Something that had always annoyed me was the music choice; Hard rock. Around every corner of Gravity Falls' notorious bar ' Skull Fracture' was the blaring bass of shredded guitars. Not that I necessarily disliked the genre, but it was an inconvenience being crammed next to a speaker when having a slurred debate with your gal pal on the Holographic theory. She was already tuning me out. The music only aided in her disrespect.

It was far louder tonight, even when I sat away from the dance floor, huddled in the newly furnished booth Pacifica's reserved for us. She hated sitting at the bar; hated who took a seat next to her; asked for her number; cupped a feel. They always ended up drenched in whatever had been in her glass, wobbling away hissing and cursing as they clutched their bruised groins. There wasn't much she couldn't handle on her own, but some things were worth avoiding at all costs. With a wave of her purse -a snap of the fingers- she'd put in place orders to build a private island of drinks and couch cushions for her and whoever she liked, which was a very short list of people.

I was surprised to be on it.

We had a rule not to get smashed before one or the other showed up. Pacifica couldn't stand being around drunk people when sober. It was one of those things snobbish folk were taught to piss about, and she couldn't seem to shake the mindset. I thought it was a stupid thing to complain about. Still, we'd always held true to the pack for the most part, and it wasn't so difficult holding off on the hard stuff when your drinking buddy wasn't around.

It was different tonight. With the music blaring, the mouths moving, the men dancing, I couldn't wait for a round of brandy and lemon juice. I'd taken the liberty of ordering a soft shot of Washington apple to take the edge off my nerves, but it'd only made me antsie when re-reading the menu options:

Red Snapper.

Purple hooter.

Lemon drop.

Kamikaze.

Blowjob-.

Who the fuck names these drinks?

I downed the shot, whipping out my phone to check the time; a quarter to ten. She was late as always, probably doing, wiping away, and redoing her mascara for the hundredth time. I bounced my leg impatiently, rubbing circles around the pedestal table like a mini race track. My eyes shifted towards a far corner of the room where one of the larger men stood seven feet from a dartboard. Dagger in hand, twirling it carefully between thick wide fingers, the brawny male stroked his beard once, flung the metal, and stuck slender silver threw a bullseye.

He had nice skin.

I sucked in a flaming breath, gaze instantly shooting from him to trace the intricate patterning of my seat cushion. Squares. Triangles. Red. Blue. I put it all away, memorizing every detail until my mind was filled with nothing but useless information.

Calm down, Dipper. Calm down. You can fix this. This can all be fixed. If you just think about it critically.

The sharp click of heels sliced through a high guitar solo in E major, forcing my ears to perk up. I instantly let out a sigh of relief, looking over my shoulder as Pacifica made her much anticipated journey towards me. She saw me looking, waved casually, and dipped between the bears banging their chests together. And, in that moment of contrast (her bleached almost-white hair rolling over thin tan shoulders, sheathed in a deep shade of purple snapped tightly around her design, dancing away from the sweating, dirty biker gangs jonesing for their umpteenth beer), I couldn't help feeling unbearably jealous of her.

Not for her money or wealth. Simply for the underlying understanding of one's self. You could tell from the way she posed herself where she was, and where she planned on going. She did what she wanted, said how she felt, and spoke without regret. And, even though I'd practiced the habit for years, something inside me rung with an undeniable sense of failure. She was honest with herself. She'd found herself easily, even when misguided in her adolescence by overbearing parents.

But, I was still very lost.

That was why we came here, I believed. Maybe it was a twisted way of her helping me out of the labyrinth each night with drinks and music. Maybe she just wanted a good time, and I was most conveniently free every weekend. Either way, she was here. Smiling, waving, and sliding past large figures of muscle. She didn't sit down right away, but leaned herself over the couch to get a good look at me.

"You're not wearing the shirt I gave you." Pacifca said, playfully flicking my forehead. I willed a laugh, though the tightness of my throat kept me on edge.

"Sequin really isn't my thing."

