" Hey... Hey, loser. Up and at 'em." Came a distant tone. Muffled and drowned, focused on the spot above his head, where he refused to open his eyes. Dipper was still dreaming, sort of. He certainly wasn't conscious , but-. Perhaps awake enough to know someone was talking to him. But, who cared?

He didn't.

Dipper rolled on his side, cradling the silk-sheet of a thick pillow around his skull, blocking the voice out. He tried to hold onto what was left of the vision replaying in his mind. A mountainous field, ravished in vibrant greens and reds. Maybe spring, maybe fall; beautiful in both instances. A peaceful scene, brimming with wisps of sun, the soft breeze of eastern currents, lingering patches of melted snow and ice, slick blades of grass, the glorious peaks of Hotham or Bimberi or Kosciuszko or Twynam- It didn't matter. The sight was lovely.

And there, right by his side, was he. Watching, just as the other did, from the balcony of their shared home. Dipper, still in his shirt from the night before and a pair of boxes. The man, wearing only pants. He'd lean up behind him- the subtle rise of flesh rubbing Dipper's back such a perfect sensation- and whisper in his ear.

' It's as you wanted it.' And, for only an instance, Dipper was sure he understood the context. He wanted this scene. He had it. A cold breeze, fought off by the man's body enveloping him. What was this feeling growing in his gut? Lust? Lust, for the shirtless man?

No.

Something far more complicated.

" Hey! Nerd! " Dipper jerked in his spot on the bed, gasping as his subconscious was ripped from the dream. He sat up in an instance, drowsy as he was, scooting up and away from whoever had screamed at him. His body lurched, to the side, and damn near fell off the queen-sized mattress, onto a hot-pink rug. Dipper caught himself in an instance, hanging on by a pole hoisting the bed's purple canopy.

He placed a hand over his chest, huffing sharply as the odd sensation of almost plummeting tingled through his arms. Dipper scrunched his nose after a moment of panic, whipping around to see his aggressor. The expression he gave was meant to send chills through her spine, but by the way Pacifica simply snorted, rolled her eyes, and yanked the blanket from his lap, he couldn't help but lose the heat behind his gaze. Soften into something plain, like indifference.

"Uh, good morning, prince." Pacifica went, pulling away from him. She stood tall, hip popped, crossing her arms with a cocked brow. "Have any idea what time it is?"

Of course not. Dipper was still a sloshing mess from his supposed-to-be light nap. That hadn't exactly gone as planned. On the contrary, it'd gone rather shittily, considering it had been light out last he shut his eyes. Now, by the soft tint of violet-maroon gulping away the sky, he couldn't help but conclude his ' evening nap' had dragged on for a bit longer than expected. Who could blame him, really? The nights never gave way to sleep anymore. Not for the past week.

Pacifica's bed was nice. Better than nice. It was the number one thing he looked forward to after drinks; whenever Dipper was too drunk at the bar, and couldn't stand to open his apartment door, let alone make it to his bedroom. And she, being the ' generous' girl she was, always opened her home to him. Where they'd lie back, talk, laugh, and almost-kind-of kiss. But, Dipper was never drunk enough. Nor would he ever be. Simply laugh, brush away the awkward peck she'd given his cheek, and pretend not to remember in the morning.

The nights were cold, though. Wrapped up in indian silk, rather than his cotton comforter. The indents where she'd slept didn't fit his own figure, and it hadn't been worn down the way Dipper's own shitty mattress was. The springs didn't creak when he tossed, and a near-panic struck him the night before, when Dipper was certain he'd drifted into God's palm to be covered, crushed and drained. No, this was not his bed.

This was not him.

Mabel refused to return his calls, let alone a single text. He'd contemplated just heading over to talk; on his hands and knees if he had to, if only to apologize. What could be said, though? She didn't want to see him. She-.

Wasn't disgusted with Dipper... Just angry.

He really fucked up this time.

Bill on the other hand... Well, it looked like he was putting whatever phone insurance he had to good use. Dozens- dozens- of texts, emails, calls, and video chats, all to speak with his favorite play-thing, who refused to reply. Dipper had dug into a week's worth of well-deserved sick days just to avoid him. But Bill- Dipper prayer against the worst- was a persistant fuck. Literally and figuratively. With luck, he'd keep away from the apartment and try reaching through cellular contact only.

