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Mona lisa

Summary:

"The absurdness of his situation made him feel like laughing; he'd just, presumably, traveled in time, and now he would go to English as if nothing was amiss.

How fun."

---

Griffin-centric time travel fix-it. This is kind of a compulsive post so we'll see if I continue it

OFFICIALLY ON HIATUS. Go check out my other works during the meantime!

Chapter 1: June 1st pt.1

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

 

 

 

You don't have much time.

 

 

 

 

 

Griffin shot out of bed, sheets catching around his ankles and causing him to stumble and crash onto the wooden floor. The harsh thump of his head against the floor shot pain down him like a livewire, a living livewire.

 

 

 

 

Naughty boy...

 

 

 

 

When he came back to, he was still laying on the uncomfortable floor with a migraine that felt like someone had hit him in the skull with a baseball bat. A man's voice echoed in his mind, unwelcome, not the voice of someone that he wanted to here. In a sudden bout of nausea, pure will allowed him to make it to the toilet just in time.

 

 

 

Only when half of his stomach contents were emptied was he able to slump against the bathtub, green floral tiles pressing against him. If he was truthful, he felt like only half of himself was leaning against the porcelain tub. The other half might have been down in that basement still. Or maybe it was sitting there in the toilet bowl, taunting him.

 

 

 

 

"I didn't want to do this, Griffy..." The maniacal grin spreading across the exposed lower half of the man's face seemed to say otherwise.

 

 

 

 

His last memories are of the final boy escaping the basement after killing the Grabber. It was supposed to be a happy moment, but all he felt was bitterness. The man that killed him was dead on the floor and he felt unsatisfied. He was not selfish. He knew that all the victims had deserved to survive, and that the last one had only been lucky he could hear the phone. It wasn't some sort of divine favoritism, just chance.

 

 

So how is he here, back in his house? It doesn't feel like a hallucination, it's way too real. The mirror still has a little crack from when he slipped and hit his head on it. There's a bottle of toothpaste and a toothbrush laid on the counter, right where he'd left them. Next to the bathtub are half empty bottles of shampoo and conditioner.

 

He held his arms out in front of him, feeling a strain that he'd gotten used to there being a lack of when he stretched his fingers apart.There was no blood, no dirt, no signs that it had even been anything but a dream, but how could it have been? His night clothes were soft and clean, so unlike the ones he'd died in which had become stained and wrinkled after weeks without wash. He didn't think he'd be able to wear those clothes again, the gray shirt and black shorts.

 

His hands were shaking as he reached for his throat. Blood,  he remembers, blood has become his friend, blood has become him. Blood has always been everything he was made of and now it spilled and did not come back. Just before his palms could touch skin, he shivered and pulled them away in resignation. He remembered what it felt like to graze his fingers along the open wound.

 

It had been after his death, of course, so he hadn't felt any pain. Still, the feeling of slippery muscle against his fingertips had nearly made him gag then, just like the memory did now. If it was still there, there'd surely be blood soaking the front of his spiderman shirt by now. It was a weak reassurance, but it would be enough. He couldn't stomach testing his hypothesis without risking losing the rest of his stomach's contents.

 

His legs were wobbly when he finally tried to pull himself up from his position, what might have been hours later. In death, he had lost feeling in his legs. It was strange because although they had been broken, his other injuries didn't really hinder him at all, so his legs being the only part of him with an issue was strange. It left him having not walked in quite some time. Each step he tried to take felt like what he imagined someone who had paralyzed their legs felt in physical therapy, relearning how to properly walk.

 

 

 

He miscalculated and tripped, almost falling face first into the sink. Thankfully his hands shot out to brace himself against the marble counter. In shock, he retracted his hands from it just as quickly once he had regained balance. The counter was cold, he'd honestly almost forgot what that felt like. Tentatively he allowed his palm to graze the edge of the cool stone in wonder. Alive. It felt foreign, but most of all, it felt great.

 

 

 

It was with as much uncertainty that he had felt the counter that he looked at himself in the mirror. Truthfully, he'd never known what he looked like when dead. There were no mirrors in the basement, obviously, so there was really no way to have access to that. He could tell from the way the other ghosts eyes would avert from him that it wasn't great. They weren't all together all the time, only during strange intervals where time seemed to warp in on itself and the day spun by like a flash of light. In his corner, he became a point that no one dared to look in. They did not talk to each other, they didn't need to. As of now, he just looked like a boy. Strikingly younger than he felt mentally but tired beyond his years. His curls were ruffled and a frizzy nightmare, as if he'd slept for a century, but the prominent eye bags that seemed to weigh him down contradicted that statement. Maybe one could come to the conclusion that he hadn't slept at all.

