Heath then said one more thing.
And then—
Abbey turned.
And walked away.
Just like that.
No drama.
No explosion.
Just… done.
Heath stood there for a second.
Then slowly turned back toward Holt.
Holt winced.
"Oof."
That went about as expected, Jackson said.
Hey, Holt shrugged internally, at least he didn't get frozen solid.
Heath trudged back over, shoulders slumped, flames dimmer than usual.
Holt straightened, clapping once as he approached.
"Alright," Holt said, "report."
Heath dropped into a crouch, dragging a hand down his face. "She said I was 'loud, unfocused, and thermally irresponsible.'"
Holt blinked.
Then barked out a laugh.
"Okay, that's actually kinda accurate."
"DUDE."
"Too soon?"
"WAY too soon."
Holt held up his hands, still grinning. "Alright, alright. Look—it's not over."
Heath groaned. "It feels over."
"It's not," Holt insisted. "You didn't crash and burn—you just… lightly toasted."
"That's not better."
"It's a start," Holt corrected.
Heath looked up at him, skeptical. "You really think I've got a shot?"
Inside, Jackson hesitated.
Be honest, he said quietly.
Holt paused.
Just for a second.
Then shrugged.
"Yeah," he said.
Not because he fully believed it.
Not because the odds were good.
But because—
"—you're stubborn enough to keep trying," Holt added. "And sometimes? That's what counts."
Heath stared at him.
Then, slowly…
A grin crept back onto his face.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay. I can work with that."
Holt smirked.
You're encouraging him, Jackson said.
Someone's gotta.
Even if it's hopeless?
Holt glanced back toward where Abbey had disappeared.
Then back at Heath.
Still grinning.
Still burning.
Still trying.
"…Yeah," Holt said quietly. "Even then."
Holt's grin stretched across the reflection of the cracked courtyard mirror, sharp and wicked like the edge of a freshly polished fang. Heath's flames had calmed slightly, though the boy still fidgeted like a candle caught in a draft, trying to warm up to confidence that didn't feel like it was borrowed. Holt's sharp green eyes flicked toward him with lazy amusement.
"Alright, Hothead," Holt drawled, leaning back against the railing like he owned the entire courtyard. "You did… something out there. Not bad. Not amazing. Not a complete disaster either, which is a miracle in your case."
Heath glared at him, flames sputtering at the tips like the first sparks of a campfire that couldn't quite decide whether to burn. "Yeah? Thanks… I think?"
"Don't worry about it Heathster." He chuckled, leaning against the courtyard railing with deliberate ease. "We'll hit the Maul—just gotta grab Jackie first." Holt tapped his temple, faking realization.
"What's wrong Holtster?" Heath asked, flames flickering uncertainly as Holt abruptly stopped mid-step toward the school gates. The setting sun cast long shadows across the courtyard, painting Holt's sharp features in gold and violet hues—the perfect lighting for what came next.
Holt rolled his shoulders, flashing Heath a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Just remembered—I still gotta get something for the party on Halloween. Manster's gotta prepare, you know?" He snapped his fingers toward the school gates where the fading sunlight painted the pavement in streaks of violet and orange. "Tell you what—I'll grab Jackie. He'll take you to the Maul himself to cheer you up."
Heath's flames flickered uncertainly. "Wait, Jackie's gonna—?"
"Take you to the Maul?" Holt flashed a grin, already backing toward the school gates where twilight gonna take me?" His voice pitched higher on the nickname—the one Holt always used, never him. "But he's all... Jackson-y."
Holt snorted, rolling his wrist in an exaggerated flourish. "And you're all Heath-y. Perfect match." The lie slid off his tongue smoother than Frankie's bolts after polish—Holt had practice. Too much practice. He could already feel the sunset's last rays warming his back, the telltale prickle at his temples warning him Jackson's shift was imminent whether he liked it or not.
"Manster's honor, he'll be stoked to help," Holt lied, flashing a grin sharp enough to cut glass. "Just gotta find him before he buries himself in another existential crisis." He pivoted toward the school gates, throwing a careless wave over his shoulder. "He'll meet you at the Maul gates in twenty, Hothead. Don't combust too much before then."
Holt's grin didn't waver as he patted Heath's shoulder—the exact casual, three-fingered tap he always used—but his pulse kicked up a notch when the setting sun hit his neck. *Tick-tock, Jackie,* he thought, the familiar prickle of impending transformation creeping up his spine like static. He needed to bail before his reflection started doing that weird lag thing Ghoulia kept side-eyeing.
Yeah, he and Jackson have been avoiding her as much as possible.
Which is to say, barely noticeable sonce they were part of the exact same friend group.
The moment Holt rounded the corner out of Heath's line of sight, his confident stride faltered. The last golden rays of sunset licked at his skin like flames—too warm, too insistent. His reflection in the hallway windows flickered, momentarily doubling before snapping back into focus with a sharp inhale from Holt.
