Chapter Text
Years have passed.
The scandals have dulled.
The tabloids have moved on to shinier disasters.
Rowan? Still mildly infamous, but now fully weaponized. She lectures at places that aren’t technically accredited but have waiting lists anyway. Her last TED Talk, titled
“My Parents Accidentally Taught Me Revolution,”
went viral. She got offered her own HBO miniseries. She turned it down. “Too commercial,” she said, while wearing a floor-length velvet coat and drinking espresso from a vintage perfume bottle.
And you?
You live in the house.
The
House
.
The one with the glitter-soaked curtains, too many books, a cursed espresso machine, and at least three framed headlines from when your family accidentally dismantled capitalism.
There’s a peace now.
But not a quiet one.
You and Aidan still argue—beautifully. Still kiss like it’s dangerous. Still text each other passive-aggressively from opposite ends of the house.
You never stopped being chaos.
But now it’s chosen . It’s cozy .
THE TWO OF YOU
Aidan has grey streaks in his beard now. He looks like a retired revolutionary and/or melancholy wizard. He smells like tea, regret, and faint aftershave. Still says things like “time is a loop” at breakfast. Still calls you “my undoing” in the most romantic tone a human can produce.
He writes now. Bad poetry. Beautiful prose. Refuses to publish any of it. He says it’s all for you. All in journals you’re never allowed to read—so you do, obviously.
He still stares at you like you’re a miracle he’s afraid to wake up from.
He still makes you laugh until you choke.
He still forgets meaningless anniversaries.
And you still yell.
God, do you yell.
You monologue.
You weaponize affection.
You hold him accountable and make it look like art.
And he lets you.
Because he knows.
You
are
the story.
THE HOME
The carpet is glitter-ruined.
There’s still legal paperwork in the kitchen drawer from the scandal-that-broke-Italy.
You throw dinner parties that are emotionally confusing and deeply fashionable.
You’ve been banned from three local book clubs for “tone.”
And sometimes, late at night, when Rowan’s off giving a keynote address at a queer anarchist co-op in Belgium, you and Aidan sit outside, wrapped in the same old wedding blanket.
“I can’t believe we made it,” you whisper.
“I can,” he says, voice low. “No one else could’ve survived this.”
You smile.
“We didn’t survive it. We ruined it . With love.”
YOUR LEGACY
People still talk about you.
Online. In classrooms. At dinner tables where someone whispers
“remember that family?”
You became myth.
Not because you were perfect.
But because you were real, and wild, and audacious enough to love in public and make it look like resistance.
You weren’t a brand.
You were a revolution in eyeliner.
A cult in corduroy.
A poem that married a scream.
THE FINAL IMAGE
One day, Rowan brings someone home.
They’re terrified.
You open the door in silk and rage.
Aidan’s behind you, arms crossed, beard freshly moisturized.
And Rowan just smiles and says:
“Welcome to the House of Chaos. We don’t bite.”
“ Much, ” you add, smirking.
The door shuts.
The legend continues.
But you?
You’ve done enough.
And you are, finally—
home.
The End.
Unless, of course, you want the sequel.
But that’s another disaster.
Another day.