Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Rowan's POV:

*******************************************

A god was standing in the kitchen, and he was struggling to flip a light switch.

It wasn’t that there was anything particularly challenging about it. He’d done it exactly 22 times already. It was just…

“Fuck,” Rowan Omondi breathed out.

Was there anything more pitiful than this? He was one of the biggest stars in the UK, for Christ’s sake. (Could’ve been the biggest in the world, before Jimmy had a mental breakdown and climbed out a window– but that was a different story.) He’d been on Vogue three times, each to critical acclaim. They’d won ‘Best British Group’ at the BRIT Awards, and they hadn’t even had to bribe anyone for it! The Ark had national acclaim, national fame, national influence… they could do anything they wanted.

And here he was, pacing the cold linoleum floor at 2am in silk pajamas and a bonnet, trying not to fucking cry.

Lister said it made him sound like a supervillain, when he went off on those tangents. (“Like you’re about to shank someone and bribe Cecily to cover it up.”) In response, Rowan always rolled his eyes and held back a snappy remark about the importance of maintaining their image, and how maybe if Lister was a little more careful, Jimmy wouldn’t have been outed at age 16.

Because that was a low blow. Even if thinking about it to this day made him want to punch someone in the balls.

22 was just such a nice, even number. But he couldn’t leave the light on– it’d waste energy.

Not that we can’t afford it–

It’s not about that, he argued back. It’s about proving to yourself that you still have some control. Some power.

Do you, though?

YES.

He flipped the switch.

Off.

23.

He felt smug for approximately 0.3 seconds.

They’re gonna die they’re all gonna die the house is on fire and Lister is burning and Jimmy is burning and–

On.

24.

Off 25-

on 26 off 27 on 28 off on off on off on–

“Dude. What the fuck.”

Lister.

He already knew what he was going to see before he turned around– a lanky man blinking at him with bleary blue-gray eyes, shirtless and messy-haired. (Shirtless because, as he’d said once with a wink, “I run hot.”) Rowan stared back, trying to think of a reasonable explanation.

I was sleepwalking? Out for a snack? Recording the clicks for a song, like some wannabe Charlie Puth? He opened his mouth, but all that came out was:

“If you’re looking for beer, Jimmy poured it all out a week ago.”

Why the fuck did I say that. 

Lister’s expression was unreadable. After a moment, he tilted his head and grinned. “Okay, so who shit in your Weetabix, and why are you acting like it’s me?” 

If he was affected by the (admittedly uncalled for) comment, he didn’t let it show. Then again, Lister was good at that… keeping the bad things locked up inside of him, then drinking ‘til dawn when they all came spilling out.

Rowan ignored the question. “You weren’t, though. Looking for beer. Right?”

They held eye contact for a long, long moment. Then, the paler boy sighed, limped into the room, and slumped against the marbled kitchen island, looking up through his lashes at Rowan like a pleading puppy. Seriously, did he always move like he was in the middle of a photo-shoot? So fucking graceful, even while wearing a hideous orange cast? Rowan wondered if he even knew he was doing it. 

“Ro-ro,” Lister whined. “Ro-biwan Kenobi. Komondi. Whatever. You know I’m a shit liar. So…” He flounced over to the couch and plopped down. “Don’t ask me questions you already know the answer to, m’kay?”

“Not okay.” He crossed his arms, full Mom Mode (™) activated. 

He was the same age as the other boys (well, give or take a few months) but sometimes he felt centuries older. Nobody else seemed to worry about the same things he did. Nobody else seemed to realize that fame was a fickle thing. It had to be cultivated. Fans said they loved it when celebrities were real, “Stars: They’re just like us!” and whatnot… but in reality, they’d flee at the first sign of flaws.

Lister shrugged and reached for the remote. “Maybe I was looking for wine. Ever think of that, Rosephine? Alcoholics can be classy too.” 

He said it in a joking tone, but his voice skipped a little on the word alcoholic… like a record caught on a snag. Rowan wondered if he’d ever actually used that word to describe himself before.

The TV whirred on, sending blue lights flickering across Lister; he was sprawled out on the couch like a 19 y/o starfish in boxers. Rowan’s fingers itched for a pen.

Slouchy. At ease. Glides like a queen. Drums to the beat of his own melody.

Not his best work, but hey, he was sleep-deprived. And the first time he’d written about Lister– as a chubby cheeked 15 year old– hadn’t been much better.

Autopilot.

