Chapter Text
△
VO DVU’A FVB RPZZ TL VU AOL TVBAO HUK SVCL TL SPRL H ZHPSVY? HUK DOLU FVB NLA H AHZAL, JHU FVB ALSS TL DOHA’Z TF MSHCVBY?
A large mixing bowl filled to the brim with popcorn is passed to you from where Mabel lounges in Stan’s chair, tapping against your shoulder in a casual gesture of offering. Eagerly, you accept it, cramming a fistful into your mouth without even peeling your eyes away from the television. The two of you have spent almost the entire day so far in a hazy fugue-state of lethargic movie watching, having powered your way through a hefty stack of DVDs. Your romantic-comedy education, as Mabel had put it. The late afternoon has crept up on you, seemingly out of nowhere - hours are far too easy to burn through when losing yourself to fiction.
Mabel fidgets in the armchair, excited for the conclusion of your current movie; it’s ending on a New Year’s Eve party, or so you’ve been told. Getting to sit in Stan’s chair is a rare treat, which you know Mabel is gladly taking full advantage of. Stan happens to be out, scouting second-hand arcade machines with an enthusiastic Soos in tow. Something new for the shack, they’d said, when they spotted the ad online.
Ford and Dipper are out as well, on some exploratory jaunt into the woods to track an unusual breed of deer they’ve discovered. Melody happens to be busying herself with decorating the shack’s event room, and Bill? Bill is… somewhere. You try not to worry about him - after all, you don’t need to be together all the time… Still, the nagging itch of where is Bill sits in the back of your mind, dormant and looming. You do your best to ignore it.
Waddles sits beside you on the floor, his snores occasionally loud but always endearingly adorable. Whenever he makes a small squeak in his sleep, you can’t resist the urge to give him a reassuring pat or scratch behind the ears, smiling to yourself as he settles back down. Mabel squeals too - often at the dramatic turns in the movie plots or when the lead pair finally kiss. It doesn’t bother you; in fact, quite the opposite - you actually find it very charming.
In a world full of cynics and hardened souls, Mabel is a bright spot of effervescent energy and vibrant joy. She finds an excess of delight in almost everything she does, bringing with her an abundance of colour, laughter and infectious exhilaration. She is a tonic; the antidote to everything that’s too strict or too miserable in life. You adore her company, finding yourself indulging in a relaxing of your inhibitions, letting go of your habit of acting too grown-up - with Mabel, you get to kick back and be silly.
That’s something you can do with Bill, too, you muse - Mabel can be almost as chaotic as him; in fact, they have quite a lot in common, when you really think about it. If Bill made the effort, perhaps they could even be good friends. Or, maybe, that’s hoping for too much - either way, you stash the thought in your mind for another time.
“Ooooh! This is gonna to be us, soon!” Mabel says excitedly. You perk up, drawing your attention back to the movie - the party happening on-screen. “Grunkle Stan throws the best New Year’s parties! Anyone who’s anyone will be here.”
“Oh?” You twist your head back to glance at Mabel; her starry-eyed gaze is glued to the screen. “We’re having a party like this one?”
“Ours will be even better than this one,” Mabel scoffs. She gasps softly, lowering her voice to a hushed whisper. “Oh! The best bit is coming up, oh!”
You turn your focus back to the movie, watching as a countdown begins in a cheerful chant. As the characters shout Happy New Year, they begin to sing, with many of them kissing each other and embracing. It pulls a string of curious feeling from out of you; learning about human traditions continues to be a favourite pastime of yours.
“Is that normal?” You ask Mabel quietly. “What they’re doing?”
“Kissing at midnight? PFFF, it’s only the WHOLE POINT of New Year’s!” Mabel says. “Getting to kiss your true love as the clock strikes twelve, right as a brand new year begins… Can you imagine anything more romantic?”
“I see,” you say; but you don’t, really. “So it’s like, a thing that people do? Humans, I mean?”
“Uh-huh!”
Mabel is distracted, too focussed on the movie to really elaborate any further; the male lead has entered the scene, pleading his case to the female lead. They’ve had a will-they-won’t-they, friends-to-lovers sort of storyline throughout the film - Mabel took great pleasure in explaining all of these tropes to you - and now the story has reached a feverish climax.
“And I came here tonight because when you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible,” the male lead tells his love interest, with urgent desperation in his voice.
You watch as she melts into his arms, her face tearful and her attempts at resistance futile; they kiss passionately, and the crowd around them continues to sing a song that sounds equal parts melancholy and hopeful. The couple discuss the lyrics of the song, bringing the comedy back, and as the movie ends, you’re left with a strange aching sensation in your ribcage.
Later, alone in your room, you try to sort through the burgeoning feelings of soreness, attempting to figure it out. Something in those words - you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible - burns within you, begging to be taken notice of. You don’t know quite how to muddle through it; your thoughts are busy, confused. Disjointed.
The star fragment Bill had gifted you sits in its jar on your desk, glowing with constant and comforting radiance. You stare at it, wistful, enraptured by its beauty. Such a precious thing; what a great deal you must mean to Bill for him to have given you something so special, you think. What a great deal he must mean to you, for you to be so endlessly touched by it. How strongly you must feel about him.
And you do, don’t you? You do have strong feelings about Bill; possibly the strongest feelings you’ve ever had about anyone in your life - at least, that you can remember for an incredibly long time. You can’t even recall the last time you’d sought out companionship of any kind, choosing instead to act as a lone nomad, never getting too attached to any one place or person. Attachment means loss, loss means grief - grief means existing with that raw and bitter chasm inside of you, having to tolerate it and carry it like a heavy burden.
You pace your room, frustrated. If you had to put into words how you feel about Bill - how you really feel about him - how could you? You care about him deeply, of course you do - you have done so for months, now; as demonstrated by your actions, the lengths you have gone to trying to ensure his happiness. And, if you’re being honest, to ensure your own happiness, too - existing without Bill doesn’t feel possible to you anymore. The pain would be too great. The loss would be too cruel.
So, you want to spend the rest of your life with him, whatever that looks like. You’ve already been aware of this fact, but now it hits you like a fresh realisation; Bill is the rest of your life. Your future doesn’t exist without him by your side - that is how you feel about him.