 

 

 

For a moment, he stood staring at his reflection. It felt wrong, he wasn't meant to be alive, was never meant to see himself like he did now, blood running through his veins instead of out of his neck, eyes shiny and all-there. Really, the realization that this was not meant for him was what urged him to leave the bathroom in favor of returning to his bedroom. That was not made for him either, but no accusing eyes of his own could follow him there.

 

 

 

It really was all the same. As much as to some this might have been a joyful thought, it only filled him with a consuming dread. His book bag was leant against a bedpost carelessly, like he'd come home from school and dropped it to the ground unthinkingly. Beside it was a small pile of worksheets so awfully familiar that it made bile threaten to rise again. With this, he averted his gaze to the dresser. Oh, there it was, that bracelet. Someone had made it for him way back when, he doesn't remember who anymore. That wasn't the important part; he remembers it dropping on the concrete sidewalk during his struggle with his kidnapper. 

 

 

 

The cat-themed calendar his grandma had bought him for his last birthday was propped up against the wall and read June the first. He'd been taken on June the third. He felt a cold sweat come in. According to his knowledge, the last victim had been kidnapped on the eleventh of November. He'd tried to count the days down there, but after death time could shift so seamlessly yet so jarringly that he might have lost count.

 

 

 

So, what does this mean? He sat on the edge of the destroyed bed, unable to hold his trembling form up any longer. Hi bed was so starkly different to the yellowing, rock hard mattress down in the basement that he nearly cried again. Squeezing his eyes shut in lieu of what would probably end up being sobbing, he tried to process it all. Why was he in the past, before the series of kidnappings had begun? Was this just a cruel way of tormenting him? Rubbing it in his face that- that...

 

 

 

His deep breath wracked his chest in his effort to remain calm. His mom was most likely home, she worked night shifts at the hospital but got back at around two in the morning. As distraught as he was, he didn't wish to disturb her, she got too little rest as it was. The thought of her almost made the tears resurface once more.

 

 

 

It wasn't fair. None of it was fair, in all fairness. Why was it him that was forced to return to a time just before it all went wrong? Before a time where, in his book, his time had come to an end?

 

 

 

There had to be a reason hidden in between the lines somewhere. Some would argue that it was a chance to rewrite the past and subsequently the future so that nothing ever happened to those boys. Griffin thought that the notion that the universe or whatever was behind him would choose him to time travel instead of one of the others was funny. Like, Griffin? The nobody? The one who didn't even know how to fight?

 

 

 

He let his head drop into his hands, fingers rubbing harsh circles on his forehead. Shit, he thought vulgarly, it's a Monday. He didn't particularly feel like going to school was a great idea. But if he skipped, the office would definitely call home, no questions asked. He'd never, ever hear the end of it from his mom. He already bothered her enough, he didn't want to make things any more stressful for her than they already were. He can practically picture the worried wrinkles that would carve deep into her forehead, or the disappointed frown. No, he wouldn't skip.

 

 

 

He didn't remember getting ready that fateful morning. He'd thrown on an outfit without even looking at it and stumbled out the front door with his book bag slung over his shoulder lazily, forgetting about breakfast. The street was empty, he was up undoubtedly early. The absurdness of his situation made him feel like laughing; he'd just, presumably, traveled in time, and now he would go to English as if nothing was amiss.

 

 

 

How fun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Should I bring back the scar? 😅 I practically rewrote this chapter with how much I revised it. If u have any advice lmk bc I'm not very versed in these types of fics!

Also, check out my other works!

-Major edits 6/13/25

Chapter 2: June 1st pt.2

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

 

When Griffin was dead, if he wasn't still considered that, he had lost a lot of his memory. It happened to each and every one of them over time. Since he had been there the longest, he was left with less. Less feeling, less thought, less to hold on to. When you don't have much to hold on to, it's easy to let go. It's as easy as standing in your backyard and releasing a firefly from a jar which you had selfishly kept it in. Only, in this case, it was like the firefly had decided to fly right back into its prison.

 

 

 

The worst part about that metaphor, he thought, was that the firefly would die in that jar. A few days later, it would only be a little lump of black unmoving on glass. Griffin hoped, pitifully, that this would not be his fate. That somehow he would live through June the third without a repeat of the past. (Or the future? Where is he in time, exactly?)

