Chapter Text
With a coffee mug in one hand and a bite-gnarled pen between his teeth, Dipper’s eyes raked over the coffee table and his carefully arranged mess of notes laid out across its surface. Even the bits which had been crossed out with thin lines of red (so as to not render them illegible), as one never knew when a previously discarded idea might inspire an entirely new one. Sometimes, his eyes would catch on a detail, to then backtrack from relevant detail to relevant detail. Usually, however, after a brief pause to re-consider the idea, they would simply resume the review.
With a sigh, he reached the end. Again. No new ideas had been sparked, so no new notes were added to the mess.
It had been nearly a week since he’d last added anything new …
Dipper stared morosely down into his coffee for a long moment. Was he really coming up with nothing? Even with his own journals, with all his scholarly sources—his periodical publications (both credibly academic and less-than-credible from less-than-academics), his collection of tomes, grimoires, scrolls, bestiaries, codices, folios (and also all his other-words-for-books)—and with the whole internet at his disposal? Even with all his skills as a paranormal researcher and investigator? Was this really the best he could do?
He glared around his office at the heretofore unhelpful stacks and shelves and scattered volumes. As if they were purposefully holding out on him. As if he could somehow intimidate them into giving up the answer he sought. As if they were to blame for his lack of success up to this point, and … and not his own inadequacies …
Failing when Norman needed him most …
Gulping down the last tepid mouthful of his coffee, Dipper spun on his heel and stalked out his office door. It jingled with the motion like a shop’s main entrance. So did he. Attached to every door around their rented property (all of which were uncharacteristically closed) were bundles of jingle bells, and another bundle was clipped to a beltloop at his hip. It bounced and swung noisily against his thigh with every step, alerting anyone nearby to his exact location. All the same, he called out, “In the hallway! Headed to the kitchen for some coffee!”
From behind a closed door, Norman called back, “Again?! How many’ve you had today?!”
Dipper stopped in the hallway and muffled the bells at his hip. “What?!”
“I SAID, HOW MANY HAVE YOU HAD ALREADY?!”
“Not enough, clearly, or we wouldn’t still have to shout over these stupid things,” Dipper muttered to himself. But he called back, “It’s fine! Don’t worry about it!”
“You’ve probably had more than enough! You should just drink water!”
“You’re not my dad!” Dipper quipped, hoping it’d be enough to bait a normal kind of retort.
“… That’s not what you said last night!”
It made Dipper smile to hear his partner in doing crime and being gay respond with a degree of playfulness—to hear him sound a bit like his old self again. It’d been too long. So, clearing his throat, he shot back, “I did not! That is NOT my kink, and you know it! I said you’re my, er … CAD! Because my kink is scoundrels and ne’er-do-wells!”
He couldn’t be certain, given the closed door between them, but he was pretty sure he heard Norman chuckle. The mere notion of which was more revitalizing than even the best coffee in the world. Still, he figured he’d need the actual caffeine to continue his research into the subject of magical healing—not guided by anything specific, like he’d hoped his organized mess of notes might finally provide again, but general research for possible clues to a cure for Norman’s ailment—so he proceeded through another jingling door into the kitchen. Then he poured himself yet another cup of coffee, jingled his way back through the hallway with a shout of “Back in my office!” and resumed his reading.
Hours of skimming through books later (interspersed only with occasional bouts of focus on a scant few paragraphs of promising material), Dipper vaguely registered the sound of jingling. Norman entering the hallway—going to the bathroom, maybe? when had Dipper last gone himself, for that matter?—padding barefoot along it. His voice, clearer than normal as he spoke just through the door, “Starting dinner. I’ll be in the kitchen.”
Surprised, Dipper checked his clock. It really was that late already. “Er, right. Uh … Going to the bathroom.”
“L-let me get to the kitchen firs—”
“Yeah, of course after you get clear.”
“Thanks.” Then more jingling—faster now—as Norman hustled on his way. Followed by the jingling sound of the kitchen door opening and then firmly shutting.
Dipper rose with a groan (and a jingle, always a jingle these past months). Stiff muscles and an aching bladder he hadn’t even realized he was holding took their revenge on him for sitting hunched over books all day. And for what? He grimaced down at the notes he’d been keeping of that day’s research; it only amounted to a few lines, probably none of them actionable.