And there are those… other, feelings, too. The ones you feel when Bill’s humour catches you off guard, or he raises his brow at you wryly as you share a private joke, or when he shows off his intelligence and prowess. How you feel when you are both together as Euclidean beings; like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like fate itself had intended it. Like you could waltz through the cosmos together, hand in hand, without a care in the world, and it would be exactly how the stars meant to align all along.
Is it… Is it more than just friendship? You’ve had a few thoughts, sure - blushing when Bill praises your rapidly improving Euclidean abilities, or letting your stare linger on him for longer than usual when you are together, feeling a heat in your veins; just a crush, you’d thought. Just a silly crush, right? Something you can get over, move on from - a side effect of borrowing another form. Just as shifting into a lion would have you craving the taste of prey, shifting into any form comes with some unusual instincts you learn to ignore… Right?
You’re suddenly not so sure. You continue to amble about your room restlessly, picking up objects and setting them down again in some pathetic pantomime of tidying. Do you feel… romantic feelings about Bill? It’s been centuries since you entertained romantic feelings of any kind, you’re not even sure if you remember how it’s meant to feel, like you’ve forgotten all the rules. Does it feel like this? Like frantic madness? Like a lingering sense of need, of wanting - with no amount of closeness ever feeling like enough?
And anyway, does Bill even… Would he even want that? Romantic feelings… Is that something Bill is even capable of? You sigh through clenched teeth as you flop yourself to a sit on the edge of your bed. You know Bill has a history of… intimacy. He’d told you as much. But has he ever wanted a romantic partner like that? Would it ever work between you?
When you realise you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible. The words repeat over and over in your mind like a relentless wave, ceaselessly crashing against any other thought you might distract yourself with, refusing to be ignored. Your brain feels addled by all of the romantic fiction you’ve consumed over the day, and you are lost to the wild abandon of your imagination. Should you kiss Bill at midnight, on New Year’s Eve? Is that what you should do?
How would that even work? You laugh to yourself then, as you picture it in your mind; planting your human face to his eyeball, your lips pressed to his socket. No, you think. That’s ridiculous. Isn’t it? Is it? You huff out a few more nervous chuckles, feeling self-conscious even in the privacy of your own thoughts - what would everyone think? What would Bill think? Would he laugh at you?
Or would he kiss you back?
It’s no use. You shove the thought away, pushing it down into some dark corner - the same place you repress all of the other unwanted or overwhelming thoughts and feelings. It’s too much to think about now, too much to deal with; but something about the idea sits in your chest, a tickling sensation that clings to you regardless. A giddy, bubbling feeling that makes you draw your bed sheets right up above your head as you settle down for sleep that night. A racing of your pulse, a cloudy collection of thoughts in your mind with one standing out like a beacon - an idea. An idea that feels like white-heat in your blood, like a shivering chill between your shoulder blades: kiss him.
That’s all it is for now. An idea. Just an idea. That’s all it needs to be.
…But would he kiss you back?
---△***△***△---
Bill Cipher has been inside the bedroom of the younger Pines twins many times; mostly to torment Dipper during that one fateful summer, even going as far as to deliberately fall down the stairs in Dipper’s own body on one particularly memorable occasion. It is not an unfamiliar space to him - nowhere on Earth is, really, as he watches from many places. But in this moment, the room feels like a brand new and treacherous prison cell to Bill, one that involves… bonding.
At your request, Bill finds himself - against all odds - making an effort to built better rapport with the Pines family, as best he can. This day, he sits with Mabel in the twins’ bedroom, planted on the floor, staring unimpressed at the board game spread out before him.
You - a traitor, deserter - have gone out to do work with Ford, something Bill didn’t feel like tagging along with this time for… reasons. And so, you had encouraged him with a gentle nudge and a wink to spend his time bettering his reputation with the other shack residents. Mabel had seemed like the only one willing to give Bill any time of day, and so he ended up roped into this - playing Calling All Boys with an overexcited teenage girl.
He glances around the room, noticing the slight changes. Nothing about Mabel’s side of the room has really altered that much at all - it’s still caked in posters and littered with plush toys, random boxes full of buttons and odd lengths of yarn. Dipper’s side looks barren in comparison. Bill assesses this through a narrowed eye, his arms folded, his sour mood more than evident.
“Aren’t you a little old to still be sharing a room?” He comments sulkily, just for the sake of getting a jibe in.
“Dipper normally takes that spare room when we stay these days,” Mabel explains with a shrug as she moves her game piece. “But Birch is in there right now, so. We’re making it work! It’s fine.”
“Oh, fine, she says,” Bill sneers, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Bet it’s reeeeeal cosy, huh? Pine Tree must be thrilled to be shoved back in here because someone better got the good room. Tell me, does he cry much about it? HAHAHA, I bet he does! Probably whines about it in his precious journal, too!”
“Nah, he doesn’t care,” Mabel says with a cheerful shrug, completely brushing off Bill’s taunts. He frowns. “He’s, like, always busy with some nerd stuff - he only sleeps in here, and even then, it’s barely sleeping. Pretty sure he just powers down like a robot or something. Anyway, it’s your turn, Bill! You get to roll the dice!”
Bill lets out a dramatic, world-weary sigh, but he complies - he never can resist a game, no matter how ridiculous, even one about phone calls from imaginary boys. He rolls the dice with concentrated determination, tossing it onto the board. Using his magic, Bill moves his piece several spaces with a quick flick of his wrist; it floats in a glow of blue light, landing on the right square.
“Aw, man,” Mabel says, sympathetic. “That’s too bad. No phone call for you this time.”
“WHAT?!” Bill screeches, his outrage echoing throughout the room. “This game is RIGGED! How long does a guy have to wait before some frosted-tips loser FINALLY picks up the phone, HUH?!” He throws his hands in the air, gesturing wildly at the board like it’s personally offended him. “What, are they all too busy networking at a six-pack convention for the terminally oiled?!”
“It’s okay!” Mabel giggles, unbothered. “You’ll get another turn soon! Who knows? Maybe next time you’ll get a call from the beach house dream boy! Don’t lose hope yet, he’s totally worth the wait.”
Bill grumbles, his temper reluctantly withheld. After a few more unlucky turns, though, he grows bored of the game and impatient for something interesting to happen; completely disrupting the flow of play, Bill interrupts Mabel’s current turn to suit his own agenda. Better get this personal growth out the way, he decides to himself dryly, thinking mostly of you. Bill suddenly - and noisily - makes an impression of a phone ringing, in such an intrusively obnoxious way that Mabel raises an eyebrow.
