Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was standing on the railing of a bridge.

The area around him was generally secluded, the Virginia countryside looming like rainclouds. A gravel road laid dead behind him as he trembled. The water beneath was somewhat shallow, but not enough that he would live if he fell in.

He checked the watch given to him by his uncle. It was a quarter to four. He had fifteen minutes left. Wait. That was all he had to do. There wasn't a reason for him to jump exactly at 4 o’clock other than some neuroticism he was unaware of. Perfect time, perfect date, nothing better to do. August 2nd, 4 PM.

Ten minutes left. The wind was light today and it was warm. His heavy black jacket was getting unbearable in the sun, but the more he wore, the better the chance he would drown in case all didn't go as planned. There were hawks circling overhead. It was possible a rabbit hid in the underbrush saddling up near the river. He wondered of the rabbit’s life as minutes passed.

Five minutes left. Did the rabbit have babies? Would it die and leave them behind? How would the rabbit’s family feel once the hawks picked it apart? Did it know that today would be its last day alive? When would it—

“Hey!” A voice called out behind him, the crunch of the gravel gave him the chills. He turned around and saw a red truck pulling up beside him. His watch was reading 3:57 PM. This wasn't planned.

A man hopped out of the truck, rushing towards him. His red hair seemed gold underneath the sun. Freckles were splattered across his face. The flannel shirt he wore had the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing more freckles.

Brown eyes, frowning lips, thick eyebrows. A modern cowboy.

He was startled from his reverie about the man’s looks by a tug on his pant leg.“Hey, get down from there!”

3:58 PM. He could still do this. “I…”

“Do ya wanna break yer legs? C’mon!” His tone was more stern than it should've been for a stranger on the side of the road.

“It's fine. Please be on your way. I'll be fine.” He was nearly whispering. He was tired.

3:59. He looked at the river, then back at the man. Before any action could be taken on his part, the redhead wrapped his arms around his calves and hoisted him over his shoulders.

“Hey, what're you—”

“Jumpin’ in ain't gonna solve your problems! You're comin’ with me.”

Fists pounded on the man’s back, desperation flooding his senses.“Please, I need to— I have to jump now! I'll be late, I can't be late!”

He was pointedly ignored as the other man opened the door to the truck, child-locked it, threw him in, and shut the door. The tears came harder than he thought they would. He broke down.

“I—I was supposed ta’— I had ta’—!” Stuttering sobs poured out of him.

The man patted his knee. “Jus’ breathe, man. What's yer name?” His head was thrown into his hands while he continued to sob. It was a pathetic sight, a gross one to the average introvert, and a non-answer.

“Okay. Well, my name is Bill. Bill Clark. I live just’a few miles away. I know its weird, but I don’ trust ya to be alone right now. Ya don’ live around here, do ya?” He shook his head. “My house we go, then. Buckle up.”

The car began to move.

Bill didn't try to initiate more conversation during the drive. It wasn't a long drive, but attempting to talk to someone who couldn't stop crying was not an endeavor that was worthwhile. The jacket was now hot against his skin. He couldn't find it in himself to take it off, though; its sleeves worked as a decent tissue for the snot and tears. If Bill was disgusted at all, it didn't show.

He checked his watch. 4:08 PM. Too late. Not like he would be able to get out of the truck without Bill’s help.

Eventually, they pulled up to a faded blue house in the midst of farmland. His tears had subsided. The redhead climbed out from the driver's seat and rushed to the other door. Upon opening it, Bill held a hand out to him.

The “c’mon” fluttering from Bill to him was warm, whispery. He took the hand, setting his feet on the gravel of the driveway. They walked up to the porch in silence.

They settled in the living room—or he did, at least. His host went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He took in the homely environment. Photos on the wall indicated a big family, and the abundance of places to sit indicated that possibly half of them still lived in the house (wherever they were at the moment was unknown to him of course). No shoes other than Bill’s and his own sat near the door. They were alone in the house in the middle of nowhere-ville. Not alarming at all!

Before he could start planning his escape from a maybe-probably-hopefully-not serial killer, the redhead entered the room with two bottles of water.

“I, uh, thought a cup would seem suspicious. Not that I'm tryin’ ta, ya know, poison ya or anything.”

“...”

“That was— That was suspicious sounding. Um, don’ drink tha water if ya don' wanna. Safe place or sumn.”

“...”

“No bad intentions here, I swear on my momma! N’ she's dead, so I mean it! Even though you were boutta jump off’a bridge. Technically I'd be fulfillin’ your wish.”

“...”

“But, then again, you could've changed yer mind n’ wanna live now. Do you think I'm a serial killer? I'd think I'm a serial killer, considerin’ the fact that I'm ramblin’ about bein’ one. I'd be mighty suspicious of—”

He interrupted the man's tumbling monologue. “No, I don't think you're a serial killer.”

Bill’s face turned a bright red, and he averted his eyes with a nervous grin. “Right, sorry. Let's start over. My name's William Clark, but everyone ‘round here calls me Bill. What's yer name?”

“Um, Meriwether. Meriwether Lewis.” The redhead’s eyes widened. “What?”

“You!”

“...yes?”

Bill hopped up. “You! I've been lookin’ fer you everywhere! Man, ya don’ know how long I've been— Sweet Jesus, I needa tell George about this!”

Meriwether looked around for an alternative exit to the front door. This guy was a freak. “Look, man, I don't know who you are. You've got me confused wi—”

“No, no! It's you! Remember? We— well, hell, we went across America together!”

The brunet’s puzzled look multiplied tenfold at the explanation of how he supposedly knew this man. “I've never even left Virginia. When the hell would I have traveled across America, and with you of all people?”

Bill grabbed what Meriwether initially thought was a random history book, and slammed it down onto the coffee table in front of him. The cover read: “LEWIS & CLARK / The Journey of the Corps of Discovery”. Meriwether was grimacing.

“See? That was us!”

“Ha ha, funny coincidence. I don't know you.” Jacketed arms crossed over his chest.

The other man opened it to some pages previously dog-eared, revealing portraits that were similar to him and his younger friend (could they be called friends yet? If someone saves you from killing yourself, are you automatically friends?).

“Another coincidence.” Meriwether shrugged, despite now feeling uneasy. “I'm, uh, gonna go. I can call someone and be outta your hair real soon.”

Bill's face dropped into a frown. “Hell of a coincidence… Please, jus’ stay for a while. We can pretend I never brought this up, n’ we can talk. Tell me what's on yer mind.”

“Again, I don't even know you.” He was already getting sick of putting up a fight. At that current moment, all the brunet wanted was to sleep. Long day.

“Stay for dinner maybe? I can scrounge somethin’ up. Not much in terms of delivery, but we got some fresh ham yesterday. You like sandwiches?”

“I…” Part of him wanted to leave as soon as possible, another part of him wanted to stay to hear a legendary tale spun from someone who was definitely in a psychotic episode, and a secret third part was really fucking hungry. “Fine. I can stay.”

Bill grinned in a manner that showed his pearly ‘whites’ (yellows). “Alrighty! Sandwiches! Make yerself at home!” And once again, Meriwether was alone. He took off the jacket. May as well get cozy.

He got up to inspect the living room. Books were collecting dust on various shelves, a plant sitting on a window sill was dead, a desktop computer flicked through screensaver pictures. The photos scattered throughout shelves and tables all had what were presumably Bill’s family members in them. Most of the people were also ginger or had dishwater hair. Freckles were apparently a common trait in this family.

On the fireplace mantel, beside a picture of a middle-aged woman and several recurring family members, was a photo of two young boys. One boy was obviously Bill as a child, smiling. The other was an African American boy with a more neutral expression. He stared at it for a moment before deciding he'd had his fill of Bill's family history. A headache was coming on, so he sat back down.

A few minutes later, Bill came back with two plates each holding a ham sandwich and a handful of potato chips. They were put down on the wooden coffee table.

The redhead sat down. “I didn't know if you wanted chips ‘er not.”

Meriwether gave him a nod and picked up his sandwich. “It's fine. Thank you.” They ate in palpable silence. He wasn't sure if Bill talked while eating with his family. Back when he still lived with his family, his mother liked to make conversation with Jane, Reuben, John, Mary, and him. Sometimes he missed that underlying noise outside his head.

He was halfway through his sandwich by the time Bill finished his plate. He took it as his sign to stop eating too.

“So,” Bill began. “Why were you tryna kill yerself?”

The brunet quirked his brow. “Starting with the heavy questions, I suppose.”

“Jus’ would be good ta know. It was only an hour ago.” He checked his watch. 5:01 PM.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

Meriwether tucked his knees beneath his chin, hugging his calves. “It's a long story...”

Bill shrugged. “We've got time.”

His face morphed into a grimace again. In his opinion, his reasons for trying to play bungee jumper without a bungee cord were dumb. Would it be enough to say “life got tough”?

“I'm…” Bill nodded for him to continue. “I'm tired. It doesn't feel like I have a purpose. I'm sick of life hurting. Why does it matter if I live, anyway? I'm just a college flunky with no job. No one would miss me if I was gone, man. My mom, maybe, but no one else cares.” His eyes were stinging with tears. “I…” The words got stuck in his throat as self-awareness set in.

“Yeah?”

“Its—its stupid. I'm sorry I'm crying again. This is gross, ugh.” He sniffed in an attempt to hide the fact that he felt like breaking down again.

“No, it's fine! You don' gotta apologize!”

“You've got your own stuff to deal with, probably. I shouldn't—”

A hand was on his cheek, brown eyes staring back into his own hazel ones. “Meri, yer fine. I'm here.” And he fell apart once again.

Meriwether didn't anticipate spending his evening crying in the arms of a stranger in a house surrounded by an ocean of farmland. Actually, he didn't even anticipate being conscious past 4:00 PM, but here he was.

The crying session wasn't super long, thankfully. Bill was a comforting figure (although that shouldn't have been surprising since he was close to every 10th removed family member). His hugs were akin to stepping outside in the summer from a cold house, his hands were steady in Meriwether’s hair and on his back, and he smelled of cinnamon. God knows he'd be lying if he said it wasn't the best hug he ever received.

The tears ended some time before the hug did. Bill was as reluctant as he was to let go.

“You said earlier that you weren't from here. Where'd ya blow in from?”

He inspected his fingernails to avoid the redhead's eyes. “About an hour from here. Y’know Ivy? In Albemarle County?”

“Uh, nope.”

“Oh. Well, that's where I live. Kind of.”

Bill gave him a questioning look. “Kind of?”

“Been doing a lot of couch-surfing lately. I didn't want to live with my mom anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Hey, I didn't not jump off a bridge just to get interrogated.” While he was glad someone wanted to hear him, exhaustion was beginning to cloud his eyesight.

The brown eyes boring into him jumped away with embarrassment. “My bad. Sorry.”

Meriwether checked his watch for the gazillionth time. 5:56 PM. It was earlier than his typical bedtime, though that didn't matter much to him. “Can I, um…”

Bill's head tilted like a dog's. “Yes?”

His face was flushing. “Could I stay the night?” How pathetic. How ignorant. He was sleepy, so he was gonna take advantage of Bill's kindness and surf his couch as well.

“No prob’, bob. Stay as long as you can!” The redhead didn't seem to have realized he said that until it was too late. “I-I mean..! For as long as ya need! Obviously, you can leave whenever, but l want you here. Not in a weird way, though! I jus’ mean—”

The other man chuckled, for the first time while being here, giving him a smile. “Thanks, Bill.”

Bill felt his heart skip a beat. “Yeah. Yeah, it's no problem.”

Chapter Text

Today, August 3rd, he was caught by multicolored fabrics.

The morning afterward at Bill’s was odd in its own right. Meriwether awoke to a call from his manager asking where the hell he was. He looked at the time on his phone. 9:26 AM.

He was late for work. By two hours.

Now, one would think he would take the day off; seeing as not even 24 hours before, he was about to jump off a bridge. That wasn't something he was able to do. No Money + Too Many Call-offs + Sporadic Temper = Disaster.

His manager pretended to accept his excuse of passing out at a dominatrix’s house, and then told him to get his ass there “Ay-Ess-Ay-Pee”. Job saved yet again by the miraculous Meriwether Jay Lewis with another bullshit excuse.

Bill was, thankfully, understanding of his job plight. Even though he made him stay for a quick breakfast, the older man took him to work.

Numbers exchanged, a lunch packed for him (that was a first), and a promise to talk soon. And then Meriwether was off to work.

Bringing him to the multicolored fabrics.

The craft store didn't give a shit who worked there as long as they showed up. Retail was kind to the listless. It was an easy job of stocking shelves. Meriwether was there five days a week, maybe four on a good (bad?) week. All coworkers were strangers, and ultimately meaningless to him. Gossip would go straight through his ear holes. Past jobs of his lasted from two weeks to six months. This one was no different. He would stay until he couldn't care to anymore.

Duality by Slipknot swang in his headphones while he stared at fabric, fabric, fabric. Boring. Shapeless. Sometimes ugly. Sometimes unpleasant in texture. Capitalism.

Out of the corner of his eye, an unattended middle-schooler pushed another unattended middle-schooler into a shelf of decorative glassware. It all fell onto the floor.

Was it too early to quit?

Some hours later, it was his lunch break. The craft store he worked at didn't care enough about its employees to give them lunch and a break, so they were combined into one 30-minute chunk out of a seven-hour shift. This break was different, though. He had a lunch packed for him.

An inexplicable feeling of care was yellow in his brain. There was another ham sandwich (this time with mustard), a pack of blueberry mini muffins, a plastic baggie filled with potato chips, a capri-sun, and a handwritten note. God bless that ginger and his non-existent soul.

The contents of the note were as follows:

“Meriwether

i hope you have a good day at work!!!!!

i didnt know what you wanted on youre sandwhich but you seem like a musterd guy…

call me soon! :)”

Even though the spelling mistakes gave him spikes of anxiety, it was endearing in a way. The green ink of the penmanship was sprawled on a yellow sticky note. Maybe that was where the yellow feeling came from. Bill’s note was shoved into his wallet for later dwelling upon.

“Musterd”.

Meriwether grinned to himself, and would think about it for his entire day.

“[...] even though the fuckin’ guy just about shit his pants!” Cackling ensued.

It had been a week since his suicide attempt and his meeting with Bill. They’d texted a bit since then, but both were busy with their own lives. Meriwether had been fired some days later for something or the other. Did it really matter in the grand scheme of things?

Enter Eric Parker.

The brunet was put next to Eric in sixth grade Language Arts class and wanted to throttle him the moment he opened his mouth. Eric was, in short terms, a dumb smartass. He thought he knew anything anyone was talking about. When Meriwether answered a question on plot pyramids (“What is the height of the action of a story called?” was the convoluted question, to which he answered: “the climax”), Eric cut in with “That’s what I had with your mom!!!”

His inability to control his temper led to them beating the shit out of each other. A trip to the office followed.

Blah blah blah, years passed, understanding was reached, friendship developed. And at that moment, they were smoking weed in Eric’s car.

They lay in the backseat with a blunt being passed back and forth between the two of them. Their conversation ran in circles, but for once, Meriwether didn’t mind the inane haze filling the car.

“John’s goddamn lunatic! I’m surprised he didn’t crash his dad’s car already,” said Meriwether before taking a hit off the blunt.

Eric swiped it back. “He takes after “daddy,” crazy as all hell.”

“Mm, the Adams.”

“God forbid one of ‘em runs for president!”

The brunet sat up, putting one hand in the air and the other on an imaginary bible. “I, John Quincy Adams, asylum patient at heart, vow to drive America into the dirt as president.” His serious face broke into laughter as his friend laughed with him.

“Tom n’ Charlie would prolly be locked up on the spot!”

“Or paraded around in shackles. Mr. J would find that amusing.” He checked his phone. “Oh, shit! Mr. J!”

“What? You got a curfew? Or did he finally kick the bucket?” More smoke filled the small space as Eric blew out.

Meriwether straightened his hair and brushed ash off his jeans. “No, I had a tutoring session with him tonight. He just called. I’m late.”

“Again?”

“Yes, again, dickhead. I’ve gotta get to his house right now.” He opened the car door, ignoring the billowing smoke. The car was started as soon as he fell into the driver’s seat.

Eric, still in the backseat, kicked the back of the driver’s seat. “I din’t tell you to drive my car. Shoo.”

“You’re high.”

“Yo mama.” Classic Eric Parker.

The drive over to New Monticello was…smoky, to say the least. Good weed was good weed, and throwing the blunt out would be wasteful, so they finished it on the way over. Mr. J’s house was a tower amongst towers. Eric’s broken-down car was out of place in a neighborhood of Range Rovers and Ferraris and what have you.

Meriwether fluffed up his limp jacket after getting out of the car. He waved his friend ‘goodbye’, applied cheap cologne to his clothes, and knocked on the ornate door. The car wasn’t the only unseemly thing there.

A servant answered the door. “Ah, Mrs. Lewis. Mr. Jefferson had been waiting for you.”

His eye twitched in irritation. “Mr. Lewis.”