*******************************************

It was back when the band was first starting to take off (around 2014), when Lister was caught by the paparazzi smoking weed in a tour van. The Ark's first big scandal. Rowan and Jimmy weren't surprised at the smoking, necessarily... they'd known even then that Lister liked to take the edge off. But the blatant invasion of privacy? The cameras in their bedroom windows, the stories sold to the highest bidder? They weren't quite used to that yet.

The media chewed him out endlessly– saying shit about how he should’ve been a better example for the kids, as if Lister wasn’t a kid himself. It was all anyone would talk about for weeks.

Teen Heartthrob Breaks Hearts!! Lister Bird Smoking Scandal!!

EXCLUSIVE: The Ark’s Allister Bird Caught Redhanded?? This Squeaky Clean Boy Band Has Dark Secrets!!

The Other Side Of Fame— What Else Could The Ark Be Hiding???

Lister took it all with a smile… the slander, the backlash, the loss of fan support. But one night, after releasing the lawyer approved, pre written apology on all socials, he’d gone on Instagram Live and said:

“I mean, I don’t get what the big deal is. I’m not the lead singer or anything– shout out Jimjam– if I get lung cancer it’s like… water off a duck’s back, right? Which is such a weird saying. Are ducks made of couch covers or something? I flunked Natural Sciences– preoccupied with a different natural substance– I mean science– if you get my drift– but that doesn’t seem right. Anyways…”

He ran a hand through his honey brown hair, mussing it up in a way that seemed too natural to be calculated, not that you could ever know with him. He was dressed casually– through the dim lamp lighting of his room, you could just make out an Atomic Kitten shirt and gray sweatpants that clung to his slender frame. It worked for him, though, because he was Lister Bird, and even his toenail clippings were probably attractive. 

(Side note: A disturbing number of fans would buy their toenail clippings, according to a Twitter poll Rowan had JOKINGLY made the other day.)

But as handsome as he was, his eyes ruined the effect. They were slightly red and darted all over the room, as if he were expecting some kind of attack.

@madcapmadzz natural substance IM CRYING

@listerbirdbrain my grandma died last week and i’ve been listening to itisys on repeat to cope. thank you for making such beautiful music. i love you

@lusterxxx ur so hot how r you real

He skimmed the chat, seemingly disinterested, until his eyes landed on a comment.

@jowanlvrr I HOPE YOU DIE!!! SMOKING IS WRONG & UR GONNA CORRUPT JOWAN!!!

“Wo-ow,” he said with a laugh. “Sounds like someone’s stressed out. But you know what’s great for stress? …Come on, don’t make me say it. It’s right there, guys.”

@rowanomondi joined

@jimmy'sangels HE’S HERE

@stantheark OMG

(Rowan, of course, was out of the house at a hair appointment when this happened. He’d ducked into the bathroom to watch it.)

“Ding ding ding! The answer is weed. But I shouldn’t be saying that, because you’re all young and impressionable, but I’m also young and impressionable… which is pretty fucking crazy, considering how many fucking adults seem to have forgotten that.”

@stantheark GUYS HE SAID THE FUCK WORD

@stantheark TWICE

@check-no-julio my mom’s never gonna let me listen to the ark again 😭

@rolling-stoned D’you guys think Rowan and Jimmy smoke?? I feel like I could see Rowan doing that, but not Jimmy.

@kawaiicrazykitty jimmy is too innocent to smoke!! the ultimate smol bean XD

@gigamike r0wan prolly does yknow how those people r

Rowan hadn’t seen those messages at the time; he was too busy frantically texting Lister.

Rowan: Get off live

Rowan: Now

Rowan: I mean it

He clicked on the livestream again to find Lister still monologuing– just great, even more damage control for him– and groaned.

“...so I’m sorry, but I can’t be your role model. Because I’m just a kid, and news flash: I’m gonna do stupid things. Yippee! What a joy it is to be young and in the public eye!”

@noelles-ark: are you high right now????

Lister grinned and waggled his eyebrows at the camera. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The sound of a door opening. Then, a voice, muffled but unmistakably Jimmy: “Hey.” His voice was higher then– it was before he’d started hormone replacement therapy, back when everyone was still calling him a “boy soprano” and “the British Justin Bieber.”

Lister turned. “Well, hello there, handsome.”