“RING, RING!” Bill crows. “You gonna answer it, Shooting Star? Don’t let it go to voicemail!”
To her credit, Mabel plays along, albeit with a look of apprehension. She lifts the toy phone receiver to her ear. “Uh… Hello…?”
“OH YEAH HEY, it’s, uh… BRAD here,” Bill riffs, improvising and sounding notably chipper. “And I’ve got a message for you, so are you ready to listen up?!”
“Um… Yes?” Mabel answers slowly, clearly confused. She twirls the spiral cord of the toy rotary phone in her finger out of habit.
“COOL, COOL. So, here’s the deal, kid. Do you remember when some guy tried to take over your town a few years ago? YEAH, that was some CUH-RAZY stuff, huh? WILD TIMES. TOTALLY TUBULAR!”
Mabel’s eyes narrow. “…Yeah. I remember.”
“RIGHT, I mean how could you FORGET?” Bill babbles, avoiding eye contact. “SO, UH, YEAH, the point is, I guess he’s SORRY, or whatever, and he wanted me, BRAD, to tell you. And, uh, he’s also sorry for trapping you in a bubble. Y’know, that perfect world of your own insane creation? Yeah. THAT.”
“O-Okay,” Mabel blinks in surprise, clinging to the receiver.
“UH-HUH,” Bill says, still not meeting her gaze. He stares at the ceiling, the floor - anywhere but Mabel’s face. “YEAH. I guess in SOME WAYS he kinda thought he was doing you a favour, maybe. AND, UH, he always kinda liked you, kid! You’ve got a crazy brain that matches his wacky streak, you get me? But, uh, yeah. He’s learned that was totally not RADICAL of him, or WHATEVER, so… He’s SORRY. For all that WEIRDMAGEDDON stuff. PFFF, what a stand up guy, RIGHT?!”
Bill sighs, the pain of giving a vulnerable apology weighing on him bitterly, even when done indirectly; Mabel visibly softens, which he notices with a quick glance. The urge to immediately take it all back with a cackling laugh and a snide comment eats at Bill - he ignores it with great effort, thinking instead of you. How proud you will be. How pleased.
“Well, Brad,” Mabel says, grinning. “Can you tell this guy that I thank him for his apology? It’s gonna take me a little longer for me to totally forgive him or trust him, but I think he’s on the right track! And I’m open to trying to be friends. Everyone deserves a second chance, especially when they’ve shown they can change.”
“Wait, really?” Bill’s eye snaps wide open, staring at Mabel with genuine astonishment. “You mean it? Even though I possessed Pine Tree and tried to turn you both into corpses?”
“Oh my gosh, BRAD? Are you actually… BILL?!” Mabel mock-gasps, covering her open mouth with a hand.
“W-WAIT, NO!” Bill flails, his facade crumbling. “UHHH, IT’S STILL BRAD HERE-”
Mabel is laughing with so much girlish and gleeful delight that Bill gives up his act, shrugging with a groan. He watches as Mabel sets down the phone receiver gently. She beams at him with a kind of benevolent knowing in her eyes, some bit of wisdom that wasn’t there three years ago.
“It’s hard to grow and change, isn’t it?” Mabel muses, her tone thoughtful. “I get it. I was kinda selfish too, y’know, when I was younger. I went a bit, WOO-WOO, CRAZY LADY at the end of that summer. I had a lot to think about after.”
“O-Oh, yeah?” Bill scratches an edge. “G-Good for you, kid.”
“I can see you’re trying, though,” Mabel says softly. “Birch is a good influence on you.”
“Y-Yeah,” Bill agrees. “And, well, y’know… nothing like a dash of medical abuse, institutional torment and some reluctant soul-searching to make a guy reevaluate his life choices, ahaha…”
Mabel laughs along nervously. She looks at Bill carefully, and he feels observed in the same way he does with you - not entirely uncomfortably, but seen in a way he doesn’t always know how to handle. It feels equally disquieting and soothing. He chooses not to offer anything else, and Mabel - kindly - moves the conversation along with tact.
“It’s your turn, Bill,” she nudges, offering the dice.
“Alright, alright,” Bill rolls his eye, playing up his disdain with less vigour than before. “Let’s see if I can finally bag one of these hunks, eh?”
This time, Bill strikes lucky - as his piece lands on its new space on the board, Mabel lets out a high-pitched noise of excitement. “Bill! You can draw a dream boy card!”
“OH, BOY!” Bill brightens, rubbing his hands together. “I HOPE I HEAR FROM RICKY!” When the toy phone starts to ring, Bill rushes to pick it up, unashamedly eager. “YELLOW?”
“Hey cutie,” the voice coming through the receiver says. “It’s Doctor Studwell here - and I heard that you have a case of love fever! I know just the cure you need - how about we book in a one-to-one session? I can schedule you in an appointment for some… heart-to-heart therapy, complete with tender hugs, sincere compliments and a prescription for one smouldering gaze a day! But be careful - side effects may include butterflies, daydreaming and uncontrollable blushing! So, what do you say, honeybun? Are you ready for your check up?”
Bill immediately slams the handset down, his eye twitching and his body trembling. What the… What was that? Something in Bill’s spirit had tightened at those words, something real and deep and confused - what the fuck is going on? Is a child’s toy really having this kind of effect on him?
“So who was it?” Mabel queries, her smile pushing the apples of her cheeks into rosy round shapes. “Who did you get?!”
“NO ONE,” Bill manages in a stressed monotone. “NOTHING. IT WAS NOTHING.”
“Woaaaaah!” Mabel looks at the card, her eyebrows raising. “Doctor Studwell?! Even I’ve never gotten a call from him, and I’ve played this game like, a bajillion times! What was it like? What did he say? Did he sound dreamy?”
“I DON’T WANT TO PLAY THIS GAME ANYMORE,” Bill says flatly, frozen in place.
“What? Noooo, why?!” Mabel frowns. “Don’t tell me: he’s already cheating on you! Gah! That scoundrel.”