“Yes, yes. Come in.” He shuffled into the corridor of New Monticello, not bothering to take his shoes off in defiance.

Mr. J was sitting at the head of the dinner table. The older man was so proper to an irritable degree. It was amazing the man was his godfather in any sense. Speaking of, the older man gave him a look that—to the average man, would mean pity—implied he was in trouble.

“You’re late,” were the first words spoken to him.

Meriwether slumped into a seat a million lightyears away. “Was busy with mom. Sorry.”

Mr. J held up his cell phone. “You mean the mother who hasn’t heard from you in days?” Shit. Caught in a lie.

“I mean, I was busy with work. They kept me late. You know how they are.”

“No, I don’t.” The brunet sunk further in his seat. He’d forgotten that Mr. J came from money. He wouldn’t understand poverty, nor a baseball bat to the back of his prim-cut-haired head. The only thing he thought would get through his head was a drill bit made of diamonds powered by a nuclear power plant.

He let out a long sigh, really drew it out so Mr. J would understand his frustration. “Can’t I just be busy?”

Slow and particular was how lectures were at New Monticello. “When it interferes with my hard-earned time, no.” Mr. J tapped at his lips with a (cloth) napkin. “I give you the time of day, and you simply rub it in my face. After all I’ve done for you, you ought to be more grateful.” Look who was talking. Meriwether rolled his eyes at the ground. “You need to respect the time of others, Meriwether.” He hated it when he said his name like that, stern and pretentious.

“My bad. I’ll try harder.”

“Don’t just try. Go through with what you say. Trying implies that you will disappoint anyway.”

Mr. J, his long name being Thomas Jefferson, was a man of money. He’d never known a day of labor in his life. Generations of servants worked with the Jefferson family, including Meriwether’s own father. He was told that Jefferson had been made his godfather due to his closeness with his parents. He wasn’t sure how Mr. J and the older Lewis namesakes got along if they were as he remembered. Uncle Nicolas, he could see, but William Lewis? No. No way.

Jefferson was a shit. Jefferson was also one of the closest people he ever had to a father figure. Over time, Meriwether accepted having to hate the sin (Mr. J’s overtly pompous nature) and love the sinner (Mr. J himself). If he didn’t, then he would’ve had to accept John Marks as his new dad. It was safe to say that he hated John Marks more than any faults Mr. J had.

However, this conversation made him wish he skipped the tutoring session tonight.

“Okay. I will do better in the future.” If the words sounded robotic coming out of his mouth, it was because they were. He’d said words similar to these a million times before.

The older appeared satisfied by his rehearsed promise, though. “Excellent. Did you eat? Gregory prepared a wonderful pairing of a butternut squash soup and a strawberry poppyseed salad for dinner if you should like some. I can tutor you thereafter.”

Meriwether was high out of his head. He felt like mocking him for his stiff use of the English language, so he did. “Why, of course, my liege. I’d be scurrilous to indulge upon ol’ Greg’s soupe n’ salade.” Mr. J’s face turned into one of harassment. The brunet began howling in delight, falling from his chair.

“You’re high.” Déjà vu was an odd and amazing feeling.

“No, I’m not! I’ve never been high in my entire life!”

Mr. J got up, stomping over to study him. He took his (suddenly heavy) head in his hands and looked into his eyes. “Your pupils are dilated. Your eye whites are red. You’re flushed. And you smell of tobacco. You are high.”

His hands were waved away. “‘M fine.”

“You came into my house—late, mind you—looking a wreck and high. Tell me, why shouldn’t I throw you out?”

“‘Cause Mama n’ Uncle Nick would cook you for Thanksgiving dinner.” He yawned. “Can we do this later?”

His godfather’s face was nearly purple with rage. Even angry, he was stiff. “Go to your room. Now. You will have dinner there.”

The young man bumped the table as he hopped off the floor. After gathering his bearings on the floor, he got up with great care. “Fine!” He ran up to his designated room in New Monticello and slammed the door. Take that, patriarchy!

He got on his phone and went to his messages with Bill. Bill would get it! Subconsciously, he was aware that he was acting like a teenage girl. But, like, whatever.

THE meriwether lewis: bill

THE meriwether lewis: BILL

“THE meriwether lewis” sent an image.

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): why r u crying ???????

THE meriwether lewis: my uncle wants me to DIE

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): HWAT

THE meriwether lewis: well not really

THE meriwether lewis: but

THE meriwether lewis: he sent me to my room

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): i thoyght you didnt live ne where

THE meriwether lewis: he has a room for me at his fuckin

THE meriwether lewis: mansion

THE meriwether lewis: i sleep there somwtimes

THE meriwether lewis: BUT HE SENT ME TO MY ROOM BILL

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): wat 4?

THE meriwether lewis: i high lol

He wasn’t sure what compelled him to use “lol” when it was a phrase he disliked. It felt right at the moment.

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): ur 19

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): u shouldnt be high

THE meriwether lewis: so i can vote but camt have weed

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): yea

THE meriwether lewis: :(

Bill was old. Bill was old and a loser. Why bother with Bill? Meriwether threw his phone on the floor, groaning. High ruined. Thanks, Thomas Jefferson.

He ignored the knock at his door minutes later, and the one after that an hour later. No one understood him. They didn’t deserve his unique mind. With that in mind, he climbed out the window and left.

Chapter Text

A year ago, Bill was generally very optimistic about the grand quest called his life.

He had all the tools he'd need; a proper 1790s hairstyle (that was when they had met, right? Memories didn't exactly come with dates plastered on them), several books consisting of information on himself and his lost companion (was that the word for what they were?), a GPS, and his trusty ol’ pick-up. There was no way this could go wrong!

After all, surely Meriwether had been looking for him as well.

Hair itched the back of his neck as he stalked through the streets of old Charlottesville—Ivy. Nothing stuck out to him in particular, but nothing was perfect anyhow. A few trips there per month may allot for The Opportunity (as he called it in his head).

Checking shops in the town gave him time to think about what they'd do once he found the other.

First and foremost, they would have to find Seaman. They couldn't be “Lewis & Clark” without their dog.

Then, they would plan a trip out west! They could retrace the steps of their expedition with a modern perspective in mind. He thought vaguely about trying to find his expedition crew as well, but taking more than thirty people on a trip to the Pacific seemed quite ambitious.

Would Sacagawea want to see them? She would be just a tot right about then, but enthusiasm should outweigh age by a great margin. Of course, Pompy won't have been born yet, though. Maybe in a decade, he would revisit the idea of seeing Sacagawea and his (past) adoptive son.

That run led to no sign of Meriwether.

Days later, the search for Meriwether in Ivy was looking impossible.

Others in the area knew of “Old Grandma Marks” and her historically important family in the area, including the tragic eldest son, Meriwether Lewis, but all the information was from the 1800s. There wasn't a Lucy Meriwether in the area at all. Social media searches turned up a whole bunch of nothing as well. Or, well, not entirely.

Thomas Jefferson. Famous author and college professor, Thomas Jefferson. Seeing the older man’s FaceBook profile almost made Bill slap himself in the face. Of course, if he, himself, was alive with his entire family, then so was Thomas Jefferson.

Connecting with Jefferson was the key!

Connecting with Jefferson was a now inconceivable feat.

It had been a year since then. Jefferson had security up the ass, his email was run by a secretary, and appointments with the man could only be made by those who'd made a name for themselves in the illustrious upper crust of Conservative circlejerks. Bill may as well have tried to plot the man's murder, since neither idea of contacting him was feasible.

So, Bill gave up.

Every now and then, he would stalk the internet for a trace of his companion, but it was hopeless.

He ended up giving himself a haircut a month after giving up. The hairstyle wasn't good looking, nor was it comfortable. Getting rid of the low ponytail was the best decision he ever made.

Or it was, at the time.

Throwing himself into farmwork and the odd jobs in Ladysmith helped him forget about his failure to connect to anyone from the past. After all, George couldn't really do farmwork when he was drunk. Life was good. Life was fair. Life went on.

August 2nd, at around 4-ish in the afternoon, he was driving home from delivering a calf on a farm across town. It was an easy job that paid well. The day was uneventful, and should've continued to be so. But it wasn't.

There was a man standing on the bridge ahead of him. His dark silhouette glowed against the blue sky; Virginia’s own personal storm cloud. Bill's heart belted heavily in the flesh prison attributed to him. This, this was destiny. Fate.

After pulling the man down and into his pickup, he was able to get a better look at him. Familiarity shown like a spotlight on the man. He knew him somehow. He'd seen this face one million times before, in every position and feeling and scenario. The familiarity, though, was pushed aside. It was best to get him away from the bridge first; he could dwell on where he knew him from later.

As it turned out, if there was a God, then he was a decent guy after all. This was the best birthday gift he could've asked for. It was only a few years late!

“Um, Meriwether. Meriwether Lewis…what?”

His eyes bore into the poor kid in front of him with shock. “You!”

“...yes?” Discomfort from the other went unnoticed as Bill hopped up. Fate fate fate.

“You! I've been lookin’ fer you everywhere! Man, ya don’ know how long I've been— Sweet Jesus, I needa tell George about this!” George thought he was delusional when he explained the one too many “coincidences” and the memories that correlated with events relevant to them. Just wait until he got a load of that!

Meriwether’s discomfort grew with Bill's elatement. He responded with, in a shuffling, awkward tone, while looking around for some conveniently open door slash window: “Look, man, I don't know who you are. You've got me confused wi—”

Wrong answer. The ginger tried him again, more than a little forceful. “No, no! It's you! Remember? We— well, hell, we went across America together!” ‘Just not in this lifetime’ was left unsaid.

“I've never even left Virginia. When the hell would I have traveled across America, and with you of all people?”

Still wrong! Bill snatched up one of his main comfort reads (“LEWIS & CLARK / The Journey of the Corps of Discovery.” Call him a sucker, but he loved to reminisce over a past that was once his) and slammed it on a coffee table that'd been in his family for a trillion years or so. He was sure that this was proof enough. It was not, as his companion's anxious stare proved.

He continued. All that was needed was a little verbal elbow grease! “See? That was us!”

“Ha ha, funny coincidence. I don't know you.” God, was there no sanity left in this world? Meriwether must've blown it out alongside his brains down in Tennessee— ah, sore spot. He swallowed down the gentle trickling of agony he felt thinking of the man's long gone death; instead, he focused on watching him cross his baggy arms over a (less) baggy chest. Lord, he felt creepy thinking of how much he missed those arms.

The rejection hurt some, but he would persevere nonetheless. He opened the book up to their portraits and threw an insistent finger towards them.

“Another coincidence. I'm, uh, gonna go. I can call someone and be outta your hair real soon.” Upon hearing this, Bill finally realized the kid’s unease. Pushing wasn’t going to help Meriwether understand, nor would it help his current mental state.

He remembered how he felt when he discovered his past life. Terror. Unbearably depressed. Uncertain. Yearning. Thrusting these same feelings on a kid who’d already attempted to jump off a bridge was not the right thing to do. Despite his reservations, the ginger man still let himself frown. “Hell of a coincidence… Please, jus’ stay for a while. We can pretend I never brought this up, n’ we can talk. Tell me what's on yer mind.” I’m sorry. Don’t leave me again. I love you.

Meriwether ended up staying the night.

A week later, Bill was still thinking of Meriwether’s arms around him, his face tucked in his neck, the slim torso of living on stress. Mindlessly, he lifted crates and cleaned barns and rode his horse. Meriwether had him ensnared in a labyrinth of possession. He wanted to lasso him, and ride back to the farm so he could keep him for the rest of eternity. The other would never have to lift a perfectly uncalloused finger; Bill would give him the world on a lazy susan if demanded.

It was safe to say that Meriwether had him. All that needed to happen now was for him to have Meriwether in return.

Despite the possessive feelings that drove him insane, he was too terrified to text the other man very much. Was he coming on too strong? Did he even ever want to see him again? What if Meri was seeing someone at the moment and had no interest?

These questions, among others, kept him up until 2 AM most nights. His dreams were now filled with this new Meri and the old one. Sometimes the dreams would feature both versions. More than once, he’d woken up to dazzling sunlight and jizz-filled boxers. He had taken to doing his own laundry since then to avoid snide remarks from his older sister (Liz), or George, or (God forbid) his dementia-riddled father.

Too soon, he would tell himself. They’d just met. There was no way in hell Meri would want to date some 24-year-old redhead who lived on a farm in the middle of no time-no nothing-nowhere, and he definitely wouldn’t want to marry said redhead as soon as Bill wanted (which was right away to make up for lost time).

At around 6:30 PM, he received a text from the man who he now found himself weak for. And then, following an informative conversation—Bill would keep the rich uncle and substance abuse in mind—he paced his room while racking his mind for an answer. Okay. Okay, an offer over text would do the trick.

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): where r u? i can come pick u up…

Minutes passed. No answer. Maybe he forgot to respond?

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): meri???

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): r u there????

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): im sorry

psychotic ginger (not danny elfman): pls anser

The ginger was beginning to feel anxious. A controlling uncle with wealth? A picture indicating trouble? Weed? It was all a mix for some incident or crime to happen, if it hadn’t already.

Bill called several times over the next hour, still getting no answer. Anxiety turned into desperation. Oh lord, Meri was dead! His uncle had actually killed him, and all Bill could focus on was him being HIGH! He was a terrible future husband.

With that all in mind, he ran out and got into his truck. Albemarle County wasn’t super close, but any chance he could get to save this destined, fated, need-it-like-air relationship would be taken. He sped off into the night to find Meriwether once again.

Chapter Text

A grocery store. More accurately, a market. Bill’s most recent search led him to a family-owned market in Ivy.

He had pulled in so he could get a late night dinner and use the bathroom. It wasn’t a huge store, but he was less surprised about the odd local specialties (what even was “swimming ham”???), and more about the lateness of the place being open. Back in Charlottesville, if it wasn’t a bar, they’d typically close at around 7:30. It was now reaching 8:00, but it didn’t look like the market was closing anytime soon.

After finishing his business and stalking around, he turned up to a checkout with a turkey wrap. The first thing his eyes caught a hold of was a nametag. “Reuben.” The second thing he caught was a pair of familiar blue eyes staring back at him.

Bill saw Reuben frown at him for a second. They stood staring at each other until he broke the silence, holding up the wrap.

“I wanted to, uh. This is all, I mean. Sorry.”

His words were disregarded. “William?”

The kid, Reuben, couldn’t have been more than seventeen-years-old. Bill doubted they were in any common social circles, so how he knew his name was beyond him. A friend of a friend possibly?

“Sorry,” he didn’t know what he was apologizing for, but he did it a second time anyway. “How do I know you?”

“You—we—” The ginger could see the wheels turning inside his head. “My brother.”

What a strange kid. “Who?”

“When he died, you helped me clean out his apartment. You were his friend. That's what he told me, anyway, when he'd write me. He spoke highly of you, y’know?”

“I don’ like playin’ the pronoun game, kid.”

“Meriwether.”

“Oh…Oh! Reuben!” This was good, this was great! A lead! From here, he could track his companion down (again) so then they could—

“Yeah. I saw you come in, but I wasn't sure if I was seeing correctly. You still look the same from back then.” He wasn't sure whether to take that as an insult or a compliment. Bill had forgotten that, just like Meri, Reuben was honest to a fault. Maybe it was a Lewis family thing.

Reuben continued, “Did you find him?” He couldn't discern the look in his eyes. How much did Meri say to his kid brother, and was there a right answer to said kid brother’s question?

On one hand, if the kid thought they had left off on good terms, then saying yes would be great! Bill could get the address of their uncle and locate Meri. On the other hand, if the kid knew what truly happened, then saying yes or no or even a simple “I think so” could lead to him being promptly excommunicated from Meri’s life altogether. He didn't doubt the power of a sibling’s opinion.

There wasn't any animosity coming from Reuben, from what he saw. Taking chances was what he was supposed to be all about as Captain (technically, Lieutenant) William Clark, half the leadership of a great expedition that expanded knowledge of America’s land tenfold!

(How true was that, truly? If they hadn't gone, someone else would have. He was nearly replaced before he got the chance to reply.

(It was possible he was overthinking this. Just reply, just reply! He was William Clark, he is William Clark! He would take another chance and risk getting punched in his stupid freckled face!))

A hand was waved in front of his eyes. “Hello?”

“My bad. Erm, yeah, I found him again. Recently, in fact!” Bill felt sheepish admitting that, yes, he found Meri, and that it was only in the past month. “Speaking of Meri, have you seen ‘im? Like, tonight? He hasn' answered his phone for a while.”

Reuben shrugged. “He does that sometimes. Mama said he was supposed to be at our uncle’s house for tutoring.”

“Yes, his uncle! He left off sayin’ he was high n’ at his uncle's house.” He saw the kid frown.

“High, you say?”

“Uhm, yeah. On marijuana. I told him tha—”

A sigh. Reuben plucked his apron off and began walking towards, what looked like, an office. He waved his hand over his shoulder as a sign for Bill to follow. The ginger scurried to close the distance between them by a few feet.

