summer, 1998. or something. - dappledpaintbrush (2024)

Chapter 1: Metallica if They Were Good

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 sh*t 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 sh*t 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 slu*t.”

“Yes. Jesus Christ Father Almighty Lord Above, I, too, am thankful for slu*ts, 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 sh*t, 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 Steward’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 fat*ss.”

“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 sh*t 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 slu*t 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 put your dumb stubbornness aside and, like, go to sleep.”

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

Beavis awoke to gargled snoring.

It was a recent habit, and it’s 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 2: Something Else Matters

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 bullsh*t! You do this every day! Every day! Just take my f*cking order already!”

“Just make your f*cking 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 sh*t 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 slu*t anthem or something. We have one for the country, why not for slu*ts?”

“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 slu*t 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 slu*t anthem, yeah-yeah-yeah! I got some really slu*tty 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 3: Tuber-cool-osis

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. “f*ck!” 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 f*cking 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: Steward 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.”

Steward’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 Steward, then began to snicker, “Heh-heh-meh. Cool.”

Once Beavis caught up with him, Steward 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 Steward 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, Steward. I don’t care. Like, at all.”

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

“Steward.”

“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 a weird motion with his arms—“just swept me off my feet.”

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

Steward’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.”

Steward, 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 slu*t? Are you stupid or something? You really suck, Steward. You can’t even score without being a loser.”

“Um…” Steward 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 Steward 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, Steward 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, Steward, 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, Steward. Like really.”

Beavis didn’t expect confusion to crawl onto Steward’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?”

Steward 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.” Steward slowed his pace to match Beavis’. “Who knows the next time we’re gonna see each other?”

“Yeah, who knows.”

Steward 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.”

Steward 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.”

“Steward, 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 Steward 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, Steward.” 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.” Steward 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.” Steward 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 Steward 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. Steward. 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. “Steward? 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 Steward, 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 f*cking god, no! No! I told you not to-! Did you give them my address?” Silence. “f*ck! 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 sh*t-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 sh*t 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 slu*ts 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 4: Rite of Passage

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 slu*ts. 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 slu*ts 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 slu*t-worthy. No, you cannot borrow one of my shirts. Uh-huh-huh.”

“Oh, so you’re saying you’re, like, worthy of being a slu*t? 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 slu*ts 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 sh*t 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 slu*ts 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 slu*ts, 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!” Beavis 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, sh*t.” His red solo cup swayed. “Did you say your girl? f*ck, 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. “sh*t, 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 5: Storm Chaser

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 amusem*nt in anything she could, at any cost. “Shirley! Shirley, your kid wants something! Shirley!” She didn’t wait too long. “Dumb c*nt. Alright, you want uppies or some sh*t?” 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 c*nt. Can you say c*nt?” 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 f*cking girl name, you bitch!”

“I swear to god, I will slap the sh*t 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? sh*t, my son. Come out out, f*ckerhead!” 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 sh*t.” 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 puss*es. 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 sh*t 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 bullsh*t. It’s all bullsh*t. 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 f*ck up if you know what’s good for you!”

“I am asking you, Shirley! I am asking! Why are you giving me so much sh*t 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 f*ck!” 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 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 f*cking 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.

f*cking 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 f*ck. Beavis never said f*ck. 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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.

f*cking 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 6: All These Words I Don’t Just Say

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 sh*t 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 sh*t. 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-sh*tter.”

“Sink-sh*tter?”

“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-sh*tter.”

“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-sh*tter, 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-sh*tter just showed up. Like, right now.”

“I would be like… ‘Hey, Sink-sh*tter. This guy named you Sink-sh*tter.’ 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 amusem*nt 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 co*cking 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 f*cking mouth and f*cking 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 f*cking 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 7: And Nothing Else Matters

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 jacksh*t 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 sh*tting 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 basem*nt 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 slu*ts, Beavis. Think of the beautiful, beautiful slu*ts.” 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 sh*t 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 co*ke. “Hey. Hey, Butt-Head. I feel funny.”

Me too, Beavis. “And I feel tired. Shut up and go to sleep.”

Chapter 8: “To My Angel”

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.”

”slu*ts 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 slu*ts of yesterday, the slu*ts of today, the slu*ts of tomorrow, and the slu*ts 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. slu*t to slu*t, 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 sophom*ore 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.”

“Bullsh*t! 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 co*ckroach 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 sh*t.” 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, nor 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 sh*t.”

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 sh*t.”

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 sh*t. 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 sh*t. 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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 f*cking 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?”