Bill is sweating - somehow, in that inexplicable way he occasionally does when messily adrenalised; narrow beads of perspiration trailing lines down his back and edges. The call… The call had reminded him too much of… you. Of the things Bill wishes you would say to him, the sultry tones Bill wishes he could hear coming from your mouth…
He realises he’s shaking with a pang of humiliation, his pupil darting in a jagged movement down to glance at his hands. Something in his body language must be unbearably obvious, as Mabel picks up on it without missing a beat.
“Wait,” she whispers, conspiratorial. “You have a thing for doctors!”
“N-No,” Bill tries, his voice broken and thin. “No, no I don’t, don’t be so- WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT?!”
Mabel gasps again. “You SO do! Or could it be… Bill, do you have a real crush on someone?!”
“PFFFFFFF,” Bill attempts to scoff, but the heat he feels in his bricks burns too hotly to be anything other than a brutally obvious tell-tale sign of the truth. “THAT’S-”
“Oh PLEASE, this is a safe space,” Mabel gestures at the room - at the circle of soft toys sat around, at the sleeping pig beside her, at herself. “C’mon, spill. You DO have a crush, DON’T YOU? Who is it? You can tell me! C’maaaan! Tell me! Tell me!”
“YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT,” Bill spits out, his whole body feeling wracked with horror. “I’M LEAVING NOW.”
“You like Birch, don’t you?” Mabel says, a sneaky edge lacing her tone. She smiles with the kind of wickedness a villain displays when they have their opponent cornered.
Bill, who had been about to float upwards and away to his escape, freezes; he turns back to Mabel with slow, snagging movement that feels difficult given how tense his body is. He feels a wash of cold fear drenching him, mixed with embarrassment and shame - how has this sixteen year old child seen through him in such an effortless way?!
“I knew it,” Mabel whispers. “You do, don’t you? You have a crush on Birch!”
“AHAHAHAHA - you sure know how to use that imagination of yours, dontcha?!” Bill tries, he really tries, laying it on as thick as he possibly can. It’s no use. “I bet you’ve even-”
“Do they know?” Mabel is persistent, her fists clenched in enthused interest. “Oh, this is so EXCITING! When did it start? Have you told them yet? Gimme the DEETS, c’mon!”
Bill can’t stop the animalistic groan that leaves him; low and guttural, like a wounded beast who’s finally realised they need to give up and simply lie down and perish. He floats back down to a defeated sit on the floor, wishing he could dissolve away into atoms. Why must the fates test him this way? Hasn’t he atoned enough?
“If you tell anyone, I’ll turn your pig into bacon,” Bill deadpans.
Mabel screams in unabashed and pealing elation, her victory audible in every piercing decibel. “Haven’t you heard of girl code?! Everything shared during a sleepover is SACRED, Bill!” She folds her arms and nods sagely. “Your secrets are safe with me, I promise! I won’t tell a soul. Not even Dipper.”
Mabel mimes zipping her lips shut, tossing away the invisible key; she waggles her brow at Bill expectantly, looking so much like Stan that it feels startling. Several questions run through Bill’s mind - what is he doing, how did he get here, why is this his life - why is he about to tell a literal child about his problems?! Although, he HAS already admitted it to Ford, so… What’s one more Pines on the list of his confidants?
“Yeah,” Bill finally concedes with a sigh, slumping where he sits. “I like ‘em, okay? That what you wanna hear? You gonna laugh at me now?”
Mabel squeals and kicks her legs, finally waking up Waddles in the process. She leans forward, sparkles in her eyes. “I KNEW IT! SO?! Are you gonna TELL THEM?!”
“I wasn’t planning on it,” Bill lies through clenched socket.
“OH! You know what you should do? You should KISS them on New Year’s Eve!” Mabel slams her closed fist into her other open palm, a physical outlet for her brilliant bolt of inspiration. “It’s the PERFECT CRIME! Cause if it all ends up weird and awkward, you can just blame it on the spirit of the moment or whatever! Just say you got carried away!”
“That’s stu-” Bill cuts off his own sentence, his mind working. Wait. “…Huh. Actually, you know what? That’s kind of genius, kid.”
“ISN’T IT?! I’m a master of romance!”
“I knew I had a reason to like you!” Bill perks up. “HA! You would have made a good Henchmaniac.”
“I have no idea what that means, but I’ll take it!” Mabel says happily. “So. Are you gonna do it?”
Bill considers, rubbing at his face. “We’ll see,” he says, mysteriously. Mabel rolls her eyes as she packs the game away. “And don’t you go blabbering about this to anyone, ya dig?! I can’t have this getting out. I’ve got an image to protect. Just imagine what the papers would say!”
That night, as Bill flits about the town on dream duty, he dwells on Mabel’s suggestion as it burrows into his mind and makes a home there. He knows about the human tradition of a New Year’s Eve kiss - something he had always thought was hilariously gross, lips and spit smashing together as the arbitrary counting of another year gone reaches its peak. But… wouldn’t it be something? Couldn’t this be his chance?
And doesn’t he want that, so very much? The taste of your tongue clashing with this own - isn’t it all he can think about, lately?
Food for thought, indeed.
---△***△***△---
The funny thing about feelings, as you’ve discovered recently, is that they don’t truly go away, no matter how much you try to ignore them. In fact, the more you attempt to push them away, the stronger they seem to fight back - pushing like weeds, demanding to be seen and begging to be pruned. As such, the new and buzzing cluster of thoughts and feelings you’ve begun to harbour for Bill are persistent and growing, marinating in your mind and strengthening with every hour that passes.
It almost physically hurts; a hollow ache in your lungs, like you aren’t getting enough oxygen. A frigidity on the surface of your skin, like something needs to warm you there, something needs to hold you. You don’t truly know how to handle it - how can you verbalise to Bill what it is that you are feeling, without scaring him away? How can you make him understand, while also letting him know that this is your problem to manage, not his? To dump this on him feels like it would be unfair, a selfish burden that would alleviate your soul but tarnish his - hasn’t he had enough to deal with?
And yet, you cannot help the itch you feel. The itch to reach out and touch him whenever he passes you, or to get him alone - his company, all to yourself, shared with no one else. As the end of Earth’s current year creeps closer, you can’t help but notice Bill seems to be avoiding you slightly - choosing to spend more of his time out of the shack doing whatever it is he does when he’s not with you. You know letting him have this freedom is vital, but it stings, anyway.