This was his chance! Fate brought him Meri, and has now brought him Reuben as well—albeit to track down Meri, again, for the thousandth-and-first time.

Shifting from foot to foot, he watched the kid grab a cell phone and call someone.

“Hello? Is Mr. J there?” Bill couldn't hear the other end. “Can you get him on the phone? It's an emergency.” A pause. “With what?” Another pause. “Yeah, I’m lookin’ for him too. Get him on.” From where he was sitting, he could vaguely hear a beep and some tinny muzak begin to play.

Hey, wait a minute! “Mr. J?” Reuben hummed. “Like…The Mr. J?”

“Yeah, as in ‘Jefferson’.”

“He's y’all’s uncle?”

The kid shrugged. “Not by blood. He just had a big, fat crush on my dad, is all.”

Evidently, Bill was further confused by this. “What???”

“Not really.”

“Oh.”

Before anything more could be said, the muzak ended. Reuben put the phone back up to his ear, listened for a moment, and then put it on speaker.

“—and now, he's left. I have some people looking for him at the moment.”

At least this knocked out the theory of Meri being murdered, he supposed. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it.

The phone was held closer to Bill’s face. “Mr. Jefferson?”

“Who is this? I was just talking to Reuben.”

“This is, uh, Bill Clark. I'm a friend of Meriwether’s. He told me he was at yer house?”

One could hear a pin drop. The voice on the other end had gone quiet. Bill looked to Reuben helplessly, who was looking at his phone.

“What do you need him for?” Mr. J’s voice was almost accusatory. Not loud, but firm.

For a second, he floundered as he tried to look for an answer. “Well, I— ya see, he—”

Reuben butt in, “Nothin’, he was just worried. Bill got a text from him earlier, and thought it was cause for concern.”

Bill inserted himself once again. “I can drive over n’ look for him, but I, uh, dunno where you live.”

A beat. “Reuben?” The stern tone melted into one of questioning.

“I can't. I promised Jane that I'd help close. Bill’s alright, though. He's prolly the best person for this.”

The ginger felt himself heat up a little, partially because he was flattered, and partially because it was so true it hurt.

“Fine.”

A half hour later, Bill was closing in on New Monticello. He and Reuben had swapped phone numbers before he left in case any trouble occured. While, previously, he'd dreamt of going to meet Thomas Jefferson, he was now wishing it was under different circumstances.

This was fine. He'd settle for meeting the man like this.

The houses he drove by began to get more and more expensive looking. A lady was walking her dog in overpriced workout gear as he drove further into the heart of Virginian luxury.

He kept himself half sane by blasting Weezer’s self-titled red album.

He hummed the start of a song, sang: “Migh’ need some time ta remem-bahh, need some time ta remem-bahh-ahh,” and then hummed with the chorus as Patrick Wilson whined how something or the other was automatic when you knew it.

Bill's enjoyment of one's father's favorite car workshop band was soon cut short.

A somewhat stumbling, shuffling, dazed, crazed maniac was roaming the streets in a raggedy jacket. Target acquired.

He pulled to a stop and leapt out of the pick-up. “Meri!”

Meriwether jumped halfway out of his skin upon hearing his name called. The panic didn't last as he turned to him. “Bill?”

The brunet was pulled into a combination of a hug and a tackle. It was short-lived, because Bill then checked him for any wounds or the possibility of having died on the spot once he got a hold of the other.

He held his head in his hands afterward. “Goddamnit, Meri, what happened?”

Meriwether cracked a grin. “It's nothin’! Jus’ out on a walk!” His words were slurring. Still high.

“You—” Bill cut himself off. For right now he would relinquish lecturing him, and instead focus on getting him off the streets. “Where were you goin’?”

“I dunno. Home.”

“And where is that?”

“Uhh. I dunno. Wherever it's supposed to be.”

He sighed. “I'll drive you back ta Mr. Jefferson’s house.”

“No!” Meriwether nearly fell backwards with his reluctance to be admonished for the second time that night. “You can't take me back to that ol’ bastard!”

Bill held him from falling backwards by the biceps. “Well, whaddya want me ta do?”

They went back to the farmhouse.

Meri had initially insisted that the redhead just leave him on the sidewalk to figure it out for himself, but was convinced that it wasn't a good idea. He also didn't want to go to the market or his mother's house. Ultimately, the farmhouse was the best option.

The drive was dead silent. Both were exhausted beyond belief. All that was heard was one of Weezer's softer songs hovering over the sound of rubber on asphalt.

Bill tucked Meri in upstairs, deciding he himself would just take residence in one of many spare bedrooms. He felt a tug on his shirt as he turned to leave.

“Don't leave me,” the brunet mumbled.

“I'll jus’ be down the hall.”

“Please, Billy.”

His confusion dissipated into soft-hearted warmth. Billy. He could cry.

The redhead made his way beside Meri in the twin mattress and was immediately pulled closer, to where Meri was almost on top of him.

Minutes passed in a hush. He was on the verge of being asleep when the younger next spoke.

“I remember…after that ball. Was so drunk, n’you took me home. You held me all nigh’, sang some lullaby you tol’ me your mama sang you. Said I was all yours.”

He felt him yawn into his neck, and felt the feeling of wanting to cry come back. His teeth grit together in an attempt to stay strong.

“When you left the mornin’ after, I cried for hours. Never wanted you so bad in my life. Wished I coulda’ been your lil housewife, waitin’ for you to come home from work.”

He went quiet for a second.

Bill clenched his fists. “I'm sorry, Meri. If I'd’ve known…”

“You knew.”

“I…I knew.”

He felt Meri clutch onto the cloth covering his stomach, laid his hand on top of the other's.

“M’not mad anymore. Please…jus’ don't leave me again.” His voice was little more than a wisp of smoke in the air.

“I won't.”

No reply. Meriwether had fallen asleep. With the newfound alone time he was given, Bill took the opportunity to cry silently.

It had been a long night.

Chapter Text

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

“Oh, I have somethin’ wrong with me?! You're the one drinkin’ yerself to death!”

“You know nothing of my life, William!”

“You’re a goddamn drunkard! All you do is bitch and drink and argue! Tell me, when was the last time you went into work and did anythin’ meaningful, rather than have me do all your work while you drown your sorrows?”

Meriwether appeared hurt by the comment, deciding to turn it on its head to retort. “Yeah? Well, tell me, when are you going to stop treating me like your mistress?”

William’s face turned red from embarrassment and frustration. His fist slammed onto the desk separating them. “You are my friend. We don't—”

“Friends don't fuck each other, you daft bastard!”

Suddenly, he was pulled forward by the collar by the redhead. “Get yer own life before tryin’ to run mine.” His voice was low, dark and threatening. Meriwether went a little pale in face. With a huff, he was let go of, causing him to stumble backwards and fall into his office chair. They were still, staring at one another.

The brunet looked away first. He was tense, shaking. “Leave. Jump off a bridge for all I care, just go.”

A strange kind of panic filled William. “Meri—”

He leapt out his chair. “I said go!” His hand was inching toward the letter opener on his desk. Fearing the worst, he rushed to the door, leaving it open on his way. Meriwether slumped back into his chair.

1809.

The space next to him was cold. He patted around it, searching for something that was no longer present. This closed-eye revelation of being alone led to a grumble and him shoving his face into the pillow beneath his head.

Pillow? He didn't have a pillow. He tended to destroy pillows.

Whose bed was this?

Meriwether practically fell out of the bed in his haste. His eyes darted about the unfamiliar bedroom. Window. Bookshelf. Messy desk. Twin mattress. Not his room at all.

Leaving the room brought him out to a carpeted hallway with creaky floors. He turned left first, which took him to an old looking bathroom. This was knowledge he would likely need later on, but for now he didn't. 

Turning and rushing back to the right took him to a staircase. Meriwether went down two steps at a time. He tried to keep light on his feet so his noise level would be kept to a minimum. 

The stairs led to a living room. This, he realized, was Bill's house.

Memories from the night before were smeared in an oil of inhibited thinking. He remembered being at Mr. J’s house, leaving, walking around while horribly yelling the lyrics to some made-up song, and the rest was a blur. How the hell did he get here?

His phone wasn’t on him. The desktop computer, after swiveling the mouse around, read: August 10th, 11:04 AM.

Meriwether dragged himself into the kitchen. He wasn't sure what he was allowed to eat, nor was he sure if he was even allowed out of that bedroom. There was a window above the sink that he stared out of. Better to look outside than at nothing at all.

This silence didn't last. Creaking wood was heard behind him. He whipped his head around to the kitchen doorway, where a hunched over old man stood.

They stood, watching one another. The old man shuffled forward.

“Y’here fer Junior’s birthday party?” What. 

Meriwether stared at him, frozen.

The old man opened the fridge and took out a bottle of what seemed to be beer. He continued, “Well, sah-rreh, kid. We ran outta cake hours ago. Feel free ta make’a sandwich, though.” 

And then, the man shuffled back out of the kitchen. Meriwether rubbed his eyes, making sure he wasn't hallucinating. He peered at the man opening up the bottle as he plopped himself down on the couch with a loud “hhhhggh” sound.

Well, then. A sandwich he would make.

Whole grain bread, ham, mayo, pickles. Sad sandwich, but he didn't want mustard and hated ketchup. He picked up one of the bottles of beer to sate his own curiosity. 0.0% alcohol. Huh.

Meriwether had half his sandwich gone, when Bill walked into the kitchen.

He looked a little surprised to see him awake. “Oh, hey. Didn't know you were awake.” Obviously.

“Yeah, I, um, woke up a few minutes ago.”

Bill began making his own sandwich, his back turned to him. “Do you…remember anythin’ from last night?” 

He shook his head.

“Meri?”

He forgot that people couldn't see through the back of their heads, and that shaking his head didn't make a sound.

“Sorry. No, I don't remember much. Just, like, bits n’ pieces.” 

The redhead turned to him, looking guilty.

Meriwether’s face went red. “We didn't…like, um—”

“Oh, no no no! Nothin’ like that! You were real high, n’we slept in the same bed, but nothin’ happened.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. Okay, so things wouldn't be weird between them. That was good! Great, even! 

Itching fingers fiddled with the crust of his sandwich bread as he pushed onward, “And I didn't say anything stupid, right?”

“Uh. No, no. Just uhh…It’s stupid, really. You prolly din’ even know what you were sayin’, n’ I’m bein’ silly—”

“Bill.”

The older man, who had turned to his sandwich again, looked back at him when his ramble was interrupted. He was tight-faced. “Yeah?” 

“What did I say.” Less a question, more a statement. Monotone. There was no room to argue.

Bill leaned back against the kitchen counter and started to stuff his face in order to avoid answering. 

Meriwether stood up. “Stop eating. You're avoiding the question.”

He didn't stop eating, instead diving head first into an explanation of the previous night’s events. The only problem was that his words were muffled from the sandwich. Intolerably gross, rude, and was of no help.

His sandwich and plate were snatched out of his hands when the younger realized that Bill wouldn't actually tell him what happened while his face hole had food in it.

“Hey!”

“Answer. Now.”

After failing to reach for his food back, Bill let out a deep sigh. His face was sullen and guilty and had the appearance of a deer in headlights. One of his hands combed his hair back while the other was on his hip.

“You remembered us.”

At this, Meriwether looked confused. “Yeah, I've kinda, I don't know, been friends with you for a while now. Of course I would remember you.”

The older man shook his head. “Not like that. You talked about the ball n’ what happened afterward n’ talked about things that only we knew.”

“Strange coincidence, then.”

Bill let himself feel a little bitter at the situation. Here he was, reincarnated, with his companion; the companion didn't remember anything so now he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. It just wasn't fair.

Meriwether was somewhat convinced that this was all some weird dream. Cowboy(s?), farm, an old man, crazy guy trying hard to make him remember something he couldn't find. 

“I can prove it,” said the redhead. He shrugged and made a gesture to finish that thought. “The stars.”

“...what.”

Bill made some vague motion with his hands. “You—! The stars!” He pointed upward, although he didn't mean the ceiling above.

“Yes, what about the stars???”

“All the hextants and roctants and the shooting!!!”

“Sh—” Meriwether cut himself off. “Shooting the…the stars???”

“THE STAR!!!!!” Bill's arms waved wildly in the air as he continued to gesture upward.

“The Sun…?”

“Yes, the Sun!” Bill paced past him into the living room, and he followed. “We had’ta take the longitude and latitude of each area we stopped at so we had some kinda idea where we were! You'd get the altitude of the Sun, grab that—that one paper,” his voice was filled with some indeterminable righteous fury over astronomy. “And, BOOM! Latitude!”

Meriwether stood shock still where he was. He didn't know people could be that angry over latitudes and longitudes. “Are you…are you okay?”

The redhead threw his face into his hands, halfway in tears. “No!”

He pushed him gently to sit down on the couch and calm down, patting his back in an awkward manner. “There, there. It's okay.”

Bill looked up at him from his hands, tearful. “I'm crazy. I'm fuckin’ insane. You don’ even know what I'm talkin’ ‘bout. I died, an’ I went to Hell, an’ now I'm bein’ tortured. I shouldn't’ve—” he choked on a sob. “I shouldn't’ve tried findin’ you. I'm sorry.”

Meriwether, already frowning, frowned more. “You were talkin’ about “sextants” and “octants”. You didn't say the names right.”

He laughed wetly and rubbed his sniffling nose. “Yeah…tha’s what I meant.”

“And you,” he paused. “Well, the chart wasn't all that helpful to me. You read it better than I did.”

“I know. You used ta—ta whine about it a lot. You hated takin’ measurements. Said that if Jefferson wanted accuracy, he woulda came out there himself.” 

Bill was calming down, albeit gradually. The brunet was glad that the tension in the room was dropping. There was a tugging sensation in his brain that related to this topic of conversation, but it went ignored in favor of just trying to sooth Bill back into chaotic serenity.

He continued to rub the other's back. “You loved watching the stars.”

“No,” Bill looked at him, warmth soaking into the gaze he set on Meriwether. “I loved watching them with you.”

“I—” He felt his face flush red. His eyes flitted to his hands instead. 

Bill's countenance faded into something of a sad smile. “Ya don’ need ta remember it all right now. I can wait for ya.”

Hazel eyes peered at the older man. He shook his head. “I just…I feel like I'm letting you down by not remembering.”

“I've waited two-hundred fifteen years for ya. What's another few months?” 

Outside, the sun began to shine.

Chapter Text

The driveway of New Monticello. Sunlight blaring through the windshield. Air-conditioning turned up to the max. A marble lion perched on the front porch. A pang of déjà vu.

Meriwether turned to Bill, who was gazing at the large, well-manicured lawn, the various exotic garden plants, and the extravagant decorations scattered tastefully throughout. He cleared his throat in a pointed manner.

Bill whipped his head around to him. “Yeah?”

“Close your jaw. You're attracting flies.”

“I am?” Eyes darted about the interior of his truck.

“No, but you're staring.”

Despite the grandeur that graced Mr. J’s mansion, Meriwether was wholly indifferent. It was a place he'd been many times before. Sure, when he was a little kid and had first visited his godfather, it was impressive. 

He remembered running through the vast yard with Jane and Reuben, the adults trailing behind languidly. Somewhere, probably near where the flamingos would be placed in summertime, there was a smooth stone that he had cracked his head open on when he was seven years old. On the tennis court, he whacked Reuben with a racket when he was nine. Good times!

Over there was where his fifteenth birthday party was held, over here was a pond he fell into trying to catch minnows, and way in the back was where he got married that one time! No matter the occasion, Mr. J’s mansion was the place to go.

But it was all the same as it had always been. Not even the changing of the seasons would make it different since he’d gone here all the time—and still went there all the time.

Bill gave him a nervous grin. “Well, it’s a big place! I thought you were exaggeratin’ when you called it a ‘mansion’.”

Meriwether shrugged. “There are bigger places.”

“You…You live here, though.”

“Sometimes.”

“That’s still more than the average man has!” The redhead went back to eyeballing. “I mean, where else would ya wanna live? There’s everythin’ here!”

Another shrug. “My car, Mom’s house, a homeless shelter; I can go on.” He unbuckled his seatbelt and opened the door. “Anyway, c’mon.”

And so, they went. Thankfully, the walk to the front porch wasn’t a long one, so moving on from the conversation wasn’t hard. Meriwether didn’t feel like using his hands for anything but decoration and elbowed the doorbell with a jab. When it wasn’t immediately answered, he rang it about ten more times until someone yanked the door open.

The same servant guy from, what, yesterday, it was? He made a face at Meriwether. “Mrs. Lewis.”

“Mister.”

“Mr. Jefferson is in his study. Come in, please.”

Bill looked to the brunet. “‘Mrs.’?”

His prompt was ignored as Meriwether stepped inside. He decided to put a pin in it, and followed suit. 

The servant gestured downward. “Your shoes, please.”

Shoes! Bill slipped them off at the door while Meriwether crossed his arms expectantly instead. The man shook his head and began leading them up the staircase some yards away from the front doorway. 