 

 

 

He feels a little like a buoy, floating aimlessly and yet anchored in place. He had a purpose, this he knew, because for what other reason would he be here? He did not want to consider that it was just a mishap, or, maybe, some play of amusement. But even if he was aware that he had a purpose, he was not quite sure what that was, and had no way of knowing. Fleetingly he wished that he was not the only one who had been sent back, but quickly came to discard of that. He'd never want on anyone the memories of what they had endured down there. He could handle them; he barely remembered anything, there wasn't much to think over anyways. The others wouldn't be so lucky.

 

 

 

With the scuffed front of his converse he kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. It was like a little friend, the pebble, walking with him to school. This train of thought did not improve his mood and so he allowed the pebble to bounce and skid off into the grass. Now, his toe cap scraped aimlessly against cement.

 

 

 

"Watch out!" The warning yelled by a person behind him is sudden, and Griffin understands it as such. Unfortunately he does not have great survival skills and, instead of diving to the side, freezes in place. This proves to be a very wrong move as a bike collides with his side, the owner having tried to change courses quickly but not quickly enough. He's knocked to the ground as well, clutching his side as pain radiates across the skin. He was definitely scraped, but it didn't feel too bad. The owner of the bright red Raleigh Chopper bike was not so lucky, and had gone tumbling onto his side. Half of the boy was sprawled across the road and the other half was wedged underneath his bike.

 

 

 

With some struggle, he managed to bring himself to his own feet. His face twisted in empathy as he took in the misfortune of the one who had bumped into him. Deciding he could be more useful than standing there, he reached out and gripped a handlebar, slowly lifting the bike off of the boy. Now he noticed the rolled papers stored in the ivory basket at the front of the bike, and felt a tension arise. A paperboy, and he had known a paperboy. It was hard to remember what the one he'd known looked like. Deeper inspection brought forth a fuzzily envisioned letterman jacket, just as red as the bike. He became afraid to look down at the one who lay on the curb. What if it was him? What if it was not?

 

 

 

Grunting, the boy lifted himself onto his forearms. "Thanks. Are you okay, dude?" He asked, followed by the sound of his hands running over his jeans to wipe off newly acquired blades of grass. The sound of his voice- well, that was all Griffin needed to really confirm his suspicions. After a moment of not realizing he was meant to respond, he opened his mouth to do so, but paused. He hadn't spoken yet, didn't know if he'd be able to get anything out. Is it to speak up or die?

 

 

 

He had opened his mouth, almost said something, almost. Maybe things would have turned out differently if he had. But he didn't.

 

 

 

Griffin nodded instead, lips pursed in a thin line. The boy who he knew who didn't know him frowned, seeing something in his expression that displeased him. "Well, sorry for hitting you with my bike." He said, a small laugh following his apology. Griffin had startled; how long had it been since he'd heard someone laugh? Such a primal thing, such a sure sign of life. He felt a strange urge to dance around, twirl or something, which quickly faded into embarrassment. He would not twirl, not in front of this stranger, or alone for that matter. He was simply caught off guard by the starkness of life compared to death.

 

 

 

Again, he shook his head, dismissing the paperboy's worries. It hit him that the boy was still partially sprawled on the ground, so he held his hand out for the boy to grab onto and pull himself up with. He did just that, and proceeded to retrieve his bike with a small smile. Griffin watched as he righted himself, unsure of what to do. Did he allow this moment to pass? Was this his chance to do something? It wasn't clear, and he hated that. His uncertainty left him standing there as the paperboy got back on his bike and rode away, leaving him with a name. Billy.

 

 

 

----

 

 

 

Eggs, 2% milk, whole wheat bread.

 

 

 

When Griffin's mom sent him to get the groceries, he never had any trouble remembering the list of items she'd give him. If it was a longer list, he'd just be handed a sticky note. Today, he had just needed to be out of the house, and conveniently knew that their fridge was probably empty. It was strange seeing everything as it had been, it made him feel out of place, so he had not stopped to grab a sticky note. This time around, every thought felt like it was trying to sneakily drift away from him, especially when he hyper focused on it like he was doing now. Shouldn't it be the opposite way around? If he doesn't think about something so much, it should be easier to forget it, yeah? So why was that not the case, and the more present, more important details kept slipping him?

 

 

 

It was frustrating. Much like this morning, he walked with an unusually bad posture and dragged his toe caps across the sidewalk. The converse were already beaten up anyway, this wouldn't do them so bad. This led him to the realization that maybe it was time to get new shoes. He'd had these since he was like eight, he thinks.