No progress … Still no progress …
Jingle-passing through the hallway to the bathroom, at least he was able to do something about his bladder. And, afterwards, about his stiff muscles, thanks to a few noisy stretches. Further up the hallway, he heard Norman’s dinner preparations were just as noisy. Which was nice, in a homey sort of way; he knew exactly where the love of his life was located—was more assured of his presence in their (temporary) residence. Briefly, it made him wonder if he might actually miss the constant bells once he found a cure …
If he ever found a cure for Norman …
That thought somewhat spoiled the homey niceness of the moment, and he sighed in frustration. He massaged his temples. Then the bridge of his nose and his forehead and the hinges of his jaw along with them. Pressing hard, almost painfully, into his own face. Just to feel like … like he could actually do something, anything.
Though, of course, making himself uncomfortable didn’t help fix their situation, so he gave it up before long with yet another sigh of frustration. He decided instead that he needed some air, so he called, “Stepping outside for a bit!” before jingle-stalking out the jingling front door.
The Sawtooth Mountains (part of the Rockies) dominated all of his view to the west, running further than he could see to both the south and the north. They rose, sharp enough to merit their name, above the small, agricultural, and (most importantly) spiritually boring town where the two young men were currently in residence. Or maybe in exile would be more accurate, he thought in some of his more bitter moments. To the east of the town (which was named … something like Chalice? or Shallots, maybe?) (he hadn’t paid much attention to that detail, truth be told, since it couldn’t possibly have had a population larger than 1000 people), there were many, many fields of crops on both sides of a river. The Salmon River, he was pretty sure of that (maybe 86% certain?). Followed by even more mountains also running further than he could see to both the south and the north. They were jagged enough to match the Sawtooth Mountains, and he figured might even be part of their range.
All around him was a mountain valley, picturesque in the extreme. Clear skies and a vibrant sunset; cool, clean air, zesty with pine forest and farmlands. Beautiful and wholesome by any objective standard … yet also somehow so oppressive, it made him feel like he needed a smoke. He’d never used tobacco in his life—he’d never even felt an inclination to try it, not once—yet now he felt like he needed something to take the edge off. An equivalent, at least, like a spiritual cigarette. Something he could, like, drink or chew or squeeze or … or rip into pieces while glaring at those godsdamned gorgeous mountains and that godsdamned lovely sky.
“… Maybe Idaho just has this effect on people,” he muttered to himself.
Behind him, he heard the front door open a crack (so narrowly that it more jinged than jingled). He turned to look on reflex. But, of course, Norman was too cautious to poke his head through the crack, or even peak out of it. He merely called, “Hey, you there?”
“Yep. Dinner ready?” Dipper asked of his hidden partner.
“Yep, and plated, too. Just g-give me a sec to get in there first.”
“Course. Thanks for cooking.”
“Sure thing,” Norman called back. “Th-though it’s hardly cooking, since I just heated up some leftovers.” Then he shut the door before jingling back up the hallway.
Dipper heaved another sigh. “… Or maybe it’s not Idaho. Maybe it’s that this is what my life is now. I can always hear Norman, but never see him …”
*****
The kitchen was also the dining area, as in most of the farmstead-style houses that were the default throughout states like Idaho. Originally built to accommodate a large family, this one was so spacious that it easily contained counters and cupboards, a sink, an oven, and a fridge in one half of the room, with plenty remaining for a sizeable table and six chairs in the other half (far more than its current occupants could ever need). Since it was now a rental property, however, everything about its furnishings and perfunctory decor was nice enough, but bland. Impersonal and forgettable as a hotel room that happened to have a scrubbed wood aesthetic (probably called “rustic minimalism” by the sort of people who would pay $1000 for the squarest, flattest, most uncomfortable sofa imaginable while thinking it a stylish bargain). The same applied to the matching cookware, utensils, and appliances (all of which had come included when renting the property); they were also nice enough, but also bland, impersonal, and forgettable.