"Oh, but latex is ?" She joked. I paused, eyes hardening, only to slide from her with a familiar glint of shame.

"...Let's change the subject." My tone was forward. Not demanding exactly, but offering a hand without real consent. I felt soft all over; limp, without control of my own limbs. It was by muscle memory alone that I turned from her, examined my empty shot glass, and flipped it on its face. Pacifica only snorted at me, moving around to seat herself on the cushions. She wasn't so keen to tell the difference between my usual pouting, overanalyzed self and the crippling, relentless push of anxious build that formed along my features. She slid close to me.

Tonight is the night I die.

"What's got you all butt-hurt, prince?" Pacifica leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, looking at my souring face. A smile crept over her as she lifted a finger to flick at my nose. "Still fighting with Wendy?" She asked casually.

"We're not fighting, Paz."

"Just on a break."

" No. It's just-. Things are awkward, you know?" I explained with a lopsided push in my gut. Sighing, I rode a hand through my hair, grabbing at a curl as I twisted it nervously. Things were a lot more than just awkward. They were different. Bad-different.

"What isn't awkward with you?" Pacifica laughed, slapping my leg. The feeling was a bit grounding. Friendly. A kind of contact I hadn't been getting a lot of for the past week or so. Still, I frowned at her, rubbing the spot she hit me at like a stinging wound.

"Right, right. I forgot. Thanks for the reminder."

"No prob." Pacifica hummed, crossing her legs before leaning over to pick up my single shot, emptied of its content. "How much have you had so far?"

"Just the one." I shrugged, looking at the small glass almost guiltily.

" Good. You know I hate hanging with drunkards."

"How classy of you." I tried my hand at a small side-smile. The corners of my mouth twitched a bit, only to falter like buckling knees into a grimace. She gave me a concerned look, but said nothing. Instead, Pacifica stood from her seat, offered me a hand, and looked to the bar.

"Not for long. Come on; let's get blasted ." I felt cold against her warm hand, the slight flinch of her fingers not going unnoticed by any means as she dragged me along. We ducked around a table of lumbering gents who's veins popped out against their shoulders and foreheads, pushing themselves over the counter in a game of arm wrestling. The dull wisp of musk made me light headed, ever when basically sober.

"A pink lady." She led us to the bar, squeezing between the two black-beards with bandanas around their heads, hunched over large glasses with eyes just short of soulless. I tried not to rub shoulders with the man to my left; large black shades, a face tattoo, dark skin and gold rings clasped around each finger. His jawline was nice.

"Irish car bomb." I told the bartender with jaded features. He nodded at me, turning away as he jiggled his cocktail shaker, all the while his blond ponytail quaked along tight back muscles and shoulders. My gaze shot away instantly, looking over the generic design of a round coaster; Some mountainous scene of Berchtesgaden, Bavaria. Snow. Trees. Sky. Clouds. I could feel myself loosen up just slightly as the man clanked my drink down moments later, not even sparing me a glance.

It's alright. It's okay. Everything's fine. Just sink away, pain. Sink away into my drink.

I clasped my cup in hand, as well as the shot of irish cream I'd been provided, trailing Pacifica behind with the enhanced caution of a bluffed game of poker. My arms stayed close to my chest, holding the drinks with shaking hands. I could feel my fingers grow wet.

When we sat back down, Pacifica quickly recollected herself as she rubbed away the creasing of her dress. Her hand cradled the pink cocktail like fine wine, the glass's neck kept between her middle and ring finger. She settled in, taking a sip before addressing me.

"You hear what happened to Robbie?" Pacifica asked, lifting her elbow to rest on the back cushion.

"No, but I'll bet you did." I picked up my shot of cream, looking it over like some complex scribe. Irish car bombs were a tricky drink, because they were meant to go down almost instantly. More like frat-type liquor. A party drink; something I didn't feel like doing in the slightest. But, it was a quick escape.