 

 

 

Eggs, 2% milk, and... uhm...

 

 

 

Whatever. Hopefully he'd remember it when he saw it. The walk from school to the Grab n' Go was only ten minutes, which passed by quickly when he was lost in thought. He took a left off of the cracked pavement and cut through the small patch of grass that led to the parking lot. There were only a few cars there, so it wouldn't be too crowded.

 

 

 

The bell above the door rang when he stepped inside, but it was so old that you could barely hear it anymore. He'd made a beeline for the eggs first, shivering a little from the cold air that wafted out of the coolers. The plexiglass door cracked closed behind him after he'd gathered two cartons of white eggs in his arms, the recyclable plastic creaking with every slight movement. He squeezed past a woman who was mulling over the options in the chip aisle and then past a man who was holding two pill bottles up to the light to read them better. He tried to keep his eyes downcasted, but this endeavor only resulted in him running face first into someone.

 

 

 

He was opening his mouth to reply, just as he had with Billy before, but this time something else stopped him. He felt himself freeze, muscle tensing to the point that it felt like he was surrounded by concrete and simply could not move. His eyes met the too-familiar eyes of a face that he didn't recognize, but knew in certainty. The mans hands landed on his shoulders, just as surprised by their collision, and his brows had furrowed in Griffin's silence. He looked like he was about to speak and Griffin- he just couldn't. He wouldn't be able to handle hearing that- that voice. He was afraid of how he might react. In a blind panic he had shoved the man's hands off of him and backed away aimlessly. It was just his luck that he'd bump into another person. Turning around, he felt like it might be better to just kill himself and get it over with. Of course, of all people, he'd bump into Pinball Vance Hopper. The blonde was already looking at him, back twisted away from his designated pinball machine.

 

 

 

He'd never interacted with Vance Hopper before, he never had a reason, and he definitely didn't want to. The boy was scary, as silly as that sounded. He was two years older than Griffin but had been held back a year in school. Whenever Griffin had ended up at the Grab n' Go, Vance was there, always playing pinball. He held the highest record, anyone who'd tried to beat him had either failed miserably or been beat up. Usually both. Griffin didn't know how to fight, he'd never had to; bullies had never targeted him for some reason. If he ended up upsetting Vance Hopper he wouldn't know how to defend himself. He didn't want to end up like the kid who's arm Vance had carved into with a knife once, that was for sure. For these reasons he stayed clear of the older boys path whenever they crossed. He'd succeeded in this mostly, except for now apparently, because today just needed to keep getting worse.

 

 

 

"You got a problem?" Vance spoke up, a scowl on his face. It made Griffin cower a little bit, which he immediately felt stupid for. He was, in some ways, a dead man. He had no excuse to be afraid of a high schooler. For the first time today, since he woke up in the past, he spoke, "n-no, sorry," which came out raspy or hoarse from lack of use. Again, there was that feeling. He was alive, he'd spoken, it was...

 

 

 

Before Vance could potentially punch him in the face, Griffin used his quick thinking skills to pull out some quarters from his pocket. The pinball machine only took quarters. A truce, maybe? He couldn't stop the slight tremble of his palm as he held it out. He was afraid, sue him, he just didn't want to get his face caved in. Vance glanced at the glinting quarters with a blank expression, and then back at him, and back down. He huffed and seemed to make a mental decision, snatching the quarters from his open palm. Success.

 

 

 

Griffin glanced behind him, seeing the man still standing there, a unreadable expression across his face. He shuddered and whipped his head away, finding Vance giving him a questioning look. He shook his head, deciding to lean against the wall a few feet away from the pinball machine while he waited for the man to leave. It wasn't safe to exit the store when the man could follow him out, he knew this. Although the man tried to act like he had some sort of plan with his kidnappings, he was really just impulsive. When he'd taken Griffin and Billy, he'd kept each for a month almost exactly. There was a semblance of a pattern, but with each next boy he became more reckless, killing them within a week or a few days.

 

 

 

Maybe Vance viewed it as Griffin asking him for a strange favor, or maybe he really didn't care, because he glanced at the still-staring man and went back to his game, now with a handful more quarters. And, well, Griffin felt just as strange as he probably looked, standing beside Vance Hopper while he played his game, eggs going warm. Oh- right- the list. He still needed to buy eggs, the milk, and something else. But he'd given Vance his quarters. He sighed, he'd just have to survive off of cereal and sink water for a little while more, it seemed. Their fridge was always empty, his mom didn't have time to go shopping and she only ate takeout. He should probably just put the eggs back.

