Chapter Text
THEN
March 1999
(I can’t do it)
The first time he knew was on the I-80, leaving Littleton far behind, a distant memory in the rear view. His parents had let him drive, albeit grudgingly, casting worried looks at his one-handed steering and heavy foot on the accelerator. The open highway loomed ahead, full of promise (I could go anywhere I want)
The second time he knew was when they arrived at the Chicago campus. He saw so many different types of students milling around (I don’t know anyone here; I can start over; I can fit in; I can finally be me)
The third time he knew was when he saw his prospective dorm room (this can be mine)
(Maybe he’d always known)
He drove back to Colorado with a heavy heart. He had to fix this. He had to stop what they’d started. He needed to talk to Eric.
***
“We need to talk,” Dylan said firmly, standing on Eric’s front step.
Eric peered around the front door with a grin. “About what? You breaking up with me V?” he said, bursting into laughter.
Dylan gave him a pointed look.
“Alright, alright, keep your hair on man.” Eric opened the door wider, motioning towards the basement.
“How was the trip? Hey, you should see where I got with this new Doom wad I’ve been working on, wait till you see it, it’s awesome... oh, I gotta tell you about what happened at BJ’s yesterday, it was fuckin’ hilarious!” Eric chattered as they descended the stairs. Dylan closed the basement door behind them and turned to face Eric, still silent.
“Well?” said Eric, his smile fading at Dylan’s solemn expression.
“I can’t do it,” Dylan muttered, his eyes firmly on the Rammstein poster on the wall behind Eric’s head. He felt his hands twitching nervously and he rubbed his fingers together.
Eric narrowed his eyes. “Can’t do what?”
Dylan hesitated and let out a soft sigh. He looked directly at Eric who stared back, an unreadable expression on his face. “You know what.” He sighed again. “NBK. I can’t- look, I’m sorry Reb, it’s just- it doesn’t need to happen, you realise that, right?”
Eric stared wordlessly at Dylan, then shook his head. “It doesn’t need to- what in hell are you talking about? Are you fucking with me right now? This is a joke right? We’ve been planning this for months.”
“I know but-” Dylan ran his hands through his hair, frustrated. He tried to find the right words to explain his feelings but was coming up short. “This whole thing... it got out of hand, you know it did. Things are different now Reb-”
"Jesus Christ, I can’t fuckin’ believe this!” Eric cut him off, his voice rising. “What the fuck happened to you V? You go on a goddamn college visit and suddenly you’ve got a bright future? What about me? What am I supposed to do now?”
“It’s not like-” (it is like that). He tried again, “look, you have a future too, you’ve got options, you could-”
“What are you, my fuckin’ guidance counselor?” Eric snapped, baring his teeth. “I don’t need you anyway, fuckin’ dead weight, I can do it myself.”
“I’m sorry, Reb-”
“Get out,” Eric snarled, his face red.
Dylan flinched. “Eric-”
“I said get out of my fuckin’ house!” Eric shouted. He turned his back.
Dylan left.
***
The next morning Eric wasn’t in school. Eric never skipped school. Anxiety and dread roiled in Dylan’s stomach as the day dragged on. What was Eric doing? What was he thinking? As soon as he got home that afternoon, Dylan went straight to his room and turned on his computer, connecting to the internet and opening AOL messenger.
Eric was online. A message appeared.
RebDomine: COME OVER RIGHT NOW
***
The two stared at each other across the room.
There was a heavy silence then Eric started pacing. “Alright, I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. This weekend, we get rid of everything.”
“Yeah but-”
“I’m keeping Arlene,” Eric continued, moving closer to Dylan. “The rest of the guns, I’ll sell them... maybe to Mark, I dunno. I took a financial hit on this, and that’s on you, V. I need to recoup as much as I can.”
“Fine, whatever you want,” Dylan acquiesced, his voice even.
"Clear out all your shit and get it here on Saturday morning. We’ll drive out somewhere and dispose of it.”
