks him against his chest. “Shhhh,” he soothes reassuringly. “I gotcha, Buddy.”

“Bounce him. Gently,” Yo murmurs. Fanboy does just that and the baby soon calms and quiets in his father’s safe warm hold. “There you go…”

Fanboy kisses the top of his son’s flat head and carefully scoots closer to Yo. Together, they just look at their children, who cling to each other with their tiny fingers and babble.

“I don’ know,” Yo admits. Fanboy resists the urge to pounce and sits quietly while Yo journeys through her thought process. “I wanna be happy. And have fun. And be a good mom. I jus’ don’ think I can.”

“Think again,” Fanboy says. “Remember what Oz said? Some things we just have to do.” He tilts his head to rest against hers. “Wouldn’t you say they’re worth th’ try?”

His words are like magic, coaxing Yo back to an easier state of mind. Yo takes a moment to consider. “We lived through ten years of H-E-Double-Hockeysticks…” she muses. Fanboy holds his breath. “Remember what you said?” Yo asks. “That “whatever ya gotta do”, you’ll do it? All I need to do is “say th’ word”?”

Fanboy swallows. “Please,” he starts, but Yo shushes him.

“I’ll…I’ll give this mom stuff a try IF you promise that if we don’t do good, we’ll go with my plan,” she answers. “That plan being that I give them up for adoption. You’ll stay their dad…o-on your own.”

The lump returns to Fanboy’s throat, there for both dismay and relief. Should he push further? Insist on a two-parent household no matter what?

Yo uses the hand Fanboy is holding to cup his cheek to pull him close. “I won’t botch this on purpose. I pinky-promise I’ll try my best,” she says, offering her digit. After a moment’s hesitation, Fanboy takes it.

Between them, the babies squeal, gently batting each other with their covered hands.

Fanboy smiles bittersweetly. “You stinker,” he teases the boy, making a barrier between them with his hand. “Be nice t’ yer sister, little Buddy.”

Yo feels a great weight lifting off her shoulders now that they’ve conquered such a serious conversation. Fanboy is right. Their lives will never be easy, nor ever return to normal, but together, they can make the future bearable.

“Shhhh,” Yo soothes her baby girl, rocking her in her arms. She runs a hand through the soft down. “That’s a lot of hair…”

Fanboy can’t help but burst out laughing. With a frazzled face and a baby in each arm, Yo looks both so ethereal and goofy. “I mean it!” she complains. “Admiral Fluffington doesn’t have this much fuzz!”

“They’re perfect,” Fanboy says, kissing his partner’s forehead. “You did awesome.”

“You helped,” Yo proudly supplies.

Again, Fanboy snorts. “Shyeah, for like, five seconds…doing the one thing I think about day-and-night.” They share a small laugh and lay back against the oak trunk to calm their racing hearts.

“H-Hiya.”

A sudden shift in the air signifies the arrival of a new guest to their meeting. Fanboy’s first instinct is to turn right around and warn the stranger away, but the greeting repeats.

“Hiya, Fanboy.”

The voice is young, trembly. Something about it causes the hairs on the back of Fanboy’s neck to rise and his innards to squeeze. He sends a cautious look Yo’s way, but her expression remains free of fear. Slowly, he peers around the trunk, a bud of hope slowly blossoming in his chest.

His heart skips a beat when he sees the owner of the voice, followed by an anxious rush of familiarity. That chocolate brown hair, that pudgy nose, those crooked teeth, those violet eyes, those large ears, that round build, and that tender expression. It’s him.

“It…It’s youuu…” Fanboy whispers, and the other man smiles in affirmation. Stars dart in and out of Fanboy’s peripheral and a wave of dizziness washes over the young father. He lurches forward with his hands outstretched, desperate for an embrace, but loses his footing. Luckily, the visitor swoops in to catch him before he topples flat on his face.

“I gotcha, Buddy!” Chum Chum bursts.

Chapter Text

Once blossomed, real love never wilts. Despite their trials, Fanboy and Chum Chum's bond has remained unbreakable. Their yearning for one another has grown tenfold in their ten years apart. Hence, reunification has made every ounce of that longing explode. 

“CHUM CHUM!” Fanboy shouts, the name releasing an internal torrent of love that courses through him, overwhelming his unprepared brain and losing a deluge of sobs.

“You’re here! You’re here! You’re here!”

With those two words on frantic repeat, they instinctively leap at each other and aggressively embrace. Their contact sparks a powerful torrent of energy. Squishing his face against the slightly younger man's chest, Fanboy revels in his warm, safe hold. 

Ten years since he’s held his best friend. Ten years of waiting, of longing, of tears and heartache. Ten years. 

“I’m here,” Chum Chum blubbers, and his voice indeed has deepened as aggressively as his nuzzling the side of Fanboy’s head. Unmistakably his, yet so different. 

Fanboy's lungs erupt with an uncontrollable wail of his own. He had no warning, no time to prepare his raw emotions for this moment. It’s as though his heart has shattered and expanded in tandem. He clings to his friend, his brother, with more desperation and relief than he has ever experienced. 

“Don't cry,” he pleads, clutching the back of Chum Chum’s shirt like a vice. “You’re gonna make me cry!” 

The sensations of relief and pain fill Yo's body in junction. She knows it’s Chum Chum, but he resembles so little of the subject of her love-sick, boy-crazy memories.

Fanboy wants to stay in the moment forever, caught in a perfect flash of time where all of his fears and worries are forgotten, but Chum Chum has to pull back to properly absorb his long-lost friend. 

“Look at you!” he whispers, wincing at the brittle shoulder-bones protruding into his palms. 

Fanboy is none the wiser. “Look at YOU,” he retaliates, grasping the younger man's square, stubbled face. Chum Chum has nearly surpassed him in height. “What the heck? When didja get so BIG, Dude?!” 

“I dunno,” Chum Chum regrets. The watery violet of his eyes betrays more sorrow than any man's should. 

Fanboy's mouth dries up and his tone abruptly rises in panic. "Oh, Chum Chum, I am so sorry!" he cries. “I tried to get away, I swear—!”

Chum Chum squeezes him tight. “Wasn't your fault.”

“But—!” Fanboy pleads, face crumpling. 

“Not. Your. Fault.” The younger man just squeezes him tighter and repeats that until Fanboy’s niggling guilt recedes. “I missed you so much; you have no idea."

Fanboy giggles through his tears. Of course he does.

Having sat quietly all this time and not receiving so much as a glance from their visitor, Yo’s heart sinks. 

Chum Chum blinks over Fanboy's shoulder and finally finds Yo. His violet eyes widen, then sparkle with delight.

“Yo!” The way he says her name, just as he had with Fanboy’s, feels both foreign and familiar. 

Yo freezes. “H-Hi, Sweetie.” Despite her inability to feel joy, she smiles back at him and returns his embrace when he pulls her into his arms. 

After that, there isn’t much in the way of conversation; just hugs, kisses, and sniffles until Chum Chum cries out, “Gosh, you’re even prettier than I remember!”

Yo lowers her head to conceal her dark blush of flattery. “Th-Thanks, but I don’ have a crush on ya anymore,” she mutters. Fanboy wraps his arms around Yo and kisses her cheek to comfort her. 

The circumstances of what led to their relationship is about as obvious as a bop to the face, but despite how deeply Chum Chum desires to know the details, he certainly doesn’t want to dredge up bad memories. “Ooh! You crazy kids!” he teases, wagging a finger. 

Yo ducks her head. “Yeah… Sorry.” 

Chum Chum sits up straight. “Hey. I support you one BILLION percent.” 

Fanboy brightens, but before he can respond, an infantile cry permeates the air. 

Startled, Chum Chum glances down and double-takes at the two fussy babies in cradled Yo’s arms. “Who are they?!” he squawks, rubbing his eyes in shock. 

“Uh, our kids, you silly goose!” Fanboy teases, and nudges Yo with his arm. “Sheeshley, someone needs his glasses.”

Chum Chum is dumbfounded, to put it mildly. “Oz didn’t —!” he stumbles. “The news reports—!” 

“Uncle Chum Chum, meet Buddy and Yui Corporal!” Fanboy crows. “Didn’t expect that from ze master of surprise, didja?” He heartily smacks his sidekick’s shoulder. 

Chum Chum clutches his cheeks, his eyes sparkling with another onslaught of tears. “I’m an uncle?” he squeals. He lifts Fanboy up in a congratulatory hug and effortlessly swings him about. “I can’t believe it!” he rejoices. “This is the greatest day of my life!”

The celebratory moment is abruptly halted when he freezes without warning. “Er. Y-You’re their dad, right?”

“Well, duh!” Fanboy innocently snorts. “Who else would be?” 

“Um…” Chum Chum’s shadowy expression quickly reverts and he sets Fanboy back down. “Right, right. Of course.” He bunches his broad shoulders. “May I hold them?”

After reacting negatively to that question when asked by others, it is refreshing to see Fanboy give the go-ahead. 

Chum Chum shakily removes his mittens and takes the baby boy into his large hands. “Wow,” he whispers. 

“Mm-mm. “Wow” is right, my no-longer-pocket-sized amigo,” Fanboy smiles proudly.

“Just over three weeks old,” Yo quietly informs him. “They’re pretty small, aren’t they?” An unspoken solemness passes through them all. In the unfamiliar hold, Buddy gives his signature wiggle. “P-Please be careful.”

To placate Yo’s worry, Fanboy hooks a comforting arm around her shoulder. “I trust him,” he gently assures. “Besides, there’s zero chance Buddy’ll escape now that I got my super strength back.” 

There’s a beat. Then Fanboy stiffens with the sudden realization that he had never revealed his super-abilities to his partner until now. 

Yo smirks at his frozen expression and pats his head. “I had a feeling.” She is more disappointed that his powers couldn’t have helped them back in the room due to Chum Chum’s absence. She couldn’t blame Fanboy for keeping that to himself for fear of judgment. “Don’t worry. I’m not mad.”

With a sigh of relieved contentment, Fanboy spreads his arms out, testing out his antigravity capabilities. He floats a few feet safely off the ground, then back down. So rejuvenating. “Still, I owe you a trip to the stars to make up for it.” 

Yo tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’d like that.”

Fanboy makes a small noise of pure happiness and holds his hands over his heart.  “Man, I can’t WAIT to fly outta here!”

Yo’s surprised Fanboy hasn’t high-tailed it out of the greenhouse with Chum Chum already, but regarding his love for her and their children, maybe that makes the most sense.

Amidst the galore, Oz steals out of the greenhouse to give the group some time alone. Once left to their own devices, Fanboy, Chum Chum, and Yo take turns holding and playing with the babies. 

“You are so lucky,” Chum Chum coos to Yui, who babbles at him curiously. “You have the best dad in the whole wide world.”

“I’m here too, I guess,” Yo mumbles.

Chum Chum laughs. “And the best mom,” he assures, petting the thick golden-brown locks atop Buddy’s crown. “Expanding the Fanlair was a good idea after all,” he coos under his breath. “I wasn’t expecting to bring home four.” 

Chum Chum hasn’t come empty-handed. He has a duffel bag from which he retrieves two familiars: Yo’s green froggy backpack and Yamaguchi digital pet. The reveal sparks shock into the items’ owner.

“How’d you get these?” 

“I was close to the investigation,” Chum Chum explains, diving back into the duffel bag to rummage for more. “Agent Johnson found those at the park.” 

Yo traces her finger around the fastener before bravely peering inside. 

“But I wanted to be the one to give them back to you,” Chum Chum confesses. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“What a gentleman,” Fanboy proudly remarks. “I don’t think she’d want it any other way.”

“I wouldn’t,” Yo utters heartfeltly. Inside her backpack she finds items long forgotten: a pencil, a cat eraser, a sparkly notebook smothered in even sparklier stickers, some undelivered love-notes, polaroids, and a particularly clanky camera. 

“Oh,” she reminisces. “I remember all of this…” She studies the photos one by one and spreads them out on the blanket for Fanboy to see. Sure enough, nearly every photo, except one of an orange cat, is of Fanboy and Chum Chum at random intervals throughout the town. 

“It’s us!” Chum Chum exclaims, amused. “Mostly me.”

Yo fingers the polaroid camera in her hands. It had been collecting dust instead of memories. “Yeah,” she giggles, just a tad guilty. “I had a little crush.”

“A LITTLE crush?” Fanboy gawks, but his smile is sweet. “Hey, ya got good taste.”

Chum Chum hooks an arm around his shoulder while the other digs something else out of the duffle bag. 

“I also heard He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named took your uniform,” Chum Chum hints, “so—” 

It’s a sleek costume, shiny-brand-new and of an appropriate size for its wearer. The thrill nearly knocks Fanboy off his heels as he touches the violet satin. 

“Y-You shouldn’t have,” he stumbles. “No, Chum Chum, this is—!” He shakes his head. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything,” Chum Chum insists. He pushes the clothing into Fanboy’s eager arms. The older man emits a small, gleeful noise and squeezes the costume tight.

“I hope ya don’t mind the dark blue. I know violet and green is your theme, but I couldn't find enough satin spandex in the right colors.” 

The violet satin glistens in the light and reflects off Fanboy's moistening eyes. “If I can’t say sorry for nuthin’,” he whimpers, “neither can you, Chum Chum, ‘cause this is the best gift ever.” 

Yo watches, both unimaginably excited for her partner and sickishly nauseated. She could never make Fanboy something that special.

“You musta taken a year to make this. Well, no wonder you couldn’t come right away,” Fanboy sniffles with a new understanding. "Gifts take time, huh?" 

Chum Chum nods. “Well, that and my hospital stay.”

At this unexpected development, Fanboy gasps, “Hospital?!” and lunges to give a thorough inspection. “What was it?! Broken bones!? Heart attack!? Runny nose?!”

Chum Chum carefully guides away Fanboy’s bony wrists. “No…” he trails in apparent confusion. “Didn’t you read my letter? My last one?”

The negative implications are easy for Yo to ferret out, but for Fanboy: “Oz read it to us,” he specifies, “and he said nothin' about a hospital.”

Chum Chum draws his shoulders close in discomfort. “Can I explain later?” he quietly entreats.

The haunted expression overtaking the younger man’s face is enough for Fanboy to suppress his anxiety and enter protective mode. “Of course,” he gently assures, patting the other man’s hand. “Just say the word and I’m here.”

Yo gazes sympathetically at her future brother-in-law. “Here,” she offers, allowing Fanboy to hold her camera. “You’ll wanna remember this.”

“Ooh, you bet I will! Say cheese!” Fanboy shouts after a moment of fumbling. Yo puts on her best smile as Chum Chum gathers the lot of them.

Click, flash!

Back in their hospital room, Yo keeps to herself while Fanboy and Chum Chum spend some much needed quality time together. Subsequent to the sidekick’s return, Fanboy has regained his powers. He has a spark Yo hasn’t seen since childhood, and dons his new costume with pride.

“Got one to match, Bud?” he asks Chum Chum, clasping his gloved hands together with excitement when the younger man nods.

“I’m afraid it’s back at home,” he explains. “I can’t wait to show you!” He pins their new photo to the space right above Fanboy and Yo’s shared bed. “Oh, yeah. That’s a keeper,” he whistles. 

Fanboy leans against him with purpose. “The gang’s all here,” he sighs happily. “At long last! And ya know what? I’m never leavin’ ya alone again, Chum Chum,” he swears. “I promise.”

Chum Chum strokes the back of Fanboy’s head, threading his mittened hands over nearly-invisible scars. 

For the remainder of the day, Yo opts to give the men as much space as possible. When asked to join in conversation, Yo politely declines. At dinner, her aloofness persists even as Chum Chum tries to engage her. 

“Excited to get out of here?” he asks through a mouthful of grilled cheese. 

Yo rests her chin in her hand and pokes listlessly at her food. “Mmhm.”

Chum Chum looks to Fanboy for assistance, but the older man happily munches away at his sandwich without pause, seemingly unaware of his partner's quiet gloom. “You know it!”

“I-I’d love to take you guys out on a picnic once the snow clears,” Chum Chum enthuses. “New Clear Park got a makeover a few years back and it looks awesome! How does that sound?”

Yo says nothing but Fanboy declares, “Wicked!” He licks his fingers before looking off into the distance with a dreamy sigh. “I’ve always wanted to have a family picnic. Sun in my face, wind in my hair…” He reaches across the table and pushes Yo’s plate closer to her. “Eat up, Hon. Ya need yer calvaries!”

“Calories,” Yo mumbles, her first word of the night.

“Same difference,” Fanboy dismisses, drawing an uneasy laugh from his best friend. “C’mon,” he probes. “Just a few bites.”

Yo stands. “I’m going to bed early.”

For Chum Chum, her abruptness is jarring. For Fanboy, it’s routine. “Before dessert?” he asks casually.

Yo feigns a yawn. “Uh-huh. It’s been sucha excitin’ day.” From inside the cradle neatly situated beside the bed, Buddy lets out a long cry of hunger. Yui follows shortly after.

“That’s my cue,” Yo pounces. “Good night!” Without waiting for a response, she slips behind the bed curtain.

Chum Chum leans Fanboy’s way. “Is that…norm—?” 

Fanboy’s hand meets his mouth before he can finish. “Hey, Yo?” he calls, pressing a free finger against his own lips to signal quiet. “I’m gonna show Chum Chum the bathrooms. Remember to take your meds, okay?” 

A few seconds of silence followed by a small, “Mmhm.”

Satiated, Fanboy tugs a puzzled Chum Chum from the room and across the hall.

“She woulda heard ya,” he explains with a tone bordering on bemusement as they enter a spare room. “Our ears got real sharp down at Boog’s.” He wiggles his fingers in a spooky manner. “Lot’s o’ things went “bump” in th’ dark!”

“Ohhh.” Chum Chum perambulates to calm his nerves before sitting on the edge of one of the beds. “I just meant to say she’s so… different.”

“Yeah. We all are!” Fanboy smiles. “Mr. Six-Foot-Two.” He pokes him.

“Fair,” Chum Chum concedes, “but don’t you think it's weird how quiet she is?”

Fanboy tilts his head. “Mmmm… Nope!”

“Really?”

“She’s always like that,” Fanboy explains, jumping back on the bed and kicking his legs.

Chum Chum considers that. “Not when we were little,” he sadly remarks. 

Fanboy offers a reassuring smile. “Dr. Olive’s been talking to us about everything that happened. She said for us to move here was like going “cold turkey” and the change was way too super shocking for our brains to handle.” He straightens his posture. “But I fit in just fine now! Easy-peasy!”

“Easy?” Chum Chum wonders. He finds that extremely hard to believe. Just by talking to Fanboy he can tell that the older man isn’t, in layman’s terms, “all there”. His inflection, mannerisms, and wordage are just off. Like a child’s, but not quite. 

“Well, easy for me!” Fanboy grins. “Being as awesome as I am. But she’s still…oh, what’s the word…? Ah! Adapting.”

“You’re worried though, aren’t you?” Chum Chum asks, hesitant to encroach on such a personal matter but naturally inclined to express concern. 

“Of course. I love her.” Fanboy bashfully whispers the latter under his breath. “But she’s gonna be a-ok, and I reckon she feels a lot better now that you’re here.”

Lordy. Although he fears Fanboy’s input will rather obfuscate instead of enlighten, Chum Chum nods to give him peace. “You know her better than I do,” he admits, “and given what happened, I suppose I shouldn't have expected her to be all “Merry” Magdalene.”

“Eeeexactly,” Fanboy grins, slapping a hand on his shoulder. “Leave the worrying to me, Pal. No sidekick of mine is gonna spend the night underdressed.”

“Uh… Oh, you mean “under duress”,” Chum Chum surmises, hiding a smile behind his hand.

Fanboy rolls his eyes. “Tomayto-tomahto.” 

Chum Chum snickers, then gasps as Fanboy leaps and pins him to the bed. 

“Aha! Not so cocky now!” Fanboy cackles triumphantly. Chum Chum grins and tries to dislodge Fanboy by the shoulders, but he freezes at the sharp bone poking into his fingers. Even through his mittens, he can feel just how fragile his older friend is. 

His hesitation does not go unnoticed by the former captive. “Bring it!” Fanboy urges, but Chum Chum gently lowers his hands and allows the older male to sit atop him without complaint.

“Oh, c’mon!” the superfan wheedles, pawing at the younger man’s chest like a petulant feline. “It’s been, like, a thousand years since we played!”

Chum Chum’s smile returns. “Feels like it.” He wants nothing more than to indulge in Fanboy’s play but he can’t risk injury, even or especially with the return of their powers.

“But still,” he firmly asserts, causing Fanboy to slouch with disappointment. “Once you have your strength back, we’ll wrestle all you want,” he promises. “Until then, let’s chill out.”

Chum Chum’s proposal is met with a heavy sigh. “Oh, okay,” Fanboy grudgingly accepts. “I guess I see your point.” He collapses face first into Chum Chum’s chest and groans. “What do we do now?”

A lightbulb flashes above Chum Chum’s head. “How about a Frosty Freezy Freeze?” He smirks knowingly. “Does Berry-Pink sound good?”

Fanboy’s stunned gasp and spellbound expression is worth the time they will wait to play rough again. “I thought you’d never ask,” he gushes, and smooches Chum Chum smack-dab on the forehead.  

While alone with the children, Yo is afraid that a certain super duo may pick up on her ramblings. She instead mumbles to her suckling daughter in a meager attempt to keep her bad thoughts at bay.

“It ain’t his fault. Ain’t yours or your papa’s. It’s mine.” 

Over the years, Yo's mind has built up a wall, which has crumbled and rebuilt itself until morphing into the concrete sarcophagus it is at the present. Today, the last of its holes have been thoroughly spackled, disallowing any rays of hope from shining through.

A silent tear rolls down Yo’s listless face. Yui settles easily into her mother’s hold, warm and content. Even as the infant babbles for attention and gazes at Yo with her bright brown eyes, the mother can’t recognize her daughter’s innocent love. Instead, she unceremoniously sets her back into the cradle and lifts a whimpering Buddy to nurse.

“It doesn't matter what he says. My head’s a mess,” Yo mumbles, laying back. 

If even Chum Chum’s return was unable to bring her fulfillment, she’s beclouded as to what possibly could. Buddy snuggles into his mother’s chest and hiccups, but she no longer feels him. No matter how much she loves her babies, no matter how deeply she loves her partner, they cannot ward off the blackness that has engulfed her.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I know I made a promise, but that was right before.” 

It all makes sense. With Chum Chum back, Fanboy is joyful, enriched. With Chum Chum back, the babies have an additional caregiver. With Chum Chum back, Yo knows what little purpose she had dared hope for has faded. Chum Chum would never force Fanboy to give up the babies. Chum Chum would always be strong enough to protect them. Chum Chum would never push Fanboy to tears or make him question himself.

Yo exhales.

“They don't need me anymore.”

Yo returns Buddy to the cradle and lies on her bed, devoid of feeling, of care, and of hope as she listens to the best friends reenter the room, laughing and chattering away. 

“Nobody needs me,” she resolutes. “Nobody.” Her sanity, having been held entrusted by a fraying thread, severs and free-falls into the black.

As midnight approaches, the boys settle their merriment to prepare for bed. They can’t bear to part now so, instead of heading home, Chum Chum takes refuge in Fanboy’s bed. “You sure?” he asks as Fanboy hikes the blankets up to his shoulders. “I hate to take up room.”

“Nonsense,” Fanboy soothes, fluffing the younger man’s pillow. “You’re right where you’re wanted.” Chum Chum feels a powerful surge of nostalgia in his chest. “There ya go, Buddy. Sleep tight!”

“Good night,” Chum Chum replies, pulling Fanboy into a hug. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“But they might!” Fanboy teases. They share a giggle, but the older of the two doesn’t retreat, and the younger one doesn’t pull away.

“Ya wanna hop in?” Chum Chum offers, lifting the blanket. Visibly conflicted, Fanboy shakes his head. “What’s up?”

“It’s stupid.” Fanboy crosses his arms. “I’m actually worried you won’t be here when I wake up.” A slight tremor runs through his system. 

Chum Chum sighs. “Aww, Fanboy… You have nothing to worry about. Besides, you can't stand there all night.” He laughs. Fanboy doesn’t laugh along, rather, he stares challengingly at the younger man.

A brief pause as Chum Chum quickly backs out of the flippant hole he has dug. “Okay, but don’t. You need rest, and I’m not disappearing on you,” he assures, and squeezes the other male’s hand. “I pinky-promise.”

Fanboy offers his pinky and the two lock digits. “Many thanks, Pal-O-Mine. That means so much to me,” he tenderly radiates. “Geez, I can’t wait to play with you tomorrow! Sourdough-Whammo for the win!” He darts away with a breathy giggle. “Love ya, Bud!”

Chum Chum sighs with undiluted fondness as he watches the older man hover over the crib and tend to his slumbering babies. His positive traits have remained unspoilt; he’s just as goofy, energetic, and protective as he’d been when they were children.  

Resting his hands over his broad chest, Chum Chum gazes at the glowing stars dangling above his head. He feels a profound sense of protection now that they're all together. He is prepared to make sure that his niece and nephew never endure a fraction of the horrors their mother and father experienced. 

It is imperative that their family never suffers the same pain again, whether self-inflicted or by an outsider. In an absent-minded gesture, Chum Chum brushes back and forth over his forearm's jagged scars. 

They’ll thrive. He’ll make sure of it.

After Chum Chum passes out with exhaustion, Fanboy tenderly kisses his children goodnight and brushes his teeth at the sink. While flossing, he sees that Yo has filled a water cup for him already. He’s pleased by the small but sweet gesture and downs it, wincing slightly at the oddly chalky taste.

“What is this?” he wonders aloud, cupping his hands for additional faucet water to rinse out the taste. “Yuck.”

Popping his back bones, Fanboy slips into his new pajamas and carefully slides under the covers beside Yo. He is much too full of adrenaline to be sleepy, but doesn’t want to disturb his love.

“Today was the best day of my entire life! We’re all together, safe and sound.” 

A subtle stirring to Fanboy’s left suggests that Yo is still awake. Surprised, Fanboy stretches an arm across her body, pulling her close. His gut tells him that she wasn't as tired as she had claimed.

“Y’ a’right, Mama?” he murmurs against the back of her neck. A vacant sound of affirmation echoes back. 

Fanboy traces her long sweater sleeve. “Ya wanna change into some pjs?”

Yo doesn’t answer and Fanboy tuts. “Don’t move.” He changes her himself until she’s a snug as a bug in a rug. 

Now tucked in, he finds her hand and gently caresses it. “I’m so proud of you.” A swell of gratitude rises in his chest and he sighs into Yo’s soft black hair. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

No answer, as expected, but Chum Chum’s earlier concern inspires a scintilla of unease to rise in Fanboy’s brain. He pushes it back, as always, and kisses Yo’s cheek.

“Goodnight, Sweetheart,” Fanboy whispers and relaxes himself into their customary spooning position. He yawns heavily, feeling much more tired than he did just minutes earlier. “I love you.”

A barely audible, “Love you too,” reaches his super-hearing ears. “Goodnight.”

September, 2009. The bell rings and Galaxy Hills Elementary practically bursts at the seams from its output of sugar-high students all vacating at once. 

Fanboy and Chum Chum are among the populace darting into the autumn sunlight. They chase each other across the hot schoolyard asphalt, hooting and hollering up a storm. Despite the playful mood, 

Fanboy awakens from a deep sleep to the loud rush of sink water and senses an empty space where Yo should be. 

Blinking blearily, he checks the clock. 3:45AM. He yawns, unbothered. If she loses sleep, Yo will often rise for melatonin. It never takes more than a minute or two. It’s only odd that his ears hadn’t detected her moving about beforehand.

However, after five minutes pass, Yo hasn’t come back to bed.

Fanboy feels that something is off. He takes a moment to catch his breath and spots Yo deviously peeking out from behind a tree. “AHA! I see you,—”

“Yo?” Sitting up, Fanboy rubs his eyes, activates his night vision, and prepares to question Yo, only to look to the left and see his partner lying face down on the floor in a pool of vomit.

For a split second, Fanboy thinks he’s dreaming, but it becomes apparent quite soon that the horrifying sight before him is not a nightmare.

“–Yo!” Fanboy snickers, jogging up to the tree and leaning against it with a smug grin. “Aha! The She-Beast herself, foiled yet again! Thought you could sneak up on us, didja?” 

Yo lifts her chin and “hmphs!” 

“Nice try,” Fanboy teases smugly, “but you’ll never get past my super-hearing.”

Yo shakes her head, her pigtails swishing back and forth. “I’m getting real good at sneaking!” she reveals, a coy smile accompanying her scheming eyes. “Just wait. One day, I’m gonna sneak past ya and you won’t even have a chance to say—

“NO!” Fanboy screams, alerting everyone within a mile radius. He’s too afraid to realize how abnormally sluggish his body is. He leaps from the bed and yanks the woman up from the floor. The ashen appearance of her face is accompanied by a faint shudder in her chest.

This isn’t normal sickness. Not even room sickness. In Fanboy’s heart, he knows it’s far worse.

“Wake up! WAKE UP!” Fanboy screams, shaking her shoulders. The forceful movement dislodges an empty pill bottle clutched loosely in her hand. 

“And Chum Chum’ll be all mine.” Yo dreamily exhales while Fanboy makes a face and wrinkles his nose with juvenile disgust. 

“Yeah, right,” he dismisses with a flippant wave of his hand. “Like that’ll ever happen.” He carelessly rounds the tree and pokes her collar. “That’ll only backfire on YOU, because I can’t save you if I can’t hear you.”

It’s hopeless. Yo remains unresponsive and limp in her love’s desperate iron grip. Fanboy pries one of her eyes open, but it’s blank. The babies begin to cry, terrified by their father’s screams. 

“PLEASE!” Fanboy begs, tears streaming down his face. He reverts back into “room mode” and doesn’t even consider crying for help. He just lays her on her back and presses his ears to her chest. 

Yo strains to catch a glimpse of her beloved, orange-clad crush, but Fanboy blocks her view with his arms protectively outstretched. Yo glares. 

“I don’t need help, but if I did, the last person I’d want to rescue me is you,” she snips, sticking out her tongue for good measure. “I want Chum Chum.”

“Please!” There is a heartbeat, but it’s every bit as faint and unsteady as Fanboy himself. 

“Ya can’t leave!” he stumbles. “I’m t-takin’ ya t’ th’ stars, remember?!” Stars begin to speckle his vision and a low-pitched drone invades his ears. “Do ya hear me?!” he wails.

“So spare me!” Yo sticks a finger in her mouth and pretends to gag.

Fanboy blows a raspberry at her. “Ohhh, right. I forgot that bad guys, or bad girls, in your case, don’t deserve saving.” He turns his nose up and waves her off. “Suit yourself, Yo. It’s your—

The next few minutes are a blur. Chum Chum bursts into the room having just sprinted from the restroom. The staff, including Oz and Pam, are only able to hurriedly take Yo away when Chum Chum pries Fanboy’s incredibly strong fingers from around her ankles. 

And just like that, Yo is gone. Fanboy stares, shakes, quakes, and dribbles, on the verge of mental collapse. His children's cries pierce his ears like ice picks but he can't comfort them. Not now. 

Chum Chum’s strong arms wrap around his shoulders in a desperate hold but Fanboy tears away and latibulates.

—funeral.”

An hour passes without news on Yo’s condition and Fanboy shows no sign of calming down. He screams long and loud into the ether. He bites his wrist so hard that it bleeds. He bashes his forehead against his hospital room door until a giant bruise purples his skin. He claws at anyone who dares approach.

It’s no longer safe for the babies. They must be relocated back to the maternity ward, but Fanboy won’t allow it.

“NO!” Fanboy recoils, his eyes ablaze as the nurse attempts to remove the children. He slams himself against the cradle, causing the children inside to whimper with fear. 

“Stop!” Chum Chum pleads, eyes shiny with tears of his own, but the older man is inconsolable. 

The brave nurse calmly asserts her position and once again tries to retrieve the children. Beset with fury, Fanboy grabs her wrist and yanks her close so that they’re nose to nose. “I’LL KILL YOU!” he hisses, eyes burning red.

That’s the last straw. Fanboy, whether he means to or not, is physically capable of killing every last person in this hospital. He needs to be stopped and Chum Chum is the only one who surpasses him in power, so he has no choice: he grabs Fanboy by the shoulders and pins him down. 

“GO!" he mouths to the nurse. “Go, go, go!” 

“NO!” Fanboy bellows. “GET OFF!” He struggles with all his might as the nurse wheels the cradle away. 

“BUDDY! YUI! YO!” The floor beneath them cracks and quakes from the force but Chum Chum holds fast and immovable. Ultimately, when Fanboy stares at him with eyes full of betrayal with an expression of maddened despair, all that crumbles is his heart. 

A few hours pass and the situation is unchanged. It’s too dangerous for anyone but Chum Chum to even approach the powerful being for fear of serious injury. 

While the staff anxiously wait just outside the door, Chum Chum stares at the wild animal that is his best friend rocking unsteadily into a corner, emitting all sorts of ragged groans and wails of agony and punching cracks into the tile floor. He is not yet strong enough to break through walls, thank goodness, but he is nonetheless dangerous to himself and others in this state. 

Chum Chum has never seen Fanboy like this. His initial suspicion has been validated.

Without his family, Fanboy is stuck. Yo was as much his crutch as he was hers, and now, his temperament toward people is no different to how he’d been upon first waking up in the hospital. Worse, actually, now that he has his powers back. 

At first, Chum Chum is at a loss at what to do. As children, it was always Fanboy who was the consoler. HE the one who held Chum Chum in his arms on stormy nights when they sat awake and scared. HE took the initiative. HE set his own plans in motion. HE was the leader, the elder, the hero… Chum Chum was just a sidekick following along like a little lamb.

Now, Fanboy is in shambles. Chum Chum approaches in slow motion, dreadfully tense, and prays. He can feel Fanboy’s despair. It’s an electric field radiating off of him in droves and Chum Chum can feel it permeate his skin and burrow into his heart.

Whether or not Fanboy senses the sidekick’s approach, he continues to writhe without pause. “She’s DEAD!” His voice shatters with grief, and Chum Chum fears that he may be right.

“They’re dead!” he wails, suddenly lurching up and staring wide-eyed at his hands. “They’re all DEAD!”

“There, there, Fanboy,” Chum Chum whimpers, wrapping his strong arms around his bereaved comrade. “She’ll be okay.” Even to himself, he doesn't sound convincing. Fanboy slumps to the floor with his forehead touching the cool tile, but nothing he does will dislodge Chum Chum.

“I hate you! I HATE YOU!”

Chum Chum doesn’t know if Fanboy is even speaking to him anymore. He's reaching out, looking to smack away something or someone that isn’t there. Chum Chum shuts his eyes. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you.” He repeats those three words over and over. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

There are still hours left before Fanboy's energy is exhausted. The tense muscles beneath Chum Chum slowly loosen, but he does not let go of Fanboy till the man is perfectly limp and quiet.

Gradually and gently, Chum Chum rotates Fanboy onto his back and lifts him bridal-style. Fanboy is a mess of sweat, torn pajamas, matted hair, splotchy skin, and blank, red-rimmed eyes. He doesn’t seem to be looking at anything now; whatever visions he’d perceived throughout his psychosis must be long gone.

Without a word, Chum Chum trudges across the room and lays Fanboy across the bed he’d been given the night before. He joins him, tucks Fanboy’s head into his chest the same way Fanboy would do for him as children. 

Despite hours of strain from Fanboy’s end, Chum Chum can still discern weak pulses of energy thrumming through the older man’s veins. “It’s my turn now,” he whispers hoarsely, rubbing slow circles into Fanboy’s brittle back, “to look after you.”

No verbal response from the superfan, but his marred hand finds Chum Chum’s shirt collar and grips it like a vice. Whether this is a sign of gratuity or hatred, Chum Chum hopes for the former. It proves a certain delicacy of feeling, and such traits lead him to augur all that is hoped for.

Chum Chum jolts awake to find Fanboy claws sinking into his short neck and his teeth yanking at his shirt collar. 

“Boog.”

“It’s me,” Chum Chum whispers, cupping Fanboy’s tear-stained cheek. “Chum Chum.”

Quickly, Fanboy removes his hand and tucks it between his legs. His swollen red eyes meet him. “Nuh,” he mumbles. He lifts a limp hand and presses it between the younger man’s eyes. 

Chum Chum's mouth is dry and wordless. For better or for worse, Fanboy fills the silence, his sanity no more than adumbrated by the pallidness in his eyes.

“Nh,” he slurs, and falls back under.

Chum Chum’s initial instinct is to tuck Fanboy close, but when he looks at his arms, large and rippled with fat and muscle alike. They must feel terribly similar to Boog’s. He flinches, picturing his poor young friend struggling in the evil man’s grip, and pulls his arms away.

Oz drops by an hour later, relieved to find Fanboy properly under control. “H-Hey, Lil’ Dudes,” he whispers. “How’s he holding up?”

Chum Chum, who is sitting up against the headboard and cradling Fanboy’s head on his lap, pays Oz a weathered glance. “Awfully,” he reports rather sharply. “Spent all his energy trying to fight me off him so he could get to his kids and now he’s passed out. How’s Yo?”

Oz stops where he stands. 

Chum Chum holds up a hand. “Don’t actually tell me until you know for sure.” He glances at his scattered letters. “Business trip?”

Oz nods free of conviction. “Seriously, Dude, that’s YOUR story to tell.”

“You should’ve let him read it himself,” Chum Chum trails, realizing the cons that would’ve occurred if that had happened. “Never mind.”

With Fanboy checked out and curled up against him, Chum Chum quickly tunes out the rest of what his father has to say in favor of focusing on his friend's uneven breathing.

“Just get his kids back to him as fast as possible.”

Eventually, Oz takes the hint and leaves, leaving the duo to their unorganized thoughts.

“What do I do now?”

Chum Chum drifts into consciousness and touches empty space beside him. He jolts awake, horrified to think that Fanboy has run off but finds the man in question hasn't left at all. Rather, he is off the bed and pacing in a circle without pause. 

“I thought you left!” Chum Chum blurts, holding a hand over his heart to quell the rapid flutter. 

Fanboy makes a small sound of acknowledgment but his eyes are blank. “No. Promised,” he mumbles shortly. “Promised.”

That has merit, as Fanboy HAD promised to never leave Chum Chum again. The younger of the two relaxes, albeit conflicted. “Is...that why you’re walking in circles?”

“Uh-huh.”

That won't do. “C’mere, Bud,” Chum Chum coaxes, and Fanboy collapses into his arms. Fanboy's mental fatigue is evident in his lack of resistance. He's been exhausted of all his faculties; his bones ache, his head hurts, and he feels so drained that he just wants to sleep. The problem is that his mind is working in overdrive, desperately trying to keep the traumatic events of the previous day at bay. He knows that he needs to rest, but the buzzing in his head is too much. His heart races and his thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. Presently, sleep is impossible. He whines feebly and tries to focus on Chum Chum's embrace, letting it ground him and remind him that he's safe. 

The rest of the day is filled with tears from both parties as they fear the worst.

Come evening, Fanboy is coherent enough to partake in a solemn chat with Dr. Olive. The doctor enters with an impassive expression. She wastes no time, shaking Chum Chum’s hand and takes a seat at the play table.

They hold their breath.

“She’s alive.”

Fanboy crumples with relief and buries his face into his hands. Chum Chum leans back in his seat and rests a fist over his heart. “Thank goodness,” he moans.

“Where?!” Fanboy croaks, raspy from the hours of screaming. 

“She’s in our inpatient psychiatric unit, safe and sound.” Dr. Olive answers, leaning forward to hand the man a tissue.

“I wanna see!” Fanboy cries. Chum Chum embraces him tightly in case the other man is denied the right.

To their dismay, Dr. Olive shakes her head. “Yo needs a few days to recover. After that, she’ll be in our care for a while, but you’ll see her again.” Her impassive expression softens. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Love.”

Olive explains what the carers have relayed: Yo had managed to sneak an entire stash of her own prescriptions and, using that, decided that her life was no longer worth living. “She said she was in a hurry to get to Heaven."

Fanboy resembles a shifting tectonic plate with the way he quakes. “Wh-Why-WHY did she DO THAT?!” he wails, clutching his matted hair and yanking so hard that many strands tear and bleed. Chum Chum clutches his shaking hands and holds them steady. 

“For the same reason you’re hurting yourself, my love,” Olive explains quietly. “She’s in deep, deep pain.” She goes in depth, but Fanboy can’t understand. 

Ashamed, he slouches, his bangs obscuring his face. “What do I DO?!” he bursts. “There’s gotta be something I haven’t done to help her but I don’t know what it is!”

A short pause. “How does that make you feel?” asks Olive. “To be uncertain?”

“So freaking useless,” Fanboy barks, covering his eyes. “I feel like whatever I do can’t help her, a-and I’m scared I never will!” He lowers his hands, stares at the new bite mark on his wrist. “I can’t save her from anything or anyone!” Another round of tears. “I never could!”

For Chum Chum, listening to this is painfully familiar. “I know how that feels,” he sympathizes, “wantin' to help someone and believing if you just do this or try that, the answer will become clear.”

Fanboy heaves, wipes his eyes. “Y-Yeah,” he affirms. “Right on th’ money, Bud. R-Right on th’—” He coughs, shivers, and Chum Chum wraps him up in his fuzzy coat.

Dr. Olive searches through her briefcase. “Aha! Here it is.” She retrieves a blue folder and passes it to Chum Chum. “Give that a read. It’ll tell you everything you can do to help not only Yoko in her healing journey, but yourself as well.”

“Me?” Fanboy asks incredulously. “No, no. I’m fine! I’m fine.”

Another pause. “Give it a read anyway.” Olive kindly suggests. “Perhaps you two can help Yo together as a team.”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Chum Chum agrees, blowing his nose before flipping through the pages. “Whaddaya think, Fanboy?” 

The older man's reluctance is palpable. “Fine.”

The next few days for both Fanboy and Chum Chum are a whirlwind of emotions. For Fanboy, shock and sadness quickly merge to guilt, disbelief, and anger. He is ashamed of his outburst, and the constant reminders of the cracked floor and chipped walls give him a new hesitance. The only thing that distracts him now is to focus on Yo.

“I still don’t get it,” he mumbles over his untouched lunch. Chum Chum is still there, having only left to bring home cooked meals for Fanboy to enjoy. He sits across from the troubled man, barely able to touch his own portion. 

Chum Chum shakes his head. “She must’ve been feeling awful.”

Fanboy's grip on his glass of milk tightens so hard that it breaks. Chum Chum jumps up, startled. “Ah! Hold on.” He grabs paper towels from the sink and mops up the mess. “We gotta watch our strength,” he warns. “It’s been so long...” Hearing no answer, Chum Chum lifts his head and locks eyes with Fanboy.

Fanboy says something, too softly to hear.

“Huh?”

“SO WHAT?!” Fanboy shouts, slamming his fists on the table and nearly breaking it in two. “I’m not exactly “happy days” either over here, but I didn’t try t–to–!”

"She isn't you, Fanboy,” Chum Chum wavers. “You don’t understand.”

Fanboy shoots him a blazing glare. “NO. You don’t understand. We talk, Chum Chum! That’s all we did for ten years and she’s never explained what—! What her—! Why she would—! ARGH!” He buries his face in his hands. 

Chum Chum cautiously approaches to sweep up the glass shards. 

“Why did she try t’ die?” Fanboy croaks. “Why would she want that?! We're safe now! She said she wanted to marry me. She said she’d try to be a good mom! She pinky-swore!” He clutches his hand and growls at it. “Why didn’t you work?!”

Chum Chum sits back in his seat. “What else did she say?” he presses, knowing there is a mountain of contradicting information that has been glossed over. 

Fanboy violently scratches his arm. Like a strobe light, flashes of examples invade his brain, examples he’s unconsciously pushed away in order to preserve his own sanity, his own will to live.

“Why can’ I jus’ be 'appy like you? Then it wouldn’ ‘urt so much.”

I’m ß̷̫̐ŕ̶̖ð̶̠̅k̴̘͗ê̵̮̏ ̶͉̓ now, a ß̷̫̐ŕ̶̖ð̶̠̅k̴̘͗ê̵̮̏ ̶͉̓†̴̺̿ð̵̧́¥̴̝̌--µ̸̡͋§̴͙́ê̵̦̏l̷̼͆ȩ̷̂̃§̴̔͜§̴̢̌, whatevah Boog said. I-I’m r̷̩̅µ̴͇͊ï̵̼̓ñ̴͔̈́ê̴̡̅Ð̵̯̊. He r̷̩̅µ̴͇͊ï̵̼̓ñ̴͔̈́ê̴̡̅Ð̵̯̊ me.”

“I’m so lost. I’m so scared…”

“It’ll NEVER be th’ same! NEVER! NEVER! NEVER!”

I'm like a rock in a lake, draggin' everythin' down with me."

“I don’ think I’m good ‘nough fo’ them.”

“The pills. I spit them back into my cup.”

"I don’t care about anything anymore."

“Sometimes it’s not that simple. People get hurt. People have problems, includin’ moms.”

“I hear enough o’ that in my head.”

"You should wanna break up with me ‘cause of this. I wouldn’t blame ya."

“She—” Fanboy breathes, his face going sheet-white. 

A short silence.

“You know,” Chum Chum tries, sitting beside his best friend, “I was scared this kind of thing would happen.” He doesn’t need to explain further; Fanboy has finally come to grips with acknowledging the reality that Yo is in much worse shape than he ever cared to admit.

Fanboy claws at his arm. “You knew?!” Now that he’s no longer able to deny the truth, he’s lost as to what he could possibly say and do.

“No, but these things aren’t uncommon.” 

“Did I make it worse?” Fanboy gasps. “B-By not understanding?” 

“I don’t think so,” Chum Chum denies. “Chances are, she doesn’t understand it either.” He gently tugs Fanboy’s hand away from his arm to prevent further scratching. “This isn’t because of you. What’s going on in her head would've been there regardless if you understood it or not.” 

Fanboy slumps. “That can’t be true. There must’ve been something I did wrong. M-Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention to her! O-Or maybe I wasn’t nice enough!”

“Fanboy…”

“W-Well, I can start now! Just needa pull myself together,” Fanboy concludes, and takes a deep breath, “and be…happy again.” He wipes his eyes. “I’m a chipper guy, and now that you’re here…! I’ll be fine! Heck—I’m fine now!”

“I don’t know, Fanboy,” Chum Chum says quietly. “You were awfully upset earlier.”

“That’s sugar-coating it!” Fanboy laughs humorlessly. 

“You need help.”

Fanboy straightens his posture and smiles. “She can count on me.”

“I mean for YOU, Bud.” Chum Chum pats his back. “I do too. You know... Back when I was a little boy, when Oz finally told me what really happened to you? My whole world fell apart.” 

Recalling the letters, Fanboy grows sicker to his stomach.

“It was like a fog surrounding my brain. All the things that used to make me happy made me feel nothing. People tried to help me but I shut myself in, trapped.”

“I couldn't find happiness or joy that used to come so easily to me... and I couldn’t even find the strength to help others like I wanted to. It felt like part of me went with you or broke, and I was scared I would never be myself again.”

“Even when I was surrounded by people who loved me and wanted to help. I felt so alone. I really thought the heartache would kill me. And even when I was a teen and started to feel a little happy again, I felt guilty, like I was betraying you. It felt so unfair,” Chum Chum laments, “that everything around me just went on without you.”

He pauses. The rainy ambience offers gentle respite to Fanboy’s not-so-subtle shaking.

“Eventually, the hurt got so bad that I tried to…basically end my life.”

Fanboy jolts, stares shocked at Chum Chum. “What?”

“Knife,” Chum Chum says, tugging up his sleeve to reveal the jagged scars. “The day you were rescued was when I was at my weakest. I didn’t succeed, obviously, but that’s why I was in the hospital and couldn’t come sooner.”

Fanboy is speechless for the first time in a long time. It takes everything in him not to break down again but to conceal his anguish. “Oz said you were on a business trip,” he croaks, staring blankly into space. “H-He said you were traveling.”

Chum Chum bristles. He shakes his head. “He just wanted to protect you. Priorities and all that jazz.”

Fanboy grows paler and paler. “You’re a priority to me.”

A gentle smile graces Chum Chum’s face. “You too,” he agrees, and takes Fanboy’s trembling hands in his. 

“I get how upset you must feel about this. But I know you’re strong. Maybe you’re not feeling any of the things I felt, and that’s okay too. But if you are, I want you to know…”

Fanboy embraces him tight. He says nothing, for once, but his implications are clear. Admittance, surrender, desperation. A new fear. “Don’t die, Chum Chum,” Fanboy says in a small voice, clutching the younger man’s shirt. “Please, don’t.”

“Never.”

Fanboy sits atop the couch and stares into the clear night. The drapes are swept aside for moonlight to cascade over everything, including the crib with his children snoozing inside. 

“It's fine,” he whispers. “I am. I’m fine.” He can’t help but ponder Yo’s misery and attribute it to himself. “But if issa lie,” he whispers, “then we shouldn’t be together, right? But I WANNA be with her.” 

He stares longingly into the night, unable to shake his guilt for glossing over Yo’s glaring issues. “I don’t care what Boog wanted, ‘cause I wanna, but should I?” He rubs the space between his eyes.

An all-too familiar whimper interrupts his thoughts and causes the rain clouds in his brain to dissipate. “Aw, hey, Buddy,” he coos, and gently retrieves his son. “Are you hungry?” He gently coaxes the tip of a bottle against the baby’s lips but he twists away. “I know,” Fanboy says quietly. “You like Mama better, don’t you?” Buddy affirms that notion by swatting the nipple away with his tiny-mittened hands and wailing unhappily.