"Alright, Jackie," he muttered under his breath, pressing his right palm flat against the cool glass. "No time for your usual existential crisis. Heath's waiting at the Maul, and if we don't show, he'll combust worse than a what a Normie thinks happens to a vampire in daylight."
The reflection wavered—first Holt's sharp smirk, then Jackson's wide eyes flickering beneath like a coin mid-toss.
And so he turned his music off.
-----
Jackson nearly fell forward when the shift hit him mid-step—his left hand spasming against the wall as Holt's energy rapidly faded away like a dying radio signal. The hallway tilted, shadows stretching unnaturally as his reflection in the window wavered between their two faces before settling into his own wide-eyed stare. Somewhere behind his ribs, Holt's laughter echoed like static.
*Welp, let's go and cheer our favorite cousin up at the Maul.* Holt's voice echoed inside Jackson's skull like a taunt, fading into static as Jackson regained control of his limbs. His left hand—his hand—clutched the windowsill for balance while his right twitched, still buzzing with residual energy from Holt's presence. The hallway smelled like ozone and cheap cologne, Holt's parting gifts.
Jackson exhaled sharply through his nose. Right. Heath. Maul. Cheering up. Because apparently Holt had volunteered *him* for emotional support duty mid-transition.
Typical.
He adjusted his sleeves as he muttered, "and why did we have to switch back for this?
The neon sign above the Maul flickered like a faulty heartbeat, casting jagged violet shadows across Jackson's face as he trudged toward the entrance. His left hand—his handThe school's hallway lights flickered like a dying disco ball as Jackson stumbled forward, his left hand gripping the wall for balance. His reflection in the trophy case glass wavered—Jackson's wide eyes, then Holt's smirk flickering beneath like a bad signal—before finally settling into his own exhausted face. Somewhere in his skull, Holt's voice echoed, *Told you Heath would notice if you didn't show.*
Jackson exhaled sharply, pressing his right palm flat against the cool glass. The Maul. Right. Because Holt had, in typical Holt fashion, volunteered *him* for emotional support duty mid-transformation like it was nothing. Like Jackson wasn't currently fighting to keep his own limbs from shaking apart. The scent of ozone clung to his sleeves—Holt's parting gift—mixing with the too-sweet strawberry gum Heath always chewed.
Ghoulia's groan echoed from the next hallway, and Jackson flinched so hard his backpack strap slipped off his shoulder. He froze, waiting—but her shuffling footsteps faded toward the library instead. *Safe.* For now.
Jackson adjusted his collar where Holt had left it deliberately rumpled, then immediately smoothed it back down.
The neon sign above the Maul buzzed like an angry hornet, its flickering light painting Jackson's sneakers in jagged violet streaks as he lingered outside the entrance. Inside, he could already hear Heath's voice rising above the chatter—loud, unfocused, thermally irresponsible. Exactly how Abbey had described him.
Let's hope Heath didn't get to hotheaded...
Yeah that was a bad joke, he knew that immediately after he said that even without Holt telling him.
"Yo, Jackie!" Heath's voice cut through the crowd as he barreled toward him, flames flickering wildly with each step. "Took you long enough—thought you were gonna ghost me like a phantom in daylight."
Jackson blinked—once, twice—before forcing his left hand to lift in a stiff wave, "H-hey Heath, are you doing alright? I mean—not that you *wouldn't* be alright after—" His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed the rest of that sentence.
Smooth.
Real smooth.
Heath's flames sputtered like a faulty lighter. "Dude. You sound worse than a zombie trying to recite Shakespeare."
Jackson winced.
Behind them, the Maul's neon sign buzzed like a dying hornet, it's jagged purple glow flickering across Heath's singed sneakers as Jackson hesitated—left hand shoved deep in his pocket, right still twitching from Holt's lingering energy. Heath didn't seem to notice the tremor as he leaned in, flames casting erratic shadows under Jackson's chin.
"You coming in or what, Jackie?" Heath bumped shoulders with him—a move Holt always pulled off smoother—and nearly knocked Jackson into the glass doors. "Draculaura said they've got new bat-shaped pretzels in the food court. Ghoul, they're shaped like *actual tiny wings*."
Jackson swallowed hard. Pretzels. Right. Normal monster things. Not... whatever weird tension kept knotting between his ribs since Holt's last transformation. He forced his feet to move, the automatic doors hissing open like they were judging his posture.
Inside, the Maul smelled like ozone and cheap cologne—Holt's usual mixtape of scents—but underneath, something warmer. Hot plastic from the arcade machines, sugar-glazed churros from the snack kiosk, and the faintest whiff of singed hair whenever Heath got too excited. Jackson inhaled sharply, letting the familiarity anchor him as Heath dragged him past a group of werewolves clustered around a broken claw machine.