Chapter Text

“Maybe we could start a band.”

Beavis’ eyes scrunched. “Uh, I dunno, Butt-Head. Aren’t boy bands kinda lame?”

“It is a small price to pay for scoring.” His voice slithered, as it usually did when he thought he was being smart.

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Boy bands… rule. Wait, no, boy bands suck!” Beavis’ arms tensed and, buzzing, he nearly shot off of the couch. “Why do they get to score all the time when they’re constantly embarrassing themselves w-with their stupid tight pants and their stupid… singing, voices?!”

“It is a mystery, Beavis.” Butt-Head gazed longingly towards the windows, but the warm glow from the setting sun made him jerk his head down in response. Rubbing his eyes, he murmured, “Chicks just don’t dig the sophisticated type anymore.”

“Yeah! If this was, like, back in the day, where chicks were still in their right mind, we would be scoring so much, we’d probably get bored of it.”

“Ah, I remember those days. It was the day I did your mom that I realized those chicks had gone extinct.”

“Shut up, butthole!” He gripped the edge of the couch. “Stop talking about my mom!”

“She couldn’t stop talking about me… when I was doing her, uh-huh-huh.”

“I told you to shut up!”

Butt-Head chuckled for a moment longer while Beavis’ temper sizzled. He down at the ground, grumbling under his breath and twitching his scraggly eyebrows. Lost in the void of his black shoes and the scattered napkins and crumbs, he blinked a few times.

“Hey, Butt-Head?”

“Uh… Yeah?”

“This is…” His shoes brushed hard against the carpet as he slumped back into the couch. “Cool.” His mouth strewn up in a smile, he eyed Butt-Head and hoarsely giggled. “We, like, don’t have to go to school anymore.”

“Uh-huh-huh, yeah.” Butt-Head’s eyes closed briefly as he laughed. “Mr. Van Driessen was all crying and stuff. It was stupid.”

“Yeah yeah, he was like, ‘Oh, my god, my babies, all grown up!’ Like, shut up!” During this recollection, Butt-Head also sunk into the couch beside Beavis. “Nobody wants to hear that. Literally… nobody.” He faltered. “I mean, it does kinda suck he doesn’t have a job anymore though.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head stared upwards at the ceiling, and Beavis followed suite. “I think he, like, just keeps on teaching the juniors.”

“Oh, yeah.” His grin faded. “But then who will be the seniors? If we’re not there?”

They both proceeded to phone Van Driessen, who advised them to never ask that question again unless they wanted their diplomas revoked.

“Does that mean we would have to go back to school?”

“Yes.”

Beavis slammed the phone back on its receiver.

The pair stared at the phone, as if it would come to life baring teeth and a hunger for two pieces of paper with their names on it. At last, Butt-Head sighed, “Some mysteries are just better left unsolved.”

“Heh-heh, yeah. O-Oh yeah! Unsolved Mysteries!”

“Oh my god.”

“They’re premiering a new episode!” Beavis practically launched himself from the kitchen straight to a living room and gave himself rug burn on his knee when he tripped over himself. “Yes, yes!” He stuck his arm deep within the couch cushions to grab the remote that Butt-Head’s stupid fat ass had pushed down. “Who gives a shit about graduating when you have good ol’ Robert Stack.”

“Can we do something else? That’s not dumb and stupid?” Despite himself, Butt-Head sat down beside Beavis, one leg across the other.

“Shut up, Butt-Head!” He swung the remote towards Butt-Head’s face, nearly whacking him with it. “You know, you make fun of my mom, and-and now, you’re making fun of Unsolved Mysteries. Is it impossible for you to not be a butthole?”

“I don’t know. Is it impossible for you to not be a dumbass? Uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head,” Beavis repeated himself as he turned the television on. He grit his teeth together with a glimmer in his yellow-green eyes. “Just in time. This kicks ass.”

“I should kick your ass.”

This time, Beavis ignored him, hastily tossing the remote onto the floor as he leaned forwards with anticipation. For the first time in his life, he spoke coherently, but only to follow along with the all-too-familiar title card, “This program is about unsolved mysteries. Whenever possible, the actual family members and police officials have participated in recreating the events. What you are about to see is not a news broadcast. Heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head waited until Beavis was finished, then he began speaking over the show’s intro, “Four hundred and sixty years ago, some douchebag took a shit in a gas station, and we have never been able to catch him.” He deepened his voice as part of a poor Robert Stack impression, “Join me. You may be able to help solve a mystery.”

“That would be a great episode, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis paused. “But, uh, Butt-Head? I don’t think they had gas stations four hundred years ago.”

Butt-Head suddenly sighed and flopped down onto his side, swinging his legs onto the couch as he did so. “God bless you, Beavis,” his voice sounded even weirder with his cheek pinned against the couch’s armrest.

“Get your feet off of me, assmunch!” Beavis shoved Butt-Heads legs back to the floor. “Hey!” he retaliated when Butt-Head started kicking him in the chest and stomach. “Butt-Head, you butthole, that hurts, stop!” Beavis shrieked as he tumbled onto the ground, smacking the back of his head on the corner of the table in the process. “Ow,” he mumbled, but his attention was quickly taken by the diseased rat on his couch, who was yawning and stretching his limbs. “You don’t even fit on the couch anymore. Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum bitch.”

“Now now, Beavis,”—Butt-Head, remote in hand, began flipping through the channels—“I know you’re depressed you’ve stopped, like, getting taller and stuff, but the world needs more leprechauns at the end of all those rainbows. Somebody’s gotta do it, uh-huh-huh.”

“Whatever. Shut up.” Beavis stared at the television screen, then glared at Butt-Head. “I’m gonna go get ice for this thing. So much for my show, I guess,” he grumbled quietly as he trudged towards the kitchen, hearing Butt-Head’s laughter get drowned out by some boxing match he decided to watch. “Stupid, stupid,” he continued to talk to himself as he dug through the freezer filled with expired TV dinners, their cardboard wrinkled and squished. Handful of ice in hand, Beavis wrapped it with the last paper towel roll they had left and pressed it to the back of his head with a wince.

“Hey, dumbass! Get back in here! There’s a blonde chick in the crowd, and her boobs are spilling out of her shirt.”

“Oh, hell yeah!” he forgave. As he made his way back to the living room, he forgot about his DIY ice pack and tossed it to the side. The blur of red in his peripheral vision distracted him once more. He eyed the paper towel and the ice scattered across the countertop, noting the blood mixing in with the melted water. “Uh.” Beavis turned his injured head towards the living room. “Hey, Butt-Head, uh,—“

“Yeah?”

“I’m, like, bleeding and stuff.”

Butt-Head chuckled. “Cool.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. Cool, heh-heh-meh.” He skipped to the couch and jumped onto it, for Butt-Head had finally decided to sit up. “Where is she— There she is!” Beavis gawked at the bodacious blonde babe while Butt-Head bit his lip and raised his eyebrows as if he could seduce her through the screen. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, I just want to thank you today for all the women you have graced this planet with, but especially this beautiful, beautiful slut.”

“Yes. Jesus Christ Father Almighty Lord Above, I, too, am thankful for sluts, especially Beavis’ mom.”

“Butt-Ow!” Beavis had jerked his head towards Butt-Head, but a deep, stinging pulsation halted him in his tracks. “God damnit,” he rasped as he held his wound.

“Beavis! Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain. He might, like, strike this chick down as punishment for our sins. Uh-huh-huh. Down.” When he received no acknowledgment, he prodded Beavis’ arm with his hand. “Did you hear that? Down, uh-huh-huh.”

“Hold on. Hold on a second.” Beavis breathed in deep, then exhaled slowly.

“Ugh. Are you actually hurt?” When Beavis’ silence and slight rocking continued, Butt-head pushed himself up with a huff. “Come on. Let’s go find you a bandaid or something.”

“Okay, yeah,” Beavis agreed, as he usually did, and began trailing Butt-Head up the stairs. “I-I did hear you, by the way, heh-heh-meh. Down. That’s pretty funny.”

“Okay… Bandaids, uh, bandaids.” Butt-Head paid no mind to Beavis as he flipped on the bathroom light switch, hands briefly on his hips. He kneeled down and began rummaging through the maze of trash in the cabinet.

“Uh, Butt-Head?” Beavis said as he stared at his blood-painted hand. “I think we may need something stronger than a bandaid. Like… one of those big bandaids, you know?”

“No shit, dumbass. That’s what I was talking about this whole time.” Impatient, he used his arm to sweep everything out of the cabinet at once. “Do you see a big bandaid?”

“Uh…” Beavis squinted. “No.”

Butt-Head groaned as he stood and kicked some of the empty canisters and decade-old hairbrushes to the side. “If we can’t find anything here, we can go to the store or something.”

“I, uh, I don’t think it’s that big of a deal, Butt-Head.”

“Uh, yeah, it is, because you’re being really annoying right now.” He swung open the mirror. “Found it.” He brought out an unopened roll of beige tape and began scrutinizing it in the harsh, cold bathroom light. “G… Gau-Whatever.” He ripped the package open and dropped it onto the floor to become lost amongst the sea of the other garbage.

“Oh, thanks,” Beavis said as Butt-Head held the big bandaid out to him. He held it in his bloody hands for a moment, then looked up. “Can you, like, put it on for me? I can’t see back there and stuff.”

“Fine.” Butt-Head snatched the beige tape from him and began unrolling it. “How does this even work?”

“I think I’ve seen it in movies. Just, like, wrap it around my head a few times or something.”

“Uh-huh-huh, you know what we should do?”

Beavis felt Butt-Head’s hands part his damp, reddened hair. “What?”

“We should buy a bunch of these big bandaids, go to Stewart’s house, and wrap him up like a mummy, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis’ laughter was interrupted by another exclamation of pain as the big bandaid pressed firmly against the wound. “Yeah!” He watched in the mirror as Butt-Head began wrapping the big bandaid around his head. “Then-then, we can roll him down a hill! And we can watch him roll, and roll, and roll, and we’ll laugh, and we’ll drag him back up, and we’ll roll him back down again, and it’ll kick ass.”

“Stop moving, asswipe,” Butt-Head instructed, but he was still laughing nonetheless. “It’s enough work to navigate your stupid, giant head as it is.”

“Shut up, butthole, heh-heh-meh.”

After a second of silence, Butt-Head added, “You need to get a haircut.”

“You need to get a haircut! Your hair makes you look like a girl!”

Butt-Head’s wide eyes were partially visible behind Beavis’ head. “Shut up, dumbass! That’s like, in now. Chicks dig long hair. You’re just mad I score more than you do. Dumbass.” Butt-Head pinched the big bandaid and ripped it. “There. You’re all healed.”

“Thanks, Butt-Head. Hey, while you were, like, going on that rant, I was thinking, ‘Hey, what else do chicks dig?’ and that made me think about what we were talking about earlier. You know, any possible scoring methods, now that we’re done with school and stuff and we got all of that time on our hands. Anyways, uh, I just remembered. I play the guitar.” He stared at the tape wrapped around his head in the mirror. It was so cool. “Chicks go crazy over guitar players, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh… what?” Butt-Head’s eyebrows twisted in confusion. “You play the guitar? Since when?”

“Oh yeah, uh, it was before, you know, uh, our moms left and stuff. She came into my room one day, and she was like, ‘Beavis, you’re gonna have at least one thing you’re good at!’ and she threw this guitar on my bed. It hit my ankle, it actually kinda hurt. Uh, heh-heh-meh, anyways, I started playing it, and, uh… yeah. I can play guitar, heh-heh-meh.” He made some electric sounds with his mouth as he played an air-riff.

“Woah! You can play electric?”

Beavis stopped. “Uh, no. I mean, I could. It’s like, done the same way. But I’ve only practiced on those wood guitars. You know, the one Mr. Van Driessen likes to play when he feels like making people want to kill themselves.”

Butt-Head chuckled, sidetracked. “Yeah, uh-huh-huh. He sucks, uh-huh-huh.”

“I actually still got the guitar,” reverted Butt-Head’s focus. “It’s under our bed. We should, like, practice some sick tunes, and go out in the street and play it, and see if we end up scoring.”

Butt-Head gazed upwards, pondering, then he nodded. “Beavis, this might actually be the smartest thing you have ever done.”

“Woah, really?”

“Yeah,” Butt-Head continued as he squeezed past Beavis back into the hallway, “and also the stupidest,” he angrily added over his shoulder. “You’ve had these chick-magnet abilities this whole time and you never said anything? I should be kicking your ass right now.”

“Uh, I’m sorry, Butt-Head, I just… It’s just that after our mo-“

“You said it was under the bed?” Butt-Head interrupted as he opened the bedroom door. Not waiting for an answer, he lowered himself onto the mildew-infested carpet and tried to squeeze himself beneath the bed. He pushed himself back out and shoved his hair out of his eyes. “I can see it, but I can’t reach it. Go grab it.” When Beavis was able to fully crawl under the bed with ease, Butt-Head whispered quietly to himself, “God, I’m such a fatass.”

“Wuzzat?”

“Do you have the guitar or not?”

“Oh, yeah, yeah! I got it.” Beavis chuckled as he inched himself back into the open, guitar in hand. It played a few awkward notes as he accidentally banged it against the rim of the bed. “I think it needs… what’s it called, tuning, yeah, tuning.”

Butt-Head inspected the instrument, noting the lost pair of boxers hanging halfway out of the soundhole. “Jesus, when’s the last time you touched this thing? Do you even know how to do that still? That nerd word you just used?”

“I’m gonna have to think about it, but I’ve done it before, for sure.” Beavis tilted the guitar and shook it, letting the mysterious boxers fall to the floor. He hopped onto the edge of the bed and held the guitar in his lap as his hands attempted to navigate to old positions. He played an open chord and reveled in its sin. “Uh… hold on.” He reached over to the tuning pegs, and the gears in his skull began to turn as he tried to remember.

“Hurry up and play something cool,” Butt-Head said, who was standing a few feet away.

“Yeah yeah, cool, heh-heh-meh. But, uh, It’s just that it won’t be cool if it’s out of tune and stuff.”

“Uh… I don’t care. Just play the damn thing. We can handle all of the boring, technical shit later.”

“Okay, okay.” He readjusted himself on the bed, scooting further back. Something “cool” would not be the song on his mind, but, tried as he might, no other memorized tune sprung to mind. “Uh, I hope I remember this correctly.” He went through the motions without strumming, and sure enough, the muscle memory began to awaken. He started with the open chord section: the easy part. Then, with a deep breath, Beavis began his attempt to play the intro to a song that he hadn’t listened to in years.

“Is this that one song you said sucked?”

“Damnit,” Beavis cursed as his fingers slipped and messed up a chord. He shook his hand vigorously; the callouses had died a long time ago. “Yeah, it sucks.” He realigned his fingers and pinned his bottom lip between his teeth. “Oh my god.” His body tensed as he made yet another mistake. “Just give me a minute, okay. It’s been a while.”

Butt-Head placed a hand across his forehead as he stared out the window. “I see them all, Beavis. Every slut in this town is running away screaming.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!” He tried again. He messed up again. He tried again. He messed up again.

Butt-Head began to tap his foot, taunting Beavis with his nasally singing, “So close, no matter how far… Couldn’t be much more from the heart…”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!” Beavis tried yet again. He messed up yet again. He tried yet again. He messed up yet again.

“Forever trusting who we are…” Butt-Head began to sway around in a circle. Dramatically clutching his heart, he extended his other arm to Beavis with a grin he could barely hide, “And nothing else matters…”

“Shut up, shut up! I hate you, I hate this stupid song, I hate this guitar!” He shoved it forwards and gave it a kick as it toppled down. Harsh, shallow breaths hissed in and out of his nostrils as his face and hands trembled and quivered. “Augh!” He threw himself forwards and kicked the instrument all the way to the other side of the room. Hunched over, fists tightened, he whisked towards Butt-Head. “How the hell do you know the words?! You don’t even listen to Metallica!”

“It is your least favorite song, Beavis. Of course I know every single word.” He smirked. “Never opened myself this way…”

“God, shut up! You suck!” Beavis struck him with his shoulder on his way past.

“Life is ours, we live it our way!” Butt-Head wasn’t singing anymore, but rather yelling alongside the backup vocals of stinging cackles. “All these words I don’t just say! A-And, oh my god, uh-huh-huh. And nothing else matters!”

“Oh my god!” The word drew into a gargled shriek to drown out Butt-Head’s uncontrollable laughter echoing from upstairs. Beavis suddenly froze and dug his nails into his head, fighting the urge to give himself bald patches. His eyes snapped towards the lamp, and, without hesitation, he grasped it and blindly threw it across the room. He stared at the object, which was seemingly unharmed. With another cry, he hurled himself on top of the lamp and began flailing his fists against its shade, ignoring the hard parts beneath that began to ache his knuckles. He snatched the rim of the shade and pulled as hard as he could. When it finally ripped, it threw him onto his ass, leaving him stunned, breathless, and a deep shade of red.

A familiar chuckle made Beavis’ head turn towards the stairway. “Uh-huh-huh, we don’t have a lamp anymore.“

“Yeah.” Beavis stared at the lamp, and even though his heart was still kicking and screaming in his chest, he began to laugh. “Yeah, we don’t! Die! Die! Stupid lamp. Always pissing me off.”

Butt-Head had made his way over to the crime scene. “Lamps are stupid.”

“Yeah!” Beavis sniffed, and used the table beside him to stand. “Who do you think you are?!” He kicked the corpse. “Thinking you’re all better than me?! Laughing at me?! You had it coming the way you were just… standing there, staring! You’re a lamp! A stupid lamp! Yeah! You suck!” He brought his foot high in the air and stomped it on the center of the lamp’s rod. With a loud pop, the final blow was delivered, and the lamp was dead.

Butt-Head stared. “That was cool, uh-huh-huh.”

“Thanks, heh-heh-meh.”

They both stared. However, it was short-lived. An uproar of applause from the television made both of them turn around.

“Oh, yeah. The boxing match. Come on, Beavis. Let’s see if that chick is still there.”

“She better be,” Beavis said as he stepped over the lamp. “Boi-yoin-yoin-yoing, heh-heh-meh.” He sat down beside Butt-Head and immediately yawned, a deep one that made him cover his mouth with his hand.

“You’re not tired, are you?”

“No, no, ‘course not.” Beavis shook his head, but the adrenaline had begun to wear off, and he was reminded of his condition. He gently sunk his head into the pillow behind him. “Just had a big day today, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I was there, dumbass.”

There was silence between them for a moment. “Daria gave a pretty good speech.”

“Uh… yeah, she did.”

They continued to scan the crowd.

“Hey, Butt-Head?”

“Mhm?”

“Do you think we’re gonna see Daria again? Cause I heard, like… I heard stories of people falling apart after high school.”

“Uh… I don’t know.”

Admittedly confused, Beavis tried to face him, but Butt-Head was back to unraveling the crowd. “Um… I-I’m saying that it would suck, you know. She’s pretty cool.” Knowing he wasn’t going to catch Butt-Head’s eye, Beavis turned back towards the television. “Do you, like, not think she’s cool? I thought you did.”

“Uh, what?” Beavis could see Butt-Head look at him in the corner of his vision, but he didn’t return it. “I didn’t say anything like that, dude. I just said I don’t know if we’re gonna see her. All I did was answer your question. What else is there to say, dumbass?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” For once, a brutal series of punches from the match didn’t have Beavis’ complete devotion. “You just… sounded like you didn’t care when you said it.”

“Beavis.” He paused as the weaker boxer suddenly struck the other in the jaw. “I think you need to, like, shut up and go to sleep.”

“Shut up, butthole, I said I’m not tired!”

Beavis awoke to gargled snoring.

It was a recent habit, and its occurrence was random, but when it did happen, it was loud and grating. The room was completely dark when he opened his eyes, but he recognized the warmth on the sides of his face. He was slumped up against Butt-Head, drooling onto his arm. With a grunt, Beavis eased himself up, feeling Butt-Head’s hair slide off of him as he did so. With the help of the street lamps sneaking in through the curtains, Beavis’ eyes began to adjust. A quick glance to the kitchen told him the time: 4:13 AM.

“Butt-Head,” he murmured quietly, and was met with a shuddering snore in response. “Butt-Head,” he repeated firmer, and seemed to be met with a louder snore, as if Butt-Head was retaliating in his sleep. “Butt-Head, come on.” he shook his shoulder, and heard a sudden snort of surprise. “Come on,” Beavis repeated himself. “We gotta…” He yawned ferociously. “We gotta get to bed. We got work tomorrow. Alarm and stuff.”

Butt-Head groaned, shuffling on the couch as he buried his face into the cushion.

“Butt-Head, come on.” He tugged his arm and felt the drool encase his palm.

“Okay, okay. Jesus.” Beavis could see Butt-Head rub his eyes with balled-up fists. The pair arose from the couch, groggy and unbalanced, and began to stumble their way to the stairs.

“Can you see?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Butt-Head yawned.

Beavis scratched an itchy part beneath his big bandaid as he walked inside the bedroom, the door still open from their prior visit. He fell into the bed, then crawled to the other side as far as he could before he collapsed at a diagonal angle. Butt-Head, too weary to verbally retort, simply climbed into bed and pushed Beavis’ legs aside using his own. Their legs stayed touching for a handful of heartbeats before Butt-Head finally pulled away, his final act before falling back asleep.

Beavis was moments away from joining him, but then, he didn’t. He opened his eyes, and he stared. Across from him, lying on the floor, was the guitar.

Beavis closed his eyes, only to open them again. He stared.

The guitar stared back.

Beavis refused to blink.

Butt-Head began to snore.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Beavis.”

“Yeah?”

“Yesterday, when you said, like… ‘Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum bitch’ or whatever. What were you, like, talking about? Exactly?”

“Oh yeah. I was talking about how tall you are and stuff. Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum, heh-heh-meh.” He paused. “Uh. Why, Butt-Head?”

“Hey, can somebody take my order out here?!”

“Ugh, damnit.” Butt-Head glanced behind his shoulder. “Beavis. There’s, like, a customer.”

“On it, on it.” While Butt-Head continued to stare at and rarely flip the gray meat patties, Beavis made his way to the front, sporting an oversized grin at a scowling older man. “Welcome to Burger World. How can I assist you today?”

“Uh-huh-huh, ass,” snickered Butt-Head from the kitchen.

Beavis joined in, repeating himself, “Y-Yeah. How can I assist you today, sir? Heh-heh-meh. Ass.”

“You know what’s ass here? This customer service. I have been waiting here for- Jesus Christ.” The man rubbed his temple. “Where the hell is your supervisor?”

“Uh. Me.” Beavis’ smile widened. “I’m the manager or whatever.”

“No, you’re not. I see his portrait right over there!” The man pointed a finger behind Beavis, who turned to look at his boss’ photo on the wall.

“Yeah, that’s me, alright. I was, uh, bald last month. See this?” Beavis pointed to his big bandaid. “That’s my battle scar from, like, growing hair too fast. Good genetics, heh-heh-meh. Got ‘em from my mama.”

A long sizzle was heard in the background. Butt-Head finally flipped something. “Our manager’s old. And stupid.”

“Augh!” The man’s fists clenched, and if he wouldn’t get arrested for it, there was no doubt in Beavis’ mind that the man would’ve propelled himself across the counter and strangled Beavis to death. “I’m sick and tired of y’all’s bullshit! You do this every day! Every day! Just take my fucking order already!”

“Just make your fucking order already!” a woman standing in line protested.

“Yeah, what she said!” Beavis’ eyes widened in excitement.

“Uh-huh-huh, what she said.”

“What she said, heh-heh-meh,” Beavis and Butt-Head coarsely chuckled at the same time.

“Alright, then,” the customer growled through his teeth. “I’ll have two Burger World Supremes. Double the lettuce, make sure it has no onions, and cover one half in mustard,-“

“Uh, okay.”

“-and the other half in ketchup. And then, I want you to put the pickles on the side. The side, okay? That’s the one thing nobody gets right around here.” The man folded his arms, raising his field of bushy eyebrows. “Got it?”

“Uh. Yeah, yeah, uh. I got all of that. Be right out, sir.” Beavis turned around and skipped across the tiles, peering over Butt-Head’s shoulder at the smoking meat patties. “Hey, Butt-Head. Do nothing that that guy said.”

“One step ahead of you.” He used his spatula to flick two patties across the room, leaving them to gain an army of dirt and hair on the unmopped floor. “Let’s piss in this asshole’s burger.”

Following the bomb threat, the real manager of Burger World sat Beavis and Butt-Head down and informed them that if either put any kind of bodily fluid in the meals ever again, they would be fired. Although his boss quickly explained the definition, Beavis nevertheless had a conniption about the word. He was instructed to go home early to avoid “being a danger to himself and or others.” It didn’t take much convincing for their boss to sigh in defeat, cover his face with his hands, and allow Butt-Head to clock out as well.

“You know, Butt-Head,” Beavis began as he tossed his Official Burger World Cap into the floor, “I think I’m starting to understand why adults whine all the time. Mr. Anderson is always like, ‘Oh, my back, oh, my shoulder.’ And I was always like, damn. Will he ever shut up with that stupid crap? But then now, I come home, and I’m like, oh, my back.”

“Shut up, dillweed.” Butt-Head waited until he dropped onto the couch to slide his cap off. “We’re not old. You just suck at being alive.”

“Shut up, butthole! How can I suck at being alive if I’m alive? A-And you have the nerve to call me a dumbass!” Beavis swung open the fridge, putting his unquenchable wrath on hold as he gazed upon its contents. A singular pizza slice from a week ago still laid dried and cold on the clear, plastic shelf. Beavis’ to-go cup of Dr. Pepper from Burger World was forced to fit on the top shelf, the straw bent against the fridge ceiling as a result. Some of the things Beavis saw he wasn’t even sure if it was food or not, like that shiny, red circle with a brown stem coming out of the top. “Uh… You wanna share a pizza slice?”

“I’m not sharing anything with you, dumbass. Get out of the way.” Butt-Head, who had left the couch, shoved Beavis to the side. Hands on his knees, he hummed under his breath as he, too, investigated the crime scene that was the inside of their fridge. “Man, this really sucks. We really should’ve gotten something from work before we left.”

“But I’m kinda tired of eating that all the time. You know, we actually make the food when we want to eat it, and it still tastes like crap. Why don’t we start an uprising or something? Show Burger World who’s boss, yeah!” Beavis’ enclosed fists bounced in excitement.

“Tell you what.” Butt-Head stood, rubbing his lower back. “If we don’t find something to eat in thirty minutes, we’ll do just that.”

“Yeah, yeah! Then we can set it on… on fire!” His body began to flinch and shudder. “Fire! F-F-Fire!”

“Settle down, Beavis.” A loose hand fell upon his shoulder, then it quickly slipped back into the pocket of Butt-Head’s gray shorts. “We’ll talk fire after dinner.”

”Fire, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head began to rub the stubble on his chin. “Okay, uh… We can, like, go down to the food pantry and pretend we’re homeless again.”

“I don’t know, Butt-Head. All they have there is boring stuff like canned corn. I-I don’t really wanna eat canned corn.” As Butt-Head re-entered thinking mode, Beavis hoisted himself on top of the counter. He snatched the bag of potato chips next to him and peeked inside, only to grumble under his breath and let it fall to the floor when he found nothing inside.

“We gotta eat something. You get really annoying when you’re hungry.”

“Me?!” Beavis’ legs suddenly stopped swinging. “You’re the one that gets annoying, bunghole! You get all cranky and stuff, then you like to yell at me.”

“Yeah, because you get annoying. I just said that, dumbass.” Butt-Head side-eyed him briefly before resuming his pace. “Just shut up for a second, let me think.”

Beavis kicked his heels against the cabinets, biting his bottom lip. “Oh yeah!” His head shot up with widened eyes. “We can go to Mr. Anderson’s again! Yeah, he’ll definitely get us something that’s not canned or boring.”

“Damnit, Beavis, you stole my idea.”

“Sorry, heh-heh-meh.”

“Ugh, whatever.” He began to make his way to the front door. “Let’s go before he, like, falls asleep or something.” Butt-Head chuckled. “Old people suck.”

“When we get old, we’re gonna kick ass.” Beavis sat on the couch to put his shoes on. “We’re gonna be, like, silver foxes, or whatever they call it.”

“Uh… No? We’re still gonna be people.”

“Really? I-I mean, I did think it was weird. Like, what do you mean I’m gonna be a fox? And a silver one? All the foxes I see are red. But I did hear”—he finished lacing his shoes and ran to join Butt-Head at the door—“that whatever these silver foxes are or how they happen, they score.”

“Uh-huh-huh. I ran over a fox once.”

“Come on, Butt-Head.” Beavis’ hands fumbled together against his chest as the pair began making their way down the sidewalk. “That wasn’t funny.”

Butt-Head attempted to kick a rock into a passing car, disappointed when it merely rolled under the tires. “That fox bit you,” he reminisced with a snort.

“Yeah, that fox was a butthole! Like, I’m spending all this time nursing you back to health,-“

“Uh-huh-huh. Nursing. Chicks do that with their boobs.”

“-and you have the nerve… to bite me, and tear up my shower curtain, and shit in the sink! Like, I pee there!” Beavis didn’t bother to look either way before he followed Butt-Head across the street. “I mean, I hope he’s still alive and stuff, but god, he sucked. Or she. I-I never figured that out, I guess.”

“But if it was a man-fox I ran over, it would’ve been funny.”

Beavis thought for a moment. “Yeah, heh-heh-meh. It would! Imagine if it was Coach Buzzcut or something. Now that’s real comedy.”

“Uh-huh-huh. He sucks.”

“Yeah, remember when he found out we were actually gonna be able to graduate? He was all like, ‘I’m a believer again, God!’ Then he started rolling on the floor and crying. Then he ripped his shirt open and kissed Mr. Van Driessen, heh-heh-meh.”

“Shut up, Beavis. We’re here.” They stopped at the very end of Mr. Anderson’s sidewalk and stared at his front door. Butt-Head turned his head to Beavis, reminding him, “We gotta, like, act like we’re starving and sad and stuff.”

“Starving and sad and stuff,” Beavis repeated whilst smiling and trailing after Butt-Head to the Anderson’s front porch. “Got it.”

Butt-Head reached over and rang the doorbell, and a muffled shout was heard inside, followed by heavy stomps. Dressed in his afternoon casual, Mr. Anderson looked straight ahead at Butt-Head and then down at Beavis. “Well, afternoon, boys. I came over yesterday to wish y’all congratulations for graduatin’, but nobody answered the door.”

“Yeah yeah, that’s cool, heh-heh-meh. Do you have any food?”

Mr. Anderson seemed a bit surprised by the question. “Sure thing, I have food. What-“

“Cause we, like, need some,” Beavis cut him off.

“We’re on, like, the verge of crying and stuff,” Butt-Head added.

“Did you boys say you needed something to eat?” a softer tone piped up over the pair’s husky voices. Marcy Anderson appeared behind her husband, placing a wrinkled, veiny hand on his shoulder.

“Yes ma’am, we sure do. I can feel my emotions deep within my heart and lungs or whatever. They’re like, sad.” Beavis forced himself to frown, the edges of his lips going almost all the way down to his jawbone.

“Oh, you poor angels.” Her hand gripped Mr. Anderson’s shoulder. “Here, come on in. I can fix you two something up.”

“Uh, that won’t be necessary,” said Butt-Head. “We were just thinking maybe you could, like, order us a pizza or something.”

“Please, dear, I insist. Come on in.” With a warm, thin smile, she stepped aside, guiding her husband to do the same.

Beavis’ frown was now genuine. “Okay, alright,” he mumbled under his breath as he passed the couple. “Thanks.”

The door shut, ruffling the wreath they had strung up. “I promise this won’t be long. I just feel like you two deserve something better than pizza. Consider this a gift for graduating!”

“Uh… okay.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” Beavis repeated, scratching an itch on the back of his neck.

“Make yourselves comfortable.” She fluffed her dress on her way to the kitchen, out of sight. “Tommy, why don’t you entertain these boys?”

“Oh god,” Beavis rasped.

“Okay, honey,” Mr. Anderson called over his shoulder.

“You really don’t have to do that.”

“No, no, it’s no problem,” Mr. Anderson “reassured” Beavis with a raise of his scarred hand. He exhaled sharply through his nostrils. “Huh. Entertain, entertain…”

Beavis and Butt-Head faced away from Mr. Anderson, speaking as quietly as they could, which, albeit, was still very loud, “I, uh, I don’t know if I can handle this, Butt-Head.”

“Ugh, me neither. But I’m starving.” He gave a fleeting glance towards Mr. Anderson. “Let’s just, like, let them do their boring, old people thing and get it over with.” He spoke through the side of his mouth, “Besides, the longer they take, the more of a chance you have to set Burger World on fire.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Fire! F…F-Fire!”

“My days at the fire department?” Mr. Anderson blinked a couple of times. “That was a long time ago, you two. Hell, I wasn’t even a real firefighter.” He laughed with a shrug. “I was just a volunteer. But you seem really excited, so, why not?”

“And then, they finally let me hold a real fire hose. I sprayed it without thinking and it practically launched me across the room!” Mr. Anderson leaned back into his chair and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I got whacked with a paddle for it. Do they even do that anymore?”

Beavis’ eyes fluttered as he forced them to stay open. He tugged on Butt-Head’s sleeve. “Butt-Head. Can you, like, kill me or something.”

“Hello!” Mrs. Anderson greeted in a crackled, singing tune. Draped in a perfectly clean apron, she waltzed into the living room, holding out two Tupperware containers. “I’m sure y’all have things to do, so I went ahead and wrapped this all up.” She handed both containers to Beavis when Butt-Head didn’t offer up his hands. “You’re more than welcome to stay, though, if you’d like.” Suddenly, her eyes squinted, and she leaned in closer. “Goodness, baby! Forgive my eyesight. Is that gauze on your head?”

“Uh, no. It’s one of those big bandaids,” answered Butt-Head nonchalantly as he scratched the inside of his nose. “He hit his head.”

“Oh, no!” Her hands flocked to her heart. “Bless your little heart.”

“How did you know I have a small heart?”

“Uh-huh-huh. He was supposed to die at birth.”

“How badly did you hit it?” Mrs. Anderson lifted a hand to the big bandaid, pulling away when Beavis flinched from the touch.

“It’s fine, really.” Beavis readjusted the containers in his arms as they began to slip.

“Y’ know, son,” Beavis squeezed his eyes shut with annoyance as Mr. Anderson joined in, “you could get a concussion. Keep an eye on any sudden, strange symptoms, such as dizziness, fatigue, nausea-”

“I said I’m okay. It’s fine.” He looked down at the containers. “Thank you, ma’am. For, like, the food and stuff.”

“And thank you, Mr. Anderson, for your wonderful stories,” the sarcasm that trickled down Butt-Head’s words was something neither Anderson was capable of picking up.

“It’s both of our pleasures.” Mrs. Anderson stepped out of the way as Beavis and Butt-Head made their way towards the door. “Oh! Silly me,” she giggled. “I made you two a platter of meatloaf with a side of mashed potatoes and butter corn.” She lowered her voice, as if an audience of disappointed grandchildren were stationed nearby and just waiting for her to spill her secret, “Between you and me, they were microwavable mashed potatoes. But it gets the job done, doesn’t it?” She smiled and winked.

“Yeah, yeah!” Beavis grinned, while Butt-Head blankly stared. “I love microwaving things. Microwaves are cool, heh-heh-meh.”

She softly chuckled again, and the couple followed the two out to the porch. “Just promise me you’ll take care of yourself!” She waved to Beavis, who was now walking backwards in order to see her. “If that injury worsens, make sure you call a doctor!”

“Concussions are no joke!” Mr. Anderson warned through cupped hands.

“I hear ya! Ah!” he yelped as he unexpectedly stepped onto the road, making him lose his balance and nearly drop the meatloaf containers. “Bye!” he farewelled upon regaining his footing.

“Don’t be strangers now!” she called. “Grown or not, y’all will always be our little boys!”

In the middle of the road, Beavis slowed to a stop. He knew he wanted to reply, and yet, he said nothing. Mrs. Anderson waved a final time, and, clinging onto her husband’s arm, they stepped back into the house and gently closed the door. Beavis stood there for a moment, staring, quiet.

“Come on, asswipe!”

Beavis snapped out of it, peering over his shoulder to see Butt-Head standing impatiently across the street. “Coming, coming,” he huffed as he jogged over, containers cradled tight. The walk back home was one without chatter, and Beavis’ arms never felt such relief as the Tupperware finally rattled against the coffee table.

“So much for not eating corn,” Butt-Head snarked as he pried open the lid. “Go get the forks and stuff.”

“I don’t know, Butt-Head,” he began on his way to the kitchen. “This actually smells kinda good.” He clutched two metal forks in his hand with no intention on shutting the drawer back. “Hey, dillhole! Catch!”

Butt-Head perked up just in time to half-catch a soaring fork between his hands and chest, only to awkwardly fumble it and cause it to fall onto the floor. “Damnit,” he grunted as he leaned down, wiping the fork on his knee. “What if that, like, stabbed me or something, dumbass?”

“It would’ve been cool, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis settled down beside him and finally opened the container, salivating at the steam that rose into the air. “You wanna watch Cops?”

Butt-Head let out his signature laugh. “Hell yeah.” He held his fork between his teeth as he grabbed the remote. Fork back in his hand, he remarked, “It better not be some stupid episode.”

“Yeah! I don’t want to watch some fartknocker get busted for weed. I want to see somebody shot!”

“And if the Good Lord is willing, we will.” Butt-Head threw the remote back on the table, which skidded off into the floor.

“Bad boys, bad boys! What’cha gonna do?” Beavis’ singing was muffled by a mouthful of mashed potatoes and butter corn, “What’cha gonna do when they come for you?”

Butt-Head propped his feet onto the corner of the table. “You know,”—he swallowed—“I never understood that song. Like, you dumbass, what the hell do you think is gonna happen when the bad boys come for you?”

Beavis thought for a moment. “Oh. Uh. Butt-Head? I think… I think it’s saying... I-I don’t think they’re calling the cops bad boys. I think they’re, like, asking the bad boys what they’re gonna do when they, the cops, come for them and stuff.”

Butt-Head’s lowered his eyebrows. “That’s stupid.” He sawed off another piece of meatloaf using the edge of his fork. “They’re calling the cops bad boys. Bad as in cool. But cops aren’t cool. Cops suck. Which is another reason why this song is dumb.”

“Yeah, cops suck! They always came over when I was little. Y-You were there a few times, I think. Remember? They would come in waving their flashlights and walk around everywhere. God, some people can’t just keep their noses out of other people’s business. It pisses me off! Then, they would leave, and my mom would, like, start yelling at me and stuff.”

“You would cry and hide under your bed, uh-huh-huh.”

“No I didn’t! Stop making crap up! That was you, butthole!” He swallowed a piece of meatloaf that he hardly chewed. “Yeah, you’d get all scared of her, then you’d run upstairs and slam the door and lock me out, and then I had to be the one to deal with all that yelling and stuff.”

“Shut up, Beavis. Some guy is trying to run away.”

Beavis’ focus locked back onto the television. “What the hell is this buttmunch doing? You’re handcuffed!” His outburst caused some food to spill on his shorts, and he flicked it off into the floor.

The two watched the handcuffed man take off into the woods, followed by officers spewing their commands and a very unsteady cameraman. “Why don’t they just shoot the guy?”

“They should! Spice some things up around here. O-Or at least unleash the dog. Yeah, dogs kick ass. I wish I could be a K-9 or whatever they call it. You know, I wonder why they all have the same name. It seems confusing. If I was a police dog, I would just want to be Beavis.” He waved his fork around as he rambled, “Heh-heh-meh, yeah, it would kick serious ass to ride around in a cop car all day, but this time without the handcuffs and lectures. And then, sometimes, they’ll open the door and say, ‘Go get ‘em, Beavis!’ and I’d get to chase people! And bite them! Without getting arrested!”

Butt-Head stared at him for a moment. “Beavis, if you were a police dog, they would say, ‘Damn. That is one dumbass, asswipe of a dog.’ Then they’d shoot you to put you out of your misery.”

“No they wouldn’t! They’d love me! If I were a police dog, I’d lead all the cops to your house, and I’d bark like I found cocaine and meth and crack. Then, I-I’d bite the crap out of you! And later, I’d break into your cell, and bite the crap out of you again!”

“Woah!” Butt-Head exclaimed as the Tupperware slipped out of Beavis’ lap. Beavis gasped and caught it just in time, the food holding on by a thread. “Damnit, Beavis, don’t be a dumbass.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head. It’s fine. Nothing spilled.” Stiff with embarrassment, Beavis went quiet, minus the constant smacking noises as he chewed with his mouth open.

For sometime, it remained this way. The only noise in the house was lip smacking and all the shouting, barking, and taser sounds Cops had to offer. Beavis was scraping the corners of the plastic now, salvaging what was left. He couldn’t remember the last time either of them had a dinner as substantial as this one. How Mrs. Anderson made corn taste this good was beyond him. It was practically witchcraft. That would be cool if she was a witch, crossed his mind. He glanced at Butt-Head, who, despite his prior complaint, appeared to agree with Beavis.

What happened earlier paid a visit to Beavis’ consciousness. “Butt-Head?”

He looked up from his container. “Yeah?”

Beavis tapped the walls of the Tupperware with his fork. “Did you, like, hear what Mrs. Anderson said earlier? The part about us always being their little boys or something?”

“Uh… no.”

“Well, she said it, okay.” He began trying to pierce the plastic with the fork. “It, uh. It kinda…”—his mind scrambled for the word—“‘re-zone-ated’ with me or whatever. Like… it made me sad for some reason.”

Butt-Head waited for more, but Beavis was silent. “That’s because you’re a dumbass.”

Beavis laughed slightly, but his smile quickly began to waver. “I’m being serious, Butt-Head.”

“Me too, uh-huh-huh.”

“No, like, serious-serious.” Butt-Head’s laughter ceased, and Beavis leaned forwards to put the container on the table, his stabbing attempts having been proven futile. He remained hunched over, his hands clasped like they would be in prayer. “You know, I never mentioned this, but I’ve felt weird ever since we graduated. I thought it would totally kick ass, and it does, but like… I don’t know. I just… kinda feel sad about it, too.”

Beavis waited for Butt-Head to taunt him, and was perplexed when he said nothing. Hands clutched together tightly, Beavis tilted his head towards him, finding his eyes strangely distant. There was no hint of mockery in his voice when he spoke, “Maybe you, like, are afraid of getting old. Nobody wants to be like Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.” He shuddered. “Ugh, we still better be sexy when we’re that age.”

“I mean, yeah, maybe. I don’t know though.” He sat up straighter. “I feel like it’s more than that.” Again, Butt-Head said nothing. Still, Beavis had a feeling this moment would be ammo another day.

“Well, enough about that crap.” Butt-Head set his Tupperware on the table as well. “There was something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

The television completely drowned out. “Sure, uh, what’s up?”

Butt-Head shifted towards him, his hands also clasped together. “I kinda don’t understand how I never knew about that guitar. Like… I’ve lived here since I was fourteen, and I’ve known you for, like, ever. Why the hell did you never mention it? How come I’ve never seen you play? It just doesn’t seem like some big weird secret, and it’s weird. You’re weird, Beavis.”

“Well, uh,” he began to stammer, and his eyes shot to the floor. “W-Well first of all, I couldn’t really play it around you to begin with. My mom said you would distract me and stuff. So I just… didn’t. A-And I never mentioned it, because, like, there was no reason to. I just… didn’t,” he repeated, picking the loose skin around his nails. “You know, Butt-Head…” Beavis hesitated. For a moment, he could not speak. “I-I love my mom. Like, a lot.”

“I love her a lot too, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, dude, shut up. And, uh… Uh, yeah, I love her. But… when she, you know,”—blood sprouted from beneath his peeled skin—“didn’t come back, I, uh.” Beavis stared at his bleeding finger, then brought it to his mouth. “Th-The guitar made me think of her in, like, a bad way. So I put it under my bed, and I, uh, forgot about it… or something.” The blood in his mouth was like a dessert. He sucked on the metallic syrup, then smiled. “But now we have it! And I’m gonna learn how to play it again, and we’re gonna score!”

Butt-Head’s grin was delayed. It was for a fraction of a second, but Beavis had everything about this person memorized. Yet, he still laughed like it didn’t happen. “You bet your ass we’re gonna score, Beavis. That’s if you get your crap together and play a song chicks will actually like. Huh. What songs do chicks like?”

“There’s gotta be a slut anthem or something. We have one for the country, why not for sluts?”

“You’re damn right, Beavis. And if there isn’t one, we’ll just have to invent it.” His dark eyes glistened. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ll write a slut anthem. You can play the guitar, and I’ll sing.”

“Yeah! Yeah!” Beavis bounced on the couch. “This kicks so much ass! Yeah! We’re gonna score!” he announced with pure joy as he raised his fists above his head.

“Don’t waste all your energy now. We need to-“ Suddenly, Butt-Head was interrupted by a series of coughs that rattled his chest and shoulders. “Blaugh.” He shook his head after it was over. “Anyways, we need to, like, focus on the words and stuff.” He stood up and stepped over Beavis’ legs. “Come up with something cool while I’m in the shower.”

Beavis stared at the ceiling fan that had been rotating for the past half decade. “Oh say, can you see… by the blonde’s giant boobs. Yeah, yeah, that’s a good one, heh-heh-meh. Uh, what comes next, uh… What so proudly we held… Oh, yeah, this kicks ass. Butt-Head!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Hurry up!”

“Shut up, asswipe!” echoed from down the hallway.

Beavis giggled some more, then nestled back into the mattress, arms outspread. “What so proudly we held, by the… Uh…” He crinkled his nose as nothing came to mind, and, with a groan, he allowed himself to slide off the bed. Bent in an awkward position on the floor, he scraped himself up and made his way towards the tilted dresser. He threw out a two shirts and a pair of shorts before he found a good nightshirt: a graphic tee from the sixth grade with a bunch of dilapidated dinosaurs on it that somehow still fit. He slid it over his head, making sure to not screw up his big bandaid. The shirt was snug, sure, but far from unwearable. He wondered if he would have it forever.

Beavis felt like he was being watched.

He looked down at his feet, a bit to the left. There, having never blinked, was the guitar. He remained as he was, still and unwavering. The guitar did, too. He swore he heard it whisper a laugh.

Beavis wanted to get rid of it. He wanted nothing more to kick it under the bed and hope, no, know that Butt-Head would forget about it. Nothing in the world sounded better. Absolutely nothing. He stepped away from the dresser and loomed over the instrument, his nails pushing deep into his palms.

Rage infecting every section of his face, he bent down, picked up the guitar, and sat on the bed.

His right hand began to seamlessly pick at the chords, just like before. He played that high E on the 7th fret, and when he somehow managed to properly play the next few chords, he refused to go any further. Then, with a sharp inhale, he dared to continue, only to mess up as soon as he started. He grasped the guitar’s neck with his failed left hand and threatened to rip it off. Once again, nothing in the world sounded better. Beavis’ body shook and shuddered for some time before he finally exhaled. He started over, and this time, he screwed up the open chord, the one thing he had managed to play consistently.

“Piece of crap!” he lashed out, slamming his fist on the wood. As his rapid breathing moved the guitar back and forth, he jerked up his hand and stared at his fingers. He watched his skin refuse to rise from the deep indentions the strings had already formed. He used to chew on his calluses. Did that make him a cannibal?

With a sigh, Beavis repositioned his hands, and he started all over again. Again, he failed. He twitched, and tried again. He smacked his forehead against the guitar, groaned from the pain that ricocheted from the back of his head, and tried again. Again, and again, and again, and again, and again.

“Are you still playing that stupid Metallica song?” Beavis jumped at the sound of his voice. “I told you we need to play something cool.”

“Yeah, I know,” Beavis grumbled as he slid the guitar off of his lap and positioned it against the wall. “I was, like, using it as practice.”

Butt-Head narrowed his eyes, his shirt already soaked from his dripping hair. “You dumbass, I told you to-“

“The slut anthem, yeah-yeah-yeah! I got some really slutty words picked out. Like, uh…” Beavis’ grin fell as the silence prolonged. “I don’t remember.”

“Damnit, Beavis,” Butt-Head gruffed as he fell onto the bed. “Next time, just do what I tell you and don’t waste your time on some dumb song.”

“I did think of some words!” Beavis snapped as he reluctantly climbed into bed. “Trust me, I’ll remember them by morning.”

“Mhm,” Butt-Head dismissed as he rolled himself onto his stomach, taking the covers with him.

“Butt-Head, you butthole.” Beavis gripped the covers and yanked them back. Still holding on tight, he flopped onto his side, blanket and sheets up to his neck. When Butt-Head ripped them back, they took Beavis with them. “Butt-Head!” he snarled, then placed his feet on Butt-Head’s ribcage.

“Get your feet o-augh!” he cried out as Beavis kicked as hard as he could with the intention of launching himself back to his side of the bed, covers secured in hand. However, what ended up happening was that Butt-Head, who was also clinging onto the sheets, fell off the bed, taking everything with him. Beavis crashed into Butt-Head, who cushioned his fall, and tumbled onto the floor. He quickly stood while Butt-Head groaned in pain, holding his back with one hand while he used his other hand to hold onto the bed for support.

“See? This is what happens when you’re a bunghole!” Beavis whisked the sheets out from under Butt-Head’s feet.

“Beavis,” Butt-Head muttered coldly and quietly. “I am going to kick your ass so hard-“

“Hold on, let me get all this crap back on the bed.” He simply tossed the twisted bundle of sheets back onto the mattress, then jumped on top of it. Rolling off, he grabbed a random piece of cloth and took it with him. “Can you kick my ass tomorrow or something? We’re gonna be, like, late for work again if we don’t sleep.”

Butt-Head glared at him, then quietly surrendered as he laid back down on the bed. The two pulled and tugged and wrestled with the tangled mess of covers before they finally morphed the abomination into something that, while not right, was manageable. Beavis pulled his knees to his chest so the sheets could fully cover him, and Butt-Head was also forced into an uncomfortable position, which would prove to be hard on him. He tossed and turned for quite a while, mumbling swears along the way. He didn’t snore that night, but Beavis knew he fell asleep when his movements stilled and his breathing slowed. Beavis always fell asleep last.

Once again, the guitar pried his eyes open. It dared him from afar, then acted like it was doing nothing at all.

That night, Beavis simply turned around. But his eyes would eventually open again, and they fell upon the back of Butt-Head’s head. His hair, now colored black from the water, was strewn across the yellowing pillow. He looked like a princess. Beavis held back a snicker. He would tell that joke to Butt-Head on the way to work in the morning. After all, you can’t kick somebody’s ass while you’re driving.

Somehow, that was enough to get the guitar to back off, and Beavis’ untold joke rocked him to sleep.

Chapter Text

For the thousandth time in the past few, slow, and grating hours, Butt-Head choked on his tone-deaf choir of coughs and snot. “Fuck!” he lashed out in a fit of rage. It was rare for him to swear like that.

“Uh, Butt-Head.” Beavis shrunk back from the man who refused to cough into his arm and was now blowing his nose into his shirt. Weak and lightheaded, Butt-Head had confined himself to the bed for most of the morning, drifting in and out of sleep and accompanied by frequent signs of a desperately needed exorcism. At least his disease tantrums were distant and muffled. But it didn’t take long for him to get bored, and it didn’t take long for Beavis to get terribly frustrated. “Can you, like, go somewhere else.”

“Where am I gonna go?” How he could manage to sound more nasally than he already did was nothing short of a failed miracle. “There’s no TV in our room, asswipe.”

“Get over it!” Beavis smashed himself into the side of the armrest as Butt-Head entered another fit. It truly felt like if Butt-Head coughed one more time, Beavis’ entire skull would detonate. Every cough, every snot suck, each time sounded louder than the last. Even the television was starting to sound like a family of knives dragging against a chalkboard. Beavis just wanted the noise to stop. “You’re getting your disease all over the couch!” He got a good look at Butt-Head, mucus splattered in places it should and shouldn’t be, eyes red and watering, and his mouth gaped in raspy, shallow breaths. If the feeling of losing his mind wasn’t enough, disgust was now crawling over Beavis’ face. “Jesus. Butt-Head, I-I think you need to just suck it up and-“

“Damnit, Beavis, I’m not taking any of that medicine stuff. It’ll be over soon. It’s fine.” He could barely get the last words out before he doubled over, coughing and wheezing. “Stop being such a dumb dumbass. Uh-huh-huh, dumb dumbass.”

“That’s it!” He shot up from the couch, striking his finger in Butt-Head’s face. “You’re taking some of this stupid medicine whether you like it or not! I-I’m sick…”—he shook with rage—“a-and tired of you! Being a butthole!” Beavis stormed to the kitchen, shuddering when he heard the loud honk of Butt-Head blowing his nose again. Beavis heaved himself on the countertop and stood up straight, peering into the cabinet. He knocked over an assortment of expired spices and parsley, watched an old glass of paprika fall onto the floor and shatter, and merely grunted at its sight. Butt-Head began to cough again, making Beavis snark, “Can you wait five seconds?! Wait, here it is.” He snatched a bottle of Delsym, its bottle sticky and its measuring cup missing. For whatever reason, Beavis muttered, “Oh, uh… this one’s, like, old. Ugh, damnit.”

“Who cares?” Butt-Head seemed to have already given up trying to avoid the syrup. “You take old medicine all the time.”

Indeed he did. Matter of fact, Beavis had sipped on this Delsym before. It was the only reason he knew it was old. “Y-Yeah, but… You know, if you take old medicine, you won’t, like, get better. Then I’ll have to listen to you cough and complain all day and stuff.” He walked along the edge of the counter and jumped off, avoiding the glassy mess scattered across the tiles. “Butt-Head, can I drive your car?”

”Uh… no.”

“Fine! Be like that! Have fun coughing and all that crap!” Beavis blindly threw the expired Delsym across the living room on his way to the door. ”I’ll be back in, like, an hour! Two hours! Instead of, like, ten minutes! Because you suck! And you’re a butthole!” he emphasized through gritted teeth.

“Uh, okay, uh-huh-huh.” His laughter quickly died as he began to lose it once again, saliva spraying all over the coffee table. Beavis glared at him, made an animal-like noise of frustration, then finally slammed the front door shut.

“Stupid Butt-Head,” he muttered to himself as he began his trek to the pharmacy. “Uh-huh-huh,” he mocked, only to cough as a consequence from forcing his voice that deep. His eyes bulged out of their sockets. “Oh, god, not me too.” He interlocked his fingers and closed his eyes. “Dear Lord, please, don’t let me become sick and disgusting like Butt-Head. Also, it would be, like, really cool if he was dead by the time I got back home.” He stopped in his tracks. “B-But if he does die, can you send me a sign or something. Because, like, I don’t wanna waste my money on some dumb medicine for no reason. Uh, Amen, heh-heh-meh.”

Beavis let out a scream as a car screeched past. “Hey, get out of the fucking road!” the driver’s voice echoed as he bolted out of sight.

Beavis opened his eyes, finding that he had unknowingly positioned himself right in the center of the street. “You get off the road, assmunch!” he shouted back at a car that was no longer there. He hopped back onto the sidewalk, then his mind began to wonder. What if he died? That would’ve sucked. What a lame way to go. Perhaps if the car exploded upon impact, Beavis would be more forgiving. What about Butt-Head? Would he care? No, he wouldn’t. He probably wouldn’t even question it if Beavis never came back home. Well, that was definitely another way he could get away from Butt-Head.

Beavis’ hands clasped back together. “Hey, Lord. It’s me again. I remember at church one time, the pastor… heh, ass. The pastor said something about, like, not being selfish, and that you won’t answer selfish prayers and stuff. So, instead of killing Butt-Head, can you just kill me? I’m getting pretty tired of that bunghole.” Beavis was far from satisfied. “Maybe you can like, kick his ass or something. I won’t tell anybody. Wait, no, I forgot, you won’t answer that. Just forget the whole thing! Amen!” he finalized as he turned a corner.

A elderly woman nodded in his direction as she passed him, “It’s so nice to see young people with such passion for the Lord.”

The walk to the pharmacy felt like one of the most boring things Beavis ever experienced. But nevertheless, he made it in one piece, and so did the crumpled dollar bills at the bottom of his pocket. The bell jingled above his head as he pushed open the glass door, and the employee behind the cash register greeted him with a simple side-eye.

Beavis aimlessly walked around the store, unsure of where exactly he was going, but hopeful he would run into a bright orange box at some point. During his adventure, he ended up grabbing five family-size bags of chips, some Dawn dish soap for their shampoo and body wash, and a stack of paper plates. He wrapped his arms around his groceries and stumbled through the aisles, still on the look-out for that damn Delsym.

“Hey, Beavis! Is that you?”

He nearly went limp and dropped it all. “Jesus Christ.”

Beavis turned around and, sure enough, there he was: Stewart Stevenson, in all his glory. “Praise Him be, heh. How are you?” He gestured his hands towards Beavis. “Are you sure you don’t want a basket or something?”

“No, it’s fi-“

“Here, take mine. I don’t really need it.”

Beavis stared at the extended red basket, then, with a gruff, set everything inside and took its handle. “Cool, uh, see you later.”

“What are you even doing here?” His face was lit up with a toothy grin. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Burger World?”

“Y-Yeah, I am, but, uh. Butt-Head’s, like, dying.”

His friendliness gave to horror. “What?!”

“Yeah, I’m looking for some Delsym? I think he has, like, the plague or something. He won’t stop coughing and all that crap.” Beavis’ grip on the metal handles tightened. “He’s being a major butthole.”

Stewart’s visible fear dwindled away, and he chuckled with a heavy sigh. “You had me worried there for a second. I highly doubt he has the plague, especially in this day and age. He has a cough you said? Here, follow me. It’s in the back.”

Beavis stared after Stewart, then began to snicker, “Heh-heh-meh. Cool.”

Once Beavis caught up with him, Stewart still felt like talking, “So, how have y’all been doing? I mean, I know we only graduated two days ago, hahah, but gosh, it’s already starting to feel like forever ago!”

“Yeah, I guess.” When Stewart awaited his response, he cleared his throat. “Uh, we’re doing… cool.”

“Me too, friend.” He sighed again, but it was softer, and his eyes gazed upwards at the ceiling as if a sunset awaited him instead of the blinding white lights. “You know, we haven’t really gotten a chance to speak in the last few weeks with all those finals. I… heh…” His voice turned sickishly squeamish, “I met a girl.”

Beavis snorted and quickly looked away. “Uh, Stewart. I don’t care. Like, at all.”

“Oh, you.” He insisted on continuing his gross love talk, “She’s… She’s everything to me.”

“Stewart.”

“I’ve never dated anyone before her. I was starting to believe the Lord had assigned me to a life of celibacy! But then, she just…”—he made a weird motion with his arms—“just swept me off my feet.”

“God damn, she a power lifter or something?”

Stewart’s eyes narrowed in bewilderment. “No, it’s… just a phrase. Like, I meant that… Anyways, oh, where was I?” The light in his eyes returned, and so did Beavis’ gag reflex. “She kisses me, she holds my hand, she calls me pretty. I know most men would hate that, but to be honest? I don’t mind it. I really don’t. Call me crazy, Beavis?”

”You’re crazy. You’re deranged. You’re absolutely mental.”

Stewart, still truly and devotedly believing that Beavis was simply pure banter, continued without skipping a beat, “But think she’s the one. I really do. It’s a feeling in my heart.”

”Ugh, just… just shut up.” Beavis grumbled behind his teeth, but his brain began to race and his volume soared, “You know, most of the time I don’t even understand why people date. It sounds boring! Like, why limit yourself to one slut? Are you stupid or something? You really suck, Stewart. You can’t even score without being a loser.”

“Um…” Stewart seemed to accept the fate Beavis proposed. So, when he abruptly stopped in the center of the aisle, Beavis immediately did the same, his scowl making Stewart hesitate for just a second longer. “Beavis, I think you’re making some wrongful assumptions about me and my girlfriend. I’m with her because she makes me happy. My parents have given me flack for this. They say I’m moving too fast, and that I need to slam on the brakes and whatnot. But I really, really can’t imagine life without her anymore.” When Beavis continued to stare like a deer tangled in an 18 wheeler’s headlights, Stewart attempted to bring it down to Beavis’ level, “For example, I know it’s not the same, but you know how you and Butt-Head always spend y’all’s time with one another, how y’all live together, so on, so forth? That’s how I feel with my girlfriend, but in a romantic way.” He smiled warmly, but at the same time, a bit uneasily, “Does that make sense?”

“What?” Beavis barked, his arms stiffening. “That doesn’t make sense at all! I hate Butt-Head! Do you hate your girlfriend too or something? God, Stewart, you suck at everything!”

“I-I-I didn’t mean-“

“In fact, earlier, I was really sick of Butt-Head’s crap, so I prayed that God would kill me so I could finally get away from him! And you used us to describe you and your chick’s dumb and stupid relationship? She deserves better, Stewart. Like really.”

Beavis didn’t expect confusion to crawl onto Stewart’s face. He thought he made himself pretty clear. “Beavis.” He blinked a couple of times, as if his uncertainty was a blind spot that could be cleared through a simple readjustment of the eyes. “If Butt-Head is causing you that much grief, why don’t you just stop being his friend?”

“What?” Beavis exclaimed once more. “Why the hell would I do that?”

Stewart opened his mouth, then shut it along with his eyes. “Never mind. Oh, I’m sorry.” He leaned to the side to look behind Beavis. “The Delsym’s right there. Behind you.”

“What?” he said one last time. “Oh yeah. There we go, heh-heh-meh.” He dropped it in the overfilled basket, and the medicine slid off and hit the floor. ”There we go, heh-heh-meh,” he repeated when he grabbed it again. Beavis started his trek back to the front of the store, only to be hit with the worst burden a person could carry when blond hair appeared in his peripheral vision. “Uh, yeah?”

“I just thought we could talk some more.” Stewart slowed his pace to match Beavis’. “Who knows the next time we’re gonna see each other?”

“Yeah, who knows.”

Stewart went quiet, and the following seconds were pure bliss. However, unbeknownst to Beavis, the best was yet to come. “I’m moving.”

“Really?!” Beavis shrilled with the widest grin known to man.

“Um, yeah. I applied for Trinity University. It’s in San Antonio.”

“Where the hell is that.”

“It’s on the other side of the state.”

“What’s Thestate.”

Stewart sighed. “I got accepted into a university on the other side of Texas.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “So, I’m leaving Highland soon. This fall, actually. My girlfriend got accepted, too. I plan to major in business.”

“Stewart, all of those words sound really boring. But like, say-yo-nara or whatever, heh-heh-meh.“

“Will that be everything for you today?” the cashier sounded as if she was one more shift away from killing herself, and it was not even the afternoon yet.

“Yeah, yeah.” Beavis slid the basket in her direction. “Wait, we need this too.” He clutched a handful of travel tissues on the shelf below and threw them on top of the chips. His eyes took her in, and he propped an arm across the counter. “Say, heh-heh-meh, you doing anything later?”

“Please don’t do this right now.”

“I plan to visit sometimes,—“

Why was Stewart still talking? It is a mystery, Beavis, said Butt-Head inside his head.

”—but it’s so far away. Frankly, I don’t know when I’ll ever get the time. I promise I’ll send a letter every now and then at least.”

“Come on, Stewart.” Beavis goggled at some tabloids instead of the cashier. “Don’t hurt yourself now.”

“Oh, I won’t! It’s no problem, I promise.” Beavis’ stare was cold and lethal.

“Okay, your total is…”—she tapped a few more buttons—“twelve dollars and fourteen cents.”

“Twelve dollars and fourteen cents, heh-heh-meh. Here you go.”

Silence. “Sir, that is a two dollar bill and a Burger World napkin. Please don’t make me call the police.”

“Here, this one’s on me.” Stewart handed the woman his card, and Beavis’ face flushed red with envy when he noticed their hands touched.

He glanced at Beavis a couple of times, which confused him. “You got a staring problem or something?”

“Okay, would you like your receipt?”

“That’s fine, heh-heh-meh. No worries. None at all.” He clicked his tongue. “Don’t want ya to stress, baby.” The woman heavily and loudly exhaled followed by a role of her eyes, and Beavis’ smug demeanor dropped. Why couldn’t he be smooth like Butt-Head?

“Well, uh, I guess I’ll just go get what I came here for now.” Stewart took the empty basket as Beavis took the plastic sack. “It was nice seeing you, Beavis. Tell Butt-Head I said hi, and that I hope he feels better, too.”

“No.” The door shut behind Beavis, and off he went.

“Here’s another one!” Beavis threw the second pack of travel tissues at Butt-Head’s face. “Another one, heh-heh-meh!” That one smacked him in the eye.

“Stop it, dumbass!” Butt-Head caught the next one and threw it back full force, to which Beavis simply stepped out of the way. Butt-Head, who was bedridden like a peasant child from the Dark Ages, was powerless against the fourth tissue pack launch. It smacked his scrunched-up face and rolled onto the floor, just like the rest. “Hurry up and give me that medicine,”—he sniffed obnoxiously loud—“so I can get better and kick your ass.” He gasped and held his arms over his face as a full bottle of Delsym suddenly came flying towards his direction.

“Oh yeah! Guess what!” Beavis leapt beside him, and the two bobbled around for a moment. “That dumb annoying guy Stewart was there. He paid for all this, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head raised his eyes from the cardboard he was peeling open, and the corners of his lips twisted upwards. “Uh-huh-huh. Stewart. Uh-huh-huh. He sucks.” He coughed, and while it still wasn’t covered, at least he completely faced away from Beavis that time.

“Dude, he has a girlfriend.”

Butt-Head snapped his neck back towards Beavis. “He what?” He began to violently cough, his head hanging low as his body jerked around. He threw his head back and used his arm to push his hair out of his face. “Stewart? Beavis, are you sure about this?”

“I swear! He told me himself!”

Butt-Head was willing to do anything to rationalize this harrowing revelation. “He’s got to be lying. You can’t trust Stewart, that slippery snake. He lies, like, all the time.”

“I don’t know, Butt-Head. He seemed pretty serious about it.” Beavis brought his feet together and held onto his ankles, rocking back and forth. He suddenly came to a halt. “Wait, wait. He did say something about moving to the other side of Thestate, th-then, he backtracked, and said he was moving to the other side of Texas! That scheming little liar!” he fumed, grinding his teeth together. “Who the hell does he take me for?! Lying to my face like that?! Augh! I always knew something was off with him!”

“It’s a miracle he’s leaving town, or else we’d, like, kick his ass.” Butt-Head paid no mind to the directions and took a swig. “Augh, damnit to hell,” he sputtered, his blue tongue sticking out of his mouth. “Wait.” He brought the bottle closer. “Woah, check it out.” He slightly coughed. “It says this stuff has… uh… the really long word that Mr. Van Driessen put on the whiteboard when he was giving us, like, that lecture on drugs and stuff. You know what that means, Beavis? It means this medicine is the exact same as marijuana.” He pronounced the ‘j.’

“Really?!” Beavis no longer cared about catching the plague and crawled over to Butt-Head, their faces side by side. “Would you look at that? It is!”

“You can’t read, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head put his mouth on the entire rim and drank a decent amount, his face contorting as he did so. He gasped for air as it popped out of his mouth, and his body shook with repugnance. He caught Beavis’ eye. “Ugh, what are you doing here? Move.” Butt-Head elbowed him in the chest. When Beavis was back on his side of the bed, Butt-Head extended his arm. “Here, try some of this crap.”

“No way! I’ll get your gross spit in my mouth!”

Butt-Head turned the bottle 180 degrees. “Uh, here. I didn’t drink this way.”

“Oh, heh-heh-meh, thanks.” Beavis started to chug it, but in a tragedy like no other, his throat rejected it. Beavis unleashed a sea of blue all over the sheets.

“Ugh!” Butt-Head shrunk back. “Beavis, what the hell?! Now you got your gross dumb spit all over the bed!”

Beavis continued to choke on his own tongue, snarling and spitting. He dragged his shirt over his tongue, and nearly face-planted throwing himself off the bed and down the hall. He tumbled into the shower, twisted the handles, and yanked the detachable shower head off the wall. He sprayed the inside of his mouth, spit, sprayed, spit. “That was the worst blunt I’ve ever had!” he ranked against a total of zero other blunt sessions, water still blasting all over his face.

“Beavis!”

“What?!” he gargled.

“I said come here and put these sheets in the washer!”

“You do that, butthole!” he screamed over the roar of the shower in his ears. “I’m coming off my bad high!”

“I’m sick!”

A mixture of Delsym, saliva, and water splashed onto his socks. ”Walk!”

“I can’t!”

Beavis saved his breath, which was starting to get difficult the longer he remained a sitting duck for the shower head. He shut it off the water and practically created a river from the bathroom back to the bedroom. He found Butt-Head staring blankly at the Delsym-painted sheets with an air of discontent like no other.

“Jesus, Butt-Head, it’s just weed.” Beavis gripped the sheets and tugged off the top cover to reveal the thinner sheet beneath. “What?!” he gawked at the blue. “But I didn’t throw up there!”

“Maybe we’re, like, seeing things. Because we’re high or whatever.” Butt-Head groaned deeply and sunk forwards, his head touching his crossed legs. “Ugh… being high feels like crap. Beavis… when do we go back to being low again.”

“I’ve heard people say they ‘come down’ from their high. So, like, maybe we should go downstairs or something.”

Butt-Head lingered in his upward fetal position for a little bit longer before he finally fell onto his side, rolling onto his feet. His posture was worse than normal, and he was clinging onto both sides of his arms. His sniff echoed throughout the home. “I’m gonna need you to shut up and stuff,” he gruffly ordered as he followed Beavis into the hall, carrying a throat basket full of coughs. “If you’re gonna act all annoying and stuff like you did earlier, I’m gonna kick your ass!”

Butt-Head’s grogginess was shot dead as he slipped on one of the many puddles Beavis had tracked into the hall. His hands flailed forwards and grasped Beavis’ shoulders, who shrieked as he was dragged backwards onto the rotting wooden floorboards. Butt-Head collapsed face first onto the ground, while the back of Beavis’ head smacked against Butt-Head’s own shoulder. Startled, Beavis laid there, hyperventilating with his hands across his chest and dirty bedsheets around his legs.

“Get off of me!” Butt-Head finally pushed himself up, making Beavis slide off.

“Oh, god…” Beavis writhed. His vision focused onto Butt-Head’s face towering above. “Thanks a lot, Butt-Head!”

“This is your fault, dumbass! Ugh, give me this crap.” He whisked the covers off of Beavis and laid them flat like a towel on the ground. He coughed yet again. “Stand up, Beavis. I have a proposition for you.”

“Butt-Head, uh.” Beavis placed a hand on the back of his throbbing head on his way up. “I think I’m bleeding again.”

“Well, then tell it to stop. Okay, listen. See the blanket? You’re gonna, like, back up, and then you’re gonna, like, run. And then, you’re gonna jump on the towel and make it slide and stuff. It’ll dry up all that dumb water.”

Beavis could only see one thing: the stairway that awaited at the end of the hall. “I-I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“This is your mess, dillweed.” He pointed to the back of the hall. “Now clean it up.”

Beavis’ eye began to twitch as something warm trickled down the back of his neck. “Shut up, Butt-Head! I’m tired of you telling me what to do! Y-You know, we wouldn’t even be in this mess if you didn’t go and get the plague! Go! You go clean it up!”

“What? No way. I’m sick, remember? Dumbass.”

Years ago, Beavis would’ve hurled him onto the ground and used him as a surfboard without second or first thought. However, Butt-Head being heavyset and standing at a good 6’0 was now a strong deterrent. Still, Beavis had been told by a long forgotten authority figure that he possessed “crackhead strength.” He tried to weigh the pros and cons of both outcomes, but with the fury that was blinding his eyes with Butt-Head’s stupid face, there was no shortage of bias.

Beavis’ fingers curled into claws and he bent his knees to catapult himself forwards, but Butt-Head’s voice put the unstoppable on hold. “If we don’t do something, we’re gonna be high forever.” His head turned to the back of the hallway. “Here. Let’s both do it, uh-huh-huh.”

The tension in his tendons completely evaporated, and he sported a wide smile. “Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Great idea, Butt-Head! Man,” he continued as the pair placed their backs against the wall, “what would I do without you?”

“Okay, we gotta both run at the same time or, like, it won’t work. On three. One.” He coughed wildly. “Wait,”—another wet cough—“we gotta start over. Uh… crap.”

Beavis froze. “Butt-Head, wait.”

”Uh… oh yeah. One.”

“Butt-Head.”

”Two.”

“Butt-Head, when the hell is-“

“Three!”

Beavis was physically weaker than Butt-Head, but the one thing he surpassed him in was speed. So, even with the delay, he was caught up with Butt-Head before either could blink. With all of his senses locked onto the white and blue lump on the floor, Beavis didn’t even notice Butt-Head had stopped running a long time ago.

Grinning, he landed in a way that assured the covers would propel forwards. When he began to cackle with glee, the silence that was next to him was instantly noticed. “Butt-Head?”

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.”

”Butt-Head!” Beavis screamed over his shoulder to the man waving farewell at the back of the hallway like an adulterous wife would a warship. His initial steadiness fleeing him, Beavis’ spin began to bend and his arms began to sway. The cogs in his brain began to turn, and they spelled out “JUMP.”

But the cogs weren’t going fast enough. Beavis sure did jump. Forwards, that is.

The world around him spiraled and jerked and twisted as he flung himself down the stairs, losing every desperate fighting attempt to grab hold of anything tangible. His body screeched to a stop on his stomach, his limbs bent at every possible angle.

Butt-Head looked down upon him like God at humankind. “Uh-huh-huh. You fell.”

Beavis dug his nails into a carpet he could not see. He kicked his legs against the ground like he could swim his way up, and somehow, he did. The staircase had multiplied, and there was no end to it in sight. But somewhere at the top, he was there. “Butt-Head… I swear to god… when I get up these stairs… I am going to… seriously… kill you.”

Beavis took a single step, rolled his ankle, and blacked out.

The first thing Beavis heard was a loud, rapid thumping.

“- and then he hit his head again, a-and there was blood everywhere, and I tried to wake him up and stuff, but he won’t.“

He began to stir. His eyelids felt heavier than stone, but he pushed them open enough to take in his incomprehensible surroundings. The fog began to dissipate, and he could discern Butt-Head’s face before anything else. For some reason, it was above him. Beavis’ side was warm.

“And I tried to see if he was still alive, but I don’t know where the heart is.”

“Son, son. Calm down-“

“I’m not kissing this dumbass to bring him back to life, Mr. Anderson. You do it! Or do some of your stupid war crap that you won’t ever shut up about!”

Beavis took a breath sharp enough to rip Butt-Head’s eyes to his. “Butt-Head,” he rasped. “Where… where are you?”

Whatever fear he held was now seemingly dead and gone. “Ugh! Get off of me!”

“Woah, woah!” Beavis’ caught a glimpse of Mr. Anderson’s voice through the storm. The other side of Beavis rammed into something soft, yet firm. He felt himself drop and immediately get caught again. “Careful! You’re gonna knock him out again!”

“It wasn’t my fault. He’s the dumbass who fell.”

Beavis’ eyes began to flicker into the back of his head. “Seven comes after three, right?”

“Uh-huh-huh. He cheated on his finals.”

Beavis’ clarity lasted long enough for him to hiss, “You too… bunghole.”

“You are not good for my back, good lord. Son, you’re gonna have to take him again.”

“What? No way. I’m not holding a living man.”

Mr. Anderson tried to argue, but stopped himself. “Son. Other son. You, right here. I’m gonna stand you up, okay?”

“What?”

Beavis’ surroundings tilted as Mr. Anderson carefully eased him upwards, an act that felt like Beavis’ head was beneath an extremely slow hydraulic press.

“Your feet. Get on your feet. Put them down. Come on now. Oh, god, my back.”

“Yeah, Beavis. Stop being a dumbass for once.”

Beavis wasn’t sure what was up and what was down, nor where his feet were, nor what the hell a “back” was. But his instincts kicked in, and so did his legs. Somewhere along the way, he did something right, because the support behind him was suddenly lifted. Beavis stumbled, and it returned.

“Easy, easy.” Mr. Anderson held onto his arm. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Beavis. Hey, Beavis. How many fingers am I holding up?”

An extremely frail Beavis turned towards the direction of his voice. He could just barely see Butt-Head’s enclosed fist. “I… I-I don’t know.”

“Uh-huh-huh. See, he’s fine.”

Mr. Anderson wasn’t as quick to be convinced. “Listen, I had two boys come over yesterday who were in a very similar situation to you two. I’ll tell y’all what I told them. Concussions are a very serious-“

“I know, I know, I know. S… Shut up.” Beavis wriggled his arm out of his grasp. “Butt-Head, uh… where are you.”

“I’m right here, dumbass. Ugh, damnit. Beavis!” Butt-Head, for once in his life, softly tapped Beavis’ face. “Over here.”

“Oh, heh-heh-meh. Hey, Butt-Head. When did you get here?”

Butt-Head’s irritated sigh turned into a coughing fit, one that continued longer than normal.

“Uh, son? Are you okay?”

Butt-Head had both of his hands on his knees at that point, and he was starting to gag. Then, it went quiet. Beavis blinked longer than a normal person wound, and when he reopened his eyes, Butt-Head was bent at the waist, throwing up and painting the Anderson’s lawn a sickly blue.

“Oh, god. Oh, my god.” Mr. Anderson covered his face with his hands.

Beavis’ empty eyeballs suddenly squinted as he smiled. “Heh-heh-meh. Now we can go back upstairs.”

“Tom?” Marcy called from a distance. “Thomas, what’s going on out there?”

Mr. Anderson fumbled over his words, gaping at the hell that was unfolding on his front lawn, before finally shouting over his shoulder, “I got it, don’t worry honey!” He lowered his voice, “You two oughta get on home. Just… God bless, just go to a hospital, okay? Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

The word woke Beavis up. His head snapped towards Mr. Anderson, and dizziness immediately seized him. “No! No ambulance…”

“Damnit,” Butt-Head griped as he begrudgingly broke his fall. “Get up, asswipe.” Butt-Head shoved him forwards, only to have Beavis collapse yet again.

“I think you’re gonna have to help him walk-“

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up. Okay, Beavis. Uh… let’s go home or whatever,” he muttered, but the last thing Beavis wanted to do was work. With his hands under Beavis’ arms, Butt-Head dragged him off the porch and straightened him out. The best he could, anyways.

What Beavis did and did not remember varied greatly. “Uh, Butt-Head… are you, like, sick or something.”

“God damnit, Beavis, work with me,” Butt-Head hissed in his ear. He tossed Beavis’ arm over the back of his neck, and after some silence, slithered his hand to Beavis’ waist. His entire body twitched and trembled. ”Ugh…”

“You boys make it home safe now.” Mr. Anderson lingered in the threshold until the pair made it to his mailbox, to which he, with great relief, returned to the refuge of the inside of his home.

”I-If you’re sick,” Beavis resumed as they crossed the road, “you should take some medicine. Like, Delsym or something.”

“The curb. Step over the curb, Beavis. Beavis. Oh my god.” Butt-Head lifted Beavis onto the sidewalk himself.

“But I think our Delsym is old. It’s been there since I was little. Y-You can’t take old medicine. Then you won’t, like, feel better.”

“Shut up.” Butt-Head picked up the pace as he caught sight of home, abhorrent home. “This is the worst day of my life,” he lamented with a cough.

“Um… no it isn’t.”

Beavis closed his eyes for some time, opening them when he felt familiar ground. His entire weight shifted onto the arm wrapped around him as Butt-Head leaned forwards to open the door with his free hand. “Get inside already,” he crossly insisted as he gave Beavis a slight shove over the threshold. “Go. Get on the couch or something.”

With Butt-Head’s support gone, Beavis’ staggering traced a handful of incomplete ellipses before he tripped over his own shoes and collapsed over the armrest. Even in his compromised state, he knew this wasn’t his side of the couch. He reached out his arms and gradually dragged himself forwards, bringing his legs to his chest so Butt-Head wouldn’t kick them off.

But he didn’t. Beavis had no idea where Butt-Head went. He could hear him cough and wheeze and blow his nose, but he could not see him. Frankly, Beavis couldn’t see anything at all. His consciousness slipping from him once more, Beavis opened his mouth to advise him about the Delsym, only to drift away before a sound ever left him.

What ripped Beavis back into reality was the shrilled bleating of their phone. They never got phone calls.

He smacked his lips as he opened his eyes, weariness feeling like a mountain’s worth of Sisyphus’ boulders. And yet, the song echoing from the kitchen was enough motivation for Beavis to push every boulder to the top of the mountain at once. The house was tilting like a seesaw, but he somehow managed to wobble his way into the kitchen.

Beavis rested the bulky phone that barely fit in his hand against his ear. “Uh…” His eyes blinked at separate times. “Hey.”

“Hey, hey! This the Beavis residence?”

The voice sounded vaguely familiar. “I don’t know, bunghole, you tell me. You… You called the number.”

“Oh yeah, this is definitely you. Listen, I’m just calling to let you know that Tommy is throwing this wild party tomorrow night. You know, to celebrate graduating and stuff.” The seemingly-anonymous caller listed a bunch of numbers followed by a weird word Beavis had never heard before. Mawnrowrod or something like that. Was that Latin? “There’s gonna be-“

A voice popped up from the background, “Hey-hey-hey! Who the hell are you talking to?!”

“…Beavis?”

“Oh my god. Oh my fucking god, no! No! I told you not to-! Did you give them my address?” Silence. “Fuck! Give me the phone!” There was a series of bumping sounds and wind as Tommy jerked the phone into his hands. “Listen you son of a bitch. You and Shit-Head better not even think about showing up to this party. You hear me? Don’t even think about it! I swear to god, I’ll shoot you both on sight! Got it?”

Beavis narrowed his eyes. “Uh, who is this?”

Click, followed by beep, beep, beep.

He set it back on its receiver with a huff, then started to snicker. “Hey, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. I think we got prank called or something.” Beavis was so accustomed to Butt-Head constantly being at his side that the following quietude sparked uneasiness into his frail heart. “Butt-Head?” He surveyed the kitchen. Nothing. “Uh, okay. Butt-Head?” he raised his voice as his hands began to fumble together. He crept towards the stairs, halting at the sudden change in color beneath him. At the base of the stairs, fading and crumpling, was a small pool of blood. Bloody footsteps larger than his were inconsistently tracked around it. The pool of blood was smeared at one end, like the person had been dragged, then it abruptly stopped, followed by the occasional red drop all the way to the door. The splattered blood along the steps of the stairs came into focus. Beavis remembered. Half of it, at least. He went upstairs, looked in the bathroom, looked in the bedroom. Nothing. “Butt-Head?” He was seconds away from yelling his name as he hurried down the stairs, ready to go check the backyard.

A cough a bit of a ways behind him caught his attention. Butt-Head was asleep on the couch, using his own shoulder as a pillow. Beavis looked on in pure disbelief. How? He could’ve sworn he wasn’t there. Nevertheless, Beavis trudged over to him, and slightly slipped as he pulled himself onto the couch. “Butt-Head,” he whispered, despite the fact he was trying to wake him up. “Hey, Butt-Head. Guess what.”

Butt-Head jolted as he awoke and began harshly coughing instead of his usual aggravated mumbling. He spotted Beavis, then squeezed his eyes shut. “You asswipe, I was asleep.”

“Yeah yeah, I know.” Beavis’ chuckling was stalled as something caught his eye: a roll of the big bandaid in his hand. He didn’t even remember grabbing it. “Uh, okay, where was I… Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Some butthole prank called us.” Butt-Head’s eyes reopened, and he rolled onto his back as Beavis continued his essay, “Yeah yeah, it was Tommy from school and some other guy. They said they were throwing a party, a-and I think they casted a spell or something. It went.. one, eight, one, four, Mawnrowrod. Then, he said we were gonna get shot!”

“Uh-huh-huh. Cool. Guns are cool.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. I’ve always wanted to be in a gunfight. Y-You know, maybe the cops will show up, and we can be on TV!” His fists automatically began to shake with anticipation, a habit that made him remember the roll of beige tape in his grasp. “Oh yeah. Butt-Head, can you, like, put another big bandaid on my head. This other one’s, like, all wet and stuff.”

He glanced at the roll in Beavis’ hands, then sat himself up. He lifted his hands to Beavis’ forehead, peeling apart the blood-soaked tape and unwrapping it. He threw it underneath the coffee table, instructing, “Turn around, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.” Still sitting cross-legged, Beavis inched himself around.

“You know, this whole situation kinda sucked at first, but I’m thinking I should go ahead and kick your ass for making me do all this crap.” He could’ve sworn he heard Butt-Head murmur, “Jesus,” when he finished turning around, but it was too quiet to be sure. The big bandaid crackled as Butt-Head unrolled it. “Beavis, maybe we should go to the hospital.”

“What?!” He temporarily threw his head over his shoulder. “And get hit with another one of those stupid bills?”

“Your funeral would be expensive too, dumbass.” He leaned forwards as he began wrapping Beavis’ head.

“No it wouldn’t! I told you to just throw me in the woods!” Beavis imagined his corpse being torn apart by scavengers, feathered and furred. “It’s gonna be cool, heh-heh-meh. N-Not like that dumb thing people do where they get put in coffees or whatever. Like, ooo, look at me, in my box! I have a tuxedo on! Oh, the worms are gonna love this outfit! Shut up! At least make yourself useful for once and become vulture food. Vultures are way cooler than worms. Worms suck. Van Driessen said they were, like, important for the environment, and that they eat things. But they don’t even have mouths! Butt-Head, remember that time we had a pet vulture?”

“Uh-huh-huh. That vulture kicked ass.” He coughed.

“I still can’t believe they took him from us!” He strained his vocals to mock the ranger, “‘You cannot legally have this eagle in your home. You need to surrender it, or face a fine and or possible imprisonment, blah blah blah, I suck, I just shit all in my diaper and I need to be changed.’ His name wasn’t Eagle, you assmunch! It was Ben Dover!”

“Ben Dover. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Heh-heh-meh, Ben Dover, heh-heh-meh. You know, you were really smart for coming up with that name, Butt-Head.” He snorted. “Ben Dover.”

“I’m always smart, dumbass.” He ripped the big bandaid and pressed it down firmly. “Again, here you go. Try not to fall down again.”

Beavis stiffened. He turned at the waist, baring his teeth. “You made me fall.”

Butt-Head retaliated with a look of disapproval. “Well, next time, don’t be stupid and drag your shower water down the hall.” His voice did that thing. That slippery, smug thing that made the fire in Beavis’ blood start to flicker. “You have nobody to blame but yourself, Beavis.”

Butt-Head had no time to react as Beavis pivoted around and flung himself into him, sending the pair straight over the armrest. Butt-Head crashed against the carpet and was immediately met with an array of slashes from Beavis’ chipped nails. Butt-Head curled his fist and threw it, gasping as Beavis’ caught it with his hand. Beavis raised his fist behind his head, hurling it down and striking Butt-Head square in the face.

Beavis’ hands flew to the collar of Butt-Head’s shirt, pulling him forwards. “I told you I was gonna kill you!”

Their foreheads were close to touching as they stared one another down, Beavis shaking and hyperventilating while Butt-Head’s was dangerously silent. Beavis realized he was being dared. Butt-Head wasn’t returning punches without second thought anymore. Their physiques were no longer on equal ground. He was challenging Beavis, daring him to even think about trying.

“Go ahead. Do it.” There was no stuttering, no stammering. Beavis didn’t pull him closer, Butt-Head moved himself in closer. “Where was it, Beavis? The forest?”

And yet, that wasn’t what made Beavis back off. It was the thin line of blood that trickled from Butt-Head’s nose. Blood. Bleeding. The prayer.

Beavis’ hold began to give way. When he let go, Butt-Head did not fall. He watched Beavis’ every move as he climbed off of him. He was still daring him, even as Beavis’ eyes were now wide as the moon with dread.

“Butt-Head.” Beavis swallowed, but his throat remained dry. “E-Earlier… uh… When I was going to the pharmacy or whatever, I almost got hit by a car.”