On the day before New Year’s Eve, you sit in your room, wading through the barrage of emotions that always come for you when you are wallowing in in solitude. Without the distraction of keeping busy with Ford or Bill - or indeed, anyone - you have too much space to think about your own situation. You find yourself flicking through your old journal, the one you kept in the Theraprism, reading through entries that seem like they were written a lifetime ago.
Bill called me his friend! HIS FRIEND!
Laughing at yourself, at the life you have lived since, you read over the words again. What would you think now, if you could see what ended up happening? The strides you have taken, the journey you have been on? You and Bill have been through so much together, enough to bond two souls as one; forged together by circumstance and then action. Chaos theory indeed.
What would your life be like without him? It cuts at you to think about, but you’re unable to prevent this intrusive alleyway of imagining before it takes over. It’s an unbearable concept. You have to be with Bill always, to have him close always - a team of two against the world, whatever that looks like. For the rest of your life. Surely, even if not romantic, that’s a reasonable goal? Even if Bill doesn’t feel that way about you, you can at least be close, always? Existing as partners, in some other bespoke way that suits you both just fine?
You realise you are silently crying when a tear falls, hot and heavy, landing on the journal page. The tear wets the paper, making old ink bleed anew. When did you start crying? You wipe your tears, closing the journal, deciding that’s quite enough self-indulgence for one night. Sleep seems like the answer now.
When you turn, Bill is there, quietly hovering behind you; noticing him makes you jump, and you work to wipe the rest of your tears from your face with more urgent and fumbling effort.
“How long have you been here?” You ask, forcing a limp-cornered and lopsided smile.
“Not long,” Bill answers plainly. “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not! I’m not, I’m just…” you gesture a hand around in a circular wave, floundering for words. “This human form, y’know? Humans are so emotional, aren’t they? I don’t even know myself. Phewf! It’s whatever.”
Bill isn’t convinced. As you move to busy yourself about the room, he follows, trailing behind you in a cautious float. “Are… Are you sure? You wanna talk about it?”
“No, no,” you scoff, flapping a hand in dismissal. “Bill, it’s nothing honestly. Don’t worry about me.”
“Well, uh, why don’t you take a breather from that soft human head, then?” Bill tries, eye-smiling at you fondly. “We could go out tonight, how ‘bout it? Take the ol’ triangle out for a spin, whaddya say?”
The offer is tempting, and honestly you can’t think of anything you want more; to shift quickly into your Euclidean self, to slip out into the night with Bill at your side, getting up to mischief. You sigh a short and harsh exhale through your teeth - no. It’s too risky - your feelings for Bill are at their strongest when you are a triangle, too much to ignore and deal with. You might fuck something up. You could make a mistake. Or, at the very least, you’ll be suffering in silence. Even more than you already are.
“Nah, not… not tonight, Bill,” you tell him without meeting his stare. “I need to sleep. Big day tomorrow, right? I promised Mabel I’d let her give me a makeover for the party, and I still need to help Melody hang some of the-”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Bill says quietly. He is visibly disappointed; the guilt eats at you like a disease. “You’ve got shit to do, I hear ya.”
“You know, tomorrow is the last day of their calendar year,” you say, just to shift the tension somewhat.
“Uh-huh.”
“Ford tells me the humans give themselves resolutions for the coming year.”
“What’s that now?”
“Y’know,” you shrug, easing yourself into your bed. “Like, goals they want to achieve for the year ahead. I’ve been thinking about what mine could be.”
“Oh, yeah?” Bill looks uncomfortable, and you can’t help but feel to blame. He fidgets where he floats, awkward and subdued.
“Mmm,” you manage, sleepy now. “Maybe you should think of some too.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure,” Bill glances away, distracted. He stares at the star fragment on your desk, wringing his hands. “Yeah, I’ll, uh, think on it, kid.”
The escape of sleep beckons you; your eyes begin to close. Before you can fully pass out, Bill’s voice drags you back into awareness.
“Hey, kid? Uh, can I tell you something?”
You open your eyes, blearily. “Mmm?”
Bill hesitates, looking anguished. He looks between you and then the window, then your desk, then back to you. After a few moments, he releases the tension in his limbs and sighs.
“It’s nothing,” he says. “Goodnight, kid. Sleep good.”
That night, you dream of huge, sprawling fields of sunflowers, you and Bill gliding in the air together as triangles over the sea of bright petals. You laugh, you tease, you hold each other’s hands and dance. This is not really Bill, you know that - it is the version of him you dream as a fantasy. You know this because it always feels a tiny bit off - if it was really Bill in the Mindscape with you, you would be able to tell immediately. You spent enough time with him in the Mindscape to know how different that feels. How much better.
Still. You can’t help but hope that maybe real Bill is watching, anyhow. Maybe it would make all of this so much easier, if he could see what you are struggling to put to words. How in the dream, you take fantasy-Bill’s hands in yours, how you look into his eye, and ask him the question you currently most desire the answer to:
If I kissed you, would you kiss me back?
---△***△***△---
You look at yourself in the handheld mirror Mabel holds up for you; your human and freshly made-up eyes blink back at you, astounded. Mabel has done a surprisingly tasteful and reigned-in makeup look for you, and the effect is wholly pleasing. You’d expected garish colours and a smattering of glitter - which you wouldn’t have minded, actually. Still, you can’t help but ogle yourself in the mirror, turning your face from side to side.
“I look… great,” you say, breezily. “I’m, uh… Thanks, this is, um. I really like it, Mabel, you’ve got some real skill.”
“Awww, shucks,” Mabel scoffs, beaming coyly. “Please. You’re like, the perfect model!”
As you shift into an outfit a little more suitable for a party - something you’d seen in a magazine and instantly fallen in love with - Mabel gazes at you, enraptured. You pose for her dutifully, turning and jutting out your hip.
“How do I look?” You ask, a little nervously.
“Like a million bucks!” Mabel answers, giving you two thumbs up. “Now, go get ‘em, tiger!”
The Mystery Shack’s New Year’s Bash is a blur of faces you’ve never seen before, music thrumming through the walls and a general sense of contagious excitement. The event room has been decked out with various decorations and adornments, and a lighting system has been set up to give the room a sheen of festive atmosphere. It’s like walking into one of those clubs in the nightlife dimension, you think; dark corners with tiny candles, strings of fairy lights, vibrant neon strobe lighting shifting around the room in rhythmic movement. It’s hard not to get swept up in the giddiness of it all.