 

 

 

He felt eyes on the side of his head. They were trying to burn holes through him. They felt a little like how his dad used to look at him when he still lived with them. Accusing, morbidly curious. He knew who these eyes belonged to, wishes he didn't. He wished he had bumped into the man and looked and him and saw a stranger. He wished he could say, 'oh, excuse me,' and walk away, having no reason to think twice of it. He wished he could look in the eyes of a killer and think, 'huh, he's strange,' and walk away. Is this how other people viewed the man? Was he the only one who felt the air of unkindness that surrounded him? Was he the only one who really, really saw him?

 

 

 

He's asking stupid questions, he understands, as the bell chimes cheerfully. An announcement that the man behind everything wrong with him has left the store, holding a brown paper bag, as if nothing is amiss. You know, maybe there's still a chance to say it was all a dream. Maybe his head had taken random people he'd seen once and created a false reality. This was also stupid, but nice to fantasize about. It seemed everything he thought about was a little stupid now. That must be what time traveling does to you; takes you out of body and throws you right back in, just now you're wrinkled and folded up all wrong, and you don't fit quite right. Takes you forward and backward and forward again like a ragdoll, until old memories mesh with new and nothing really makes sense. He thinks whatever had facilitated this had been bored and looking for entertainment. Why else would he deviate so far off course from the original timeline that he ran into two of the- oh. Vance is one of the victims. The necklace, a single sharktooth hanging off a string, that's something that the angry ghost had kept. He remembered seeing the boy clench it in a bloody fist whenever he was trying to suppress his rage. He'd been one of the more unfriendly ghosts, Griffin had never felt any need to talk to him.

 

 

 

He's had too many realizations for one day, he doesn't think he can handle anymore. He watches absentmindedly as Vance starts another game using one of his quarters. He does not look at Griffin. Griffin is glad for this, he doesn't want to draw his attention. He still felt a little tense, but walking back to the coolers is much easier now that he knows the man is gone. He slips the eggs back in their previous spot and is making his way to the door when he's stopped again, hopefully for the last time. "Hey!" Vance says, a little louder then Griffin had expected, making him jump. He turned, meeting the mildly annoyed gaze of the older boy. He'd finished his game, but Griffin could see three more quarters left in his hand. Instead of saying anything else, Vance gave him a nod. Just, a nod. He supposed it was supposed to be a thank you, or a you're now neutral in my opinion (Griffin wasn't sure that Vance even had a good side.) Griffin just gave him a small, tight-lipped smile. It was too early for smiling, he didn't feel human enough yet. It stretched his cheeks in a foreign way that he wasn't sure he liked. With this, Vance turned back to the pinball machine, and Griffin didn't stick around to hear the bell chime when he exited.

 

 

 

----

 

 

 

Griffin's house had not changed much as he grew. They'd moved there when he was younger, had lived in a apartment previously. It's a meager house, as meager as a two-story building can be. The shingles are dark gray, which contrasts with the green window shutters and pale yellow wall boards. It's definitely not pretty, but it does its job well. When he was younger he used to climb the gambel oak in the flat front yard. Back then, the tree had seemed tall and wondrous, something to explore and scrape his knees falling from. If he tried to climb it now, it would probably collapse from his weight. They had no fence around neither the back or front of their home, but their neighbors did. It looked a little silly how their yard was blocked in on each side, to the left a white vinyl fence, and to the right a rotting wood fence. It was also silly how their yard could barely support any grass, while the others either had a lawn routine or had installed fake grass. The front door was a brown storm door that had apparently been taken from his mom's childhood house and installed into their current one, and it made a high pitched creaking sound when he opened it.

 

 

 

As per routine, he kicked his converse off and set them on the immediate shoe rack. His mom always yelled at him whenever he tracked dirt across the house with his boots; the wooden floor had costed too much to be ruined by mud stains. Unfortunately he hadn't gotten the memo and had once let wet shoes sit on the floor overnight. There was now a carpet covering that spot.

 

 

 

Trudging up the stairs, he gazed at the line of framed pictures that hung on the wall. Some were of him when he was younger, always celebrating some sort of achievement. A few were of him and his mom during separate intervals of time. Some were even just of her, like when her mom held her as a baby. He had always found it strange to imagine his mom as a young person. For all he'd known her, she'd worn the signs of age. Wrinkles cut deep along her forehead and down either side of her nose, near-purple eye bags ever-present. He'd mourned never having known who his mom had been before she had him every time he was reminded of this, but it never really felt like he was getting any closer to understanding.