Until Dipper could figure everything out. A little longer. Maybe wait out Mabel's wrath. Or for Wendy to find out and dump him. Or Bill to grow bored of his slut; lose his appetite from the sudden ghosting. Or...

Or...

Finally figure out what the fuck was wrong with him.

"Don' know." Dipper slurred, rubbing his eye simply. Pacifica scoffed at his laziness before sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Time for your dumbass to buy drinks. Happy hour starts at ten, you dweeb." She laid back, placing an arm behind her head, staring at the violet canopy above. Dipper and her had once tried climbing the royal fabric; some ways past drunk jenga, beer pong, and a less-than-called-for game of buzz. Back their highschool years, sometime after a promotion to not-quite-seniors, but getting there. When they could still wonder what life was like out of chalk boards, hallways, and homework. Where they'd be. What they'd do. How in the hell that damn canopy's slight fabric would sustain their weight.

Answer: It wouldn't.

It didn't.

It was thin, and delicate, and meant to look at, not touch. They tumbled in, laughed, almost stood on the wavering fabric. Cried out as it gave way to pink bedding below. A gaping hole, ripped and torn to shreds, broken up from this one instance. Not worn down over time, from years of sitting. Just- broke . Because it wasn't made to sustain that weight. It wasn't made to hoist people. That wasn't what it did.

And, no one could ask it to be anything but what it was.

Pacifica turned her head, watching Dipper stretch, yawn, and check his phone. He'd slept for a solid nine hours; good rest. He needed it more than anything. His gaze turned to her for only an instance- sighed, rode a hand up his neck, and turned away before seeing the quick smile Paz tried to give him; reassure him with. It didn't hurt her, though. The expression would've only worked to soil his pride.

No one could ask him to be anything but what he was.

After a second of groaning, feeling the slight pop in his back when he lifted and rotated his arms, Dipper rose. Slow, as not to stumble over his own disoriented feet. That dream had been strange. The man- whoever he was- always showed up, just behind him, as to keep his features hidden. But, the flesh felt real. The warmth, comforting these several days. His wide chest, pressed against his back. Not demanding anything, but rather comforting the smaller. With words of compassion; something he consumed in every instance.

'There is space and time.'

'Let it drift.'

'Keep your head filled.'

Yes, he craved sleep. For multiple reasons.

"Yeah. I know." Dipper stretched, shutting his eyes with a groan. He was stiff all over, despite the bed's overwhelming support. "Lemme get my wallet." It sat at the edge of his nightstand, next to his keys, notebook, Xanax, and reading glasses, which Pacifica was sure to pick at him for. She'd snorted at him, only to take the pair of thick-rimmed frames, balance them atop her nose, and check herself. Of course, she pulled them off just fine. Dipper would've laughed at her narcissism, and Paz had secretly hoped he would- the persona was in no way an act, but perhaps exaggerated now. Just a bit. Less snobbish at heart, but knowing perfectly well how endearing this side of her was to the strange man. Familiar, he would call it. To suggest not all things had to change. Not all was different. And, to a point, he was correct.

But, this .

This was far from the same.

He'd stayed silent the first night, letting Paz have her kicks as she'd spun around, watched herself in the mirror, and pulled several provocative poses in the full-length, checking over her shoulder every so often, wondering if Dipper had yet smiled. He hadn't. Only sat, dangled his head, and let every tendon freeze over. It was like a leaking faucet, watching the still boy as his eyes drowned, overflowed, and dropped salt along his pant legs. Not moving. Not wiping away tears, or sniffing, pouting, or speaking. Like he'd died on the bed, letting everything well up and disperse.

And, the nights. The nights, he cried. Silent, again. She'd turn over on her side, place a hand close to his- and pull back. She knew why he was here. She knew what was wrong. To think, she'd been infatuated with him for so long . And now here he was, in her bed, broken hearted, relationship with Wendy almost finished and she was so close to-.

Pacifica's hand always stopped short of his. Always. Only dusted away lint from silk sheets, rumpled her pillow, and turned from the ever-open eyes of something broken. Should she hate him for this? Should she hate him for what he'd done? What he'd chosen? Paz couldn't find it in her satin-heart to judge. Simply pondered, hoping to make sense of years of affection gone to waste; reminding herself not only who was in her bed, but who that somebody had been in bed with.