“But I thought you said you were going to-”
“Oh no, see, I can’t go through with it now either, thanks to you-” Eric pointed his finger in Dylan’s direction, his voice rising, “-pussying out on me. I’ll make my own plans for whatever I decide to do. I don’t trust you to keep your fuckin’ mouth shut.”
“Reb, c’mon, I’m not gonna-” Dylan protested, his palms facing outward placatingly.
Eric took a step forward, glaring at Dylan. “After we do this, you’re gonna stay away from me,” he said, jabbing his pointer finger into Dylan’s chest for emphasis. “I don’t want to see you, and I don’t want to speak to you. We’re done.”
“But-”
“I said we’re done!” Eric snarled in Dylan’s face, spittle flying. He stepped back and looked pointedly towards the door.
Dylan left.
So that was the beginning of the end.
(Or was it just the beginning)
***
NOW
October 1999, University of Chicago.
Dylan crosses the student accommodation parking lot, glancing at his watch. He’s late, and the only space he could find when he got back earlier after class was at the far end of the lot. He and Jared have twice weekly gaming nights, sometimes thrice-weekly, and today it’s his turn to get the pizza. He thinks briefly of Eric, who detested tardiness. He got lucky with Jared, who’s in the dorm room next to his. They met on the day they both moved in, and clicked immediately. Jared’s a laid-back Californian stoner from Oceanside, a beach town near San Diego. He might be a surfer with slightly different musical tastes to Dylan but there’s some crossover there and the pair of them just mesh. They spend hours playing computer games and shooting the shit, working through Jared’s seemingly never-ending weed supply, then mainlining fast food when the munchies kick in. Jared’s easy going, a contrast to the taut intensity Dylan experienced with Eric. Dylan walked a constant knife edge with Eric, never knowing when he would explode, bursting into one of his lengthy rants about whoever or whatever had annoyed him that day-
Dylan’s pulled from his thoughts as he spots a girl at the far end of the parking lot. She’s getting out of what looks like a newish dark green Jeep Cherokee, pulling a messenger bag across her body and picking up a sack of groceries from the front seat. She’s wearing faded loose black jeans and an oversized leather jacket, one of those sheepskin flying jacket type of things. Its big on her small frame and looks like a man’s jacket. Her dark hair moves around her face in the breeze. She starts to move away from her car. Dylan watches as if in slow motion as her foot slides on what must be an icy patch and she falls backwards onto the ground with a loud shout. The grocery bag flies into the air then lands with a thud, items tumbling out. An orange rolls across the tarmac.
Three students are passing, two muscular guys and a blonde girl, head to toe Abercrombie and Fitch. They’ve witnessed the fall but they don’t help the girl on the ground, instead they titter as they walk past, then they walk away. Dylan’s jaw tightens - fucking jocks - and he quickens his stride until he’s reached the girl, who’s still on the ground. She’s sitting up now, one knee bent, her hand is on her ankle. She’s wearing worn-in black cowboy boots under her jeans, Dylan can see the smooth leather of the soles. No good for a Chicago winter, he thinks. His own combat boots have thick soles and a decent grip.
“Hey! Are you ok?” he asks anxiously, towering above her, his hands reaching out as if of their own volition. He’s wearing his long black leather coat and hopes he doesn’t look intimidating to her.
She looks up. Her eyes are big, brown and expressive, and he can see unshed tears. She’s shivering, her hands shaking as they hover over her booted foot.
“I- I think I’ve done something to my ankle, it really hurts,” she says. “I slipped... it was icy.”
Her voice is soft and quiet, she sounds defeated. She’s clearly not American, judging from her accent. English maybe? Her accent reminds him of Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer (yeah OK, he watches the odd Buffy episode now and then, so sue him).
“Yeah, I saw,” Dylan says. “Look, can you stand? I can help.” He extends his hands towards her, hovering in mid-air as he waits for permission.