Butt-Head wavered. It was slight. But Beavis had him memorized.

“I-I almost got hit,”—he wasn’t aware that he was holding his legs—“because I was praying God would kill you. Because, like, you were being a major butthole and…” His voice was muffled behind his knees, “I don’t know.” He pulled back. “I wasn’t looking where I was going or whatever. And then, afterwards, I told God never mind. About killing you and stuff. A-And then, I prayed that He would kill me instead. I saw the blood. All the blood on the stairs and on the carpet.” They locked eyes. Butt-Head’s nose bleed had tainted his gums red. “I-I think God is, like… answering my prayer. Butt-Head, this dying thing sucks. Please don’t, like… kill me, or whatever.”

At first, Butt-Head didn’t respond. Beavis wasn’t sure if he was deep in thought, or rather, he hadn’t heard a word Beavis said. Beavis was trying so hard to read him that he flinched when Butt-Head moved his arm to wipe off the blood.

“I’m not gonna kill you. Stop being a dumbass.” Butt-Head began to cough. “Uh, God’s not trying to kill you either. He doesn’t care that much about us.”

“I-I don’t know, Butt-Head. My mom prayed for us a lot. I think that, like, puts us on His Holy Radar or something.”

Butt-Head became noticeably tense. “Here. I have an idea.” He pulled himself closer to Beavis so that they were face-to-face. “Okay, Beavis. Bow your head, and repeat after me.”

“Uh, okay.” Beavis did as he was told, then clasped his hands and closed his eyes when he saw Butt-Head do the same.

And so, Butt-Head began to lead them in prayer, with Beavis repeating each and every word, just like he was told to do,

“Dear Heavenly Lord Father God Jesus Christ Almighty in Heaven, please stop looking at us all the time and stuff. I know we’re pretty cool, but we are sure there are more productive things to do than watch Beavis spank his monkey in Mr. Anderson’s shed and answer his stupid, dumbass prayers that nearly get both of us killed. Also, please don’t kill Beavis. Because, like, I saw on TV that when people throw other people’s dead bodies in the woods, they go to jail. And I am not going to jail for this dillweed. Also, in the show, the body-tosser has to get a lawyer. And Father God, the other day I tried to pay for a burrito with monopoly money. We cannot afford to go to the hospital, hold a funeral, or hire a lawyer. So please, if You cannot stop a prayer You’ve already started to answer and stuff, at least, like, allow us to win the lottery first or something. Speaking of that. God, if Beavis still has to die, can you, like, un-witness his baby baptism, because my mother did not make me do that. And if Beavis dies, then I have to die, and Hell would probably start to suck if there was nobody’s ass I could kick. So, yeah. Don’t kill Beavis, but if you have to, please send him to Hell. And stop looking at us. Amen.”

Beavis opened his eyes, and once he smiled, Butt-Head did, too. “Heh-heh-meh. We did it! I think. Yeah, that worked, right?”

“Uh, I hope so.” Butt-Head pushed himself up, coughing like a thunderstorm along the way. “We’ll just have to wait.”

Beavis stood as well, and for the first time since he woke up, he noticed it was dark outside. What time was it? How long had he been out? Had Butt-Head been asleep the whole time as well? Why? It was the middle of the day when Beavis fell asleep, and the television wasn’t on when he awoke, a factor that made him was so confident in his belief Butt-Head wasn’t on the couch despite never actually looking. Why? What was Butt-Head doing? What did he do? However, it was then that another thought made a pit stop, making him forget. “Wait, Butt-Head. What about Tommy?”

“Uh… what about him?”

“Remember, he like, casted that spell, and said he was gonna shoot us? I mean, this chick hexed me one time and nothing happened, but God was still, like, looking at us then. Now that he’s not, does that mean Tommy’s spell will actually work and we’re gonna get shot and stuff? Can we undo that prayer, pray for protection against the spell, and do the prayer again? Is that allowed? B-Because I kinda wanna go tomorrow night, but I don’t wanna die being shot by wizard guns or something.”

Butt-Head furrowed his eyebrows. “Go where? What’s going on tomorrow night?”

“Oh, that’s when the party is. He invited us before he said the Mawnrowrod thing. A-And I kinda wanna go because… I mean, if there’s a chance God’s gonna kill us and stuff, we should spend our last day on this earth drinking blunts and being around a bunch of chicks. This could be our last chance to score!”

“You’re right, Beavis.” He gazed out the window alongside Beavis, watching the house lights flicker and listening to the cars roar back and forth in the distance. The stars weren’t visible anymore. They hadn’t been for years. “Sick or not, concussion or not, we need to make ourselves available one last time. It’s what the sluts in this world deserve.”

“Yeah, exactly! Heh-heh-meh. So, should we, like, get a good night’s rest or something? For the party?”

“Uh… no.” Butt-Head rolled again, this time onto his stomach so he could properly lift himself. “I wasted my entire afternoon bored as hell because your ass wouldn’t wake up.” He walked past Beavis, snatched the remote off the coffee table, and fell onto the couch. “Let’s see if Cops is on again.”

“Cops is always on,” Beavis pointed out as he sat beside him.

Neither spoke when Butt-Head turned on the show, both waiting for a sign this was going to be a cool episode.

“Ugh. It’s just another meth guy.” Butt-Head criticized. “How many of these episodes can you have?” He pointed the remote at the screen. “Uh, Beavis. What channel is that one show on?”

Beavis didn’t know for sure this was what Butt-Head was talking about, but he hoped. “Unsolved Mysteries?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Yeah, yeah!” Beavis snickered happily. “Channel four, channel four!”

“Settle down, Beavis.”

“Channel four, channel four, yes!” he celebrated as Butt-Head finally reached it. “I told you Unsolved Mysteries kicks ass!”

“Uh… no it doesn’t.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!”

The commercial break ended, and the voice of Robert Stack gave a quick summary of the episode segment. “Mysterious fire breaks through a-“

“Butt-Head! Did you hear that?!”

“I sure did.”

“Fire! They’re talking about fire! Fire! F-Fire!” He was perched like a frog, jittering with excitement as he missed the rest of the recap completely. “Fire! Fi- Oh, crap! We forgot to burn down Burger World.” He glanced over, clarifying, “Mrs. Anderson took, like, an hour to make that food.”

“We’ll get them another day, Beavis.” The coughs made him stutter, “L-Look.”

Beavis already saw the orange glow on Butt-Head’s face. The television was showing a burning building of whatever sort, to which Beavis reacted as one would expect. This went on for a while, even after the fire scene was over. Butt-Head just watched. As he always did.

Robert Stack had been echoing throughout their home for an unknown amount of time when Beavis finally interrupted him, “Oh yeah, Butt-Head. They never, like, gave me a location for the party.

Butt-Head was quiet for a moment. “Uh… we’ll figure it out.”

That was all the reassurance Beavis needed.

Chapter Text

The following morning, Beavis awoke to Butt-Head cursing at the pile of shattered paprika jar on the floor. It had completely slipped his mind, much like other things. Now they both had to wear the big bandaids, Beavis on his head and Butt-Head on his foot. Then, they undid their prayer, prayed for protection against Tommy’s spell, and then blinded God again. Beavis hoped that was the last time he ever had to pray. It wasn’t supposed to be this stressful. Was it?

They were forced to finally confront the Laundry Monster in the corner of their room when Butt-Head pointed out that chicks liked a magical, mystical figure known as the “High Genie.” Whoever this High Genie was or where he came from, he was summoned by the washer and the dryer. The washer creaked and cried and begged to be put out of its misery, and the dryer sounded like it was seconds from self-destructing, but just like Beavis and Butt-Head the day before, both pulled through despite their obstacles. Barely.

Butt-Head had another cough attack, and begrudgingly unscrewed the Delsym. “This crap better stop before this party, or else we’re gonna scare off all the chicks.”

“We?” Beavis was stationed on the couch, wrangling his herd of clothes from the Laundry Monster that they had tamed. “I’m not the loser with the plague, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head scowled at him as he began to pour the Delsym in a styrofoam cup. “They’re gonna think you’re, like, a zombie with that stupid big bandaid on. They’re gonna be like,” he strained his voice the highest it could go, “‘Oh my god, is that Butt-Head? He’s so handsome! Oh my god, Butt-Head! Look out! There’s a dumbass zombie behind you!’” His voice went back to normal, albeit a bit deeper than usual to compensate, “And I’m gonna be like, uh, ‘Ladies, call me Buff-Head.’ Then I’m gonna kick your ass, uh-huh-huh.”

“Yeah?” He tugged as hard as he could on a particularly stubborn shirt. “Well, they’re gonna think you’re a hippie with that hair you got!”

“God damnit, Beavis, this is why you never score.” With a cough, Butt-Head dropped a straw in his cup of Delsym. Beavis was a bit insulted that Butt-Head didn’t threaten him. Was his joke not funny or something? “I told you, guys having long hair turns even the most old-fashioned chicks into sluts. Just you wait. You’ll be enlightened by tonight.”

Beavis hadn’t heard that word since that one day at detention. Meditation is stupid. “Whatever. Butthole,” he added. The skin beneath his big bandaid began to itch for the hundredth time that morning, and with a hoarse shout, Beavis ripped it off and let it join its predecessor beneath the coffee table. “Have fun kicking my ass now,” he grumbled under his breath. Now it was his turn to act like he just injected himself with helium, “‘Oh my god, look at Butthole-Head, just beating up an innocent man! Get out of here, Butthole-Head! Here, Mr. Beavis. We’ll score with you to make you feel better.’ Yeah, heh-heh-meh”.

“Ow, ugh,” Butt-Head hissed as his injury fled his mind and he placed his weight on his injured foot. He quickly covered it up with, “Shut up.” Sipping Delsym through a straw, he made his way over to the couch. The laundry had completely consumed Beavis’ half of the couch, to which the scrawny blond took refuge on Butt-Head’s side in his temporary absence. “Get off my side, dumbass.”

Beavis shot him a look. “Where do you expect me to go? Hey, hey!” he protested against Butt-Head’s sudden hold on his forearm. Beavis’ biting attempts didn’t stop Butt-Head from dragging him on top of the laundry pile then celebrating his victory by falling back onto the couch, his styrofoam cup in one hand and the remote in the other.

“Hey Beavis, uh-huh-huh. Get your dumb ass off of my clothes. Literally.” He sipped and began flicking through the channels

Beavis made a few incomprehensible noises in retaliation. Glaring down at his opponent, Beavis began fighting demons as to whether or not he should dive onto him and beat his ass to high hell. However, all the bodacious party sluts looming over his future horizon stalled him. If Beavis obtained any more injuries, they might actually think he was a zombie. Zombies are cool. “Hey, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. What would you do if, like, there was a zombie apocalypse or something.”

“Uh… you’ve asked me this before.”

“Woah, really?”

“Yeah.” He coughed. “When, like, The Return of the Living Dead came out.”

“Return of the Living what? Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Yeah, I remember that now.” Butt-Head’s statement finally clicked. “Jesus, Butt-Head, you remember that? Weren’t we like, five? Or six or something?”

“Ugh, these channels suck.” He side-eyed Beavis. “I said get your dumb ass off my clothes.”

Beavis ripped a Black Sabbath shirt from the pile and dropped it onto his head. “You want more, assmunch? Wait, that’s mine.” He whisked the shirt off of Butt-Head. “Here you go,” he scoffed, throwing a Judas Priest shirt on him, then an AC/DC shirt, then a Black Sabbath shirt that actually belonged to him.

“Stop it, asswipe.” Butt-Head tossed the shirts over his head. “You’re gonna make me spill my Delsym.”

“I’m just doing what you asked!” He crumpled another AC/DC shirt and threw it on his head full force, which, granted, wasn’t very damaging. He then became distracted by the pile he was excavating, which probably saved him from a Butt-Head certified ass kicking. “Butt-Head, I don’t think we have anything but band shirts.” He deliberately ignored another pair of pajamas from his youth he never truly outgrew. This one had a wiener dog on it. “Wiener, heh-heh-meh,” he giggled to himself, then held it up. “Hey, Butt-Head, look.’

“Cool, uh-huh-huh. Wiener.” All was forgiven.

“Heh-heh-meh, wiener. B-But yeah, uh… do chicks dig band shirts?”

“Of course they do. Why wouldn’t they.”

“I-I don’t know, Butt-Head.” He propped himself up and began digging with his arms like a dog. “Last time I checked, girls like boy bands, and we don’t have boy band shirts. We have, like, bands with boys in them shirts.”

“That’s, like, exactly the same thing. We already tried changing our style anyways. It didn’t work,” he referred to the Laundry Monster’s conception. It was created in the 11th grade when the pair overheard a clique of girls rambling on and on about their love for clothes. Thus, the grand idea was born that if they became more fashionable, they would score. The boys raided Goodwill drop-offs for weeks, and spent nearly an entire semester wearing a new pair of clothes every day. When their calculations failed and they did not score, the Laundry Monster came to be, and the same-exact-shirt-every-single-day routine returned. “When we get to this party, you should put some of that big bandaid around your mouth so you shut up and stuff. Then, we might have an actual chance to score.”

“Shut up, bunghole! I’m just making a suggestion! I-I know it didn’t work before, but maybe we were just, like, doing it wrong.”

Butt-Head had given up finding anything with guns being shot or punches being thrown, and instead was navigating to the MTV channel. “We’re already the epitome of masculinity. Never fear, Beavis. The chicks will come to us. You’ll just have to let me handle it. Uh-huh-huh. Like I handled your mom.”

“Shut up!” His anger only extended Butt-Head’s flat chuckle. “Shut up about my mom!”

“Uh-huh-huh. Uh-huh-huh. Uh… what the hell is this crap?”

Beavis knew he could be only talking about one thing, and that was the soft acoustic guitar coming from the square, protruding television: a music video. “Yeah, what is this? It’s all like, moving in slow motion. W-Whoever did this camera work needs to be fired! Fired! F-F-Fired! Yeah! Heh-heh-meh.”

I wanna hold the hand inside you.

“Woah.” Butt-Head’s eyes grew. “Check it out, Beavis. This chick is like… blue or something. Uh-huh-huh. Blue sucks.”

I wanna take the breath that’s true.

“You’ve always been so good with colors, heh-heh-meh. You know, I could never tell blue apart from green. I’ve just been guessing this whole time whenever people ask me. Literally just making it up. Going with the flow, heh-heh-meh. Uh.” Beavis sniffed. “Why is she in a desert?”

I look to you and I see nothing.

“Maybe she’s, like, trying to enter witness protection.” He stifled a cough to get his joke out, “Yeah so, uh, this weird zombie tried to hit on me at a party, so I, like, ran away from society and stuff.”

I look to you to see the truth.

“And by the way, his name was Butt-Head,” Beavis added.

“Uh, no, actually. His name was Beavis, and he’s a dumbass.” He adjusted his straw to suck out the Delsym stuck in the rim.

You live your life, you go in shadows.

“I-I don’t understand the point of this video. Like, it’s just some shots of a car and a chick in the desert. What am I even looking at?”

“Uh… you just described it.”

You’ll come apart, and you’ll go blind.

“See? She mentioned something about going blind just there. Y-You know, if you’re gonna sing about going blind, I wanna see someone actually going blind in your music video, you know what I’m saying?”

Some kind of night into your darkness.

“Ugh, here we are, back in the car.”

Color your eyes with what’s not there.

Butt-Head resumed, “Now we’re blue again.”

“‘Color your eyes with what’s not there.’ Like, what?” Beavis threw his arms up. “Now the lyrics aren’t making sense either! This sucks!”

Fade into you.

“Yeah, does she, like, struggle with colors or something? Look, Beavis. There exists the right woman for you after all,” his voice was filled with sarcasm that he began laughing at.

“Well, thanks, Butt-Head.” He looked back at the screen. “I really appreciate that.”

Strange you never knew.

“Wait.” Beavis sat up straight. “Butt-Head, I know this song! Some of the girls in our class used to sing it. A-And I think Van Driessen played it on his guitar once. Yeah, I knew I recognized this crap somewhere!”

Fade into you.

“Uh…” Butt-Head tilted his head to look up at Beavis, King of the Laundry Pile. “So?”

“Didn’t you hear me, bunghole?! Girls listen to this! Chicks like this music!” Beavis jumped off the mountain of clothes, landing on all fours on the ground. He flew up the stairs, flaking the dried blood with his scurrying shoes. “We’re gonna score! We’re gonna score!”

I think it’s strange you never knew.

“Beavis, I swear I will leave without you.”

“I know, I know!” he snapped, readjusting the guitar’s position on his lap. “Just give me five more minutes.”

“We don’t have five more minutes, dumbass.”

“You don’t even know when the party’s starting!” Beavis hissed over his shoulder.

“Exactly.” Butt-Head reached for the neck of the guitar, to which Beavis sternly yanked back from his grimy grasp. “God damnit, Beavis. Don’t make me kick your ass after I just got all hot and ready for these chicks.”

“Shut up! Stop saying my name! Stop talking! Get out of here!” Beavis scampered to the other end of the bed. “Okay, okay. I know that first part has to be an A. It can’t be anything else. Hm… Augh!” he shrieked as Butt-Head snuck up and pounced, sinking his claws into the guitar’s jugular. The tug-of-war’s victor was instantaneously crowned.

Butt-Head held the guitar high in the air while Beavis recovered from banging his overgrown chin against the ground. “If you really cared about scoring, you would’ve practiced long before this party. Now get up, asswipe, and go change into something more slut-worthy. No, you cannot borrow one of my shirts. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you’re, like, worthy of being a slut? Heh-heh-meh. Butt-Head, no!” Beavis held his arms over his head at Butt-Head threatened to smack him with the guitar.

He threw it onto the bed instead, making his way back to the door. “Hurry up,” he called, another cough echoing down the hall.

Beavis rubbed his jaw as he pulled himself back up, hearing it do its usual crack as it moved. He closed the window blinds and sauntered over to where his chosen outfit laid: his Black Sabbath tee that he had mistakenly dropped on Butt-Head and a pair red basketball shorts. He changed clothes and bent down to tie his black Converse, hearing the faucet turn on in the distance, followed by a scrubbing sound that was rare in this house.

Beavis half-skipped to the bathroom, finding Butt-Head brushing his blue-stained teeth. “Scooch over, dude. You’re taking up all the space and stuff.” When Butt-Head didn’t budge, Beavis used his thin frame to make do. He squeezed in as much as he could to wet his own toothbrush on the faucet that was still carelessly running, then went out to pace in the hall. How people stood still while brushing their teeth was a mystery to him. How people actually brushed their teeth every single day confused him even more. Teeth. Beavis recalled Butt-Head’s braces. He had kept them longer than a person should. Not like they could afford to take them off. It was the start of 12th grade when Van Driessen, whose concern for the pair increased over the years, intervened with the situation. Not trusting either with five hundred dollars in cash, he drove Butt-Head to the dentist himself to have the braces taken off and never asked for that money back. He might want it back now, Beavis thought to himself. Since he only has three grades to teach or whatever. That’s only three times the money. Oh god, what if he does ask? We don’t have five hundred dollars! “Hey, uh, Butt-Head?”

Butt-Head spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the hair-clogged sink. “No time for senseless chatter, Beavis. We got a party to catch and sluts to bang.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.”

They checked themselves in the mirror a grand total of zero times before they hopped in the car, Beavis’ guitar unbuckled in the backseat. “Ladies, here we come. Uh-huh-huh,” said Butt-Head as he backed out of the driveway, not hitting the mailbox only because he had rear-ended it so many times that it now stood at a weird angle.

“This party’s gonna kick ass!” Beavis’ fists trembled. “You know, Butt-Head, I was thinking. Maybe I don’t even have to play anything. Maybe I can just, like, strum it a little. Do you think that’ll work?”

“Chicks aren’t gonna score with you no matter what you do. It’s time you accept that.” The car was going past the neighborhood speed limit. “Uh… where should we go look.”

Beavis stared ahead blankly. “Um. Well, uh. I-I don’t know.”

“You better get to knowing, dillhole.” Butt-Head turned without using his blinker. “Let’s just, like, look around or something.”

“Yeah, good idea, heh-heh-meh. I mean, it can’t be that hard to miss a party.”

“Unless it’s one of those dumb, lame ones.”

Beavis smile shifted downwards. “God, boring parties suck. Like, if you know it’s going to be boring, why even call it a party? I don’t understand those kind of things. When I was, like, seven or something, my uncle and my aunt or whatever had their baby. Or they announced they were going to, I mean. And my mom was like, ‘Oh, Beavis, we gotta go to the baby shower!’ And I was like, ‘Mom. What the hell is a baby shower?’ I-I didn’t actually say hell. She would’ve smacked me. But I said something like that, yeah. Anyways, she told me it was kinda like a party. And I got all excited and stuff. T-Then I get there, and it’s not a party at all! Just a bunch of stupid adults talking about random crap and giving my aunt gifts! I was always taught that, ‘Oh, if you bring something for one person, Beavis, you gotta bring enough for the whole class!’ so I got real mad and stuff. Because it’s not fair! But apparently I didn’t get mad in the right way or something, because my aunt grabbed my wrist really hard and pulled me up and was like, ‘I told you this is what would happen if you drink while you’re pregnant, Shirley!’ I-I don’t really remember what happened immediately after. But I do remember my mom pulling her hair and slapping her and screaming and stuff. My aunt’s hair. My mom did pull her own hair sometimes, but yeah, not that time. Then we, like, had to leave, and I thought I was in trouble. But my mom took me out to get ice cream, so I must’ve done something right, heh-heh-meh. B-But then when we got home, she came into my room and cried while holding me. I still don’t know what I did wrong.”

Butt-Head was quiet for a moment. “Uh, why would your aunt get mad at your mom for drinking? Is water toxic to babies or something?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking! Makes no sense.”

“Your aunt’s dumb. And she sucks, uh-huh-huh.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. Hey, Butt-Head! Check it out!”

He followed Beavis’ gaze, completely losing focus of the road ahead. “Uh… the dollar store?”

“Yeah, yeah!” Beavis had his face mashed against the window like he was a child and the dollar store was Six Flags. “Maybe they’ll have some boy band shirts! Come on, Butt-Head, pull over!”

“God damnit, Beavis, I told you. Our shirts are just fine.”

“Do you care about scoring or not?” He faced him, palms still flat against the pane.

Butt-Head’s offended expression was a success. “Don’t be a dumbass.”

“I mean, it’s fine if you wanna half-ass bagging a chick. I get it, heh-heh-meh. Long hair for the girls, AC/DC shirt for the boys, am I right? Now,”—he raised his hand and his eyebrows—“like I said, that’s totally fine-“

Beavis’ scheming grin was blasted off his face at Butt-Head swerved to the right, causing Beavis to crash against the window. Horns blared all around as they cut across four lanes into the dollar store parking lot and just barely escaped with their lives. Beavis’ suffered from whiplash as Butt-Head slammed on the brake, his parking less than mediocre.

He shifted the gear into park, slamming the door just as Beavis began to snicker. He slipped out and joined Butt-Head at the entrance, who threatened dangerously under his breath, “Don’t do that shit again.”

Beavis continued to chuckle as the bells jingled above his head. “Let’s go get us some boy band tees, heh-heh-meh. We are so gonna score today, heh-heh-meh. Boi-oi-oi-oi-oi-ng.” He pondered as they made their way down one of the many aisles. “Uh, Butt-Head. I can’t think of any boy bands.”

Butt-Head sighed obnoxiously loud as he pivoted around, heading to the disgruntled night-shift cashier. “Hey, uh, sir? Do you listen to boy bands.”

“Yeah, we need to, like, get some boy band shirts so we can score.”

The employee glanced up from his crossword, then adjusting his tiny glasses. “Uh, you know, I don’t really listen to all that mumbo-jumbo. But god, is it impossible to avoid at this point.” He began to list them off on his fingers, “There’s the Backstreet Boys, of course. There’s always the damn Backstreet Boys. New Kids on the Block, Boyz II Men… Yeah, that’s all I got.”

Beavis stared for a moment. “Um. Thanks.” The two went on their way, and Beavis addressed what both were trying to comprehend, “What kind of band name is that?”

“Backstreet-Boys-Of-Course-There’s-Always-The-Damn… uh, Backstreet-Boys. Then he said… uh… Ugh, I’m already forgetting and stuff.”

“Band names used to be simple!” Beavis griped as they entered the clothing aisle. “Then along came the stupid boy bands with their stupid tight pants and their stupid singing voices!”

“But like you said the other day, Beavis. They score.”

The tension in his jaw and forehead lifted. “Heh-heh-meh. See, Butt-Head? I told you this was a good idea.”

“Shut up and, like, start looking.” The clothing hangers whistled as he began to swish them from side to side.

Beavis skimmed through them like the pages of an assigned library book he could not care less about. “Augh! All this crap looks the same!” With a heave, he bunched as many of the shirts together as he could, lifted them off the rack, and threw them onto the floor.

“Uh-huh-huh. Cool.” Butt-Head did the same, and, caught up in the excitement, Beavis swiped some innocent shoeboxes off the shelves as well. “Come on, Beavis. We gotta hurry. The sluts are gonna get bored without us and leave.”

“Oh god.” Beavis dropped to his knees and began to dig. Butt-Head helped, albeit a bit slower.

Beavis dismissed a shirt and tossed it in Butt-Head’s line of sight, who scrunched his eyes in response. “Hey, Beavis. I think this is one of the bands that guy was talking about.”

“Woah, really? What does it say?”

Butt-Head followed along with his pointer finger, and, eventually, after multiple attempts, he was able to sound out, “Backstreet Boys… Ugh.”

“Damnit!” Beavis bristled. “Are you sure it doesn’t say Backstreet-Boys-Of-Course-There’s-Always-The-Damn-Backstreet-Boys?”

“I’m pretty sure. I think.” He coughed, then double-checked. “Nope. This sucks.” He stood against the sea of shirts and stepped onto the shore. “Let’s go back to the car.”

“Yeah, this sucks,” Beavis agreed, following suit. “Should we grab anything else while we’re here?”

Beavis and Butt-Head whooped and hollered as their overfilled shopping cart launched out of the door and soared down the parking lot, the shoplifting alarm blaring behind their heads. Beavis, who had jumped into the cart seconds before their daring escape, rocked and laughed as each tumble and sway tickled him like a rollercoaster would. Suddenly, Butt-Head’s speed drastically increased. Grinning, he hopped onto the cart, which was now under the control of the hands of the Lord. But the Lord no longer cared about them, so before either could stop it (not like they would), the shopping cart rammed into their car at top speed. Beavis was shot out of the basket and flopped onto the hood, and Butt-Head was flung head-first on top of their stolen groceries.

“Come on, come on!” Beavis’ shoes slipped against the hood. “Come on, Butt-Head!” he shouted again as he ran to the cart, grasping an armful of snacks Butt-Head wasn’t currently sitting on and throwing them into the beeping car’s backseat.

In the middle of Butt-Head’s desperate attempts to sit himself upright, the cart collapsed onto his side, sending a can of Easy Cheese rolling under somebody else’s car and causing some Dr. Pepper cans to explode. The boys’ laughter only grew. They salvaged all that they could, including two cans of spewing Dr. Pepper that were melting in Beavis’ hands. He handed one to Butt-Head, who downed it with much more enthusiasm than he did with his Delsym concoction. Neither noticed how their clothes now reeked of soda, but even if they did, they wouldn’t be capable of caring less.

The car swerved back into the street, racing past a yellow light just in time. Their laughter had finally eased up, to which Butt-Head brought their goal back into the spotlight, “I was thinking. Maybe we could, like, go to Tommy’s house or something. It’s a risk, but it’s a risk worth taking. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Great idea, Butt-Head! A-And we’ll be okay, since we prayed and stuff.” Silence. “Uh, Butt-Head. I don’t know where Tommy’s house is.”

“It’s okay. I know, like, the neighborhood he lives in. I remember it.”

Beavis knew he could only be referring to one thing: Tommy’s sixth grade birthday party that neither Beavis nor Butt-Head were invited to, but attended anyways. “Cool, heh-heh-meh,” Beavis was speaking to both his memory and to Butt-Head. For some time, Beavis watched the passing lights stretch and morph all around, head in his hands. “Hey, Butt-Head. How do you drive with all the lights?”

“Uh…” The stretched red glare turned green, and their journey resumed. “I just… do.”

“Heh-heh-meh. Cool.”

The rest of the ride was silent, but not in a bad way, and soon enough, the car pulled into a vaguely-recognizable neighborhood. Their windows rolled down, it didn’t take long for distant shouting and laughing to reach their ears, followed by a deep bass that made Beavis’ body start to rattle. After multiple near hit-and-runs from idiots running across the street and yelling at them to “slow down,” Butt-Head finally parallel parked at the cost of some guy’s headlights who was stupid enough to park behind him.

“Don’t forget your guitar, dumbass.”

“What? Oh yeah.” Beavis hurried back to the car, rescuing his instrument from the piles upon piles of dollar store goods. He joined Butt-Head back in the middle of the street, who had been paying no mind to the impatient, honking truck that was close to running them down. After hours of trials, tribulations, and near-death experiences, the pair finally made their way to the Gates of Heaven, the House of Sluts, also known as 1814 Monroe Road.

“Well, we made it, Beavis,” Butt-Head announced as they blocked the doorway. “Home, sweet home.”

Beavis’ arm was already feeling the effects of hauling the guitar around. “Let’s go find the chicks! O-Or beer! Both! Whoops, sorry,” he mumbled to a passerby he accidentally smacked in the knee with his guitar.

“Beer is cool. Hey, you.” Butt-Head called to a random man. “Where’s, like, the cool stuff.”

“The cool stuff?” his words slurred. “Hey man, I got you.” He patted Butt-Head on the back, whose eyes widened in response. “Come on, it’s back here.”

“I can’t believe this is already working!” Beavis whisper-shouted. “Parties kick ass! T-They’re kinda loud, but they kick ass!”

“Shut up, asswipe. Don’t embarrass me in front of the cool stuff.”

“Here ya go,” the man chuckled, unsteadily pointing towards the living room’s coffee table. There, another guy was sucked a white line up his nose, then fist-pumped the air with a thrilled shout.

“Uh…” Butt-Head blinked. “This isn’t cool.”

“Yeah, no, this sucks! I was talking about- Oh, he’s gone. Butt-Head, he’s gone.”

“I heard you, dumbass.” Butt-Head looked around for a moment, quickly giving up. “Here, there’s the kitchen. Come on.”

Beavis dragged his guitar on the floor all the way to the kitchen, where they found the alcohol sticking out of the sink full of ice. They chuckled to themselves as they each pulled out a bottle, their ecstasy cut short as neither drink refused to open.

“God damnit,” Butt-Head complained, twisting as hard as he could while Beavis gnawed on his cap with his teeth.

Beavis was seconds from hitting the bottle over the edge of the sink when a voice snapped him out of his enraged trance, and not just any voice, a chick’s voice. “You cuties need some help?”

Beavis and Butt-Head looked at each other before they looked at the woman. “Woah…” Butt-Head grasped onto the counter for support. Despite all his pride, all his charm, he still doubted her. “Are you talking to us?”

Beavis locked onto her eyes, but they never met his. She kept inspecting Butt-Head for whatever reason, then her eyes lit up from something that wasn’t the multicolored flashing lights from somebody’s beam. “Oh my god!” She proceeded to say the name Butt-Head’s mother gave him with more joy than anybody ever had in his life. “Remember me?”

Butt-Head tried. For once, he really, really tried. “No, uh, I’m sorry.”

“Well,”—she swept her red hair out of her face—“I don’t blame you! It’s been a while.” She moved in closer to him, and for some reason, she was smiling. “It’s Hannah! From Driver’s Ed!”

For once, Beavis watched Butt-Head actually remember something. Either that, or he had a knack for lying. “Oh, I remember you. Uh-huh-huh. Cool.”

“Uh, Butt-Head.” Beavis’ eyes flicked back and forth between the two. “Who is this.”

Hannah burst into a fit of laughter that sounded similar to a donkey’s. “Butt-Head? So you weren’t just joking when you corrected the instructor, huh? Oh, my god, so how’ve you been? Wait, here.” She took the bottle from him, and Butt-Head’s whole body tensed when she grazed his hand. She grabbed a weird tool on the counter and popped it open like it was nothing.

“Woah.” Beavis gaped. “How much do you lift?”

She laughed again, but this time it was tamer. “Oh, you’re funny.” She opened Beavis’ bottle too without touching his hand, much to his dismay. “Pardon!” her southern accent slipped as she squeezed between the two to grab herself her own bottle. “So, this your friend, I’m assuming?”

“Uh… no.” The zombie plan sparking back into his memory, he cleared his throat. “Uh, is he scaring you? Cause I can, like, kick his ass if you want me to.”

“Butt-Head! When did you meet a girl?!”

She took a quick sip, then adjusted her hair again. “Oh, we didn’t really know each other that well. In Driver’s Ed, you know, there’s like an observation thing? You have to sit in the backseat and watch somebody drive, basically.”

In the middle of her explanation, it all came back to Beavis. It was the summer, they were fourteen, and one day, Butt-Head came home bragging about how he got in a car with a girl. God, he would not shut up for anything.

“And he was my assigned partner. Well, we switched partners every now and then, but I was with him most of the time.”

“Oh yeah!” Beavis interrupted, to which Butt-Head shot him a glare. “Weren’t you the girl who never caught on or something?” Beavis could not remember the context of those words. All he knew was that he remembered Butt-Head using them multiple times when discussing this chick.

She began to giggle, even more quietly than before, and her hair hid her eyes as she dipped her head. “Oh, shut up now.”

“Woah. Uh-huh-huh. Yeah, shut up, Beavis.”

“Yeah! Heh-heh-meh. Shut up, Beavis,” he joined in with a grin, waiting desperately for her to notice.

“By the way, I play guitar.”

“What?” Beavis felt the guitar rip away from his grasp, now in the slimy, sweaty hands of his most greatest enemy. “Butt-Head! Augh!” He yelped as Butt-Head slammed his shoe onto Beavis’ foot.

“We play around, uh-huh-huh. Here, Hannah. Let’s go, like, sit down somewhere.” Beavis looked up from cradling his throbbing foot and witnessed Butt-Head put his hand on her lower back as he led her away, to which that shy, quiet chuckle of hers made its reappearance.

Beavis reached above his head, retrieving a handful of ice and putting it on the top of his converse. When that only made the shoe wet and did nothing to relieve his pain, he smashed the ice against the floor and watched it scatter. “Stupid butthole!” he vented as he pulled himself back up, now sporting a limp. Somewhere not far off on somebody’s boombox, “I’m So Into You” by SWV began to play. “That was my guitar! And my chick! She was coming onto me, not you, butthole,” he mumbled under his breath as if Butt-Head could hear, taking deep drink of his beer. “Where did you run off to…” He followed Butt-Head’s path out of the kitchen, ignoring the scream of somebody that slipped on the ice.

Amidst the smoke and the haze, Beavis spotted him. He was sitting on the armrest of the couch, and Hannah was next to him. Beavis crept closer, scanning her eyes for any sign of repulsion, disgust, hell, even pity. But no, she was leaning towards him. She was smiling. She was looking at him in the eyes. And, finally, Beavis got close enough to hear a faint, “I knew you were hitting on me back in Driver’s Ed. I was just… scared?” She started toying with her hair again. “I had boyfriend and stuff at the time, blah blah blah…”

Beavis growled, his teeth bared like he was preparing to attack. He was supposed to be the one sitting there. He was the one who brought the guitar. It was all his idea, and Butt-Head took it. That’s all he did. Take, and take, and take. Now, he took Beavis’ first ever shot at scoring. Beavis wanted to shove past the crowd and smash the guitar over his head. He wanted to save her.

But he didn’t. He just stood there and stared.

Suddenly, Beavis was shoved to the side. “Get out the way, dude,” somebody scoffed. Beavis glared at him, fists tightly curled. Maybe he should strangle him instead.

But again, he didn’t. Beavis had the drive. He had the want. He wanted nothing more than to fight. Somebody, anybody. It didn’t even have to be Butt-Head anymore, but he really wanted it to be. His breaths were shallow and quick, his fists were now trembling claws, and he flinched at every passerby like a cornered animal. Yes, Beavis wanted to. He wanted nothing more. But his breaths began to slow, his shoulders gave way, and the fire began to weaken. He wanted to, but he didn’t feel like he could. Beavis felt tired. It didn’t really feel like the normal way he felt tired. He didn’t want to sleep. But whatever this feeling was, it made him want to go home. He wanted to. But he couldn’t.

“Here, baby.” Beavis heard Butt-Head’s voice above all else as he walked away. “This one’s called ‘Fade Into You.’”

Beavis lifted his forehead from the comfort of the table, took another drink, and dropped it again. He had just started his fourth bottle, and at that point, he felt like he could drink forever. He put his lips on the rim again. If Hannah was good for anything besides scoring, she was good at showing him how to open those damn caps. If Butt-Head was good for anything, it was for nothing.

“Stupid Butt-Head,” Beavis grumbled for the hundredth time. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.” He chugged long enough to gasp for air after he was through, then down his forehead went.

“Hahahah! Alright man, I’ll be back. Woah. Is that you, Beavis?”

Beavis tilted his head just enough to catch the slightest, blurry glimpse of yet another man he did not recognize. “Uh, I think so.”

“Damn, I had no idea you two were here. I mean, I thought I’d definitely know, you know? Hah!”

Beavis raised his head, his eyes scrunched. “What are you talking about.”

The man’s eyebrows furrowed, and he craned his neck to look all around. “Is Butt-Head not with you? That’s a first.”

“No. He’s too busy scoring. With my girl.”

“Woah-hoh. Damn…” he dragged out the word. “Huh. Never thought I’d see the day. Oh, shit.” His red solo cup swayed. “Did you say your girl? Fuck, man. Can’t trust nobody.”

“I know right!” Beavis lashed out, taking another drink. “A-And he took my guitar, too! My guitar! God!” He slammed his forehead against the table, his tightening fist threatening to shatter the glass in his hand.

“Take it easy, man-“

“Take it easy?!”

The man’s hands shot up in surrender as he began to back away. “Okay, okay, I’m gonna leave you alone. God damn.” And just like that, he vanished. A lot of things were vanishing for Beavis. His eyes could never quite focus anymore. He took another swig, hoping it would make him feel better.

Somebody sat beside him, but Beavis didn’t care until they spoke, “Uh… hey.”

“Butt-Head?” Beavis shot up and was immediately inflicted with dizziness. He groaned as he rubbed his head. Butt-Head was fuzzy, but he was there alright. The fire flickered a bit, and Beavis looked away with a huff. “So. How did it go?”

“Uh… I didn’t score.”

Beavis’ eyes reverted. “What do you mean you didn’t score, butthole?”

“She was taking too long. She was boring.” He leaned back in his foldable chair, gulping down his own bottle of beer.

Beavis gawked at him, completely taken aback. “W-What are you talking about? She, like, liked you!”

Butt-Head wiped his mouth across his arm. “I thought she did, too. But she was all, like, inviting me to breakfast ‘whatever day worked for me’ and stuff. And I was like… listen. If you don’t wanna score, don’t lead me on. Then I left, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis began to laugh, too. “You showed her, heh-heh-meh. Don’t ever settle, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis felt something touch his thigh, and he glanced over to see Butt-Head leaning the guitar against him.

“Your stupid, dumb guitar hurt my fingers. And you’re, like, a wuss. How do you even play that crap? It didn’t even sound like how you play it when I tried. I tried to play the A thing or whatever, and the strings wouldn’t work.”

“Oh! It’s real easy. You just gotta, like… hold on.” He set his beer down for the first time in a long time as he pulled the guitar into his lap. “See, y-you can’t just touch the strings. You gotta push down.” Butt-Head was about to insist that he did, but Beavis was traveling at the speed of light, “But you can’t just push down! No, no, you gotta make sure your fingers aren’t touching any other string, or else it’ll screw up your strum.” He played an A chord, shifted in his seat to give Butt-Head a better view, and played it again. “See? Just like that. If you’re not used to it, it’s gonna hurt. B-But once you start practicing and stuff, your fingers will get, like, hard.”

“Uh-huh-huh. Uh-huh-huh.”

”Hard,” said Beavis and Butt-Head in unison.

Beavis’ last moments of sober lucidity was spent on his guitar lesson. They chugged the rest of their beer, got some more, and played a drinking game hastily titled, “Drink if Your Name Starts with a B.” Beavis thought he had won, but Butt-Head quickly knocked him off his peg and told Beavis that his name, in fact, started with a B. Or at least he thought so. You learn something new every day. Or maybe you do.

“I said get off of me!”

Beavis hadn’t even realized he had run into somebody, but before he could do anything about it, she pushed him backwards. He staggered in a drunken circle, feeling no different than he did after he fell down the stairs, minus the whole bleeding thing.

“Woah, woah, uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head held onto him with a cough that never seemed to end. Where did he come from again? “She kicked your ass.”

“Heh-heh-meh. Cool.” Beavis stood up straight, then dropped his entire weight straight to the floor.

“Get up, dumbass, uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head tugged on his arms. “I said get up already. Stop being a dumbass dumbass, dumbass. Uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis’ feet were breaking up with him, a toxic relationship not even Butt-Head’s support could help repair. Beavis slumped onto him, head underneath his chin, and he grinned. “I’m getting… I’m getting sleepy.”

Butt-Head put his hands on Beavis’ shoulders in preparation to shove him off, but he didn’t, and instead began to drunkenly sway back and forth. “No, no. Not… Not now.”

The rocking only made Beavis sleepier, and he closed his heavy, heavy eyelids. “One sheep… uh… another sheep.”

“Do not count your damn sheep, Beavis. Hey. Beavis.” Butt-Head finally forced him off, then bent down to cradle a slouched Beavis’ lopsided face. “Look at me. Look at me. You gotta kill the sheep. Shoot them, Beavis.” His drowsy seriousness slipped, and so did his head. “Uh-huh-huh. Sheep. Sheep are stupid and dumb and stupid.” He face planted onto Beavis’ shoulder, arms hanging at his sides.

“Get your own sheep!” Beavis tried to push him to no avail. His body began to slant, and his shoes scraped against the floor. “Butt-Head. Butt-Head! Get… up!” He pushed as hard as he could, and that plus a mixture of Butt-Head’s unsteadiness caused him to lean backwards, only he didn’t stop. He crashed right on top of a foldable table, breaking its lock and causing it to snap in half. Everything atop went flying, landing on top and beside Butt-Head.

The surrounding shouts of surprise were in another world. “Shit, Butt-Head, are you… are you okay?” He snickered. “That was so cool.” Stumbling forwards, Beavis kneeled down and used his arm to sweep Butt-Head’s tousled, tangled hair out of his face. Beavis flicked a formerly full, red solo cup off of his stomach, giggling as he watched it fly. “Whoosh, heh-heh-meh. Like a… like a rocket. I-If it was a cup… or something. Yeah, cool.” A face stuck out above the others in the forming mob. Unlike the others, who were laughing, swearing, or both, she was looking on in shocked concern. She had red hair, too.

“Hey man.” Beavis blinked at her a couple of times, then returned to Butt-Head. “That girl is… worried about you or something.”

”I, uh…” Butt-Head looked up, alcoholic punch dripping off of his eyelashes. Beavis was up. “I don’t care.”

The following few minutes were bleary and played back in Beavis’ head like still images. Tommy was there. Tommy was definitely there. And he was definitely yelling. He said something or other about getting off his property, alongside some other dumb nonsense. Shooting? Shooting. It was that word that granted the two their fleeting clarity, memories of their hex flooding back. Now, they were running, and they had been for some time. Why again?

Beavis slowed, his descent far from graceful. “Butt-Head, slow down!” He looked behind him, gasping, waiting. Nothing. “I think… I think we’re good.” He surveyed his world, which had transformed to a circus hall of distorted mirrors. “What were we… Where are we…”

“Uh… Uh-huh-huh. Hey, check it out. A meow.”

“What?” Beavis’ scruffy voice made the stray flinch. “Oh my gosh, kitty! Hi!” He wildly waved his arm around, sealing the fate of his poor first impression and causing the cat to dip underneath a wooden fence. “Aw. H-Hey, Butt-Head. Did you know that almost all tortoiseshells… uh. I forgot.”

“Beavis, nobody gives a crap about turtles.” They were walking aimlessly now, with Beavis dragging a guitar he wasn’t even aware he was holding. All he knew was that his arm sure did hurt. It felt heavy, too.

“Jesus, why is it so hot?! It’s bedtime! T-The sun’s not even here anymore!”

Butt-Head hiccuped. It sounded weird. “Being hot sucks.”

“It sucks… bad. Real, real bad.” A familiar glow casted a reflection in his eyes, darkened by the night. “Butt-Head, can we, like, go to Burger World or something.”

“Sure, uh-huh-huh.” He took a sharp left and ambled across the road, Beavis right at his heels. They stepped over the traffic divider, a long line of freshly-mowed grass surrounded by concrete curb. “Grass sucks, too. Everything sucks.” He hiccuped again. “Except you.”

A car neared, but it slowed down to a stop. It was about time somebody respected them. “Cool, heh-heh-meh. You’re… You’re cool. You… kick ass. Not when you kick my ass. That sucks.”

They perfectly performed their drunken waltz all the way to the restaurant. The lights placed above the menu were blinding, to which Beavis used Butt-Head as shade. Butt-Head scanned the menu, the once-familiar words now technical jargon.

“Are you getting your usual.”

“Yeah.”

Butt-Head coughed loudly, followed by another hiccup, then leaned towards the intercom, causing the light to blast back into Beavis’ eyeballs. “Hello… Uh, hello. Give me… give me my crap.”

Silence.

“Butt-Head. I think the employees are dumb.”

”Hello?!” Butt-Head’s shout made Beavis jump. He slapped the intercom, then resumed in his normal volume, “I’m talking to you, dumbass.” He slapped it again. “Uh-huh-huh. Hey, it’s you. I’m kicking your ass, but like, as an intercom. Uh-huh-huh.”

“S-Shut up. Shut up. Here, let me do it. Maybe you gotta be, like… uh, nice or something.” Beavis guarded his eyes with his arm as he stepped in front. “Hello, Employees of Burger World. I would like to make a purchase.” Butt-Head’s chin resting on his shoulder was the only thing holding Beavis back from physically assaulting the intercom.

“Come on,” his voice was right in Beavis’ ear, then it slipped away as he backed off. “Let’s go wake these dumbasses up.”

A few moments later, an employee stared at them like they were a pair of rotting carcasses, then slid open the window. “Hello?” was all he could say.

“Yeah, uh, you suck at your job.”

“Yeah! We were standing there… forever!” Beavis pointed an accusatory finger at him, his arm slumping right back down. “I’m gonna tell on you!”

He still struggled to speak, then his elongated jaw finally shut. “Um. Okay, listen. I cannot serve you in the drive-thru if you are not in a car.”

“What?!” Beavis flinched. “Why not?! We’re right here!”

“Listen, it’s just policy, okay?”

“My policy…” Butt-Head stumbled despite the fact he was standing still. “My policy is kicking your ass!”

“Alright man, whatever.” He rubbed his temple. “You can come inside to order, or you can leave. Those are your only two options.”

“Damnit, I know how to work that grill!” Beavis dropped his guitar and jumped onto the windowsill, to which the employee slammed the window shut before Beavis could pull himself up.

The employee’s voice was muffled behind the glass. “Get out of here before I call the police!”

Beavis’ hands let go of the windowsill, and he half-tripped on his guitar, the only reason he remembered to pick it up. “Just give us our crap, you butthole!” The underpaid employee scowled at them, then whisked around, disappearing behind a corner.

Beavis and Butt-Head disappeared behind a corner too, only being pulled towards home by pure instinct alone. They felt stranded in a town they had lived in their entire lives, but wherever they were headed, it’s where their staggering steps led them.

Beavis scuffed his guitar as he dragged it, each hole in the sidewalk vibrating the strings and making them play intoxicated tunes. “Uh, Butt-Head? That party sucked.”

Butt-Head opened their front door, and the two walked inside as if they were trudging through a marsh. “Yeah, it kinda did. The beer kicks ass though.”

“We should’ve stolen some, heh-heh-meh. I’m hungry.” When Butt-Head began to cough, Beavis turned from the fridge. “D-Do you need some… uh, some medicine?”

Butt-Head was already shaking the Delsym bottle. “I think it’s empty or something.”

“Here, let’s go to the medicine store.”

“Beavis, stop. Stop, Beavis.” Butt-Head lurched in his direction, pulling on his shirt. “We just got home, you dumbass.”

“It’s fine. Come on now.” Beavis continued to walk, and Butt-Head continued to weakly wrestle with Beavis’ shirt. “Being sick sucks. C-Come on, it’ll be a quick drive. Nothing to it.” The door creaked as Beavis opened it. The pair stood in the threshold, taking in the sight before them. “Uh, Butt-Head. Where’s our car.”

Butt-Head rubbed his eyes, then looked again. Still nothing. “What the hell. Uh… it’s gotta be here somewhere. How else did we get home.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.” He looked up at Butt-Head. “Do you wanna go look for it or something.”

Butt-Head shut the door with his foot. “No.”

In the kitchen, Beavis grabbed his Burger World Dr. Pepper and the abandoned pizza slice. “Blaugh,” he complained as he took a bite. “This pizza’s, like, cold.”

“Uh… try blowing on it.”

Beavis did just that, then took another bite. “Thanks, Butt-Head.” He chewed on the mold. “Pizza kicks ass.”

Their arms touched as Butt-Head inspected the fridge, pulling open the drawer and snagging a bag of shredded cheese, which was also dangerously expired. “You, like, want some?” he offered through a mouthful.

“No, no. That’s your thing. That’s your dinner.” He drank the supposed Dr. Pepper, his face scrunching up like he just took a bite of a lemon. Fruit sucks. “Who ordered water?! Piece of crap.” He threw it into the sink, watching the diluted soda splash onto the counter and the floor. The sudden fatigue hit him like a truck, and he hunched over, half-eaten pizza slice slipping out of his cold fingers. “My… my sheep.”

“Uh-huh-huh,” Butt-Head snickered as he threw the bag of cheese into the sink. “Hey, Beavis. Watch this.” He used his arm to stuff the cheese bag and the Burger World cup down the drain, then flicked the mysterious light switch that Beavis never knew the use for. The sink began to scream and roar, and pieces of plastic and styrofoam shot out into the air like a cannon.

Beavis gazed at it like a firework. “Woah! Yeah! Yeah! This kicks ass!” He bounded forwards, sticking his pizza slice in the drain, but nothing happened that time. “Hey, Butt-Head? If I stick my hand in there… do…”—he began to laugh—“do you think that’ll be cool?” At that moment, the drain groaned and stuttered, and the really cool buzzing noise died. “Aw,” Beavis sighed, which turned into a long, deep yawn as the energy from the moment left him.

“Come on, Beavis. You gotta go to bed.”

“No! I-It’s not my bedtime!” he protested, but when Butt-Head made his way towards the stairs, what else could Beavis do but follow.

He stopped on the first step, then began to blindly reach for Beavis. “You… you need help.”

“Help doing what, butthole?” Beavis then felt a hand wrap around his.

Butt-Head peered over his shoulder, his eyelids quivering as they struggled to stay open. “Walk… Walking. Walking up the stairs.” He resumed his trek, mumbling, “You need, like, overall help, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head.” Beavis used his free hand to scratch his chin, and his guitar banged up against the wall. He had never let it go. “I-I don’t need help. I don’t need you.”

Butt-Head led him to their bedroom, and his hand slipped away from Beavis’ so he could collapse face-first onto the mattress.

“Oh my god.” Beavis kicked his legs that dangled off the bed. “You’re on my side, bunghole. Butt-Head, move.”

With a loud sigh of frustration, Butt-Head rolled over to the middle of the bed and firmly planted himself there. “Uh, Beavis.”

Beavis postponed his attempt to climbing into bed as well. “What?”

Suffocated by the pillows, he went silent. Then, he flipped onto his side, arms outstretched onto Beavis’ pillow. “Your guitar is stupid. And it sucks.” He swallowed. “And I’m, like… It sucked that I took it or whatever. Because the guitar is stupid. And I deserve better. And it’s stupid and dumb.”

Beavis was now very aware he was holding the aforementioned guitar. “Butt-Head. I’m gonna beat you with this gee-tar.” Once again, despite the drive, despite the want, Beavis did no such thing. He lifted himself onto the bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his spine curved over the instrument.

Butt-Head didn’t push off Beavis’ knee that was jabbing his abdomen. “What the hell are you doing,” was followed by a yawn and a smack of his lips.

Beavis strummed an open chord, then played the very beginning section of “Nothing Else Matters.” What a stupid, pointless song. “This guitar doesn’t suck, Butt-Head. Y-You just don’t know how to play it.” Beavis moved past the open chord section, his left hand moving up and down the neck, his fingers stretching and pressing. His eyes closed, and his hands led the way. This went on, and on, and on, and on. And he played it. For the first time in nearly five years, he played the song. His voice, quiet and hoarse, sang, “So close, no matter how far. Couldn’t be much more from the heart. Forever trusting who we are. And nothing else ma-ugh, god damnit!” His fingers slipped, and so did the guitar off the bed and into the floor. Beavis swiftly flung himself back, gasping in pain as his head didn’t land on what he expected to be a pillow. “Uh, Butt-Head. Move your crap.”

He craned his neck. Butt-Head’s eyes were closed, but he wasn’t gone yet. He wiggled out one of his arms, then dropped it right back where it was, only this time across Beavis’ chest.

In response, Beavis adjusted his head, making it to where Butt-Head’s arm was underneath his neck instead. He yawned at the top of his lungs, and felt Butt-Head rustle.

“Shut up, dumbass,” he murmured into Beavis’ shoulder. “Stop being loud.”

“You too, butthole.” As Beavis’ eyes closed, his face slid downwards and came to a rest atop both Butt-Head’s head. “Heh-heh-meh,” he rasped in his final moments of consciousness. “You smell like… like beer. Beer kicks ass. D-Did I ever tell you that you kick ass?”

Even in his weary inebriation, Beavis could hear Butt-Head’s slow, rhythmic breathing, and understood that he would not receive a response. His smile faded as sleep began to call, each breath whistling between his jutted bottom teeth.

In, and out. In, and out. In, and out.

Beavis would stir hours later at around six in the morning, a time unbeknownst to him. All he knew was that a soft light was breaking in through the shutters, the mourning dove was cooing, and he was completely wrapped in Butt-Head’s arms. Center of the bed, chest to chest, legs intertwined. Warm.

Beavis heard it again. That muffled thumping from when Butt-Head took him to Mr. Anderson’s. It was a detail of the event that he had dismissed, that he had forgotten. It was in front of Beavis’ face, behind Butt-Head’s chest, and it was going just as fast.

Beavis did stir, but that did not mean that he moved. There was no reason to.

He went right back to sleep.

Chapter Text

She was sitting on the couch, her legs spread apart and her hand on the remote. To Beavis, she was a monument. To her, he was Shirley’s sentient stain.

“Huh? What?” She gawked at him after he tugged on the corner of her fading, transparent yellow shirt. “Get your damn hand out of your mouth, boy. Speak.” Despite her words, she knew better, but she would find amusement in anything she could, at any cost. “Shirley! Shirley, your kid wants something! Shirley!” She didn’t wait too long. “Dumb cunt. Alright, you want uppies or some shit?” She stared at glassy, green eyes that went right through her, his tiny hand still clutching onto her shirt. She heaved the boy onto her lap to get a better look at him. Still nothing.

“Your mama’s a cunt. Can you say cunt?” When she laughed, Beavis experienced second-hand smoke from her breath alone. “Don’t say that. But if you do… Where’s my kid?” She surveyed the living room, then leaned towards Beavis, pitching her voice higher, “Where did he go? Where did he go? Come on now.” She groaned as she stood, propping Beavis on her hip.

“Can you tell me where he went?” she interrogated as she walked around the couch. “It’ll be an anonymous tip. He will never know. I swear by it.” When Butt-Head wasn’t on either side of the couch, the slight trace of lightheartedness vanished. “God damnit, boy. Shirley! Do you have my dumbass kid?!”

“Uh, no!”

“Oh, so now you can hear me!”

“What do you mean?!”

She sighed loudly as she readjusted Beavis, her lips vibrating like a horse’s. “Did he fly away, Beavis?!” she only shouted the last word, specifically over her shoulder in Shirley’s general direction. She dropped her volume back down, addressing the quiet lump in her arms. “Did he now? Am I free?”

“For the last time, stop calling my son Beavis!”

“Not my fault you gave him a fucking girl name, you bitch!”

“I swear to god, I will slap the shit out of you! Call him-!”

Her laughter drowned out Shirley’s tantrum. “The doctors told her you would be a girl. Did you know that? Shit, my son. Come out out, fuckerhead!” Her face dropped as she watched Beavis extend his grubby hands, which she followed right to the dining room table. “Jesus,” she rasped as she finally caught sight of him, holding onto the back of a chair like a sinner clinging to the ark. She set Beavis down on the cold tile floor, who remained where he was placed like a doll.

“Did you find him?” Beavis’ head turned towards his mother’s voice, but his view was obstructed by the back of the couch.

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

“Stop it. That ain’t funny.”

“Let go of this chair before I beat your ass.” She attempted to pry off his fingers off, but the second she was successful with the left and moved onto the right, he would just clamp his left hand back on, and vice versa. It took only two occurrences of this for her to grab both of his hands and pull. Despite the verbal and physical fight he gave, he finally relented. He hung in the air briefly before she placed him on her chest, supporting him with her lower arms.

Beavis could see his mom now. “Jesus Christ. We’re lucky the chair didn’t fall backwards.”

“Would’ve been his own damn fault if it did.” She raised an arm and popped him on the face. “Don’t do that shit.” He squirmed, but he didn’t cry, and instead buried his face deeper into her shoulder.

Beavis didn’t understand why he could see his mom, but she wasn’t seeing him. Shirley finally looked over once he started to whine, his hands reaching for her instead. “Oh, no!” she exclaimed softly, hurrying over and scooping him up in her arms. “Was he on that cold floor? That’s not fair. Oh, tell me about it,” she gently encouraged him as he whimpered again, cradling the back of his head in her hand. She glanced over at Butt-Head, who was still tucked away. “And you can’t go and climb chairs. That’s how you get hurt now.” A sudden silence. “What?”

She had rolled her eyes far into the back of her head. “I’m telling you, Shirley, you gotta stop babying them.”

“Stop babying babies.” She scoffed. “Jesus, do you hear yourself?”

“It teaches them to be pussies. You know, when I was his age,”—she pointed a finger to her son as she sat on the couch—“my daddy was already whooping me with his belt. Not saying it’s right, I’m just saying that you can’t talk to them like shit they do doesn’t have consequences. All these god damn Puritans nowadays, crying and whining about what you do with your own damn kid. You can’t fall into their bullshit. It’s all bullshit. Light me.”

Shirley glared at the back of her head, then leaned over the couch, flicking a lighter from her pocket. As Butt-Head’s mother exhaled a cloud of smoke in the other direction, Shirley couldn’t help but resume, “It won’t kill him or you to-“

“What?” She flung around. “What do you want me to do?” She kissed the top of his head, and he writhed. “Oh no, baby! Don’t climb on furniture! That’s a big no-no, cause if you do it, you might get a big boo-boo! Do you seriously think this dumbass is gonna listen?”

“No!” Shirley snapped in her frustration. “No, I don’t!”

“Then what the hell are you going on about?” She looked Shirley up and down, her eyes narrowing. “I don’t even understand what the problem is. Remember when Beavis was playing with your lighter?”

“God,” Shirley murmured under her breath as she walked away.

“Remember?” She stood and followed.

She pivoted around, shielding Beavis with her arms. “Not one more word. That is enough. I mean it.”

“Remember how you smacked his thigh so hard it bruised? Bruised bad, real bad. Remember how you went out and bought him pants until it healed so nobody would call the cops. Do you remember that?”

“I said that’s enough! You better shut the fuck up if you know what’s good for you!”

“I am asking you, Shirley! I am asking! Why are you giving me so much shit when you do the same damn thing?! Cause-!”

“I am trying to be a better mother!”

Her scream made the entire room go quiet. It made Beavis cry.

Shirley stared at him like she didn’t give birth to him. Stumbling forwards, she shoved Beavis into her friend’s arms, who had no choice but to accommodate both infants as quickly as possible.

“Jesus fuck!” Butt-Head’s mother gasped as she nearly dropped them on their heads. She watched Shirley snatch the entire pack of cigarettes and run like hell out of the room, the flickering of the lighter a muffled echo. “Each one of those comes out of your pocket, you bitch!”

Beavis was still crying. He could not understand where Mama had gone, and he could not understand why she had gone. Through his tears, he could see something move. Butt-Head had finally turned his head. It was slight, very slight. But it was enough for their eyes to meet. Comforted by the familiar, Beavis’ wailing turned into hushed sniffles. Butt-Head remained as he was, as still as a baby could possibly be.

“Go on now. Git.” She placed them back down on their blanket right between the couch and the television. She hastily shook a rattle toy above their heads, dropped it, and ambled back to the couch. The toy rolled closest to Butt-Head, who stared at it blankly before he slowly began to reach for it. His fingers locked, he lifted his eyes, then his hand, smacking Beavis in the face with the toy. Comforted by the familiar, Beavis’ sniffles turned into silence, and he began to laugh.

Beavis woke up alone. On Butt-Head’s side of the bed.

He recognized the difference in the mattress before he even registered that he was awake. It was enough to make his body jolt, as if this change was a threat. The following roar of thunder from outside was of no aid.

The collar of Beavis’ shirt was twisted so that it exposed the top of his shoulder rather than his protruding collarbones. He was missing a sock. His hair was more tousled than normal. He had a fresh scab on his left hand. His arm was sore. Matter of fact, his whole body was sore. There was a smell about him. Beer. Beer and a hint of Dr. Pepper. There was another smell, one that was not his natural musk. He did not know what it was. He didn’t seem to know much of anything.

Beavis did know that he was thirsty, though. He lumbered into the bathroom, bent his neck under the faucet, and turned the water on. He remained like this for a while before the ringing in his ears made him, for the first time in his life, quit. He splashed the metallic tap water against his face, hoping the frigidness of it would snap him out of his dazed funk. And yet he remained stranded, his mind stuck in a mire of a devouring fog.

The sky clamored again, rattling the walls.

Beavis chewed on his scab as he hobbled down the stairs. It was salty. He noticed the television was on, but there was no sign of Butt-Head. Before he could inspect the kitchen, a clatter made him flinch. Beavis twisted around, and there he was, doing the dishes. Butt-Head was doing the dishes.

“Hey.” Beavis broke through the scab.

Butt-Head glanced at him. “Uh… hey.”

His hair was tied in a bun. Could you even call it a bun? Whatever it was, it was his best attempt at doing it. Butt-Head never tied his hair. Butt-Head never did the dishes. “What’s with the hippie get-up, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head peeked at him again. “Uh, my hair was, like, getting wet. Then it would drag on my arms, and it felt weird and stuff.” He scrubbed the plate violently.

Beavis sucked the blood out of his hand. “What’s the occasion?”

“What?”

Beavis blinked at him a few times. “Uh, I meant like… you know, the dishes.”

Butt-Head resumed his scrubbing, or more like scraping. Beavis was convinced that if he went on for any longer, he would leave a hole in the plate from sponge and force alone. “I dunno,” was quickly interrupted by a loud clearing of his throat. “Because you’re a dumbass who can’t get anything done.”

Beavis’ jaw dropped, sparing his hand. “I-I’ve done the dishes our whole lives! All…”—he counted on his fingers—“like, six times!”

Butt-Head set the plate on the counter, its dripping water contributing to the forming waterfall slipping down the cabinets. “Could’ve been, uh, the number that comes after six if you didn’t sleep in so late.” It was then that Beavis caught the 2:58 PM on the microwave clock. “Dumbass.”

“Shut up, bunghole.” He entered the kitchen, climbed onto the counter, and retrieved a box of Frosted Flakes. Surprisingly, it had never been opened, and even more surprisingly, it had yet to expire. Beavis looked down at Butt-Head, a rare but always cherished event. “What even happened, heh-heh-meh.”

“Last night?”

“Yeah,” was intruded by open-mouth chewing. “What else am I talking about, dillweed.”

“Uh…” He lingered for some time, then his shoulders fell, as if he was giving up. “I don’t know, Beavis. I really don’t.” The breath he took trembled his chest. “Do you?”

”Hell yeah I do!” Butt-Head did it again. The glance. “There was, like, a girl. Hannah. A-And you fell on a table, heh-heh-meh. Um…” Beavis chewed on way too many Frosted Flakes for a person’s mouth. “Oh yeah! We went to Burger World through the drive-thru, heh-heh-meh. Cool. Yeah, that was cool.” At that moment, the cereal box began to slip through his fingers. “Oh no. Butt-Head, I-I think our car-“

“I got it.”

“Oh. Cool, heh-heh-meh.” He pondered briefly. He could not remember waking up at a different time, much less a walk to Monroe Road. “When?”

“Uh, this morning, when your dumbass was still asleep.” Thunder shook the house. “It wasn’t, like, raining or whatever.”

Silence. “Y-You should’ve woken me up.”

“You should’ve been awake.”

The silence prolonged, and neither broke it. Beavis found himself wanting Butt-Head to be the one to do it. He just scraped, scraped, and scraped. “Uh, Butt-Head.” He didn’t look up that time. Beavis found himself wanting him to. “You’re kinda being a weirdo right now.”

Butt-Head sighed, and dropped his head and the plates. “How the hell am I being a weirdo? You’re the one being a weirdo.” He submerged himself back into his chores, scoffing, “Go do something else instead of following me around and stuff for once.”

“What? Jeez, okay, alright.” Beavis slid off the counter, his vexed trek to the television stalled by a thought. “Oh wait. Wait, Butt-Head. Heh-heh-meh. Listen to this.”

Butt-Head turned, one hand on the counter and one hand at his side, water dripping from his fingers. “What.”

“Um.” Beavis’ nails broke into the first layer of cardboard. “I-I just wanted to say, uh…” Butt-Head did not move, but his eyes spoke. It told Beavis that he had done something wrong.

“Don’t do that,” he criticized Beavis’ obvious stalling. “Tell me what?”

Beavis narrowed his eyes. Butt-Head should know better than this. “I’m not gonna tell you if you’re gonna keep acting like a butthole! W-What the hell’s your problem?”

“Jesus Christ, Beavis, just tell me what you were gonna say.” Beavis recognized that look on his face. He was fighting the urge to yell.

Beavis tried. Butt-Head wasn’t worth his time, and he tried anyways. But it had already slipped from him, skittering away and cowering beneath some dumb brain fold. “I forgot. I forgot, assmunch,” he reinforced harshly as Butt-Head rolled his eyes and turned back towards the sink. “Screw you, Butt-Head.” He murmured under his breath as he crept away, “I didn’t even do anything wrong.”

Beavis flopped onto the couch, turning up the volume on the television. It playing a movie whose title did not matter. All Beavis could see was a voluptuous woman wielding an assault rifle. He was crunching on the cereal like popcorn, his wide grin squishing his eyes.

”This fight is getting brutal, Lieutenant Turner. If I’m going to dodge these bullets with maximum flexibility, I think I might have to take my shirt off.”

With a loud click, the entire world went black. Butt-Head gasped. Beavis screamed.

“Butt-Head!” Beavis cried out, groping his face. “I can’t see!”

Butt-Head was still heavy breathing from the initial shock, but he nonetheless demanded, “Calm down, weirdo.”

“Why, God?!” Beavis collapsed onto the ground. “I promise I’ll get those glasses! Please just give me one more chance! Amazing Grace, how sweet the sou-“ Beavis was slapped sideways, but his fighting days were over. “Butt-Head? Is that you?” He blindly reached forwards. “You won’t believe what just happened. I-I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“Ugh, don’t touch me ever again in your entire life.” Butt-Head slapped his hands off his face. Beavis heard another click, then a weary sigh. “You dumbass, open your damn eyes.”

Beavis’ eyelids began to flutter. By some miracle, he had regained his vision, and the first thing he saw with his born-again eyes was Butt-Head’s face, ignited by a single spark.

“Fire…” he whispered, then he began to twitch. “Fire!”

Butt-Head threw his arm behind his head as Beavis pounced. “Settle down, Beavis.” He continued to keep the lighter out of reach, which was extremely easy once he stood up. There was the genuine concern of Beavis crawling up him like Spider-Man’s stupid and evil twin, but Butt-Head figured he’d cross that bridge when he got there (using his fists). “Uh… what now.”

“I guess we try to adapt or something.”

“Shut up, dillhole, we are not blind.” Together, they headed over to the nearest light switch, and neither complained about the near complete lack of physical distance. The predicament had ushered in a temporary, unspoken truce. Butt-Head flicked the switch, then again, again, and again. “Uh, is it stupid?”

“Here, let me try. Damnit!” Beavis shouted when the light switch brusquely told him that he was not enough. He grumbled and mumbled under his breath, his eyes drifting towards the dancing flame. “Where did you even get a lighter.”

He was flipping the switch as fast as he could. “We, like, paid the light bill, right.”

Beavis forgot what he asked. “Yeah, yeah. I-I think so.” He paused. “I don’t know.”

“Damnit, Beavis, you’re supposed to keep track of that stuff.”

“I try, okay?” He glared. “Jesus, I can’t just do everything around here.”

“Shut up.” A deafening rattle of thunder made the pictures on the wall tremble. They stared at the ceiling where the clouds swarmed and bellowed above, as if they could come crashing down at any moment. Butt-Head ripped himself from his trance, heading towards the door. “Come on, I wanna go look at this crap.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh, cool! Augh!” Beavis yelped as the wind tore the door from his hand the second he opened the door a fraction of an inch. With a shriek of the hinges, the door banged against the side of the house, the doorknob leaving an indentation. A trash can was tumbling away, vomiting its insides out all over the street. The hedges were one slight inconvenience away from being uprooted and sent on their way like a blooming tumbleweed. The raindrops became like bullets, and Beavis ducked back indoors as they pelted his arms.

“Woah.” Butt-Head gawked, his eyes wide and his lighter snuffed. “This is cool.”

At that moment, Beavis suddenly forgot the stinging pain in his arms. If it took a life-threatening, destructive storm to stop Butt-Head from acting like a complete weirdo, it better last forever. “Yeah, cool! Cool! Heh-heh-meh.”

“Hey!” Their focus snapped to the house across the street, where a neighbor they had long forgotten the name of stood on his own porch, his tie strangling his neck in the wind. “Y’all’s power out too?!”

“Uh… no.” Butt-Head looked around for a moment. “Hey, check it out.” Beavis followed Butt-Head’s index finger to another neighbor’s house. “Their roof is falling apart, uh-huh-huh.” A shingle from the boys’ own roof clattered onto the sidewalk in front of them. “Ugh, now they’re getting their roof crap all over our yard. We should, like, take it and throw it at people. Uh-huh-huh.”

It took Beavis far too long to realize that he had been gazing at Butt-Head with a quiet smile. Startled, he gave his head a fierce shake, enough to make his neck sore. “Y-Yeah! They suck! Roofs suck!”

Another shingle smacked the pavement. “You’re damn right, Beavis. Roofs only cause problems.” He continued, “This rain crap is getting boring.”

“Yeah, it sucks.” Beavis swung to the side, using all of his strength to haul the door shut. Butt-Head flicked the lighter again, moving the flame just in time out of the path of Beavis’ grabby hands. Beavis cleared his throat, pulling his hands back to his chest. “So, uh, what now.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head looked around, the room having become slightly less dark as their eyes adjusted. A beam of lightning temporarily lit up the house, then it succumbed to the shadows once again. “Oh yeah. Remember that one time it was, like, raining and stuff at school, and the lights went off, and Van Driessen lit a dumb hippie candle or something.”

“Yeah-yeah, I remember that. It smelled like butthole.”

“Butthole or not, it helped us see. And my arm hurts. We need to find a candle.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. Good idea, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis looked down at the coffee table. “I-I don’t see a candle, Butt-Head.”

“There’s gotta be one somewhere.” He lifted the couch cushions, then leaned down to peer under the table. “Well, we looked everywhere.”

“Wait.” Beavis faced him, then started to stammer, “Um… I think, uh…” He swallowed, reverting his eyes back to the darkness. “I think, you know, my mom might, uh, have one.”

“Uh… okay,” he said in his rare “agreement” tone with a slight raise of his eyebrows. “Uh, just stay here, I guess.” Butt-Head vanished into the hall, and the light went with him, leaving Beavis alone and blind. Beavis stared after him, even though he could no longer see. He pricked his palms with his nails when he heard the door open and shut. His solitude lasted much longer in his head than it did in reality. The door open and shut again, and Butt-Head was back in the living room, the fire reflecting off of the glass container in his other hand.

“Do candles, like, go bad,” Beavis asked with the knowledge that this thing had not been lit since the earlier half of the decade.

“We’re about to find out.” Butt-Head caught Beavis’ distant, empty eyes. “What if it, like, blows up. Imagine all the fire, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis blinked as he was brought back into focus. “Oh yeah! Fire! Fire! Fire!” he chanted vigorously as Butt-Head brought the lighter to the wick. “Damnit.” His arms dropped as no aforementioned explosion ever took place.

Butt-Head shoved the lighter into his pocket and placed the candle in the center of the coffee table. He sat on the couch with a tired, irritated exhale. “This sucks.”

“Yeah, I was watching a kick ass movie, too!” Beavis settled down beside him. “This chick was, like, shooting a gun! T-Then she said something about getting completely naked! Then the dumb power went out!”

“Maybe next time you can just pay the light bill like you’re supposed to.”

“I did!” Beavis hissed at Butt-Head as he took his hair down. “I swear I did! You know, maybe our house is like the school, and its lights also stop working during storms.”

Butt-Head tossed a hairband-substitute shoelace onto the floor. “Or maybe you just didn’t pay the light bill.”

“Shut up, bunghole. I’m telling you I did.” He turned away from Butt-Head, only to realize the darkness was boring. Beavis begrudgingly turned back around, scrambling for anything to say. “Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.” He raised his head with a smirk. “I-I remembered what I was going to say earlier,” he said, despite the fact Butt-Head was right: Beavis had never forgotten in the first place.

Butt-Head stared at him. “Okay…”

Beavis tried to speak, but interrupted himself with his own laughter. “It’s real funny, get this. I-I think I’m… hungover.”

Butt-Head was completely silent, completely still, then a snort gargled in the back of his throat. “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. Hung.” They both laughed, somehow in unison and against each other at the same time. “But yeah, uh,”—Butt-Head finally spoke real words—“I’ve been feeling like crap, too. I’ve been, like, nauseous and stuff. And my chest hurts. And my head also hurts. Beer kinda sucks.”

“Heh-heh-meh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Butt-Head paused. “Uh… what?”

“What do you mean what.”

Butt-Head leaned towards him. “Why does that make sense.”

“Oh. Because you were, like, being a weirdo this morning, you know. I’m just saying that, like, if it’s because you’re… heh-heh-meh, hungover, heh-heh-meh, then it makes sense that-“

“God damnit, Beavis,” he still had yet to yell, but his voice had raised significantly, enough to take Beavis aback. He stood up from the couch, taking a step back. “Why do you keep saying that, huh? How the hell am I being a weirdo?” Beavis opened his mouth and was quickly cut short, “You’re the one that’s been acting weird all morning.”

“What did I do?!” Beavis was far from incapable of shouting. “Y-You keep telling me I’m the weird one, a-and I don’t get it! You’ve been acting weird!” His head twitched. “You’ve been a huge butthole to me ever since I woke up! More than usual! I-If it’s not from the beer, then what the hell’s going on with you?! Stop being a wuss and just spit it out!”

The flame from the candle, twisting and contorting, casted its dancing light onto Butt-Head’s face, darkening his eyes. He closed his mouth, then his fists, and, for a moment, his slow, heavy breathing was louder than the wind.

There was a click, then a screeching static that pried them away from each other’s throats. The living room was still dark, with the light switch having unknowingly been left “off,” but the television had been resurrected. Its holy light overpowered the candle as it gasped for air. Then, at last, the static started to skip, and a commercial about Mentos arose from the ashes.

”Nothing gets to you! Staying fresh, staying cool, with Mentos fresh and full of life!”

“That song sucks.”

Beavis glared at him, his blood boiling even more so now that Butt-Head was back to acting like nothing had happened. “Uh, yeah. It does. Listen, I don’t know what you- Jesus!” Beavis launched himself into the back of the couch as a grating alarm pierced his ears. Beavis found himself looking for Butt-Head, despite his rage and despite knowing Butt-Head was right there.

The commercial was still playing, but all the sound had been replaced by the blaring siren. “Finally. They replaced that dumbass song.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head. This is, like, kinda freaking me out.”

“Uh-huh-huh. You’re scared. Uh…” Butt-Head became distracted by the red banner that suddenly appeared at the top of the screen, bringing a slew of words along with it.

Beavis waited for him to translate, but nothing happened. “What does it say?” he pressed.

“I can’t read it.” His hands were on his knees so that his squinted eyes could be on level with the screen. “This crap’s, like, going too fast.”

“Then try harder! I wanna know what it says!”

“Beavis, I swear to god, if you don’t calm down-“

The shrieking alarm was suddenly replaced by a high-pitched beeping, followed by a sizzling static and a deep, robotic voice,

”The National Weather Service in Texas has issued a tornado warning for… Sutton County in West Texas, Tull County in West Texas, Loveport County in West Texas. This warning is in effect until 5:15 PM. At 3:32 PM, a tornado suspected to be category EF4 was seen in Highland, Texas, moving Northwest at approximately 186 miles per hour-“

“Woah. This kicks ass.” When he received no response, Butt-Head looked to his side, finding it empty. “Uh, Beavis?”

The Beavis in question suddenly launched himself over the back of the couch, somehow making the landing. “Yes! Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-yes!” He hyperventilated like a panting dog as he bestowed the camcorder in his trembling hands to Butt-Head. “We can finally do it! We can chase down a tornado thing! Yes!” He cradled the camcorder against his chest, his body jittering. “Yes-yes-yes-yes-yes-!”

“Se-“

“Don’t tell me to settle down, butthole!” He shot up from the couch, tripping over his converse he had taken off in the middle of the living room the night before. He carefully set down the camera, then scrambled to his shoes. “Where are my shoelaces?!”

“Uh… I don’t know.”

Beavis pushed himself up with a huff. “W-Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Hurry up, assmunch!” His socks barely touched the ground as he bolted towards the door, leaving it wide open for Butt-Head to shut on his way out. His attempt to keep the camera safe by shoving it under his shirt had failed as he became drenched head to toe in uncontrollable rainwater. “Open the door, Butt-Head, come on!”

Butt-Head was standing on the porch, his eyes twitching at each raindrop impact. “Let’s take Mr. Anderson’s truck. It’s, like, cooler and faster.”

“What?!”

“Let’s take-“

“What?!”

Butt-Head groaned and rushed down the sidewalk to the road where their car was parked, practically choking on his hair that was slapping him in the face. “I said let’s take Mr. Anderson’s truck.”

Beavis stared. “Why?!”

Thunder louder than ever before shook the earth beneath them. “Damnit, Beavis, just come on.” When he went on his way, Beavis had no choice to follow. Butt-Head had every intention of embarking on this perilous journey with a nonchalant walk, but when Beavis ran so fast he disappeared into the wind and rain, he gave in with a measly jog. Beavis was already in the truck, which they had known from past experience was almost always unlocked, by the time he finally arrived, and he was far from settled.

“Hurry up! We’re gonna miss it!” Beavis shook and trembled, both from the cold and from his vexed impatience. His socks splashed the puddle of water he had tracked onto the floorboard. “Butt-Head!”

“Shut up, dumbass,” Butt-Head growled under his breath as he started the truck, which rumbled its disappointed greeting. He drove forwards and made a U-turn in the Anderson’s lawn, leaving behind deep canyons of mud.

“Yes! Yes!” Beavis cheered as they finally got their mud-caked tires on the road. He finally began to fiddle with the camera, wiping the water off on the leather console.

“Where the hell are we even going,” Butt-Head grumbled. “I can’t see anything through this crap.”

“Just follow your heart, heh-heh-meh.”

“I would rather, like, follow the gigantic moving cloud in the sky. If I could see it.”

“You’ll be fine, heh-heh-meh.” He flipped it open, and the empty screen suddenly brightened. “Yes! It works!”

Butt-Head took his eyes off the road to scrutinize him. “You didn’t even check to see if it worked?”

Beavis furrowed his scraggly eyebrows. “Um, I just did?”

“You dumbass, I meant-“ He gasped as the truck suddenly ran over something large, rocking both of their unbuckled bodies back and forth and side to side. “Ugh,” he grumbled as the vehicle finally settled. “I just killed someone, uh-huh-huh.”

“Cool, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis looked behind them, seeing nothing but gray and rain. “S-Seriously though, what do you think that was?”

“Uh… hopefully a person, uh-huh-huh.”

“Heh-heh-meh.” Beavis pressed the record button, pointing the camcorder at Butt-Head. “He just killed someone, heh-heh-meh.”

“Are you, like, recording.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He cleared his throat, zooming in on Butt-Head’s face. “Hello, future Beavis and future Butt-Head. I’m Beavis, and that’s Butt-Head. The year is… uh… Today, we are chasing a tornado. Heh-heh-meh, cool, heh-heh-meh. A-And we’re, like, in Mr. Anderson’s truck! We’re chasing a tornado, and it’s gonna kick ass!” Beavis tilted the camcorder to the window and zoomed it out. “I mean, you can’t see anything right now, but we will! We sure will, heh-heh-meh.”

For a moment, the only noise was the rain, whose formidable strength overwhelmed the roar of the truck’s engine. “Uh, I’m just gonna, like, drive, I guess.”

“Yeah, what else are you gonna do, bunghole. Heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh… go home.”

“Go home?!” Beavis jerked the camcorder to him. “Damnit, Butt-Head, we’re chasing a tornado!”

“I know, dumbass. And I really don’t care.” He took a random, amble turn. “I’m only doing this so you would stop freaking out and stuff.”

The camcorder unintentionally drifted down, and so did Beavis’ smile. “Butt-Head, uh. I thought. I thought you… Don’t you, like, remember talking about this?”

“No.”

“Yes you do, butthole! You told me that if there was ever a tornado, we should go after it! I-I told you! I told you I wanted to! And you said you also wanted to!”

“Yeah, and I agreed on non-weirdo terms. Unfortunately, you breached that contract multiple times today, Beavis.”

Beavis went dead still. Then, slowly but surely, parts of him began to spasm. He was seconds from doing it. He was seconds from flinging himself across the console and attacking Butt-Head with every hope that they would crash and burn. But the camcorder sealed in his hand held him back, and, biting down as hard as he could on his tongue, Beavis turned the other way. “Whatever,” he whispered. A pothole made his head strike the window, and he bit his tongue again.

For quite some time, the only sounds the camcorder would pick up would be the rain and the thunder, which, to Beavis, was all far away now. He felt stupid. He felt so, so stupid. Why was he letting Butt-Head ruin this? Beavis didn’t need his agreement. Beavis didn’t need his approval, or his presence. Beavis didn’t need him at all. And yet, there he was, sulking out the window. He wasn’t even looking for the cyclone anymore. Why did he care? What was Butt-Head compared to a tornado?

Beavis twisted his head over his shoulder, unable to swallow the silence or the fire any longer. “Even if I was actually being a weirdo, which I’m not, it’s, like, a tornado, Butt-Head! It’s a god damn tornado! How can you not…”

Beavis’ voice fell away as the truck pulled out of the obstructive view of run-down shops and trailer homes and onto a long stretch of road, where a farmer’s field was almost all the eye could see. Almost.

“There it is, dumbass. There’s your god damn tornado.”

Beavis had seen videos of tornados on news channels. He had seen pictures in the All About Tornadoes book he picked out at the library, not to read, but to simply snicker in excitement at the pictures. He knew of their colossal mass, their brutality, their mercilessness. But, sitting in that truck, Beavis could not tell if it was a twister or the Judgmental Hand of God rapturing the chosen souls. It made him smile all the more.

Beavis heavily debated throwing Butt-Head out of the truck and taking over the wheel. “Speed up, butthole! It’s gonna fly away!”

“Shut up, dumbass,” Butt-Head argued, pushing the gas pedal against the floor anyways.

Beavis giggled and snorted as he laid his chest against the dashboard, pressing the camcorder against the front window. “This… is so… c-cool!” he stammered, the intensity of the moment taking over. He swallowed his heart, pushing himself even further against the glass. Another car raced past them the opposite direction. “You suck! Heh-heh-meh. Some people just can’t appreciate nature, heh-heh-meh. I-I don’t know how you can’t. Like, you gotta be real butthole to see a tornado and think, ‘That crap sucks and doesn’t kick ass. Nope, not even a little. I’m stupid and I suck and I wanna go home.’”

“Uh, Beavis,” Butt-Head interrupted, failing to pick up on the jab. “How, like, close do you wanna get to this thing.”

“We gotta drive into it! Just straight into it! Heh-heh-meh. Because, like, I saw this movie once where this girl got swept up in a tornado, and it was really cool, and it kicked ass and stuff. And I was little, you know. When I saw the movie. But even then I thought, ‘Why the hell did her family go underground?’ Why? What’s the point? It made no sense. Like, you buttholes, you’re missing out on a god damn tornado! Now your daughter gets to hog the tornado all to herself, a-and nobody else gets to ride it. I tried to enjoy the movie after that, I really did. But that crap just completely took me out of it. Bad writing, man. Gets you every time.”

“Uh… didn’t we watch that in, like, the third grade for some dumb assignment? And Steward cried at that part or something? Uh-huh-huh. Steward.”

“Oh, oh yeah! Yeah, we did! And yeah, Steward did cry!”

“He threw up everywhere and his mom had to come pick him up, uh-huh-huh.”

“Yeah, what a wuss, heh-heh-meh.”

“I remember when that happened, I was also like, ‘Uh… teacher. Can Beavis’ mom come pick me up,’ and she told me no. So I tried to cry when the metal man that kinda looks like your uncle came on screen, but it was really hard, and she, like, sent me to the hall. Then I ran away, uh-huh-huh.”

“Oh yeah, you did! I-I forgot about that whole thing. Yeah, they shut everything down, didn’t they? There were cops everywhere, too. It was cool, heh-heh-meh. They were, like, asking me a bunch of stupid questions and stuff. ‘Do you know where he went?’ ‘You’re not in trouble.’ ‘Damnit, boy, we know you know.’ And I was like, ‘Officers, all I know about Butt-Head is that he got school cancelled. I really don’t care about anything else, heh-heh-meh.’ And then your mom-“ Beavis suddenly noticed that sometime during this conversation, he had leaned back in his seat with the camcorder now pointing towards the floor. “Damnit!” He snapped his arm back up. The tornado had cut across the road, warping towards the outskirts of Highland. They had gotten so close, they were no longer able to see the twister’s head. Beavis motioned his free hand towards a turn, barking, “Come on, Butt-Head! Come on!”

Butt-Head swerved as sharply as he could, sending Beavis against the window and the tires bounding over a curb. For a brief moment, the tornado was blocked by a series of fast food drive-thrus, only to reappear as they entered a mall’s desolate parking lot. The tornado, seconds from tearing into the mall, was just within arm’s reach, and it was beckoning them closer.

“Is this cool or what?!” Beavis shouted above the wind that penetrated the truck’s exterior, threatening to rip it apart. “This has gotta be, like, the coolest thing we’ve ever seen!”

Butt-Head was far too quiet to be heard above the thrashing wind, and yet, Beavis was still able to decipher him above it all, “Too bad you’re ruining it.”

The tornado no longer existed. “God damnit, Butt-Head, stop! Just shut up! Shut up!”

“Uh… why. I’m not the one being a weirdo.”