Portraits and pictures adorned the flowery walls. The dark wooden floor of the steps whimpered as they made their journey toward the heavens. Everything was polished, smelling of old money. If one looked close enough, they could see the (now patched up and painted over) spot where Meriwether had put a hole in the wall during a meltdown. It satisfied him greatly to have ruined a piece of something so expensive. Mr. J damn near shot him when it happened. 

At the end of the hallway was a huge, ornate door. Everything else about the house was absurd, but this was too grand to not be ironic. Roaring twin lions were carved into its maroon wood, surrounded by flowers and vines, and at face level there was a scroll shape with the name “Jefferson” inside, painted with gold paint. So kitschy. So dumb.

Bill didn’t seem to think as such, with everything screaming “I have a lot of money and I want to throw it around so poorer people will appreciate the value it doesn’t have” to him. He turned to Meri.

“Please, God, let me marry you.”

“Oh, stop it. Mr. J is broke.” The redhead made a hand towards the opening door in front of them. “He owns the house, and pretty much owns everyone here. Ask him to buy you dinner; he’ll tell you to get a job. Cheap and broke.”

It didn’t look as if Mr. J heard him, though, still immersed in rattling away at his desktop computer. The little group came into the study.

The Servant: “Sir, your godchild is here.”

Mr. Jefferson, famous author and college professor, loved by all and hated by none: “Ah, young Meriwether! How you have worried us!”

“Young Meriwether” nodded to the older man, his brain bouncing around in his skull like beads in a maraca. “I was alright. Bill got me.”

Bill was turned to. “The long awaited William Clark!” Mr. J stood up from his office chair, spreading his arms. “Savior of my godson, captain of all, written into the ages!”

He certainly did not feel that way! The redhead looked both like he was starstruck and wanted to sink into the floor. “Good to meet ya, sir.” His eyebrows then scrunched up. “‘Captain’?”

Again, Bill’s questioning tone was disregarded as Mr. J made his way over to them. He firmly grasped his hand and shook it. “Meriwether’s told me so much about you.”

“You have?” He looked to the youngest, who was burning holes into the floor.

“Not that much…”

“Well, he sure has! He referred to you as “crazy as a loon” several times.”

Bill was now amused. “You have?”

“No, I have not!” Meriwether stepped forward, dragging his hand across his throat. “Ixnay it on the upid-stay.”

At this, Mr. J looked offended on his and Bill’s behalf. “Meriwether!”

“It’s okay! I don’ know what that means.”

“Well—”

The brunet cut in. “Anyways! We just wanted you to know that I’m alive, so we’ll be going now!”

“Oh, nonsense,” Mr. J scoffed. “Gregory has breakfast ready. We will eat and talk there.”

“But—”

A free meal was a free meal, and Bill wasn’t one to not accept a seat at most any table. “We’d love ta, sir!”

The oldest man was satisfied at the eagerness of his godson’s friend. He clapped his hands. “Wonderful! Let’s go!” And they were led to the dining room, Meriwether elbowing Bill in the ribs for forcing him to now have breakfast/lunch/whatever-meal-it-was with his godfather.

They sat down at the three mile long dining table. Mr. J once again took his seat at the head of it while Meriwether and Bill sat on either side of him. The redhead stretched his neck forward to look down the other end of the table, an amazement adamant in his face at the sight of how far the table went. Underneath it, Meriwether kicked him in the shin, the lines in his visage saying to stop looking like a sucker.

White wine was poured for Mr. J and Bill, while Meriwether got a glass of water.

“What the hell, why can’t I have wine?”

“You are underage. I will not allow you to become some kind of drunk under my roof.”

The brunet shrunk into his chair. “There’s worse things than wine.”

Mr. J pushed forward. Light conversation before a luncheon. “So, William, what do you do for work?”

“Just’a, y’know, little of this, little of that. Mostly busy on the farm.”

“Tell me of that. Your farm.”

Bill’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I love it! I got this horse—her name’s Soapy, ‘cause she blows these real big snot bubbles sometimes. She had a foal a coupl’a months ago, real cute lil thang. I named him Bear since he’s a big ol’ boy. His daddy’s kind of a bastard, but he’s my brother, George's horse. George wanted ta call ‘im “Tommy,” but I said that was a stupid name, ‘cause what is he, a kindergartener? Nah, he’s gonna be tough as nails, like his Pappy.” He pointed towards himself. “My big sister, Liz, has a barncat that lives with the horses. Bear already loves him; they play together all the time! I swear, Henry’s prolly got the heart of a horse. You never saw a cat who neighs, but he does!”

The table was quiet.

“‘Nd, um, yeah. Farm’s great.” And he then stuck his wine glass in his face to avoid embarrassing himself further with his rambling.

While Meriwether was suffering with second-hand embarrassment, Mr. J gave a nod. “Well, that sounds splendid. I’m sure your horses are fair creatures.” His face fell slightly as he watched Bill drain the glass in one go.

Breakfast was carted out moments later. Even though it was 11 AM, Mr. J tended to rise early (7:30 AM) and worked until it was time for his late breakfast. Lunch was altogether skipped thereafter, and dinner was at 4 PM. At around seven in the evening, he would have a glass of wine with a charcuterie board before bed. All of that was only one reason the youngest present dreaded staying over at his godfather’s house. 

A variety of French pastries, a bowl of scrambled eggs, fresh fruit, a platter of pan-fried meat, some toast, a good many condiments, apple juice, orange juice, cranberry juice. Plates and silverware were laid out in front of each man. When everything looked in place, the servants were waved away. 

Before Bill could get his grubby hands on any of the food, Mr. J held a hand out toward him.

“May we say grace?”

His eyes swiveled to Meriwether's quickly. A nod of reassurance gave him the answer.

“Yeah.”

They all held hands and bowed their heads.

Mr. J began, “Dear Heavenly Father…”

Meriwether reopened his eyes to look around the room, seeing that Bill also had his eyes open again. He tilted his head to him in an unspoken question. Bill sheepishly smiled, shrugging the shoulder that was connected to his friend by hand.

Their silent conversation went on until Mr. J was wrapping up his monologue about how grateful they were to have such a life, praising be the freedom granted to them as Americans. It was an odd tangent, but so was that entire day; it surely couldn’t get weirder.

In some odd and cacophonic unison: “Amen.”

The little group began filling their plates. Requests to pass the ‘so-n-so’ were made, juice and wine was poured, Meriwether and Bill were playing footsie under the table. A particularly hard kick made the redhead choke on his eggs.

While he was cutting up a ham steak, Mr. J lined up a firing squad of questions. “William, do you remember what happened in 1809?”

The squeaking of silverware ceased from the other two at the table. They looked at him with respective looks of terror and confusion.

Bill was experiencing a lot of big, scary situations as of late. “I, uh…How do you want me ta answer?”

“Why,” the eldest said, pointing a fork toward his godson. “That was the year we lost Meriwether.”

The aforementioned Meriwether felt his face ball up like paper. “Seriously? You're shittin’ me, no way, don't say shit like that.” His head snapped to Bill, cold sweat soaking his t-shirt, nausea blooming upward. “Y-You hearin’ this?”

Brown eyes flew down to his own plate, uncomfortable and feeling kind of dumb. “I don’ like to think ‘bout it.”

Mr. J laid his hand on top of Bill’s, not unkindly, a face full of sympathy. “It was a hard time for all of us. I can only imagine what you felt.”

“I'M NOT DEAD!!! DAMNIT, I'M RIGHT FUCKING HERE!!!!” His heart was doing gymnastics in his chest.

“Meriwether, control yourself.”

The brunet was beginning to go red in the cheeks. He shook somewhat. “I don't— Stop that!” 

“You are old enough to handle this. Do not act like you can't.”

“I didn't die! I’m—I’m alive!”

Memories rushed his head with a dizzying quickness. Nighttime. Lantern. Dog. Pipe. 

The gun.

His lungs were filling with blood; God, he was so cold; help me; letters sprawled across the floor of his room; the fire was going out; will you come for me?

Sobriety was a bitch. He lasted two weeks before going back to drinking all day, everyday. His baby tried to do what he could, but dogs can only help so much. 

Most days, he would drink himself into a stupor, throw it all up, drink some more, shove a pill or two in his mouth, watch everything in his apartment rot, and write. 

The journals.

Billy would kill him if he didn't get these done soon.

Wife. Debt.

Debt and debt and debt. He would keep on collecting debt if it meant he could still drink. 

For a governor, he was awfully rugged. 

For a sharpshooter, his death was awfully long.

For a man, he was awfully alone.

Are you there?

Cold became warmth. The dirt became a wooden floor. His vision was blurring. His nails were digging into something tender. Sonic radiowaves beamed from his forehead. He wanted to vomit.

“Hey, it's okay. I gotcha. You're alright, hun.”

A shaky breath was drawn and released. Someone's hand was grazing through his hair, another one on his back. He choked on a sob.

“Meri?”

“I'm— it's—”

“Deep breaths. There ya go.”

“I-I needa go home.”

Swiftly, he was escorted out of the mansion. The trip to the car didn't register, so it more felt like teleporting than anything else.

Bill ran back inside for a moment, and came back out to the truck in (what seemed like) no time. Nothing felt real. All sound hummed as background noise for his familiar dissociative state.

Sleep.

Chapter Text

Well. That was a flaming, billowing, huge, and awful mess. If Bill had known any of that was to occur, he would’ve declined Mr. J’s invitation to eat with him.

On the drive back to the farm, he kept looking over to see if Meri was doing anything other than staring at nothing, which he wasn’t. The radio was turned down low. He tried his best to keep the truck as neutral a space as possible; he didn’t know how his companion would react to any stimuli, this being a predicament neither one was prepared for. 

Shaking, hyperventilating, curled into his own lap on the floor next to the table. This was possibly what he wanted least to happen when he was going to talk more about the whole “hey, you killed yourself a really, really long time ago, which sounds weird, but it’s true, so shut up and accept it. Also, you’ve been reincarnated. Surprise!” thing. 

He had pictured them, maybe in a month or two, sitting half on top of one another, reading about the famous Lewis & Clark Expedition, and pleasant memories would surface for Meri. They would cry in joy and kiss and maybe have a little sexytime and, hurrah! Acceptance! Bill would’ve been able to make a joke about him being shot in the ass or something, and Meri would laugh until he cried. They could begin planning a Modern Lewis & Clark Expedition (trademarked, he would definitely get it trademarked). It would be like it used to be, just with a lot more McDonald’s and less dancing around each other!

Instead, they had breakfast with Mr. Jefferson. No happiness, no joy, no sexytime. Meri was pushed into a panic attack and had dissociated. Bill’s head was full of a few choice words to shout at the former president, but he wanted to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. Grabbing Meri’s phone and any needed toiletries was quick. He didn’t stick around to hear anything from Mr. J, not that the older man had stuck around either. 

The truck pulled into his driveway. Another, smaller car was parked there as well. Liz was home with George from the Farmer’s Convention in the next state over. He grit his teeth. God, he hoped they were upstairs or out on the ranch. Nor he or Meri were ready to deal with another “meet the in-laws” episode. The redhead just wanted to usher him into a (preferably closed-eye) nap and ready himself for the foreseen hard conversation they would have to have. 

After getting out, he ran to the brunet’s side, opening it. A moment passed where he took in the still form sitting in his passenger seat.

Neck-length, mousy brown hair, pale skin, a strong and straight nose, long lashes. Sometimes, he could feel himself falling in love all over again just by seeing him. He could see the mole under the left side of his chin in his mind’s eye. The person before him was so different from who he first fell for, but was as much the same. Bushy-tailed, awkward, extremely blunt, and inquisitive. 

Hazel eyes pounced on him. The suddenness of their reveal made him jump.

“Uh, hi.”

“Stop imagining me naked.”

Bill yanked his eyes away, going red. “I’m not!”

“Yeah, you were. You’re blushing,” Meri said with a gradual grin sprouting. It was half-hearted, but it was something. 

The redhead turned to the porch of the house. Maybe him meeting his family wouldn’t be so bad! “Mhm, yeah, sure. Let’s g—”

A hand grabbed his wrist. He turned back to his companion. Meri wasn’t meeting his eyes, and was only halfway out of the truck, seeming anxious but wanting to please. 

“I can…like, y’know, repay you for all you've done.” 

At this, Bill was puzzled. “I don' need any money. It's fine.”

Blooming red face. Glassy eyes. “Not with cash.” The elder's hand was guided to an area some inches lower than his flank. His legs spread slightly.

“Oh.” He understood. An internal scale inside his brain crashed to the ground on one side with how horrible an idea this was. Any desire for a similar situation vanished, sensing hesitance as well as obligation from the brunet. Gently, he pulled his hand off him. “Meri…”

Some relief and definite dread were prominent on his face. Meri began shutting down, retracting entirely. “I thought you wanted me.” 

“I do, jus’ not like this.” 

“Did I misread?”

“Y’jus’—”

“I get it. Sorry.” 

Christ, this was painful. “I don’ wanna take advantage of ya, n’ I know ya don' actually want that. Not right now. Let's jus’ unwind, m‘kay?”

The younger nodded. Bill took that as a sign to get moving and take his stuff in.

They were solemn while walking into the faded blue house, both at a simmer over, now, two things they'd have to have an Important Conversation about. Meri trailed behind in a way akin to a beaten dog.

Bill's impulse was to comfort, but he was afraid of sending mixed signals, so he didn't. Instead, he overheard conversation in the kitchen and got them upstairs in a matter of seconds. He let Meri sit on his bed to stew, going back down to grab snackage (at that present moment, he regretted not snagging some food from Mr. J’s place on his way out).

George was sitting in a chair which previously came with the much larger kitchen table they used to have, before everyone moved away. Liz was sorting through various documents on the counter. His siblings spared him a glance and continued their conversation about finances or whatever. 

He grabbed a couple apples, a package of his beloved blueberry mini muffins (it was the last pack, damn), some water bottles, and two pizza Lunchables he was now glad he bought earlier that week. Fran used to rag on him all the time for his desire to eat premade food, but laziness was a disease and he was deathly ill. Why bother with a whole meal? So much work.

On his way out, he heard the gruff throat of his brother clear. He turned back around.

“Yeah?”

George pointed to his arms full of food. “You gonna eat all’a that?” Quirked eyebrow. Judgemental stare.

Bill kept his eyes elsewhere. “No, I got a guest. He's hungry.”

“N’ he's gonna eat all’a that?”

He groaned. “No, George, he ain't. The collective ‘we’ is hungry.”

“Well, I ain't hear no other feet than your loud ass stomps.”

Fucking grumpy dick. Bill sometimes wished his brother would go to a nursing home or would've moved across the country or just would've gone anywhere else but come home after the army. George had a tendency to try and act like his dad, which was a real knife in the gut when one is twenty-four and still living at home.

Speaking of, shuffling steps appeared behind him. He didn't even need to look to know that it was his pa. Even so, he looked back anyway. Old habits die hard, and they die even harder when you got your ass beat when you didn't meet your father's eyes as a child.

“Pa.”

His pa, once a powerful, intimidating figure in his eyes, was now an old man with middle stage Alzheimer's dementia. It would be so easy to just push him down the stairs. Better not to try, though.

The old man ignored him, going to the fridge and grabbing himself a non-alcoholic beer. Real alcohol couldn't be kept there anymore since dealing with a drunk, demented, damn annoying old guy was a pain in the ass. And he was gone as quick as he came.

Bill returned his gaze to George. “He's quiet. Now can I please go to my room?”

“Yeah, yeah, go on. But don't be feedin’ people my food.”

He was going to ignore the fact that it was not his brother who bought groceries, but rather him and Liz; and the money was primarily from their father's retirement. He would, instead, run back upstairs to his room because he thought leaving guests alone in one's house for extended periods of time was rude. 

Walking in, he saw Meri (stiff as a board), and his pa drinking beer, yapping.

“N’make sure ya get Buddy fed n’ comfy. He kicks when he's pissed off, I tell ya, kid. One time—”

Bill used ‘Distract’! “Hey, Pa, can you go get Buddy for my friend here?”

The man stared blankly at him for a second. “Whaddya need ol’ Bud for, Georgie?”

“He needs to catch his TV show. Remember? He loves watchin’ the soaps with Mama.”

“Oh, yeh.”

It was effective! His father handed off the bottle and shuffled away. The redhead let out a sigh of relief, setting the snacks down on the bed. 

“Bill, what the fuck just happened.”

“Snack time!” Not the best response, but it was better than nothing. 

One Lunchable, one apple, and a bottle of water was what Meri was given. Bill opened up his pizza making lunch kit—he was far too anxious to look his friend (friend? Ex-lover? Possible soulmate?) in the face.

Crusts; sauce, spread it on with a spoon; pepperoni; cheese. His pizzas looked so good he didn't want to eat them. If it weren't for the fact that they would eventually mold and stink, he would've kept it on a plate next to his dead plant. 

Masterpieces. That's what these pizzas were.

Bill took a peek at his companion. Furrowed brows. Inaudible question mark. Prolonged eye contact with his own Lunchable. It would be fine to answer that lingering question from earlier. Probably.