This was certainly a tricky situation.

He hadn't eaten the first day. At all. Hadn't left the bed. Hadn't gone to drink. Hadn't checked the phone in his pocket, almost dead, but sending through message upon message from whoever. Dipper just lied there, dead-faced, tearing but not sobbing. An abandoned house, with busted pipes and no lights. Pacifica almost had a heart attack when she'd gotten back, close to calling an ambulance after seeing him; Cold to the touch. Blank stare. Crying, not weeping. Tartiflette. Creme brulee. Bouillabaisse; all placed by his bedside on a silver platter, untouched.

Surely, he was dead. Or dying. Or, experiencing some strange in-between. Over the wall, but able to come back if he tried. Very, very hard.

Pacifica almost collapsed, noting the soft brush of air from his lips; almost slapped him for giving her a scare, but refrained once finally viewing him without panic. Curled on the bed, hand extended, bangs draping the tips of his eyes when he stared off, shivered, and drained away.

If not dead, and not alive, then in-between. This was the middle.

The second day, still no words. A slice of toast, though. And, by the way he opened his mouth with stiff hesitance, it could be infirmed just how little energy was left. Half a slice. Back to bed. Day three, some soup. Pacifica contemplated a house doctor. But, he wasn't sick. He wasn't sick. Physically, at least. Still, she kept a close eye on him.

The pills on his nightstand became a looming concern, not touched, but watched. She'd caught him once, staring at them very oddly. With an expression just short of plain; indifferent. A spark of motivation. Inspiration. Never a move to grab the bottle, but always that ominous glow of his gaze.

' Warning: Concomitant use of benzodiazepines and opioids may result in profound sedation,

depression, coma, and death .'

Very odd stare. Longing, but hesitant. Quick, but slow. Dipper's eyes would flutter, shoulders flinching as though to reach for the vile, only for the hand to raise, drift, and eventually die in mid-air.

She made sure Alfred watched him while she was out.

Day four, he spoke a little to the butler, asking when the ' duchess' would be home. To which the old man replied, ' Sometime this evening, I presume sir.' A bowl of soup. A thing of bread. And, later that evening, a queer turkish dessert; something Paz had imported on his behalf. He thanked her, slow to take the gift, before promising to treat her out later himself.

Day five, a significant improvement. More talking. More eating. A slow crawl from bed, looking out the window with a whimsical, yet concerned look on his face. It seemed he'd been doing some soul-searching between tears.

And now, today; strange features. Drowsy, but sure, if not rushed. Excited, and more than a little anxious. A lot of soul-searching. A lot of thinking.

They made their way down the steps, Pacifica addressing the butler only vaguely. Waving a hand, not quite out of disrespect. Rather, the usual. They went out; despite the drama, the tears, the starving, the depression. They would go, drink until the sensation left their fingertips, and stumble back in a splash of color. Like always.

Just please, let this night rebirth them.

They entered the shaded bar, serving drinks and potato wedges in mass proportions. Like always, the lights were dimmed, strung only by LED lights of red and purple. A live band tonight, unlike the usual fuzz of broken speakers along the corners of the pub; some low, drowned tune of drums, strings, and the unorthodox croak of wooden panelling below performing feet. Some were already dancing; lighter fellows, with less hair then the brawny figures playing pool, shooting darts, or dousing themselves with hard liquor. Dipper trailed a cautious eye along the bunch, before guiding his friend by the elbow to their usual seating.

They ducked between large, hairy men, all of which brandished horrific tattoos. He noted a slight sensation along his pelvic line, seeing how every muscle rolled beneath tight, tan flesh. A moment's hesitation, and he was snapping back his gaze, uninterested. Truely, his appetite was ruined now. He craved only one.

The journey towards dark purple cushions was quick enough, spoiled only by booms of laughter and unfortunate side steps. The band droned on, flaunting themselves like white doves during the grand finale. But, their timing was ridiculously off. All energy was spent for a single song, so much so that it was nearly pathetic when the lead singer huffed, licked his lips, and jokingly aired on grabbing a quick drink, before inevitably doing so. Dipper and Pacifica reached the couch, sitting side-by-side with an unspoken space between the two. Enough for a tasteful fur purse to snuggle in the middle, tickling the tip of his thumb.