Fanboy sets the bottle aside when Buddy refuses it for a fourth time and cuddles him to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, an onslaught of tears building up behind his lids. “I-I usually know what to do.”

“Let me take him,” offers a voice. Chum Chum. Fanboy sniffles and obliges. After witnessing his own aggressive nature spiral out of control, he is much more lenient with allowing others to hold his children.

Chum Chum cradles the child and gently nudges the bottle’s rubber tip to his lips. Surprisingly, Buddy quiets his cries and suckles.

Fanboy watches, defeated as his self-confidence and self-trust shrivel up inside him.

“I usually know what to do,” he wavers. “It—It’s just…” He gestures aimlessly. 

“I understand, Fan,” Chum Chum assures. He traces his fingers over the rim of the crib. “We have to give her time.” 

Buddy and Yui will have to get used to bottles for now.

Chapter Text

After Yo's incident, Fanboy all but deteriorates, much to everyone’s dismay. Except for Chum Chum and the children, he can hardly find the motivation to rise in the morning. Chum Chum will often rise to see Fanboy operating at a zombie-like pace; he’s a broken man again, unable to push forward into his idealized aims. Worse yet—

"I can’t." Fanboy rears back from Oz offering him his son. "I can’t do it, Oz." He presses himself all the way against the wall he’d cracked with his immense strength and stands there rigid until Oz surrenders the child to Chum Chum.

Now that Fanboy knows just how dangerous he is, it’s near impossible for him to hold his babies. The cracks and lesions left behind from his breakdown dig harshly into his back, reminding him of his own culpability. The mere thought of cradling his babies invokes in him such a panic that, for everyone’s safety, Chum Chum must intervene. 

Speaking of whom, the sidekick has taken up official residence in the hospital room to help with his honorary niece and nephew. While that should put at least some of Fanboy’s qualms to rest, his shame and guilt have only worsened. 

Oz stays for as long as other patients don’t need him. He’s spent a greater portion of the last month or so looking after Yo and his honorary son and grandchildren. However, for as much as Oz wants to remain nearby, eventual duties whisk him away to another side of the hospital, leaving Chum Chum to take up the helm. 

"Thanks, Pal," Fanboy whispers to Chum Chum after Oz takes his leave. Though his daughter and son whine and whimper, the young father shies away, tucking his hands under his armpits for good measure. "M-My hands keep doin’ the jittery thing." He laughs uneasily. "Say, I have an awesome idea: why don’t you hold ‘em from now on?"

Chum Chum’s gentle smile ebbs, and a sudden whine from the child in his arms matches his disfavor. He feels hesitant to broach Fanboy’s burden, but to keep the peace: "I couldn’t." 

Fanboy scrunches his shoulders and sets off for the loveseat. Chum Chum follows, lamenting that even with all his powers, he can’t dive into the other man's brain and fix him. 

"How’re you feeling?" he prods.

The superfan drives his palms into his eyes. "Uggghhh.”

A plethora of assumptions run rampant in Chum Chum’s head, but he keeps his assertions as simple and non-accusatory as possible. "You seem like you’re at war with yourself," he posits, allowing a moment of silence to linger. "Like tug o’ war."

It’s a while before Fanboy speaks again, and with perfect clarity, "Understatement of th’ millennium, Pal," no doubt repeating a line he’d recently read from his comic stash. "Buddy and Yui…? I can’t touch ‘em, and I can’t leave ‘em alone!" He winces at Chum Chum's bruised arms. "If I could hurt you, what do they stand a chance?" 

His fear is not unfounded, as is demonstrated by the purple bruises on Chum Chum's arms and abrasions to the room. With so many years of helplessness behind him, Fanboy has difficulty coming to grips with his sudden strength. His newly-regained powers, which were once a blessing, are terrifying.

"Now, hold on a minute," Chum Chum protests. "I have the exact same powers you do and you’re letting me hold the kids." He has a point.

Fanboy sinks lower into the loveseat. "So?" he utters curtly.

"So the powers aren’t really the problem." Chum Chum places a comforting arm around Fanboy’s shoulders. "It’s a matter of getting used to them again—the lack of control. You need to take charge from now on." 

Fanboy frowns. "And…how, pray tell, do ya expect me t’ do that?" He comes off snappier than intended, and sinks lower. 

Chum Chum doesn’t mind. "Hey, if I can do it, you can too!" he exclaims, as if their similarities outweigh their stark differences. "So, goodness forbid, if you ever reach that point again," Chum Chum advises, "count to ten. Breathe. Heck, put yourself in time-out if you have to."

That draws from Fanboy a small laugh. "Time-out?" he repeats. 

"Absolutely!" Chum Chum says. "Fifteen minutes to yourself and BOOM!" 

"You think so?" Fanboy considers it. 

"I know so,” Chum Chum promises. "Trust me; I’ve been there." 

The insinuation isn’t lost on Fanboy. "Hmm…"

"Plus," Chum Chum hastily adds, "if you don’t know your own strength, practice makes perfect!" Tucking Buddy securely into his chest, he offers Yui to her father, who jolts away like he’s being offered to juggle wine glasses. 

"C’mon," Chum Chum coaxes. "They’re worth the try, aren’t they?" Mulling over those familiar words, Fanboy’s quickening heart rate partially subsides. Chum Chum is right: Buddy and Yui ARE worth it. Worth the fear. Worth the stress. Worth every bit of self-doubt and frustration because they deserve a better hand than what Fanboy and Yo were dealt.

"Besides," Chum Chum says, "they’re happier in your arms than mine." 

Fanboy ducks his head to hide a proud smile. He can’t deny that. Hence, he accepts Chum Chum's encouragement, resolving to temper his strength with caution and care.

"Okay." He faces the younger man. "Lay 'er on me." He squares his shoulders. "But, you know. Be gentle."

Chum Chum obliges and the superfan shuts his eyes, bracing himself for the sound of shattering glass. Instead, he hears a soft cooing.

"Open your eyes, Silly," Chum Chum teases.

Fanboy exhales a long-held breath and looks down at Yui’s little face. It’s solace, a lighthouse in the midst of a chaotic storm: the innocent trust and adoration sparkling in her eyes.

"H-Hi, Yui…" At first, he scarcely dares to move as the little girl snuggles into his skinny arms, but as time passes: Fanboy shakily kisses her forehead. "S-Sorry about the other night," he whispers, heart clenching. "Papa was just…" He trails off before he’s able to admit his fear. "Papa wasn’t having a fun time. That’s all."

Yui’s eyes flutter shut as she yawns, a surefire testament to how comfortable she is in her father’s hold. Fanboy cuddles her closer, feeling her warmth against his chest. Just like that—he’s a father again, and his heart is full.

"W-What do I do when my hands start shakin’?"

"Put her down until they stop, and then try again," Chum Chum answers. "Keep going until you’re completely used to it."

Fanboy nods. The moment a slight tremble appears, he sets down his daughter, waits a moment, then picks her back up. He repeats the exercise, gaining more time between breaks until he’s holding Yui as expertly as he had before. Chum Chum grins knowingly but stays silent as Fanboy takes the moment to cherish his time with his daughter.

"She looks jus’ like her mama," Fanboy murmurs, brushing the infant's black bangs out of her face and adjusting her bow with a cautious hand. 

Chum Chum agrees. "She’s a vision."

Fanboy’s little grin falls. "When’s she gonna...you know...come back?" 

"When she's ready," Chum Chum answers, and Fanboy nods, a sullen understanding passing between the two that Yo might not return anytime soon.

"I miss her." Fanboy spends the next few minutes quietly puppetting Admiral Fluffington above Yui’s wide eyes, his long ponderance leading to an interesting notion. "But at least I have Mini-Yo, right?" he cracks.

Chum Chum hesitates, uncertain if this is the right time to make light of the situation but unwilling to say so. He even joins in: "You mean Clone-Yo." 

Fanboy laughs and watches Buddy fall fast-asleep in his uncle’s arms. Yui quickly follows suit and passes out against her relieved father. "Edmund?" Fanboy leans back against the cushions and closes his eyes. "Thanks for being here. I really don’t know what I would do without ya."

Chum Chum's heart skips a beat. In all the time they’ve known each other, Fanboy has never used his real name except in extremely heartfelt occasions. 

"Of course," Chum Chum assures. "What’re friends for?" He extends his hand to Fanboy, who takes it, relieved for the strength of their bond despite all that has happened. 

From then on, Fanboy musters every ounce of courage to embrace the little moments and retake his mantle of his vulnerable children’s protector. Now, that means a complete overhaul of his current mood. He reads, stretches, eats larger portions, and spends as much time with his children as possible to curb his fear. 

Nurse Lady Pam surprises him with a gentle hug and takes his goggles away. Fanboy’s eyes can withstand the hospital lights now and the room is allowed to be brightened. However, the blinds must remain.

"One day, Sun," Fanboy sighs longingly at the covered window. "I’ll see you again."

Chum Chum optimistically tracks the gradual change. Using positive activities as a form of self-care and distraction was Dr. Olive’s suggestion. Getting into the routine helps Fanoy focus on the present moment, and, in turn, he begins to feel more hopeful and positive about the future. However, while providing temporary relief, the routine isn’t a long-term solution. 

Despite carrying himself with more pep, Fanboy remains burdened by an ever-present dark weight. He’s still hesitant with his children, afraid of his own show of strength, afraid of Yo. He can’t shake it off, not even during a water gun fight in the shower room. 

One day, during lunch, Chum Chum relays important news. "Dr. Olive said Yo can have visitors now." 

A jumbled mess of emotions crash through Fanboy. That’s a piece of news he should be happy for, so why isn't he jumping for joy? "Oh! She's, uh, feeling better?" he queries.

"Much better," Chum Chum chirps. 

Fanboy takes a moment to process. “Wow.” This is a turning point for Yo—he needs to be supportive. "That's terrific."

Assuming Fanboy is eager and invested, Chum Chum pushes a packet of information detailing Yo’s progress across the table. "Without a doubt," he hints, tapping the item. 

Fanboy holds it to his chest unopened, still unsure of what to say. Thankfully, his sidekick fills the gaps. "Why don't you visit her after dinner?" he suggests. "I’ll watch the kiddos for you."

Fanboy makes an uncomfortable noise. "Mmm." 

"No pressure," Chum Chum adds reassuringly, “and if you need help, I’ll be there.”

Fanboy casts his eyes to the cracked floor, shameful for failing to return the same enthusiasm. "O...kay," he mumbles, hesitating to ask the lingering question in his mind. "But does she wanna see me?" 

Chum Chum follows Fanboy’s gaze and correctly guesses the source of the other man’s hesitance. "Absolutely," he answers. 

His confidence is near irksome. "Really," Fanboy deadpans. "Even after she finds out about that?" To have acted the way he had—no better than his former captor–was abysmal, and allowing him to live in close proximity to her or their children would be an act of negligence on Yo's part. Merely bringing light to the damage he’d caused reels his grief to the surface. "Ya think she’ll be chill with me goin’ "full-on Boog"?"

Chum Chum tenses. "Hey. Don’t even say that thing’s name," he scolds. "What you did WAS scary, but you’re working on getting better. Okay? It’s over now." 

Fanboy wishes the other man was right, but the fact that it had happened at all couldn't be brushed aside.

"It’s never over," he groans. "When Yo finds out, she'll NEVER lemme near..." He trails off, too distraught to voice the very real consequence aloud. He knows that his overly emotional spell will be the final straw. Yo has always been wary, but this’ll be the one to break the camel's back. He’s sure of it.

"What do I even SAY t’ her?" Fanboy pleads. He raises his hand in a mock gesture. "Oh, hi, Honey! Ya feelin’ better after ya tried to kill yerself? Tha’s nice. I freaked out an’ ripped our room apart! Don' we make a lousy pair?! Please don’t put our kids up for adoption." 

A short silence. "I wouldn’t say that exactly," Chum Chum edges, "but you can’t change what you don’t acknowledge." He holds his palms out. "I don’t know if that’ll be enough, but from what I’ve read, she’ll understand."

Fanboy hopes he’s right, because he’s lost as to what else he could possibly do to make things right. 

Come evening, Fanboy is a nervous wreck. He tries his best to maintain a calm exterior, but, inside, he's a mess. It won't be long until Yo finds out what he’d done. All day, his brain concocts different scenarios of their eventual reunion, none of which tickle his fancy. 

After settling the twins in their cradle and wheeling it beside his and Yo’s bed, Fanboy lingers, wondering if this will be the last time he’ll be allowed access to them. He studies their little faces, their tiny fingers curling around his, and their gentle breathing. They’ve only just begun to explore the world, and all he can do is pray that he’ll be allowed to explore it alongside them. 

"Ya think Yo’ll be scared-a me?" Fanboy asks quietly, gently touching Buddy’s chubby cheek. 

Seated at the table with dinner at the ready, Chum Chum shakes his head. "Of you? No way," he dismisses. "You’re a peach!"

Fanboy decides not to comment. He gives his children one last kiss each and swallows down the lump in his throat before joining Chum Chum.

"Dig in!" Chum Chum chirps. The meal is homemade: chicken soup with sliced hard boiled eggs floating comfortably atop a mountain of steaming noodles. "I blew myself out with this one," Chum Chum admits, wiping his brow. "Cooking isn’t exactly my forte."

Fanboy clumsily wields his chopsticks. "It smells amazing, Dude. …Yo would love this."

"Really? Then I’ll make another batch just for her!" Chum Chum proudly exclaims, drawing himself up. After a moment’s recollection, he remarks, “Huh. You know, I thought YOU were scared of HER." 

Something about that doesn’t sit right with Fanboy. Although his actions prove otherwise, he counters that assertion with a sharp glare through his fingers. "No," he says lowly.

Chum Chum slurps up a clump of noodles. "No?" 

"Righ-t," Fanboy snips, clicking his tongue. His sudden unease suggests an underlying complexity to his situation that he hadn't realized before. He tries to act nonchalant, but his attempt at composure is ruined by the tightness of his lips. "No," he repeats, more definitively this time.

Chum Chum pauses midchew. He realizes too late that he’s digging a hole and is too curious for his own good to backtrack. "Not even a little?" he ventures.

Fanboy stands so abruptly that he knocks over his chair. By some miracle, the loud smack of metal against the floor doesn’t send the infants into a tizzy. 

Chum Chum freezes. He knows he has crossed a line. Fanboy doesn't elucidate how, merely marches over to his and Yo’s bed and yanks the curtain around to close himself and the children off. 

Left unaccompanied, Chum Chum stews with sickened regret. He gets up and shuffles over to the curtain. "Oh, gosh," he mumbles, sliding a hand down his jaw. "Fanboy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that." He reaches for the curtain but wisely relents, gauging that the near-silent sobbing from the other side means that Fanboy is done for the night.

Chum Chum prepares to put himself out of the room, but takes a final moment to add emphasis to his apology. "I'm really sorry, Fanboy," he murmurs. "It’s none of my business." He pauses, lowers his head. "It’s just… I feel awful I could never help you when you were gone—"

"Ya did."

Chum Chum whips back around and aims his ear toward the curtain. "What?"

"...Ya did ‘elp," comes Fanboy’s raspy-from-crying voice. "I saw ya."

Chum Chum stands stock still. "...Saw me?" he repeats. In a moment of cautious repentance, he slowly pulls the curtain and peeks inside, ready to face the consequences of his actions. 

Fanboy is doubled over on the bed and trembling. Whether due to holding back tears or crazy laughter, the tremor is an unnerving display.

"In th’ room," he "clarifies". A breathy, near crazed hiccup escapes the more troubled of the two.

A flash of anxiety. Chum Chum, feeling it appropriate, moves the curtain the rest of the way and sits beside the superfan. "Like, in a dream?" he hopes, but knows deep down that that’s impossible. During Fanboy’s captivity, both of their dreams concerning the other had been static. 

Fanboy shakes his head. "Nuh-uh. In REAL life." He laughs, hysterical. 

Chum Chum doesn’t know what to say. Fearful of the notorious bully, Chum Chum hadn’t stepped foot on the property in the decade that Fanboy had been missing. He’d only ever come close to Boog’s place during the searches. 

"I saw ya, or, yer hologram, or somethin’," Fanboy heaves. "That’s ‘ow much I missed ya."

Hologram? Now Chum Chum is even more confused, but attentively ponders the man’s words, trying to make sense of the situation. There is no feasible way for Fanboy to have seen him in Boog’s basement unless– Chum Chum audibly gasps, the truth hitting him like a truck: while captive for all those years, deprived of sustenance, warmth, and companionship, Fanboy had hallucinated Chum Chum. 

It makes sense. Their relationship is so strong that a consensual split feels off, let alone forced division. That must have done something to Fanboy’s brain—!

"I-I missed you too," Chum Chum stammers. He has always understood that their bond transcends time and space, but Fanboy's confession makes it clear that the depth of his loneliness and longing was even greater than Chum Chum had previously realized. "Does Yo know about that?"

Fanboy scratches his arm and begins to cry. Hard. His tears flow freely, and it quickly becomes clear that his emotions have taken an intense turn. Chum Chum's face pales as he braces for the worst, now understanding all too well the power of Fanboy's outbursts.

In their crib, the babies stir. Astonishingly, the superfan is able to hold his composure and tend to his children. Even more astonishing: he’s able to explain that the presence of an imaginary Chum Chum had been a source of comfort and solace in his isolated terror. 

"So, ev’n if it was just my broken brain talkin’, ya DID help me in a way." The two men lock eyes, one pair shocked and the other pair suddenly looking very far away. "I talked t’ ya when she wasn’t awake…fo’ hours an’ hours… Ya wasn’t real chatty…obvousy…so I made yer voice for ya."

"…"

"Heh… I went pretty nutty there." Fanboy circles a finger around his temple. "But that's what I get for havin’ a conversation with someone who wasn’t there. I just really wanted to talk with ya." 

"..."

"So…maybe I wanted ya to ask me those questions and say what ya said," Fanboy mumbles, bringing his lanky shoulders to his ears. He falls back against the bed, stares at the stars hanging above him. He had wanted to talk to Chum Chum for years and thought he was ready, but the reality was more than he could bear. All those imaginary conversations he’d enacted were solely for his own comfort. They posed no challenge. "I guess I wasn’t as ready as I thought." 

Chum Chum’s heart strains to respond, but he doesn’t feel he should encroach. Fanboy is like a piece of fruit ready for harvest–ripe and full of potential–but not quite ready to release his secrets until the fall from the branch. He can’t be plucked, but must reach deciduousness on his own. 

"I think I am," Fanboy notes with more than a modest amount of shame, "scared of her. I mean, I’m not, like, scared of her like I am of Boog, but of what could happen when I do somethin’ wrong again." He reaches up and bats one of the stars, sending it to sway. "Like, no matter what I do, it’ll all gonna come crashin’ down." He lets a hand fall over his eyes. 

Chum Chum ponders this. Fanboy’s fear of the unknown is palpable, underscoring the fragility of his current state. The sidekick knows exactly–well, not exactly given the circumstance–what this feels like. "You’re afraid that no matter what you do, nothing will ever be the same," he assumes.

"Worse," Fanboy mutters. "I know nothing’s ever gonna be the same as before. I’m afraid it’ll never get any better." He falters. "Just, for once, I want to make it…easy."

"Welp." Chum Chum takes Fanboy's hand and squeezes it affectionately. "Life ain’t easy."

Fanboy braves a humorless smirk. "No kidding."

"Mm… Did you know," Chum Chum says, "that eighty percent of choices are based on fear?" Fanboy shakes his head. "Yep. Most people choose what makes them feel safe instead of choosing what they need."

Fanboy ponders his hesitancy to see Yo and scrunches in on himself.

"But it doesn't have to be that way," Chum Chum asserts. "If you take a chance, you can make it a lot better."

Fanboy doesn’t believe it, as evidenced by his defeated expression. 

"You've got everything it takes right here," Chum Chum declares.

"Like what?" Fanboy croaks, ashamed of his own arrogance and the idea that his prior confidence may have been nothing more than a bright facade, undeserving of Chum Chum’s praise. 

He feels a nudge to his shoulder and finds Chum Chum’s smiling face inches from his own. "Uh, kindness? Bravery? Will and heart? They’re all inside you, Fanboy." The younger man pokes his skinny chest. "You just gotta tap into ‘em."

A slow, labored breath passes through Fanboy's lips. "When did ya get so smart?" he cracks, but even after all his insecurities have been laid bare like a deck of cards, Fanboy feels far from ready to move forward. 

"Hey, I'm your sidekick," Chum Chum quips with a smirk, "I hafta be one step ahead of the game." He winks. "You know, you don't have to be perfect to be a great dad. Mistakes are gonna happen–they’re unavoidable," Chum Chum reminds him. "Believe me, I’ve made a butt-ton! Does that make me a l̴̲̖̆̈ð̴̛̘̩͝§̵̮̯̈͂†̸͖̻̏͘ ̸͍̳͂̅¢̴̠̮̓͘å̵͉̟̌͑µ̷͔̲̆̚§̶͔͔͂͘ế̷̡͖̂ ?"

"No!" Fanboy yelps, the very idea offending him greatly. "How DARE ya, SIR! Yer a marvel!"

"E-Exactly," Chum Chum reassures, blushing with flattery, "and being a great anything doesn't mean that you gotta be perfect. It's okay to veer off course from time to time, provided you learn how to center yourself again. That's what really matters."

A tiny bud of hope. "Y...Yeah," Fanboy accepts. "I think I understand."

"Awesome! Oh, and speaking of understanding?" Chum Chum hops off the bed and pulls Fanboy with him. 

Fanboy cringes. He knows exactly what’s coming. "Eh…" 

Chum Chum gives him a stern look, reminiscent of a mother bird urging its fledgling from the nest. "Fanboy, she loves you. You need to go see her. You can't just ignore her and hope everything will be okay. It's not gonna be that easy. She needs to know that you're there for her."

Fanboy hesitates for a fraction of a second, feeling overwhelmed by the responsibility. He had never been the best at diplomatically communicating his feelings and now he’s afraid of making another mistake and hurting Yo further. But Chum Chum is right. Facing her is the right thing to do. "Right," he agrees.

Chum Chum fixes Fanboy’s toppled chair. "You can do it, Fanboy. I know you can." 

"...Okay." 

They finish dinner in relative peace. When the time comes, Oz comes to call, and Fanboy must separate from his best friend to join with his other half. He inhales deeply, the air filling his lungs with courage and hope. He stands tall and determined as he walks out the door and faces his destiny as a father.

Journeying down the long brightly-lit halls and elevators, Fanboy’s confidence quickly dims, and he grows more anxious with every step. He doesn’t exchange many words with his mentor, the air among them as stifling as a shoebox.  

For as helpful as Chum Chum’s words were, Yo is a whole ‘nother case. The reality may be that no matter what Fanboy does, no matter how hard he tries, Yo will not forgive him.

The two make their way through the hospital, passing by bustling nurses, groggy patients, and visitors coming and going. Fanboy fills with dread, his apprehension mounting with each step. "A-Are we almost there, Oz?" he asks, shielding his still-sensitive eyes from the lights with one hand and grabbing the doctor’s sleeve with the other. 

"We’re getting there," Oz responds, stepping into an elevator. Fanboy joins in and watches the man select the first floor button. The numbers tick down on the indicator from 25 all the way to ground level.

"She’s all the way down?"

“For safety. It’s quiet too," he adds, "until recently."

It’s a long ride. Fanboy can feel a bead of sweat forming on his forehead as the elevator slowly descends. He can sense but can’t blame Oz for his negative emotions. After all, Fanboy had all but bulldozed the man’s expectations. "I’m really sorry for freakin’ out," he apologizes, and braces himself for the tirade of a lifetime.

Oz shakes his head. "Don’t apologize.”

"O-Oh?" Fanboy blurts, taken aback. “B-But I broke the walls an’ floors!”

“A wall’s soon mended,” is all Oz says to that.

Fanboy blinks awkwardly and gives an equally-nervous thumbs-up. "Got it.”

More silence. 

"So, you ain’t mad?"

Oz frowns. "Maybe frustrated, but that’s mostly to do with me." 

"Oh…" Fanboy is surprised by Oz's reaction, or lack thereof. It’s a welcomed surprise.

They are quiet the rest of the way down, but as soon as the doors slide open, Oz whispers harshly, "Fast-walk. Now!"

Fanboy has hardly any time to absorb his surroundings. As soon as he steps out of the elevator, he is met with a flash of cameras and a flurry of voices. Strangers are pushing and shoving each other to get close, all clamoring for reasons he can’t comprehend in his daze. The experience is like being pulled out of a dark cave into bright sunlight; it is overwhelming, disorienting, and unbearably bright.

"They’re all trying to get in!" he thinks, and moves aside to clear a path to the elevator. To his surprise, the people follow him. They’re all at once shouting questions, indiscernible in the chaos. Fanboy freezes, overwhelmed by the attention and dazzling lights, but Oz takes his hand and quickly leads him away.

As they round a corner, Fanboy has to ask. "W-What was that?!" he gasps, head reeling.

Oz is more than a little peeved. "That, my young ward, was a mob." He huffs, shaking his head. "I guess word got out," he mumbles under his breath. "Vultures."

Fanboy jogs to keep up, rubbing his eyes. "They’re…reporters, right? They were goin’ bonkers!" 

Oz doesn’t mince his words. "That’s just what happens when a bunch of idiots get a glimpse of someone they think they’re entitled to talk to."

Fanboy is confused. "Wait a second… Oz, am I famous?!" He doesn’t know much about the publicization of his and Yo’s story, national headlines, or anything of that nature. "Should I talk to ‘em?"

"Nah. I wouldn’t worry about it," Oz dismisses.  

Fanboy is still unconvinced, however, and presses. "Are you sure? I mean, I could get used to this kind of buzz." Sure, the crowd is overbearing, but it’s flattering to think they are all here to speak with him. 

Oz laughs. "No, you wouldn’t. Trust me. And they’ll get bored before you know it." His words carry a warning, but Fanboy can’t help but feel a little thrill.

That thrill increases as they round another corner and catch the eyes of various onlookers dressed in hospital gowns and scrubs. Whispers float about the individuals, and out of the corner of his eye, Fanboy spots a good few people nudging each other and pointing at him. They aren’t at all like the ones with the cameras; they’re keeping a respectable distance. Fanboy lingers on all of them, even offering a curious wave back until Oz briskly urges him along.

"Everyone’s psyched to see you," the doctor explains.

"Really?!" Fanboy exclaims, his eyes sparkling. "Do I know ‘em?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder to the mini-crowd trailing behind. 

"Mm, I doubt it." And Oz says nothing more about the matter.

By the time they reach Yo’s door, Fanboy’s thrill drains. He expects a not-so-inviting woman on the other side, but after taking a deep breath, his resolve slowly strengthens. It's time to take the plunge, and he needs to make the most of what comes. With a determined gait, Fanboy pushes in.

To his shock, Yo is smiling when he enters her tiny white recovery room. She’s back in a hospital gown laid out on a bed half the size of the one they share, looking right at the door with her hands neatly folded on her lap as if anticipating his arrival. Even more shocking than her smile is the joke that leaves it: "I think my guardian angel's on strike!"

Fanboy’s jaw hits the floor. Smiling? Laughing? He can’t believe it. 

"Then… Then negotiate a better contract, ya dope!" he jokes back after a moment’s hesitance. Between them, making light of troublesome situations has always been a shared trend, but Fanboy knows it will take more than that to fix this. 

Yo laughs, and it's a refreshing burst of sunshine, radiating warmth and joy into the room. Fanboy's heart flutters. He hasn't heard Yo make that sound in ages. It’s melodic and infectious, inspiring him to join in as well. Within seconds, their shared laughter fills the air with joy and mirth. 

Fanboy practically loses his balance as he leaps into the bed and embraces Yo with all the strength she can handle. She embraces him back, gently but passionately all the same, lasting for what seems like an eternity. 

“Oh my gosh, Sweetheart!" she cheers, touching his cheek with one hand and cradling his fingers with the other. "I’m so excited to see you!"

"S-Same!" Fanboy exclaims, flushing pink and leaning into the touch, though there has never been a time when he was more conflicted. He isn’t sure how to properly respond to the unexpected show of affection. He can only stare into Yo's eyes, hoping that she can sense his struggle.

Graciously, Yo embraces her partner's reluctance. "Oh, Fanboy… I’m so, so, so sorry," she professes, reeling them back down to the present situation. She rubs her thumbs along his dark lower lids. "You poor thing… Findin' me like that..."

Fanboy’s brain spins with the horrid memories. He knows that they can't avoid the subject forever, but he doesn't want to break the peace that had just settled between them. "Nah, nah! It’s fine! I’m just happy yer alive," he blurts. 

A sad smile from Yo evokes a defensive response from her partner. "What? I told you, it’s totally fine!" Fanboy insists, and sits upright to illustrate so. 

Yo kisses his forehead, her features tender and remorseful. "It’s really not." 

Fanboy squirms. "Well, maybe I didn't react good at first.”

"Who would’ve?" Yo reasons, dumbfounded by his counter. 

Fanboy gulps. He could leave it at that: his heinie spared any consequences, but he knows better by now than to keep Yo in the dark about anything. "No, I mean I reacted worse than "not good"."

Yo shifts her position on the bed, her voice gentle but firm. "As long as nobody got hurt," she says, "and Yui and Buddy are safe, right?"

Fanboy's heart drops. At that moment, he’d nearly forgotten. "Safe and sound. They miss ya..." 

Yo's smile fades. "I miss them too," she sighs. In their absence, she has grown to miss the touch of their tiny fingers curling around her own, their quiet babble, and even their whines and cries. It can’t be easy for Fanboy to be looking after two infants even with inborn skill and outside help. "Are ya holdin’ up okay?"

Guilty silence washes over the young man, drowning him. In a sudden burst of despair, he buries his face into her collar. "No…" He shouldn’t be feeling this way when it’s YO who has been through so much the last few days, but now, while she is a completely different person, laughing and smiling and all-around brighter, it is Fanboy who has fallen deep into the doldrums. "Is this how ya feel all the time?" he chokes, wiping away snot. "Because it's HORRIBLE!"

Alarmed by his sudden burst of emotion, Yo consoles him with a gentle embrace. "It’s okay," she whispers.

"No. You were right." Fanboy carefully pulls back, feeling as though he doesn't deserve to be comforted while he caused her suffering in the first place. He grits his teeth. "It’s not okay. I’m not good enough." 

Yo stills at his admission. "What?"

"I thought I was, but I was just lying t’ myself to make myself feel better. I’m too m̷̩͕̐́ể̸̛͇̺§̷͉͇͒̽§̷̡̼́̓ê̶̳̝̈́̉Ð̴̲̥̄̕ ̸͙̞͒̀µ̴̘̔͊ͅþ̸͈̖̓̋." Fanboy wraps his arms around himself. "There’s no comin’ back, Yo. My brain’s ß̷̻͓̊̍µ̴̲̳͒́§̷̫̟́͆†̴̛͈͛͜ê̶͍͕̒͐Ð̷͙̖̑̂."

Yo is shocked. "Lance," she begins, "you don’t mean that. You’re just having a hard time right now. I understand."

"Nuh-uh. It ain’t just now. I’m not good at all, Yo." He begins to ramble. "I’ll hurt them."

"No, ya won’t," Yo chides.

"Yes, I WILL!" Fanboy bursts, squeezing her hands with dangerous strength. Yo gasps and Fanboy reels himself back just in time. "See? Th-They needa go to a good mama and papa, before I freak out AGAIN." He freezes solid, realizing his slip. 

"...before I freak out AGAIN."

"...freak out AGAIN."

"...AGAIN."

Hearing those words jolts Yo out of her content complacency, and she remembers that dark realization that has long festered on the outskirts of her mind. Neither Oz nor Pam have informed her of Fanboy’s eruption, but she’d had a hunch. In spite of Fanboy’s progress and the wearing down of his aggressive impulsiveness, there was only one true barrier separating him from relapsing. Her. And she attempted to take herself completely out of the equation.

By gazing into his red-rimmed, guilt-ridden eyes, Yo perceives what her actions have enabled: a wildness, one with tenfold the destruction and strength she’d previously assumed, to burst forth from her love. Fanboy had been poised, teetering, and she KNEW he wouldn’t react kindly to her suicide. She KNEW…and succumbed to the darkness in her soul, leaving Fanboy to break into a million shattered pieces.

Yo feels as though her insides have been submerged in ice water. She lowers her chin, trails her eyes from Fanboy’s tear-streaked face to his scarred hands. She’d long assumed that there’d be no conceivable way to convey to him that he wasn’t the right choice to father—that she wasn’t the right choice to mother—their young, but it appears she was wrong. Now, it is to her dismay that Fanboy has caved. 

But she won’t give in again. Not to the voices in her head, not to Boog’s shadow. Nothing.

"You didn’t hurt them," she sternly reminds him. 

"No," Fanboy groans, spilling forth the whole truth, "but I could’ve. I put cracks in the walls an’ floors. I even bruised up Chum Chum’s arms! I could’ve killed ‘em!"

His frightening words hold truth. He could kill with his new strength, he could. "You could’ve," Yo accepts, nodding. "I could've. But we didn’t. We wouldn’t. And we won't. We’re not bad guys." She grabs his chin to face him toward her. "Listen to me, okay? This is really important."

"O-Okay."

"Remember those things I said in the greenhouse? About us not bein’ good enough? I was wrong." She repeats that, just to drill it in further. “I was wrong, wrong, wrong.”

Fanboy wipes his eyes, unconvinced. "If you were so “wrong”, then why’d ya say it?" he argues.

Aha. Yo jumps at the chance to explain herself. "I was in a bad place up here." She taps her temple with her free hand, then his. "That’s where you’re at right now!" 

Fanboy sniffs, absentmindedly recalling when he and Yo had first arrived here. More specifically, to when Yo had acted so dismal as the days went by. It's the difference between being in a fog and being clear-headed; when one is in a bad place, it's hard to see the truth and when one is clear-headed, it's much easier to spot. With regards to emotional state, they have essentially switched.

Yo supports that theory by saying, "I was so scared of MY problems that I projected ‘em on YOU and YOUR ability to be a good dad." She cups his cheek. "But I was wrong. I get that now, but I’m so sorry for makin’ ya think otherwise, and I'm especially sorry for everything else." She holds his gaze. "Oh, Fanboy… You were right all along: it’s not just about us anymore. We can't give up now."

In Fanboy’s mind, Chum Chum’s voice echoes: You have what it takes.

Yo’s new outlook, her turn on a dime–it’s whiplash. Poor Fanboy can hardly absorb it quick enough. He sinks into Yo’s arms and lets his tears fall freely as the raindrops that are her words, cooling his burning mind and cementing his broken heart back together. For the first time in a week of despair, he dares to feel hopeful again.

"Ya really mean it?" 

"Uh-huh." Yo smiles.

Fanboy sobs but, through it all, grins. The fleeting hopelessness melting away is like taking off a heavy coat on a hot summer day. He clings to Yo, grateful beyond words that, despite everything, she believes in him.

"I-I gotta talk to your doc to learn how t’ make y-ya feel better," he half-jokes. 

Yo peppers his cheek with kisses. "Yer doin’ a pretty good job."

Fanboy breathes deeply before finally asking the painful question he's been avoiding since their reunification. "So it wasn’t me?" he bursts. "I didn’t make ya do it?" There. He finally grasps the courage of his convictions, desperate for an answer that will bring him peace. 

"No," is Yo’s simple but stalwart answer. "It was me. ALL me." 

A short pause. "So, there was nothin’ I coulda done?" he presses, unconvinced that it could be that simple.

Yo looks off to the side, contemplating. At last, she says, "I don’t think anything woulda stopped me."

For Fanboy, the truth is both liberating and heartbreaking. On one hand he knows for sure that he is not to blame for what happened, and that’s a newfound assurance, but to know nothing could have prevented Yo from trying to take her own life is…gut-wrenching. 

"So if I mess up again," he asks, "or do a bad job at something, you won’t—?"

"No!" Yo almost shouts. "I’m never doing it again no matter what." 

Fanboy almost melts. That assurance is what he needed. He’ll be free to make mistakes without fear of suicidal retribution, but the knowledge that he can't protect her from herself is profoundly troubling.

"So, wait. If it wasn’t me, and we aren’t trapped anymore, how come?" Fanboy asks, admittedly as clueless as he is curious. "I mean, I know what it's like to hurt. Back in the room, I used to hurt so much I wanted to die, but I've never REALLY wanted to "die". I just wanted the hurt to stop." 

Yo pats his shoulder. "That’s all it is." She empathizes with Fanboy's difficulty understanding, and ponders long and hard for the right words to explain her anguish in a manner he can grasp. 

"Do you remember," she begins, "the rock at the bottom of the lake?" Fanboy wipes his nose. He does. "I was drowning. Forever drowning, Fanboy. All the bad we felt back in the room didn’t stay there once we left. It anchored me to the bottom of that lake, and I felt—" Alone. Scared. Useless. "—awful, and since swimming up was impossible, the only way to reach the surface was to die an’...float up, I guess." She searches his eyes for understanding, knowing he can. "At least then I’d be in Heaven."

"Or Purg," Fanboy quietly amends. Before Yo answers, he asks, "You felt alone even though I was right there with you?"  

"Yeah," Yo admits. Despite his comforting presence, she felt hopelessly alone in her struggle, and death seemed like the only way to reach the elusive surface. Her own feelings had trapped her in her own personal purgatory. "I knew you were there, but my brain didn't care. And since Chum Chum came back, I thought he could do a better job than me at, like, everything. Thought it wasn't worth it to try to get better. Thought it’d be best to go." She takes a breath, seemingly lighter. "But I was wrong."

Yo's tender words have done the trick: Fanboy breathes a sigh of relief, awash with a new understanding. "Goooot it." He thinks for a moment. "I’m sorry I didn’t see it before. I mean, I MUSTA seen it, but I didn’t really wanna." He touches her hand. "I get it now," he emphasizes. "I've said it before and I'll say it again. You're worth so much more than ya give yourself credit for, an’ I'm so proud of you for goin' through all this and still comin' out on the other side kicking butt."

He smacks his forehead. "I mean, YO. Honestly. Without you, I would’ve died in that room. You were the only one there to keep going. You gave me my kids! Chum Chum can’t replace you! What, you think I can smooch Chum Chum on the lips? Marry him? Nuh-uh. I don’t think so." 

Laughing, Yo strokes his hair. "I guess not." Fanboy moves closer, their faces only inches apart. 

"No one can replace you, Yo. You’re my world and I love you.” Sometimes all one’s love can be expressed with those three simple words. "I love you too," she replies.

Fanboy recalls the other very difficult topic brewing in his mind. "I just wish we coulda done it all on our own, ya know? Since it wasn’t our choice in the beginnin’."

Yo’s eyes flash. She’ll be darned if she allows Boog to infest their love a moment further. "Turn off the lights an’ take off your clothes," she orders. 

Fanboy startles, “Oh?” but obeys her blunt command. He fumbles with the light switch and plunges them into darkness before stripping. He trembles. It isn't a warm room by any means and the only source of light left is the tiny green dot on the smoke detector. He stands before her, feeling strangely vulnerable and exposed without his new clothes. 

"Uh, now what?" he asks, rubbing his arm in an uncharacteristically shy manner. She looks him up and down, the tiny green light creating near-invisible shadows on his body. "Lie down with me," she beckons, her voice barely above a whisper.

Fanboy hears the soft rustle of fabric indicating that she has undressed herself. "Why?" he asks breathlessly, feeling a warm spike in his gut. He’s unsure as to why he feels so shy having spent the last…three?...five?..years of his life without clothing. He hesitantly takes a step back, his hands gripping the wall behind him and his heart beating like a hammer. 

Yo smiles and, though a tad nervous herself, takes his hand and guides him back into bed. The warmth of her body radiates against his skin as she pulls him close under the covers. Fanboy can feel the gentle rise and fall of her chest and the rapidly beating heart beneath. 

"N-Now what?" he asks again in a hushed tone.

Finally, Yo elucidates. "You have a choice now. Leave or stay."  

Fanboy stills. She’s had him reproduce their old prison to prove a point, to give him the freedom to choose what he wants to do, to show him that he is no longer trapped in his past. 

"Wow." Her method is unorthodox to say the least. He wonders if he should be angry. Instead, he takes a deep breath and slowly processes the implications of his newfound freedom. "I get to choose?"

"Whatever you want," Yo tells him. "Nothing’s stoppin’ ya."

Out of habit, Fanboy nips her collar bone. He could leave. Vacate the room and never look back. He now has all the opportunity in the world. But their closeness reminds him how strongly he enjoyed this cocoon-esque state, safe and warm, and his nerves begin to settle. 

"Come with me," he implores.

Yo shakes her head, saddened. "Can’t yet." She presses her wrist, now adorned with two hospital bracelets, against his cheek. “It sucks. They won’t even let me have seconds.”

Fanboy gently touches her wrist and presses her face to his sternum. Without a second thought, he reaffirms his commitment: "Then, I’ll wait."

"Really?" Yo’s throat tightens. 

Fanboy squeezes her hand. "No matter what," he says firmly, pressing slow, languid kisses to her collar. "I’ve waited this long. And, like I said before: you're stuck with me."

Yo sniggers. "I've always been stuck with you," she jokes darkly.

"...Well, saints alive!" Fanboy groans. "Anyway, it’s different now ‘cause it's OUR choice." There it is. Expressed so simply yet doing so opens the cavity in his chest for all the tenseness to drain. "What IS your choice, lil’ lady?"

Yo finds his face in the dark and clutches it. "You."  

Following that oddly insightful experiment, Fanboy embraces her tight, inhaling her scent and caressing her hair. Yo practically melts into him, her hands exploring as their lips move in an endless dance. 

"Holy moly," Fanboy laughs breathlessly, "remember when bein’ naked felt normal?"

Yo silences him with another deep kiss. Within seconds, the room fills with the sounds of their passionate breaths as their tongues intertwine and their limbs explore each other with a long-simmered desire.

Fanboy wraps his arms around Yo’s waist. "We need you back," he pants wantonly into her mouth. "A-And I need you. Now." He runs his desperate fingers through her silky black hair, down her back, across her chest, and clutches her rosy cheeks. "Can we–?"

"Yes!" Yo readily obliges. They lay together in the cozy embrace of dark, move together in perfect harmony, and feel the other's pleasure as they connect for the first time in nearly two months. 

"Don’ let go of me," Fanboy moans, and Yo couldn’t even if she tried. Their tender devotion takes them on a journey of passion and bliss until they collapse from exhaustion in each other’s arms. The room fills with peaceful silence, punctuated only by their shuddery breaths and the occasional whisper of love.

Yo pets Fanboy’s damp golden-brown hair and giggles under her breath. He lifts his head from her soft chest and smiles tiredly. In that moment, nothing else matters; it's just the two of them in a perfect state of bliss.

"Aw, Sweetie," she teases. "You really DID miss me, didn’t you?"

Fanboy sticks out his tongue. "Naahhh, only more than anything," he murmurs. He needed this. Not just their intimate connection, but to hide with each other in their little corner of darkness with no threat posing to interfere. Mulling over their talk, the cavity in his chest floods with extra admiration for the woman beneath him. 

“Yo?" He yawns. "I’m glad ya know that killing yerself was a bad idea." 

Fanboy has never been known to be subtle, but he’s right. "Along with all my other bad ideas," Yo sighs, guilt creeping into her voice. "Did…did ya know I drugged ya?"

She feels Fanboy still against her as his brain rewinds to the night she’d attempted suicide. The chalky taste in the water cup comes to mind. "Ahhh,” he realizes, voice thick with disappointment. "Yep, I figured. So I wouldn’t wake up right away to stop ya, right?”

“…Yeah.”

“Mmhm. Don’t ever do that again.”

Yo nods, ashamed. “I won’t.” She's relieved that Fanboy's anger isn't permanent, but his disappointment lingers, a reminder of why she should never take such drastic measures again. "I’m so sorry," she regrets for the umpteenth time. "Will you forgive me?"

"Of course." Fanboy clutches her hands, careful to watch his strength. "And if you let me, I’ll help you fix what’s broken inside ya so you don’t try something like that ever again." 

A rare wave of ecstasy floods Yo’s being following his sturdy answer. "I will." Fanboy's unconditional love and support is a reminder of why she fell in love with him in the first place. She knows that if she continues to let him help her, she will be able to build a better future for them.

"Do you still feel crummy?" Fanboy asks.

"Yes," is Yo's honest answer, "but it ain’t as bad as before."

“Good.” That’s better than nothing. Before long, Fanboy and Yo drift off into blissful sleep, their bodies intertwined and their hearts and souls connected. They really did need each other. He is her rock, she is his safe harbor, and they are together. “I’m so glad I woke up in there with you.”

"GUYS!"

Fanboy and Yo jolt awake by the loud shout and quickly disentangle themselves to find their door wide open and Oz standing there fuming. Remembering their final act before rest, his upset is to be expected. 

"We waited six weeks!" Fanboy protests, holding his hands up like a wanted man.

"It doesn’t matter!" Oz snaps, averting his eyes. He steps inside and slams the door behind him, eliciting a flinch from his two patients.

"I shut the door," Fanboy complains. He throws the covers over Yo to protect her modesty.

"Oh! You mean this unlocked one?!" Oz barks, rapping the surface with his red knuckles. "A lot of good that does, huh? If I EVER catch you doing this ever again, so help me, there will be HECK to pay. Seriously. Capiche!?"

Fanboy and Yo trade sour looks. Oz’s outburst threatens for them a speedy lapse in judgment, but they manage to steady themselves. "Okay. Fine," Fanboy concedes, and they take their time to redress.

Oz turns on his heels and faces the door. He's been through this several times now with his young ward and STILL. "I swear, it’s through one ear and out the other!" he grumbles, but his anger subsides a tad as he hears the whispered words of comfort exchanged. Right. For Fanboy and Yo, intimacy isn't just a fun time, but an escape, a way to experience pleasure, connection, freedom, and to forget about their worries. As such, they are willing to take any opportunity to be together, but if it means breaking the rules, Oz must intervene.

Once the patients are decent, Oz faces them and takes a deep breath. "Look, I know you're excited about–" he twirls a finger, "–being together again, but you have to understand that this place is for healing. There are other people here who’re trying to recover."

Fanboy shrugs. "Well. It’s not like they could hear us, right?"

Oz stares at him impassively. 

Fanboy grins nervously. "R-Right?" He pales. “Oops.”

Yo has the grace to blush. "Sorry, Oz," she apologizes. "We're used to–"

"Thicker walls, no doubt," Oz mutters under his breath. Though uncomfortable, he understands Fanboy and Yo aren't malicious. They are still young and very much in love. Errors are inevitable, and, considering their unique circumstances, they’re behaving exceptionally well otherwise.

"If anyone asks, we have loud equipment in the walls,” Oz amends. 

Fanboy blinks. "We do?" And Yo jerks her head back and forth to observe the walls with interest.

Oz resists the urge to facepalm. They’re clueless. He can’t judge them too harshly. After all, he knows what it’s like to be so enamored that the world around him fades away. "I get it," he assures them in a softer tone. "Seriously. I know you didn’t mean any harm, but please be mindful of other people from now on." 

Fanboy cocks his head like a puppy. "Mine-full?" 

Oz half-smiles in spite of himself. "Aware," he simplifies.

"Oohhh." Relieved that the reprimanding was short-lived, Fanboy and Yo vigorously nod. "We’ll remember, Oz!" Yo promises. A lightbulb flashes above her head. "In fact, I promise we’ll remember!" She crosses her heart.

"Great." Oz studies the tiny space. "Because if you pull a stunt like this again—" He snaps his fingers at Fanboy directly. 

"Hey!"

"—you’ll be out of here before God gets the news."

Fanboy raises his brows, taken aback. "Like, outta this room?"

"Out of this hospital." Oz looks between them and rolls his shoulders. "It’s about time you all went home anyway."

Fanboy and Yo still. The word "home" has been abundant in their lamenting vocabulary, but tangibly out of reach. "Home?!" Fanboy squawks, digging a finger in his ear. "Home as in home-home?" he exclaims.

"Shyeah." 

Yo puts her hands over her heart. "When?!" Fanboy squeals, bouncing up and down like a child. His enthusiasm is contagious; even Oz’s shrewd reminder of Yo’s snail’s-paced discharge can’t dampen his spirits. The idea of returning home at ANY point in the near future is so wonderful that he can’t bring himself to worry.

Oz feels a swell of delight at their excited chatter. Despite his annoyance, he’s proud to have been able to give them this, and even more so to see that they still have faith in him despite their circumstances.

"Sooner than later," he affirms, and while Fanboy nearly passes out from excitement, the doctor addresses Yo in a serious tone. "You have a big decision to make." He’s referring to her future living arrangements: whether she will return to her old home, join Fanboy and Chum Chum to live in their water-tower terrace, or reside in a new place altogether. 

Yo drifts down from her zenith, forced into thoughtfulness by Oz’s insight while Fanboy remains on cloud nine. "O-Okay,’ she answers.

"Take your time," Oz says quickly. "Seriously. Nothing is permanent. You can change your mind at any time, but choose the best one that fits your needs."

Yo sits back, still and thoughtful as Fanboy finally comes down from the apex to wait out the rest of his adrenaline by her side. "I’ve been meanin’ to ask," he chimes. "Did we sleep through th' night?"

Oz stares. He had been so caught up in the moment that he had nearly forgotten their earlier predicament. "No," he answers flatly, "but you’ve been here for MUCH longer than what most visitors are permitted." He jerks his head over his shoulder. "C’mon, Dude. Say goodnight and come back to your room."