And the room is full, too - as Mabel had told you, anyone who’s anyone is present. As you slip your way through the crowd of party-goers, seeking familiar faces, you spot Dipper leaning against a wall, talking to a blonde girl you haven’t met. He’s slicked his hair back, has cleaned up nicely - she wears a stunning, sparkling red dress, complete with expensive-looking accessories. Dipper says something that makes her laugh, and then they laugh together, and he blushes - she rolls her eyes, shoves him on the shoulder, then drags him out to the dance floor. You make a mental note to query Mabel about that. How interesting.
When you find Mabel, finally, amongst the bustling throb of party, she’s too preoccupied to interrupt. She dances chaotically with two other girls you also don’t recognise - friends, you assume - as they bop to the upbeat music. Soos, on the DJ booth, sets off some system that breathes out a misting of atmospheric smoke into the centre of the dance floor; Mabel and her friends squeal in delight, waving their arms around in the smog.
Wendy is present, too, looking unusually lady-like in a floor-length black dress, her hair pinned up. She nudges an awkward-looking and brace-faced boy with familiar red hair, and two more taller boys appear beside her. The family resemblance is uncanny; they must be her brothers. You don’t hear her words, but she boisterously shoves her brothers into the dance floor, laughing heartily. You giggle to yourself at their startled faces, squeezing past bodies to explore elsewhere.
You see Ford, then. Sitting at one of the tables against the wall, talking with a bearded man, seemingly engrossed in deep discussion. Stan, meanwhile, is the life of the party - currently busy trying to shill raffle tickets for his very unethically-rigged raffle, shovelling handfuls of dollars into his pockets. You catch his eye across the room, offering a wry and knowing smirk. He throws you a wink, before becoming immediately distracted with another taker for the raffle. You decide to leave him to it.
The energy of the party buzzes through you, as does the alcohol; the huge bowl of punch at the centre of the drinks table is lethal, having been concocted by Ford and clearly laced with something not from this dimension. As you sip it, it reminds you of drinks you’d tasted on other planets, and you’re alarmed to notice that it seems to be smoking slightly from within your cup. It tastes good, though, so you knock back more of it than perhaps you should. You’re surprised Ford would even make something like this - Bill would be proud, if he knew, you think.
Bill. Bill is the only one not present. Instead, he’s hiding in your room, knowing that if all the townsfolk of Gravity Falls saw him there, it could cause a mass hysteria. He’s opted instead to save everyone that disaster and keep himself stashed away upstairs, for the sake of not spoiling the party. You miss him fiercely, feeling that longing strengthening with every cupful of booze you chug down. You wish he was with you. You wish he was with you.
You lose track of time. The music sends pleasant vibrations through your spine, and alcohol fizzes in your bloodstream with a sort of tingling sensation that fills you with euphoria. You feel good. You feel like dancing, and you’re about to - pushing yourself woozily through the crowd, but then - you bump into someone before you make it to the dance floor. A sturdy frame, a wide chest…
“Woaaah-ho-ho,” Stan breathes out, his strong hands coming to grab at your upper arms, steadying you. “Woah there! You okay, kid? Phewf, you look pretty trashed! Ford’s punch really knocks you for six, huh? Get it? FOR SIX? Cause he has six fingers! AHAHA!”
You snort out a stream of messy laughter, the giggles toppling out of you as you look up at Stan through intoxicated eyes. He’s grinning at you, but that grin falters slightly as he feels you swaying under his grip.
“That is HILARIOUS,” you slur, prodding at his chest. “Stan, you are a SCREAM! And by, by the w-way, thank you for letting me ssstay here. Heh. I love you guys. I love this place. You’re all the BEST.”
“Uhhh,” Stan glances quickly to the side, at something across the way; perhaps at Ford, you think. “Yeah, don’t, uh, don’t mention it. Hey, here’s an idea, why don’t you go sit down for a bit, huh? Maybe drink some water?”
“PFFFF,” you scoff, pushing Stan’s hands away from you. “No, why would I do that? I’m fine. I’m having a great night! Don’t harsh my mellow, Stan. Don’t be that guy!”
“Harsh your… What?” Stan’s brow raises, but you pay no attention; you shove past him and back into the fray.
Music. Lights. Dancing. A cup in your hand; drained, empty. You toss it to a table, ignoring the cry of hey that someone makes. You dance. You turn. Lights. Blur. Good feeling in your muscles, stretching out. Breathing heavy, pulse racing. Voices. Are you okay? Yes, you’re fine. You’re having a good time. Flashes. Lights. Dancing. Music. Heat. Drink. Time drifting past you.
Soos announces from the booth that midnight is only a few minutes away, and the entire room erupts into cheers. One couple - two police, still in uniform - have clearly missed the memo about waiting until midnight to kiss, as they embrace each other sloppily in a corner. Curious and without shame, you stare openly, interested. The two men pull apart briefly, whisper sweet nothings to each other, then go straight back to kissing. You feel a stab of envy.
Whatever that punch has in it now coils around in your mind like a symbiote, filling your thoughts with impulsive and heady ideas; maybe you SHOULD kiss Bill at midnight. Maybe it’s what you’re MEANT to do. As you dance, your skin sweat-slicked and your face hot, the idea simmers. It boils. It froths.
When the countdown begins - ten, nine - the last of your inhibition dissolves away into nothing. You’re moving, faster than feels humanly possible, sliding through the crowd and into the shack proper, seeking the staircase with urgent drive. It feels like the stairs tilt to meet you as you stumble upward, the axis of the world underneath your feet feeling disjointed and unsteady. Your pulse thrashes in your ears, mingling with the fervent sounds of the party below. You can still hear them counting - six, five!
You burst through your bedroom door, fuelled by inebriation, adrenaline and a desire you’re no longer willing to suppress. Bill is there, sitting on your bed; at the commotion of your entrance, he looks up, startled. You lurch into the room, teetering, and Bill flies over to you quickly.
“Oh boy, oh - okay, kid, you’ve had something to drink, huh?” He says, scanning you with concern.
“Mm, mm-hmm,” you grin. “But that’s… that’s not the point, Bill, the point is-”
Three! Two! One! HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Fireworks immediately begin to explode outside, making pair of you jump; the darkness of your room is lit up in intermittent flashes of colourful light as the fireworks crackle and bang. Now is your moment. You can’t let it go. Heartbeat. Pulse, pulse. Breathe.