"God, I hate live music!" Paz exclaimed, rolling her head back painfully. She placed a hand under the curve of her neck, massaging it with her index and middle finger, before shooting her partner a glance. Dipper had taken a quick look at his phone.

' 103 unread messages'

'24 missed calls'

'You missed a video chat with 'Fuck-Face''

His eyes hardened vaguely, putting the phone back. Nothing from Mabel, as usual. All from him. And Dipper, being the proud man he was, refused to answer back. Out of respect for his twin. Still, a slight twitch of the lips could be felt, seeing the greyed start of each message.

' Don't go dying on me, pine tr...'

He could feel his chest warm.

"Yeah." Dipper replied softly, head tilted from Paz to view the stage of musicians. Greasy black hair, ripped jeans, lanky in all forms but his gut, which had the misfortune of popping a beer-belly. He'd been lucky to have found someone in his youth, before she could see exactly what their future together entailed. "Robbie kind of sucks."

Paz snorted, watching the albino-fleshed male swing around. Light bounced from the oily surface of his nose. Dotted scars from his years of youth, scraping away pimples and zits with dirt clogged under dry nails. Forehead crinkled, sweat seeping into every inch of black, hooded fabric, and teeth boiled bright yellow. Still, Robbie smiled when he sang, and twisted into an uncanny jig as his bass swirled either way. He seemed happy. Amazingly, unreasonably so.

"You hear about him and Tambry?" Pacifica leaned in, as though the musician could catch their words from here. Dipper, despite himself, gave a light snort.

"What's with you and your nose sticking in other people's business?" Paz gave him a sour look, leaning away just barely. She viewed him with low, tempted suspicion, watching the way he shifted in his seat. Dipper wanted to say something. After a time, when they were done gossiping, and the cocktails started flowing, and the music was low and the mood was right. She let his subtle expression die across his lips.

"Oh, please. This nose costs more than the clothes on your back." She waved him off, giving his weak smile a once-over. "I can smell good tea from across the ocean."

"Then by all means." Dipper's hand went out, gesturing to her slightly. " Spill ." He always cracked a grin at that statement. It was such a cheeky phrase, and so like her to use it the way she did. Pacifica had always been on top of trendys.

"Someone caught Robbie at a claw machine last week; blew, like, all his cash trying to get this plastic ring, stuck under the foot of a McRonald's G.I. Jonas." Again, she leaned in, passing the performer a knowing look. "I think he's planning on proposing."

"What? Robbie? " A bit of life came back, if only for an instance, flying high then low at the comment. It really was such a bizarre thing to think. He'd known Robbie for years; it seemed weirdly out of character for the guy to tie himself down like that.

"Uh, yes Robbie. You seriously didn't hear? It's, like, all around town." Pacifica joked, knocking his shoulder. Dipper returned her expression with a dry grin.

"I've been a bit busy, believe it or not." Which, of course she did. Paz gave him an incredulous expression, shooting him up and down with glances before eventually sighing.

"Omg, what ever, dork." She stood from her spot, jostling blond bangs towards the wraparound bar. "Just shut up and buy me something already." And, he did.

Standing, with legs that felt remarkably offbeat, as though already on his fourth or fifth shot. The sensation subsided soon enough, not before Dipper's legs made an involuntary jerk as though to force him over. He got ahold of himself eventually, ignoring the look of concerned annoyance from his dear friend.

Pacifica; a sidecar.

Dipper; a cosmopolitan.

The bartender went to work, mixing and dressing their glasses with remarkable accuracy, in spite of their erratic selection. They never had the same drink twice. Simply chose, drank, and experienced whatever name caught their fancy. The beverages were passed off to them, not without the man giving both a weighted expression.

"Don' gee too crazy, fellas. I might do worse than cut ya' off next time." His gruff, harsh voice seemed to bestow a kind of clarity within Dipper; a soothing command. He nodded silently, taking the statement as unregistered concern. Paz scowled before leaning over to snatch up either drink.

" Whatever ." The beverages were liften in either hand, one passed on to her guy-friend, the other kept neatly between her index and ring. She turned away without a word, leading Dipper back through the jumbled mess of males. Seating herself with crossed legs, and an even more cross expression, Paz gave a dirty sneer.

"Can you believe that guy?" Dipper had his lips pressed against the cup's edge, pausing at her remark.