Defiant as ever, Fanboy remains where he is and even adorns his best puppy eyes to dissuade the man. Oz puts his hands on his hips. "Lance," he warns. "Hop to it."

Suddenly, the sound of slippered footsteps echo from down the hall. Before Oz can even poke his head out, Chum Chum bursts in and nearly knocks him over. "The prodigal roommate arrives!" he jokes, bending over to catch his breath. "Don’t worry; Pam’s watching the kiddos."

Oz opens his mouth to scold his adopted son but shuts it when he embraces Yo and Fanboy in his arms. Against his wishes, they settle in together and start to eagerly chat. That’s when Oz throws his hands up and departs, rules be darned. 

After Chum Chum assures the young couple that their children are fast asleep and safe, he addresses the elephant in the room. Rather, the room itself. "Are you okay here?" he asks Yo. A disdainful glance crosses his face as he surveys the plain white space.

"Yeah! It’s not bad," Yo assures, placing a cold little hand on her friend’s arm, "and Pam brought me some books to keep me busy." She lifts one off the bedside table. "I feel a lot better now." 

Chum Chum breathes a sigh of relief. "Thank goodness you’re okay." 

“I’m so sorry,” Yo apologizes and Chum Chum gives his blessing. "So, how is Fanboy with the kids?” she asks. “Does he need any help?"

Confident that Chum Chum will have his back, Fanboy sends him a cocky smirk, only for the younger man to nod. "All of it,” he wryly admits.

"HEY!" Fanboy protests. “What am I? A mirage?”

"He's doing a great job holding down the fort," Chum Chum clarifies, batting away Fanboy’s half-hearted smacks, “but taking care of twins isn’t smooth sailing for anyone. They need their mama back."

Fanboy grumbles and crosses his arms. "I guess I'll just have to get along ‘til then." Yo giggles and gives him an affectionate caress. " I trust you," she assures. Fanboy relaxes into her arms. "Thanks.”

Thereafter, Chum Chum chats about what he’s been up to while Fanboy and Yo were away. The young men catch up on old times and laugh at the silly jokes they used to share. From the time they created a trans-dimensional wormhole in class to camping out on the Frosty Mart roof, reminiscing about all the adventures they’d gone on is bittersweet. Times were simpler then.

“I miss havin’ fun like that,” Fanboy sighs. Yo sits quietly, listening to their stories and sharing her own with a bright smile, feeling ever-more content. 

“Well, now you can give your kids the fun you missed out on,” Chum Chum points out. Fanboy perks. “That’s true!” Since his childhood was cut short, he can dedicate giving his children a fulfilling one with adventure, exploration, and above all, safety and love.

Suddenly, Fanboy remembers the big news.

"Oz says we can go home soon!" he shares with Chum Chum. "Just picture it! Us, living it up in the Fanlair! And this time, Yo’ll be there too!"

"You guys are coming home with me?" Chum Chum asks before Yo can cut in.

Fanboy takes one look at his friend's watering eyes and cups his face. "Is concrete hard?" he asks. "Then of course we are, Pal." Chum Chum's face lights up and he throws his arms around Fanboy's neck, burying his face in whatever crook is left. Fanboy laughs and pats his back. 

Yo sits stunned. "Me?" she breathes. "Move into the Fanlair?" Both boys eagerly concur.

"Of course. What do you mean?" Chum Chum asks, puzzled. 

"You're coming home with me," Fanboy states firmly, as if it's already a done deal. "And it’ll be you, Chum Chum, moi, Buddy, and Yui, all livin’ together under th’ same roof."

Yo stares, tongue-tied. Despite having had this type of conversation with Fanboy countless times back in the room, their unabashed acceptance has rendered her speechless. From a young age, she had been the outsider, the annoyance, the obsessive crush-haver who invoked a great disdain from the dynamic duo. Fanboy and Chum Chum were and are the closest of friends; practically family! For them to offer her the chance to become a part of said family by moving into their home is incredible.

"I-I'd love to," she finally croaks. 

This is the sort of opportunity she’d dreamed of since childhood. Her younger self would have swooned at the idea of moving in with her precious Chum Chum. And although she’d ended up with his best friend, this was her chance to finally have a place to call her own, to start living the life she had always wanted.

Now that her childhood dream has become a reality, it’s difficult to quell a sudden sense of overwhelm and, contrary to expectations, reluctance.

"But I think I’m gonna go back to my own house first."

A short silence. Chum Chum nods, a little worried, but quickly accepts her decision. "Ah, memories." He smiles, shaking his head with fond recollection. "I’ll never forget all that pink."

Fanboy’s words die in his throat; he’s obviously shocked, having long assumed that not only would she be ecstatic about his invitation to live with them at the Fanlair, but that she’d move in without hesitation. It had never occurred to him that she would choose to remain in her own home once free of Boog’s wrath.

Recognizing the look on her partner’s face, Yo swoops in to comfort, resting her hands over his. “Fanboy—”

Fanboy jerks his hand away without meaning to and a million questions flood his mind: Is she abandoning the babies? Is she abandoning him? What will the babies drink when she’s gone? How long will she be away? How will they cope? Will her decision be permanent? Why is she choosing this? Fanboy's heart races as he struggles to process the new information. 

"It’s just a block away," Yo assures, re-taking his hands, “and when I’m not there, you’ll have Chum Chum."

"But then–” Fanboy stumbles, “–who’ll you have?"

There is nothing he misses about Yo's flinch. "All of you! I'll visit you every single day to help take care of our kids," she promises, "and you can come visit anytime."

"Are you sure?" 

Yo nods, her voice breaking a little. “Listen. I love you. I really do."

"But?"

"But nothing. I just need time. To get better and take care of myself, BY myself before I move in with you guys. For once, I just want this one thing to be…easy."

Fanboy pauses. He hates the idea of Yo returning to an empty home, but couldn’t bear forcing her to stay with him. That might only prolong her recovery rather than help.

"You need a break," he admits with a sad smile, "from me."

"From everything," Yo amends, cupping his cheeks. "Like Dr. Olive said: I need some independence and learn how to treat myself better." She remembers his very real fear and adds, "And I’m not gonna hurt myself again. I pinky-promise." She extends her pinky.

Chum Chum silently watches the two, waiting for what Fanboy will do. At first, Fanboy doesn’t take Yo’s pinky, terrified of the mere prospect of living his life without spending every moment of it beside her. He rocks back and forth a little, fingers twitching in his lap. He is so tempted to refuse her offer, so tempted to insist she come with him. She’s his partner after all, and staying together all these years was the only thing guaranteeing their survival! 

Fanboy swallows, draws himself up ready to decline her offer, but one look into her bright eyes dispels his reluctance. She waits patiently with her pinky out, sans an ounce of fret but understanding. 

…Yo is her own person and is in charge of her own choices. Fanboy has no more right to claim her than Boog did them. Of course, Fanboy’s intentions are good, but forcing or pressuring Yo to do anything that would prolong her mental health journey would be no doubt counterproductive.

Eventually, Fanboy gives a sharp inhale and forcefully locks their digits together. Yo’s smile grows and the two share a moment of acceptance before separating. 

"I know," he wavers, tearing up, "but… I’ll still miss you." Yo embraces him like she never has before, lifting him up and squeezing him with all her strength, knowing she can do so comfortably with his newly-regained indestructibility. They stay in that position for a few moments before separating, both now with tears in their eyes.

"Me too," Yo admits, “but ya gotta know that I'll always be there for ya. No matter what." She gives him a final squeeze before letting go, allowing Chum Chum to stand and give Fanboy a hug of his own.

"This isn’t the end, Bud," Chum Chum assures him with a compassionate smile, "It’s a whole new beginning!"

Fanboy wipes his eyes and smiles. Chum Chum is right. Life will go on, chapter by chapter. Soon this one will meet its eventual end, only for another to open up. And it does as soon as Oz returns to send Fanboy and Chum Chum off.

"Guys, I let you stay here way too long," he murmurs, leaning into the room. "It’s time for bed. Seriously."

"Seriously? But—!" Fanboy protests, but Yo takes his hand and kisses it.

"Goodnight, Sweetheart. I'll see you soon."

And with that, Chum Chum takes Fanboy's hand and pulls him out the door, leaving Yo to her peaceful solitude.

Chapter Text

January 31st, 2021

“Saddle up, Sweetie!” calls Yo from down the hall. 

Fanboy stands idly in their hospital room’s doorway to give everything one last look. Their beds stand unoccupied, their playtable bare, the plastic stars tucked into a cardboard box, and the last remnants of Fanboy’s rage thoroughly caulked.

“Ready?” asks Nurse Lady Pam, a wee note of fondness superseding the sadness in her eyes.

“Ready,” Fanboy answers. He nuzzles his daughter against his chest. “Ready to book it, Gumdrop?”

Yui hiccups. Her solid black locks have begun to shed, leaving space for dark brown fuzzies in their wake to bloom. Fanboy loves the look but Yo is a bit disappointed that her daughter’s features are straying from her own.

“Alrighty.” Fanboy shuts the door behind him in a sweeping gesture. “Let’s get this show on the road!” And off they go.

After one last week of preparation and a handshake from Dr. Olive, Fanboy and Yo exit through the hospital backdoors with their heads held high. 

A cold refreshing whoosh of air brushes their faces as they step out into the backlot. Yo glances skyward while Fanboy trots forward with a burst of speed. In the single patch of distant open sky, the sun is beginning to set behind the faraway desert mountains. The hospital courtyard is nothing remarkable: an asphalt expanse with winding paths dotted with naked oak trees, but Fanboy and Yo are mesmerized. 

“Can you believe it? No walls!” Yo exclaims. Just a vast expanse as far as the eye can see. A two-lane road curves against the hospital entryway, stretches into a large parking lot stippled with cars, and expands into a four-way intersection. Which, in turn, leads to the entire universe.

“We’re out!” Fanboy bursts, stumbling a little on the icy pavement. 

Yo pulls him close by his fragile waist before he slips. “Steady on, Super Boy!”

Fanboy giggles, cheeks rosy and eyes twinkling. He wraps his free arm around Yo's neck and the two hastily embrace. The clutch is tight; he knows that he will have to soon let her go.

Pushing this same notion from her mind’s recollect, Yo inhales the crisp winter breeze. Tiny white snowflakes dot her raven hair and a single flake lands on her son’s nose, causing him to sneeze. 

“Can ya blame me?” Fanboy raves, and turns his daughter around so she can see the world her parents have been deprived of. “It’s soooo awesome.” 

Yo keeps her son to her chest but marvels all the same until, together, the couple reaches the parking lot where Chum Chum, Oz, and Pam wait beside a large red car. 

“Heya, Chumerson Ol’ Bean! And co.!” Fanboy calls and waves his daughter’s hand. “Yui calls shotgun!”

“Wha–?!” Yo squawks, but it’s all in good fun. 

Oz and Pam help load the babies into the car and give Fanboy and Yo a strong embrace. “I’ll always be there for you, Lance,” Oz mumbles into Fanboy’s ear. “Seriously. If you need anything–”

“I’ll ask,” Fanboy interrupts, drawing back to extend to Oz a look of earnestness. “Thank you, Oz. Thank you for everything.” Oz stands back and nods, his face drawn tight with emotion. After two months of constant care, letting go after they’ve just reunited after ten years is heartbreaking but he knows it’s best. 

“I’ll see you at home, Dude.”

“You be good to yourself, Little Miss,” Pam tells a misty-eyed Yo. She smoothes out the younger woman’s locks. “You deserve it.” Their goodbyes are as bittersweet as the hugs that precede them; both heartfelt and fleeting, like the gentle caress of the wind on a warm day.

“I will,” Yo promises, patting her new purse where her prescriptions are safe and secure. In no time at all, Yo and Fanboy are in the car, driving away with Chum Chum at the wheel.

“And with that!” Chum Chum exclaims with unbridled excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are homeward bound!”

The short drive into town is surreal. Before even reaching the edge of the parking lot, Fanboy quickly abandons the front passenger seat in favor of sitting between the baby seats to keep them steady. Yo occupies herself with her window, pressing her hands and nose to the glass akin to a child outside a candy shop. All to watch the snowflakes zip by like tiny lightning bolts. 

“Ooh, I’m nervous,” Fanboy strains. “My knees won’t stop shaking!”

“Mine too,” Yo giggles on the back of the car swerving. “Whoa!”

“Sorry!” Chum Chum apologizes. “It’s really icy.” Surprisingly, Yo is unbothered, moreso drawn to the gray exhaust trailing behind them like a wispy tail. Every so often, the car sways in time to the shhhk of tires gliding across the slippery surface beneath. 

“What’s out there, Yo?” asks Fanboy, both because Buddy’s baby seat obscures his view and he finds her awe endearing. 

Yo is happy to elucidate. “There’re telephone poles on the side of the road,” she describes. “The wire only takes a second to swoop from pole to pole. I mean, it ain’t really swoopin’. More like saggin’.” She counts them, tapping the glass. “One—up! two—up! three—up! That’s how fast they’re goin’. They kinda look like smiles!” 

“Wicked!” Fanboy grins and leans his head against her back. “What else?” 

“Mount Freezon!” Yo remarks, and presses a finger to the cold glass. “The tops are covered in snow, the desert still has yellow sand spots, and the cactuses look like little snowmen!” She giggles and waves at one of the many cacti speckled throughout the desert valley, their snow-covered arms up as if waving back.

“See any people?”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Yo answers, tapping the window with haste. “One guy’s walkin’ a big white dog and looking at a lil’ box in his hand. Some kids are throwin’ snowballs, oh–and there’s a bike in the road!” She sighs. “I wanna ride a bike.” She will have to wait until spring to do so, she laments.

From his driver’s seat, Chum Chum adjusts the rearview mirror to admire the wondrous expressions on his friends’ faces. Approaching the cityline, he debates whether or not to ask if they’d wish to have confectionery, but decides to surprise them so as to not spoil their trance. 

“We’ll take a dead route,” he decides, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to his passengers. 

At last, they enter Galaxy Hills’ urban landscape. Although it is late January, colorful Christmas lights still hang beautifully around window panes and doorways, even stretching across the streets from streetlight to streetlight in zigzags. “It’s so pretty,” Yo whispers, the lights reflecting off her wide blue eyes. She waves to the occasional passerby. To the average person, Galaxy Hills is quaint. To Fanboy and Yo, it is a winter wonderland. 

Chum Chum takes care to traverse a slightly longer route to avoid passing by Boog’s apartment building. The mere thought of approaching that dreadful place makes him tense with fury. Soon, he pulls into a small lot and joins a line of cars waiting beside a colorful pink and blue building. 

“Are we there yet?” Fanboy asks when he feels the car begin to slow. Before Chum Chum can answer, Yo spots the brightly-colored neon sign perched atop the building’s pink roof and gasps.

“The Frosty Mart!” she exclaims, sending Fanboy's head banging against the ceiling. A mixed wave of emotions wash over him, and not all of them are good.

“The Frosty Mart?!” he repeats with a shrill yelp and yanks Yo back by her arm. “Careful!” He hastily scans his surroundings for danger, catches a glimpse of Chum Chum’s wide-eyed gaze in the rearview mirror. 

“Er– careful not to drink too fast! You’ll get a mega brainfreeze!” A soft gulp as Fanboy darts his eyes between the two other adults. “If that’s what we’re here for, right?” He ends with a shrill note of embarrassment, and Chum Chum winces.

“Oh my gosh… I…am SO stupid,” the younger man mumbles, and pulls out of the lot. He hunches over the steering wheel, evidently mortified and ashamed. “I’m so sorry, Guys. I-I completely forgot. I’m used to—” He hits the steering wheel.

“It’s cool!” Fanboy croaks, but he doesn’t relax until they’ve rounded a corner and the Frosty Mart disappears from view. It’s only now that he remembers: his house is right across the street from the Frosty Mart. A source of fear. His former captive’s tramping grounds. It’s right there.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. “We can go back.” He tries to smile. “It’s where the Frosty Freezy—”

“NO.” Chum Chum snaps, wavering, but the force behind his words startle his passengers. His eyes flit away, his wayward body language suggesting the answers to Fanboy’s many questions may be better left unsaid.

Dropping Yo off at her building is challenging for both herself, her chauffeur, and her partner. After kissing both of her babies goodbye, Yo gives Fanboy the longest, strongest hug she can muster. Poor Fanboy only releases her on the back of Chum Chum’s coaxing. Hence, a tremulous moment passes when their laced fingers part and, just like that, Yo trots up her building’s icy steps with four suitcases in tow. 

Fanboy watches with bated breath in hopes she changes her mind and returns home with him, but she disappears into the dark doorway after one last smile and wave. 

Chum Chum quietly drives them off. No more words are exchanged between them until they reach Milky Way Lane. The buildings Fanboy grew up with rear back into his peripheral vision: the butcher, the school, Frosty Mart, Oz’s Comix; all together and each beckoning intense emotion from their long-lost traverser.

“Excited?” Chum Chum asks. He pulls to a stop in front of Oz’s place and grabs the rest of the luggage from the trunk. He zooms up to the Fanlair to quickly drop off the luggage before zooming back down and offering Fanboy a hand. 

“In a manner of speaking.” Fanboy sucks in a breath between his chattering teeth and makes an indistinguishable noise of what the sidekick hopes is positivity. “The nerves, Buddy, lemme tell ya: they’re killin’ me,” the older man gasps, clutching his heart dramatically before taking Chum Chum’s hand stepping out of the car.

The moment his soles touch the concrete sidewalk, his heart skips a beat. Every molecule in his vicinity wraps around his mind like a blanket of familiarity. Memories flood his brain. This had all been just out of his reach for so long. Now? It’s in his grasp. He taps the spot for good measure and breathes deeply. “Let’s do this.”

Hand in hand, Fanboy and Chum Chum fly up over the apartment building (making sure that nobody is watching) and, at long last, the Fanlair looms into view. Post landing, Fanboy cranes his neck to take in the water-tower terrace, nested atop said building beside Oz’s. He feels his chest twinge with indescribable intensity as his mind drifts back to the many times he’d watched the sunset while perfectly perched over the horizon. 

And, for a mere millisecond, he feels his body want to freeze up, his brain to say, “Wait! I’m not ready!”

“Here we are!” Chum Chum announces. They land on the roof and they traverse the warmly-hued wooden stairs until reaching the Fanlair’s balcony. “Welcome home, Fanboy.”

“Home,” Fanboy mouths, clutching the handle of Buddy’s baby seat so tightly that the plastic creaks from the stress. His jitters worsen with every step and, upon reaching the door, they cry out.

“Wanna tour?” Chum Chum asks, having been observing Fanboy’s visible anxiety and hoping to soothe it. He opens the door and Fanboy stops in his tracks. In a moment of insanity, he has half a mind to call it quits, but, with Chum Chum by his side? He could brave it. 

“You read my mind, Best Friend!” Fanboy respectfully accepts and together they walk inside. The first thing Fanboy notices is the pitch-black darkness. That alone makes him want to run. The second thing he notices is the cold. Another reason to run. He shakes his head. “Calm down,” he thinks. “Chum Chum must not have had someone looking after the place when he came to visit.” 

Chum Chum flicks on a light switch and, aside from the beautiful bursts of purples and oranges, the third thing Fanboy notices is how small everything is. 

“Whoa.”

“The fully-furnished front foyer!” Chum Chum flourishes. “Just wait till you see the rest. Well, you can see everything from here,” he chuckles. “It’s an open concept, if you remember.”

"Tinier than I remember," Fanboy remarks, his voice tinged with a mix of disappointment. The familiar surroundings of his childhood home seemed to have shrunk like a new shirt out of the dryer. “I mean, MUCH bigger than Boog’s place,” he amends, “but…” It’s a stern reminder of how much time has passed. 

“…Man. We grew, huh?” he reminisces, touching a part of the doorframe he would’ve had to jump to reach as a child. 

“Like weeds!” Chum Chum agrees and unstraps Yui from her carrier to cradle her. “Welcome home, Yui,” he coos. “This is where Papa and Uncle live.”

Looking closely, Fanboy can see familiar marks scratched into the edges of the frame: records of their heights. Chum Chum’s marks nearly scale the entire length of the doorframe but Fanboy’s own marks stop short at around 5’3”. 

“We’ll start measuring the little tykes as soon as they can crawl!” Chum Chum distracts. Adding them to the differential system seems like a fun idea. 

Fanboy appears to agree, but his smile is tight as he presses his thumb into his last mark. “W-Well! This guy needs an update too, huh?” He sighs and rolls his shoulders before regarding his friend with acceptance. “Lead on, good sir!”

Behind his bright smile, Chum Chum swallows thickly. He’d been anxious for this moment ever since he'd heard of Fanboy’s rescue. Would they be blessed with acquiescent relief or bittersweet solemnity? Judging by his ever quieting mood and wary eyes, the older man seems to be leaning toward the latter. Chum Chum soothes the baby girl in his arms and darts forward ahead of his friend.

“Th-The place may seem small, but that’s okay! I made adjustments to make space for you guys!” he states, and beckons Fanboy to the expanded kitchen and vault. “I didn’t account for FOUR people, but look! The perfect place for a nursery!” 

“Nursery?”

“Picture this!” Chum Chum sashays across the small room. “Perfect for a crib, and this divot right here could work as a shelving unit.” He points to a barren circle cut out of the wall. No pane, no glass, just empty space. “That’s gonna make a great window!”

Slack jawed, Fanboy surveys the interior. “You did this all by yourself?” he shivers, picture his sidekick's face covered in grease and determination to make their home a place of comfort for his growing family. 

“Every detail,” Chum Chum smiles, and leans over to zip Fanboy’s jacket the rest of the way up with his free hand. “Although,” he laughs, “there aren’t many details to begin with. But, hey! Nothing a few pieces of furniture and wallpaper can’t fix, right?”

Fanboy fondly shakes his head and touches his jacket zipper. "You've really outdone yourself, Bud," he grins a grin sodden with admiration. "Really. I wish I could’ve helped."

“Who says you can’t?” Chum Chum steers Fanboy toward the underside of the loft. “We have a lot more room to make! Bigger bathroom, another bedroom, maybe even a home theater; the possibilities are endless!”

Fanboy finds solace in that and giggles at the makeshift gaming setup his friend has arranged beneath the loft. Nothing but a beanbag chair, cooler, and table lamp to occupy the space beside the Hex Box.

“Sweet digs!” Fanboy teases, nudging the reddening man’s side. “How long’s this part of the tour?”

“Aw, stop,” Chum Chum protests. “Everyone has a reclusive phase.” 

“I know I did,” Fanboy jokes darkly before Chum Chum steers him away and they move on to the rest of the water tower.

As a child, Fanboy had the attention span of a goldish, Chum Chum recalls fondly. So it is to his surprise that Fanboy is attentive to every little thing. He leaves nothing untouched: the loveseat with their emblems stitched into them, the antenna TV, the makeshift pillars with flashlights tied to them, the short slide spiraling from the loft to the loveseat itself…No nook nor cranny goes unexplored.

With his furrowed brows and tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, Fanboy is a bloodhound combing over every inch of the place, going through boxes, combing through papers, and quickly flipping through every comic book in the place until he’s satiated. Meanwhile, Chum Chum adjusts the thermostat to a proper 75°F. No family of his is going to go cold!

“A regular terrace,” Fanboy comments and climbs upstairs with Chum Chum following close behind. As the tower begins to heat, every step closer to the loft nurtures Fanboy’s saddened nostalgia until it’s in full bloom. 

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Fanboy’s heart initially soars. There they are: their respective sleeping quarters. Each bed is carefully crafted with their emblems carved and painted into the headboards. Placing a hand over his heart, Fanboy nearly starts bawling but—! He stops short and blinks with confusion. 

Chum Chum’s bed is naturally unkempt, but so is Fanboy’s… as if it has been recently slept in. He jabs a thumb at his bed and raises a brow at his sidekick. “You throwin’ slumber parties?”

“Huh? Oh, no! No!” Chum Chum gasps; the very idea of anyone touching Fanboy’s things is mortifying. “I left all your stuff the way it was. I mean, I slept in your bed a few times, but everything is about the same.”

“Ohhhh,” Fanboy realizes. He touches the cold, dusty bed sheets and grins, picturing Chum Chum pacing the upstairs like the Queen’s Guard. “Literally nobody touched this stuff in ten years?” he laughs, but Chum Chum shakes his head.

“Nobody.”

“Oh!” Fanboy looks back to his bed. Beyond the toll of flattery, a pang of sorrow rings his heart. “Oh. Dude, I don’t know how you—“ He stops short, unwilling to pursue the sentiment that could only end in a somber, more pathetic tone. He is suddenly hyper aware of how out-of-place he feels, like a stranger in his own home. 

Chum Chum knows what Fanboy had intended to express. Gazing down at the ground, he sits on his bed. Fanboy’s unspoken words hang in the air. “I don’t know how you,” he counters quietly.

Fanboy sits stiffly beside him and, together, they gaze at the bed frozen in time. Though well aware of the fundamentals, little has been deeply discussed between the two regarding the horrors Fanboy and Yo had faced. 

“Uh, pure unadulterated poise?” Fanboy quotes his comics with a sheepish laugh to play it off. “A cave-buddy?” He strokes his son’s fuzzy hair. “Who knows? I mean, how do YOU think?”

Chum Chum folds his hands and remains quiet, afraid that A: he will say something unpleasant or B: he’ll be unable to word it in a way Fanboy can understand. In truth, he’s surprised that the trauma hasn’t rendered Fanboy totally mute. The fact that he’s able to function, even at a basic level, is a marvel.

Chum Chum has heard many horror stories over the years, both fiction and nonfiction, of what happens to human beings if isolated long enough, of children treated like objects. But, Fanboy DID have Yo. Did that, in Chum Chum’s oversimplified understanding of the human psyche, make things bearable? It must have. Chum Chum’s certain that Yo's constant presence was the only thing that kept Fanboy from succumbing to his suffering. Just one more thing to thank her for.

“I don’t know,” the younger man decides. “I’ve never gone through something like that.” 

“And thank goodness!” Fanboy exclaims. “Don’t worry, Bud. We have no idea either. Never have, and we had ALL the time to think.”

He sighs. “Ya know, I used to be scared that livin’ in a cage an’ stuff would turn me into a different person. Like, a stranger.” He raises a hand toward the ceiling and stares distantly. “Like, every boppin’ would beat every good part of us out until we were nothin’ but crumbs.” His hand falls. “And now I… I’m…” He shakes his head. “Whatevs. I’m glad she was there.”

“Me too,” Chum Chum agrees.  

“I don’t know why I’m not feeling how I’m supposed to,” Fanboy adds, which derails Chum Chum’s train of thought. “It’s not like a BAD feeling, but it ain’t happy either. But it don’t make sense! I’m home ! I’m supposed to be havin’ a party in my head right now!” Instead, Fanboy is getting an inkling for what Yo had experienced waking up at the hospital. He feels an emptiness in his belly and a heaviness in his chest.

“So, not to be a downer,” he grins eerily, “but this whole thing feels W-E-E-R-D.”

Chum Chum gives a hapless shrug. Neither of them know what to say anymore. Too many apologies have been exchanged, too many comforting words. They’ve run dry. “That’s okay too,” he eventually says. “Life’s always been weird.” 

Fanboy snickers in spite of everything. “We’ve always been weird.”

“Absolutely,” Chum Chum agrees, resting his hand on Fanboy’s shoulder. “Maybe you just need time to take it all in." 

Fanboy nods. “You’re right, Chum Chum,” he sighs, and lies back on his childhood bed and presses his pillow against his face. “You are right.” While filling his lungs with the familiar air, the old bed protests under his lithe weight. “I’m hungry.”

Chum Chum carefully unbuckles Yui from her baby seat and lays her next to her father. She whines at the feeling of the cold sheets until Fanboy wraps her up in his arms. “Hi, Gummybear,” he coos. “You’re not hungry, are ya?”

“Bottles go in the kitchen. I’ll pick up groceries first thing in the morning,” Chum Chum promises, and spends the next hour or so unpacking their belongings while Fanboy passes out in a much-needed nap.

Once every piece of clothing is folded into piles, Chum Chum wipes his brow and nods satisfied with his work. “Okay. Groceries, laundry, utilities… All that’s left,” he murmurs, getting to his feet, “is a good night’s rest.”

Fanboy stretches out one of his long arms and snatches the younger man’s wrist. “Stay with me?” he asks. Chum Chum had offered to sleep in the same bed during his hospital visit, but Fanboy had always turned down the offer in favor of preserving Yo’s memory. But things are different now. Yo isn’t on the verge of death. She’s just in another room… a block away… having chosen to stay there. Feeling unwittingly abandoned, Fanboy decides that it's time to follow up on Chum Chum’s offer.

“Of course!” The sidekick squeezes into Fanboy’s child-sized bed as best he can. Only the slumbering infants lay content between their guardians. Fanboy’s legs spill over the footboard rail while half of Chum Chum’s body hangs precariously off the side. 

“Like fries in a basket,” he jokes under his breath. 

Fanboy snickers. “I have an idea.” He sits up. “Remember when we used to push our beds together to make one BIG one?” 

Chum Chum nods fondly. “When there was thunder and lightning,” he recalls. “All in faded days.”

“We’re old.”

“Twenty-one and twenty isn’t old,” Chum Chum scoffs. 

“It is if ya have kids, my fellow fossil.”

“Then that makes YOU the fossil,” Chum Chum complains. “Not me!”

Fanboy sticks out his tongue. “Anywho.” 

After tending to the children’s sudden messes, Fanboy and Chum Chum push their childhood beds together to make one normal sized one. Fanboy also takes extra care to arrange a big nest of strewn pillows and blankets akin to the nook he’d made with Yo back in the room. “There! A nest as good as any other. Hop in!” 

Happily complicit, Chum Chum moves carefully to leave his now grouchy niece and nephew undisturbed. “Gosh,” he murmurs. “The longer I look at them the harder it is to believe they’re yours.” 

“Really?” Fanboy cocks his head. To him, it’s as obvious as the dark.

Chum Chum giggles. “It’s not that they don’t look like you!” he assures. “They do, but some part of my brain is like…how?” He laughs uncomfortably and rubs the back of his neck. He can’t quite express his struggle to comprehend his two missing school friends having children together, especially since the last time they’d been together was in 5th grade. His memories of Fanboy and Yo are all still of when they were children themselves. And their children were conceived in...tragic circumstances. Now, that doesn’t dampen his love for the babies but, in the back of his head—

“Oz’ll explain how,” Fanboy yawns.

Shaking off his dimming thoughts, Chum Chum studies Fanboy’s angular face as the older man floats down next to him. He’s so different, but so similar. Still VERY youthful looking, likely due to malnourishment, is Chum Chum’s dismal and correct assumption. 

Whether it be under the eye of doctors, nurses, reporters, or his own partner, Fanboy is no stranger to being stared at and studies Chum Chum right back, unashamed in his incessant scrutiny long after the younger man has averted his gaze. “Violet,” the superfan suddenly remarks. He nods to himself and glances off, looking very far away. “That’s right. I thought so…”

“Huh?”

Before Fanboy can elaborate, Buddy curls closer to his snoozing sister with a tiny yawn before falling back under as quickly as he’d stirred. Chum Chum watches his best friend smile proudly.

“How’d ya make such amazing kids?” he yawns.

“You really don’t know?” Fanboy thinks humorously. “Yo did most of the work.” He grins and lets his hand hover over Chum Chum's back and takes a moment to reflect in the warming night air. “Say. When I wake up,” he reaches, stealing a glance toward the edge of the loft where the top of the padlocked door is visible, “I-I’ll still be here, right?”

Chum Chum nods against his scrawny shoulder. “I'm here,” he soothes. "And literally nothing can hurt you now."

“R-Right.” Not physically, at least. Fanboy often forgets about his newfound invincibility. He swallows hard and stares at his children. “And them?”

“With us around?” Chum Chum squeezes his middle. “They’re the safest kids on earth.” Fanboy makes a weak noise.

“Boog’s in jail, Fanboy,” Chum Chum reminds him. “He’ll never hurt anyone again. But if he ever escapes, I’ll kill him. Ain't no way he can get far with those stubby legs!” He cackles. 

A chuckle bursts from Fanboy’s lips. Then, because his bed has become rather dusty in his decade-long absence, he sneezes. The babies jolt awake and begin to cry.

“Whoops… “Dad Sneeze” strikes again,” Fanboy sighs guiltily, and gathers his children to cuddle against his chest. “Easy there, Lil’ Guys. Shhhhh…” 

Chum Chum shakes his head clear, the loud sneeze having startled his sensitive ears as well. “That reminds me.” He promptly fishes two sets of ear plugs from the bedside table drawer. “Viola!” he exclaims, and holds them up for Fanboy to see. They’re nothing special, but Fanboy can see a tiny “F” on one of the foam plugs and a “B” on another. 

“Oh! Are you still a snorer?” he teases, to which Chum Chum replies with a hint of alarm, “N-No?” 

“Cool, cool. I am,” Fanboy snickers, and cups his ear toward the door. “Sure you wanna plug up, Bud? With our super hearing, nothing can–” Suddenly, his face pinches. 

“You good?” Chum Chum asks, and tilts his head in the same direction. “Oh.” He should’ve seen this coming. “Fanboy, it’s okay.”

Fanboy’s visage goes pallid and draws tight like the skin of a drum. “Don’t you hear that?” He points candidly at the wall or, rather, the direction of Yo’s home. Chum Chum’s heart sinks. He nods.

“It’s her!” Fanboy tenses as if preparing to run. But he won’t leave, not with his children here. “What do I do, Dude?!”

Unusually calm, Chum Chum hands him a set of ear plugs. “Here,” he says apologetically.

Fanboy stares, the shock evolving past his brain’s jurisdiction. 

“You remember these?”

As chance would have it, Fanboy does. He would have preferred wearing them while trapped in the room to drown out the hidden generator. "Yeah?” Still, he hesitates, nervously stroking the back of his son’s head. “I-I mean—”

“You’ll be able to hear the babies just fine,” Chum Chum assures. “These’ll just block the outside noise.”

A strange look overtakes the older man’s face. “Yo ain’t “outside noise”.” A strong hush fills the lair, save for occasional baby sounds. Speaking of whom, Fanboy would drop everything and go to her if not for the children. He trembles, itching to gather his partner in his arms. How could he have let her go off on her own? He KNEW they shouldn’t have gone their separate ways! He knew—!

“Yo’s gonna be fine,” Chum Chum promises. “She’s a tough cookie.” But Fanboy is painfully unconvinced.

How can Chum Chum be so calm about this? He knows better than Fanboy about depression and self-harm and suicide! Doubt bubbles up inside of Fanboy until he can’t hold back. “GggahhattheheckdoYOUknow?!” he bursts. 

A pregnant pause as Fanboy slaps both hands over his mouth. Contrary to Chum Chum’s nonchalance, Fanboy’s own words stun him. “I take that back!” he backtracks. “I do! B-But I don’t—! I feel like—!” He stumbles horribly and begins to shrink into himself until Chum Chum pinches the rim of his skull and turns his head to face him.

“Hey. Fanboy, I get it: you’re afraid for her. But, look, I’ve watched her grow this past month and I’m sure she’ll be okay.” His expression grows stern. “Besides, I would never lie to you. Not about anything but especially not about her.”

“...Right,” Fanboy admits. Chum Chum was never one to lie. Not even when they were children. That was one of Fanboy’s many flaws, making it all the clearer to him now that perhaps he was unworthy of having such a good friend.

“That’s right. I know she’s gonna be okay, okay?”

Fanboy bites his lip, painfully unconvinced. How does Chum Chum know if she isn’t here with them? “What if he’s wrong?” Fanboy wonders to himself. He’s been wrong before; he isn’t a prophet. But, here as Fanboy is obligated to protect his children, he doesn’t have a choice. He can’t leave. So, unconvinced but unwilling to disregard his friend’s sincere assertion, Fanboy concedes. “...Okay.”

“Awesome. We’ll see her tomorrow bright and early, Fanboy. Promise!” Chum Chum reaches for the bedside lamp but hesitates at the last second for Fanboy’s approval.

“I like it on,” Fanboy graciously admits, a timid note wavering from his throat. Chum Chum doesn’t dwell, simply nods and pulls the covers up over their shoulders. “Go t’ sleep, Bud. You’ve earned it.” A delighted wriggle from the sidekick before he relaxes into slumber.

Fanboy yawns uneasily and stretches, then turns to Chum Chum to give him a gentle kiss on the forehead just as he did when they were children. It’s startling for the younger man who has grown out of that particular show of affection from his friends. “Goodnight, Bud. Sleep tight,” Fanboy says. With great pleasure, Chum Chum drifts off to sleep, feeling safe and secure in the warmth of his beloved friend. 

Left awake, Fanboy stares tiredly at the ceiling planks, unable to help wonder what could have been, what HE could be doing to make Yo’s situation better. And as the sun takes its last breath before plunging into the deep of the horizon, a chorus of snores rumble out from the water tower.

Yo keeps reminding herself that this was what she wanted. This is what she’d chosen.

The first step into her childhood home was rewarding, exhilarating! Truly the opportunity of her lifetime! But the moment after she’d shut the door behind her, the stress that overcame her was so intense that she felt nauseous. She thought she could handle loneliness. She reckoned that once you’d dealt with a decade of isolation side by side with one other person, you could deal with anything. But this was an entirely different sort of pressure. And her now-elderly cat, Yuka, was…well, “upset that she’d been missing” was putting it mildly. The poor old feline had yowled from under the loveseat and nearly died leaping for Yo’s arms. 

Yo had felt initial relief to be working with familiar territory. She’d thought she knew cold and darkness. But moving through the confines of her own home, as it turned out, was unlike sitting in the tiny, empty enclosure in Boog’s basement. There were so many variables to consider, so many twists and turns, so many potential safety hazards, particularly when moving through a room with many ornaments. She is not immune to adverse hazards. A nasty trip over the coffee table quickly proves that.

And, of course, there is the issue of her belongings. Yo enters her childhood room on a whim and steps back in time. Everything from the bed to her discarded shirts are untouched and blanketed with dust. Yo exhales a long-held breath and runs her hand along the flowered wallpaper, feeling notes of peelage in particularly aged spots. 

She stops in front of her old record player, where she used to curl up with a coloring and escape into a world of classical tunes. She turns to run a hand over the black screen installed into her wall that displayed a giant version of her digital pet, Scampers. She smiles with delighted recollection of the countless afternoon’s she’d spent playing with her yamaguchi device. After that, she touches the red plastic roof of her play castle, remembering the time she’d tricked Fanboy and Chum Chum into moving in. That particular memory… She snorts and fondly shakes her head. How silly they were. 

Every item in the room brings back a flood of memories and emotions. On one hand, Yo is at peace knowing that her past hadn’t entirely abandoned her. On the other hand… It takes a moment to realize the wetness trailing down her cheeks are tears. She takes a step back, suddenly unable to bear the reminders of the life she had left behind. She leaves the room and re enters with her new things, her heart heavy as she begins to haul the remnants of her childhood to the hallway. 

Suddenly, the memories, the laughter and whispers of childhood are a burden, a cruel reminder of what she can never retain. The longing of who she once was, a cheerful lover of all things pink and adorable, becomes too much to bear. 

“Not again,” she thinks as she throws her stuffed bunnies out the door. “Out!” Her books. “OUT!” Her play castle. Her many toys. Her heart-shaped rug. Even her record player, which she kicks and sends it to land out the door with a crash. She forces herself to keep going with her temperature rising with every item, knowing that if she stops, she won't be able to continue. 

“OUT!” She shouts and, with painful finality, slams her bunny-shaped door so hard that the window panes rattle. Yukakitty, who'd been watching diligently from the foot of the bed, meows concernedly. Yo just pants breathlessly. She can never go back to that life.

When she finally stumbles back, every inch of her exhausted body burns from the strain. Other than her yellow bunny-bed, her room is void of any evidence that a child had lived there at all.  

Overwhelmed, Yo presses her forehead to the cold carpet in a vain attempt to keep her nerves in check. “Relax, relax.” She swallows the lump in her throat and shivers. “That’s all over now.” 

“I needa buy…stuff. For the babies…” She closes her eyes, forcing her thoughts to slide towards how Oz had helped her and Fanboy open up a joint bank account before they’d left the hospital. Now she has to figure out how to keep up with her absent father’s unpaid mortgage and other expenses. No time to invest in luxuries. No time to give her past a second thought. All that matters now is focusing on her present self to become the best mother she can be to her children and the best partner for her love. 

“I messed up everything,” she mumbles into the carpet. “Now I gotta…fix it.”

Despite Oz advising her otherwise, Yo wants to take up a local part-time job—cashiering, cleaning, whatever is available. As long as she has enough time to care for her children and attend that nightschool Oz had recommended, it’ll be alright.  

“It’ll be alright…” she repeats. “It’ll be…” Yukakitty pads over and nudges the women's head.

Old habits die hard, Yo supposes. She’d been taught that pride, self-reliance, and hard work made a strong girl strong. The first seven years of her life were rife with sensibility when her father was present. She couldn’t rely on anyone but herself. Yo already feels inadequate for relying on the generous donations of strangers.

"Meow!" Yukakitty nudges harder, straining her elderly limbs for Yo's acknowledgment. Eventually, Yo relents and pets the cat's fuzzy orange head. She misses Fanboy. She misses Buddy and Yui. She feels an empty space lacking them by her side. But what is she supposed to do? Go back on her word after ONE night because it’s hard? SHE is the one who’d made a stand for her independence; she can’t falter now!

But when the sun sets and every last corner of her cold childhood room is swallowed up by the dark, she itches to flee. Everything is covered in a thick layer of oppressive dust, untouched since her disappearance. The patterned pink and purple walls are faded and peeling. Even the air is stale, as if the passage of time had been suspended in her absence. More importantly, it is far too quiet, quieter than the hospital, where she’d grown used to the bustling commotion. 

Cozy in her pajamas and nightcap but wide-awake, Yo tugs the dusty covers up to her chin. The old cat lies peacefully at the foot of the bed, unbothered by Yo soft cries late into the night. When the woman tires, she allows herself to reflect. 

Without Fanboy’s warm body glued to her hip, Yo feels an impossible sense of disconnection. She contemplates running back to him, but something about departing this small area and going outside triggers red flags in her head. 

It shouldn’t be like this, a small voice in her head whispers. It shouldn’t, she agrees. She and Fanboy have children together and they are residing in separate homes. She admits that is a little strange considering how long they have been a couple. But SHE had suggested, in the hospital shower room, they start their relationship over to adapt to the drastically changed circumstances. And this solitude IS good for concealing her emotional outbursts. 

Of course, it’s near impossible to truly conceal anything from Fanboy now. Thanks to Chum Chum’s return, Fanboy’s sensitive ears have become ever-more responsive to her subtle whimpers. He’s sensitive to her emotions and, despite not always understanding, always knows when she is on edge. Ever since her suicide attempt, he has become as gentle and protective and patient as ever. He is the last person she wants to burden with her issues. He has issues of his own to deal with.

Besides, indulging in her own emotions feels risky. She’ll allow herself a short cry, a minute or two–more than she could ever dare—of mope, but she can never forget the danger. Too much negativity could lead to—

“Stop,” Yo scolds her brain. Curling her lip, she drifts off into a restless slumber.

Chum Chum jolts awake at the sound of splintering wood. By the time he sits up and implements his night vision, Fanboy has already torn away a second woodplank from the wall just feet away from the beds, leaving a five foot gaping seam of space for the cold night air to seep in.

“F-Fanboy?” Chum Chum stammers, and Fanboy turns; the strange gleam in his eyes frightens his sidekick so intensely that he shrinks back. “Are you okay?” 

Fanboy appears vacant, his lips moving but no words coming out and his wide eyes slowly looking back and forth between the hand holding the woodplank and the empty space where it used to be. Neither man makes a move toward the other until a cold breeze blows through the gap and Yui stirs. 

Overwhelmed with concern, Chum Chum covers the babies with the bedspread and approaches his friend like he would a cornered animal. “There, there,” he coaxes, and gently takes the wooden plank from Fanboy’s now limp hand. “Are you okay?” he repeats.

Fanboy’s brows furrow and his lips move again in a random fashion, still mute. Chum Chum takes his time to replace the plank and guide his stunned friend back to bed. Fanboy's eyes remain wide and blank even as Chum Chum pulls him in for a cuddle. It’s a long wait, but Fanboy slowly begins to regain his sanity, his breathing quickening as he manages to ground himself in the present. 

“Sorry,” Fanboy says, low and trembling. “Th-That was weird, wasn’t it?”

“You’re okay,” Chum Chum assures over the impossibly loud thumping of his heart. 

“I forgot we have windows,” is all the explanation Fanboy gives before he passes out again.

“Bah!”

This time, Fanboy jolts awake. As he feels around for his children, it takes a momentous effort for him to calm his racing heart and remind himself that he is safe. Beside him, Chum Chum yawns. “Poor guy,” Fanboy thinks, and removes his earplugs. 

“3:29 AM” the clock reads.

“They up again?” the sidekick whispers, rubbing his eyes and plucking his own plugs from his ears. Fanboy nods, activating his night-vision to peer toward the dark kitchen. 

“Yep! Hungry AND messy. I got 'em, though. You sleep.”

“M’kay. Bottles n’ stuff ‘r downstairs.” Just like that, Chum Chum passes out again with a lumbering snore.

Fanboy carries his babies, one in each arm, down to the kitchen. The moment his bare feet touch the cold ground, Fanboy feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise. When he opens his mouth to exhale, his breath is visible. 

“Lairs take a while to warm up,” he murmurs aloud in an attempt to curb his racing thoughts. That, and him tearing the wall open earlier hadn't helped.

Fanboy takes a cautious step forward, his eyes darting around the kitchen for any danger that may be lurking in the shadows. He feels a chill run down his spine as he makes his way to the fridge. His bottom lip trembles. Funnily enough, the last straw is the microwave. One look at the many buttons and he feels that he may be over his head.

It’s not fair. Not fair that he’s anxious even in his own home. The slightest sound or movement startles him, and he’s worried that HIS reaction will startle Buddy and Yui in kind.

Desperate to find some solace and comfort, Fanboy decides to pay Yo a visit with Buddy and Yui in tow. Surely her presence will ease his mind and bring a sense of normalcy to this new chapter in his life.

Yo doesn’t remember dreaming but she knows she had, jolting awake feeling as though she’d bench-pressed an elephant; sweating bullets and fighting for breath. She keeps her eyes closed and rubs her face. 

What time is it? Where am I? Why do I feel someone standing over—

“Yeesh. Rough night?”

Yo’s bleary eyes pop open to find a dark silhouetted figure inches from her face. In the half-second it takes for her to recognize her partner, fear showers her like ice cold rain. She shrieks, causing him to shriek in turn and leap to the side like he has encountered a fire-breathing dragon. Her fist swings through the air and lands on the empty spot from which he’d leapt from a moment prior.

“What the—!?” Sweating like mad, Yo scrambles to peer over the edge of her bed to see where her partner has toppled backward onto the carpet.

“Oh my gosh, Fanboy!” she cries. Her heart pounds, still riding the stern of her nightmare. A nightmare. It was just a nightmare. Nothing more. She isn’t dead and her children are safe. Still, Yo can't help the nausea lingering in her fluttery chest.

"You're lucky Yukakitty's deaf or you woulda been shredded!" Indeed, Yukakitty snores away having inched her way off the bed and now lies in a heap halfway under the bedframe.

“Sorry! I thought you were awake!” Fanboy allows her to pull him back onto the spacious bunny-themed bed. “Unless you're a sleep-talker now, ‘cuz you have a lot t’ say.”

That gives Yo pause. She shakes her head and lets out a nervous chuckle. "No, no, nothing like that," she says. "You just scared me." Fanboy smiles and pulls her close, his warmth calming her trembling body.

“Nightmare, huh?” Fanboy turns on the bedside lamp on arrival, bathing her room in a pink glow. “Lucky for you, the Fanman is here with an open ear!” 

Relieved, Yo opens her mouth to share her vision but the costume Chum Chum had made for Fanboy, spikes and all, distracts her. Fanboy carefully maneuvers those spikes to keep them from poking into Yo’s tender flesh as he gathers her up in his arms and rumbles happily. “Mm… Beautiful Mama,” he coos, pressing slow, languid kisses to her face. “Man. It’s been a while since I’ve been here!”

Calmer still, Yo spots the two baby carriers he’d gently placed at the foot of her bed. “Babies!” She squeals with delight at the sight of her children and she quickly unstraps them from their seats. They’re equally ecstatic, squeaking away like young guinea pigs at the sound of their mother’s voice. Soon, Yo’s nightmare shifts into her unconscious memory. “Oh, my little ones, Mama missed you so much," she cries and soothes Yui with a loving kiss. 

Fanboy pops up and down at the endearing sight of his partner loving on her young. “I was gonna say the kiddos were hungry. Ergo–!” He spreads out his arms and peers around, bewildered by the lack of amenities. “Wait!” While Chum Chum had looked after all his things with the diligence of a Roman guard, Yo didn’t have such privilege. “Did somebody steal your stuff?!”

Yo rubs her eyes. “I moved it all. What time is it, anyway?”

“Oh! Uh…” Fanboy gives the room another once-over before answering, “3:35 AY-EM!” and punctuating with an obnoxious yawn. “I flew here the second they started t’ sniffle.” He decides to leave out the absolute terror he’d felt on the one-block journey, fearing that Boog was going to pop out at any second and steal him. Or worse: steal his children. He’d practically teleported with how fast he’d traveled, sneaking right through her unlocked window.

Evidently dazed, Yo neglects to observe the “flew” part. She glances at her pink kitty-cat clock and, sure enough, 3:35 AM blinks across the display in neon-green light. “You coulda just warmed a bottle,” she muses and moves to rest against her headboard while Fanboy makes himself comfortable with Buddy in hand. 

