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He Wants a Finale and I Came Prepared (And We’re Not Going Back)

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Whizzer isn’t usually one for self reflection. The feeling of looking inside yourself is never something he’s enjoyed; he’s never cared about anyone’s opinion and he sure as hell isn’t gonna start caring about what he thinks of himself.

However, maybe he does feel a little guilty for making it his own responsibility to destroy any evidence that he’d ever let his guard slip for far too long. Almost a year of putting someone’s needs above your own will do that to you.

The weight of the baseball bat in his hand feels too pedestrian - too normal for this type of situation. It’s grounding, childish, and overall just so fucking weird . It’s almost as if he’s going to put it neatly with the other objects sealed below cardboard and tape. But it’s too late for that now, he reminds himself. He ignores the lump in his throat, eventually swallowing uncomfortably to clear it.

Whizzer kneels down in front of the box and slowly starts to pick at the tape, starting slowly and methodically, turning quickly into a desperate clawing to get inside. He ends up eventually ripping one of the cardboard folds, sighing at the thought of not being able to reuse the box. He looks at the amount of damage he’d managed to cause to the box for no real reason other than impatience. He thinks of Marvin. He then forces himself to think of something - anything else but Marvin.

The box, finally open, is filled with relics of someone who doesn’t exist anymore. Coffee cups that he’d once taken pride in displaying in his kitchen now seem nothing but hollow and cheap. Picture frames and lampshades and stupid fucking vases flood out from where they were stuffed in during a fit of tears and panic, now coming back to suffocate him as some sort of reparation for how they were treated.

Seeing it all together like this almost makes him miss the home he and Marvin had once shared.


The first swing of the bat is unsuccessful, hitting the edge of the box and bumping off the side like a tennis ball falling to the floor. This doesn’t deter Whizzer though, and he takes another swing.

This time the sound is loud. A crack reverberates around the room like the sound of bones breaking, and maybe that’s how it should sound. Maybe that’s the noise most accurate to what he’s doing right now. Killing the person he used to be to become someone.. new?

Another swing, this time more confidently. The resistance of the air against the bat makes a whoosh sound, which would almost be reminiscent of childhood if he wasn’t actively trying to destroy any evidence he had existed before this moment. When the bat makes impact this time, it’s a cacophony of violence. The box splitting open down a corner, sending shimmering glass shattering in every direction. Trinkets and postcards and picture frames fly out elegantly as though they’re part of some cathartic choreography.

As he takes another swing, and then another, and then another, one of these picture frames flies directly towards his left foot, stubbing his toe in the process. He swears something unintelligible before kicking it away, only stopping when he realises the picture encased is still visible.

Silently, he goes to pick it up, soon realising his mistake when an photograph of Marvin, smiling and looking somewhere off camera, is staring back at him.

He looks happy, Whizzer thinks. He wonders what he’s doing now; probably nothing different to what he was doing before. Fucking up other people’s lives to get what he wants.

A stupid part of him that he’d tried to bury thinks that maybe he was doing good. Maybe he finally did have what he wanted. A nicer house, a new psychiatrist, a new boyfriend? Maybe he was happy. Whizzer feels his blood run cold at the thought.

Whizzer drops the baseball bat, ignoring the way it clatters to the ground on top of the wreckage he’d caused. He takes the smashed picture frame and puts it on the table in the centre of the room - just to reuse it, obviously, as it’s the least destroyed of all the items in the pile. He’ll take the picture out later, definitely, he just has to clear up the rest of the wreckage first.

Twenty minutes of sweeping up tiny particles of glass and ceramics later, Whizzer finally has a trash bag he can haul down to the bins outside his apartment. He picks it up with one hand initially, stumbling forward when he realises it’s far too heavy for that. He grabs it with both hands, hauling it over one shoulder like an old movie beggar with a handkerchief full of mystery belongings. Or maybe more like Ted Bundy disposing of a body. Begrudgingly, he puts it down to unlock the door and upon picking it up again, makes his decent from the eighth floor.

When at the bins, he swings the bag from over his shoulder and watches it drop into an abyss filled with other items that probably were once loved - not that Whizzer feels anything for the contents of his own bag.

He touches his face, it’s wet. He decides he needs to get some sleep.

The next day, Whizzer rolls out of bed unmentionably late. He could’ve probably stayed in bed a few hours longer if not for the incessant knocking at his door. He doesn’t bother looking in the mirror before answering, he hasn’t been doing that for a while now.

However, when he opens the door he fucking wishes he did.

Standing in front of him, nose red from the cold outside is none other than Marvin .

“Hey, Whizzer.”

Whizzer feels like throwing up.

He wants to be mad. He wants to slam the door in his face and scream at him to never fucking come back here again. But against all better judgement, he replies “What the hell are you doing here?” (neglecting a more pressing question “How the hell did you figure out where I live?”)

“I left some stuff in the box you packed a few months back, and I really need it back. Turns out some of it was actually Trina’s and she-“

Marvin abruptly stops talking, his gaze fixed over Whizzer’s left shoulder. Whizzer looks at him for a second or two before turning around and seeing none other than Marvin’s picture on his own table. In his new apartment that wasn’t meant to have anything to do with Marvin in it.

Marvin leans forward slightly, as if restraining himself from walking in. Typical of him to try to invade a space he doesn’t even have any ownership of.

“Can I?”

And he looks so earnest, so unguarded, that it almost frightens Whizzer. It’s a look he’s seen only enough times to count on one hand. Maybe it’s the look, or maybe just the pure fucking absurdity of the situation, but he moves out of Marvin’s way, walking back into the apartment without a word.

He sits down on a chair that’s splintering at one foot. Marvin sits on the armchair with cracking leather. The couch in between them feels like the Berlin Wall. The silence is uncomfortable - unbearable even.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” Whizzer asks, ignoring the tugging feeling in his chest.

“I’d like some coffee, if that’s alright? I know you don’t really like it so if you don’t have it that is completely oka-“

“I have some, Marv. It’s alright.”

Whizzer walks to the kitchen and overthinks the use of the dumb nickname. He hits himself for using said dumb nickname. The kettle boils, the drink is made, and the silence is back.

“How have you been? I mean, since I last saw you.” Marvin asks. It’s almost a stupid question; Whizzer looks pale and skinny, as if isolating himself has removed even his own standards for hygiene and self-preservation.

“I’ve been- I’ve been fine, Marv. Look, I appreciate you asking but I really wasn’t planning to talk about this kind of thing today. I just- I don’t know what I’m meant to say or if I’m meant to act like it’s normal , or if we’re even meant to be talking right now but-“ Whizzer’s throat tightening cuts him off involuntarily.

Almost immediately, Marvin is moving in front of him and kneeling down, holding his hand, trying to comfort him. “Hey, hey. We don’t need to talk about this right now if it’s a bad time. We can turn on the TV or something if that would make you feel better..? I don’t know exactly how your TV works but-“

Marvin is cut off by Whizzer laughing quietly. He’d stood up to turn on the television, pacing around the room in search of a switch he could turn on for it. Upon hearing this laugh, he turns around.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

Marvin gives him a serious look.

“No, seriously, it’s nothing. I just- is it bad to say I missed this? Just a little?” Whizzer says, his smile turning into a searching look, wondering if he’d gone too far.

“I don’t think that’s bad at all.” Marvin says back, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly.

Marvin eventually finds the switch, and both men move onto the couch to watch whatever was on. Football season, yawn. Whizzer’s head cautiously makes its way onto Marvin’s shoulder, and they sit in silence, watching the game.

The room feels warm for the first time since Whizzer had moved in, it’s nice, it’s comfortable. Whizzer closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall asleep.