"What?" He asked simply, lowering the glass.

"That guy. The same one that cut us off last week. Can you believe he'd threaten us like that?" She scoffed, rolling her eyes. Dipper just shrugged.

"Well... You did snip off his ponytail-."

"Because it was ugly, Dipper!" Pacifica lifted her drink, tilting her head as a bit of the yellow concoction spilt over her tongue. She huffed, pulling the glass away with a frown. " So ugly. He should've thanked me." He shrugged again, eyes darting to his cosmopolitan with mild interest.

"I don't know..." Dipper began, mumbling before the glass pressed onto him. "It was kind of nice." The drink flowed in, giving him time to avoid Paz and her curious eyes. Her expression was lopsided; untamed and weirdly playful. A slight lean forward.

"Oh, so you're into ponytails? " She laughed, watching Dipper gasp, yank away the burning drink, and sputter.

"N- no! " His face grew hot, shooting her a nasty look. "I just- It was cool, you know? He had a good thing going for him, and-. It was nice." The music was a bit lower this time; far less energy now that the lead singer was huffing, trying uselessly to keep the wet eyeliner from dripping into his eye sockets.

"Oh, stop. That thing was nappy, and you know it." Pacifica laughed, tilting her head in the way of the bar. "But... Since we're on the topic, he's got a nice jawline, don't you think?" Dark, testing eyes met her calculated gaze. Dipper only tossed a passing look, hardly anything to draw from, before meeting her features.

"I think... You're insinuating something."

"Hey! It's just a question, right? No harm asking." She leaned back, sagging into the clean furniture. "So, tell me: Nice jawline. Yah or nay?"

"I'm not answering that."

"Oh, come on! Why not?"

"Because I know what you're getting at ." His lip hitched up in a growl, biting away the comfy atmosphere. Pacifica couldn't care less, only sticking out her tongue at Dipper's tough-guy act.

"And, what exactly am I getting at?"

" You- !" Dipper's body lurched, almost spilling his drink at the sudden rush of irritation. A slight hiss, a clench of the jaw, and he was back under control. He sharpened his gaze, returning to his cosmopolitan. "You know what you're getting at."

"Then why don't we address it, Dipper? We need to talk."

" We-." His hands flew out between them, gesturing sharply. "-don't have anything to talk about."

"Uh, yes the fuck we do ." Pacifica let out a high laugh, deprived of all humor. "Come on, loser. Show me a little gratitude, will you? In case you've forgotten, you're kind of living in my house." Dipper groaned, sliding a hand down his face.

"You think I want to?" He paused, taking a swig of his drink; sharp and bitter. "This- I didn't mean for all this to happen. It just-... It just did, okay? That's it."

" God , Dipper. No it is not!" A snort of humor, otherwise friendly in this scene, coated in a jeering remark. "Don't play dumb, nerd. You and I both know you're no good at it."

"What do you want me to say ?" His tone was hostile, sucking down the last of his drink like a gust of fresh air. Pacifica watched quietly, noting the slight flex of his jaw when he looked back; eyes piercing. Close to breaking. To discovering. But, still forcing forth a cloth of blindness.

"What you usually say: Facts." Dipper let out a dry ' ha' , only to turn away and break for another drink. She yanked him back before he could make an escape, pulling him back on his bum. "What would critical-Dipper say in this situation?" Pacifica continued. He gave her a bold glare.

"He'd say to let go of my shirt." Dipper glowered, shouldering himself out of her grasp. The nails digging into his shirt sleeve loosened, but kept themselves pressed against tight weaving.

"...Are you really gonna run away from this?" A soft tone, so much unlike her usual confidence. He stiffened, heated then cooled at her unseen expression of surety. She was sure of this, as she was sure of everything else. A ping of jealousy, sensing the knowledge under her foundation.

"I'm not-... running. I just-... I don't know. It's just not a good time."

"Then when is a good time?"

"Who knows? Sometime? Never? I don't-. I don't know." Pacifica felt a slight tremble against his sleeve. Dipper's fists balled up, clenched brutishly against the strong twine of polyester pants, close to tearing holes. She sighed, dropping her hand.

" Dipper. " Her gaze was firm, forcing his eyes to trail every instance of light bouncing over sky-blue waters. "If we don't talk about it now, we'll never talk about it ever. " Pacifica assured him. And, he couldn't deny; she was right. He'd been avoiding it so long, though. So long in the dark, left confused and unconfident.