Yet despite how long the two young men had been residing in Whatever-Who-Cares-town (if the national economy hadn’t been in shambles, and the town’s population so small and shrinking, they probably never would’ve been able to afford renting a whole house), the only real signs of their habitation in the kitchen were some dishes by the sink, some recyclables near the trashcan (with garbage inside it), and a curtain they’d strung across part of the dining area. It hung from a line they’d nailed into the ceiling, obscuring the far end of the table and the small slice of the room beyond it. A hidden area, so they both could occupy the room at the same time—so they both could eat together—without seeing each other.
When he jingle-walked through the ever-jingling door, Dipper saw Norman’s silhouette through that curtain. Which meant the love of his life (and the love of his periodic live-stream audience, too, as they always cheered something like “NORMAN! <3<3<3” whenever he appeared on screen) was currently framed by windows letting in a glorious blaze of sunset. A pang went to his heart to think of this beautiful sight which he’d never get to see, despite it being right there just on the other side of a cheap curtain they’d bought from some thrift store.
“… Dipdop? Everything okay?”
Dipper blinked, then realized he’d stopped in the doorway. Stopped and just stared. “Uh, yeah. Just, uh, deciding what to drink with dinner,” he covered lamely.
Norman bought it, though, and even murmured, “Oh, dang it, forgot the drinks. Sorry.”
“Heh. Don’t worry about it. Whatcha want?”
“Hmm, just a glass of water, I guess. Had too much Coke throughout the day,” Norman admitted, a little sheepishly. Then his tone turned solicitous as he asked, “You’re n-not gonna make anymore coffee, are you? Only, you’ve already had kind of a lot today, and—”
Already opening the fridge, Dipper assured him, “No, I’m done for the day. No more research (not that it’s going anywhere, anyway) so no more coffee. Instead …”
His eyes raked over the beverage options: a pitcher of chilled water with lemon slices floating in it, some cans of Pitt Cola and Diet Coke (which both preferred to regular Coca-Cola because, growing up, both their families had made a habit of buying the diet option), a carton of orange juice, a gallon of milk, a half-empty bottle of whiskey (left behind by prior tenants). His eyes snagged for just a moment on that last one. Though neither of them had ever been much inclined to alcohol, only occasionally having the odd cocktail, shot, or glass of wine at a social gathering, the idea of getting drunk did appeal to him just then. Maybe a few swigs of literal spirits could stand in for that spiritual cigarette …
But instead, Dipper grabbed both a can of Pitt and the pitcher of water, then he firmly shut the fridge. Pouring a glass, he passed it under the curtain (“Thanks.” and “You’re welcome.”) before cracking open his cold can of peachy soda. Only then did he sit down in front of his own plate of food and begin to eat.
“So … Still no luck?” Norman ventured after a few bites.
Dipper grunted in the negative around a mouthful of reheated rice and stir-fry. After a swallow, he elaborated, “Just more of the same, really, within the broader topic of magical healings I’ve been looking into for the past … What is it now, two weeks? A little less, maybe? Anyway, the methods this current book is discussing are usually very spiritual. Faithful, one might even say. Healing happens via the mediation of a holy figure—usually a saint, since they’re approaching this from a very Catholic-Orthodox paradigm, but with a few other religious traditions for comparison—or at a holy site connected to the history and, um, ministry of a saint.”
“F-faithful because it’s ultimately, like, a demonstration of religious belief?” Norman surmised.
“Yeah, exactly.”
“Show enough faith, earn a miracle?”
“The author hasn’t phrased it in such … transactional terms, but pretty much.” Around another mouthful, Dipper declared, “Not sure that aspect’ll help us all that much, what with us not being fervent believers in any religion. Or gods, for that matter. Not ‘cause we don’t believe in their existence, but ‘cause we know they’re not all that reliable.”
“Heh! G-gods are kinda flaky, aren’t they? Can’t ever count on them to show up for an event, even when the believers do all the planning and organizing and such.” The Medium’s silhouette (still holding a spoon) shrugged. “But I guess that’s not entirely fair. They got, like, cosmic crap to worry about.”
“Cosmic, yeah. Or at least, er, otherworldly or extraplanar or whatever,” Dipper stipulated.
“Plus, they got their own lives, too. Not sure I’d wanna sh-show up, either, for some random, like,event thing. Not even if a bunch of fans put it together on my behalf. Maybe even without consulting me first.”