"Tambry went in for a checkup over some vomiting Tuesday. Said she'd been feeling nauseated and sick for the past month or so. Turns out it was morning sickness." My hand holding the shot drifted over a pint of black scout, only to be dumped into the cup. It fizzed up instantly, and I was pleasantly surprised at how motivated I became to drink the whole thing straight. It was swallowed without breath or rest. I wiped my hand over my lips, mildly proud of the empty shot and beer glass in my hand.

"Damn. Tragic." I hiccuped just a little.

"Yeah, no kidding. Robbie's gonna have his hands full with a kid around the place."

"Sure, sure. That's crazy." I put the cup down, shivering at the heavy clink of thick glass against smooth pine wood.

"Can you imagine what it's gonna look like when they finally pop it out? Some ungodly gothic-emo hybrid. Like the second coming of Christ." Pacifica giggled a little, swirling her drink around the cup before finishing it off with a sophisticated slurp. She demanded I refer to everything she did that was otherwise ungraceful or outright piggish as either sophisticated, advanced, or simply too high-class for others to understand.

"Sounds like a lot of stress." I willed my voice from some place far away, outside of this realm of understanding and orthodoxed thinking, simply focused on keeping my eyes forward, away from the men.

"You're telling me. Can't imagine what's going through their heads right now." She put her drink down, tisking at the whole situation like it was some horrible disaster.

In all honesty, it sounded kind of amazing. The idea of finding someone you loved with your full capacity; starting a family together; Spending your lives in each other's presence. A part of me wanted that for myself. A piece that was much older, and much more ready for the experience, but all the same eager to get started. And, I already had someone I could call mine.

I had someone willing to stick by my side to death do us part. Yet, inside me grew the mounting disbelief that I would ever find a person to care for; whose face I could willingly wake up to each morning. A part of me whispered, very quietly, that who I was and who I tried to be were conflicting with that dream. But, wasn't I happy? Didn't I love Wendy? I certainly said I did, and everyone in town could easily look at us and go, ' Now, isn't that a happy couple?' I told those that approached us just how grateful I was to have found her, because she was so wonderful. So pretty. So fun. So cool.

Were those things to fall in love over?

"Me neither. Bet they're having a rough time." My head tilted a little, and I could feel the liquor creep its way up my veins into my brain. I was ready for a second drink, which I got without registering the journey. Only that Pacifica bought herself another cocktail, and I had something yellow.

"You think he'll stick around?" She asked, biting into a bit of cherry on the toothpick in her drink. I shrugged at her.

"He's an adult." And, that seemed to say all I felt. Because, I really didn't give a shit, downing my second drink as quickly as the first, trying not to notice the build of cologne around my nostrils. Instead, I would only allow myself the indulgence of bitter alcohol, hard and burning down my throat. Pacifica gaped at me just slightly when I sat up, ready to go in for a third round.

"Whoa, chill out freakazoid. I haven't even touched mine." She protested, snagging me by the cuff of my sleeve. I groaned, rolling my eyes before plopping back down.

"I'm just getting a shot."

"No, you're just getting alcohol poisoning. Slow down for a sec, will you? The drinks are going straight to your brain, genius." Her nail tapped against my temple, strengthening whatever point she thought she'd made. I only sighed, pouting as my hand went to shoo hers away.

"I know. Thanks, yeah." My head lowered a little, fingers rolling over my eyelids with discontent. I could feel my mind tense, flex, and release in periodic spasms of stress, even with the two drinks that tried to massage the tightness away. "I know." I repeated, rotating my head in my palms.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

Pacifica was silent beside me, perhaps waiting for me to lift my head. I didn't, afraid the first pair of eyes I'd make contact with would be slitted black with a cheshire grin. An unbearable strain of want clenched around my stomach, forcing my toes to curl. The recurrent waves of sooth from my tequila sunrise halted the assault for a short time; just enough to register the small hand placed on my shoulder.