@lusterxxx wish he’d say that to me

@cece’s-world wait is lister gay???? I’m so confused i thought i had a chance

@sierramiss you don’t have to be gay to appreciate a good looking man smh

@pppokerviso he’s not a man he’s like 16

@jimmy’sangels omg give it up jimmy’s already taken by rowan 🙄

@madcapmadzz lister homewrecker era LMAO

A long pause. “What are you doing?”

“It’s called self-sabotage. Ever heard of it?”

Jimmy didn’t respond. Instead, he stepped into frame (hands shaking slightly in a way that only Rowan would recognize), and waved sheepishly at everyone. 

“Hi guys. Sorry about this— um, we’re gonna end the stream now.”

His face was rounder then, and his hair (messier than usual, he clearly hadn’t expected to be on camera) nearly covered his eyes with how long it was. Lister stared up at him– mischief and youth suddenly drained from his face, he just looked tired. Jimmy tapped the screen, and it went blank.

Before the video cut off, he could be heard saying “I wish you wouldn’t–”

The clip quickly became one of the most watched in the country. And all the while Rowan sat on a toilet with his head in his hands, trying to figure out how to salvage this. 

*******************************************

The next day (a travel day, thank God, how were they supposed to deal with a meet-and-greet after this), Lister didn’t come out of his room.

“I’m going in there,” Rowan said grimly. He ran a hand along the back of his neck, feeling where his hair was freshly faded. Jimmy looked up from the kitchen table, where he was liking cat memes on Instagram, and shook his head.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Well, he needs to face the music eventually!” His best friend cracked a tiny smile, and he rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t intentional. We need to talk about what this means for us. The band.”

A beat of silence.

“...His mom called,” Jimmy said, worrying a hoodie string between his fingers. Rowan dug his nails into his palm and resisted the urge to yank them until they were even.

“Huh?”

“Lister’s mom called. I only heard a little of their conversation, but it sounded really bad. She’s probably mad at him about the weed thing.”

“Well… good. Someone has to be.”

Jimmy stood, his expression cloudy, and for a truly insane moment, Rowan thought that the lead guitarist was about to punch him in the face. Then, he sighed and hopped onto the kitchen island, resting his head on the bassist’s shoulder.

“Come on, Ro. It wasn’t his fault.” Rowan hummed noncommittally. “It wasn’t! Whoever took that photo was invading our privacy.”

Rowan tried to imagine what would happen if the paparazzi saw them now… would they see the distress in Jimmy’s eyes, the dark circles under his? Or would they see a tender moment between secret boyfriends? Actually… he glanced at the window, feeling uneasy suddenly, and walked over to close the blinds. He hated this. Hated not being able to hug his best friend in public, or hold his hand without it becoming a statement. Hated constantly dodging questions about their relationship statuses, what they meant to each other.

And what if he actually got a partner? The fans would rip them to shreds, just for the crime of not being Jimmy Kaga-Ricci. 

“Okay, so that was out of his control,” he amended. “But his response wasn’t. I mean, what was he thinking–”

“It kinda was. Out of his control, I mean. Nobody asked him how he wanted to handle things… just gave him a statement and told him to send it out.” Jimmy kicked his legs anxiously against the kitchen island, black combat boots tapping out a disjointed rhythm.

“Because he’s Lister fucking Bird! And when we let him handle things, this is what happens!” He knew his voice was getting loud, but at this moment he honestly hoped Lister could hear. He deserved to feel bad, after what he'd done. “We’re a boy band, for Christ’s sake! We can’t go around saying ‘legalize marijuana–’ I mean, shit, they already stereotype me enough.”

“I know.”

“We can’t handle another scandal.”

“I know.”

“He was high on the live stream. We can’t pass it off as a one-time thing.”

“He wasn’t.”

“His eyes were red!”

“I think he was crying.”

“Lister never cries.”

“Maybe not that we know of.”

For some inexplicable reason he didn’t care to unpack, this made Rowan even angrier– the idea that one of his best friends, who he was supposed to know better than anyone else in the world, could be keeping secrets. He stormed away to his room, slamming the door loud enough to make the whole van shake. And then he started writing– scribbling frantically in his journal, a stupid My Little Pony one (equipped with lock and key) that Lister had gotten him as a gag gift. 

Lyrics. Mean ones. 