“True. But not like literal deities need our charity. And lots of them are assholes, so they don’t deserve it, anyway.”
Norman chuckled. His grin was practically audible as he quipped, “Holy a-holes. A-holies.”
That made Dipper guffaw. “Ha! And big, organized religions? Forget it. Same problem, just with a bunch of a-holier-than-thous mucking around in the way, confusing ignorant arrogance and superstition and prejudice with the actual science of magic. And the art of magic, too, yeah, I’ll admit, since it can be more of an art than a science. Point is, I can’t see either of us falling for a conversion scam anytime soon, which means any genuine saints running around out there right now aren’t likely to wanna help us.” Then, after a moment’s pause to eat another mouthful, he added (more somberly), “If they even can, which I doubt more and more with this research …”
“Huh? Why’s that? I mean, if there are g-genuine ones out there, then they have genuine power to do healings or miracles or whatever. R-right?” Norman’s tone had a fragility to it, as if he was one step away from begging for reassurance. “Same as any magician?”
“Sure, yeah, there are cases where a healing happens and it’s not just some psychological effect like a placebo. Cases that aren’t hoaxes or mythologizing (or straight-up propagandizing) events all out of proportion after the fact. But your condition …” Wearily, this researcher and investigator of the paranormal slumped forward, leaning against the table with his head in one hand. He stared down at his half-eaten dinner, absently pushing it around the plate with his spoon. “Your condition is just so … so godsdamned unusual. I’m less and less sure it can be healed, per se, since I’m less and less sure it’s accurate to think of it like a sickness.”
“… D-doesn’t exactly have me feeling healthy,” Norman pointed out, moroseness creeping into his tone despite the forced brightness.
“No, but … Okay, most of the time, magic healings don’t function like how we think of modern medicine,” Dipper tried to explain. “They’re not about, um, enough vitamins and minerals, boosting the immune system, balancing neurochemicals, physical therapy, or whatever. They’re almost exorcisms. Or not far off from—Actually, no, they are way closer to exorcisms, ‘cause even if they’re not casting out Demons specifically or malignant Spirits generally, they’re still trying to cast out unclean energies or spiritual pollution or what have you. Something that makes a person’s soul impure, and therefore brings sickness down upon them.”
“… Okay. But doesn’t that still kinda sound like my condition, though?” the Medium asked slowly. “I mean, I interacted with Mothman. Even touched it—h-held hands and everything—while it and I joined our powers together. Joined our spiritual energies, which sorta seems like the kinda thing that’d make mine, um, impure. Technically, at least (though that seems really unfair to Mothman). And ever since then …”
With a weary sigh, he spread his arms in an all-encompassing gesture at the nice enough but bland, rented house and the entire state of Idaho (in all its spudtacular glory) which now represented their current living condition. Someone writing about them might’ve described this as heavily symbolic of their exile from the wonderful weirdness that defined their life in Gravity Falls, Oregon.
“Well, y’know, ever since then, I get the sh-shadows and the headaches all the time pretty much if I look at someone living. I get the h-horrors and the migraines when there’s any kind of, uh, rise in spiritual energies. The tiredness afterwards, too—frack, man, the tiredness … D-doesn’t that all sound like a sickness got brought down upon me?”
“It definitely sucks, don’t get me wrong. And I absolutely hate that you have to go through anything like it. If I could switch places with you, I would without hesitation,” Dipper asserted.
“D’aww, you’re just sweet-talking me.”
“Pretty girl like you deserves to hear nothing but sweet-talk,” Dipper quipped, playing off one of their longest running jokes.
“Though I j-just know you’re about to say but.”
“Wrong. It’s actually, er … however.”
“Dang. Th-this is why I don’t gamble.”
“Heh,” Dipper chuckled at their deadpan exchange. Right before saying, “However. And this is what I’ve been considering. The fact your condition sucks doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the result of a sickness. Or, phrased another way, you have symptoms, yeah, but the same symptoms can have a bunch of different causes. Some of which aren’t even sicknesses.”
Though his partner couldn’t see it through the curtain, Norman blinked at him. “I … What?”