"Alright, no." Pacifica scoffed. "Not funny, loser. You're bumming me out." I lifted my head just barely, catching a glimpse of her lips set in a perpetual scowl. She proposed the slightest portion of concern underneath. "What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just-. Just overworked, I guess."

"Bullshit. You're always overworked."

"Well, now I'm extra overworked, okay?" I felt a film of sass wrap around my voice, and I was almost certain I couldn't fight it. Pacifica didn't seem fazed by the assault, only smiling coyly from my response.

"Dipper, I've got connections with nineteen surveillance companies in the county. Trust me, you don't wanna do this." Her eyes were level, but testing. She wanted to see if I would ever doubt her words. How could I, though? She was Pacifica Northwest after all; if she wanted photo evidence, new material for gossip, or horrible black mail, she could get it with the snap of a finger. That was just a taste of how far she'd go for some good tea.

I groaned into my hands, hiding my face in mounting shame as a sharp heat burned across my cheeks. A small part of me wanted to console in her; to pour out every stupid detail of that very night. How Bill had looked. How he'd tasted. And, just how confusing the whole situation was. Hell, I hadn't even crossed the line with Wendy, but when this half-cocked asshole shows up and I'm all game? It gave me a headache just thinking about it.

There was a tiny voice in me. A small nobody that perched on the edge of my consciousness, cooing safely that I should tell her. I should let her in on the secret. A very, very tiny voice, barely audible over the blaring sirens of anxiety, flashing red on high alarm. The voices that screamed for me to run, dye my hair, change my name; get the fuck out of this place. But, she'd find me anyways.

She always did.

"... Look. " I lifted my head, staring into her eyes sternly. "What I'm about to tell you does not. Leave. This. Room. You got that?" I slapped the table for emphasis, brows furrowing with dark certainty. Pacifica only grinned back, leaning away as she seated herself against the cushions with an untamable smugness. Legs crossed, eyes trained, she took a victory sip of her drink.

"Got it." She said. I looked at her more closely.

"I'm serious, Paz. Not a word."

"I heard you the first time, dork." She paused, taking yet another drink before gesturing for me to continue. "Go off." The hint of a smile wisped across her lips as she watched me. Not eager, but intrigued. I shuffled in my seat, trying to relieve the pent of strain building in my chest, an ocean of words jumbling about but not connecting perfectly. Nothing would connect just right. Ever.

"I really fucked up." I sighed simply, once again burying myself into my palms. It didn't last long, feeling Pacifica pat my back anxiously, all the while sighing and groaning at my pathetic demeanor.

"Oh my god ! Spit it out already, will you?" She put a hand under my chin, lifting my head to meet her icy-blue gaze. "I mean, come on. You're Dipper Pines for christ sake! Your whole existence is embarrassing. No need to be modest now." She waved her hand through the air, rolling her eyes before pressing her lips to the glass once again. "Just tell me. I promise I won't judge." Her head tilted back, trying to suck down the remainder of what lay in her cup.

I was lucky to have a friend like her, I guess. Stone cold. Calculated. Not easily fazed when faced with these kinds of situations, having heard even the deepest dishes. And, looking at her and the underlying disinterest she held for my inner thoughts was comforting in a way. Chances were she didn't actually care; just wanted to air out the dirty laundry so we could finally enjoy our night. That was a good enough reason to just say it, right? I took a heavy, shaken breath, looking at her craned neck when I spoke.

"I gave Bill a blowjob."

Pacifica's head shot forward, hand placed over her mouth as she choked uncontrollably on the brutal martini. She balled up a fist, hacking relentlessly as her face grew red from the strain. Her eyes watered up at the corners, and when she opened them to look at me for only a moment, pure shock coasted along her features. She made contact with me, only to blink away the tears and snap her eyes shut at the cocktail's burn. Pacifica hunched forward, cradling her head between her knees as the coughing fits only grew worse.

"You-!" She began, cut off by yet another wave. "Y-you w-ha-t ?!" Her head tilted up just barely to peer at the beyond-ashamed face looking down at her. I was joking, right? I couldn't be serious. There was no way I'd actually do that. Not in a million years. But, of course. I was Dipper Pines. I didn't... Do that. At least not in her mind. My face was scorching.