There was no longer a warning. Beavis detonated, shards of him flying off in infinite directions. He struck Butt-Head in the face with the camcorder, sending it flying off his hand and to the backseat. Beavis clawed his arms and his neck, breaking through the skin with his nails, rugged and sharpened from years of biting. He gripped the collar of Butt-Head’s shirt, hauling him halfway onto the console. “You are ruining this for me!” he screamed in Butt-Head’s face. “Ruining it! Ruining it! Ruining it! All I wanted was to do something cool with you, and you can’t help but ruin it! You ruin everything! Ruin it! Ruin it!”

Butt-Head had been fighting between control of the truck and Beavis, but he ultimately abandoned the wheel. He pushed his hand onto Beavis’ face to shove him off, only to have his hand chomped down on in the process. With a gasp, Butt-Head ripped his hand away, curling his fingers and punching Beavis in the mouth. He collapsed against the window, gasping for air and watching Butt-Head clutch his bleeding hand. Beavis wiped his arm across his mouth, smearing the blood from his busted lip. He was not done.

But the truck’s unbelievable speed came to an unsparing halt, violently sending Beavis crashing against the dashboard. The tires screeched as the truck spiraled, unable to stop for anything except for time. After many hour-long seconds, the truck came to an sputtering stop, its front window a butterfly’s gentle landing from shattering.

Beavis lifted his head, briefly unable to get his eyes uncrossed. A ways ahead, a light pole stood with red paint smeared across its concrete base. Ahead of that was a dark, empty sky.

“Uh, Butt-Head. Where did the tornado go.” Nothing. “Butt-Head.” Beavis’ head unsteadily drifted to the side, where Butt-Head’s silence was explained by his face being hidden in the steering wheel. “Butt-Head,” he repeated, still struggling to breathe right. “Damnit, Butt-Head.” He reached forwards, shaking his shoulder. Nothing.

Beavis’ eyes began to come back into focus, and he shoved him hard. “Stop being a butthole.” Another harsh shove. Beavis stared at him, blinking rapidly, waiting. “Dude?” He grasped his hair, lifting him from the steering wheel. Blood was spread and splattered all over the lower half of his face, swiftly drooling down to his neck from the sudden shift in gravity. But his eyes were twitching. That was enough.

“Butt-Head.”

“… What.”

“Come on, I think the tornadoes getting away.”

“… What.”

Beavis let go of his hair, letting his head flop onto the headrest. With a huff, he slipped out of the truck, hurrying to the other side. He swung open the driver’s door. “Come on. Out.”

Butt-Head slowly turned. “… What.”

“I’m driving, bunghole.” He tugged on Butt-Head’s arm, who, in his stunned state, obliged. Beavis hopped back into the truck, watching Butt-Head make the unbearably sedated trek around the hood. Beavis slammed his palm against the horn, doing it over and over again when Butt-Head had no response. “Hurry up! We’re gonna lose the tornado, damnit!”

He continued to blare the horn even while Butt-Head was climbing into the seat. He took his sweet time to shut the door, to which Beavis floored it the second he heard that door click. “Butt-Head, can you, like, reach into the back and grab the camcorder. Butt-Head. Butt-Head!” he hollered at the unconscious slump next to him. “Fine! Be like that. I don’t need you!”

Beavis sped out of the parking lot, unaware of the tornado chasing them down from behind.

Beavis sat on the couch, hunkered over the camcorder in his cold, blood-stained hands. He flipped it open and shut. The screen remained empty. Open and shut, open and shut, open and shut.

“Piece of crap,” he rasped, his arms shaking. “Come on!” he shouted, threatening to snap the camcorder in half as he slammed it open and shut, open and shut, open and shut. He hurled it across the living room, watching it crash against the wall and tumble against the carpet.

And there he remained, staring, and involuntarily listening to the clatter of plates. Butt-Head was doing the dishes.

“This is all your fault.”

Nothing.

“All of it,” Beavis continued. “You just had to…. You just…” He hung his head, then, ever so slightly, began to rock back and forth.

Nothing.

Beavis lifted his head with a sharp inhale. “I have been waiting… so long!” His body jerked, and he latched onto his hair. “And you… you, you, you….”

Beavis didn’t remember standing up. He didn’t remember walking to the kitchen for that matter, either. “What did I do.”

Silence. Butt-Head had come to a complete stop, the soap dripping off the plate in his hands and down the busted drain.

“If I’m the one being a weirdo,”—he crept closer—“tell me what I did. Cause I can tell you what you’ve done.”

“Do it, then.”

Beavis froze. The words were stalled in his throat, and he began to suffocate. He tried to form something, anything, but all that came out was incomprehensible noises, all tripping over one another and fighting for control. Butt-Head was being unusually cruel, and with that grievance arose another: Butt-Head was always unusually cruel. And yet, Beavis still knew the difference. He knew Butt-Head. He knew his behavior, his mannerisms. He knew when Butt-Head’s cruelty was cruel. But Beavis wasn’t told how to know this. He wasn’t given a Butt-Head instructional manual or a pamphlet or a detailed class on how to understand. He knew Butt-Head like he knew how to breathe. And how do you explain breathing?

With three words, Beavis had lost a perspective he nearly died for.

Butt-Head had turned around, his face still coated in blood. He was staring Beavis down, daring him, and Beavis had failed. Butt-Head waited for a long, long time, his patience nothing but a mockery. When he turned around, Beavis prepared to leave, to go back to the couch, to turn on the television, something, anything but this.

But Butt-Head had one last thing to say, “Stop being a fucking dumbass.”

Beavis woke up alone. On his side of the bed.

He watched the immortal ceiling fan turn. It seemed slower than normal, despite the fact it’s pace hadn’t been adjusted in over a decade. The thunder outside only seemed to be getting even closer with each violent rumble. The flashes of lightning sifting the shutters reminded him of that July afternoon where he tried to set a hill of ants ablaze using a cracked magnifying glass, the light rogue and averse to instruction. The wind had already made its presence known, but it felt greedy, it wanted more, and thus, it forced the trees to whistle its name. Beavis tore another chunk out of the comic book, who’s only crime was being on Beavis’ nightstand.

Fucking dumbass.

It made him feel funny. It made him feel strange. The way Butt-Head said it. The fact he said it at all. Butt-Head never said fuck. Beavis never said fuck. They weren’t afraid of it. It had been tossed around before. But that was the problem. Tossed. Butt-Head chose to use it. He did that on purpose. Even Beavis, in his fucking dumbassery, could see that. Did Butt-Head want him to see? Did he think Beavis even could? And if he didn’t, why? Oh, because Beavis was a fucking dumbass?

This should not be bothering him.

The comic book had been destroyed. Its corpse was in pieces all across the bed and Beavis’ chest, bits tucked away in folds of his shirt and creases of the ruffled sheets. He was tearing the tears down into fibers. He was rolling them between his fingers until their once dedicated paper form obeyed him. He pushed one of the molded figures underneath his fingernail, wanting to get it stuck beneath his nail bed and have something else to think about.

Butt-Head was doing the dishes.

It was stubborn. It wouldn’t break the skin. It had wasted all of its purpose bending to one will that it could not do another. The twisted paper, so small that it was wet from the natural oil on Beavis’ hand, had disobeyed him trying to do all that it could to grovel. Beavis dug it out and leered at it for a duration unknown. For some reason, the next clash of thunder jumpstarted him like a defibrillator, and the paper slipped out of his fingers, never to be seen again.

Beavis pushed himself up and stared at the window. Beyond was a world he did not understand. What even was rain? What was lightning? What was thunder? What was weather? It pissed him off. A lot of things pissed him off. When he was younger, Beavis’ confidence in his understanding was steadfast. His onlookers were all wrong. The adults, his peers. All their judgmental demeanors that went from poorly-disguised and pitiful to loud and hateful the older he became. Their words of incorrect correction that went from firm yet tender to brutal and weary as the years went on. Wrong. They were all wrong. Yet it bothered him nonetheless. He did not understand that.

Butt-Head bothered him.

Beavis could hear a plate clatter against another and he could hear the strike of clouds right above the roof. It made his body convulse and curl, his chin to his lower chest and his hands twitching above his head as if he was trying to attack and defend himself at the same time. His hands locked onto the back of his neck, forearms pressed against his ears, and he tried to bury within himself deeper. A shard of paper slipped onto his ankle. It stabbed him.

Beavis’ gasp was coarse and contorted. He thrashed out of bed and slammed against the carpet, which was where he began to come back. Eyes stricken wide, forehead down, he could see nothing but the carpet, its details vague. His heart was in his ears, and he wanted it to leave, so he did not move. Each thunder cry made him start all over.

He eventually began to move, one limb at a time. He was one foot standing when the thunder dared to open its mouth again. Only this time he did not fall. His head snapped towards the window as his breath swiftly hissed in and out of his agape jaw. The shutters. The storm was hiding behind it. It was hiding from him. It was talking behind his back. It was laughing at him. There was nothing funny about Beavis.

He fell.

Beavis had barely moved before something struck his ankle. He caught himself with his shoulder, his brittle skull just barely missing the floor. A string of saliva caught on the carpet travelled with him as he lifted himself back up. He glanced over his shoulder at his opponent, his bone throbbing in his ankle and his heart throbbing in his ears.

It was his guitar, flat on the floor. He was furious, he was enraged, but he couldn’t help but falter. Why did he not remember it. It was directly in view of the door where he had entered. Beavis tried. He tried and he tried and he tried. He could not remember entering the room. His fading recollection of walking up the stairs was a still, blurry picture. It was then that Beavis realized he did not know how long he had been gone, nor what he had done from the time Butt-Head called him that to just a few minutes ago. Was this him misunderstanding? Can you misconstrue a memory? If anyone knew, would they reprimand him? Can you reprimand something you cannot remember and thus cannot understand? Why was his guitar on the floor?

Beavis’ guitar was on the floor. Butt-Head was doing the dishes. This should not be bothering him.

Beavis was never still. Some part of him was always moving. His foot would tap, or his hands would shake, or his eyelids would twitch. But there, sprawled out on the floor, staring at a memory, his stillness became an absolute. Can you misconstrue a memory?

He wanted somebody to reprimand him, to do the song and dance everybody in Highland had memorized. He wanted to be told he was wrong, that he was stupid, that he was wrong. He had to be wrong. With a cracked gasp, he lunged forwards and shoved the guitar under the bed. He kicked the carpet as he scrambled to his feet, backing up to the door and grasping the doorknob. But Beavis couldn’t leave. He was downstairs. He would never leave. He was doing the dishes. Beavis fell asleep in his arms.

“What the hell...” It didn’t matter that Beavis alone. Whether it be the rain, the wind, the thunder, or the lightning, he wanted somebody, anybody, to listen to him, to bear witness to his disdain. He twisted the doorknob. Better that than somebody’s neck. It had to be a nightmare. A hallucination brought on by the alcohol. He drifted away from the doorknob, and he began to obsessively pace back and forth, back and forth.

Beavis pricked his arms with his nails. While drips of alcohol still ran through his veins, the memory was becoming clearer. He remembered waking up that morning with his face buried in Butt-Head’s chest, whose arms were so firmly fasted around him in return. Beavis began to dig into his arms, his eyes locked onto the floor that was shifting in and out of focus. He hated Butt-Head. Butt-Head wasn’t his friend. Butt-Head was happenstance. Butt-Head was the worst of a bad situation. Butt-Head meant less than nothing to him and to everybody else who ever had the disgrace of knowing him. Beavis fell asleep in Butt-Head’s arms.

Beavis was back at the doorknob, having no instinct but to run. He opened and slammed the door, and despite the fact he expected it, he still flinched at he sound. In the hall, he became stranded. He wanted to run. Somewhere, anywhere. But not where Butt-Head was. But he was everywhere. Beavis flung open the door, hurried inside, and slammed it again. The walls shook.

“Stop slamming the door!”

Butt-Head. Butt-Head. Butt-Head.

Fucking dumbass.

Beavis’ forehead crashed against the door. The walls shook. “Shut up!” he screamed until his vocal chords clawed against his throat. He pushed himself away from the door, and the world began to shift. Beavis stumbled backwards, the pressure in his head deep and building. The guitar was not there, but he tripped on its memory. He did not hit the floor or the bed when he fell. He fell, and he fell, and he fell. Down, and down, and down. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper.

Can you misconstrue a memory? It wasn’t a question. It was a request.

Shirley Beavis did not care for country music. Dolly Parton was an exception, not the rule.

Shirley adjusted the guitar in her lap, the pick pinned against her index finger with her thumb. She was sitting on a barstool stolen from the diner she used to work at to pay for the second-hand crib the boys were laying in. It was late now, hours since she had fled to the balcony, where she had every intention of remaining for longer than she did. Forever, in fact, if she could have one thing her way. She finally relented only because of the consistent demands that had turned into pathetic pleas, all insisting that the boys could not be put to sleep without her present. Shirley knew this. She didn’t have to be told. She just hoped that day would be different. She found herself hoping for that a lot.

She strummed an open chord, then reached for the tuning pegs. Another strum, another reach. Another strum, and her hand remained where it was. She looked up from her instrument, finding her year old child staring at her intently. He wasn’t smiling, nor blinking. Just staring. His friend was staring too, just at nothing in particular. Shirley’s own friend wasn’t staring. She was watching. There was a difference.

Shirley began to play, and she began to sing,

If I should stay
I would only be in your way
So I'll go, but I know
I'll think of you each step of the way
And I will always love you
I will always love you

Bitter-sweet memories
That's all I am taking with me
Goodbye, please don't cry
We both know that I'm not
What you need
I will always love you
I will always love you

She opened her eyes as her voice began to fade away. Her son was no longer staring. He was watching. His friend’s eyes had closed, but she could tell he had not fallen asleep just yet. Soon, though. Soon. For them both.

She leaned back from the crib, still holding onto the guitar as if she had more to say. “There. They’re settled.”

Her friend gazed on with a look that was either admiration or jealousy. Both, perhaps. “You should’ve been a singer.”

Shirley went still. She had been told that before, from her friend, her daddy, her mama, her teachers, the grocery store janitor, herself. She slipped the guitar down to the ground, hearing it mumble against the side of the barstool. She peered through the bars of the crib, where her son’s eyes had followed hers. And she lingered there, staring, not watching, at her child whom she had lied to in the song she sang. “I should’ve been a lot of things.”

Chapter Text

Beavis woke up alone. On his side of the bed.

Wondering what else Butt-Head could possibly be doing, the first thing he did was go downstairs. Butt-Head was asleep on the couch. It made him think about what happened, and somewhere along the way, Beavis came to the conclusion that he suffered a concussion (or whatever Mr. Anderson called it) so utterly tragic that it gave him false memories of snuggling up to Butt-Head. Beavis no longer cared about whether or not they had enough money for such a venture. Beavis pulled Butt-Head off the couch to wake him up, told him that he needed to go to the hospital, and off to the hospital they went. It was a request that Butt-Head had never even once denied.

On the drive through town, the map of the tornado was laid out in broad daylight. Strip centers were demolished, trees were split down the center, and there was a shopping cart hooked on the traffic light. But the best of all was yet to come.

“Hey! Hey Butt-Head! Look!” He pressed his face against the glass, admiring the sight before him. The building was torn to shreds as if it were nothing more than a toothpick compared to the tornado’s gnashing teeth. “The tornado thing ate Burger World!”

“Woah.” Butt-Head had every right to take his eyes off the road. “Uh-huh-huh. Cool.”

“Yeah, cool, heh-heh-meh. B-But what about, like, our paychecks and stuff. If we don’t go to work, then we don’t get cash.” He craned his neck to inspect the building as it passed. “And I don’t see the kitchen anymore. Or the front door.” He squinted. “Or the roof. Heh-heh-meh. Roofs suck. R-Remember that, Butt-Head? Heh-heh-meh. Roof.”

“Are you done, Beavis.”

“I-I think so, heh-heh-meh.” Butt-Head waited. “Roof. Roof, heh-heh-meh. I-It sounds like a dog, heh-heh-meh. Roof. Roof! Okay I’m done. So, like, what about our cash and stuff?”

Butt-Head turned a corner. “Uh… you dumbass, we’ll still get paid.”

“Woah, really?”

“Yeah, they didn’t, like, fire us or anything. A dumb tornado isn’t our fault. I think we’ll just, like, keep getting paid like normal until they rebuild it or something.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. S-So we don’t have to work, and we still get paid! This kicks ass!”

”It sure does, Beavis. It kicks serious, serious ass.”

Turns out Butt-Head was also apparently suffering from a concussion, along with the threat of infection from the bite mark on his hand. They tried to interrogate the two on what exactly happened, and even took Butt-Head aside for something he described as “some stupid test crap they didn’t even let him study for.”

“They asked me if I, like, felt unsafe at home,” he added, climbing back onto his cot. “These doctors suck.”

They laughed about it for a while, but it wasn’t long before their hijinks were hushed out of sheer boredom. They were informed that receiving the MRI results would take a couple of hours, and given the deadly nature of their injury, they were not allowed to return home until the doctors figured out the “grade” of their concussion. Beavis just hoped Butt-Head passed that test.

As if things couldn’t get any worse, the doctors also switched the televisions off and advised not to read any of the available magazines. Not that the pair cared much for theTop Fifteen Ways to Care for your Vegetable Garden, but when a person becomes desperate, they are capable of any atrocity imaginable.

“Uh…” An hour and a half into their agonizing set back, Butt-Head flipped a page. “Roundup. Nothing kills weeds better. Uh… what?”

“Kills weed?!” Beavis, sitting on the edge of Butt-Head’s bed, leaned in closer to squint at a page he couldn’t read. “Why would you wanna kill weed? God, I swear people are just getting stupider and stupider.”

Three hours crawled on by. Beavis was sitting cross-legged with a plain turkey sandwich in his hands, the cold, thin bedsheet draped over his lap. He hated wheat bread, but in that desolate hospital room, the disgust was practically the most entertaining thing in the world. He had asked Butt-Head if he wanted to go with him to the cafe, and when the answer was no, the question turned into if Butt-Head wanted anything, which was also a no. Butt-Head was asleep by the time he got back, something Beavis envied. He wished he could sleep these hours away. At that moment, Butt-Head added insult to injury by snoring offensively loudly. Beavis scowled at him, then took another repulsed bite of the sandwich.

It took nearly five hours for the doctor to deliver the news. “Of course we had concussions, dumbass,” a barely conscious Butt-Head grumbled to the doctor. “You made us wait all day in here for something we already knew? Uh, I demand this visit to be… on the house.” Despite Butt-Head’s genius attempt to evade the hospital bill, they were nevertheless burdened with another sum to pay, but it could’ve been worse. If Shirley Beavis accomplished anything during her optional time as mother, it was informing Beavis about the capitalistic manna that were itemized bills.

”Always ask for them,” she advised as she briskly strutted out the hospital doors, tightly holding onto a pneumonia-infected Beavis’ hand. “Those greedy bastards lie about most of that shit you gotta pay. Hold them accountable, Beavis. Don’t you ever forget that now.”

Beavis and Butt-Head were halfway home when it sunk in. Beavis still remembered. He could still feel his warmth, his touch. He could still smell him. He could still hear the pounding in his chest. He thought the hospital would make it go away, but it didn’t. What was once merely a piece of Beavis’ powerful yet fragmented imagination was only becoming all the more real.

He looked over. Butt-Head was so, so much, but he was not a liar. He would tell Beavis if he remembered. He would. “Hey, uh, Butt-Head?”

“Uh… yeah.”

Beavis couldn’t look at him anymore. “Do you… uh, like, remember anything else from the other day. The, like, party or whatever. O-Or after.” Beavis wasn’t a liar either. One lie does not make you a liar. “Because I wanna make sure I’m not forgetting anything or something. Because it was, like,”—he swallowed hard—“fun, you know.”

“No.”

“Cool, uh, okay. Me neither.”

And that was that.

A crumpled mass on the side of the road caught Beavis’ attention. “Hey, Butt-Head. Heh-heh-meh. There’s that person you ran over,” he said, the joke being that it had been a trash can all along.

“Uh-huh-huh. Look at Mr. Anderson.” Beavis twisted back around, following Butt-Head’s finger to the property gradually approaching. The totaled truck was submerged in the soggy, muddy lawn, and before it kneeled Mr. Anderson, attempting to maneuver a plank of wood beneath the tires. “He’s mad about his dumb truck, uh-huh-huh. God damnit,” Butt-Head growled as he was waved over. Beavis expected him to keep driving, but instead, he pulled the car to the curb right beside the veteran’s mailbox, justifying, “Uh-huh-huh, let’s go make fun of him.”

“Heh-heh-meh, yeah-yeah.” Beavis slipped out of the car, hurrying to where Butt-Head waited for him.

“Old people suck, uh-huh-huh. Because they’re old.”

“Heya, you two.” Mr. Anderson wiped the sweat from his brow. “Uh,” he breathily chuckled. “This is surely a doozy, ain’t it?”

“Damn.” Butt-Head stared at the wrinkled hood and the shattered left light. “Who could do such a thing.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. I-I bet whoever did it was cool, a-and sexy,” Beavis alluded to himself. “Just a hunch.”

“And if there were, like, more than one. Like two men for example. Then they would both be sexy. I mean, just one. Just one would be sexy. And the other one thinks he’s sexy, but he’s not. Unlike the other. The sexy one.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. Wait what?”

“Now listen, boys.” Mr. Anderson stabbed the plank into the mud, holding onto it like a cane. “I sure do appreciate the help so far, but I actually called y’all over here to help me with something else. Don’t be mistaken, it still involves the truck, just not so much its crime scene,” he added with a slight chuckle, then the sternness returned to his face. “I mean that, you know. The steering wheel there is covered in blood.” He adjusted the waistband of his jeans, adding with a scoff, “God knows that sumbitch got it coming, though.”

“Uh… I don’t care.”

“What is it, heh-heh-meh. The something else,” Beavis snickered, much to Butt-Head’s visible dismay.

“Here, I’ll show you. Now,”—Butt-Head’s name—“, can you go get your car and back it up in my driveway?”

“Uh…” Butt-Head glanced at Beavis, then back at Mr. Anderson. “Yeah, whatever.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mr. Anderson stared down at his crumpled mailbox. “Well, accidents happen. Anyways, I’m gonna teach you boys something.” Mr. Anderson, stretching out his thinning patience for the sake of his truck, hobbled over to the back, retrieving a dusty, neon-colored rope with two hooks on either end. “You know how many jeeps got stuck in the mud during the war?”

“Uh… no.”

“One?”

“A lot.”

“Damnit!”

Mr. Anderson pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I had to do this kind of stuff every day. You know, those planks probably weren’t gonna work. This truck’s near a goner. But you gotta try, you know. Marcy was insisting I call a tow truck and whatnot, but,”—realizing his rambling, he cleared his throat to cut himself short—“you know.” He dangled the rope, the hooks clinking against each other. “This right here is called a tow strap. Now, every car is different, but you should have a recovery point that you can put the hook on here…”

Mr. Anderson’s voice faded into the background as Beavis and Butt-Head side-eyed one another. “Heh-heh-meh. Hook. Get it, c-cause it’s like hooker, but short. It’s like your mom, heh-heh-meh.”

“Shut up, dumbass, your mom was shorter.”

“No way, butthole!” Beavis snorted. “Your mom was so short that-!”

“Hey,”—Beavis’ first name—“come here.”

His eyes suddenly snapped back to Mr. Anderson’s direction. Hearing Butt-Head’s name was a scattered incident. It was rare, yes, but it happened. Beavis was different. Most people he knew carried the false assumption that Beavis was his first name, and the people who knew better still abstained from any other title. Even Shirley, once so insistent on calling him by his forename, was forced to adapt to the latter the older he became. Butt-Head’s influence was unmatched, and, for the past near five years, it had remained undefeated. Until now. “Um, yeah sure, okay.” He followed Mr. Anderson to the front of the truck, fumbling with his fingers.

“Here, since”—again, Butt-Head’s name—“backed up the car, you can do this next part.” Mr. Anderson held out the other end of the tow strap. “Your car should have its own recovery point at the back. You might have to look beneath it.”

Beavis blankly and briefly stared at the rope, wishing Butt-Head had just driven past or at the very least make another joke to compensate. With a toothy frown, he reluctantly took it, slogging over to the humble Honda Accord. He lowered himself to the concrete, maneuvering himself underneath. “Uh, I don’t- ow!” he winced as he hit his head. How many times was that going to happen?

“Sorry, Mr. Anderson sir. The disastrous intelligence level of the Butt Monkey is like nothing scientists have ever seen before.”

“Shut up, bunghole!”

“Perhaps one day they can find a cure.”

Overwhelmed by the strain on his muscles and the sun beating down on his lifted shirt, Beavis snarled, “I’m gonna strangle you with this-! Oh. Hey, heh-heh-meh, I found it.” He grunted as he reached one last time to latch the tow strap. The concrete itched his skin as he pushed himself out, and he yanked his shirt back down as he scrambled to his feet. “Uh.” With quick gasps for air and a crooked smile, he turned to Mr. Anderson. “There, heh-heh-meh.”

“Good work. Now, what I need you boys to do next is get in your car and floor it.”

Butt-Head blinked his eyes wide. “Floor it?”

“Yep, and I’ll do the same.”

His eyes nearly popped out of their sockets. “Woah… Are you serious?”

“Mr. Anderson, uh.” Through the corner of his eyes, Beavis could see Butt-Head shoot him a look. “His car is, like, really crappy. Like, this one time, we were on the highway and-“

“Shut up, buttmunch. Uh, right on it, Mr. Anderson sir. Uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head sped-walk to the car, and while he wasn’t outwardly smiling, Beavis could tell when there was one hidden behind his gaping gums. They were separated momentarily as they climbed back into their car, with Butt-Head resuming as soon as Beavis shut the door, “Did you hear that, Beavis? He wants us to race him.”

”Woah, really?” Beavis sat up straight and looked out the back window. Sure enough, Mr. Anderson was in his truck, putting his seatbelt on. “Damn. I didn’t know he was cool like that, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh, yeah, and you almost ruined it with your big, stupid, ugly mouth. And don’t call this car crappy, or I won’t take you anywhere ever again.”

“Come on, Butt-Head. I just thought that he meant, I-I was just saying-“

“And there you have it.” The engine wheezed and coughed as he turned the key. “I, Prince King Almighty Judge Butt-Head, declare you, Mr. Beavis, to be under house arrest forever and ever and ever and ever.”

Beavis waited for him to laugh. “Jesus, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Shut up, asswipe. We’re gonna lose if you keep, like, distracting me.” He firmly planted both hands on the steering wheel, casting a cold glare into the rearview mirror. He wasn’t sure how it exactly aided in street races, but all the people in the movies did it. “Beavis, are you ready for one of the coolest things I will ever do?”

His house arrest slipping his mind, a smile cracked open. “Yeah. Yeah!” he enunciated, shaking his enclosed fists. “Come on, Butt-Head, kick his ass!”

Beavis’ encouraging enchantment was interrupted by the screeching of tires and a howl of smoke shooting out of the exhaust. When the rest of the car registered the gas pedal’s demand, it sent Beavis to the back of the seat like an astronaut when the countdown reached its end. His exhilaration was short-lived however, as he was flung forwards as soon as he was thrown back.

“What the hell?” Butt-Head genuinely used the rearview mirror that time while Beavis rubbed the back of his aching neck. “Uh, wait a second. That hooker thing. It’s-“ At that moment, the truck was at last hauled onto the driveway, a resolution that stopped Butt-Head in his tracks and put his car back on it. “Finally, uh-huh-huh.”

Mr. Anderson’s head was out the window, shouting his thanks and that they could stop now. “Uh, Butt-Head. He’s, like, yelling at us.”

“God damnit, Beavis, what did I just say about distracting me?” Despite this, he eased up on the pedal as he glanced into the rearview mirror. “Uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head smirked. “He’s scared.”

Butt-Head slammed his foot down, and he was right. Mr. Anderson sure looked scared. “Yeah! You’re winning!” Beavis cheered as the two vehicles took off down the neighborhood way. Unable to take his eyes off the rope connecting them both, Beavis rationalized that it would be fine to distract Butt-Head just one more time. He was winning, after all. “W-What do you think the point of the rope thing is?”

“Whatever it is, it’s probably some old trick. Cause Mr. Anderson is old.” Speaking of Mr. Anderson, he was blaring on his horn, his screams muffled behind the window panes. “Old and stupid. I’m afraid he underestimated us, Beavis.”

“Yeah! Yeah! Everybody, like, underestimates us!” He cackled as he watched the world bolt past, a smeared canvas blur. He couldn’t help but look back once more, drowning in the delight of their opponent’s loss. “That’s what you get, Mr. Anderson!” Beavis blinked, then grinned wider than ever before. “Hey, Butt-Head, look! He stopped! We woaugh!”

The car jolted to a halt, once again ungratefully forcing Beavis and Butt-Head to the back of their seats. Something loud snapped, and the energy still pent up in the wheels sent them flying forwards. Beyond Butt-Head’s control, the tires skidded and twisted for some time, parking the car parallel in the middle of the street.

It was easier to snap out of it this time. Beavis grabbed the console and pushed himself forwards, peering past Butt-Head and out the window. “That’s what the rope was for! He’s cheating! Hey!” Beavis nearly climbed over Butt-Head to get out the only door he could see before swiftly recalling the exit just to his right. He tripped while slamming the door, his face shifting into a pink-eye hue. “You cheated! That’s, like, illegal! T-That’s an illegal move, a-and you just used it! You cheated!”

Mr. Anderson stumbled out of his truck, and Beavis swore that even with the distance, he could see the veteran’s heart pounding beneath his white shirt. “Jesus Christ, boy, what in the Sam Hell are you talking about?!”

“You knew we were gonna win, didn’t you, Mr. Anderson?” Blood flowing in his ears, Beavis didn’t even hear Butt-Head make his way to his side. “You just had to do it. You just had to keep your racing reputation squeaky clean, huh?”

“Y-Yeah, well, good luck with that!” Beavis hissed. “C-Cause we’re gonna tell! We’re gonna tell everybody that you’re a cheater! And that you’re old! And that you suck!” When Beavis could no longer see Butt-Head at his side, he glanced over his shoulder to see him getting back in the car. Beavis scurried back, an animal to its burrow. “And that you’re old!” he shouted one more time (but not the last) as he accidentally shut the car door on a few stray strands of hair. He ripped them clean, feeling a minuscule pinch. Beavis glanced over at Butt-Head, whose mouth was strangely closed. “You won.” Butt-Head lifted his head. “You know that, right.”

Butt-Head stared at Beavis like his face was made of cow shit. He waited for some time, as if he was giving Beavis a chance to redeem himself, then finally reverted his eyes back to the ignition. “Uh… yeah.”

Now it was Beavis’ turn to wait. Uneasiness crept under his skin as Butt-Head remained silent. Butt-Head was often quiet. It wasn’t that alone which bothered him. “Did I, like, say something wrong.”

“You’re weird, Beavis.”

Beavis stiffened, but his mind? Far from it. It flooded itself with the memory. A singular memory, a singular drop of water, that it managed to drown itself with. Beavis could feel him again. He could feel his warmth. He could feel his touch. He could feel himself, Beavis, remain there.

Drunkenly cuddling with Butt-Head was one thing. An ugly thing. An ugly, nauseating thing. An ugly, nauseating, sinful thing. But it was still one thing. The other thing was Beavis. Beavis, all by himself, deciding not to move away. Ugly. Nauseating. Sinful.

Beavis did not realize he had pushed himself against the car door. He knew better. He could walk to the other side of the Earth and Butt-Head would still be there. His head fell against the window, and he watched the battered houses and the leafless trees begin to move. “I’m not weird.” The world moved faster. Beavis was staring at him, and it was not reciprocated. “I’m not weird, Butt-Head.”

“I heard you.”

Beavis and Butt-Head’s borderline life-threatening eating habits meant that most of the groceries they stole from the dollar tree had survived. However, that frozen pepperoni pizza had a scent to it, one that made even Beavis crinkle his nose. “Don’t eat this one just yet,” he advised as he smashed it down into the bottom of the freezer drawer. “It needs to, like, heal and stuff.”

Butt-Head tore open a bag of Doritos 3Ds instead of putting it in a bowl on the counter where, once upon a time, fruit used to be displayed. “Well, it better get its crap together, or else we’re gonna have to eat Easy Cheese or something. That sounds good, actually.” There was a loud crunch, followed by, “God damn. Beavis. Try this.”

He turned in response, finding Butt-Head with an outstretched arm. “Alright, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head snapped the bag back from Beavis’ flailing, greedy hand. “Not the whole bag, dumbass. These are mine.”

“I was gonna give it back, butthole.” Beavis slowly and carefully reached this time, pulling out three chips, to which Butt-Head immediately snatched back two. “Jesus Christ,” he hissed.

“I don’t want to waste three chips if you don’t like them, dumbass.”

“It’s Doritos, Butt-Head! It’s the same damn, like recipe thing!”

The chip was halfway in his mouth when a dull, stupid voice made him flinch in agitation. “Uh, no it’s not. It’s Doritos 3D. That’s not normal Doritos. God, Beavis, you’re such a dumbass.”

Beavis’ eyes began to twitch, something he was sure Butt-Head found extremely amusing. He briefly pondered if Butt-Head liked doing this on purpose. What were the chances that Butt-Head was secretly an evil genius and the only form of satisfaction this life gave him was pretending to be a brainless moron to piss Beavis off? “It’s!” He began to shake, unable to form words. “I-It’s Doritos! It’s wide! It’s Doritos! But wide! Same… damn… thing!”

“Uh… no.”

Beavis screamed as he lunged forwards and ripped the bag out of Butt-Head’s hands. Somehow managing to successfully duck when Butt-Head swung, Beavis leapt past him to the counter, grasping a bag of normal Doritos from the former fruit bowl. “Read it!” he shrilled, throwing his chip bag-occupied hands up in front of the charging bull. “Read the recipe crap thing!”

He could see Butt-Head’s eyes stare him down from the gap between the chip bags. He finally relented, plucking them out of Beavis’ hands. “I just want you to know I’m kicking your ass no matter what this says. Okay, uh. Corn…” He tilted his head. “Corn…” He tilted his head again, then paused. “Uh… woah. Beavis, these both say vegetable… uh, oil, or something. I think.” His southern accent, usually completely indiscernible, slipped with his pronunciation of oil. “These are healthy, uh-huh-huh.”

“What?! Doritos aren’t healthy, butthole! If they were, then they’d taste like… well, butthole!”

“You can’t argue with the facts, Beavis. That’s a vegetable if I’d ever seen one.”

Beavis became repulsed at the three-dimensionally cracked chip in his hands. “Gross. Here, take your stupid vegetable back.”

“What?” Butt-Head stepped back as if Beavis wielded a sizzling pipe bomb. “Uh, no way. I’m not eating that. It’s got your weird, gross hands on it now.”

Silent, Beavis’ eyes flicked to the chip, the back to Butt-Head. He sniffed and mumbled under his breath, holding back a rebuttal once he realized he wouldn’t eat food Butt-Head touched either. Or got too close to. “Okay, fine.” Still grumbling, he swung open the trash can drawer, then came to a halt. “Hey, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. Remember when Van Driessen told us to, like, throw vegetables we don’t eat outside or something.”

He finished chewing a mouthful of both normal Doritios and the 3D ones. “Uh… no. Wait, yeah. Yeah, uh-huh-huh. Let’s go save some animals, uh-huh-huh.”

“Yeah! Animals kick ass!” Beavis held the back door open for Butt-Head. “Except for Sink-Shitter.”

“Sink-Shitter?”

“The fox, heh-heh-meh. I-I just came up with it. Pretty good, ain’t it?”

“Uh… no.” And yet, he still chuckled, “Uh-huh-huh. Sink-Shitter.”

“See, I told you, heh-heh-meh. Okay. Where are the animals.”

Butt-Head joined Beavis in surveying their backyward, also known as the Cousin of Chernobyl. “Uh… I think you gotta, like, give them the food first.”

Beavis glanced up at Butt-Head. “But, like, how am I supposed to give them the food… if they aren’t here?”

“And how are they supposed to be here if you don’t give them the food? It’s simple geometry, Beavis.”

Beavis thought some more. “But, like-“

“Throw the god damn chip.”

“Okay, okay.” Beavis threw his arm behind his head and garnered all of the strength in his body to launch the chip four feet away from the porch. “And now we wait, heh-heh-meh.” The two stood in silence, waiting for at least a caw of a crow to break through the slight rustle of wind. “Y-You know,” Beavis began, “I didn’t mean what I said earlier. About Sink-Shitter, heh-heh-meh. I-I don’t hate them. They were cool, sink pissing or not.”

“Uh… I don’t care.”

“Well, you should. You’re the one who ran them over.” Beavis fixed his attention back onto the dirt-covered chip, a temporary task. “What if Sink-Shitter just showed up. Like, right now.”

“I would be like… ‘Hey, Sink-Shitter. This guy named you Sink-Shitter.’ Then I’d watch it eat you, uh-huh-huh. And then I’d laugh, uh-huh-huh.”

“S-Shut up, Butt-Head. Foxes don’t do that.” Beavis’ hardened glare began to fall. “Right?” Butt-Head’s silence was of no help. “Foxes don’t eat people.”

“Uh, I don’t know. You know more about that crap than I do.”

Beavis was having a hard time focusing on the chip. “Lizards and foxes aren’t the same, bunghole.”

“They’re both animals, are they not.”

“Y-Yeah, but… but they’re, like, different. I mean, one’s a lizard, one’s a fox.” Beavis stared at the concrete. His shoe was untied. “It’s like… we’re both people, but you’re Butt-Head, and I’m Beavis, you know what I’m saying.”

“Uh-huh-huh. You’re not a people. You’re a Butt Monkey.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!” he hollered over Butt-Head’s barren laugh. “I-I am a people!” Beavis turned his head to the window to double-check. “I am,” he murmured under his breath, spontaneously recalling the chip. He locked onto it, his neck arched forwards, his breath held in his lungs. Perhaps the animals were skittish and scared. Perhaps if he stayed completely still, an animal might mistake him for a tree or something. Alas, Beavis was incapable of staying still, physical or mentally. He gasped for air, to which Butt-Head quietly side-eyed him. “I know your favorite animal is a wolf, but what’s, like, your least favorite animal. What do you hate, heh-heh-meh. A-And don’t say something dumb, like you hate Butt Monkeys or something.”

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh, uh…” Beavis wasn’t sure if Butt-Head’s furthered silence was because he did not care or because he was deep in thought. “Did I ever tell you about this one time…“

A Pterodactyl could have soared in, grasped the chip in its colossal talons, flew away into the sun with a piercing screech, and Beavis would not have taken his eyes off Butt-Head.

“When I was a kid, like, six or something, my uncle took me to this dumbass fish zoo. An aquarius or something. And when we left, we saw a bird take the biggest bird crap I ever saw on my uncle’s car window. Then my uncle, like, got out his shotgun and shot every bird in the parking lot. Then some lame dumbass called the police, and they tried to arrest him and stuff, but he started yelling about a second Amanda Wright or something, so they tased him, uh-huh-huh. And my aunt’s name was Amanda, so I thought he was, like, cheating on her or something. So the next time I was at their house, I told her about this second Amanda, and they started yelling at each other. He ended up trying to beat me with his belt, so I ran outside, and the bracelet on his ankle started beeping really loud. And the police came again, and he tried to run, uh-huh-huh. Anyways, while I was watching him get tased again, this scorpion crawled on my foot and stung me, and it, like, hurt really bad. So now I go out of my way to kill every scorpion I see. And before I do it, I always say… ‘Hey, when you get to Hell, tell ‘em Butt-Head sent you.’ Then I flush it down the toilet, uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head’s laughter fell short, and so did his face. While he shamefully replayed his senseless ramble, it gave Beavis time to scramble and catch up to it, his snickers delayed. Butt-Head finally cleared his throat, mumbling, “Uh… so yeah, uh, I hate scorpions.”

Beavis continued to giggle sporadically at his story, unconsciously making a mental note of Butt-Head’s contempt towards scorpions. He forced his eyes back onto the chip. He didn’t think animals were capable of being this picky. “Well, my least favorite animal is… I-I don’t hate any animal, really. But-“

“Uh, Beavis.” Beavis’s head turned back to Butt-Head, whose demeanor was desolate. “I didn’t ask, and I don’t care.”

Beavis stared. He was so close to just spitting out another empty, repetitive rebuke, so close to just telling Butt-Head to shut up and then go rambling on and on about something else. But he could not bring himself to do it. Again. Again, again, and again. “Alrighty then,” he mumbled hoarsely, then it was back to the chip. Nothing was going to distract him this time. Nothing was going to make him avert his eyes. Not until something happened. Something, anything, other than this. He began to wonder if Butt-Head noticed.

“This is boring.”

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go inside.”

Butt-Head abandoned Beavis with the task of putting up the rest of the groceries, but in Butt-Head’s defense, there wasn’t much left. Beavis took one of the salvaged Dr. Peppers, lukewarm and stale, but still a Dr. Pepper nonetheless, and joined Butt-Head at the couch, just like always. Butt-Head didn’t react to his arrival. He usually didn’t. Beavis noticed this anyways.

He watched the television channels flicker on by. “TV sucks.”

“Uh… what are you talking about. TV kicks ass. It’s all I live for.”

“Y-Yeah, it does, a-and me too. I was just saying…” No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t just saying anything. Beavis took a prolonged swig of his Dr. Pepper to buy himself some time and was ultimately rescued by an rerun of Cops, which heroically distracted them both.

”I caught him stealing about two weeks ago, and I came outside and I told him, ‘Hey, you gotta put the twelve-pack back. You can’t steal.’ And he just walked away right?”

Not even thieved gas station employees could garner Butt-Head’s disintegrated empathy. “This lady sucks.”

“I know right? She’s tattle-telling on a man w-who just wants a cold one. Ain’t nothing wrong with that.”

”So then he comes in a couple of days later-“

“Look at this dumbass cop in the background. He’s not even trying to help. He’s just standing there… like a dumbass, uh-huh-huh.’

“Yeah, yeah! A-And he’s holding this blank sheet of paper for no reason.” Beavis took another drink, then wiped his mouth with his arm. “He’s like, heh-heh-meh, he’s like, ‘Excuse me, ma’am. I’m actually the Vice President of the Official Trademarked Tattle-Teller’s Association Group Club Association. You’re my hero, you know that?’ Heh-heh-meh.”

“And this paper is for, like, my friend, actually. After you sign it, can you sign my butt. Uh-huh-huh,” to which Beavis immediately joined in with his own raspy giggling.

”And then he comes in today, and he walks around the back of the register, and I told him, ‘Hey, you can’t come in here. Get out.’ ‘Cause he had a refill cup. I thought he was gonna come and try to get a refill.”

“Damnit, lady, just let him get his Icee at least,” Butt-Head chastised with a scowl.

”And he threw hot water on me-“

“Oh.”

“I-I’m confused.” Beavis scratched the side of his face. “Is he mad about the beer? Or about the Icee? I mean, Jesus Christ, just go to a different gas station or something. H-He’s come back to this same one, like, five times, and he keeps thinking it’s gonna be different, like, ‘Ah, yes, today’s the day.’ No! It’s not gonna be the day! It’s not that hard to rob a different gas station! We’ve all done it!”

“Uh… why did you give him a pirate voice.”

“I don’t know, it just felt right, heh-heh-meh. The Lord spoke to me.”

“Then tell him to, like, hurry up with that damn lottery ticket.”

”Where’d he get the water from?”

Butt-Head’s open mouth fell even further down. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Beavis leaned towards the interrogating officer, clutching onto the armrest for support. “Who… Who cares?! Who cares where he got the water from?!” He flung back into the couch, making it bounce. “See? She got all quiet there for a second! She thinks it’s stupid, too!”

“Beavis, I guarantee that if you and I were just handed cop badges right here, right now, no training, no nothing, we would be a thousand times better than Water Boy and Butt Autograph over here.” Butt-Head started to snicker. “If we were cops, we’d make being cops illegal.”

“Yeah! Yeah! You know, that’s what we can do with our lives, Butt-Head. We can, like, become cops, then ban cops forever. But… But what would happen to us?”

“We would be a sacrifice, Beavis. We may go to the electric chair, but we shall hold our heads up high. For they will raise statues of us and put us in a water fountain for people to throw coins in and make wishes.”

Beavis examined the pros and cons of this predicament. Granted, he couldn’t find much wrong with it. “Heh-heh-meh, yeah, that sounds pretty cool! I love making wishes.”

“A golden sign at my feet will read… uh… ‘In memory of the Almighty Mr. Butt-Head, who kicked crazy amounts of ass, and bagged crazy amounts of chicks. Next to him, you will find the statue of his dumbass sidekick who did absolutely nothing to help and just scratched his nads the entire time: an extinct species… known as the Butt Monkey.’”

Beavis tightened his fists and his jaw. “Shut up, Butt-Head! Shut up! It would not say that!”

“Uh-huh-huh. I’d make a law so that it would. Uh-huh-huh. Your legacy is gonna suck.”

“That’s not fair! That wasn’t our plan, butthole! You can’t just go around doing whatever you want!”

“Uh… yeah, I can.” Butt-Head turned with a raise of his eyebrows. “I’m a cop, remember. Uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis returned his stare with narrow eyes like a cowboy at a draw. He lowered his head, slowly shaking it back and forth. “Look at yourself, Almighty Mr. Butt-Head. You’ve, like, become the very thing you swore to destroy or something.”

Butt-Head raised his eyebrows once more, this time with amusement rather than conceit. It was when Beavis began to regret his life choices that Butt-Head at last decided to play along, breaking the silence with his own theatrical monologue, “Ah, indeed… but what if this was my plan all along, Sidekick Butt Monkey? Have you ever considered that, or were you too busy scratching your nads?”

Beavis stifled a smile in order to not break character, yet a few snickers slipped out as he hollered, “You filthy traitor!” He held up a fingergun, making a cocking sound with his teeth. “Don’t make me do this. What… My god…”

Butt-Head had grandly hoisted the rocket launder on his shoulder, his finger taunting the trigger. “You’ve were, like, always in my way, Sidekick Butt Monkey.”

Beavis’ hands began to sweat against his pistol’s metal casing. “W-We can talk this out!” But alas, his attempts at reconciliation were proven futile the second Butt-Head squinted one eye. Beavis propelled himself off the couch with reflexes cat-like enough to send him plummeting behind the it the second Butt-Head mimicked the deafening explosion sound. The moment he landed, as unsteady as it was, he let out a sigh of relief. He had managed to escape the talons of death by mere milliseconds. How many could claim such a victory?

“No dodge.”

Beavis’ head popped up from behind the couch as if he were a Whack-A-Mole. “What?! I dodged that!”

“Yeah, but I said no dodge, uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head set the rocket launcher down on an invisible table. “You’re dead.”

“T-Then I say no no dodge!”

“You can’t say no no dodge when I already said no dodge, dumbass.”

“I jumped over the couch! I did that before you even said anything! That’s a dodge! You can’t just-!” At that moment, Beavis realized he was staring down the barrel of a gun. Butt-Head, squinting into the sights that were his thumb, puffed a gunshot noise through his teeth. He brought his extended index and middle finger to his mouth, blowing away the smoke. Beavis could feel the make-believe blood trickle down from the hole in his head. A fool; he was naught but a sitting duck. “Damnit!”

“No dodge, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head, I get it!” Beavis let out a huff and collapsed backwards, his arms outstretched. “Ow,” he mumbled blankly as the somewhat healed slash on the back of his head hit the ground. He cracked a smile, chuckling, “Heh-heh-meh. T-That was fun.”

“It sure was.” Beavis’ ghost could see Butt-Head waterfall his Dr. Pepper. “I like the part where you died.”

“Hey, hey! Get your own Dr. Pepper!” Beavis shot to his feet, lifting himself over and rolling back onto the couch. While he scrambled to sit himself upright, Butt-Head simply set the can back onto the coffee table without any acknowledgment. Beavis crinkled the can in his hands as he snatched it and took his own swig. His eyes widened. “H-Hey, Butt-Head,” was immediately interrupted as soda poured out of his mouth and onto his shirt.

“Wow. Good one.”

“Shut up!” he instinctively rebutted, spilling even more. He swallowed the few drops left in his mouth, resuming, “Wanna watch me gargle this like mouthwash? Heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head looked him up and down, from his eyes to his soda-stained clothes. “No, Beavis. I don’t want to see that.”

Beavis’ smile inverted. “Boo, bunghole. You’re no fun.” He imagined a world where he could threw tomatoes at Butt-Head without the risk of getting his head bashed in. He was reminded of the television, where a basketball commercial blabbered on about jargon beyond his understanding. His knees were brittle anyways. “You know, in that Cops thing… s-she recognized that guy two weeks after he stole from her. Why does she, like, care so much? It’s just beer, lady, Jesus! A-And that guy is a dumbass, too. Everybody knows you don’t steal from the gas station. The dollar store is where it’s at, heh-heh-meh. Nobody gives a crap at the dollar store, heh-heh-meh.”

“Beer is not just beer, dumbass. Beer is beer. Beer is, like, the best thing in the world. I can’t believe you’re judging a well-rounded and soap-isticated woman.”

“I’m not!”

“Uh, yeah, you are. What, are you a wuss or something? Do you not like beer?”

“I do! I love beer! Beer kicks ass!” Beer put him in Butt-Head’s arms. Beavis immediately rattled his head like he would a Magic-8 ball, begging for the triangle, his mind, to say something else. “Beer… yeah, beer kicks ass.” He caught Butt-Head’s eyes, then jerked his head towards the television screen. For that moment, he was Toyota’s number one fan. “I’m just saying that… that I would’ve forgot. B-Because two weeks is, like… I don’t know, a long time and stuff.”

“Uh… Beavis, you’re being weird-“

“Shut up!” Butt-Head flinched at this, something he did not often to. “Shut up, Butt-Head! Don’t call me weird again!” Beavis was on his hands and knees, hunkered down before Butt-Head like a rabid dog. “I’m not weird! I’m normal! Don’t call me weird again or I swear to god I’m going to rip your face off of your face!”

Beavis knew he had dug his own grave the second those orders left his mouth. “Weird.” Of course, he tried to fulfill his promise, but Butt-Head simply placed his hand over Beavis’ face and pushed him back down. “Uh-huh-huh. Weird. Weird, weird, weird, weird.” His eyes flashed open as he caught Beavis baring his fangs. Butt-Head finally yanked his hand away, hiding it it behind his back. “Woah, dude. Don’t be a dumbass. We can’t go back to the hospital.”

“Shut up. You would’ve been fine,” Beavis rasped as he pushed himself into the armrest. His left hand flocked to his mouth, where he began to chew on the resurrected scab. “Uh, how’s your arm. I mean shoulder. Whatever.”

Beneath Butt-Head’s sleeve was a bandaid, and beneath that was where the hospital nurse had injected him with penicillin for the bite mark. “It’s, uh, fine. Why do you care.”

Beavis shot him a glare, popping his scab out of his mouth. “I don’t, butthole. I was, like, hoping it hurt. So I could, like, cheer at your pain and stuff.” His voice became muffled as he stuck his hand back in his mouth. Beavis wasn’t a weirdo. He bit down hard.

There was silence for some time. “You don’t have to be a cannibal, Beavis. We got food, dumbass.” Butt-Head received no response. He looked over, observing the Butt Monkey scrunched up in the corner of the couch with his knees to his chest and bubbled slobber all over his hand. “Cannibals are cool.” He waited. He noticed the saliva was turning red. “Uh… anyways, yeah. Two weeks is, like, a long time and stuff. And you’re right. Our dollar store doesn’t care.”

“But, like, they do care.”

Butt-Head removed the key from the ignition. “Damnit, Beavis, being a wuss. I told you if it’s that same guy, we’ll leave. Do you want free beer or not, dumbass.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. Free beer, heh-heh-meh.” He hopped out of the car and slammed the door shut. “But, like, what if it is the same cashier, a-and he’s been expecting us and stuff, so he has all the cops in there and-”

His partner-in-crime came to a halt, blocking the entrance and staring Beavis down. “Are you done.”

Beavis’ teeth jutted out of his frown. “Move out of the way, butthole.” He was able to push Butt-Head aside only because he was not expecting it. The bells above warned the establishment of their arrival, and the boys glanced over at the cashier. It was a different man. They continued on forwards.

“Beer, beer… Uh.” Butt-Head paused before a cluster of aisles, and Beavis mimicked. “It’s somewhere.”

“Should we, like, ask the guy?”

“No, dumbass. Remember when we tried to buy beer that one time and that butthole said we needed an ID. Whatever that is, we don’t have it. We’ll blow our cover if we follow your dumbass plan. Just let me figure it out.”

Beavis crossed his arms. “Fine. Yeah, y-you figure everything out, and I’ll just shut up.”

“Thanks. Uh… this way.” He made his way down a randomly selected aisle with his Man-Chihuahua grumbling and growling not far behind.

Eventually, Beavis was able to form real words, “What if we don’t find it.”

“Beavis, if you say one more dumbass sentence, I am going to smack you.” With yet another threat, Beavis realized Butt-Head had not been following through with them lately. He decided not to mention this.

He that he finally took in their surroundings, realizing that he had just been blindly following Butt-Head the whole time. “Uh, Butt-Head.” He caught his reflection in the Windex bottles that shimmered blue. “This is the cleaning aisle.”

Butt-Head whipped his head around. “Yeah, I know. You dumbass,” he added hastily, running his hand through his hair to get the fallen strands out of his face. “You, uh… You can’t ever be too threw-ough. Or whatever.” He glanced over at a jug of Fabuloso. “Uh-huh-huh, this stuff looks like Gatorade. I dare you to drink it, uh-huh-huh.”

“I-I don’t know, Butt-Head. The last time you dared me to do that, my mom got real mad. And I had to go to the hospital, a-and they made me throw up, and it really sucked.”

“Yeah, and now she’s not here to be a bitch about it, so do it again.”

“Hey! Don’t call my mom a bitch! She’s not a bitch and never was a bitch! Shut up!”

“Jesus, Beavis, calm down,” he distracted himself. “Uh-huh-huh. Jesus Beavis. That, like, rhymes or something.” Butt-Head’s flat chuckling died down, and he looked down at Beavis’ convulsing face. “You really gotta stop that crap.”

The fire flickered. “Stop what?”

“Uh, this. This, like, whole thing you’ve been doing. You’ve been really touchy and stuff. Like, more than usual. And it’s annoying. It kinda sucks hanging out with you when you act like that.”

Beavis went completely still, a flash of dying peace. The fire had engulfed him, leaving him a hollow cavity that was no longer human, but a vessel for the fire to move, to talk, to destroy. “Touchy…” he whispered, tilting his head. “Touchy?”

“Oh god, okay.”

Butt-Head’s indifference poured the gasoline. “You… Y-You have been the one… doing it! Doing this! You’ve been making me touchy! N-No, I haven’t been touchy,”—he jabbed a finger into the center of Butt-Head’s chest—“you’ve been a weirdo! I’m normal! Normal! You’ve been more than a weirdo! You’ve been an asshole! A real, r-real asshole, Butt-Head! A-And I don’t know who the hell you think you are!” Nothing but red flashed in front of Beavis’ eyes, and he pushed Butt-Head into the cold, metal shelf, making it shudder. “But I hate it! I-If you keep this up… Any of it!” He slammed Butt-Head back into the shelf again when he moved the slightest inch. “You are going to-!”

“Hey, hey, hey! You two!” Beavis and Butt-Head were torn away from one another. At the very end of the aisle stood the cashier, gasping for air and wiping his pulsating brow. “You two,” he repeated, pointing back and forth. “Can y’all take this breakup outside?”

Beavis eyes were stricken wide. “Breakup?!”

Butt-Head pushed himself away from the shelf, threatening to send the entire thing crashing down. “We are not dating!”

The cashier threw up his arms, taunting, “Well, y’all could’ve fooled me.”

Butt-Head stormed past Beavis. “Do you think you’re funny or something, dumbass?”

The cashier firmly stood his ground; a champion matador. “Just shut the hell up or get the hell out. Last chance, big guy. Same for your boyfriend over there.”

Butt-Head, knuckles pale and trembling, silently watched the cashier pivot around out of sight. He refused to move for some time, to which Beavis stared on in silence. At last, Butt-Head’s fingers fell along with his head. He turned back around, fixing his hair the entire trek back. “What a dumbass,” he muttered in that same old dull tone.

“Yeah, uh… yeah,” was all Beavis could muster.

Their time in silence was very brief, but nevertheless, Beavis’ mind began to spin. He was not done. He wanted to say more. He needed to say more. And yet he was silent, watching Butt-Head continue to fix his hair with his eyes either closed or pointed down towards the floor. There was nothing wrong with his hair.

He was able to jeer, “Jesus, do you want me to braid it or something?” but could not bring himself to do anything greater.

Butt-Head’s hands froze. “Uh…” He stared at Beavis through his curled fingers and draped tresses. “You want to braid my hair?”

“That is not what I said!” He ran through his words. “T-That’s not what I meant!”

“Sure. Whatever, weirdo.” Butt-Head pushed his matted mane out of the way one last time. He pushed his hand deep in his pockets, resuming down their path that had been so rudely interrupted. “Let’s, uh… Let’s get back to that beer thing.”

That beer thing took longer than it should have. More likely than not, they walked right past the cases more times than they could count on their hands. The aisles had become a maze they invented and burdened upon themselves, an unconscious choice of their own volition.

But they made it. Key in ignition, two twelve-packs in the back. Cutting off traffic, running a stoplight. They made it.

“I can’t believe we haven’t done this before.” The clinking of bottles was like a heavenly choir. “This is free beer! Free beer, Butt-Head!”

“It sure is, Beavis. Uh… I’m starving.”

“Yeah-yeah, me too!”

Beavis and Butt-Head pulled into the Burger World parking lot, walked to the front door, realized there was no front door, and turned around and left.

Beavis dropped the casings on the coffee table, rattling the candle that had yet to be returned to its rightful habitat. He collapsed onto the couch with a yellow smile, glancing over at the door Butt-Head was in the middle of closing. “Free beer, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head threw the car keys onto the table, and they slid off like a failed game of shuffleboard. “Uh, Beavis. With Burger World, like, dead and stuff, we’re gonna have to, like, eat slowly or whatever. What was that word, uh… rapture. We’re going to have to rapture our food.”

“We’ll just eat at Burger World, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis locked in. “Oh yeah.”

Butt-Head was referring to the beautifully and wonderfully made trick that his mother had bestowed upon them. Steal what you could, wait what at least felt like a long time, then go back to check if the typically-teenage dollar store employee had quit their job yet. And during that wait, you would ration what you stole. Rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat. It was not a matter of morals. Rather, it was a simple tactic to avoid getting stuffed in the back of a cop car because some dumbass employee recognized you and snitched. But that was before Burger World, where with their FDA unapproved meals, Beavis and Butt-Head had less of a reason to steal as often and as much. They looted snacks rather than food. It became a game rather than a means to survive. But with Butt-Head’s mother, every single spree was akin to reaping the final wheat harvest before the fall of a merciless winter. She would stumble into the apartment door, hauling an uncountable amount of plastic sacks around her arms and neck. They were plastic sacks from groceries she had actually purchased only her and God knew how many years ago, and they had been recycled many, many times. With a thousand-yard stare and a cigarette still in her mouth that was there when she left, Butt-Head’s mother would toss everything onto the dining room table with a loud, echoed huff. And maybe, just maybe, a toy would clatter onto the floor.

By stealing the twelve-packs, Beavis and Butt-Head had broken one of her many laws: to wait. Because the dollar store did, in fact, very much care. The manager likely wanted nothing more than for the pair to be executed via firing squad and have a total of zero statues established in their honor. With not just one, but two employees aware of their actions, Beavis could do nothing but itch his leg and rapidly tap his foot as the revelation struck him. “Uh, Butt-Head. This sucks.”

“Free beer doesn’t suck.”

“What if we, like, run out of food or something.”

“We’re not gonna run out of food, dumbass.”

Beavis was too preoccupied with his racing thoughts to directly argue with Butt-Head’s confident proclamation. While Butt-Head scrolled through the channels, Beavis twitched and trembled and itched. “Why did we do that.”

“Uh… free beer.”

“Why did we do that?” Beavis raised his voice. “Now we have to wait, like, twice as long. B-Because now two buttholes need to quit. A-And Burger World, it’s dead, it died. S-So we don’t have that anymore.” He exhaled with a deep shudder. “We don’t have the dollar store. Or Burger World. No dollar store. No Burger World. God damnit, Butt-Head, why did we do that?! We’re gonna starve! And die!”

“The only thing we’re gonna die of is free beer poisoning, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis watched the television reflect off of the glass, a kaleidoscope of colors. “Maybe we can get them fired.”

“Yeah, maybe, uh-huh-huh. That would be cool.”

“But… B-But if they see us, then, like, they’ll call the cops. A-And we’ll go to jail. A-And I’m fine eating Easy Cheese for dinner, a-and hell, even vegetables like Doritios, but not prison crap. I’ve heard it’s bad. I’ve seen it on TV and stuff.”

“You dumbass, we’ll just eat at Burger Wo-h yeah. Uh… Damnit, Beavis, I don’t know.” Despite this, he proceeded, “We can, like, get food from Mrs. Anderson or something.”

“Cool, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis thought for a moment, and his obsessive itching returned. “But what if she dies or something. Because she’s, like, old. A-And I know there’s the food pantry, but that food sucks.”

Butt-Head sighed loudly, and the arm holding the remote fell limp into his lap. “I told you, dumbass. We’ll rapture the food. We’re gonna be fine. Can you just shut up and enjoy the free beer. I worked hard for it.”

“Okay, okay. Yeah. Free beer. Free beer, heh-heh-meh. Kicks ass, heh-heh-meh.”

But the cases remained untouched.

The television became a prop. Butt-Head was still scrolling, but it was now empty clicking. His eyes were on the cases. Beavis’ were, too.

“Uh… what are you waiting for.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Butt-Head stared. “Uh… I asked first.”

Beavis writhed. “Well, I asked second.”

“That’s not how it works, asswipe. Take a damn beer already.”

“Why won’t you?”

“Why won’t you?”

“Jesus Christ.” Beavis accidentally punched himself with the speed his hand fled to his mouth. The scab, broken and sore, flared up with crimson caution as Beavis drilled his teeth into it.

Butt-Head dared to speak, “What’s your problem, dude.”

“Whatever your problem is, apparently,” Beavis hissed. His yellow teeth were darkening.

He narrowed his eyes. “Uh… I don’t have a problem.”

“Then take a bottle!”

“I don’t have to do anything you say.”

Beavis pulled his hand away just to look at it. His bloody saliva connected his skin to his teeth. “Me neither.”

Butt-Head inspected him for a moment longer, then slowly turned his head back to the television. But Beavis remained, bleeding, thinking. The pain was an afterthought no matter how hard he bit. He kept trying.

”But, like, why not. Why don’t you want it.”

Beavis hung onto his hand, a dog and his bone. “Butt-Head,” he rasped, his voice muffled, “I don’t want to hear another word about this crap.”

“It’s free beer, Beavis.”

“I know what it is!” He jerked his hand away, a string of spit falling against his chin. “Get off my ass and get yourself a drink, weirdo!”

Butt-Head’s demeanor shifted. “Fine.” He reached forwards, and Beavis followed his hand.

“Weirdo,” Beavis gruffly repeated, hoping it would strike something within Butt-Head, but he remained stoic. To this, Beavis surrendered. He snatched himself a bottle, twisting a cap that skidded against his fingers like pavement. He remembered that party, but at last in a context that did not make him want to vomit out his stomach and heart. “Uh, Butt-Head. We need that thing.”

Beavis jumped as a loud shatter pierced his ears, ricocheting through the shards of glass bouncing on the table. Beavis realized what happened before he saw it, “it” being Butt-Head waterfalling from a broken bottle of free beer that melted down his arm. Painted with alcohol, he looked upon Beavis with judgement. “Uh, no we don’t.”

There was nothing else to be said. Beavis rose his hand far beyond his head, his fingers curled tightly around the bottle’s neck. There was a reason Beavis called Butt-Head a genius and never the other way around. When the bottle came crashing against the table, the entire thing detonated, spraying glass-infested alcohol all over the couch, table, carpet, and them both.

Eyes squeezed shut, Beavis could feel the free beer go free. It trickled down his eyelids, and drops began to fall into the corners of his agape jaw, pooling in the pockets of his gums. He could smell the beer. He could smell Butt-Head. He could feel the beer as it ran down his chest. He could feel Butt-Head against it.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. That was cool.”

Beavis dug his fingers into his eyes, dragging down liquid that had already begun to sting. “Why.”

Butt-Head fell quiet. “Uh… what?”

Beavis’ perspective was blurred by the tears battling against the alcohol around his eyes. “Why is this cool to you.”

“Uh… It’s, uh… It… It just is.” He looked Beavis up and down. For the first time, something had shut Butt-Head up. It was a victory shortly held. “What’s your problem.”

“My problem…” Beavis blinked, and the tears fell down. “I just…” He looked down at his hand. The blood from his scab was dripping from his fingertips, and caught within their grasp was a fraction of the bottle. “I just took free beer. Free beer. And wasted it.” And I cuddled with you.

Butt-Head observed his alcohol-coated surroundings, including himself. “Uh, yeah, you did. But it was kinda cool.” He lingered there, arms draped across his legs. At last, he lifted his eyes and muttered, “Are you… like… crying?”

“No, I’m not,” Beavis rebuked harshly.

“I-“

“I know what you see. It… I-It just hurts.” He twisted his shirt, wiping his eyes with an untouched section of the cotton cloth. “Stupid. Piece of… Piece of crap.” Beavis himself did not know who or what he was referring to. It might as well had been everything.

As Beavis excavated the liquor out of his sockets, Butt-Head began to chuckle back to life, much to the dismay of God and Beavis alike. “Uh… good, uh-huh-huh. I’m glad you’re not a wuss, Beavis. You know what they say, uh… don’t cry over spilled free beer. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Whatever, Butt-Head,” Beavis murmured. He dropped his arm, gazing down at his stained and darkened shirt. “Uh… I think I’m, like, done with beer. F-For the day, I mean.”

“Uh, whatever, Beavis.”

Beavis was still holding onto that shattered handle. He took a closer look, finding that an oasis remained. He scowled at Butt-Head then downed the traces of alcohol left, evidence of his hastiness left on the fresh cut on his lip. He launched the handle against the wall ahead, and the last leg of the bottle shattered and vanished behind the television block. Butt-Head did not even flinch. And so Beavis pressed himself further back into the couch, hoping to find an opening he could fall in and surrender to.

To smell the alcohol was one thing. To taste it was entirely another, for it reminded him. It reminded him in a way that the smell could only attempt to. As much as it burns, it’s possible to ignore a scent. Clog your nose, or pin your shirt on its crooked bridge. You can’t avoid your tongue. It tastes. It talks.

Beavis was smiling that night. His face buried in Butt-Head’s hair, he had smiled, and he had talked, ”You smell like… like beer.”

But Butt-Head did not smell like beer. Beer smelled like Butt-Head. Butt-Head did not reek of beer that night. Beer reeked of him. Beavis was not drinking beer. He was drinking the memory. Beer smelled like this memory. In his arms. Warm. Talking. Smiling.

He looked down at his side: the couch. The stained, dilapidated couch, weak with mold and armed with rusted springs. He looked up: Butt-Head. Beavis and Butt-Head had cuddled more than once, long before that night. It was common to doze off watching MTV. It was common for Beavis to wake up on the floor, upside down, or with his head on the armrest like a normal person. But once in a blue moon, he would open his eyes to find his body slumped against Butt-Head’s arm, or the latter’s head prodding Beavis’ ribcage. They would shove each other off, maybe yell about it, and absolutely would forget.

But what happened that night was different. Beavis didn't want to be different.

“Beavis.”

He finally realized how far he had drifted. The television screen had morphed into a white mass obstructing nearly his entire line of sight, and the sounds were practically another language, distorted and completely incomprehensible. And yet, he could still hear Butt-Head.

“Beavis.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He jerked his head back with a sniff. “What.”

Butt-Head turned away with a very noticeable roll of his eyes. “Ugh, never mind.”

Beavis slowly, slowly turned. “Butt-Head.”

“I said never mind. You’re, like… doing that thing again.”

“Doing what.”

“Don’t be a dumbass. That thing.” He dropped the remote onto the table. “That thing I tried to talk to you about at the dollar store before you went all crazy.”

Beavis could no longer breathe. He dropped his head, scraping for air. “Butt-Head. What…” Salvaging what little oxygen he had left, he hoarsely cried out, “I didn’t even say anything! W-What the hell did I do?!”

“This.” Butt-Head’s finger shot up to his eyes with a slight spiral. “You get this dumbass look when you get all weird.”

“Oh,”—Beavis smiled—“so I have a look now?”

“Oh my god.’

“What. What?!” Beavis shoved himself away from the couch. He began to frantically pace, unblinking, shaking violently. “Don’t just sit there a-and look stupid! Talk!” Talk? Talk about what? There were so many things that could possibly mean. Beavis couldn’t keep track of it anymore. He just wanted Butt-Head to say something, anything, to acknowledge at least a portion of the malignant mass. But he just sat there, his silence not oblivious stupidity, but a taunt. His breaths so heavy they were like screams, Beavis staggered forwards, accepting the glass that sliced through his socks. “Talk!” Beavis shouted over his head. His ears ringing and his vision blind, Beavis twisted his spine to scream in Butt-Head’s ear, “Open your fucking mouth and fucking talk!”

“Jesus Christ, stop acting like your mother!”

Everything stopped.

His wrath did not dissipate. With a single sentence, it had worsened beyond anything Beavis believed he was capable of, and he was capable of so many things. But that same sentence distracted him. It made him back away, one trembling step at a time, while his eyes, once narrowed in brutality, grew in abominable awe.

Butt-Head did not waver. Not for nothing, not for no one. “What’s next, Shirley. Are you gonna hug me? Tell me you’re sorry? Are you gonna cry like a bitch about, ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to!’”

Beavis woke up. On the floor.

His legs and arms sprawled out all around, Beavis began to cough out the blood that threatened to drown him. He tried to lift himself up, only to have his elbows buckle in and send him right back down. Butt-Head loomed over him, wiping off the measly amount of blood that dripped from his nose. It was from the punch that started the fight, the only one Beavis was able to land.

Beavis was finally able to push himself up, the splatter of red below where his face once lay a warped smear. His footing unsteady, he hunkered over as the coughs racked his entire aching body. Beavis had fought back without any shred of forgiveness, and all it was to Butt-Head was a small postponement of his time on the couch.

Sitting in its center, Butt-Head glanced at the small streak of his own blood on his fingers. He turned his hand over to find his knuckles painted in full a shade of red that did not belong to him. He raised his head and stared at Beavis, daring him. Beavis was being dared to try again. To try to fight. To try to talk.

Butt-Head said nothing out loud. He didn’t have to. Beavis ran. He ran up the stairs and down the hall and collapsed on the floor in their godforsaken room. Hyperventilating, he reached under the bed, the accidental strum of the guitar like the firing of a gun.

“I’m not her.” He clutched the guitar by the throat. He tore it out, craning his neck away so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. He stumbled blindly down the stairs, muttering with every breath, “I’m not her, I’m not her, I’m not her.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m not her!” Beavis lashed out. He blinked and he was at the door, his hand on the knob, still and quiet. He turned his eyes over his shoulder, figuring Butt-Head would be succumbed to the television. But he wasn’t. He was staring back at Beavis, still and quiet. “I’m not… her.”

Beavis wanted Butt-Head to die as much as he wanted Butt-Head to talk. It didn’t matter what. He could call Beavis a fucking dumbass again for all he cared. The silence was worse. It was worse than anything, because it was almost kind.

“I’m gonna… I-I’m gonna sell it,” he blurted out something he didn’t want to, just hoping it would trigger something. It didn’t. He forced his eyes upon the guitar. Shirley’s guitar. “Or throw it away. I-I don’t know. Sell it. So we can, like, pay for that stupid hospital bill. I’m gonna do something. Alright?”

Beavis faced him. It was unreciprocated. Butt-Head had slumped back into the couch, remote in his blood-stained hand. “Uh… I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about anything!”

Butt-Head looked at him. Silent.

Beavis sprained his wrist as he tore open the door. The sun was beginning to drift away, the amber casting its gentle light across the devastated town and across his mangled face. He staggered down the pavement, leaving a trail of glass, blood, and splinters of wood from Shirley’s guitar.

The strings that used to sing him lullabies were cutting into his palm. It was like she was holding his hand.

Chapter Text

The warmth. It woke Butt-Head up. Nothing ever woke Butt-Head up.

Waking up was his warning. It was his warning to yell at him, to hit him, to shove him off, like he had done so many other times they had found themselves together like this.

But they had never found themselves together like… this. This was far from the occasional incident. Far from it. If closeness by chance was the earth, then this, whatever it was, was the moon.

Beavis. He was pressed against Butt-Head’s chest, wrapped in his arms. And for what was now the third time in his life, he was completely still. Asleep, unaware, and warm.

Butt-Head was awake. He was aware, and he was warm.

And he did nothing about anything.

Butt-Head awoke to a door slam so brutal it rattled the couch.

“Butt-Head! Butt-Head, where are you?!”

He groaned as he pushed himself up from his awkward and bent sleeping position. Rubbing the crust out of his eyes, he yawned, “Uh, Beavis? Woah,” he blurted out when he opened his eyes. Beavis was a ways ahead, drenched in sweat and clutching the rotten remains of a guitar that once was. Butt-Head turned his head to the window, finding it pitch black. “Uh… what time is it.”

Beavis twisted his neck towards the kitchen where the phone lay. The following words were incomprehensible grunts as he began to pace. “I-I went to go sell this, you know?” he translated.

“Uh… no,” he muttered, his voice laced with barbed bait. But Beavis did not take it, a combination of his frantic state and his perpetual stupidity.

“A-A-And when I got there, they were, like, closed. A-A-And so… I-I left, you know? And when I was walking back or whatever, this weirdo in a suit was, like coming my way. A-And I remembered that one episode of Cops where this chick was like… damnit, I-I don’t know! A-And I ran to this phone booth, and I tried to call you, b-but you didn’t answer! And then I turned around, a-and he was standing right there! So I”—Beavis swung the guitar like a baseball bat—“whacked him! A-As hard as I could, right?! And I ran…” His fingers went limp, and the guitar collapsed onto the floor. “I ran… all the way back…” Panting, Beavis’ ribs protruded through his shirt with each exasperated gasp. “Did you not hear the phone?!”

Butt-Head’s slightly intrigued eyes dropped. “Does it look like I heard the phone, dumbass?

Beavis’ beady eyes looked him up and down in disgust. “Screw you, Butt-Head!”

“What were you calling me for anyways. What could I have possibly done to help.”

“I-I don’t know, like,”—he threw out his bony arms—“come pick me up or something?!”

“Uh… why didn’t you just, like, call the cops, dumbass.”

Beavis’ voice wavered in doubt, “I-I don’t know, I just… Damnit, does it really matter?! I could’ve died! I could’ve died a-and you don’t even care!”

“Uh-huh-huh. You care.” He added the crucial clarification, “You care that I care. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, butthole! I-It’s not funny!”

“Uh… yeah it is. It’s hilarious.”

“No! It’s not!” Beavis fought back, his typical yes-man syndrome nowhere to be found. Butt-Head blinked, a massive gesture of surprise for his monotone self. In a fit of rage, Beavis kicked the guitar as hard as he could, its strings vibrating an untuned cry as it hit the couch. “You suck, Butt-Head!” echoed down the rickety stairs as he scampered to their bedroom, shutting the door with enough force to ripple the puddles of alcohol splattered across the table.

In his thoughts, the standard would have been to belittle Beavis for acting like that. But this time, Butt-Head stumbled into his mind and found it desolate. He flopped onto his side with a deep grumble in his chest, as a televised model begged viewers with his smirk and shirtless back to buy a glass bottle of pine and smoke perfume. His face reclined on his folded arms, Butt-Head watched, briefly convinced. With no reason to speak, he tediously followed along with the channel until sound and existence in general no longer made sense. The repetitive, internal complaint of, This couch sucks, became his sheep to count as he drifted further and further away.

In his dreams, Shirley was there. Her cheeks had yet to be sunken in, and her lipstick was no longer made of the blood from the sores in her mouth. She told Butt-Head he had died and that this was heaven and that he “didn’t have to do jackshit anymore.” She then asked Butt-Head how he was, followed by what he and Beavis wanted for lunch. Lingering between the lines of awareness and unconsciousness, Butt-Head reminded her Beavis was in their room.

He awoke to the sound of a house finch that had decided to chirp a bit too comfortably close to the window. Somehow, this was more annoying than the honking of the alarm. At the same time, it was a nice reminiscent of the days long ago when neither were employed. Work sucks.

Butt-Head halfway fell off the couch as he stood, dragging his feet to the kitchen to pull a fallen box of Frosted Flakes out of the cabinet. His back rested against the cold fridge, he closed his eyes as he wearily shoved handfuls of cereal into his mouth. The house finch forced his eyes open, and he discovered the avian perched on the kitchen windowsill. Still crunching, he followed its panicked flutter to the yard, which looked slightly different than how they had left it.

“Beavis, oh,” he shut his wasted words down. Damnit.

“Beavis,” he repeated upon arriving at the bedroom door. “Beavis, something ate the chip.” His scruffy eyebrows lowered. “Beavis.” Wait. This is my room, too. Butt-Head tried to turn the doorknob, but it refused to budge. “Uh… Beavis? Open the damn door, dumbass.”

“No!”

“Uh… why.”

His voice sounded as if he was face-down in a pillow, “I-I don’t want to see you, Butt-Head!”

A long, loud groan came out of Butt-Head’s mouth as he dragged his eyelids down his face. “Beavis, I’m seriously getting tired of this crap. Come on, dude. Get up before I break down this door and kick your ass.”

“Y-Yeah? Well I’m also tired! O-Of your crap! Go ahead, bunghole, break down the door! I don’t care anymore!”

Butt-Head didn’t move a single inch. If Beavis wasn’t going to react, then that took all the fun out of an otherwise sweaty and grueling task. “You’re gonna have to come out at some point,” he threatened through the crack in the door. “I’ll be, like, saving up my energy to kick your ass and stuff until then.”

“Go away, Butt-Head!”

He did not, in fact, go away. He waited a few carefully timed seconds before taunting, “Uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up! I mean it, Butt-Head! Get out of here!”

“Uh…” His forehead fell against the door. “What are you gonna do about it. Uh-huh-huh.”

“I’m gonna… I-I’m, uh… I’m gonna get you!”

“Terrifying. Hey Beavis, when you’re done crying and shitting in your diaper and stuff, can you take out the trash.”

“No! Take out your own damn trash!”

“Damnit, Beavis, you know I can’t tie the knot.”

“Figure it out!” was followed by silence, then a distant, hoarse sigh. Butt-Head heard light footsteps scurry to the door, which proceeded to jiggle and open just the tiniest bit. His face hidden behind the wood, Beavis wiggled out two hands and an untied shoe. “Okay okay, watch this. You take the circle string things, then tie them like this. Then, you hold one like this, and take the other and, like, spin it around. Then, you’re gonna grab them both and pull. Like this. Got it?”

“Uh-huh-huh. Spin it around. Like your mother on a pole, uh-huh-huh-ugh!” he yelped as Beavis hurled the shoe into his face. Butt-Head tried to ram into the door like a quarterback, but Beavis had already locked it in place. “Screw you, asswipe.” He heard a few muffled grunts, but nothing tangible. “I’m sick of you anyways,” he grumbled, making his way back down the hall with a disgruntled gait.

Butt-Head swung open a storage closet that both forgot existed. Nothing, which left him with only one other option. Downstairs, he crept open Shirley’s door as gradually as he could, because for all he knew, Beavis had the creaking pattern of the door unhonorably memorialized. He opened it just enough to squeeze in, the carpet beneath his battered socks transporting him back in time. Hobbling past her firmly-made bed to her slightly ajar closet, Butt-Head took his sweet time once more sliding the door across the rack. There, he finalized, reaching to the back corner and bumping his head on the hangers to pull the vacuum cleaner out of its barren burrow.

He walked out of the room the same way one would after turning off the basement lights: rigid, stiff, and with just enough hurry to satisfy that feeling in your chest without coming off as a spineless wuss. He inched the door back to the threshold, and the carpet switched from familiar to known. Butt-Head stuck the plug into a dusty electrical outlet and briefly admired the spark of blue. The deafening roar of the vacuum cleaner made him flinch despite his particular taste in music, and he blasted the television’s volume in response, which was showcasing a handful of MTV hosts blabbering about something or other.

“Uh…” he mumbled as he stared dumbfounded at the floor. No matter how many times he scrubbed the swishing bristles against the puddles of dried blood, they stubbornly remained. Moving from one stain to the other made him realize how much of a crime scene the living room had become. There was the pool at the base of the stairs, the splatters from the prior night’s skirmish, and the tiny specks at the coffee table when Beavis had initially hit his head. Butt-Head wondered that if perhaps Beavis was wacked in the head just a few more times, it would do some science thing-a-ma-jig and cure all his ailments. What was that called? Testing your hippopotamus?

He pressed the vacuum cleaner firmly against the floor. Butt-Head knew he couldn’t hit Beavis over the head again, no matter how much the world would benefit from it. Sure, Beavis had gotten knocked out plenty of times before, and sure, Butt-Head had found it comical each and every time. But something had been guarding Beavis, whether it was his stupid overgrown hair or his thick skull combined with a medically renowned walnut of a brain, because Butt-Head had never seen him bleed out to the extent he did the night he came crumbling down the stairs. Butt-Head wasn’t sure how many cranium impacts Beavis had left in him anymore. Because he was pretty sure he heard somewhere that the brain was important or something. And like he had stated in their prayer, Beavis dying would lead to an entirely new dumpster fire of problems, problems Butt-Head could not afford. In the financial sense, that is.

”Butt-Head… I swear to god… when I get up these stairs… I am going to… seriously… kill you.”

Beavis took a single step, rolled his ankle, and blacked out.

Butt-Head looked on overhead, chuckling at the funny way Beavis’ limbs bent out in all directions. He looked dumb. “Uh-huh-huh. That was cool, uh-huh-huh. Uh…” His eyes grew as the blue color of the carpet began to shift hues. He thought the puddle of blood couldn’t get any bigger, until it did.

”Uh… Beavis.” His first steps down the stairs were cautious and slow, in great contrast to the rapidly forming crimson pool. He picked up the pace to a walking speed, skipping the final step with an ungraceful jump. He loomed over Beavis’ body, waiting for a snort, a twitch, a crinkle of his forehead. “Damnit, dumbass, get up,” he rasped as he got down on his knees, painting them red. He rolled Beavis onto his back, finding him much heavier than usual, finding that his chest was not moving like it should be. Beavis’ deformed heart was always racing in a struggle to keep up with its host. It didn’t even stop while he slept. Only twice was Beavis completely still: on the hospital bed after taking too many bows, and right now.

But this was no hospital. “Uh… Uh…” Butt-Head looked all around, as if somebody would materialize just for this moment. But he was alone. No hospital, no nurses, no God. He reached out and shook Beavis back and forth, halting himself once he realized all it did was jerk his limp head back and forth. “Come on,” he gasped, slipping as he scrambled to his feet. “Okay, okay. Uh, hospital.” He could hear a scruffy voice chastise him. “Damnit, I know. I know we can’t. Uh… well, what do you want me to do?” he raised his voice at the lifeless lump on the floor, which made him realize exactly what he was doing: raising his voice at a lifeless lump on the floor. Butt-Head’s eyes snapped down, and without second thought, he grasped Beavis by the ankles and began to drag him. Anywhere was better than here.

He looked up, and he let go. The blood was creating a path.

Butt-Head looked at the blood, then at Beavis. Blood, Beavis. Beavis, blood. Beavis’ blood on Butt-Head’s socks, his knees, his hands. Beavis’ blood was on his hands.

Mr. Anderson. He told a story about making not-breathing people breathe, right?

Butt-Head fell to the ground at Beavis’ side, having no choice but to ignore the aching pain in his knees. He shoved one forearm beneath Beavis’ back, and the other between the crook of his knees. A quick adjustment of his arms angled Beavis’ hanging head onto Butt-Head’s chest, and he began to stagger forwards, feeling a revolting warmth swarm the space above his heart.

”Come on, come on,” he winced as he fought to open the door, his words indistinguishable from his breaths. “Don’t go into the light thing. I know you love fire. I love fire too, dude. It kicks ass. It’s awesome, I know.” He pressed his body against the door as he fumbled with the knob. “I know, alright? But we can do all of that being dead crap later. We have to, like, turn into silver foxes first, remember? Think of the sluts, Beavis. Think of the beautiful, beautiful sluts.” Butt-Head gasped for air as he finally got a hold, swinging it open and readjusting the lifeless lump in his arms. “You gotta think of me, too. Do you know how much it’s gonna suck if you die first? It’s gonna really,”—he inhaled as he took off down the sidewalk as fast as his pride would allow him to—“really suck!”

Butt-Head eased himself down to the discolored carpet, a crumpled roll of paper towels in one hand and a sloshing bowl filled with Dawn dish soap in the other. In the background, the MTV bacteria cells had finally shut their mouths, but another just-as-annoying voice replaced them: some guy named Dumb Matthews and his dumb song, “So Much Dumb Stuff to Say.” These blood stains were also dumb. Everything was dumb.

He tore off a handful of paper towels and dunked them beneath the soapy concoction. The water dripped over his legs as he hoisted the towels back out and dropped them in the dark red center. Butt-Head began to scrape back and forth, forcing his nails to dig deep into the glued seams. He leaned back with a huff, coming to find that neither he nor their body wash left even the most minuscule of dents.

“Ugh,” Butt-Head grumbled, splashing water over his arm as he shoved another batch of paper towels into the bowl. ”Ugh,” he complained even louder as strands of his hair began to stick to his arm. He peeled it all off and swung it over his other, dry shoulder, quickly discovering it did nothing but tickle his patchy stubble. “Damnit.” He shook his head back and forth as he pushed himself up, nearly tripping over the bowl on his way back to the forbidden stairs.

“I said get away!”

“Get your thong out of your asscrack, Beavis.” Butt-Head leaned down and grabbed the Converse shoe Beavis had assaulted him with. A few tugs later, and Butt-Head had his hair tie. Stationed in front of the mirror, he went to war with himself, a long and violent dispute. However, Butt-Head was eventually able to claim victory. It might not have been able to be legally classified as a bun, but whatever it was, it held his hair up. Much better than the first time at that.

The tragedy of speaking to Beavis again made him recall the whole trash bag debacle. Problem was, they had no trash bin anymore. For some unexplainable reason, it had mysteriously vanished the night of the tornado. Thankfully, the solution was simple: Mr. Anderson had one just laying in his driveway.

After returning home from a successful hunt, Butt-Head turned past the hallway corner and blinked his narrow eyes wide open at the mutated, albino rat hunched over in the corner of the kitchen. The varmint jerked his head over his shoulder, half-chewed pieces of Frosted Flakes spilling out of his underbite.

“Damnit, Beavis!” As Beavis immediately began his retreat, Butt-Head gave chase without any actual plan. Panting, Beavis scampered on all fours to dodge Butt-Head’s swinging arms, then somehow managed to land back on his feet as he jumped over the bowl of Dawn. Butt-Head pivoted around and blindly lunged forwards, only to stumble right into his cleaning supplies. The air was knocked out of his lungs as his chin banged against the soggy floor, and his eyes fluttered open just in time to catch the slightest glimpse of Beavis securing his escape up the stairs.

Soap sticking all over his legs, Butt-Head groaned as he placed his palms flat on the floor. “Beavis… I’m going to… Ugh.” After he groggily pushed himself up and began to rub his chin, something caught the corner of his eye: the mangled corpse of Shirley’s guitar.

Butt-Head’s hand lowered the longer he stared at it. Almost all of its strings were busted, sticking out and curled in all directions like his hair’s split, brittle ends. Wooden pieces were missing here and there, and its neck was being held together by mere fibers. He hadn’t even realized the night before how messed up of a shape it was in. Not that it mattered, nor that he cared.