“Take, uh, headaches as an example. Colds cause headaches, but so do flus. And malaria, too (I assume, at least, not actually sure). And so do dehydration, prolonged eye strain, stress, lack of oxygen, being struck in the head. 79 Hells, even eating ice cream too fast can cause headaches—fricative ice cream!”
Norman’s silhouette was stock still for a long moment as he processed this. Eventually, slowly, he murmured, “That’s true. And since different causes … need different treatments …”
“Exactly. Follow that thought.”
“If I’m not … Like, if I’m actually more like sp-spiritually injured, for example, instead of spiritually sick … then a purification w-won’t help me,” the Medium concluded.
“Bingo. Which, like you said, would only be fair, given that the whole reason you underwent that whole ordeal was to prevent a major disaster. But which also would mean I’ve frickin’ wasted all our frackin’ time here by following the wrong frick-frack-frockin’ lead. Which is … Fuck!” Suddenly pushing to his feet in agitation, Dipper began to jingle-pace about the kitchen.
“You … You couldn’t’ve known,” Norman replied, though he still sounded shaken by the notion and its implications. “C-c’mon, Dippin’ Dots, you can’t blame yourself for—”
“I absolutely can. Real Dipshit move on my part, not even considering this alternative. But you’re the one who has to suffer longer because of my denseness. Though it ain’t exactly a picnic for me, either, having to live like this. Basically apart from you …” And, in a moment of despondency, Dipper found himself glancing towards the fridge.
Behind the curtain, Norman half-stood and half-reached out. But then he remembered the risk—the ever-present threat of seeing all the pain, all the suffering, and finally the eventual death all in an instant of the man he loved—and froze. The fear that had hung over him since Mount Shasta, crashing down upon him once again.
“… Man, it seems so obvious talking it out with you now. Something like an injury was always way more likely than a sickness. Or ‘injury’ and ‘sickness’—both getting heavy air quotes,” Dipper added, just to make sure his partner could still see his point even if he couldn’t literally see the gesture through the curtain. “Since those ideas could be fricative metaphors when talking about souls, and being too literal could trip us up all over again in another Dipshit way.”
Slowly, miserably, Norman sank back down to his seat. He just couldn’t bear to take the chance. Still, knowing one of the best ways to brighten his partner’s mood through a gloom like this was to re-engage his intellect, he cleared his throat and forced his voice towards evenness. “So, uh, w-what do we do to heal this, then? If it’s more like an injury, w-what do we do differently?”
“… Good question.” Back in his investigator and researcher mode, Dipper resumed pacing. Thankfully, his motions were less agitated now. “For the time being … Reckon the overall strategy hasn’t changed: I’ll keep combing through all the books and articles I can find for new leads about how to magically fix you up (where, when, with whom, and so on, too); meanwhile, you’ll keep taking care of the business side of things so we stay afloat. Oh, how were things with that today, by the way? Any interesting developments?”
Behind the curtain, Norman waved dismissively. “F-fine, nothing to report for now.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah, just emails and editing and stuff—the usual. We can talk about it later. Let’s stay on topic for now.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” Pausing to take a swig of his peach-flavored drink, Dipper considered their situation. Eventually, he stated, “Reckon I’ll finish the current book tomorrow. Or at least skim it, just in case it mentions anything actually useful for us. Not that I expect it will, but all the same. Then I’ll try to draw up a new list of sources to search through based on the injury angle. Or the ‘injury’ angle,” he stipulated as an afterthought. “After that, though, if they don’t reveal anything promising …”
Norman interjected, “Let’s maybe, um, wait until after you’ve read them before, like, pl-planning what we’ll do if they’re not helpful. No sense being, uh …”
“Pessimistic?” Dipper suggested wryly.
“I think s-something like … ‘un-hopeful’ is more the idea I had in mind.”
“… Yeah. Yeah, you’re right, love. We gotta stay hopeful. We gotta …”
After a heavy moment of silence, Norman took a gulp of his drink, then made an effort to sound cheerful once again. “Wanna watch more ‘UK You Cook’ after we finish dinner? We could both use some time to, um, decompress, and Foel Nielding’s antics always make you laugh.”
With a sigh, Dipper sat back at the table to finish his stir-fry. “Yeah, sure, sounds good.”
