Chapter Text
He stares up at the ceiling, boredom clear in his eyes. The man - boy really - in front of him is handsome enough-- pretty blue eyes and tousled brown hair. Whizzer shifts his gaze to the boy’s chest, pointedly not looking him in the eyes. The kid -- Devon? Dylan? Damian? -- is wearing a Fordham sweatshirt. To a bar nowhere near the goddamn campus. Whizzer barely suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He knows he should have too much pride to give a half-hearted hand job to a rich college kid who is barely old enough to drink, but he had a bad day and needed something to get his mind off of the emptiness he’s feeling. The emptiness shouldn't be feeling. He has everything he has always wanted. He is taking photos of beautiful people in beautiful clothing and getting paid for it. Getting paid a lot for it, actually. He has a trendy apartment in Greenwich Village, a closet of designer clothes; his photos have been on the cover Vogue and GQ, he attracts more twinks than Kylie Minogue. A hundred thousand followers on Instagram and a phone full of fabulous friends, but he still feels so fucking alone. Everything he has always wanted and he still can't fill the hole that he's had in his chest his entire life. What do I have to do? The boy’s loud moan, and suddenly wet briefs bring Whizzer back to the depressing scene in front of him. He steps away and opens the bathroom stall door. Dylan looks confused.
“Don’t you want me to… you know… do something… you know… for you?”
“Yeah, actually, I do,” Whizzer says in a deadpan. “Go back to the bar and make some more shitty choices with your frat buddies.”
“I- I’m not actually in a-”
“Yeah, I don’t actually care,” Whizzer sighs. Devon rolls his eyes and pushes past him, out of the bathroom. “Bye, Damian!” Whizzer calls just as he steps out.
“My name is Derek!” he replies, turning back violently.
“Oh God, that is definitely worse,” Whizzer says. “You should’ve just let me call you Damian.” Derek slams the door shut on his way out.
Whizzer sighs and makes his way to the sink, turning on the faucet and scrubbing his hands clean before splashing his face with the cold water. Staring up at himself in the mirror, his eyebrows furrow and he lets out a long, exasperated groan. What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just be fucking happy? With a frustrated shout, he hits the sink hard enough to send a wave of pain up through his palm and into his arm. I am exactly where I want to be, so why am I not satisfied? Am I just not cut out for that? That far-out, abstract concept of happiness and fulfillment? Maybe it’s just not meant for me. He’s young, too, for the years of success he has had. A wunderkind according to the online articles he has always loved to scoff at while showing them to everyone he knows. I’m such a fucking ungrateful asshole. He takes his anger out on the sink one more time before leaning back against the filthy tile wall. What the fuck am I meant to do?
The exorbitant amount of alcohol in his system seems to really hit him just then because Whizzer’s head starts to spin. He feels dizzy and his legs become weak. Not caring for the moment about how gross he would find this at any other time, he sinks to the floor, rubbing his temples as his vision starts to go dark. Just then, he hears the music in the bar change suddenly from the heavy beats of the normal clubby music to an old disco song he only vaguely knows. He doesn’t have time to question it, though, before he loses consciousness.
“Hey, man, you okay?”
Whizzer’s eyes flicker open to find himself still sitting against the bathroom wall. Only the bathroom looks different. The tile seems to be a different color, and it’s more run-down than he remembers it. It looks like the bathroom of some shitty underground speakeasy, rather than the hip gay bar in Manhattan. Whizzer shakes his head, blaming it on the alcohol.
“Seriously. Do you need help?”
Whizzer’s eyes focus on the man in front of him. He has long-ish brown hair and is wearing a tight and flamboyant button-up shirt tucked into equally tight, equally bright, high-waisted bell-bottoms. God, what year is it? I mean, I know 70s fashion is making a comeback, but this is just too much. Whizzer would normally say something snarky; make fun of him and laugh and maybe have a good quick hate fuck at the end of the night. But his head is throbbing and the man actually looks concerned, so Whizzer just shakes his head, slowly pushing himself up. “Thanks, but I’m fine. Just had a little too much to drink.” He manages a forced smile and the man nods.
“I can help you hail a cab if you want,” the man offers, clearly just following social protocol, as he glances a little too frequently towards the stalls.
“It’s fine. I’ll just call myself an Uber,” Whizzer says, attempting not to stumble as he makes his way towards the door.
“Huh?” the man asks, looking at Whizzer skeptically.
“Nothing. Just go shit already. I’m alright.”
The man looks grateful as he nods and races into the empty stall. Whizzer opens the door into the bar and realises that the disco songs are still playing. He looks around and sees that the men surrounding him are all dressed in some variation of the bathroom man’s outfit. All except one, sitting alone at the bar, shifting his eyes between his beer and the ass of a man standing nearby. He looks to be in his early 40s. He’s not dressed well, but at least his outfit is fairly normal -- a plaid button-up, too-baggy khakis and an ill-fitting dark green suit jacket. Whizzer sits down next to him, desperate, suddenly, to talk to someone who is old enough to rent a car, and who isn’t dressed like a poor-man’s Elton John. The man looks up at Whizzer, his gaze lasting long enough for Whizzer to notice a flicker of interest in his eyes before he quickly turns his gaze back to his drink.
“Did it suddenly become retro night in this place? Because I definitely didn’t get that memo,” Whizzer says, trying to make conversation.
“What do you mean?” the man asks, furrowing his brow.