“Nah. Kitchen stuff these days is too… hard.” Despite his cheery smile, his tone is beset with embarrassment and, interestingly, a hint of wariness, especially as he stares attentively at the clock. “But I took care of changin’ them, an’ um… They have all the free milk they need right here, so...” He shrugs sheepishly, wondering if he’s overdoing it. “So, here we are.”

Yo studies him, fairly certain that he’s shown up for her as well, presumably to make sure she hasn’t done anything “rash”. She feels a might bit queasy about that but tries to focus on the positives. “Oh, Sweetie,” she praises, and caresses his cheek. “What would I do without you?”

Fanboy blushes with delight. Taking care of his family is his greatest pride. To have his efforts validated means the world. “No clue!” he cheerfully replies. “Same as me!”

Yo yawns. Admittedly, things would be far simpler if they cohabited. That way, Fanboy wouldn’t have to travel all the way here for a simple nursing session. Which reminds her: “Did Chum Chum drive ya here?”

Fanboy opens his mouth to answer, recognizes the truth might not be the best thing to share and quickly changes the subject. “Sheeshley, it’s cold!” he chatters, shivering like a frozen tin. “It really has been a rough night, huh?”

“Ya got me,” Yo admits, resting her head on Fanboy’s armored shoulder. She can hear their son’s soft babbling in response to his mother’s voice. “I’m not used to everything yet…” She briefly quiets, debating whether or not to reveal her regret. 

Fanboy conceals a smile. “We never got used to the cold, did we?” he supplies. Yo snorts. “So, chillax…no pun intended.” He looks around and snaps his fingers. “You know what? This is prime soil for a blanket fort!”

Yo giggles. “Yeah? Ya wanna build one for us?” Fanboy perks with stars in his eyes. His answer is to gather every makeshift item Yo hasn’t tossed out the door and construct a sloppy tent-like shelter around his little family. Despite being terribly out of practice, the results impress. Yo feels instantly warmer in the tiny space and the children look happier as well.

“And scene!” Fanboy proudly settles in beside her, reveling in the near-instant warmth he has fortified. Yo grins and closes her eyes as Yui’s soft, tiny hands pats at her chest. “Thanks,” she murmurs. 

“Of course!” Fanboy hops out of bed to take a brief tour around the house to look for the thermostat. “All we need now is t’ warm up the place!” Yo watches him go, her chest tightening as a sharp gasp accompanies his discovery of her trashed belongings outside the door.

Upon his return, Fanboy looks more than a little perturbed.

“Did ya find the—?”

Fanboy shakes his head and settles back in, arms holding one of the stuffed bunnies Yo had discarded. “I mean, yeah, but I can’t figure out the… um…  So, u-uh, anyway,” he wavers, tucking the stuffed bunny into Yo’s tense arm. “Where’re your pills?”

Ah. There it is. For a moment, Yo contemplates letting it all hang out, but stops herself. She has burdened Fanboy plenty these past few weeks. “In the bathroom.” She jerks her head to the right where an adjacent door leads to said room. 

“An’ you remembered to take ‘em?”

Yo’s smile tenses. “Yes, Fanboy.”

“Uh-huh. Ya didn’t leave ‘em in your purse?” He pokes his head out the fort to look. 

Taking a deep breath and reminding herself that this scrutiny is well-earned, Yo pulls him back inside. “No, but—“ She points to her open closet where her new clothes are neatly compartmentalized. “—if you wanna snoop, the closet’s all yours. I put away my whole wardrobe.” 

Fanboy traces her silky pajama shirt-sleeve and frowns. “Without me?” he complains, missing the point. “You know, you don’t have to be here all—”

“I GOT it.” They’ve had this conversation before. Many times. Fanboy hasn’t been discrete in his offering to her a place to stay. He has even offered to move into HER place just to make things easier. Seems ideal. If she isn’t distracted by her loneliness and fear, maybe she'll stop making so many mistakes. Maybe she WILL improve quicker. Perhaps she should just swallow her pride and accept the offer.

“I chose this and I like it.” Yo’s tired blue eyes regard the window where chirping crickets and occasional car horns permeate the stagnant early morning air. “The world’s way bigger than I ‘member. It’s smaller HERE and that feels nice for some reason. It's nice to be–” A fluid gesture. “–here?” She sighs, her words successfully escaping her. "Whatever. I miss you guys anyway," she says with a wistful smile. 

Her honesty does wonders for Fanboy’s nerves. He relaxes into her pillow and settles his breathing. “I miss you too, Crazy-Pants,” he murmurs affectionately, stroking her hair. He nudges her shoulder and jabs a thumb toward himself. “Now don’t think about hidin’ nothin’ from me. I can mind-read.” He says it so confidently, as though it were as sure as the next sunrise. 

Yo gives him a look. “No, you can’t.”

Fanboy pouts. “No, I can’t.” Soft laugher fills the fort. "Sometimes I wish I could."

“Hm. Well, even if ya could, you wouldn’t DARE read my mind,” Yo teases and knocks at her temple. “It's a dark place filled with demons and self-doubt! OooOOoooh!” She wiggles her free arm as if it’s possessed. "Also, I'd kill you."

Fanboy snickers. "Well, regardless.”

A sift of silence settles over Yo until Yui pulls away and hiccups. “Okay. Switch,” the young mother instructs, nuzzling the little girl. Fanboy promptly does.

“Yo?”

The woman presses Buddy against her chest and opts for quiet. 

“YoooOOooo?” Fanboy sings under his breath until finally: “Yoko.” 

Yo inhales sharply as a flare of anger bursts in her chest. “Lance, I’m fine,” she snaps, breaking her short-lived silence. His refined ability to goat her into speaking is beyond irritating.

"Really?" With the gentlest smile, Fanboy cups her cheeks in his hands and speaks without thinking. “Then how come I heard ya crying?”

Yo’s troubled expression sharpens while Fanboy’s eyelid twitches with near-instant regret. “You spied on me?” she hisses. "Really?"

Fanboy rears back as soon as her soft face hardens under his palms. “No! No, no! I mean, not on purpose!” he backtracks, realizing too late the near-instant hole he has dug himself. “It’s like–if I’m in th’ same room but farther away, y’ know? I wouldn’t listen in all sneaky-like, but even when I cover my ears, I can’t help hearin’!”

Yo’s glare softens, but the storm cloud above her head remains as she settles back against the pillow. “That don’ sound fun.” 

Fanboy manages a guilty shrug amidst his caution. “It ain’t. Chum Chum wears ear plugs just so he can sleep at night. Otherwise, he’d hear everyone. I can’t wear earplugs, because I needa hear what’s goin’ on.” He nods at the babies and makes a subtle glance at his partner, selectively leaving out the part where he’d be able to hear his children regardless…he can’t help his shame but, for Yo’s safety, he’ll keep it secret.

“O…kay.” Yo accepts that, albeit reluctantly. "Those must be some powerful plugs. But even if I was crying. So what?” she flares. “Am I not allowed to cry withoutcha thinkin’ I’m gonna–” She swivels a finger at her temple “—go bananas?”

Fanboy seems to shrink in on himself, doubtful of his ability to answer that question tastefully. “It’s not that!” he avers. “My nightmares super-scared me even with Chum Chum close by! And I thought since yer by yerself, I-I thought…” He gives the clock a parting glance.

3:41 AM. 

“Ya thought what?” Yo pushes, suddenly angry.

Fanboy opens his mouth and closes it. Throughout his life, he has never filtered himself, never minced his words. But in speechless cases, there is a surefire way for Fanboy to express his strife to Yo, a way that has never faltered while they were stuck in the room: Fanboy throws himself at her. It might be worth the shot to fall back on familiar habits. 

Yo doesn’t hold the same opinion as much as she takes comfort in the feeling of his sharp teeth and warm tongue against her skin. She gently pushes him back. “Lance.” The wounded look on her partner’s face is not easily absorbed. Worse yet? He doesn’t speak, just looks at her with those mournful emerald eyes begging her to understand. The thing is, she DOES; she wants him to tell her. “Use your words,” she urges.

Fanboy flinches. “W-Why?” he croaks. He regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth and tenses for the well-earned smack. It never comes; they'd promised to never dish those out again.

“Because if I’m gonna understand the father of my children, he’ll need to speak.” Yo thumbs his bottom lip.

Fanboy considers her stern expression and takes the hand against his face. “Can I at least hold your…?” he trails, gently stroking her hand like how he had when they were children.

Yo allows it. “Talk.”

Taking a deep breath, Fanboy tells her. “I thought…if you were just as scared as I was, then…you’d want me with ya as much as I’d want ya with me.” He pauses. “Does that make sense?” Yo nods. “Right! Like, since I get scared even with Chum Chum there, then you must be REALLY—!” He pauses, hangs his head. “Really scared.” 

Yo almost makes a comment but relents. 

“I dunno if I trust you or not,” Fanboy admits. “I mean, I trust YOU, but... I dunno!" He covers his face. "I'm still scared. I know I’m not supposed to be scared because I’m supposed to trust you—and I DO trust you! I just don’t trust...” He haplessly wipes his brow. “I…I dunno. Not being with you? It don’t feel right but then I feel bad because I want you to make your own choices but then I think about the babies an’ us an’—” He takes a breath "—and I'm afraid you'll hurt yerself again if yer brain decides to be a jerk and I-I can't do it again, Yo. I just can't!"

“I get it,” Yo interrupts, squeezing his hand with newfound acceptance. “I get it, Sweetheart. I really do.” There is no disdain in her voice, just pure, unadulterated compassion.

A silent moment encompasses their denial, regret, understanding, and assurance. Now that Fanboy has laid himself bare, Yo understands that by focusing so much on maintaining her independence, she has denied the signs of her own inner struggle. Not only that, but she has nearly forgotten how much Fanboy needs her too. Perhaps even more, despite how heroic he expresses himself to be. Knowing all that? She feels a bit sheepish. 

"I promise you, I'm trying. I'm really trying. I force myself to take my pills everyday, talk with Dr. Olive, get my butt up outta bed, and take care of myself. I don't know when I won't hafta force myself anymore, but I'm not gonna stop trying until I get there, ya hear me?" Yo's voice is stalwart and strong, nearly identical to how it'd resonated back when she was a little girl.

"...Yes," Fanboy answers quietly. "But... Should you really force yourself?" He tries to smile. "Ya know, instead of letting it come naturally?"

Yo just shakes her head. "Naturally is how I ended up in the emergency room." Fanboy tenses and Yo ponders. “How about this?” she suggests. “When it ever gets too much to handle, I’ll let you know exactly how I'm feeling. I won't hide anything important from you anymore. But if I don’t let ya know, it means that it’s not that bad.”

She gives a hapless shrug. “I cry, Fanboy. Sometimes out of nowhere and sometimes when I’m not even sad. It doesn’t mean I’m in trouble. Sometimes it feels nice to let it out.”

Fanboy sighs. He understands that. Over the years he has wrought himself with tears, many for no other reason than to feel. Feel something other than the hurt and the cold. 

“That checks,” he croaks, managing far better than he had just a few minutes prior. Yo was right: opening up and using his words has made a world of difference. "I'm sorry."

Yo pulls him into her at long last, rewarding him with gentle kisses. In that moment, Fanboy realizes that their honesty and mutual support will be the foundation of their strength as they move forward. He doesn’t know what really lies ahead, but right now… Closing her eyes to plunge into a familiar shadow, Yo gently nuzzles back against Fanboy’s sharp jawline. Her hands gently lift his helmet and cowl and toss them aside to cradle the back of his head, fingers combing his messy golden-brown hair.

"Me too."

Fanboy gives his own share of physical affection: purring, nipping, and kissing the corners of his partner’s face. He drifts an idle hand to her sternum, which thrums with energy. He wants to gather her up completely in his arms, smother her with love, but that would require setting aside the children and he doesn’t want to do that.

So instead, Fanboy scoops them ALL up in his arms. Yo’s face scrunches up in a cross between a laugh and a sob but she holds her composure for the babies between them. The couple remains that way for a while, content in each other's arms, until their son’s annoyed protests force them to separate.

“Oops! Sorry, Buddy!” Fanboy laughs quietly, and tweaks his baby’s chubby cheek. “Did we squish ya?” The baby makes an adorable pout.

As she’s laid back down, Yo sighs and relishes in the moment.

See what you could’ve missed? the voice in her head whispers, though it isn’t as cruel as it is sad. Yo doesn’t force the thought away, but embraces its honesty like a warm blanket. “If I’d died that night,” she murmurs, “I would’ve missed this.” She feels Fanboy seize.

“F-Funny thing! Why d’ya think I’m h–?” he stops short, his eyes suddenly darting to the clock. Yo follows his gaze.

3:45 AM. At first, those numbers hold no significance to the young woman, but absorbing Fanboy’s suddenly haggard expression reels the memory back to life. 3:45… It had been her darkest hour, when she’d been on the brink of death facedown in a pool of her own vomit.

Fanboy clears his throat, praying that she hadn’t caught on. “A-Anyway,” he tries to divert, but Yo pulls him back in for another hug, and Fanboy breaks back down into tears. “I’m still scared,” he confesses. “It’s STUPID, but I’m really, REALLY scared.”

“I’m sorry,” Yo whispers, palming the back of his head. “I am SO sorry.” Sometimes there is nothing else left to be said. Yo holds Fanboy until Buddy pulls away, full and contentedly passed out. Yo pats his fragile back, soaking in the warmth of the familial love.

“Welp,” Fanboy mutters regretfully. “It’s 4:15 now.” He slumps back and makes no move to put the babies back in their carriers. 

Yo avoids eye-contact and casually asks, “Why don’t ya stay?”

Fanboy sits right back up and digs a finger into his ear. “Stay?” he repeats, withholding a burst of excitement. “Doth my ears deceive me?!”

Yo thinks of an appropriate reason other than the unrelenting fear of loneliness. “Think about it: you won’t hafta keep flying back-and-forth every hour AND we can take turns back to back.” 

Fanboy doesn’t push the issue further. “Good thinking!” he chirps, and tucks the sleepy babies in between himself and Yo and settles down beside his family. “Muuuuch better,” he purrs and lays his arm across them. Relieved beyond measure, Yo allows herself to be protected, safe and warm.

“Is it really that bad?” she asks. “The “hearin’ everything at once” thing I mean?”

“It’s a little annoying,” Fanboy admits, pinching his pointer and thumb together. "I can hear someone goin' to the bathroom right now, but I’m gonna get used to it.” 

Yo makes a face. “Oh, grody. Definitely wear those ear plugs from now on.” She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “At least ya got someone who understands.”

Fanboy’s grin settles into something fairly coy. "I do indeed," he whispers lowly, causing Yo’s cheeks to warm. "Speaking of whom…” He blows a raspberry into her cheek.

Yo playfully pushes his face away. “Oh my gosh!” she muses. “I’m so glad you’re here. I really needed–” She stops short again and whips her hand back to her side. “Well, sleep tight.”

Then, expectedly, Fanboy quietly sings a lullaby, gazing at his son and daughter with all the love in the universe sparkling in his tender eyes.

“O'er the mills, fall stars, my Galaxy Hills. 

Sparkling their greetings, they plunge from the knolls. 

Down they go, down they go .

Bright diamonds beside my lovely abide, 

They will guard thee, under soft moonlight .

Here they come, here they come. 

The comets streak o'er and take all thy fear, 

Burning and flying, my darling, they're near. 

Up we go, up we go. 

My lovely, my star, my Galaxy Hills.”

Yo’s lids grow heavier and heavier until they fall. “Y’know,” she yawns, “You can fetch the other plushies. I have a feeling the kids’ll like ‘em.” The last thing she registers is Fanboy’s song hitching with delighted surprise and his gentle fingers stroking her hair.

Chapter Text

Yo wakens to find herself swaddled with plushies, likely Fanboy’s doing. Speaking of whom, Fanboy is already up and cradling his son. Before Yo can say a word, he swoops in for a deep kiss. “Gooooooood morning, Sleepyhead!” he sings into her mouth. 

Yo tears her mouth away before their morning breath reaches her nostrils. “G’ morn’.” Her forehead is drenched in sweat, evidence of her most recent nightmare. “How’d ya sleep?” she asks, and tends to her stirring daughter.

Fanboy’s expression would not betray him but for the awkward non-reply: “Ehh…” 

Yo grasps his chin and forces him to look at her. His guilty eyes tell all, and she doesn’t stand for it. “You stayed up all night again, didn’t you?” Yo glares. “You wanna sleep here again?

Again, Fanboy seems oblivious to the fact that he’s digging his own grave. “Oh, Yo. You wouldn’t evict your boyfriend.” He puts on his best puppy-eyes.

“Don’t tempt me,” Yo grunts, and kisses her daughter fully awake to be fed. 

“That’s what I thought,” Fanboy snickers, shivering slightly at the woman’s sudden glare searing into his temple. “But you’re right!” he concedes. “That was my bad.”

“Sure.” Yo does understand that, with the addition of Fanboy’s bat-like ears, he has a tough time remaining asleep now. Just like in the hospital, he must have been swooping in to tend to his babies at the tiniest sign of a whimper before Yo could register a sound.  

“You know,” Fanboy digresses to placate his partner. “Chum Chum makes killer pancakes. What do you say, Yo? Breakfast for two and a nice nap?"

Yo can’t refuse.

“Then it’s settled!” Fanboy shimmies out of the fort and into the cold morning air. 

“Meow?” The conversation pauses as Yukakitty strolls into view. 

Fanboy’s jaw drops. “Kitty-cat?!” It’s the first time he has seen an animal in ten years. His face brightens like a kid’s on Christmas morning and he squeals, “KITTY-CAT!”

One look at the unfamiliar man and the old cat’s hackles raise. Fanboy quickly realizes the pickle he’s in once the cat leaps for him yowling with its claws outstretched.

Fanboy backpedals. “Back! Back, you demon beast!" He dives back into the fort for cover. In hot pursuit, Yukakitty skids to a halt and stares up at her stern owner.

“Down,” Yo scolds, swatting her hand at the cat. “I taught you better than that.”

“Meow,” Yuka protests but obediently hops off the bed after giving the babies a curious sniff and Fanboy one last death stare.

“Demon-beast.” Fanboy clutches his pounding chest. “It picked up on your sour mood,” he grumbles, assuming that he wouldn’t be getting out of Yo’s place without a few scratches.

Greatly amused, Yo smiles and pinches his cheek. “Aw, you’ll be okay. You took on Boog; you can handle a kitty-cat.”

“I beg to differ!”

 —

When Fanboy and Yo finally take their leave, Chum Chum is waiting for them outside leaning against his car with a barely-concealed smirk. 

“Chum Chum!” Yo exclaims, happy to see him despite having remembered the man’s super hearing. “No eavesdropping, right?” 

“Always,” Chum Chum jokes, and takes the baby carriers. “Just kidding. Fanboy and I have to wear earplugs to get a wink of sleep.”

“Really?” Yo gives Fanboy a sideways glance.

“Yep! They’re pretty cool. They block outside noise, but...What?”

Yo whips her head to see Fanboy making a cutting motion across his throat.

“Er, anyway!” Chum Chum blurts before an argument can break out. “Swing on in, Lovebirds! It’s brunch time!” 

Pleased, Fanboy holds the door open for his partner and performs a near-silent happy jig to celebrate. “The groceries are in the trunk; we’re having homemade pancakes and bacon, Baby!” Chum Chum starts the engine.

Soon, they’re all back in the Fanlair. Fanboy and Yo wait patiently for their food at the new dining table, the babies nap in their pack-n-play, and Chum Chum works the stovetop.

"Look at him go!" Yo cheers. Chum Chum flip pancakes with the finesse of a seasoned chef, effortlessly gliding the spatula under each golden disc like a magician with a deck of cards. “It’s like watching a cooking show! Remember License to Krill?”

“Don’t think that was a cookin’ show,” Fanboy laughs. “But nothing compares to what this hero can make anyway. Saving the world one pancake at a time!"

“Oh, stop.” Chum Chum blushes with flattery and hands them their plates. “Bon appétit!”

Yo squeals, the aroma alone making her mouth water uncontrollably. The pancakes are stacked high, drizzled with maple syrup and adorned with a generous dollop of whipped cream, while the bacon is perfectly crispy and sizzling hot. It's a breakfast fit for royalty.

Chum Chum swells with pride as the two tuck in, and while he slowly savors each delicious bite of his pancake, he can't help but gawk at the sight of Fanboy and Yo devouring their breakfasts like wolves. Syrup drips down their chins as they exchange satisfied grins between mouthfuls. It's pure joy and contentment, shared over a scrumptious meal. 

“I feel SO bad for Buddy and Yui,” Fanboy moans between bites. “They’re missing out.”

"That’s alright," Chum Chum says warmly. "They'll get their own eventually!"

As Yo scarfs down the last few bites of fluffy pancakes, a thought comes to mind. “Say,” she says, “did Fanboy sneak out last night or did you drive him?” Fanboy freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. “I’m not upset. I’m just wondering.”

Before either man can answer, there’s a sudden knock at the door. Fanboy and Yo’s stomachs drop and Chum Chum calmly puts down his fork. “B-R-B,” he says with a mouth full of food. Fanboy and Yo share curious looks tinted with fear as Chum Chum leaves to open the door a crack and greet someone.

“Who is it?” Yo whispers, straining to catch a glimpse. Fanboy places a hand over the rim of the pac n’ play and perks his ears, but he doesn’t recognize the faint female whisper.

Eventually, Chum Chum gives a nod and quiet farewell before shutting the door and returning to his plate like nothing happened. 

“Who was that?” Yo asks. Chum Chum gives nothing away except for the gigantic gift-basket in his hand.

“Whoa!” Fanboy exclaims. His enthusiasm helps shift from his sidekick’s aloofness. “For us?” 

Chum Chum sets the basket, which is filled with flowers and other mystery items, aside. “You can have it. I’ve got a,” he rubs the back of his neck and makes an uncertain expression, “pursuer, I guess you could say.”

Fanboy and Yo exchange excited looks. “Girlfriend?” 

Chum Chum laughs and sits back down. “No, no! Nancy and I broke up a while ago.”

“Nancy Pancy?” Yo gasps. She sits back, stunned. She hasn’t heard her classmate’s name in years.

“Chum Chum, you’ve always had the ladies lined up at our door, you sly dog!” Fanboy teases, though his voice has no shortage of pride. He casts Yo a sneaky look and she hides a reminiscent smile behind her hand. 

Chum Chum rolls his eyes and takes a bite of food just as Yo suggests, “Invite her over.”

The poor man almost chokes on his fork. 

“Yeah!” Fanboy joins in. “I wanna meet this “girl of your dreams”!”

“No!” Chum Chum rushes. “I mean, on your own time, maybe, but I have more important things to worry about.”

“More important than true love?” Fanboy and Yo put on their sparkliest puppy-eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” the youngest of the trio groans. “Just eat your flippin’ pancakes, you two.”

—

After packing away more of Fanboy’s meager luggage, Chum Chum flies out and returns with an absolute mountain of baby supplies, including two cribs, a dresser, and paint. Yo works tirelessly painting the new spare room a pale yellow. She relies solely on memory to complete the task, sloppy but determined. Under her direction, Fanboy and Chum Chum organize the furniture and park the cribs side by side against the wall with a gap between them to walk through. When Yo isn’t watching, Fanboy props himself between the cribs and swings like a gymnast.

Soon, the barren room becomes a quaint nursery with enough natural light to bathe it in a warm glow. Yo requests that Fanboy and Chum Chum fetch a number of stuffed animals from her home to “liven things up.”

While they’re gone, Yo proceeds to hang twinkling fairy lights from corner to corner of the nursery ceiling, paint a mural of fluffy clouds and colorful balloons on one wall, and, when the men return, carefully arrange stuffed animals and mobiles above each crib. By the time evening rolls around, the nursery is now a magical space.

Yo sinks into her cushioned rocking chair like a stone after settling Buddy down for a nap. “Well, well,” she puffs, wiping sweat from her brow. “Who’s got the best decorator-mama ever?” In her arms, Yui whines impatiently to be fed. “You do!” Yo teases, tweaking her nose and kissing her profusely despite the baby’s protests. “Yes you do!” 

Chum Chum steps into the furnished space and whistles. “Bravo, Yo! I guess we found someone with a bigger imagination than–"

“Hey, Guys!” Fanboy calls from the loft. “When you're done ogling Yo's magic, come see what I found!”

Chum Chum lifts Yo right off her feet and flies her upstairs. They find Fanboy sitting cross-legged beside his bed and holding a small plastic box on his lap. Intrigued, Yo asks, “What’s in it?” 

Fanboy grins. “No idea!” He shakes the box and looks pointedly at Chum Chum. “Yours? I found it under my bed.”

“Not mine.” Remembering the night before, Chum Chum steps in front of the slightly mangled portion of the wall beside his bed. “You musta put that there when you were a kid.”

“Whoa… It’s been hidden for years!” Fanboy starts prying at the dusty lid. He’s too impatient to look for a key to discover what his younger self had kept secret. “What’s in it?”

“Coins?” Yo guesses.

“Pictures?” Chum Chum supplies. “Candy, maybe?”

“All three!?” Fanboy hastily pops off the lid and sends the lock flying. What lies within the box gives each party member pause.

“That’s it?” Fanboy squawks. In the box rests a medium-sized pinecone, coated in dust. Fanboy picks it up with two fingers and turns it like one would inspect a rock. “Why’d I store this?” Unimpressed, he tosses the pinecone from hand to hand. “Well, well. I was weirder than we thought, huh, Yo?” 

When Yo doesn’t answer, he turns to find her slack-jawed. “Yo?”

Yo reaches out and touches the familiar spines. “Ingrid," she says.

Fanboy takes a start. “Ingrid? What are you—?” The memories flood back like a tsunami. “Ohhh. Oooohhhh. I had that. Heh. Must’ve stored it after school…or something.”

Not that he remembers perfectly, but it’s more than likely he’d stolen the pinecone from Yo during a fight and stowed it under his bed as an act of revenge. Maybe even blackmail. He hunches over with shame and returns the pinecone back to its owner. “Sorry. I mean, it’s not like ya missed it more than–” He shuts his mouth. 

Chum Chum holds his breath. 

“You know what?” Yo smiles unconcernedly. “It’s just a pinecone.” She chuckles at Fanboy’s stunned expression and pinches his cheek before skipping downstairs with her daughter in arm to find a good place to display the item.

Back upstairs, Chum Chum struggles to hold back laughter at Fanboy’s wide-eyed face. “How are you still alive?”

“I’m not sure I am!” Fanboy checks his pulse. “Holy cow.”

Sometimes that’s all one can say off the back of a “fatal” discovery. The evening ends with a shared burst of laughter. 

—

Newfound stress leaves no one unscathed. The two months following Fanboy and Yo’s return home are hectic for all the Fanlair’s occupants. While continuing to modify the water tower, attending weekly therapy with Dr. Olive, and living life as normally as possible, the couple diligently attends their special intensive classes every night from 6:00PM to 9:00PM, leaving Chum Chum to babysit the twins after work. 

Living just below the Fanlair, Oz offers his help on a number of occasions, but Chum Chum always declines. “You and Pam have enough on your plates planning your wedding,” he points out. Oz understands Chum Chum's perspective, but persuades the young man to at least allow Pam to step in and help with the babysitting duties. Chum Chum reluctantly agrees to this arrangement. After all, Pam has a gift with children and Chum Chum could use the help despite his unwillingness to admit so.

Cloudy, wintry days are long and exhausting, but Chum Chum manages to keep his sense of humor. He often jokes that he's a part-time babysitter, intern, and sidekick, but, in reality:

“You’re a full-time hero.” That’s Fanboy’s astounded remark upon coming home to find Chum Chum donning a colorful clown wig and juggling a set of plastic balls to entertain the fussy twins. The younger of the two just points to the kitchen and mimes, “Food is on the table!”

Yo comes home one night to find a late dinner on the table and Chum Chum snoring on the floor with Buddy and Yui resting peacefully in the crook of his arms. “Hey, don’t be scared to take a break,” she insists.  

Chum Chum looks up with a groggy face and smiles. “No worries,” he says. “I can spare a few hours of my night to help out. It’s the least I can do.” 

“There’s just no arguing with you, is there, Sweetie?” Yo teases.

Speaking of whom, Yo assimilates into class like magic but Fanboy struggles to match her prowess. His short attention span and disinterest in education altogether are tall enough hurdles to overcome but, as time goes on, his mental state begins to strain under the weight of increasing responsibilities. After a decade of nothing to do and all day to do it, he feels swamped, for lack of better words.

However, he refuses to share his woes whenever they are brought to his attention by another party. Chum Chum is unsurprised: both by Fanboy’s struggling in class and refusal to acknowledge it.

“Chillax, Bud,” Fanboy often laughs when Chum Chum offers his insight. “If all else fails, there’s Clown-Town University.” He jokes, but there’s a storm slowly brewing inside him. He won’t relay this information to Dr. Olive, either. All he can do is cling desperately to the raft of his resolve, hoping to ride out the waves and navigate his way to calmer shores. 

Granted, as able as Yo seems by comparison, her quirks remain about her. Chum Chum finds food stored in random places in the Fanlair. A pair of apples under the couch, packets of chips stuffed in Fanboy’s pillowcase. She hoards food, sometimes unconsciously, sometimes on purpose. She often forgets to eat throughout the day and, when she does, she scarfs it down in a matter of seconds. She doesn't seem to have the capacity to keep track of her eating habits on her own. 

Fanboy doesn’t see an issue. “If we run out of food,” he points out, “there’ll always be something around here to snack on.”

But when Chum Chum scrapes a rotten hotdog from underneath the TV set, Yo is so embarrassed that it takes an hour to suppress her tears.

“I get it,” Chum Chum soothes the woman, rubbing her back. Or, he wishes he did so he knew what to say, but Yo seems pacified, wandering off to the babies and mumbling about “sticking to packaged food”.

Life hasn’t magically become easy. As time goes on, it’s rare for Fanboy and Yo to return to a peaceful home. Now, more often than not, they discover Chum Chum frazzled beyond measure.

The twins are a handful, constantly demanding attention from their parents, leaving Chum Chum with little time to relax or catch his breath in their three-hour absence. Yet, despite the chaos, the sidekick takes on his babysitting duties with unwavering dedication, ensuring that Fanboy and Yo can focus on their studies without worry. 

Fanboy is so moved by Chum Chum’s willingness to help that he studies for hours past his bedtime.

One night, Chum Chum approaches the couch to find the older man practically buried under a pile of study sheets. “I thought you weren’t a studier," Chum Chum teases kindly, knowing full well that Fanboy's sudden interest in academics is fueled by his desire to prove himself worthy of his best friend’s unwavering support.

“I’m not…normally!” Fanboy laughs, popping his head out from the pile. “But now I am. In fact, I’m trying this new method!” His technique, Chum Chum muses, is merely burying himself in notes and waiting for his body to “absorb the knowledge” as it were.

“Well, keep it up, Fanboy. You're really getting the hang of this studying thing." Chum Chum winks. He’s never been particularly bothered by Fanboy’s disinterest in schooling. He’s just happy being there to support him. He’s just happy his friend is alive.

Fanboy and Yo don’t often go out, the cold reminding them too deeply of their freezing former prison. But, on the rare occasion they go on a short walk to stretch their limbs, they steer clear of both the Frosty Mart and Boog’s apartment building. Every sight or sound that reminds Fanboy and Yo of their past captivity sends them into a state of anxiety, probing their hasty return to the toasty-warm Fanlair. 

One Saturday morning, Chum Chum returns to the breakfast table with a fistful of letters. A gift arrives on their doorstep every other day. Flowers, chocolates, candy, and cards. Chum Chum hides said cards before either of his friends catch a glimpse of the signatures but allows them the rest of the bounty. 

“I don’t think your crush would appreciate us taking her gifts,” Fanboy teases.

“Just the mailman this time!” Chum Chum waves the letters bemusedly. “Bills, bills, bills.” A hint of tension edges at his voice. 

“Bills? Ooh! Ooh! Lemme see ‘em!” Fanboy exclaims and snatches the papers from Chum Chum’s hand. 

“Be my guest.”

It’s comical how quickly Fanboy loses interest. “Ugh. Nothing like Mail Roulette,” he pouts, and pushes the letters back across the table. “That was so fun.”  

"You said it," Chum Chum agrees. "We should do that again sometime." Fanboy perks up.

“By the way,” Chum Chum leads, “I got a call from my boss last night–you might remember him: Mr. Dorsludge? He let me know there’s gonna be a meeting at the school–” Fanboy gags, “–tonight about the black ice on the roads. You wanna come with me? Oz agreed to watch the kids so we can all go together. How does that sound?”

“Uh, boring!” Fanboy answers bluntly. A meeting about black ice of all things sounds like the antithesis of fun. However, he’d never pass up a moment to join Chum Chum for anything. He has even tried to tag along with the younger man to his work, but Chum Chum sent him home.

“But who am I to let them torture you alone?” Fanboy laughs. Chum Chum’s fallen smile returns.

Yo nods. “I’m in.” 

“Perfect,” Chum Chum says, hiding a scheming grin behind his coffee cup.

—

By the time evening rolls around, Oz has taken the children down into his apartment to babysit and Yo has returned home to change. Chum Chum makes short work of her trip, flying her on his back. Now, Fanboy and Chum Chum prepare for the meeting themselves.

“Excited?”

“To hang out with you? Yes! For the meeting? No,” Fanboy mutters, donning thick winter clothes and struggling with his boots’ laces. “But it’s been a hot minute since we painted the town red!”

He hopes the meeting won’t drag on for too long. After sprucing up the Fanlair, he’d rather pass out with his family in his arms than stay up and listen to people talk about the roads. But, at least Yo will be coming along! And–a flash of anticipation–maybe some of his old classmates will be there too! 

“We’re flying, right?” he asks, donning an indigo ushanka.

Chum Chum winks. “Is that even a question?” Thoroughly bundled, they set off together, ready to take on the night. “Chum Chum and away!”

Out into the cold evening air they fly. They haven’t had a clear sky yet since returning from the hospital, but the dreary gray does little to keep the boys down.

Fanboy leaps from building to building like a gazelle sailing through the sky, whooping all the way. He hasn’t exerted himself like this in a decade; burning lungs, pounding head, and straining muscles are nostalgically distant. Between leaps, he notices the town isn’t as bustling as he’d anticipated.

“Where is everybody?” he manages between breaths. 

“Cozied up at home,” Chum Chum says, leapfrogging over the other man’s back and bouncing solidly off a snow-covered awning. “I don’t blame ‘em!” 

“I do! They're missing out!” Fanboy kicks a pile of snow to splat against Chum Chum’s chest and cackles. 

“Oh, you’re so on.”

Yo is waiting calmly outside her door when the men arrive. She’s dressed in a soft beige coat and black pants, her hands tucked snuggly into a rabbit-fur muff. “Busy?” she teases, noting their red cheeks and damp clothing.

Fanboy hunches forward to catch his breath, placing a hand over his ushanka to keep it perched atop his head. “War…” he gasps and lifts his head to offer Yo a weak grin. “...NO forfeit.”

“Of course not.” Yo flicks a bit of snow from Fanboy’s ushanka flap. “Soldier-Boy.”

“Adorable,” Chum Chum shakes snow from his cap. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Yo.”

“It’s okay!” Yo pulls on her blue pom-pom beanie and takes Fanboy’s cold hand in hers. “I’m ready.”

—

Walking through Galaxy Hill Elementary School’s doors feels like the manifestation of a distant dream. Fanboy and Yo see the ghosts of their pasts flitting across the tiled floors. The looming halls are dark and the lockers shut tight. Fanboy’s super ears pick up the muffled sounds of whispers.

“Do you remember our old teacher Mr. Mufflin?” Chum Chum asks. “He's hosting.”

Yo giggles. “Aw… Old Mr. Mufflin.”

“That there was one complicated man.” Fanboy shakes his head fondly. “I liked him.”

“He’s great,” Chum Chum agrees. “After the searches ended, he’s the one who commissioned the plaque.”

Fanboy cocks his head. “Plaque? What’s a plaque?”

Chum Chum stops in his tracks and turns Fanboy’s head toward the display case standing between rows of lockers. Behind the shiny glass are a multitude of sports trophies and awards, but sitting front and center:

“That’s a plaque.”

“It’s us!” Yo presses her nose to the glass and stares at the golden plaque bearing the embossings. “Oh my GOSH, we look so cute!” She takes a picture with her Polaroid camera.

“Toldja nobody forgot.” Chum Chum sends the plaque a bittersweet smile. “That’s been there for a while now.”

“How long?” Fanboy wants to know but Chum Chum is already steering him and Yo further down the hall, jostling their endearing thoughts. “C’mon,” he urges. “We don’t want to miss anything.”

While wondering how a pothole meeting could be anything but missable, Fanboy studies his passing surroundings. Green lockers, tiled floors, papers strewn about. It’s crazy to think that a new generation of kids have taken his place. Crazier yet, his own children will be running amuck in these halls in just a few years.

“Say, why are all the lights off?” Fanboy asks, inching closer to Yo. “And why is it so quiet?”

“Are we early?” Yo asks.

“Nope!” Chum Chum says. “We’re right on time.” Sure enough, after rounding one more corner, the trio reaches the old set of cafeteria doors. Chum Chum puts a finger to lips and knocks thrice. Even Yo’s average ears pick up the sudden scrambling following the knocks and she nervously squeezes Fanboy’s hand.

From the other side of the doors comes a muffled, “Please, come in!” 

Fanboy subconsciously wrinkles his nose at the formal tone, removes his ushanka with a heavy huff, and bravely pushes through both doors.  

Chum Chum hangs back while Fanboy and Yo stop in their tracks, taking in the scene before them. Over thirty people dressed in party attire and holding balloons or kazoos in their hands and party horns in their mouths standing poised before the newcomers. Fanboy's mouth jaw hits the floor the moment time the crowd bursts forth: 

“WELCOME HOME!" 

Yo sways where she stands while Fanboy's posture locks with shock. Beings as familiar and unfamiliar as the first sunset rush towards the couple and embrace them with warm hugs. 

“Ay, my goodness, Yo!" sobs a heavy-set woman with a bun. “It’s really you!”

Yo stammers, her brain struggling to comprehend who has just gathered her in her arms. “Lupe?” She feels the woman nodding against her temple. “Uh-huh!” It’s too much. Yo falls to her knees as a long drone fills her ears. Lupe, her childhood best friend, follows her to the floor. 

Fanboy joins the huddle. “H-Holy cow,” he stammers. 

Colorful streamers stretch from wall to wall. Platters of hot food line the cafeteria tables. Rainbow balloons bob about. All for them. All from their classmates of old.

“Wait a minute–!” Fanboy’s throat seizes as more memories flood his mind. “I thought this was a meeting!”

A chorus of laughter, ‘we were too louds’, and ‘yeahs' permeate the air.

“Is that them?” a young child’s voice chimes in. “Right there?”

“Yes, but don’t point,” an adult scolds. “And—hey! Get back. Give them space.”

“Welcome back, Man. You good?” Fanboy blinks up at the silhouetted figure standing before him. “Sorry ‘bout the noise. I warned everyone ‘bout yer ears, but, eh. People get excited.”

Fanboy takes the figure’s hand and helps Yo back to her feet. “What the–? Wait! It’s you!” Fanboy sputters. Indeed, the intern who'd performed checkups and given Fanboy his medicines stands before him in a red letterman jacket, smiling amidst the smiling crowd as comfortably as could be. “Nurse–! Ahh…” He snaps his fingers. “Intern…?”

“Duke,” the blonde man finishes and firmly shakes Fanboy’s limp hand. “Duke Ellington. We were in grades kinder through fifth together.” He gestures to the surrounding crowd of grinning, teary-eyed faces. “Almost all of us, actually. Good to see you again, Man.” Fanboy’s good eye twitches; he’s too stunned to speak let alone to realize that he’s crushing the other man’s hand. 

“Whoops!” He pulls away, cackling awkwardly, and takes a deep breath. In truth, his brain is a whirlwind of emotions. He hadn’t thought in a million years he’d be faced with someone who treated him during his recovery at the hospital. Recalling his “psychotic” behavior, Fanboy’s face reddens with embarrassment. “Good!” he blurts, unwilling to divulge their previous encounter. “I mean, good to see ya too! I’m great! Thank you so much.” 

“Oh my gosh!” Yo eagerly shakes Duke’s hand. “I remember! All the girls had crushes on you!”

At this revelation, Duke tips his head back and laughs heartily. “Even back then, huh?” 

Laughing along, Fanboy turns to a short brunette standing to the left of Duke. “Nancy?” he presumes, recalling how often Yo spoke of her freckled speccy friend.

“NANCY!” Yo cries, and the women embrace like colliding tectonic plates. “Is it actually you?” 

“Uh-huh. You look beautiful,” Nancy whimpers, and Yo practically lifts her off her feet.

“Cheech?” Fanboy guesses next. The hispanic man dressed in a cop’s uniform tips his hat. 

“Looking much better, Bro,” he compliments.

“Michael!” The man in a shades and leather jacket throws a peace sign.

“Welcome back!”

“Francine!” The diva stands before him in a Frosty Mart uniform. “Hiya, Babe,” she greets, and Fanboy can hear her noisily chewing her bubblegum as she pulls him into a hug. “What the heck happened? You’re adorable!” 

Fanboy blushes and gently pulls back. “Y-You too. Oh! Cher Leader!” 

A tall redheaded lady gives her signature pom-pom wave. “Hey, Hey! Glad you could make it.” She gives him a hug and sniffs. “I missed you two.” Fanboy returns the hug with a beam.

“S-Same.” Fanboy wipes his eyes and ventures further into the crowd. Neil, Chris Chuggy… With every face, his memory strengthens, and soon he’s remembering the names of his distant neighbors.

“Even Mr. Dorsludge,” he laughs, and the elderly gentleman shakes his hand with a knowing grin. Words fly amongst the crowd and their vips. Warm handshakes and hugs are given as old friends reunite. The atmosphere is electric with excitement and joy. Everyone is eager to catch up and share their stories.

“Lunch Lady Cram, Bus Lady Cram… Janitor Poopatine… Principal Paddlewhacks…” He stops, and regards the proclaimed host standing before him. It’s an older gentleman without his signature toupe, more weathered than he’d ever been. 

“Mr. Mufflin?” Fanboy hates the way his voice comes out all high-pitched and vulnerable, but his old teacher simply smiles and pulls his former student into a tight hug. 

“The very same,” Mr. Mufflin grumbles good-naturedly, and pats the young man’s bony shoulders. “Look at you. My old student: all grown up.” His voice carries a withered edge, like he’s seen too much in the decade Fanboy was missing.

“All grown up,” Fanboy repeats, running a hand through his golden-brown hair. That fact has become ever-more apparent while he towers over the older man. “What gave it away?” Even as he smiles, a lump form in his throat, feeling the weight of the years between them. “It’s awesome to see you again.”

“Likewise.” Mr. Mufflin’s googly eyes are oddly transfixed, but Fanboy is no stranger to scrutiny. He’s aware that, despite his impressive height, his appearance is youthful compared to his peers’ due to years of malnourishment. Hence, he hardly feels the stares burning the back of his head anymore. 

"I know why you're staring at me," Fanboy says, hoping to give the man some leeway. "But don't worry; I'm used to that kinda thing." Mr. Mufflin nods, still staring, but Fanboy can tell the scrutiny is fading away.

“Honestly, I didn’t think you’d be happy,” Fanboy hastily admits, “to see me, I mean.”

Mr. Mufflin doesn't hold back his surprise. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Fanboy smacks a hand over his watering eyes. “Psh. C’mon,” he forces through a bittersweet smile. “I was such a pain in the–” 

“Don’t.” Mr. Mufflin leans close so only Fanboy can hear. “Don’t betray Purple Kid. He’s been through enough.”

Amidst the sorrow, Fanboy has to laugh. Mr. Mufflin had bestowed the nickname “Purple Kid” onto him the first day of class. Along with charming examples like “Propeller-Head” and “Dunce”. Such names had never bothered innocent Fanboy, though, and despite having disrupted class on a regular basis, he admired Mr. Mufflin. 

“Purple-Kid. Oh my gosh.” Fanboy laughs and wipes his nose. “You forgot my name.”

“I never forgot “Fanboy”. How could I?” Mr. Mufflin reveals, amused. “Listen. Lance, I cared about you whether or not you were a pain. That goes for all my students.” He pats Fanboy’s brittle back. “I’m proud of you. And I’m so happy you’re home alive and well.”

Were it not for his partner approaching, Fanboy would have literally melted on the spot from the older gent’s warm words. “I didn’t do it alone.” He reaches for Yo and nods toward his best friend. “WE did it alone.” Habitually, he cracks up. 

“I don’t know if you remember me–” Yo starts, and Mr. Mufflin pulls her into a long hug.

“I’d never forget.” The teacher smiles and wags a finger. “You and your little digital pets. I still have some in my desk drawer. They’re all yours.” Mr. Mufflin glances over Fanboy’s shoulder to the small crowd of preteens gathering to gossip. “Oh, and before I forget: I let my students know who you were. They grew up with super strict stranger-danger rules, thanks to…” He trails, but the point’s been made.

“Is that who they are?” Fanboy looks over his shoulder with interest to see the group of wide-eyed preteens watching him. “Your new students?”

“Yep!” Mr. Mufflin shakes his head. “I’m still teaching 5th grade. Only two years ‘till retirement.” 

Yo puts a hand over her heart and smiles longingly at the children. “Then, that means they were just babies when we were…taken.” 

“And just as excited to hear you were rescued,” Mufflin assures. He puts a hand on each of their backs and guides them toward the crowd. The children’ excitement rouses and they gather around the couple to introduce themselves, as if Fanboy and Yo are celebrities.

Fanboy and Yo quickly fall in love with the chattering youngsters, sharing stories of their time in the very class the pupils presently reside. Fanboy feels not only pride, but a bit of obligation to let the kids know, “Mr. Mufflin is the coolest. Cut him some slack, ‘cause I know some of you make a ruckus in class, right?” A few guilty giggles from the students.

The rest of the party is a dream come true. For years, Fanboy and Yo had ached to catch even a glimpse of their classmates again, let alone celebrate a reunion with them. After mingling as one entity, everyone gradually splits off into three big groups: the ladies in one, gentlemen in another, and the kids in the last. 

Initially, Fanboy is quite nervous to join the pack. All the guys converse with Chum Chum as naturally as could be. In Fanboy's absence, it appears they've all become well acquainted, leaving him feeling out of the loop. He isn’t sure what to say, what to ask. The topics discussed are foreign. He doesn’t even understand half the words they use.

“So, I left one star,” Neil laughs after taking a swig of fruit punch. “They offered a replacement rebar but never followed through. Don’t trust anything that site says; they’ll suck you dry.” 

A chorus of laughter fills the air and Fanboy gives a few polite chuckles. “What about you?” Neil asks. All eyes swivel towards the star of the show. 

Despite having felt quite at home under the spotlight as a child, Fanboy’s mind now goes blank. The five seconds of silence as he frantically tries to respond are awful. Eventually, he focuses on his cup of punch while Chum Chum answers on his behalf. “We haven’t touched a phone in months,” the younger man explains. “We’ve been so busy settling in, ya know? Less Internet is better for the brain anyway. Right, Fan?”

Without context, Fanboy nods furiously. “Y-Yeah! Among a lotta other things.” A few titters. Hence, he opts to retain silence and watch his best friend interact with the group. After listening for a few minutes about the prevalence of “fake news and misinformation” Fanboy slinks off to the food table. Chum Chum joins him.

“Want some desert?” the younger man asks. He nabs a plate and fills it with a bit of everything. “I’m piggin’ out tonight.”

Fanboy is already scooping up a slice of cake with his hands and chowing down. “I just don’t get it, Chum Chum,” he mumbles through a mouthful. “I LOVE talking! How come I don’t now?” He wipes his mouth. “I mean, I know grownups like the news an’ stuff, but–” he shrugs helplessly. Even now, he can’t quite explain his internal struggle. “I don’ know about any of it.” 

Chum Chum pauses mid-chew. "Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. Heck, half the time, I have no idea what they’re griping about!" He laughs and hands his friend a fork. "Just enjoy the moment. You know, be yourself. Everyone likes you for who you are, not for how much you know." 

Fanboy perks. “That’s true!”

Chum Chum pats Fanboy on the back. "Exactly. Keep being awesome and everything will fall into place. If you don’t know what they’re talking about, I’ll clue you in the best I can.”

“Huh. Thanks, Buddy.” Confidence regained, Fanboy pumps a fist. “Let’s do it!”

The duo returns to the group and the night continues with relative merriment. Mercifully, nobody mentions the kidnapping, though Fanboy and Yo do receive heartfelt congratulations for their successful courtship and, even more amazing, children.

“You two have a baby?” gushes Lupe with stars in her eyes.

All the ladies have settled at a nearby lunch table with Yo packed snugly between her oldest friends. They’ve been nothing but kind, making their long-long classmate feel as welcomed and at-home as possible. Even after ten years of being apart, Yo settles in as naturally as can be. They can’t stop talking and catching up on all the things they had missed in each other's lives. 

“You’re a mother!” Nancy holds her hands over her heart. “Oh, Yo!” 

With that, Yo discovers two things. Firstly, none of the other girls are mothers yet. It makes sense, given their youth. Nobody amongst the old classmates is over the age of twenty-two. 

Secondly, Buddy and Yui’s existence somehow hasn’t breached the news cycle. That’s surprising to Yo given, as she’s heard, how eager the public is to gobble up their family's story. It won't be long, though, before the world finds out. 