He paves the way with the bodies of friends / Bloodstained footsteps on a carpet of red

Keeps getting taller but he only grows down / A child in man’s clothes, a fool in a crown

And he’s on autopilot / He’s a frequent flight risk

He doesn’t realize / His wings are ripping up the skies

Meteors are tumbling down / Gonna tear apart this town

While he’s only soaring high / Leaving everyone behind / Icarus watches him fly / Icarus can fucking die

And he’s on autopilot–

*loud, discordant drum solo that steadily overpowers all of the other instruments until it’s the only thing left*

So yeah. He was angry. Sue him. Millions of parents had already tried.

Lister didn’t get it. He glided through life as if on autopilot, as if the path had been paved for him, forcing everyone to scramble out of the way around him. Lister didn’t have to worry about how the fans perceived him– everything he did was swoon-worthy, according to the 10-year-olds online. And he was white, and cis, and bisexual in the trendy way (even if he wasn’t entirely out at the time). Everything was just so goddamn easy for him.

By the time Rowan left his room, by the time Lister was ready to apologize, his emotions were carefully locked away in the journal… everything was under control again. He could be calm and professional, even if seeing Lister’s stupid aloof face made rage boil in his stomach. He would just ignore it– ignore him– and keep a wide berth until everything was fixed. 

He was good at that– pretending everything was okay, keeping everyone in check for the cameras, coolly refuting interviewers who went too far. Because if there was one thing he wasn’t going to do, it was become an angry Black man stereotype.

No one would see him as a delinquent. Not if he had anything to say about it.

Everything was under control.

*******************************************

Alcoholics can be classy too.

Right. One of his best friends was an alcoholic.

Literally nothing was under control.

“Are your cravings getting any better?” Rowan watched as Lister navigated to Hulu and pulled up Brooklyn Nine Nine... the ultimate comfort show, which they'd watched at least 50 times and could probably quote from memory by now. “Cecily wanted to know,” he added quickly– as if he needed an excuse to ask about his bandmate’s wellbeing. As if he couldn’t be bothered otherwise.

Toxic masculinity at its finest, Bliss would have said, poking her tongue out at him. Talk about your feelings, dipshit. Or your feelings will do the talking for you.

His girlfriend ex-girlfriend did that a lot– said things that sounded very simple but were really rather nonsensical, and vice versa. A Blissism, he’d called it. (“Sometimes I think you’ve got the whole universe figured out, and you’re just not letting anyone else in on it,” he’d told her once.) (“If I did, you’d never know,” was her response.)

“Rowan.” Lister gave him a weary smile, speaking slowly like a preschool teacher explaining basic maths. “If we talk about this, we’re also going to have to talk about why you’re sending out Morse Code messages with our light switch. Do you want that?”

The reaction was instantaneous- he recoiled and hissed through his teeth. “Fuck no.”

Sorry, Bliss.

“Great. Now who’s up for some copaganda?” He made a mouth with his hand and answered, in a terrible impersonation of Rowan, “I am!”

The base guitarist laughed in spite of himself. “Why do I sound like a grizzly bear?”

“Why do you act like one, that’s the question. Mr. Grumpy.”

Usually, Rowan would've found Lister’s deflections annoying, but today (tonight?) they were welcome. Anything to keep from talking about his feelings and his fucked up brain and the way he was slowly spiraling out of control.

“Halloween episode binge?” he asked instead.

“Halloween episode binge,” Lister agreed.

“Start from season–”

“2, yeah, I know, I’m not that much of a moron. Believe it or not.”

Had the other boy always been so self-deprecating? He’d always assumed that Lister had the biggest ego of the three… what with the Sexiest Man Alive title and all. But when he fell on his blade for Jimmy (literally), a lot of shit had come out. Stuff he’d probably been internalizing for years.

One of his best friends was an alcoholic. One of his best friends thought he was useless. One of his best friends was stupid, and foolhardy, and cared so much that he impaled himself and broke his leg, just to stop something that might not even have happened in the first place, but was terrifying as a concept nonetheless.

And Rowan was a terrible person for letting all this occur under his watch.

On screen, Jake Peralta was introducing a pickpocket to the squad. They seemed understandably horrified.

“Cecily wants you to see a therapist,” Lister said suddenly. Startled, Rowan turned to face him, but the drummer was staring resolutely at the screen.

“She wants everyone I know to see a therapist. I’m convinced she’s running some kind of pyramid scheme.”

“The only two people you know are me and Jimmy. And we’re not exactly the poster children for good mental health–”

Rowan bristled. “I know lots of people.”

“Everyone you talk to, then.”

“...I talk to Bliss.”