“Thanks... I don’t think I can...” she trails off. He reaches down and grasps her upper arms - he feels her slim arms beneath the thickness of her jacket sleeves - and gently lifts her to her feet. She’s much shorter than him, barely reaching his shoulder, and weighs virtually nothing. She looks pained as she stands and lets out a soft moan.
“OK, look, try not put weight on it. Hold onto me for a sec while I grab these,” he gestures to the bag of groceries on the tarmac. She clutches his left arm while he reaches down for the brown paper sack, snatching the escaped orange and a packet of chips, putting them back into the bag on top of ramen noodles, a box of Cheez-Its and soda cans. He grins down at her, “this stuff looks like it survived at least, but hey, Cheez-Its would survive an apocalypse,” he says, tucking the sack into the curve of his right arm. Is that the best you can come up with, you idiot, you sound like a complete dork!
She gives him a wan smile back so he allows himself a small victory. “You live here?” he asks, nodding towards the building.
She grimaces. “Yes, unfortunately. On the third floor.”
He wants to unpack that but files it away for later - if there is a later - and says instead, “OK, just hold onto me and we can get you and your stuff back to your dorm.” He looks down at her for confirmation, and she nods, taking in a deep breath. “Thanks, I really appreciate it-?” She looks at him questioningly.
“Dylan.”
“Well thank you, Dylan. I’m Steph.” Her smile makes him feel ten feet tall.
***
Progress across the parking lot is slow as Steph hops along, clinging to Dylan’s arm and making occasional sounds of pain. Dylan wishes he could just sweep her up into his arms and carry her - of course he could, easily, she really is tiny - but he can’t possibly suggest that, he’s a complete stranger to her and doesn’t know how she’d react. So they take slow steps in tandem.
“Are you named after Bob Dylan?” She suddenly asks, out of the blue.
“Ha, no - people always think that actually - I’m named after Dylan Thomas,” he replies.
“We are not wholly bad or good, who live our lives under Milk Wood,” Steph recites.
“You know Dylan Thomas?”
“Of course! English major,” she says, pointing to herself with her left hand.
“Well you’ll like this then,” he says. “My middle name’s Bennet. And my brother’s called Byron.”
“Really? That’s amazing. I wish I had an interesting name like you and your brother. Stephanie Anne’s a bit... boring?”
“No way, Steph is cool, it suits you,” he responds. Smooth, Dylan! “Where are you from, you don’t sound American?”
“London,” she says. “England. My dad wanted me to come here because he went here. I wanted to go to university in London.”
Dylan doesn’t know how to respond to that, but it’s another statement he can file away for later. They’ve reached the front door and slowly move towards the elevator. Dylan presses the call button and the doors slide open. Once inside, he hits the button for the third floor. The doors close and the elevator jerks into motion, jostling Steph and her painful ankle, as she bumps against him. “Ow! Sorry!”
“Nah, its ok,” he says, as the doors open. He looks up and down the corridor. “Which way?”
Steph points to the right. “Just over there, 310.”
They get to the door and she rummages around in her messenger bag for her keys. She pulls them out but they slip through her fingers and hit the floor.
“Shit! my hands are freezing, I can’t feel them any more.”
“Yeah, winters are a bitch here, but I’m used to it, I’m from Colorado. You need gloves.” Dylan shifts the grocery bag to his left arm which Steph is still clinging to, and bends down to retrieve the keys, handing them back. She opens the door and looks up at him, “do you want to come in for a minute?”
“Uh, yeah, sure,” Dylan says, uncertainly.
They step into the room and he looks around. There are lots of posters on the walls. The Chemical Brothers, Smashing Pumpkins, Nine Inch Nails, Marilyn Manson. The posters mostly echo his own tastes and it feels eerily strange, seeing them plastered all over these unfamiliar walls. On the desk is a laptop - a laptop! - and a small printer, next to books piled haphazardly. The bed, with dark blue bedspread, is covered with cushions and pillows. A tiger plushie sits at the head of the bed. Hi-fi separates are stacked on a small black unit pushed against the wall - Technics record deck, CD player, amplifier (nice) - with large speakers on the floor on either side. A set of headphones with a curly cable sits on top of the closed lid of the record deck. The shelf below is full of records and CDs. There’s a lot of stuff here, he thinks, compared to his somewhat sparser dorm room, although he does have his posters, his computer and mini fridge. He remembers the Jeep Cherokee. She must be rich.