*****
That evening had Norman and Dipper sprawling together over the couch, watching their shows. So did the next evening. And the one after that, too. In fact, ever since relocating to the safety of Idaho’s spiritual inactivity (because it’s mostly potatoes, and potatoes just don’t get up to much in this or any other life), most of their evenings had been passed on the couch and watching something. Shows or movies, documentaries or competitions (comedy or cooking especially). There really wasn’t much else they could do together, not with Norman’s present condition making him so reluctant to go anywhere he might see another person. Even if the only other person he might see was Dipper. This “activity”, though, still required another strung-up curtain to bisect the couch between them. They could talk, yes, sharing commentary and repartee; they could even hold hands if Norman reached under the curtain.
They just couldn’t see each other. Like always since Mount Shasta.
Day after day of constant precaution, night after night of visual separation. Moving around their rented house to the discordant tune of jingling bells and shouted warnings, always keeping the protective buffer of a wall or a door or a curtain between themselves. Week after week living through present absence, never fully feeling like the other was nearby despite how close they might literally be. Week after week of living through absent presence, always partially feeling alone in the house because they could hear each other but not look at each other.
So after yet another day without any meaningful developments, they were sprawled on the couch yet again. On screen, all of the British contestants were failing to understand what salsa was in the context of Mexican food (and failing to understand what Mexican food was, more generally). Foel Nielding, as was his custom, was being charmingly eccentric by once again cheerily telling someone the manner of their death (being killed in a tragic cricket accident, in this case). All things considered, it ought to have been a delightful episode.
But Dipper was barely aware of it. He was holding Norman’s hand and contemplating it. Examining it, more accurately, with the kind of single-minded intensity usually reserved for archaeological artifacts, intricate mechanisms, or magical objects. Examining every little detail. The dark hairs on the back of his wrist (darker for being set against pale skin), which were fewer and finer than Dipper’s (hairy man-beast that he was). Blue veins running like Lichtenbergs beneath that pale skin, and the bulges of long, thin bones running beneath those. One white scar that he’d never noticed before, almost invisible, towards the side that rounded over to the palm. And if he held up the hand close to his eyes, he could see a crosshatch of lines in the skin, so many as to be uncountable—the tiny furrows that allowed the skin of a hand to stretch without tearing, even as the muscles constantly flexed this way and that, yet remained tight enough that the skin didn’t sag when the muscles relaxed. A marvelous adaptation for dexterity.
Much like the parallel lines on the knuckles, and Dipper now reached over with his other hand to maneuver Norman’s fingers for fuller contemplation. They were wrinkles, technically, though the word somehow seemed misplaced to him when applied to knuckles. If everyone had them, did they really count as wrinkles? Either way, though, he now examined the one’s before him. Extending and retracting Norman’s fingers slowly, watching the bend and straighten in all three knuckles of all four digits.
“Kinda strange …” he mused to himself, almost inaudible over the sound of Foel Nielding making a double-entendre about tres leches cakes. “Thumbs only have two knuckles … How’d I never notice that before?”
Norman hummed an inquiry at him. “Hmm?”
But Dipper either didn’t hear him over the sound of Larue Peith’s teasing scold (the word “saucy” was involved, naturally), or he was too fascinated to notice. As if he’d never seen a hand in dynamic motion before, the skin now taut and now loose in some places even as it was now loose and now taut in other, reciprocal places. There were so many flat crescent shapes forming and unforming, too. And a constant shift in colors was transpiring. For though Norman was pale, his flesh became paler when flexed and pinker when relaxed.
Speaking of pink and crescents, Dipper now noticed that there were such delicate hues of it in the crescent gradient of Norman’s nails. Not from polish, this was the natural, unadorned coloration beneath his nails. So mundane that it normally went unremarked. Yet, looking at it now, he was struck by how beautiful—yes, nothing short of beautiful—these hues of pink were.
After contemplating that for a long while (he couldn’t say exactly how long), Dipper turned Norman’s hand over in his own. Now it was time to examine the palm. The rounded mounds of its bottom portion, the trough at its center, the ridge where it rose back up to the underside of the fingers. And the lines—folds, wrinkles, whatever they should be called—that arced across the palm as a whole. Some intersecting, some like asymptotes that approached but never touched. There was a superstition which held that a person’s destiny could be read in such lines through a kind of fortunetelling called palmistry. It was hokum, of course, being to real magic what pseudoscience was to real science (both in terms of it being fake and in terms of it only being touted by crooks seeking to scam rubes), yet Dipper found himself imitating it now. Gazing intently at those lines, even running a fingertip along them.