He still wouldn't look up though. Too scary. “Yeah, that was my dad.” Bite nom nom nom cold pizza.

“He—What??”

“Pa’s halfway to ancient by now. He was talkin' to ya about Buddy ‘cuz he thought my brother, George, hired another farmhand.”

“Ohh, okay. That makes sense.”

“Nope, it doesn't. Buddy’s been dead for five years now.”

“Oh. Why was he…like, uh…”

“Dementia.”

“...oh.”

The redhead had finished his pizzas and moved on to the mini muffins. “Well, what can ya do!” Two for each of them. A little treat. 

He had a system for eating mini muffins so they would last longer. First, you would bite it in half vertically. Then, you would bite that half into halves again. After that, you would shave off the top of the muffin (arguably the best part). And, finally, you would pop the rest of it in your mouth. It was the right way to eat them, if there was such a thing. This system was repeated for his second muffin. 

Meri fidgeted around with his food. The sauce packet his Lunchable came with was nabbed at each side, seesawing the sauce in it from one side to the other. 

“‘M sorry. For earlier.”

Bill finally met his eyes. “What're you apologizin’ for? You don’ got anythin’ to be sorry about.”

“But, I—y’know, that was weird!”

“It’s not that I, uh, don’ wanna do that, but I don' want ya to feel obligated to do it. Besides, after all that with Mr. J, I jus’ want ya to feel safe.”

The younger tugged at the hair covering the base of his neck with averted eyes. “No offense, but the whole “remembering” thing fucking sucks.”

He was surprised, and at the same time wasn't. “Yeah, it takes a while. It'll be alright.”

“No, like, I remembered stuff.”

“Oh!” He scooted closer on the bed, evidently glowing from what he thought was good news. “What'd ya see?”

Meri was emanating anxiety. “The cabin.”

“Oh.”

“N’ some other stuff. A lotta drinking. Writing. All kinds of shit.”

Bill hadn't considered the now obvious question that was now splitting his skull open: What would meeting him do to his companion? He was heinously aware of the love that poured out of himself, dealt with it by himself for pretty much his entire life, but the same wasn't true for Meri. Forcing it to happen would lead to something that was equivalent to the world imploding. 

Meri, in the time between meeting him and last night, could've spiralled back to another suicide attempt. He could've died that time. The pressure of a past life he never asked for could've been too much, and then there would be two graves with the name “Meriwether Lewis” on them. 

Oh God. What if Mr. J’s confrontation led to Meri killing himself (again again again)? He barely moved on from the first time, he couldn't go through that again. Really, it'd be worse the second time around. The grief alone would drag him into oblivion. Reuben wouldn't even need to murder him. Bill would finish the job himself. 

Would it have been better if they'd never met altogether? Meri might have lived a good, full life after the expedition. Married, children, tenderly loved by his community. Did Bill—William—Clark kill him? Did his love for a no good, uneducated hillbilly end his life? 

Maybe it wasn't too late. Maybe he could fix this still. There weren't any real feelings yet (on Meri's end, anyhow. Bill was obsessed), so the split could be clean. No harm. No foul. Not to his beloved captain.

“Bill?”

He snapped out of the trance he'd put himself into. Right. Conversation. “Yeah?”

Meri had shifted closer. “Do you—” A pause. “What do we do?”

“I—” Distantly, in his own head, an explosion blew apart some faraway bridge of rationale. The redhead jumped to his feet. “I can never see you again.”

“What?”

He began pacing, fear rising like high tides. “I killed you. If we continue to be together, it'll happen again! You'll—You’ll—oh, Christ, I can't let you die!”

“Please, don't—”

“Meri,” Bill got on one knee and grabbed one of his companion’s hands. “You have ta get outta here. Get far, far away. Far enough that I can't—” He inhaled sharply. “—can’t kill you a second time.”

He thought the younger man would understand. That was how things had to be! This was the most loving thing he could ever do for him, or he thought so, at least. Instead of a diligent nod or a salute or tearing ass away from him, Meri began tearing up.

“But—You’re not supposed ta’—ta’ leave me!” The other's free hand grasped his forearm. “You said you wouldn't leave me this time!”

Desperation filled their stares, though different in nature.

“You have a second chance! You can find happiness this time, Meri!”

“I only wanted you!” A sob escaped him. “I only want you. Please, Billy, let me stay. Please.”

“But—”

“I won't try ta’ kill m’self again! I'll be good! You can even have Julia again! Jus’ don't leave me.”

It was horrible. Codependency. Civilian life made him soft (civilian life made him crave comfort in the form of promises he wasn't sure would be kept). It was an area he should have put more thought into exploring, trying it on for size. There wasn't a word for them in their first lives, but it existed now, and it had colored all aspects of that life and this one.

Shared quarters since the beginning of time. A closeness in goals and ideas and everything, it felt like. Knowledge. Fame. Need.

They shouldn't know each other the way they do. At a few weeks after meeting, they should be getting to know one another, not vying for a unique mix of emotional terrorism. 

Too close. And yet.

Bill wanted this. He missed Meri, missed how he felt on top of the world, being the ‘Man’ and taking charge of life. He missed playing caretaker. He missed licking Meri’s wounds. 

His blood was thick with need, chest pumping at the inclination to let himself fall back on the haystack that was codependence. To simply let go.

Too much. He felt his room’s temperature spike from emotion. Too much was clouding both of their heads. They needed to back off until they could talk with clear consciences.

“I—we—” The knot in his throat wouldn't leave. He tried again. “Horse.”

Meri's face went from agonized to (still agonized, but now somewhat) dismayed. “Wh…what?”

Bill stood back up and nodded at his door. “We should go for a ride. Horseback. Like, uh, now.”

“Promise me, promise that I can stay.” Skittish gaze. In a way, he was similar to a horse. Or rather, a deer, if the older man was honest. Horses tended to kill themselves or others when in a panic. Deer tend to, well. 

He thought back to last night.

“Please…jus’ don't leave me again.”

And promptly threw his emotional defenses out the window. They would figure it out later, he guessed, as his arms bundled Meri up and pulled him close.

“I promise.”

Chapter Text

“O, that you were your self! But, love, you are

No longer yours than you yourself here live;

Against this coming end you should prepare,

And your sweet semblance to some other give.

So should that beauty which you hold in lease

Find no determination; then you were

Your self again after yourself’s decease

When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear.

Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,

Which husbandry in honor might uphold

Against the stormy gusts of winter’s day

And barren rage of death’s eternal cold?

O, none but unthrifts, dear my love, you know.

You had a father; let your son say so”

—William Shakespeare, Sonnet 13

August 10th, 1804.

They had left Sgt. Ordway in charge for the afternoon.

It was, where they presently stood, as if they never had any time to enjoy one another’s company. Herd the men, get on the boats, get off the boats, collect specimens, make maps. Keep everything in control. He would admit, though, Lewis had extreme issues with letting another take the reins. He practically had to beg to accompany him while the brunet made note of the plant life viewing Blackbird’s Hill.

Sun beamed down on the two men as they rode along. Lewis was scanning a bright horizon for indeterminable organisms as his partner branded the back of his neck with his gaze, fine hairs gathering sweat. He licked his bottom lip and let his mind float away. 

Focus was a tool most required at this moment. A plant or something or the other could be missed, a scientific marvel left to become swept up—but no better marvel was present than—

“Billy?”

His reverie shattered by fault of the marvel in question. Lewis had put his horse to a halt.

Back on Earth, Captain William Clark came. “Ah, yes?”

Following the direction of his index finger, in sight was some lone and well-developed oak. If a shape was put to its silhouette, then he would consider the branches in form of an egg on its side, with string dangling into the ground below as its trunk. Lush plumage made way for frangible shade.

This did not answer whatever question that had been asked. The red-haired man tilted his head.

“Did you want to take a break?” Demure intonation and anticipatory movement. He watched the shifting of back muscles hidden by (cursed) clothing.

Quicker than normal, he responded, “Yes.” 

And they rode.

And rode.

Horses, while mythical creatures, tended to be slow when one was ready to devour his fellow man whole.

They couldn't have arrived fast enough. Clark dismounted and hitched his steed as fast as he could. Peering behind to his co-captain, he saw him scribbling on parchment, still sitting atop his horse as if one with it 

He let himself lean against the oak, letting slip a cough in his direction.

The scribbling quickened. “Apologies, I'm almost done with…” His sentence cut itself off with distraction.

A moment passed before he could take no more. “Meri.”

His companion threw his hands up, pencil and papers in hand. The items were deposited hastily into a knapsack on the saddle. Dismount, pat, and slender hands tied its lead to a low hanging branch. 

No food nor drink, no event, no reward could compare to the sensation of having his co-captain’s body on his, his lips grinding against his own. William's arms wound themselves around his waist, tugging endlessly closer. He felt his back make contact with the tree again, after pulling away from it to meet the brunet in their kiss, and a pleasureful pulse when their hips united. The already warm summer day became fierce.

It was just lust, that's what he told himself. Men had needs. Sure, native women threw their bodies at the crew left and right, but they didn't know how to touch him like Lewis—Meriwether—did. 

They wouldn't let him leave bruises all over their necks that would, the next day, need to be covered with that little cream-colored cravat Meriwether kept carefully tucked away. They wouldn't let him utterly ravish them and, an hour later, admonish him with a smirk about his hunger. They certainly wouldn't do that thing Meriwether did with his tongue on his cock that he loved so much, despite never admitting to such feelings.

Women, in general, somehow fell short in comparison. There had been plenty of women before coming out west; they fell hook, line, and sinker for his sweet talk and military uniform. But they were so soft. One couldn't throw a lady on a desk, not without getting his ear chewed off, anyway. He knew from experience. Women didn't like being wrestled with. All gentle touches and sweet words and “I love you”s, even if he didn't.

Meriwether, and his cold hazel eyes and his lean, tough body and his awful, patchy stubble and the way he'd claw down his back while being drilled into. Meriwether, who didn't need honey-like words, who knew what he needed and when he needed it. 

All of it was…convenient. Yes, that was the word he'd use. There was no use in developing some kind of ‘star-crossed lovers’ act with a woman he would never meet again, no use in telling her where to touch, when his co-captain already knew all of those things and more.

They didn't talk about what they did outside of their own bubble. The men didn't know, the Indians didn't know, and the president definitely didn't know. 

The two were just close friends and coworkers in the public eye.

William felt his spend release into the brunet's hand, head falling back against the oak. He'd made his friend finish moments earlier. Hot puffs of exertion condensed on his neck.

An open-mouthed kiss was pressed to the spot briefly, and Meriwether untangled himself from him, sitting back on his knees. Sweat had made a sheen on his pale chest. Red marks were bitten into the tender flesh of his neck and collarbones. His face was that of one experiencing a pleasant dream. He brought his used hand to parted lips, licking the seed off delicately.

He couldn't help but think, I've never loved someone more. William pressed himself back onto his co-captain.

June 30th, 1809.

“I've neva’ hated ya’ more.”

William’s eyebrow rose, giving the inebriated man a look of annoyed questioning. 

He responded with a snort. “Because…?” In truth, he knew his companion hadn't meant what he said, but he was a bit drunk, himself, and wanted to see the man stumble stupidly over what he was talking about.

Meriwether had a hand braced on the wall outside the building where the Freemasons Ball was being held, retching and coughing and looking pathetic. There was, as the world would graciously have it, no vomit, but that was due in part to the man spending his days working or sleeping off hangovers. Many a day passed where he had to almost shove food down his throat. It was foolish, spoon-feeding a grown man.

Wet, furious eyes stared up at him. “You,” he began. “Your woman.” A drunken sneer bleeding into a face he once found so full of comfort.

“Yes, what about Julia and I?” William kept his arms crossed as he watched him squirm. It served him right.

The brunet didn't reply, face flashing back to the ground.

“Meri.”

He didn't look up or respond.

“Meriwether.”

Again, nothing.

Tired of the angst and dancing around answers, William grabbed his chin to swivel it toward himself. “What about us?”

Pouting pink lips trembled. A face already flush with drink heated more. Tears illuminated by moonlight were daring to spill. Even so, Meriwether got in his face to snarl, “You flaunt her around, touching her, treating her like she's God's gift to the world. It sickens me. You—You’re—” He wasn't able to go on with his tirade when his body jerked away and downward, getting sick all over the dirt below. The world wasn't so gracious after all. 

When he was done tossing up a vague dinner of this and that, he broke into sobs, knees meeting earth. Miserable sniveling.

“Christ.” William found himself no longer angry, only overcome with pity. One of his hands rubbed the younger’s back. “C’mon, we've gotta—”

“You despise me, Billy! All ya feel when ya look at me is complete hatred! N’your—your wife is the same! She stole you from me, but ya both merely tolerate me because you're so, so sorry…!” The final word dragged into a wail, and Meriwether dug his fingers into the vomit-coated ground below, as if to hold onto some sliver of control. 

He couldn't even find disgust amidst the myriad of emotions that held refuge in his chest. A (thought to be long subdued) sentimental part of him took over. Grabbing a handkerchief from inside his coat, he took great care in cleaning the bile from his friend's chin, letting him vent in the form of mournful tears. 

When done, William thumbed away wetness from his cheek. “I've got ya, sweet thing.”

The brunet flinched away like he was to be hit. “Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Don't act as if you love me.” ‘Still.’

His mouth set itself in a firm line, wrinkles making him look ten years older than he was. He buried the comment for later contemplation.

“We should get ya home.”

Meriwether's apartment was, in truest definition, a disaster. This was a well known fact to them both, but it still surprised William every time he set foot there.

It stunk sour of booze, waste, and purge. Bottles danced with used parchment on the grimy floor. There was little affection held from either man for the filthy space. Dark fur was strewn about in clumps, especially crusted on an empty matching food and water bowl set, which sat near the front door. To whom they belonged was not present.

In spite of his lacking effort, though, the governor slipped his evening wear off with, what had to be, dramatized fidelity. They were hung in an older wardrobe hidden in a corner. Cousinly with a babe’s vomit rag, yet drenched with reverence. 

Man’s shame, nakedness, came fine and without said aforementioned shame. Meriwether tiptoed, in his stark form, to a bed half as bare as himself. He kept his expectant face toward William.

“I should, erm—”

“Stay.” The command was soft-spoken. Presented was a choice: now or never again.

Now; destruction of age-old conformity, one child divided between two parties, inevitable rumors. Love. Fear. Need. Exile. No guarantee of safety.

Never again; creation of a long dreamt of family, legacy in blood, fulfillment. Obligation. Familiarity. Boredom. Acceptance. When one is a single sheep in a herd, safety could be assured in quantity.

Was there no third path? Any option to hold both?

Could ‘both’ be had?

Minutes later, his unclothed skin met Meriwether's on the mattress. How the temperament owned by this second being went from cold and thunderous, to hot and still, was bound for status as one of those plentiful queries held by humanity. Back when it lit his soul alight, back west, William had craved to understand its mercurial nature. All he wanted, in this new age, was dormance. Rest.

They lay with stagnant air. He made no move toward the other, allowing him to carve and flood a space in his ribs. 

Whispery pillow talk. “Why do you hate me so?” 

“Hm?”

“You no longer want me. It's possible you never did.”

He tried for some dry amusement. “Well, this is news to me.”

“...”

“I'm sorry. Not the right time.” A pause to ponder. “Why do you think that?”

“Julia.” Her name was said without breath.

“She's…”

“A woman. Your wife.”

“She's what is expected of me.”

“...”

“I don't not want you, it's that I shouldn't.”

“And, therein, I'm not wanted.”

The moonlight made blue his lover’s apartment, as well as their heads. William gathered warm flesh into his hold. Perfume faintly lingered on Meriwether.

“I will always need you.”

“Oh.”

“For as long as I live, you are mine, and I’m yours, Meri. There will never be a moment where I won't—” He let out a shaking exhale. “Where I won't love you.”

“Billy.”

“Please don't think otherwise anymore.”

“I won't, I won't.”

Meriwether, who needed sweet, honey-like words and reassurance. Who needed to be held after making love. Who would occasionally cry when the redhead would wash his hair. Who took any crumbs of attention he could get.

The haze of bleary ambience swayed through their ears. Recalling that, even when thoroughly worn, the younger was restless, William began to hum deep in chest. It had been this tune his mother would put him to bed with, while at an age where sleep did not come easy.

His love faded into Hypnos’ grasp moments later. He followed suit.

Cold bed. William was gone in the morning.

Both.

Chapter Text

August 10th, 2024, 215 years later.

His head was, metaphorically, buried in the straw-covered ground beneath them. So humiliating, to have feelings. 

Bill kept staring at him with a molten thousand-yard stare, expression changing from guilty, to anguished, to watery, and then to affectionate; the merry-go-round of emotions cycling through him one after another. A noticeable distance was between them, too. Meri would try to walk closer to him, Bill would put as much space as socially acceptable up as a wall. Had he not been mentally drained from that day’s razor blade of memory, he might have felt rejected.

They were at a shed staked three yards from the farmhouse, and a million yards away from society, if it turned out that Meri accidentally walked into The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. 