Who would he be once he was sure?

Dipper's lip curled in, tugged gently between chattering teeth. His eyes darted away, to the empty glass. To the hand placed next to his, close but not touching. The cup clasped between delicate fingers. The men dancing, darting, and drinking. Then, to the phone placed just in front of him, glowing and dying with yet another text. His gaze returned.

"Okay..." Dipper agreed finally, lifting and lowering his head. "Let's talk." A soft smile curled over Pacifica's lips, only to lean back on her hands and gaze hopefully.

"You know, Mabel's been texting me non-stop about the whole situation." The smirk on her lips was coy, a bit dry at the edges, but still smug enough to instill potent taunting. "Looks like you and Bill were saying some dirty things-."

"Oh my god, stop." Instant regret flowed over his neck, seeping into the pores of hot skin and trickling down his spine. He buried his face in his hands, cheeks glowing red. "That was so weird." Dipper's muffled voice came.

"No shit, genius. You almost traumatized her."

"I take it back. No more talking." He made a move to stand, only for her vice-like grip to tug him in place. She continued.

"She's... Really upset, Dipper."

"Yeah, I know. " He grouched, leaning back in his seat. What he wouldn't do for a martini right now. "It wasn't like I was trying to rub it in her face. She was just... there, and I didn't know, and I get that it was super weird and uncomfortable for her and she-.

"Oh, no, no, no, no. You got it all wrong, home wrecker." Pacifica put a finger up, whipping out her phone in an instance. The screen was unlocked, text messages already in place for his viewing. "She's pissed you didn't tell her."

Uh... What ?

"Uh... What?"

"You heard me." She passed the phone on, crossing her arms with new-found control of the situation. "You should've told her, jerk."

A heavy stone in his chest. Cold, wide and caving, yet empty. Dipper felt hot inside. Not the good heat, leading to spectacular excitement and satisfaction. Or, angry heat; the malten burn of wrath. Not even the shameful burn of embarrassment. Simply... burn. Like something uncontrollable. A forest fire in his heart, looking down at the cellular device. He knew what she meant.

"How..." Dipper's voice broke off, fighting against the strain of clenching flesh. He sucked in an awkward breath, trying his best to keep focus. "How... W-with Wendy, and home, and work, I-... Where was something like this supposed to fit in?" He thought he'd cried himself dry over the last week, but apparently he still had tears to give. His voice broke, forcing him to once again pause, recuperate, and breath.

"I never wanted this ... I shouldn't have wanted it, but-" Dipper clasped a hand over his mouth, the sudden jerk of pain unbearable in that instance. He thought he might collapse. A kind warmth finally met his hand, fingers rubbing against his with soothing motions.

"But, that's who you are, dork. Can't judge, right?" Her smile was piercing; something he could've fallen for if he wasn't... Wasn't...

Dipper took a sharp breath, shaking his head in hopes of keeping the tears back, but they just kept coming.

"I... I think I'm gay." He finally said, voice a meer wisp. That was it for him. He hunched forward, willing his other hand over his mouth with wide eyes, tears pouring out like they'd never done before, and only dabbed away by Pacifica's shirt cuff. She let out a sympathising sound, spot-free of pity or annoyance. Simply cooing as she wrapped both arms over his head, pulling his face into the crook of her neck.

"I know, nerd. I know." Pacifica's voice held lines of sadness as her hand went up, rubbing circles over his back. A ten-year crush: demolished . Still, she couldn't help but warm at his own clarity. He'd always been such a stiff, it was nearly impossible to get him out like this. His arms returned around her after an instance of tears, pulling her tightly against him.

" You're n- not the worst any-more." Pacifica snorted at him, ruffling his hair just slightly.

"I guess this is as good a time as any to tell you I've been trying to steal you from Wendy for, like, a year , huh?" Dipper let out a broken laugh, nuzzling closer into her shoulder. He felt heavy all over; like lead. Like he was being pulled down into the depth of no return. Sinking, sinking, sinking. But, the captain always goes down with his ship. The thought gave rise to pure, untainted lucidity. He was sure. Broken, but sure. This was right. This was true. Another laugh, a bit brighter, and a bit more clear.

" Yeah. I know."