 

 

 

Always wondering, never knowing. It was his curse. There was nowhere to go for answers, no one to ask, nothing to consult but himself. This gets tiring over time, he found. But did he really have any right to feel as such? Technically, he had an advantage here. He was aware of every single thing that would happen up to November... as much as he could remember, that is. If this was real and not some sort of cruel hallucination, he did have a chance to stop it all from happening. Was he strong enough? He didn't think so. He was still lingering on the thought that it shouldn't have been him who was chosen for this. Not only was he far from physically active, he had little to no social skills. How was he meant to prevent the boys from coming across the Grabber without knowing them first, or something?

 

 

 

He flopped on his bed, a headache forming between his brows. Too bad they were out of tylenol. His eyes wandered and landed on the calendar propped on top of his dresser. That's right, it was the first of June. He was, as before, meant to be kidnapped on the third of June, but that obviously wouldn't be happening. Still, the thought of something going wrong sent a shiver down his spine and goosebumps along his arms. Wrapping them around his torso, he contemplated. What if he wasn't the only one that got sent back? What if the man knew something? God, he hoped not. What if this wasn't even his past, but it was a different one? Like, alternate universe type? What if the kidnappings went differently than he remembered? What if he was remembering wrong?

 

 

 

He'd just have to hold out until November, he supposed.

 

 

 

Notes:

Locked in for this one but kinda hate it. Lmk what you guys think!

Chapter 3: June 2nd

Notes:

LMAO i am not feeling great about this
But hey! It's a test fic! I'll prob rewrite it or write something similar in the future
im still figuring out how to write this style 😬

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

 

 

Griffin had never been the type of kid to fall asleep during class. Sure, he dozed off sometimes when he was bored during lectures, but never full on out like he had this morning. Mrs. Howl had woken him up with a fierce glare and a smack on the back of his head. Apparently, he'd slept through the dismissal bell, which seemed ridiculous because that bell was impossibly loud. He'd been mildly embarrassed while packing up in the empty classroom, had felt a stubborn flush follow him out into the hall.

 

 

 

It just wasn't like him. Not that he really was himself anymore, to be honest. He probably wouldn't ever be again. Be what, normal? If what he had been before was normal, he'd be glad going back to that. Being invisible felt better than being an alien in his own skin, in his own mind.

 

 

 

Mosquitoes didn't seem to care if he was an alien or not, as itchy red bumps appeared on his forearms and shins anyways during his walk home. It was strangely early for them to be so active, he'd thought with annoyance, scratching at the bumps. He knew it just made them worse but couldn't help it.

 

 

 

Thwak! Griffin looked to his left, it seemed he'd been too out of it to notice where he was. There it was, a small speck in the sky. Coming closer to him. "Heads up!" A voice shouted, making him stumble out of the way just in time to avoid being hit by the offending baseball which bounced against the curb and stopped in the street. That was a close one, and the voice seemed to think so too.

 

 

 

"Are you okay?!" This new boy shouted worriedly from where he jogged toward Griffin, who stood there as if paralysed. Baseball. Of course, this was the baseball player. Of all things, he recognized the boys eyes. They were searching his as if for an answer in a similar way to how his must be as well, and so he averted his gaze to the baseball trapped in the nooks of a sewage cover.

 

 

 

The boy finally caught up to him, barely seeming out of breath as he came to a stop beside him. "I'm so sorry- it was a bad hit." The boy exclaimed, stammering a bit. Griffin felt a flash of amusement from under the coat of blankness he was currently wearing, and went to retrieve the ball for him. He held it out to the boy, similarly to how he'd held his hand out to Vance before. The boy smiled hesitantly and accepted the ball back with a thanks. "No problem. I know a way you can make it up to me?"

 

 

 

----

 

 

 

If you told Griffin Stagg he'd be practicing baseball with Bruce Yamada that Tuesday afternoon he would have panicked and asked you how you knew his name, and then why he would ever hang out with Bruce Yamada. He'd thought they were opposites, but many of his opinions had been proven wrong lately and this was just one of them. In fact, they got along well, well enough that his coat of blankness had lifted as the hours past by.

 

 

 

He learned that Bruce was on the North Denver baseball team, a different one from Griffin's school's team. That also checked because they didn't go to the same school. He also learned that Bruce was, and he meant it, amazing at batting. Griffin had no idea what he was doing when Bruce had handed him a pitchers helmet with a smirk, but even his pathetic pitches had garnered some good hits from Bruce. Griffin had never played a sport before, he didn't know what it was like. Did Bruce have some sort of personal instructor who had taught him all these techniques? Or had he learned it through his teammates?