God, he should’ve asked to stay in the bedroom for a nap. Sleep sounded a lot better than riding horses. He didn’t even know how to ride a horse, for God’s sake! 

(There was this itch, an intuitive nibbling in his feet and hands. It whispered through the wind, ran in his blood, wore his bones down. Practiced. Daintily nostalgic. He wondered if Bill got that feeling when—

—Nausea. Maybe he would dwell on it another time, preferably when he had his hands on several bottles of jack and had lost all inhibitions.)

Meri, standing a couple of paces behind him, drank in that sweaty redhead. Same hard-working hands, same broad figure, same stance. They had kept him warm in his sleep.

Those dreams from his pubescent years often had pieces missing from them, incoherent beside some few gears and cogs, and now ran his brain like a broken clock. His mother, after prying them from his brain’s grasp, would become stone. That, or she would cry, hugging him so tight he thought his guts would explode from his ass and mouth, apologizing with the kind of vigor a preacher has for his beliefs. He never understood why they upset her so much. 

When he brought up taking a roadtrip to the Pacific coast, she shut it down without hesitation, not giving any explanation other than: “What’s so great out there, that you would leave your family?” 

He stopped asking altogether after his stepfather threw him out of the house for the night one time, telling him to leave, since he wanted to so badly. Crying on the icy grass in the coldest hours of a December night executed trust in both his mother and stepdad. Au contraire, it only served to feed the flame that was Exploration.

Meri felt skin brush his forearm, melting away from that December’s deathly, frostbitten maw. He peered up for a split second, and then put his head back in the dirt, not alive enough to muster anything more.

Bill’s hand dithered. It would go to hold onto him, go back to its owner, and seesaw on top of their invisible border. 

“Hm?” His tongue was lead in his mouth. Humming would have to suffice.

The hand fell away. “Do you— Are you—” Exasperated sighing. “Horse?” A minute. “No, I mean, uh, did ya want’a horse by yerself?”

“I—”

“Who am I kiddin’, obviously yer gonna want yer own horse. That was a stupid question, my bad.”

“Bill—” Or it wouldn't suffice. Whatever.

“‘Ask the guy who rode horses in his past life.’ Great idea, Bill. Jesus H. Crisco…” He mumbled, picking up a bucket beside his feet.

The leaden feeling vaporized and floated out of his mouth. “Bill, I don’t know shit about horse-riding.”

“...say what?”

“Where in Virginia would I need to know that?”

“B-but—we—!” In his rambling, inarticulate sputtering, was confusion more potent than snake venom and fentanyl combined. His hands would have been waving around, too, if he didn’t have a bucket of slop in one, and a pair of cowboy boots in the other.

Head out of the ground. The returning normalcy of their banter was, while abrupt, fresh air, decimating the dust that was contextual sorrow. “Yeah, expedition, blah blah blah. You forget it's been two centuries since then.” 

“You grew up on a farm!”

He scoffed fondly. “Not this time.”

Bill’s disbelief overrode anything else at that moment. His incomprehensible babbling came together in one fell expression: “What?!” 

“I’m from the heartland of urban-suburban Virginian pride, man. Tell me, what about my demeanor ever screamed: ‘farming’?”

“I—” An imaginary clock counted the seconds, a sharp tick tick tick sound conjured up in place of the redhead’s voice. “I dunno. I thought ev’rythin’ was the same as, y’know, last time.”

Meri thought it best not to point out specifically what changed from their past lives, lest it gave Bill reason to rake up any grudges he’d held onto. Sure, he could get the life beat out of him and fed to pigs (were there pigs here? He would ask later on), but it would be hard trying to concentrate on screaming in agony when his memories were clipping into one another. His head hurt, trying to assign times to each one. How in hell did anyone live like that?

Accompanying the headache was that nausea again. Goddamnit.

Snapping him out of his blurred-chalky-cracking-split lip daze, Bill held the boots out to him. “Well, we can, uhh…we could ride…together? If—If that’s alright with you, of course.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” Boots. “What’re the boots for?”

A shrug. “I figured you wouldn’t wanna step in horse crap with tennis shoes on.”

“Oh, yeah. Thanks.” If this was The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, then his host was an awful serial killer. They hadn’t even got to the gratuitous nudity scenes yet!

After spending an embarrassing amount of time taking off his sneakers, hopping in one spot to put on each boot, nearly falling on sunbaked dirt, he had accomplished the ultimate task: he was a cowboy. Well, maybe not a cowboy, but rather a guy in cowboy boots. 

The scrambling motion of one-footed shoe subtraction/addition only felt more moronic with an audience, if he could be honest.

Meri held up his poorly cared for sneakers. “Shoes?” Shoes.

“Uhhhhh…” His host looked around, settling on a bench in front of the shed. He pointed to it. “Right there's pro-o-o-bably fine?”

That bench would’ve been beneficial when he did his horrible job charading a pogostick. Too late for it, though. Shoes tossed, a nod of the head, and they were on their way to the barn that sat some distance away from everything else. 

On their way over, Bill was unusually quiet. He half expected that the walk would be filled with anecdotes or questions, comments, any kind of indication that implied their—what would be a good word for it, groveling?—conversation from earlier in the house was put behind them. He thought his assumption was right; they'd spoken, albeit about knowledge of horseback riding. 

He didn't know whether he should have taken the silence personally or not. Either way, it was pleasant to take in bits of birdsong and ruffling wind despite Bill's vow of silence.

When they were closer to the barn, the first thing he noticed was the smell of shit. So strong. So very painful, frying the hair of his nostrils to a crisp. Meri had nearly doubled over, but Bill strutted over as if it was of no concern. Just another day.

The younger man held the neckline of his t-shirt above his nose and mouth. “Oh my God, that's—that’s straight ass!”

“Yeah, it gets pretty bad in summer. S’alright.”

Staying behind so he wouldn't pass out from the noxious fumes, he watched his friend pour out the slop in his bucket into (surprise, surprise!) a pigpen. At least he knew his fate was sealed with mud and squealing.

Bill threw a glance over his shoulder. “You comin’?”

His feet stepped backward subconsciously. “I would prefer not to.”

“Ah, too late now! You'll be fine. Lil’ manure never hurt anybody,” he said, enthusiastic but focused. He would clean up here and there, feed the animals (pigs, cows, horses—ginormous, godforsaken horses), and skitter around like a southern lunatic. 

Meri, trying with the least bit of reluctance evident, meandered in, face wrinkly due to the stench. The redhead had stopped in front of the first stable door out of five, waving him closer. He dragged himself over.

A rust red snout popped out over the door, sniffing. Upon getting nearer, he saw more of said snout, big eyes, and a dark crimson mane. The horse was giving him the side eye as Bill petted its neck. It put its nose in his face, sniffing more, before snorting and turning away.

With warm eyes, his host introduced the horse. “This is my little girl, Soapy!”

“Little?”

“Little enough. You haven't seen Morrisey, yet.”

“...who?”

“George's horse. He's a big ol’ bastard, an’ I mean both’a them.” 

Soapy shook her head like she was disagreeing. 

“He's her lil boyfriend, and her baby daddy. Speakin’ of—” Bill pointed to the back of the seemingly larger than usual stable, where a bay-coated foal stood. “That right there is my grandson, Bear. Dunno if Henry's around here, but he loves that stinkin’ cat. Real chipper fella.”

Hot damn, that was a big baby. Bigger than a human baby, anyhow. 

“We're not gonna be ridin’ her, though. Morrisey’s not good with foals. Or anyone. Just gettin’ y’all acquainted.”

Bill began walking further down to the last stables with another wave of the hand. Some place, somewhere, God was surely laughing at the younger man while he tried not to asphyxiate on oxygenated manure. He followed along nonetheless.

They stopped at the second-to-last stall. Inside it stood a dappled gray mare with shut eyes. She was shaken several times, but REM had taken possession of her brain.

He shook her again. A minute or two passed before she snorted, eyes opening.

Meri put one of his hands out towards her, though not without looking at Bill for reassurance. The elder nodded and smiled.

Splatters of dark grey came to be raindrops on light grey, coal-colored strands fell over her neck. Strong, fragile, alive. His hand smoothed over her neck with a mixture of appreciation and apprehension.

He felt the weight of his host's stare as he spoke next, “She’s…beautiful.” 

“She’s one of the older horses here, though I, personally, think that's insultin’ since she's only ‘bout ten years old. Liz keeps on callin’ her a hag, but she's just mad that she got dragged a good while ago.” 

“What's her name?”

Bill went quiet for a moment, moving his hands this way and that. “Well, she, uh—y’see, names are purely subjective, and we got her real long ago. Honestly, you don’ even wanna know her name, she don’ respond to it no way, an—”

“Bill. Her name?”

A mimicry of tossing salad, minus all tools for tossing said salad. He grumbled vaguely under his breath.

“What?”

Answered with: “I mean…” and followed by more unintelligible mumbling.

“The name? C’mon, spit it out.”

Bill did his reluctant hand-waving/salad-tossing/vague-mumbling a little more, taking a breath. “Her name…is Merriam Clark-Lewis, n’ before you judge me: I was fifteen.”

“You—” Words couldn't comprehend the mix of feelings that swept into his brain. Flattered, somewhat weirded out, and (most confusingly) smitten. “You named your horse after us?”

“High school was a weird time, alright?”

“Uh-huh, and the first thing you could think to name a horse after was us?”

He had started insistent, “More you than me, really.” Then went onward with a jittery shyness that overtook him once more, “I just, uh…I missed ya, is all.”

“I—” Meri was ready to put his head back in the ground. So humiliating, to mock said feelings. “I'm sorry.”

“Nah, it's fine.” Although he didn't sound convinced of himself. Maybe more hurt than not.

There wasn't any specific action that he knew, for sure, would fix the tension, so he shut his mouth and let Bill handle Merriam.

And promptly zoned out.

Once upon a time, there was an octopus who sold LSD in the streets of the sea. Their name might have been Scooter, or Chode, or Hamlord. It most likely didn't have a name, though. Octopuses don't understand English.

Even so, the octopus was an LSD dealer in the sea. They sold and they bought and they had total street cred. Everyone and their mama bought from them since the product they got in stock was extremely pure.

You ever seen a fish trip on LSD? Yeah, no one has. Probably. 

One day, another octopus pulled up on Scooter's turf, selling the worst goddamn drugs in the whole universe. Fish would take them, after getting totally ripped off, and gain consciousness. Suicide soon followed. 

This may sound good, but if you were a fish, and you gained consciousness, you would want to jump off a(n underwater) bridge! You could die in a million brutal ways, tortured relentlessly until you go braindead, and now you're aware of it all!

Chode learned about the mass fish suicides from the bad LSD. They had never heard of such horrors. Fish with consciousness? Committing suicide? From drugs? How awful.

Worse still, the fish were getting the two octopuses confused, racist as hell and also fish. No one bought Hamlord’s products anymore. They all thought that they were the same octopus selling evil drugs. Money was on its way down the drain. Or, rather, was evaporating.This had to end. The other dealer had to die.

Scooter rocked up to their stolen territory one day. One of their loyalest of customers, a sketchy shark who had several charges for child abandonment, had given them the tip. Fish regulars began clearing the way as Chode circled the rival octopus.

The two spoke without words, tentacles waving about. Their rival said something about Hamlord’s mom. Oh, hell no.

They whipped out an AK-47 and shots started flying. The rival, having anticipated this, somersaulted behind a boulder. Seconds later, they fired back with a TEC-9. Scooter was able to move out of the way from any shots. Maneuvering suavely through saltwater and sand, they held some fish in front of them as a shield while they neared.

Once they were close enough, Hamlord threw the fish at their rival, stunning them momentarily, before jumping on them, balled-up tentacles raining down. Guns were useless in hand-to-hand combat.

Sand was being kicked up and darkening the water. Visibility dropped to zero. Still, they tumbled about. Chode stuck their appendage into one of their opponent’s eyes, pulling viciou𑁋

“You ready?”

In a blink, Meri was back in the barn. 

Bill held Merriam’s lead as he checked her saddle for any weaknesses. Today was a lesson on the boredom of farm life, if past events were made to be an indication of excitement. 

Shouldn't he want mundanity? “Yeah.” 

They had a rough day insofar, a rough week, a rough trillion centuries—this should've been relaxing. He should've been crying with relief. Instead, he was getting antsy.

Beauty. Humidity. Dirt. Where was the adrenaline?

Apparently, Bill had been given mind-reading abilities. “Dontcha fret, she looks a lil slow, but she's feisty on rides.”

“Shit, sorry, did I look bored?”

The redhead hoisted himself up onto Merriam's back. “Know you better than the back of my own hand. Saddlin’ horses was always your least favorite part. You made someone else do it for ya, if ya could.” He waved him up with a grin. “C’mon, up-up.”

Meri, choosing to ignore all mention of past life madness, tried figuring out the schematics of mounting horses. His brain had no luck. “Uh. How?”

The reins were held out to him. “Grab this.” 

He did so with his left hand. “Other hand.” Right, he switched hands. 

“Put your right foot in the stirrup, n’make sure the bar touches your inner heel.” The angle was a stretch, but not impossible. If people had seams, though, Meri was sure his groin would be bleeding cotton. 

Bill patted behind himself on the seat, at the end of the saddle. “Other hand, here. Pull yerself up while pushing with yer stirrin’ leg. Stand straight up on ‘er, pretty much.” Yet again, Meri decided to ignore how intimate Bill was being, the lack of distance between them that would occur on the horse a clear sign. 

(Focus, damnit! Now wasn't the time for vague arousal or shame-filled pangs!

Oh, but ass was always his Achilles Heel, and the view wasn't bad…

Focus!)

“Now, just swing yer free leg over n’ find her other stirrup, n’ sit.”

Meri did as he was told, however stilted it may have been when lowering onto the seat itself.

His host looked back at him with a nod. “Good, good! I would say to keep yer hands as is, if you were steerin’, but this’ll jus’ confuse Meri—Merriam. Would you mind…?” He trailed off.

“Where should I, uh—”

“Around my waist, try to hold your own hand.”

Christ, they couldn't get any closer if they tried, could they? He was already practically up Bill's (very nice) ass.

Instructions were followed, and now they were—in essence—cuddling horseback. Would have made a great pregnancy announcement postcard, at least.

(“Introducing the newest edition to the (Lewis-Clark? Clark-Lewis?) Family, a butt baby!”)

His mother would've killed him if any of that happened, for certain. She hated red hair. God forbid any grandchild of her’s be ginger. 

A command to “hold on tight” was given, and they were off. Thus began a glorious expedition westward, documenting the land and the animals and the people. 

But not truly. Horses, from what he read in his fifth grade equine obsession, can do a real number on one’s hips and back, when ridden for extended periods. He made a guess that they would be out for an hour, at most.

Something was then recalled. “Hey, are you sure you should be, like, operating a horse right now?”

Bill didn’t turn around at all, but the expression on his face was sure to be lacking certainty. “‘Operatin’?’ N’whaddya mean?”

“The wine you had earlier.”

“Ah, yeah, it’s fine. I got’a high tolerance. ‘M’no drunker than the Pope after Communion!”

“So I was right in assuming you are as crazy as a goddamn loon?” Some snootiness was allowed, as a treat.

“Yep! But you forget one thing: yer crazier.”

Or it wasn’t. “I am not!”

The redhead’s voice betrayed a mischievous show of teeth. “Mhm, and which of us was on the bridge?”

Meri couldn’t find a reply to that, other than something similar to: “Oh!”

“I— Christ, I shouldn’t’ve said that. I din’ mean, uh—” His tone had changed significantly from playful teasing to curt mortification. “I’m super duper sorry, geez. You’re not, uh, crazy for that. I was jus’—”

The earnesty with which Bill backtracked, combined with the earlier comment, made him laugh into his shoulder blades. “Oh my God, we’re both fucking stupid!” And he laughed harder.

When his giggling ceased, a breeze cut through the camaraderie. “Really, it's fine. I know you didn't mean it.”

“...”

“Bill?”

Wistful, rosy, like speaking to a dead loved one. “You didn't laugh often, not genuinely. You were beautiful when you did, though.”

A hard, bloodied knot made refuge in his throat. How did such gentle words pierce him so?

“I—” Yet again, he was struck with a lack of words. “You got any liquor?”

“What..?”

“Like, uh— Whiskey is preferred, but I'll drink anything. Anything.” 

His choice to change the topic seemed to have snapped Bill out of his nostalgic haze. “Seriously? Alcohol? With yer history?”

“It's not like I've never drank in this life. Big dawg, what am I, twelve?” Distract, deflect, and then hit him with badly timed humor. “And anyway, my ‘history’ means I'm already a great drinker!”

He sighed. “Not. Funny.”

“Well, was it, perhaps, hilarious?”

“Sure. You've got me rollin’ in the dirt.” A beat. “But no, there's no liquor. With Pa bein’ how he is, Mama told us not to keep any at home.”