He crawled over to it, kicking the bowl across the room on his way. He came to a stop as soon as the bowl stopped rattling, just to what, stare? After a few moments, he ran his finger over the ruptured strings, which made a sound, but not a song. Hannah seemed to find his failed attempt to play the instrument amusing, but he had genuinely tried. It wasn’t that Beavis didn’t suck at it (because Beavis sucked at everything), but he still played with somewhat enough skill to leave Butt-Head bewildered. Because again, Beavis sucked at everything.

Butt-Head was torn away from his trance by a slight creaking. He twisted his attention to the stairs, where Beavis was frozen mid-step. Butt-Head didn’t try to follow him that time. Not immediately, anyways.

He spent some time scrubbing the floor, but quickly gave up on that. He vacuumed some more, even under the kitchen table. He lifted the chairs and everything. He took the vacuum cleaner and the candle back to Shirley’s room. He tried to scrub again to no avail, then attempted to do the dishes, which, for once, were nowhere to be found. He tried to scrub just one more time. Nothing.

Butt-Head stood outside their bedroom door. “I know you’re hungry. You’re gonna have to come out and eat eventually. So why not just get it over with.”

“I’m not! I-I’m not hungry, or thirsty, or anything like that!”

Butt-Head looked down at the box of Frosted Flakes in his hands. “Beavis, you ate almost this entire thing of cereal in, like, the thirty or something seconds I was outside. That is ridiculous. Get out or, like, face the consequences.” He paused for a moment. “Fine. I promise I won’t kick your ass or whatever. Just come on, dude. Stop being a dumbass.”

“And do what?!” Butt-Head was slightly startled by how suddenly close Beavis’ voice was to the door. He didn’t even hear him get up. “You’re just gonna start acting like a butthole again! I-I’m telling you, Butt-Head! I’m done hanging out with you u-until you stop!”

“Uh… you first.” He heard Beavis snarl in frustration, then flop back onto the bed. Butt-Head scowled at the door as if Beavis could see, then slumped his head against the wood. “You’ve always called me a butthole. What the hell’s so different now?”

But Beavis had resumed the silence treatment. Butt-Head lingered there, hoping time would draw him out. It usually did; he was so impatient. One could argue Butt-Head was more so.

The cereal had been tossed back into the cabinet, and the bowl of soap and water had been refilled. His knees ached to high hell, and he was scrubbing so hard he was starting to develop carpet burn. It had yet to be blue again and instead was a weird pinkish-gray, but the blood was nevertheless slightly lifting. All Butt-Head had to do was repeat this process, like, seven more times. He resumed cleaning the blood, albeit less vigorously than before. The dragging of his arms began to slow, and it wasn’t long before he was merely staring straight through the floor. Sometime during this, he slid right back over to the guitar, staring at it instead.

He knew this was Shirley’s guitar. He had recognized it the moment Beavis dragged it out from beneath the bed. But it hadn’t really sunk in that this was Shirley’s guitar. When she still loved them, she used to sing, and when her voice had yet to become rough and rugged with layers upon layers of tobacco fumes, she used to sing good. In her final days, Shirley used to laugh about how Beavis sounding “like that” was because of all her second-hand smoke. To be fair, it was probably true.

His sore and cramping fingers took the guitar by its brittle neck and eased it into his lap. He pressed his fingers down on random tabs and began to pick at the surviving strings, but it wasn’t long before he was shaking his hand free of the digging pressure. How does Beavis do this? He tried once more to pretend that he knew what he was doing, loosely strumming and unmethodically switching tabs. That is, until he made the grave error of coincidentally playing a chord from a song too familiar for his comfortability. He stiffened, the corners of his mouth starting to twitch. “Stupid,” he mumbled with a slight shake of his head as he shoved the instrument off of him.

But you couldn’t shove Beavis off?

Butt-Head went still, until the corners of his mouth began to twitch and his nostrils began to flare. Why was the guitar looking at him like that? Did it have a problem?

What was it still doing here?

Butt-Head whisked the guitar off the ground. It wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. Beavis was supposed to sell it. But he didn’t. Because he sucks. And he’s stupid. And he’s the worst person Butt-Head had ever met.

Past the bowls of Dawn, past the case of alcohol, past the broken camcorder, and past the threshold, the boiling sun mercilessly struck him down when days before it had groveled before the rain. He held the guitar on his waist with his arm wrapped around its center, and he could already feel his skin start to stick. But the guitar wasn’t supposed to be here anymore. And neither was Butt-Head.

If the paved concrete wouldn’t burn his skin off, Butt-Head would drop down and start inching towards his destination like a worm. Every breath he sucked in sounded like a wailing heifer whose calf had gone missing, and how he was still standing was nothing short of a miracle. Walking in of itself wasn’t the problem. It was the Texas sun, unlike any other. Look at me. I’m sacrificing myself while Beavis is probably chewing holes in the walls. I hope he dies.

Despite his severe regret, the car was no longer an option. Contrary to popular belief, Beavis and Butt-Head were not sporadic spenders. Almost every dollar they made went to the mortgage and utilities, while the remaining scraps were for gas money and the rare knickknack or doodad. The gas money used to be for food; owning a car was merely a dream. But after arguing back and forth for an entire winter break, Butt-Head at last convinced Beavis to start getting their food solely from work to save up for a down payment. But with the tragic passing of Burger World, the gas money was back to being food money, and Butt-Head was back to sweating his balls off on the sidewalk. He never recalled summer ventures being this unbearable. God, as much Beavis sucked, at least he was a good distraction.

He stumbled down the block, oblivious to the fact that everybody stared at him the second they were out of sight. Where am I even going? He readjusted the slipping guitar. The pawn shop? The music store?

“Sir? Sir! You, with the guitar!”

Butt-Head stopped in his tracks, his body flopping back and forth as he turned around. “Uh…” He gripped his shirt and wiped it down his face. “Yeah?”

The most annoying-looking individual you could imagine came bounding over to him with a pen and clipboard in hand. “Good afternoon, sir. I was wondering if you were-“

“No.”

“I was wondering if you were, by chance, interested in-“

“Jesus, man, I said no.” Butt-Head thought for a moment. Turns out, he was interested in something. “What the hell happened to you?” he scoffed.

“Oh.” He sniffed, then snorted with nervous laughter. “This?”

Butt-Head glared at him as he pointed towards the gigantic bruise on his eyeball. He hated when people acted stupid. “Uh, yeah. What else would I be talking about, dumbass.”

“Oh, it’s ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. See, I’m here trying to raise donors for my charity. And anyways, last night, I’m trying to do my job, you know. I see this fellow, he looks a bit out of it. So I thought perhaps he would be interested in a new life goal, such as being a monthly donor to our cause.” He gestured to a booth a ways back, reading aloud its overhanging banner, “‘The Charitable Organization For Elderly Orphans And Also Puppies.’ But anyways, I guess I must’ve spooked him, because this guy starts screaming and then smacks me in the face with a guitar! I mean, talk about overkill. A simple ‘no’ would’ve sufficed.” He spit as he spoke, then neatly combed his graying strands of hair out of his forehead. “But that’s beside the point.” He fumbled with the clipboard and pen in his hands as he held it out. “Are you interested in becoming a donor, sir?”

Butt-Head looked at the clipboard then at the man’s bruise. “Uh-huh-huh. That guy sounds cool. Uh-huh-huh.”

The man’s rambling session gave Butt-Head time to breathe, and he resumed the trek feeling brand new. Alas, he still possessed only a general idea of where he was going. He made his way back to the booth, and the sparkle in the man’s eyes dissipated as soon as Butt-Head asked for directions and not for the clipboard. Butt-Head took the time to laugh at him again, and off he went.

The inside of Guitar Center had a sharp breeze to it, a change in temperature Butt-Head heavily appreciated. He couldn’t help but become distracted by the grand assortment of instruments on every wall and around every corner. Acoustic guitars and whatever crap band kids play might all be for hippie nerds, but the other half of music impressed Butt-Head a great deal.

“Hello. May I help you?”

Butt-Head hadn’t even realized he had arrived to the counter. “Uh, hello. I need to, like, sell this.”

The employee watched the crucified instrument rattle against the glass counter. “Alrighty then. Um…” He stifled a laugh, refusing to make eye contact. “You know I can’t give you full price, right?”

“Uh… what do you mean ‘full price.’”

“Well, usually…. let’s see.” He gently raised the guitar, inspecting the front and back of the headstock. “Okay, so what we got here is a 1976 Morris. Usually, I could give you”—he tilted his flat palm back and forth—“around two hundred?”

“Two hundred what.”

“Uh. D-Dollars, sir?”

“Woah. Alright, ring me up.”

“No, no. That’s what I could give you. But in a condition like this, you’re looking at around forty dollars.”

“What?” Butt-Head griped. “I’ll have you know that this is a really, really, really, really, really good instrument. Are you, like, ripping me off?”

“I’m actually being extremely generous. You only have two working strings, there’s chunks of wood missing, and the neck of this thing is about to fall off.” He set the instrument back down. “You could repair it prior to selling, but honestly, it might cost just as much as the guitar is worth.”

“Uh… okay, how about this.” Butt-Head raised his eyebrows. “I am willing to compromise.”

He shrugged. “Go for it.”

“Hear me out. What if I, like, repair it or whatever, and then sell it to you, and then you give me my money back.”

The employee pulled his lips to the side with a nod. “Uh, yeah. That would work. I mean, you wouldn’t be getting-“

“I’m cheating the system, uh-huh-huh.”

He blinked a couple of times. “I’m sorry?”

“Uh… cause I’m getting my repair money back, and I’m getting two hundred bucks, too. Dumbass.”

“What? What are you- Do you not- Wait, wait, wait.” The employee rubbed his temple. “No, sir. No. You would not be getting two hundred dollars if you-“

“Oh my gosh. Butt-Head, is that you?”

Butt-Head’s entire life flashed before his eyes. “Jesus Christ. Uh…” He turned around, and there he was, in all of his hippie nerd glory, David Van Driessen. “Hello.”

“Hello to you, too! How have you been? How’s Beavis?” His smile fell as he inspected the store left and right. “Well, where is Beavis?” he added with a soft chuckle.

“Uh… cool. I’m cool. Beavis isn’t here. He’s probably busy crying himself to sleep right now.”

Van Driessen’s smile dropped yet again. “Oh my.” When Butt-Head refused to elaborate, he asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.”

Van Driessen knew better than to expect anymore than that. He cleared his throat, then his smile returned, albeit slightly forced, “Well, come on, talk to me. What are you doing here?” His eyes drifted towards the battered instrument on the counter, but did nothing further.

“Uh…” Butt-Head glanced at the guitar as well. “I’m selling this piece of crap.”

“Piece of crap?” Butt-Head backed up as Van Driessen moved in closer to observe the headstock as did the employee. “Watch your language around a beauty like this,” he lightheartedly teased. “A Morris, huh. Whose is this?” He looked up at Butt-Head, a hopeful assumption glistening behind his glasses. “Is it yours?”

“No. It’s Beavis’.”

Van Driessen’s mouth fell. “Um. Wow, okay. Really?” He turned his head back to the instrument. “This is Beavis’ guitar? As in, he plays it?”

“Uh, yeah. I just said that.”

“I mean…” He scratched his nose. “I mean, that’s great, I just…”

“I know. It’s dumb, isn’t it.”

“Oh, no!” he gasped. “Not at all! I’m happy.” He smiled. Genuinely, this time. “Very happy, actually. It’s just that… you know, the last time I tried to teach you both guitar, he… well, destroyed it.”

“Yeah, and he destroyed this one, too.” Butt-Head pushed the pause button as last night’s argument replayed in his mind. “Like a dumbass.”

Van Driessen’s eyes were as wide as a doe’s. “Is that why he’s upset?”

“Uh…” What was it? What exactly was Beavis upset about? Everything for the past few days had been so draining and disorienting. He wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was anymore. Beavis was upset… at him? Was that right? What for? He said Butt-Head had been acting different. But what exactly happened? There was only one thing Butt-Head had done that could justify Beavis’ behavior, but Beavis didn’t remember, remember? Or more like what you didn’t do. Butt-Head jammed the pause button.

Van Driessen’s voice was miles away, “Well, you don’t have to sell it, Butt-Head. I think it’s important he has some form of creative outlet, m’kay. Have you considered having it repaired?”

Butt-Head was quiet for a moment. “That’s uh, that’s what I’m trying to do.” He trailed off again, then dragged himself back. “So I can, like, sell it for ‘full price’ or whatever.”

“Yes,” the employee chimed in, “and you’ll be back where you started, not with an extra two hundred dollars.”

“Uh… why.”

“Two hundred dollars to fix this?” Van Driessen cradled the guitar in his arms and investigated every corner while the employee contemplated putting in his two week’s notice. “That’s just plain silly. Tell you what, Butt-Head. I actually came here to buy some strings to fix up my old guitar back home. You can repair all of this yourself, you know. Even something like this here.” He eyed the neck. “I’ll be more than happy to fix up Beavis’ guitar for free if you’ll let me.”

“Woah…” A tiny shot of thrill pumped from his heart. “That’s, like, two hundred dollars… two times.”

“No, Butt-Head, it’s free.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Van Driessen was four years beyond attempting to understand more than half of what came out of either of their mouths. “So, yes?”

“Yes what.”

Butt-Head played the sample keyboards with a skill level equivalent to Beethoven while Van Driessen finished paying for his strings. Twice had he nearly asked Beavis to, ‘Watch this,’ before biting his tongue and resuming his melancholic concert.

“Hey, Butt-Head,” Van Driessen finally called at the entrance, a packet in his hands. “I’m leaving now.”

The notes he had pressed down continued to sing as he looked over his shoulder. “Oh yeah. I didn’t bring my car.”

“That’s alright. I can drive.”

“I know that already.”

“I mean I can drive you, Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head lifted his hands, smiling on the inside. “Uh, cool. Uh-huh-huh.”

Van Driessen waited for him to catch up, questioning on their way out the door, “You walked all the way here?”

“I just said I didn’t bring my car.” How is this dumbass a teacher?

The doors slammed shut, and the sun selfishly ripped away the bandaid that was air conditioning. “Well, then why? It’s so hot out.”

“Because of that dumbass tornado.” He yanked on the passenger handle over and over again until Van Driessen unlocked the van. Butt-Head slipped the guitar into the floorboard, angling it against his legs. “It, like, destroyed Burger World, so I’m trying not to drive anymore so we can have enough money to eat and stuff. It sucks.”

Van Driessen huffed as he leaned down into the driver’s seat. ”Well, Butt-Head, if you boys are ever in need of any food, there are charity organizations around town who will gladly be of aid. There’s this one charity I donate to, ‘The Charitable Organization For Elderly Orphans And Also Puppies.’ They host food pantries from time to time. The next time they do, I’ll give you two a call.” He clicked his seatbelt into place, then set the strings on the center console. “And my goodness, that tornado. Could you believe that thing? I was a kid the last time we had a tornado that big.” He clicked his seatbelt into place. “It took out a chunk of the school, you know. The gymnasium will practically need to be built from scratch. That’s not to mention how one of the hallways got ripped in half. It’s devastating. Terrifying, too.” He turned the key into the ignition. “I’m glad you and Beavis are okay. Did it hit your house?”

“Uh, no. But it should’ve. That would’ve been cool, uh-huh-huh.”

“Oh no, Butt-Head. It wouldn’t have been cool at all.” He craned his neck to focus pulling out of the parallel parking space. How Butt-Head passed that section on the driving exam was something he would never understand. “I agree that tornadoes quite interesting, but personally, I only like them from a long, long distance.” Van Driessen chuckled at a joke Butt-Head did not even realize had been uttered. The gear was shifted back into drive, and he spun the steering wheel back and forth to straighten the van out onto the road. “Say, isn’t your birthday coming up?”

Butt-Head crinkled his nose at the skinny orange kitten that hopped into his lap without permission. He glared at the tiny thing using his legs like a jungle gym, its claws too small and weak to actually puncture the skin.

Van Driessen, who had just finished up gathering the necessary tools, had the audacity to laugh at Butt-Head’s misfortune. “I see you’ve met Simba.” He got a better look, finally noting his guest’s discontent. “Here. Come on, you.” The kitten squealed at Van Driessen scooped it up like a vegan hawk, caressing its static fur as he carried it away from the couch. “I like to foster animals in the summer. It gives me something to do besides tutoring.”

“Uh… why would you want to do anything? This is, like, your break.”

“I understand where you’re coming from, but believe it or not, I like work. It stops the mind from wandering.” He thought for a moment. “Well, of course, some of the most beautiful philosophies have stemmed from a wandering mind. But I’m no philosopher. I get depressed if I do nothing but lounge around.”

“Uh-huh-huh. Lounging around is cool.”

“Well, then I’m happy you enjoy it.” He tried to pry Simba off of his chest, who was hooked onto the fibers. “I know, I know,” he hushed the kitten’s frantic meows, then finally set it back on the floor. Van Driessen brushed his hands as he straightened his back, resuming with a smile, “Alright, the guitar. Bring it to the kitchen, won’t you?”

Butt-Head did what he was told for once, and was mindful enough to set the instrument down slowly. He pulled out a chair, asking as he sat down, “Uh, so fostering isn’t just for kids? You can, like, foster animals, too?”

“Yes, indeed. Isn’t that cool?”

“I guess.” Butt-Head made a mental note to never let Beavis find out about this, unless he wanted a dozen kittens climbing his lap simultaneously at every hour.

Van Driessen pulled the guitar closer to him, looming over it with a weird object in his hand. He caught Butt-Head eyeing it, explaining, “This is a string winder. It allows me to do…” He stuck it underneath one of the black circles at the bottom of the strings and popped it out. “That! Quick and easy, right?”

Butt-Head recycled, “I guess.” He watched his former teacher remove the remaining circles, a disinterested stare suddenly morphing into one of surprise. “Uh, what are you doing?”

He paused in the process of removing an unbroken string. “I need to take all of the strings out in order to fix the neck. I’ll replace them all once I’m done.” His eyes widened slightly. “Oh right, that’s another thing. Okay, so the glue I’m gonna use to put this thing back together needs about an entire day to dry, m’kay. Does Beavis know how to replace the strings himself?”

“Uh… I don’t know.”

“That’s alright. So you’re just gonna take these home with you,”—he slid Butt-Head an unopened packet of strings—“and if Beavis doesn’t know how to put them on, just give me a call and we’ll figure something out. No problem.”

Butt-Head sat in silence, watching Van Driessen toss the string amongst the rest. “Uh…”

“Hm?” Van Driessen lifted his head.

He looked down at the table, mumbling, “Can we like… not replace all of them or something. Like, can we keep the not-broken ones.”

Van Driessen was quiet too, although for different reasons. “Sure. You don’t have to replace them if you don’t want to. Although,”—he began to work on the final string—“given that these strings are pretty brittle, you might want to consider otherwise. Of course, there’s not any pressure. I’m just warning you.”

Butt-Head wanted nothing more than to burn both of the surviving strings, to burn away other remnant of Shirley’s ghost, but he all too aware of Beavis’ differing perspective on the matter. He wasn’t even supposed to go into her room without Beavis’ permission. Hell, the whole vacuum thing was the first time Butt-Head had ever broke that rule. But that one was on Beavis. He had clearly initiated the silent treatment. Like a dumbass.

There was the option of not telling Beavis about the strings. It felt bad. Very bad. “Yeah, uh, no.”

“All good,” Van Driessen responded warmly, then proceeded to place the two strings beside the packet. “Alright, so we take this here…” He took hold of the upper section of the by the base of the headstock, then, without warning, pulled it completely apart.

Butt-Head could only stare. “Uh… Van Driessen?”

“It was only a splinter or two left, don’t worry. I have to take it apart to realign it correctly anyways.”

The next couple of minutes were agonizing, with Van Driessen mistaking Butt-Head’s presence as genuine curiosity rather than Butt-Head having nothing else to do. He thoroughly explained the need for every step and every tool, even down to the damn glue, which all went through one misaligned ear and out the other. Butt-Head couldn’t even make fun of him to ease the burden. The thought of doing so felt dull and pointless. Who was going to laugh at the jokes? Butt-Head himself? He sat there in absolute silence, hoping that if he spaced out for long enough, he might somehow fall asleep and discover sweet freedom.

“All we need to do now is clamp it. There are better ways to do this, I’m sure, but there’s nothing wrong with a good ol’ rope.” He began to wrap it around the wood, holding the neck as firmly as he could. “So, how long has Beavis been learning guitar? Have you tried to? Another instrument, perhaps?”

Butt-Head snapped out of it, much to his dismay. “Uh… no. And he said he learned it, like, a long time ago already.”

Van Driessen’s expression displayed a clear peak in interest. “Is that so? Huh. I assumed you two were trying to start a band or something.”

We were. “He doesn’t remember much.” He quickly added, “Cause he sucks.”

Van Driessen started to apply another layer of rope. “I must say this whole situation is really amusing. For years, both of you boys have teased me relentlessly for my guitar playing,-“

Teasing? That’s what he calls it?

“-and here you are, telling me that this entire time, Beavis knew how to play, too.” He laughed softly, murmuring under his breath, “What do ‘ya know.”

Butt-Head prodded at the center leg of the table with his velcro shoe. “I didn’t.”

His hands faltered momentarily. “Oh, you didn’t now?” he responded once he put two-and-two together.

Butt-Head accidentally scooched the table, making him put a stop to his fidgeting. “Uh… no. He, like, didn’t tell me. At all. Ever.” He began to writhe. Too many words. “But I don’t care. You’re a wuss for playing guitar, and he is, too.”

Van Driessen’s patience alone made him deserving of a Nobel Prize. “Well, Butt-Head, perhaps he was embarrassed to tell you.”

The teacher’s attempt to get the underlying message through instead hit a brick wall, curled up, and died. “He should be.”

For a time, nothing was said as Butt-Head watched the rope loop in circles, over and over again. “Has he played you any songs?” Van Driessen finally broke the silence.

Realizing he hadn’t blinked, Butt-Head began to rub his eyes with closed fists. “Uh, one. It’s called ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by Metallica. You probably don’t know who that is.”

Van Driessen laughed as he finished tightening the rope into place, “Everybody knows Metallica, Butt-Head. Wait.” His hands froze. “Beavis can play ‘Nothing Else Matters’? Are you serious?”

“I just said he sucks at it,” his tone was tense with irritation. How many times is this dumbass gonna make me repeat myself?

He glanced over, wearing an amused, knowing smile. “Oh come on, Butt-Head, does he really?”

He couldn’t help but be taken aback. He looked away for a moment, chewing on his gums as he was forced to think. “I mean… he can play about halfway before screwing up, I guess.”

Oh, but he played it perfectly that night, didn’t he?

Butt-Head bit down hard and felt the blood flood the crevices of his teeth. It stopped the thought from evolving any further, but its echo was still ricocheting. “But he still sucks at it. He can hardly play. Because he’s a dumbass. And he sucks.” He caught his teacher’s eye, an observant. Trapped. “I don’t even know why you care. Stop asking so many damn questions. I only came over here so you could fix this stupid guitar. Stop being an asshole.”

What normally would leave a normal person startled and confused left a teacher concerned. He allowed Butt-Head’s words to echo for a time, then spoke in a hushed voice that was nauseatingly gentle, “Of course I care about you both, Butt-Head. You’re my students. And like I said earlier, I believe you two could benefit from something creative.” He let his words linger, watching Butt-Head stare at the table. “I would be more than happy to give you lessons if you were ever interested in-“

The blood was coating his entire tongue. “I’m not.”

Van Driessen quietly nodded. “Well.” He gently lifted the guitar from the table, motioning it in Butt-Head’s direction. “Here she is. Brand new. Almost.” Butt-Head stared for a moment before taking the guitar from Van Driessen, who was still not done talking, “Remember. Twenty-four hours, alright? And remember, if-“

“Whatever. I got it.” He flinched at the sudden sensation on his ankle. Glancing down, he spotted the kitten walking in circles around his legs, oblivious to the fact that he was unloved. Butt-Head looked away, finding his eyes falling upon a window. The sun was almost as unbearable as Van Driessen. Almost. Swallowing a chunk of the inside of his mouth along with his pride, Butt-Head waved a pathetic, white flag, “Can you drive me home.”

”Well, since I don’t know the next time I’m gonna see you…” Van Driessen took the plastic sack away from the Dairy Queen drive-thru window and handed it to Butt-Head with a smile. He took it without a word, then opened it to find two cupcakes. “Happy Early Birthday, Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head closed the door behind him, then he stood there for a moment. Quiet. Waiting. Nothing.

The kitchen was in the exact same shape he had left it. Beavis always left something behind. An open cabinet, a wrapper, something. But there was nothing.

He knew better, but he tried to open the bedroom door anyways. Nothing. He slumped his body against the wood, an exhausted knock. “Beavis.”

Beavis tried not to speak, but Butt-Head had caught the slightest murmur.

He stared at the doorknob, his dark eyes half-closed. “Come on.”

Nothing.

Butt-Head waited. With a sigh that lowered his shoulders, he set the guitar flat on the floor, as he was instructed to do, and the cold plastic sack beside it.

Butt-Head couldn’t wait anymore.

Beavis. Beavis was so stupid. So, so stupid. Who acts like this? Beavis, apparently. What was his plan? What did he want? Did he want Butt-Head to do something?

”I’m done hanging out with you until you stop!”

The front door slammed shut behind him. The air was a merciful warm now, cooled by the blanket of deep, dark blue above. Beavis did want him to do something. Beavis wanted him to stop. Not a specific doing, such as an annoying habit or an overused phrase, but him. Butt-Head had no idea what that meant. He couldn’t just stop. And yet at the same time, despite his confusion, he had a feeling that breaking down the door would not be received well.

Feelings. Butt-Head didn’t have a lot of those. Had it not been for the countless testimonies of those around him claiming as such, he probably would have never known. He didn’t care to know or to not know. Rather, what existed within him were traces. He could not give these emotion husks names, but on occasion, he could form the slightest understanding of their silhouette. Butt-Head could only describe his current feelings as wrong.

He crossed the silent street, which was empty other than the moths swarming the lampposts. Beavis wanted him to stop, but Butt-Head couldn’t just die. Or, did he want that? No, Beavis didn’t want that. If he wanted him to die, he would’ve just said it. It wasn’t like wanting Butt-Head to die was beyond his moral compass. Beavis had given him an ultimatum. Beavis still wanted him. But Butt-Head had to stop. Whatever that meant, whatever Beavis wanted, it could not be seen through if there was a stupid door in the way.

Mr. Anderson’s shed came into view. After all those years, he had yet to install a lock. The silver moon casted a light faint enough to reflect off of the metal. Butt-Head tucked it under his arm, and began to make his way back home. Past the mailbox, past the trash bin, and past the yard, he slid open the ladder and angled it against the side of the house. He hated Beavis. It was all his fault. Beavis made him do this.

Butt-Head climbed up to the window, pinched his fingers beneath the panel, and pushed it up.

Beavis screamed before he formed any real words, until the shadowed figure illuminated by the moon was finally understood. And even then, he still struggled to speak for a breath or two, or three. “J-Jesus Christ, Butt-Head!” His frantic scrambling amongst the bedsheets came to a halt, but the rapid rise-and-fall of his chest did anything but. “Are you crazy?! W-What the hell are you doing?!”

Butt-Head hauled himself over the window, falling onto the floor with a huff. He pulled himself up and pulled the window down, then he turned around and stared. “What do you want me to do.”

Beavis’ face began to twitch, his tense demeanor falling away piece by piece as he surrendered his eyes. Like a child, he swiftly pivoted himself around, sitting on the edge of the abused mattress with his back to the moon. “I told you I, like… don’t want to see you.”

Butt-Head stood there. “Like, ever?”

Beavis’ body flinched as he opened his mouth, but after a sudden pause, he could only stammer, “I mean, like… no, not like… I don’t… You just, like…” He gave his head a hard shake, then grumbled, “You suck, Butt-Head. You really, really suck.” With his arms crossed and his head hung low, Beavis could only hear the door’s lock click. He remained there, buried within himself, but avoiding what was held before him was impossible.

Butt-Head held the guitar as carefully as his unsteady hands would allow. “Here.”

For a moment, Beavis forgot. He waited for some kind of trick, then, slowly, raised his hands. Butt-Head slid the guitar into his palms, which fell down to his lap. “I, uh…” He swallowed, then closed his mouth.

Every instinct told him to leave. But he couldn’t. After all, Butt-Head had to stop. He crept to Beavis’ side, hesitated for a heartbeat or two, then sat down next to him. “You can, like, sell it or whatever once we get it fixed.”

Beavis’ head slightly tilted. “We?”

“Uh…” Butt-Head sniffed, wiping his nose. “I tried to sell it, but it was really confusing. This dumbass employee kept telling me, like, forty different things at the same time. Then, like, Van Driessen showed up, and we went to his house to fix it. It sucked. But, uh… yeah.” He brought his hands together. “I brought back those two strings that were left, so don’t, like, go and freak out or whatever.” He could feel his heart climbing up his throat. He hated this. He hated Beavis. He hated not hanging out with him more. “Uh… there’s like… uh.” Butt-Head pushed himself up and hurried out of the room, coming back with that plastic sack. He stiffly sat down again, and, with his breath caught in his withered lungs, brought out one of the desserts, his peace treaty. This was a treat, wasn’t it? “Here.”

Beavis blinked multiple times, both at Butt-Head and his extended hand. He eased the guitar down beside him, then accepted the treaty. He pried open the lid, taking a starving, ravaged bite out of the frosting. Butt-Head watched him tear it apart, wrapper included, and was surprised when Beavis didn’t try to eat the plastic container as well.

“Beavis.” Butt-Head tapped his nose, to which Beavis crossed his eyes to look at the lick of vanilla cream around his nostrils. Beavis dragged his fist across his face, licking whatever came off.

It was then that reality hit. Beavis snapped his sugar-ridden head towards Butt-Head and hissed, “Are you taking those pills again?”

“What pills? Oh,” he recalled. “Uh, no, I’m not.”

“I swear to god, Butt-Head-“

“I said I’m not, dumbass. How would I even get those anyways.”

“I mean, Jesus!” he jerked his curled fingers towards his head. “W-Why else would you be acting like this?!”

Butt-Head caught his narrowed eyes. He tried to soften them to no avail, and instead faced the wall. “I’m trying to stop.”

His voice was raspy, “What?”

“You told me… like… that you’re done hanging out with me unless I stop. I have no idea what the hell that means exactly, Beavis, but I’m, like… trying. I think.” Neither spoke. Butt-Head’s glare began to fall, and he slowly turned his head, meeting Beavis’ eyes. “Is it working?”

Beavis stuttered until he could no longer look at him. He retreated back into himself, digging his forearms into his abdomen as his neck went limp. “I don’t… I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I just… I want everything to stop.”

That one Butt-Head could understand. “Yeah…”

A silence overcame them both. Beavis began to rock back and forth as he brought his hand to his mouth, and he chewed between his words, “When I said that I, like, wanted you to stop… I didn’t mean you as in, like, the Butt-Head I know or whatever. I meant, like…” He shoved his hand deeper in his mouth, his words muffled, but at the same time, terrifyingly clear, “The way you’ve been acting since the party.”

Butt-Head’s mother told him that when he was a baby, he used to trick her into thinking he was dead with how still he always seemed to be. Now, Butt-Head was shaking so hard, a part of him feared he may fall apart. “Beavis. What… What do you mean… since the party.”

All of his prior hesitance was guillotined. “Nothing,” he spat out as he exhaled. He gasped for air, repeating, “Nothing. I-I don’t… W-What I’m saying is, like, I-I don’t know what happened, but… Since that day, you’ve been an asshole. I mean, you’ve always been an asshole. But I-I don’t like it when you’re an even bigger asshole, a-and I don’t like it when you’re not an asshole, either. It’s not, like… you, you know. I want… the Butt-Head before. I-I don’t know.” He hid his face in his hands, disguising it as him rubbing his eyes. “Maybe I’ve been weird, too.” A sharp nail itched his eyelid, dragging it down as far as it would go. At last, his shoulders fell with a sigh, and so did the door, “Butt-Head. Can we, like, start over… or something.”

Beavis’ nothing was Butt-Head’s something. He tried not to think about what happened, but hell, that was all he had been trying to do since that night, and it did nothing but bring them both here. The memory, whether it was beating him in the face or whispering behind his back, never fully left him, no matter what Butt-Head did or did not do.

Every time he looked at Beavis, all he could think about was that night. His face, his voice, his presence alone, it was all a haunting reminder of not what Butt-Head did, but what Butt-Head didn’t do. He didn’t yell at him. He didn’t hit him. And he didn’t shove him off.

What he had felt that night, what he had felt within his hollow chest when he felt Beavis within his arms, it was more than a trace. It was more than a husk. It was infinitely beyond anything he could comprehend.

Butt-Head was not the type it just “start over.” That would mean he was at fault. Nothing that had ever happened to him or Beavis or their mothers or the world was his fault.

But he had to be. Because whatever he had felt that night, it had to be wrong.

It’s why they were here.

For once, Butt-Head would have to put himself aside. For once, he would have to forget. “We can do that.”

Beavis did a horrific job at hiding his smile. He swung his feet up and down, mumbling, “Cool, cool.” He started to rock back and forth again, but it was not unnerving like before. “Did you ever take out the trash.”

“Uh… no.”

“Th-That’s alright. I’ll do it.”

“No, I got it.”

Beavis raised his eyebrows. “So you remember how to tie the knot?”

Butt-Head clasped his hands over his knees. “… No.”

“Why not. You’re really good at remembering stuff.”

“I don’t know. It, like, depends, I think.”

“Yeah, I get it. Like, this one time I saw a lizard on the front porch, and I was like, ‘Oh, cool! That’s a.. a-a Green Anole! Yeah!’ But at the same time, I can’t remember any math crap. My mom would get annoyed with me, you know. She would be like, ‘Beavis, how can you remember all this dumb shit about lizards, but not what’s vital for your future?!’ But like… why would you want to remember something dumb? You know what I’m saying?”

Butt-Head rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, tender from years of disgusting posture. “Uh… yeah.”

“Hey, Butt-Head, look.” Beavis pointed to his hand. “You did remember.”

“What?” He shifted his hand, then felt two strings graze against it. He felt around the back of his head, finding a pair of shoelace loops. “Huh. Okay then.”

“You look good with your hair up, by the way.”

That feeling. It was back. It wasn’t near as strong as it was that night, but his chest still felt like it was being executed by a firing squad. And like that night, Butt-Head could only stop dead.

Beavis suddenly shrunk back, his face contorted in disgust. “Ew, Butt-Head, not like that!”

Butt-Head’s confusion brought him back to earth for long enough to question, “Not like what.”

He still looked as if he bit a chunk out of a lemon. “I-I meant it, like, in a guy way. Like, you could probably pull some chicks if you wore it up more often.”

Butt-Head wanted to press further to try to wring any sense out of him, but he was tired. Very, very tired. “Uh… thanks.” In the silence, he pulled on one of the strings, and his hair fell past his shoulders.

Beavis was watching him. “Jesus, you need to get that cut.”

“Well which one is it, asswipe.” Butt-Head set his uneaten, but not unaccepted, treat onto the floor. “Oh yeah, uh, I didn’t spend any money just to get some cupcakes. Van Driessen got them for me. Apparently I’m gonna be born soon.”

“Woah, really? Uh, Happy Birthday, Butthole, heh-heh-meh.”

“It’s not today, dumbass. At least,”—he lifted his head—“I don’t think so. Uh… no, no it’s not.”

“Oh. Then… Unhappy Birthday, heh-heh-meh. Wait. No. Unhappy Day, heh-heh-meh. Ugh, forget it.” He slipped off the mattress to move the guitar out of the way. “Uh, Butt-Head. This doesn’t look very fixed.”

Butt-Head rummaged through the dresser, unsure which shirt in the untamed pile belonged to him. “He said something about waiting twenty-four hours for the glue to dry.“

“But I can’t count to twenty-four.”

“Me neither. We’ll just wait, like, few days or something.” He finally recognized an old Gwar shirt, setting it on top of the dresser in order to pull his sweat-drenched tee over his head. “He also said that if you don’t know how to put the strings on, to call him.”

“I-I don’t know how to do that either, Butt-Head.”

“Damnit, Beavis. Whatever. It’s fine.” He tugged his night shirt down as he sauntered over to the bed, having forgotten how much he missed the familiarity of his side of the molded mattress. He collapsed face-first with a loud sigh. “Get ready for a bunch of dumbass questions.” Butt-Head strained his throat, for a hippie voice did not come naturally to him, “He’s just so proud of you.”

“Oh my god.” Beavis twisted around. “Why did you tell him it was mine?!”

Butt-Head glared over the ripple of the pillow. “Uh, I’m not the hippie nerd who knows how to play guitar.”

“I’m not a hippie nerd!”

“Sounds like something a hippie nerd would say, uh-huh-huh.”

“I’m not, damnit!” Beavis fell flat on his back, accidentally smacking his head against the bed frame.

Butt-Head opened his eyes again, watching him attempt to drag the covers back onto the bed. “Uh… it’s okay, Beavis. I accept your hippiness, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis grit his teeth as he yanked the sheets. “Shut up, butthole!”

“There’s no reason to be embarrassed. You can’t help being a hippie. You were born that way. Uh-huh-huh.”

“I said shut up!” Beavis wrapped himself in the covers like a disgruntled caterpillar, to which Butt-Head immediately unraveled. He held the covers with one hand while Beavis attempted to pull them back with two. He gave up almost instantly, then proceeded to hit his head once again as he laid back down. Beavis stared at the ceiling, then turned his head towards Butt-Head, buried in the pillow, eyes closed. “So, uh… we’re good, right.”

When Butt-Head opened his eyes, Beavis’ face was the first thing he saw, and the first thing it did was make him remember. He suffocated himself in the fabric, pressing it into his sockets to absolve his vision with the empty dark.

He had to stop.

“Yeah. We’re good.”

Beavis settled into the mattress, wearing a smile Butt-Head refused to see. “Cool, heh-heh-meh.” Butt-Head was also unaware of Beavis’ skipping heart, the spasms in his hands, and a pair of dilated pupils that usually was only found in those who snorted coke. “Hey. Hey, Butt-Head. I feel funny.”

Me too, Beavis. “And I feel tired. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Chapter Text

Beavis did go to sleep. Cornholio, however, was not a believer in this “sleep” thing.

When Beavis returned to the mortal plane, he found himself twisted deep into a slop of half-mud, half-water. Looking down, it appeared to be that whoever was here before him tried to make some kind of summer-snow angel after painting on both sides of the house with mud,

“I am the Great Cornholio. I need T.P. for my bunghole,” Butt-Head mumbled into the pillow.

“That’s what it says?” he snorted, mud dripping onto the carpet. “Somebody’s gotta stop this Great Cornholio guy. He sounds cool, heh-heh-meh, but if you’re gonna graffiti something, graffiti, like, a Denny’s or something. Not our house, you know what I’m saying.”

Butt-Head, who had been forced at one in the morning to help Cornholio with the spelling of his art project, turned his head over and stumbled back into sleep. Beavis, who didn’t think twice about how Butt-Head knew what the graffiti spelled out despite having never left the bed, began to debate how he was going to get all of this mud off. He was halfway inside the washing machine when he remembered that showers exist, and he was halfway through his shower when he remembered that bills exist.

“Jesus Christ!” From the sound alone, Beavis could reasonably conclude Butt-Head had slipped down the stairs, not enough to fall, but enough to skip a step and a heartbeat. “Beavis, why are these stairs wet.” He made an inhumane noise as he slipped once again.

“I forgot! I forgot about these dumb, stupid bills!” Beavis’ eyeball was practically touching the checkbook, on which he was shakily copying the long stream of numbers from the utility bill into the amount box. With his other hand holding the towel against his chest, he dropped the pen and grasped the torn and wrinkled cheat sheet from across the table. The cheat sheet was a list of every number from zero to one hundred, each accompanied by its spelling. His mother had written it mere days before she vanished as part of her “finals,” so to speak. All that a mother should teach was crammed into half of a week. How to pay the bills, how to use the microwave, how to call Poison Control. As stressful as it was, it was hopeful. For half a week, Beavis thought she was getting better.

Butt-Head peered over Beavis’ shoulder, watching him successfully write out, ‘Twenty five dollars and 59/100,’ as per unforgotten instructions. “Good job, Beavis.”

“Damnit, Butt-Head, I told you to stop acting like that.”

“Uh, as I was saying… Good job, Beavis. Now we’re gonna be homeless.”

His sarcasm took a few ticks to click. “That’s not how this works, bunghole. My mom told me that this lady named Grace Period will help me out if we miss our payment day. I-I don’t know how. Maybe she’ll call or something.”

“Woah. So you’re saying we’ve had a chick on the line just waiting for us our whole, entire lives? And you just kept paying the bills?“

“Shut up, Butt-Head.” Beavis mistakenly made a rogue stroke with his pen, and he tore off the check and crumpled it. “I can’t not pay.”

Butt-Head stared at him, his mouth somehow dropped more than it naturally was. “Beavis. I know I’ve said this before, like, a lot. But you suck. You really, really suck.” With a heavy sigh, he began to pace around the table, dragging his hands across his mourning face. His voice altered between a nasally woman and a man who sounded like he was dying of dehydration in a desert, “Hey, Beavis, I’m a really sexy chick and I want you! Sorry, I can’t. Being a dumbass, like, is really time-consuming.”

”Shut up, butthole,” he impetuously retorted as he crammed the water bill and the check into the given envelope. Next was his favorite part: licking the glue. Peeling the stamp off the sticker slip was second best. Not that paying bills was entertaining. He set the water bill to the side in exchange for the cable bill. “I don’t understand why we have to pay for the TV. Water and stuff, yeah, I get it. Like, there’s a lot of fishes in the world that need to eat. But TV? That’s, like, one of those basic human right things.”

”Sluts are a basic human right. God damnit, I can’t believe you’ve kept Grace from me. That’s what the Founding Fathers died for, you know. They died for the sluts of yesterday, the sluts of today, the sluts of tomorrow, and the sluts of the day after tomorrow. You’re, like, a traitor to this country.”

“Yeah, your mom was very patriotic, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh… what. Is that, like, a disease or something. Shut up.”

Beavis’ mouth twitched in muffled laughter as he tried to refocus himself on the task at hand. He readjusted his towel as he finished writing out the amount due, then went to work on his signature: his full legal name written in block script with each letter capitalized. With yet another glue strip licked like a lollipop, Beavis reached for the water bill that was a few inches too far away, and after watching him struggle for a bit, Butt-Head finally slid it over with a swift shift of his index finger.

Butt-Head watched him for a while, motivation unknown and uncared for as Beavis scanned the cheat sheet for the thousandth time that felt like the first. “Hey, Beavis.”

“Yeah?” He lifted his head to an accusatory squint.

“Grace is mine. Get that through your head alright, dumbass.”

Beavis’ teeth nicked the tip of his discolored tongue. “S-She doesn’t want you, Butt-Head. My mom said she would help me.”

“Uh… Uh-huh-huh. Yeah, I bet your mom did tell you that. Who else could Grace confide in. Slut to slut, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head! Damnit!” His unstable hands twitched wildly, peppering the check in ink. He ripped the slip off with his teeth and spit it onto the floor.

Butt-Head watched him go, bearing much resemblance to an angry worker ant. “Uh, hey Beavis.” Beavis’ top lip curled as unintelligible noises scratched his throat. “You know how I was gonna, like, pay two hundred dollars or whatever to get the guitar fixed before I sold it. But I, like, didn’t. So like, uh, according to math or whatever, that means we have a whole two hundred extra dollars.” He took his hands out of his pockets, scratching his arm and bristling the hair. “I kinda want Denny’s.”

“Uh… t-that’s cool. Two hundred dollars, heh-heh-meh, yeah, cool. But uh… I thought you wanted Grace.”

“Beavis.”

Draped in black shorts and a Mötley Crüe shirt that he couldn’t tell was his or Butt-Head’s from sophomore year, the Beavis in question took his turn slipping on the puddles of shower water on his way out the door. He tossed all of the envelopes into the mailbox, where they would be picked up on Monday, the day the bills were due. Shirley had told him to always mail five days ahead, and despite his nature, this was the first time he had broken that law. He hoped Butt-Head wasn’t right. Surely they wouldn’t go homeless because of a five-day delay. Surely his mother would have warned him of such a fate. Whoever this Grace Period was, Beavis found himself more interested in her assistance rather than the curves he conjured up in his mind.

Sometime down the road, Butt-Head decided to glare at the radio and revive an old argument, “Ugh. Turn this off.”

Beavis, who had been playing drums on the dashboard to Green Day’s “In The End,” froze mid-concert. “Come on, Butt-Head! Green Day kicks ass!”

“Green Day is ass. Sometimes I doubt if you’re truly a heavy metal guy.”

“Hey! I’m heavy metal! I can like Green Day, too! H-Have you ever listened to ‘Brain Stew’? ‘Welcome to Paradise’? ‘Basket Case’? I-I kinda think it’s overrated, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad, you know what I’m saying.”

“Beavis, stop.”

He did not hear him. “Damnit, uh, what about anything from Smoothed out Slappy Hours? That one’s my favorite.”

“Whiny, boring crap. All of it. Whine, whine, whine.”

“Shut up, butthole! You just don’t get it because you’re dumb! And you suck!”

“Whine, whine, whine, boring, boring, boring.”

“Okay, then what about you?! You think The Offspring is cool! That’s about as dumb and whiny and boring as you can get!”

“When the actual hell have I ever listened to The Offspring.”

Beavis, knowing nothing other than the song’s title, crudely invented a melody, “Ooo, I have no self-esteem, ooo, I suck, ooo.”

“Uh… I listened to that song one time, like, four years ago. But you’re, like, an active Green Day fan. I would tell you to confess that to a priest, but he would probably kill himself and stuff, uh-huh-huh.” Something behind the wheel just happened to catch Butt-Head’s eye, making his demeanor twist. “Ugh, damnit.”

“What?”

“We’re about to be outta gas. Stupid, dumbass car.” His focus flicked between the gauge and the green light overhead. “Uh, that reminds me. I think I, like, realized something.”

“Woah, really?”

“Yeah. I think we can afford to eat if we don’t feed the car. I mean, we can drive right now because of the two hundred dollars. But after that, we’re gonna have to start walking again and stuff.” He huffed. “Walking sucks. We’re gonna have to spend these two hundred dollars wisely, Beavis.“

“-and I want the bacon burnt. None of that soggy crap. And I want an omelette. And scrambled eggs. And a hash brown.”

“Yeah-yeah! Hash browns!”

“I want two hash browns.”

“A-And I want pancakes. Oh yeah, and waffles. Biscuits and gravy, too. Some of those sausage things, bacon, and uh… I also want scrambled eggs. But can you guys put cheese on it. C-Cause the last time I was here, it was just pure egg. It was dry and it sucked. And I also want extra syrup on my pancakes, heh-heh-meh.”

The waitress flipped a page to write on a second tab. “You add your own syrup, sir.”

“Okay, cool. I want a lot of it, heh-heh-meh.”

The waitress thinned her lips as she whisked a second syrup jar off of a vacant table and parked it by Beavis’ jittering hands. “Anything else?”

“Uh… do you guys have any grilled cheese.”

“Not at this hour, sir, no.”

“Uh…” It was at that moment that Butt-Head suddenly blinked his eyes wide open. Greeting the waitress with slanted eyelids and raised, unkempt eyebrows, he leaned towards her with his chin resting on his knuckles. “Are you on the menu, beautiful?”

The waitress’ aloof expression did not waver. “Y’all’s order will be out soon,” she stared blankly over her shoulder as she walked off, vanishing down a hall.

Butt-Head stared after her long after she left his sight. “What?” he finally exclaimed.

“That was smooth, Butt-Head.”

“Yeah, I know.” He fumbled with one of the complimentary sugar packets. “It was, like, the smoothest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Don’t take it personally. She has to be a lesbian or something.”

He tore the packet in half, spilling grains of white sand onto the sticky table. “Yeah, you’re right,” he mumbled as he pretended to slice the sugar like cocaine. “What if that’s what’s going on. What if all the chicks that have ever rejected us have all been lesbians.”

“Yeah. Yeah! I think you’re onto something.” He grabbed the syrup jar, giggling as he squeezed its handle. “Hey Butt-Head, look. It’s like it’s talking, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh-huh-huh. Cool.”

The pair returned to themselves, talking about nothing and everything at the same time, minus the occasional interludes of silence.

“How could we start a band anyways?” Beavis responded as he stacked miniature containers of jam on top of each other to form a game of Mini-Jenga. “You can’t play anything.”

“Uh… duh. I can sing.”

“Sing?” He pressed his back against the booth. “Butt-Head, I-I don’t think-“

“Don’t think what.” He watched Beavis writhe. “I mean, Green Day can’t sing. And they unfortunately made it.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head.”

“But it’s not about being able to sing good, dumbass.” He leaned across the table, arms accidentally folding over the pile of spilled sugar. “It’s all about the sexiness. We’ll get some piercings and some tattoos, write some dumb song about, like, how our souls are evil or whatever, then we’ll have chicks climbing on stage just to get a piece of us.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Wait, hold on. That’s it. Our Souls Are Evil. That can be our first song! Come on, think of some lyrics, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head dragged out an, “Uh…,” not even acknowledging the plate of food set in front of him. “My soul is evil… uh… because my life… sucks.”

“Write that down, Butt-Head!”

After verbally torturing an overworked and underpaid employee for a pen, Butt-Head clicked it open and began to write, only to immediately break through a napkin’s flimsy surface. “Beavis, this isn’t working.”

“T-Then try harder, bunghole.”

He did as such, only to break through the final, thin layer and make a blue smear against the table. “Uh… I think we’re gonna need something else.”

Beavis looked around for the employee from earlier, but they were nowhere to be found. He propped himself on his knees, leaning across the table with his forearm across the ragged napkin. “Here, heh-heh-meh. Ow!” He jerked his arm back as Butt-Head wrote with the force of an alleyway tattoo artist. “Damnit, Butt-Head, that hurt.”

“Calm down. I barely touched you. Give me your arm, wuss.” He met Beavis at the halfway point, grasping his wrist and holding his trembling arm still. He wrote a tad bit more gently, but his gentleness still left raw, red streaks on Beavis’ skin. “Uh… how do you spell soul.”

“I don’t know, Butt-Head, just write anything.”

Butt-Head scribbled out the lyric from his wrist to his elbow. “Okay, dumbass, your turn.”

“My turn for what. Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis chainsawed his nails as the gears in his skull began to turn. “My soul is evil because my life sucks, and, uh… Ow!”

Butt-Head smirked, reloading the pen with a click. “Hurry up, uh-huh-huh.”

“I-I can’t concentrate with you stabbing me! And let go of my arm, weirdo!” He tore it out of Butt-Head’s unconscious grasp, substituting breakfast with his remaining nails. “Okay I got it, heh-heh-meh,” he gravely giggled as Butt-Head wiped his contaminated palm on his shorts. “My soul is evil because my life sucks, dun-nun-nun-nuh, a-and my life sucks because my soul is evil.” Butt-Head’s silence was loud. “What.”

The swishing of a long, plaid skirt snagged his attention. He looked up to a beaming, pearl smile; a different hostess. “Good morning, you two! I got…”—she quickly opted out listing everything on Beavis’ plate—”this for you. And here’s your order, sir.” She placed the second plate in front of Butt-Head, who relished in the closeness of a woman’s arm. “Is there anything else I can get for you today?”

“Uh, no.”

“Alright!” She maintained the artificial glow in her eyes. “You two enjoy now.”

Something clicked as soon as she started to waltz away. “Wait!” Beavis yelped a bit too loudly. As she turned with a murmur of acknowledgement, Beavis practically threw himself across the table, his eyebrows raised and his eyelids nearly closed. “Are you on the menu, beautiful?” He tried to click his tongue, but all that came out was the same sound as when his toothbrush touched his uvula.

“What the hell.”

“Oh!” Interrupting Butt-Head, she crinkled her notebook and stepped away, but she was smiling. “Oh, jeez. Come on now.”

“Cool, heh-heh-meh. Where are we going.”

The waitress either deliberately chose to ignore that or was too caught up in twirling her hair to hear it in the first place. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Yeah. I-I say it all the time.” Beavis immediately clocked her shift in demeanor. Fighting against her fading smile, he spat and stuttered, “To lesbians.”

Beavis and Butt-Head watched yet another woman come out of the closet as she, without a word, turned around and walked away.

“Damnit.” Beavis awkwardly slipped off the table back into the booth, narrowly avoiding his plate. Butt-Head’s usual chuckle was mixed in with gasps and snorts that closed his throat and jumped his shoulders, a gallon of salt on the wound. “Stop laughing, butthole!” he weakly ordered, but watching Butt-Head laugh was like observing a yawn. Beavis started to snicker despite his efforts, clasping his hand across his mouth so only his contrasting, enraged eyes were visible.

Butt-Head swished his hanging hair out of his food, stalling to breathe. “You suck, uh-huh-huh,” wiped the poorly hidden smile off of Beavis’ face.

“It’s not my fault, damnit! I-I had her!” He snatched one of Butt-Head’s hash browns and angrily stuffed it in his mouth. “Maybe you scared her off or something.”

“How the hell would I do that.” Butt-Head squeezed ketchup all over his hash brown until it looked like a crime scene. “Focus, Beavis. Our song.”

“Oh yeah.” Beavis’ laughter was short-lived as he began to violently choke on his hash brown. Having forgotten to order a drink, he whisked the container of ketchup out of Butt-Head’s hands and downed it, to which Butt-Head witnessed with widened eyes. The container fell to the floor as Beavis swished his arm across his face, smearing it blue. “I got it now, heh-heh-meh. My soul is evil because my life sucks,-“

“-and… uh…“ Beavis slowly pulled the car door shut, his mind in a different place. “Blah, blah blah, because my life sucks, and, like… um. Hey, uh, Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head slumped into the driver’s seat, his eyes closed. “What.”

“I-I can’t think of anything.”

Butt-Head slowly turned the key in the ignition and slowly leaned back into the seat as the engine coughed out its grumble. Eyes still closed, his nostrils flared in a sigh. “I think it’s gonna be okay, Beavis.”

“I’ll think of something, I promise. Just give me some time.”

Hands firmly on the wheel, arms straightened, Butt-Head forced his eyes open as he shifted the car into reverse. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he mumbled as he backed out of the parking space without checking his surroundings.

“I won’t, heh-heh-meh.” He turned his head with a zigzagged smile. “Thanks for caring, Butt-Head.”

“Uh-huh.”

As they turned onto the main road and picked up speed, Beavis watched as the lamposts began to melt into one another. “Where are we going now,” he snorted. “A-Are we going home or what.”

“Uh, we gotta go get gas,” Butt-Head grumbled, the gauge taunting him. “Did you wanna go somewhere or something.”

“No, no. I was just wondering, heh-heh-meh.” He continued to stare out of the smudged window, then faced the other way, eyebrows raised. “Do you wanna go somewhere?”

Butt-Head slightly shrugged. “Not really. Oh, wait.” He sat up straighter. “We can go see if the firework store thing is open yet, uh-huh-huh.”

“Cool!” Beavis jumped in his seat, his legs beginning to bounce. “Yeah, cool, heh-heh-meh. Fireworks, heh-heh-meh. F-Fire, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis watched Butt-Head until his dull laughter faded away, then reverted his focus back to the window.

They were entering a busier part of town, a section neither cared for much, especially while behind the wheel. There were only so many fender benders a person could cause. Butt-Head was clearly trying to wiggle his way out of it, taking a handful of left turns to make a sort of semi-circle path to the gas station. The road began to morph into cracked asphalt, littered with ditches and trash. The buildings, while still just as condensed, became dilapidated and sick. Beavis spied and followed a man walking his husky down the sidewalk, a shot of color. But the dog quickly became an afterthought.

Beavis recognized this place. More than simply recognized. He knew it. Sitting up straight, he watched the entrance passed him by. The parking lot was empty, it had been for years. The entire complex shut down not long after that day. But something, rippling in the slight wind and glinting beneath the sun, caught his beady eyes. “Hey, Butt-Head. There’s a bunch of yellow tape around the old apartment.”

He drove right past as if it were just another building. “So.”

“What’s going on, you think?” Beavis peered over his shoulder to mere avail. “Do you think they’re finally tearing it down?”

“Uh, I hope so.”

“Y-Yeah, me too.” He straightened himself, the building burned in his eyes like a flash of light. “But, like… we have stuff in there.”

“No, we don’t.” Before Beavis could rebuttal, he clarified, “Some homeless guy probably sold it all by now.”

Beavis mourned a stack of NES cartridges as Butt-Head declared them all legally dead. Denial is the first stage of grief. “Yeah, but what if he didn’t?”

“Then it still doesn’t matter. There’s nothing in there that’s worth anything.”

“I mean… I-I don’t know, Butt-Head.” Beavis glanced out of the back window again, finding the apartment had merged with the other surrounding foundations, an amalgamation of blue and gray. “I’m pretty sure we had some stuff. Or you did, I guess.”

“Beavis.”

“I’m sure all the really cool stuff is gone, like Excitebike and Metroid. But there’s other stuff too, you know.” His neck starting to ache, he turned himself back around. “We could, like, go in and see-“

“Beavis.” Butt-Head’s voice was firm enough to make Beavis flinch. His sight locked straight ahead, he could feel Butt-Head’s stare leave a mark in his skull. It was only when Beavis forced himself to meet his eyes that Butt-Head, with the car crawling to a stop in the middle of the road, finally spoke, “Shut. Up.”

Beavis was left speechless, torn between an instinct to comply and an instinct to puff out his fur, arch his back, and hiss. Before either side of him could take charge, a blaring horn from a semi-truck made him nearly fly out the roof of the car. As he pulled himself together, Butt-Head slammed on the gas pedal and sent the car shrieking down the lane. “Go to hell, asshole,” he grumbled into the rearview mirror.

“Yeah, go to hell!” Beavis rolled down his window and stuck out his entire forearm to flip off the driver. A sudden streak of maroon in his peripheral vision made him yank his arm back inside the second an uninvolved car went flying past. “You can go to hell, too!” Beavis shot his arm out again, then whisked it back inside as yet another vehicle nearly snapped it off. “You too, asshole! Damnit, Butt-Head!” he griped as the window began to roll up. Beavis tried to roll it back down, but the separate inputs caused the pane to stop moving completely, leaving Beavis a tiny crack at the top like a dog in a parking lot.

One hand on the steering wheel, Butt-Head muttered, “I swear to god, if we go to the hospital for this, I will cut off your other arm to pay for it.”

Forced to be reminded, Beavis’ finger let go, and the window sighed with relief as was finally allowed to roll back up. Whispering coarse curses beneath his breath, he slipped down in the seat with his back flat and his neck at an awkward angle, away from Butt-Head.

But there he could not remain. “Hey,”—Beavis eyed him—“did those scrambled eggs taste weird to you, too?”

”Uh… I don’t know.”

Young and somehow entitled Beavis and Butt-Head had to skip both of their birthdays and an entire Christmas in order for Shirley to afford the NES the following December of 1989. But, as entertaining as the Nintendo Entertainment System was, neither were avid users. Video games were hard work, with their tedious button presses and all. But every now and then, the two were willing to break a sweat.

Beavis rummaged through the drawer beneath the television, which functioned as both a storage unit and a trash can. “Duck Hunt?”

“No.”

“That one wrestling one.“

“No.”

“Mario?”

“Which Mario.” Beavis held up the bright yellow cartridge. “Ugh, no. That one’s too hard.”

“Okay, what about the other Mario.”

“Which other Mario.”

“We only have one other Mario, you stupid butthole.” It was more like Stewart only had one other Mario that didn’t suck. The franchise was all his mother allowed him to play. That is, until two unknown burglars snatched the cartridges from his television cabinet, and according to rumor and hearsay, they spared one because of the turnip on the front. ”Turnips suck,” one of the unnamed burglars is allegedly reported to have stated. To this day, their identities remain a baffling mystery.

Butt-Head, comfortably propped on the couch, scratched his eyelids. “Uh, sure.”

“Hell yeah, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis shoved the cartridge into the console, noting the glitching screen. He took the game out, blew as hard as he could, and put it back. Victory. He straightened out the singular controller’s cord as he crawled to Butt-Head’s side, sitting with his legs crossed and the back of his neck against the table. They used to have two controllers until the day Beavis got mad about something or other and chewed through the wire. Duct tape fixed it for a while, but he chewed through that also. “Wahoo, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh… Beavis?”

“What.” Beavis followed a pair of dark brown eyes down to his hands. “No! No!” He straightened his arms the other direction, putting the maximum amount of distance between Butt-Head and the controller. “You always get to play first!”

“Damnit, dude, just give me this stupid crap.” He smushed Beavis against the back of the table as he climbed across.

“No! Stop it, Butt-Head!” He tried to push Butt-Head off with little success, instead deciding to wiggle out his legs and blindly kick. “I wanna play first this one time!”

“Ugh! Get your foot out of my face, you weirdo!” Butt-Head used one hand to pin Beavis’ head down against the carpet, then used his other hand to snatch the controller while the disgruntled blonde was immobilized. Beavis sprang back up as Butt-Head let go, but he had surrendered, grumbling beneath his breath as Butt-Head pressed the start button with pride. “You shall watch, and you shall learn.”

“There’s nothing to learn, butthole,” Beavis mtuttered as he scratched his nose with enough nearly force to be considered a slap.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head went quiet as Mario-Head threw himself right in front of a Goomba, dying immediately. “That is what’s called a test run.”

“Bullshit! Give me that!” Beavis snatched the controller from Butt-Head’s hands. “I’m gonna kick your ass, heh-heh-meh. Oh hell yeah, here we go.” His lips twisted in a snarky grin as he successfully nabbed the mushroom, and he began to produce his own sound effects as he hopped over the pipes, “Hwuah, hwuah, hwuah, hwu-! Oh.” Luigi plummeted to his death down a bottomless pit, and Beavis shoved the controller into Butt-Head’s chest with a sputtering growl.

“This is where my true run begins.” Mario-Head immediately ran straight into the Goomba. “Damnit.”

“Okay, okay. This is it! Jesus Christ in Hell!” Beavis smashed the controller against the table as he, too, ran into the stupid Goomba. Butt-Head reached forwards and inched the controller closer with his index finger until he was able to grab it. Upon restarting the level, Mario-Head did not move, which raised some eyebrows. “Uh, Butt-Head?”

“Maybe, if I stay absolutely still,-“ The Goomba walked right into him. “This game sucks.”

And yet they kept playing despite their rising blood pressure, and by some miracle of the Good Lord, Beavis made it to the very end by the skin of his yellow teeth. “Yes! Yes! Oh my god!”

Butt-Head was so enamored that he forgot to make a joke as Luigi slid down the pole. “That was cool, uh-huh-huh.”

“Okay, okay. I-I’m not gonna screw this up. I got this, heh-heh-meh.” With zero extra lives to his name, Luigi dropped down into World 1-2, where a pair of Goombas awaited his descent. “Oh my god, there’s two of them! Butt-Head, help!”

“Just jump onto the question mark block things, dumbass.”

But it was too late. In his panic, Luigi screamed and flailed his arms straight into the enemy, an 8-bit jingle mocking him as his corpse plummeted off of the map. The controller went flying, crashing into the square screen at high speeds.

“This game sucks!” Beavis repeated Butt-Head’s words, only this time a tad bit less monotone. He threw himself towards the console, yanking the cartridge out of its slot. “Piece of stupid crap! I hate you! God damnit!”

Butt-Head ducked as the game went soaring past his head, hitting the wall behind the couch. “Uh…” He scanned Beavis’ face, red, sweaty, and twitching. “Wanna play something else.”

Beavis opened his already agape mouth further, but a noise neither hear often made him jerk his head towards the kitchen. He stared, his chest shuddering as it rose and fell.

“Beavis.”

Butt-Head’s voice popped him back into place. “I got it, damnit.” Hands on his knees, he pushed himself up and stumbled forwards, wiping his brow. He shoved the phone to his cranium, interrogating the caller regarding their audacity, “Hello?”

Tenderness was his sweet reward. “Oh, um. Excuse me. Hello.“ A pause. “I’m sorry, excuse me. Your name’s…?” The woman, unbeknownst to him, read his name off of the phone book.

He winced, distracted from the fact he was on the phone with a girl. “I-It’s just Beavis.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” He could hear her swallow. “Is… Is Butt-Head with you?”

“Yeah, he’s in the living room.”

“Can you put him on the phone please?”

“Sure, heh-heh-meh.” He peered behind his shoulder. “Hey, butthole. Some chick wants to talk to you.” Beavis froze. A chick wanted to talk to Butt-Head. A chick wanted to talk to Butt-Head. “Butt-Head actually died just now-ack!”

Beavis gagged as Butt-Head wrapped his arm around his neck and yanked the phone out of his hand. He pivoted around as he threw Beavis to the side, who staggered as he tried not to slip against the tile. “Hey, dumbass,” he purred into the receiver before his eyes shot open. “Beautiful! Uh. Beautiful. Hey, beautiful. What’s happening, uh-huh-huh. Ugh!” he yelped as an invasive species threw himself on top of his back. He bucked like a bull while Beavis pulled himself up, too bony to choke Butt-Head out. “Damnit, Beavis, let go of me!”

“Give me the phone, butthole!” He frantically reached for the phone, only for Butt-Head to switch it to the other ear. “Give it to me now!” He gasped as Butt-Head unhooked his arm around his neck, almost sending him straight to the floor. Almost. Beavis snagged two handfuls of long, tangled hair, and as Butt-Head’s head snapped backwards, he let out a scream Beavis never thought he was capable of making. The pair collapsed against the cold, slick floor, with Beavis narrowly avoiding having his organs crushed as Hick Rapunzel landed on his side. As he laid there making strange noises, Beavis scrambled to the phone hanging off the side of the counter, the curled wire having broken its fall.

But Beavis paused. It had been far too easy to secure the phone. Turning his head, he caught sight of Butt-Head, who had curled up with his hand pressed down on the back of his scalp, still making those noises. Biting a sliver of dry skin off of his lips, Beavis let go of the phone and crawled over to his side. He peered over Butt-Head’s shoulders, finding that his dark eyes were glinting beneath the kitchen light. “Butt-Head?”

Butt-Head blinked his eyes towards Beavis, causing the tears to finally fall. He barely dodged Butt-Head’s swinging arm and prepared to do so a second time, but Butt-Head instead hunkered back down, cradling the back of his head and trying his hardest not to sniffle.

Beavis took hold of the phone again. He thought about it for a while. But, ultimately, he slowly extended his arm, silently waiting for Butt-Head to notice his reparations. And when he finally did, he was instantly cured. Butt-Head whisked the phone out of Beavis’ hands, nearly dragging the entire machine off of the counter. “I told you, dumbass,” he grumbled as he stood, Beavis still cowering against the floor. “Grace is mine.”

“Grace?” her muffled voice broke through the air. “Butt-Head, it’s me. Hannah.”

“Who.” He paused in the middle of drying his eyes with his fists. “Oh yeah. Hannah. Uh… hey.”

“Hannah?” Beavis used the countertop to bring himself to his feet. “That Driver’s Ed chick?”

“Hey,” she greeted yet again. Her voice echoed in Butt-Head’s ears, long enough that he didn’t mind the silence that followed. With a meek sigh, she finally whispered, “I should’ve called you a long time ago.”

“Uh-huh-huh. Uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head paused to suck the buildup of snot down his throat. “Well,”—he began, more nasally than usual—“what can I do for you, baby. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Um… Well, it’s just…” She searched far for her words, stumbling, “H-How are you?”

“Uh… good, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis stared. “I-I think you’re supposed to ask her back.”

“Oh yeah. How are you.”

“I’m fine, just fine.” She cleared her throat, then swallowed. “Uh… is Beavis still there?”

“No.”

“Yeah!” Butt-Head drew back as Beavis stood on his toes to shove his face into the phone. “That’s me, heh-heh-meh. Ol’ Beavis Sleavis.” What the hell?

Her chuckle was stifled and scattered. “Well, how are you?” Before he could respond, she laughed yet again, this time more heartily. “Goodness, are you two ever apart?” she reflected on the first couple of days of Driver’s Ed, where Beavis had tried over and over again to attend class with Butt-Head and caused scene after scene when he didn’t understand why he was being kicked out. The instructor nearly called the cops on day five, but eventually allowed Beavis to loiter outside on the curb as substitute.

“No, heh-heh-meh. We live together.”

“God damnit.”

“What?!”

“Aw, how sweet,” was all it took for Butt-Head to completely forget about kicking Beavis’ ass. “I wish I could live with my friends.”

“No you don’t.” Butt-Head put the phone on the other ear, but Beavis simply walked around him. “It sucks.”

Hannah’s voice sported a smile, “Come on, Butt-Head. Don’t be cruel.”

“Uh, uh, uh.” His eyes flickered between Beavis and the phone. “No. It’s great. I love living with Beavis. Yep. Every day with Beavis is the best day of my life. I don’t know, like, what I would do without him… in the house… with me… every day.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh, we sleep together.”

Butt-Head’s head turned towards him with the glare of a thousand fallen soldiers.

The connection between landlines crackled like static. “I’m sorry?”

“Y-Yeah!” Beavis snatched the phone out of Butt-Head’s hands, who was frozen in place. “He loves living with me so much, yeah-yeah. We’re such good friends w-who love living together and stuff that he, like, begs me to sleep next to him every single night. No-no-no, wait! I beg him! Yeah! A-And it was my idea to live together, too! B-Because I love living with my friends more than he does-!”

The handset slapped Beavis across the face as Butt-Head ripped it back. “Yep,” he rasped into the receiver. “Every night.” Butt-Head lingered there for a moment longer before he slammed the phone down.

“What the hell?! Why did you hang up?!”

Butt-Head looked like he was ready to strangle him with a clothing hanger. “Beavis, listen to me very carefully. I am going to kick your ass. You’re, like, ruining my aura.”

“My fault?! Your aura?!”

“Shut up, shut up,” Butt-Head stammered as the phone began to ring. He took as deep of a breath as he could, holding it as he smacked the phone against his head. “Hey.”

“Hello.” She tried to speak, but cut herself off. She restarted her sentences over and over again until, finally, she was comprehensible, “Butt-Head, I actually called you about something specific. I just… I hope I didn’t do anything to offend you at the party.”

“What.”

She went silent once more, giving Beavis time to inch closer to the phone. “It’s just that… I don’t know. I thought we were getting along really well, you know? But when I asked you out, you… accused me of leading you on? Then you left? I don’t understand what I did wrong. It’s been worrying me sick. I hate to upset anyone and not know what I did. You can be honest with me,” she quickly stammered. “I promise.”

“Uh…” For a second, Butt-Head glanced towards Beavis as if he was looking for help. “I thought, uh… I thought you didn’t like me.”

“What? Don’t like you?” She stopped herself halfway through the pronunciation of his legal name, resuming, “Butt-Head, I asked you out.” She waited for any ounce of understanding. “Like, on a date.”

“A date?”

“A date?!” Beavis screamed over him.

“Yes!” Her laughter sounded relieved. “Have you never been asked out before?”

“Yeah, but… I mean, no. Lesbians.” He swallowed hard. “So you wanna be my girlfriend or something.”

“Girlfriend? Oh, I don’t think we’re quite there yet. But maybe we can be if you pick me up at my house at six this Friday.”

“For what.”

“For a date, Butt-Head.”

“Woah. Uh-huh-huh. Yeah, baby. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Well, alright then! Great!” After getting past her hurdle of uncontrollable giggles, Hannah listed out her address twice for good measure. “Remember, six o’clock this Friday. Got it?”

“Yeah, yeah. Got it, baby. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Cool! Yeah… Very cool.” They could practically hear her twirling her auburn hair through the phone. “I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later. Bye-bye now.”

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh,” Butt-Head snickered as he set the phone down. “That was cool.”

“Six?” Beavis questioned as Butt-Head resumed his giddy laughter. “Jesus, that’s early.”

“She just can’t wait to get a piece of this.” He pointed a finger at himself with a smirk, swinging his leg as he strolled out of the kitchen.

“Shut up, Butt-Head.” Beavis scurried after him. “She’s probably trying to get it over with as soon as possible.”

Butt-Head halted in his tracks, glancing over his shoulder. “Beavis, are you, like, gonna be supportive or not.”

“I-I am supportive!” he blurted out without thinking.

“Good. I don’t need your dumbass screwing up my relationship.”

“She’s not your girlfriend, butthole!”

“Well,”—Butt-Head flopped down on the couch—“whatever she is, she’s not yours. You gotta accept that, Beavis. Flirt with her again and I’ll, like, destroy you. Seriously. When Hannah’s around, I love living with my friends the most.”

“Yeah-yeah, whatever, bunghole.” Beavis took a large step onto the couch, briefly balancing on his leg like a flamingo as he lowered himself down. The pair stared at the Super Mario start screen, both wanting to watch MTV, but neither wanting to take the time to change the input. “I-I thought you didn’t care about this kind of stuff.”

“A real girl has the hots for me, dumbass. I am not going to ignore that.”

Beavis glanced over. “Do you even, like, like her back?”

“Uh, I don’t know.” Butt-Head turned his head, then slightly tilted it like a dog. “Do I need to?”

“I don’t know, but i-isn’t that, like, the whole point of dating somebody. That you’re in love with them or something.”

“Uh… maybe. I don’t know.” Butt-Head returned to the television. Perhaps he was imagining something there. “How do you, like, know if you’re in love or not.”

“Damnit, Butt-Head, don’t ask me.” Beavis brought his legs to his chest. “I don’t know anything about that dumb crap.”

He ever so slightly shrugged. “So what am I supposed to do.”

“I-I just said I don’t know anything about that.” Beavis began to fumble with his hands, finally throwing them in the air. “Just, I don’t know, go on that date and see if anything happens, I guess. Maybe, like, you’ll know when you know, or something. That you love her and stuff.”

He didn’t expect Butt-Head to start chuckling. “Uh-huh-huh. Love is dumb.”

“Yeah, seriously, heh-heh-meh. What do couples even do.”

“Dumb stuff, uh-huh-huh. Cause they suck.” Despite himself, he pondered this anyways. “I think they, like, do everything together, like, all the time. And if they don’t, they get sad or something. And they also live together. And sleep in the same bed. And I think they get married at some point.”

Beavis began to search for whatever channel Butt-Head was imagining. “Sounds kinda boring, heh-heh-meh.”

“You’re just a jealous asswipe.”

“Y-You just said couples suck!” he snarled. “And she is not your girlfriend!”

“Yeah, but she will be. And when she does, you better stay away from her.”

“S-She better stay away from me. Just warning you.” When Butt-Head looked both unthreatened and unamused, Beavis added with a voice less confident than he had intended, “Cause, like, she may change her mind, you know.”

Butt-Head’s gums parted. “Uh-huh-huh. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Beavis. Uh-huh-huh.”

Butt-Head used to stay up late. School nights or weekend, it didn’t matter. The pair would ignore their mountains of homework and stay up until the asscrack of dawn watching music videos and stealing fries from one another’s Burger World bag. But when Butt-Head turned eighteen, he also turned geriatric. Maybe it was all those sleepless nights finally catching up with him, maybe they started putting something in the water. Whatever it was, all Beavis knew was that it was only eleven o’clock and Butt-Head was out.

The lightbulb above the kitchen table emitted a cold white, and it hurt, but it was all he had to work with. He had the guitar, he had the strings, and he had the light, but he needed more. He needed the strings to get on the guitar. But they just laid on the table, looking at Beavis like he was the idiot.

He had tried to take off the rope, but every attempt left his shaky palms slick. He knew it wouldn’t matter if he broke the guitar again. He could just get Van Driessen to fix it. And yet, attempt after attempt, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. He couldn’t wipe the sweat off of his palms enough. He couldn’t ease his rapid heart rate. He couldn’t open his constricted throat. The night he had broken the guitar, he had felt it all tenfold. He could have sworn he was being watched. He could have sworn he was being chased.

Beavis couldn’t take it anymore. Holding his breath, he swiveled around in his chair and scanned the room. It should not have been empty. His own mother’s guitar, chipped and shattered. He should not have gotten away with it. Or had he? Even after all those years, when Beavis had turned around, he did not fully believe that she would not be standing behind him.

He should not have gotten away with it.

Beavis’ shoes scuffed against the pavement, the front door swinging shut by the time he had reached the tilted mailbox. The air, while no longer scorching, was a sickly warm, tainted by the humidity. Condensation drowned his lungs, and he began to struggle like he would in the midday, but he kept on. There was not going to be a better night.

He jaywalked across the barren intersection, turning a blind eye to the approaching headlights glinting overhead. He hopped over the street gutter and a torn, stained grocery sack refusing to let go. A dog chirped and the crickets barked as Beavis slipped under the yellow tape, painted green under the midnight sky.

Blades of discolored grass sprouting through the parking lot’s cracks grazed his ankles as he made his way to one of the concrete staircases. The railings rusted and decayed, Beavis kept his hands close to his chest, holding onto his fingers as he crept on upwards to a door named 208.

His scabbed, scarred hand wrapped around a doorknob that had lost its golden luster years ago. Splinters of aged, rotten wood rained down from the top of the threshold as Beavis began to pull and tug. He flinched as the door finally gave way, sighing its death rattle, and casting the distant glow of downtown Highland into what used to be home.

Blinded by the light, a cockroach fluttered back into a darker corner as Beavis stepped onto the rug, its tousled pattern obscured by a blanket of grit. Beneath the boarded window was a pile of glistening glass, and not far away laid an abandoned sleeping bag, suffocated by cobwebs. The couch had a blanket Beavis had never seen before draped across it, tangled in discarded needles and unlabeled glass bottles. Bodies upon bodies of mummified crane flies crackled with each step he took, or perhaps they were alive, burdened by the dust clouding the air like a fog. The emptiness weighed down his chest, as if he were expecting something different. Beavis wasn’t sure what he had been expecting to begin with. He knew Butt-Head was right, yet here he was, breathing in the ashes of shriveled cigarettes both old and new.

He made his way over to where the television once stood. He wondered whether Butt-Head’s mother had taken it or not, if their leaving was arranged or impetuous. Which was worse? Kneeling down, he pulled open one of the cabinets, disturbing a black widow and her crotchet spawn. Beavis sniffed as he smiled, breaking through her web as he pulled out one blocky cartridge at a time. Jackal, Excitebike, Metroid, Super C. God, he forgot about Super C. They had never gotten past the first section, but the very act of getting to shoot at a helicopter never became dull. Beavis left Dragon Warrior behind, though. The cover art made it look way cooler than it actually was. He nearly gave it back to Stewart it pissed him off so bad. He checked the second cabinet just in case, finding nothing but an unkempt pile of playing cards. Butt-Head’s mother used to play solitaire. It was the only thing she ever did other than smoke and drink and make children cry. But apparently, Beavis using the cards’ box to bury a gecko so dead it looked like a raisin was a gesture only he appreciated. Butt-Head’s mother never laid a hand on him, not to hug nor to strike him, but over a tiny cardboard box, she nearly did. Beavis shut the drawer.

A hound’s baying reminded him of the dark and the dust. Cartridges pinned between his fingers, he slipped past the couch, only to pause and check one more time, just one more time, to see if it was truly empty.

Beavis glared at himself. What the hell was he wanting there to be? It sure wasn’t going to be Shirley. She was scattered, here, there, everywhere. Every memory of her had two variations, sometimes more. Same face, different place. He wasn’t looking for Butt-Head’s mother. There was no reason to look for her. She wouldn’t look for you. But Beavis did look. He looked for them on the couch, in the walls, in the bottles and in the needles in the cigarettes, unsure of what he would do if he found them.

His eyes began to drift around the apartment, the muffled light poorly translating its corners and cracks. He didn’t understand how he could possibly long for the light to be just a little bit brighter, but the light was just a little bit brighter, maybe he could walk just a little bit further in. Not that he wanted to go, not that he wanted to leave.

Was that it? Was this apartment going to be destroyed and was that going to be it? What else did he want? What else could there possibly be to want? He knew these cartridges were here, yet avoided them all this time just to avoid stepping past that threshold again. He wanted it all gone. He wanted to burn it all down and only get himself out of the fire once he knew that there was nothing left to burn. He also wanted to tear down the tape and hope it would make the demolishers forget. The fate of this place shouldn’t be left up to anybody but him.

But it wasn’t. This was Butt-Head’s home. It was all up to him. What was going to happen to his home was what he wanted. Did Butt-Head wish he was the one to burn it all down? Or did he not care? At all? About anything? Ever?

Beavis had to leave before he did something stupid.

He held the cartridges like they could hug him back, feeling the wood sink beneath each step. Beavis lingered at the door, gazing between the railings and at the barren parking lot below. Standing on the threshold, one step in, one step out, he began to hurt. This was it.

Beavis turned around, just one more time, and with the blinding beams of a passing car, the light became just a little bit brighter.

The closet. Beavis had forgotten about the closet.

There was not going to be a better night.

Beavis crept around the hallway corner, the sound of running water growing indefinitely. There was no recollection of him turning the faucet on, but it was nothing he thought twice about. Things slipped Beavis’ mind all the time. It was only when he wanted to forget that it seemed so impossible.

Because Butt-Head was doing the dishes. “Butt-Head?”

Beavis could see his arms go tense. He ever so slightly peered behind his shoulder, just to be sure. Shutting his eyes, Butt-Head flicked the water from his hands and shut the faucet off.

There was no indication he was going to talk. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was,” he murmured. He wet his eyelashes as he rubbed his sockets, taking slow, ambled paces away from the sink. “Where’s your dumbass been.”

Butt-Head’s eyes flashed open as Beavis dropped a box onto the kitchen table. He brought the cartridges out into the light. It was less harsh than before. Or maybe he was just distracted. “Look, heh-heh-meh. Cool, huh?”

For a moment, a fourteen year old boy glistened behind Butt-Head’s dark, gray eye bags. “Holy shit.” He took the games from Beavis’ hands, enamored.

“Don’t be mad, alright?” he defended before Butt-Head could snap out of his trance.

Butt-Head finally put two and two together. He raised his head and lowered his hands down to the polished wood. “You’re an idiot.” And yet, he began to stare at the box. “What’s this.”

“It’s from the closet.”

What a glorious opportunity. “Like you, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head. Anyways, I was looking for some of your old stuff. I-I didn’t find much, but this was sitting at the top. I haven’t really gone through it yet.” He pulled the box closer so he could look down into it. “Looks like there’s movies and stuff.”

“What movies.”

Beavis began to rotate one of the VHS tapes. “Uh… I-I don’t see a name or anything.” His hands remained in the same position as Butt-Head took the block out of his hands, inspected it himself, then placed it back on the table in defeat.

“That sucks.” He took out another tape, then another. “This all sucks.”

“I mean, come on, we can try to watch them anyways.”

“There’s nothing on them, dumbass.”

“We can try, butthole. Damnit.” Something at an awkward angle caught his attention. “Hey. What’s this, Butt-Head,” he asked, despite checking the object himself. A flimsy, white slip, he turned it over and gasped.

“What.” He leaned over, then immediately leaned back. “Oh my god.”

“Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh. You look like a boiled egg.”

“What does that even mean. God, you suck.” Butt-Head rejoined Beavis, who continued to snicker uncontrollably at the picture of Baby Beavis and Baby-Head. “Ugh. Why are we in the same crib. They should’ve made you sleep on the balcony.”

“Heh-heh-meh, shut up, heh-heh-meh.”

“Same damn hair, too. Jesus Christ. Uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis looked away for only a second. “Look, there’s more.” Setting the picture down, he pinched a couple more between his fingers, properly readjusting them as he brought his hands back. “Who’s this butthole.”

Butt-Head squinted at the John Doe grinning on an unknown couch, margarita glass raised high in the air. “Uh, I don’t know.” Beavis flicked the picture away, revealing a chestnut-haired woman posing with her hands on her hips in front of the Galveston waves. “Who’s this butthole.”

“That’s my aunt, fartknocker.”

“Your aunt’s hot.”

“Damnit, Butt-Head, stop being weird.” He set it down and saw Butt-Head do a double take. “Stop it, weirdo!” Beavis flipped the picture around, reverting his focus back to his hands, which began to twitch. Same place, different face. “Uh, and that’s my mom, yeah.” He put it away. There was another picture of her beneath that one as well, the flash from the camera drowning out almost everything but her grin. Sitting beside her was none other than Butt-Head’s mother, who, with her eyes gazing off in a completely different direction, didn’t look like she was aware of a photo being taken. Beavis let the picture fall to the floor, muttering above Butt-Head’s deafening silence, “Uh… Uh… Okay, okay, here we go. Oh.” Beavis stiffened as he recognized his mom’s facial structure behind the dark sunglasses. She was leaned up against a jet black motorcycle, sporting a heavy jacket far too large for her frame. Beside her was a man, blonde and skinny, with one arm wrapped around Shirley’s waist and another around a biker’s helmet, smiling with an uncanny similarity to a braying donkey. “W-Who the hell is this guy?”

“Whoever he is, he sure is ugly. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head. He’s not that bad.” Beavis flipped to the next image, which portrayed a man and a woman sitting on a revving motorcycle. Just like the prior picture, it took Beavis a few seconds to realize the woman was Butt-Head’s mother, with most of her face being obscured behind the man’s shoulder. He was clinging onto the handles as well as his remaining patches of dark hair, jagged teeth protruding out of a smug grin as his passenger flipped off the camera.

“What’s my mom doing with a model.”

“These pictures suck.” He tossed it blindly to the side. “When are we gonna get to the cool stuff.”

“Woah.”

“What. Woah.” Beavis knew exactly what Butt-Head was looking at. Or, more specifically, who. “Is that Van Driessen?”

Butt-Head took the image and brought it close. “Uh… I mean, it really looks like him, but it can’t be. Van Driessen’s, like, older than this, I think.”

“Let me see, bunghole.” Beavis nearly gave him a paper cut with how swift he snatched the photo back, tilting it away from the harsh glare of the light. His mother was propped on the armrest of the couch, her light curls blurred from turning her head the moment the photo was taken. She was holding a guitar, the guitar, in better condition than Beavis ever knew it. A ways ahead of her sat a man criss-crossed on the beige carpet, wearing a tank top a few sizes too big and a colorful headband beneath his long blonde hair. He was holding a guitar as well, the details of his strumming hand unclear. “I-I mean…” Beavis rapidly blinked. “If this picture was taken a long time ago and stuff, he’s gonna look younger, you know.” He continued to stare, his grip tightening and creasing the image. “What is this crap? Van Driessen doesn’t know my mom!”

“Uh-huh-huh. Maybe he’s your dad.”

“Shut up! That stupid hippie is not my dad!”

He looked at So-Called Van Driessen, then back at Beavis. “Uh… you both like to play guitar. And I see him right there with your mom, uh-huh-huh.“

“That doesn’t mean anything!”

“The dots are all connecting.” He slowly brought his index fingers together.

“Shut up! T-That has to be somebody else! A-And even if it is Van Driessen… Hey, look!” Beavis flipped through what was left in the stack and shoved another picture into Butt-Head’s face. “He’s your dad too!”

Butt-Head shrunk back, blinking the photo into focus, where all three were snugly fit inside the chipped, white border. So-Called Van Driessen wore a grin that almost seemed nervous, both hands forming peace signs. Beside him stood Shirley, making a single peace sign herself with a smirk and a wink. To her left stood Butt-Head’s mother, half of her face hidden behind another middle finger. “Damn, Beavis.” Beavis’ angled eyebrows began to lift. “I think this guy is, like, actually him.”

Beavis quietly lowered his arm. It was his turn to stare. “He doesn’t know our moms.” He lifted his head. “Right? I’ve never seen him before school, like, at the house or something. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do? Hang out?”

”Uh… Maybe when we were born and stuff, his dumb hippie ass got so scared of our hardcoreness that he never talked to our moms again.”

“Yeah, or maybe he got scared of the talking boiled egg, heh-heh-meh.”

“Whatever, asswipe.” His insult’s lightweight was cushioned as his jaw stretched open in a hefty yawn. “Uh, Beavis. This is, like, cool and all, but I’m getting tired.”