“Bill,” you whisper, and he looks at you, his expression unreadable.
Before you can change your mind, you shove yourself forward. You place a rushed and messy kiss to Bill’s face, your lips touching the buzzing surface of his body, just beside his eye. The sensation is strange, but not unpleasant; you feel as if your lips break through some kind of barrier, an electric warmth, before coming to rest against something that feels smooth and unknown. You pull back, smiling through the feeling of your heartbeat almost choking you, rampant pulse in your throat.
“Happy New Year, Bill,” you say, your voice breaking with nerves and emotion.
Bill is stunned. Rigid and static, he’s frozen where he levitates, staring at you with such intensity that you worry you might have broken him. His constricted pupil trembles, trained on you, his hands hanging in the air, as if he’d been about to reach out for something. The moment is heated. You begin to feel afraid - have you done something wrong? Is it all ruined now? Should you say something?
“Fuck, I’m-”
Before you can finish, Bill grabs your face with both of his hands and pushes you back together, towards him, towards his eye-turned-mouth and then you are kissing, kissing properly, lips pressed together and moving, soft and heavy and harsh and hot.
Is this just another part of the tradition? You wonder this idly as your brain switches off, relinquishing all coherent control or thought and giving over to feeling, only feeling - only the sensation of Bill’s mouth on yours, of your lips dancing against his. You can feel the claws from his hands digging into your cheeks slightly, as if to hold you there for eternity. You can feel the buzz of his aura humming around your ears, drowning out all other sound. You want it, you want it all, you’ll stay like this forever if he’ll let you.
And it’s so sweet - the tickling feeling of your lips crushing against his, moving together with need and unquenchable appetite, so wanting, so ready. Your hands come out to hold at Bill’s sides, making him sigh hoarsely into your mouth, almost a groan - shaky, shattered, like delicate shards of glass, grazing against your muddy senses. You feel something pull in your abdomen, some new bit of human reaction - arousal, maybe. A hunger for more.
It’s all too much, it’s all-consuming, intoxicating in a way that feels addictive and sublime. And then all at once, it’s not enough; you need more, more, something else to feed you, to sate the burning thirst that’s begun to itch in your open throat.
You feel Bill’s tongue, then, firm muscle probing between your lower and upper lip, seeking something. Seeking you. You are melting, just a collection of lax limbs and oozing soul; what can do you except let Bill take whatever he wants from you? Something surges in you as you permit his tongue to enter your mouth - some wash of searing gratification. Bill’s tongue brushes against the roof of your mouth, the forked points of it tracing shapes against your palate, his touch feeling like cold flame against flushed skin and wait, wait, this is something else, this is divine escape, this is-
Bill sends the length of his tongue further down into your throat, pushing it so far that your gullet tries to swallow around it. It is overwhelming to the point of overstimulation, but you let out a whining moan; the sound muffled as it weeps out of you, around Bill’s tongue as it pulses against your stretched throat and the sensitive flesh of your swollen lips. Wet heat. Obscene noises. You feel like you might choke, but you don’t mind, you can’t breathe, but you don’t mind. You are undone, open and willing to let Bill push further into you, but…
You can’t breathe. In the rush of the moment, you instinctually shift mid-kiss into your Euclidean form, and then everything is different - everything feels even better, to a bizarre and dizzying level. The kiss doesn’t just feel like a kiss anymore, it feels like something else, something burning and intensely pleasurable. Something raw and vital and addictive.
You kiss Bill back with a somewhat aggressive urgency you hadn’t allowed yourself before, then, your eye-mouth moving against his with bruising force. Bill whimpers into you, almost sobbing, and the sound of that sends a sharp shiver throughout your edges - oh, god, what is this madness? His hands are all over you, gripping your sides, holding you; you tug on his bow tie, trying to pull him forward for even more closeness, trying to communicate how much more you need. How can you possibly feel more? What can you push, or press, or stroke - how does this work?
Your orange tongue twists with Bill’s own blue one inside your mouths, tensile muscle writhing together wetly as hot breath is shared between you. Something is building within your core, some pooling of desire, of heat, of energy, purring and buzzing. Your aura glows brighter, as does Bill’s, something you’re aware of only through sensation, through the increase in warmth as you are blinded in the kiss, guided only by feeling. Bill is desperate, his moans soft and mewling, his hands roaming all over you, and something is building, something is-
With effort, you pull the kiss apart, your socket opening to return as an eye, still slick with spit and feeling raw and puffy with heated desire. Bill makes a sound akin to a feeble growl at the break in contact, his eye also returning then to stare at you. He hovers there, panting even though he doesn’t need to breathe, his eye wide and his pupil blown open like a black hole. His hands linger in the air, as if wanting to reach for you and then - they fall, hanging limply from his frame.
Oh. Oh no. Does Bill… does he regret this? Suddenly you are filled with an unbearable wave of anxious horror; what if you’ve pushed him too far? What if it had felt good for you, but not for Bill… Are you no better than all the others that have mistreated him, who have abused him…? Your mind whirs with panicked thought, your body still intoxicated despite the shift.
“Shit, Bill, I’m sorry, I don’t, I don’t know what… I’m drunk, I, uh…” You float there, feeling exposed and vulnerable and guilty. Bill is silent, which distresses you further, pushing you to fill the quiet with more babbling explanation. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to get that far, I’m sorry, I, uhh… Yeah, Happy New… Year, Bill, I’m just gonna, okay… Yeah…”
Still woozy, still hurting for more, still wracked with confusion and heat and nerves, you float upwards and away, phasing through the ceiling, leaving Bill behind.
What have you done?
---△***△***△---
Bill Cipher cannot move. He cannot think. If he had lungs, he wouldn’t be able to breathe, either. The numb shock that courses through him is chilling, despite the heat he feels throughout his core. His eye feels inflamed and gaping with residual desire. His mind runs at light speed. You had kissed him. He had kissed you back.