Yo tries not to give the rest of the world her energy when her friends are here now. Everyone is so excited to learn about the new baby that their voices fill the room, the questions coming one after the other. 

“How old is he? Or she?”

A proud grin spreads across Yo’s face. “Well—”

“Boy or girl?” Nancy interrupts. The other women shush her ferociously. “Sorry, sorry!” 

Yo giggles into her cup of punch. “They’re three months old. Both of them,” she answers, drawing enormously loud squeals of joy from her re-acquainted friends. 

The questions come at a rapid fire pace. “You have TWO?” Cher cries. Yo nods. “Twins?!” Another nod. “A boy AND a girl?! Can I see a picture?!” 

Nothing can compare to the sheer volume of squeals. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh! You’re a mom!”

“And Fanboy’s a dad,” she reminds them, receiving good-natured kudos on his part. “He’s amazing, really.”

“What’re their names?” 

“Buddy and Yui,” Yo reveals. “Buddy looks just like his papa, and Yui looks like me.” Her wide smile settles into something bittersweet. “I can’t wait for them to meet you, Girls. I was so worried I’d never see you again.” 

The ladies promptly swarm Yo like a brood of mother hens, showering her with love and comfort. Their questions and coos create a symphony of relief, as they celebrate her return and cherish the reunion that was once feared impossible. In this moment, Yo is overjoyed to discover that her initial fears of being discarded were nothing. 

Meanwhile, the guys congratulate Fanboy on his fatherhood and success in “wrangling a mate”. Some of the men are crass: “How’d you manage before me?” Cheech groans, playfully punching Fanboy’s shoulder. 

Chum Chum scoffs. “Why wouldn’t he? You’re a wreck!”

The party continues with more outrageous antics, from impromptu dance-offs to karaoke battles, and even a spontaneous game of Twister that ends in a tangle of limbs and uncontrollable laughter. Mr. Mufflin stands guard to make sure the younger crowd, including Chum Chum, doesn’t get into the alcohol. 

Fanboy smiles as he watches Yo laugh and joke with her friends, mightily proud that she’d overcome the fear that her friends had abandoned her. "It's amazing what a difference a few months can make," he thinks. "What can a few years do?"

—

The trio leaves the school with their hearts and bellies full. The night has been nothing short of a dream come true, filled with unforgettable memories that Yo, Fanboy, and their friends will cherish for years to come. Back in the room, the couple had only ever imagined something like this could happen. The fact that it HAD is unfathomable.

“Can you believe Neil hit Chris with the piñata stick?” Fanboy cackles, stumbling a little from ingesting a mountain of sugar. “A-And Lupe fell off the dessert table?!”

“That looked painful,” Yo winces. 

When the laughter dies down, Chum Chum asks, “Are you sticking around tonight, Yo?”

Yo wistfully shakes her head. "I have a lot of cleaning to get done in the morning," she says. “But I'll never forget this night. It was just like old times.” Fanboy groans and she laughs. “I know, I know. You'd think I’d be done cleaning."

“I’m happy to lend a hand,” Chum Chum offers, but Yo shakes her head again. 

“I like to be alone sometimes,” she says. “Don’t listen in.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Chum Chum assures. “Well, you know who to call if you need some muscle!” He flexes his arms and Fanboy slaps him on the back.

“That’s my guy!”

“Meet you back at the Fanlair, Bud.” Chum Chum takes a running start and sails off into the sky.

Yo declines Fanboy’s offer to fly them back to her house and takes a lovely stroll with him instead. It’s late enough in the night where interception from joggers, commuters, and school kids is scant. The snow crunches beneath their boots. The streetlight reflects off of the freshly fallen blanket of white.  

Fanboy inhales the freezing air and spots a road sign further ahead: Tom King Avenue . He smiles, posture uncoiling with the regal flair of a proud royal. 

“Well,” he says simply. He again wraps a free arm around Yo. His queen. And their waiting prince and princess. “Aren’t we lucky.”

“We are,” Yo agrees, snuggling into his coat. They have a family, a home, friends.... Together they gaze skyward to the moon and twinkling stars. “Look at that,” she whispers. 

They haven’t had the privilege to see the stars in over a decade. The night sky is like a painting, each star twinkling like a small diamond set against the canvas of ink. Its breathtaking visage reminds Fanboy of the awe he’d felt when he first saw his hospital room decorated with the plastic stars. The marvel before him now is beyond comparison.

“I’m takin’ ya up there one day,” he tells Yo. “I’ll find us a nice comfy spot in the clouds and we’ll lay back, look at the stars, and just talk about anything and everything.”

“I’m afraid of heights,” Yo blurts. The couple exchange bewildered glances before bursting into laughter. 

“Afraid of heights?” Fanboy exclaims. “Well, I think your super-boyfriend can help with that.” He winks and puts his arm around her waist, to which she reciprocates. “Ooh! Ooh! There’s the moon!” Fanboy laughs. “Wassup, old friend?”

“Look at that one!” Yo points and Fanboy follows her gaze. “I think that’s Jupiter!” 

“Jupiter?” Fanboy cackles. “That old timer. Can’t wait to introduce you two.” He pretends to hoist her in the air as if preparing to take off. 

Yo playfully swats him. “Oh, no you don’t!”

They come to a gradual stop on a street corner, taking a moment to absorb the beauty of the night. For a time, Fanboy is able to ignore the shadowy tendrils and whispers creeping into his vicinity. They pause to kiss under the stars, feeling the world fade away and their time in the room becomes a distant memory. Their nerves sparkes like electricity upon contact. It crackles along their spines like tiny lightning bolts, static ecstasy dancing up to their hearts to drive every last coherent thought away. 

Once their giggles die down, Yo has an epiphany. “Is this it?” 

Fanboy cocks his head. “Is what it?”

Yo snuggles deeper into her coat, smiling like a shy child. And, as often when in Yo’s presence, Fanboy’s heart is set aflutter. 

“Is THIS when things get better from now on?” she clarifies. 

Fanboy blinks, startled. “Oh!” he exclaims and, upon serious contemplation, reflections of their turbulent past fills his mind. He takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of those shared experiences and the hope that lingers within them. Can he even answer such a question? 

“I don’t know,” he admits, though he’s certain Yo’s in the same boat. Whether this really is their turning point or just a fleeting moment like the countless others that have come and gone, Lord knows it will never be worse than their time in the room. "But I'm ready to find out," he adds, “with you.” 

Yo’s perfect smile evolves into a beam as bright as the moon hanging overhead and her eyes sparkle like the stars in kind. "With you," she agrees. Tightening their embrace, they walk hand in hand, savoring the moment into the rest of their lives. 

“Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

April 10, 2021

In the room as youngsters, Fanboy and Yo often played “house”. They prepared meals of air and defended their blanket from imaginary arctic wolves. Fanboy would pretend to go night-hunting while Yo would pretend to create the coziest living space possible. 

“Well,” Fanboy flourished, standing from the comforter to bask in the freezing air. “I’m off, Fair Lady. Off to find us the freshest meat! Pray for my safe return…” 

Yo held back laughter and wrapped the blanket around her like a babushka. “I will, Brave Hunter.” It was funny to imagine her skinny classmate as some rugged huntsman. 

“And I shall also tend to the children,” she responded with a posh, pitiful accent. “Shield them from the harsh winds and cold.” She gave a shrill cry and fell in a mock faint with the back of her hand pressed to her forehead. “I shall weave a bunny-fur blanket! Only the itchiest for my beloved!”

“And—Oh, come on. Itchy?”

The duo burst into rare laughter. Fanboy leapt back into the nest, snuggling under to rid himself of the shivers. “On second thought, I shall stay,” he said, pressing into her toasty hold. “Until the weather calms and the game return from hibernation.”

Yo held him, her giggles quieting completely as the tell-tale sound of footsteps permeated their playscape. Fanboy stilled. “Wolves?” he realized, desperate to hold onto some semblance of play as the door swung open to reveal Boog.

Just like that, the huntsman and fair lady were gone, two emaciated children in their place as they cowered under the piercing stare of their captor.

In the present, Fanboy and Yo live a reality miles different from what they’d imagined “playing house” would entail. Truthfully, minus the huntsman aspect, it is everything Fanboy could have hoped for. 

Regardless of whose home he and Yo spend the night in, every morning begins warm and safe in each other’s arms. Every meal, except for the occasional Frosty Mart take-out, is home-cooked and bountiful. They share baths, memories, and trade affection whenever they please without having to worry about a certain someone interrupting. They’re even free to be intimate with not one but two homes to themselves. All that’s missing is a diamond ring, but Fanboy is determined to acquire one soon. 

As the months go by, the persisting gloomy weather forces them to spend most afternoons indoors, but Fanboy and Yo make the most of it. By the time April rolls around, they’ve established a healthy routine engaging in childhood games, practicing their reading, coloring pictures, and devoting themselves to their children. 

Despite said children's demanding schedule, Fanboy and Yo do their best to find a circadian rhythm: rising at eight AM and settling at nine PM, but fall victim to sudden fatigue at random intervals throughout the day. Fanboy once found Yo on the floor of her tub. Yo once found him draped like a cat across his tall wardrobe.

Chum Chum has had multiple scares, finding them snoozing face-down on the roof and on the living room floor. He once even found Fanboy curled up in the kitchen sink.

When such incidents were brought to Oz’s attention, he assured, “Those habits will fizz out over time.”

In the evenings, the couple practices making dinner (under Chef Chum Chum’s direction) and catches up on movies that were released during their absence. 

When the sun is long set, they crawl into either Fanboy or Yo’s bed and fall happily asleep until the inevitable cries from the crib beckon them back.

Some days are better than others. Nightmares wake Yo in the middle of the night. Erratic memories lock Fanboy down in a catatonic state. When such episodes show signs of approach, he will excuse himself. When Yo comes to screaming in a pool of sweat, Fanboy is there to hold her close.

Sometimes Yo wakes in the middle of the night to Fanboy carefully moving against her body, making sure she’s alive and well.

There have been several scares regarding strangers. Once when Chum Chum is out working, a knock at the door sends Fanboy and Yo into a panic. When Chum Chum returns and retrieves his crush’s parcel off the porch, it takes him two panicking minutes to locate the entire family huddled in the bathtub shaking like leaves.

Another is during a movie marathon when a commercial for Chimp Chomp 4: Key and Peel plays on screen. As Chum Chum scrambles for the remote, Fanboy excuses himself and spends a good hour to himself in the closet. Thankfully, Yo and Chum Chum are there to coax him back to the light eventually, and Fanboy falls asleep in Yo’s arms to the sounds of Agent 8: License to Krill.

In the end, the overwhelming good is SO worth the bad. Not only do Fanboy and Yo have the opportunity to watch their children blossom, but they are seeing sides of each other long buried by grief. Especially striking is the side of Yo that has laid dormant for so long: her fun-loving, prank-happy, flirty zeal. 

“Young-Me would be stoked I have a boyfriend,” Yo laughs while browsing a photo album she’d found at home. “But she’d be shocked that he’s you.”

“Would she’ve liked me now?” Fanboy asks.

Yo bumps his shoulder. “What do you think, Silly?” 

Fanboy doesn’t have to ask to play with Yo. She pounces on him whenever and they wrestle to their hearts’ content.

He hadn’t predicted that Yo would become his number one playmate with Chum Chum around. More than that: she’s becoming the mother they’d both hoped she’d be: loving, attentive… Every night she’s awoken, she calmly nurses and rocks her children until they fall under. She’s coming into her role with the grace of an angel. 

Buddy develops a special connection with his mother, bursting into tears whenever she switches him with Yui, while Yui doesn’t care WHO is holding her as long as she’s being held.

Fanboy is enamored ever-more, following Yo about like a moth to light and fulfilling her every need. Aching back? He’ll massage. Hungry? He’ll fetch anything she desires. Fervid? He’ll HAPPILY be of service.

Every moment spent together, her laughter, adoration, and glowing face make his heart beat like a hammer and his legs turn to jello. In fact, Fanboy would spend every waking minute with Yo, but—

“I’m going out with the girls after work,” Yo announces over the patter of spring rain. 

“Have fun!” Chum Chum calls from the kitchen. “I’ll keep an ear out for ya.”

Yo rushes to gather her things while Fanboy tends to their children on the shaggy rug. “You want me to pick up a freeze on the way home?”

Fanboy winks. “But of course.”

“Berry Pink?” She hip-checks the door ajar and opens her umbrella in time to catch Fanboy nodding. “Called it!” She gives her children and partner a quick kiss and skedaddles. “I love you!”

“Love you–” The door slams shut. “–...too.” 

After a moment’s idle, Fanboy goes outside on the cold, damp porch to watch Yo stroll down the road. He’s quick enough to catch a flash of her pink umbrella before it disappears around the corner. 

“There she gooooes.” Fanboy leans against the railing and closes his eyes against the cool spring showers, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could tag along. “There she goooes again!”

After their return home, Fanboy never thought he’d feel lonely again. However, as fulfilling as Yo is, there’s an empty space in Fanboy’s heart yearning for brotherly companionship.

“Playing in the rain wouldn’t hurt either,” he notes, but Chum Chum has told him that Oz and Pam have forbidden it. That, for all his power, Fanboy’s immune system still suffers from years of mistreatment; he can’t risk catching a cold now. 

On cue, his brain clicks and shadowy tendrils creep into his vision. A voice he has failed to suppress usurps both the soothing patter of rain and plugs snug in his ears. 

Jump

Fanboy jolts from the railing and, scratching furiously at his arm, books it back indoors. “Babies!” he calls, and their gentle whines answer from the shag carpet before the TV. “Why, hello!” he coos, and the children observe him with those yearning, curious eyes. “Does someone wanna play?”

They squeal, and a surge of protectiveness engulfs the man. His longing to play in the rain is intense, but leaving them alone for even a moment makes his heart ache. 

Buddy and Yui have progressed well in the five months they’ve lived in the outside world: they can hold their heads up (Buddy has lagged a little as the weaker of the two), roll over onto their tummies and backs, and even babble! Fanboy couldn’t be prouder. 

Oz had mentioned that it would only be a matter of time before the babies started crawling and talking. Fanboy and Yo were ecstatic, hardly able to imagine their babies achieving such a thing. But before then:

“AHH!” Yui impatiently flails her arms.

“I hear ya, Gumdrop!” Fanboy shakes himself dry and pretends to ponder over the many toys strewn about. “Let’s see. What are we in the mood for today? Moose, penguin, kitty…” He snatches a stuffed puppy and waves it over the twins’ faces. “Does someone want PUPPY?”

“BAH!” Buddy calls.

“Buh-buh-Buddy! Hewwo, Buddy,” he mimics in a high pitched tone. “I’m a dog! Woof woof!” The blue-spotted puppy is Buddy’s favorite. He screeches and flaps his chubby arms for the toy. 

“Whup! Does Buddy want Puppy? Mwah!” Fanboy presses the toy’s snout against Buddy’s chubby cheek. “Papa wuvs you!” He tickles Buddy and the baby’s hysterical cackles fill the air. 

For as difficult as it is to get the babies to stop fussing, it’s easy to get them to laugh. Yui is less impressed until Fanboy grabs a stuffed rat and copies the action for her.

Once both babies are tuckered out, Fanboy curls around them like a mama cat. “Look at you two,” he says, stroking their fuzzy heads. “Growin’ like weeds and here I am: still don’t know how to work the oven. I thought I’d be a little smarter by now, but nope!” A hollow laugh reverberates through his chest. “Still stupid.”

“You’re not dumb,” Chum Chum scolds from the kitchen entry with his third cup of coffee in hand. 

Fanboy snickers at his friend. “I said, “stupid”, ya silly goose.”

“Stop.”

“Noted.” But Fanboy is convinced his self-deprecation is warranted. He hasn't adapted as well as he’d expected after months of freedom while Yo’s reintegration into society has accelerated tenfold. She has multiple friend groups, involves herself in the community, and even landed herself a part-time job down the road at a botany shop. 

But Fanboy? His attempts to befriend the other guys in town have all but failed. They’ve been polite, offering smiles and handshakes. But, despite Fanboy reaching out with his landline, they haven’t replied back. No letters, no invites, no messages, no nothing. 

The more Fanboy tries, the more the answer becomes clear: he has an unwelcoming presence. Baggage. It’s a disheartening realization. He can’t even blame his traumatic captivity because he has always been a social outcast. 

On the playground, at the park, and in the classroom, he had always been the “weirdo”, the “dummy”, the “dork”. His classmates shunned his friendship acquisitions like the plague. In fact, if not for Chum Chum, Fanboy would’ve been completely friendless.  

Now he wonders if he was ever really capable of being a friend to anyone but Chum Chum. “How about that?” he thinks vacantly. “Nothing’s changed.”

Yui’s tiny yawn cut through his thoughts.

“Well,” he concedes, taking her little hands into his, “maybe some things.” 

Fanboy tries to picture the infants as preteens, the same age he was when he was kidnapped, and a slew of dread swarms his chest. He cups his son in his large hands and presses their foreheads together. “No worries, Pal. I won’t let anything like that happen. And I won’t let my dumbness get in your way either. I promise.” 

“Got that, Buddy?” he whispers aloud. “How’s your telepathy?”

Buddy smacks his father’s cheeks. “Ba-baba!”

“You got it,” Fanboy chuckles. The more the twins grow, the more often Fanboy and Yo see themselves in them. However, so too does Fanboy's guilt grow in kind. He can't help but worry if by merely existing he’s setting the wrong example for his children, even at their young ages. 

“Welp! At least your mama’s normal,” he thinks wistfully. He must’ve done something right to attract someone as awesome as her.

Like being her only option for a decade. 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Fanboy blurts, and the voices quiet, leaving him to think in merciful silence.

His head has become a sold-out stadium. In moments of quiet, voices both familiar and unfamiliar dish out vices like the devil on his shoulder. 

He’ll be feeding the babies and—

Drop them

He’ll be cuddling with Yo and—

Crush her

He’ll be in class and—

Dump out your soup on his desk

Very specific. He’d actually done that once during a lecture’s pause at his and Yo’s special classes: gotten up as if in a trance and dumped the contents of his thermos onto his teacher’s desk. Beans, bacon, and all. A long pause followed that baffling maneuver aside from “Let’s take a snack break,” from the bewildered professor.

Over the course of the ride home, Yo had badgered Fanboy relentlessly about his actions and there was little he could say beside, “I thought it’d be funny?” 

“I admit: hilarious. But Prank Day was last month,” Yo had scolded.  

Now, Fanboy has made it a mission to both ignore the voices completely and keep the knowledge of said voices under wraps. Yo’s doing too well to be burdened with that. 

“It’s my burden to carry,” he’d thought with dramatic flair to distance the pain. He’d lived with (admittedly seldom) voices in the room for years. If he tried, he could convince himself that he was used to them by now. “Thanks for breaking my brain, Boog.” 

After putting the children down for a nap, Fanboy tries to keep himself busy by walking laps on the ceiling and reading a comic, but he’s itching. Banned from playing in the rain, his only option is to turn to indoor entertainment, but he can’t think of anything stimulating. He needs someone to match his strength.

As if on cue, his sensitive ears perk up at the sound of graphite scratching paper from the kitchen. “Of course! It’s so obvious!” he thinks. “Chum Chum can play with me!”  

Chum Chum has assured more than once that as soon as Fanboy finishes classes, their schedules will no longer overlap. They’ve been so busy that Fanboy had forgotten the option was available! Fanboy snaps his comic shut. Chum Chum will do perfectly! So, off he flies to the kitchen.

“Salutations, Best Pal-O-Mine!” Fanboy greets, floating upside-down over the table where Chum Chum is ferociously chewing the end of his pencil. “Got a second t’ spare?”

Chum Chum pauses, then blinks up at Fanboy as if surprised to see him. “Oh! To play?”

“Duh!” Fanboy frowns and pulls Chum Chum’s shirt sleeve. “You forgot to put on your costume again.”

“Guilty,” the younger man admits with a little laugh. “Sorry, Dude. I’m swamped.” 

Fanboy wilts. “You said you’d be free after church.”

What happened to free time? He wants to ask. Their schedules don’t overlap anymore, so sans a clear answer, Fanboy’s a bit suspended. Well, VERY suspended, like the moment an object drifts underwater before sinking or floating. 

“I know. I’m sorry.” Chum Chum apologizes. “I forgot how much work I had.”

Fanboy slumps all the way across the table with a dramatic groan. “Can’t you take a teensy-weensy break?”

“I can’t,” Chum Chum regrets. “I have momentum going.” He tugs a parchment out from under Fanboy’s hip. “If you want something to do, Oz needs help organizing the shop.”

“Whuh-oh.” Fanboy wrinkles his nose. “That sounds like work.”

“It’ll get your blood pumping.”

“But it’s work,” Fanboy repeats as if Chum Chum is missing the point. 

Chum Chum huffs shortly and hunches back over his papers. “Welcome to the real wor–” He stops short. 

Fanboy floats up and crosses his arms, far from dissuaded. “Well, what else can I do? Yo’s out, school’s out, the kids are out-cold…”

Chum Chum points a stern finger at Fanboy. “Don’t think that just because you’re done with school, you’re done with work.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “You’re never done with work.”

“Guess not.” Fanboy grins fondly and settles back on the table. “Buddy and Yui are a lotta work, but I like that.” He starts to swing his legs, causing said table to creak and Chum Chum’s temperature to rise. 

“Fanboy,” he exhales. “Read some books. Draw a picture. Invent a snack. See how many somersaults you can do without barfing.”

Fanboy pouts. “That’s only fun with you.” He can’t quite understand why Chum Chum’s so stubborn about this. After all, he was the one who’d made all the promises that their friendship would be first priority.

“Well,” Chum Chum says with finality, “at some point, ya gotta learn how to have fun by yourself.” He hunches over his work, essentially ending the conversation. 

Fanboy crosses his arms. “Lame,” he mutters. A few minutes pass with relative quiet until he slips off into a daydream and begins to swing his legs again.

Already irked, Chum Chum wastes no time in saying, “Shush.”

But Fanboy keeps on, drifting deeper into his daydream.

“Fanboy.”

Nothing.

“LANCE!”

Startled, Fanboy rears back off the table. “Wha—?”

“It’s not my job to keep you entertained!” The unforeseen hysteria in Chum Chum’s voice is so jarring that it takes Fanboy a moment to recoup. 

“I didn’t say it was.”

Chum Chum stands, regretting his delivery as soon as it passes his lips. “Look, I get you’re bored, but guess what? That’s part of life! Part of being an adult! And this–” He raps his knuckles against the stack of papers, “—is more important than your boredom right now! Okay?!”

The air stills and Fanboy with it, his startled expression falling blank. Chum Chum catches his breath and waits. An airy “…Okay,” escapes Fanboy’s throat like rising steam. With that, he calmly steps past the younger man and out of the kitchen. 

The sidekick simmers alone, his face burning red with shame and despair. After counting to ten in his head, he follows Fanboy upstairs. “I'm sorry,” he apologizes. “I shouldn’t have yelled.” 

Fanboy sits on the edge of his bed with his hand on the crib. “It’s okay,” he says quietly, though visibly tense.

“No, it’s not.” Chum Chum groans, the lingering heat from his ire smoldering still. “I just get all frazzled if people bug me when I’m working.”

“It’s okay. I won’t ask anymore.” Fanboy’s even tone veils the brewing storm inside him. 

He doesn’t want to spend time with you

You made him feel like a circus monkey

He doesn’t like you anymore

“Listen.” Chum Chum tries to bridge the gap, but the distance between them has stretched too far. “You CAN ask me. Just not when I’m in the middle of w—“

Fanboy rapidly hits the side of his head with a closed fist, startling Chum Chum into a brief, dismayed silence. “Whew! Sorry, Pal. Feeling rattled,” Fanboy says.

“...D-Don’t do that.” 

Fanboy smiles widely and turns his head to hide the forming bruise. “Anywho, I’m gonna hang here for a while.”

“Do you need anything?”

“Nope.” Fanboy squeezes himself in the cramped space between his childhood bed and bedside table. “Time out.”

Chum Chum reluctantly retreats as his friend buries his face in his knees and trembles. All the way downstairs in the kitchen, Chum Chum detects the other man’s strained whispers and grinding teeth. What’s also alarming is the subtle protesting of seams, evidence that Fanboy is gripping his clothing so harshly that it's beginning to tear.

“I’ll make you a hot cocoa,” Chum Chum calls, and does so despite receiving no answer. “It isn’t fair,” he thinks while putting a kettle on the stove. Fanboy is an adrenaline junkie, always has been. He needs something or someone to keep his pumping blood occupied. But Chum Chum can’t be expected to always be available when Fanboy wants him.

Suddenly, a light-bulb appears above his head. “Aha!” he thinks, fishing his phone from his pocket. 

“Oh. Ed, I dunno.”

“One night out,” Chum Chum demands, looking down to make certain Fanboy hasn’t followed him into the rainy sky. He’s hoping the mask of thunder will help hide this conversation. “He’s awesome, Cheech. He’s just having a little trouble adjusting.”

“No kidding. The guy asked me to play with him at the park last week. You know how creepy that is? Two grown men playing at a kid’s playground?”

Chum Chum’s patience quickly wears thin. “Holy moly! Will you cut him some slack!?” Silence from the other end. Aware of his own hypocrisy, Chum Chum’s grip on his phone tightens. “The playground’s what he’s used to right now, but that’ll change when he hangs out with us more.” 

The lingering silence from the other end has Chum Chum convinced he’s been hung up on until: “Since when are you letting him leave the house? Isn’t it sprinkling tonight?”

Chum Chum tenses. “Cheech.”

“Fine. Liquor Hole?”

“Yeah.” Chum Chum calms. “We’ll meet you there at 11:00. …And if you call him creepy again, I’ll kill you. Yes, Officer, that’s a threat.”

“Whatever. See you then.”

After dinner, Chum Chum tells Fanboy as casually as possible. “The boys invited us to the bar to hang out,” he relays. “You free tonight?”

Fanboy freezes with his ice cream spoon halfway to his mouth. “Hang out?” He can’t believe it. “With both of us?”

“Said they wouldn’t start without you,” Chum Chum lies, praying his relaxed posture will mask his nervous energy. Through no fault of his own, Fanboy hasn’t stepped foot into an adult space. Perhaps Chum Chum should have some deeper reservations regarding the noisy atmosphere, but with two sets of earplugs in his pocket, what’s to fear?

Fanboy’s face brightens like a child’s on Christmas morning. “YES! Yes, I’m free!” He pauses and looks to Yo with wide eyes. “Am I?” 

Yo giggles.

“But you have to leave your costume behind,” Chum Chum says, looking over the brightly-colored uniform. “We’re using our secret identities.” 

Yo places both hands over her heart in a graceful swoon. “Awww… How sweet!” she coos. “I’ll hold down the fort. You boys have a good night.”

After dessert, Fanboy and Chum Chum ready themselves for the night out. “Alright, Fanboy. You ready to see how adults have fun?”

“Am I EVER! But are you sure I needa wear a normal outfit?” Fanboy asks, fondly tracing his long satin gloves.

In truth, he’s been quite insistent on wearing his costume as often as possible. Chum Chum has convinced him to ditch it during church and class but, aside from that, Fanboy wears it as often as he did his old costume as a child. “It keeps villains at bay,” he says.

Chum Chum winks. “So do cops. And Cheech is coming.”

The bar is a short walk away and an even shorter flight from the Fanlair, but Chum Chum insists on taking his car. The rain is falling again and Chum Chum isn’t taking any chances, despite his best friend’s protests.

“You’re unbelievable,” Fanboy teases as they pull into a small lot and exit the car. “I’m not a cancer patient!” Dressed in a casual long-sleeved plaid shirt and black pants, he sucks in the cold air and leans his ear toward the muffled booming music coming from within the concrete building before them. “I shoulda brought my costume. What if something crazy happens?”

Instead of arguing, Chum Chum hands over Fanboy’s set of earplugs. “It’s gonna be loud,” he warns. “Stick by me. If it gets to be too much, we’ll find another place to hang.”

“Ooh! The park?” Fanboy doesn’t understand the sorrowful tinge on Chum Chum’s face but forgets about it completely as soon as they enter the bright-lit establishment.

The earplugs were a good call. Noise vibrates against every surface of the small space like a billion jazzy bees.

“Whoa!” Fanboy mouths, clutching his racing chest with surprise. The bar is packed. Patrons left and right drink heartily in groups large and small. Ladies adorned in short sparkly dresses sway back and forth while men lean back against the walls. A familiar few make room at the barstools. Fanboy can’t figure out how a place with so many colorful lights can be this dark.

“Hey, Cheech! Michael! Chuggy!” Chum Chum calls. “The dynamic duo has arrived!” The three men sitting at the barstools wave them over with exuberant grins. Both delighted and nervous, Fanboy waves back.

“Hi!” In the sudden merriment, Fanboy almost fails to pick up a strange sight. The other patrons in the bar are minding themselves but a lone man sitting at the very edge of the barstools is staring straight at him. Fanboy matches his gaze for only a second before the man freezes with alarm and abruptly leaves. 

Fanboy can only focus on his thick black glasses and poofy hair before he’s out the door. “Who was–?”

“Sup, Dude?!” Fanboy finds himself pulled into a friendly huddle. Cheech is speaking to him!

“Hi-hi!” Fanboy shouts over the music, and pulls Cheech closer into a bone-crushing hug. “Thanks so much for inviting us! I missed you guys!” Chuggy envelopes the hug and, as Cheech wheezes for air, Chum Chum addresses Michael. 

“Where’s Duke?”

“Overtime at Rockwell’s,” Michael says. “He’s on his way though.”

“Word. Any of you goons have a lighter?” Cheech asks, casually sticking a cigarette between his lips. Fanboy’s eyes widen like they are witnessing a car crash in real-time. He opens his mouth to say something, to—goodness forbid—give Cheech a lecture, but Michael tugs him to the barstools.

“C’mon,” Michael says, pulling his wallet from his jeans pocket. “My treat.” He gestures to the stadium of liquors before them and nods to the young bartender staring wide-eyed at Fanboy. “Pick your favorite.” 

“Mine? Ummm…” Fanboy is an alien among earthlings in this joint, feeling as if he’s been asked to recite the quadratic formula. His eyes nearly cross trying to decipher the tiny labels on the bottles. To save face, he leans towards Michael and ventures, “What’s your favorite?”

Understanding, Michael orders a cocktail for himself and the sweetest shot on the menu for Fanboy. After receiving their glasses from the curious bartender, they clink them together.

“Hold on!” Michael stops Fanboy as he raises the glass. “Guys! Guys! He’s gonna take his first shot!” Fanboy turns to find Chum Chum and Cheech arguing ferociously, but they stop short and approach with excited faces. 

“Ooooh! You beat me to it!” Chum Chum congratulates, to which Chris Chuggy not-so-subtly scoffs. Nonetheless, the rest of the group orders their drinks and stand in a semicircle beside the bar table. 

Fanboy notices everyone has some bubbly liquid in his glass but Chum Chum. “What about you, Bud?”

Chum Chum laughs. “I’m only 20.”

“Exactly,” Cheech teases, giving Chum Chum the “I have my eyes on you” gesture. “Enjoy your water, Sonny.”

“Aw, shut up,” Chum Chum dismisses. “To the first of many outings!” Everyone raises his glass. Fanboy quickly copies the action, clinking his glass against the others. 

Without thinking to sip first, Fanboy takes a large swig and stops short. The look of horror on his face must be comical, because the group erupts with hearty laughter. “Good?” Cheech cackles, and Fanboy promptly upchucks his mouthful back into the cup.

“Oh, GAH,” he gags, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “You guys drink this on purpose!? That’s criminal!” The other men grin knowingly as Fanboy puts his glass down. “Yeah, I’m gonna pass. Urk.”

“Here.” Chum Chum offers his water cup just as Michael’s pocket vibrates.

“Oh, shoot.” Michael scans his phone screen. “Duke has a flat tire.” He sighs and gives each group member a look. “Alright. Who’s taking one for the team?”

Cheech leans back into his stool. “I’m inebriated. Ed’s the designated driver. He can go.” Everyone looks toward Chum Chum, who nods in admittance. 

“Aw…” Disappointed, Fanboy stands to follow, but Chum Chum waves him off.

“No, no. You stay and have some fun,” he says, surprising everyone. “Shut up, Cheech,” he shoots toward the officer, who raises his hands defensively. “I’ll be back twenty minutes tops. Alright?” 

Fanboy nods breathlessly and turns back to the group once his best friend has gone. “So!” He clasps his hands together, feeling a bit nervous without Chum Chum by his side. “We uh, still drinkin’?”

“Of course!” Cheech high-fives him. “The night’s young.”

“Try a different one,” Michael offers Fanboy, and hands the bartender a ten.

After the tragedy that was his first drink, Fanboy is reluctant. “But it tastes so baaaad,” he whines.

“Like rat-poison,” Michael agrees, and chugs another shot of his own. He puts on a southern twang. “But liver-poisoning is a small price to pay for a wicked-fun time.”

Fanboy is unsure but, as he looks around at the other patrons, realizes that Michael may have a point.

All the people here are drunk and merry. In fact, other than the dark stranger who’d bolted, the place is free of frowning faces. He looks back to the wall of sparkling liquors, oh-so appealing to the man who’d been devoid of color for a decade. 

“If there was another way to smother our qualms,” Cheech pipes in, “we’d take it.” He raises his shot glass. “But for now?” He swigs.

“Smother our qualms?” Fanboy repeats. 

“Forget our worries,” Michael explains.

“Oh!” That sounds nice. And Fanboy doesn’t want to distance himself from an activity that everyone here clearly enjoys. He wants to become a part of the group, win their approval.

“OH!” Cheech, having probably downed his seventh drink of God-knows-what, blurts. “Just, fyi, you look a lot better now than when I last saw you.”

“At the party?” Fanboy straightens his posture. He likes to think he’s eating better, exercising more.

“At the rescue,” Cheech clarifies. “You AND Yo. Lookin’ a lot better now!” He gives a dizzy thumbs-up.

When Fanboy realizes what Cheech is referring to, his stomach drops. 

Having been on death’s doorstep at the time, Fanboy’s memory of the rescue is non-existent, but he’s able to piece of the puzzle Yo had described. How, while in the room they teetered on the edge of life, blue-uniformed cops had burst in and saved them from that torment. Fanboy’s stare slides down to Cheech’s badge, which glints in the bar’s low-lighting. 

Cheech had seen him like that. “That” was worse than what Duke, the nurse intern, had borne witness to. Far worse than what even Oz and Pam had seen. In the room, Fanboy had been at his weakest, mere minutes from succumbing. Naked, starved, broken; a mere skeleton. It’s the last thing Fanboy wants to be remembered by and Cheech rambles on like it’s nothing.

To add insult to injury: “I broke the chain off your leg,” Cheech adds, making a cutting motion with his fingers.

Torn between gratitude and horror, Fanboy’s lower lid twitches, the reopening of healing wounds too overwhelming for the poor man to handle. On the cusp of screaming, Fanboy’s inner powder kegs of emotion ignite. Wordlessly, he turns to Michael, the man in leather looking perplexed. 

“Want me to hit ‘im for you?” Michael offers timidly. Chuggy smacks his fist into his palm in agreement.

“No need.” Fanboy points to the wall of fancy bottles. “I want the grossest ones they got.”

Chum Chum returns with Duke in tow later than he’d liked to and finds the bar fully packed. Gently pushing his way through, Chum Chum spots Michael, Chuggy, and Cheech looking like deer in headlights. He then discovers Fanboy in the center of the bar surrounded by cheering patrons and… chugging vodka out of a barrel. 

Duke stops short behind him, releasing a puff of air. “Oh, man.”

“Hey! Chum’s heeeeeeere!” Fanboy cheers once he’s finished, the last dribbles of alcohol running down his chin and onto his tussled shirt. The crowd joins in and he tosses the barrel aside. “Welcome back, Muchachooooo!”

Chum Chum feels shock slam him like a train while Duke slinks off wincing. 

Fanboy stumbles toward his best friend at the speed of light and giggles like a mad hatter. “Ch-Chum, my main man! My guy! Ya GOTTA try th-the…poison! Ssssguh-REAT!” He lets out a high-pitched squeal and topples into Chum Chum’s arms. 

“How–?” Poor Chum Chum is beside himself with shock. “Are you—?” He turns his building ire towards his targets: Michael and Cheech, who cower from the fire in his eyes. Chris Chuggy bolts from the building entirely, jumping straight through a glass window. “Whaddya do?!”

“It wasn’t us!” Michael protests. “He straight-up yoinked the barrel out from behind the counter!” Cheech nods dizzily, aware of the danger even in his drunken state.

“It’s true!” wails the unfortunate bartender, who’d failed to supply Fanboy drinks faster than he’d consumed them. The crowd just cackles.

Chum Chum’s heart sinks. All he can do is stare at the slurring, cross-eyed man in his arms. 

“Hey, hey! HEY!” Fanboy hiccups, shakily poking Chum Chum in the chest to draw back his attention. “Hey… When’d ya get so cuh-yoot?” Without warning, Fanboy grabs him by the jawline and jams their mouths together.

If nothing else, THAT snaps Chum Chum out of his daze. He shrieks with shock and shoves Fanboy back to hold him at arm's length. “What are you doing?!” he bellows, but Fanboy is free of all information. He just lolls his head and drags a hand down the younger man’s face. 

“Dude! Get a hold of yourself!”

“Naaahsss…s’wha’ Yo-Yo a’ways WANTED!” he slurs. “C’mere!” He tries for another “kiss” but Chum Chum holds him steady. 

“Whup. There it is,” snickers a random patron from the crowd, and it takes everything in the sidekick to suppress his rage.

“We’re leaving. Michael and Cheech can find their own rides.”

“What? Nuh-uhhhh!” Fanboy complains, pulling half-heartedly against his friend’s iron grip. “I’m havin’ fun!” He lolls his head back to catch a glimpse of Cheech and Michael’s nervously grinning faces. “UGH! Mom’s inna moody ‘gain! See ya later, Alligators!”

Once they’re on the road again, Chum Chum tries hard to retain his irritation, but Fanboy’s drunken slurring does little to help.

“I dun’ wanna go,” Fanboy whines, kicking his feet up against the glove compartment. “It’s only sssleven-teen!” 

“Why’d you drink so much!?” Chum Chum bursts, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that he’s afraid it may break. He and Fanboy were supposed to have a fairly relaxing evening with the boys. Have a few drinks and chat. Not this.

“A’cause!” Fanboy hiccups. “I hurted!” He twists and turns in his seat until he’s a tangled mess. “But! BUT! Heheh… Butt. They like me now!”

Chum Chum tightens his grip on Fanboy’s skinny wrist. “Don’t,” he warns. “And what do you mean “hurted”? What hurts?”

“Me!” Fanboy laughs and takes Chum Chum’s hand to playfully gnaw on it. “Bu’ not no more!”

“You will when the hangover hits,” Chum Chum mutters as their home looms into view. “We should’ve gotten Frosty-Freezy-Freezes.”

“Nahhh,” Fanboy slurs and gives Chum Chum the shock of his life by SLAMMING his head right through the passenger window. “This’s better thanna brain freeze!” he hollers into the rain and shakes his fists at an invisible force. “NA-NA-NA!”

Chum Chum stammers as Fanboy sticks his entire torso out the broken window and basks in the cold, cold downpour.

May 1, 2021

To Chum Chum’s ever-eternal thanks, the next morning arrives sooner than expected.

While Yo sharpens her pancake-making skills, Chum Chum finds Fanboy in the bathroom huddled over the commode. He winces. “Want some ginger ale?” 

A drawn-out groan is all the answer he receives, alongside some heaving. He fetches the beverage anyway and takes a knee beside his best friend.

Fanboy won’t look at him. He’s pale and his eyes are puffy and swollen. His unbuttoned pajama shirt hangs off his shoulders like a toga, accentuating his frailty. Luckily, he only sustained a small cut on his forehead from bashing his head through Chum Chum’s car window, but the rest of him has a lot more to recover from.

“You okay?” the sidekick asks, rubbing the small of the hero’s back. 

Fanboy nods listlessly, then shakes his head. “They’re louder.”

Chum Chum is confused. He touches Fanboy’s ear-plugs. “Are these not working anymore?”

Fanboy promptly bursts into near-silent tears. Chum Chum pulls him close, ignoring the smell of vomit to comfort the older man. He doesn’t know what to say anymore except to ask, “Who’s louder?”

“Him. Them. Everyone.” Fanboy wipes his nose, hiccups. “Nothing. It’s okay. I’m okay. It–” He touches his forehead and cringes. “Did something crazy happen?”

Chum Chum doesn’t have the heart to tell him. “The guys wanna hang out again,” he tries to amend, “at the park, next time.”

They share a small laugh.

“You scared me last night,” Chum Chum says and Fanboy hunches over, evidently distraught. 

“Chum Chum, I know something cra–... I think I’m cr—“ Fanboy stops. After some time heaving, he gets to his feet, unsteady but assured. He says nothing else of what’s “louder”, even with Yo’s gentle coaxing, surprising Chum Chum greatly. 

When afternoon rolls around, Yo wants nothing more than to skip her dental appointment to comfort her clearly bothered partner, but he insists she leave despite looking one tap away from shattering. Concerned but trusting that Chum Chum has everything under control, Yo reluctantly takes her leave. 

After putting Buddy and Yui down for their afternoon nap, Chum Chum collapses into his bed exhausted from the previous night. He may not have gotten wasted, but he’d stayed up with Fanboy to make sure he didn’t accidentally hurt himself. 

Chum Chum passes out within minutes and wakes an hour or two later to the soft sound of crying. Chum Chum pulls out his earplugs and sits up, confused. The babies are awake in their crib, calling for their father.

He looks over the loft and spots Fanboy sitting on the loveseat. “Fan?” He rubs his eyes. “The kids are up.” 

No answer.

Chum Chum frowns at the back of the man’s head. Fanboy has always rushed to care for his children at the tiniest inkling of a whimper. Why not now?

“Fanboy.” Chum Chum slides down to the loveseat to chastise his friend, only to freeze.

Fanboy is drawn tensile and shaking like a leaf. His knees press hard against his chest and his hands tightly grip the armrest and back cushions. He does not once indicate his friend’s presence.

Chum Chum’s heart leaps to his throat. “Fanboy?” He snaps his fingers, but Fanboy doesn’t look at him, just grits his chattering teeth and stares wide-eyed at the unplugged TV.

Chum Chum doesn’t want to entertain a notion beyond: “Y-You’re cold! I’ll grab you a blanket.” He does so in less than a minute but by the time he returns:

“Fanboy?” 

Fanboy is no longer on the couch. He’s standing stationary between the couch and the entrance to the kitchen, holding a lopsided clay vase, an old art project he’d made for school years ago. He finally looks at Chum Chum, who drops the blanket. This isn’t the first time the younger man has been greeted by that blank stare. 

Fanboy’s unreadable expression remains as the vase slips slowly and deliberately from his fingers and shatters on the wood floor. 

Chum Chum cries out and covers his ears at the loud crash but Fanboy stands unbothered. Stranger yet, he begins to laugh. Hard.

Speechless, Chum Chum uncovers his ears. There are a million questions running rampant in his head but he needs to clean up the mess before looking for answers. “H-Hang tight, Bud.” He steers Fanboy away from the broken glass and sits him back on the couch. “Lemme get a dustbin.” 

In the span of five seconds it takes Chum Chum to fetch supplies, Fanboy disappears. Chum Chum drops the broom and dustbin just as distant thunder rumbles. 

“W-Where are you?” he cries, tilting his head to listen and discerning ragged breathing coming from up above. “Lance!” He nearly trips over himself speeding up to the trapdoor in the ceiling and climbing onto the slick roof.

He discovers Fanboy sitting on the edge staring mindlessly into the downpour. He’s stripped down to his undergarments, dangling his legs precariously over the threshold while tightly clenching a ceramic shard to his bloody palm.

Time is of the essence. Chum Chum doesn’t think Fanboy’s injuries are serious, but it’s clear beyond any shadow of a doubt that the man has lost touch with reality and needs more help than from a best friend. 

Chum Chum wraps the skinny man in his oversized orange shirt to shield him from the rain and immediately flies him to Rockwell’s hospital. 

On the way, questions tornado through his mind as relentlessly as the storm pelts him with rain. 

“How did this happen?! How’d he get this bad?! What will the doctors say? Is he going to be okay? What if he never heals?! His kids need him! What will YO say?! What do I do now?!”

Fanboy is near-unconscious but still psychotic when they arrive at the emergency room. Nearby patients gawk at the sight of the flying man and the seizing wretch in his arms.

The medical staff rush forth and Chum Chum tells all, including the source of their powers. He doesn’t risk Fanboy fighting back against the staff; he flies off and his powers disappear a mere block away from the hospital. That’s the range, he concludes as he sinks to the ground and walks the rest of the way back, paying no mind to the assault of rain.

Just as he reaches the Fanlair, the doctors call his cell to explain Fanboy’s diagnosis. The truth, even if he’d had a feeling, makes his stomach churn in the worst way possible. Fanboy won’t be coming home. And Chum Chum’s the one who has to tell Yo.

Speaking of whom, Yo waits inside with bated breath, her children snuggled soundly before her on the shaggy rug. When Chum Chum enters, soaked in rain, she wastes no time. “Are you okay!?” A nod. “Is he okay? What’s wrong with him?”

“Schizophrenia,” Chum Chum doesn’t meet her eyes but collapses onto the couch, prompting the woman to fetch the discarded blanket to drape over his sopping-wet shoulders.

“Sci-what?”

“Schizophrenia. It’s like a disease in the brain. It's not contagious, but… he hallucinates. Hears and sees things that aren’t there.”

Yo slowly sinks back to the rug, sweating bullets. “H-How did he get that?”

Chum Chum shrugs helplessly. “They don’t know yet. It could be a lot of things. Chemical imbalance. Brain injury. Stress, probably, from what happened. Or, maybe it’s always been a thing and it was manageable until now. They’re gonna find out.”

“Is there medicine for it?”

Chum Chum won’t allow his doubt to squander her hope. “Yeah.” He nods, locking his hands in his lap. “They have something for everything.” 

“And—“ Yo touches his knee. “He can’t break out, right?”

“I mean, he can try.“ Chum Chum explains to her how his and Fanboy’s powers operate. That, outside a short radius of separation, their powers disappear altogether. Hence, without Chum Chum in his vicinity, Fanboy is as good as grounded.

Yo leans back against the couch. “O-Okay.” She wipes her eyes. “Um, well…”

Chum Chum waits for her to ask why he hadn’t gone close enough to Boog’s place to ignite Fanboy’s powers or, if he had come close, why hadn’t Fanboy sensed them? Because if he had, they could have escaped, right?

Instead, Yo determines, “If they have medicine, he’ll be home before we know it.”

Even as cheerful as she’s been, her optimism is surprising in the circumstance. “You’re taking this insanely well,” Chum Chum comments.

“Of course! If the doctors fixed me,” Yo reasons, “they’ll fix Fanboy no problem.” She carefully stands, balancing a sleepy baby on each hip. “I’m gonna make him a get-well card.”

“…Yeah. Me too.” But Chum Chum doesn’t join Yo in the kitchen where the arts and crafts are stored. In fact, he doesn’t stand for the longest time. When he does, it’s to trudge upstairs and collapse onto his unmade bed, uncaring if Yo hears his sobs.

“It’s my fault,” he chokes. “It's all my fricken fault.” 

“No, it’s not.” 

Chum Chum jumps. Without super-hearing, he hadn’t heard Yo’s heavy footsteps follow him upstairs. “Yes, it is,” he croaks. “He’d be okay if I’d just…just…”

Rescued them from Boog’s? Played with Fanboy when he’d asked? Garnered him the freedom to play in the rain even to his own detriment?

He feels the mattress shift as Yo sits. “Fanboy did everything he could to help me,” she shares, “and I still did what I did.”

Chum Chum whines despairingly and clutches his dark-brown locks, but Yo keeps her composure having seen Fanboy at his worst many-a-time. “The doctors will know what to do,” she comforts, rubbing Chum Chum’s back. “They’ll take care of him now, and we’ll be there for him afterward. Okay?”

But Chum Chum is inconsolable. Eventually, Yo gradually retreats downstairs to rethink their current arrangement. 

Just a few miles away, a heavily-medicated Fanboy lays awake in his hospital bed, two other patients snoring nearby. His brain feels foggy and his vision blurry. Just as planned, Chum Chum’s absence has snuffed out his powers. But this has left his immune system to reap the consequences. He sneezes, sniffles, and shivers beneath the thin hospital bed sheets, wanting nothing more than his partner’s warm arms around him.

The inpatient unit is small and cold, far too familiar to the room. “Yo,” he whimpers in a child-like manner, reaching to cuddle his baby who isn’t there. “Chum Chum. I wanna go home.” 

May 9th, 2021

Fanboy’s tenure at the clinic is brief. Unlike his previous hospital stay, he is readily receptive to the help he’s offered, talking to the kind doctors and giving clear insight into his mind. His relief comes as a surprise to himself. Explaining his demons to people who understand does a wonder for his head. 

“You don’t need to apologize. Always tell someone you trust when things don’t feel right up there,” Dr. Olive had told him after he’d tried to express his shame. “Don’t mince words either. The more we know, the better we’ll be able to help.” Determined to see his family again in a healthy state, Fanboy obliges.

He can’t quite remember the time between Yo leaving for her dentist appointment and waking up in a hospital bed. He recalls rain, wind, and cold…

When Fanboy comes to, Chum Chum is carrying him bridal style. “Wha-?” He sneezes groggily. The whoosh of wind assaults his ears. “Ugh. Whas ‘appenin’?” 