“Hnrk!” With a ticklish snort, Norman’s hand twitched almost out of his partner’s grip. Then, clearly amused, he asked, “Having fun, Dipdop? What’re you even doing?”
“I miss you,” Dipper said before he even realized he was saying it.
“You—Huh?”
“I mean, um … I’m just looking at your hand. I guess because … Well, ‘cause I miss you.”
“But I’m right here?” Norman replied through the curtain. “We’re l-living together?”
“I know, I know. But …” Lacing his shorter, thicker fingers through his partner’s longer, thinner ones again, Dipper admitted, “It doesn’t really feel like it, not most days. Like, I miss seeing you. Actually seeing you, man. Being in a room without, like, something between us—this curtain or a screen or an eye mask or complete darkness because we blacked out the windows and turned off all the lights or whatever. Y’know? Where I can see your expression when you talk, watch your emotions on your face … Frack, man, I really miss seeing your face and especially your eyes. We’re in the same house, yeah, but it hardly feels like we’re together here. Y’know?”
Up until now, Norman had allowed his hand to be maneuvered around, relaxed and unresisting. Yet as he listened to this statement, it seemed to go somehow fully limp in Dipper’s grip. As if all the energy in him went out. Quietly, he answered, “Yeah … Yeah, I know what you mean …”
“Almost like … I dunno. Like we’re in a long-distance relationship?”
“Yeah …”
“Not because we’re acting distant with each other,” Dipper stipulated quickly. “Doesn’t feel like either one of us is being, uh, unavailable to the other, or emotionally withdrawn, or anything like that. I’m not saying you’ve done something wrong. You get that, right?”
“N-no, yeah, I understand what you mean.”
“I’m only saying I miss seeing you, that’s all. And this whole situation right now—”
“Fucking sucks,” Norman finished the thought quietly.
“Exactly,” Dipper concurred with his partner in all things (including rare and emphatic acts of outright swearing), “It fucking sucks, that’s all.”
A silence fell between the young men for a long moment, hanging heavier than the mere curtain literally between them. Onscreen, a contestant said something endearingly pathetic while Pauljeet Bollywood appeared to be brusquely critical (while actually offering very helpful advice and encouragement). But neither of the young men really registered it.
Dipper’s eyes came to rest once again on the hand held between his own. Limp now. He tried brushing a fingertip across its palm for a second time, but Norman’s only response was to gently pull it away. Back behind the curtain completely.
“Um … Sooooo … Been meaning to ask for a while,” Dipper began in a would-be casual tone of voice. “Do you think Foel Nielding might be a Medium, too? I mean, um, the way he constantly seems to be looking at something no one else on set can see …”
“Er, never thought about it. Could be.” Norman’s tone was flat and noncommittal, even distracted. He then mumbled, “I’m … real tired. Think I’ll just, uh, go t’bed now.”
“O-oh. Uh, okay. Want me to pause the episode? We can finish it tomorrow.”
“No, thanks, s’okay. Y’can finish without me,” he said as he heaved himself upright from the nice enough but impersonal couch. Then, with his eyes closed, he jingle-faltered around the curtain and out into the hallway.
Crestfallen despite the brief glimpse this gave him of the love of his life (and mind and body), Dipper listened as the other retreated down the hallway to their bedroom. Alone and—Dipper just knew it, despite his attempts at reassurance—deeply saddened.
“… Why didn’t you just keep your gods-damned mouth shut, Dipshit?”
*****
In the end, Dipper did sit through the rest of the “UK You Cook” episode. Not out of any desire to watch it, but to give his partner in all things (including bouts of despondency like this one; a downside of open communication is that bad moods tend to spread whenever there doesn’t appear to be anything immediate that anyone can do about the root cause or causes, such as personal, supernatural fallout or international, sociopolitical events) time to fully prepare for bed. Only then did he jingle-rise from the bland and forgettable couch, jingle-turn off the TV and the lights, and jingle-dragged towards the bathroom to prepare in his turn for bed.