It wasn't the most surprising thing. What person would want their elderly father to break his hip in a drunken stupor after having fallen down the stairs? Not even considering the possibility of alcohol poisoning, substance interactions, cooperation, etcetera. 

Still, surely Bill had a stash available. “You got anything not at home?” These circumstances called for an all-night binge of terrible drugstore box wine! 

He watched his host shake his head, slow in the manner someone who was exasperated would. “No. And we won't be buyin’ any, either.”

Damn delusional cowboys and their morals! 

“Fine,” he relented. “Any benadryl?”

“Christ Almighty, no.”

The ride went on in calm sun and sparse talk. Meri could’ve (read: would have) continued to pester Bill about: “Hey, do you have any cough syrup,” “What about helium,” or “Nutmeg? Just one bottle,” but felt himself caught in the rocking amble of Merriam. So he didn’t find horse-riding fun either, what the hell ever. It’s not like anyone was reading his mind.

It would be alright to shut his eyes momentarily. Not sleep, God no. A simple and voluntary blindness so he may think. And Bill was a decent pillow, albeit damp from sweat. His neck could use the rest.

Vague gold inside his eyelids. Warmth. The smell of cinnamon apples and fresh cut grass. Bumpbump-bumpbump-bumpbump. 

Next thing he knew, they were almost back at the barn. He felt his hand being tapped on.

“Meri?”

The brunet ripped himself away as far as he could (on a horse, anyhow). “Yep—hi, what's up?” Tucking his hair behind his ears nervously, Meri felt his face burn with embarrassment. 

Bill hummed, “Well, I'm glad to see that you napped. What I was gonna ask, though, was if ya had anythin’ to do today; or if you knew where ya were sleepin’ tonight.”

“Oh.” He took a moment to think. “‘Nope’ to the first question, ‘kind of’ to the second.”

“‘Kind of’?”

He shrugged, even if he didn't want to admit that if he couldn't find an arrangement for tonight, he would spend it in his backseat (where did he last leave his car, though?).

“If Eric's unable to let me steal his couch, or I can't get laid, then I guess I'll sleep in my car. It's aight.”

“Yer a trip.” His host sounded mildly disgruntled. “Stay the night again! You don’ gotta degrade yerself just to rest.”

“I mean— I don't wanna overstay my welcome—”

“For Pete’s sake, yer not overstayin’ at all. Yer practically homeless. I've got extra PJs, blankets, everythin’. N’ if you've got work, then I'll take ya. I insist.”

“Are you sure? I don't wanna burden you. Really, if you don't have the resources or patience, then I can figure it out.”

Bill stopped Merriam in front of the barnhouse. “Goddamnit, Meri, yer not burdenin’ us! I love you, and if I din't, then I wouldn't be offerin’!”

Bewilderment, fear, fossilized yearning. Flight or Fight?

Both? “You— You’re—” Meri shook his head as an attempt to regain composure. “You’re insane as piss. “Love...” Absurd!” He wriggled awkwardly off the horse, stumbling when his foot was caught for a brief moment, and catching himself before he landed face first into dirt. 

His arms pushed him back to his feet. Spinning around, he went on, “We just met!” Damn voice always betrayed him when he didn't need it to. Squeaky. Like a dying rat.

While he was squeaking, Bill unmounted Merriam. “Is it so impossible to believe I'm tellin’ the truth? Or do ya only forget when it's convenient for you?”

“I don't need your love or your pity. Fuck off.”

“Jesus, yer gonna drive me to drink,” he grumbled to himself, not thinking he was heard. “I jus’—”

He threw his hands in the air. “Yes! Let’s do that, then! Let’s drink!” Caught in the middle of a rock (bleeding heart; why couldn’t it just wither up and die?) and a hard place (stupid, stupid fool! Trying to stake a goddamn claim! Who did he think he was?), the desperation for escape became inescapable in and of itself.

Clearly losing patience, the redhead huffed loudly, tense. “We. Are. Not. Drinking.”

“Then something! Fight, screw, scream—I don't give a damn!”

Love was a façade, a trap, a tool. No memories in the universe could change that. How many times did he almost go down because of ‘love’? How many people could say they felt real love towards someone else, all pure and unadulterated? 

No, it was all a lie. They would use it, love, to get what they wanted. Respect, obedience, quiet, a quick lay; it didn't matter what it got. All of it was submission. Submission. Bill was sick. He needed an object for his affections. No, he wouldn't submit to the manipulation of his being, his self, his reality. Not for the meaninglessness that was love.

His chest was heaving, lungs unable to catch their breath and hands clenching the fabric akimbo. Why wouldn't Bill just let him escape? He used to, back when— No, none of that ever happened. Not to him. It was part of a life that had never belonged to him, no matter what anyone said.

Speaking. Questioning. Surely, there was entitlement too. “I took you on Merriam so you'd calm down. Why do you insist on fightin’ all the time?”

Fine. He'd show him calm, damnit! Or, in a similar vein, he would ignore him. Arms crossed, Meri didn't answer, eyes on the dirt. 

After a few seconds of waiting for a reply, and not getting one, Bill simply shook his head. “Jus’...head inside. I'm gonna get ‘er all settled.”

Thank God. He began to scurry back to the shed so he could grab his sneakers. Cowboy boots weren't the most comfortable shoes. Maybe sneakers weren't either, but they were his.

The walk from the barn, to the shed, and to the main house, gave him time to reflect. Meri was aware he was acting like, in short terms, kind of a shithead. 

Begging for substances, or accidentally insulting someone whose house he was staying at, or throwing a tantrum weren't doing him any favors. These acts were more than likely messing up his chances of being in Bill's good graces. But why couldn't the other man stop comparing every goddamn thing to their supposed past? What, was he expected to live and act like an old guy from a quadrillion years ago? Get on his knees and suck him off for taking him in (which he didn't ask for, by the way)?

What the hell did he want from him?

Love. Pfft, get real. Bill just wanted him to shut up. It might have been a ploy to stick it in him. Some weird long game. He got it—sex without feelings was hard to obtain these days—but this was trying too hard. 

But he didn't take him up on his offer to get his load blown. Or, rather, neither offer. He didn't look pleased in any sense to hear that Meri would rather pay him with his body, than take what he was given with a smile and a nod. Hell, he'd even admitted that he was interested in sex later on down the line. Maybe the guilt of taking advantage of a mentally ill homeless guy was too much?

He had a headache starting again. 

How bleak.

Chapter Text

It was possible he should've stayed outside with Bill, tension be damned.

Now, one will typically enter a house to either meet something in some way, or to avoid something. Meri had been convinced that going inside the farmhouse gave him a minute to be alone. They both needed to cool off—away from one another—and even a minute or two could help. 

Instead of that, he immediately came face to face with a (somehow) taller and more rugged version of his host, and a much shorter freckled woman with dirty blond hair. 

He froze as they sized him up, their near audible thoughts likely: “Who the hell is this?” Great. Just great. First, his uncle; then, Bill’s annoying insistence on being right; and now, he'd get assaulted because the other people in the house didn't know that he was not, in fact, breaking and entering. 

“Who the hell are you?” Huh.

Meri's eyes darted between the two of them and the door he just entered through. Okay, this could be navigable if he—

“I live here. Who're you?” Nevermind. He stuck his foot in his mouth.

His choice to do so wasn't taken kindly, as he felt himself pushed into the wall and his feet left the ground. Didn't that kind of thing only happen on TV? Not that he would have time to think over an answer, with the other man's hot breath cruising onto his face.

Host² had to have been a werewolf or another kind of terrifying creature. “Oh, you think it's funny? Comin’ here to steal?” How else would his mouth smell like a dead deer's shit? “What're you here fer? The money? The furniture? My conspiracy board?”

Or he was a nutjob. Christ, was every Clark a psych patient in disguise?

“I knew the government would be here at some point, but I figured they'd give a warnin’ first.”

The lady: “George, I don't think they're here to steal yer theories.” She gave him a once-over. “N’ they don’t look strong enough to steal more than a wooden chair.” Rude. At least she was normal. 

A voice came from behind them. “Yeh, kick his ass!” Dementia grandpa. 

“I, um, don't have any interest in conspiracy. If that's what you're worried about.”

“Then you are with the government!”

“No, no! I'm just some homeless dude! And the—the guy who took me here, he's outside right now!”

Something clicked in—what was his name, George?—George’s mind, as his crazed suspicious look turned into one of disapproval and irritation. He let him go, dropping him to the floor.

“Bill brought ya here?”

“Yeah, I'm a friend of hi—”

“What the hell is goin’ on?” Speaking of which, Bill came through the front door, staring at the scene momentarily before running to Meri's side to help him up.

His brother crossed his arms. “Well, I damn near gave yer sissy of a boyfriend the beatin’ of a lifetime. Next time, you tell me when you bring someone in this gatdamn house.”

“I did—”

“And you,” A finger was jammed into Meri’s chest. “Ya get smart with me again and instead of bein’ homeless, you'll be missin’, understand?”

World's least sexy pillow talk. He nodded, only a bit on edge, thankful when George backed off. 

Bill stuck an arm out to pull him behind himself. It felt like a silly chivalrous move, but he would allow it, if just to avoid any changes of heart from the older man and his temper. He could sense the seething annoyance come off his host.

“Alright, we got it. Go back to…whatever y’all were doin’.”

A scoff and a grumbling of the words: “little asshole” were what they were left with when George stalked away. The woman who had been beside him nodded to them and walked out the front door. Dementia grandpa already split on the group.

After a moment of tense silence passed, Meri queried: “You related to those guys?”

Bill let out a groan. “Is mud brown?”

“Well, uh…Not always? I mean, there's Arizonan mud (which is red), and soil mud (usually almost black), and—”

“Yes, I am. They're my older siblin’s, George n’ Liz.”

“Oh.”

“Y’know, both your and my siblin’s are the same as our pas—”

He began to pace the living room as he ranted, quick to agitation. “Christ, dude, give it a rest! Past life this, past life that, “We used to make sweet, passionate ‘luv’ in the good ol’ days of—” what, 1802? When will it get through to you that none of that is real?!”

“...We did it for longer than just 1802,” Bill remarked in a low tone.

He shook his hands towards him, the frustration rebuilding. “You're missing the point! All you do is bring up that we lived some, fuckin’, life a quadrillion years ago, and died, and are living again!”

“Alright,” the other man sighed. “We can agree to disagree fer the night. You, uh, din’ eat earlier, so you're prolly hungry; and it'll be nearin’ suppertime soon anyway.”

Meri ignored the rumbling of his own stomach. “I'm not hungry.” Hard to fake satiation, though.

In return, Bill pretended he didn't hear what he said and got his phone out. “You like pizza? Or, uh…any food at all?”

“No.”

“I'll take that as a ‘yes.’ Pizza it is!”

The younger man rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Bacon on it, then.”

Their moods had shifted somewhat during the wait for the pepperoni/bacon (his host insisted on adding pepperoni, too) pizza. Bill was lightening up and making jokes every once in a while, and Meri felt his body relax on the couch with a glass of juice. 

This could be salvaged still, couldn't it? He didn't think Bill was all that bad, just stubborn, and he was alright to talk to when it came to normal things. 

Until they got a call ten minutes later.

“Yello? …Yeah. …Yes, I did. …The name's ‘Clark.’ …He what??? …I—Okay. Thank you. …You too, have a good night.”

Meri waited for him to elaborate on what the call was about. And when he didn't elaborate, he asked: “Well?”

“The, uh,” the redhead cleared his throat, his disgruntlement obvious. “There was a pile-up on the highway and we aren't gettin’ the pizza.”

What the actual fuck. “What the actual fuck??” The night might have been unsalvageable, possibly.

“They gave me a credit for next time! But tonight, we’re pizza-less.” His face was going red and he ducked his head down. “M’real sorry. You don’— We can—” A sigh. “I dunno…”

The two sat in an uncomfortable quiet. He felt bad, and responsible for cheering Bill up. Solution. Come up with a solution. Fix the problem.

Chinese food? Right, pile-up. Go hungry? His stomach was howling, so preferably not.

And then the most obvious solution of all appeared. “Well, do you guys have, like, shit in the freezer?”

Bill perked up and stood. “Oh, yeah! We got this real good frozen pizza a while back! Now, it's just pepperoni, but we can doctor it a lil bit, I'm sure.” He leaned down and kissed him on both cheeks. “Yer a genius!”

“Wha— Bill!” Meri felt himself get hot, flushing some. And the redhead was already skipping off to the kitchen.

He was so goddamn annoying. And kind of stupid looking, but in a sexy way. How dare he leave him to think about the ramifications of being kissed? It's like he wanted to suffer.

Those strong hands, and that warm body, and that tan, and the low rumble of his voice, and that ass. Infuriating…

Another. He wanted another kiss. And the thought made him feel anxiously nauseous.

Love. Disgraceful. Obnoxious. An obstacle. Bill wanted to love him, like the disgraceful, obnoxious obstacle he was. And awfully enough, he wanted to love him back. 

God, he needed to go get laid, by someone else. Forget Bill and his gay love and care and his rock hard di—

Go away!!!! Meri needed to get out of there. Get out of dodge. Go get another job, forget his host ever said anything, eat his food when need be, take up his space, ride his couch like he would ride his co—

CHRIST ALMIGHTY IT NEVER STOPPED

The want to love and, eugh, make love to Bill were thoughts that took residence in his mind, unmoving. He stared into the void as he processed each individual thought, ate the glass within the candy.

It hurt a lot. It hurt to want him like this. To crave his existence. Akin to shooting up for the first time, and every time afterward. He wasn't even sure why it hurt him so. A memory unknown was a tiny shard of glass in skin. The need, the resentment, the missing piece. Unfamiliar familiarity.

He didn't notice Bill re-entering the room. "Hey, the pizza's almost done!"

Without thinking: "I want you." 

Silence.

In unison, they spoke. "You WHAT?" — "I mean, I didn't say—”

They stared at one another momentarily, before Bill went on with his announcement. “Uh. As I was sayin’, the pizza's almost done. There's bits on it. Bacon bits, I mean. Bits of bacon. For you. Because you like bacon.”

“Yeah, um, thanks…”

“...Did you say you wanted m—”

God, how excruciatingly embarrassing. “No!”

The redhead nodded with a smirk. “Riight, riiiight. Well, c’mon in and eat.”

He hoped he only liked him because he got attention from him.

Walking in, taking a seat, thoughtless and thoughtful. He wasn't sure if he wanted the other, or if he wanted to be wanted anymore. It felt good, felt horrendous, was terrifying.

A slice was given to him. As much as he tried to deny it, he felt famished. The slice had been practically inhaled in four bites.

Bill stared at him from across the table with his own couple pieces, smug. “Good to see you're hungry. Want me to grab you another?”

“Nah, it's fine, I can grab it.” Meri got up to get more pizza, feeling contemplative, and asked, “How do you…know?”

“Know what?”

“That we're, like, dead guys.”

“Oh, well.” The brunet refused to turn around in fear of seeing Bill look any certain way (lovestruck, upset, casual). “I remember.”

“Names and everything?”

“Yeah, it was my life, y'know?

“And you remember…all of it? That seems biased.”

“Maybe it is. But everythin’ I saw on my deathbed, I can see now, too.”

Alongside being biased, it was a silly assertion. Meri finally let himself swivel forward. “You couldn't have always known, could you?” If he did, then what a shithead for not doing this sooner.

His host was eating, unfortunately calm. “Not always. I just, kinda, got a sooner ‘awakening,’ if ya would. And back when it did happen, I was 15, n’ couldn't just go marchin’ off to look for ya.” He paused to think. “N’ then when I could do that, it woulda looked weird. Imagine bein’ 14 and some 18-year-old comes up to you, talkin’ all crazy about soulmates and reincarnation. Instant restrainin’ order.”

“So…you waited?”

“‘Til you were around 18. I thought it'd be easier to find you than it actually was.”

If he'd been searching all this time, who could say the day they met again was coincidental? “Was our ‘re-meeting’ planned?”

Bill’s face morphed into one of mortification. “No! Definitely not, that was pure coincidence! I wouldn't— y’know I wouldn't—”

The genuine horror put on display was enough to make him shyly smile. “I know, I'm just fuckin’ with you.” Kind of. But what the other didn't know couldn't hurt him!

He sighed in relief. “Jesus Christ, you've gotta stop doin’ that.”

“Nah.” A beat. Another beat. Three beats? “So where's…York?”

“I, uh— well, y'know, he's—”

“Should. Should I be concerned??’

“No! He's fine. He's just, erm, my friend. My pal. My “little buddy” if you woul—”

“Bill.”

“Yeah?”

“Please, God, stop.”

The redhead laughed in a nervous way, averting his gaze. “But, yeah. York's fine. He's not…y’know. And I'm not racist or, uh, anythin'! Love black people!”

Yeowch. Meri couldn't help but wince from secondhand embarrassment. “That's not…uh…”

“What?”

“I…Nothing. You said he's well? What's he doin’ since he's not, y'know, a slave.”

He watched Bill flinch at the word ‘slave’ and figured slavery must have been a sore subject for him. It probably was for Mr. J, too, but he hadn't had the chance to ask.