“Your ex-girlfriend.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Rowan sniped back, but there was no venom in it. Honestly, his relationship with Bliss was much healthier now that it was strictly platonic– now that they weren’t so stressed out about having to like each other, they could finally love each other again. If that made any sense at all. 

Classic Blissism.

“I talk to the Fangirls... sometimes..."

It was a moot point.

His interactions with Angel were restricted to monosyllabic grunts and excuses to leave when she was FaceTiming Jimmy (he still didn’t trust her not to screen-record and post “an inside look at The Ark”), and his interactions with Juliet were mainly her tagging along when he hung out with Bliss. 

Although he was beginning to feel like he was the third-wheel in that scenario, not the other way around.

Lister leaned back onto Rowan’s shoulder, wincing slightly as he did… his abdomen still hurt sometimes from the whole stabbing thing. Although mostly healed, Jimmy still had to change his bandages every other day, which was the funniest fucking thing Rowan had ever had the pleasure of seeing because Lister turned the color of a ripe tomato every time Jimmy’s hands so much as brushed his chest. 

“I’m just saying… it can’t hurt to see someone unbiased, right? Someone who doesn’t give a shit who we are or who we know.”

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” Rowan flicked the back of Lister’s head, prompting an ow and a glare in response. “Yesterday you said you’d rather walk barefoot on a bed of hot nails than go to therapy.”

“Well… that doesn’t actually sound that unpleasant, right? I mean, the weight would be evenly distributed and all, so no more stabbings for me. And heat is good for muscle pain, right? It’d be like an acupuncture mat or something.”

“Lister.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re full of shit.”

Lister started giggling, the close proximity sending vibrations through Rowan’s body. “Okay, okay. I’ll make you a deal. I’ll go to therapy if you will. Sound good?”

Rowan took a second to debate this internally. On the one hand, he could think of nothing worse than sitting in a room with a stranger and talking about his feelings for an hour. On the other hand… Lister needed help. And he would be a terrible friend to deprive him of that, just because he was too stubborn to seek it out himself.

“Sounds… fine.”

“Fine as in fine, or fine as in fine ?” Lister waggled his eyebrows. "Because you were looking at me, so the second one is understand-"

“Fine as in fine, I’ll go to therapy, because you need to get your fucking act together.”

“I always knew you loved me most.”

Rowan denied it, which led Lister to climb on top of him and start singing "ROWAN AND LISTER, SITTING IN A TREE" at the top of his lungs until he relented, which led Rowan to scream back "JIMMY AND LISTER SITTING IN A-" which led Lister to cover his mouth with a pillow, basically suffocating him, which led to Rowan kicking him off, which led them to rolling on the floor smacking each other with pillows because they were idiots who had been forced to grow up entirely too fast, which led to-

The door to the living room slammed open, revealing a very murderous, very tired-looking Jimmy Kaga-Ricci.

“What. The fuck. Is going on. It is. 2 AM. In the morning.”

On screen, Jake fell over a fence into a dumpster.

Rowan and Lister looked at each other.

And burst out laughing.

“That’s redundant,” Rowan wheezed.

“We’re getting therapy!” Lister cheered.

“What the fuck,” Jimmy repeated.

Three gods were scattered around the living room, and they were about to get their fucking acts together… together.

Or something like that.

Chapter Text

Lister's POV:

*******************************************

When Jimmy found out about their late night revelations, he was deeply unimpressed. “So you guys were binging all of the Halloween episodes without me. And doing emotional vulnerability. Without me.”

His hair was a rat’s nest, sticking up all over the place like it was trying to reach the heavens. The dark circles under his eyes (while less apparent than they’d been while on tour) were visible; there was no reason to put on concealer this early in the morning. 

...He was the most handsome person Lister had ever seen, but that was nothing new.

Aaand he was glaring at them, a fact that would’ve been more intimidating if he wasn’t currently clad in a Powerpuff Girls hoodie and leopard pajama pants.

“Kind of?” Lister was lying on the ground with a pillow propped under his head… not exactly the most comfortable for his back, but his leg was hurting again and he didn’t want to make it worse by moving. “I mean, it was less emotional vulnerability and more emotional deal with the devil.”

Rowan spoke up. He’d resumed his position on the ratty blue couch. “I’m assuming I’m the devil in this circumstance?”

“Aww, Ro-ro, how’d you know? Know.” He could never resist a good rhyme. His brain worked in them– and rhythms. Sometimes a phrase would get stuck in his head and he’d repeat it to himself for hours.