 

 

 

It was obvious that Bruce was also enjoying his company, which made him feel at ease. He'd critiqued Griffin's lackluster pitching skills with a playful smile and talked with him about music cheerfully on the bench during their water breaks. It was too fun, maybe, as it dragged on hours, but Griffin couldn't bring himself to care when it felt like he might have made a friend. He hadn't had one of those in a long time, maybe it was Bruce who would change that.

 

 

 

It was almost dark out, Griffin's arm was beyond sore, and Bruce had to be tired from hitting so much. It was as if Bruce read his mind, dropping his bat to his side with a sheepish look. "We should probably turn in." Bruce said, but he was frowning. Bruce frowning automatically made Griffin frown which made Bruce panic, etc. "Well, from practice! I can-uh, you can come over to mine if you want? We're having spaghetti I think." This made Griffin pause, he was being invited over?

 

 

 

Yet another new thing, but maybe a good one. He could use this to get closer to Bruce and, in turn, make saving him a little easier. That, and definitely not that he was a little desperate for a friend. Not at all. So, Griffin nodded, a smile cracking his lips.

 

 

 

The walk to Bruce's house was filled with a argument about the best Kool-Aid flavor. Bruce was a weirdo and preferred grape. Griffin thought that grape tasted like medicine, he preferred strawberry. At some point someone had been pushed into a fence accidentally, making them speed walk away with muffled giggles just in case anyone had seen. Bruce's house was really nice, a lot nicer than his. It had three stories and had a nice blue theme. Bruce cracked the door open and called out, "Ma, Pa, I'm home! I got a friend!" Unbeknownst to himself a grin appeared on Griffin's face when Bruce had called him his friend.

 

 

 

"Is that so!" Said a woman, who he assumed was Bruce's mother. She came to stand in front of them, an apron around her waist and one mitt on. The wonderful smell of spaghetti followed her to the door. She smiled, and he saw the resemblance between her and Bruce. "Hello there! You two come on in," she greeted, kicking a few shoes scattered by the door away to make room for them, not that they needed anymore room with how big the house was. He was trying hard not to gape at how high the ceiling went as Bruce mumbled something in response and dragged him up the stairs by his wrist. Griffin huffed, catching Bruce in a fake chokehold at the top of the staircase. Bruce pretended to choke, twisting around in his grip suddenly to push Griffin into his room. He was a little too preoccupied wrestling Bruce on the floor to take in his surroundings, that time around.

 

 

 

Bruce had managed to pin him under his elbow just as his mom called them down for dinner. Griffin leapt up with a triumphant expression that earned him a kick to the ankle. Cackling, he ran away from Bruce who scrambled to chase him down the stairs, only coming to a stop in the dining room door frame, not wanting to cause a ruckus for Bruce's mom.

 

 

 

Bruce hadn't seen him stop in time and ended up ramming into him and sending them sprawling on the floor. Griffin groaned, his back aching. "Dude!" He complained, pouting at Bruce. He felt a little silly for it. "Ughh, sorry," Bruce rolled his eyes, rubbing his shoulder gently. Bruce's mom had stopped outside of the kitchen, eyeing them with confusion and a little amusement glinting in her eyes. She held, now in two mitts, a steaming bowl of spaghetti. It was now Bruce's turn to leap to his feet and pull Griffin up, looking ridiculously excited over spaghetti.

 

 

 

As it turned out, Bruce's excitement was not ridiculous. Griffin didn't think he'd ever be able to go back to leftover half-frozen spaghetti after trying Mrs. Yamada's cooking, and he was perfectly fine with that. Bruce had glanced at him as he took a napkin to clean his face, eyes conveying 'I know, right?' Griffin actually wasn't sure why he knew what that look meant after only having known Bruce for a day, but didn't find himself questioning it too much.

 

 

 

After dinner they'd gone back to Bruce's room, this time much more calmly. His room was really clean for a teenager, at least it was definitely cleaner than Griffin's room. He had a twin mattress that didn't fit the two of them great, but they'd squeezed next to each other on it anyway. Then, the object of Griffin's jealousy, a bed-facing TV. I mean, how rich can you be? He'd teased Bruce for it, much to the boys chagrin, who claimed it wasn't a newer model, as if that was any different. Another thing he'd learned was that Bruce was very susceptible to teasing, always managing to take it personally. Griffin found it a little funny and a little annoying at the same time, he'd just have to get used to it.