After showering, flossing and brushing his teeth, and changing into his standard sleepwear (boxers and a loose tank top, which he’d taken to setting aside in the bathroom each morning ever since their current living arrangement had developed), Dipper turned off the hallway lights. The last on in the house. Everything was now cast in the deep shadow of nighttime as he jingle-shuffled (for he now carried the bells from his beltloop in his hand) towards the bedroom door. This way, there would be no backlighting behind him when he opened it. No chance of Norman seeing him if he happened to be facing the wrong way. Still, he did give a warning knock and pause for a beat, just to be extra safe. There was no answer he could hear, unsurprisingly, so he proceeded to jingle-open the door and jingle-slip inside.
Inside, it was even darker. A near absolute darkness at this time of night, as the blackout screens they’d adhered to the windows were thick enough to block out all but the brightest sunshine. Darkness nearly like in a deep cave (if the cave had both good ventilation and insulation, decently soft carpet underfoot, and also a ceiling fan to help keep the air from getting too stuffy), where a person had to feel their way forward slowly so as not to collide with anything.
When Dipper made careful contact with the bed (no stubbing a toe or banging his knee tonight, so at least that was a win), he jingle-followed the shape of it up to a nightstand. There he jingle-set the bells down, and that constant noise finally stopped for a few merciful hours. His phone (deactivated so its screen couldn’t illuminate him all of a sudden if someone called) went beside the bundle. At last, he lifted the cover, climbed beneath it, and slid over until he found Norman.
Beneath his hands, Dipper felt the fabric of his partner’s sleepwear. Actual pajamas, since he tended to run cold, in the form of a long-sleeved shirt and a presumably matching pair of pants (Dipper vaguely recalled seeing purple fabric with yellow stars and crescent moons across it, like for some sorta wizard robe, being set out earlier that day). Wrapping his arms around his partner, Dipper’s heart sank as he discovered his partner’s position.
Lying on his side, facing away from the door, limbs more pulled toward himself than not. Almost a fetal position.
Norman said nothing as his partner sidled up close behind him, pressing a shorter, stockier body against his leaner, lankier one. A littler big spoon, ironically but not uncommonly for them. Still, Norman didn’t pull away, either. He didn’t give much reaction of any kind. Not even when he felt stubbly cheeks and warm lips nuzzle at the base of his neck. A light kiss while strong arms held him close … It only elicited a heavy sigh from him.
Relenting, Dipper instead rested his forehead against Norman’s neck. “… Sorry.”
“no, s’not … m’not annoyed ‘r mad at you ‘r anything,” Norman mumbled back. “just …”
“Yeah?”
He sighed again. “dunno … sad? disappointed, maybe? in m’self? like, ‘course m’just too tired t’feel … anything, really, even when you’re sweet like this. or, not t-tired, but … er …”
“Weary?” Dipper suggested. “Like you’re beyond tired, like it’s deep down in your soul?”
“yeah, ‘xactly that … weary …”
Hugging his partner a little tighter, Dipper insisted, “Not your fault. Fact, mostly meant I’m sorry for making you so sad tonight. Spoiling your mood like that, making all your energy drain away. Wasn’t my intent. And wasn’t fair of me, either, not when you’ve got it sooo much worse.”
“… miss you, too,” Norman mumbled forlornly. His hands drew toward his chest, laying on top of Dipper’s forearms. Feeling their sturdy (and hairy) solidity beneath his palms and fingers. “miss you so, sooo much. seeing y’face, seeing y’eyes, watching y’work ‘n’ … just be y’self. m’sorry for … for keeping us apart like this. with these stupid f-fucking visions—”
“Not your fault,” Dipper insisted again. “Love, none of this is your fault.”
No words followed that statement, merely a brief squeeze against those forearms.
Another light kiss against the base of the neck. Dipper murmured the words, “I love you,” after it, as if to utter a verbal kiss into the same patch of skin.
“love you, too,” Norman answered. Drained beyond feeling, yes, but sincere.
Nothing else was said after that. And, gradually, both young men sank into uneasy sleep together in the darkness of their blacked out bedroom.