I put an awkward hand on her shoulder, not sure whether to rub her back or let her be as her body convulsed. The hacking continued for what felt like hours, though it couldn't have been more than a few minutes. After most of the choking subsided, and she's lifted her face enough to see the wet trails from where she'd teared up, I'd already rebuilt my wall of regret and anxiety.

Alright. Bad reaction. Horrible , actually. Was I supposed to expect this every time?

" Dipper... " All previous defenses were down on her; the snobby exterior; the smug demeanor; the disinterest. Gone. What remained was something of distorted interpretation. Perhaps what alien users would consider a kind of humanity. Genuine care. A mountain of concern and confusion. In that moment, and that moment alone, Pacifica Northwest looked like a goddamn human being.

"I-... Jesus, Paz! I don't know. It's just-. It just sort of happened, alright?" I grew defensive before she even opened her mouth. Her expression said it all. It was an absolute bombshell of information.

"God-. Dipper, this is crazy . You know that?" Her eyes shifted from me, examining the empty glass in hand, as though to verify she was sober enough to even have this conversation. Was this real? Is this really what she's hearing? "When? Why ? Holy shit, does Wendy know about this-?"

" No ! And, I plan on keeping it that way." I rushed for my answer before the question could even process itself. Anything Wendy-related was prohibited from coming into contact with Bill ever again.

"What? But-. But, aren't you gonna tell her?" Pacifica seemed a little confused, brows furrowing when she shifted her gaze from me. I mirrored a similar expression.

"What am I supposed to say?"

"That you're gay. " It was my turn to choke now, but I'd already emptied the glass. I took a sharp breath, conflicted between a gasp and the most inhuman scream ever to hit my system. They clashed on the way up, building against my throat, only to strangle each other in my mouth, leaving me completely silent instead. I looked at her with glossy eyes, jaw hanging wide in disbelief. I could've laughed at the absurdity.

"I'm not gay !" I croaked, lurching back in. I held my hands up in protest, a drop of sweat sliding down my temple after hearing my own voice. I sounded defensive.

"Hey, Dipper ." Pacifica's voice became uncharacteristically sweet as she leaned in to comfort me, grabbing my hand and petting the back like a small animal's. "It's okay. We've all been joking about it behind your back if it makes you feel any better." Her hands were smooth, rhythmically sliding over my knuckles. She smiled at me with kind eyes, as though I deserved pity of some sort. My hand slipped from her grasp in an instance, a new found resentment replacing some of my embarrassment.

"Why in the fuck would that make me feel better ?" I shot, leaning away from her touch. Pacifica was respectful of my choice in distance, pulling back to sit up straight and continue her soft smiling.

"Well, now it won't be so hard to come out-."

" I'm not fucking gay !" A few men turned around to peer at me from the pool table, one of which had bent himself halfway to reach the white cue ball wedged between an 'eight' and a 'three.'

"Okay, well-. Bi, then."

"Not bi, Pacifica."

"Pan?"

"Nope."

"Alright. Demi-."

"Woman, I'm straight." The outright redness of my cheeks must have been a sight to see. I couldn't help but notice the eyes shifting towards me now. Judging me. Perhaps scoping me out. Definitely gossiping.

"Um... No, you're not." Pacifica said simply, her approachable demeanor slowly chipping away like a cocoon, replaced with her usual shit-personality.

" Yes , I am."

"Dude." She shot her hands up in mild frustration, though the corners of her lips continued their rise upwards. "You sucked dick ." She laughed.

" Shut up ." I hissed, more cautious than ever to keep our voices down. I squeezed up against her so we wouldn't have to raise our voices. "It wasn't like that."

"Oh? And what was it like, exactly?"

"Like nothing, okay? It was stupid and weird and I didn't enjoy it at all . I don't even know why I did it."