They’re in the sky, that much he can deduce, and he’s wrapped in a big poofy jacket. One of Chum Chum’s and sporting the letters of a nearby highschool.

Without receiving an answer, Fanboy lifts a hand to rub his nose and notices the crude bandages wrapped around his palm. He stiffens, now alert. “Chum Chum?” A flare of panic. “Where’s–?!”

“They’re all fine,” Chum Chum answers, his voice terribly hoarse. “You just cut your hand.”

Fanboy studies the bandages again, pressing a finger down on one and wincing at both the pain and the spotting of blood. “Muh hand,” he repeats. “Huh. Hand. Hand. Hand.” He doesn’t quite understand the hubbub. “I thought nothin’ could hurt us now,” he says, referring to his power of invincibility.

“So did I,” Chum Chum croaks.

Fanboy’s work pays off. Soon, he’s got a prescription in hand and a date of release: a week after his birthday. “I forgot my birthday was coming!” he comments to a fellow patient at breakfast. “I’m gonna be twenty-two years old!”

Oz visits him the night after his arrival, silently gathering the young man in his arms and squeezing gently.

“Sorry,” Fanboy moans into his adopted father’s shoulder. “I tried to ignore ‘em. The voices, I mean.” 

“No worries.” Oz gives him a stack of his favorite comics. “Focus on getting better,” he advises. “Tell the professionals everything; they’ll know what to do. Seriously.”

Fanboy is confused as to why everyone has rejected his apology thus far. Why would those who count on him to retain a healthy lifestyle wave off his regret?

When Yo visits halfway through his first week, she brings the children along to see their father. Those visits are Fanboy’s favorite.

“Happy early Birthday, Daddy! We’re excited for you to come home,” she coos after they’ve settled at a small cafeteria table. “Chum Chum and I are making Oz’s mom’s special cupcakes just for you!”

“Awesome!” Fanboy claps. “Where is he, anyway?”

“At home, doing work,” Yo answers blithely. “He says, “Hi!”” Her eyes flash to his wristband. “Cute bracelet.”

Fanboy smiles flirtatiously and flashes his pink wristband. “I’m starting a collection,” he jokes, but the moment does somber after a spell.

“I’m sorry if I freaked ya out,” Fanboy mumbles, reaching across the table to caress her hand. “I knew I was messed up in the head but I thought I could handle it.”

“Aw.” Yo kindly waves him off. “You don’t need to say sorry.”

Fanboy frowns. “No, I DO. ‘Cause you’re working your tail off to be happy and normal again and Chum Chum’s working so hard and—“ His voice breaks. “—THIS whole thing happened and it’s not fair just because I’m a stupid idiot and ruining everything—!”

Yo presses her soft fingers to his lips, stunning him into silence. After a moment’s quiet, she murmurs, “You sound very familiar.” Allowing Fanboy to absorb her words, she pulls away.

There isn’t a lot more that needs to be explained. Fanboy realizes right then that he’s essentially become a hull of doubt and self-loathing. Or, in blunter terms: what Yo had been during their hospital stay. 

“Look at me.”

Fanboy obeys.

“I know what it’s like for your brain to be mean to you. Like, when it tells ya that you’re bad and to do bad things. But it’s not true. None of it is. You’re so loved. And you’re worthwhile. And you have something that nobody else has.”

Fanboy blinks back tears. “W-What?”

Yo smiles and waves Yui’s tiny hand. “Look at them, Lance. Look at these beautiful babies you made.”

Fanboy’s eyes drift down to his children, his greatest gifts to the world. “I just wanna be good.”

Yo nods.

“I want people to see I can be normal too.”

“Too late,” Yo teases, and rounds the table to give her love a much-needed embrace. “Because you’re already a good dad AND a good person. So you’re not normal. So what? Neither am I!”

Fanboy nods hard. “Yeah, you’re pretty much a freak,” he teases. They share a laugh.

“And you know what? That’s okay.” Yo caresses his cheek. “It’s okay for us to be where we are after what happened as long as we don’t hurt anyone. It took a lot for me to realize that. Now it’s your turn.”

Fanboy wipes his eyes again and pulls Yo onto his lap to give his family a proper cuddle and lots of kisses. “Well, with Chum Chum helping,” he coos at his son, “who am I to disagree?”

“Oh! Speaking of whom.” Yo has been wanting to discuss this with her partner for a week now. “I’ve been thinking…”

May 16th marks another day of spring refusing to yield to summer's embrace, as rain showers persist throughout the Galaxy Hills region. The steady drizzle paints the urban landscape in shades of blue and gray, keeping the air cool and the ground damp. 

Fanboy's return from the mental hospital is akin to the persistent showers—both bring a fresh, somber presence to wash over the landscape of his companions’ lives. Just as the rain continues to fall, so does the weight of his emotional struggles, casting a shadow that lingers long after the initial downpour.

Chum Chum, who in shame hadn’t visited Fanboy once, notices the change at first glance.

Fanboy’s thin face is noticeably slackened, like a pond settled after a storm. Medicated. Subdued. And, while the depth of sorrow remains after such turbulence, there is an acceptance lining his features, an understanding.

Yo welcomes the man with a joyful squeal and hug. Regretful for not visiting his friend, Chum Chum steps forward and offers an embrace, but Fanboy's embrace back is not so strong.

Since Fanboy’s twenty-second birthday had passed during his inpatient stay, Yo, Chum Chum, and all their friends throw him a belated party. Cheech brings special Frosty Freezy-Freeze-styled mocktails just for Fanboy, who is delighted to have all his and Chum Chum’s old classmates over again. 

Chum Chum keeps a polite distance while Fanboy bonds with the others at long last. He’s speaking easier, not anxious as he’d been during the reunion party at the school. He lets silences naturally linger and listens quietly for his turn while the others converse.  

“Did he learn that at the hospital?” Chum Chum wonders to himself. He knows how intensive a week-long stay can be, let alone two. 

By the time June rolls around, Yui learns to crawl. And what a little adventurer she is! She explores every inch of the Fanlair, taking in her surroundings with a curious wonder. She soon learns to pull herself up onto furniture and, before long, she's ready for her first steps.

Poor Buddy lags behind, his little body frailer than his sister’s, but he gets the hang of it eventually and excitedly scrambles behind his twin to keep up. Everyone who comes into contact with the children are enamored and the young parents couldn’t be prouder.

One day while Fanboy is finishing dishes, Yui sneaks up from behind and grabs her father’s leg. Fanboy jumps. “Whoa!” He playfully sneers down at her mischievous, giggly face. “Oh, you little prankster.”

“That’s my girl!” Yo calls from the couch where she watches Buddy play with his toys on the rug. Fanboy picks Yui up and spins, causing her to squeal. Not to be outdone, Buddy launches himself at his mother and grabs her skirt tight.

“Ma-ma!” 

Both mother and father freeze. “Did he just–?” Yo begins, awestruck. A huge smile spreads across her partner’s face as their son bounces on her shoes. “Mamamamama!” he chants, and lifts his chubby arms up.

Yo could cry. Instead, she gathers her son into her arms. “Good job,” she whispers, peppering kisses onto his little face. “Good job, my smart, smart boy.” Buddy wiggles with glee. 

Neither Fanboy nor Yo specify aloud how worried they’d been that their children, due to their parents’ traumas and mistakes, would develop incorrectly. Their imaginations ran rampant with theories, but now they know their worst fears were unfounded. Fanboy and Yui join Yo and Buddy on the couch, the elders content and relieved.

True to his word, Fanboy doesn’t approach Chum Chum to play, even shying away from offers until Chum Chum gives up. Dinners among them all are awkward and Yo has to pick up the conversations that fizzle.

There’s a tremendous tension in the air that can’t be ignored for much longer. Despite Chum Chum's best efforts, the rift between Fanboy and him remains, and it's clear that something needs to be done to repair the damage. Question is, what?

Chum Chum paces the sidewalk and steps through the Frosty Mart’s sliding glass doors. A familiar face is all-too eager to greet him.

“Heeeey, Handsome!” Francine calls out to the man in orange walking in. She shuts her magazine and leans over the counter, resting her chin on her hand with a seductive smile. “I left another basket this morning.” 

“I saw,” Chum Chum nods. Usually, he’d tease back, but today, he’s trudging on as if all the energy has been sucked out of him by a vacuum. 

“The usual?” Francine offers, but Chum Chum beelines for the Frosty Freezy Freeze machine without answering. So sullen. Watching him, Francine can only assume why. The guy has been busier than a bee in a field of blooming flowers, constantly buzzing from one task to another, but now he seems like a wilted flower, drained of all its energy and vibrancy.

“So…” Francine starts, tapping her hot-pink nails across the glass counter. “Where’s my party-switch pitch? Can’t leave me hanging, Mr. Canvasser.”

Chum Chum startles, nearly spilling his newly-poured Freeze, and shakes his head. That’s right. His promotion had been the talk of the town. Now he’s going from door to door to canvas.

“Sorry, Francine. I had a long day.” To save gas money, he walked near five miles across town to do his job. In dress shoes, no less. Now it feels like his feet are going to fall off. 

“I can tell,” Francine snickers, and runs a finger under one of her eyes. “I haven't seen bags that deep since my last shopping spree.”

The metaphor falls rather flat in the face of his evident distress. “It’s a living.”

“Oh, speaking of “living”, I haven’t seen your friend since his birthday,” Francine says, typing his order onto the register. “Pretty sure he was “black-out drunk” on mocktails, but he promised he’d come by and he’s been, like, a TOTAL no-show.”

“Yeah,” Chum Chum acknowledges, running a hand through his hair and wincing at the memory of the bar. “Things have been a little cra– hectic, but he’ll drop by. He loved this place.” He leans against the counter. “We used to have so much fun here,” he reminisces, “before everything went bananas.”

He avoids the Chimp Chomp arcade game and focuses his eyes on the Freezy Freeze machine, watching visions of his and Fanboy’s younger selves hootin’ and hollerin’ and running amuck. 

“I’m not really one to dredge up that stuff but, man, we had it good. And–” he stops, shakes his head to clear it of memories. “And now Lenny’s running the show!”

“So he keeps reminding us, and reminding us when he bothers to show up,” Francine scoffs, fluffing her magazine over her face to mask her concern. “His whole wife came by earlier to remind me this morning.”

Chum Chum chuckles. “As opposed to half his wife?” Francine snorts. “It’s cool. Fanboy’ll visit when he’s ready. He’s still…” A long pause hangs over the counter. “...in remission.”

Francine lowers her magazine and smoothes out the pages to rest her elbows on. “So,” she says, her big amber eyes fixed on the man. “How’re you?”

Francine has been a pleasant, if not slightly overbearing, presence in Chum Chum’s life. As obnoxiously flirtatious as she can be, he finds comfort in knowing that she genuinely cares about his well-being. Granted, he’s pushed her away every chance he has. 

Chum Chum tilts his head. “Well, his hallucinations went kaput,” he answers plainly. “Oz said with the new meds and low-stress—“

“Uh, no,” Francine interrupts, briefly touching his arm. “I mean, like, how’re YOU?”

“Me?” Her touch jumbles Chum Chum’s normally solid train of thought. For a moment he seems unable to even understand the question. “I’m fine.”

“Oh really? Then, how come every time I see you, ya got body bags under your eyes?” Francine challenges.

Chum Chum blinks. “That’s a question.”

“That needs an answer,” Francince insists. “C’mon, Babe! Tell me how you’re really doing. Or feeling. Or whatever!”

Chum Chum quickly buckles under the woman’s intensity. “Okay! Fine. Uh, well, I’m feeling–” he stops short, frustrated, and takes a moment to express his solo game of tug of war in an eloquent manner. “I feel obligated. Guilty. About wanting to go–“ He gestures aimlessly. “Ehhh– I’m furious with Boog, obviously, but Oz too, even Fanboy. I don’t know if I KNOW him anymore. I don’t even know if he likes me.”

There. It’s out in the open. Francine remains quiet, mulling over the man’s words as he opens his wallet to pay for his drink. 

“But then I look at them,” he continues, pausing at his niece and nephew’s pictures, “and I force myself to see the best friend I had. When I do that, he becomes that friend. He turns back into the friend I loved, and I transform into the friend who loved him.” He aims a half-hearted smile at the woman. “I haven’t had a moment’s peace since, well, ever, but if I give up it means I’m giving up on him.” He rolls his eyes. “Pathetic, huh?”

“You’re dedicated,” Francine says.

Chum Chum stills her with a casual wave of his hand. He has about him this odd self-possession that comes with close proximity to delusion. “What friend would I be if I wasn’t?”

“Mm.” Francince bites the inside of her cheek. “He’s pretty lucky.”

That remark stirs something ugly in Chum Chum’s gut. “Lucky.” He snaps his wallet shut. 

Francine sombers. “Eddy?”

No answer but the shaking hand Chum Chum runs between his eyes. Francine rounds the counter and gathers the man into her arms. Chum Chum struggles to resist the warmth of Francine's embrace. He shudders once, silently into her shoulder, and nothing else betrays him but for the croak in his voice.

“I have to do this, Francince.”

“No, you don’t. Not alone, anyway,” Francine says, and runs a hand down his back.

“What. You want in?” Chum Chum scoffs. “You’d be surprised how many people don’t want “crazy” in their lives.”

Francine clucks her tongue. “Crazy-Schmazy. I don’t–”

“No.” There is definitely an odd feeling about Chum Chum, both strong and fragile, like giant plates of shifting ice. “He’s my responsibility.” That statement gives Francine pause. She was certain he’d meant to say “It’s my responsibility”, but that Fruedian slip lay the truth bare and ripe for scrutiny.

Francine pulls back. “Is he?”

Chum Chum reverts to wiping his eyes to avoid the prod. “I don’t have any plans to move out. If I did, I wouldn't leave town anyway, so what’s the point?”

“The point?” Francine’s hands slide down his arms and briefly lock with his. “YOU. You can be there for yourself AND your friends without BEING there 24/7. I’m no doctor, but I don’t think that’s healthy for you or for him.”

Chum Chum looks at her, his face a mask of uncertainty. “I don't….” 

Francine continues gently. “We’re not little anymore, Eddy. It's okay to want something different for yourself.” She gives his hands a gentle squeeze. “You know what they say: “distance makes the heart grow fonder”.” She rounds the countertop, leaving the man speechless.  

“Anyhow,” Francine says, falling back into her diva tone as she finally rings him up, “my shift’s ending at five. Wanna grab a coffee? Maybe I could drop by your place.”

No surprise. Francine’s been pining for him since senior year of high school. Chum Chum tilts his drink, unsurprised to find it melted. “And catch up with Fanboy?” Chum Chum smiles. “He’d love that.”

Francine winks. “Obvi. And maybe when you find the time, just you and me?” She holds up a hand before he can protest. “Platonic. I promise.”

“Sure, Fran. Sure.” Chum Chum regards the Freezy-Freeze machine. “Actually, I’ll take one more freeze.”

Chum Chum returns home feeling much lighter than when he’d left. Though he loathes to admit it, venting his feelings to Francine has done wonders for his brain. And her understanding, her sympathy, made him feel warm. 

“Fanboy?” he calls softly in case the children are napping. “Yo?”

“Yo’s out with her friends,” comes Fanboy’s short whisper from the living area. “The kids are napping.”

Chum Chum finds him sitting on the floor before the big circular window near the door. He’s pressing his forehead against the glass, eyes closed. Chum Chum offers the berry pink, and Fanboy takes it without looking.

For a long while, neither man speaks. The surrounding air feels tangible enough to touch, to cut.

“How’re you feeling?” It’s an appropriate question, but Chum Chum wants to kick himself for how repetitive and patronizing it must seem. Fanboy must be sick of hearing it.

Fanboy smiles. “I’m well.” He scoots back to sit beside his friend. “I love the rain sounds. I don’t even need to wear plugs.” The two listen in stalwart silence to the raindrops pattering against the circle window pane. Sensing Fanboy’s mild shiver, Chum Chum fetches a blanket from the couch and drapes it over his friend.

“Thank you,” Fanboy says, and squeezes his hand. Chum Chum looks to where the blanket dips around the back of Fanboy’s neck and inhales.

“You have a scar,” he blurts. “I mean, another one.”

Fanboy perks. “Mm? Where?”

Chum Chum takes Fanboy’s hand and traces it over the faint pink-and-white line crossing the back of the man’s neck. “Oh!” Fanboy nods to himself. “Yeah. That must’ve been from when Boog used the…scissor thingy.”

Chum Chum suppresses a strangled choke of horror and collapses beside his friend. 

Unbothered, Fanboy studies the blue and pink cup in his hand, eyes tracing up and down the icicle designs and graphic “FFF” logo. He shrugs and pops the straw into his mouth, taking a slow sip. 

“Boog used to drink these in front of us.”

Shaking the graphic images from his mind, Chum Chum straightens, cautiously attentive. Neither Fanboy nor he have spoken to each other about the couple’s experiences in the room. Yo has been forthcoming, but only a bit, never letting more than a word or two of reference leave her lips.

“We always asked him for some,” Fanboy recounts, “but he never gave us any. He drank it all on purpose and pretended he didn’t mean to. If he did have any left, he’d dump it on the floor and…” He inhales deeply. 

Chum Chum notices Fanboy's grip trembling around the cup and his eyes fixed straight, as if trying to anchor himself in the present. "...he'd laugh," Fanboy continues quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chum Chum waits but Fanboy never finishes the story. Just takes a strained sip of his drink and pivots.

“We ate our nails. And… we ate each other’s scabs,” Fanboy says. “We had a lot of scabs, obviously. Boog would…” He stops short again to trace one of the many scars littering his hands and wrists but presses on. “We drank our blood too.” Another sip.

“It was freezing. He didn’t give us extra clothes, so we stunk bad. Heh. We had to stay under a blanket together so we wouldn’t freeze, but the ground was concrete, so…” He frowns. “At first I hated being so close to her. I guess I was embarrassed, but I got over it pretty quick…” he trails, a faint redness staining his cheeks.

Chum Chum waits but Fanboy says nothing else. Taking the helm to initiate requires a surge of courage from the younger man. “When I was eleven,” Chum Chum quietly recounts, “I fell off my bike when I was looking for you.” Fanboy’s expression remains impassive but his ears perk, listening intently.

“It was on the corner of Orion and Belt near the park. I hit the curb and broke my wrist. But I got it patched up that afternoon and went back to biking the same day.” 

Fanboy takes a moment to absorb the story and sip. “One time, I smacked Boog with a metal platter-thingy. He brought us Man-Arctic Crunch to celebrate one of our birthdays. Even though it probably wasn’t either of our birthdays.” 

The briefest of smirks graces Fanboy’s face. “I hit him so hard. He had a black eye and everything; I saw it when he was on his way out the door. He stomped on my head—“ He pauses to gesture toward another faint scar running along his temple, causing Chum Chum to tense, “—but he had a lump on his head for a week. I think I was twelve.”

Chum Chum’s chest tightens. “…A-After Oz’s mom died, I brought cupcakes to her funeral. My plan was to leave one at her gravestone but a seagull swooped down and stole it. So I left another one, but another seagull got it. On and on and she ended up with nothing but bird droppings.”

For Mrs. Harmonian’s sake, Fanboy cringes. He misses the old woman dearly, even if she spent most of her time scolding Oz. “When I told Yo my real name, she laughed.” He chuckles. “Lancelot Beatrice Corporal III. She thought I was kidding. So I made sure to laugh super hard when she brought up her last name, even though I already knew it.”

“I wrestled Chris in front of the whole school,” Chum Chum says, smiling a little. “It was the wrestling championship so I thought it was the perfect time to impress the girls.” Fanboy perks, his eyes bright with interest.

“Did it work?”

Chum Chum snorts. “I wish “getting wrecked” was cool. Nah, I got creamed; are you kidding? Chris is huge!”

Fanboy shrugs, hiding a smile with a sip of freeze. “I dunno. I stabbed Boog with a chicken bone once.” He hums proudly. “I don’t know if it went through him or not but, after, he came back and tried to shove it down my—” Fanboy palms his throat and fingers the roof of his mouth where the sharp bone pierced and sliced the flesh. 

“Yo said it was the coolest thing I’d ever done. And, for some reason, Boog let me keep it! I don’t think he thought I would try t’ stick him again. I didn’t. But Yo and I played “drums” with it.”

“I hope he has a scar,” Chum Chum mutters. 

Fanboy mischievously bumps his shoulder. “From me? He’s got a billion.”

“I couldn’t believe he did it,” Chum Chum says. “Kidnapped you and Yo for that long without anyone finding out. The day you were rescued, it was the worst I’d ever felt in my whole life.”

“That checks,” Fanboy agrees, understanding that their bond goes beyond sharing dreams and powers. “I was this close to dying.” He thinks for a moment. “If I’d died that day, would you have died too?”

“…I don’t know,” Chum Chum admits. “And I don’t wanna find out.” Despite the endlessly somber mood, Fanboy chuckles.

The duo spends the next hour playing verbal ping-pong. All their stories: the good, the bad, even the intimate. The stories become more personal and eventually turn into recounts of feelings and thoughts about the other. Sometimes even turning into a competition.

“I thought ya didn’t like me anymore,” Fanboy admits.

“That’s nothin’. I thought I killed you,” Chum Chum replies.

Fanboy straightens. “Well, I thought I was too stupid for ya.”

“I thought I wasn’t doing enough.”

“You’re doing plenty!” Fanboy squawks and, after a moment to consider, adds, “Too much maybe.”

Chum Chum stiffens. “In regards to…?” Fanboy gestures back and forth between them. “Oh. Well, I promised that since we can’t time travel, I’d make up for the time we lost,” Chum Chum maintains. “Didn’t I?”

Funny. Fanboy could swear that time travel had been a regular experience of theirs. Then again, he could be remembering wrong. He has always had an active imagination. Either way, he cracks a smile.

“You did,” he agrees. “As long as you cut yourself some slack.” In an act of determination, he offers his free hand to Chum Chum. A moment passes before the younger man realizes his intent. 

“Super hand-shake of trust?”

Chum Chum doesn’t disappoint. After all these years, he remembers. “Super-shake of trust,” he reciprocates and locks their hands together. They can’t exactly perform the acrobatics they used to, more for lack of memory than physical prowess, but this is enough.

“We still got it!” Fanboy teases, and ties the blanket around Chum Chum’s stout neck like a cape. 

Chum Chum touches the clumsy knot resting against his sternum and trembles. Does he dare? “I’m thinking of moving downstairs,” he announces. When Fanboy doesn’t explode into a tirade, Chum Chum opens his eyes to find him nodding. 

“When?”

”…Sooner than later.”

“Mm. Do you need help moving your stuff?”

“Wait.” Chum Chum does a triple take. “You’re not…? You’re cool with that?”

Fanboy tilts his head, confused. “I’m happy to help–”

“No, no!” Chum Chum sputters. “I mean, cool that I wanna move at all!”

Fanboy pauses, then shrugs. “I dunno. Should I be? Well, sure, it was weird not waking up next to ya every day back at Boog’s place, but–” He smiles. “–it’s okay.”

Chum Chum’s astonishment is an understatement. “What about Yo? What would she think?”

Fanboy sheepishly bites his lip. “She might’ve thought of it before either of us did.”

Chum Chum starts to protest but Fanboy squeezes his shoulder. “Really,” he repeats with strong conviction. “It’s okay, Bud.”

“I can’t leave you now,” Chum Chum argues, head in hands. “I promised myself that, after I found you, I’d always be there!” In that moment, Chum Chum becomes the little boy searching tirelessly for his missing best friend. “How can I go when I JUST got you back?!”

Fanboy hugs Chum Chum tighter. “I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures. “We’re always going to be best friends, no matter what. Are you sure you don’t wanna stay here and I move out?" 

“No, the Fanlair is your home. It always has been!” Chum Chum sobs even harder. “I-It’s just—!”

“Dude…” Fanboy leans over to meet his gaze. “You’ve been pushing so hard for so long. Just relax a little. Take a break.”

“How?”

“Talk to someone,” Fanboy advises. “Know that we’re going to be okay. All of us.”

Chum Chum sniffs and stares dimly out the window. “What about the bills?”

“Oz is teaching me how to manage my accounts. I’m bad at it so far, but we have enough money for the rest of our lives.”

“The…the donations,” Chum Chum remembers.

“Exactly.” Fanboy puts his hand on Chum Chum’s back. For the first time since they were little boys, Fanboy feels himself falling into his coveted brotherly, almost paternal role, determined to guide his best friend in the right direction. He rubs the fabric of the blanket between his fingers and rests his temple against Chum Chum’s broad shoulder. 

“I think ya need someone just for you,” Fanboy says. “Like Yo’s for me. Like that. And you deserve to do your own thing. You need your own life.” He feels his friend tremble but he presses on.

“These dumb ol’ scars are never gonna go away. That’s my life and I get that now. But you need to go. You need to. You do. You need someone else to see and feel the kinda love you give us. ‘Cause it’s the best feeling in the world.”

And there they sit, reminiscing to the sounds of pattering rain coming to an end to make way for a sunny sky.

"We should do this more often," Chum Chum says softly. "Talk about what happened. Not just when things get tough." Fanboy nods in agreement.

The next day, Francine opens her apartment door and gasps. Chum Chum stands with his hands in his pockets, smiling shyly. “Hiya.”

Chapter Text

August, 2022

In the early hours of morning, the Fanlair stands proudly to welcome the sunrise over the horizon. It casts long shadows on Milky Way Lane. The aroma of freshly brewed convenient-store coffee mingles with the scent of sizzling bacon wafting through the air as locals gather at the Frosty Mart, a favorite breakfast spot. Children with backpacks hurry along the sidewalks, their laughter blending with the hum of traffic, squawking seagulls, and the distant whoosh of a plane passing overhead.

Inside the Fanlair, warm desert air billows through an open porthole to where Fanboy and Yo lay asleep in each other’s arms. They’ve set up a makeshift master bedroom under the loft. A mountain of pillows and blankets forms a cozy nest on the floor, while string lights twinkle softly above them, casting a gentle glow. A small bookshelf, filled with their favorite novels and comics, stands nearby, and a patterned rug adds a splash of color to the wooden floor.

Their children, two-year-olds Buddy and Yui, expertly slide down from the loft and toddle to their master bedroom, on a mission.

“Papa?” Yui whispers above her father’s snores. To her twin brother she asks, “Them asleep?”

“Uh-huh,” Buddy whispers back. He scales the mattress and clambers across his slumbering parents. Having learned from experience, he decides not to poke the sleeping bear and turns to his dad instead.

“Papa?” He pokes Fanboy’s face in rapid succession. “Papa. Papa. PAPA!”

Fanboy jolts awake and smiles drowsily at the boy perched on his skinny chest. “Well, good mornin’ to you too, Lil’ Buddy!” 

Buddy grabs his father’s black lapels like reigns. “Where you ‘jamas?”

“These are my fancy pajamas.” Fanboy stretches and winces. “Ugh, don’t tell me it’s already eight.”

“YES!” Yui exclaims a tad too loudly, holding up three fingers and bouncing up and down at the foot of the bed. “Waffles!”

“Ooooh. That sounds yummy.” Fanboy lets his arm fall over his eyes. “But… Oh nooo! I’m falling…back… asleep…” He pretends to snore.

“NOOoooo!” Buddy whines and uses his father’s chest as a personal bouncing pad. “No sleep! No sleep! No—!”

Fanboy sweeps the squealing toddler up— “YES!” —and playfully gnaws on his tummy while he squeals. “Alright. Let's get you both ready for the day," Fanboy says as he gathers them up. The twins giggle and squirm, their boundless energy already on full display.

“I just wanted to sleep ‘till nine,” comes Yo’s groggy moan from under the covers. 

“Whuh-oh!” Fanboy gasps and drops the kids on the pillows. “You woke up Mama! Run, you fools!” The toddlers bolt, their high-pitched screams echoing about the premises as they look for hiding spots.

Fanboy lifts the covers to peek at his grouchy partner’s somnolent face. “Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty!” Yo tugs the covers back down over her with a grumble.

“Good morning to you too, Dear!” Fanboy teases in a poor imitation of her voice. “But seriously, I’d get ready soon. We hafta be there by ten.” Those words dim the otherwise pleasant mood and Yo pushes the covers back.

“Let’s do this.”

With no shortage of butterflies in his gut, Fanboy gives Yo a quick kiss and leaps out of bed to start the big day. He’d slept in formal wear, too nervous to waste time changing, but he makes time to brush his teeth, style his hair the way Oz taught him, and pop his daily dose of haloperidol pills. 

After exiting the restroom, he floats up to narrowly avoid stepping on a pile of building blocks. “Yui!” he calls to where he thinks his children have scrambled. “Can you pick up your nice toys for Papa?” A muffled whine from under an inconspicuous blanket lump on the couch answers. “You too, Buddy! I don’t wanna step on them.”

Fanboy enters the kitchen, now expanded with a large window above the sink to allow natural light to shine through. His sharp ears pick up on the children exiting their hiding spots and encountering their mother in the bathroom.

“Mama!” he hears Yui whine. “I wan’ the flower on my hair!”

“In a second, Sweetheart,” comes Yo’s muffled answer.

Fanboy grins to himself. Buddy and Yui have become quite a pair. Their boundless energy has kept the household bustling with activity. Fanboy loves watching their antics as they race around the lair creating chaos wherever they go. Part of him is envious.

“Alrighty, Chef Chumerson,” he says aloud. “Time to eat your heart out.” His cooking skills have vastly improved; in no time at all he’s serving four helpings of scrambled eggs, strawberries, waffles, and bacon at the dining table. 

“Viola,” He dusts himself off and peels out the doorway. “Get your butts in gear, People!” he calls, snorting when he sees his children shoving their toys under the couch instead of putting them away. “It’s breakfast time!”

Buddy and Yui practically trip over each other getting to their seats while Yo, now formally dressed, trudges behind with a sleepy smile plastered across her powdered face. “G’mrrg ‘gain,” she yawns.

“There’s my main squeeze!” Fanboy whistles. He tightly wraps his arms around her waist and gives her an anxious kiss. She traces her thumbs under his eyes. 

“Nice bags, Babe,” she teases softly, her eyes mirroring his unease. Fanboy catches his reflection in the window, the dark circles under his eyes testament to a sleepless night. His smile is slightly forced, a thin veneer over the swirling anxiety he feels about the day ahead.

“I knew you’d like them,” Fanboy teases back, and thumbs away the bit of lipstick she’d left behind. “Let’s eat.”

Yo fastens the children’s bibs and cuts their food into bite sized pieces while Fanboy stiffly sits. With practice, he has gotten better at regulating his emotions, particularly those concerning Boog. However:

“I’m definitely napping later,” Fanboy admits. 

The children are none the wiser. “Papa bad dweam?” Yui asks with wide eyes. 

Fanboy ruffles her brown hair and helps her hold her plastic fork. “Your brave ol’ Papa? Never.”

“ME bad dweam,” Buddy reports. He holds up his elephant plushy he’d stowed in his high-chair and rubs its trunk into the strawberries. “Brrrf!” he trumpets and Yo sighs under her breath, adding that to the list of dirty laundry.

“I NO dweam,” Yui complains, forgoing the fork and grabbing her waffle with both hands. Fanboy tweaks her little snout.

As they all dig in, the children fall into eager chatter. “Last-day–” Buddy mumbles with a mouthful of bacon.

“Yesterday,” Yo corrects.

“Last-day!” Buddy repeats stubbornly and shakes his elephant indignatly, “NO “yeddertay”.”

Yo rolls her eyes.

“I dweamed-ed I DIE.” Buddy pauses with wide eyes for dramatic flourish. “An’ ride big big BIG ewephant!”  

“Pink ewephant!” Yui exclaims with a mouthful of food. Buddy shakes his head. “Gway ewephant. An’ Papa flied-ed to the moon!”

Fanboy watches his children converse with a gentle smile. Buddy's eager words evoke so many memories of his childhood, when Oz would tell him and Chum Chum crazy stories and play at the shop. It’s crazy to think that just a few months ago his babies were crawling about and babbling and now their vocabularies are ever-expanding on a daily basis. 

Shifting his gaze from the children to Yo’s purse, he spots a yellow folder sticking out from the opening. Her impact statement. Yo has worked on that for weeks but, in the face of this impending day, Fanboy has been reluctant to create a statement of any kind, opting to spend more and more time with his kids as a stay-at-home father. 

“Papa!” Fanboy snaps out of his trance. Buddy points. “Messy!” In his trance, Fanboy has allowed the syrup from his waffle to run down his fork over his fingers.

“Whoopsie-Daisy! Good eye, Buddy,” Fanboy winks and swallows down the last bite. To Yo, he asks, “Is Mom on her way?” and sucks his fingers clean. Yo giggles just as Buddy tips over his cup of milk. 

“Oops!” exclaims Buddy.

“Uh-huh,” Yo answers, now a tad strained as she mops up the mess. “Just called me a minute ago.”

Fanboy looks at his Man-Arctica themed watch and his heart leaps to his throat. Nine o’ clock. “Alright!” he exclaims. “You guys ready for Grandma Pam?”

Twin expressions of horror meet him. “Nooo!” Yui howls, causing Fanboy’s ears to ring.

“Guys, Guys,” Yo soothes and the children sulk. “We had this talk last night, remember? Mama and Papa are going to a grown-up meeting while you get to stay here and have fun with Grandma!”

“You’re lucky!” Fanboy adds. “I’d rather play games than go to a boring ol’ meeting.”

“No Gamma,” Buddy whines, reaching for his mother across the table. “I wan’ Mama!”

“Mama will be back before you know it.” Yo gathers her son in her arms and kisses the top of his flat head. “And guess what? If Grandma gives us a good report, we’ll let you have a special treat!” Buddy wipes his runny nose, unintentionally smearing syrup across his face.

“Fozzy Feeze?”

“If you’re good, it’s all yours.” Yo fishes a spare napkin from her plate and wipes his face. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Buddy concedes. Yui crosses her arms and pouts. “I wan’ Fozzy Feeze NOW.”

After handing off the children to the ever-cheery Nurse Lady Pam, Fanboy and Yo set off on their way. Since the courthouse is just a few blocks away, they forgo carpooling with Chum Chum. Instead, they stroll hand in hand, savoring the warmth of the sun on their skin and the gentle breeze rustling the green tree leaves. The vibrant colors of blossoming flowers and the cheerful squawking of seagulls lift their spirits, providing a brief escape from the tension of the upcoming court session. 

This day, like a storm brewing on the horizon, has been a long time coming. Now that it’s here, the couple abandons their usual chatter to indulge their repressed thoughts.

Each step feels heavier and heavier, the weight of what’s coming clinging to their feet like mud. They exchange fleeting glances and synchronized breaths. Having awaited this day for the past two years now, they know it’s crucial. They know what’s to come. They’re going to see the man who tormented them for ten years. 

Boog.

While Yo’s resolve sturdies with every step, Fanboy is a walking bundle of nerves. Put simply, he does NOT want to see Boog again, not to make a statement, not even to watch the man get his comeuppance. His visions have gone thanks to medicine, but his nightmares and “episodes” have not abated. Boog’s presence will no doubt rekindle those terrible memories. What if he just unravels all of Fanboy’s progress? Send him into a mental black-hole and BOOM! Worse yet, what if Boog tries to hurt Yo?

Hence, it isn’t long before Fanboy’s dizzy with dread. “I feel like a blue screen,” he groans, holding his stomach. 

Yo pats his back. “Me too,” she admits, “but we’re ready.”

“You’re ready,” Fanboy corrects with a little laugh. “You’re gonna be great!” 

Yo will speak on their behalf. Fanboy will only need to watch and listen. Ordinarily, he’d leap at the chance to express himself, but with Boog in the audience—

Fanboy rushes to the nearest row of bushes and vomits. 

“Whoa!” Yo rushes to him. “Breathe, Babe. Are you gonna be okay?” 

Fanboy gives a rattling thumbs-up. “Uh-huh! Just gettin’ it outta my system.” He wipes his mouth and blinks back tears. “Oh, look! Piece of bacon!” 

Yo goes green herself and offers him her water bottle. “I guess better out here than in front of the judge,” she cracks. 

Fanboy takes a swig of water. “Aw.” He snaps his fingers. “I should’ve aimed for Boog. I woulda doused him.”

Yo groans. “Missed opportunity!” She pats her folder. “Don’t worry. I’m gonna give that loser everything we’ve got.” 

Approaching the courthouse, they exchange reassurances, grateful for the peaceful moment amidst the uncertainty ahead. The beautiful brick building rises over Fanboy and Yo like heaven’s gate but, for Fanboy, walking up the steps feels like he’s entering Hell. 

He briefly stops at the door, leading Yo to gently tug him along into the vicinity. Fanboy’s eyes dart to and fro as they file inside. Boog is nowhere in sight. “Where is he?” he whispers to Yo, but she shakes her head. “C’mon.”

Together, they enter the courtroom. It’s already packed with townsfolk, security, and press alike. 

They spot Oz, Chum Chum, and Francine formally dressed and sitting in the front row of the gallery. Mr. Mufflin and their old classmates have also shown up for support, along with the rest of the town! Chum Chum waves inconspicuously so as to not garner the attention of the press, but the room soon explodes into flashing lights as the famous couple’s presence is revealed. 

Old habits die hard; Fanboy holds a protective arm out in front of his love and curls his upper lip. From where he sits, Oz glares at the reporters and hisses for them to lay off. 

Fanboy and Yo turn their backs to the flashes and join Dr. Olive, their social worker, behind a mahogany table. “Hi!” Yo greets over the clicking cameras. She shakes the doctor’s hand and sits. Fanboy does the same, gazing in awe at the older gentleman behind the raised bench dressed in a black robe. 

“Is that the judge?” he asks, pointing. The robed figure at the bench is his old neighbor. He’d attended the reunion party and Fanboy often sees him out in his front yard tending to his garden. “That’s Mr. Doorsludge!” 

"Yes. Judge Dorsludge," Dr. Olive whispers. “He may ask you a few questions before you make your impact statements. All you have to do is tell him the truth," she said, stressing the last bit. Fanboy nods and gives an enthusiastic wave to the preoccupied judge.

“Poor things…”

“About time.”

“If Schlizetti pleaded innocent, he’d be done.”

“They better fry him.”

Fanboy’s super ears tune in to snippets of conversations. He revels in many of the vengeful epithets for Boog and nearly tears at the number of sympathetic expressions like "Thank goodness they’re alive" and "I can't believe how brave they are." The mix of concern and righteous anger from the townsfolk makes him feel a bit more at ease. 

Yo sits up straight, her hands resting calmly on her folder and her fingers lightly tapping as she rehearses her words in her mind. As the proceedings begin, she maintains steady eye contact on the bench, ready to speak her truth when called upon.

Fanboy could fare better.  A few minutes in, when Boog still hasn’t turned up, Fanboy starts to fidget. His palms grow sweaty, and he wipes them on his bouncing knee repeatedly. He keeps stealing glances at Yo to draw strength from her calm demeanor, but he can't shake the butterflies swirling in his stomach. His fractured mind has a low tolerance for uncertainty.

Just when Fanboy thinks he couldn’t look any more pathetic, Yo leans over. “I’m gonna barf,” she says simply, and rushes to the nearest wastebasket to do so. 

While overly sympathetic, Fanboy feels a bit better about his own lack of poise with her visible anxiety. “Better out than in,” he says when she returns.

Before long, the large oaken doors swing open and in walks a group of officers tugging along a large, muscular man in orange and cuffs. The room explodes into flashes once more and the murmurs from the gallery erupt into snarls. 

The moment Fanboy registers the culprit, his skin turns glacial and his vision swims. “H-He’s here.”

Boog’s signature blond highlights have long faded but the sight of his shiny brown of his unkempt locks still aid in the near-destruction of Fanboy’s already blurring resolve.

“He’s here.” Fanboy’s voice is barely above a whisper, but, as if he’d heard the young man’s remark, Boog looks. At last, for the first time in nearly three years, his, Fanboy’s, and Yo’s eyes meet.

Time grinds to a halt. Each of Fanboy’s heartbeats reverberate through his chest like a drum. The very air grows thick with tension and unspoken words. Even the smallest movements seem to stretch into eternity, leaving him trapped in this moment of sheer uncertainty. 

Yo’s loving touch brings him back. “Don’t look,” she whispers, lips pressing against his ear.

Impossible. How can Fanboy ignore Boog, the source of his nightmares, while he’s standing right there? 

Boog’s lips pull back to reveal a smug grin as he not-so-subtly finger-guns at the couple. Evidently, prison life has taken him on; his once muscular frame now bears the marks of countless skirmishes and his eyes, though still piercing, carry a fatigue that wasn't there before. The swagger in his step persists, but there's a heaviness to it. The officers seat him without ceremony.

“I can’t.” Fanboy mouths. He grips his armrests in preparation to bolt, but Chum Chum’s voice soothes his panic.

“We’re right here, Lance ,” the sidekick says, so quietly that only Fanboy’s super-ears can hear. “ You sure you don’t want me to kill him ?” 

The question has a humorous edge, but they’ve spoken about this seriously before. Fanboy’s certain Chum Chum would murder without hesitation if asked. A lightning-fast laser to the back of Boog’s neck would do the trick, but Fanboy won’t allow it. No amount of vengeance is worth losing Chum Chum.

"Y-Yeah ,” Fanboy whispers back. “Just keep an eye on him.” Even from across the room, he can feel Oz’s ire. “And keep an eye on Dad.” 

“Way ahead of ya.” Chum Chum already has a tight grip on Oz’s knee. Oz isn’t the only angry one. Heck, all the townsfolk seem up for a hearty lynching. 

Before long, the clerk states their names. Puzzled, Fanboy starts to stand but Dr. Olive gently pulls him back down.

“Okay.” Judge Doorsludge clears his throat and all angry murmurings cease. He adjusts his glasses and glances down at Fanboy and Yo’s table. "Yes, the ...uh, Schlizetti case. I presume the Galaxy Hills representative is present."

Dr. Olive stands. "Thank you, Your Honor. As for recommendations, the court is well aware that through Rockwell’s extensive briefs, examinations, and interviews with the victims, the Galaxy Hills district recommends that the guilty party receive life in prison without possibility of parole." 

A shuffling from the gallery as all eyes turn back to Boog. Many seem satisfied with life imprisonment, but there are many discontented murmurs in favor of the death penalty. While the recommendation’s weight settles over the room like a dense fog, the survivors sit satiated.

“Sounds fair to me,” Fanboy comments to Yo. Back in the room, they often daydreamed and discussed what sort of punishment should befall their captor. They had creative ideas like “death by a million bee stings" and “volcano”, but they would have settled for simple prison time. Captivity for captivity.

“Settle, People,” Judge Doorsludge says, and Dr. Olive sits. "Mr. Schlizetti? Is there anything you wish to state?" 

The room holds its breath. Against Yo’s advice, Fanboy sneaks a glance at Boog. At first, it seems the man hasn't heard the judge. He simply peers up at the bench with a bored expression and cracks his knuckles one at a time. 

"Mr. Schlizetti?” repeats the judge, his eyes narrowing behind his steel glasses. “Do you wish to make a statement regarding your guilty plea?"

"Nope," Boog says calmly. The gallery’s angry murmurs rise to a collective growl. 

That voice. It lances straight into Fanboy’s brain and heart. Despite the queasiness in her gut, Yo keeps a good composure but Fanboy can’t stop his body from hunching and shuddering. A large bead of sweat drips from his brow onto his dress pants.

“We’re with you,” comes Chum Chum’s soothing whisper. “There, there.”

The judge rubs the space between his eyes. "Alright. Thank you, Sir. Duly noted. Now, to recap. On the 4th of December, 2020, two weeks before the rescue of Mr. Corporal, Ms. Sakura, and their two infant children, Mr. Schlizetti was arrested for the unarmed robbery of a convenience store.”

“Bodycam footage revealed blood stains on the defendant's clothes, of which later tests revealed belonged to Mr. Corporal and Ms. Sakura. On December 18, 2020, while booked in the Galaxy Hills county jail, Schlizetti disclosed to a detective that he knew of two missing persons’ locations. After further questioning, he confessed to the crime of kidnapping and revealed several alleged motivations.”

When the judge states said motivations, bile travels up Fanboy’s throat and the people in gallery contort with revulsion and shock. Chum Chum and Oz have the worst reactions. Eyes burn and fists clench, their veins charged with a collective horror and condemnation. 

Boog ignores it, picking at his teeth without care.

Fanboy and Yo lace their hands together. “We’re okay,” Yo whispers, sensing her partner’s cracks, pressing her temple against his. “They’re okay. Stay here.”

Fanboy focuses on Yo's reassuring grip and tries to match her breathing. She’s right. No matter what depraved details come to light, he can’t leave now. Walking out now would mean conceding victory to Boog, and he can’t allow that man any more power over him. 

"I’m good," Fanboy murmurs, steeling himself. "He’s done anyway."

“Exactly,” Yo whispers.

The judge, having accepted the motives behind Schlizetti's actions as a foregone conclusion, has a more stoic reaction. “Order,” he warns the gallery. “Any more outbursts and you’ll be escorted out.” 

After the room falls back into quiet, the judge continues, removing his glasses and fixing his gaze solidly on the kidnapper. “Sir, to maintain that attitude takes nerve. You, the perpetrator of some of the most heinous crimes imaginable, have no right to sit there smug. You fed their suffering, relished in it methodically, systematically, and coldly…and made it last .”

The gallery surges with silent agreement. Fanboy leans forward, his grip tightening on Yo's hand.

The judge pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle before addressing the court once more. “I’ve been told the guardian of one of the victim’s would like to make a statement?”

Aflame with determination, Oz is already marching to the podium. “Thank you, Your Honor,” he says into the mic, gripping the podium so tightly it nearly splinters, “for giving me this opportunity. As a devastated father and grandfather, I do have a question in regard to the verdict. I’m asking you–” he nods at the judge, “–to allow me five minutes alone in a room with that thing .” 

The gallery erupts into disgruntled titters and murmurs of interest. There’s no question as to who Oz is referring to. Boog, to Fanboy’s delight, looks a stone’s throw from wary. “That. Would be. Awesome!” he squeals.

Yo inhales. “Oh boy.” 

“I’m sorry, Sir.” The judge shakes his head. “I know how angry you must feel, but I can’t–”

“How about one? Can you grant me ONE minute?” Oz interrupts, staring hard. “Just one.” The judge hesitates and the officers present inch their way closer to Boog, just in case Oz decides to forgo the legal way and leaps for the criminal.

“…No, Sir. I cannot.”

Fanboy slumps. He’d pay to see that kind of beat-down. 

Yo pats his back. “Boog’s cellmate will take care of him,” she whispers.

Oz nods with impressive restraint. “I understand, Your Honor, as much as I want to break every last bone in its body. Then let me just say…” He turns to Boog, who glares back unimpressed. “…you’re seriously lucky. Because if it were up to me, you’d be hanging upside-down at my shop skinned alive with your eyes gouged out.”

Fanboy winces a little at that graphic imagery.

“Thankfully, prison-boys don’t take kindly to things like you. They’ll make sure every last moment you spend here on Earth will be miserable. And you deserve it. And after that, after you die in your cell, you’re gonna seriously pay for your sins.”

Someone in the back row hisses, “ YES ,” followed by a chorus of shushes. For once, Boog smartly decides not to roll his eyes. In fact, he doesn’t make eye-contact with Oz at all, a forfeit Yo picks up on with interest.

Fanboy nearly bounces in his seat. “Go Oz!” he silently cheers, and claps along with everyone else as the doctor returns to his seat.

“Thank you, Dr. Harmonian,” says the judge. “I can’t begin to imagine how angry and distraught you are, but we must maintain decorum in my courtroom. Do not let him have that power over you.”

Fanboy watches Oz angrily sit back down and shoots him a thumbs up. The simple gesture manages to make Oz smile, though its edges quiver with righteous indignation.

Chum Chum speaks next. His presence is unwavering and, by now, his super-powers have become a local legend, Boog included. The former-kidnapper actually sinks in his seat a little, something that Yo, again, picks up on with interest.

“I’ve spent the last two years thinking about what I’d say when this moment arrived,” Chum Chum starts, “but I’ll keep it short because I don’t want to take time away from the survivors here.” 

The gallery buzzes with sympathy. Chum Chum’s group of friends: Chris, Michael, and Duke, sit in the second row, sending silent encouragement to their friend. Across the room, Officer Cheech does the same, even tearing up a bit because he, along with the rest of the town, have witnessed firsthand the sidekick’s destruction.

“To say I was deeply affected by Lance and Yo’s disappearances is an understatement. Although my suffering couldn’t compare, I nonetheless suffered. If it weren’t for my friends and family here today, I wouldn’t have endured. Growing up without my best friend was like navigating a world devoid of color. Every adventure we planned, every laugh and hug we would have shared, was stolen from us.” 

He glances at Fanboy and Yo, his eyes brimming with emotion. "Even though Yo and I weren’t close before the kidnapping, we’ve made the most of getting to know each other now. She is an amazing, strong, and determined mother. It’s no wonder that she’s such a beacon of light in our town, and that Lance and their children love her so much.”

Fanboy taps his chest with his fist and nods. Yo thumbs away a tear.

“Together, they’ve faced unimaginable darkness and emerged united and strong. Their story is a testament to the power of love and friendship and an inspiration to all of us. Watching them rebuild their lives and support one another has been a true privilege. They reminded me that even in the toughest times, hope prevails.”

Chum Chum nods, “Thank you,” and sends Boog a dismissive glare as he walks back to his seat. Again, to Yo’s fascination, Boog is unable to maintain eye contact with the sidekick. 