“No-no-no, come on, Butt-Head!” Beavis hopped in place. “We gotta watch the movies!”

“There’s nothing on them, dumbass.”

“I-I meant we gotta see if there’s anything on them! Come on, dude,” he coerced, replacing the photos with the tapes and backing up towards the living room. “I’m watching them with and- no, with or without you. You are making the decision to be a sleepy wuss.” He forced his scruffy voice as low as it could go, “Oh, I’m getting tired. Oh, I gotta go to bed. I got an early appointment at the Butthole Store tomorrow! Yeah, I called ahead and everything!”

When Butt-Head began to walk towards him with violent intentions in his eyes and curled fists, Beavis giddily snickered and dashed away. His knees skidded on the carpet as he dropped before the television cabinet, pushing a randomly selected tape into the VHS player. Pressing the power button, he switched the inputs over to a vibrant blue screen. Too caught up in the moment to check if it needed to be reminded, Beavis pressed play and bolted over to the couch, oblivious to the pain in his knee after banging it on the corner of the table.

“It’s gonna be nothing, dude.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head! I-It’s doing something.” Beavis tried to decipher the frames behind the multi-colored glitches infecting the screen. He caught wind of a voice, but it was far too distorted to understand. At least, in the beginning. The audio began to clear far faster than the visuals, resurrecting a voice Beavis never thought he would hear again,

”Yeah, you two were supposed to be born on the same day.”

The scattered colors finally bowed down to her. For the first time in six years, Mom looked back at him.

”Really?”

“Yep. That’s what the doctors told us.”

Beavis didn’t know what to do.

”What happened?”

Shirley glanced at the camera again, then addressed a child unseen, “Well, the Good Lord has a plan for us all, and get your foot out of your mouth!” The camera tumbled to the side, where a much younger Butt-Head, maybe around six or seven, grunted as he lowered his leg back to the ground.

A voice clearer than the rest came from behind the camera, “What did I tell you about doing that, boy.”

As Butt-Head averted his gaze, Beavis held onto his ankles and rocked back and forth. “What plan?”

Beavis was sitting beside Butt-Head. He turned his head to look at him, for help, for perspective, for something else, only to find a pair of eyes that forced the screen to turn into a refuge. Beavis faced forwards again, blocking out his peripheral vision, and his teeth began to dig into his hand.

The camera turned back to Shirley, who smoothed out her skirt and gave a simple shrug. “I don’t know, angel. All I know is that His timing is always right.” She gestured to Butt-Head. “It was part of God’s plan for you to be born before nine months,”—she pointed to Beavis—“and it was God’s plan for you to be born after nine months.”

”It was God’s plan for you to try to kill a man?”

For the first time, Butt-Head spoke, “Woah!”

”You did what?!”

Shirley gave Butt-Head’s mother a death glare, interrupted by a cackling Beavis throwing herself onto her lap. “Okay, okay, okay. Slow down now.” She patiently waited for Beavis to wiggle his way upright, finally curling up on the couch between her and Butt-Head’s mother. He rested a head on his mother’s shoulder, who wrapped an arm around him with an anxious chuckle. “Jesus, this is like… the worst story time ever.”

Butt-Head’s voice was barely discernible, “What do you mean, like, uh… you almost killed a guy?”

Beavis dared to speak, “Do you remember this?”

Butt-Head did not answer.

Shirley sighed, rolling her eyes up to Heaven. “Come here,-“ she referred to Butt-Head by his birth name, patting the space on the couch beside her. She waited for him to sit down, then pulled him close with her arm when he didn’t lean into her. “Now, I did not actually try to kill a guy.” She raised her voice over the chorus of signs and groans, “Listen, listen, listen! I didn’t try to kill him, but I did want to hurt him very, very, very, very,”—she kept repeating the word upon realizing it was making Beavis giggle—“very, very, very, very badly.”

”Yes. Very, very badly.”

”Hey, cameraman.” Shirley snapped her fingers, and Beavis laughed so hard he hid his face behind his shirt. Butt-Head only smiled, yet he veiled his face as well with small, chubby hands. “I’ve had enough of your help, thank you very much.”

”Hurry up!” Beavis arched his back as he stretched, falling right back into her embrace.

”Alright, alright.” Shirley adjusted her seating position, and so did Beavis when she was done. “So, remember how I told you that you were born after nine months?” Her son vigorously shook his head. “Well, I did. Like, five seconds ago.” Shirley playfully sighed. “Anyways, the thing is, when babies are about to be born, they tell their mommas. But see, you didn’t tell me.” She softly jabbed Beavis’ belly, who broke into another laughing fit. “It had been two weeks past your due date, and the doctors told me I needed to be induced, which basically means force you to be born. But I told them I would give you a little bit more time.”

Butt-Head’s mother coughed. “What?” she barked as Shirley side-eyed her.

Shirley shook her curls. “Anyways, I was working at a diner at the time. It’s like a little restaurant. I was a waitress. And this one day, I happen to just catch a glimpse of somebody sitting at the bar. It was none other,”—she paused for the drama—“than your daddy.”

Beavis was quiet for a moment, finally whispering, “Really?”

”Really. And I was so angry at him for not wanting to be apart of your life,”—Butt-Head’s mother coughed once again—“that I climbed onto the bar counter, marched on over to him, and kicked him right across the face.”

”Woah.” Butt-Head’s eyes widened while Beavis was speechless, mouth agape.

”Woah’s right. After that, Mommy probably got a little bit carried away.”

”She took a fork from his plate and tried to stab him with it.”

”Thank you, cameraman.”

”That’s so cool!” Beavis shrieked.

Shirley began to stammer nervously, shaking her head back and forth, “No, no. It’s not cool. Don’t do anything like that, you two. Ever. But… yeah, so, he ended up grabbing me and throwing me across one of the tables…” She clicked her tongue. “And before you know it, a few hours later, I was holding a baby.”

”Aww! Who?”

Shirley stared blankly towards her son, which didn’t last long as a smile began to form. “You, angel.”

”Oh…” Beavis drew out the word. “Why?”

Butt-Head’s mother stifled a laugh deep within her chest, to which Beavis turned around, clearly confused. Shirley held herself together, tapping his shoulder with a smile. “Hey, hey.” She waited for him to look back at her. “Are you gettin’ hungry?” She pointed towards Butt-Head. “Sweetheart, how about you?”

Butt-Head nodded, while Beavis’ sprouting snickers gave his answer.

Shirley groaned as she stretched her arms over her head. “Well, alright then,” was the cue for the boys to scamper to the kitchen. As they vanished behind the counter, too short to peak over, the camera began to tilt downwards. “Hey.”

”What?”

”Next time? I don’t need you-“

There was a click, a slight buzz, then silence.

Beavis stared into the blue as the tape began to automatically rewind. Butt-Head did, too. For a time, they remained there. Staring. And the tape just kept rewinding. Beavis didn’t notice Butt-Head get up. He could hardly see him standing in front of the television.

Butt-Head kneeled down to eject the tape. He held it without a word, then finally set it down amongst the rest. Hands in his pockets, he ambled over to Beavis, who had not moved. “I’m, uh… I’m gonna, like, go to bed now, and stuff.” Butt-Head did something he didn’t do often: he waited. “Alright?”

Beavis remained there until something warm trickled down the side of his hand. He looked down, finding a stream of blood falling from the broken scab. He wasn’t sure if it was a scab anymore. “Alright.”

Butt-Head did not move.

Beavis watched the blood curve around the palm of his hand, gather, then drip onto his leg. “That was cool. Wasn’t it.”

“Uh… yeah.”

He stood without much thought. Butt-Head stepped aside to let him through, watching him drag himself towards the tapes and nearly collapse. Lowering himself to the ground, Beavis picked one of them up with a stained hand. “You think they’re all old videos?”

“Uh… maybe.”

Beavis picked up another tape with his other hand. Both arms fell at his sides. “What if something happened.”

Butt-Head paused in the middle of an exhale. “What?”

“What if…” He let go of one tape, then picked up another, perhaps the one that just played. “What if they didn’t mean to leave.”

“Beavis.”

“What if something happened to them, Butt-Head.” He twisted his head over his shoulder, then began to cradle it with his empty hands. “W-What if they… they-they were gonna come back, a-and something happened to them and they’re dead.”

“They’re dead whether or not they meant to leave. And they meant to.”

“How do you know that?!” Beavis cried out, scraping his head with his nails. “She would always leave me a note!”

“Yeah, sure. When she was coming back.” Butt-Head crept forwards, his hands out of his pockets and pointing between Beavis and himself. “Beavis. We know what happened. They left.” He lowered himself down to the ground, something Beavis did not notice. “They left, and it sucks, but they sucked even more.”

”Your mom sucked! My mom loved me!”

Where most would take offense, Butt-Head accepted Beavis’ words like he would expect an artist telling him that the sky was painted blue. Not that there was anything to accept. That implied a newfound understanding. There was nothing new about any of this.

Butt-Head fully sat down, his arms draped across his lap and his hair across his face. “Uh, Beavis. I’m not some grand master of love or whatever. But I’m pretty sure if Shirley loved you, she wouldn’t have left.”

“She did love me.” Butt-Head did not speak. It was worse than a rebuke. “She did, Butt-Head.”

He refused to meet Beavis’ eyes. Swallowing a breath, all he could mumble was, “Okay.”

And all Beavis could do was push him. “Don’t do that!” he hissed as he scrambled back, air whistling between his teeth.

Butt-Head was barely moved, before or after. “Do what, dude.”

“That!” Beavis’ body flinched a great deal as jolted his arms forwards. “This! You just…” Beavis began to drift. Butt-Head’s lack of response was of no help. He moved himself even further away from Butt-Head, a corner of a tape pressing into his thigh. But when he pushed it away with a flick of his wrist, something beneath the blue hue around caught his dilated eyes: a written label. “Hey, Butt-Head,” the voice was weak, solemn and low. “What does this say.”

Butt-Head hesitated before he picked it up, angling it before the light. Beavis could see his eyes move back and forth, over and over again, for a period of time far greater than even a standard such as theirs. “I don’t know.”

“What?” Beavis furrowed his eyebrows, “It’s, like, three words.” He added, “I mean, right?”

“Yeah,”—he tossed it back—“and I don’t know what it says.”

“C-Careful with that.” Beavis held out his hand as if he could stop it.

“Beavis…” His words fell away, and his mouth began to close, as if he was stopping something. He dragged both hands down his face, stopping just beneath his eyelids. “I’m tired.”

Beavis ever so slightly nodded. “Yeah,” he breathed out as Butt-Head pulled himself to his feet. Beavis did eventually stand. He wasn’t tired. Not now, not ever. But he followed Butt-Head anyways, flaking the blood from his hands onto his white shirt as he went.

And he would not sleep. He wasn’t sure if Butt-Head slept either. His breathing never slowed quite right.

The whole night, Beavis laid there, listening to Butt-Head breathe, staring at the empty ceiling, unaware of the tape tilted, “To My Angel,” rotting amongst the dried blood and the broken bottle glass.

Sitting on the curb, with her head hung low and her hair dark and damp, that woman was the only person he could recognize better without looking at her face.

”Hey.”

She lifted her face towards the city’s sun, a street lamp. It caught every score and all her acne scars. “David?”

His smile was thin, slightly worn. “I thought it was you.”

Her shoulders fell as she sighed. “Is this what you do?” She gestured towards him with am empty glass. “Drive around at night, looking for people to save?”

“Yep. Pay’s great.” She half-heartedly laughed, not at his joke, but at its teller. David waited for the following coughing spell to end. “Do you have a car?” She shook her head a second time. David waved his hand towards himself, knowing that if he merely extended it, she would never take hold. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

Relenting, she grunted as she pushed herself off of the concrete, limping alongside David back to his car. He stared at the glass bottle as it slipped from her fingers and shattered against the street, unable to be saved.

“Really,” she slurred. “What are you doing here?”

They briefly parted ways as David made his way to the driver’s door. “I was on my way home from class,” he resumed as he buckled his seatbelt.

She swung her legs in, grappling for the handle. “You don’t live in a dorm, Davey? Bunch of emissions you’re putting out in the air, you know. Traveling back and forth. All that shit.”

He chuckled softly, “No, I do, I do. I’m actually going home. I visit my parents on the weekends, that’s all.”

“Oh,”—she dramatically gasped, hand over her heart—“thank you, God! Thank you for blessing us with Van Driessen, saving the world one dorm room at a time.”

“Amen,” he laughed once more, as if this was nothing but playful banter. He knew better.

She rolled down the window as he shifted the car into drive. “You still trying to become a teacher?”

“You bet.” He gripped the steering wheel tighter, inhaling sharply through his nose. He glanced at her for a fleeting moment, the smallest of movements that she instantly caught and returned with an intensity unlike any other. And so, he looked away. “It’s been a while.”

The woman told him just not where she lived, but where “we” lived. But even if she had not made the simple grammatical change, David still would have followed her up the concrete steps to ensure she made it safely inside. All the word choice did was give him someone to look forward to.

She opened the door, unlocked upon arrival, and sauntered inside as David slid the lock closed out of habit. The television was blaring, somewhat loud, but not unbearable, and the kitchen light hummed a deep, vivid orange. The home was far from prim and proper, but it was clear somebody was keeping it under control the best they could. But where was she?

“You wanna meet my baby.”

David turned around at unimaginable speeds. She was just standing there, like she had asked if he wanted a beer. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I’m sorry, what?” she mocked, rolling her eyes into the back of her head. “Hold on. I’ll go get him.”

Given the time, he automatically assumed the child was asleep, fretfully reassuring, “No, no. You don’t have to wake him up.”

She looked at him like he was crazy. It wasn’t the first time. “He don’t give a shit.”

As she vanished behind a door, David stared where she once stood, processing what had just occurred. Poorly, at that. When she returned, he found himself on the edge of the couch, staring right through the floor. He was only made aware of her presence when the door clicked closed, clicking him back into place, his eyes slowly refocusing onto a bundle cradled in her sun-damaged arms.

She sat down like she was carrying the beer she had offered. “Here.”

“Oh, oh. Okay.” David held out his arms, supporting the infant’s head as she damn near tossed the child over. The second David looked down, he knew one thing: this child, indeed, did not give a shit. Having just been seemingly ripped from sleep, he was handling it better than most adults, not to mention being thrusted into the arms of a complete stranger with the television screaming mere feet away. David cupped the ear closest to the screen. “What’s his name?”

She told him. “It’s insane he’s alive. He was born four months early. I nearly lost him. More than once.”

David looked at her, then her son. He had yet to blink. “Jesus. I’m…” He exhaled heavily, readjusting the baby as his chest caved in. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

David stiffened. There was nothing technically wrong about what she said. Still, he found it weird, to say the absolute least. But she had said it so casually. Maybe he was the weird one. “Hey, I meant to ask.” He could feel the baby’s eyes burning a hole into his skin. “Is Shirley around, do you know?”

“Do I know? Her crazy ass lives here,” she confirmed what David already figured. He held her breath as she tilted her head, a telling sign. “What, you miss her now? You having a hard time making friends at your little college, Davey? You wanna just come crawling back?”

“I’m not… I’m not crawling back-“

“Well,”—she threw her hands up—“you never called.” He tried to speak, but his words turned into a sigh as she cut him off, “You never called, you never came by, nothing. Not one word from you after graduation. Broke her heart, God only knows why.”

David had rehearsed this before. “I wasn’t avoiding either of you on purpose.”

“Good one.”

Expressed with a whisper, the firmness in his voice meant nothing, “Things happen. I got caught up in college, I got caught up in life. You two never called me either, you know.”

She went quiet. He knew it was a life shortly lived. “You missed your window, Davey. To save her, too.“

The script had been ignored. “What?”

“She’s a different girl now.” She smirked, which turned into deep, scattered laughter. She spoke through the voice of an elderly church woman who was masking her gossip as godly concern, “Highland High’s very own Shirley Beavis, oh, bless her heart. I heard she’s out there dancing for her dollars. Oh no, she ain’t dancing now. No, not now. You know what I heard?” She leaned in close, and David was fixed in place. But she didn’t finish her sentence. David followed her perplexed stare down to the child. His eyes were closed. “What the hell.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“Stop,” she ordered as David tried to hand over her son. It seemed as if she was waiting for something, increasing David’s stifled panic with each passing second. “I’ll be damned.”

“What is going on?” he fought the urge to shout.

“He’s asleep.”

Once again, David looked at her, then at the baby. “Is… Is there something wrong with that?”

Once again, she waited. “What’s wrong… is that for the past four months, this child has refused to fall asleep when I hold him.”

He searched for the right words, if there were any, finding salvageable bits and pieces along the way. “Well, uh,”—his chuckle had never been more uneasy—“I noticed that when you were holding him…” David paused, scanning her demeanor for any sign of offense. He found nothing. “I noticed that when you were holding him, you had his head against the side of your arm. Babies, they, uh… they like hearing your heartbeat, you know. It’s comforting for them. Maybe if you hold him like this… like I am. Maybe he’ll fall asleep quicker with you.”

“Do you want to keep him.”

David’s eyes widened. “Oh, oh no. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean anything like that. I wasn’t trying to act I was better than you at parenting. I don’t know anything about this stuff, I was just-“

“David.” She waited for him to meet her eyes, and she calmly offered him another drink, “Do you want to adopt my son.”

It was a joke. It was a joke, and she had gotten better at hiding it.

No. No, it wasn’t.

She leaned back against the couch. This was nothing more than a conversation. “I won’t fuss. I’ll sign the papers, do whatever I need to do. You don’t have to decide right now either. If you need some time to think about it, I get it. It’s a big decision, you know? Becoming a parent. But if you want a child of your own, you can have this one. He’s yours. Cause I sure as hell don’t want him, I’ll tell you that much. What kind of girl do you take me for, Davey?”

David didn’t know what to say.

She scoffed, itching her collarbone. “You see it everywhere. Mothers holding their children. You see it in movies, you see it in paintings, you see it every where you look at the store. But he doesn’t just refuse. No, he fights me. I tested it, too. I held him until the sun came up. Heartbeat or not, he should have fallen asleep, but no. I stood still, I rocked him, I paced. I hummed, I sung, I shut up. And I swear to god, he never blinked. Not once. He fights me. He fights the fact that I am his mother. You know he has not eaten in nearly two days?”

David didn’t know what to think.

“He won’t cry. He won’t fuss, whimper, none of that shit. I thought I was one of the lucky ones at first. But that’s just the thing: he won’t cry. He doesn’t tell me when he’s hungry, or when he’s tired, or when he’s hurting. It’s all a guessing game. Like now. He’s playing it now. It’s been two days, he hasn’t eaten, and I haven’t heard him make one sound about it. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I try, David. I’ve tried. It’s not the first time he’s done this. He’ll surrender by morning. Two days is the longest he’ll go. But even then, he won’t take from me, and he’ll barely take from a bottle. Every day, it’s a fight. I don’t know if he’s fighting me, if he’s fighting to die. Both?”

The words he did not know how to say began to spill, “I… I can’t, I… I can’t care for… for a child, I can’t.” For a moment, he nearly began to justify himself to her. He was in school, he had no money, reason, after reason, after reason. But it never happened.

She caught on. “You think I’m awful? Shirley called me earlier today, said she stabbed this guy multiple times at work, screaming about, ‘How dare you put this parasite in me then skip town, I’m gonna fucking kill you,’ blah blah blah. She said he lived, but she got fired anyways, which blows. But I’m not too worried. Once she loses that baby weight, the strip club will be on their hands and knees begging for her.”

“Wait, what?” A few minutes before, David would be grueling into her about how she left her son home alone, unattended, with the door unlocked. Not now. “Shirley’s having a baby?”

“Had. She’s still at the hospital. Her baby has… complications.”

This woman had explained away her son, but not Shirley. “Why aren’t you with her?”

She thinned her lips with a shrug. “What hell am I gonna do?”

“Jesus Christ. You’re her best fucking friend!” He immediately tensed up with apprehension, but when he looked down, the child’s eyes were still closed, his head near buried in David’s chest. “God damnit,” he rasped. “Where is she at? Which hospital?”

She waited. Again. “Baylor.”

“Alright, alright. I’m gonna go up there, and… just…” David paused, wondering if this was even worth attempting. “Listen. You should really be with her. Nobody matters to her more than you.” For some fucking reason, he added in his head. “I’m telling you,-“

“Why are you talking to me like I am a child. I don’t need to be lectured, David. You need to shut your mouth, and if you don’t know how, I’ll fucking teach you.“

He had known better. Holding her son close and standing up as slowly as he could, David mumbled underneath his breath, “I’m gonna go… lay him down for you.”

Through the door was the bedroom, completely shrouded in darkness other than the sliver of the moon between the curtains. It was enough to guide David towards the crib, and it was enough for him to see the child’s eyes open the moment David moved him away from his heart. “Oh…” The soft sigh began to harden, and he tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he laid the infant down. “I’ know, I know,” his voice began to chip and break as he comforted the silent child, who continued to stare long after David had let go. He knew guilt was not reparation, and yet, he still whispered a pathetic, “I’m sorry.”

The child’s mother had retired to the television by the time David returned, giving him no acknowledgement as he crossed her path towards the door. He unlocked and creaked it open, but he went no further. “There is nobody for you.” David turned his head, meeting that stare. “Nobody, but Shirley. Do you understand.”

“Do you?”

Chapter Text

“Beavis.”

“Beavis.”

“Beavis!”

“Beavis?”

An irritating noise, but sweeter than the one in his head. As the guitar crept into focus, Beavis averted his gaze, finding doe-like eyes behind a pair of thin frames. “Yeah, yeah,” he gruffly sniffed and held out his arms, keeping the guitar in his peripheral vision.

Van Driessen took it without a word, at least at first. He pulled out a chair, but right when Beavis thought he was in the clear, he heard, “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he repeated, standing at the edge of the table, pinching the skin between his thumb and index. He felt as if he was being watched. “I-I’m fine.”

All he did was adjust his glasses. “How would you like to learn how to string a guitar?”

The answer was a firm and defiant no, but Beavis nevertheless mumbled under his breath, glared off to the side, and rasped, “Sure, I guess.” Beavis slumped down into the creaky, wooden chair. He stared at his hands, dotted with sunspots and faded, green bruises.

Van Driessen chuckled quietly, his hands reaching towards the rope. “Well, excuse me. We have to remove the clamp first. Check on everything. It should be good to go, though.” He unraveled it all with the caution of a heart surgeon, his shoulders relaxing as his tension eased. “There we go. Good as new.”

Even Beavis couldn’t help but be intrigued by the guitar’s miraculous recovery. Thin, beige lines, the scar tissue, were the only signs that anything had ever been wrong. Even something as small as this fascination wore heavy on him. “Cool,” was stretched and contorted by a deep yawn. It reminded Beavis that he had not slept. It reminded Beavis why that was.

“Beavis?”

“Hmpth?” crawled out of his throat as his head twitched.

The echoing chime in Van Driessen’s eyes was either concern or fear; sister emotions. He unconsciously inched the guitar forwards, gentle enough to be silent. “Does the guitar look okay to you?”

Was he missing something? Beavis leaned over the table, squinting as he followed the cracks like a maze. The chair shrieked against the floor as he fell back into it. “It looks fine to me.”

“Alright, just making sure.” Van Driessen pulled the instrument closer to him, then reached for the surviving strings. “We’ll get these two on first.” He wavered for a moment. “You do want them, correct? They’re old, old strings. I’m not sure how long they will last.”

No, he didn’t. He didn’t want anything to do with them anymore. But alongside that feeling was one that was just as controlling, if not more. It reprimanded him for even thinking about burning the strings, if not the guitar as a whole, and whatever part of him that tried to get in his way.

So he nodded.

“Alright,” he repeated quietly, then propped an unusually-shaped tool between his fingers. “This is a string winder.” He waited for Beavis’ eyes to focus. “It takes out these little notches. Since this is an A string, we’re taking out the second notch, right here. You just…”—he maneuvered one end of the tool beneath one of the black buttons—“wiggle it under here, just like that, and there you go. Now, we’ll just put this end of the string inside where the notch once was, then we’re going to push the notch back in while pulling the string.” After a handful of cautious seconds, at last, the notch firmly clicked into place, string held inside. “There. Simple, isn’t it?”

Not really. “Yeah.”

“Now we’re going to bring it up to the tuner, thread it like a needle, like so.” Van Driessen retrieved the string winder and placed it on the tuner. “Now we’re gonna wind it, twist it, wind it, twist it.” As he continued to do as such, he added, “Good news is that if these do break, you’ll know how to fix it. You’ll be able to find a string winder and string cutter at the store.” He paused with a slight twitch in expression. “No, sorry. Just take mine.” Beavis reached for the string winder, and was met with a patient smile. “When you leave, Beavis.”

Beavis processed the words. “Oh,” he rasped, bringing his arm back to his other hand.

He watched Van Driessen wind and twist until there was nothing else to wind and twist. He plucked the string with his finger, which hummed as it should. “Would you like to try one yourself, or do you just want me to do it?”

He watched the string vibrate back into silence, which was loud enough to snap him back into place. “Uh, you can finish it. It’s fine.”

“Alrighty,” he said yet again. His voice wasn’t gone for long. “So, how long have you been playing?”

Beavis knew it was coming, but he still began to pick his skin apart. “I don’t know,” he murmured under his breath, watching Van Driessen remove the third notch. “I was, uh… twelve. Thirteen, maybe, I don’t know.” He added as he stripped his thumb dry of its cuticle, “When I started.”

Her voice began to make its rounds. He fought.

“I’m assuming you enjoy it?”

Beavis put his bleeding thumb in his mouth, forcing out a muffled, “Sometimes.” It wasn’t the right answer. It wasn’t the wrong answer, either.

Van Driessen looked up for a moment. “Butt-Head mentioned you can play ‘Nothing Else Matters.’ I have to say, Beavis,—“ he put his head back down, pulling the string and pushing in the notch—“I’m impressed.”

It was Beavis’ turn to lift his head. “You listen to Metallica?”

“Not on the regular. But I’m familiar with some of their more famous discography. Their popular songs, I mean.” Wind, and twist, wind, and twist. “Point is, that song is a difficult one. It would probably take me weeks and weeks to learn it, and I’ve been playing the guitar since the seventies.”

“It, uh… It did take a long time. Like, a really, really, really long time. I-I don’t even like the song anymore. So that sucks. A-And I can barely play it anymore, either. Sometimes I’m, like, good, you know. But most of the time I suck.”

“You and Butt-Head both need to be nicer to yourself.” As Beavis tried to understand what any of that meant, Van Driessen added something that distracted him, “I bet you play just fine.”

Beavis didn’t know what to say. He thought about proving it. The thought made him stare at the guitar until it started staring back at him. “This was my mom’s, you know.”

The packet of strings tore the moment Beavis finished his sentence. Without the knowledge that Van Driessen knew of Shirley Beavis, his silence would be dismissed as something weird. An outlier, a one-off. Something forgettable, and even appreciated. Right now, it was anything but. “Was it now.”

Say something. “Uh, yeah. It was.”

He put the high E string into its place, his silence hidden behind a stalled breath. He finally exhaled, “Did she teach you?”

Say something else.”Yeah.”

His interval continued, his lips thin and stretched and his eyes flickering. He twisted the end of the string as if he had never done it before, each movement slow and unbearably cautious. “I’m happy you have an outlet like this, Beavis.” His smile was faint, a fading breath of hot air on a windowsill. “The arts are very therapeutic, you know. They help put me at ease. As long as you keep playing, you’ll have something to fall back on.”

On the drive there, Butt-Head didn’t talk much, leaving Beavis stranded. Beneath all the words her voice had strung, he began to wonder why Van Driessen had never said a word about anything Beavis had found. What was once mere confusion had now grown unbearably heavy. He knows he’s holding Shirley’s guitar, and all he had to say was some dumb, stupid, hippie spiel. What, did he forget about her or something? Say something.

Beavis tried to form the words, ”You knew my mom.” It was sentence so simple, and yet suffocated him nevertheless. Every time he opened his mouth, he could feel her hands on his shoulders, her eyes drilling into the back of his skull, as if she was just waiting for her son to resurrect her. His hands curled into themselves. He could see her. Hear her voice. Feel.

The fire.

The fire began to cloud his vision, a thick, blinding fog. He could see her face. Hear her voice. Feel. He could feel her kissing his temple, kissing his nose, between his eyes, every misaligned feature she used to call hers. He could feel her strike him across that face with her open palm, then kiss it all again. He could feel her voice, gentle, contorted, divine. Her face, melted into itself, young and worn, a tapestry of love and abhor, a sight Beavis perceived as well as a portrait she painted herself by her own hands. Hands that painted him. He could see it. He could hear it. He could feel it.

”Beavis.”

“Beavis.”

“God damnit,-“

“Beavis!”

“Beavis? Are you okay”

His knuckles cracked. He let his hands go, watching the blood rush back into the dry, suffocated veins. “Yeah, yeah.” He folded his arms and rested his chin on top, his leg shaking up and down. These intervals, this silence. It couldn’t continue. That’s how it would start. Her. “So, uh…” He sniffed, hiding his face behind his arms. “Who, like, taught you or whatever.”

Faltering for a moment, Van Driessen cleared his throat then adjusted his glasses, even though they were fine the way they were. “Well,”—he cleared his throat yet again—“my father’s the one who planted the seed, but it was my brother who really made me stick with it. I don’t think I would enjoy playing as much as I do if it weren’t for him.” He closed the notch over the B string. “A good portion of it was self-taught. But for the most part, it was all him.”

“Cool. T-That’s cool.” Say something, Beavis directed himself. “Does, um… Does your brother still play?”

Beavis didn’t expect his teacher’s face to fall the way it did. “I like to think so.”

He waited. Nothing. “Uh…” He dragged his nails down the side of his face, stalling her call. “So,-“ A squeaky whistle made him freeze. Not out of fear, but the opposite. “Kitty?”

The light returned to Van Driessen’s face, and he pushed his chair back while pushing a fallen strand of hair out of his eyes. The kitten was stationed beside his shoes, its ears bouncing with each pitiful cry for help. “He thinks he’s hungry. I just fed you, yes I did,” he cooed, reaching down to pet the static, orange fur. “This little guy’s named Simba. I’ve been fostering him for around two weeks now.” Raising his head, he caught sight of Beavis, who, for the first time, didn’t look half-asleep. “Would you like to hold him?”

“Kitty-kitty-kitty, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis kicked his chair back as Van Driessen scooped up the kitten, who didn’t protest.

“Be gentle now.” Van Driessen withheld the kitten until Beavis’ hands quit their violent jittering. “Cup one hand like I’m doing, and use your other hand to hold him against your chest. If he doesn’t feel secure, he’ll get upset, m’kay.”

“Kitty-kitty-kitty, heh-heh-meh,” was all he could verbalize as Van Driessen finally released the critter. Simba chirped as it was placed into Beavis’ hands, who, for once, was doing his absolute best to follow orders. A smile formed as the kitten didn’t start kicking and screaming and instead rested against the folds of Beavis’ shirt. “D’aw, kitty,” he murmured beneath his grin. He began to pace, slowly petting and smoothing the soft, fluffy fur. He whispered as quietly as he could, “What does, uh… ‘fostering’ mean.”

Van Driessen resumed his work on the guitar, which, with only two strings left, was nearly complete. “It’s a volunteer service the animal shelter offers. If you want, you can care for an animal until someone wishes to adopt them.”

Beavis carefully moved the kitten closer to his face, gently resting his cheek against the warm bundle. It was tempting to fall asleep. “Why don’t you adopt him?”

He chuckled briefly, “I feel that way with every animal I foster. But if I adopt them all, I won’t be able to help other animals who need it just as much.”

Beavis cradled the kitten closer, his pacing turning into an unsteady rocking. It had hardly been a minute, and he already couldn’t fathom ever letting this tiny bundle go. “Doesn’t that, like, make you sad and stuff?”

“It does. But, you know. There are times when letting things go is the best… and only thing you can do. Even if you don’t want to. Even if it makes you sad.” He snapped off the excess amount of the low E string, then set the cutters back down. “Does that make sense?”

“Nah.” He nuzzled his face back into the kitten, hearing a whisper vibrate against his skin. “Heh, heh-heh-meh. It’s doing that, like, purring thing.”

Beavis swore he heard a sigh, but he couldn’t be sure above what was now the roaring engine falling asleep in his hands. “That’s sweet.” After a time, he softly laughed once more. “It’s funny how different you and Butt-Head can be sometimes. He wanted nothing to do with that cat the other day.” He gestured to Beavis, his chuckles resuming. “Meanwhile.”

“He sucks anyways,” Beavis scoffed, turning back to Simba with a grin. “I’m gonna kick his ass, heh-heh-meh. What the.” The kitten began to writhe, claws pricking through his shirt as he tried to climb over Beavis’ shoulder.

“I think he wants down.”

“Yeah-yeah, whatever. Fine.”

“Be careful with his claws-“

“I got it, I got it.” Beavis unhooked the thin, fragile weapons from the fabric, holding the kitten like a claw machine would a plushie as he set him back down onto the floor. Simba twisted his head over his back, smoothing down his ruffled fur, then clumsily bolted towards a patch of teasing, flickering sunlight. “You suck, too.”

“He’s just a baby, though,” Van Driessen lightheartedly defended. Beavis grumbled under his breath, a common substitute for language. As he approached the table, he watched Van Driessen wind and twist the final string, then smile as he cut off what was left. “And there you have it. Good as new.”

Beavis crept closer, reaching out a hand and strumming the strings. “Thanks, heh-heh-meh.” Before the music came to a still and before Van Driessen could respond, Beavis lifted his head, eyes scrunched. “I don’t owe you anything, do I.”

“Not at all.”

“Not even for the braces thing?”

Van Driessen blinked. “What?”

“I-I know you said we didn’t have to pay you, but, like, I don’t know.”

The confusion on his face faded as he realized what Beavis was referring to, but that didn’t make Van Driessen feel any less bewildered. “No, Beavis. You don’t have to pay me for an orthodontist appointment from last year, either.”

“Cool, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis began to pick at the strings, forming the open-chord section of ‘Nothing Else Matters.’ “Thanks again.”

He listened for a time. “See?” He gestured towards the tune. “You don’t suck.”

“What? No, no. T-That’s, like, the easy part.” He lifted the guitar off of the table, kicking his chair back and propping the instrument in his lap. “It goes like, um… Like…” He snorted, dragging his arm across his face before repositioning it. He played the open-chord once more, many times more, in an attempt to stall. At last, Beavis’ pressed down on the high E string, shaking his head in discontent when he realized he was on the wrong fret. He began all over again, his success short lived when he slid to the fifth fret too crudely for her liking. From the top, with breaths quick and shallow, he failed yet again when he didn’t press down on a string hard enough, resulting in an ugly, halted cough of a note. “God damnit.” He played, then stopped. Played, then stopped. Again, and again, and again.

”Beavis.”

His voice was quiet and coarse, “I got it.”

”Beavis.”

Again, again, and again.

”Beavis!”

“Hey, Beavis?”

“What?!”

Ever so slightly, Van Driessen’s eyes widened, but nothing more. “Your fingers aren’t close enough to the frets.”

”… What?”

“Look at your hand.” Despite the aforementioned ‘frets,’ Beavis was unsure which hand until Van Driessen motioned to the guitar’s neck. “See how it’s in the middle of the frets? Move it down, just a little. No, not on top of it. No, go back. Back, Beavis, where your hand once was, not to the next fret. Okay-okay, hold on.” Van Driessen stood up from the chair, making his way out of the dining room and mumbling his pardons to Simba. After the opening and closing of a distant door, he returned with an aged guitar carefully cradled in his arms. He matched Beavis’ chord, clarifying, “Your hand is here, when it should be here.”

It took him a minute and many double-checks, but at last, Van Driessen nodded. Beavis looked up and down one more time. “Why.”

“If you put your fingers just behind the fret, it means you don’t have to press down so hard. It makes playing a bit smoother.” Van Driessen strummed. “You also keep starting over the second you make a mistake. You don’t have to do that. It’s okay to keep playing. It’s more effective practice.”

Unsure of the definition of that word, Beavis narrowed his eyes. “Is that a good thing.”

“Yes, or I wouldn’t be suggesting it to you.”

Beavis turned his head away from his smile. Hands lingering over the strings, he couldn’t make them move. Positioned fingers began to fall flat, and he rested his chin on top of the instrument. Van Driessen didn’t chastise this silence. He didn’t say or do anything at all. And it was cruel. “Can you play anything by them.”

“By Metallica? No, I’m afraid not.”

“AC/DC?” Van Driessen shook his head. “Black Sabbath? Judas Priest? Nirvana?”

“I’ve actually been meaning to learn some of Nirvana’s stuff, but no. Let’s see…” He began to count on his fingers. “I know some of the Carpenters, Fleetwood Mac, Vashti Bunyan. I might remember some Dolly Parton from back in the day. Linda Ronstadt, Elton John, Jim Croce, Kansas-“

“Yeah-yeah, I get it, you’re a hippie.” Beavis’ head fell back down as he began to scan his mind until he fell upon a song. It may have been a chick magnet, but he didn’t care for the song itself. It was too slow for him, too gentle, too simple. But all Beavis could think of was that morning, when Butt-Head had hummed its chorus on the other side of the wall, when he thought he was alone. “Hey, uh… W-What about that one song. ‘Fade Into You’, or whatever.”

Van Driessen’s eyes widened again, but for a different reason. “Why yes, I do know that one.“ He readjusted his guitar and, after a steady inhale, began to play. His strumming began to slow, and, eventually, his hands came to a still. “Such a beautiful instrumental. I would have never expected you to enjoy a song like this.”

“I don’t. How do you play it.”

Four years of those two in his class taught Van Driessen to never expect anything comprehendible. “Here, we’re going to practice strumming it first. Down, down, up, down, up. Down, down, up, down, up.” This went on until they were synchronized. “Feel like you got it? Good, good. Okay, so, your first chord is A major, m’kay.” The strumming resumed, with his fingers rested on the chord. Van Driessen waited until their rhythms matched again. “Next is E major.” After a few moments, he moved on once more, “Then, finally, you got B minor. Remember to keep your fingers close to the fret, now.”

And this went on, yet not as long as perhaps either were expecting. The switch from E major to B minor was the only struggle, but it was a struggle rather short-lived. With only three chords, it took Beavis mere minutes to play at the proper pace, all while Van Driessen sat back and watched.

“Again, see?” His smile nearly closed his eyes. “I told you you don’t suck.”

Even with the slight distraction, Beavis’ hands didn’t falter. He switched back to A major, starting the song over, only this time, willingly. With a slowing heart and a pair of falling shoulders, for once, it felt nice to play again, again, and again.

Between the chords, he couldn’t see the light from Van Driessen’s face begin to dim. He sat in silence, despite the music just across his hunched frame. “Your mother…” he breathed out, a quiet whisper. “She played really well, too.”

His hands failed him. “Y-Yeah, uh…” He swallowed hard. The guitar began to slip. “She did.” As the forsaken note echoed all around, his mind began to drift, away from the guitar, away from here. But before the distortion took hold, he raised his eyes. The man across the table looked like he was pleading with him. “What?”

Van Driessen tilted his head upwards and inhaled sharply through his nose, and, holding it deep in his chest, he turned his head to side, away from Beavis. His elbow resting on the table, he cupped his hand around his face, his fallen hair obscuring most of what as left to see. Beavis heard him inhale yet again, a shaky, unstable gasp.

“Van Driessen?” only made the teacher turn even further, until all Beavis could see was the back of his head.

“Are you dumbasses done tinkering or whatever.”

Beavis twisted at the waist, finding Butt-Head, who was supposed to be in the car, standing at the entrance to the dining room. “Uh. Hey, Butt-Head.”

He made a face. “Uh… Hello to you too, Beavis.” His gaze shifted over to Van Driessen, and he made another face. “What’s his problem.”

Van Driessen finally moved, dragging his hand across his eyes. “Excuse me,” he murmured, lifting his guitar off of his lap. “Yes, Butt-Head. The guitar’s fixed.”

Butt-Head pivoted around on his foot, glancing back at Beavis and grumbling, “Come on then.”

Beavis stammered to himself as he stood, his arm hooked over the guitar’s body. “Thanks again.”

Van Driessen pinned his hair behind his ear, his voice barely audible above the chair he pushed back under the table. “It’s no problem at all. Remember,”—the pair reluctantly turned their heads back over their shoulders—“I’m here if either of you need anything. I mean that.”

“Uh… okay.”

“Cool.” Beavis thought for a second. “Can you pay our bills.”

Van Driessen chuckled uneasily, “I’m afraid a teacher’s salary can’t cover that, Beavis.”

“Then don’t say ‘anything,’ dumbass,” Butt-Head growled, turning back around. Beavis trailed behind him to the front door without a word, where, as soon as his hand rested upon the doorknob, a voice made them pause yet again,

“Hey, you two.” Van Driessen waited until they turned around, quickly noting the impatience poorly-masked on Beavis’ face, while directly plastered on Butt-Head’s sleeve. With a sigh, he closed his eyes, his hands clasped together, almost as if in prayer. “I know I already gave my big speech to the class and whatnot. But I want to emphasize just how proud I am of you both. I know high school wasn’t easy.” He sighed once more, quiet, but heavy. “I know a lot isn’t easy for you two. But you pushed through anyways, despite it all. And here you are. You made it. And you two deserve it. You know that, right?” he solemnly added, glancing between them both. Neither responded, or made any form of acknowledgment. They merely stared, unsure of what exactly they were supposed to know. “Listen. I’ve had…” He went still, his eyes beginning to unfocus. “I’ve had friends.”

“Woah, uh, really? Uh-huh-huh.”

Dismissing Butt-Head’s taunt with a thin, forced smile, Van Driessen began to pace ever so slightly. “Friends, who… didn’t have it easy, either. They went through a lot. And they meant a lot… to me, and… it’s just…” As his breathing became labored, he obscured his face again with an unsteady hand that he pushed underneath his glasses. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as, no matter how many times he wiped his eyes, tears still began to fall. “They went through a lot when they were young,”—he repeated, trying to keep his voice together—“and it wasn’t their fault. And it’s not your fault either. But they ended up making decisions as adults that led them down a very, very bad path, so bad that… I-I don’t even know what…” Van Driessen caught himself and his slurred, stammered speech. He tried to pull himself together, but the glistening in his eyes and the trembling of his fingertips said otherwise. “Listen, okay. I don’t care if you’re forty and I’m in the retirement home. If I can make life even a little bit easier for you, I’m always here. And you’re here for each other, too. It’s important that you don’t take each other for granted. My friends, they were friends with each other, too… but…” His words stalled in his throat, and he silently suffocated, and silently cried beneath his nervous laughter. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m talking about. I’ll see you two around. Be good.”

Van Driessen smiled one last time, a farewell, and returned beyond the threshold before either could respond. But even if he had stayed, they would have nevertheless left without a word to him, or each other.

Butt-Head waited until they were halfway down the sidewalk. “What the hell was that all about.”

“You tell me.” Beavis opened the car door, laying his guitar across the seats. He sauntered to the passenger door, where, inside, the interval continued.

“What a wuss, uh-huh-huh,” Butt-Head finally broke through as he shifted the car into drive.

“Yeah, seriously. Heh-heh-meh.” Beavis’ halfhearted laughter didn’t come with a grin. He sunk into the seat, all too aware of the humming of the guitar every time they hit even the slightest pothole, which Butt-Head had no intention of avoiding.

“So, uh.” Butt-Head swallowed after a pause. “Did you, like, talk to him about our moms or whatever.”

The conversation on the drive up there replayed in his head. That is, if Beavis talking to himself while Butt-Head only occasionally mumbled in response constituted as a conversation. “No, uh. I tried, you know, but… I-I don’t think he ever got the hint.”

“Uh… that sucks. For you, I guess.” Another interval, another pothole. “You wanna, like, go do something.”

“Not really.”

“Yeah, me neither.” Butt-Head switched lanes without checking the rearview mirrors. “Today sucks.”

“Jesus,” Beavis complained as he yawned loud enough to make his chest hurt. His head fell against the window pane, its warmth almost lulling. “Last night sucked, too. I didn’t get any sleep.”

“Uh… I did.”

Stained teeth slipped through his cracked lips. “Cool, Butt-Head.”

“I had a dream that, like, Shit-Head came back or whatever his name was.”

Beavis lifted his head momentarily. “Y-You mean Sink Shitter?”

“Sink Shitter, whatever. He was, like, sleeping at the end of our bed like a dog and stuff. And I tried to get him out, but you started crying about it, so I started hitting you with the broom, uh-huh-huh. Then, like, we somehow ended up on that bus from that one movie. With, like, the bomb on it. But the Bomb Guy was, like, kinda cool this time, because he let us go to Burger World when we got hungry. Then our old music teacher from middle school tried to dismantle the bomb, but he got ran over, uh-huh-huh. Then Coach Buzzcut started yelling at me. Then I woke up.”

“Heh,”—Beavis sniffed—“heh-heh-meh. That sounds fun, heh-heh-meh.” His smile was unforced, but unsteady. “Dreams kick ass. They-They’re pretty cool. I kinda wish I dreamt more often, you know.”

“Yeah, me too.”

Beavis tilted forwards, ever so slightly rocking. “But at least you don’t get, like, nightmares or whatever. I-If you don’t dream.”

“Shut up, wuss. Nightmares kick ass.”

“Shut up, butthole.”

“Uh, you shut up.” Butt-Head reverted his attention back the road, catching the stop light just in time to slam on the brakes and cause Beavis to smack against the dash. “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh, uh… Hey, Beavis.”

“Ough, what.” Beavis checked his head to see if it was bleeding, an instinct at that point. As he pulled his hand down from his forehead, he swore he saw Butt-Head glance at his palm, empty and dry.

“Do you wanna, like, go rent that movie from my dream, and we can do nothing after that.”

Beavis slumped back against the seat, his response simple, “Sure.”

The light turned green. “Do you wanna get something to eat.”

“I’m not that hungry.”

There was a pause before Butt-Head spoke, “Me neither.” Catching his tone, Beavis glanced at his face, but it remained the same, unblinking and stoic. “Speaking of movies,” he began, and Beavis turned his head right back. “I put those, uh… those tapes under our bed in case you, uh, you know. Change your mind about burning them.”

“Have you boys seen my ladder?”

“Uh… no.”

“Oh, okay. Well, I have a suspicion that those neighborhood troublemakers Bruno and Bellamy are behind its disappearance, so if you boys happen to-“

Butt-Head shut the door in Mr. Anderson’s face. “Who notices their ladder goes missing.”

“What was that,” Beavis asked, despite the fact he had heard every word. “Yeah, seriously!” He pressed the play button on the VHS and bounded back towards the couch, sitting down the same time Butt-Head did. “He’s out here looking for it like it’s his damn dog or something. Have you seen my ladder? He’s like… what’s the word, inbred and stuff, heh-heh-meh. I-I paid a lot of money for that ladder. Please help me find my ladder!”

“Beavis. Butt-Head. You two are the only people who can find my inbred ladder. Please, I beg of you. He’s like family to me. Uh-huh-huh. Ladders. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Heh-heh-meh. Yeah. Ladders suck.” Beavis watched Butt-Head laugh, then turned his attention back to the television.

The movie turned out to be called Speed according to the impatient Blockbuster cashier. It had been playing for around half an hour at that point, and frankly, Beavis had no idea what was going on, and instead just kept wondering when that bus was going to show up. Under different circumstances, he would’ve simply fast-forwarded everything, but the thought hadn’t even had the chance cross his mind, a mind distracted, murky and dim.

It wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for Beavis to be disturbed. He had bad days like this before, whether something was said or done to remind him of everything, whether nothing was done at all. But the tapes had done what Beavis saw in his sleep, in dreams and in nightmares. The tapes had brought Mom home.

But even then, with just a half hour into this movie, a half hour of sitting next to Butt-Head, in silence and in commentary, she was starting to leave the room. “I-I get that this is, like, his job and everything,”—Beavis began as he watched Keanu Reeves’ Jack Tranen scale down the elevator shaft—“but I’m just saying, like, if that were me, I would’ve just gone home. ‘Sir, the guy with the bomb or something, whatever,’ damnit, I don’t know what’s going on, ‘is in the elevator! Sir, please help!’ Um…” Beavis scrambled for a punchline only to be left with, “No. Heh-heh-meh. No.”

“Uh-huh-huh, uh… Well, rest assured, Beavis. That guy’s not you. That guy will never be you. Cause that guy is sexy. Here, how about this,” he added before Beavis could retaliate. “For the rest of the movie, I’m that guy, and you’re the other blonde guy taking the ladder down cause he’s a wuss. Uh-huh-huh. Ladder.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. Ladder, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis swore all he did was blink, and his character went from climbing down a ladder to being held hostage with a bomb or something.

”Go ahead. Drop the stick. Do it.”

”Shut up, Harry.”

“Uh-huh-huh. Yeah, shut up, Beavis.” He continued to laugh as Jack shot Harry in the leg as a last-ditch rescue attempt. “I would’ve done the same thing, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, butthole.”

“Everybody would be like, ‘Wow, Butt-Head. I know it was scary, shooting Harry Beavis in the leg like that. But you had to do what you had to do.’ And I would be like, ‘No, uh… I just thought it would be funny.’ Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.”

“Damnit, I said shut up.” Despite this, Beavis snickered anyways.

As time progressed, Beavis was under the assumption that he was only going to get better, but instead, he found himself growing a strange type of tired. Not tired as in he wanted to fall asleep, but tired as in he could feel his body ache. He couldn’t pinpoint where it was coming from, all he knew was that he felt bruised all over, skin, muscles, bone. He felt tense, and yet, calm. Disturbed, but, in the same breath, fine.

”If he gets the money, he wins. If the bus blows up, he wins.”

“What if you win?”

“Then tomorrow we’ll play another one.”

“But I’m not available to drive tomorrow. Busy.”

“This Jack guy sucks. Like, that chick is clearly into you, and all you care about is some dumbass bomb.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Beavis mumbled into his arms, folded underneath his head like a makeshift pillow. He felt his socks graze against something warm, then something a bit colder grasped his ankles and pushed them off. Beavis’ head jolted up, the fastest he had moved in quite some time. “Jesus,” he rasped as he brought his legs closer to his chest and further away from Butt-Head’s thigh. “Excuse me, Butt-Head.”

He nestled his head back into his arms, the light from the television making his eyes strain. His heart had jumped a little, just enough to make his brittle vessel start to groan. Beavis wiggled himself further into the back of the couch, half of his vision watching some passenger fall off the bus or something, and the other half blinded by the blurry red that was his arm. As he closed his eyes, he let the sound of the television, the fabric of his clothes, and the warmth from his arm all fall over him. Beavis inhaled only to hold his breath, even when it began to hurt more than the existing restlessness in his chest. Especially then.

“That lady was dumb, wasn’t she.”

Beavis’ eyes fluttered open. This time, Butt-Head wasn’t making it worse. As he let his breath go, he found that the pulsing that was in his ears and climbing up his throat had retreated enough to make breathing tolerable. “Yeah.”

“What a dumbass.”

Beavis’ eyes opened once again. “What, what?”

“What do you mean ‘what.’ Are you not watching or something.”

Beavis lifted his head, wincing from the crick in his neck. They were still on the bus, but the Jack guy was getting off, smiling at the chick behind the wheel. When could he get off the bus? Wasn’t that the whole point of the movie, that they couldn’t get off? “Damnit. I-I think I fell asleep.”

He waited for some kind of rebuke, only to be met with, “Okay, uh… so the bomb guy just let Jack leave because of… uh… something about giving him money, I think.”

“Mhm,” he whispered as he snuggled back into his arm.

“And I called him a dumbass because, like, the chick gave him that look again, and he just got off the bus. I’m telling you, Beavis. If a girl looked at me like that, I’m not getting off that bus. I’d die a happy man, uh-huh-huh.”

“Yeah, me too.” He smiled instead of chuckling in return, a smile that quickly dissipated as his eyes began to close. Beavis tried to stay awake. They paid for this movie. But, tried as he might, the light began to grow dim, words became noise, and his strange tiredness brought him deeper and deeper in until the world went blue.

Beavis squinted at first, a reaction that made him realize he was awake. He pulled himself together, piece by piece, as his cracking elbows lifted him halfway off of the couch. He had been curled up for so long that the warm temperature of the house felt like ice against his skin. As his vision focused, he took in the pink light from the dipping sun, leaking through the shutters. He then followed the streams until they fell upon the soul sitting next to him, breathing slowly and rhythmically through his open mouth with his head draped over the back of the couch. Butt-Head had fallen asleep, but whether it was before or after the movie had ended was a mystery. Beavis hoped at least one of them got their money’s worth.

Beavis swayed, unable to hold his head up properly. His legs were touching Butt-Head again, but he was barely conscious enough to register it, much less take the time to move them out of the way. The rusting springs squeaked as he dropped back down, his arms hanging at an awkward angle off of the couch. But he caught a switch in Butt-Head’s breathing the second he closed his eyes, making Beavis alert enough to finally move his legs out of the way.

A groan rattled in the back of Butt-Head’s throat as he stretched his arms, which also had their fair share of cracking. Hunched over, he brushed his hair out of his face to stare at the screen. “Uh… What happened.”

Beavis flipped onto his back. “Did you see the ending?”

Enclosed fists rubbed closed, dark eyes. “Uh…” He paused to yawn almost as loud as he snored. “Maybe.”

“Wh-What the hell do you mean, ‘maybe.’” Beavis heard Butt-Head flump onto his side, face squished against the armrest. “Did the bus blow up or what?”

Gaining consciousness, Butt-Head finally recalled that he had already seen the movie before. “Oh yeah. Uh, yeah, it blew up, but all the people were safe or whatever, so that sucks.”

“Aw, damnit.’

“Then, like, they were on a train for some reason. Oh yeah, and your guy died, uh-huh-huh. But, uh, the train crashed and stuff, and the Jack guy kissed the chick finally. So, uh… yeah. I told you that movie was cool. Too bad your dumbass fell asleep.”

“Shut up, butthole. You fell asleep, too. Dumbass,” he hissed right back. Beavis closed his eyes again, but hardly a second passed before he realized his sleepiness had worn off. Disgruntled, he stared at the ceiling, hands folded across his chest, his mind thinking of the bus driver from that movie. She was hot. It wasn’t fair that Butt-Head got to be Jack.

Jack kissing a girl. Butt-Head was Jack. Butt-Head kissing a girl.

“Hey, Butt-Head?” Beavis craned his neck over his chest. “Don’t you have, like, a date or something?”

“Uh… Oh yeah.” His gaze drifted towards the windows, which were growing dimmer by the moment. “What day is it.”

He looked all around, as if that information was just readily available on the wall or something. ”I dunno.”

“Damnit, Beavis.” Butt-Head thought about getting up, and instead just let his arms go limp and drop himself back down against the sunken cushions. “What are you, like, even supposed to do.”

“What do you mean.”

“I’m taking this chick on a date.”

“… Yeah.”

“So what do I do, dumbass.”

Beavis grumbled as he stretched his eyelids down his face, “W-Why are you asking me that?”

“Yeah, uh-huh-huh, why am I. You don’t know the first thing about women, Beavis.”

“Shut up, fartknocker.” Bored of his position, Beavis sat back up, his tailbone pressed uncomfortably against the armrest and Butt-Head just barely visible behind his propped, bent legs. “H-How about I put a bomb on the car, then you can, like, save her, you know. And then you can, like, make-out later or whatever they did.”

Butt-Head itched his ribcage beneath his shirt. “Uh… no, that sounds like too much work. I don’t even know where we can get a bomb around here.” The pair sat in mostly silence, minus the usual Beavis’ sputtered noises, as they thought as hard as they were capable of thinking. “It would be cool if we could, like, do some kind of test run. Like Super Mario, but with dates and chicks and stuff. It would be called, ‘Super Slut.’ And I’d get the highest score, uh-huh-huh.”

“Heh-heh-meh. Cool, shut up, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis’ zoned-out eyes flashed open. “H-Hey, Butt-Head. I got an idea. What if, like, you practice here.” When Butt-Head did nothing but stare, Beavis rapidly clarified, “You know! I-I’ll be Hannah, and you’ll be Butt-Head. I-If you screw up, you can just start the date over.” He leaned back, admiring himself, “‘Damn, Beavis. You’re a genius.’ Woah, really? Heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh…”

His self-commending came to a halt. “What?”

“Beavis.” Butt-Head pushed himself up with his elbows. “Isn’t that, like…”—he narrowed his eyes—“gay.”

“What?!” Beavis jumped up, landing on the armrest. “H-How is it gay?! I’m literally pretending to be a girl!”

Butt-Head’s open mouth opened even further, but nothing was said. Blinking his way through his thought process, he realized there wasn’t much he could argue with. “Huh.”

“Yeah, see. I-It’s only gay if you make it gay.”

Butt-Head immediately jumped back into defense, “I’m not making it gay. You’re making it gay.”

“I’m not making anything gay!”

“Shut up, dumbass.” He finally used the couch properly, feet on the floor and his back against the cushions. “I don’t care if you’re a girl. I don’t wanna do that crap. It’s weird and it’s gross. Because you’re gross, Beavis. And you’re weird, and you suck. Girl or boy. Ugh.” He wrapped his arms around his abdomen. “I’m just thinking about this crap and it’s already making me feel sick.”

“But it’s not me, bunghole! I’m pretending to be Hannah!” But despite his insistence, Butt-Head still refused to look at him. “Fine, whatever.” Beavis shoved himself into the corner of the couch, his arms folded across his chest. “You get all mad at me because you want me to be supportive, a-and I try to be supportive, and here you go making it weird. If you wanna screw up your hot date because you wanna be all gay and stuff, go ahead.“

He finally raised his head. “Damnit, Beavis, I’m not gay or stuff.”

“You’re the bunghole freaking out over just practicing to date a chick!”

Butt-Head’s teeth were bared, but all he could do was grind them together in defeat. “Ugh, fine. But I’m not kissing you. And don’t call me gay. I’m not gonna waste my first ever kiss.” Suddenly, his frown began to dissipate as his lips curled into a smirk. “Sorry to, like, disappoint. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!” Beavis shouted louder than usual.

He raised his palm. “Settle down, Beavis. I’ll just have my hot girlfriend tell you all the details and stuff, uh-huh-huh.”

“That’s not what I meant!” Beavis clawed the ripped, maroon fabric. “Y-You’re about to make me quit this crap! And she’s not your girlfriend!”

“Uh… damn, dude. All because I’m not gonna kiss you? Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.”

“Damnit, Butt-Head, stop!” he shrilled at the top of his lungs, but it was too late. The image of him and Butt-Head kissing had already intrusively formed behind his eyes. His stomach felt as if it were being turned inside out and wrung like a wet rag, and Beavis considered impaling himself with what was left of their broken lamp to get rid of the sensation. He settled for clamping his teeth down onto his hand instead, his nausea dissolving as the welcomed pain became the forefront. “Are you done?” His words muffled and unintelligible, he spit himself out. “Are you done yet?”

“Uh-huh-huh. Uh-huh-huh. Yeah, I’m done.” Butt-Head met his eyes only for a brief moment before putting them away, picking at the seams of his shorts. “Uh… so what are we supposed to do.”

Beavis hadn’t thought that far ahead. “I-I don’t know, actually.”

“Damnit, Beavis, you drag me into this-“

“Hold on, hold on. Just let me think.” He filed his nails down on his teeth. “I mean, I gotta look the part first. I don’t have any dresses. Or makeup.” He pulled his finger out of his mouth, flicking away whatever it was that he flossed out. “Maybe I can wear one of your shirts or something as a dress. And I can use, like, a Sharpie for the eye stuff. Oh, and it bleeds when I brush my teeth, so I can go do that and use the blood as lipstick and stuff.”

Butt-Head was already worn out. “Or we can just pretend.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Alright, Butt-Head, here we go.” He spun himself around, hands clasping his crossed ankles. “Just take Hannah’s face and body and put it on me.”

Butt-Head cleared his throat as he straightened his spine. The longer he stared, the more his face began to contort. “It’s not working.”

“Well, then make it work.”

There was a pause. “I can still see you.”

“Think, bunghole!”

“God damnit, dude, shut up. If you keep interrupting me this isn’t going to work.” Butt-Head proceeded to defy his own rules, “Maybe just, like, start acting like Hannah or something.”

“Uh… Okay-okay, uh…” Beavis pondered for a long, long time, imagining beautiful, beautiful sluts. That is, until he realized chicks wouldn’t be thinking about other chicks. Unless they were lesbians. But Beavis wasn’t a lesbian. He was Butt-Head’s fake girlfriend, and he was not gay. “Hey.”

“Really, Beavis.”

“I’m Hannah, assmunch! Okay, I got this.” He took a deep, scratchy breath. “Uh, wow, Butt-Head. Thanks for, like, um… taking me ou-h my god.” Beavis twisted away from him, curled like an upside-down fishing hook. He didn’t know how he didn’t vomit right then and there. “Maybe you’re right, Butt-Head. I-I don’t think we should do this.”

“What’s wrong, Beavis? You’re not gay, are you?”

His words took a second to register. “That’s not fair, butthole! Ugh, damnit.” Beavis’ eyes rolled into the back of his skull as he rapidly repeated, “Oh wow, Butt-Head, thanks for taking me out, blah blah blah, whatever. Okay, your turn.”

“Uh… You’re welcome.”

“This date sucks.”

“I already told you I don’t know what to do.”

“Then let’s figure it out!” Beavis yelled as he shot up from the couch, the gesture anticlimactic as neither could, in fact, figure it out. Beavis stood there for quite some time, scratching the transparent stubble on his chin, until he blinked his eyes wide open. “Hey, uh. R-Remember how Van Driessen said, like, if we ever needed anything, we could, like, call him.”

But at the phone, the wisdom soon to be bestowed upon them was put on hold. “Look, Beavis. We have, like, messages.”

“Woah, really?” Beavis placed his palms on the counter and pushed himself up, putting him at Butt-Head’s height as he stared down at the answering machine. “You think it’s Grace? Heh-heh-meh.” Before Butt-Head could say something dumb, Beavis clicked the play button, but there was nothing sexy about the gruff voice inside the box.

“Hello, Beavis and Butt-Head, this is Michael.”

“Ugh,” Butt-Head grimaced. “It’s our boss.”

“Please give me a call at your earliest convenie-“

“Shut up.” Beavis deleted the memo, but, alas, no beautiful, beautiful slut took his place.

“Hello, Beavis and Butt-Head, again, this is Michael. Plea-“

“Hello-“

“He-“

“I-“

Butt-Head waited a second or two to make sure it was finally over. “Who does this buttmunch think he is. Calling us on our time off.”

“Yeah, seriously!” Beavis climbed onto the counter as Butt-Head punched in Van Driessen’s number. “If you wanna talk to us, talk to us at work, damnit.”

“Yeah, seriously,” Butt-Head repeated, and the pair snickered in and out of sync until the other line clicked in Butt-Head’s ear.

“Hello?”

“Have you ever been on a date before.”

“Wh- Excuse me?” Van Driessen didn’t bother waiting too long. “Yes, Butt-Head. I have. Why-?”

On all fours on top of the counter, Beavis shoved his face close to the phone. “Butt-Head’s got a sexy date tomorrow, heh-heh-meh.”

“Yeah, and we were wondering if you could, like,”—as he registered Beavis’ hot breath on his face, Butt-Head glared at him as he took a large step to the side—“tell us what happens on dates. Like, what does a chick want me to do.”

“Oh. Oh, okay. Um…”

“Hurry up and tell us the stuff.”

“All the stuff.” Beavis leaned back in, much to Butt-Head’s dismay. “Butt-Head needs a lot of help.”

“Shut up, asswipe.”

A sigh crackled from the phone. “It’s not that simple, Butt-Head. I can’t just tell you what a woman wants, because no two women are-“

“Damnit, just tell me how to bag a chick.”

“Yeah, teach us something for once!”

You could practically hear him rubbing his temple as he waited for their laughter to die down. “Listen, you two. It’s important to understand that not all women have the same desires. You shouldn’t rely on some kind of testimony from another person or anything that society might tell you, but rather, you should rely on what your date tells you herself. The best thing you can do in a relationship is communicate.”

“Uh… got it,” said Butt-Head, who was not listening. “So are you gonna tell us or not.”

“Just be kind and be respectful. Kindness and respectfulness. That’s all you need, I promise, and you’ll do just fine.”

“How do I do that.”

“You can start by communicating with her.”

Butt-Head glared at him through the phone, then dropped it back down without another word. “What a dumbass.”

“That’s a guy who has never gone on a date in his life.” As a sharp pain grew in his kneecaps, Beavis slid off the counter, his socks slipping against the tile. “I mean, it’s not that damn complicated! Just go pick up the girl, take her to a restaurant… o-or maybe a mall, heh-heh-meh. O-Or even, like, the roller skating rink, or the movies, or the zoo! Get creative, you know what I’m saying. And to top it all off, you go through a… a-a romantic stroll through the park! Heh-heh-meh. Really not that complicated, heh-heh-meh.”

”Uh… Wait a minute. I think you’re onto something, Beavis.”

“Woah, really?”

“Yeah. That’s what we gotta do. The hunk takes the chick out to dinner, uh-huh-huh.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Good thinking, Butt-Head.”

“Go get in the car, Hannah.” Butt-Head pointed towards the front door. “I’m gonna take you to the finest restaurant in the country, uh-huh-huh.”

Butt-Head pulled into the Burger World parking lot, right in front of the tornado-collapsed building. “Oh yeah.”

Beavis stared at the ruins, underbite agape. “Um, Butt-Head. I’m getting hungry.”

“Well, Beavis,-“ Butt-Head’s eyes snapped wide open as Beavis mimicked the sound of a game show’s wrong answer buzzer. “What. Oh, uh. Well, Hannah,-“ He was cut off again. “Damnit, asswipe, what do you want?”

“You can’t call a girl by her name.” He folded his arms and pouted his lips. “You gotta call her nicknames.”

Butt-Head stared at Beavis for a while, looking him up and down. “Well, dumbass,-“

“Not our nicknames!”

“What other nicknames then, dillweed.”

“You know.” He could feel his body start to reject the words before he even said them. The nausea began to squeeze him, and he moved his crossed arms down to his stomach and thrusted them in deep. “Y-You gotta call her, like, ‘darling’ and ‘baby’ and stuff.” He shook his head, dragging his frail, puny voice out of the gutter, “Come on, butthole, you know that!”

Butt-Head’s typical empty expression was anything but, twisted with disgust. “Ugh! I am not calling you that crap!”

“Are you gay or not, Butt-Head?!” he tossed the ball back.

Butt-Head strangled the steering wheel instead of Beavis’ neck. He tried to consider the greater good. There were sluts on the line here. “Well, baby”—he hoarsely growled through gritted teeth—“as you can see, the Burger World is dead.”

Beavis jerked his head towards the car’s front window, cracked by flying pebbles and stained with bird shit. “Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.”

But that time, his laughter had no backup vocals. “Uh… Where’s my nickname.”

Butt-Head hardly had time to breathe before Beavis slapped him across the face. “Don’t you ever tell a woman what to do!”

He remained frozen in the post-slap position for a moment before he slowly lifted a hand to rub his jaw. “Beavis. I am being more serious than I have ever been in my entire life. I am going to kick your ass.”

Beavis slapped him sideways, spraying spit on the driver’s window. “Not on our date you aren’t! And my name’s Hannah!” He thought for a moment. He was Hannah. He was Hannah. Before Butt-Head could throw himself across the console and start wringing him by the neck, Beavis made his eyes as large as they could, locked them with Butt-Head’s, and swiftly batted his thin, crooked eyelashes. Butt-Head stopped in his tracks, the tension in his shoulders melting as bewilderment crossed his path. He unintentionally stalled for long enough for Beavis to clear his throat, his pitch high and his southern accent strong and sweet, “Is this all we’re going to do, cutie?”

Butt-Head’s eye twitched. “Beavis.”

The Beavis in question wanted nothing more than to throw himself out the window, preferably on a busy interstate. But doing that would make him gay. Beavis lifted himself onto the console, towering over Butt-Head who cowered in the corner of the car seat and the door. Slanting his eyes and brushing his imaginary auburn hair behind his ear, his smirk was a vicious taunt. Look how not-gay I am, Butt-Head, it cackled. “Beavis isn’t here. Unless you want him to be. I wouldn’t mind that. He’s, like, a lot hotter than you, anyways. Heh-heh-meh,” slipped. He punched himself in the throat, coughing and sputtering, “Wait-wait-wait. You aren’t… asking for him because… Oh, Butt-Head! If you were gay, you could’ve told me! This date is, like… totally over! Or something.”

Beavis struggled to hold in his laughter, an obstacle short-lived. He had been looking at Butt-Head the entire time, sure, but that didn’t mean he saw him. Beavis’ sneer fell as he saw Butt-Head’s heart, visible through his shirt, and his eyes, stricken wide with something Beavis couldn’t comprehend. It looked like fear. But that wasn’t true. Butt-Head was never scared.

That sickness returned. Beavis crawled back to his seat, still having no idea how he hadn’t retched with how his insides felt like they were being whisked in a baker’s bowl. “Shut up,” he grumbled under his breath to the wind, taking in his frown through the window.

Beavis jolted as the car only slightly inched forwards. “Uh, I’m not gay, Hannah. If I were, I wouldn’t be taking you, a chick, to a fancy restaurant, the mall, a, uh… What was it.”

“Roller skating rink?”

“Yeah. And the movies, and the zoo, and the park. And stuff. Baby.”

“Cool.” He cut himself off before he could chuckle, “How sweet.” As the car pulled out of the parking lot, Beavis returned for a brief moment, “Hey, uh, Butt-Head. I mean, uh, cutie,” dried up all of his blood vessels.

Beavis could see his knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “Yes, baby.”

“This date is, like, sweet and stuff and whatever, but… i-it’s just that, uh.” He swallowed. “That sounds like a lot.”

The sky was darkening by the moment, tinted only with scarce drops of a pink sun from behind the horizon of run-down buildings and scattered trees. “Then what are we going to do.”

The car’s beams stretched and morphed over all it passed, an abstract light show, like the constellations in the sky. “I guess we can just, like, figure it out as we go along, or something.”

“Uh… That sounds stupid,” was Butt-Head’s way of saying he did not understand a word Beavis said. “Do you think chicks like Wendy’s. Cause it’s, like, a girl restaurant.”

“Yeah! Yeah-yeah, it is! Great idea, Butt-Head! Heh-heh-ack,” he gagged. “And don’t call me stupid! This date is over!”

“So now I get to start over right.”

“What. Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.” He fluttered his eyelashes and rested his hands gently over his heart, singing, “Oh wow, Butt-Head, thanks for taking me out,” heh-heh-meh.

****

Neither ever figured out what day it was, so for the first time in their lives, they deemed it necessary to err on the side of caution. Turns out, having Beavis and Butt-Head knock on your door at six in the morning on a Monday to announce, “I’m here for your daughter, uh-huh-huh,” does not go over well with the majority of parental figures.

But it went over well with Hannah. So well, in fact, that after prying the loaded shotgun out of her father’s hands, she reassured Butt-Head that they could go out that day instead, but at the other six o’clock. She also questioned why Beavis was there. Butt-Head did not have an answer for that.

She was coming down the steps of her front porch now, her ears glistening with stainless steel cuffs and her midriff slicing between her flared, plaid jeans and a band shirt Butt-Head did not recognize. She kept her head low as she walked towards the car, saving her smile for when she finally opened the passenger door. “Hey, Butt-Head. That’s… what you like to be called, right?”

Butt-Head swallowed hard. “Uh… Yeah.”

She shut the car door then turned back towards him, her layered hair curved around her jawbone. “Don’t you look handsome?”

He looked down at his Backstreet-Boys-Of-Course-There’s-Always-The-Damn-Backstreet-Boys shirt. He had purchased it at their local mall, otherwise known as Walmart, after he and Beavis ordered Wendy’s and proceeded to not eat it. Apparently, Beavis was nauseous, too. He wondered if they were both getting sick. That would suck. “I thought this was sexy, uh…” His voice trailed off as Hannah raised her hand towards his face, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind his ear.

She leaned back to her seat, eating him alive with her eyes. “You look good with your hair up.”

“Uh, thanks. Uh-huh-huh.”

She went quiet, and as more time went on, her smile began to drift. She almost looked as if she was waiting for something. “So!” she finally exclaimed, her hands slapping her knees. “Any plans for this lovely lady of yours?”

“Uh-huh-huh, yeah, baby. Uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head took the car out of park, pulling away from their mailbox.

“Come on, now.” She clicked her seatbelt in. “Tell me what!”

“Oh yeah. Uh… You like Wendy’s? Or something?”

She shrugged, pulling her glossy lips to the side. “I like Wendy’s.”

“Cool, uh-huh-huh.”

“Yeah.” She joined in with her own laughter. “Cool.”

Neither spoke for a time, which Butt-Head didn’t expect, but he didn’t care too much about either. She began to drum her fingers on the console, then blew a raspberry right before reaching for the knob of the radio.

You live your life, you go in shadows.

“I love this song,” she whispered as she leaned back towards her seat, gazing at Butt-Head for the remainder of the verse.

“Uh… Oh yeah. I, like, love this song, too. This song rules.” Well, he wasn’t so sure about ”rules.” He wasn’t too sure about ”love” either. Something being stuck in your head doesn’t mean anything. That night, for Hannah, it was going to be his favorite song of all time. Yesterday morning, for himself, it was everything but.

”What the hell is that?!”

“Uh, what?”

“You were singing that song! Heh-heh-meh. T-That song!”

“I wasn’t singing anything, dumbass.”

“Humming it, whatever!”

“Shut up, dillweed, before I come over there and kick your ass.”

“‘Oh Beavis, Green Day sucks. Green Day is ass. Green Day is whiny and boring, blah blah blah, uh-huh-huh.’”

“I said shut up. I don’t like this song. I hate this song.”

“‘Meanwhile, I’m gonna, like, listen to this dumbass girl, hippie song.’ Fade into you!”

“Damnit, asswipe-“

“Strange you never knew! Heh-heh-meh.”

“How the hell do you know the words, Beavis?”

“-know each other?”

Butt-Head took his eyes off the road to blink in her direction. “Uh, what?”

Hannah’s brushed her puzzlement off with a grin. “I asked how you and Beavis know each other.”

“Oh.” The last thing he wanted to do was talk about that dumbass on his hot date, but that was exactly the issue: he had a hot date, and she was asking him a question. “We, like, grew up together and stuff. I’ve known him since I was a baby.”

“Aww.”

“Yeah, uh…” Torn between loyalties, one to his hot date and the other towards how much Beavis sucked, Butt-Head struggled to focus on the road. “But I probably wouldn’t, like, hang out with him and stuff if our moms hadn’t forced us to.”

“Aw.” Her demeanor was like a person at a dog pound. “Why not?”

“Cause he’s a dumbass. And he sucks.”

He did not expect her to laugh, but she cut him off before he could join in, “Then why do y’all live together?”

Butt-Head’s grin dropped. “Uh, what?”

She shrugged, demonstrating with her flailing hands her confusion. “I’m just saying, if you really hate him that much, I don’t understand why you can’t just go get your own place. Y’all aren’t babies anymore anyhow.” She chuckled some more, eventually clocking something on Butt-Head’s face. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was enough for her laughter to cease. “I’m playing. Promise. I know you don’t actually hate him. I make jokes like that with my friends, too. And pay attention to the road!” Realizing how she had raised her voice, she tried to deflect with another set of chuckles. “Making me nervous now, you hear?”

“Uh… Yeah,” was all he could muster, and he watched her fall back to her seat, staring out the window. Butt-Head tried to think of something, anything to say. “So, uh.” She whisked towards him. “You still drive and stuff?”

”Here it is, Hannah. Our romantic stroll through the park.”

“Cool, heh-oops. Damnit, I keep forgetting that. Hey, hey! Where are you going, butthole?!”

“Uh, I don’t think Hannah would call me a butthole.”

“She would if she was cool!”

“Damnit, Beavis, you’re not supposed to be- Uh… What the hell are you doing.”

“Hold my hand!”

“What.”

“Hold my hand! I-It’s what they do!”

“No way, dude. Ugh, I’ve done too much of this crap. Can we just go home already.”

“Damnit, Butt-Head, stop being gay and hold my hand! A-And you think our date is crap? There you go! Again! Date failed! Again!”

“Oh my god-“

“Oh wow, Butt-head, thank you so much for taking me out! Now give me your hand!”

“…”

“…”

“… Ugh…”

“Blaugh! Gross! I mean, um, finally. I’ve been waiting for this… and stuff.”

“Yeah… Uh, me too. This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I-I’ve wanted this more than you.”

“Uh, no, Hannah. I have, actually.”

“… Jesus, your hand’s cold.”

“Shut up, dumbass, your hand’s, like, warm, and it’s gross. Ugh, it’s making me want to throw up again. Oh my god.”

“Again! Damnit. Oh wow, Butt-Head,-“

“-this is so sweet of you. I must say, I’ve never had a man take me on a romantic stroll.”

Butt-Head shut the door to the car, joining Hannah on the other side to amble down the park’s paved path. “Well, baby, then I must be the first, uh-huh-huh.”

“That’s”—she stuttered to giggle—“what I just said.”

“Uh…”

Butt-Head’s breath caught in his throat as she took hold of his entire arm, leaning her face into his shoulder. “I can’t get enough of you.”

“Woah. Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.” He gawked at her, catching himself seconds before chortling, ”Check it out, Beavis.”

Admittedly, Butt-Head wasn’t sure what to do. He figured he should hold her too somehow, but one arm was entirely in her embrace, and the other was, well, on the other side of his body. He decided to keep walking, and Hannah remained as she was, keeping him close, so he was doing something right. He wasn’t exactly sure where they were going, but he didn’t really care. He had a chick with him. That was all he ever wanted.

Her voice drew open the night’s heavy, delicate curtains. “Hey. Can I ask you something.”

“Uh, yeah, baby.”

Still keeping her head against his arm, she tilted it upwards. “Why do you call yourself Butt-Head?”

Butt-Head faltered, doubting if he had heard her correctly. “Cause it’s, like, my name, I guess.”

She chuckled, giving his arm a squeeze. A cicada’s shrill was not far off. “Really, though. Come on, I’m curious.”

“Uh… Uh…”

“Oh my god, wait. Is it personal? I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot. You really don’t have to tell me. I’m sorry for prying.”

In her embarrassment, her presence began to weaken. “No, no. Uh, no,” he blurted out. When he was sure she wasn’t drifting any further away, he resumed, “It’s not, uh… like that. It’s just that I, like, don’t remember, I guess.”

Hannah’s laughter arrived in the form of a series of brief sniffs. “If you ask me, I’ll bet Beavis probably gave it to you as some sort of a nickname.”

“Uh, no. He’s not smart enough to come up with a name as cool as Butt-Head.”

“Who knows.” She leaned against him once more. “He might be.”

A bench began to near over the slope, one Butt-Head had been waiting for. As he had practiced, he guided Hannah over, their only witnesses being the moths fluttering against the street lamps and the stars in the deep, overhanging blue. The lights of the urban area was a distant call, hidden behind the trees, all disguised as a single, dark silhouette. Sitting side-by-side, they gazed towards the muffled colors beyond.

Beavis had said that the point of all this dating stuff was that you were in love, but Butt-Head was beginning to doubt the dumbass’ credibility, not that he had any to begin with. Butt-Head still wasn’t sure if he was in love or not, but he still didn’t care. Love or not, this girl wanted him, and only him. All that other crap came second. “So, uh. Did I pass.”

Her head angled over the back of the bench as she laughed. “I’d say you passed, Butt-Head, yes.”

“Woah. Cool, uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head met Hannah’s eyes, and when she didn’t move, neither did he. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so he just stared, but according to that smile on her face, he had to be doing something right. At least, until that smile grew into laughter, laughter she turned away from him and hid in her hands. “Uh… What’s so funny.”

“Nothing’s funny, it’s just…” Pulling her hands away, Hannah met his gaze for only a heartbeat before she retreated back into her palms, grinning all the more. “Oh, god.”

Butt-Head continued to do nothing but stare. “But you’re, like, laughing and stuff.”

“I know, I know. I can’t help it.” Before he could question Hannah as to why, she let her arms fall around her abdomen, and she scoffed, seemingly at herself. “They make me feel so stupid. In a good way, you know. It’s just… like… here I am, just looking at you… or holding your hand, or hell, just being around you, and I feel like I’m going to pass out and throw up at the same time.” She lowered her head down even further, her hair draped over bits and pieces of a smile Butt-Head could still see.

He could only focus on one thing at a time. He knew no better. “Woah. You get that crap, too? Do you, like, feel like you can’t breathe, too. Like… Your lungs and whatever get all tight and stuff.”

A cricket’s whistle, somehow gentle, echoed from the depths of the meadow as she returned to his eyes. “I do.”

”It sucks, right.”

She winced, a reaction beyond Butt-Head’s comprehension. “Well… They can be overwhelming sometimes, yes. But that’s the fun in them, I think.”

“Uh, I guess,” he mumbled without thinking. “Uh, wait a minute. Who the hell are you talking about. Who is they.”

“You know.” She fixed her posture, pressing her back against the bench. “The butterflies.”

“Uh… What.”

“What we’re talking about right now, silly. Butterflies? In your stomach? That whole thing?”

“What?” That would explain everything. But it didn’t mean it was a comforting explanation. “Am I gonna die or something,” he asked, not out of fear, but out of pure curiosity. If butterflies were going to be his cause of death, he had to come up with some sort of hardcore explanation fast so he wouldn’t embarrass himself in front of the devil. Did the devil even know how you died? Or did only God know that? Butt-Head figured he would ask Beavis later, while on his death bed.

God damnit. Beavis. He had to break the news to Beavis. As his heart sunk down to his butterfly-infested stomach, his mind began to lead itself astray. He wasn’t sure which was worse: Beavis finding out Butt-Head was leaving him, or Beavis finding out Butt-Head was going to die because of some butterflies. Butterflies. Everything about this was horrible. The dumbass was either going to cry or laugh uncontrollably. Again, Butt-Head wasn’t sure which was worse.

“What? Pthh. Oh my god, not actual butterflies! Oh my god,” she repeated as she snickered, while Butt-Head merely looked upon her with perplexity. “I’m talking about the feeling called butterflies.” When his demeanor did not shift, she kindly continued, but her own confusion was poorly hid, “You know…? Again, what we’re talking about right now? The nausea, dizziness, the tightness in your chest? The funny feeling you get around a certain someone?”

Butterflies. So that was what had been going on. Beavis had been giving him butterflies.

Butterflies…

He, Butt-Head, gave Hannah… butterflies?

There was something he wasn’t understanding. “I don’t get it.” Butt-Head could feel the strand of hair slip past his ear for what felt like the hundredth time that night, only that time, no hand reached out. He began to walk in circles in his mind, searching for the beginning so he could find the end. But there was nowhere for him to go. Either he hadn’t found it yet, or it wasn’t there at all. He waited for her to speak. “I don’t get any of this.”

“Yeah… It’s confusing, isn’t it?” A silence fell over them both, but Hannah broke through it to bring herself nearer to him, her voice a hushed, crackled whisper, “I’ll help you understand...”

”This bench sucks.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head. I-I think it’s pretty cool.”

“Uh… Then it’s cool. Right.”

“Good. See you’re finally learning, heh-h-aw, damnit!”

“…”

“…”

“So, uh, what now. Do I just take her… Uh, I mean you home.”

“I guess. I-I don’t know, I feel like we’re forgetting something.”

“Uh-“

“Oh yeah! W-What if she wants to kiss you and stuff?”

“Uh, then I’ll kiss her. I already said I’m not kissing you.”

“Yeah, me neither. Wait. I-I mean I would. I would kiss you, because I’m not gay.”

“… What.”

“Yeah, since I’m, like, a girl, you know, it wouldn’t be gay. But if you-“

“Damnit, dude, come on. I’m not doing this again. The test run thing’s over, alright. Let’s just get up and go home.”

“See! I knew you were gay! Heh-heh-meh.”

“God damnit, Beavis, I’m not gay.”

“Heh-heh-meh. A-Are you sure, Butt-Head? Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.”

“How about you kiss me then, dumbass.”

“Heh-heh-… Wait, what.”

“Uh, yeah. If you’re not gay, then kiss me.”

“… I-I don’t, uh. W-Why.”

“What, Beavis? Is something wrong or something?”

“No! N-Nothing’s wrong! It’s just… Uh…”

“You aren’t gay, are you?”

“Shut up, Butt-Head! H-How about you kiss me instead?!”

“You’re the asswipe stopping this. I’m just waiting on you. That’s how not gay I am.”

“I’m more not gay than you. I-I could kiss you right now.”

“…”

“I could…”

“…”

“…”

…

Without another softly spoken word, Hannah cupped her hand around his face, pulled him close, and kissed him.

And all he could think about was Beavis.

Beavis had given him these insects before. Sometimes, it happened when Beavis did something stupidly cool. Sometimes, it happened when Butt-Head would wake up on the couch and groggily discover that dumbass was lying on his shoulder or chest. Sometimes, it just happened, like Hannah said. But all these years, Butt-Head never thought twice about it. It was weird, these random feelings of nausea, dizziness, and whatever else, but Butt-Head was weird. It was just something else wrong with him, a list only his mother could keep track of, a list only Butt-Head could skim.

What exactly was it about those nights’ infestations that were different than the others? Butt-Head had never felt them swarm so strongly, and he thought the feeling couldn’t get any more unbearable. So, why? Why were these insects now suddenly a problem? Beavis had been giving him these bugs his whole life. Shouldn’t Butt-Head be used to it by now or something? How did this work, exactly? Why the hell was hating someone called butterflies?

Butt-Head thought she loved him, but there she was, saying she had butterflies because of him. As her lips seeped in further, so did her words. She said this was fun? How was this supposed to be a good thing? He didn’t understand how it could be anything but. These insects had done nothing but fuck everything up. Every time he felt them, something went wrong. How was she smiling? How was she laughing? How was this good to her? She said this kiss was supposed to help him understand. A kiss was supposed to help Butt-Head understand what these butterflies were. Was this kiss supposed to be some kind of breakup then? What was a date even supposed to be? Butt-Head thought he was doing something right. He had done tests runs and everything. This sucked. Everything sucked.

Butterflies. What a stupid name for a feeling like that. It should be called wasps, or scorpions, maybe. Then maybe some part of this would finally make sense. And Butt-Head had never cared for sense.

“You know what it means? When that special someone of yours gives you butterflies?” Before he could respond, she placed her hand on top of his. Butt-Head looked at her, searching for her hatred, but it was hard to see under her beaming smile, a smile that parted to softly and tenderly whisper, “It means you’re in love.”

Chapter Text

Beavis’ words, hardly a voice and barely a breath, began to fade away. The amount of inches that separated his and Butt-Head’s faces were disgustingly few. He wanted to jump backwards off the bench, land all fours, and hiss at him before scurrying off into the woods. But he couldn’t. That would make him gay.

With silence clasping their throats shut, all Beavis could converse with was the only thing he could see. Butt-Head’s expressions were never more than the slight adjustment of his open mouth or a squinting of the eyes, but here, it screamed. It screamed the indignation. It screamed at Beavis, daring him over and over again with each passing, gasping heartbeat. Because his chest was ricocheting, sending ripples throughout the fabric of his torn, faded shirt.

Beavis’ hesitation startled him. It jolted him forwards. He clutched Butt-Head’s face with forever fractured hands, gasped for air as if he were diving underwater, and planted his lips against his date’s gaping gums. It was a victory that he did not have time to celebrate.

Butt-Head shoved him off with a sickened gag, his teeth nicking Beavis’ lips and making them bleed. Realization having been whacked into him, Beavis lurched and coughed, close to retching as he curled up into the fetal position and rolled off the bench, the impact sending a faint cloud of dust into the air.