"Because you like-." I cut her off with a growl, giving her a cold look.

"I don't! I was just-." I looked to my empty glass for inspiration. "Drunk. I was really drunk, and my head wasn't working right."

"Ah, I see. The old ' too many drinks' gag. Yes, yes. Of course." Pacifica nodded like she understood everything now. "I've used that move a few times myself."

"I was!" I countered. She didn't seem to hear me, though.

"Where were you two?"

"A restaurant." I replied.

"You gave him head in one of the booths ?!" She gasped, eyes gleaming intently.

"The car, Paz! Jesus, the car !" I couldn't contain my voice completely, even with a silencer snapped on tight. A few more heads turned, but remained otherwise disinterested in our conversation. "We were parked outside a drive thru." I shrugged.

"In a car?"

"Yes, in a car."

"He drove you?"

"That's right."

Pacifica paused, humming at my confirmation, hand groping her chin thoughtfully. She looked to her lap in concentration, possible debate, and overall confusion. After a moment of thinking, a lightness came over her features, and she was lifting her head to look at me. The smile on her face was something to rival Mabel's.

"Oh, and I assume the booze just materialized out of nowhere, then?" A coldness shot through my veins. Fuck. Fuck . Fuck . There wasn't an easy out for that, and I couldn't say we'd been driving under the influence. We were cops after all.

"Paz, stop-."

"You were sober ." She smiled confidently, stabbing her finger into my chest like a conviction. It wasn't a laugh that passed her lips, but more like a victorious ' ha'! Looking into my eyes, finger rhythmically tapping me, it seemed as though she's caught herself a special prize.

A gay friend.

"Will you quit it already? I told you I'm not." I tried to keep my voice even, but it only broke into pieces near the end. Pacifica shook her head, tisking. It was like my very existence passed right through her.

"Are you gonna tell Wendy?" She repeated the question, this time with her classically pompous attitude. I couldn't bear keeping this argument up, and so only sides, lowered my head, and combed a hand through my hair.

"I don't wanna tell anyone. It's not like I'm gonna do it again, anyways." There it was: the justification. I'd tried so hard to keep it down, but it just kept bubbling up. I wanted to excuse myself. I wanted to levy the situation from my shoulders with the promise of repentance. It wouldn't happen again. No. Never. That was a one-time thing; not worth destroying a perfect relationship over. Sure, we were on the rocks now , but you needed the bad times in order to appreciate the good. Things would be okay after a few more weeks. A month at most.

But, news like this ?

It could ruin everything.

"What about Mabel? Think she can keep it in?" I didn't bother answering. We both knew that response. She couldn't keep her lips shut for shit. After a moment of silence, Pacifica let out a breath.

"What are you gonna do about Bill? Don't you two share an office or whatever?"

There was a thought. Like I hadn't killed myself over it already, writing out plans and diagrams on how to approach him after making a complete whore out of myself. Shit, I could already see the satisfied look on his face. I felt like such a moron, remembering how I'd acted in front of him. I was too damn eager; he must have noticed. It was so easy to just move me around. I took orders like a puppy, and it only pleased me when he bossed me around. Fuck. It fucking pleased me.

I looked him right in the eye, too. If there was anything to be embarrassed about, it was that single act that plagued me the most. No modesty. Not an ounce of dignity left. As if to say, ' Why should I be ashamed? I'm your toy, aren't I?' I almost slapped myself in the face, an overwhelming flood of self-loathing replacing 12 pints of blood. I'd given myself to him. And, it'd felt so natural .

Something was seriously wrong.

"Let's get another drink." I replied dryly, ignoring her question as I lifted myself with a single string of confidence. Not in my relationship with Wendy, or how I would approach Bill this upcoming Monday, or even in what had brought on this onslaught of impulsive curiosity; perhaps stress. Maybe confusion. It didn't matter. Of all the things I'd considered tonight, only one thought stuck, and it made perfect sense in my mind.

A gin and tonic would hit the spot right now.