“Nice room,” he remarks, for want of anything better to say as she drops down onto the bed.
“Oh, thanks. My dad sent me all this stuff when I got here. His love language is buying things, or rather he gets his secretary to order them,” she says, slightly wistfully.
His secretary? Definitely rich then. “Well, its nice to have,” he says, unsure what to do or say.
She’s sitting on the bed now, back to the wall, as she struggles to pull the cowboy boot off her right foot, grimacing in pain.
“Here let me.” Dylan kneels in front of her, and grasps the boot, pulling gently. Their hands brush. The boot comes off and Steph removes her sock. They both look at her red and swollen ankle.
“That should be iced,” Dylan says.
Steph points towards the corner of the room. “There should be something in there,” she says.
Dylan turns around and sees a small fridge-freezer. It’s bigger than his mini-fridge. He strides over and opens the door, peering inside. He sees a bag of ice, a half full bottle of Smirnoff (vodka! Another eerie coincidence) and a carton of chocolate ice cream. He grabs the ice, “This’ll do.”
He hands over the ice and watches as she places it on her ankle. “So... what’s with the vodka? You got a fake ID or something?”
She laughs. “Yes I do actually... you know in England its legal to drink when you’re eighteen? Before I came here, my friend made me a fake ID, he said I’d probably get away with it here if it’s English, they wouldn’t know. Seems to be working so far.” She looks away from him, gazing out of the window. “I don’t drink that much, really, its just nice to have a vodka and coke with ice sometimes. So that’s it.” She looks back at him with a steely gaze.
Dylan tilts his head towards her. “Hey, no judgement here. Vodka’s my favorite drink... I’ve got a fake ID as well. But if you go to the gas station on Garfield, they won’t ID you.”
“Good to know,” she responds. “Although I’m probably not going anywhere for a while. I don’t think I can drive with my ankle like this.”
“Its probably just a sprain,” he says, “although you should maybe get it checked out. And enjoy your days off!”
She shakes her head. “I can’t miss any more classes, I was late starting, my student visa took a while to come through. I’m still trying to catch up.”
“Can’t any of your friends give you a ride?”
“No, yes, well no- my friends... well... you know I said I was late starting? I mean, I’ve made some friends from classes, kind of friends anyway, but they don’t live here. And everyone in this building had made friends already when I got here... and a lot of the girls are- not very accepting, you know?”
Unfortunately, Dylan did know. Steph continues, “I’ll have to get a taxi or something tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to do that.” The words leave Dylan’s mouth without his permission. “I can give you a ride.”
Steph’s face lights up and Dylan feels his stomach swoop. What the fuck?
“Seriously? Are you sure?” she asks.
“Yeah, no biggie, its not like I’m not going there anyway. Meet me out front tomorrow and I’ll drive you.”
“Oh Dylan, thanks so much, you’re a bloody lifesaver!” Dylan savors the way his name sounds coming out of her mouth in that accent. “I have a class at 9, is that OK?”
“Its fine, I’ll meet you at 8.30?”
“Yes, that’s perfect.” Steph pulls her left cowboy boot off and drops it onto the carpet with a thump. Dylan picks up the boot and places it next to its partner. “You need better boots than these,” he points out, indicating the smooth worn sole of the cowboy boot. “These soles are no good when its icy.”
“I know,” she says, “I’ve got Dr Martens, but I really love these boots. I got them in a second-hand shop in London. My mum bought them for me. She... she... she died last year.” She scrubs her hand over her face. “God! I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” Her eyes are watery.