“Ack! Ack!” he shrieked as he planted his face in the dirt, using his back legs to push him along the path in a frantic attempt to get the taste of Butt-Head’s spit out of his mouth. He then began to choke on the dirt. Not actually. But his nerves had been shot. With a mouthful of thousands of gritty pieces of sand and blood and Butt-Head’s drool, Beavis began to roll around like a hamster with wheel-induced brain damage, arching his back while his arms flailed.

The world did not revolve around Beavis and Butt-Head. A passing couple halted, gasped, and placed their hands over their hearts. “Oh my god,” the woman worriedly exclaimed. “Is he having a seizure?”

”I’m not gay!” Butt-Head shouted, coated with sweat and rage. The couple decided to take the long way back to their car.

Beavis had stopped convulsing, and was instead lying on his back, limbs outstretched, and trying to keep up with his spasming heart. He lifted his head to peak over the pounding mass in his chest to find Butt-Head with his face in his hands, mumbling beneath his breath as his body was struck with a shudder.

His neck starting to ache, Beavis pushed himself up with his elbows, watching Butt-Head drag his shirt across his tongue and gums. “Uh, Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head was refusing to look at him. He hacked up a wad of spit and coughed it out into the grass, then dragged his arm across his mouth. He lingered there for a moment before he met Beavis’ eyes without warning, who immediately turned away. In his peripheral vision, he could see Butt-Head stand and march towards him with clear intent. Beavis stuttered with fear as he scraped against the ground in a desperate attempt to stand, but his efforts subsided as he realized Butt-Head was not going to kick his ass. At least, not at that moment. He had walked right past Beavis without a word, his pace quicker than normal as he headed right back down the incline.

Beavis stared at him as he went, stuck between confusion and uncertainty. At some point, the distance between them hit him like a truck, and he scrambled to his feet and dashed down the hill, the wind striking cold the sweat behind his ears.

He shut the car door, watching Butt-Head hesitate before he finally relented and climbed inside. The rumbling of the engine was an awkward silence, and Butt-Head dragged his arm across his face once more, a repulsive reminder. Beavis couldn’t help but cough again.

The radio stirred on its own as Butt-Head pulled out of the parking lot, singing,

What else should I be? All apologies. What else could I say? Everyone is gay-

Butt-Head didn’t even attempt to change the frequency, instead nearly ripping the volume knob clean off as he twisted it all the way to the left.

Silence. Except for an abrupt snort from Beavis, who thought the song was funny. It took a brief side-eye at Butt-Head’s unamused expression to quickly shut him up. But not for long.

“Hey,”—his mouth smacked as he swallowed—“Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head kept his wide eyes forward, his lips sealed shut, his arms straight and stiff.

“I-I think, uh…” Beavis forced his head down. The passing lights stretched over his knees and hands, an unsynchronized dance. “I-I think we took that too far.”

Having never expected Butt-Head to speak, Beavis flinched when he inhaled. “Beavis.” He paused. “You are going to die when you get home.”

“Alright, okay,” he sighed, slumping back into the seat. He thought for a moment. “Can I go to the bathroom first.”

“No.”

“Okay-okay.” He perked up at the sound of a siren, watching a patrol car cross an intersection up ahead then vanish out of sight. “A-At least we know we’re not gay.”

“Beavis, I knew that before you put your… spit juice all in my mouth, ugh.” His body shuddered, slightly and fleetingly jerking the wheel back and forth.

“Damnit, Butt-Head, I-I told you we took it too far.” The silence returned, and Beavis faced him. “Dude, I’m sorry, okay? Jesus.” He tried to solemnly gaze out the window, but that quickly became boring. “Look, y-you can still have your first kiss with that Hannah chick. Tha-That didn’t even count as a kiss. I don’t even think, like, our lips touched or anything. I think I just kissed your gums or whatever. Blaugh.”

Beavis felt something heavy leave his shoulders as he heard Butt-Head laugh, “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. You suck at kissing.”

“Shut up, butthole,” he growled, the corners of his lips twitching as he struggled to hide his smile.

“You’re never gonna find a chick, Beavis.”

“Wait, no,” he interrupted Butt-Head’s laughter before it could begin. “O-Our bottom lips touched, yeah-yeah, I remember, heh-heh-meh. I-I remember, because your lips were really dry. You need some chapstick, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh.” He caught Butt-Head’s eyes, grim and, once again, unamused. “Okay, sorry.” Beavis ever so slowly inched his head back in his direction. “Do you wanna get me back.”

“Uh. What.”

“Y-You know. I kissed you, and it, like, sucked and stuff, so you can, like, kiss me and get me back.”

“No, Beavis. I don’t want to do that.”

“Thank god.” Once again, Beavis tried to herd his attention somewhere else, only to be pulled right back to Butt-Head. The driver was hunkered forwards, the muscles in his face squirming. “Uh, Butt-Head?”

“I feel like I’m going to, like, throw up again.” He faltered, gripping the wheel tighter. “But, like, not actually, you know.”

Beavis did know. They had discussed it multiple times throughout that night. “Oh yeah.”

“Are you feeling it again, too.”

“A little. I think. Oh god.” He wrapped his arms around his middle as he involuntarily recalled all that had caused this nausea throughout the night: the name-calling, the hand holding, the kiss, to name a few. “What even is this crap.”

“I don’t know, but it sucks.”

“It feels, like, I’m on a rollercoaster, almost. You know, when it gets, like, real high, then it drops. It’s kinda cool actually, heh-heh-meh.”

His voice was strained, “This is not cool, dumbass.”

“Yeah-yeah, no. I was talking about rollercoasters.” Beavis scratched the inside of his nose. “We should, like, go to Six Flags again or something.”

“We better not be getting sick,” Butt-Head ignored the proposal. “This is gonna screw up my hot date.”

If Butt-Head was searching for any kind of support, which he most certainly wasn’t, he would be a fool for trying to find it from Beavis, “Well, if one of us is sick, then we’re both definitely sick now. Remember. ‘Cause we kissed.”

“Goddamnit-“

“Okay, okay, sorry, I’ll stop.” He held up his hands. “Won’t bring it up again.”

“Yeah, you better not. Or I’ll kill you, like, for real.”

The car started to move again. Beavis hadn’t even realized that they were at a stoplight. He began to pick at the hairs on his forearm, then abandoned it to chew on his nails. “Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Yup.”

“We’re, like…”—his fingers slowly slipped out of his mouth, hanging onto his cut lip—“good, right.”

“Uh…”

“Like.. Like, uh. You know, uh. Y-You know how, like, uh… Damnit.” He turned towards Butt-Head, but didn’t look at him. He couldn’t. “You know how, like… crap sucked, recently.”

The silence made its brief return. “Yeah.”

“I-I was just making sure that… we’re good, you know. That crap’s not gonna go back to sucking.”

He anticipated some sharp retort, taunting him for being a wuss. It shifted into concern as the seconds passed, growing and festering until Butt-Head quietly muttered, “It’s fine, Beavis.”

Beavis’ unkempt eyebrows raised. “Cool, cool,” he stammered, tapping his shoes together. “L-Like I said, we took it too far. It sucked, but it was an accident, a-and we’re good now.”

“Yeah, that’s what I just said. Dumbass.”

“Oh yeah.” Beavis started picking at himself again. “Yeah, we took it too far, and I-I don’t even think it counted as a kiss, since we weren’t into it. A-And we weren’t, because we’re not gay, which we proved by kissing and stuff, and we kissed because we took it too far and-“

“Dude.” Beavis froze, and their eyes finally met at the cost of the road ahead. “We’re cool.”

“Cool. Heh-heh-meh,” he added without a smile after a slight pause.

“Yeah, cool, whatever.” Butt-Head begrudgingly returned to being a responsible driver. “Now shut up before I kick your ass.”

“Cool!” Beavis shot up straight with closed, shaking fists. “Heh-heh-meh, cool!”

Butt-Head’s laughter arrived in the form of a stifled grin before anything else. Most people claimed they couldn’t tell when Butt-Head was smiling. Beavis never understood that. It was so easy to see. “Uh-huh-huh. You’re a dumb butthole.”

“You too, Butt-Head. Heh-heh-meh. Dumb butthole, heh-heh-meh.” Comforted by the familiar, Beavis continued to snicker for what felt like the entire drive home, enveloped by the floating, muffled lights of passing cars and that weird, unexplainable sickness that never seemed to come to fruition.

Beavis felt warm. He felt a specific kind of warmth. One that he had felt once, and never thought he would again.

He was on their mattress. At least, he assumed he was. The details of what was probably their room were difficult to make out. They were hypocritical. Each corner contradicted the other. The only thing he could put his trust in was Butt-Head, whose arms were wrapped around his back and holding him close.

And he did nothing about it.

Beavis pulled back, not to leave, but to meet Butt-Head’s eyes, their darkness his light. Beavis wasn’t sure where they were anymore. In the room, in the park. Nowhere. He could feel their room’s humid draft and he could feel the coolness that spilled down from the stars. He could feel nothing but the warmth.

He put his hands on Butt-Head’s face. It was different this time. The nausea he had felt those nights were gone. Even his heart had come to a still. When he kissed Butt-Head, he thought nothing of it. It was expected. Calm. A believable peace.

And he fell into what they were, unsure, but unafraid.

”And we are looking at yet another rise in temperature this afternoon, the highest this month, at approximately 101 degrees-“

Beavis coughed out an unintelligible noise as he jolted awake, breaking the stream of drool that was pooling onto the couch cushions. The blinding television melted away to reveal the weather forecast, which was not what he had been watching the night before. At least, he was pretty sure he wasn’t. Everything was still a haze. Except for one thing.

“Augh! What the hell?! Jesus, gross!” he shrilled, fiercely shaking his head as if he could knock the memory of the dream out of his misaligned ears. He kept gagging as he tried to wipe the residue off of his clothes and the imagined taste out of his mouth. This went on for a while, assisted by multiple obscenities, and while he did finally begin to catch his breath, the only thing to snap him out of it was the fact that he had yet to accidentally kick a certain someone in the ribcage or in the leg.

For the first time since he awoke, Beavis looked around.

”Then, tonight, around ten P.M., the temperature is going to drop to about the late seventies, as you can see here.”

He stared at the empty couch. His focus formed a spiral, circling from the couch, to the windows, to the television, to the kitchen, back to the couch. “Uh…”

”We are also expecting some rain tomorrow. We have a ninety percent chance of sun showers in the early hours, but be careful. There is also thirty percent chance of thunderstorms later that evening. I know it seems slight, but the chances are still there.”

“Butt-Head?”

The dream no longer happened. A dream of a dream. Beavis slipped off of the couch, missing a sock, and peeked into the kitchen just to be sure. He glanced back at the living room, too. Just to be sure.

“Butt-Head.” He made a turn towards the stairs, this time without the urge to scamper up on all fours. He craned his neck towards the open bathroom door, then kept on forwards towards their room, grasping the loose doorknob without knocking.

“Butt-Head?” But his words bounced off vacant walls.

The door threatened to close on its own volition before he let himself in, his eyes narrowed and unblinking. He caught the blistering heat crawling down his throat before he caught the window ahead, open, ”letting all the AC out,” as a blonde-haired woman used to caw. Mumbling beneath his breath, Beavis stepped over and kicked away empty canisters on his way to the windowsill, shutting the glass pane and her voice before she could begin.

A slight movement snatched his attention, and he focused his eyes just in time to watch the forgotten ladder struggle to stand before finally swaying a bit too far, collapsing onto the dead grass with a shattered clash.

“Heh,” he sniffed. “Heh-heh-meh. Cool.” Only his voice echoed back to him. He stared at the empty space next to him, a rare sighting, and his face darkened into a scowl. “Stupid bunghole,” he scoffed, grumbling hastily-strung sentences that he could hardly understand on his way out of the desolate wasteland.

The cold water dripped down his toothbrush and onto his hand as he turned the faucet off. He winced at the sharp mint that penetrated his sensitive gums, but paying for another cavity removal hurt a lot worse. Beavis spit out a chunk of foam and went back to pacing in circles, a repetition that slowly made its way into the hall.

Drops of toothpaste hit the wooden steps as he made his way back into the living room, where he resumed his aimless pace around the couch. Butt-Head sucked. He finds one slut who’s stupid enough to not see the sexier option right in front of her, and suddenly he’s too good to come home.

Beavis paused, then looked out the windows once more, just to be sure. The sky had gotten dark not long after Butt-Head left, and now, the sun was out. It was definitely tomorrow. He diverged from his set path to the kitchen to stare at the microwave, piecing together the time: 1:09 P.M.

He stared at it until a minute passed. 1:10 P.M. Then, he pivoted back around and made his way down the hall, each drop from the corners of his lips painting the carpet a faded white.

Beavis opened the front door. He looked at the curb, then at their driveway. Then at the curb, just to be sure. Then at their driveway, just to be sure.

He found himself on the couch with no memory of how he had gotten there. The toothpaste had been completely diluted by saliva and had pooled beneath his tongue, and he had gotten so accustomed to the taste of blood that it was hardly distinguishable. He chewed on the multi-colored bristles, plucking each strand out, one by one, and either accidentally swallowing it or having it get stuck between his teeth. His leg would not stop shaking. He was keenly aware of every strand of his hair that grazed the back of his neck. And the weatherman would not stop talking.

”I know these extreme temperatures are overbearing, folks, but remember, we are at the top of the weather mountain and it’s all downhill from here, in a good way, okay. Everything will start cooling by August, and then, before you know it, it’ll be autumn, and we won’t have to worry about this heat anymore. But for now, just take care of yourself. Make sure-“

Stupid Butt-Head, Beavis scorned, digging a deformed nail into his trembling thigh. Asshole. He clamped his teeth down onto the toothbrush’s plastic handle, feeling an ache deep in his jawbone. Stupid asshole.

The toothbrush had been mauled, and it took a sharp piece of jutting plastic to cut into his cheek for Beavis to throw the carcass onto the table. Bandaging his wound with his tongue, his body slowly began to tilt back and forth, back and forth.

Butt-Head had said he was coming back, right? Did he? Beavis dragged the night prior out into the light, retracing their steps, recounting their words.

”Uh, what are you doing.”

“I thought, like. It’s time for your date.”

“Uh… You can’t come with me, dumbass. Remember.”

“What, heh-heh-meh. Oh yeah. Hmf… Uh…”

“… What?”

“I-I was just, like, wondering, um… What time are you, like, gonna be back and stuff.”

“Uh… I dunno, uh-huh-huh. When we’re done, I guess.”

“Yeah-yeah. And, like… It’ll be around the time we got back home, right. After the test run, you know.”

“Damnit, Beavis, I said I don’t know. Calm down.”

“I-I am calm, buttmunch. Jesus, I was just asking a question.”

Butt-Head left not long after that, Beavis was pretty sure. And Beavis was pretty sure that after that, he spent the rest of the night on the couch, waiting. There was nothing else to remember.

Clearly.

The dream made its rounds. Beavis cut it down.

He was pacing again. In their bedroom, this time. And he could hear the birds. There were so many of them, as if they were all nesting on the windowsill. They were shrieking to one another, to themselves, to him. Shrieking at him. It was piercing his ears. He had never known so many birds. There were too many birds. There were too many passing cars, their dragging wind like a freight train. Too many kids cackling and screaming as they bounded across the neighborhood’s decaying yards. Too many baying hounds. Too many birds. None of it had been here before. There were no such things.

He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching his clasped hands peel each other apart. Butt-Head sucks. The fingers crept towards the yellowing scab. Butt-Head sucks. Beavis began to twitch. Butt-Head fucking sucks, and he’s fucking stupid, and he’s a fucking asshole, and I hope he’s fucking dead.

He ripped open the scab. The blood was slow to rise, and slow to fall.

Beavis had somehow made his way downstairs, sucking the blood out of his hand with every intention of infection. It gave him something. Something to do. His head was howling, each agonizing pulse marking the concussed scar on the back of his skull. And yet, he found room to think, as splintered as each fragmented connection was.

Butt-Head had said they were good. He said that.

Beavis had asked if they were good, and Butt-Head had said they were good.

He drifted towards a corner, barely able to pick his feet up off the ground, much less move them forwards.

Did he do something after they got home? Something to make this happen? He tried, but he couldn’t think of anything. All he could remember was that Butt-Head acted fine, just like he said he was.

Butt-Head said he was fine, and he was acting fine.

If Beavis had screwed up somehow, Butt-Head would let him know.

Beavis rocked back and forth on the couch, clawing his arms. Butt-Head left… what, around five? Beavis scurried towards the kitchen to check the time, finding it to be four.

Four.

His pacing was no longer in a simple circle. It was irregular, unplanned, erratic. Upstairs, downstairs, in, and out.

Butt-Head could be dead.

But that wasn’t the plan.

He could be with her.

But that wasn’t the plan.

He was supposed to come back last night. Not knowing the exact time was something dismissible. Hell, even forgivable. But this was beyond that point. Beavis wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been. But he knew it was too long.

Did he find something in her? Did she meet some kind of criteria Beavis didn’t, something so grandiose that Butt-Head abandoned him after years for a night with her?

But that wasn’t their plan.

But Butt-Head wasn’t here.

Beavis.

He gasped for air, clinging onto his sore, battered arms. He looked over his shoulder, slowly turning in a circle as he hoped to find something, someone. But there was nothing. Nothing except the birds, the cars, the neighbors, the dogs, their screams, and the air that weakly dragged itself in and out of Beavis’ lungs.

Five.

Beavis stumbled down the sidewalk, the sun like a rusted chain around his neck and the house its stake deep in the ground. But he fought against the blistering heat and down the path he swore he recalled. Hannah’s house wasn’t comfortably close, but Beavis had trekked further distances in the past, in a time where either had yet to be spoiled by the luxury of a motor vehicle.

He lurched down the street. It was weird, how old he felt. And it was weird how the passage of time was mapped for him. Being fourteen felt further away than being ten, or nine. Eight, or seven. He had staggered down these streets alone fairly recently, guitar in hand, but his wrath had blinded his senses with vicious determination. Now, he could hear, and he could see. And he swore that he saw memories, faded and disconnected, outrun him down the street, snickering, and young. It was weird, because they never ran. Running was for wusses. And so, Beavis kept himself to a crawl. They were still faster than him.

Beavis.

Town crept into view, one clusterfuck of a building at a time. He was sure they drove through here.

His movements were lopsided and unstable, his joints cracking and the soles of his feet deeply bruised. His gray shirt was stained dark with sweat, and his left foot slipped out of its shoe with every step, crushing the heel. After all, Butt-Head had taken the Converse’s shoelaces to tie his hair. Asshole. Asshole, asshole, asshole. He better be dead.

People tended to take a detour when they saw Beavis and Butt-Head heading their way, or at least very obviously avoid eye contact if they were impossible to walk around. But that day, people dared to stare at the staggering, disheveled man physically holding himself together, murmuring between gasps for air. They took wide steps around him instead of faking politeness, staring at him through the corner of their eyes when they thought he couldn’t see. But he could see. He could see everything they did and did not do.

“Hey… Beavis?” What once began as a friendly call fell away into concern. “Are you feeling okay?”

He froze, every breath a struggle. His head hung low, he recognized this place through his peripheral vision. It was an outdoor restaurant, families and couples seated under the patio, each and every one staring at him, and one calling his name. Beavis wasn’t sure why he stopped. Perhaps it was some kind of morbid curiosity. What could Stewart the Savior possibly spew?

“You know him?” an unfamiliar voice piped up. A girl.

“He’s a buddy of mine from high school. Hey, Beavis-?”

Beavis twisted in their direction with a shriek that cut his throat, “Shut up, Stewart! You suck! And your girlfriend sucks, too! Go to hell!”

The crowd gasped amongst themselves, some shielding their children, others hiding behind their menus, but all Beavis could see was the pair just across the black iron fence. Stewart had instinctively moved in front of her, her hand on top of hers as if it would protect her. He was glaring at Beavis. Glaring, with an intensity Beavis never knew was possible from such a spineless waste of air.

But he was still Stewart. His glare weakened, but his hold on his girlfriend remained steadfast. He would not forsake her.

Beavis pictured Butt-Head. Butt-Head and Hannah, to be exact. Involuntarily. He could see his hand on top of hers. He could see him holding her on a bed Beavis didn’t recognize. He could see him kiss her. Hold her. Kiss her. Want her.

He could see Butt-Head and he wasn’t here.

Butt-Head wasn’t here.

“Beavis?”

Beavis.

“Beavis, are you okay?”

Beavis.

Beavis!

Beavis!

Goddamnit!

Beavis!

“Beavis?”

Beavis!

He ran.

He wasn’t sure for how long, nor how far. There wasn’t much he was sure of. Every street looked the same until they didn’t. Every street looked the same until they sculpted themselves together into an amalgamation that was beyond his control. The beating sun dimmed then detonated into an explosion of the colors of the night. The flashing traffic lights, the blinking lampposts and their swarming moths, the blinding headlights of bolting cars and trucks. They spiraled around him, hooked onto his ankle, and dragged him deep. Deep into himself. Deep into the ground. Deep into the night.

Beavis.

The voice became a whistle. The whistle became a blaring horn.

Beavis’ soul was nearly ripped from him as a truck slammed on its brakes. He hadn’t even realized he was on the,

“-road! Get out of the road!” The driver punched the steering wheel again. “Move, goddamnit!”

Beavis shrunk back, holding his arms in front of his face as if that was going to do something. He staggered forwards until he tripped onto a curb, swearing he could still hear the driver coarsely shout at him as the vehicle raced away to become one with Highland’s manufactured lights. Beavis stood there, on that curb. Gasping, and shaking. And he glanced over his shoulder, just in case.

Butt-Head wasn’t there.

Beavis looked around, forcing his escaping heart back down his throat. It was dark. When did it get dark. He looked at his shoes, he looked at his torso. He looked at the lights, he looked at the moon. He looked at the curb, he looked at the street. The street. When did he get to this street.

Beavis jumped as a car flashed right by his face. He swore he could taste its metal. He stumbled back but didn’t stop, making his way down the street. The street. He didn’t recognize this street. It didn’t matter.

Butt-Head wasn’t there.

“Butt-Head…” he hoarsely whispered. “Butt-Head, Butt-Head, Butt-Head…”

There was another gap, empty and hollow. How long, how short, it didn’t matter, because it had come to end. Something familiar was prying his eyes and ears open, beckoning him closer. It was familiar in its structure. Almost. The last time he saw this place, Beavis swore the spire went up forever. But he could see the end of it now, and the cross, sitting atop, could see the end of him.

Beavis held onto himself as he apprached the doors. He swore this place used to be barren. But the once endless fields had been chased down and slaughtered by real estate, leaving strip centers in their wake to rot and nothing more. But he swore he saw memories, and those memories tore down the carcasses and rose the meadows anew. And he swore that within the green and yellow maze, he could see these memories lose themselves within it, snickering, and young.

Beavis.

That’s not what the pastor said. He said Beavis’ real name, with a voice tainted by what could only be described as terror.

“It’s Beavis.” With a shake of his head, he added the clarification most people needed, “I-It’s just Beavis.”

The pastor adjusted his glasses as he approached. He looked older. Beavis thought that was impossible, just like the top of the spire. “Pardon me, then. Hello, Beavis. Goodness, how long has it been now… Ten years?”

Beavis stared at the red carpet, recently vacuumed. “I guess, I dunno.”

The pastor was holding his breath as he fumbled with his hands, creased with veins of blue. He interlocked his fingers as if he were about to pray. He probably should have. “Well, how are you? How’s your mother?”’

Beavis.

Beavis head began to drift downwards, twitching more and more the longer the silence pursued him. There was so much he could say. He could lie. That would take too long. He could tell the truth. That would take too long. And he couldn’t speak a word so simple: ”Good.” His mother was ”good.” He couldn’t. Say it, but he couldn’t. But he needed to breathe, and so his lungs forced out the culmination, “Dead.”

“Oh. Oh, my God.” The pastor’s hands flew over his mouth, which quickly whispered a prayer of forgiveness while he performed the Sign of the Cross. “Excuse me, I’m just… This is news to me… Your whole family is buried at this church.”

Beavis was shaking terribly now. He might as well just fall apart. “Yeah, well. They never, like, found her body or anything, so.”

“Jesus Christ.” Another prayer, another Sign of the Cross. He lingered there longer than he did before, as if the Jesus Christ in question needed to be persuaded to forgive. When he opened his eyes, they were a reflecting pool. “I’m so, so sorry, Beavis.”

”Yeah-yeah, whatever. It’s fine.” Beavis narrowed his own eyes, empty husks. “Why are you crying.”

Blinking profusely, the pastor tried to remember that everybody grieves in their own way, and that judgement was a sin. “How could I not?”

Beavis thought of a day long ago. It was not a good day. But it was familiar. “Heh. Heh-heh-meh. You’re moved,” he repeated Butt-Head’s mockery. Butt-Head. Beavis’ smile began to fade. “Or something, whatever.” He cleared his throat. “How’s, like, my aunt and stuff.”

The pastor cleared his throat, too, in a shaky attempt to accept the conversation’s abrupt shift in tone. “If I were to be truthful with you, her family’s attendance has been… shaky, these past few years, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you much. But she was here recently. Your cousin is apart of choir, too. When he’s here, at least. I’m suspecting you’re no longer a choir boy?” The pastor’s wrinkled face was stretched upwards with raspy laughter, reminiscing on days he never thought he would view fondly.

He grimaced. “Hell no, I’m not a choir boy anymore. That shit sucked.”

As Beavis’ expletive echoed off the church walls, the pastor waited for an apology that would never come, and faithful recollections of the kid standing in front of him began to creep their way back into his mind. Fighting the urge to perform the exorcism he never got the chance to, the pastor thinned his lips and inquired with a heavy sigh, “What brings you here, Beavis?”

Beavis raised his head and looked him in the eyes.

Beavis.

He shuddered, and he grasped his arms tightly. “I don’t… I-I don’t know,” he stuttered, despite knowing. Or did he? “I think I’m, like, lost.” He added quietly, “Or something.”

The pastor’s faux concern sprouted genuine roots. “Lost how?”

Beavis.

Beavis gasped as his body violently jerked. “I-I don’t know, damnit! I thought I knew where I was going, but I-I keep getting turned around, and everything’s getting darker, a-and I don’t know where I’m going, and I’m alone, and I…” He found himself drifting, but a quick spasm of his neck dragged him right back. “I-I thought, maybe, like… y-you could help me find my way back home.”

The pastor looked upon him with pity. Beavis wanted to attack him. “I can guide you, Beavis. But the only the Lord can bring you home.”

The fire’s flickering spark was snuffed by bewilderment. “How,” he questioned, having never heard of God materializing in front of people to tell them which street to go down. But that wasn’t the only part causing Beavis trouble. “I… W-We prayed that, like, He wouldn’t look at us anymore.”

“All of our faith will be shaken at some point, Beavis. It is inevitable, as believers. But, as First Corinthians 10:13 states, ‘God is faithful, and he will not let you be tempted beyond your ability, but with the temptation he will also provide the way of escape, that you may be able to endure it.’”

Beavis hated this part of the sermons. None of this crap ever made any sense. “Uh-huh, okay,” he grumbled, lying through his blood-stained teeth.

“But there is nothing you cannot defeat with God’s presence in your life. ‘Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,—“

Beavis’ head perked up. This sounded cool.

“—I will fear no evil, for you are with me.’” The pastor scanned Beavis’ face, searching for any sense of relief, only to not be sure exactly what he was looking at, as per usual. “He has never stopped looking out for you, Beavis.”

The slightest hint of a smile, intrigued by this Shadow Death Valley, dissipated. He was still looking at them? Maybe that was the problem. “Uh… really?”

The pastor mistook Beavis’ disappointment for the reassurance he had been hoping would stick. “Really,” he confirmed Beavis’ worst fear with a warm smile. The Lord’s servant knew he should stay, listen to more of what this strayed lamb had to cry, but it was getting too late for his comfort, and even pastors are merely human. “Give me your hands, son. Let me pray for you.”

Beavis didn’t want to give his hands, and yet he extended them anyways. He could see the pastor struggle to avoid the dried blood, the scars, and the callouses in places they should and should not be. His hold on Beavis was a scared one. Hesitant. Beavis wondered if that would mean the prayer wouldn’t work.

The prayer. Beavis was attentive to it. He listened for directions, but no matter how much he dissected the pastor’s vague words, he never found what he was looking for. The pastor spoke of strength. Of the heart, and of the soul. He spoke of forgiveness and mercy, and how God was eternal. Beavis thought of the spire.

“We ask that You remind Beavis that even though none of us will ever be good enough in Your Holy Sight, and that we all deserve nothing but eternal damnation in Hell, you will never forsake us, and we will never be alone.” He concluded wearily, his hold on Beavis’ hands weakening even further, “Lord, we ask that You remind Beavis of Your love, your mercy, and your steadfast faithfulness. Because Lord, we know we need You above all else. ’For I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.’”

We know we need You above all else, closed in on him, and he began to shake. Beavis didn’t need God. He needed Butt-Head.

And he stumbled out of the church doors, cold, and alone, with no advice on how to get back to that house.

Beavis hadn’t been silent. He had spent the car ride whispering incoherently, executing any possibility the driver wanted to engage in conversation. But he was silent now, staring out the dusty, cracked window towards the house.

Butt-Head wasn’t there.

“Don’t ever do something that stupid again. I could’ve killed you if I wanted to.” Perhaps it was some kind of attempt at a joke. It didn’t matter, because Beavis was checking the driveway again, just in case. With a huff, the driver tapped his cigarette out of the open window. “Now, go on. Git.”

Beavis.

“I said get out of my car, goddamnit!”

He jumped as the driver slammed his hand on the horn, running Beavis off like a stubborn, feral cat who wouldn’t get out of the road. He hurried out of the car and slammed the door shut, and the cigarette’s ash splattered on the side of the road still sported the slightest orange flicker until the screeching tires put it out.

Beavis.

Butt-Head wasn’t there.

Fighting the sting of the humid air, Beavis dragged himself to the front door, tilted past the threshold, and collapsed.

Beavis.

The television was on, but he wasn’t sure who was there. It was noise. Nothing but light and noise, and none of it he could understand.

He paced. He rocked. He laid down. Not sure how long for.

Beavis.

Every noise made him flinch. Some made him gasp, and others tremble. Every time the house settled. Every time the walls creaked. Every time.

Hearing the phone ring almost killed him.

Beavis.

“Butt-Head?”

“No. Beavis,” he breathed into the receiver, his hands threatening to break the phone. “Beavis.”

He could hear Hannah sigh. He had forgotten about her. “Hey man. I’m sorry for calling so late, it’s just… I need to talk to Butt-Head, okay. And I don’t care if he doesn’t want to speak to me. Tell him we need to talk. Now.” While he struggled to process her words, Hannah did, too. “I guess…” She sighed once more. “I guess I can’t make him do anything. But just tell him I’d appreciate it if he’d listen to me for just a second. Sorry. Just.” She inhaled sharply, cutting herself off. “Just do me a favor and put Butt-Head on the phone, please.”

“What.”

He could hear her blink. “What? What do you mean, ‘what’?”

“Butt-Head’s not…” Beavis tried to swallow, but he couldn’t. Suffocating, the words clawed his throat apart, “Butt-Head’s not with you.”

“Why would Butt-Head be with me? I haven’t seen him since last night, Beavis. He left me, i-it’s why I’m calling. I need to… What, did he say something to you? …Beavis?”

Beavis.

”Beavis.”

“Sorry, sorry. W-What, uh…”

“Your hand is supposed to be here. On this fret.”

“Oh.”

“This one, angel.”

“…”

“Goddamnit. You’re killing me.”

“Sorry, sorry.”

“Just pay attention and get it right the first time, then you won’t have to be sorry.”

“…”

“Beavis.”

“Yes?”

“I love you.”

“… I, uh. M-Me too.”

“…”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize for anything. Hey, look at me. Anything. Ever. Do you understand me?”

“… Okay. Y-Yes, I do.”

“I mean it. I love you, angel. I’ll never love anything more.”

“Me too.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Hey. Heh-heh-meh. I did it.”

“Eh. Kind of-“

“I did it! Yes! I learned the song! This kicks ass!”

“Beavis.”

“Sorry.”

“…”

“This… T-This is cool, heh-heh-meh.”

“That was a good attempt, yes. You’re close, but not quite there yet. But practice is what makes it perfect.”

“Yeah. Do you want me to, like, try again or something?”

“…”

“Mom?”

“…”

“…”

“Hey, Beavis. Remember that… game, I mentioned earlier?”

“Oh yeah! Heh-heh-meh.”

“Yeah…”

“What is it?”

“…”

“…”

“I want you… to play the song again.”

“O-Okay.”

“From beginning to end, okay.”

“Okay.”

“And if you make a mistake, you have to start over.”

“O-Okay.”

“And don’t come out of your room until you’re done.”

“… Okay.”

“…”

“Is there, like, a prize or something? Heh-heh-meh.”

“… Butt-Head can come over.”

“Really?! But I thought, like… C-Cool! Heh-heh-meh.”

“Steady, steady. I want no mistakes, okay? Play on the correct frets. Hold down the strings correctly. I want all of that, okay?”

“Got it, heh-heh-meh. I’m gonna win, heh-heh-meh.”

“Beavis.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“…”

“…”

“I love you.”

“… I-I-”

“I love you so much. You will never understand… how much. Never.”

“…”

“…”

“Where are you going?”

“… In there. Until you’re done.”

“Okay.”

“… Hey.”

“Heh-heh-meh, I’m gonna- Sorry, uh yeah?”

“… You remember the number for Poison Control, right?”

“Y-Yeah, I do.”

“Say it.”

“Uh… It’s, like… one eight, two zeroes, then three twos, then a one, then three more twos. Right?”

“Right.”

“…”

“Remember. Do not leave your room until you’ve played that song perfectly.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

“… I’ll…”

“…”

“I-I’ll see you later… okay?”

“Okay. A-And remember, Butt-Head gets to come over!”

“I won’t forget.”

“Can he stay the night?”

“… Yes.”

“Woah! Really? Wait, you’ve already talked to his mom?”

“… I have.”

“Woah! Cool! Heh-heh-meh.”

“…”

“Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.”

“Hey.”

“Heh-heh-meh. I’m gonna win, heh-“

“Goddamnit, Beavis.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“…”

“…”

“… I.. I love you, okay. I love you so much. Tell me you know that. Tell me.”

“I-I know, I know. I know, Mom. I promise.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“Hey, uh, Mom? Are you, uh… Are you, like… okay?”

“…”

“Mom?”

“Yes, I’m okay... I promise. Everything’s okay.”

“… Okay.”

“…”

“…”

“…”

“I love you, too.”

That wasn’t the last time Beavis saw his mother. He would see her in his dreams, and in his nightmares. He would see her lurking around corners, staring him down, silent. He swore he did, every time, and every time he checked, there would be nothing, and Butt-Head would have to drag him back.

Beavis learned to stop checking, and she learned to stay out of his way. She became a rarity, absent in all but the occasional shiver down the center of his back. Nothing more.

Shirley was not there.

But neither was Butt-Head.

She was daring, now. She stared him down from the cracks in the ceiling. She had taken over the shadowed corridors. But she was also in the light, a silhouette he could hardly see. Sometimes, she was still, and other times, she was a moving blur in the corner of his eye, enough to make him look, but not enough to give him faith. He doubted her, no matter how many days came and went, no matter how clearly she whispered into his ear,

Beavis.

He was lying on the center of the mattress, blind to the jutting spring that was one slight movement away from slicing his heel. He found refuge in the wall across from him. He stared at it. A plain, empty, and simple space. It was a place where she could not hide.

Beavis wished he could hide. Or, at least, stop the feeling of his ribs pinching his skin every time he took a breath. His eyes were heavier than stone, and yet he could not keep them closed. He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t eat. He couldn’t drink. His body was fighting its own survival.

He was not sure how long he had been lying there, nor if he would ever stir again. A part of him was angry at himself for it, but if you were to look upon him, you wouldn’t be able to tell. He could barely pull together the strength to feel any form of hatred, much less show it to a world that did not care.

Beavis thought he would never move again until there was a sound.

It wasn’t the whispers, which were sometimes comprehensible, other times not. This sound, wherever it was coming from, was not here.

Nobody was here.

When it did not fade, Beavis grunted in pain as he lifted himself up with bony arms, shaking from the slightest weight they had to carry. Unable to stand up straight, he lurched forwards, one arm wrapped around his stomach and the other reaching out for anything to keep him from collapsing.

The sound would grow louder, but would flutter away the second he thought he reached it. He somehow made it down the stairs, which felt much longer than they ever had before. This sound. It was leading him past the living room. It was leading him elsewhere.

He trembled before her door. The sound was a tender deafening.

Beavis held what little breath he had left in him as he crept open the door, anticipating his death for a reason he did not understand. He soon found that this would have been a mercy.

Her fingers were picking away at the strings, playing a song he swore he recalled, yet could not name. It was so far, yet so close, just like his mother, resting on the edge of the bed, guitar in her hands.

She looked at him.

The light from the cracked shutters had fallen upon her, so bright, it blinded her face. And yet Beavis could see. He looked at her.

“Beavis.”

An eternity went by with each step, slow and unstable. His faith was weak, even now.

Tired of waiting for him, she returned to his guitar. Her guitar. It was never his.

Beavis wanted to run to and away from her. It was a paradox, and it meant that he could not stop. He walked towards her until his knees gave way, and she caught him without ever holding out her hands. He clung onto her dress. She never wore dresses. He swore he could still hear the guitar even after she had let go, and he had no idea where it went. Through the light he could not tell was from the sun or from her, he saw her smile.

She raised her hand and cupped his face. He made a sound Butt-Head would have mocked him for for the rest of their lives.

Her hand was cold. Beavis lifted his hand and grasped it, hoping he could somehow warm it.

And after all of those years, he could only say one thing, “Butt-Head left me.”

Her smile was unwavering, and she gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. “I told you you’re too much, angel.”

“I know, I know.” He choked out a sob, holding onto her hand with an intensity she should have struck him for. “I know, I know, I know, I know.”

She hushed him as she leaned down to pull him close, and he buried his face in her neck. It was still cold. “I forgive you.”

He opened his eyes, his vision obscured by her blonde curls. “You do?”

“Of course.”

He pulled away, his eyes wide. “S-So that means you’re staying?”

“Oh, Beavis,” she sighed, caressing his face. “I can’t promise that. You know how you are.”

He trembled in her grasp, which remained steadfast no matter how hard he fought. He clawed her hands, her arms, her face, latching onto what he could as he began to hyperventilate, the tears he had been holding back for so long finally falling. “Don’t…” He inhaled sharply, every word constricting him.

A sternness crossed her face, her voice grim, “Beavis…”

“Don’t, don’t, don’t…” He struggled to interrupt her, to stop her from saying anything else. She had to stay. He had to stay. Time had to stay, even if he spent what was left begging for her not to slip from his hands. “Don’t… Don’t, don’t, don’t leave, don’t. Don’t leave me.”

“Beavis.”

Beavis.

He awoke to find his heart pounding in his ears. He could barely decipher his mother’s room before he realized something had woken him up.

But there would never be a chance to think any further. Beavis heard the front door quietly creak for a second or two, then click. Shut.

His feet never touched the ground as he shot out of the bed, bolting towards the door with an energy he thought had long left him. He struggled to open it and nearly fell over when it did. He clung onto the threshold and stared into the only place he could look.

Beavis was close to letting go. He was close to surrendering all that he was. He wanted to throw himself at Butt-Head and never let go. He didn’t care if they fell, or if Butt-Head strangled him, or anything in-between, or more, or less. It was all secondary. Beavis, was secondary. But he could not move. What had given him life equally drained him of it.

Butt-Head was not there.

His face was a horrid pale, worn and burdened. He had lost enough weight for Beavis to notice. There were scattered, vague bruises on his arms and legs. His body looked as if his blood flow had been cut off, and his sunken, empty eyes were draped with a weary, yellowish purple, and his hair had been cut off at the neck.

Six days.

Beavis’ whisper was a shallow grave, “Butt-Head…”

He dropped the guitar onto the floor, its untuned notes ricocheting off of the walls. Beavis didn’t know he had been holding it. “You left that in the car.”

Beavis glanced over his shoulder, spying the bed between the crack of the door. The guitar wasn’t in there, and neither was his mother. He swiftly twisted his head back around, but Butt-Head was gone, and his heart stopped until he found him again at the base of the stairs. Every beat was pitiful. “Butt-Head.”

He stopped, his shoulders tense and rigid. He didn’t even attempt to look at the carcass behind him. “What.”

Beavis was aware of exactly what he wanted to be told. He knew exactly what he wanted to say and what he wanted to do. And yet, he stood there, silent. Butt-Head waited for him. It was a taunt.

He finally rasped, “Where did you go.”

Butt-Head didn’t move, but Beavis swore something changed. “Uh… I don’t know.”

“Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head turned around. The face Beavis had been longing for hurt to look at. Unbearable. He wasn’t just staring at Beavis. He was daring him. Beavis was being dared.

“Where… did you go.”

He did not waver for a time unknown, until he broke the silence by looking Beavis up and down, up and down. “You look like shit.”

The words he had been unable to seize began to fall out of him, “I-I have… I haven’t… I-I couldn’t sleep, or eat, o-or anything.”

”Uh, that’s your fault. Fucking dumbass.”

“Where did you go, Butt-Head?! I-I was gonna die, goddamnit!”

There came a sound, from behind his teeth. It sounded almost like laughter. Beavis could not tell until it grew enough to form a smile he did not recognize.

Throughout their lives, more than once, Beavis and Butt-Head practically ding-dong-ditched the Grim Reaper’s door. It was insulting to life itself how much they managed to get away with with nothing more than a scrape or a bruise, if even that. And every time, all it did was make the other snicker. There was no such thing as grief, or fear, or worry. It would take only one of them nearly being put in a cardboard box casket to make them both laugh. But this was not laughter. And that was not a smile.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. Cool.”

Beavis crept back like a dog. Butt-Head waited for him, but nothing ever came. With nothing but skin and bones left for him to rip apart, Butt-Head left Beavis alone at the base of the stairs, to bleed out, and to die.

Beavis.

Chapter Text

Beavis had the sudden urge to peek towards his right, catching the corner of Butt-Head’s eyes. The two instinctively began to snort and snicker, an exchange instantly interrupted by a sharp tug on Beavis’ arm. Her nails pricking his skin, Shirley did not let go until Beavis surrendered and looked her in her eyes, wide and white. She finally whisked her hand away, leaving pale scratch marks on Beavis’ dry skin in her wake. Beavis looked for Butt-Head once more, as if he could help, but Butt-Head had become drawn to the pew ahead, his eyes dull and unfocused.

Beavis squeaked in swift response as he felt something sharp prod him in the ribs, noticing his mother’s hand return to her lap.

“Sit up straight,” she hissed, careful her voice was a raindrop beneath the pastor’s thunderous storm.

“Yeah, Beavis. Uh-huh-huh.” Butt-Head knew to whisper, but he wasn’t very good at it. Beavis flinched when Shirley quietly yet fiercely snapped her fingers, while Butt-Head merely ticked his thin lips at her in response.

”And I assure you”—Beavis caught the middle of the pastor’s sentence—“that although we, as sinners, are not worthy of love, God is merciful enough to love us anyways. Do you understand me, folks?” The crowd murmured amongst themselves in agreement. “We are worth nothing… Nothing, at all. And yet, the Good Lord loves us unconditionally. His love is pure. It is holy, and it is righteous. It is unconditional. And it is because of this unconditional love, folks, that He must punish us. He loves us…”—he paused once more, letting his words echo—“in the midst… of our punishment. For as it is written in Psalm 89: 31 to 33,

If they violate my statutes

and do not keep my commandments,

then I will punish their transgression with the rod

and their iniquity with stripes,

But I will not remove from him my steadfast love

or be false to my faithfulness.”

The pastor tilted his head upwards, gazing towards the ceiling with a smile. “And how blessed are we, folks… that we who deserve nothing short of the pits of Hell… are instead met with merely the rods and the stripes of God’s just and unquenchable wrath.”

The courtyard of Highland High had always been a visible horizon through the tall, glass panes, but now, its details were obscured by the descension of a gleaming white. Beavis couldn’t help but stare at the phenomenon, attempting to track each individual speck with flickering eyes to no avail. They had become one, a force to be reckoned with as it blanketed the benches and the sidewalks and the cars. The wind suddenly picked up, sending the falling stars spiraling in a blistering twister, then it exhaled, and they were back to their simple, synchronized drop. It was boring. It was stupid. And yet, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the windows. It almost made him forget that they were going to lose the house.

“It’s pretty, isn’t it.”

Beavis swiftly turned back around, making the legs of the chair shriek against the floor. Van Driessen was looking at him. How long, Beavis wasn’t sure. The teacher smiled at him, then moved his fallen hair out of his face with the pen he was using to grade papers.

“I like the snow,” he added, writing a checkmark next to a student’s answer. “We don’t get it often here.”

“Yeah, uh. I guess we don’t.” Beavis faced the window again, the whistle of the wind leaking in through the aged windows.

Van Driessen chuckled, as if Beavis actually cared, “When I traveled to Colorado, our return flight got cancelled not once, not twice, but three times because of all the snow. And Colorado is right above us. It’s fascinating to me how drastically the weather can differ in such a short distance. Well, short in the grand scheme of things, at least.” A silence fell over them, and Beavis, staring out the window, could hear his smile drop. “Hey, Beavis.” The chair squeaked again. “I need you to at least look like you’re working, m’kay.”

“Yeah-yeah, okay,” he grumbled under his breath, swiveling back around and clicking the pen. He dropped his chin on the desk, blindly scribbling abstract shapes on a piece of notebook paper.

Butt-Head was wrong. Of course he was. Burger World hadn’t been paying them at all. They had been fired the second that tornado touched the ground.

At first, the letters made no sense. Beavis couldn’t comprehend why they were requesting a mortgage payment he had just sent. He couldn’t do much except throw it away. He couldn’t do much of anything. But they became part of his routine, a daily knock on the brittle door. It wasn’t until early August when the gas station employee denied Beavis’ groceries that the matter finally hit him: they had no money. That made no sense either. Burger World had been paying them. Butt-Head had said so. But he was wrong. Of course he was.

They applied for jobs all across the town, careful to avoid crossing each other’s path. The day Beavis was supposed to pay the utilities, August 15th, came and went, but that Grace Period woman must’ve done something, for their lights stayed on and their sink kept running. In the middle of the month, Butt-Head miraculously landed a job at a snow cone joint, but when the leaves began to drift away from their stems and people lost much reason to eat flavored ice, Butt-Head ultimately became a victim of his employer’s-induced natural selection in late November. Throughout those months, all of his money went to the hospital bill and the utilities, except for the gas. They gave that up to keep the cable. Coming to that agreement was the first conversation they had had in weeks that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

Application after application denied again and again, Beavis learned to keep his job search local. In their neighborhood, he was a dog-walker, a lawn-mower, a dish-washer, even a husband one afternoon to some old lady. She smelled like old coins, and paid with them, too. But for some reason, every time Beavis went to a house, its tenants hired him only once and never again. Only the Anderson’s reopened their doors for him. Beavis worked with Mr. Anderson in his shed most of the time, and occasionally was able to get temporarily hired at the veteran’s many social gatherings as the guy who picked up the chairs and whatnot after everything was said and done. It was all more work than Beavis had ever known for a pay disgustingly small. And he still couldn’t pay the mortgage. He knew he had to. But every dollar he scraped off the ground had to be forfeited to their many bills as well, because Butt-Head wasn’t enough. Of course he wasn’t.

Beavis tried to sell the guitar. Shirley wouldn’t let him.

Van Driessen was technically an option, but he paid too little for Beavis to prefer his work over Mr. Anderson’s. But there were days where he had little choice, and on those days, Van Driessen would remind him that he could “pull a few strings” get Beavis a job as a teacher’s aide despite the lack of whatever college credit was. Every time, Beavis very loudly declined. Teachers were nothing but a bunch of wusses. He’d rather get his ass kicked for eternity than be one, especially with a stupid hippie as his supervisor. But then, they got a letter dressed in red, containing a word he had never seen before. Beavis called Van Driessen, asking him what the hell a “foreclosure” was. By the end of that call, Beavis had been promised a job.

There was no saving the house, but there was possibly saving them from having to live inside the dumpster behind Burger World, or, even worse, with Van Driessen. Beavis had been meaning to talk to Butt-Head about picking out a new house. He had been putting it off. But, technically, so had Butt-Head.

Being a teacher’s aide wasn’t as grueling as he thought it was going to be, especially without a nasally voice in his ear taunting him all day for it. Beavis never actually had to do any teaching. He printed off papers, ran stuff up to the office, picked up the class during lunch, sat there. Most of the time, he just sat there in silence next to Van Driessen’s desk, staring at his fidgeting hands, or the wall, sometimes glancing at the fleeting shadows in the corners of his eyes. On his first day, however, his mind was preoccupied with searching for these puppets Van Driessen spoke of. He had never seen any kind of puppet before. Maybe he could make it swear. But when his secret search, albeit limited, turned up nothing, Beavis questioned his former teacher regarding how he was pulling strings at this seemingly-stringless school.

“I told them I’d quit,” Van Driessen said with a smile, not answering his question, then asked Beavis to print off Tuesday’s assignment.

“Excuse me a moment,” he added to Beavis’ memory, standing up from his chair without further explanation.

Beavis snapped up his resting head, the tip of the pen breaking through the paper as his words spilled from him before he could even think, “Where are you going?”

Van Driessen paused, his demeanor one of bewilderment. “Um. I don’t know just yet.” He glanced towards the door, where Beavis caught Coach Buzzcut’s face through the muffled glass. “I just need to see what he wants. Is that… alright?”

“No-no, uh, yeah,” Beavis quickly stammered over him, his voice quiet and rough as he looked down at the floor. “I-It’s fine.”

Van Driessen waited as if Beavis would change his mind, then slowly nodded, slipping further away from the desk.

“Well, my god,” Buzzcut began as the door cracked open, tilting his massive head through. “Is he finally rid of that other one?”

“Bradley, enough.”

He watched the door close then the pair vanish down the corridor, the pen gripped so tightly in his hand he hoped it might break. Beavis wished he was rid of that other one. He wasn’t afraid of admitting it anymore. He hadn’t been for quite a while.

Beavis’ eyes drifted down the center of the vacant classroom. He had never known it so quiet, after or during hours. A girl and a boy had been assigned where he and Butt-Head used to sit. They never spoke to one another, much less even look each other’s way. It felt strange, and that strangeness felt strange. Beavis could forget about putting his finger on it. He didn’t even know which direction to reach towards.

He found he had ripped the paper apart, leaving stray marks on the table beneath him. It was fine. It camouflaged with the rest. Beavis kicked the chair back as he stood, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, one washing machine cycle away from disintegrating. He made his way down the aisle without much in his mind, like a moth to a flame, except the flame was stupid, and it sucked.

He fell into his old seat, staring at the empty desk across from him. Despite his absence, Beavis waited for him to speak, the haunting ghost always so eager to hook his snarky remarks into Beavis’ chest and drag him down to the world beneath. But nothing came. With a scoff, he threw up his legs on the top of Butt-Head’s desk, daring him to come out and play.

The wind had grown louder, the origin of its howling whistle no longer discernible. But the moment the perimeters of his vision began to blur, a sharp, clicking sound made him jump. His heels banged against the floor as Van Driessen stepped back into the room, immediately searching for the source of the noise. His eyes met Beavis’, as well as the clouded windows behind his head.

“This storm’s… getting bad,” Van Driessen weakly chuckled, rubbing his arms as if the snowfall had made its way inside. “How about we just go ahead and get out of here, what do you say?”

Van Driessen didn’t mind driving Beavis to and from work. It had something to do with helping the environment. Beavis had zoned out during that talk, having caught that hippie look in his teacher’s eyes. Or, boss’ eyes. Was Van Driessen his boss, or was Principal McVicker? Did it matter?

Beavis bent his legs up into the car seat with the intention of warming himself up, but the crease of his jeans pinched the back of his knee and his legs shot back out in response. Lifing his head, he watched the windshield wipers move faster than the van itself. Beavis hated being driven around in this stupid car, but that frustration could never build up enough to be acted upon. It remained a twitch in his eyelid, a cuticle to be pulled. “Do we have to, like, go to school tomorrow.”

“Good question. Probably not.” Once again, he added a quiet, fleeting laugh. “Just keep an eye on the news. It’ll tell you which counties have school cancelled.” He paused momentarily. “You do know which county we’re in, right?”

“Um, yeah.” Beavis side-eyed him, thinking of the United States of America.

“So… Hold on just a moment.” Van Driessen checked his blindspot at least four times before switching lanes. “So as I was saying, just check the news and listen for a snow-day for our county. I’m sure we’ll have one though. I can’t imagine otherwise.” There was another brief moment of silence, followed by a sigh that blended in with the wind. “Would you like me to just call you.”

“Yeah.”

Beavis’ head fell against the shoulder of the car seat, his unkempt hair pressed against the window. He pushed his head further into it, feeling whatever warmness that lied within in his forehead evaporate as it made contact with the iced glass. He checked each passing car (and they were passing them, all right) for any sign of anyone he knew, hoping, in a weird way, that they would see and recognize him. He imagined the situation, fantasizing about the theory of fire within that could be enough to send him on his way. But the cars were on their way, too; and their path was not aligned with his.

He felt a prodding in his stomach, grimacing as he dug his tucked hands into his skin, a thin barrier between his organs and the crisp air. Food was raptured. Rationed, whatever. Mrs. Anderson had corrected him on that with a funny look on her face. She paid in meals when the couple ran out of the bucks they felt comfortable enough to spare, but with the unpaid mortgage watching him while he slept, Beavis only worked for food when he ran out of the ants crawling on the windowsills to eat. But the hunger became less noticeable as time went on; as they got used to it. What once kept him awake at night tossing and turning was now a minor frustration. Still, it was a frustration never mind how familiar its face. That’s how it was for Beavis, at least. He had no idea how Butt-Head felt.

He glanced behind his shoulder at the sound of Van Driessen’s voice, “Would you”—he shrugged—“perhaps like something to eat?”

Beavis stared for a moment and pondered how he could’ve possibly known, a train of thought that didn’t travel far. He settled back down, muttering another, “Yeah.”

“What sounds good?”

Beavis didn’t need to ask himself that. He knew exactly what sounded good, and the turn into its parking lot was directly up ahead. He looked at his hands, then at his teacher. “Are you gonna, like, throw a hippie fit or something.” Back to his hands.

He didn’t tell Van Driessen what he would be upset over, unconsciously assuming the teacher already knew, rightfully so. “Yes, Beavis,” his tone was as light as his smile. “If you even think about mentioning Burger World, I swear, by the hippie vested in me, I will use my vegan powers to smite you where you stand. Sit.”

“Heh. Heh-heh, meh.” His grin was weak, but true. Vegan powers. “Heh-heh-meh.”

The turn was approaching, and the Vegan Vehicle slowed down to an even lesser crawl. “So… Burger World?”

His nods were slight and swift, like bumps in a rural road. “Yeah, yeah.”

When asked what he wanted, Beavis tried to answer, but “Um,” and, “Uh,” weren’t on the menu. After a few seconds of running in circles, he finally recalled the same meal he had been ordering his entire life, which had somehow slipped from him. As Van Driessen forwarded his request, Beavis did not recognize the girl on the other side of the intercom. It irked him slightly.

Beavis swore he heard Van Driessen saying more words than Beavis had given him, but he kept his open-mouth shut. Maybe Van Driessen was finally seeing the light. Hell, he probably had never even gone to Burger World before. He almost felt bad for the guy. At least now he was finally being rehabilitated. Wussiness might have been terminal for Van Driessen, but treatment could help ease the agony, such as finally eating a burger.

“So, hm-meh, what did you order?”

Van Driessen put him on hold to thank the employee handing him two sodas coated in condensation and two greasy, paper bags. “They’re both the same,” he clarified as Beavis took the bags from him. “One’s for you, and the other stuff’s for Butt-Head.”

Beavis stiffened. Butt-Head was not supposed to be here. “I didn’t ask for stuff for Butt-Head.”

He smiled again, nothing but tinder for the flame. “Just in case.”

Beavis was silent for the rest of the car ride, a right Van Driessen didn’t try to infringe upon. His stomach still churned, but in a different way, a way that made the idea of eating nauseating. The sedated speed of the van became even more aggravating, but not enough for Beavis to insist he could walk faster. So he sat there, in silence, fidgeting.

He could feel himself began to drift, but the sight of the neighborhood tugged him back, one house at a time. It was gradual, until it wasn’t. His breathing halted as his focus narrowed entirely onto the Anderson’s home. He could see Butt-Head clearing out their driveway with a ridiculously large shovel. Strangling them as a substitute for Butt-Head’s neck, Beavis cut through the paper bags with the chipped and chewed daggers on the ends of his fingers. What a stupid idiot. If he had waited for the snow to build, it would have taken him longer to shovel it out of the way, and more hours means more money. Hunkering down, Beavis began to grumble incoherently to himself, something Van Driessen was accustomed to and allowed.

He watched Mr. Anderson approach him, wearing attire that indicated he was supposed to be inside. He handed Butt-Head a cup of something that was steaming, and said a few more words before Butt-Head let the shovel clang against the concrete in order to follow the veteran to the front door. He tried to put a hand behind Butt-Head’s shoulder as if to guide him, but Butt-Head stepped out of the way, and Beavis caught the slightest sight of the mug being lifted before his neck could no longer twist that far.

Beavis straightened himself out, still wearing a scowl all the way to their curb. After placing the drinks inside the bags, he clicked open the seatbelt Van Driessen had forced him to put on and climbed out of the car, revealing the dark stains of grease on his thighs.

“Again, I’ll call you if school is cancelled,” he began right before Beavis shut the door. “If I don’t, then, well”—another shrug—“it’s not.”

“Got it.”

“Be careful walking inside.” He craned his head as the door began to close, managing to get out, “The sidewalk’s going to be slippery.”

“Got it,” Beavis repeated under his breath, despite the fact Van Driessen couldn’t hear him anymore. Having forgotten the advice he didn’t care to remember, Beavis gasped as his foot suddenly slipped forwards. He held out his arms until his legs stopped shaking, then slowly began to make his way forwards, one step at a time.

He lost his balance again as he heard the window roll down. “Hey. You two stay warm, alright? The temperature’s going to drop, and it’s already cold—“

“Okay, okay, I got it, I will,” he growled over his shoulder, arms still outstretched.

He thought he heard Van Driessen sigh, but it was difficult to hear him over the wind and the engine combined. “I’ll see you either tomorrow or Monday, alright?”

“Yeah,” he spat without thinking, eyes locked onto his wobbling knees and oblivious to the sound of the van driving away. He eventually made it to his destination, and once he had the safety of stable ground, he began to wonder the possibility of Butt-Head face-planting on the way to the Anderson’s. His snicker died quickly. Butt-Head should’ve gotten hit by car, then by another car, then by another car. Instead, he was cozied up in a heated home, drinking hot chocolate and probably eating cookies, too. God damnit.

Beavis pulled open the fridge, reaching for one of the few items inside: a bottle. He twisted off the cap, the ridges making a temporary indention in his fingers. He had been sneaking alcohol into his hoodie pockets for months now, either stolen from Mr. Anderson or during the rare event that was grocery shopping. At first, he was reluctant to steal publicly. With the former dollar store employees gone, it was now safe to reenter the premises, and he was jeopardizing one of their last food sources every time he stuck a cold, glass bottle or two inside his oversized, stretched-out pocket. But losing work from the Andersons was a greater consequence, and by the time he realized that, it was too late; Beavis had developed too big of a taste for the substance.

For a time, every time he wanted to drink, he simply broke the bottle over the edge of the sink and refused to clean up after himself. It wasn’t until the day Mr. Anderson, whilst wiping the workshop sweat from his brow, asked Beavis to get him a beer that the nineteen year old learned that there were different ways to open a bottle other than using a hammer. Was he nineteen? Did it matter?

Looming over the counter, one hand opened a paper bag, and the other brought the rim of the bottle to his lips. The beer his condiment, he stuffed a handful of fries in his mouth before he fully swallowed the alcohol. A fry stuck out of his lip like a cigarette as he chewed for longer than he needed to. A hot chocolate sounded really good. Really, really good.

Beavis made his way out onto the back porch, rolling up the second paper bag as tight as he could before obscuring it between the porch and the wall. He had learned his lesson to not eat something from Burger World that hadn’t been in the fridge, but he couldn’t risk Butt-Head seeing this. There was not much thought process in his decision. The inside of the fridge was cold. It was cold outside. The burger went outside. At least, he figured that was how it worked. He knew what didn’t work, and that was a room temperature Burger World meal that had been sitting on the counter for over twenty-four hours. Butt-Head nearly took him to the hospital that day. Beavis wished Butt-Head was in the hospital.

He tried to bury the second serving of Dr. Pepper under the accumulating snow, but the lid popped off, causing the contents of the cup to bleed all over the ground. “Damnit,” his hiss sent a puff of fog out into the air, and he raised his head to watch it rise. “… Damnit,” he repeated, watching the cycle repeat itself. “Heh.”

He kicked the snow around to hide the soda spill, then took his build-up of trash and tried to hurl it over the fence, only for it to mistake itself as a snowflake and come floating back down. By the time he bent down to grab it again, he had forgotten the point of doing this, and hoarsely mumbled, “Oh yeah,” before going inside to simply throw it in the trashcan. He stared at it. Butt-Head used this trashcan. He went back outside and threw the trash again. Again, it came floating back down. After a few minutes of trial and error that probably made the Good Lord consider an early Rapture, Beavis finally stood on his toes and dropped the trash over the tilted fence, forming a new tear in his hoodie as the fabric became caught on a rusted nail.

Back inside, he swallowed a few more seconds of the beer before setting the half-empty bottle back inside the fridge. Licking the drop that trickled down his chin, he made his way towards the front door and stepped out into the whistling snowfall. He trekked in the grass as much as he could on his way down the street, all while warming his hands with the idea of a cup of hot chocolate huddled between them. There was no way in Hell he was going to let Butt-Head ruin this for him.

Beavis gave the shovel a blind kick before entering the home, hearing the tool clatter against the concrete before spinning off somewhere. He turned the golden doorknob, and the warm air rushed forwards to greet him, giving him a firm, gentle hug in sweet reunion. Decorations of green and red lined up and down the carpeted corridor; some glistened, some brightly blinked, and some were still, staring at him as he walked past. A vinyl’s scratching spelled out a Christmas song in the living room ahead, where words of a conversation mingled itself with the music.

“You know, son, I have to say. You look great.”

“Uh… thanks.”

Beavis hands curled into fists.

“I’ve been tryin’ to lose weight for years,” Mr. Anderson continued. “If I did, then maybe I’d look like the dapper young man I once was. Keep up whatever you’re doin’, and you won’t have to worry about that sort of thing when you’re older. Trust me, metabolism can be one son of a bitch.”

“Uh… what?”

Heads turned towards the sound of the creaking wood. One made a face of mirrored repulse.

“Aww! Why, hello—!” Mrs. Anderson announced Beavis’ forename to the assortment of nutcrackers and Rudolphs near the glowing mantle. “Goodness, get in here. It’s cold.”

Beavis blinked at her, confused, thinking he was already in. He crossed the threshold into the living room at her request anyways, focusing on more important matters, “Do you have hot chocolate.” His eyes were drawn to Butt-Head, who was glaring at him from where he sat on the couch. Narrowing his eyes right back, Beavis shook his head, stammering, “Or like, something.”

“Why yes, we do. I just gave some to”—it was Butt-Head’s turn—“actually. Excuse me here, so sorry,” she requested with a smile as she tried to make her way into the hall. When Beavis didn’t move, she squeezed past between him and the wall without complaint.

Beavis and Butt-Head stared each other down, leaving Mr. Anderson to awkwardly fumble with the silence in his hands.

“Here, angel.”

Beavis twisted around with an inhale sharp enough to decapitate him and faced a startled Mrs. Anderson, holding a cup whose contents had nearly spilled.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she pleaded with wide eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” She chuckled a little, either to ease the frightened circus animal in front of her, or because she found genuine entertainment in the show. Beavis didn’t know. “Careful. It’s hot.”

Beavis gazed into the cup in his grasp, watching the melting marshmallows spin. He raised the rim to his lips, but he drew back from the sting of the steam alone. “Thanks,” he murmured, unsure of what to do with himself or the warmth in his hands.

He turned towards a new sound: Mr. Anderson’s wrinkled laughter. “You ain’t a stranger, son. Come on, sit down.”

His eyes flicked between Mr. and Mrs Anderson, nestled in their recliners, then they fell back to Butt-Head, whose glare had never wavered. Beavis took a drink in order to burn the inside of his mouth, crept forwards, then sat down on the rug, between the recliners, legs crossed.

“Uh, are you sure you don’t want to sit on the couch?” Mr. Anderson reassured what he assumed, “Don’t worry, I trust you not to spill—“

“I hate couches.”

“Oh, well, uh… Alrighty, then.”

The vinyl skipped.

“So,”—another round of Beavis’ stupid name, this time from Mr. Anderson—“I heard you’re a teacher’s assistant now. I’ll be honest, I would have never seen that one comin’, but I guess life is full of surprises. Like the war.” His eyes unfocused for a fleeting moment before he shook his head back into focus. “How’s that going for you? Teachin’, I mean.”

“Fine.”

“Fine and dandy, huh?” The recliner’s leather made a stretching sound as Mr. Anderson readjusted his posture. “My mother was a teacher, you know.”

“I’m not a teacher.”

“She was a smart woman. This one time,—“

“Was she also a wuss,” Butt-Head grumbled.

Beavis’ nails scraped against the glass as he snarled, “Shut up.”

“Was my mother a what now?”

Mrs. Anderson held onto her plaid dress a little bit tighter, and Mr. Anderson continued to turn his head left and right, waiting for either guest to clarify words he did not fully catch. Beavis could hear every tick of the clock.

“So!” Mrs. Anderson gave her knees a singular pat. “Tell me, what do you boys reckon you’re doing for Christmas this year?”

Butt-Head broke the staring contest with Beavis to lower his eyebrows in her direction. “Uh… what.”

Her head tilted slightly. “Any plans?”

“Uh… no. Why would we have plans.”

Beavis lifted the mug and squeezed his eyes shut, wishing he was elsewhere, so that he didn’t wish the drink would sear his tongue.

Mr. Anderson began to chuckle. “I remember when you boys were little, your mother, uh…” His laughter dimmed as he seemed to stare straight through the wall. “Frankly, I don’t remember her name, but she brought you two to the mall where I was doing my yearly Santa gig. Now, I’ve retired all that. The chair ain’t too good for my back no more. But I guess that’s just what happens to you when you get old. Now, where was I.” His fingers tapped the armrest. “Anyways, your mother brought y’all to come see good ol’ Saint Nick, but it clearly wasn’t something y’all were mighty interested in.”

Bits and pieces of this memory entered Beavis’ mind, like blurry pictures. “Did he cry? Like a wuss?” he threw the word right back into Butt-Head’s face.

“Actually, you were the crier.” Mr. Anderson gestured over to Butt-Head, referring to him by the wrong name yet again, “—over there just refused to smile. We dangled the toys over the camera and everythin’.” He faced Beavis again, whose smile had turned inside out. “Yeah, you were the one who was throwin’ a fit. You were cryin’ so badly that your mother had to come get you ‘cause you were threatenin’ to throw up all over my costume.”

Beavis’ stomach dropped as he heard, “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.”

“What?! No I didn’t!” His eyes darted between Mr. Anderson and Butt-Head, and he craned his neck once he heard a light snicker from Mrs. Anderson. “I-I-I think that was someone else. Yeah-yeah. I think you’re thinking of, like, that Beavis guy.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mr. Anderson. I remember your story, uh-huh-huh.”

“Shut up!” Beavis contemplated breaking the mug over his stupid, smiling gums and stabbing him with the handle, but that would mean he had let Butt-Head ruin it. He silenced himself with another drink, assisted by trembling hands.

“Uh, no, it couldn’t have been Beavis. I actually cut off contact with that family a long time ago. Because this one time,—“

“Oh, dear, don’t rake over the coals,” Mrs. Anderson broke her husband’s train of thought. “Speaking of coals, I hope that’s not what you boys are getting in your stockings this year!” she teased with laughter similar to the record’s faint scratching, forgetting that these boys were no longer boys. “Are you doing anything for presents this year? Every year, Tom and I visit this little get-together the town puts on for elderly folk who—”

“We don’t do gifts.”

She didn’t seem to mind that Butt-Head had interrupted her, too consumed by pity. “Oh, you have to do gifts on Christmas! Do your families not do anything at all?” Their silence was her answer. “Oh, angels. Tell you what. If you boys are interested, and Tom, if you are, too,”—she nodded towards him—“Tom and I can just skip what we usually do, and our families can host Christmas at our house. It would be nice. Our son, oh, um…” She brought her fingers to her mouth, knowing she had said far too much, knowing that it was far too late to stop. “He just don’t come around anymore.” Her frail voice lowered into a whisper, “Bless his heart.”

“Yeah-yeah!” Beavis’ enthusiasm put the light back in her fallen eyes. “That sounds like a great idea, heh-heh-meh. Actually, this year, our gift… t-to you two, is a really, really, really, really, screwed-up driveway. Heh-heh-meh.”

”Fuck you, Beavis.”

“Oh, goodness!” she gasped.

“Good lord.” Mr. Anderson sat up straight, holding up his hand. “There’s no need for that kind of language—“

It was as if Butt-Head had been looking for an excuse, any excuse. An awful tremble seized Beavis’ body. Teeth clattering as if the weather had snuck its way inside, he scrambled to his feet that threatened to give way at any moment. “Fuck you too, Butt-Head! Fuck you!”

“Wait a minute.” The senile veteran murmured to himself, “Beavis? Butt-Head? Ain’t that… Ain’t that the… Oh, that can’t be right.”

”Get out of here!” Beavis lurched forwards, gasping between each word he struggled to shout, “Get out of my face! Get away from me!”

Beavis’ throat closed as he suddenly became all too aware of the hot drink piercing his skin from the outside of his jeans, of the screeching of the defect vinyl, of the rhythmic detonations from the grandfather clock. The lights began to blind him, seeping in from every corner, and yet he could still see Butt-Head. He was still there, and he had not flinched.

The wind inside Beavis’ head began to funnel as he stumbled out into the hall. He probably broke something on his way. It didn’t matter.

The storm struck him in the face and ripped the door away from his fingers. He left it as it was, and the warm air inside the home met a grisly end. His body took over, dragging him back to his house without letting him fall. Or, maybe he did. Maybe he did fall. The scrapes on his knees and elbows and temple tried to tell him. But Beavis would have no memory of it. He wouldn’t be sure if he had ever visited the Andersons’ home, either. It was a distant recollection, only spoken of in bleary lights and the faint scent of vanilla and ginger. But then Beavis would find a mug, stained and empty, lying on the floor of his bedroom, and he would start to shake.

Beavis.

Weak teeth struggled to gnaw through the half-frozen burger patty, but he persisted anyways, having been spoiled rotten by the gift of a full meal to leave the second one buried under the snow for any longer. Beavis took out the ranch he had been trying to warm up underneath his arm and tried to dip the burger in it, but alas, it was still a frozen block of ice. He stared at it for a moment, then licked it. It tasted disgusting. He licked it again.

The snow was still falling, but the wind had gone to sleep, leaving only snowflakes that had dared to sneak out of the clouds. Beavis had switched his jeans out for a pair of flannels; the drenched denim sticking to him made him want to tear his skin off. But the longer he stood outside, huddled against the wall, the further the snow melted onto the cuffs of his pants that draped over his shoes. Beavis took another bite of his burger. He could only handle so much at a time.

When he had cleared every sesame seed and every grain of salt, Beavis dropped the remaining trash over the fence, the wet ends of his pants scraping against his heel every time he took a step. He demoted his walk to a shuffle, leaving a smear of snow behind on his reluctant path back inside.

Beavis’ heart skipped as he opened the door, expecting to find Butt-Head around any corner with the state the kitchen was in. When no such interrogation regarding his whereabouts arose, Beavis crept further in, kicking a jar of expired parsley on the way. It had been emptied.

There was a lot of stuff on the floor, more than usual. Every cabinet and drawer had been opened. Plates had been rearranged. Silverware, too. All of the old spices and medicine were either on the counter or scattered across the ground, and almost all of them had been rummaged through. Beavis muttered to himself as he kicked it all aside to forge a path towards the fridge, where he retrieved the beer from the prior day he had been too distracted to finish. He took a swig, only for nothing to happen. Disgruntled, Beavis shattered the glass inside the sink before reaching for a fresh bottle. Only, the glass continued to shatter, louder and louder, with no indication of an end.

He snapped his head towards the sink, finding the source of the deafening noise: a slow, steady drip of water from the hanging faucet.

“Damnit,” he rasped as he turned the handle, waiting to make sure the noise had ended. His focus trailed towards the direction of the stairwell, and he abided by it. He didn’t know if Butt-Head was there, but he knew he wasn’t here.

Beavis shoved his hesitation aside to open the bedroom door. He found him. “Butt-Head.”

Despite the chill, Butt-Head was lying on top of the twisted covers, curled in the feral position with his arms wrapped around his stomach.

Beavis grunted as he rolled his eyes, his grip threatening to break the doorknob. “Butt-Head.”

He didn’t move, or make a sound, but Beavis caught a gleam of opened white behind his greasy, tousled hair.

Beavis opened his mouth, but nothing comprehensible formed. “You…” The words slipped from his fingers, and he strained to gather them together again. “You left the sink on.”

Butt-Head stared.

He found himself drifting back into the hall, a decision that was not his own. “You know we can’t afford that crap.” Beavis tried to persist, but there he could not remain. He tore away from Butt-Head’s unblinking eyes, stammering, “Whatever, asshole,” before slamming the halfway-closed door shut.

The bottle was more than halfway gone by the time he reached the bottom of the stairs, and so was his patience. He dug through the kitchen’s drawers and grasped the scissors, kicking all of the canisters out of his sight until he fell to the cold, tile floor, weary and worn. He held onto the bottle with his teeth, unaware that he could put it down, and began to saw through the flannels with the blades, speckled with rust and grime.

It couldn’t have been a rat. Whatever had gone through the cabinets. If this house had a rat, it would’ve been breakfast, lunch, dinner, and then some. There wasn’t even a reason for a rat to be there in the first place, unless it was trying to starve itself to death. It had to have been Butt-Head. Of course it was. Only Butt-Head would be stupid enough to not save any of the food for later. Asshole.

Beavis winced with fear as he felt the scissors come in contact with his finger, but they were too dull to make a dent in his skin, much less the thick cloth. His teeth pushed and shoved one another as he fought to get the feeling off of his skin, and just when his molars were about to crack, he was able to rip off the remaining wet fabric and drop it onto a bottle of Delsym. Beavis noticed its existence, gasping as he slapped it out of the way.

He went to work on the other pant leg, only allowing himself to breathe when his vision became too muffled to tell where the scissors were going. He didn’t remember the process, and was merely aware of the aftermath: no more soaked fabric cutting into his ankles. No more.

Beavis.

The scissors clattered against the floor, ricocheting and rattling his skull. Beavis clasped his hands over his ears, untied shoes slipping against the ground as he tried to make himself smaller.

He felt a pressure wrap around his neck, and he slapped what was not there. Having latched onto himself, he tried to pry his hands away from his throat, forcing air back into his lungs. His hands inched down his chest, his fingers hooked onto his collarbones. He could still feel it.

One hand still holding onto himself, Beavis reached for the counter and pulled himself up. The wind had turned into whispers. They were all around. He staggered towards the couch, dragging whatever force had gripped his neck with him as he slowly climbed onto the cushions.

Beavis.

“Beavis, Beavis,” he mumbled to himself amongst other sounds as he strained to reach the remote. It was the weather channel. Whatever. It didn’t matter. It was fine. It had to have been a rat.

Beavis.

Lying on his side, he pushed himself into the couch, as if he could bury himself. He stared at the television, unblinking, hoping the light would hurt, until his eyes forced themselves to tear up to combat the pain. Beavis flinched at the wet feeling trickling down his nose and hit himself without much thought, over and over until it was gone.

Beavis.

He closed his eyes. He made them close. Most of the time, falling asleep was a futile effort. She didn’t like him falling asleep, and would fight him if he tried. But there were just enough times where it worked.

Beavis.

He focused on the darkness, on the words of the weatherman. They were so interesting. Every word. He cared, so much.

Beavis.

Beavis.

Beavis!

Beavis.

“Beavis.”

His eyes opened.

He found her sitting where Butt-Head usually sat, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Hey.” She leaned back, her shoulders falling. “What, uh”—her lips smacked—“what are you watching?”

“I-I wasn’t…” Beavis’ voice was inaudible, softer than the sound of his head lying back down, avoiding the sight of her. “I wasn’t watching—“

“What are you doing up so late?”

He was forced to look away from the television yet again. He saw Shirley in the corner of his eyes as he glanced out the window. The sun, albeit setting, was still out. “I don’t know,” he rasped. He could see her hands tense.

Beavis put his head back down, tracking the weatherman’s every move with wide, stricken eyes. He held his breath, lying in wait.

”This snowstorm that we have going on here is estimated to continue on over the weekend and likely into next week, as well. We’re estimating an approximate three inches of snowfall by Saturday morning, so we urge you all to do everything you can to stay off the road.”

Beavis’ eyes had begun to close when she pried them open with, “Do you need anything while I’m gone?”

He knew better. He knew to play along whenever she spoke to him. And yet, it was knowledge he had yet to teach himself. “What?”

He found himself looking for his mother, despite himself, despite herself. The blue light from the television danced across the creases in her dress and in her face. “You were right to not let him eat.” The light began to melt onto her. “He doesn’t deserve it.”

And back into old habits, her baby fell, nodding the whole way down. “… Okay.”

Beavis pulled himself even further into the couch, something he didn’t even know was possible. The television was shouting static, and so was she. He crossed his arms over his face, breathing in the hot air of his exhales that echoed back to him.

Beavis.

Beavis.

Beavis.

Beavis.

Beavis.

Cognizance and uncertainty danced with one another, hand in hand, until they merged in a collision none would remember.

Beavis was only aware of its aftermath. It was warm, and it wanted him there.

His eyes were closed, and yet he could still see. It was not quite a first or third person line of sight. It was a perspective unable to be understood, and yet he held no confusion.

It made sense.

Butt-Head had not been restored to the glory of his former self. His hair was still shorter than it had ever been in their lives, coarse and rough from months of rugged, self-taught appointments, and his ribs prodded the arms that were wrapped around the brunette’s back. Beavis used to keep his hands folded between their chests. Somewhere along the way, something had changed.

There was nothing past this couch. Battered and torn, it was all they had. There was nothing past this couch, and whatever it was, it was trying to kill them. It was trying to kill Beavis. It was after both of them. It was after Beavis. It was after Butt-Head, trying to take him away. It was after Beavis. It was after both of them.

Beavis was not sure exactly who they were, but they were there, waiting for him to slip away, waiting to drag him into this nothing—into themselves—that enveloped them and have their way. Beavis was not sure of what their way was. There was not much he was sure of. Beavis hadn’t even born with a lot, but he was born knowing the rules of this place. It was an instinct, almost like breathing.

This made sense.

Butt-Head held Beavis in his arms, as he always had. They had always been here, and always they would remain, if Beavis never fell away, and Butt-Head never let go, and Beavis never let go, and Butt-Head never fell away.

He sifted closer to Butt-Head’s chest, held by the warmth, his heartbeat, his arms. Butt-Head pulled him closer. He seemed to pull himself closer, too.

Sometime between the beginning and end of infinity, all of the nothing that swarmed around took hold. But Butt-Head never left. Neither did Beavis. They remained as they were, even while they were not. They pulled each other closer.

The old world fell away, and a new one arose, one from the past. They were in the park, on the bench. They were at home, on the couch. Beavis could see, and he could see himself seeing, and he could see himself being seen.

And in every point of view, he put his hands on Butt-Head’s face. It was different this time. The nausea he had felt those nights were gone. Even his heart had come to a still. When he kissed Butt-Head, he thought nothing of it. It was expected. Calm. A believable peace.

And he fell into what they were, unsure, but unafraid.

Beavis had barely registered he was falling before his back slammed against the ground, his elbows banging against the coffee table on the way. His shriek came a bit too late, as he had already fell, but this delay was known only to everyone except for Beavis. As consciousness took hold of the reins, he finally registered he was awake when the rules of dreamland so ingrained into his psyche began to disintegrate. What he could no longer remember no longer made sense.

“Butt-Head!” he cursed, watching the man yank off the cushions that he had been sleeping on. Beavis’ legs kicked against the ground as he scrambled out of the uncomfortable crevice between the couch and the coffee table. “W-What the hell are you doing?!”

Butt-Head scanned the inside of the couch, huffing with frustration as he tossed the cushion to the side. He began to turn around to head elsewhere, until something in his peripheral vision caught his eye, and it wasn’t Beavis. He stared at whatever there was to be stared at on the coffee table, then picked it up. It sounded like car keys.

Beavis was on his feet now, and he watched Butt-Head tread the path towards the hall, towards front door. “Damnit, Butt-Head!”

He stopped, his knuckles fading white. “I’m gonna… uh...” The sharp ridges of the golden key attempted to pierce his skin. They threatened to pierce Beavis if he wasn’t careful. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Beavis narrowed his eyes. “You can’t take the car.” They began to twitch. “Y-You know we can’t take the car.”

Beavis.

“Beavis,” Butt-Head unknowingly interrupted. “I swear to god. Shut. Up. Or I’ll kick your ass.” Slumped forwards, he crossed his arms over his middle, pinning the oversized shirt to his frame. He glared at Beavis without fully facing him. “I’ll kill you. I’m, like, not joking, at all.”

Beavis.

“Stop,” he hissed, his trembling hands lingering over his head. He pried open his eyes, finding Butt-Head staring at him head on. Daring him. “Butt-Head—“

Beavis.

“God!” He stumbled backwards, the back of his knees hitting the table. “Butt-Head, you can’t—!”

Beavis!

“God damnit, Butt-Head, we don’t have any money!”

Beavis!

Butt-Head made his way forwards, revealing his sore on his gums as his lips curled back. “You’re about to not have a life!”

Beavis!

”What, you want me to die or something?” He towered over the shuddering blonde, who struggled to look him in the eye. “It’s a god damn blizzard—!”

Beavis!

Beavis!

Beavis!

“And I’m not gonna—!”

“I can’t hear you when she’s talking!”

When Beavis came to, he found Butt-Head on the floor, picking himself up from the impact. There was no recollection of pushing him.

Beavis watched him stand. There was no struggle. He wished he had done worse. He wanted to do worse.

Butt-Head did not move. Beavis swore he could already feel the bruises on his jawbone and blood seeping out of his gaping nostrils. He wiped this illusion of injury off of his face. He knew they were going to be more than a feeling. Feet firmly planted in the crimson-stained carpet, fists so tight he hoped his callouses would burst, Beavis waited, eagerly.

Come on. For once, it was his voice, and only his.

But Butt-Head did not move.

He did not move towards Beavis. He was backing away, one steady step at a time. And it made Beavis fall apart.

He tried to speak, but he had screamed loud enough to tear his throat apart, leaving room for his thrashing heart to escape. All he could muster in rough, shallow gasps could only be understood by someone like Butt-Head, “You can’t… take… the car.”

“What’re you gonna do. Huh.” Another step back. “Tattletale?”

Butt-Head knew. Of course he did. He knew who had been talking, this ”she.” Beavis knew that Butt-Head knew. Butt-Head knew that he knew. He could see it on the blonde’s twisted face.

The wind inside his head began to spiral. It howled and begged and cried. It showed no mercy, it threatened to kill, it whispered everywhere and anywhere and all around,

Beavis.

Butt-Head smiled as he watched the storm unfold. He watched it stagger in circles, struggling to breathe, or think, or do anything except let itself be dragged wherever the wind pulled it to. He left this storm to itself, to howl and to beg and to cry, as he vanished into the blinding snowfall, his laughter above every sound, even in death.

Beavis.

Butt-Head came back that time, something Beavis was not aware of until the next afternoon when he finally stirred from his fragile hour of sleep. He found Butt-Head on the couch, accompanied by the blaring cable and a cigarette in his mouth. Beavis had no idea where he could have gotten that. Not that it mattered.

The dream he had during his brief escape didn’t matter either. Nor did the one on the couch. Or the one before that, or the one before that, or the one before that, or the one before that.

It had to be some kind of punishment. Whatever he had done was so abominable that not only did Butt-Head have to break him for it, but God, too. To be asleep was the only time Beavis had to catch his breath, and every single second just had to be infected with Dream-Head keeping Beavis pinned to him against his will. It occurred so often that right before the beginning of autumn, Beavis had sworn off sleep for the rest of his life. This vow only survived for around three and a half days until its declarant crashed. The same show was performed, its actors never tiring, and moments before the curtain was drawn, Dream-Head curtseyed to the audience in the form of a vile, ugly kiss. Right on the mouth, too. Beavis spent most of that morning trying to make himself throw up. It was difficult and painful to attempt when there was nothing for him to throw up. After this Do-It-At-Home exorcism, Beavis had attempted to conspire a Plan Whatever-Letter-That-Came-After-A. After many days of turning the gears, he decided that every night before he went to bed, he would get down on his knees, close his eyes, and clasp his hands against his head.

“Dear Lord God Almighty Father and Sweet Baby Jesus dead on the Cross, and uh, and that other guy.” He mumbled incoherently, then continued with his lines, “I-I’m telling you, I’ve like, learned my lesson. Really. I swear. I’m sorry for whatever I did.” He peeked. “Please, uh, like, show me mercy… I think. Right? I-I don’t know what that is. Is that Spanish? I dunno, just. Make the dreams stop, God. Please and thank you. Um. Amen.”

That was the first and the last night he prayed. God would very clearly reveal that He was no match for a force such as Dream-Head.

Beavis learned there were only two guarantees: One, that Butt-Head would be an asshole, and two, that Dream-Head would also be an asshole. As the months wore on, dream after dream, he lost the strength to be nauseous. Beavis had heard the phrase that if you love something, you’re supposed to let it go, or something. Perhaps hating the dreams is what kept them around. If you hate something, then it won’t let go. Or something.

It was stupid.

He used one hand to scratch his eye socket and the other to raise the bottle, drinking until he needed to breathe. Refusing to put down the glass, he used his teeth to peel apart the plastic wrapper of a cheddar cheese stick. Butt-Head usually apprehended him for eating his food, and vice versa. If he noticed, that is. He seemed to pick and choose when to care. Either that, or he was just incredibly stupid. It was more than likely the latter. One night, he walked in the kitchen to see Beavis licking a Lunchable clean. Nothing. Another time, Butt-Head somehow noticed he had eaten three off-brand Wheat Thins from the box and threatened to kill him in his sleep. Of course, he kissed Beavis instead.

Beavis wondered how Hannah was doing.

He pictured what should’ve been. He saw what Butt-Head had taken from him. He saw that party, the ice in the sink, the strange, white lines, the table that would never be broken, her. He saw her admiring him as he strummed his guitar, every chord sweeping her off her feet again and again. He saw Butt-Head stupidly gawk at him and her before leaving and never coming back. Beavis saw her follow her heart, which lead her to his arms instead of Butt-Head’s. Beavis saw her with him at their local mall, where he would pick out a Backstreet-Boys-Of-Course-There’s-Always-The-Damn-Backstreet-Boys shirt for her, and she say it was the coolest thing ever with a laugh that was familiar. He saw her with him at the park, hand in hand until he moved his palms to her face, to which she would smile, hold his face in welcomed return, and kiss him. But her beautiful lips were made up of slick, slimy gums, and Beavis swore his mouth was filled with rotted gasoline.

He gagged on spit that wasn’t there, then opened another bottle to wash it down.

Beavis’ distant gaze drifted towards the window. The sun reflecting off the powdered ground made the glass glow. It sparkled across the walls like a kaleidoscope, and he watched it drunkenly try to dance. He found himself enamored, as if he could join in on this waltz. Dangling his drink in front of his chest, Beavis sauntered down the hall, past the guitar he had never picked up, and out the door. He didn’t have much of an idea. His desire to venture outside was as weak as his desire to remain in the kitchen.