Before she can think harder on it, the judge speaks again. “Now, we will hear from the victims," he announces, his tone somber yet resolute. Yo straightens at attention and wipes away her last tear. "Their voices deserve to be heard, to remind us all of the human cost behind these heinous acts." He nods at Fanboy and Yo. “Please."

Yo stands to leave the sanctuary of the table, giving Fanboy’s knuckles a deep kiss before she approaches the podium. A respectful hush envelops the courtroom, but Fanboy’s nerves worsen. Any step towards Boog’s hulking form is one step too many and, when Yo reaches the podium, Fanboy has to fight the urge to beat his captor to a bloody pulp. 

Though jittery herself, Yo pays Boog no mind despite reaching the halfway point between their table and his stalking eyes. In fact, she stands tall and poised, a testament to the intense healing she has undergone in the past two years. Her voice, steady and clear, fills the room as she begins to speak.

“My name is Yo,” she begins, clearing her throat. “I hope my name will be remembered instead of his, but I understand how easy it is for evil to invade your head.” Fanboy inhales sharply, stealing quick glances at Boog to make sure he doesn’t try anything. 

“I was born here in Galaxy Hills. The first eleven years of my life were filled with happiness. I had awesome friends. An awesome teacher. An awesome school.” She pauses, her next words weighing heavily on all but one present. “I never knew that my life would take such a dark turn. I never imagined that I'd be taken from everything and everyone I loved. I never imagined I’d be here, recounting after everything that’s happened."

“When I first tried describing how this whole thing has impacted Lance and me, I blanked. How do I put pure Hell into words? I still have trouble. I don’t remember any fire or brimstone in the basement, but it was Hell nonetheless.” Yo continues, her voice unwavering. 

“I CAN describe how we feel now. I’m not proud to admit that I’m not all-the-way recovered. Neither of us are. A part of our souls died in that basement.” Yo clears her throat and Fanboy finally finds the strength to turn his eyes from Boog.

“I’ve spent the better part of the past two years trying to make up for what was stolen from us. Mourn the lives we should have lived. Become the perfect survivor. Stand in the right place so that Boog’s shadow looks half as big. It’s not easy to do.”

Fanboy mouths along to the words he hasn’t read but knows their meaning all-too intimately. Yo's poise is much like the sturdy folder resting in her hands—structured, composed, and unwavering. Even as the room buzzes, even by the criminal sitting nearby. 

“Lance and I should’ve spent our teen years laughing, meeting new people–” she smiles softly, “–going on dates; the list goes on. But instead our days were filled with fear and pain. We only had each other for comfort and survival. We had no food, no water, bed, no toys, no technology, no information, no light, no NOTHING. We had four walls, a concrete floor, and a toilet. That was IT.”

The courtroom is pin-drop quiet. Yo’s voice grows tight with growing anger as she recalls those not-so-distant memories. “And he did more than just trap us; he tortured us so badly we couldn’t move or speak. Sometimes he made us hurt each other. We went days without food and water. We got so skinny—” She stops, narrows her eyes. 

“I won’t get into graphic details to preserve my and my partner’s dignity, but I will say that every day was a losing fight for survival. We tried to escape countless times and failed. We prayed for years for help and nothing came. Yet somehow, through it all, we found strength in our bond, dreaming of the day we would finally be free.” 

“But, after so long, I still feel trapped sometimes. It took me a year to get used to sleeping on a bed and eating food from a fridge. My own reflection catches me off-guard. The saddest part is that even though I KNOW I’m safe, my brain won’t let me feel it. Lance and I still sleep with a knife in our bedside table drawer and a baseball bat under our mattress. I still have night terrors.”

Yo’s fingers curl around the edges of the wooden podium as she steels herself to proceed. “And it ain’t for a lack of trying!” she says exasperatedly. “I take self-defense classes, I live in a fort, I have the town’s super-duo at my side, and I’m still scared.”

“It doesn’t matter where; the Frosty Mart, the park, the doctor’s office… I’m scared when I take my children on a walk because, God-forbid, a stranger could walk by. Then, I’m thinking, “What if my kids get stolen?” 

Another hush falls over the room, like a candle being snuffed out as Yo’s voice wavers for the first time since the start of her speech.

Fanboy sits quietly, his eyes reflecting the weight of his partner’s words. Each syllable reverberates through him, a silent echo of shared pain and resilience, as if her story is woven into the fabric of his soul. 

Nourished by her partner’s silent encouragement, Yo continues. “There are a lot of other ways I’ve been affected. The way people look at me the first time they recognize me, the fact that I can’t travel two blocks past the school… So much damage has been done, and I get thinking sometimes that I’ll never know what it’s like to feel like a normal person again instead of just someone pretending to be normal.”

Yo turns her page, blue eyes skimming the last of her words. She sighs. “I don’t know if there’s a proper way to end this since there will never be an end to the number of ways HE destroyed me. Thankfully, I have my family and friends to help me through the moments when I feel I’m back in the room. ” 

Yo draws to her full height. “And if I had the technology to travel back in time to prevent the kidnapping, I wouldn’t do it. Because what I have now, after everything that’s happened, is worth every dark and painful day I endured under Boog’s floor.” 

Yo touches the center of her chest. “I’m proud of who I am now. Sometimes I forget that, but the person I love most is always there to remind me of what’s true and what isn’t.” She turns and gives Fanboy the most breathtaking smile he’s ever seen her wear. “And I’m there for him. To remind him of who he is: a wonderful, caring person with a beautiful heart.”

Fanboy beams back at her, his heart full to the brim with love and joy. 

"We’re not defined by our past; we’re defined by how we've chosen to rebuild our lives and raise our family," Yo says, her voice steady and strong. "Lance and I are more than victims. We're building a life filled with new dreams, passions, and a love that beats the things that happened to us. Together, we are writing our own story, one where our children will see us not as victims, but heroes."

Yo’s her expression falls into an unrepentant calm. While reciting, she has not taken her eyes off the judge except to give Fanboy endearing smiles. Now, she turns to Boog.

“Look at me,” she says.

The gallery holds its breath and Fanboy nearly faints. 

“Look at me,” Yo repeats, and Boog does. He even leans forward and smiles.

Yo meets his smug enthusiasm with an unimpressed sniff. “Mm.” She clicks her tongue. “I’m not surprised. You can look at ME, but you couldn’t look at Edmund or Oz, could you?”

Boog’s smile fades. 

“You can only look at me and Lance,” Yo says, “and that’s because you’re a coward, Boog.”

Fanboy squeaks. His chest swarms with excitement and fear and the world around him blurs into a distant hum. Soon, the court walls dissolve, leaving only an intangible void where he, Yo, and Boog exist in stark relief. Suspended in time, the three of them lock in confrontation, their emotions speaking louder than words ever could. 

“But you’re done now.” Yo lifts a scarred hand to point. “You have no more victims left.” 

Boog narrows his eyes.

Yo turns back to the judge and the court reappears. “That’s it. Thank you.” She has reached the end of her paper and returns to her seat.

The gallery erupts into thunderous applause. Fanboy pulls Yo into a rough hug before she settles into her seat. “Oh my gosh, oh my gosh,” he whispers breathlessly into her ear. “You owned him!”

Yo hugs back, blue eyes brimming with tears. 

No more victims left… 

The judge moves on to other things, but Fanboy replays what Yo said over and over again in his head.

No more victims left… 

Fanboy's mind drifts to his own journey, pondering the weight of those words. He wonders since, despite being free from Boog's clutches, he is still haunted by the shadows of his past, if he can truly step out of victimhood. Will he be truly liberated once Boog’s escorted to prison, or will the label still cling to him in unseen ways?

"Lance?" Olive whispers. "Lance, it's time to stand up for the Judge." 

Fanboy freezes. He’d spaced out but he knows what’s coming. He shakes his head. 

Yo squeezes him. "You don’t have to.” 

Fanboy stares up at the nodding judge and doesn’t move. His throat feels as if a frog were stuck in it. Boog's eyes lock onto him, a smirk playing on his lips. 

Chum Chum catches wind of what’s going on and simmers at the silent exchange, his relaxed posture belying his fierce protectiveness. Though he remains silent for his friend’s sake.

Finally, Fanboy pushes his chair aside and stands. Yo gives him a peck on the cheek. "I love you." 

“Mr. Corporal," the judge begins, his eyes sincere. "I've been informed that you do not have a written statement. Is that right?"

Fanboy walks to the podium, shakes his head, then nods. 

“Is there anything you'd like to say at all regarding your experiences?" 

In conjunction, everyone in the chamber turns toward Fanboy. A man with thick black glasses holds his stubby fingers just above a strange-looking computer screen. Every time someone speaks, the man taps against the screen. 

“Um…” Fanboy gulps. He can feel Boog's burning stare from the right. Time stands still. He imagines himself back in the room with Boog, where he would beat him. He would be forced to live in prison, dreading the visits, wishing he could someday escape and become a normal kid again, free of fear and play outside.

His mind switches to seeing himself outside, laughing with his children, playing soccer, tag, running at hypersonic speeds through the house, at the end of the day being dragged in from outside after playing. He opens his eyes and peeks at his hands—no longer bruised and sheet white, but peach and callused. 

Boog's radar is soon overwhelmed by Yo’s gentle presence. It’s palpable. Fanboy feels it, her quiet strength seeping into his bones, a warmth spreading through his chest. He straightens his posture ever so slightly, a small but significant shift, as if each breath he takes infuses with newfound courage.

If Yo can endure the worst of the world and still let her voice be heard, so can Fanboy. 

Before his courage seeps away, he blurts, "Yes, Sir! Your Honor! I do! My name is Lance! Lance Corporal?" The presence in the room leans in, interested. "I…I, er, don't really know what to say." He hunches his shoulders, ashamed.

The judge smiles kindly. "That's alright. Just take a deep breath.”

Fanboy nods jerkily and inhales. "Whew! Okay. Okay. Okay. Um… Well, life as I remember it was pretty awesome. I… I hated the room. It was cold an’ dark–like she said!” He points to Yo. "I was so hungry I thought about eating my fingers, and I was so thirsty, I drank water from the, uh…" 

Like Yo, he finds he’d rather not speak on the graphic details, for their sake. "A-Anyway. Um. I’m not all the way fixed even though I’m not kidnapped anymore. Even though I'm grown-up now, I’m behind. That’s what doctors say. I’m getting a lot better, I think Boog, uh, broke part of my brain or something. I don't know the science-y words for it but, yeah.”

He takes a moment to swallow the lump in his throat. “ Apparently spending ten years trapped in an empty basement messed up my brain."

He hears Chum Chum wipe at his runny nose and tries to retain composure. 

"Like what Yo said about goin’ back in time; I’d never change how things are right now, because I LIKE the way things are now. It’s really good! But sometimes I really miss “back-in-time”.” 

Fanboy wipes his eyes. His tone relaxes. “I uh, I thought since we couldn’t escape, there was something wrong with me. I mean, I always knew I was just... weaker than him. An’ without my best friend, I’m still just…this. But it wasn't my fault, right? I didn't choose to be there. Boog trapped us and I couldn’t make him stop. I just... I wanted to be outside and play with my friends.”

With a sort of reckless courage, Fanboy almost turns to face Boog. "Now I know. You woulda kept us in that room forever. Even near the end, a part of me thought things wouldn’t go that way. The fact that they could've hurts ." 

His tone softens. "But, like I said, I'm doing better now. I get to see my friends and family all the time. I get to go outside whenever I want. I get to eat what I like when I like. I get to take baths every day and eat sweets and play games and build things and–” He pictures an older Buddy and Yui leaving for their first day of grade school. “I’m gonna see what it’s like to grow up.”

Fanboy straightens his posture and, after a long inhalation, swings on his heels to face his tormentor. The court holds its breath. Photographers make their move. Fanboy ignores them. This is his moment to reclaim his narrative and find closure. With each deep breath, he gathers strength, reminding himself of the resilience that carried him through those dark years.

But, as Fanboy stares into Boog's soulless eyes, searching for a hint of remorse or humanity, he finds only a chilling void. Twin mirrors reflecting nothingness.  

“Boog,” Fanboy says, hating the way his voice comes out so airy, “even though you did so many awful things to me, I–" He stops, the unformed words sticking to his throat. Hate you? Forgive you? 

“I’ll leave it at that.”

Boog's radar intensifies, but Fanboy is out of his reach now. The room erupts into applause, and Fanboy shakily returns to his seat, both relieved and terrified. Yo wraps her arms around his neck.

"Thank you very much for sharing," the judge merits. "I've been doing this for a long time; I've seen the struggle of survivors, and I know for a fact that you'll both succeed. It won't always be easy, but your spirits are strong and you have a wonderful community behind you."

The judge then turns to the social workers. "This is an alarming, very unusual case. I have read all of the statements thoroughly, and I’ve been troubled with the..." 

Fanboy zones out. He can’t believe he just did that. Standing up to Boog without getting bopped? It’s beyond his comprehension, as is the rest of the hearing is beyond until—

"Boogregard Dolomite Schlizetti, you plead guilty on an expanded indictment charging you with 500 counts of kidnapping, seven counts of child neglect and abuse, six counts of felonious assault, four counts of child endangerment, and one count of possessing criminal tools. It's the recommendation of this court that you receive four consecutive life sentences without parole. So ordered." The judge concludes, and he slams his gavel on a piece of wood, cementing Boog's fate forever. 

Fanboy snaps out of his sleepy stupor. “Wha–?” Yo springs up and hugs him so tightly that he thinks she'll crush his ribs. After a few moments, Dr. Olive joins in. 

“Did we win?!” Fanboy stammers, hugging Yo back. “Is he goin’ to jail?” He looks up at the bench. The judge smiles, and Fanboy returns the gesture. Then, for a brief moment, His Honor winks. 

His hopes come true. Boog is let out of the room in cuffs. Cheech is one of the escorting officers, taking great joy to shove the villain along. 

Before Boog fully exits, he shoots one last glare to Fanboy, and Fanboy sticks out his tongue in a moment of reckless courage.

“He's gone now,” Yo sniffles into his shoulder. “He'll never hurt us again.” 

Chum Chum and Oz approach to expand the group hug. "You did it! I'm so proud of you guys!" 

"Me too!" Fanboy chokes. “Me too.” 

Chum Chum embraces him again, gentler this time, and motions to Francine to join. She envelopes the entire group in her long, thin arms. “Lookatcha!” she cries, mascara running down her face. “So brave and I’m a sobbin’ mess.” She fans her eyes. “Okay, I’m frazzled. Who wants a Frosty Freezy Freeze?”

How could they refuse? Yo gently takes Fanboy's hand and, together, they leave the courtroom. Reporters follow suit, but Oz and Chum Chum make quick work of scattering them with a few well-timed glares.

The group strolls out into the parking lot, passing by a few vehicles and blossoming trees. Fanboy inhales the sweet summer breeze. Then he stops to gaze at the sky. A soft wind blows through his hair but he doesn't shiver. 

Chum Chum stops to look too. "Hey, are you going to be alright?" 

"Yes!" Fanboy and Yo respond in unison. Yo sighs, relieved. "We'll be okay."

—

Later that evening, Fanboy, Yo, and their children enjoy some family time on the roof of the Fanlair. While slurping his berry pink freeze, Fanboy muses over Chum Chum’s question from earlier that day, “We ARE okay, aren’t we?”

“I think so!” Yo declares, sipping down the sticky treat. “Look at us. Awesome house, adorable kids, amazing friends…” She leans back against Fanboy’s front.

Content, Fanboy settles his chin on the top of her head. “All good points. You know, I’ve been thinking about going back to school.”

With no shortage of dramatic flair, Yo pretends to faint. “Wh-Who are you? What’d you do with my boyfriend?!” she gasps.

Fanboy sticks out his tongue. “Oh, shush. Believe me, all this tinkering is awesome, but I wanna know the ins and outs! I wanna make real cyborgs, ya know? Show our kids that their dad isn’t an idiot?”

Yo rests her cheek in her palm and smiles. “They already know that. Besides, what happened to being a superhero?”

“I can do that too,” Fanboy says simply.

“What, be an engineer, a superhero, AND a dad?” Yo laughs, but stops at his dejected expression. “Of course you can. What am I saying? You’re Fanboy; you can do anything!”

Fanboy perks. “Exactly!” He leans over her face and playfully kisses her upside-down. “Just watch, I’ll graduate at the top of my class!”

Yo boops his nose. “I won’t be shocked.”

“Mama! Mama! Watch me!” Buddy shouts. He chases after Yui with boundless energy along the wooden fence. Fanboy and Chum Chum had installed it the moment the twins figured out how to climb stairs. Now there’s no chance of anyone falling off the roof and plummeting two hundred feet to the street. 

“I’m watching!” Yo laughs. She snuggles back into her partner’s sternum, letting her mind sift into the calm of the evening and the beating of his heart.

“Remember when I barfed in court?” she asks suddenly. 

Fanboy snorts. “Uh, yes. Way to kill the mood.”

Yo closes her eyes. “I’ve been pretty nauseous lately since I’m pregnant.”

It takes a moment to register. Fanboy gasps in a bid of pure shock. “You’re—?” He makes a series of quick glances back and forth between her belly and beaming face. “You’re serious?”

“I am–we’re having another baby,” Yo chirps, taking his hands to press against her stomach. 

Once he snaps out of shock, Fanboy's eyes brighten with delight, and he shrieks. "Another little superhero in the making!" he crows, wrapping Yo in a tight embrace. "Oh my gosh, I can't wait! I can’t wait! I can’t wait!" 

Chapter Text

July, 2024

“Papa, I want goldfish!” demands three-year-old Yui, grass-stained and dirty from the day’s adventures. 

New-Clear park is a sprawling expanse of lush, green, probably-toxic grass dotted with blue wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The towering oak above provides ample shade for the Corporals, the family gathered on their threadbare picnic blanket. 

Fanboy’s too busy tending to his sobbing son’s scraped knee to indulge his daughter, but that’s hardly a deterrent. Yui plants herself firmly at his side, all crossed arms and pouty lips.

Just as Fanboy finishes patching up his son, Yui repeats her demand with renewed vigor. “Papa!” She yanks his purple shirt sporting the phrase #1 DAD. “I want goldfish!”

With a resigned sigh, Fanboy jerks his head toward his wife. “Ask Mama, ya goof.” 

Target sighted, Yui scrambles to Yo. She's leaned against oak trunk and busily nursing her baby, Beatrice, but that doesn't stop her eldest daughter begging for her coveted prize. “Mama, I want goldfish!” 

Yo peers from under her #1 MOM visor. The accessories are a matching set, gag gifts from both Oz and Pam, but the recipients wear them with pride. “Well, hey there," she greets. "Playing hard or hardly playing?” 

Yui doesn’t miss a beat. “Goldfish!” she shouts and flaps her little arms.

“Ah-ah! What’s the magic word?”

Yui wrinkles her nose. “Pwease?” 

“Much better.” With a free hand, Yo scrounges through the picnic basket and retrieves a plastic baggie filled with the cheesy snack. “I think the Polite Fairy might visit you tonight!” 

Without a ‘thank you’, Yui snatches the bounty and scurries off with a maniacal giggle. Her glittery helmet—one of Yo’s ideas to protect her hyperactive daughter’s brain—clunks loosely against her noggin. 

“Or not,” Yo deadpans, and lightly rolls her eyes. She’s stricter about manners than her partner, but that just comes with the territory of being a stay-at-home mother. Her son, Buddy, is a quicker learner. 

Speaking of whom, Buddy curls up on his mother’s lap, still sniveling from scraping his knee on a tree root. "Mama, I fell down."

“I saw! Ouchie!” Yo tousles his fluffy hair. It’s gotten lighter over the past year, almost as light as his father’s. “I like your dinosaur band-aid.”

Buddy wipes his nose. “It’s a-a… a T-Rex.”

“Are those the ones with little arms and big sharp teeth?” 

Buddy nods. “Uh-huh. Th-They eat more littler dinosaurs in one bite.” 

“Ooooh. I didn’t know that!” Yo pinches his cheek. “You’re so smart.” Buddy hides his beaming face behind his hands.

“It runs in the family,” Fanboy huffs, annoyed by his son’s latest tantrum. That, and his mind has been occupied by a very important project. To Yui, he calls, “Wait for Papa, Gumdrop."

No answer.

A wave of panic floods the calm. In a flash, Fanboy's on his feet and rushing after to where his daughter disappeared into the thicket.

“Get her, Lance!” Yo barks. Spooked, Buddy buries his face back into his mother's stomach.

Yui has developed a terrible habit of running off. The week prior, she had snuck off during a family walk and ran toward a busy intersection. Fanboy had to sprint to catch her. After succeeding, he scolded her relentlessly.

“What are you doing?" he barked, gripping her tighter than necessary. "You CAN’T run off like that, Yui! You could get smushed by a car!” Spotting a rabbit’s carcass lying on the road, he took the opportunity as a teachable moment.

“See that?” He pointed. “Mr. Bunny didn’t make it because he ran off without his family.” As Yo caught up with the rest of the children, Fanboy’s anger quelled. “So, stay close, okay?” 

Stunned and teary-eyed, Yui nodded. For the rest of the walk, she stayed close, her small hands clutching her father's pant leg, her daring spirit effectively subdued.

But that subsidence soon subsided, and Yui was back to her old antics the very next day. While Buddy calmly colored with chalk, Yui gleefully climbed the tallest tree at the playground, her small feet finding purchase on the rough bark. Her near-maniacal laughter echoed down to her anxious parents, who watched from below. Fanboy was especially torn between pride at her fearlessness and worry over her safety.

“I love climbing trees too,” he said as he floated her back to the ground. “But you have to be careful. If you fall, you could get hurt.” 

Yui nodded again, all smiles, and Fanboy knew his adventurous daughter well enough to expect she wouldn’t listen. 

Sure enough, Yui is at it again. Her distant squeals mingle with the bleats of seagulls and the distant gurgle of a nearby stream of nuclear waste. 

Eugh. Yo wrinkles her nose. This isn’t the “friendliest” of picnic areas, but Fanboy insists on visiting every Sunday after church. Teach the kids to get rough and tough and “touch grass”, so to speak. And it’s a great opportunity to slowly desensitize themselves to the outside world. Even after three years of freedom, it’s still challenging.

“Mama?” Buddy picks his nose. “Papa says that we get super-powers like him if the gween ants bited us.”

“That doesn’t sound nice.” Yo shakes her head. They’ve been watching their children for any signs of developing superpowers, both out of curiosity and the hope for built-in defense, but none have come to fruition thus far. “Don’t pick your nose, Sweetie.”

“I wanna fly in the skies like Papa and Uncle Chum!” Buddy says, jumping across the picnic blanket with his arms stretched. “They says that the clouds are like cotton-candy!”

“Mmm!” Yo tries to ask him more, but Buddy quickly forgets the topic in favor of rummaging through the picnic basket.

Yo leans back against the oak and sighs, catching the glint of her gold wedding band in the afternoon light. 

Her and Fanboy’s marriage had commenced just two months following the trial and the reveal of her second pregnancy. They didn’t see a point in waiting, if not to set a good example for their children, then to make certain Yo didn’t outgrow her dress of choice before walking down the aisle. 

The event was small and simple, far from the dream wedding Yo had imagined as a little girl. But once she saw all her bridesmaids lined up at the steps, her children aimlessly tossing petals and delivering the rings, and her husband-to-be waiting for her at the altar, she couldn’t have wanted for anything. 

With her own father out of the picture, she’d asked Oz to walk her down the aisle. Her offer had the man breaking down into hysterical tears and Fanboy had to pry her out of his father’s smothering hug with a crowbar. 

Buddy and Yui had behaved about as well as expected. Dressed in an adorable lilac dress, Yui had stopped halfway down the aisle to dump out the entire contents of her basket. Buddy stopped to watch. 

Both children ignored the frantic whispers from the bridesmaids to hurry. They only adhered upon spotting their tux-wearing father waving from the altar. In fact, they sprinted to his arms, drawing sweet laughter from those in the pews.

When Fanboy saw Yo walk down the aisle with Oz at her side, his heart skipped a beat. 

“She’s beautiful, Lance,” Chum Chum, his best man, had whispered. Fanboy could barely breathe out his vows, so transfixed by the woman he’d proposed to.

Playful shouting snaps Yo out of her thoughts and she giggles at the sight of Fanboy limping back to the picnic blanket with a cackling Yui tucked under his arm. 

“Caught…Caught her!” Fanboy gasps triumphantly and collapses onto the picnic blanket. “How’re you so fast, ya little escape-artist you?!” 

“Papa’s slow!” Yui squeals, trying to wriggle out of his arms. 

“Oh, am I?! Ha-ha.” Fanboy tips Yui’s helmet down to obscure her eyes, much to her dismay. “We needa get you a leash. How else am I supposed to deal with you crazies without super-speed?”

Yo snorts. “The same way I do.”

Fanboy sticks out his tongue and leans back into the speckled shade just as Beatrice pulls away from her mother with a small hiccup. 

Unlike her first pregnancy, Yo received prenatal care for her second. Her friends even threw her a baby shower! In light of her previous experience, Oz ensured that she got an epidural. And, when she’d finally held her third child in her arms, Yo felt no guilt, no urge to distance herself from her baby. Nothing but tender love and devotion.

“She looks just like me,” Fanboy had whispered over the beeps of hospital machinery, touching the baby’s nose and running a hand through her fuzzy black locks. Normally, Yo would feign disappointment, but watching her husband’s face slacken with pure adoration stifled the urge.

In the present: “How’s my littlest girl?” Fanboy asks.

Yo rocks Beatrice in her arms. “Present and accounted for,” she says.

“There she is.” Fanboy carefully lifts Beatrice from Yo’s arms to give his wife a break. “Hi, BB,” he whispers, wondering for the umpteenth time how he’s gotten so lucky. 

The warm summer breeze, the scattered leaves, the cloudless sky... He can’t remember a time when life felt so serene. This is the dreamlike contentment he’d prayed for since the moment he’d woken up in the room. Before the kidnapping, as a little boy, he’d imagined a future rampant with space-wars, supervillains, and wacky escapades. The prediction has come true to a far lesser extent.

Only on weekend nights will he and Chum Chum don their cowls and masks to take on petty crime. All other aspects of his life err on the side of peace, normality. He didn’t think he’d ever achieve something like that. He’d been so lost, so broken for so many years. But now, with his family by his side, everything feels whole.  

“Papa!” His son’s quiet plea draws his attention to his lap where Buddy is making himself comfy. 

“Hey, Lil’ Buddy.” Fanboy frees one arm to tuck him closer, stroking the fluffy locks that match his own. “How’s the ouchie? Better?”

Buddy nods, his juice-stained lips curving into a smile. “I wanna fly.”

“I don’t blame you one bit.” Fanboy closes his eyes, listening to his wife try in vain to teach Yui how to weave a crown of baby-blue blooms. “When Mama says it’s okay, Uncle Chum Chum and I will fly you aaaall the way to the moon.”

Satiated, the fickle boy soon leaves his father’s lap to climb all over his mother. “I’m gonna marry Mama when I gwow up!” he chirps innocently.

Yo holds a hand over her heart. “Awww, aren’t you sweet?” She scoops him up and peppers his little face with kisses.

Yui scowls adorably. “No. I’m gonna marry you, Buddy!” The twins fall into a short back and forth before quickly falling back onto gobbling down their snacks. But it isn’t before complaints start to fly.

“Mama, it’s hot!” Yui whines. Her dark brown bangs are a sweaty matted mess under her helmet. Buddy, the colicky of the two, begins to tear. 

Yo adjusts her visor and fans her face. “It IS warm out, isn’t it? Oh—!” She snaps her fingers. “I think it’s time for the special treat! Are you guys ready to go to the Frosty Mart?” 

Big smiles all around. “FWOSTY MAWT!” The twins cheer so loudly that it’s a miracle they don’t startle Beatrice from her nap. 

Fanboy laughs along but unconsciously presses his daughter closer to his chest. In the three years following the rescue, he has yet to step foot into the Frosty Mart, nor has he allowed Yo or the children within twenty feet of the place. Chum Chum has taken up the job to fetch Frosty Freezy Freezes. If he’s unavailable, they’re out of luck.

Fanboy’s normally quite open to change, to improvement. But this has been non-negotiable. 

His fear is irrational. He knows it is. Boog hasn’t worked at the Frosty Mart in years and Francine has promised them a wonderful experience, but her assurances fall on deaf ears. The mere thought of stepping foot in the Frosty Mart brings back vivid memories of Boog’s depravity, leaving Fanboy paralyzed by fear.

Every so often, Yo will ask him, “Do you want to go together?” or “Why don’t we give today a try?” and Fanboy will politely decline, even harshly decline if pushed. But a short conversation with Oz encourages him to reconsider.

“Don’t let that man ruin the fun things in your life,” the older man had said as he wiped down the register. Oz’s Comix was making a bit of a comeback and he wanted it spic and span.

Sitting at the counter with nose buried in a comic book and his son on his lap, Fanboy had scoffed. “It’s just a building…” His chest constricted.

“Regardless,” Oz insisted. “It’s right across the street from us. It’s where we grocery shop, where we get our cleaning supplies.” He wiggles his spray cleaner for emphasis. “And unless someone burns it down, it’s always going to be there. When your kids get old enough, they might want to go on their own.”

Oblivious, Buddy perked. “Grandpa, I’m a kid!” he announced, and climbed onto the counter. 

Keeping a firm grip on his son, Fanboy tried to argue, but Oz was steadfast. “It’s not the building, Lil’ Dude. It was the person working there, and that person is gone forever.” He scooped up Buddy into his hands and held him high above his head. “That’s right! Fly, Kid-Arctica! Fly!”

In the end, Fanboy caved. He would face the Frosty Mart, not for himself or Yo, but for his kids.

During the short walk back to town, Fanboy is abnormally quiet. When the pink and blue building looms into view, he shudders, his grip tightening on the three-seat stroller. 

“Are you okay?” Yo whispers. She touches his shoulder, unsurprised to find the lithe muscles taut. A slight tremor of anxiety shakes her gut. “I-It’s okay to change your mind.”

Fanboy inhales. “Nope. Not this time.” He braves it inside first, that familiar ding of the sliding-glass doors nearly scaring him out of his skin.

He looks sharply to his left, sees the empty space where the Chimp Chomp machine once stood. Boog used to spend every minute of his shift on that thing. He’d steal their quarters just to keep playing. 

Fanboy stops dead on the welcome floor mat and inspects the rest of the space. Aside from an inconspicuous drive-thru window, it’s almost exactly how he remembers. He’s also relieved to see Francine at the counter waving them all over with a friendly smile.

“Oh my gosh, Fam!” she calls. “My day just got, like, a hundred times better!” She and Yo embrace over the counter. Fanboy tries to smile to relax the pounding in his chest, but to no avail.

“Aunt Fwancine!” Yui screeches, jumping up and down. Buddy waves. 

Francine squeals in that diva-like fashion of hers. “Ahhhh! Cutie-Pies! How was New-Clear Park?”

“Good!”

“Who wants Frosty Freezy Freezes?”

“ME! ME! ME!!” 

Yo allows Francine to guide the twins to the giant ice-monster themed machine. For a spell, the two women gossip about Nancy’s mysterious fiancé.

“I thought he was on the run or something,” Francine comments.

"He was! His world’s council stripped him of his title and he chose to live in our world.”

“That’s what Chum Chum said!” Francine gushes. “He called me during his break and swore by it!”

Looking back, Yo’s not surprised to see Fanboy quiet and withdrawn. He isn’t shaking anymore, but his eyes dart about, unable to settle on anything for too long. He’s also pressed up against the wall beside the doors, both hands gripping the stroller like his life depends on it.

“Hold on a second,” Yo whispers to Francine. She goes to Fanboy and gently tugs the stroller from his iron-grip. “Hey, Honey. You look like you really don’t wanna be here.”

Fanboy smacks his forehead, a step beyond snappish. “Uh, yeah—OH. Really?! What gave it away?” He shifts his weight from foot to foot, watches Francine fuss over Beatrice and cuddle her in her arms. “I’d much rather be working on Dollarnator. All the tools, machinery, THAT’S my modus operandi. Or, whatever you call it. Not dredging up all this…” He waves his hand. “...bad stuff.” 

“This is really good for you,” Yo reminds him. 

Fanboy can’t find it in himself to agree. “I don’t understand why YOU hafta come. I don’t like you here. I don’t like THEM here–”

“Lance,” Yo says softly, and cups his cheek. “I’m here because I know how much it means to you. All that fear, all that anxiety; it’s going to affect them. And I get you don’t mean to, but you can’t teach them to live their lives in fear-mode, ya know? You don’t have to be afraid of this place anymore.” 

Fanboy ducks his head, unsure how to accept her firm acquiescence. His lips quirk into an embarrassed smile. “Great. Some superhero I am, huh?” He presses a hand over his eyes. “Some Dad… ”

“That’s enough,” Yo scolds, pulling his hand and clasping it tight. “Come on. Let’s get you a Berry Pink.” With her head held high, she leads him toward the Frosty Freezy Freeze machine to join their kids at the back of the store.

Francine makes no mention of the unshed tears and hands the other two adults their cups. “On the house!” she chirps.

Suddenly, the door to the security room swings open and out walks a skinny black man on his cellphone, chattering away with some degree of impatience before ending the call in a huff.

Fanboy watches the uniformed figure with intense cautiousness, but also an innate sense of familiarity. Curious.

“Hey, Bossman!” Francine greets. She sets Beatrice back inside the stroller. “How’re the invoices?”

The man groans, wipes his brow, and adjusts his glasses. “A day late, again. I thought I faxed the request last week, but—“ His words come to a screeching halt. He stares at the family standing before him: the mother and father with some degrees of both friendly caution, the two oblivious children slurping down their frosties, and the napping baby in the stroller.

Were it any other family, he would have greeted them cordially, maybe offer the little ones a strawberry jolly or give the parents a small discount. Instead, he freezes where he stands, looking as though he’s just seen a ghost.

Francine looks back and forth between the parties and draws a quick conclusion. “Ooh, yeah. My bad. I should’ve called—“

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” the man stammers. “Have a nice day.” He speed-runs to the front of the store, but not before Fanboy catches a glimpse of his name tag.

The mystery man doesn’t make it a step outside the store before a pale hand catches his shoulder and stops him mid-stride. 

“Lenny!” Fanboy’s breathless under the mountain of memories crushing his very subconscious. He’s straddling the fence between pure joy and trepidation. “Holy cow, Lenny. It’s you! It’s—“ He stops suddenly. “It’s me! Fanboy! Remember?”

Lenny tries to brush past but Fanboy doesn’t allow him. “Uh, excuse me! Hello?” He waves a hand in front of the other man’s petrified face. “Earth to Lenny?”

Fanboy doesn’t understand. It’s Lenny. He was like an older brother to him and Chum Chum. Or is Fanboy remembering wrong? Because Lenny looks an inch away from fainting. 

“It’s…It’s Fanboy. The kid with the superhero costume? The purple one? Nothing?”

Lenny chews his knuckles, dreadfully embarrassed, and Fanboy feels a sharp degree of that too, but he doesn’t give up. “It’s okay if you don’t remember. It’s really good to see you. I see you’re the manager now. Congrats.”

Lenny nods stiffly and Fanboy realizes. He IS remembered. He just isn’t remembered fondly. It’s coming back to him now, all the messes he and Chum Chum created in the store, all the mayhem their fun caused, and Lenny had been the one to clean it up.

Fanboy bows his head, red in the face with shame. No wonder Lenny doesn’t want to see him. No wonder he didn’t attend the reunion party back in 2020. No wonder they haven’t had any contact even after the rescue.

“Anyway. We’ll get outta your hair.” He shifts and the automatic sensors cause the sliding doors to open again. “Yo!” he calls to his partner who’s now paying for the children’s drinks. “Time to go!”

“Wait.”

Lenny briefly touches his shoulder, glasses foggy. “Let me help you out.” He takes over for Francine at the counter. It isn’t at all like old times. Mostly because Fanboy isn’t wreaking havoc and Yo is keeping her pranks to herself.

“That’ll be ten dollars,” Lenny says.

Fanboy makes a face—what even is inflation?—and hands the older man a ten.

“Thank you,” Yo says sweetly, and shakes Lenny’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Mr. Flynn-Boyle.”

For the first time since their arrival, Lenny smiles. “Likewise,” he agrees, and glances down at the little boy wrapped around his mother’s legs. 

“How old?” Lenny asks, leaning over the counter.

Yo pats Buddy. “Almost four—“ She points to Beatrice still snoozing away in the stroller, “almost a year—“

“THWEE!” Yui springs up out of nowhere, her little nose touching Lenny’s. 

Lenny topples backward with a high-pitched shriek.

“Ah! Yui!” Yo scolds. Fanboy scoops the little girl up and peers behind the counter to see Lenny sprawled on the floor looking as if he’s in the middle of a Vietnam-flashback.

“Sorry,” Fanboy apologizes. “That’s Buddy and Beatrice. And this lil’ monster is Yui.” He holds her up, trying to keep a grip on her squiggly form. 

“I’m thwee!” Yui shouts gleefully. She holds up three fingers.

“That’s her thing at the moment. And running off wherever she pleases. Heheh.”

Lenny manages a smile at the young girl and slowly climbs back to his feet. “Nice to meet you, Little Miss,” he greets back. “You really are…your father’s daughter.”

Ignoring the comment, Fanboy notices another subtlety: Lenny won’t look him in the eye. “Kinda crazy what happened, huh?” he says casually. 

Yo nudges him. “Lance.”

Lenny looks confused for half a second before his relaxed face tenses all over again. Francine takes a broom and quietly slips outside.

“I-I… I don’t even know what to say,” Lenny says thickly, like he can barely get a word out. His fingers drum frantically on the pristine countertop.

Yo shakes her head with a friendly smile. “It's nice to see you again.”

Lenny doesn’t smile. A bead of sweat trickles down his forehead. “I swear,” he says hoarsely, “I had no idea what he was doing.”

A beat.

“Boog?” Fanboy asks. Lenny’s eye twitches.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” Yo assures.

“But it was my apartment. MY basement. I never used it and thought HE—! I thought he was using it for storage! I THOUGHT—!” He stops as he realizes he’s begun to shout.

Fanboy lowers Yui to the ground. “Take Brother and go find Auntie.” Thankfully oblivious, Yui skips off with her twin in tow, leaving the three adults and the baby alone.

Lenny wipes his eyes. “If I’d known you were down there, I would’ve done something about it. I would’ve called the police in a millisecond. I-I—!” He tugs a lock of his poofy hair, nearly tearing it from the roots. “You were right under my feet and I had no idea. I failed you. It’s all my fault.”

Now Fanboy understands why Lenny can’t look him in the eye. Why in three years Lenny has chosen to avoid him. “…Oh.”

“What can I even say? ‘I’m sorry’?” Lenny removes his glasses, wipes his eyes. “I should’ve known better. He was a psychopathic freak—treated ME like trash, so I can only imagine how he treated you. I should’ve inspected the place before I moved out. I should’ve stood up to him. I should’ve checked down there; I would’ve found you and NONE of this would’ve happened.”

Fanboy and Yo stare. It’s a lot to take in, but, in hindsight, Lenny’s story makes sense. He and Boog had been roommates for a time leading up to the kidnappings. 

“Eh. Eheh. Shoulda, coulda, woulda, am I right?” Fanboy laughs a little. “If it’s any consolation, we didn’t know where the heck we were either.” Yo laughs too. Lenny doesn’t.

“Well, what’s done is done,” Yo says briskly. “We don’t blame you one bit, not for any of it.”

Lenny looks unconvinced. “If I could go back in time,” he says, “I’d change everything. How else could I make it up to you?”

Fanboy crosses his arms, ponders the question. “Well, Francine did offer those for free…”

—

“Bye, Mama and Papa!” Yui shouts. She tugs her brother into Galaxy Hills preschool, right up the very steps her father and mother had climbed all those years ago. It’s Mr. Mufflin’s last school year. They knew he wouldn’t be working long enough to mentor their own children but, given their track record and Mufflin’s short temper, maybe it’s for the best.

A few months have passed following their visit to the Frosty Mart. Fanboy’s initial anxieties are worn, but the edges of his mind still tense with every visit to the store. Francine’s presence does make it a little easier.

Fanboy and Yo wave back at their children. “Be good!” 

“Alrighty!” Yo digs into her purse to text Francine. “I’m meeting up with the girls for brunch and then we’re going to the mall in West-Ape Town. Want me to bring you back anything?”

Fanboy shakes his head. Watching all the children enter the school, he feels a pang of envy, then guilt. 

He broaches the topic with Chum Chum while tinkering with Dollarnator in the Fanlair’s foyer. “I’m jealous of my kids. Is that normal? I mean—” he snickers, cranks a wrench, “—it’s school. I hated school!”

Sitting comfortably on the loveseat amidst tangled wires and other computer parts, Chum Chum shrugs. “We had a lot of fun, didn't we?” He bites his sandwich.

“Sure,” Fanboy concedes, “but it’s different when you’re a kid. You don’t really think about the future, you know? You just live in the moment.” He pauses “Maybe that’s what I miss the most. Just not having to worry."

Chum Chum nods pensively. These tinkering sessions have become more than college work; they serve as a bonding ritual that allows both men to relive memories joyful and awful alike.

Fanboy stands and wipes his forehead, giving the abandoned Chimp Chomp machine a smack. "Okay. Moment of truth." He rubs his hands together and motions for Chum Chum to get his phone camera ready.

"On three. THREE!" He presses a lone red button, crosses his fingers, and the machine activates, filling the Fanlair with a long, low drone. 

"Did it work?" Chum Chum whispers.

In answer, the Dollarnator whirs to life. A series of flashing lights rhythmically illuminate its metallic surface. The machine emits a soft hum, growing louder as gears turn and a small compartment in the front opens up to reveal a neatly stacked pile of fresh hotdogs. Fanboy and Chum Chum exchange triumphant grins.

“Boom!” Fanboy cheers and pumps a fist. “After a full year of pouring my blood, sweat, and tears, ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: Dollarnator!”

The best friends break out into a victory jig, but quickly calm upon hearing a soft cry from the pac n’ play. 

“Oop! Is that my Beatrice?!” Fanboy sings. He scoops up his infant daughter to cuddle. “Hello, my sweet girl! Come see, oh-oh, come see what Papa made!”

The infant's teary eyes widen with curiosity at the machine and even reaches out her tiny hands toward the flashing spectacle.

"I know, right? A-Plus inbound! Dollarnator can spawn hotdogs, calculate tips, DJ, and travel through time and everything!"

Beatrice squeals.

"Now," Fanboy announces, "to test it out."

Chum Chum pauses, his camera still in hand and filming. "The time-travel part?"

"Mm-hm!" Fanboy's smile tenses. He knows the implication. It’s something he’s wrestled with for the past year while constructing Dollarnator, his time-traveling-piñata-tip-calculator-disc-jockey robot. 

“Future-me wanted young-me to pay for our drinks,” he says and places Beatrice back in her pac n’ play. “Henceforth–!”

“But ‘future-you’ is you right now ," Chum Chum points out. "Is that all you want?”

Fanboy pulls out a dollar from his back-pocket and stuffs it into the robot’s hand. “Dollarnator.”

The robot’s lids blink open. “Wassup?”

Fanboy’s heart gives an odd jump. It's been over a decade since he's heard his robot's voice. He faintly remembers the day the robot had appeared to him in the Frosty Mart with a dollar clutched in its claws. Part of him wants to break down, cry, and ask the machine for a hug. Instead, he straightens his posture.

“H-Hey. Dollarnator, I'm your creator. I want you to travel back thirteen years to the Frosty Mart and give young-me that dollar. It’ll be enough to pay for our Frosty Freezy Freezes.”

“Affirmative. Will that be all?”

Though visibly at ease, Fanboy’s stomach drops and his chest constricts in the most unpleasant way possible. "Yep."

Chum Chum watches queasily. Yo is out with her friends. She’d given her husband the okay to send out the robot, but…

Fanboy nods. “Come back ten minutes from now when young-me doesn't show up for a month. I’ll see you then, Bud.”

Dollarnator obeys, twisting and turning into his default pose before disappearing into a plasma cloud of electricity.

A few seconds pass. Then a minute. Then two. Chum Chum pockets his phone, video evidence recorded for Fanboy’s robotics professor. 

Neither man speaks.

Fanboy opens his mouth, then closes it. Then, he drops to his knees.

Chum Chum rushes to his side and holds him steady as he shudders and gasps. There are no words to justify what just happened. Fanboy had the opportunity to warn his younger self of what was to come and didn’t.

“Whew!” He smiles hysterically, and thumps his forehead against the floor. “I just... Oh-ho my gosh. I just sent us to Hell.”

Chum Chum gathers him into a strong embrace. “No, no. You put your kids first,” he assures. “They have the best dad anyone could ask for.”

Fanboy clutches his friend's arm and trembles. Every cell in his body wants to undo what happened, to spare himself of the decade-long torture Boog would impose on him and Yo, but doing so would risk erasing his children from existence.

"I'm horrible."

Chum Chum eases him to the wooden floor, holds him as he hyperventilates. "I got you, Buddy. I got you."

Fanboy grits his teeth as tears spill out of his eyes. He tries to steady his breathing, but the weight of what he's just done smashes him like an anvil. Chum Chum stays by his side, offering silent comfort. Then, hr reinforces Fanboy's choice by retrieving Beatrice for her father to cradle. He does so, feeling the familiar warmth of her small body against his chest, her soft coos soothing his frayed nerves.

In his daughter's innocent hazel eyes, Fanboy sees a future his sacrifice has secured. Despite the hardships, he has given his children a chance at a life filled with love and freedom.

His suffering was NOT in vain.

They sit there until Dollarnator returns. He's more expressive now, and looks shaken. “Boss, I couldn’t find you. What happened?” He pauses. "What's wrong?"

Fanboy breathes deeply, and summons the strength to sit back. “Things got crazy." He smiles at Beatrice, who clings to his shirt. "They’re better now.”

Dollarnator gasps and hops in place, the floorboards rumbling beneath his weight. "Oh my SCHNOD! My creator has a family! This is the happiest day in my artificial life!"

Yo returns home long after Fanboy's tears dry up. Chum Chum fills her in and, from there, they offer each other assurance and loving acceptance.

"You did the right thing, Sweetheart," she murmurs, pressing their foreheads together. "I'm so proud of you."

“I think,” Fanboy muses, “the dollar I sent back was from 2021… Whoops. I hope Lenny didn’t notice.” They laugh.

The wide-eyed twins approach Dollarnator with excitement and awe. "Whoa, you're humongous!" Buddy exclaims, reaching out to touch the robot's metallic arm.

Yui squeals. "Can you do tricks? DO TRICKS!"

Dollarnator chuckles, his mechanical voice filled with amusement, and juggles an assortment of knick-knacks that leave the children clapping and laughing with delight. As the family settles in around Fanboy's creation, he manages a smile.

Everything will be alright.

—

December 2024

Life goes on.

The year ends with a special celebration: the twins’ fourth birthday. They celebrate in a nearby park. It's a joyous occasion with family and school chums alike, all adorning party hats.

Buddy develops a special interest in party blowers, trying to fit at least four into his mouth. He disrupts all nearby unsuspecting souls with the awful noise.

"We should've bought sparklers," Yo deadpans as her son surprises Grandpa Oz and Grandma Pam.

Fanboy winces. Even with his special earplugs, the joint is loud. Beatrice is passed out in her pac-n-play, her chubby cheeks smeared with frosting.

Yui is as equally mischievous as her twin. She's armed with party snappers and a thirst for blood.

"I tried suggesting silly-string," Fanboy reminds his wife. Yui chucks a snapper near his feet.

"GOTCHA!" she cackles and sprints off across the snow-covered ground. Fanboy clicks his tongue. "Like I said."

Dollarnator, ever the entertainer, juggles brightly colored balls and inflates balloons, much to the delight of the children. Aside from a few spilled drinks and minor snapper-related injuries, the day is filled with laughter, cake, and cherished memories, marking another year of growth.

Even Kyle the Conjuror makes a special appearance, accompanying Nancy Pancy, his new wife. He performs ordinary magic tricks, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat, correctly guessing the Ace of Spades and performing a disappearing act with a coin. His tricks are as impressive to kids as they are to adults, and he doesn’t even have to use real magic.

Nancy watches Kyle with admiration, her eyes sparkling with pride as he effortlessly captivates the crowd. She laughs along, clapping enthusiastically after each trick. "He's always been a natural," she whispers to a nearby guest.

Fanboy isn't the only one to comment on how much happier Kyle looks. 

As the party winds down, everyone gathers around to sing "Happy Birthday" and share in the joy of the Corporal family's special day. 

January, 2025

New Year's Day begins with a bang.

Fanboy and Chum Chum float exhausted among the clouds looking down at the fireworks exploding over the town. They've just finished a long night of flying through the sky and lighting their firework fuses in midair. The dazzling display left the townsfolk in awe.

"Holy smokes," Fanboy gasps, taking a swig from his can. "Are we rednecks now?"

"We're flying around with fireworks and beer—it's kind of a redneck's dream," his sidekick admits. "But hey, it was worth it for those smiles down there."

"Hear, hear," Fanboy agrees. They clink their cans together and reminisce in the freezing night air. "Man. They're all growing up so fast."

"Beatrice can walk now, right?"

"Uh-huh. She'll be two in April. Buddy and Yui will be five in December." Fanboy looks out at the sea of stars and the twinkling town below. "Seems like just yesterday we were kids ourselves gettin' into all kinds of shenanigans."

"We still do."

They share a laugh.

"It's crazy how much she looks like you,” Chum Chum comments. 