“Process of elimination.”

Jimmy rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Because you sleep like a baby,” Rowan said. Now that was a bit cliche, but a good rhyme anyway. Wake me. Baby.

“What does that even mean?”

“Means you’re grumpy as shit and cry a lot if we wake you up early,” Lister said wisely.

“Dick.” Jimmy plopped down on the floor next to him. Their elbows were maybe 2 inches apart. Being in love with your bandmate made you notice things like that.

It was too far away to be discounted, but too close to make any foregone conclusions about what Jimmy may or may not have been thinking. Not jumping to conclusions was harder after he’d stopped drinking.

Thinking… drinking…

It was crazy that Lister had failed his maths GCSE exam, considering how much of his life– his universe– comprised of it. Rhymes and rhythms and maths. Loving music meant loving maths, loving the artistry, the meter, the time signatures. The beauty in the silence, never awkward, only anticipatory, making it all the more impactful when the beat dropped.

And growing up in a poor household meant everything was a calculation.

He didn’t know how to find the volume of a circle, but he knew how many spoonfuls of cereal he could eat per day to make the box last longer. He knew the precise route and speed he had to walk at to avoid the bullies who sneered at him in the hallways. He knew that if he smiled for three seconds– no more, no less– after telling his mother he was okay, she would believe him.

He knew how many child support checks his dad sent per year (not enough) and he knew how much the new gaming console cost (too much), because even if he was an idiot who failed all his classes, he could at least be a good son, except wait no he couldn’t because he was so goddamn angry all the time and did stupid shit like smash expensive plates and leave the lights on and hoard food in his room until the ants came to eat it.

When he finally graduated high school and the band was starting to blow up, he thought everything would be better. He sent money back to his mom when he could, but he ended up forgetting half of the time because she never messaged to remind him– pride, he supposed, not wanting to rely on her teenager for money. He bought the latest gaming consoles and sneakers and barely used them, just to know he could. He ate like a mad man and hoarded food, but there was still an emptiness inside him that he couldn’t fill.

How many Jowan fanfictions were there on Ao3? (Fuckin’... a million…) How many… Jister? Limmy? (Decidedly less, and half of them were polyamorous) How many times had Jimmy glanced at him during the last show? (At least three times, but the third one might have been a trick of the light)

The more he got, the more he wanted. 

He became an addict long before he became an alcoholic. 

But God, the alcohol helped.

It helped a lot.

Is my brain always this depressing, or am I just sober? He realized one second too late that Rowan and Jimmy had been talking, and there’d been a lull in the conversation that he was expected to fill.

Fill. He pictured the crash of drum sticks over a set and felt momentarily better. He normally didn’t have this many thoughts in his head. Maybe he could go and whack them all out later. 

It was hard to spiral when BOOm-TSS-CRACK-rumBlE-BAM, after all.

Jimmy and Rowan had resumed bantering. The pause, the rest where there should have been a beat, was over. It was funny how he was the drummer– the one expected to keep the whole band together, on tempo– but in reality, they would go on just fine without him if he disappeared. Maybe they’d be better off, actually.

Jowan (even if platonic) were forever. Him and Jimmy were not. Their names didn’t even sound good together. There was no music in it. 

“Lister.” He glanced up. There was music in the way his name rolled off of Jimmy’s lips, like smoke off of a cigarette. 

“Hmm?”

“You okay?”

“Just zoning out.” Sometimes he felt like he was permanently zoned out of reality. Things that were supposed to affect him just… didn’t. Most days, he couldn’t bring himself to give a shit about anything at all.

Something whacked him in the back of the head. It was an accent pillow– one of Rowan’s insomnia purchases– that said in flowy cursive letters “Dogs Are My Favorite People.”

“Well, stop it. You’re freaking Jimmy out.”

Lister looked at Jimmy. “Aww. I'm freaking you out?” Was he flirting?

Jimmy glanced away, a tiny smile playing on his lips. “Only because I’ve never heard you quiet for more than 3 seconds.” Was that flirting?

Either way, that was just a flat-out lie. Lister could handle silence for about 4 seconds. He read a study once that said that English speakers were the least comfortable with pauses in conversation. Probably because English speakers talked just to talk and never really listened. 

Guilty.

He opened his mouth to say that, but his silence was up and Rowan rose to fill it.