Dylan pauses. “I’m sorry,” he says finally. “Look, its OK, you can wear them in Spring when the weather’s better, but you really should wear your Dr Martens for now.”
“OK,” she says, “I’ll take your advice.” They stare at each other for a beat until Dylan suddenly remembers what he was supposed to be doing. “Shit! I gotta go. I was meant to be getting pizza, I’m meeting a friend...” he glances at his watch “...fuck, half an hour ago. I need to- will you be all right?”
“Oh I’m so sorry! Yes you go, I’ll be fine.”
He turns to move towards the door. “Wait! Do you have a phone?” Steph says.
He stops to look back at her. “Uh yeah, I’ve got a cellphone.”
“Brilliant, we can swap numbers. Just in case.”
She wants my number.
Steph motions to the desk. “Can you grab some paper?” He picks up a notepad and pen, passing them to her. She scrawls down some digits on a page and tears the paper off, passing it and the pad and pen to him. “This is mine. Write down yours.”
He does, then passes the pad back. “Great. I’ll see you tomorrow morning?” She gives him a broad smile.
He is so fucked.
***
Dylan arrives at Jared’s door, balancing two pizza boxes. All the toppings, yeah, but no pineapple, that is like, so bad, my dude, I just don’t get it. He opens the door without knocking, and sees Jared starfished on the floor, headphones on. Jared sits up and takes his headphones off, making grabby hands for the pizza.
“Yo, D-man! What happened to you? You get abducted by aliens, man?” There’s no judgement in his tone. Dylan briefly thinks of Eric again then pushes the thought to the back of his mind.
“Sorry.” Dylan passes over the boxes. “No.. I met.. there was a girl...” he trails off.
“A girl alien? Cool! Was she hot?” Jared’s eyes are glassy, he’s obviously made a head start on the weed.
“Yeah, no- yeah- I mean- look, there were no aliens!”
“Ah,” Jared nods sagely as he reaches for a slice of pizza. “You were abducted by a girl then, my dude?”
“Yeah, no- for fucks sake, there were no abductions. I just helped a girl in the parking lot, she slipped on the ice and hurt her ankle.”
Jared regards him, chews and swallows, then says, “And that took, like, an hour and a half?” He points his finger at Dylan. “You gonna tell me the rest of it? I can see it on your face, man.”
“There’s nothing to tell - seriously!” In response to Jared’s disbelieving expression, he says, “Look, I helped her back to her dorm. She thinks she can’t drive with her ankle, so I offered to give her a ride tomorrow. That’s it.” He shoves a slice of pizza in his mouth before he can say anything else.
“Oh,” says Jared, drawing out the ‘o’ in his Southern Californian drawl. “So... what’s her name? What’s she like? And, most importantly” he pauses for dramatic effect, waving his half-eaten pizza slice in the air for emphasis, “is she hot?”
Dylan sighs. “Her name’s Steph. She’s from London. English major. She’s into the same kind of bands as me, looking at her posters.”
“And? C’mon D, you didn’t answer my last question,” Jared prods.
“Yeah, I guess so. Objectively... whatever.” Dylan returns his attention to his pizza.
Jared seems to sense he isn’t going to get anything else out of Dylan. He stuffs the last bite of pizza into his mouth and produces a pre-roll from behind his ear, waving it in the air with a flourish. “OK my dude, say no more... wanna get high?”
***
Dylan’s back in his room before midnight. They’ve gone later than that before and he doesn’t really need that much sleep anyway - he’s used to getting up early - but he’s driving Steph to class tomorrow and wants to make sure he’s on time. He glances at the computer on his desk and his hand twitches. No... well maybe... just a quick look. He switches it on, waits for it to boot up, connects to the internet and opens AOL messenger.
It doesn't take long. It never does.
There’s another one. Of course there is.
RebDomine: Cmon Dylan, stop ignoring me. I’m trying for fucks sake V. I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean it.
The cursor blinks ominously.
Dylan looks away, then looks back at the screen. He clicks to shut down the computer.