Beavis flinched too much for his absent comfort as a silhouette materialized on the right side of the front porch. His frightened gaze hardened as the form revealed itself: it had dark, brown hair, and was holding a freshly lit cigarette. Butt-Head sighed in response, making sure it was irritatingly obvious that he was rolling his eyes. As Beavis crept past, his shoulders hunched forwards and his arms folded into his chest, he squinted like a constable in an old western duel, keeping his glare firmly locked in place until his neck ached.

He kept on the left side of the yard, cornering himself to the painted pines. He stared at the snow rumpled around his feet, taking in every silver-yellow glint. He kicked it. He kicked it some more. He traced a half-circle, leaving behind rogue lines from his loose shoelaces.

He further opened his hanging mouth to exhale a puff of smoke. He almost told Butt-Head about it.

The hairs on the back of his neck shot up straight as he heard a noise coming from a ways behind him. He slowly lowered his shoulders as he observed Butt-Head take another step, replicating the quiet crunch. Beavis followed his line of sight, leading him to a crumpled-up Burger World bag that was being pushed from the side of their house and to the street. The slight breeze led to the bag’s capture on a rogue limb sticking out of the white blanket, giving Butt-Head time to kneel and tear it open. From the looks of it, there was nothing left in there for him to take. Beavis had to look away.

It was odd that it was empty. Usually, people left at least one or two fries. Especially the burnt ones. They burnt a lot fries at Burger World. Maybe the evicted rats got to the bag first. They should have saved some for their cousin. He halted the thought. Rats were cool.

Beavis found his focus shifting with the direction of the wind. He gazed out to the driveway, where grass and concrete became one in the eyes of the Texas snowfall.

He paused, then tilted his head at the sight of its vacancy.

For a moment, Beavis wasn’t thinking. For a sentence, everything was forgiven. “Uh, Butt-Head. Where’s—“

“Ugh!”

Beavis’s attention was ripped from the driveway and stapled onto Butt-Head. He was holding his arms over his head, which he then used to vigorously ruffle his hair and send the snowflakes back from whence they came. Across from him, at their unnamed neighbor’s home, a group of children all snug in layers of thick jackets pointed and shrieked and laughed, gloating in the success of their ambush.

Butt-Head had taken notice of his assailants as well, who had inadvertently snuffed out his cigarette. “Hey!” he barked, littering as he marched closer to the broken fence. “I’ll like, kick your ass!” The explicative prompted an off-key chorus of shrilled giggles.

“I’ll kick your butt! Haha!” shrieked one of the children, forbidden from saying bad words.

Beavis, who had been sneaking closer to get a better look at the spectacle, couldn’t help but join the choir, “Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh. He-ow!” he yelped as a flailing snowball found its home in his eyeball. He furiously snapped his head towards the children, who sneered and cackled with victory as well as anticipation.

“Uh-huh-huh, you got hurt by a snowball.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!” Beavis gulped down the rest of his beer and threw the now-worthless bottle out into the street. He rushed towards the fence, using it to push himself up to make his short, bony stature appear more menacing; the equivalent to Simba fluffing out his tail whenever Beavis got too close to him with Van Driessen’s broom. “You bungholes wanna die?!”

The synchronized laughter was their declaration of war. Beavis scraped two handfuls of snow off the top of the fence, blindly hurling them forwards and only nicking their padded shoulders. He was shot in the shoulder, then in the chest, and he scrambled away, kicking up snow like a revving four-wheeler.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-ugh, damnit!” he snarled as multiple snowballs were catapulted to him at once. Suddenly, watching Beavis get beat up by a group of elementary students was no longer Butt-Head’s first priority. He took his hands out of the pockets of his shorts and buried them in the frigid sand, his gums starting to feel the chill as he formed a boulder of a snowball.

“W-We’re gonna kick all your asses!” Beavis shouted, under the risk of dislocating his shoulder with how fiercely he hurled his arm. “Yes!” he taunted as the snowball hit a little girl in the face, only to be interrupted by her returning the favor.

The kids suddenly bolted in every direction as Butt-Head mustered all of his strength to launch his tactile nuke. It broke mid-air, sending chunks raining down and successfully pelting almost every opponent.

“Heh-heh-meh, yeah!” Beavis’ eyes darted between Butt-Head and the regrouping enemy team. “Tha-That was cool! Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh-huh-huh, hell yeah it was. Uh-huh-huh.” He dodged an attack by simply stepping to the side, causing the kids to laugh at their own teammate. A second snowball already on hand, the teammate immediately earned his revenge while Butt-Head was too distracted with himself to notice the incoming snowball.

Beavis found himself watching. He watched Butt-Head get socked for the hundredth time, every impact weakening his impatience. He watched Butt-Head laugh as the snow fluttered off his face. It glistened on his skin, dancing with the light in his eyes. Beavis wasn’t sure when the last time he saw that light was, but he had not forgotten what it looked like. It greeted him like an old friend, like Butt-Head.

From the snow, from the sun, from his eyes, Butt-Head was surrounded by light. Beavis stared directly into it, into him.

Beavis stopped breathing as his stomach began to twist. This he had forgotten. He had no idea how he could’ve. It was turning him inside out, the strange nausea. Beavis hadn’t felt it since the night his lips had touched Butt-Head’s. He had no idea he was still sick.

Wait.

Beavis had been hit, but he hardly registered it. His tattered memory began to rewind itself. He looked at Butt-Head, then the kids, then himself. Butt-Head, kids, himself, and finally, the fence in-between, separating one from the other.

What was he doing?

Gritting his teeth, Beavis pivoted to the left, twisted his arm behind his head, and launched his melting snowball directly into the side of Butt-Head’s face.

It was meant to be an act of defiance. A reminder, ruthless and violent. But there was nothing, absolutely nothing, intimidating about a snowball throw. Neither Beavis nor Butt-Head understood this.

“Ugh! God damnit, Beavis!” Butt-Head switched his aim from the neighbors to the guy who lived downstairs, throwing both snowballs as hard as he could. Beavis accepted the sacrifice, bundling up a snowball that took two hands to create. He grunted as he tossed it, and it disintegrated against Butt-Head’s bare knee.

“You’re gonna die, Butt-Head! I swear to god! Ack!” he gasped as a snowball landed inside his mouth. He coughed and sputtered for only a moment before diving back to the ground, gathering up an armful of snow.

They forgot about their neighbors, who all ambled back inside as their piqued interests devolved into boredom. The pair sprinted across the yard in the formation of one of the worst figure eights of all time, throwing themselves up, down, all around. Snow was in Beavis’ eyes, ears, nose, melting onto his sensitive, chattering teeth, but it was all second to his target. He ducked as he padded together what felt like his dozenth bullet, then committed to the courageous risk to charge forwards, a move never-before-seen in the history of snowball fighting. Beavis leapt into air, dunking full force on Butt-Head with a snowball that was practically slapped onto him. On all fours, he darted back like a hare, watching Butt-Head rub the white from his eyelashes. Beavis couldn’t stop himself from laughing.

Butt-Head glared at him with eyes that could make the storm run for the hypothetical Highland hills. “I’m gonna kick your ass, dumbass!” His threat cushioned by his smile, Butt-Head scooped up snow with his hand as he clumsily staggered forwards. Beavis pranced away, snickering with every ascending bound.

But Beavis could not run forever. Eventually, he felt the snowball harmlessly smack the back of his head, laughing so hard he lost his balance. He felt a tug from the back of his hoodie, and before he knew it he was rolling against the ground. “Butt-Head! Heh-heh-meh, stop it, butthole!” he demanded with a grin that was beyond his control as Butt-Head pummeled snowball after snowball into Beavis’ face. They were hardly snowballs, though. More like handfuls of snow. It kinda just fell on him.

Any possible retort was replaced by a gasp as Butt-Head’s heel caught onto the hidden sidewalk, sending his limbs spinning uncontrollably until he crashed. Beavis couldn’t see him, but he could hear him. He had landed right beside him, and he was laughing.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh,” and, “Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh,” warmed their frostbitten fingers and their pink, snot-coated noses.

Beavis watched the fogs from their snickers and chuckles merge together before returning to the sky, blue and bright. “Hey.” He sniffed, dragging his hand across his nose. “H-Hey, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. They’re called snowballs, heh-heh-meh. Balls, heh-heh-meh.”

Nothing.

Beavis turned his head. Butt-Head was staring at him with a look that was vaguely unrecognizable and uncomfortably familiar.

He had been tracing this look for months. In the cracks of doors, across the dimly-lit kitchen, to and from the couch, nearly abandoned out of the fear that their paths may cross. Beavis thought he had Butt-Head memorized. It was the only thing he had ever believed in until June. Until this look.

Beavis sat up to argue with it. It was what he had always done, whether he wanted to or not, but nothing came out of his mouth, agape and trembling with wrath that flared and screamed so brutally that it incapacitated him. It wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t the last.

The silence spoke for him as he watched Butt-Head stand. The shimmering stars on his face were now dripping down his neck, and the only thing the glaring sun was illuminating were the dark, grayed rings under his heavy eyes and the sickly, faded yellow that tinged his skin.

Butt-Head took himself back into the house, leaving Beavis to dwell on why the snow was making his fingers burn.

“Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head blinked a few moments longer than normal. It was how Beavis knew he had scared him.

Beavis could hear nothing but the distorted hum of the air vent. The filter had not been changed in over a decade, leaving behind a death rattle that seemed to shake the walls. When he was much younger, Beavis did not have faith that the house could withstand it. Standing there, knees shaking beneath the last flickering kitchen lightbulb, he found that his doubts had fallen upon himself.

“Where’s the car.”

Butt-Head looked at Beavis, blocking the only way out of the kitchen. His look turned into a stare. He reached into his pocket, brought out a pack of Malbaro, and popped it open with his thumb. “Uh… I sold it.”

The lightbulb flickered. “What.”

“Yeah.” He ran his thumb across the remaining cigarettes, spinning them in circles. “I sold it, like, uh, last week, when I went to the store.”

Beavis blinked rapidly. Once to widen his eyes, once to narrow them, and one too many times to try to pull himself back together. Last week? The muscles around his trembling eyes began to twitch. Last week. Beavis looked over his shoulder, as if he could peer into a palpable timeline to piece together what had happened between then and now. He tried to speak, then choked on the convulsions in his throat. He coughed himself back into place. “Is that what you bought your cigarette crap with.”

“Cigarettes aren’t that expensive, dumbass.” His tone almost sounded familiar, an echo of the past. Butt-Head either noticed this on his own or from the slightest change in demeanor on Beavis’ face. He was not going to stand for it either way. “Uh…” He cleared his throat, and voice returned to what Beavis had been growing used to: quiet, “I got an apartment.”

An apartment. A god damn apartment.

The words were sweet blessings upon Beavis’ ears. It untied the knots in the blades of his shoulders, and his stiffened body slowly angled downwards as it finally accepted rest. It was over. An apartment. An apartment. It was the nicest thing Butt-Head had ever said to him. “What?”

Butt-Head pushed down a bit too hard on the cigarette, crinkling it. “Jesus Christ, can you hear? Hello?”

He straightened himself with a shake of his head. “Y-Yes, I just… Cool. I’m, uh… glad.” He hesitated to speak any further, lest Butt-Head mistook his relief for gratitude. “So, uh.” He itched the inside of his elbow. “Where’s it at. The apartment thing or whatever.”

“Why would you need to know.”

“Why would I need to… What?”

The air vent creaked above their heads.

Beavis would be stupid for being surprised with Butt-Head’s stupidity. “The apartment,” he repeated, waiting for some kind of acknowledgement, but Butt-Head wasn’t even looking at him. He was staring at the cigarette he was slowly breaking down. “Where is it. Where’s the apartment. Damnit, Butt-Head just answer the question.”

Butt-Head’s eyes drifted past the Malbaro, to and through the wall ahead. “I got an apartment. I… got an apartment.”

“I… know.” He scoffed, “God, why are you being all weird? What’s your problem? What, y-you want me to say thank you or something? I mean, Jesus, thanks, I guess. Thank you so much, Butt-Head. I-Is that what you want?” Beavis growled through a clenched jaw, finding that he had subconsciously backed away. He stepped back into the light, beneath the air vent that sung its decay. “What else then. When do we leave.” He glanced towards the direction of the couch. “And like, how the hell are we gonna get all our stuff out of here.”

”Uh… What are you talking about. You’re not coming with me.”

The words were beyond his narrow comprehension. “Not coming with you where.”

Neither moved.

Butt-Head left him to fend for himself, to put all of the scattered pieces together. The image before Beavis was inconceivable. He stared at it, waiting for an understanding he could trust enough to cling to. But revelation did not come to him all at once.

”Butt-Head.”

Silence.

The pieces he had put together began to fall. They swarmed him. They closed in. They forced him to look at the woven tapestry in the eye.

”What… What are, I-I don’t... I don’t…” Beavis was failing the words as much as they were failing him. Every twitch and shudder was begging Butt-Head to make it stop. And he could. All he had to do was call Beavis a dumbass. Call him a dumbass, tell him he was wrong. He wouldn’t argue. Beavis almost told him that.

The tapestry had been undone. Beavis read it aloud, “Why wouldn’t I come with you.”

“Why would you.”

“B-Because we… Y-You…”

Beavis stopped breathing.

“Because what. We’re not babies anymore anyways,” Butt-Head spoke as if he was asking for one of Beavis’ beers. Without moving his head, his eyes flicked in Beavis’ direction, as if he was making sure of something. His face shrunk in disgust at the sight of whatever he was looking for. “God. Here we go.”

Beavis watched him take a lighter out of his pocket and put the mangled cigarette out of its misery. “But… B-But Butt-Head—“

“But Butt-Head, Butt-Head, Butt-Head.’ Shut up.” He breathed in deep and let go, the smoke a cloud over the dying light. “Jesus Christ.”

Beavis was beyond himself. He was completely still. Butt-Head’s eyes drew to a close.

His voice was not his own, “So what am I supposed to do.”

The cigarette lingered on his lips. “I don’t know.” He breathed in, he breathed out. “Go, like, live with Van Driessen or something. Or go run off and die somewhere. I don’t care.”

Nothing.

“… So that’s it.”

Butt-Head’s hand lowered just enough for the cigarette to graze the space between his mouth and his chin. The static silhouette in the corner of his eyes began to move.

“Were you gonna tell me. Or leave a note. Or were you just gonna leave.” Beavis could not get any closer. Every breath, alarmingly quiet, fought its way through his jagged teeth, grazing Butt-Head’s neck and slightly shifting the fabric of his empty shirt. Beavis tilted his head, craning wide, unblinking eyes in front of a desolate face. “Huh? Huh?!”

Beavis crashed into him, striking his spine against the counter. The cigarette burned him on its way down.

He grasped his wrists, to which Butt-Head blindly fought and writhed to free himself. Their arms twisting, they staggered to the side, and Beavis slammed him into the fridge, where nothing but the bottles inside collapsed against one another. “Fuck you, Butt-Head! Fuck you! I’m gonna fucking kill you!”

Butt-Head hands were free. Beavis only noticed this when he seized his forearms, pinning them against the blonde’s chest and shoving him back. Before Beavis could even get a chance to stumble, Butt-Head threw his fist.

Beavis slammed against the kitchen floor. He tried to crawl away, but his dinosaur-print socks couldn’t pick up traction on the tile.

Shirley choked on her violence. “Oh, god…” she wailed, her trembling knees bringing her on eye-level with her son. One hand clasped her quivering mouth, and the other, clasped by her angel’s blood, reached for him.

He flinched. So did her face.

“You’re scared of me.” Her whisper morphed into smile. “My child! Scared of me! Fuck it all!” She paced from side to side before coming to an abrupt halt, slowly inching her eyes towards him. Her smile began to buckle underneath its own weight. “You have nothing…. Nothing!” She lurched forwards, and he shielded himself with his arm. “Nothing to be scared of! If anyone in this house has a reason to be scared of anything, it’s me!”

Beavis dared to peer above his arm. Almost as if she was waiting for it, Shirley’s claws shot forwards and clutched his face, her strained grasp tightening with every slight movement he made.

“Do you want me to give you a reason to be scared?! Huh?! Fucking speak!”

Feeling as if his skull was about to crack, Beavis cried above the pounding behind his eyes, “I’m sorry!”

She heaved him halfway off the ground, his legs sprawled out and his hands clinging onto her arms. “Don’t you dare raise your goddamn voice at me!”

Her baby coughed and sputtered, covering her hand with droplets of reddened saliva. Shirley’s stillness lasted for only a heartbeat before she began to cave in. Teeth bared, she tore her hand away, causing Beavis to collapse on his face. Stunned, it took a moment for the coughing to resume, so deep it threatened to spill his guts before her feet. But she wouldn’t have noticed.

Beavis pushed his head up, away from the painted tile. He watched his mother stumble aimlessly in a circle, her distraught, contorted face masked by tangled curls and the hands that threatened to rip them from her scalp. Hypnotized by the repetitive spiral, Beavis remained there, frozen, until the deafening sound of her collapsing against the cabinets rattled him awake. Both socks and hands scrambling, he was at last able to pick himself up. He bolted out into the living room, then swung himself to the side to make his frantic dash towards the rickety stairs. The dark hallway was never-ending, an eternal stretch, but Beavis was faster than the infinite. Unable to stop, he crashed against the bedroom door, repeating the cycle of trickling blood as he tugged and pulled on the doorknob. His wrists aching, Beavis finally unlatched the door, crying out as he slammed it shut. He heard someone scream at him for it.

Hardly able to see, hardly able to hear, the eight year old threw himself under his blankets, tucked them tight around him, and began to cry.

“Hey. Check it out, Beavis.”

Beavis felt the space next to his head dip as someone climbed onto the mattress.

“Your Spider-Man has a butt, uh-huh-huh.”

He didn’t want to move. Beavis ever so slightly peeked above the blanket, wiping his tears for just long enough to see exactly what was promised. He sniffed, “So.”

“Uh.” Beavis caught Butt-Head’s face, surrounded by a warm, orange glow from the sun, its light muffled and swaddled by sleeping shutters. “You’re supposed to laugh, butthole.” His bewilderment turned into a smile, revealing rows of cramped, crooked teeth. “Your Spider-Man’s, like, a girl, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis wiped his nose with the covers. “I-I think guys have butts too, Butt-Head.”

“Uh… how do you know.”

Without another word, Beavis rolled onto his other side, giving Butt-Head only the back of his head to stare at.

There was the unmistakeable sound of two action figures clinking against each other. “You wanna play,” he mumbled, noting the blonde head shaking back and forth. “Uh, okay then.” There was a brief moment of silence. “Okay, dumbass, listen up. I’m Professor Harry Baols.”

Beavis did not stop crying. He couldn’t. But he was distracted enough to make the slightest movement, something Butt-Head noticed. He waited for as long as he needed to. It was just enough time for Beavis to roll back over.

In one hand was Spider-Man, and the other was Skeletor. They didn’t even watch that show.

“Professor Hairy Balls?” Spider-Man questioned in the exact same voice as the Professor. “Uh-huh-huh.”

“What? No, you stupid bunghole. Harry Baols.” He spelled out the unfortunate surname, which Beavis and Butt-Head had gained knowledge of from a former classmate with the same name. He recently transferred for unknown reasons. “God, you suck. I’m gonna, like, have a lot of fun killing you. And also telling on you to the teacher.”

Butt-Head dropped Skeletor and reached to a place Beavis couldn’t see due to the rumpled blanket. “And I’m his sidekick, Ass Sniffer,” said a Batman figurine, in the exact same voice.

Spider-Man’s entire body tilted to the side. “Just Ass Sniffer?”

“Yeah, it’s my power.”

At that point, Beavis was laughing so hard he swore his ribs were fracturing with every gasp. He still could not stop his tears, but he had become distracted enough to forget why his vision was so blurry. Burying his face in his pillow as he continued to cackle and snicker, he heard Butt-Head laugh, too. It was quieter, more contained, almost completely indistinguishable from his typical chuckle, but Beavis instantly recognized it as one of Butt-Head’s deepest laughs. It made Beavis snort and heave all the more, which made Butt-Head chuckle even harder, leaving the glorious battle between Spider-Man and his questionable foes on a cliffhanger.

With the covers having slipped down to his chest, Beavis wiggled himself out from the pillow, giggling, “Ass Sniffer, heh-heh-meh. You’re cool, heh-heh-meh.” He paused to sniff, then resumed his smile. “And it’s like, uh. I-It’s, like, uh, you know, cool that, uh… t-that we’re, like, friends, you know, heh-heh-meh. You’re cool,” was the child’s way of saying thanks. He was immediately pulled back, “Heh, heh-heh-meh, hairy balls, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh… what.”

Beavis dimmed. “I mean.” He swallowed. “Yeah, we’re, uh… Y-You’re my, uh, my friend, you know, uh... I mean. I-I think so, I think.”

Butt-Head stared at the toys in his lap, his demeanor slowly draining itself. “Ugh,” he glowered. “Stop.”

He slightly shrunk back. “Stop what?”

“Being a wuss.”

“Oh, um.” Beavis gazed back into the abyss of the covers. “Um, okay.” He slowly inched himself back down, his head barely hanging onto the pillow. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you to stop being a wuss, damnit.” The words made Beavis halt. Butt-Head lowered himself down, the mattress shifting as the weight became evenly distributed. He laid on his back, fixated on whatever resided within the ceiling. “Boom.” He propped up all three action figures on his chest. “Great work, Ass Sniffer. You killed Spider-Man.”

Beavis watched them tumble off the bed, and he heard them clatter against the floor. He mourned them for a time, quietly. “Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Yeah.”

“I-I don’t think your mom’s gonna let you stay over.”

The day prior, Shirley had brought up (not for the first time) about how both boys might benefit from church. Butt-Head’s mother made a comment about how great church was clearly going for Beavis, which proceeded to piss Shirley off. Beavis didn’t understand what she was so angry about. He thought it was a compliment.

Butt-Head’s mother did eventually cave, likely to get Shirley out of her face, but that was not the end of it: Butt-Head’s mother had to attend, too. Shirley was not going to keep them both in line the entire service all by herself. A deal was eventually agreed upon: If she did this, then Butt-Head would stay the remainder of every Sunday to come at the Beavis home. All Beavis and Butt-Head understood was that if they behaved at church, they could have a sleepover.

But the chains keeping them in place began to erode, and right before Beavis was supposed to join the choir’s sopranos, they snuck out of a back window, snickering and scampering into the endless, rippling grass.

And they were found.

Beavis could not remember much of what happened. He could hear his mom screaming, but he couldn’t make out her words. He didn’t remember Butt-Head’s mother saying anything at all, but he did remember her slapping her son so hard he struck the ground, blood turning the loose sand into a dark, clumped mass of mud. He remembered Butt-Head’s mother leaving without a word, and Shirley, desperate to maintain some kind of reputation, reprimanding the woman for her abandonment to the eyeing congregation.

Beavis did not remember the car ride home.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. She’s gonna kick my ass when she gets back, uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis tried his best, “Maybe she’ll come back tomorrow.” He added, “Maybe you can still stay over.”

“Uh… maybe.”

Downstairs, something shattered. Beavis squeezed his eyes shut and held his own hand. He felt a pressure start to build, and he blinked, the tears falling and cupping his cheek and refusing to let go.

“My face hurts,” he whispered, and blinked again. The tears sunk into the mattress.

Beavis looked up. With the clouds melting over the sun, the light had begun to die, a faint, weak soul. But as the light faded, Butt-Head’s face was no longer hidden. Beavis could see the blood that the child had tried to wipe off. All he had done was smear it across his face, from his mouth and nose to his ears and eyes. It was dry. It had been for a long time.

“Yeah.” Butt-Head’s voice drifted, and it returned, quiet, and dull, “That sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

Beavis did not know what day it was. He did not know the time, the minute or the hour. It was dark, and it was cold. That told him nothing.

He had quit. He had quit his job. He quit eating. He quit drinking. He had quit.

But Butt-Head did not. He dared to keep moving. Dared to keep going. He dared to, after the slightest pause, lift another shirt from the dresser and place it inside a torn, plastic sack.

He was daring to go.

Beavis stepped forwards, his knees one breath too deep from giving way. “Whatever I did, I’m sorry. Alright.”

Butt-Head did not falter. He took out another shirt, then put it away.

His teeth gnashing together, it took everything to pull them apart. He almost fell. “I’ll do whatever you want.” He waited. Nothing. Beavis forced himself forwards. “I-I’m serious, Butt-Head. I don’t care what it is.”

His eyes ever so slightly widened when Butt-Head came to a still, only for his entire body to jolt when the dresser drawer slammed shut. When he came to, Butt-Head was facing him, a sight visible for a skipped heartbeat before he shoved Beavis aside with his shoulder and vanished down the dark, quiet hall.

And there Beavis stayed, until he could no longer.

One foot after the other, not here, not there, Beavis crept down the stairs, every creak of the sinking wood echoing but never dissipating. He found Butt-Head at the end. Unmoving, arms draped down his sides. Front door ahead, the living room to the right.

The house settled.

“What… did I do.”

The plastic sack crinkled in his fist.

Beavis moved forwards, towards the sound. “Tell me… what I did, s-so that I can be sorry, so we can stop this shit.”

Butt-Head turned his head over his shoulder, making Beavis come to an abrupt halt. “Why.”

It was the first word he had spoken to him since that day, whenever that was. “Why,” he repeated, as if the answer would return to him in the echo.

“What.” Butt-Head tilted towards him. “You want me to stay?”

What Beavis had been avoiding to say was now right in front of his face, sneering. It made Beavis aware of the weight his words were carrying. They were too much to bear. “I-I… I mean—“

“You want me to, like, stay here. With you. Forever, or what.”

Suddenly, what he sought was revolting, an abominable sin. It put his frail heart in his empty stomach. “I… I-I’m, i-it’s not—“

“Don’t be a wuss, Beavis, uh-huh-huh.” The plastic sack hit the ground. He made his way forwards, craning his neck. “Say it.”

The silence gave Beavis a chance to realize himself. His head was hung low, chin tucked to his chest, and his hunched shoulders were almost to his ears. Slowly, Beavis raised his head, meeting Butt-Head’s prying gaze. “It would really, really, really suck…”—his chest trembled as he inhaled—“if you left.”

Beavis recognized that look in his eyes. Knowing. “Come on.”

“I-I want you to stay,” he hastily stammered, gasping for air when it was all over. “There, okay. Jesus.” He found refuge in the wall, where he stared into until he no longer could. “We can, like, start over, you know, like that one time. I-I swear, I won’t… I-I won’t…”

“Won’t what.” The question was a futile effort, for the questioned didn’t know. “What are you hiding? Come on,”—he repeated with a hushed chuckle—“tell me.”

“Wait, what? Hiding?” He blinked his eyes wide open, finding that Butt-Head had moved, herding the pair into the living room. “Butt-Head—“

“Oh, don’t leave me, Butt-Head!” his sudden shout made Beavis jump. Their circling resumed faster than before. “I’ll do whatever you want! Whatever it is, I don’t care, just please, don’t leave me!”

Beavis struggled to stand against the words being thrown back in his face. He cowered back, losing his balance with every step, but Butt-Head only seemed to get closer and closer. Beavis tried to fight, but all he could do was try not to suffocate. It wasn’t enough for Butt-Head. Of course it wasn’t.

“Oh, Butt-Head, I’m just so in love with you!”

There were only two possible outcomes Beavis had in mind for this confrontation. Two. And in a few words, they shriveled up and died. Beavis did not know where he was. He did not know where he would go. He watched Butt-Head’s mirthless sneer shift and change into a grisly, hardened scowl, and his words went from a taunt to the truth.

“What,” Beavis breathed out, emptying his lungs. His body snapped, and he shrilled, ”What?!” With a sharp gasp, their pacing made its return. This time, it wasn’t Butt-Head driving Beavis backwards. They drove each other in an undefined path, a pair of circling hawks.

His voice failed him. Everything began to shut down. He didn’t know what to do with himself. There was no warning, or even anticipation. He could not recall a single time in his life where he or Butt-Head told each other they appreciate one another, much less love.

Love.

Butt-Head thinks he’s in love.

Butt-Head thinks he’s in love with him.

Beavis tried to think. He tried to think of what he could have done to have caused Butt-Head to come to that conclusion. All he saw were the past six months. Every day, every night. Every moment, every hour. The little that was said, and the everything that was not said.

There was nothing.

With every passing second, Beavis was not any closer to understanding what had been thrusted into his hands. It had happened so fast. It was almost as if Butt-Head had been waiting to say it.

“I’m not… I-I’m not in love with you, Butt-Head. Butt-Head. Butt-Head, what…” His head began to shake, for disbelief, and for some kind of hope that it could make the sight before him go away, make it all go away. “W-What does that even mean?! What the fuck are you talking about?!”

Butt-Head broke the cycle, cutting across their circle. “Say it.”

“There’s nothing for me to say, asshole!” The wrath on Beavis’ face was weak when paired with the fact he was backing away. “What the hell is wrong with you?! Why do you—?!”

”So.” He gasped as Butt-Head lurched forwards, closer and closer. “How long has this crap been going on. Tell me, Beavis.”

“Butt-Head. Stop.” He shrunk back as Butt-Head took another sudden step forwards. Beavis grit his shaking teeth. It was all closing in on his chest, on his throat. “Stop it, Butt-Head! Back the fuck off!”

There was a chuckle behind closed, thinned lips. “Or what, baby.”

The word hit him the second his back hit the wall. Something slammed against Beavis’ fist. It was a memorized terrain.

Butt-Head’s unstable stumble weakened into a slow, quiet lumber. His palms fell away from his face. He looked at Beavis, unwavering, even as the warmth inside his crooked nose began to spill.

Butt-Head raised his hand, placing his fingers right above his gums. They stretched into a smile. “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. Yeah.” He dragged his hand across his nose, smearing the blood all the way to his ear. “That’s it.”

Beavis’ world shifted into black and white as he flung himself forwards. He found himself in Butt-Head’s arms, where he tried to rip them apart, but his claws would not hook. Butt-Head tore himself away and gripped Beavis’ arms, whose defiant, crackled shout was cut short as he was hurled back into the wall from whence he came. Butt-Head pinned his forearm against his neck, keeping Beavis in place while he punched him repeatedly, spraying red across the wall. When he looked close to escaping, Butt-Head slammed the blonde’s shoulders back against the wall, kneed him twice between his stomach and his chest, then seized his wrists once more. Before he could cough the air back into his lungs, Beavis was flung back to where he was before, where he caught the slightest glimpse of Butt-Head before he struck Beavis across the face and sent him crashing into the floor.

Beavis kicked himself away, feeling a sudden gush of blood drip down from his hand to his elbow. Every breath brought the blood back home, and it began to clog up his nose and trickle inside his mouth. His frantic pleas for air subsided into painful sniffs, sucking the metallic red even further in. He swallowed it as it gathered inside his throat. It was the first meal he had in days.

The fire. It burned. It burned his face, aching from strike after strike after strike, again, and again, and again. Comforted by the familiar, Beavis’ sniffles turned into silence, and he began to laugh.

He shot to his feet and charged forwards, where Butt-Head had been daring him from afar. The empty glass bottle that was once on the corner of the table was now a glint in the moonlight, something Butt-Head hardly had time to register before it shattered on the side of his head. The handle sliced the length of his eyebrow on Butt-Head’s forehead as Beavis threw the remainder of the glass across the carpet. This cut was the most destructive consequence. Having used his left hand, uncoordinated and foreign, the bottle did not inflict even half of the damage Beavis would have preferred it to. Still, it was enough for Butt-Head to be distracted, and that was what mattered.

“God damnit!” he shouted, hunkering down as the impact vibrated his skull. Blind to the fallen glass digging in and close to puncturing the soles of his unraveling Converse, Beavis grasped Butt-Head by his arm and the collar of his shirt and rolled him onto the ground. Beavis fell to his knees, fists flailing into Butt-Head’s face. His vision obscured, Butt-Head’s hands shot upwards and began to dig into Beavis’ face, treacherously close to his eyes. Beavis unhinged his jaw and clamped it onto Butt-Head’s hand, who shouted in pain before using his other fist to hit Beavis in the neck. The halt in order to find his air gave Butt-Head leverage, and he punched Beavis once more, who, with reopened wounds, tumbled away with a gargled groan.

Both boys were sprawled across the floor, coughing, struggling to breathe. They dragged themselves away from each other, contrary to their maddened glares. Every attempt to pick themselves up was in vain, their elbows and knees giving out time and time again.

The fire.

It burned.

Beavis had somehow managed to pull himself to his feet. He somehow managed to pin Butt-Head to the ground. He grasped his hair, drenched in sweat and blood, and began to slam his head against the floor over, and over, and over again. Over, and over, and over again. Again. Again. Again.

Again.

He let Butt-Head fall against the floor and wrapped his hands around his throat.

He stopped.

Beavis’ hold was firm. Nothing further. He didn’t move. He didn’t think he would have to. He didn’t plan for Butt-Head to not do anything.

Their eyes met.

Butt-Head had every chance to throw him off, to not only return the favor, but to see it through. But he didn’t. He had stopped. His face was contorted, unrecognizable as either Butt-Head or as a human. Beavis had reckoned with his wrath, and it had unearthed his solace. “Do it.”

There was no how, no why, just what.

“Do it, Beavis.” A voice so quiet gave way to sudden, panicked gasps for air, and the muscles in his neck began to spasm as he tried to make it stop. His legs tried to kick, but he held them down. His hands curled into fists, but they remained collapsed above his head, in surrender. His body had realized his words. He was fighting himself. “Do it!” he cried out as he convulsed. “Come on! Come on!”

Butt-Head begging to be killed absolved any desire to wield the scythe. Beavis punched him in the face, shutting up his pleas. Butt-Head reached for the blonde’s flailing wrist, halting him for long enough to kick him back. It was weak, but so was he.

But collapsed on the floor Beavis could not stay. Standing before Butt-Head could, Beavis bolted forwards and whisked his arm out from underneath him. He fell back to the floor, his left arm at a tense angle over his back, and his right on the floor, yet to move.

With a scream, Beavis raised his knee to his chest and struck his shoe down onto Butt-Head’s hand.

One, two, three.

Three times more.

He was no longer Butt-Head. He was human, at long last, and he was screaming.

Beavis grabbed this hand and yanked it upwards, inflicting a cry that made his ears ring. He dragged Butt-Head to his feet and let go, kneeing him in the stomach before he could fall on his own pathetic volition.

He towered over the silhouette on the floor, waiting, daring.

Butt-Head was still for forever, but when he began to stir, Beavis realized it hadn’t been long enough. He was pulling himself to his hand, mouth held tightly shut, making a sound similar to a wailing cow.

He gave himself up. “Beavis. It hurts.” His voice broke, “Beavis.”

He looked like he was trying to get up. Beavis staggered to him and kicked him in the jaw. Butt-Head’s head snapped backwards, and he landed on his back with a choked cough, a spray of fallen blood visible past his head. It matched the blood on Beavis’ shoe.

“That’s what you get!” he cried out, pacing back and forth with trembling hands, trembling knees, a trembling heart. Beavis swayed back and forth, losing his balance, but still looming over Butt-Head, who had rolled back onto his side, towards Beavis. “That’s what you get! Because you suck! You suck, Butt-Head! You suck, and you’re stupid, and I hate you!”

He meant so much more, but they were the only words he knew how to say, and the only words Butt-Head knew how to understand.

He tried to look somewhere else, but the carpet had been painted crimson, dark and light, old and new. His eyes fell back to Butt-Head, who had curled up around his hand, too fragile to hold. Beavis stared at the sight he had tried to avoid. Without eyes, it stared back.

Beavis waited for him. Nothing.

Beavis crept backwards, his shoes hardly picking up off the ground. He could feel his clothes cut into his skin. He could feel his hair slice the frame of his face and the back of his neck. He could feel his veins, quivering under his skin. He could feel every drop of blood, on his hair, on his skin, on his clothes. And it was everywhere.

Away from the blood, away from the glass, away from him, Beavis ran. Twisting into the hall, unable to stop, he crashed against the wall, but he did not stop, he could not stop. The wind inside his head carried him towards the door, down the street, away from everywhere, and the wind tugging on the trees pulled it to a close.

There was a hum he could not escape. It came from the harsh, white lights hanging overhead, with their newborn bulbs. It came from the freezer, who no longer chattered or struggled. It came from the janitor, who was dragging the mop into every crevice and corner, with the exception being the booth where the bloody, mangled teenager sat in his own kind of silence, as much as he was allowed to be in.

Her voice was pretty.

Beavis remembered this booth. Its fabric used to be torn. The corners of the window next to him used to be filled with decaying bugs, with nothing but their brittle exoskeletons remaining. He and Butt-Head used to take handfuls of this infinite insect supply and keep them in their pockets, where they came in handy if there was a particularly shitty customer. Beavis sometimes took some out of their bug stash for himself, especially when there was a particularly long shift. It was something Butt-Head either did not know of or never said anything about.

Beavis knew he couldn’t stay on this side of the window forever. Eventually, the humming would go quiet, and he would have to leave. He didn’t have to go far. The Burger World dumpster was just on the other side of the building. But nothing was of his concern. Not any kind of distance, or any kind of weather. It didn’t matter.

A car ambled past, casting its light onto the pane.

He used any last remaining will to think. He didn’t want Butt-Head to be there. And yet, he filled every conscious thought.

Beavis had spent so many restless nights wondering what he had done wrong. What made Butt-Head leave, and what made him stay gone. Hate was always his conclusion. He did not know where it had come from, it was there, and it was clear. He had done something to make Butt-Head hate him. However, all that did was suggest that there was once the opposite of hate.

Love.

Beavis had never loved Butt-Head in any sense. He was a thorn in all of his sides, the worst of an awful situation. He hated him. He always had. He would have killed him eagerly had Butt-Head not taken all the fun out of it.

A pressure formed inside of his stomach.

There was never love in any form. They had always hated each other.

The pressure traveled to his chest.

He and Butt-Head had always hated each other, but Butt-Head had shown him there was something more cruel than hatred. Beavis did not know what he had done to deserve such a lesson; it was a thought he was familiar with.

He thought of the last day he fully recalled. He thought of the name-calling, the hand-holding. The kiss.

The pressure seized his heart, making it thrash around in its grasp.

It couldn’t have been the kiss. Butt-Head had said everything was okay. Butt-Head never lied about how he felt. Beavis had his ass kicked more times than he could count on an infinite set of hands because Butt-Head was completely and utterly incapable of keeping whatever scarce emotions he could feel under wraps. After the kiss, they stayed up the entire night, playing video games, watching cable, keeping an eye on the clock and the rising sun. He said everything was okay, and everything was okay. Then, he left. To go see that girl. And Beavis left, too. To see him in his dreams.

It wasn’t as if they had never happened until that summer. Beavis was no stranger to dreams where he and Butt-Head were closer than either would have liked. Sometimes, they kissed. Sometimes, they didn’t. Sometimes, Beavis would stir awake on the couch to find his head on Butt-Head’s shoulder or chest, uncannily similar to the reality he had just drifted from. They were nightmares. Every time. Beavis would wake up in disgust, push Butt-Head off of him, then he would forget. They were nothing but dreams. Nightmares. They were intangible, unable to be comprehended, because nightmares weren’t real.

But then they happened. He did cuddle with Butt-Head, without a dream. He did kiss Butt-Head, without a dream. It made the nightmares tangible. They came to him every time he slept. Every time, they kissed. Every time, it felt real. And not once did Beavis stir awake to find that anything had materialized, because Butt-Head was not there. He was back at the house, where Beavis had left him.

The pressure made its way into his throat, where it hardened. You were supposed to dream that kind of dream about a girl.

Beavis had no idea he was out to cry until he saw the tears splatter against the table. He couldn’t even be granted the mercy of a silent sorrow. It would have made any prying passerby immediately avert their eyes in both shame and repugnance. His tears were knives against his forming bruises, and blood that was once dry began to trickle back down his face. They mixed with both snot and saliva as every shrilled sob racked his frail frame.

He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to fight. He didn’t want to pay the bills or the taxes or the mortgage. That was not a child’s responsibility. He should be skipping school. He should be chasing down the Andersons’ screeching cat with a spilling paint bucket in both hands. He should be making Butt-Head laugh by putting his mouth to the gas station’s nacho cheese nozzle and keeping it there until a bright orange came out of his nose. He should be pitching frogs.

Beavis felt himself slipping. The night she left took hold. He was alone. Butt-Head wasn’t alone with him.

Butt-Head was not there.

Beavis was tired, in more ways than one and in more ways than he understood. He wanted to be put to bed. His mother used to carry him to bed when he was small. Beavis wanted someone, anyone. His mother, Butt-Head’s mother, David, God. He wanted someone, anyone, to carry him from this place and lay him down to sleep, wherever he needed to be, with no obligation to ever wake if he did not want to.

His vision began to blur, from the tears and from exhaustion. He did not see him approaching until he was close enough to touch.

Beavis went still.

He stared into eyes that did not reciprocate. Butt-Head’s focus fell through the table, into a void nobody could see but him. He looked the same as Beavis had left him. He looked like Beavis.

Beavis retreated to his own abyss, where he fell silent, but so did his tears. He wiped them with his calloused hands, causing his bruises to ache. He couldn’t help but dig his teeth into his gums. If Butt-Head was going to join him, he could at least be crying, too. But Beavis knew better.

Butt-Head.

Beavis raised his eyes and did not move them any further, ever again, almost as if he dared to do so, he might lose him. Butt-Head either was aware of this, or had the same notion.

They paid the price of all the blood it came with to look into each other’s eyes.

Beavis did not know what day it was. He did not know the time, the minute or the hour. But whenever it occurred, he eventually stood. Butt-Head did, too.

Beavis held the door open for him as they stepped into the night, cold and quiet. Out of the parking lot, into the street, Beavis’ aimless tread was a slow, stiffened crawl, until it dimmed. He glanced over his shoulder, finding Butt-Head was keeping his distance. Beavis stood there, waiting for him. It was as much time as Butt-Head needed to resume his pace. Beavis joined him when he was at his side.

“The, uh…”

Butt-Head’s voice brought Beavis out of his haze. Burger World was long behind them. The sidewalk beneath their feet had shifted, becoming smoother, more familiar. There were no braying dogs, no birds, no children, no cars. It was far too late, and far too cold.

“It’s on the other side of town,” he continued. He glanced at Beavis for a fleeting moment. “The apartment or whatever.”

Having caught the slight tilt of his head, Beavis did the same, but Butt-Head’s eyes had already returned to the ground. Beavis’ gaze fell towards Butt-Head’s arms, awkwardly held against his chest. His left hand cradled his right elbow, whose forearm draped across, leaving his battered hand to hang limp and ache with the slightest breeze.

“It’s, like, a one-bedroom though, cause, uh… I, uh, I thought…”

“It’s fine,” Beavis mumbled, snapping himself out of his trance. “We’ve shared a bedroom our whole lives. It’s fine.”

“Yeah.” Butt-Head breathed in deep, repeating in a more hushed tone, “Yeah...”

They made their way back home, wherever that was. For now, it had to be the house.

It felt empty when they arrived, as if it did not want them there. It settled as Beavis closed the door, and he remained there, at the threshold, waiting for the walls to give way. They let him live. They let him walk down the hallway, towards the living room, where he found what was left of Butt-Head, facing where he once laid.

“Butt-Head.”

He turned around.

There was a sense of clarity, a maturity he did not recognize and would never see again. “I can’t… I-I can’t do this anymore.” Beavis reverted back to old habits, “You know what I’m saying, you know.”

Butt-Head stood at an angle. Beavis wondered if he was shielding his hand from view on purpose. A hushed, “Yeah,” was all he could say.

“This… This shit, uh. I-It’s gotta stop. You know.”

“… Yeah.”

The house breathed in, and out.

“Butt-Head,” Beavis repeated when he noticed the brunette’s eyes drifting away back into his abyss. He waited for Butt-Head to return. “Back in July. When you left. Where, like… Where did you go.”

He sounded younger, much younger, “Uh, I don’t know.” He turned away even further, his head hung low. “I just, uh… parked in places, I guess. And, uh. And I slept in the car.”

“Because…”—Beavis swallowed hard—“you think I’m in love with you.”

“No. No, I don’t—“

“Because I don’t. You like, you know that, right?”

“Of course you don’t.” He shook his head. “I know you don’t, Beavis. Don’t be a dumbass. I was just trying to piss you off.”

There was a sliver of anger in his voice. Beavis backed off, then crept back in, “Why did you leave.”

“I don’t know.”

Beavis was left to his own devices, his own mind. His thoughts traveled back to the kiss, and he pulled them back. It wasn’t because of the kiss. He reminded himself Butt-Head had said everything was okay. He reminded himself that Butt-Head said he didn’t know.

Beavis thought of the one thing they had never reconciled. Not properly.

“Butt-Head,” he rasped, pacing in a circle before he realized there was nowhere to go. “Is this because… I-Is this because we cuddled?” He gagged on the words like bile. “God… damnit.”

“Uh…” Beavis followed the sound of his voice, finding a wide-eyed expression he did not expect to see. “I thought… you didn’t remember.”

“What? Wait-wait, huh?” Slowly, but surely, Beavis brought the two points together. “How do you… H-How do you remember something that… tha-that I’m not… that you’re not supposed to…”

Beavis remembered. He remembered that Butt-Head wasn’t supposed to remember.

“You… You knew. You knew?” He waited for an answer that took too long to come. “W-Why didn’t you, like, you know, tell me you knew? You said you…” He clarified, “W-Why the hell didn’t you kick my ass?!”

“Why didn’t you.”

A silence took hold of them both. Neither could argue with the other, or with themselves.

“You left me… because of that?”

“Uh…”

“You left me, because we…” He couldn’t help but scoff. “Because we cuddled?” The smile stinging his cheeks meant nothing good. “I mean, I-I know it was, like, weird, okay. I know, I know. But like, fuck, dude. Jesus Christ, Butt-Head—“

“Damnit, Beavis, shut up. I wouldn’t leave you over something so stupid. I told you to stop being a dumbass.” Beavis could hardly take in the weight of those words before Butt-Head added to them, “And I just said I didn’t leave you because I’m in love with you.”

Beavis forgot. About everything. “What?” he breathed out. “W-What does that night have to do with being in love?”

“I just… I just said…” Butt-Head shook himself again, stammering before Beavis could catch up, “I just said I didn’t leave you because”—he swallowed, tripping over his words—“because I, like, think you’re in love with me or something or anything like that. It has nothing to do with love, alright. None of this crap has anything to do with that. S-So just shut up about it and fucking stop—“

“Okay-okay-okay, alright, okay,” Beavis repeated over and over again, as if he could guide him away. It worked, at least a little. The silence made its return, heavier than before. Beavis raised his hands to his arms, and they both held themselves, unmoving. At last, Beavis whispered softly, if anyone’s soft was jagged and coarse, “It was really stupid.”

“… Yeah.” Butt-Head scrunched up his itching nose, unable to scratch it. “I don’t know what we were, like, freaking out over anyways. We’ve, like, cuddled before and stuff. It doesn’t matter.”

“But…”

But what? But not like that? There was what Butt-Head was talking about, the it: the accidental, unconscious head resting on the other’s shoulder after a late night of MTV. And there was that: that night.

It was not like that.

Beavis wanted to dare him. He wanted to dare him and everything that had happened that night. It did matter. The shame mattered. The anger mattered. The dreams mattered.

But he caught the blood splattered across Butt-Head’s face and shut his mouth. The line was fragile, thin, and Beavis was one misstep from breaking it.

“Butt-Head,” the name had yet to wear down his tongue. “I know I did something. I-If not the cuddling crap or that fake kiss or anything else you said that doesn’t matter, then it was something else. I did something else to piss you off. Just tell me, dude. Jesus. I don’t care what it is, o-or if you think it’s stupid or something. Cause whatever it was, it’s gotta be, like, really, really bad. Butt-Head,” Beavis guided him back, then made his way forwards, as if the root cause of Butt-Head’s continuous dissociation was that he couldn’t see him. “What happened.”

The blood. Blood on them, blood all around.

What happened.

And Butt-Head gave his answer, “Nothing.”

No. “Butt-Head.”

“I said nothing happened.”

His head began to shake. “Butt-Head,—“

He didn’t yell, but he raised his voice, “Nothing, Beavis. God damnit.” Beavis froze where he was, the tip of his shoe grazing where Butt-Head had laid for a time unknown. He caught a glimpse of Butt-Head’s hand, something Butt-Head noticed. He turned away, hunkering over it with his starved frame. “You didn’t… do… anything.”

Beavis had no idea what that meant.

Butt-Head sniffed, then winced at the pain it brought forth. “None of this crap matters. It’s all stupid.”

“But-“

“Stop it, Beavis.” His far-away eyes hardened into a glare. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just be done. I’m done.”

No. They weren’t done. This wasn’t done. Beavis wasn’t done. He had learned nothing. Nothing that had been plaguing him every night and every day and all the time in-between had been answered. There were no answers. There were questions, somewhere. They were beyond him. They watched him from afar, ready to be seen and remembered another day, another minute, another hour. Beavis should know, because he was the one who put them there, then turned his back on them.

With a nod, he gave in.

Butt-Head nodded, too. It was a bit fainter, more obscured, so when he moved, it took Beavis by surprise.

He watched Butt-Head walk towards the couch. “What are you doing.”

“Uh…” he stalled as he eased himself down. “I’m, like, ‘making it up to you’ or something, dumbass.”

Beavis sighed, venturing closer. “Butt-Head, get off the couch.”

“No, dumbass. You go sleep in the bed this time, alright. It’s, like, one of those peace treaties or whatever.”

“I don’t need another treat, damnit,” Beavis growled, recalling how the last time they did that, it didn’t work. “You go sleep in the bed.”

“Uh… no.” Somehow, Butt-Head did not expect Beavis to throw himself onto the cushions. He must’ve been a bit rusty. “Ugh! Hey!”

“I’m sleeping here, butthole.” Flat on his back, head pressed against the armrest, Beavis held his nose in the air. “You go upstairs.”

”I swear to god, Beavis—“

Beavis dropped his jaw in a long, exaggerated yawn that Butt-Head quickly gave up trying to talk over. It continued as Butt-Head lowered himself down and made himself as comfortable as he could possibly be with his hand in mind. Beavis’ yawn devolved into a rattle in the back of his throat, and the red on his face clashed with the forming blue hue.

“Move your legs.”

Beavis coughed violently, hanging halfway off the couch as his spit drooled onto the floor. “What?” he mumbled hoarsely, then noted the warmth pressed against his legs. “You move your legs, butthole,” he grumbled in protest, despite the fact Butt-Head’s knees were already tucked into his chest. “You suck.”

“Uh, you suck, too.”

Beavis settled back down with a few snorts and sniffles, then writhed his socks out of his shoes and kicked them onto the floor. The world was a vacant dark for only a few seconds before his eyelashes fluttered.

“Hey, Butt-Head.”

There was a groan from deep within. “What.”

“What if, like, we both suck.”

The idea took him aback. “Uh… hm.” He pondered for a time. It didn’t last too long. “Then you still suck, like, way more.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head,” he hissed as he crossed his arms. He was snickering in his head. Butt-Head was, too. “I told you to go upstairs,” he warned for the final time, but it didn’t mean much at all when he no clue of what he would do if Butt-Head stayed.

It didn’t take long for him to get his answer. Beavis could hear every breath Butt-Head took. They started to become slower, a rhythm Beavis could follow. His eyes became too heavy to open, and his mouth too heavy to move. Everything felt heavy, a weight Beavis welcomed, a weight that pulled him deep into a sleep that was, at last, unmemorable.

Dreamless.

“Uh, Beavis.”

Beavis snorted as his head jerked up. He barely got out a nasally, “Huh, what?!” before he heard it: a loud banging sound, seemingly coming from the front door. Beavis pushed himself up, his hair flattened on one side. “Uh, Butt-Head. There’s, like, someone at the door.”

There was a muffled shouting, bits and pieces of the words discernible, but not enough to draw a conclusion. Beavis and Butt-Head gave each other a look, then finally got up from the couch, sleepily wandering towards the hall.

They caught the ending half of a sentence, stopping them halfway to the door, “—and I am the constable of your county.”

Beavis narrowed his eyes, feeling as though if he squinted hard enough, he could see through the door. “Who the hell is this bunghole.”

“Uh… Wait a minute,” he spoke over the man on the other side of the door. “I think I’ve, like, heard this before.”

“What, knocking?”

“No, dumbass. A constable thing. I’ve heard of them on TV and stuff. They’re, like, pretty much police officers.”

“Woah, really?” Beavis blinked his eyes wide open. “Wait, what?”

“And—“

“What is a cop doing at our house?!” Beavis interrupted the prying law enforcement. He turned to Butt-Head. “Are we getting arrested?!”

“I repeat, you are not under arrest. We are here because those who have seized ownership of your property have ordered your eviction and—“

“Uh… I think so.”

The constable continued to speak, but it was all in one ear and out the other. “What are we gonna do.”

Butt-Head tried to think. For once, he really, really tried. “I think our time’s up, Beavis.”

He stared into the door, then tilted his head upwards, searching for a reciprocated gaze, even a glance. “Really?”

Butt-Head returned his eyes, dark, with the slightest shimmer, like the starlit nights they used to see as children before the city got brighter. Then, facing the door once more, he slowly raised his hands above his head.

Beavis was finally able to see his right hand, swollen and red, his knuckles out of place. “W-What are you doing.”

“Remember, like, on the show Cops. They always make the dumbasses they’re arresting put their hands up.”

“Oh.” Beavis turned towards the door, shuddering from another series of knocks, louder and firmer than before. “Oh yeah.” Without another word, he did as Butt-Head had done, and held his hands high.

“I repeat, you are not under arrest. If you don’t come out, we will have to use physical force.”

All Beavis heard was the word, ”arrest.” He held his hands higher, as well as the corners of his dry, flaking lips. “Prison’s gonna be cool, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head gave Beavis one final glance. He parted his gums. “Uh, huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. Yeah.”

The officer gave yet another warning, then one more, one last time. Something rammed against the door. One, two, three. Three golden, rusted hinges shattered, and what fell over them was all that was left: the light, warm glow of a rising December sun.

Chapter Text

“What.”

She was too caught up to notice, too entangled in the bloomed vines of a presumed reciprocation to notice how his eyes were glistening, sliced open by the light of the moon that, barred by the typically-squinted gaze, hardly ever had the time to say hello. It was the slightest shift in expression, one she was not trained to catch.

Hannah couldn’t help but laugh, doubling over with her head in her lap as if the rollercoaster she was riding was taking loop after loop after loop. She breathed out a, “Yes!” followed by another set of giggles, to which she slowly began to catch her candy-cane-breath. “It means… you’re in love, yeah,” she couldn’t help but whisper to the side, as if it were a secret she was passing in the middle of class.

Her voice fell away with her smile. She could see the moon fully reflected in the abyss of her date’s eyes.

“Butt-Head? Are you okay?”

“Butt-Head! Hey!”

Draped across the sofa, lying flat on his back, he gazed upwards to the sun that had lulled him to sleep, only to find it blocked by a battered blonde. “Ugh.” He curled his lips and bunched up his nose. “Out of my way,” he grumbled, only to wince at the flashbang of sunlight that took Beavis’ place.

“So.” Still panting, Beavis paused to wipe the sweat off his face and the melted blood that came with it. Desperate and dehydrated, he paused to lick it off his hand. “Is this the place or what,” he finally added with a wet-dry smack of his lips.

Butt-Head peaked through his rubbing fingers. He awkwardly angled his shoulder blades back and forth against the armrest to push himself up, all the while gritting his teeth at the discomfort radiating from his right hand, which was gracefully and delicately positioned on a pillow on his stomach. “Uh…” he stalled, scanning the scene before him. He was pretty sure he had been here before. “I think so.” He eased himself back down, then raised his working hand, pointing across the parking lot and towards the apartment complex. “Onward, butt-monkey.”

Beavis hacked up and spit out the slim traces of hydration still left in his system, then snarled his usual gibberish under his breath as he put both hands back to the couch. All legs, wooden and flesh alike, scraped against the wet, cracked concrete. It was a ignoble carriage, a scene straight out of a bootleg of a bootleg of Cinderella, and after hours of mindless circling and endless back-and-forth, it was finally coming to an end. Butt-Head was pretty sure, at least.

Finding out they weren’t going to get arrested was, admittedly, a disappointment. Butt-Head was looking forward to fulfilling his fantasy of having some stern, combat-boot-wearing slut as his day, afternoon, and night guard. This dream almost came to fruition when the constable got a closer peek of the painted state that they themselves and the living room were both in. There were a lot of questions, most of which Butt-Head didn’t understand, but one thing began to lead to another, and he and Beavis were nearly ripping out each other’s throats in a fit to declare that the other was the one who “started it.” Struggling to keep them apart, the constable shouted over the noise something about if either wanted to press charges. But Beavis and Butt-Head couldn’t make any charges. They had no money. And so they begrudgingly waved their white flags, and with only a couch, a guitar, a TV, and whatever they could fit inside the upstairs bed’s rolled-up covers, they set off into the sunrise, unfortunately to be seen and heard from again.

The couch came to a screeching halt, right in front of the blocky staircase. “There, butthole,” he growled, far more than just slightly indifferent to Butt-Head’s lack of assistance (who had been hearing about it more than he would have liked). “What now.”

“Uh… Ugh,” his voice was strained as he stretched himself off of the couch, cradling his hand like a newborn as he stood up straight. He looked at the stairs, then at the couch, then at the stairs, repeating an empty and rattled, “Uh…”

“If only we had the car.” Butt-Head glanced at Beavis over his shoulder, who continued after a slight pause from catching his eyes, “W-We could, like, um, hook the couch with that thing from Mr. Anderson’s and drive it up there. Back it up or something.” Beavis pondered for a moment, then stretched his arms out as wide as they could go, seemingly imitating the width of their car. He squinted at the stairs, then back to his arms. Stairs, arms. “You think it would fit?”

“You dumbass, we don’t have a car anymore.” Butt-Head tried to picture the car going up the stairs, balanced on the railings. His imagination led him to the doors above, where he recalled the only thing he had memorized about this place: the bronze engraving of Apartment 212. “Uh… well. See you later. I guess,” he added once his back was fully turned.

A sharp shrill stopped Butt-Head in his tracks, “Damnit, bunghole, I can’t move this!“

“What do you want me to do about it.” Eyebrows slightly twitching downwards, Butt-Head held his oddly-crossed arms away from his chest. “I’m like, injured.”

There was the start of a sentence in the back of Beavis’ throat, but it cut itself off. “But can you, like. Um.” He eyed Butt-Head’s hand once again, and once again, he was stalled. “Um. Just… J-Just, uh... Okay-okay. Never mind,” he spoke more and more so under his breath with each stammered word. Beavis put himself at a slanted angle, with his shoulders against the armrest and his body almost parallel to the couch. Butt-Head watched him kick the asphalt and grunt in rhythm with the scuffing wood, something Beavis immediately caught on to with a less than eager demeanor. “Damnit Butt-Head, go away. Just go inside. I’ll… ugh, damnit.” He slithered around to the back of the couch and began to turn it. “I-I’ll meet you inside, alright?!”

Butt-Head stared at the sight before him, disappointed it was coming to an end. “Uh… okay, uh-huh-huh.”

He ambled past Beavis, reaching the stairs a million light years faster. He continued to laugh as he made his way up the concrete slabs, every dramatically slow step a part of the act. Butt-Head reached the door by the time Beavis successfully aligned the couch with the entrance to the stairs, and he stared for a moment or two before he realized Beavis was lazily slumped against the furniture.

“Back to work, butt-monkey,” he jabbed, and the raspy barking that followed made his chuckling resume all throughout his struggle to get the greasy key to turn just the right way.

The door opened.

”Well, here she is.” Shoving the key ring back into his jacket pocket, the landlord waved the cigarette smoke out of his eyes, the wind from the open door having brought his exhale back in his direction. The man’s laughter was full of intervals, and his intervals were full of coughs. “Quite a sight, isn’t it.”

He could still hear Beavis damning the couch as he stepped past the threshold, greeted by carpet that sunk beneath him in a way he wasn’t used to. He then heard Beavis yelp about pinching his finger, something along those lines. Butt-Head shut the door, muffling the sound.

He only moved when his scabbed scalp grazed against the door from an unconscious tilt. Sucking down and swallowing the debris in his nose, he moved forwards, walking as if he knew where he was going. Butt-Head rediscovered himself in the center of the room, noting the crunch of cricket bodies beneath his shoes. He dug his heel into their skeletons, then pivoted his leg to spread their ashes across the carpet.

He raised his eyes, looking forwards, then over both shoulders. The couch would probably go there, the television there. He tried to think where the bed would go, then he remembered the bedroom, then he remembered they had no bed. He thought about the dressers. The kitchen table, too. He remembered they had no dressers. No kitchen table, either. Butt-Head tried to think of the last time they even used that thing.

He desecrated a few more insect graves before he made his way towards the bathroom, recalling the doorknob that wasn’t on just right. Unable to see more than the slightest fuzz in the mirror, he flicked on the light, and he stared. Blood on his face, blood on his shirt, blood in his hair that was cut like a child’s doll. He raised his working hand and peeled his lips even further back. Blood on his teeth. Cool.

Butt-Head nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder. He thought for a moment.

”Now, I can assure you the crickets aren’t always this big of a problem. Unless you love crickets. Then they’re always here, hah!” The landlord finished locking the door then took the cigarette out from between his yellow teeth, tapping the ashes down and freckling the snow. He looked Butt-Head’s empty demeanor up and down, and a smile covered by a scratchy gray began to fall. “Come on, man, that was funny.”

“Hey.” Back outside in a world that was both cool and warm, Butt-Head leaned over the balcony, lifting his feet off the ground. “Hey, Beavis.”

Having only managed to drag the couch past two steps, Beavis dropped it at the sound of Butt-Head’s voice and watched it slide right back down to the pavement. “Augh, god damnit!” He whisked his head upwards, spraying sweat like rain onto the railings. “What, Butt-Head?!”

“I think—Ugh!” he exclaimed as he nearly toppled forwards. He planted his feet back on the concrete, finding his bearings. “Uh… I think, like, I have an idea.”

Beavis kept his eyes wide open despite the cloudless sky. “What?!”

Butt-Head picked one leg off the ground, a compromise. “Remember how, like, we only have one bedroom and stuff.”

His eyes rolled into the back of his head to escape blindness, seemingly on their own. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I guess,” he muttered between sniffs as he dug his grimy fingers into his sockets. “W-What about it?”

“I think, like, if we just get, like, two beds or something, we can, like, make it work.”

He went still, then lifted his head, his eyes squinted from bewilderment rather than common sense. “Make what work, butthole?”

“Uh… so we don’t have to sleep together anymore. Dumbass.”

Beavis blinked. “Um.” He blinked again. “O-Okay, um. Cool. But like… h-how can we get two beds, i-if we only have, like, one bedroom, you know what I’m saying.”

“Uh…” He scraped his fingers against the reflective metal, gathering brittle rust beneath his nails. “We can just get, like, a really small bed.”

Beavis appeared to be in thought for a moment, then he rattled himself back into place. “Oh yeah.”

Butt-Head ticked his face, a child dissatisfied with the hamster struggling inside its the broken, plastic wheel. “It’s a good idea, dumbass.”

“Huh?” His volume soared as he shouted over the internal noise that was his puny body screaming and crying in response the weight in his hands, “Huh, what?!”

“Ugh,” Butt-Head scoffed with another tilt of the expression. He leaned back on his heels, holding onto the railing with his normal hand so he wouldn’t fall. He began to push himself back and forth like a makeshift swing, boredom overpowering the sting in his right hand. “Hurry up with that crap. I wanna watch TV.”

“I’m trying, butthole!” he snapped after a few raspy pants.

Butt-Head peered over the balcony, furrowing his eyebrows at the sight of Beavis letting go of the couch again and collapsing onto the concrete steps. “Damnit, Beavis, you wuss.” He made his way down the stairs, stopping at the curve to stare. “Get up. Don’t make me kick your ass.”

Beavis coughed as he opened his eyes. “What happened to being injured.” Through the blinding sun, he could see the look on Butt-Head’s face. “Okay-okay-okay,” he stuttered as he pulled himself back up.

He watched Beavis rub the back of his neck, already sore from his concrete pillow. He glared at the couch, noting how its inanimate passengers were somehow all still intact, tangled within the heavy blanket. “Uh… okay, I think… How about you, like, drag it up the stairs again, then I’ll, like, uh… kick it or something.”

Beavis whisked his head over his shoulder, a smile forming as he played out the scenario in his head, which arrived in picture fragments colored by a wet crayon. “Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.”

And so they went, with Beavis getting an odd surge of energy and hauling the couch up the stairs with less than half as many hiccups as before. Of course, this grand feat was all owed to Butt-Head, who was practically doing it all by himself.

He grunted as he kicked the thin fabric, the most strenuous part of the job. “You’re doing great, Beavis.”

“Wow, really?”

He chuckled that slithery tenor, “Yep, uh-huh-huh. Just keep at it.” Butt-Head eyed the approaching door, then kicked again. Admittedly, it was more a tap than a kick, but God forbid he overexert himself. After all this sacrifice? “Almost there. Mhm.”

Butt-Head retired from labor once all four wooden legs were planted firmly on the walkway, craving a Dr. Pepper as he watched Beavis make the final stretch towards the agape door. The fizzle he swore he could taste became instantly diluted as the couch smacked against the entrance’s walls.

Beavis stared at it, then gave it another shove with his shoulder. “Damnit. Piece of crap.” Another shove. Another. Another. Beavis rubbed his shoulder, then did the exact opposite of what Butt-Head wanted him to do: look him in the eye. “Hey, um.” The couch stole his attention for a frame. “Hey, Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head sipped his imaginary straw. He had gotten a refill. “Uh, yeah.”

He gave it another smack with his shoulder, just to be sure, then silently stared at it as if to confirm its existence. “This isn’t really working.”

The first solution—which of course, was Butt-Head’s idea—was to take everything inside and see if that made the couch small enough. Television first, then the blanket and all its contents, then the guitar. When that didn’t work, Butt-Head ordered Beavis to take the cushions off as well, who tried to argue at first but quickly shut up. This also did not work.

He noted Beavis standing in the doorframe on the other side of the armrest. “Damnit, Beavis, get your dumbass out of the way and maybe it’ll fit.” Butt-Head watched him roll forwards over the armrest and flop onto the bare base of the couch. “Now try to move it.”

Pins and needles and chip crumbs imbedded in his skin, Beavis gave the couch a pathetic push, then spoke with tone stretched thin, “I-It’s still not working, Butt-Head.”

“Ugh. Maybe if we, like, flip it upside down.”

The impatience at watching Beavis fumble with the couch seared Butt-Head far greater than the pain in his hand. There was a lot of shouting. Name-calling. Pushing, shoving, some spitting. But at some point, the couch flipped onto its side, and consumed by their dispute, neither Beavis nor Butt-Head realized they were taking steps.

“Move, Butt-Head!” Clenching his teeth, Beavis shoved his fingers underneath the couch and kicked the floor until it flipped upside down, right in the middle of their living room. He stepped back, hands on his hips, and the redness in his sweating face began to fade. “Hey, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis dragged his hand across his brow. “Your idea worked, heh-heh-meh.”

“Of course it did, assmunch,” Butt-Head growled, his skin flinching like a horse’s at the sensation of his wet shirt sticking to his back. “Now hurry the hell up and flip this crap back over before I, like, flip my foot in your ass.”

Beavis did as he was told, and Butt-Head quietly watched him struggle to figure out which pillow went where. Eventually, there was something tangible for Butt-Head to sit on, and with mole-freckled arms limp at his sides and a heavy head tilted into the maroon cushion, a long, deep groan sunk his chest. His eyes fell along with his lungs, the light from the midday making the little world behind his eyelids a contaminated pool of gray and pink.

“Woah!”

Butt-Head opened his eyes, squinted them, then rubbed their soreness away with his fist. He leaned his head to the left just in time to see Beavis standing in the bathroom threshold, his hands clutching the doorway.

“There’s, like, a-a beetle in the shower! And a worm is coming out of its bunghole!”

Before Butt-Head could wrestle with himself off of the couch, the ajar bedroom door caught Beavis’ eye, and he scurried in there before a thought could form. Now, it was a raspy, “What the hell?!” that was echoing back to the living room.

Beavis’ head snapped back into view. “Damnit, Butt-Head, why is this room so small?”

His upper lip caught on his teeth for a frame before popping off. “Uh… what.”

Beavis threw his arms towards the direction of the room as if Butt-Head could see. “This bedroom sucks! It’s, like, the size of Mr. Anderson’s shed!” He looked all around, his jaw dropping even further. “This living room sucks, too! This entire apartment sucks! Why couldn’t you, like…” Beavis’ voice cut short, and suddenly, his sharp glare was no longer as stable. “I don’t know, like, get… get a better house, like, a… o-or something.” Looking uncannily similar to a trained dog who pissed on your great-aunt’s Gucci purse, Beavis squirmed where he stood, then over his shoulder. “I mean, the beetle’s pretty cool.”

Within seconds, Beavis and Butt-Head were both peering into the shower, watching what looked like an uncurled paper clip shit itself out of a croaking beetle. Butt-Head dared him to eat it, but when Beavis picked it up, the worm just barely wiggled itself underneath his fingernail and he screamed and dropped it.

Laughter dimmed as they tried to leave; it was inevitable that they would catch their reflections. Neither spoke. It was when Beavis looked like he wanted to say something that Butt-Head left, flicking the light switch on his way out.

He laid horizontally on the couch as Beavis unraveled the massive lump of covers, tossing one belonging to the side at the time. Shirts, shorts, boxers, and one singular sock became a discombobulated pile of rips and tears and faded fabric. The corners of comic books were smushed and bent, and their spines had been turned inside out. The VHS player was dropped to the side like a construction worker’s toolbox, and the tapes were softly and tenderly pulled from the ashes.

Beavis held a Die Hard tape stolen from the library in one hand and a tape with familiar handwriting on a peeling sticker slip in the other, the magnetic film favoring the right knob. His pupils darted from side to side, trying to recall the morning that was at least three “HEAVEN OR HELL: WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” billboards behind them. “You, uh.” He smacked his lips, swallowing whatever crumbled off. “Y-You grabbed these, right. Did you.”

“Uh… yeah.”

“Okay-okay, um. Just, um,”—the tapes clicked against the top of the VHS player as he swiflty laid his palms flat—“just making sure, you know.” He tsk’d the restrained air out of his lungs as he pulled out more movies. Some were shot locally.

Butt-Head watched the lost sock be found then tossed as the cherry-on-top for their limited edition sundae pile. He had no idea who it belonged to. “Uh, Beavis.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah.”

“Can you, like, do the TV thing now.”

“Yeah-yeah-yeah.”

Butt-Head folded himself carefully onto his stomach with the delicacy of a child creasing the paper of a notecard to her dying grandmother. Except this child was stupid, and also dumb, and also something an old man in a white coat called “ow-this-tick,” which was weird because the child’s mom had been making her wear that flea and tick collar. After many winces and grunts from accidentally touching or laying on his hand, Butt-Head was finally able to lay on the couch in a way that was only slightly agonizing. With his right hand crumpled up by his head and his left hand picking out pieces of the carpet, Butt-Head stared at Beavis while he worked, one tangled wire at a time.

He set the VHS player beside the TV then backed up to the couch, nearly sitting on top of Butt-Head’s legs. He settled for standing, scratching the peach fuzz on his chin. “Wh-What do you think, Butt-Head.”

Butt-Head did not realize what he was doing until Beavis met his hazy gaze, still staring. Butt-Head swiftly burrowed his face into the misaligned cushions, granting mercy to the carpet in order to rub his eyes. “Uh…” he exhaled, then plucked out a fallen eyelash that his pupils had swallowed whole. “Think about what.”

“The, uh, th-the TV.” Beavis almost sat down again. “Is that a good spot, you think.”

Butt-Head found his vision obscured by a blonde head again. He ripped his gaze out of his head and firmly planted it on the television.

He reminded himself he needed to go to the doctor.

He then tried to imagine something playing, but it was hard to sprout vines of colors and noise from the barren screen. “Uh, maybe you can, like,”—he flicked his fingers—“move it that way a little bit.”

“Got it, heh-heh-meh.” Beavis took one very large step forwards, plucking the television from the ground and grunting as he stood. He looked all around, then fell back to Butt-Head. “Um. Where did you want it again.”

Left, right. Backwards, forwards. There.

“There? There,” Beavis repeated Butt-Head’s groggy mumble. “There, heh-heh-meh.” He stared at the static square with his hands proudly planted on hips as if he were the one who built it, then spent a few seconds twirling in circles searching for the remote he would eventually step on. He made his way back to the couch, prompting a simple, “Um, Butt-Head?” before the latter sighed and brought his knees to his chest.

Beavis sat down next to him, then faced the new dilemma of no longer having a coffee table to prop his heels on. Shoes facing outwards like a duck’s, Beavis held out the remote and snickered, “What you wanna watch, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh,”—he ripped out one of the floor’s follicles—“let’s see if, like, Baywatch is on or something.”

“Cool, heh-heh-me-augh!” Beavis’ demeanor turned inside out as a deafening static sprayed from the television the second he pressed the power button.

“Ugh!” Butt-Head’s hands instinctively flocked to his ears, the pain numbed by the sound. “Turn that crap off, Beavis!”

“I’m trying!” he shouted back while blindly punching the remote, his eyes squeezed shut as if that was making the screeching any quieter. At last, the Lord’s Hand guided Beavis towards the top of the remote, and everything went out with a hiss.

Butt-Head slowly crawled out of his makeshift burrow, blood pounding against his knuckles. The screen was empty once more, replaced by their rattled reflections.

“Um, Butt-Head. The TV doesn’t work.”

“You don’t work, dumbass,” he snapped back as he pushed himself up, squinting at the screen. Nothing. “Damnit, Beavis, what the hell did you do.”

His limbs jerked and his mouth dropped. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Uh, well, the TV used to work.” He scrutinized the screen once more, just to be sure. “And I didn’t touch it.”

“Shut up, buttmunch!” Beavis’ thumb lingered over the power button, then he hesitated. “I-It’s probably, like… um…”

“See. You know it’s your fault.”

“My fault?! It’s your fault!”

“I didn’t even do anything.”

“It’s not my fault! You said it wasn’t!”

Butt-Head blinked at the sight before him. It was starting to shake.

“Uh…” Torn between ”okay” and “what,” the sound fell away with no conclusion. He heard the rattling of plastic, and his gaze honed in on the remote, caught in Beavis’ grasp. “Give me that.”

“What?” Beavis rasped before he realized what was going on. He whisked his arm behind his shoulder, snarling, “No! Y-You’re-You’re probably gonna break it even more!”

“God damnit, dude, just give me the stupid remote.”

Butt-Head’s deep monotone was slashed apart by Beavis’ high-pitched shrieking. They grabbed each other, pulled each other down, pulled each other’s hair, they shouted names and other things alike. Butt-Head wasn’t even sure why it was a problem. It shouldn’t have been a problem. There shouldn’t have been a problem.

Caught up in the fight, in the nothing, Beavis failed to pay attention, as per usual. The remote swung between them and smacked Butt-Head’s hand. Beavis quickly found out which hand it was.

“Fuck!” Butt-Head lurched forwards, clutching his wrist. His fingers retracted into his palms like claws, and his muscles constricted in beat with his heart, like a deep, rhythmic drum. “God,”—he flared his nostrils, then rocked towards the floor—“damnit.” What followed was a damning silence. He lifted his head from his knees, finding Beavis in the corner of the couch, still shaking.

Beavis’ head began to shake. “Oh, Jesus. Jesus, Jesus. I’m-I’m sorry—“

“Stop.” He shook his head as well, but it made nothing go away. “Don’t do that. That wuss-shit.”

Silence.

“I said stop.”

“I didn’t...” was all Beavis could mutter.

“Don’t do any of that crap again, dude. Or I’ll, like, kick your ass. Or something.”

For some reason, his threat did not fill that cavity in his stomach. Beavis had gone still, but nothing more. The remote had flown across the living room, lying in the center between the couch and the television. They were both still, nothing more.

“When I, like, sold the car, you know.” From the corner of his eyes, he saw Beavis ever so slightly tilt his head. “I asked the guy how much money it was, cause it was a lot of numbers. And, uh… he, uh, he pretty much told me it would be, like, seven apartments.” They were both glancing at each other now. Bleary reminders in each peripheral. “So we can either get seven apartments, uh, or another TV, or… uh…”

Butt-Head’s vision pieced itself back together. His injury was in his lap. His injury was sitting next to him.

With a stifled, hesitant sigh, he faced it.

“Nachos.” When Beavis looked back at him, he continued, “Like, we have so much money now. We could probably just buy, like, the entire thing. Uh-huh-huh. Then we’d never have to leave our couch again.”

“Heh, heh-heh,”—he sniffed—“ heh-heh-meh. Cool, cool, heh-heh-meh. I-I can’t even remember the last time we had ‘em. Heh-heh-meh. Nachos, heh-heh-meh, cool.” He was snickering as if he was stalling something. Butt-Head noticed it before his not-smile of a smile could form. “We can’t,” Beavis’ voice fell, along with his face. “W-We can’t. There’s, like, the bills and all that crap.” He paused, then murmured quietly without his usual inflection, “Oh yeah. The TV bill.” Beavis dug his shoes into the carpet, drilling a flat path and speaking with a cadence unlike himself, “That’s why it doesn’t work.”

Butt-Head took this in. “Uh… oh yeah.”

The only noise was the shouting of a neighbor across the complex and the tapping of Beavis’ foot. “I shouldn’t have quit that job.”

“Uh… uh-huh-huh. Okay, hippie.”

“We need jobs.” It was as if he was talking to himself. “I-If we spend… all this crap on the mortgage and the bills and food, then… god damnit. I don’t, I-I don’t know. I don’t know, Butt-Head. What are we… oh god.”

Head in his hands, he was no longer looking at Butt-Head, whose silence was growing with each passing second. It grew and grew until he could not handle it anymore. “Uh…” With a single word, Beavis’ hands loosened their grip. “I think if we use the car money to pay for the apartment and all that other stuff,—“

“Yeah-yeah?”

“—then, like… we don’t need jobs, or something.”

Beavis’ blue pupils darted back and forth, as if he was following the red strings on a bulletin board. “But then when we run out of money, we’ll get, like, foreclosured and stuff again.”

“That’s what jobs are for, dumbass.”

“Oh yeah. Wait. Wait-wait, no. If we get the jobs… when we run out of money… I-If we get the jobs when we run out of money… We won’t make enough money to pay it in time.”

“So… we get jobs, like, before we run out of money.” Butt-Head’s lips ticked upwards. “That sucks.”

“So we could’ve pressed charges.”

First, Butt-Head took in the words. Then, he tried to understand them. He thought of that morning, of the constable’s inquiry. They did have money. He thought about scorning Beavis for being a dumbass and forgetting to remind him, but all that came out was a hollow-headed, “Uh… yeah.”

“You feel like doing that.”

First, Butt-Head took in his voice: quiet, above all else. Then, he leaned back against cushions that cradled the back of his neck. “… No.”

Beavis slumped against the cushions as well, two pairs of eyes staring at the same ceiling. Butt-Head thought about moving. But he knew that was futile.

“I don’t want a job right now.”

“Me neither.” Butt-Head searched for something on the ceiling that wasn’t ceiling. “I don’t ever want a job. Jobbing sucks.”

He could hear the sound of Beavis peeling off the skin on his fingers. “I wish we were still in school.”

He couldn’t help but scoff. “Uh, okay, weirdo.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head.” He interrupted himself, “Heh. Heh-heh-meh, heh.”

“What’s so funny, asswipe.”

“Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.”

”What?”

‘I’m”—he paused to snort—“I-I’m thinking of you at that snow cone place thing, heh-heh-meh.”

“Ugh. Damnit, Beavis, cut it out. It’s not funny.”

“I-I never, like, said anything, you know,” Beavis encapsulated the worst six months of Butt-Head’s life in two singular words. “But—heh-heh-meh—but you looked so stupid in that hat.”

“Shut up, dumbass.” The dumbass did not, in fact, shut up. “We had to wear hats and stuff at Burger World, too.”

“Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.” He dragged his arm across his itchy nose. “But those hats didn’t have those—“

“Ugh.”

“—those-those flower pin things, heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh. Yes, sir,” he deepened his voice and added a poorly-improvised lisp. “Here’s your Berry Butthole Blast Snow Cone.“ His face was turning red, and he sputtered out every word, “Do you like my flowers?”

Beavis was not funny. At all. Butt-Head was only laughing because of how stupid he was.

And they both laughed for a time until Butt-Head opened his eyes, finding that a tiny spider had, for whatever reason rationalized in its singular neuron of a brain, made a web in the center of the ceiling, without any corners for support. But Butt-Head didn’t think that far into it. He only saw the spider. It was enough to distract him, and he accidentally set his palms flat on the couch. “Ugh,” he said for what felt like the thousandth time, and with a singular word, Beavis’ laughter ceased.

But it did not stay that way for long. Beavis peered over his shoulder, and he sniffed as he smirked. “You know. Your hand looks, like, kinda cool, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head looked at it, in all of its raggedy, crooked glory. It did kick a little bit of ass, admittedly. Like some sort of heavy metal, hard rock thing. It still hurt though. He was seconds from reminding Beavis that it was all his fault, but that would mean Beavis did something cool.

He angled his wrist, then the corners of his lips. “It does look kinda cool, uh-huh-huh.”

“You have metacarpal fractures here, here, and here. That is not cool, in any sense of the word.”

Laughter dissipated as Butt-Head focused on the black-and-blue sheet before him. The doctor had told him that it was an X-Ray of his hand. Butt-Head didn’t understand how his hand could be in two places at once. He needed to learn how to master this ability, so he could slap Beavis twice in one swing. Or, would it still be two swings, since there were two hands involved. Oh well. There was no need to be technical about it. “Uh… what.”

“What’s the hell’s a met-uh-thingie-whatever.”

The doctor side-eyed Beavis, who was sitting on the very edge of Butt-Head’s hospital cot. “A metacarpal fracture,”—she gave herself the grace of a heavy sigh—“essentially means you broke your hand.” She tapped the sheet with her filed nail, “Your fifth metacarpal, which is right here, at your pinkie finger, is suffering from a neck fracture. Then, you have your fourth and third metacarpals here, which are obviously your ring and middle fingers, which are dealing with a fracture on their bases.” She adjusted her position in the small, squeaky chair, then adjusted her thick-rimmed glasses. “You know, you are very lucky you do not need surgery.”

Butt-Head stared at the sheet, rippling ever so slightly from the hum of the vent overhead. “Uh, surgery for what.”

“So, sometimes—“

“Yeah-yeah! Y-You don’t do surgery on broken bones. You put them in one of those weird arm thingies. Yeah-yeah, I know you don’t do surgeries on broken bones. Because one time, I had a surgery, heh-heh-meh, and it definitely was on no broken bones. At least, um, I don’t think so.” Beavis grumbled underneath his breath, then did that thing where his words ran together like magnets, “They took my tonsils out when I was, like, nine, I think, a-and it freaked me out at the time because, like, I thought it meant, like, the thing they do to dogs. L-Like, they were like, ‘Okay, you need to have your tonsils removed.’ And that’s what they say to dogs, like, heh-heh-meh, like, ‘Okay, you need to have your balls removed.’ Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh. See, I-I’m laughing now but I wasn’t laughing then. Yeah, no, I was… I was definitely not,”—he paused—“laughing.”

“He peed himself when they put him under, uh-huh-huh.”

The doctor let the back-and-forth ensue for longer than what was professionally mandated. Chances are she likely got a quick power nap during it. “A surgery,”—she finally emphasized, grabbing their attentions just enough to proceed—“to help heal the bone using screws, essentially.” Their expressions were dead-panned. She chose to move on for the sake of her blood pressure, “But, as I said, a surgery isn’t necessary in your case, sir.” Setting the X-Ray flat on the white counter, her spine cracked as she stood. “We’ll get you wrapped up in a cast, and you should be good in about… I’d say six or so weeks.”

She inquired about any questions they might have had, but when Beavis asked what makes an anteater’s eater look like that, she promptly left the room. Butt-Head wished he could follow her. This hospital was stupid. Everything about it was stupid. But not having cable was more stupid. Hours earlier, back at the apartment, all it took was one comment from Beavis saying that maybe Butt-Head should go to the hospital. In return, all it took was one comment from Butt-Head accusing Beavis of just being jealous of his cool hand. And when they argued, they subconsciously circled back to the television. Hospital, TV. Hospital, TV. TV, Hospital. TV at the Hospital. They were smart when it mattered. They even remembered to wash all of their blood off before leaving. Beavis and Butt-Head were no strangers to encountering police officers at hospitals.

The bed’s thin blanket, whose texture mimicked motel toilet paper, had been exiled to the end of the mattress, having irritatingly rustled up Butt-Head’s leg hairs with a snickering static. The air was not simply cold; it was the color of the white walls, and every breath stung deep inside his nose. He tried to stick his arms inside of his shirt, to warm himself up. It hurt.

Beavis had yet to make up his mind as to whether he wanted to stand or sit. His knees wobbled either way. “This episode sucks.”

Butt-Head glanced at the remote, a grunt and a stretch away. On the television metallicly-strung from the ceiling tiles above, an episode of Cops that they had already seen mocked them with its familiarity. “Well, the only other crap on is The Golden Girls. I don’t wanna watch that.”

“Yeah-yeah, no, The Golden Girls suck!” He balled up his fists. “And I also absolutely, one-hundred percent, do not want to watch it!”

When his indecisive pacing led to him tripping over untied shoelaces and nearly receiving a chin reduction surgery, courtesy of the floor, Beavis found an odd compromise. He was lying flat on his chest at the foot of the bed now, with his legs stretched out far behind him, sometimes slipping. With the blanket crumpled around his golden twists, Butt-Head, disinterested in the distorted braying of a K-9, tried to search for the wound on the back of Beavis’ head that was once so gaping. So when Beavis abruptly flipped his head over, all he saw was Butt-Head staring at him without any reason. Butt-Head did the thing again where he vigorously rubbed his eyes.

“Um, Butt-Head.” For a breath in time, Butt-Head was stuck in limbo, waiting for Beavis to elaborate. “I’m hungry.”

Dark brown eyes peeked through the intervals of his fingers, then he dragged his eyelids down, stretching their soreness. “Then go get something to eat,” he mumbled, more brusquely than his usual.

Beavis looked at the counter, then back at Butt-Head. He pushed himself up and swayed towards the white surface, bending the sheet as he picked it up. Butt-Head waited for him to snicker, to say that it kicked all types of ass, but instead, he squeezed his top lip tightly with his teeth, then set the X-Ray face down. He rocked back and forth on his feet for a time before pulling himself on top of the counter, fidgeting with the untied and unraveling strings of his shorts.

”Yep, that’s marijuana, all right.”

Beavis groaned obnoxiously loudly, leaning back against the beige cabinets. “What if, like, I pretend to have a heart attack or something. Then we can, like, stay at the hospital longer and wait for better a better episode to come on.”

“Uh…” The episode stepped back for the commercials, which were far more interesting. “But what happens if the next episode sucks, too.”

“I’ll just have another heart attack. Here, watch.” Beavis inhaled sharply, then twisted his expression as he clutched his chest. He dropped dead weight off the counter, then his limbs began to snap and spasm. “Oh, god! My, like, heart! Or something! Somebody help!” He fake-coughed so violently, he began to actually cough, spit flying up and landing back on his face. “Wait a minute, crap,” he rasped before he coughed with enough force to nearly expel his lungs, curled up in the fetal position on the floor. “Butt-He—“ More coughing.

While Beavis lay there dying, Butt-Head pondered. “You know. We can just, like, live at the hospital.”

His shuddering body faltered. “How.”