“I mean, what year is it? Why is everyone dressed like they just time-travelled here from the seventies?” Whizzer asks, gesturing to the wide array of brightly colored pants.
The man looks at him like he’s insane. “Is this some weird pick-up line? Cause I’m not interested,” he says, rather unconvincingly.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Whizzer responds with a snort, rolling his eyes. He takes out his phone, with the intention of calling a Lyft, but he realises that he suddenly has no bars. Great. He looks back at the man, who, for some reason, is staring wide-eyed at the phone in Whizzer’s hand.
“What is that?” he asks.
Whizzer raises an eyebrow. “Look, man, I know most of society has been brainwashed by the late great Steve Jobs to believe that it’s a good idea to pay double the price for the exact same capabilities, but acting like you don’t even know what a goddamn Android looks like is taking it a little far, don’t you think?" In lieu of a response, the man snatches Whizzer’s phone from his hand. “Hey!” Whizzer exclaims, grabbing his arm. But the man doesn’t look like he wants to steal the thing, he just studies it, an amazed look in his eye.
“Why does it say ‘2017’?”
“What do you mean?” Whizzer asks.
“Here,” the man says, pointing to the clock on Whizzer’s home screen. “It says, ‘March 15, 2017’. Why would it say that? Why would it say ‘2017’?”
“Because that’s the year?” Whizzer says, raising an eyebrow. Okay. Nevermind finding someone normal. This dude is insane. But the man is looking at Whizzer the same way that Whizzer is looking at the man. With weariness, with confusion, with heavy judgement.
“It’s 1978,” the man replies seriously.
Whizzer laughs nervously. “Alright, can I have my phone back now?”
“This is a phone?”
Whizzer doesn’t waste time responding. He just grabs his phone back and races outside, praying for service. Still no fucking bars. “Goddammit!” He shouts.
Much to his dismay, a few seconds later, the crazy man from inside appears next to him. “How is it possible?”
Whizzer jumps and backs away. “How is what possible?”
“How is that a phone?”
“Drop it, okay? This isn’t funny.” Whizzer looks into the street, searching desperately for yellow. He needs to get home and get some sleep before he goes as insane as the man next to him.
“Drop what? I have never seen anything like that before. It should be impossible.”
“Oh my god, you actually believe that, huh? Hate to break it to you, buddy, but it is not 1978. It is 2017. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
The man grabs Whizzer’s arm, and he tries to pull away, but, fuck, this guy is surprisingly strong.
“Let go of me!” Whizzer shouts. The man just drags him over to a line of three newspaper vending machines. “What?”
The man points at the corner of the display paper on each of the clear doors. “1978. 1978. And 1978.”
Whizzer looks closer and sees that the man is right. For the first time, he really looks around. There are plenty of cars, but none of them seem to be from the right century. The parking meters no longer take credit cards. The whole block looks similar, just very slightly different. Slightly less modern. “What the fuck is happening to me?” Whizzer mutters, suddenly finding it hard to breathe.
“Now explain how your phone looks like a tiny television.”
Whizzer steadies himself on one of the newspaper racks, trying to control his breathing. I am not crazy. The phone is proof. I am not crazy. I am not crazy! “Excuse me,” Whizzer says, forcing a smile and rushing back inside. He slams his hands down on the bar and beckons to the bartender. The man raises an eyebrow, but walks over to Whizzer’s side of the bar.
“What do you-”
“What year is it?” Whizzer demands.
“Excuse me?”
“What year is it?” Whizzer repeats desperately.
“1978,” the bartender responds, suddenly weary. “You okay?”
“I'm fine,” Whizzer says tightly. He races around the bar, having the same conversation over and over again. 1978. 1978. 1978. “Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fuck.” It’s getting harder and harder for Whizzer to breathe normally so he stumbles back outside and leans against the wall, hugging his phone to his chest, holding onto it like it's his last shred of sanity. And maybe it is.
“So I'm going to blame this ridiculous question I'm about to ask on the alcohol and the fact that I just started watching that Doctor Who show.”
Whizzer is surprised to see that the man is still standing there outside.
“What is it?” Whizzer asks shakily.
“Are you- God, this sounds crazy... Are you from the future?” The question is blunt, and would, at any other time, seem so ludicrous that Whizzer almost laughs out loud.
“That's… that's impossible, right?” Whizzer asks. “Like… that couldn't happen. Like my drink got spiked and I'm just on some weird acid trip or something. Right?”
“Yeah, it should be. But you never answered my question.”
Whizzer hesitates. It's impossible. It makes no sense. And yet nothing else does either. “I was born in 1984. It was 2017 when I first entered that bar earlier tonight.”
“And yet somehow it is 1978.”
Whizzer squeezes his eyes shut, his heart racing in his chest. He breathes carefully, in and out, in and out, attempting to steady himself, to stop himself from shaking. The other man leans against the wall next to him.
“Hey, look, you’re gonna be okay,” the man says. “And if you are going insane, take comfort in the fact that I’m fairly certain I am as well.”
For the first time that night, Whizzer laughs. It's small, but it's genuine and grateful.
He opens his eyes and turns his head, locking eyes with the man next to him. “Well at least I'm in good company.”
The man smiles -- a real, intoxicating, heart-melting smile that Whizzer feels vividly in the pit of his stomach -- and holds out a hand. “Marvin,” he says.
Whizzer shakes it, both men lingering for a second longer than necessary. “Whizzer. Whizzer Brown.”