Bill finished his slices fast, not the neatest eater, and gave a shrug. “He’s an accountant. Visits sometimes, but he's busy.” Visitation of the Clark family was what he least expected, considering they used to own him. Did that mean—

“Does he know? About the, fuckin’, past life shit.”

A bashful, guilty expression. Christ. “Well, no… It's never been brought up, anyhow; though he'd definitely say somethin’ if he did remember. N’ tellin’ him would be, erm…”

“Awkward.”

“Exactly!”

Meri chewed while reviewing the conversation inside his head. “And if he did remember?”

The older man rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I'd be due to have my ass kicked, haha.” Not that he was particularly amused at the thought of his childhood friend and former slave making ground beef out of him after a long-earned pummeling.

They sat together, not saying anything after that. If he had to guess, Bill was ruminating on the ethics of being friends with his own ex-slave, and he, himself, busied himself with eating.

“It's still not real, just so you know. All fake.” He found himself not the most convinced since calming down though.

“Uh-huhh. So, uh, didya need to…shower or anythin’?”

He set the crust he was nibbling on down. “You saying I stink?” 

“Ah, n-no— I jus’—!”

Man, he was too easy to mess with. Meri almost felt bad. “Kidding, kidding! Yeah, I need a shower. I feel like ass.”

And so, he had the bathroom to himself.

The faucet was fine to work with, so was everything else, in spite of the fact that he had to use Bill's shampoo because he didn't grab his own. God. 2-in-1 shampoo and conditioner. At least the body wash had a separate bottle.

Stepping into the hot stream above him, Meri rinsed down and thought about his day.

Cry? Check. Scream? Check. Fantasize about sex inappropriately? If not done yet, it could still be completed. Do drugs?

Sigh. Drugs. Anything would do! Maybe there was something in the medicine cabinet? But they weren't his. 

Hair. Soap. Wash, rinse.

He might've had a joint on hand somewhere, though it depended on how cool Bill was with weed. It's not as if it was drinking or neurotoxic or stupid—it was simply itself. Weed. Marijuana, if one would.

The thrill of and want to get blasted was some dead skin that clung to him lifelessly. Itchy, anxious, rustling. 

The night could be good. Bill could relax a bit. Hell, he'd be willing to share if he was just allowed to do something in the first place.

Body. Soap. Wash…

God, shotgunning a puff into his stupid mouth from his own stupid mouth, staring deep into those shiny brown pits on his face, counting the individual freckles up close. 

Rinse.

Getting closer. Becoming one. Draining him of all energy, and then some. His eyes on him. Skin. Sweat. Rising intensity.

Meri snapped back into reality, stomach turning with arousal, as a knock came from outside.

“Everythin’ okay?” He heard.

His reply was a stammered confirmation, and he rushed to dry off and get out.

How humiliating.

He dressed in relative silence, once again thinking, but now about where his mind kept trailing.

So goddamned dumb. Dumb thoughts from dumb attention and dumb intimacy. It's like his mind couldn't help itself. One confession of ‘luv,’ and now he was convinced that: “oh no, we are in a telenovela, and I'm falling for you!!”

It confused him to no end. Did love even feel like this, or was this something else? 

Love. What a stinking waste. Maybe he did need to go sleep with someone. Preferably ginger and chubby and charmingly awkwar— No!!!

In a pair of pants he'd forgotten he had, lay a singular joint. Perfect escape. Meri could feel the dryness in his mouth and the static in his head already.

Dressed and ready to impress (get messed up), he walked out of the bathroom.

Chapter Text

Shuffling about his room, Bill tried what could've been considered his best attempt to clean his room. 

It wasn't quite disastrous, per se, but the organized chaos was both fitting and overwhelming. Writing utensils, papers, journals, random knickknacks, and other trinkets were littered about. His desk held some of those aforementioned objects, alongside history textbooks. 

The wooden flooring had clothes in varying degrees of cleanliness scattered on it. There were crumbs in his bed (which he was grateful that Meri had been too high to give any thought to). Rocks he thought were cool had been lined up at his windowsill. Another one of his many dead or dying plants also looked out the window.

When had he last tidied up?

Clothes got thrown in his laundry basket, the crumbs had been shaken off his comforter, his books and papers were stacked into a small Tower of Babel. His conveniently unseen lotion bottle and paper towel roll now resided in his closet.

Bill clapped his hands together in an accomplished manner. There. All better.

Speaking of things being better, Meri was taking his sweet time showering. Though, he supposed, if you lived out of your car more often than not, then you'd take advantage of free hot water any day.

He should check on him anyway, right? 

Yes, yes, he should. And bring him a change of clothes he'd grabbed at Mr. J’s. A dark pair of sweatpants with a blue t-shirt, which was turned inside out at that moment, and some boxers that were hastily handled.

Knocking on the bathroom door, he asked: “Everythin’ okay?”

“Uh, yep! I'm good! More ‘fine’ than anyone else ever was!” Despite sounding very much not fine.

It felt counterproductive to push for a real answer, so he put a pin in it, right beside other vague pieces of information hidden away. Bill instead went on like he truly was alright. “Well, I got clean clothes for ya. Where should I—”

“Just, like, outside the door. Please.”

He nodded as if Meri could see him through the door, set his clothes down, and went right back to his room.

Waiting anxiously, he plopped down at his writing desk. His hands craved something to do. The usual schtick of ‘research and write’ looked unbearable when compared to staring at his former co-captain fresh from a bath, listening to him complain about anything and everything. 

Maybe he could’ve drawn to get some of the nervous energy out? Make a silly little picture for his own enjoyment. Notebook, pencil, muse. Meri.

He thought to himself while doodling. It was clear that his guest felt conflicted, where he was at in his belief about their past lives being murky. The younger had asked about York without him ever being mentioned. Then, as if he recalled his own skepticism, promptly stated disbelief in the situation.

But he had to be fair. No one gets told that they're a historical figure, come back to life, and accepts it right away. Bill, himself, needed months to come to terms with it.

It was hard to remember with whole clarity, but various stories of him being a strange child would be told and retold at family gatherings. Hunting wild animals to eat at age eight. Confusing dreams of his past with the present. The occasional but extreme episodes of melancholy. Yearning for someone not yet known.

Selfishly, though, he hoped Meri would accept it way faster than he had. There was so much he had to say, to apologize for, to cry about. He said he would wait—had meant it—but he didn't want to wait forever. It was hard to be fair, too.

Minutes passed in his quietude. His pencil made a scratching sound as he scribbled. Line. Line. Erase. Line.

Borrrrrring.

It was nothing short of merciful when his guest entered the bedroom, hair still wet. The brune’s t-shirt was turned inside-right and read: “I MET GOD / FISH,” with a ‘biblically accurate’ fish below the text. The possibility of Bill being old was a likely one, but what was so funny about…fish?

Absurdist humor. 

He spoke, “Oh, heya! How was the shower?”

“Fine, I guess. It was wet. It did its job.” Meri threw himself onto his bed with a sigh. Kicking his feet, he went on talking. “How acceptable is weed, in your opinion?”

Back at it again. One hour of peace would be nice.

Bill stared at him, incredulous. “Why?”

“Nothing, nothing! Just, uh…bored.”

“Meri.” 

The younger man rolled his eyes. “Fine, there was a blunt in my pants that I forgot about.”

“...Is it really that necessary for ya to get high all the time? You were so blitzed last night you could hardly stand!”

“Well…” He stopped to think. “No. But it’s fun. Besides,” The blunt was held up in the air, wiggled up and down. “I'll let you have some, if you want!”

Freckled hands flew up as a defense. “I never said I wanted any!”

“Then is it fine if I smoke by myself?”

Problem: “We're inside!!”

Solution: “Open a window.”

Problem: “N’ have you jump outta it? No.”

Solution: “Just open the glass part!” 

Meri wiggled the blunt again. “‘Ouuuuuu, I'm a maaaagic blunt, and I want you to smooooke meeee!’” A finger toward the magic blunt. “See? He wants to be smoked!”

Bill swallowed nervously. “I dunno…”

“This’ll be the one and only time I ask, I swear on it.” He saluted him.

“...N’ you promise that you won’ ask again?”

“Scouts honor!” Was he even in the Boy Scouts? Probably not.

He paused for a moment before he began to dig through his desk drawers, lifting papers and such, until he came upon what he was looking for: a super ancient ashtray. It was set on the bedside table.

The brown-haired man raised an eyebrow. “I didn't know you smoked.”

A noncommittal hum. “Used to. Gave it up years ago.” He kind of wanted to get back to sketching, but had to admit that he was curious about the other's experience with substances. That, and he wanted to stare at his mouth while he took a hit. He disregarded how easily he went along with most anything Meri did.

After patting his pockets, he looked back up. “You still got a lighter, then?”

Bill stood up and padded to his dresser, pulling out a box of matches, and then sat back down while holding it out.

“Sick.” 

Meri lit the blunt and took a hit. A large one, one that would cause many irregular users to cough like they were dying, but he held it like a champ before blowing it out. 

He handed it over. “Careful.”

“Bah, I'll be alrigh’.” He took his own respective hit. It was not alright. A coughing fit started almost immediately.

“Told you so.”

“Ack— shu— AHUM, AHUM— shut-the-hell-up— Gawd—”

Local man can't handle smoke and is banned from weed forever! More at five!

At least Meri seemed amused, grinning. “What, you need me to shotgun you?” He leaned forward as he teased.

Bill perked up, continuing to wheeze. “Would ya?”

“Hell no! C’monnnn, it's not that hard.” 

Minutes went by. The blunt was passed back and forth between them, getting smaller as it was smoked and ashed. Unfortunately, for Bill, he didn't get the shotgunning he hoped for.

They were both floating on cloud nine despite all apprehensions. 

Meri let out a small laugh as he put out the filter on the ashtray. He'd laid down at some point and pulled his host onto the bed with him. They stared at the ceiling.

“Hey,” Bill said with a snort. “You remember when Private Shannon slipped n’ spilled his soup on us?”

“Ugh, how could I forget? We smelled like ass the whole rest of the night.” Despite the harshness of the words themselves, he sounded fond. “Seaman chewed up your pants afterward.” And he broke into a giggling fit.

The redhead couldn't stop grinning. “That was him?!”

“Of course! You remember—he tore up anythin' he could get his paws on.”

“He was jus’ like ya, swear on it.” 

“Destructive?”

“No, y'all were both ridiculous sometimes.”

The brune sighed wistfully, though not unhappily. “He was a great boy. A great…” He thought for a second. “Billy?”

Bill turned to him. “Hm?”

“What happened to him?”

“How do ya mean?”

“When I…like, uh…died, I guess.”

“Oh.” He shifted, now feeling guilty again, but with the new addition of drug-induced emotional sensitivity. “Well, he, um…passed not too long after you.”

When the other didn't reply right away, he looked over.

Shakily, Meri asked, “My boy, he… How?”

How does one explain a death to someone in an already unstable headspace? The mood changed fast, giving him whiplash. 

Honesty would be the best route—the answer could be sought out on the internet—but he found himself hesitating, unsure if the truth was necessary at that moment. 

“Please.”

Bill couldn't stand to look him in the eyes, so he closed his own before going on. “He kinda…gave up? I mean, he was alright when you first left. N’ when you din’ come back, he got sad, but was fine. I guess it was, um—” He tried to cough the lump out of his throat. “—when we started packin’ up your stuff, he got it. Stopped barkin’ and cryin’, stopped eatin’. Just…laid there. N’ one day I woke up and he…”

Meri buried his face into his hands, letting out a watery whimper. “Oh my god.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He— You— I don't—” And he was upset again.

Nevermind, it was possible honesty was not the best route. In all fairness, he had asked what happened. Still, the elder felt responsible for this. 

In the midst of his revelation, Meri managed to ask: “Was he comfortable, at least?”

No, he was starving and laying in a puddle of his own piss. “Yeah, he was.” 

The other nodded, consoled by that, even if it was a white lie.

“You'd never seen a dog so comfy. His own bed n’ everythin’. Old age caught up with ‘im.” In truth, neither knew how old Seaman was, but Bill had lived to see his end, whereas Meri didn't. It was easy to pretend that the falsehoods were truths, when it soothed the radiating pain of loss.

He was thankful that the explanation was accepted without further questioning. So it went.

An hour later, things had lightened up significantly.

As a distraction from their loss, the redhead began asking about music. They didn't have very similar tastes.

Meri liked (what he personally considered) edgy metal from the 90s/00s. He ranted and raved about how Limp Bizkit’s lyrics were works of genius. He referred to Primus, lovingly, as cringe. He said he had all of KoRn in his basement, chained up.

Yeah, okay, he was kind of a loser. A loser whose eyes lit up while rambling about the significance of “a Pepsi, just one Pepsi.” Bill wanted to kiss his face off.

The redhead's tastes lay in a section called: “divorced dad rock.” And Eminem. Because of course.

Which led to Bill pulling up his old high school rap music that was posted on the internet. Leading to him trying to impromptu rap. Badly.

“Uh, uh! Okay! Call me Columbus, the way I be discoverin’ these bars; postin’ up here at my daddy's farm! Me n’ shawty rappin’ on this wire; boutta set the house on fire!”

His guest was physically cringing, but laughed along.

The redhead pointed at him. “Your turn! Go, go!!”

“Oh my fuckin’ god, never! That's terrible!”

“We could go on a rappin’ expedition this time, bringin’ sick beats to the masses!”

“Stop, I'm gonna actually throw up.” 

Bill then plucked him off the ground joyously, eliciting a yelp of surprise. 

“Put me down!! You're the worst!!!” Meri struggled against his strength and didn't move anywhere. Despite his protests, he laughed. He stopped wriggling with a sigh.

He was set on the bed, and Bill sat down next to him. “Yer real light, y'know?” Curiosity.

Brown eyes scanned his lithe figure; two stick-like arms, one covered in various scars; a body drowning in loose clothing. He looked sickly. It wasn't as if he hadn't noticed before, but holding him confirmed it. 

The younger man shrugged, cheeks flushed. Nothing was said in return.

Laying down, he went on. “Well, it's alrigh’. I gotchu now.” 

“You've ‘got me’?”

“Mhm, n’ I'm not lettin’ you go. Never again.”

“Well,” Meri fidgeted about his seat. “How do you know I'm the right person?”

Bill gave him an assured pat on the leg. “You can call me crazy all you like, but I jus’ do. Like how…the moon recognizes its sun. It jus’ knows.”

“Inanimate objects. And I'm nothing like the sun,” he snorted.

“No?” He sat up, pulling him closer while gesturing to an imagined set of celestial bodies. “The moon glows because of the sun's light. That's us.” He pointed back towards themselves. “I‘m not special without ya.”

The brunet balked at him as he flushed. “You're so weird.”

“Weird, or simply dedicated to bein’ weird?”

“Same difference.”

“Nuh-uh! Those are totally separate things!”

Meri didn't grace him with a reply, getting up to walk over to his desk and glancing at the paper he'd begun drawing on. 

Color him shocked when nothing was immediately said. It felt a bit as if he'd been stripped naked, those hazel eyes drinking it in—albeit lacking much judgement, observant. 

When he did, at last, speak, his voice held an amused lilt. “Who’s this?”

The weed didn't make Bill any more confident or any less likely to ramble. Playful and frank? Yes. Self-assured? No.

“I mean, you could say it's someone I know.”

“Know well?”

“Hmmm…I'd say so.”

“How well, then?”

“Better than anyone else.”

Meri let a small, nervous grin onto his face. “Can't be me, then.”

“It'll always be you.” Breathlessness.

He took a seat where the elder had previously been, holding the paper up. “It's strange. Like havin’ my own fanclub. Fanclub of one, but y'know. Semantics.”

“Semantics,” he parroted. “Yeah.”

“I just, I don't get it—your obsession with me of all people.” A frown. Denial.

Having it said so plainly made him feel foolish, like this was some odd hyperfixation rather than their lives. “You're my person.” Wasn't it that simple?

“Not your, what, your wife? Not your son?” The younger’s voice raised a few pitches, hands waving around with wild abandon.

“They weren't you.” It had to be that simple. Surely it could be.

The paper he was holding was slammed down on the table. “But why me?!”

Bill couldn't explain it fully, the words eluding him as they always did in situations such as this. How does one explain that someone can be so important to him—more important than any family he had, more important than living, itself—that he would choose him over and over and over again? That it had to be him. That it would always be him. Forever. 

Maybe it could just be said as such, but it felt bigger than that. Felt bigger than anything.

And thus, he was left speechless. No wonder he chose to be stone cold sober all the time. He couldn't form a proper thought like this.

“Why do you think so?” 

“I don't know. You're a sucker for punishment? You have a savior complex?”

“Hm.” Those were good reasons. But they weren't entirely accurate. “It's possible. I only know this, though: I love you—”

Meri scoffed, “Sucker for punishment…”

“—N’ I'll say it as many times as ya need me to.”

“You'll be wasting your breath.”

“Maybe so. I'll love you despite that, too.”

So it was.