“Beatrice? Yeah. Bewitching, isn't she?” Fanboy jokes and strikes a pose. “Francine can’t keep her hands off her. You guys should just hurry up and have your own kids already.” 

Chum Chum spits out his beer, the droplets sifting through the clouds below. “Dude!”

“What? Why not?” Fanboy tilts his head, half curious and half amused. “You like her. And…you know how, right?”

Chum Chum hides his reddening face behind his gloved hands. “Yes, I know how!” he huffs. 

“You’re great with kids! You've taken exemplary care of mine,” Fanboy points out. “Best Uncle ever!”

Chum Chum shakes his head. "I can't. First off, we've only been dating for two years. I know she wants kids, but I don't know if I'm ready yet," he admits, glancing at the stars as if seeking guidance. "Being a dad is a big deal. A much bigger deal than being a babysitter! What if I mess up? What if–?"

Fanboy rolls his eyes. “Ed, chillax.” He points. “YOU are an amazing uncle. You WILL be a fantastic dad. So, you know how to make ‘em. Do it!” He holds out his palm. “But, yeah, get married first. You wanna set a good example.”

Chum Chum just sits there, dumbstruck. 

“If I can do it, so can you.”

"Awesome!" Chum Chum blurts, done with the conversation. "I'll think about it, okay?"

Fanboy winks and taps an imaginary wristwatch. "Time's a-ticking!"

"Lance, you're horrible."

"So I've been told!"

They share another laugh and gradually somber.

"I really wish time would just slow down, though. I mean, look at me. I’m twenty-six."

"And I’m twenty-five," Chum Chum says, his breath visible in the cold. "But I’ll take it. At least we've got moments like these."

They hover for a while longer, soaking in the beauty of the night before Fanboy breaks the silence. "Well, we should probably head back," he says, his voice tinged with nostalgia and exhaustion. "Long day ahead of us."

"Okay," Chum Chum agrees. "I texted Francine I'd be back by midnight anyway." They float for a few more seconds, taking in the view one last time before turning and heading back toward the ground, their fireworks spent, their night of adventure coming to a close.

Chapter Text

October 2027

“Mama?”

Yo jolts awake to find a pair of shimmering brown eyes peering at her through the dark. It’s her youngest daughter, arriving routinely at her bedside for the fourth time that night. Once for a glass of milk, twice for the bathroom. And now, standing post with her pink blankie in arms and shivering like a leaf.

“Beatrice Pamela Corporal…” Yo’s fatigue-gritty eyes drift to her alarm clock, its neon green numbers gleaming faintly in the dark. She drags a hand across her face, her voice barely usurping the heavy patter of rain. “What are you doing up again?” 

A startlingly loud clap of thunder is answer enough, and the little girl promptly dives onto the bed to huddle between her parents. “Beatrice!” 

Barely awake, Fanboy hooks a wing around his daughter and cuddles her close before Yo can protest. 

It’s becoming a habit that started with Buddy and now Beatrice: every night, one of the kids will sulk at his or her parents’ bedside until catered to. Fanboy doesn’t seem to mind indulging his children’s requests, even to the detriment of his own sleeping patterns, but Yo is getting annoyed.

“Back upstairs,” she commands in a low voice. “Come on. Lance. Let her go.”

Her husband gives a casual thumbs up before falling back into a deep slumber, clearly exhausted from today’s newest adventure. 

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Yo gathers Beatrice in her arms and walks past the refurbished loft where her eldest two sleep in their bunkbed, past the nursery where her littlest, Raiden, (barely) sleeps, until she reaches a room practically dripping with pink. It’s aglow with butterfly night-lights, causing her to squint. 

“No! No, Mama!” the three-year-old whines as her mother plops her back onto her princess bed. 

“Shhhh, that’s enough,” Yo says in a no-nonsense tone. “It’s just rain.”

“I want Papa!”

“No, no. Let Mama tuck you back in.” 

Beatrice begins to weep, so Yo kneels down at her side, thumbing away the many tears dribbling down her cheeks.

“Papa,” Beatrice insists. 

“Papa and I are right downstairs,” Yo soothes, and brushes her daughter’s matching jet-black bangs out of her eyes. “Why are you scared anyway? Because it’s loud?”

Like her father, Beatrice has always been sensitive to loud noises, and the sound of rain pounding against the windows has shredded any solace she had felt in her cozy bed. It’s interesting to Yo, who has found such comfort in the sound of rain, that it could be anything but to her daughter.

Another thunderclap sends Beatrice whimpering again.

“Yeah. I understand,” Yo soothes. “But rain is just water falling from the sky. It helps plants grow and gives us puddles to splash in. It’s nothing to be afraid of.” 

Beatrice sniffles, clutching her favorite stuffed bunny like a life-line. 

“And thunder…thunder is just the sound of clouds sneezing. Because the lightning tickles! Achoo!”

That gives the girl pause.

“So, every time you hear thunder, say “Bless you!” to Mr. Cloud. Listen.” She waits for another thunderclap to demonstrate. 

Ka-BOOM!

“Bless you!” Yo declares. “Now, that was a big sneeze!”

Beatrice giggles. 

“Now, let’s tuck you in. Snug as a bug in a rug.”

It takes a while longer, but as her mother’s reassurance takes hold, Beatrice’s eyelids grow heavy. Yo stays there, smoothing her hair and singing the same lullaby Grandma Pam taught her. 

O’er the mills the starlight gleams,
Drifting down in silver streams.
Through the night they softly fall,
Whisp’ring love to one and all.

Diamonds gleam beside thy bed,
Moonlight weaves its silver thread.
Stars keep watch as dreams unfold,
Guarding thee in starlight’s hold.

Comets sweep thy fears away,
Blazing bright ’til break of day.
Sleep, my lovely, soft and still,
Slumber sweet in Galaxy Hills.

When she’s certain Beatrice has fallen back asleep, she whispers a soft goodnight. She lingers a moment, watching her daughter’s now-peaceful face, before heading back to her own room, hoping for at least a few uninterrupted hours of rest. 

On her way back, she stops by the bathroom to sip some water from the sink, only to recoil at the mirror. She looks…awful. Dark bags under eyes, hair sticking out every which way, and her stomach… She clutches her nightshirt and quickly exits the bathroom before any self-pity can overtake her.

“That’s enough,” she mutters aloud. Her reflection shouldn't matter, not when she has so much else to focus on. Really, it’s a wonder, she thinks, that her self-image should pose an issue whatsoever. 

There have been long, bitter years when she has believed herself ugly. That belief hadn’t come from within but was planted and watered by her captor’s cruelty.

And, ever since the room, her depression has lingered inside her like a coiled snake, waiting and watching for the perfect moment to strike. It has been successful a good number of times over the past seven years, but she has always managed to either suppress it, ride it out, or reach out for help. 

Her pride has grown some over this past year, skipped a few days of medication, withheld thoughts and feelings. Now she’s reaping the consequences, and the slow ascent from Hell to Heaven has stretched Yo’s insecurities into something enduring.

She tiptoes back downstairs and downs a glass of milk in the kitchen. Standing idly, she catches another glimpse at her stomach, and winces. “Enough,” she thinks, but her inner voice is not so strong.

Instead of fighting it, Yo climbs back into bed where her husband is waiting for her with a sleepy grin and open arms.

In freedom, surrounded by love and support, that self-hatred fades—waning like the moon. But, as always, the moon returns.

As she lays there in bed, some doubts run deeper: Am I a good mother?

Dr. Olive says she is. Oz and Pam say she is. All her friends say she is. Fanboy says she is. And Yo would believe them… 

If not for Yui having missed a week’s worth of school assignments, leading Fanboy to sit through a tense parent-teacher conference. 

If not for Buddy having hit a schoolmate, leading to a three-day suspension and ANOTHER tense parent-teacher conference.

If not for her desperately shouting, “Will you just STOP it!?” after an hour of Raiden’s tantrums and breaking down sobbing in the closet.

If not for her hands shaking while braiding Beatrice’s long black hair. She hadn’t realized she was crying until her daughter hugged her tight.

If not for the night before, when she served dinner—chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes—and the kids decided to be little critics. 

“Now we’re gonna starve!” Buddy had complained. 

Yo had tried not to take it personally, but something in her face must’ve shifted, because Fanboy slapped the table with a sharp crack. The kids shrank into their chairs like squashed bugs and spent the rest of dinner picking at their food in silence. 

And then there are the shallower wounds: the ones that should’ve scabbed over by now but haven’t.

I’m ugly.

Her friends disagree, firmly and often, but Yo’s own reflection tells a different story. Her body, still soft and round from three pregnancies, stands in stark contrast to the lean elegance of the other women—excluding Lupe, who bears her morbid weight with open defiance.

At the beach, Yo spends more time submerged in the sea than stretched on the sand. At the pool, she clings to the jacuzzi’s steam like a shield. Crop tops and clingy dresses hang in her closet, untouched. She doesn’t like the way her stomach sags all loose and low, like a burlap sack.

At Chum Chum and Francine’s wedding, an opulent affair that had graciously allowed Beatrice and Yui to serve as junior bridesmaids, her friends shimmered in sequined gowns, dancing like they had nothing to hide. Yo wore a simpler dress, one that hid her belly, and stayed close to the children. They laughed. They danced. They had a perfect time.

Still, as she watched the stars spin overhead and unpinned her hair at the end of the night, a knot of guilt tightened in her chest.

Why did I let that bother me?

The voice in her head is firm.

You’re alive. You’re safe. You’re healthy. You have a husband and four beautiful kids. So what if your body looks different? After everything you’ve gone through, are you really gonna let this bug you? Let it go.

She repeats that mantra every day until, inevitably, her insecurities burst.

After months of careful saving and even more sacrifice, the new bathtub is finally installed: a shining, porcelain centerpiece in the remodeled master bathroom. It’s deep and wide, doubling as a jacuzzi and shower, its silver fixtures gleaming beneath soft light.

The kids adore it. Most evenings end with them piled in together, laughing, shrieking, and soaking the tiled floor. Poor Beatrice always holds out the longest before inevitably wailing for help.

But, tonight, Yo and Fanboy have claimed the tub for themselves.

The water steams gently around them as they shower together, washing off the grit of another full day. Foam traces the curve of Yo’s back as Fanboy gently scrubs, humming off-key. But Yo isn’t basking in the moment. Her fingers hover at her abdomen and pinch the skin. 

Fanboy pauses. “You okay?”

Yo nods too quickly. Let it go.

“Whuh-oh.” Fanboy sets aside the scrubbie. “Something’s up, isn’t it?”

Yo can’t speak, not without cracking open. She envies her husband’s lightness and ease. She’s always the heavy one in every room. Literally. 

“You stressed?” he asks, peeking over her shoulder. But then he sees her red, wet-eyed, crumbling face, and the teasing vanishes from his voice. “Aw, Sweetheart…” He brushes a strand of soaked hair from her cheek, his touch impossibly gentle. “Talk to me.”

There’s no point pretending. No reason to keep such a pathetic truth hidden. “I don’t like… myself.” Then, quickly correcting, “I mean—the way I look.”

Fanboy stares at her. “Uh… Huh? Why not?”

Water drips from her lashes. “I’m fat.”

“Fat? Uhhh, no. No-no-no. Honey, you are not fat. Lupe’s fat—well, no offense to her—but you’re in amazing shape. Look at those muscles! Those glutes!” He gives her a playful slap. 

Yo doesn’t smile. Her porcelain reflection returns every flaw in full detail—the scars, the stretch marks, the way skin sags where it used to hold tight.

Pam had hugged her, once, after Yo confessed her hurt. “Oh, Honey. Bodies change, especially after four babies.” But even her well-meaning empathy hadn’t quieted the voice in Yo’s head.

And Fanboy? “You’re too smoking hot to have low self-esteem.” …It's a delusion.

“Easy for you to say,” Yo says. “You’re skinny.”

She hadn’t meant it cruelly, but shame washes through her the moment those words leave her lips. Fanboy has always struggled with his weight—underfed before Boog, skeletal in the aftermath. Even now, his ribs and hips jut out a touch too far. When they curl up in bed, she often finds his sternum pressing uncomfortably against her forehead.

But Fanboy takes the half-hearted jab in stride. “Well!” he declares theatrically. “As the official ambassador of the ‘skinny-minnies,’ I hereby pronounce you… well-rounded.”

That earns a breath of laughter. Barely. Still, his breezy energy sometimes cuts deeper than it soothes. Surely HE doesn’t fuss over his appearance, doesn’t stare sullenly into the mirror like an angsty teenager. He’s always so lighthearted about everything, like nothing ever weighs on him. But that’s just how he copes—turning discomfort into a joke. 

“Thanks.” Yo wipes both water and tears from her cheeks. “But I’m not gonna get any younger. This is the nicest I’ll ever look. And that…” 

Fanboy doesn’t interrupt. Instead, his arms—thin, familiar, safe—slip around her waist, his chest warm against her back. 

“That hurts. I shouldn’t care,” Yo mumbles. “It doesn’t even matter what I look like, whether I’m ugly or not. There’re WAY more important things to worry about.”

Fanboy kisses her nape. “You’re beautiful,” he says, simply. His hands settle carefully over her stomach, and she watches his face—flushed, sincere, a little shy. “And, yeah, there are more important things, but I don’t think it’s wrong to care.”

Yo sighs.

“You've been feelin’ like this for a while?”

“All the time.” She senses his smile and limbs tense. “But I’ve talked to Dr. Olive about it. My friends, Pam, and…they all seem to understand.”

“Well, there ya go!” Fanboy exclaims. “Pretty doesn't mean “perfect”. But, if it’s any consolation, I think you’re the prettiest girl in the world.”

Yo finally smiles for real. She traces his fingers. “Am I?”

“Uh-huh. The whole wide world. And don’t you forget it, Lil’ Lady.” He presses slow, deliberate kisses to her temple, trailing down to the faint, discolored scars.

Yo feels part of herself resurge. The part that used to daydream in the back of classrooms. The broken part of the little girl who had died in that room. “The question is,” she teases back, voice low, “would you let me?”

Fanboy snickers into her hair, tightening his hold. But, before he can answer, the bathroom door crashes open.

“Papaaaaa!”

Their horde descends in a flurry of limbs and shouts. Only the eldest two have the sense to shield their eyes as they step halfway into the doorframe. In the other room, there’s the soft sound of Beatrice crying.

“Did someone get their powers?” Fanboy hopes.

“Raiden stole the remote again!” Buddy tattles.

“He only did because you wouldn’t change shows!” Yui says.

“Nu-uh!”

“Yeah! And he asked nicely!”

“I’m tired of Monkey Bites! We watched it a gazillion—!”

“Guys?” Yo says flatly, pulling the curtain around them. “A little privacy?”

“But, Mamaaaa—!”

“You guys are too old to be acting like this,” Yo dismissed. “Figure it out yourselves.”

Raiden toddles over and hurls the remote straight into the tub.

After much protesting and towel-wrapping, Fanboy kicks out the kids once more and climbs back into the tub. “Whew. Those little stinkers… Feel better?”

Yo nods, the sadness lighter now, half-evaporated with the steam. “Yeah,” she admits, and kisses him long on the lips. “Thanks, Lance.”

“Just doing my duty,” Fanboy proclaims. “No wife of mine is gonna feel ugly, not if I have anything to say about it.”

Yo believes him, and when she finds Beatrice’s newest drawing tucked beneath her pillow—two little girls in princess gowns, their mother in the center with a sparkling crown—Yo believes in herself even more.

“Mama, where’s the green comb!?”

Yo flinches at the sudden intrusion, yanking too hard on her scalp as she adjusts her hair in the mirror. Pain blooms at the roots. “Aah—!” she hisses, biting down her rising irritation. “Did you check your vanity?”

“I looked everywhere!” Yui insists, leaping into view in a sparkling ballerina dress, iridescent wings bouncing on her back. Beatrice trails behind her, nearly tripping over the hem of her beaded Indian regalia. “Can I just borrow yours?” 

Halloween has arrived, and the Fanlair is abuzz with energy. Francine, Chum Chum, and their newborn daughter, Angelina, are joining them for trick-or-treating. Yo and Francine have spent weeks one-upping each other with fall decorations—leaf garlands, paper ghosts, faux spiderwebs, plastic pumpkins. 

The kids, of course, are extra-excited.

Yo exhales slowly. “Look again, Sweetie; Mama’s busy with her own hair.”

“But Mamaaaa!” Yui jostles Beatrice. “I need to braid Bee-Bee’s hair before we go!”

Yo tapped her fingers on the edge of the sink. “Magic word.”

“Please!?” Yui begs, practically vibrating with excitement. “Pleasepleasepleasepleasepl–!”

With a long sigh, Yo hands over the coveted item, and the two girls disappear in a blur of tulle and glitter, giggling away. 

“Have patience, Yo. Have patience.” She returns her gaze to the mirror, pulling at the waist of her Snow White costume and smoothing the bodice. The neckline dips a little lower than she’s comfortable with, but she lets it be. 

“Mama?” comes a sulky voice.

Yo turns just in time to see Buddy shuffle in, arms crossed over his chest, a foam sword dangling at his side. His pirate hat is askew. “Raiden keeps whacking me with his sword.”

“Tell him I said to knock it off,” Yo replies, already anticipating the follow-up.

“He won’t listen to me,” the seven-year-old complains. 

Right on cue, Raiden—dressed in a silvery knight’s chainmail—toddles in and gives his older brother a hard thwack on the backside.

“OW! SEE?!” Buddy yelps, grabbing the wooden sword and yanking it out of his younger brother’s hands. “Want me to hit you back, Stupid?!”

“Okay, enough. Enough.” Yo scoops Raiden into her arms before the battle escalates. “You do NOT hit, Ray-Ray.” The little boy squirms, chubby cheeks puffed in defiance. “That’s five minutes of time-out for you.”

Buddy bolts with the confiscated sword in hand, and Raiden’s protests pitch high.

“Shush.” Yo sets him on the bathroom counter and starts the timer on her phone. “I told you—if you can’t play nice with the sword, you can’t play with it at all.”

Raiden sobs anew, kicking his heels against the cabinets. Yo closes her eyes. Lately, her boys have been relentless with each other. And her. She lets five minutes pass before calling, “Lance? A little help here?”

A black blur drops from the ceiling.

“Did someone call for a Super-Ninja?” Fanboy whispers theatrically. 

Raiden gawks, then shouts in excitement. “Fly!” He just can’t get enough of watching his father.

“I didn’t know ninjas could fly.” Yo smirks. “Why not be a superhero, Mr. Superhero?”

“And risk my secret identity? No chance.” Fanboy lifts his mask and gasps. “Raiden! Whatcha doing to your poor mama, huh? Come on, let’s give her peace—it’s almost time to go.” He hooks a giggling Raiden under his arms and pauses at the doorway, tossing Yo a wink. “You look amazing, by the way.”

Yo shakes her head with a smile.

Soon he lines the children up from oldest to youngest, showering each with compliments on their costumes.

“Let’s see. We have Buddy, the swashbuckling pirate… Yui, the fairy godmother… Beatrice, our little Indian princess… Raiden, a knight in shining armor…!” Fanboy pretends to ponder. “But something’s missing. Who could it be?” 

“Mama! Mama!” Beatrice blurts, jumping eagerly for her mother’s debut.

Fanboy turns toward the bathroom door and cups his hands around his mouth like a megaphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, pirates and princesses and knights, may I present to you: the fairest maiden in all of Galaxy Hills!”

He flips a random switch, igniting a spotlight to give his wife’s debut proper ambience. The gown-clad woman steps elegantly into the front foyer, looking every bit and regal as the character she emulates. 

Fanboy swoons. “Oh, isn’t she stunning? So pure of heart, so hot in the face–” he whispers that last bit out the side of his mouth. “She is truly the living symbol of our great city! My gosh, she’s beautiful.”

Buddy’s indifferent to the showboaty affair, inclined to get Trick-or-Treating going, but the sisters ooh and ahh.

“You look so pretty, Mama!” Beatrice compliments. 

Yo laughs, admittedly flattered, and gives a twirl.

Raiden reaches for her. “Pwincess! Pwincess!” 

“My brave knight!” Yo scoops up her youngest son and pretends to be confused. “But where’s my Prince?”

“Right here!” Fanboy scoops her up in a showy display, causing Raiden to squeal. “Prince Charming decided to go into the ninja bizz.” He smooches her long and hard, knowing the grossed-out reactions it will invoke from the kids.

“Ewwww! Stop! We gotta go!” Buddy urges. He’s already halfway out the door.

“Alright, alright. Let’s skedaddle, gang!”

Halloween has always held a special place in Fanboy’s heart. As a child, it was the only time people wouldn’t give him and Chum Chum strange looks for dressing up. And the candy? There was no such thing as too much. 

Not much has changed in the years he and Yo were missing. The streets are aglow with jack-o’-lanterns, their flickering candlelights casting shadows on the sidewalks. Strings of green and purple lights illuminate the trees and apartment buildings, while cobwebs and skeletons adorn front porches and balconies. Ghosts made from bedsheets sway gently in the autumn breeze, and the pumpkin-scented air is filled with the sound of laughter and rustling leaves underfoot. 

Inhaling said breeze, the Corporals and Harmonians set out to Trick-or-Treat. Chum Chum’s dressed as a samurai, a worthy complement to Fanboy’s ninja flair. 

“Lookin’ swag, Dude!” The two embrace, exchanging a few playful blows. The kids screech for their uncle and tackle him.

“Aunt Francine!” Yo greets and hugs the other woman. “No costume this year, huh?”

Pushing a stroller, Francine shakes her head, looking more than a little tired. “Nope. I spent, like, the past two hours getting this diva ready.” She gestures to her newborn daughter, Angelina, dressed as a jack-o-lantern, laying passed out in the stroller seat. “But YOU look stunning! I don’t know how you do it with four.”

Yo watches her children rough-house with Chum Chum and shakes her head fondly. “Me neither."

After knocking on a few doors and collecting various sweets, Buddy spots friends from school skipping about across the road. “Can I go with my friends this time?”

Yo observes the bustling crowds of people. “No, stick by your father, Sweetheart. I don’t want anyone getting lost…again.”

“But you guys are too slow! If we don’t hurry, we’re gonna miss all the good houses!”

“The houses aren’t going anywhere.”

Buddy pouts. “But Grandpa Oz said you and Papa used to Trick-or-Treat by yourselves when YOU were little,” he argues. 

Yo frowns. “Don’t argue with me.”

Buddy groans dramatically.

“Listen to your mother, Pal,” Fanboy says cheerfully, adjusting his son’s pirate hat. “You’re getting more than enough candy regardless.”

Buddy kicks at the ground and pouts. 

“Okay, how about this,” his father suggests. “Go say hi to your friends, and if they wanna tag along with us, they’re more than welcome.” Yo gives Fanboy a warning look, but he waves his son along.

Buddy doesn’t flounder the opportunity and immediately breaks away to greet his school chums. 

“Look both ways!” Yo screeches. Her son freezes at the curb just in time before a reckless driver zooms past. Yo gives her husband another look. “I’ll be right back.”

Fanboy doesn’t argue, stunned still. He takes Beatrice’s and Raiden’s hands just as Chum Chum puts a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Uh—?” Fanboy startles. “Oh, yeah! I’m fine. I just don’t want a repeat of last year.” He bites his bottom lip, recalling the panic he feels whenever one of his kids disappears from view. With each year, it seems like there are more little ones to look out for, and the bustling Halloween streets can get so chaotic. 

“As long as we stick together, everything will be okay,” Chum Chum assures, hoisting Raiden onto his shoulder. 

None-the-wiser to her father’s worry, Yui impatiently paces. “Can we keep going?” she complains.

“In a minute, Gumdrop.”

Yui sighs, but finds some consolation when her classmates pass by. “Besties!” she squeals, and goes to hug them.

Fanboy smiles, so proud that his children effortlessly connect with their peers. Buddy already has a best friend, a little boy named Arthur that he met back in kindergarten. Yui has several close friends and throws slumber parties at the Fanlair on an almost weekly basis. 

He just hopes that trend will continue, that his children will take after their mother’s social prowess.

Once everyone is rejoined, it’s off to the races.

The troop leaves no house unscathed, their laughter and chatter weaving through the neighborhood like a warm thread. Yui and Buddy lead the charge, costumes fluttering like little banners as they dash from door to door. Fanboy trails behind, savoring the rare tranquility of the night. The soft glow of jack-o’-lanterns, the chatter of families, the feel of Raiden’s tiny hand nestled trustingly in his. His chest swells. 

Then, in a blink, the warmth shatters.

Fanboy stops dead, head snapping down to his side. “Where’s Raiden?”

The name falls out of his mouth flat at first, but panic floods in fast, hot and suffocating. He spins, eyes combing the crowd. “Raiden?!”

Francine and Yo’s conversation halts mid-laugh. They whip around, counting heads. Yui. Buddy. Beatrice. Angelina. But Raiden—

Gone.

Yo’s blood runs cold. The festive chatter around them warps, distant and muffled, as if they’ve plunged underwater. She scans the busy throngs of trick-or-treaters, her vision narrowing, her pulse hammering in her throat.

“Where is he?” she chokes.

“I don’t know! He was right here a second ago!” Fanboy’s hands claw through his hair, tugging at the roots as panic fully consumes him. His voice pitches up, raw. “Raiden!”

Chum Chum corrals the rest of the kids. “We’ll watch them.”

Fanboy and Yo sprint down the street, shoving through costumed strangers, calling their son’s name over the noise. Their hearts slam in rhythm with their pounding feet. And beneath the frantic shouting, something darker rises—the old memories. The dim room. The locked doors. The feeling of hands dragging them where they didn’t want to go. The helplessness.

Yo’s breath hitches. It’s happening again.

No. No, no, no—

Fanboy cups his hands around his mouth and roars, “RAIDEN!” His voice cracks like a whip across the night, but only laughter and the rustle of candy bags answer back.

Every passing second stretches grotesquely long. One second feels like ten. Ten feels like a lifetime. The sun sets completely and shrouds the streets in darkness. Their minds supply every horrible possibility unbidden—someone taking him, luring him away, a car door slamming shut before they can reach him. The thought of their boy in a stranger’s hands strikes them like a knife to the heart.

Yo’s pace falters for a fraction of a second as a vivid image flashes behind her eyes: a cold floor, a door locking, years slipping away. She shakes it off and pushes harder.

“RAIDEN!”

Then, blessedly—

“There!” Fanboy’s voice cracks.

Two blocks away, they find Raiden toddling along behind a group of rowdy teenagers, happily swinging his pumpkin bucket without a care in the world.

“Raiden!” Yo screams. She nearly trips over her gown as she sprints, uncaring when her crown tumbles into the gutter. She scoops him up into her arms with a strangled sob, crushing him against her chest as if to fuse him back into her body. “What are you doing?!”

Fanboy catches up, doubled over and panting, his heart clawing at his ribs. “Oh my gosh! You—You scared us to death, Pal! Ya can’t run off like that!” His voice breaks on the last word.

Raiden beams up at them. “Candy! And chocowate!” he chirps, swinging his pumpkin bag in triumph. It’s filled to the brim.

Fanboy and Yo exchange a look—part fury, part overwhelming relief, part bone-deep terror that will take hours to shake. 

By the time the night draws to a close and the two families part ways, Fanboy and Yo have reached their breaking point. Before the children can even think about sorting their candy, their father instructs them to sit on the couch for yet another “stranger danger” lecture. The older kids endure it with practiced patience, while the youngest fidget, still too little to fully grasp the gravity of what happened.

“You could’ve gotten lost,” Yo scolds, hands planted firmly on her hips. “Or—or worse. Kidnapped!”

“It was Raiden’s fault,” Buddy mutters. “The rest of us were good.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Mr. Didn’t-Look-Both-Ways-Before-Crossing-The-Street!” Yo fires back.

Buddy slumps into the loveseat, cheeks puffed in sullen defeat.

Later, as the kids begin sorting candy upstairs in the loft, the tension festers in the front foyer. Yo and Fanboy face each other like flint and steel.

“I thought you were gonna keep an eye on him,” Yo snaps.

“I said I’d watch the kids,” Fanboy replies.

“I assumed that meant closely. You know—actually watching them.”

“I was watching them.”

“Apparently not.”

Fanboy stops pacing, utterly wounded and unable to make light of the situation to ease his gloom. “It was an accident, Yo. I looked away for, like, one second.”

“Oh, right. Our toddler just wandered off two blocks in one second,” Yo fires back, her voice edged like glass. She doesn’t intend to be so sharp, but fear and frustration coil tight in her chest, overriding restraint.

Fanboy’s anger flares. “Well, you weren’t exactly laser-focused either, Yo. Too busy chatting with Francine when we’re supposed to be a team.”

“And Buddy running into the street?” she retorts.

“Well, maybe he wouldn’t have done that if—”

“If you hadn’t given him a green light!”

“No! If–!”

“WHAT?!” Yo throws up her hands. Their voices escalate, ricocheting off the walls.

“If you didn’t go nuclear every time one of them slipped up!”

“Oh, I’m so sorry I care whether or not they get abducted!”

Fanboy looms over her, flushed with rage and hurt. “Maybe try caring quieter!”

From there, the argument tumbles into pettiness—who forgot the extra flashlight, who took too long to get ready—until, abruptly, they fall silent.

The children are watching from the balcony. All of them. Wide-eyed, clutching their candy bags, frightened by the storm below.

Fanboy’s face softens first. “Hey,” he says, stepping forward, voice trembling at the edges. “Hey, Guys. We’re just… having a discussion.”

Beatrice whimpers.

Guilt pierces Yo like a pin. “We’re sorry.” She shakes her head slowly. “We lost our tempers. But Mama and Papa are a team. Sometimes, teammates argue.” She beckons Fanboy closer, and he slides an arm around her shoulders.

“That’s right,” he murmurs. “Sorry we scared you.”

The kids retreat hesitantly, their sugar-sticky faces still shadowed with unease.

Alone again, Fanboy and Yo exchange a weary glance. They sink into the loveseat, their adrenaline ebbing.

“I’m sorry,” Fanboy mumbles.

“Lance—”

“No, you’re right. It was my fault. But I didn’t mean to lose him. I really didn’t.” His voice catches and he buries his face in his hands.

“I know,” Yo says softly. “I’m not mad at you. I’m just…” Her anger fizzles into something rawer, more fragile.

“Scared?” he offers. 

Yo nods. “I know I can get intense about this stuff—”

“For good reason,” Fanboy interrupts gently.

“—but it’s not fair of me to take it out on you.” She leans forward, head in hands. He rubs her back with slow, grounding circles. “These things happen, right? We’re not the first parents to lose track of a toddler.”

Fanboy manages a small smile, but guilt gnaws at him all the same. The thought of Raiden lost—of something unspeakable happening—chills him to the core. If that had been the case, he doesn’t think he could’ve lived with himself. Protecting this family is his job. His purpose. He can’t let what happened to him and his wife EVER befall his children.

“Nah, I’d be mad at me too,” he admits quietly. “I care. So much. I’m sorry I yelled.”

“Oh, I know,” Yo whispers, gathering him into a warm, slightly crinkly embrace—costumes and all. “C’mere.”

Up in the loft, the children peek down once more. Seeing their parents entwined, contrition melting into comfort, their fear finally lifts. Smiles flicker across their candy-stained faces.

To cement their understanding, they don’t go to bed angry.

Instead, the living room becomes a small, glowing world of their own.

Yui takes command of the karaoke machine, her voice soaring—sometimes on-key, sometimes gloriously not, and Yo joins her in a duet that rattles the windows. Beatrice spins in circles, the beads on her dress catching the light in glittering arcs. Buddy, ever the dramatist, distributes candy “rations” with a plastic pirate hook, barking out mock orders to his siblings.

Meanwhile, Fanboy places Raiden on the tops of his feet, holding his tiny hands, and dances with exaggerated grace, letting the boy “lead” like a miniature ballroom prodigy. Raiden’s delighted squeals fill the room, pure and bright.

Then he turns to his mother. “Mama! Mama!”

She laughs, gathering his hands in hers. He gazes up at her with wide, adoring eyes, studying her face as if it were something luminous and holy. His round cheeks, the soft pudge of his nose…he is her mirror, yet he looks at her without a trace of her own self-criticism. To him, she is as monumental and untouchable as the Statue of Liberty: towering, radiant, sacred.

And in that fleeting moment, surrounded by laughter, music, and the sparkle of discarded candy foil, something within Yo settles.

To her children and husband, she is already more beautiful than she has allowed herself to believe.

She swings Raiden gently to and fro, his laughter bubbling over like a brook. And then—suddenly—he begins to float.

Just an inch or two at first, his little feet leave the ground as if buoyed by invisible hands. He shrieks with delight, legs kicking through the air as if he’s swimming.

“Lance!” Yo gasps, stumbling backward. She trips over the hem of her dress and collapses onto the rug, wide-eyed, watching as Raiden turns slowly in midair, weightless as a leaf caught in a breeze.

Fanboy freezes, jaw slack, his expression caught between shock and wonder.

“He’s flying!” Yui cries, setting off a chorus of cheers and questions. Buddy whoops and hops in excitement; Beatrice clamps her hands over her ears and wails, overwhelmed.

Raiden, blissfully unaware of the commotion, giggles as if floating is the most natural thing in the world.

Fanboy approaches carefully, arms outstretched. He lifts his son and playfully tosses him upward, only for Raiden to remain suspended, hovering just beyond his father’s reach, like a balloon.

Their son is airborne.

Yo bursts into laughter, great heaving sobs of joy spilling out with it. She clutches her chest, tears streaking down her face. Fanboy is laughing too, his eyes shining, his arms wrapping around her shoulders to steady them both against the enormity of what they’re witnessing.

“I knew it!” Fanboy crows, suddenly alight with glee. With a practiced leap, he joins his son in the air, boots skimming upward like a leaf caught in a gust. “I knew one of you would get powers! I knew it!”

All at once, the Fanlair door bursts open and in flies Uncle Chum Chum, face flushed and cape trailing behind him. “WHO has powers?!” he bellows. “Ray-Ray!” With a jubilant cry, he launches himself at the floating duo, tackling them into a squirming, laughing knot of limbs. Raiden squeals with delight.

Buddy sprints up to the loft to be eye-level with the airborne trio. “That’s how he got away so fast!” he shouts, pointing an accusatory (and impressed) finger at Raiden. He may be right. The question is how an airborne toddler managed to go unnoticed by an entire neighborhood.

Yo exhales, hands on her knees, her laughter melting into something weary but joyful. “We’re getting that kid a leash.”

But unbeknownst to them, Raiden’s spectacle HAD drawn eyes. Neighbors gossip. They gather at windows and front steps, phones aloft, their faces illuminated by blue screens.

Word spreads with the velocity of gossip in a small town: The Corporal boy is flying. 

And soon enough, people begin connecting dots. If the boy is airborne… then surely his father, the excitable man now somersaulting alongside him, must be the same mysterious figure who has, over the years, been spotted streaking through the skies in a cape and spandex. And as for his sidekick’s identity…the options narrow down pretty quickly.

The worst-kept secrets in town are suddenly not secret at all.

By morning, there are whispers at the Frosty Mart, chatter at the diner, and wide-eyed children toddling after Raiden at the park, hoping to catch a glimpse of the flying act. Curious adults stand idly by, watching the father.

Yo sits on the bench, water bottle in hand, as a gaggle of curious onlookers watch from across the street. A smile plays on her lips, wry and unbothered.

“Well,” she says lightly, turning to her husband, “it was never that well-kept of a secret anyway.”

Fanboy, still disheveled from the afternoon's play, rubs the back of his sweaty neck. “Yeah,” he admits, glancing skyward where Raiden is now safely tethered to his hip. “Cat’s out of the bag.”

Yo laughs, the sound bright as a bell. For all the unexpected twists life had handed them, this—this joyous, chaotic, wondrous mess—was one she wouldn’t trade for the world.

Oz is the most excited by this revelation, bragging to every patient and visiting the lair so often that Fanboy jokingly considers building him a loft of his own. 

By the next week, the world outside has changed.

What was once a handful of curious neighbors has become a crowd. Reporters in windbreakers and camera crews with telescopic lenses line the sidewalk, their vans humming like insects. Microphones bob at the end of booms, pointed toward the house as though the walls might suddenly confess their secrets.

The headlines spread with a mix of awe and sensationalism:

“Flying Toddler Captivates Town!”
“Mystery Heroes Finally Unmasked?”
“Kidnapping Survivor’s Kin Sky-High!”

Yo catches one glimpse of that last headline and promptly bans the entire family from watching and talking to the news. They will not risk their children becoming privy to that matter, not yet. 

The Saturday after Halloween, she parts the blinds with two fingers, peering at the throng far below. Her morning coffee has long since cooled, forgotten. “How’re they STILL there?” she gawks. 

Fanboy, still in pajama pants and a rumpled cape he’d thrown on in haste, peeks over her shoulder. “Hey, we're newsworthy people. What can I say?” He grins cheekily. “Do you think if I… flew off really fast, they’d chase me?”

Yo deadpans. “Please don’t give them what they want.”

“Hey, if I draw them away, you get some peace!”

Raiden toddles into the room wearing his favorite footie pajamas, blissfully unaware of the media frenzy outside. He’s babbling about flying again, pointing at the ceiling and demanding a “zoom-zoom” before breakfast. Fanboy obliges with a small loop around the living room, holding him aloft like a kite. 

However, it doesn’t take long before the novelty of Raiden’s ability begins to wear thin for his siblings.

Buddy sits cross-legged at the foot of the stairs, scowling at his untouched cereal. “Lucky duck. How come he gets to have powers and we don't?” he complains. 

Beatrice approaches with her stuffed bunny in arms. “A’cause,” she declares, “he’s the most little.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Even Yui, usually patient and magnanimous, lets slip a small sigh when she sees her father and Raiden whooshing past for the third time that afternoon. “It’s good for him,” she tells her siblings, “but…I wanna fly too.”

The house grows quieter in the corners. It’s not overt resentment, but the subtle chill of feeling left behind.

Fanboy notices it one evening when he comes home from work. The other children are huddled on the couch, eyes glued to their books, barely looking up when he enters. Normally, they’d rush him with stories, songs, or pleas to play. Now, they simply murmur half-hearted greetings.

The realization hits him like a downdraft. 

Later, after Raiden is tucked in, Fanboy gathers the older three. “Team,” he says softly, kneeling to meet their eyes. “I think I’ve been a bit unfair lately.”

Buddy shrugs, trying to play it cool, Beatrice’s lower lip trembles, and Yui looks down. “Do you love him more?”

The words cut deeper than she intends. Fanboy’s heart twists. How had he missed this? His own eagerness to help Raiden discover his gift had inadvertently left his other children in the shadows.

“No, no, no,” he says quickly, shaking his head. “I love you all the same. I just got caught up in the excitement, and that’s on me. Just because Raiden can fly doesn’t make him any more special than you.”

The kids think about that. “But you only fly with him now,” Buddy mumbles.

Fanboy stands, his face brightening with sudden resolve. “How about this? From now on, I’ll fly each of you as much as you like. No matter how many times Raiden wants to zoom-zoom. Deal?”

The response is immediate. Beatrice’s eyes light up like fireworks. Buddy’s scowl melts into a grin. Yui tries to hold onto her dignified façade but can’t suppress a soft giggle. “Now!”

Within minutes, the sky becomes a whirlwind of shrieking laughter and swirling capes. Lance soars through the crisp evening clouds with Beatrice perched on his shoulders, then loops back to catch Buddy mid-leap from the porch. Yui spreads her arms wide as he lifts her high, her hair streaming behind her like a comet’s tail.

“I’m a fairy!” she squeals. 

From her place on the porch, Yo watches the tableau—her husband and children arcing through the twilight like a constellation coming to life. The media still lingers beyond the street below, cameras flashing, but here, within this circle of air and love, they don’t exist. 

Uncle Chum Chum soon catches wind to what’s popping and whirls through the air with two children perched on his shoulders like laughing gargoyles, dipping in sudden free falls that draw delighted screams before springing skyward again in impossible arcs. Fanboy follows suit, letting them soar until their cheeks are flushed and their lungs ache from laughter.

By the time they land again, the sun is sinking behind the mountains, gilding the city in molten reds and tangerine light. The children tumble off Fanboy’s back in a tangled heap of giggles. He lands lightly, breathless, hair mussed, eyes shining with exhilaration.

“Better?” he pants.

“YEAH!” Buddy crows, pumping his fists.

Yui, her earlier wistfulness forgotten, beams. “Best.”

“Again!” Beatrice shouts, already clambering to her feet.

“Tempting offer.” Fanboy stretches, shoulders rolling. “But I’m wiped out. You stinkers made me do too many backflips.”

Chum Chum grins, sharp as ever. “Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

Fanboy blinks, then smacks his forehead. “Oh! Duh!” He turns to Yo, eyes alight. “You ready, Mama?”

Her smile drops like a stone. “Wait, wha-? Me?”

“Yeah, you.”

She lets out a nervous laugh, holds up her hands. “No, no.”

Chum Chum circles her, flapping his arms like a rooster. “C’mon, Yo! You chicken? Bawk bawk!”

“Yes,” Yo answers flatly. “You know darn good and well.”

“You can’t marry a superhero and not fly with him,” Chum Chum says. “Francine and I do all the time!”

“Really,” Yo sighs, rolling her eyes. Francine has made a mission to brag. Over and over.

“Mama, you have to! It’s so fun! Do it! Do it! Do!” Yui insists. Buddy and Beatrice take up the chant immediately, circling their mother like eager cheerleaders. 

Fanboy, ever the showman, drops to one knee with exaggerated gallantry, extending his hand. “And romantic,” he adds. “I’ll be sloooow. Promiiiise.”

Yo narrows her eyes suspiciously. “No ‘cool tricks’?”

“None.”

“No somersaults, no backflips, no freefalling, no 200 miles per hour—”

He draws a solemn X over his heart. “Never. Unless you ask.”

She presses her lips together, weighing terror against the glow in her children’s faces. Finally, with a resigned exhale, she places her hand in his. “Five minutes,” she warns over the cheer that erupts. “And if I say I want down, no matter how high up we are—”

“I’ll bring you straight back,” he promises.

“...Okay.”

Fanboy hoists her easily onto his back; her arms lock instinctively around his neck, heartbeat quickening. She’s already regretting this.

“Have fun!” Chum Chum calls, smirking. Yo has half a mind to scold him for egging this on.

Fanboy doesn’t rocket skyward as she fears. He drifts. Gently. Slowly. The world falls away in increments: rooftops, treetops, streetlamps. Yo’s eyes squeeze shut; a whimper escapes her.  The air grows cooler, cleaner, the wind tugging strands of hair against her cheeks.

“Open your eyes,” he coaxes.

She does—and instantly regrets it. The town below has shrunk to a doll’s diorama; her children are mere dots on the Fanlair’s roof. Panic claws up her spine. Her nails dig into his skin.

“You good?” he asks gently.

She buries her face against the back of his head, too breathless to reply.

“Just a bit higher,” he murmurs.

Before she can ask how much higher, they rise into a pale mist. A delicate white fog wraps around them like gauze, cooling her flushed skin. When they break through the top of the cloud layer, Yo gasps.

The world above the world stretches out before her: an endless field of clouds painted in shades of rose and gold, as if the heavens themselves had been spun from sugar. The air carries the faint metallic tang of chlorine, sharp and clean.

“Mm. Smell that? That’s fresh ozone right there.”

She inhales shakily, nodding.

Fanboy shifts carefully, flattening himself midair so that she can sit atop his torso. Her hands claws at his shirt for balance, but she doesn’t pull away when he looks up at her with a grin. “Now when you look down, all you’ll see is this guy,” he teases, finger-gunning.

Her glare is half-hearted. Her wonder isn’t.

“What do you think?” he asks.

“It’s…nice,” she manages. “H-High up.” Her voice is reverent, almost childlike. She lays against him lengthwise, her cheek resting over his heartbeat, her gaze fixed on the endless pastel expanse around them. “I might puke.”

Fanboy kisses the crown of her head. “I got you.”

The minutes slip by quickly, but when Fanboy asks if she’s ready to descend, she nods. He honors his promise, carrying her down through the pink fog toward the rooftops where their children wait, waving and shouting. She dares to wave back, heart thundering.

Raiden wriggles free of Chum Chum’s grip the instant they land, zooming into her arms. Yo collapses onto her back, laughing and panting at once.

Yo collapses onto her back, Raiden on her chest, staring up at the sky she has just conquered and makes a weird, guttural sound.

“Was it pretty, Mama!?” Yui calls.

“Were you scared?” Buddy asks.

“She was so brave,” Fanboy crows. 

Yo neither confirms nor denies her husband's boast. Her eyes are wide, her silence reverent.

Late into the night, after all the children have fallen fast asleep. Fanboy wakes to find his wife standing at his bedside, wrapped in a comforter, her face unreadable.

“Yo?” He rubs his eyes. “Are the kids awake?”

Her breath is shallow, her eyes wide with something between fear and wonder. “I want you to take me up again.”

Fanboy blinks. He hadn’t expected her to change her mind about flying so quickly, let alone at all, but he can’t complain. “Oh! Well, sure! Whenever you’re up to it, lemme know.”

Yo doesn’t move, and her husband quickly gets the hint.

“Now?” 

Minutes later, they’re back in the sky. This time he holds her bridal-style, her head nestled against his chest, her grip gentler, trusting.

The clouds have thickened; stars stretched overhead in dazzling constellations. The moon hangs full and luminous, turning the world below silver. This time, Yo is no longer tongue-tied. She tilts her head back and exhales a soft, awestruck, “Oh, Lance…”

He doesn’t speak, only watches her face soften with childlike wonder. She reaches toward the full moon as if to touch it, a smile blooming unbidden.

“...It’s beautiful.”

“I told you I’d take you to see the stars,” Fanboy says, his voice a little thick with emotion.

Yo smiles. “You did, didn’t you?” It’s been a long time coming. Nearly a decade.

This moment feels significant. Yo conquering an old fear. Fanboy fulfilling his promise. The mere ability to take his wife to the clouds is a privilege most men don’t have. He’s so lucky. They’re so lucky. Despite everything that happened in their past…

Fanboy shakes his head. He won’t let any thoughts like that taint this moment. 

“What changed your mind?”

Yo thinks for a moment. “Couldn’t tell you.”

He nods. “Can I try something?” He lowers them until the clouds brush their fingertips. Yo laughs as she runs her hands through the mist like a child trailing fingers through water. He loops and rolls gently, treating the clouds like hills to glide over, valleys to dive through. 

“Is this what it’s like for you?” Yo asks breathlessly.

Fanboy nods, joyous. “Oh-ho, this is nothing!” He isn’t burdened by gravity, by his own weight. He knows what it’s like, and is a bit sad that Yo will never be able to truly comprehend that weightlessness, but this is more than enough. More than most will ever experience.

They hover there for a heartbeat longer, suspended in the quiet majesty of the night. Then, as if something inside her loosens, Yo exhales. It’s not a shaky breath this time, but a steady, daring one. Her eyes gleam with something unfamiliar yet long dormant: playfulness.

Fanboy feels it as clear as day. “You’re not scared anymore,” he observes softly, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“Oh, I’m about to lose my lunch,” Yo admits, surprised at the calm in her own voice. She tilts her head back, hair trailing in the wind, the stars reflected in her wide, unguarded eyes. “But I trust you.”

His grin turns mischievous. “Then let’s dance.”

“Dance?” Yo laughs, heart pounding. “Up here?”

“Why not?”

Before she can answer, he spins them gently, a slow turn beneath the moon. Her laughter rings out, bright against the hush of the night. The wind catches the hem of her blanket and hair, swirling them like ribbons. He shifts his grip, setting her lightly onto his feet as though they were back in their living room, practicing a waltz on the hardwood floor. Except now, their ballroom is the sky itself.

She places her hands in his. For a moment they simply drift, turning in slow, deliberate circles as if waltzing across the firmament. The clouds roll beneath them like a silver sea; above, the stars bear silent witness.

Fanboy dips her low, the motion smooth and confident. Her hair brushes the passing vapor. She bursts into delighted giggles, the sound echoing through the night like bells.

“Show-off,” she accuses, but there’s no bite to it.

“You love it,” he fires back, spinning her again, this time a little faster, a little higher.

She surprises him by leaning into the motion, letting her arms fan out like wings. No hesitation. No clutching. Just joy.

The pair twirl through the sky in widening loops, their path traced in invisible spirals through the clouds. Fanboy dips beneath a thick puff of vapor and then bursts through the top with a playful whoosh, sending wisps scattering like cotton teased apart. Yo’s delighted shriek becomes laughter, pure and unrestrained.

He swoops low enough for her to brush the top of the clouds with her fingertips, then soars upward with a gentle surge, their silhouettes framed against the enormous, watchful moon. Up here, there is no ground to fear, no walls to hem her in: only the endless expanse and the man who has always caught her when she fell.

“Lance!” she calls over the wind, laughing so hard she can barely breathe. “Do it again!”

His heart swells at the sound. “Anything for you.”

They weave through cloud tunnels and around invisible corners, dipping and looping in a rhythm only they can hear. It isn’t acrobatics, not really. It’s not the dizzying theatrics he performs with his kids. This is something gentler, more intimate. 

Yo stretches her arms out wide, wind rushing between her fingers, her face alight. She tilts her head back and lets out a wild, triumphant cry that Fanboy has never heard from her before.

He watches her, chest tightening with emotion. For a fleeting moment, he doesn’t see Yo as the cautious, pragmatic anchor of their household, but as he once did when they were children: radiant, fierce, unstoppable.

The clouds swirl around them like dancers in their own right, parting and joining as if taking cues from the couple’s movements. The moonlight glints off the vapor, turning every trail they carve into a fleeting ribbon of silver.