Bill wants more, so much more - he wasn’t even close to being done with that, he’d barely even gotten to taste anything. The kiss had been good with you as a human, sure, but with you as a Euclidean… Hoo, boy. Bill’s never felt anything like that before. He didn’t think he’d ever get to experience tessellation like that, the two of you pressed together, eye-mouths connected, tongues needy and lapping, pushing inward…
Clutching his face, Bill lets out a low, anguished groan. He floats to sit on the edge of your bed, stress biting at him. He can hear the muffled sounds of the party still happening downstairs, and the continuous stream of fireworks exploding outside. What did he do wrong? Why did you run away - and what does any of this mean? Were you merely drunk, giving into mindless whim, or have you wanted this too, all this time? Bill is confused. He’s hurt, too - aching at the fact you made such a speedy escape. Do you regret it?
Perhaps it was just because you were drunk, he thinks sadly. Bill had been able to taste the booze on your tongue, that piquant hint of something fruity and sharp, soaked into every inch of you. When he’d kissed you in your human form, Bill had wanted to keep sampling your mouth until he’d sapped all that aftertaste from you. He had wanted to consume everything about you, to own you, to mark you, to brand you and hold you as his own and his alone. Had wanted to hear you whimper his name as you took his tongue in, as you almost choked around it. Bill had wanted to command you.
And then, when you’d shifted into your Euclidean form, it had all become so much sweeter. Then Bill had felt weak, in the most delectable way - succumbing to the sensation completely, overwhelmed with hot and bleeding emotion, his head buzzing as a rush of pleasure had seeped into all of his edges. Then, he’d felt as if he’d gone mad, like his mind would unravel entirely, lost to the feeling, like you were the one who held his sanity in your hands. Like you were in control, and he would spend an eternity worshipping at your altar just to get the chance to have you taste him.
Then Bill had let go of any sense of dominance at all, becoming putty in your embrace. Then his mind had run wild with ideas, images of what he’d want you to do to him, both as a human and as a triangle - your human mouth running over his edges, that delicate point of wet flesh tonguing at the grooves in his bricks. Your lips pressing fast and plentiful kisses to his face; maybe taking a corner into your mouth fully, sucking gently, then firmer. Bill’s mind burns with these new ideas.
Kissing as two Euclideans together has opened something in Bill’s psyche, some new area of desire and arousal he’s never encountered before. You’d made him weak. You’d made him submissive. Bill hadn’t minded that. He’d liked it. He’d loved it.
But hadn’t you? Perhaps… perhaps not, seeing as you disappeared as soon as you could. Bill sits there feeling a conflicting mix of hyper-arousal, heady emotion and deep, sickening worry.
Have you rejected him?
---△***△***△---
On the roof of the Mystery Shack, you sit as a triangle still, trying to calm yourself, trying to steel your nerves; trying to let the cold air cool off the heat that still radiates from your body. In this form, you have no organs that you know of, but some kind of pulse throbs in you still anyway, an irregular rhythm that patters endlessly in your senses like harsh rainfall.
The sensations you’d felt while kissing Bill… they’d felt so foreign, so unfamiliar, that for a moment it had scared you; diving into oblivion and falling for miles, no end in sight, like a bottomless hole. It had frightened you, that’s how much of a rush it had been. You’re not sure you would have coped experiencing that feeling with anyone else, but with Bill… with Bill it’s different.
You trust him. You like him so much that often it feels as if he’s all you ever think about. You feel something stronger for him too, something you’re not quite sure how to describe. It would sound insane to other people, you know this. To have feelings like this for Bill Cipher of all beings. But then, nothing about your life has been normal so far, has it?
Your small hands curl around the roof tiling, gripping tightly, steadying yourself as you sit and think. Hadn’t you liked the kiss? Yes, you had; so much that it pains you. The echo of Bill’s touch - of his tongue - still haunts you, deliciously so. You had wanted more, as much as he could give you - but then, you had gotten spooked somehow. It was all suddenly too much, too fast, and now you find yourself desperate to figure out why.
It’s been centuries since you were last intimate with anyone in any kind of way, and truly you’d thought the desire for anything like that had died in you a long time ago. But now, the truth is unavoidable in the starkness of this moment; you desire Bill. With him, it feels different. It feels conditional. The desire is there purely because you have the desire for him, rather than just for the sake of intimacy itself alone.
Bill had kissed you back - had poured himself into it completely, holding back nothing. His tongue trailing shapes down your throat, filling you; the sounds he’d made, such desperate and feral longing. His trembling touch on your edges, the buzzing warmth of his hands. His sobs as you pushed your tongue back against his - surely that should all be enough to suffice as evidence he had wanted it just as much as you?
But then again, maybe that was just Bill being Bill; going along with it all as a joke, as a game - or worse, because he felt like he had to. He’s been shoved around and bullied by others for years, now. Some parts of him might still be broken down and vulnerable. What if you’ve crossed a line? You didn’t even ask him if it was okay to kiss him at midnight, you just… did it. Without thinking. Without seeking permission. And now you feel awful, like you’ve spoiled the closet friendship of your life over a quick, selfish impulse.
You want to do it again, you want to kiss him again - you want to do more than that, if it’s even possible. The yearning for this hums loudly within you, but you swallow it down, trying to ignore it. For now, the most important thing is that you ensure Bill is okay, and that you apologise properly for… whatever it is you feel you’ve done wrong, whatever it is that’s causing this seeping guilt.
Determined and calmed, now, you phase back down into your room. But Bill isn’t there. You turn, upset, looking around with a roaming eye, seeking a hint of gold glow. Where has he got to? And then, you see it - a note on your desk, clearly hastily written and in Bill’s recognisable jagged, angular handwriting - GONE OUT. SEE YA LATER KID. DON’T WAIT UP.
Your form melts away as you shift back into a human, falling to a crumpled sit on the chair by your desk. All you can do is hold your heavy head in your trembling hands. You have fucked this up.
The sound of the party below taunts you, voices that sound obscured by the layers of the house but still joyful. Drinks being clinked together. Music still thumping. You know you should rejoin them, put a brave face on it - but how can you? How can you pretend to have a good time, when your heart is aching in your chest?
Distraught, you crawl messily into bed, not bothering to shift into nightclothes. Everything will be okay in the morning, you tell yourself. Maybe it’ll be best if you just don’t mention what happened, to anyone, ever. Even to Bill. Maybe it’s best to just pretend the kiss never happened.
But how can you?
---△***△***△---
DL ADV OHCL YBU HIVBA AOL ZSVWLZ, HUK WPJRLK AOL KHPZPLZ MPUL; IBA DL’CL DHUKLYLK H THUF DLHYF MVVA, ZPUJL HBSK SHUN ZFUL