 

 

 

"I still think grape is better." Bruce had spoken, on the brink of passing out, as some movie played in the background. Neither were awake enough to pay attention anymore. Griffin huffed, shoving his shoulder a little, which was difficult due to how close he was. "If you say so, grape man."

 

 

 

----

 

 

 

Bruce had been whining all morning about how he wished Griffin went to his school so they could walk together. "It's on the other side of town," Griffin had protested. Bruce had shrugged and said, "I could drive you!" Unfortunately Bruce's attempts at coercing him into transferring schools wouldn't work, he'd never be able to convince his mom to let him do that. This, and the other four boys went to his school. His situation required that he was able to be around them in a way, he supposed.

 

 

 

Bruce had only let him go with the instruction to meet him at his house again tomorrow after school and a paper slip with his number on it. Griffin had pretended to be annoyed, but had been giddy on the inside. How could he not be, when he'd made such a great friend? God, he was getting sappy, which he did not need at seven in the morning.

 

 

 

Today he guessed he would just stay home after school, maybe watch some movies that were being replayed on the cable. He suddenly remembered the cookies and cream ice cream that had been sitting in their freezer, and decided that yes, it would be a movie night. Maybe call Bruce and gossip about whatever happened at school. Yes, that was a good plan. As he walked to school, his toe caps did not scrape on the ground, and a small smile graced his lips.

 

 

 

Friends.

 

 

 

----

 

 

 

Holed up in his living room and wrapped in like five blankets, a tub of ice cream in his lap, and a thriller movie playing on the TV, Griffin rethought his situation.

 

 

 

It had felt like a fever dream, hanging out with Bruce. Not in a weird way, just that he hadn't been that close to anyone in so long. It almost felt fake, like he was making it up in his head as a way to feel better.

 

 

 

And yet it had been real. How come it was always the things he'd least expect that kept coming true, while the easier options always just passed by? Like, he could've just moved on into the afterlife, whatever that ended up being. Instead, time had done a circle and dragged him with it.

 

 

 

The ice cream was cold against his tongue and then his cheeks when he took a spoonful of it. These sensations kept reminding him that, yes, he is alive. They're so weird, he's sure that ice cream didn't leave a odd tingly feeling in his mouth before. He's sure that warm showers didn't feel like molten lava burning lines down his skin, and that cold showers didn't feel like shards of ice poking him. No, he's sure that clothing didn't feel like fiberglass at the slightest brush.

 

 

 

No, he's not meant to be alive. He's meant to be six feet under in the Grabber's basement, rotting away. Instead he's been placed in a living boys body and in turn taken the life away from that boy.

 

 

 

He had been getting a little too philosophical lately for his tastes. He guessed that it was a way of coping. Everything was moving so fast- almost unforgivably so. Only on the first day he'd ran into Billy, Vance, and the Grabber, and on the second day Bruce. How long would it take to meet the others? It was only two left, the bandana boy and the survivor. They'd be the easiest to pick out of a crowd, he assumed, as he remembered them the most. Wait- what if he was remembering the others wrong, and he'd not run into any of the actual victims yet?

 

 

 

Sinking further into the couch cushion he shoved some ice cream in his mouth to distract himself from the problems at hand. There were just too many questions, he'd never end up getting any of them answered, it felt like. How was he supposed to work with that? Ridiculous, if you asked him. Which- ok... he's not going to go down a rabbit hole again. He's been doing a lot of that too.

 

 

 

At least, for now, he was able to sit and watch TV in peace. At least, for now, he was alive again, even if it was weird and wrong. At least, for now, he had changed things, even if they potentially weren't the things he was meant to change.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

am i making it clear that i dont know how to pace this fic and im kinda hating it 🤣😀

idk what possessed me during the last two chapters but i don't think the exorcism worked too well

Chapter 4: NOT A CHAPTER

Notes:

(See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Chapter Text

HI! Most of you know this already, but this fic is in hiatus. I do have good news! I have started a rewrite, because I actually hate what I had written. I'm going to try to keep it as in character as possible, with the goal that I don't make him seem older than he is. These are kids, I try to write them as such, even though my writing style doesn't really go well with that. Anyway, I'm not sure when the first chapter will be released. I'm thinking about prewriting most of the fic before releasing it, and then publishing a chapter every week or something. Lmk what yall think :)

Notes:

On hiatus since June 19th