“Like… they can’t make us pay or anything as long as we don’t leave. So we can just having heart attacks and stuff, then we can live here for free and watch TV all day, uh-huh-huh.”

Flat on his back, it had not occurred to Beavis that he could get up now. “Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. W-We can, like, take turns, too. Like, ‘Hey, Butt-Head, it’s Tuesday, it’s your turn to have the heart attack,’ heh-heh-meh.”

His laughter continued without Butt-Head. “Uh, I don’t want Tuesday to be my turn, Beavis.”

Beavis’ snickers devolved into sniffs, then silence. “Um, okay. I-I can do Tuesdays, I guess.” He reached for and fiddled with a dust bunny underneath the bed. “I mean, I really wanted Fridays, and i-if I want Fridays, then you need to do Tuesdays.”

An advertisement for hair spray awkwardly promoted itself amidst their silence. At last, Butt-Head lowered his eyebrows with the firm reminder, “Aren’t you supposed to be hungry.”

“What. Oh yeah.” Beavis swung his legs back and tried to use the momentum to swiftly hop up, but all it got him was a sore tailbone and shame. He admitted defeat and pulled himself up using the mattress, picking dust off of his tongue as he made his way towards the door.

Butt-Head rubbed his eyes, for real this time. “Can you get me something.”

He halted abruptly with a slight squeak of his shoes. “You’re not coming?”

Butt-Head looked him up and down, finding a stature more tense than he expected. “Uh…” He furrowed his eyebrows. “No.”

Beavis nodded slowly, possessing an iron grip on the handle “Are you, like,”—he clicked his tongue—“staying here, or something.”

“Uh, yeah, dude?” Butt-Head’s tone criticized his dumbassery, his eyes squinted to a near complete close. “Stop being a weirdo and go get me, like, one of those sandwiches.”

His throat muscles tensed, arteries jutting out momentarily as his Adam’s apple flexed. “Alrighty, um…” He swallowed. “I’ll be, uh, I-I’ll be back, I guess.”

Butt-Head’s deep, drawn-out sigh was cut short as the door flung back open as soon as Beavis closed it. “Hey, um. Hey, Butt-Head.” He waited for him to swallow the air he was choking on back into his lungs. “You still mean, like, the sandwiches with just the cheese and ham or whatever on it, right?”

“Uh… yeah.” He fought every innate urge to clench his fists. “I’ve had the same damn sandwich my whole life, dumbass.”

Ever so slightly, Beavis shrunk back into the cold corridor. “Yeah-yeah, I know, I just…” Another step backwards. “I-I was just making sure because it’s, like, been a while, ‘cause… you know.”

The door shut.

Butt-Head waited for him to return, to make another announcement, something else stupid to set him off. But the door remained as it was: closed, and quiet. Without a sound, he grasped the remote and, after three disconnected button-mashes, shut the television off. He held his breath as he leaned back against the wall, the thin pillow doing nothing to stop the metal railing from digging into his back.

Butt-Head reminded himself he needed to go to the doctor.

He laid there for a while. Thinking, for once. He was thinking about things he could not even subconsciously admit he was thinking about, and this made him mad. This meant that when the door opened, the nurse was in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.

“Hello… Butt-Head? Is that right?” She didn’t even check to see his answer, which would have been nothing but a dissociated glare. “I love that. Really, I do.” She pulled open some drawers and clicked some pens and whatever else before she sat down in that rickety chair, in her thin hands a white wrap that looked similar to the big bandaid. There were more wraps set out on the counter as well. They all bore a striking resemblance. “We’ll be done quickly.” Her lips stretched in a smile, and if it lingered for one second longer, Butt-Head would officially interpret it as a taunt. “Here, give me your arm.”

The wrap was slipped onto his arm like a sock, and she cut it and rolled it back to reveal his red, swollen fingers. She began to wrap it with a thicker, white padding, going between his thumb and his index, traveling down to his wrist. Butt-Head made a face at the sight, already suffering from the restriction.

“I know, I know,” with a slight laugh was her pathetic reassurance. “I remember I broke my hand once and—“ was as far as she got before Butt-Head stopped listening.

The cast material was the final step, and by that point, Butt-Head could no longer move his hand. His thighs were red from his nails digging into his skin, and he swore it was already damp beneath the padding. But he could not dwell on it for any longer. Not with Beavis gone. This was the only chance he had.

Butt-Head did not inquire the woman about what she was doing later that evening, or if she was single, or anything under that torn, moldy umbrella. Instead, he began to list the symptoms. He had them memorized by that point. How could he not.

One by one by one by one. Each consequence. She wrapped. She listened.

She suggested what he might be suffering from. It was a word Butt-Head did not know how to say or pronounce without stuttering, but it was a word Van Driessen used sparingly in his lectures. ”I wish we were still in school,” God, Beavis was so stupid. Stupid. Stupid, stupid stupid. He was stupid. Everything was stupid. Butt-Head needed it all gone.

“Unfortunately,”—she concluded, her lips thin—“I cannot prescribe any medication at a hospital. You’ll have to go through your family doctor for that. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

No doctor.

“… Oh,” she eventually responded, turning her face when her lips could not stretch any further. She reminded Butt-Head of a clam. “That’s okay. I can get you the number of the local physician. You can call and set up an appointment.” She took a notepad from the pocket of her scrubs, scribbled something down, and accidentally tore the yellow sheet in half when she handed it to him. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

No phone.

When she realized she had not yet reached the end of her endeavors, the nurse led Butt-Head to the office of somebody or other, and told him with the expression of a veterinarian about to euthanize a parvo puppy that he could use their phone.

When it was all said and done, the nurse hugged him, violating many protocols. She held him. Briefly. She told him she would be praying for him.

After some time, the duration lost within his haze, the sound of Beavis’ voice startled him. He hadn’t even heard the door open.

”Hey Butt-Head, I’m back. Sorry that took forever.” Butt-Head didn’t reprimand him that time. Saying ”sorry” entirely on its own was different than the other thing he did. The wuss thing. It was complicated. “I got lost, then I got lost again. Then I started talking to this really old guy. Then he, like, made me ‘swear loyalty’ to something, I dunno. He gave me a nickel though, heh-heh-meh.” He set a plastic bag on the bed beside Butt-Head’s bent knees, then planned to swivel on the chair before he came to a halt before he even began. “Woah!” he yelped as he leaned forwards. “Your cast looks cool, heh-heh-meh.”

Beavis’ laughter, weak crunches of a decayed autumn leaf, became quieter and quieter when he realized he was alone.

“Does it, like…” His mouth had hardly moved, and his teeth clicked against each other as it fully closed. His hands migrated to each other, and he began to pick and peel his skin. “Does it hurt?”

“No.”

There was no television to replace the silence. Even the outside noises had hushed themselves, as if they knew, as if the whole world had gone quiet.

Beavis was a trickled whisper above nothing’s deafening song, “Okay.”

The walk home was grayer than usual. Quite literally. The apartment was uptown, where all the real estate agents flocked to flash their blinding smiles on every advertisement you saw, where the air was thick, where every building was a shade of gray or brown, where every telephone pole was damaged by decades of staples and peeled artists’ stickers. For whatever reason, there were also a lot of mattress stores, all with trashed, vacant parking lots to contradict their large, capitalized signs. They all gave Beavis and Butt-Head multiple reminders about their bedroom predicament, and, at some point, with a mouthful of bread and tuna, Beavis was the one to remember. Butt-Head had forgotten where they were even going to begin with.

Beavis loosened up a bit in the store, and the employee had to croak out both a puff of smoke and orders to stop jumping from mattress to mattress. Butt-Head let go a little as well; he had a genuine laugh when Beavis busted his ass on the floor after overcompensating for his final leap. Coincidentally though, his legs, sprawled over his head, landed against a small, twin-sized mattress: exactly what Butt-Head had been preaching about from atop the balcony. He did not help drag it back to the apartment that time.

The squashed cardboard box dripping with acidic puddle water made its presence known in the beige carpet. Beavis gasped for air as it finally passed the threshold, and he limped to the door and kicked it shut. “Where do you want this,” he stammered, slanted against the door.

Butt-Head thought about it for a moment. “Uh… I think it would fit in the bedroom.“

Beavis nodded swiftly, taking heaved wheezes through an open mouth as his heart had yet to slow. He bent down at one end of the box, and, with his body in an upside-down-V shape, kicked his legs against the carpet like a whitetail on a frozen lake. After committing many hit-and-runs with the wall, Beavis finally parked the box in the center of their bedroom, where it happily sat and pissed its murky street water all over their floor.

The pair found themselves on the couch. Not just any couch. It was the couch.

Had you not told them otherwise, they would’ve sworn up and down that they were born on the couch. They rolled off of it as babies. They drooled on it. They spilt grape juice on it. Nacho cheese, which Beavis usually licked off, and Dr. Pepper, and Poptart crumbs. They bled on it. They fainted on it. They slept on it.

It was the couch. Their couch. A bridge.

“Butt-Head.”

He blinked himself back into focus, realizing how lopsided his slouch was. As he retraced his steps back into the present, he wondered how long he had been lost. “Uh, yeah.”

Beavis rocked towards the television, his socks itching the floor. “Do you wanna watch a movie.”

There was something simple about his words. Perhaps not his words, but the way he uttered them. Simple in a good or a bad way, that was asking too much of Butt-Head. “Sure.”

He flopped off the couch and crawled on all fours to the pile of tapes. One at a time. “Um, that’s… that’s definitely a, um…” He put it in its own unique pile: behind him. “Okay, we got, uh. Oh wow, we still have Speed. Hey, Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. W-We still have Speed, look.”

He followed the waving tape like a metronome. “Uh, we’ve already seen that, dumbass.”

Beavis’ smile fell, but it was weak to begin with. And stupid, too. “Oh.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Okay-okay-okay. We can…” He made a face, then squeezed his mouth tight.

“Butt-Head.”

When he finally caught onto Beavis’ call, he was staring at the spider, searching for any enveloped victims within its grasp. When he lowered his neck he found Beavis, surrounded by tapes, his head enveloped in a halo of bright, buzzing blue. He widened his eyes and extended his arms; they were like wings.

“What, dude.”

“I thought,” was all Beavis could scrape out of the tunnels of his throat. “I thought you were, like, you know—“

“Know what. Thought I was what.”

“You said—!” He began, but he sharply bit his tongue, internally and externally. “Whatever. Asshole,” he hissed out of the side of his mouth. He clutched a tape, then threw it over his shoulder. “I don’t even care.”

Another tape clashed against the floor. Beavis tried to find his reflection in the flickering, saturated sea. Butt-Head floated upon it for a while as well, burnt by a sun he could not see. He finally spoke, “We can watch, like—“

Beavis’ body jolted, and his hands contracted then froze mid-air. “We left the Nintendo.”

Butt-Head slumped against the back of the couch, throwing a working hand towards the ceiling as if asking for the spider’s perspective. “Damnit, dude.”

He rummaged through the tapes, hoping that maybe they grabbed a game by accident, console or not. His arms went limp and his shoulders slouched forwards. “I-It doesn’t matter. We never played it anyways. Nintendo sucks. Video games suck, too. They all suck. Even the good ones. They all suck.” Beavis scanned the scattered boxes. “Anyways-what-were-you-saying,” would be considered a singular word.

What-Butt-Head-Was-Saying involved a movie, specifically Speed. He suggested finishing the movie without falling asleep, and Beavis shoved the tape in the player without an answer.

They found themselves on the couch again.

”Go ahead. Drop the stick. Do it.”

”Shut up, Harry.”

The scene where Jack shot Harry in the leg passed, and so did a coarse exhale from Beavis’ throat. “How long will you, like, have to wear that.”

“Uh.” He paused. “They said, like, six weeks or something.”

“Oh yeah, oh-yeah-yeah-yeah, I remember that, yeah. I was there, yeah.” He looked at the television for merely a frame. “How long is six weeks again.”

“Uh, I dunno. I think, like, I’ll take it off when I feel like it.” A moment passed, and Butt-Head gripped the cast by his hand and pulled. It would be the last time he would ever try to do that.

As Butt-Head keeled over his hand, waiting for the sizzling to evaporate, Beavis kept acting like he was about to say something, but would never make the commitment. Both waited for the either to acknowledge it. Neither did.

And so the movie went on, and on, and on. It went on after they were gone.

The blue blanket had returned to the living room by the time Butt-Head stirred again. He had hardly moved in his sleep, and the only adjustment Beavis had made was that he was curled up a little bit. His heel flinched like a dreaming hunting dog’s, and when Butt-Head stood, he flung his slobber like one, too.

“What are you…” A deep yawn seized his vocals, and he craned his neck towards the cable. “Did we watch the movie.”

Passing cars danced orange glitter on the creases of his shirt. His body swayed, hands at the bottom of his pockets. “Shut up your… Stop your whining, Beavis, and come take the bed out.”

Beavis popped open rounds and rounds of tape, peeling the cardboard’s skin off with it. He stood on it, he jumped on it, and he surprisingly only bit it twice, quickly finding the tactic ineffective. The disgruntled cardboard was launched to the corner of the room, becoming a haven for earwigs, cockroaches, and rats alike, and the mattress remained in the center of the room, where Beavis and Butt-Head climbed on top, pulled the blanket to their chests, and settled down.

“… Butt-Head.”

He made a slight, muffled noise.

The thick covers shuffled. “Why aren’t you in, like, your bed and stuff.”

“Uh…” He looked down, where his toes grazed the carpet. “I am in my bed, buttmunch.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh.” His eyes closed. “Wait.” They flashed open. “If this is your bed, and this is… my bed, no-no-wait-wait. If this… if… if this is… your bed…” He sat up, surveying all around. “Hey, Butt-Head.” He double-checked the especially dark corners. “Where’s my bed.”

“Uh…” He glanced at his feet again. “Did you bring it inside.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure we did. No.” Beavis raised a finger. “No, we brought a bed inside, Butt-Head. I-I remember we brought a bed inside. So where the hell is it.”

“Uh, I’m laying on it, dumbass.”

His expression continued to shift. “But. But, like.” A triple check. Quadruple. “Where’s my bed.”

Butt-Head shrugged beneath the blanket, burying his face back into his mole-kissed arm. “I guess you just don’t have one.”

Beavis was still sitting up, his own arms crossed across his lap. “Well this sucks.”

His lips couldn’t help but pull back like clearance drapes. “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. You’re homeless.”

“Shut up, bunghole! Damnit, where the hell is it?!” He flung his side of the blankets onto Butt-Head as he stormed towards the box and peeked under it. “Oh wait, there it is.”

A weight dropped back onto the mattress. It jittered for a moment, then it settled.

“… Butthead.”

“What.”

“You’re in my bed.”

“Uh… no I’m not.”

Neither shook, and neither settled. That included the walls.

“Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Mhm.”

He was lying on his back now, halfway on, halfway off, yet his bony shoulder still grazed a seam of Butt-Head’s shirt. “Um, you said that, like, if we get this bed, we wouldn’t have to sleep together and stuff anymore.”

“Uh… yeah.”

The blankets crinkled. “Your plan kinda sucks, Butt-Head.”

“Shut up, dumbass. Ugh.” He flipped on his right side, extending out his arm like a clock. He immediately noticed the difference. “Uh, sleeping on your side kinda works, I think.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh. Good thinking.” He grunted as he rolled over, and there they laid: back-to-back on a twin-sized mattress.

Sharp air whistled through his nostrils. “Beavis. I swear to god. You have one second to get your ass off of my ass.”

This was no longer a laughing matter. “That’s your ass, buttmonkey!”

Butt-Head whisked around and lunged at him. Beavis screamed as he scrambled out of bed, rolling on the floor and getting briefly tangled up in the fabric-boa. They chased each other in circles before getting caught in the endless loop of jumping from side to side on opposite sides of the mattress. Butt-Head noticed this first, and launched himself on top of the mattress with his limbs outstretched. Undeterred, Beavis threw himself on top of him, and they flipped around and wrestled for space only to find themselves right back where they started. But this time, while they were still lying on their sides, they were facing each other. Face-to-face, on a twin-sized mattress.

The doctor appointment was tomorrow. Thursday, at ten in the morning.

“Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think the Wheel of Fortune lady is hot.”

Butt-Head gazed at Beavis’ chest instead of his eyes as he pondered this. It wasn’t a deliberate decision. There was nowhere else he could look without crossing the path of the blue stare. “Yeah, she’s pretty hot.” He lowered half of his face into the crook of his arm. “The show sucks though.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. I’ve never won a single game. I mean, I’ve never, like, been on the show or anything, like inside the TV and stuff, but it used to be on a lot when I was a kid, you know. And none of that crap makes any sense. I mean, what kind of nerd has the entire alphabet memorized anyways, heh-heh-meh.”

Butt-Head joined in, and they both led each other for a while. “Uh-huh-huh. Alphabet.“ Their voices interwove with each other for a time more. “What a dumb name.”

“Yeah, heh-heh-meh. Alphabet, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.”

The corners of his lips, the bridge of his nose, and his eyelids began to twitch. “Ladders.”

Their voices trilled and chuckled and spun around. It was not until their knees grazed each other’s that their laughter became sparse.

Butt-Head wallowed in it for a moment. “I’m glad we don’t have to see Mr. Anderson anymore.”

“Yeah, me too. He sucked, heh-heh-meh.”

They snickered, albeit a bit more quieter than before. When the silence fell upon them, there was a blip in time when both just might have fallen asleep. But all it took was a stifled snort in the back of Beavis’ throat, which prompted Butt-Head’s face to puff up like a ballon.

”Ladders,” Beavis spat out, and it was all over.

For a moment, it seemed like they would be laughing forever. But eternity is not promised.

Butt-Head tried to close his eyes. He really did. But like the light in through a window, he swore he could still see Beavis’ silhouette through the dark, warm abyss. He could not make out his expression.

Butt-Head opened his eyes. Beavis was unblinking.

“Uh… Hey Beavis.”

“Yeah.”

“Did I ever tell you I kissed Hannah.”

The words surprised Beavis almost as much as they surprised Butt-Head. The blonde stiffened out his arms, pushing him straight up. “Woah! Wait, w-woah, woah! Really?!”

Butt-Head ever so slightly leaned onto his back. “Yep.”

“Woah! Heh-heh-meh.” The mattress squeaked as Beavis flopped back down. “Was it, like, cool?!”

“Uh-huh-huh, hell yeah, it was cool, dude. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Woah, heh-heh-meh. That’s, like, pretty much scoring, heh-heh-meh. Woah.” Butt-Head returned to his typical mumble-chuckle the moment Beavis asked with a grin wider than a crescent moon, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“… Butt-Head.”

When he spoke again, Butt-Head did not know the day, nor the hour.

He could hear now. The pitched wailing of the neighbor’s dogs, the rippling of the motorcycles, the overhead hum of commercial planes.

Beavis had always been louder than the rest.

“Why did you leave.”

Butt-Head could still see him past his eyes, closed and wandering. Why did he leave who? Why did he leave Hannah? Or why did he leave Beavis.

”I can get you in early tomorrow,” the receptionist formed the words between the wet smacking of a wad of gum. “Ten AM. How does that sound?”

He began to snore, and as he did, Beavis began to fade away. Butt-Head snored the entire night, without a single falter, all too aware of the fact of Beavis’ face was inches away from his.

And he did not sleep.

Before they became spoiled by four wheels and a gas pedal, a general rule of thumb they learned to follow was that when going someplace new, they would never be late so long as they left by sunrise. Sure, they might be an hour early. Hell, even hours, plural. But they always found ways to fill in that time. Most days, it was all spent sitting on the corner of the gas station sidewalk, but the older they got, it became more and more difficult to do without getting kicked off the premises. Then, it just stopped being fun. Butt-Head remembered the last time they sat there, at the start of junior year. The Coca-Cola slushee flavor was out of order that day, and it irked Beavis enough that they left early. The memory was spliced after that.

”Uh, where are you going, dude.”

“I-I dunno, Butt-Head. This just kinda sucks.”

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh. Yeah. So, uh, where do you wanna go now.”

“Hm. Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh Hey, what about—“

“Butt-Head.”

The door was open the slightest crack, letting the sun seep in like a slow, quiet drip. It spilled past Butt-Head’s hunched silhouette, trickling down the rocks before falling atop of Beavis. He was standing at the entrance to the living room, his shirt lopsided at the shoulder, his body still sickeningly warm, and his hair jostled, the light catching onto his split ends like a spark.

“Where you going.”

Butt-Head did not let go of the door. “The doctor.”

“For what.”

His arm rocked back and forth, just a little. “For my hand.” He nearly gasped as Beavis’ suddenly shoved his face in front of his. He planted his feet in the carpet, angling his head below Butt-Head’s avoiding gaze. “It still hurts, dude. I think, like, the cast is, like, messed up or something.”

When Beavis did not respond, Butt-Head scrambled for a word, a phrase, a sound. Beavis beat him to it, “Liar.”

Startled more by the calmness lacing his voice than the sentence itself, Butt-Head’s face hardened as he growled, “Beavis, you dumbass, stop it. I’m going to the doctor, I said.”

“Do you even want me here.”

He was fluent. Clear, and concise. It weakened Butt-Head’s hold on the door. “Uh, what—”

Beavis lurched forwards, driving Butt-Head away from the door and deeper into the apartment’s shadows. “You told me I didn’t do anything.” The door creaked to a shut as they began to pace in a herded circle. “I-I thought… that you were done. Hm?”

Butt-Head watched the intelligible noise pour out of him, overflowing with every twitch. “Beavis—“

His head snapped up, eyes stricken red. “T-Then leave, dude.” He looked at the ground. “I don’t care. It’s fine. Go.” Nothing happened. It crackled the lighter. “Go, Butt-Head!” he snarled as he staggered forwards again, sending Butt-Head grazing against the sharp corner of the walls. “Get the fuck out of here or I’ll fucking break your other hand!”

That look in his eyes returned, the one from two nights before. It was all only two days ago.

“Jesus, fuck.“

His glare hardened. “Beavis.”

He stumbled backwards, looking everywhere but Butt-Head’s eyes as he spoke in a whisper to the self, “I’m sorry, sorry. Sorry, sorry, I don’t… I don’t, I didn’t want to, when we were… No, no. I did. I did. I wanted to, I… oh, no, no. No, no, I’m sorry, sorry—“

It was all dog whistles in Butt-Head’s ears. “God damnit, Beavis, just shut the fuck up!”

Past the open door, through a neighbor’s cracked window, a baby began to caterwaul.

Butt-Head took one step forwards, then another. “I’m going,”—his chest shuddered—“to the doctor. And I’ll be back,”—he loomed over the blonde—“when it’s done.”

Beavis had gone still once more. The fear and panic that had raptured his senses had shriveled into a reanimated corpse, and his matter-of-factness returned, the one thing Butt-Head could not stand:

“Then come on.”

He carved the path towards the door, pulling the wooden drapes aside. The sun crept through, a glowing amber, and it fell over them both, painting them in its cold warmth. Beavis waited for Butt-Head at this door, where beyond, a blinding light consumed all they thought they knew.

Out the door, down the stairs, out of the parking lot, and into the barren sidewalks.

Blind, Butt-Head made his way forwards.

The doctor’s waiting room was worse than the hospital entirely. At least the hospital was upfront with its brutality, with its cold, white lights and its cold, white colors, with its harsh air that corroded your lungs, with its open arms that were made of metal. The waiting room tried to fool you. It smiled at you with its leather couches and its grandmother’s-house-carpet, with its expired candy in the quarter-machines and with its television playing an almost inaudible showing of Judge Judy. But they were both just as harsh, no matter the front one tried to put on.

“Hey. H-Hey, Butt-Head.” Beavis’ voice was still treading rocky waters, but there was a lightness to it again; this cycle had been repeated before. He was picking at the chair’s polished, wooden arm as he failed to whisper, “That guy’s buttcrack is showing, heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.”

He was looking at the elderly man by the counter, who had dropped a pen and was taking years to pick it up, all while those around simply puffed out their magazines or suddenly needed to check the time. Butt-Head knew that was what Beavis wanted him to look at, and for a moment, he did. But as he had done time and time before, for all of time, Butt-Head found himself staring at Beavis.

Butt-Head never simply stared. He always found himself staring.

Before it could settle in for either of them that Butt-Head was not laughing at arguably one of the funniest situations you could encounter in the wild, a physician assistant swung open the door and called for Butt-Head with a slight flush of pink in her cheeks. A few snickered, and many looked up, all trailing after the two vanishing into the hall and wondering which one was Butt-Head.

Out in the hall, she measured his height, then made him step on the scale. Beavis was fascinated by the floor.

In their designated room, he stood close by while she wrapped that squeezy-thing around Butt-Head’s arm, which never stopped hurting, unlike what Shirley had promised him when he was little.

“Woah, huh.” Her slight scoff was a mixture of amusement and uneasiness as the coldness of the stethoscope seeped in through his thin shirt. “Your heart’s going fast. Is that what you’re here for?”

Butt-Head did not know how to answer. Actually, a few hours ago, he did. He knew exactly what he was going to say. Every detail, every consequence, he had marked it all down, every last part. But that was until Beavis woke up, and Butt-Head failed to keep him away.

“Uh… I mean, I guess, kind of.”

He could feel Beavis staring at him. He wondered if that feeling had ever been reciprocated.

Hannah had reciprocated his feelings. Well, maybe not feelings. Not like that. Butt-Head certainly felt a certain way towards her. She was hot. Plain and simple. Hannah No-Last-Name was on fire, from her auburn hair that shone in the light like the flash from a camera, to her eyes that seemed to burn every man she glanced at to the ground. All the men stared at her at the party, some wondered why, and some loudly pointed at the sight of her making goo-goo eyes at the most rancid man to ever breathe (and that was a tough competition).

It was a mystery why Hannah No-Last-Name went after Butt-Head. Perhaps she wanted the reassurance that came from dating an ugly man, the confidence that came from being his first, the security that he could never cheat on her because nobody would dare to touch him with a latex glove at the end of a twenty-foot-pole. Or maybe she really did like him. Maybe Hannah No-Last-Name was smitten and head over heels for the worst of the worst. She wouldn’t have been the first.

It was a mystery why Butt-Head did not like her back. Like, like her like that. Because Butt-Head did like her. He liked the way her boot-cut jeans hugged her ass. He liked the taste of her teeth, and the sharp smell of nail polish as her hands caressed his acne-scarred face. But that night, all throughout their date, Butt-Head had no idea what he was going to do. Was he supposed to go on another date? Then another, then another, then another, then another until the day they just shrugged their shoulders and got married? Was that how it was for everybody? Was the thought supposed to make you happy?

Because, after all, Hannah No-Last-Name was hot.

“Can I, like.” Beavis looked at the nurse, then down at her chest, but, surprisingly, not in that way. “Can I try it, heh-heh-meh.”

“The stethoscope?” She slid it off her neck, pulling her hair in front of her shoulders. She took Beavis’ continuous giggling as an affirmative answer. “I’m technically not allowed to, but hah! Sure, why not.”

Stethoscope in hand, the tissue paper crinkled as Beavis hopped up beside him.

“Uh.” His expression drew back as he leaned away. “What are you doing, dude.”

“Shut up, butthole, heh-heh-meh,” were Beavis’ last words before he set the end of the stethoscope on his chest.

Butt-Head froze.

“… Woah.”

It was a whisper; Beavis likely didn’t intend for it to be. Surrounded by the thumping echo, Beavis’ eyes, once widened by the race, began to narrow. His hand began to slip, and the slightest adjustment in the sound of Butt-Head’s heart snapped Beavis out of whatever fog he was buried in.

“Damn dude, heh.” His sudden grin was unexpected, almost scary, in a weird way. “You’re, like, freaking out, heh-heh-meh.” As he took the stethoscope off of Butt-Head’s chest, the nurse extended her hands, reminding Beavis of where they were.

But he did not know why they were there. Butt-Head wondered how many questions he would ask. God damnit, he wasn’t even supposed to fucking be here.

Butt-Head had six months to digest Hannah’s words. And the butterflies, too. The cycle of grief was not linear, nor was it a perceivable circle of sorts. Its angles were sharp, unpredictable, defiant of every law. Butt-Head ran around this shape, through and through, in and out, every day, every night. The shape had wings. It fluttered. It stung.

The nurse was sitting on a stool now, clicking a pen and crossing her legs beneath a clipboard. Butt-Head took a deep breath. Beavis was still in his peripheral vision. He always was. If he wasn’t directly in front of Butt-Head, he was at either side, or some ways behind him. Beavis was always a simple turn away. Always.

Beavis.

If Butt-Head was in love, he was not. If Butt-Head was in love, it was something else he couldn’t control, like his “aggressive tendencies” or whatever any licensed, lab-coat-wearing butthole had to say.

Those lab-coat-wearing buttholes. They all sucked, every last one of them, and they all hated him. But because they all hated him, they all were eager to shove a pill bottle in his face with directions he could only try to guess.

He was a sophomore the last time he took pills. It was one of the few periods in his life he struggled to recall. He recalled throwing up on the bathroom floor. That, along with beating the shit out of Beavis while the dumbass laughed. He definitely remembered that, too. It was part of why Beavis couldn’t come. But he did. And now he was here, sitting, waiting.

The nurse clicked her pen for a final time. There was another reason why Beavis couldn’t come.

“So.” She cut through him, and he let out his dying breath. “What brings you in today?”

“Uh, I think I need, like, pills again, or something,” was what he was supposed to say. Not anymore.

“Uh, I think, like, uh…” He tore through the tissue paper with his working hand. His other was draped across his lap, laughing at him. “I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s what we’re here for, aren’t we?” Her perfectly-straight and unstained teeth were nauseating. “Here, just start listing your recent symptoms, and we can figure out what’s going on.”

Butt-Head had never planned to say, ”Uh, I think I’m in love, can you fix it.” Not because doctors couldn’t do that, because they could. It’s why he was there. When you were sick, you went to the doctor. That’s how it worked.

Butt-Head had never planned on saying anything outright because the world could never know he was in love. And if all knew of his racing heart, it would only be a matter of time before they found out where it was running from. Because wherever there was Butt-Head, there was Beavis. And wherever there was Beavis, there was Butt-Head.

“Uh, recently, like… Or for a long time now, uh…” There was no need for the stethoscope. You could hear his heart from across the room. “Sometimes, when I’m in, like… situations, or something. I get, like, really nauseous, like I’m about to throw up, but I never do. And my chest and my throat feel, like, really tight. And my heart starts beating really fast. And sometimes, I feel like I’m about to pass out. I don’t know what it is,”—oh, he wished he didn’t—“but it sucks. I want it gone.”

Only, it wasn’t gone. It was sitting right next to him. It was chewing on its hand.

“Mhm, gotcha.” She scribbled in one place and checked off some boxes in another. “Would you say you feel this way only during stressful situations? Or is it more spread out or in general?”

He had no idea what she was saying. He was used to feeling that way at appointments. “Uh, it just kinda, like.. It just happens, I guess.”

“Mhm, gotcha,” she repeated her words and her scribbles, then she began to twirl her pen in circles. “Are there any other symptoms? Any changes in weight? Trouble sleeping?”

“Uh, I used to be, like,”—his hands pulled at his shirt—“bigger, or whatever, so… I guess. And, uh, it’s also hard to fall asleep sometimes. Like, I didn’t sleep last night.”

“You didn’t?”

Butt-Head glanced at Beavis before the nurse interrupted what never began, “Tell me what you tend to think about when these symptoms start flaring up. Do you think about distressing situations? Do you worry about the future? About the past? About the present?”

Butt-Head could not answer anything beyond, “Uh, I think about… a lot.” But it worked. Every mumbled half-answer was enough to get her to the next question. It felt never-ending. All of it. Everything. It was all stupid.

She had fully colored in the sheet of paper by the time she asked of him, “How much do these problems impact your daily life?”

The cast sunk its teeth in. “A lot.”

Click, scribble, click again. It was an inconvenient habit. “And how long have they persisted?” She had been trained to recognize the dumb and dull expression plastered across his face. “Meaning, how long have these symptoms been happening to you? Weeks, months, years?”

Forever.

“Forever.”

It took forever for her to finally leave the room. The silence persisted, and Butt-Head made his bed and laid in it.

But Beavis was there to tear back the covers. “Um. J-Jesus, Butt-Head.” He had not moved, but it felt like he had. Butt-Head swore he used to be sitting closer. “You’ve been sick this entire time, dude?”

“Uh… what?”

“Like, um. You know. The, uh, the. Th-The, like…” He winced sharply, hissing, “Damnit, Butt-Head, the night we went on that fake-date thing for Hannah, you know, you know?” He continued while Butt-Head mummified, “You talked about the same thing. The nausea where you don’t throw up. The heartbeat thing. You’ve had that crap this entire time?”

If there was ever a perfect time to die, it was right now.

…Now? Now.

… No. No, apparently not now.

“Uh… Uh…”

“Damnit, Butt-Head. This sucks.“ He heavy sighed, his jaw sticking out further than usual. “I guess it’s, like, um. What’s that one word.” He struggled for a moment, before finally exclaiming, “Contagious! Yeah-yeah, I got it! Heh-heh-meh. Contagious, heh-heh-meh. Cool. I did it, heh-heh-meh.” Remembering he was supposed to be mad, Beavis cleared his throat and put away his smirk. “Um, yeah, I think whatever crap you got is contagious or something, c-cause I still got it, too.”

“What.”

“I was feeling better! For a while, you know. But then out of nowhere, I got nauseous and stuff while we were playing that snowball fight or whatever. I guess we got pretty close to each other during that, so maybe you, like, spread your weird disease to me that way. Damnit, that means we both gotta go to the doctor now. Wait-wait. Maybe you can, like, share your medicine with me, so we, like, save money. Or something.”

Butt-Head didn’t answer. He couldn’t, because he was not there. He was in a golden cathedral, surrounded by mosaics of glaring saints and the melting candles that adorned them and burned him.

Butt-Head prayed for death and the release it would bring. Oh, God, just take him. Strike his soul to the down under, make him wax Satan’s asscheeks for all eternity, he didn’t care, just kill him. And in case God wanted something in return, Butt-Head forsook Hell and swore his soul to the Lord. He swore he would wear the stupid fucking halo and the stupid fucking wings and the stupid fucking dress and he swore he would worship God for all eternity and do whatever He wanted. He would also wax God’s asscheeks if it came down to it. God, he would even learn how to play the stupid fucking harp. Just kill him. Kill him. Kill him. Now. Do it now. Now.

They used to say that a seed of faith could move a mountain.

All Beavis saw was him sitting there in a strange silence in response to something Beavis thought was pretty smart. “Well damn, Butt-head, if you got a better idea, just tell me.”

Tell?

Butt-Head had six months to digest Hannah’s words. And the butterflies, too. Six months of sleeping in that bed alone, turning back and forth, dreaming dreams he did not want to dream, remembering. The butterflies never starved as he had hoped. They sucked the traces of sugar left-over from his remembrance, and they got drunk off of the artificially-sweetened dreams. They swarmed him, their spiraled colors disorienting and the pleading flaps of their wings deafening.

Beavis had said he had them, too.

Beavis had said he had them, too.

Beavis had said he had them, too.

Beavis had butterflies, too.

“No,” Butt-Head rasped, wanting nothing more than to run a distance his trembling knees would not allow. Beavis tilted his head. It was terrifying. “No, no...”

“No-no-no what, fartknocker.”

He spoke too fast. It was Butt-Head’s turn before he could breathe, only, he couldn’t breathe. That was the paradox. “Shut up.”

It was simple. But simple was all Butt-Head could comprehend. The same went for Beavis, too. There was a reason they were so drawn to each other. They gave each other what the world could not.

“Ugh, whatever. You shut up first, bunghole.” With a scoff, Beavis traced the blank walls, painting on them drawings of Teenage-Mutant-Ninja-Turtles with a color-blind palette. Beside him, Butt-Head prayed for death, but the telephone line between him and the Almighty was cut with a single word, “Wait.”

He waited.

Beavis blinked wildly. “Did you tell that nurse chick you’ve been sick forever? Like, forever-forever-forever—?”

The door opened.

“Hey there, Mr. Head. Or is it Mr. Butt-Head? Hah-hah!”

Thank you, God, for sending an angel to take me away. Why is he wearing pants. Do y’all not actually have to wear dresses? Thank god.

“I’m Doctor Johndrill,—“

God damnit.

“—and I will be taking a look at you here today.” He remained standing until he flipped through his notes, to which he took a seat on the stool. “Okay now, tell me again what’s all going on with you.”

They traveled down the same road, only this time, Butt-Head’s face was being dragged against the searing highway asphalt the entire drive, and he thought being strapped to the car roof was bad. When it was all said and done, the doctor had been exchanging glances with Beavis more than he had Butt-Head, something neither of them noticed.

“Thank you, Mr. Head,” he concluded, or at least Butt-Head thought so. The doctor proceeded to nod towards him with the inquiry, “Do you mind if I speak to you privately?”

All three had a chance to blink thrice before he spoke, “Uh…”

“Please, sir,”—he addressed Beavis with a hand that ticked towards the exit—“wait outside the door, if you don’t mind.”

“What?!” The tissue paper tore even further. “Why?!”

“It’s just standard procedure, sir.”

“Do you have to, like, test him for balls cancer or something. Heh-heh-meh, heh-heh-meh.”

“Sir.”

“Alright, alright, fine. Asshole.” He slipped down, mumbling to himself as he walked himself out. “I-I’m just gonna stand right he—“ The door clicked, silencing the rest of Beavis’ sentence.

The doctor stared after him for a moment, then let out a chuckle dripping with the molasses of a middle-aged southern drawl. “There. Is that what you wanted?”

“Uh,”—door, doctor—“what.”

“I figured by the look on your face that you wanted a bit of privacy.”

“Uh… sure.”

The doctor licked his thumb, then turned to another page on his clipboard, one he began to write on. “It appears to me that you’re suffering from something the fancy folks like to call ‘generalized anxiety disorder.’’ There was the word the hospital nurse had used. “Or GAD, for short. That, and I’m also picking up some possible depression. In my time, they would throw you in a padded room. But those fancy folk made something for y’all.” He looked up from his papers, then adjusted his glasses as he stared straight into Butt-Head’s eyes without mercy, “I’m going to put you on something called Xanax, okay. It’s a simple pill. Supposed to make all you got going on go away.”

Butt-Head stopped breathing. “All of it.”

“Yes sir, that’s what they say.” He leaned forwards, elbows resting on his knees. “Now, we’re gonna start you off on the smallest dose, which is 0.25 milligrams. And listen, you take it three times a day, alright. You can take less, but you can’t take more. And no drinking, either. This is a drug you can easily overdose on, and blah blah blah,

blah blah blah,

blah blah blah.

The automatic doors of the Walgreen’s parted upon their arrival. Butt-Head did not even try to sneak out that time. They were here to do some grocery shopping. Grocery shopping, and nothing else.

Butt-Head suggested they split up to get it all done faster, an idea never suggested before. Surprisingly, Beavis went along with this. Maybe the doctor’s visit revived a portion of the unearned trust. Butt-Head watched him go down the aisle, and he watched him disappear.

The man behind the counter handed Butt-Head an orange pill bottle. The man thanked him, and wished him a good day.

Butt-Head kept his head down as he stepped away from the pharmaceutical window, which slid shut in a bitter farewell. He dropped the bottle twice, but eventually, he got it to stay his casted hand that could not fully close.

“Hey! Hey, Butt-Head!”

His arm went limp, sending the pill bottle rolling around his feet like a rattler. Beavis was a ways away from him as well as deeply distracted, meaning he did not see Butt-Head’s committed sin.

Butt-Head could see his smile from all the way over there.

“Hey, Butt-Head!” he repeated, hopping just the slightest bit. “Heh-heh-meh, ch-check this out! Heh-heh-meh.” Without another word, Beavis straightened his arms above his head, kicked back on his heel, then rolled forwards. His handstand was only successful for around four seconds before he lost balance, flipping forwards into an outer row of shelves and sending it all crashing down. “Augh! God damnit!”

And so butterflies’ wings began to beat to the rhythm of his heart. While Beavis remained oblivious, cursing underneath a mountain of shower puffs and back brushes, Butt-Head reached down for the pill bottle that had rolled into the side of his shoe. As Smashing Pumpkin’s Perfect began to play on dusty speakers, watching and hanging on from overhead like executed angels, he twisted open the cap, tapped out some pills into his palm, and swallowed them dry.

Chapter Text

“Did I ever tell you I kissed Hannah.”

Beavis swore Butt-Head had struck him across the face, but he hadn’t. He was still lying on his side, poorly-trimmed dark hair sprouting in invasive tufts around his misshaped head, staring at Beavis with eyes that, for once, did not seek to kill. And yet, his words told the story of a different motive.

The idea of the pair going on a date was agitating enough, but there was something different about a kiss. It felt more like a finality, the point of no return. It was the step into something Beavis was not apart of. He could see it all: Butt-Head’s hands pulling her close by the waist, the slow, intimate closing of Butt-Head’s eyes as he fully fell into her, Butt-Head going back for a second kiss with his hands cupping her polished face.

Hannah was supposed to be Beavis’. She was his. Not Butt-Head’s. It was an objective reality. And he wanted to punch Butt-Head for what he had done. He wanted to scream at him and strangle him and tear him apart with his bare hands, and then punch him again.

But two days prior, Beavis had done that. He did not like how it ended.

And all he could do was push himself up with tightened fists that Butt-Head could not see. “Woah! Wait, w-woah, woah! Really?!” His words were not a complete deviation from his true reaction; it was just that, in his head, they were spoken with far, far less excitement.

Butt-Head rolled onto his back, wearing a smile that, for some odd reason, felt irrelevant. “Nope.”

“What.”

The blanket slumped down to his lap as he eased himself up, and he turned forwards in a way that almost made him loom over Beavis, who could do everything but move. “Oh, Beavis, you stupid, dumb, inbred ladder. I never loved Hannah.”

Beavis blinked his eyes open wide. “You didn’t?”

He chuckled tenderly. “No, you baboon’s ballsack. Hannah means nothing to me. She sucks, and she’s ugly, and she has a completely flat ass. In fact, I never kissed her at all. I was only lying to make you jealous.”

Beavis was bent at the elbows now, the corners of his mouth flickering into a grin. There was a light source coming from somewhere he could not discern. “Why, Butt-Head? Why would you do such a thing?”

Without a word, Butt-Head swooped Beavis up in his arms, pulling the giggling blonde forwards and flipping him over so they were face-to-face once more in a waltz’ dip. For some reason, Beavis couldn’t feel the bed anymore. They were both standing now, perhaps dancing, too, with their exact location undisclosed. Not that it mattered much. Beavis couldn’t see anything beyond Butt-Head’s face anyways. He burst into another fit of high-pitched giggles.

“Oh, Beavis. I did all of that dumbass shit because I am madly in love with you, and I always have been, even since we were kids. And I’ll always love you. Nothing you could ever do will make me leave you, or stop loving you, or anything else that’s dumb and stupid like that.” While Beavis was left to melt, his face blooming with a rose’s bashful red, Butt-Head flipped his hair back and smirked. “By the way, baby, did I ever tell you that I think it’s so hot that you can play the guitar?”

Beavis was completely falling apart, giggling so hard he thought he would faint. Drowning in cartoon hearts and sparkly glitter and Butt-Head’s smooth voice, any attempt at speaking was futile. Butt-Head pulled him up from the waters, only to dip him right back down again, and they kissed in front of all of the people that may or may not have been there. Beavis still didn’t know where they were. It still didn’t matter.

Beavis cupped Butt-Head’s face, still smiling all the more. “Oh, Butt-Head, I, too, am so deeply in love with you. I’m sorry for breaking your hand even though I think you deserved it, and I’m sorry for eating your Burger World burger when you were practically dying of starvation before my very eyes.”

“And I’m sorry for being an annoying, big-headed asshole who straight-up abandoned you, even though I know very well how unstable you are because your own mother abandoned you, and my selfish actions could have easily gotten you killed. On top of that, I’m sorry for not telling you why the fuck I even left in the first place, even though I know how much you struggle with the fact your mother never explained why she abandoned you, leaving you with extreme feelings of self-hatred that you will likely never-ever-ever be able to fully heal from. I’m also sorry for being taller than you, because I know it really pisses you off.”

“Oh, Butt-Head, you sexy hunk! Let’s get married right now!”

Fakevis and Dream-Head were both ninety-five years old at the retirement home and having synchronized heart attacks in the middle of bingo when The Real Beavis snorted awake, on a twin-sized mattress, face-to-face with the man of his nightmares.

Beavis did not scream. He did not gasp. He did not move. There was not even a twitch of his fingers, or a shifting of his knees beneath the covers. Nor did his eyebrows pinch together to reflect some kind of disgust, for there was nothing to feel. Not anymore. Not after so, so many times. All of his dreams—those dreams—played out the exact same way. All of his dreams were nightmares.

1999.

Beavis had not even known that it was a new year until he went through the process of paying for cable, which was much more arduous than it had ever been before. First, he had to get a phone book; he didn’t even know what the word ‘memorize’ meant. Backtracking, he then had to remember that he left his mother’s Bill Bible in the kitchen drawer. Then, he had to call a bunch of stupid buttholes, who would refer him to another stupid butthole, then another, then another, until Beavis finally was able to turn on the television without having the inner workings of his ears gouged out due to the static’s screams.

January 3rd, 1999. Five days since The Final Judgement of God (the fight). Four days since being casted out of Heaven (the eviction). Three days since the doctor’s appointment (the doctor’s appointment).

Their living room. Small, cramped. Kaleidoscope of crystallized water droplets on the window pane. Cold, white sunlight. Stagnant moisture that dampened the carpet and dotted the ceiling black. An old, odd smell coming from the sink disposal. Rusty rattle of the ventilation. Television blasting logos and discombobulated voices. Beavis on the left side of the couch, Butt-Head on the right, a space between neither crossed.

On the late morning of January 3rd, 1999, five days after they tried to kill each other, Beavis and Butt-Head were sitting on the couch and watching music videos. Just like any other week in their lives.

Today, it was something called Enjoy the Silence.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh,” Butt-Head chuckled at the sight of the crowned and red-robed man making his way down a hill. “That’s me walking home from school.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head.” Beavis scanned the screen, searching for something to make fun of him for.

Words like violence. Break the silence. Come crashing in. Into my little world.

“That’s me walking home from school by myself because you got hit by a car.”

“Shut up, Butt-Head! That was one time!”

Painful to me. Pierce right through me. Can’t you understand, oh, my little girl?

His laughter dimmed as the landscape broadened into rolling plains of green and gray, a dull contrast to the king’s chair, a bright, saturated blue. “Uh…”

All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms.

“Mountains suck.”

“Yeah! I hate mountains!” Beavis’ hands balled up into fists. “You gotta, like… you know, walk.”

Words are very unnecessary. They can only do harm.

“Uh, remember that one time Van Driessen took the class to, like, this dumb mountain thing. And it, like, sucked. Because he sucks.”

“Yeah-yeah! Heh-heh-meh. I-I remember I had to get, like, my mom to, uh… to like, you know, sign the thing or whatever-whatever, I don’t— I don’t remember.” Clothes shuffled against the couch’s fabric as Beavis writhed in place. Then, quiet.

“Uh… okay.” Butt-Head reverted his gaze back to the television, finding the king ambling across a field too vibrant for reality. “‘Well, the mountains sucked, now I gotta go somewhere else.’”

Beavis lifted his head from the skin of his hand. “Th-That was really only one time, you know.”

Vows are spoken. To be broken. Feelings are intense. Words are trivial.

He continued, “Like, I-I was just walking, you know. Across the street, like I always do. And then suddenly, this butthole just comes blasting on through and runs me over!”

“Uh-huh-huh, you said blasting butthole.”

“Sh-Shut up, Butt-Head. Anyways,—“

Pleasures remain. So does the pain. Words are meaningless. And forgettable.

“—I-I remember I had to be, like, at this court thing. Were you there? No, no. No, you weren’t there. Anyways, so yeah, I had to like, ‘show up to court’ or whatever, and they said the guy was, like, drinking and driving, a-and that was why—“

All I ever wanted, all I ever needed, is here in my arms.

“—he ran me over. And I was like ‘Cool!” heh-heh-meh. Right into the microphone. I did that under ‘oaf,’ Butt-Head, heh-heh-meh. Oaf. Anyways,—“

Words are very unnecessary. They can only do harm.

“—I was like, ‘This guy sounds cool, heh-heh-meh,’ but they still put him in jail I think, and it sucked. Drinking and driving… it kicks ass, heh-heh-meh. Um.”

The synth intertwined with the guitar, the robed king held out his arms. Flashing red, flashing blue, blue was the color of the royals’ chair and of the ocean and of the sky. Nine years away from this video sat Beavis on the edge of his sunken couch, itching at the end of his shorts and rolling the pilled polyester between his fingers.

He sucked a wad of snot into the back of his throat and swallowed. “Um, Butt-Head. I want beer.”

Butt-Head, itching his stubble, did not appear to grasp the severity of the situation at hand. “Uh-huh-huh, me too.”

“N-No, like”—the muscles in his throat jutted out—“I really want beer. I really want beer.”

“Uh-huh-huh, I really want beer, too—“

“No, no.” Still holding fast to his shorts, Beavis tried to scratch the sudden tickle on his flat head with his heel, contorting his leg like a burned-out ballerina. He stuck out his jaw as he emphasized, “L-Like, I-I think I need it.”

Butt-Head stared at him for a moment. Whether or not he was enjoying the silence was debatable until his lips curved. “Uh-huh-huh, I need—“

“Damnit, Butt-Head!” Beavis stiffened upwards, hooking his leg over his arm. A string of saliva slipped out of his lips as he unraveled himself, hissing, “Come on. C-Come on, let’s go.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head slightly pushed himself back into the couch, as if he was protecting his territory. “Go? Go where, bunghole.”

“Beer.” Beavis huffed as he stood, yanking his slipping shorts back up over his boxers. “W-We’re going to go to, like, the gas station or whatever, a-and we’re going to get some beer.”

He watched Beavis search around the couch for a pair of shoes that were not there. “Uh… Can we, like,”—he paused as Beavis snapped towards him—“do this, uh… later.”

Beavis’ already widened eyes practically popped out of his brittle skull. “Beer?! Later?!” His voice was a battle between rusted kitchen forks, “W-What the hell do you mean later?!”

“Ugh. Damnit, Beavis, shut up,” Butt-Head muttered with a voice deepened, and he rolled his head against the couch. A glimpse of the window’s light, brightened by the dripping ice, briefly turned his dark and empty irises into a show of caramel brown. He turned it off.

He watched Butt-Head rub his sockets with fists nicked with moles. Something itched Beavis’ lungs, like a hidden claw. “Um. Um, Butt-Head.” No response. So, he twitched ever so slightly. “Are you, like… good, and whatever.”

Sticky gums glistened as Butt-Head groaned. “Yes, Beavis. I’m good,” he retched the words he was tired of hearing. He spit out the rest, foam mixed with empty acid, “I’m great, I’m fine, and I’m not, like, mad, or like, anything like that. So like—“

“Jesus Christ, alright, I get it!” Beavis’ shoulder blades shifted beneath his skin as he pushed Butt-Head’s voice out of the apartment’s echo.

And one sat there, and one stood there, unaware of who should go first.

It began to creep upon Beavis. That itch. That sting. They were doing okay. They were doing good.

His shivering knuckles were warm with faded stains of Butt-Head’s blood. He hid them in his shriveled shirt, unaware of the fact he was holding his breath. It dressed his words in a pathetic rasp, “Why do you…” A sniff, a swallow. “Why do you, like, not wanna go.”

The irritation on Butt-Head’s face shifted slightly. It bore a whisper of uneasiness, uncertainty at what to say. He thought for a moment, or at least it looked like he was trying to, until he pinned his top teeth against his lower lip and murmured, “Go get my shoes.” A pause. “And my socks.”

Beavis rolled his eyes as he turned, throwing snidely over his shoulder, “You get your own shoes. Butthole.”

He rummaged through their bedroom like a sniffing rat, finding their shoes and two pairs of stained, yellow socks that were tangled up in the covers, unconsciously peeled off while they slept. He mumbled his usual under his second-hand-smoked breath as he slipped back into the living room, where his scrunched eyes popped wide, wide open.

Beavis grew up in a house with a closed kitchen. That meant his eyes were trained to notice that Butt-Head had just swallowed something.

“What was that. What did you just eat.”

Butt-Head grew up in that same house. Yet, he acted like he didn’t. “Uh… what was what.”

Beavis prepared for launch. The lack of smell of any actual food, the way Butt-Head had so swiftly whisked his head in Beavis’ direction. It told the scattered blonde everything he needed to know. “Do you have candy?!”

“Wha—Ugh!” Butt-Head winced as Beavis threw himself over the couch, leaving shoes rolling against the carpet in his wake.

“Do you have candy, butthole?! When did you get candy?! Give it to me now!”

The pair forgot their age as they wrestled on the couch, spatting both immature insults and spit as they slapped each other. However, their skirmish was quite short-lived, given that Butt-Head was now armed with the greatest weapon that Beavis had tried to disarm from him.

“My hand, asshole! Damnit, Beavis, stop!”

Butt-Head held the cast between them like a crucifix. The blue-eyed demon huffed and bared his teeth, but ultimately remained frozen. Rambling his whispers of obscenities, Beavis slinked back off of Butt-Head, allowing him to at last sit up and breathe.

He would pursue his goal through less effective means. “Where the hell did you get candy?” he rasped with a tilt of his head, knowing very well every single item that was in their cart at that Walgreen’s trip.

“How the hell would I have candy, asswipe.” Butt-Head wiped his nose with his arm to check for blood that was not there. Beavis opened his mouth to interrogate him further, knowing precisely what he saw, but Butt-Head was far from done, “I don’t have candy. I don’t have candy, and I don’t have anything, alright, dude. I don’t. So, like, shut the hell up and—“

“Okay, okay, okay!” Something in Beavis’ chest shuddered, forcing out a final, “O-Okay, dude. Okay. Jesus.”

Butt-Head stared at him for a moment, then raised his arm like a prophet of old. “Shoes, Beavis.”

“Hmf. Shoes, Beavis. Ugh. Shoes, Beavis,” he repeated, mocking the drowned, nasal tone. And yet, he still stood.

If there was a world record for how fast you could make a Texan gas station employee go from, “Sorry, I can’t sell alcohol to you if you don’t have an ID,” to, “I’m calling the police!” then, 1) Mr. Guinness needed to find a hobby, and 2) it would surely be a feat to beat Beavis and Butt-Head’s time. But in all honesty, it would mostly be Beavis that you would be up against. Butt-Head just kind of stood there the entire time. Even as the pair booked it down the street and into a cat-claimed alleyway, it felt as if he didn’t truly have his head in the game. Butt-Head stumbled quite a bit, not to mention failed to join Beavis in his giggling fit. And when they at last found rest behind the angelic wings of a green dumpster, Butt-Head wasted no time to crumble to the cracked concrete, his extending ribs threatening to tear a hole in his shirt.

Beavis pinned himself against the brick wall, propping up his leg and setting the stolen case of beer on top of his sweat-soaked thigh. His hands clinked the glasses together, and he was near foaming at the mouth by the time he twisted the cap off with his teeth. He mourned every drop that spilled out from the corners of his lips, the liquid burying itself in the fabric of his shirt.

“Oh-hoh, hell yeah! Heh-heh-meh, hm-meh.” Beavis sported a dazed smile as he popped the glass out of his lips, staring past the golden swirl to an unmoving lump on the ground. He peered past the bottle. Butt-Head was no longer hyperventilating, but he was still face-down on the grimy cement, a torn Walmart sack fluttering against his head. “Damnit, Butt-Head. Get up. Stop being a wuss.” Another swig, one that lasted a bit too long. “Um, Butt-Head?”

“Mmm…” his groan turned into a series of coughs that shook him. He finally placed his palms flat and heaved himself up, still stumbling for whatever reason (a dumb one, probably).

Beavis watched him grasp onto the dumpster for support, stirring up the fumes the pizza parlor next door had thrown out. “Jesus, dude. The hell’s your problem.”

He took another drink as Butt-Head slicked his hair out of his eyes. His face was incredibly pale, and it looked as if its features were slipping off, like a child’s cheap clay sculpture. For a second, it looked as if he was about to throw up. Beavis jumped back, but nothing happened. Butt-Head made sure of his footing before he continued, “I told you”—he spat into a stagnant puddle, rocking the cradles of sleeping mosquito larvae—“we should’ve done this later.” Another nauseous expression, but he swallowed it back down. “You dumbass.”

Beavis sucked the alcohol out of his teeth. “You could’ve stayed home, bunghole.”

“Oh really, Beavis.” He glared at him, then at the bottle, something Beavis caught instantly.

He stared at the casing in his other hand. Butt-Head sucked, but who was Beavis to deny relief to the parched? “You, um, hm-meh. You want some?”

Butt-Head’s gums separated, and for a brief moment, there was some comprehendible form of life in his eyes. Yet, when he blinked, it was gone. “Uh, I, uh… I can’t.”

He made sure he heard him correctly. “Can’t?”

The traces left of blood that flushed his nose was drained. “Uh. Uh….”

“Why can’t you—“

“Shut up.”

“What? Wh-What the hell did I say, bunghole?!”

“The doctor, Beavis.”

“The what?”

“Damnit, asswipe, the doctor.” The color had returned to Butt-Head’s face, in the form of a bright, angered red. He gasped for air for some reason, then spat, “He, like. He, like, said I couldn’t have any beer and stuff on my… my, uh. My medicine.”

“What.” A pause. “Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh… Oh yeah! Yeah-yeah! A-About that! Weren’t we gonna, like, you know, share that medicine or something?” Before Butt-Head could answer, Beavis had one more line to string his words on, “Oh yeah! Are you, like, even taking it? I don’t ever see you take it.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head’s eyes did that wide, circle thing. “I, uh… I, like. I take it at, uh… at night.”

“… Oh yeah.”

“Yeah, and… uh…” Butt-Head stood up ever so slightly straighter. “And I can’t, like, share it, you know. Because I take it at night. And if I, like, take it at night when you, like, sleep or whatever, that means you can’t take it. Because you’re, like… asleep.”

They blinked at each other. A couple of times, for good measure.

“… Oh, yeah, heh-heh-meh. D-Damnit, that sucks, I guess.” Beavis stared at the empty bottle in his hand, then attempted to toss it into the dumpster. He did not initially believe the closed lid would be an issue. The pair watched the glass shatter and fly in all directions. “Heh. Heh-heh-meh. Cool.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head hesitated for long enough for Beavis to shoot him a glance. He couldn’t tell if Butt-Head noticed this. “Uh-huh-huh. Uh, uh-huh-huh. Yeah. That was cool.”

That claw, which had begun to dig again, slowly retracted. “Heh.” Butt-Head raised his eyes, knowing full well that Beavis was staring now. “Heh, heh-heh-meh. Heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh, uh-huh-huh.” There was some trace of his smile. Butt-Head’s smile, the one only Beavis could see. “Uh-huh-huh, uh-huh-huh.”

They continued like this for a while. First, the glass was funny. Then, it was the dumpster. Then, the torn Walmart sack. Then, the beer. Then, each other.

Beavis’ snickers turned into sniffles, and he felt ready to finally venture out of the alley. They both set off at the same time, stepping into the gray light, snuffed by a sudden surge of clouds that teased rain. The gray light; it hurt their eyes less.

As they made their way down the street, life itself avoided them, as usual. “Hey. Hey, Butt-Head.”

“Uh, yeah. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Do you think that, like, I’ll get better. Even without the medicine.”

Butt-Head took a minute to respond. Not that Beavis noticed, not that time, at least. He was too busy kicking a rock.

“Uh… I mean… I guess.”

“Heh-heh-meh.” Kicked at an awkward angle, the rock nearly got away before Beavis curved his leg like a soccer player and brought it back. “Cool, heh-heh-meh.”

“Well, uh, I mean.” There was something heavy in the back of Butt-Head’s throat. “How long have you, uh… like, you know,—“

“Heh-heh-damnit!” Beavis snapped as the rock pivoted out into the street, camouflaging itself amongst the trash and leaves. “Ugh. Anyways, what was that? W-What were you saying?”

But no matter how much Beavis tried, no amount of the repetitive ”Come on, fartknocker, tell me!” was going to pry open Butt-Head’s mouth. But that goal was dismissed rather quickly, as Beavis found another rock to kick. He kicked, and Butt-Head followed, albeit still not able to walk in a straight line.

Neither had a destination in mind. They did this a lot, when they were younger: the aimless circling around their hometown, searching for a new needle in the pile of boring, dull hay. Only, this new, uptown hay of theirs was relatively unexplored. Still boring, but unexplored. Who knew how many needles were in this haystack, and not the ones they found back in that alley?

Beavis and Butt-Head did eventually find a needle, alright. Only this needle was big. Like, really big. It also had revolving doors. And a parking lot. And stairs. Stairs that moved.

“Ugh,” Butt-Head mumbled as he saw the spark in the latter’s eyes. “We got your beer, dumbass. Let’s just go back to the apartment.”

“No way, bunghole!” Beavis jittered his fists in the mall’s parking lot, both oblivious and uncaring of the cars struggling to drive around them. “W-When’s the last time we been in a mall, huh?”

“Uh, I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

“Remember how, like—oh, screw you, Butt-Head! Here, hold this. Wait, no.” Beavis took the casing back as quickly as he offered it, untrustworthy of Butt-Head’s claim of a sobriety vow. “Damnit, whatever.” He lowered the beers into a trashcan like a reverse claw machine, using all of his brainpower to make a mental note of their location. As far as Beavis knew, he and Butt-Head were the only ones desperate enough to fish for alcohol in the garbage.

“Beavis,—“

“Come on, Butt-Head, stop being such a wuss!”

Butt-Head swore up and down that he was going home, an argument that persisted all the way past the revolving doors. There were still traces of the holidays scattered here and there, evident in the sparkling, red and green wreath that was strung above the entrance. Faceless models sported black, fuzzy sweaters and golden belts, and the gleaming, white floor emitted a warped reflection of the golden lights above. The air reeked of cinnamon and baked apples; it almost made Beavis sneeze.

He stopped in his tracks to stare at Butt-Head. Something had been persistent their entire venture. “Um. Hey. Hey, Butt-Head.” When the brunette’s crawl weakened, he held onto the slender waist of a mannequin and didn’t make a joke about it. “Are you, like—“

Large, untrimmed eyebrows flickered lower. “I swear to god. Yes, Beavis—“

“Woah-woah-woah, hey, hey! Jesus Christ, I’m not—I-I wasn’t—!” The flame flickered in hesitance as quickly as it had surged. Beavis’ expression was not mirrored. Butt-Head’s eyes were struggling to remain open, his paleness made him looked possessed, and he was breathing hard, despite their relatively amble pace. “I…” Beavis breathed out, then swallowed. “I mean, like, dude. Are you about to pass out or something. Because that would suck. Because I don’t think I can carry you back.”

“No. Uh, just… uh, no.”

Brittle eyelashes fluttered. “Then what the hell’s your problem? You’re acting like a wuss.” Before he could fight back against Butt-Head’s lack of reply, Beavis followed a pair of slightly averted eyes behind him. In the distance sat the Fun Section of the mall, where it smelled like grease instead of candles, and where the floor was too grimy to reflect even your shoelaces. Neither had to say anything.

Butt-Head slumped in one of the chairs like it was their bed, wasting no time to rest his weary head on folded arms. Beavis sat across from him, unable to keep his hands still. “So, heh-heh-meh.” He scanned the fast-food-joints, each one calling his forsaken name. “What do ‘ya want.”

His head slightly shifted, and he murmured, “Uh… can you get me, like, uh… some, like, nachos or something.”

“Cool, heh-heh-meh. Nachos are cool, heh-heh-meh.” After he got done mumbling under his breath, Beavis clarified, “Like, from where.”

“I don’t know, dumbass, just get me some… damn, nachos.”

Beavis did just that. Not until after he cussed Butt-Head out, of course, but still, he did as he was told. When he returned, Butt-Head’s face had taken refuge in the darkness of his arms, face down on a table covered with ketchup stains and salt. When he didn’t stir, not even at the stench that was steaming cheese, Beavis growled and prodded him with his fingernail, an act he nearly lost his life for.

When the look of sheer hatred fled from Butt-Head’s flashing eyes, he almost seemed to lose his balance despite being sat down. Beavis expected him to pass out into the nachos, and he snickered at the thought, but unfortunately, Butt-Head maintained consciousness. He began to scarf it all down, and Beavis didn’t know how to explain it to himself, but Butt-Head was eating those nachos a bit more seriously than Beavis would have liked. Nevertheless, he silently attended to his own cardboard plate, staring at Butt-Head like he was the morning television.

“Uh… what’re you so quiet for.”

Beavis snapped back into himself, realizing the world beyond Butt-Head had blurred. He distracted himself with a messy bite of four nachos at once, sniffing down the cheese that smeared inside his nostrils. He finally sneezed. “I-I dunno,” he rasped, wiping yellow snot down his arm. “I’m just, uh… thinking, I guess, I dunno.”

His face was round for a moment, then returned to its strange, sunken form as he swallowed. Cheese was starting to smear across his cast, like an artist with their blank easel and a new color obsession. “About what.”

“Um. I was, um…” The longer he stared at Butt-Head, the further away his cognizance drifted. Butt-Head slightly arched his eyebrows, and Beavis didn’t know how to explain it to himself, but he caught the faintest glimpse into last night’s horrors, where Fakevis and Dream-Head were kissing in a dancer’s dip.

A chip stabbed the back of his throat as he prematurely swallowed, and he coughed fiercely. It took his eyes off of Butt-Head, and they fell upon a group of skirt-swishing women making their way down the food court.

“I-I was thinking about chicks!” One hand still wrapped around his throat, Beavis blinked away the tears of suffocation as he lifted up his other arm to point. “Heh-heh-meh, look at them, heh-heh-meh.”

As Beavis returned to his coughing fit, Butt-Head swiveled around in his chair to ogle at the women. “Uh…” He faced forwards again, grabbing another chip. “Yeah, they’re hot.”

Beavis’ coughing dimmed into a silence they now both shared. He looked at Butt-Head. He looked at the women. Well, where they used to be, at least. They were long gone now. It didn’t matter. “Yeah! Hell yeah, they’re hot! W-We should go, like… you know, talk to them or something, heh-heh-meh.”

He didn’t expect Butt-Head to sigh and his chewing to slow. “Uh, Beavis. Can we, like, go home now.”

He whisked his head up. He thought Butt-Head had been converted. “What?! Go home?!”

“Uh, yeah.” It was only then that Beavis noticed Butt-Head’s eyes had closed. “I don’t know if you, like, noticed or anything, because you’re a dumbass, but I… uh…”

Cheese dripped from his jutted mouth onto the table before Beavis spoke, “But you what, bunghole.”

Butt-Head glared at him, but it was brief and weak. He winced for whatever reason, shutting his eyes and dangling his head against his fist. “I feel like shit, dude. God damnit, Beavis.”

His mouth moved before he could even register anything at all, “Well, how long are you gonna feel like shit, Butt-Head?!”

Butt-Head looked ready to kill. Again. “What?”

Eyes twitching, fingers, too. Skin on fire, mouth on fire. “I-I thought we were good! We were just good! I-It’s like, it-it’s like we’re fine… a-and then we’re not! A-And you keep being a butthole! You keep, like…. God, Butt-Head, you suck!”

The liquified ketchup bottle and the sticky salt-and-pepper shakers rattled as Beavis’ elbows crashed onto the table, cradling his head as if it was about to fracture. Families nearby who had gone quiet out of fear, now resumed their conversations out of the same feeling.

Fear. Beavis was feeling a lot of it.

“Beavis.”

He pushed his palms into his face, hoping that if he pushed hard enough, they would go completely through his skull. Through the cracks in his fingers, he saw Butt-Head’s cast. His eyes snapped shut, and Beavis didn’t know how to explain it to himself, but he saw that one last look at Shirley’s face at his door, and he felt the guitar in his empty lap.

“Damnit, dude, it’s okay. Alright?” His eyes shied away, back down to the cheap, cheap cardboard, wet, dissolving in cheese as if it were acid. “Now,”—he stuffed a random handful chips in his mouth—“get your, like, panties out of your ass.“ He swallowed hastily, furrowing his eyebrows at a sharp piece that scraped his throat. “Just stop, dude. Jesus.”

That silence took over again. The world kept going: music kept playing on muffled speakers, passers-by laughed, customers told the fast-food employees to keep the change. But Beavis heard none of it. He was back to staring at Butt-Head, who, for whatever reason, was allowing him to do it now. That is, if that was Butt-Head.

’It’s okay’?

Beavis squinted, looking for any flaw that this extraterrestrial creature made when reconstructing Butt-Head’s body. What did he want? World domination? What exact use did Beavis and Butt-Head have in that scheme? Why wasn’t Beavis taken over too? Was he not good enough? It kind of hurt his feelings.

He searched, and he searched. But all he found were uneven, bushy eyebrows too small for his face, with an unhealed scar above them from the bottle Beavis had slashed him with. Busts and cracks on his lips from that day; they hadn’t healed either. Stubble that had a mind of his own, growing more in some places and less in others, complete with scattered with red, ingrown hairs. A large, crooked nose, dotted with blackheads. Acne that insisted on staying put. Diseased gums that openly crowned a set of stained and crooked teeth. Eyes so dark, you could see yourself if you really wanted to. There were no flaws.

Either this was truly Butt-Head, or the alien just did a really good job. But that was the least of Beavis’ concerns. “Um. What. W-What, Butt-Head.”

“Uh… I said to chill out. And to stop being a wuss.”

When Beavis didn’t speak, Butt-Head went back to eating, as if he hadn’t done what he had just done. What had he done?

’It’s okay.’

It irked Beavis. It pinched him in every rib, one by one. Butt-Head’s words played his skeleton like the piano. Pianos suck.

Beavis’ head was still in his hands, but he was no longer hiding it behind shaky palms. Jaw twisted open, eyes unblinking, he waited for an answer that would reveal what his initial question even was.

It kept ricocheting in his head. ’It’s okay.’ He waited for the punchline, the literal punch that would reveal it was a joke, a ruse meant to throw Beavis off-guard long enough for Butt-Head to humiliate the blonde and have his fill. Then Beavis would laugh and say ’Oh that’s a good one Butt-Head’ then they would both laugh together and then Butt-Head would go back to normal and they would eat their nachos and maybe go look for those chicks and then they would go back to the apartment and laugh again and then they would go to sleep and Beavis wouldn’t dream.

“Uh, Beavis?”

He flinched at the sound, pricking his cheek with his nails. He shoved a nacho into his mouth in a near panic. The chip had grown soft. It flopped in his mouth like a slice of skin. He chewed what he could. He swallowed.

“Shut up, Butt-Head,” was said as if he were out of breath. He shook his head, murmuring, “Do you wanna, like, go home now or whatever.”

“Uh… yeah, I do.”

Beavis scooted his chair back in surrender, but paused when Butt-Head didn’t move. He did not seize the immediate opportunity to leave, but rather stirred the remaining cheese with a sliver of his final chip. Oddly quiet.

Butt-Head broke his silence by sucking snot down his throat. He was still stirring the chip. “But can you, like, go get some more nachos first.”

Beavis and Butt-Head had successfully blown through all the money in their pockets (with the exception of a sticky nickel) before they called off their feast, thoroughly convinced their hearts were now pumping queso. It would be cool if your heart did that instead of that other boring, blood crap. The concept almost made their nausea worth it.

“Damnit,” Beavis huffed as he stood in the center of the open square, taming the harsh, white light overheard with a squint of his eyes. He tracked the streams of people, left to right, all entering, all exiting, everywhere at once. “Damnit, Butt-Head. I-I don’t know where we parked our beer.”

“Uh…” Butt-Head’s creaking and rusty train of thought was derailed as a nearby small child let out a sudden scream. His eyes spaced out swiftly, almost as if he had forgotten where he was. He covered his tracks with a mumbled, “We parked it in the parking lot… dumbass.”

“Yeah-yeah, but, um.” He scanned his surroundings again. “How do we, like, you know, get there.”

“Uh… we go out the door.”

“Oh yeah, heh-heh-meh-no, no-no, wait, shut up! I know about doors, damnit! Shut up, butthole!” he yelped quite loudly in response to the latter’s silence, much to the dismay of the puritan parents of that aforementioned small child.

Beavis chose to channel his twitching eyelids and grinding teeth to a fairer sight just over Butt-Head’s stupid shoulder. It was a goddess, dressed in a tight—very tight—solid, gray business dress. And there she was, just over yonder, ruling over her heaven: a store whose floors and falls seemed to glisten white.

“Heh. Heh-heh-meh. Hey, Butt-Head. Check her out, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh, what.”

Beavis expected Butt-Head to join him in his snickering fit, but he remained quiet, even after turning around. Beavis’ laugher dropped to a sharp hiss between his teeth, and he abruptly shoved Butt-Head in the shoulder. “She’s a chick, Butt-Head! A hot chick! Can’t you see her?! Look! Right there!”

He shrunk back from Beavis’ grating voice in his ear, baring his inflamed gums. “Damnit, Beavis, yeah, I can see her. Don’t make me kick your ass— Hey! Hey!”

Butt-Head raising his voice was as rare as a Texan using their turn signal, but what else could he do with Beavis’ hand trapping his hand? Of course, he did not mean to go that far; even Beavis had his limits. But by the time he had noticed his fatal error of missing Butt-Head’s wrist, he was already dragging him forwards, right towards Aphrodite’s temple.

Butt-Head being mean, Butt-Head being annoying, Butt-Head being distant, Butt-Head being a major bunghole. That was all one thing. One thing that made Beavis want to tear his eyelids off, sure, but still: one thing. One thing that, at the very least, had been going on long enough for it to be predictable. But Butt-Head not caring about a girl? Not even one single “Uh-huh-huh?” God, maybe aliens are real.

The woman, already exhausted of the dozenth round of Tell It To My Heart, hid her prejudiced annoyance at the sight of two teenage adults entering a beauty store behind a well-trained smile. “Hello, boys.”

The initial shock of the hand-holding wore off as they slowed. Butt-Head ripped his hand away and swished it violently against his shorts while Beavis tried to laugh. Silence. He bumped into Butt-Head with his arm, waiting for the brunette to join him. Silence.

Beavis went quiet.

“What can I help you with today?” Before they could (stupidly and idiotically) answer, she held up a heart-shaped glass, posing as if she was being televised on a shopping network.

“Uh… woah.”

Beavis’ eyes snapped open.

“Woah… uh-huh-huh.”

Beavis’ heart started pumping.

“Would either of you like to sample our perfume? It’s an luscious, apple—“

“Beavis, check it out. She’s like, proposing. Uh-huh-huh.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Heh-heh-meh! Hoo-hoo, heh-heh-meh! Yes! Yes!” His screaming vibrated his tightened fists as Butt-Head’s laughter rang through his ears.

“Uh-huh-huh, uh, yes, baby,” Butt-Head smoothed out his voice and his hair with a sweat-slicked, Beavis-contaminated palm. “Yes, I will marry you. Be warned, however.” He raised up a knobby finger. “I want at least three kids.”

“Um. I—um. Sir.” Butt-Head smiled, and she took a step back. “Sir. I’m not— do not—“ It was at that moment that another man waltzed in; tall, fit, shaven. He looked stupid, but alas, she beamed at him. “Welcome, sir! What can I help you with today?”

The pair watched them strike up a conversation about another p-word: ‘perfumes.’ Butt-Head scrunched both his eyes and his nose. “God damnit, that guy just stole our chick.”

“Yeah-yeah, our chick, heh-heh-meh. Our chick, heh-heh-meh… our chick, yeah. Yeah, she was hot, heh-heh-meh, our chick, heh-heh-meh.”

“Uh… yeah.” Butt-Head eyed him briefly, then stared further into the beauty store. It was nothing but glass. Glass reflecting off glass reflecting off glass. “This place smells like crap. Let’s go break things.”

Perhaps it was that sharp, tangy smell in the air, or maybe it was hypnosis from the flashes of light jumping off of the flasks, but all Beavis and Butt-Head did was walk. They rarely strayed off from one another; if Butt-Head went an unexpected way, Beavis would quickly scamper back, trailing him like a hunched gargoyle. They did separate once, momentarily. Beavis was fumbling with his fingers by the time he found Butt-Head again. He was just standing there, staring at his hand. The unbroken one.

Beavis nearly crashed into the homewrecker from earlier as he trotted forwards. He spun right back in Butt-Head’s direction, throwing either a ‘bunghole’ or ‘dumbass’ over his shoulder—he didn’t care enough to recall—as he continued his way forwards.

Now, Butt-Head’s hand was cupped over his mouth, with his head tilted back. Now, it was Beavis’ turn to raise his voice.

“Hey! Hey, Butt-Head!” The latter’s eyes popped out of his flat skull as he coughed and sputtered, and Beavis instantly contracted rabies. “I knew it!” he gargled, curling his fingers. “You have candy! I knew it!”

“Shut—“ he punched himself in the chest—“shut the hell up, Beavis. I don’t have any—“ another cough; it sprayed spit onto Beavis’ shirt—“damn… candy, Jesus.”

Butt-Head continued to cough and swallow as Beavis raged on, practically vacuuming the floor with his eyes as he scanned for the alleged wrapper. Neither would be caught dead properly disposing of their litter. That was for wusses.

But there was nothing. Nothing on the floor, and nothing from Butt-Head. He had gone quiet. Beavis tried to be something, but nothing escaped his misaligned jaw. Eyebrows twitched, and his skin as well, like the flutter of a cat’s back.

“Hey, Butt-Head.” Tell It To My Heart faded into Smooth Operator. “What does, like, ‘proposing’ mean.”

Butt-Head looked at him kinda funny. He let out another sputter, then visibly swallowed. Again. But, again, there was no wrapper.

Beavis tried to scratch that weird itch he was feeling, but unfortunately, it was nowhere outside of his body. He grabbed one of the vials on the shelf next to them, half-filled with a golden liquid. He forgot to make a joke about piss.

“I think I’ve been here before. With my mom.”

The words were sudden enough to lift Butt-Head’s fallen head. “Uh… oh yeah.”

Beavis looked all around, almost as if she was still there, almost as if any moment now she would turn the corner and say, ’There you are, come on, let’s go.’ He shook the vial, watching the tiny bubbles dissipate as quickly as they arrived. “Yeah, she would, like, get me gifts every time we went.”

“… Uh…”

“Yeah, yeah. Sh-She would, like, hand me, like, lipsticks and other girly crap. And then she would tell me to hide them in my pockets. I would always be like, ‘Aw, cool! Presents!’ But sometimes the, like, the security guard would come up to us and stuff, and she would, like… get real mad, you know. She would start yelling,”—his voice grated against his throat—“‘What did I tell you about stealing, you little shit?!’ and make me give my presents back to the guy. But sometimes, I would get to take them home, heh-heh-meh, and that was cool, that was good. Good day.” Beavis’ crooked smile fell. “Um… I-I never got to use them, though. She would make me give them back to her once we got home. I-I always thought she was gonna, like, wrap them for Christmas or something, but um… no, no. No.”

Butt-Head stared at him. As per usual. “Uh… you wanted makeup for Christmas?”

“Shut up, Butt-Head!

”This is why Santa never came to our house. Because you’re a wuss.”

“I said shut up, bunghole!” he shrilled as Butt-Head laughed a raspy, dry laugh, still recovering from his prior fit. “I didn’t want makeup! I wanted to, like…”

“Wanted to what, Beavis. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Damnit, Butt-Head, stop!”

“Uh-huh-huh, huh-huh-huh. Yeah… your mom sucks.”

“God damnit, Butt-Head!”

Their back-and-forth was beyond the English language: gargled laughter, repulsive growls, gnashing of teeth. It dropped to a nasty hum that ricocheted between them both, and then—again—silence.

Down the aisle stood a woman, whose rhinestones self-glued onto her jean jacket stole a fraction of the blinding lights. She was smoothing lipstick over her lips, filling in every crease, then kissing a napkin. She then angled her face in the mirror, napkin pinched between her fingers, imprinted with a bright, vibrant red.

And that was what Beavis was staring at, eyes narrowing as his brain pieced together a conscious thought. “Speaking of lipstick— Butt-Head. Um. You know what would be cool?”

Butt-Head narrowed his own eyes. “Uh… no, Beavis. Not really.”

“I-I’ve seen it, like, on TV or whatever.” Blue eyes flickered from the white-kissed-red napkin to the white-kissed-not-at-all cast. “Where the guy who doesn’t get chicks, like, breaks his arm and stuff, and then he, like, starts getting chicks all of the sudden. And they write on his arm or cast or whatever, and kiss it, too.”

Butt-Head looked spacey again, but he blinked himself back into focus, and when he returned, his gaze had hardened. “Why the hell didn’t you bring this up before, asswipe.”

“Hey—!”

“Ugh. I could’ve been pulling chicks this whole time.”

“Quit your whining, Butt-Head. Butthole. Hold on, heh-heh-meh.”

His “Uh…” became more distant as Beavis skipped away, giggling as if there were flowers beneath his feet. Butt-Head watched him talk to the woman. Butt-Head watched the woman nod. Butt-Head watched as Beavis came skipping right back, with no bodacious bombshell blonde at his heel.

“Uh,” he repeated himself, trying and failing to catch the chick’s distracted eye. “Beavis. Where’s my hot chick.“

Butt-Head watched Beavis take off the lid of his acquired lipstick sample. Butt-Head watched him apply it. Butt-Head watched Beavis lift his broken hand with a carefulness that the battered blistered blonde did not instinctively possess. Butt-Head watched Beavis kiss his cast. His knuckles, his palm. Covered, in Beavis’ painted lips. Butt-Head watched.

Beavis planted one final kiss square on the back of his hand. The lipstick had long faded, leaving only pink rumors.

“There, heh-heh-meh!” Beavis dragged his arm across his mouth, dropping the lipstick capsule to the floor. “Now it looks like you scored!”

The only sound was the rattle of the capsule against their floor, between their feet. It rolled in circles, stuck in its cycle, until it no longer had the strength. It gave way, lurched forwards in one last attempt, then sighed.

Beavis expected gratitude. Hell, perhaps even an apology. It was a great idea, and there Butt-Head was, staring at him with eyes something fearful and a mouth dropped open as if he were screaming but he wasn’t. He was silent. Again.

Again, and again, and again. Beavis had done it again. He done it again to make Butt-Head do it again. Again, again, and again, again. Beavis felt that ache behind his eyes again. Fire, again. On fire, again.

“Yeah.”

Beavis’ stillness came to a still.

Butt-Head caught his eye, but it didn’t last long. His eyes collapsed back onto the cast, and they completed their descent towards the floor.

“Yeah,” Butt-Head repeated himself, then swallowed. “Uh… I guess it… yeah.”

In the interval, Beavis realized he could feel his lips, as if they were a foreign presence on his body. He pulled them in and pinched them with his teeth.

Butt-Head’s shoes writhed, as if they had stage fright from being stared at so intently. “I’m gonna, uh… tell people it was a girl, though.”

“Yeah!” Beavis yelped quite loud. “Yeah-yeah, like, yeah. That’s, like… tha-that’s what I meant, you know. Remember when, like, we were doing that fake date thing for Hannah, and I, like… it’s like that, I meant it like that, I—“

“Beavis.”

Beavis mumbled something, but it was behind closed lips now. Lips he sucked in and started to chew on, trying to get them off.

The amount of time that passed was unclear. “We’re going home.”

“Yeah-yeah.” Beavis’ body jerked as he spoke, despite his whispers. “Yeah, okay. Let’s go.”

Butt-Head watched the blonde take the lead and didn’t protest it. He wandered behind, watching. He watched the back of Beavis’ head. He watched to make sure it didn’t turn around.

Butt-Head’s hand slipped inside his pocket and pulled out all he had left with him, safe for that sticky nickel. Pills, nestled in his hand. Butterflies, thrashing in his sick stomach. Hand to his mouth, head to the sky, he swallowed. When he was little, Butt-Head used to tear butterflies apart and watch them crawl. It made Beavis cry.

“No need to ask, he’s a smooth… operator…”

With his recovered pack of beer cradled like a newborn in his arms, never leaving his sight, Beavis knew Butt-Head had nothing to drink. And yet, he had no choice but to rationalize Butt-Head’s current behavior as him being very, very, very, ridiculously drunk. He was sure the aliens were somehow involved again.

“Damnit, Butt-Head, what the hell’s—“

Butt-Head turned around and hushed him, revealing his eyes were struggling to stay open. “Smooth… operator…” he lispfully serenaded as his body swayed back and forth, nearly tripping off the sidewalk too narrow for his special ventures.

“Butt-Head—“

“Smooth operator…”

“Butt-Head, are we, like—“

“Smooth…”

“Are we even going the right way—“

“Operator…”

“Because, like, my legs are starting to hurt, and I don’t recognize—“

“… No need to ask, he’s a—“

“Stop it, Butt-Head! Jesus, stop!” Beavis’ shouting only made the brunette giggle, and his head was swaying like it didn’t know the neck was a thing. “What the hell is the matter with you?! You’re weirding me out with your weird!” He paused. “And not, like, your normal weird!”

“Uh… uh-huh… huh…” Butt-Head nudged the grass with his shoe, then finally surveyed his surroundings. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I don’t know where we are.”

Passengers in passing cars gawked at the sight of an unstoppable blonde force versus an immovable brunette object. A dazed cloud was hovering over Butt-Head’s face, mumbling chuckles as Beavis shrilled every name in the book tenfold. Eventually, Butt-Head kept walking, and he kept singing. Beavis kept singing his own song, just as off-key.

The city sucks in a lot of ways. People act more bunghole-y than usual, there’s more cops, and it’s harder to memorize the streets. But these are merely the cost to pay for other things. Good things. Like the bus, creaking to a stop, letting out an exhale the color of the buildings.

Beavis hurried towards the bus stop, holding it open and cursing at Butt-Head to come on, but it did not make him wobble any faster. Nearly dropping the beer case, he pulled Butt-Head up the vehicle’s steps by his shirt. His response, a half-assed slap, had a seven second delay. Beavis endured it all, both Butt-Head’s merciless beating as well as the bus driver’s greedy demands. When he got a tap on the shoulder, he whisked around, reading to tackle him to the floor. But his hand was an open palm, and in it rested a sticky nickel. The bus driver fumbled with the coin with his fingers, unable to get it off, but he had a feeling getting those two off the bus would be even more of a struggle. He mumbled something under his breath neither heard, and the doors wheezed shut.

Beavis and Butt-Head sat in the near very back of the bus, on the side that faced the sunset rather than the concrete jungle. Not that that was a conscious decision. Neither cared.

The tender light spilled onto the last stretch of an untouched meadow, with a large ‘FOR SALE’ sign looming along its barbed wire. But Beavis wasn’t looking at that. He couldn’t read. But he wasn’t looking at the grass, though. Or the sun.

At that moment, Butt-Head turned. The sunlight turning his hair into a deep, winking amber, Butt-Head caught Beavis’ watchful eyes, and he smiled.

Something was wrong with Butt-Head.

It was a something that Beavis could not put his finger on. It was an objective reality that he could not explain. Butt-Head had stopped being weird in one way, only to immediately replace it with another kind of weird.

And oh, how Beavis wanted to kill him. He wanted to throw himself across the seat and punch him in the face and scream at him and strangle him and punch him again. The fire started at the tips of his fingers, and it crackled and whistled as it seized him, but like a horse with a poisoned bit in its jaws, he could not move. It was not a matter of incapability. It was a matter of restraint. For what kind of fucking dumbass would Beavis be, if he were to destroy what he had almost forever lost.

It was all back in his hands now, all of what they were. It was brittle, gasping for air, but it was there. All it would take was one wrong move, the slightest error, and it would decay into a corpse that Beavis could not strangle back to life again.

If this version of themselves was what he had to live with, smiles and all, then so be it.

On the evening of January 3rd, 1999, with a twitch in his eyes and a sickening pit in his stomach, Beavis twisted his mouth upwards into a crude and forced shape, right back at him.