“So. Thoughts on group therapy? I personally think it would be beneficial for us to work out our issues in a controlled setting, under the guidance of a professional.”

Lister snorted. “Are you gonna talk like we’re in a press conference the entire time? Because if so I’m out.”

“Lister…” Jimmy shoved his arm. His hand lingered for 0.02 seconds longer than necessary. Ever since The Rain Incident (or maybe The Bathroom Incident, or maybe The Other Bathroom Incident, what was it with them and bathrooms), the timing was all wrong. They could act normal when Rowan was there, but the two of them alone together? Hot. Goddamn. Mess. Lister couldn’t even bring himself to joke about it anymore– being stabbed? Sure. But Jimmy hating himself? Lister being in love with Jimmy? Fuck no.

At some point, someone had paused the show. It was stuck on a frame of Hitchcock and Scully in bear suits. One was struggling to remove his head.

“What?” Lister turned over his shoulder, ignoring the twinge in his stomach as he did so. “It’s a valid point. We’re going there to get to know the real Ark, not… whatever fame-robots we’ve turned into.”

Jimmy smirked. “Okay, but ‘get to know the real Ark’ also sounds like a YouTube interview title, so…”

“Shit, you’re right.”

“You could’ve said get to know the real us or something?”

“Aren’t they the same thing, though? We are The Ark.”

“No.” Rowan stood up decisively, like a king about to make a grand proclamation. “We are three severely fucked up teenagers, and being The Ark nearly destroyed us. …Now who wants coffee?”

“Me,” said Lister, because he was feeling nauseous, and his hands kept shaking, and caffeine was a more acceptable addiction.

“I’ll help,” said Jimmy, because he was Jimmy.

Two by two, Jimmy and Rowan walked into the kitchen.

Two by two, and he was the one left behind.

Typical.

*******************************************

Later, they sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and scrolling through rootsmentalhealth.co.uk. 

“So what are we looking for?” Lister asked. He took a sip of his coffee and instantly knew Jimmy had made it, because it was filled with flavorings and creamer. Rowan, armed with a Judgemental Espresso (™) always gave him shit for “basically drinking milk and sugar,” but that was just because he was jealous of Lister's boyish whimsy. “What’s our criteria?”

To his surprise, Rowan started rattling off a list. “Under 40. Specializes in substance abuse and anxiety. Queer-friendly. Not white. Not a fan of The Ark.”

“Definitely not white,” Jimmy agreed. “No offense, Lister.”

Maybe that was Lister’s problem. Maybe he was too white. He’d rather it be that than his working theory– that there was something wrong with him, something that made him more defective and broken than everyone else.

“Wait- how am I supposed to tell who’s an Ark fan just by looking at their profiles?”

Rowan leveled him with an intense stare. “Is there sanity in their eyes?”

He laughed, a bit nervously. “You’re so dramatic, mate.”

"I thought you were past that whole hating our fans thing," Jimmy observed mildly from his laptop. It was covered in stickers- a trans dinosaur, the witches from Hocus Pocus, and a guitar that read 'this machine kills fascists.' "You hang out with Juliet, right?"

"She doesn't really count," Rowan protested. "She didn't ask for a selfie or anything when she met us."

"Neither did Angel!" 

"To be fair, Ro was too busy shouting at her to let her get a word in,” Lister piped up, immediately feeling like an asshole when Rowan’s shoulders stiffened.

Jimmy persisted doggedly. "She was still running an Ark fan account when she met us."

"Oh." The bassist stared down at his keyboard, carefully blank-faced. "Huh."

The next hour consisted of Lister and Jimmy tossing out suggestions, Rowan peering over their keyboards, then dismissing them in the blink of an eye. (“Too underqualified,” he’d said to one. “Looks like a cat person,” was his cryptic response to another. “Reminds me of my Aunt Mildred” was when Jimmy got up and retreated to his room, and Lister finally had to step in.)

“Control freak say what?” he muttered under his breath.

“What–” Rowan stopped, realized his mistake, and moved on– “are you talking about, I’m not a control freak.”

Lister grinned. Got him.

“Okay, so then why have we gone an hour without any candidates?"

"There's nothing wrong with being selective. Especially about something as important as this."

"There's a difference between selectivist and perfectionist." Good rhyme, bad rhythm. Also definitely not a word. He slid his computer over to Rowan. "Here, just- I'm scrolling through an art therapy rabbit hole. I've bookmarked a few people, if you want to-"

His bandmate waved it away without even glancing at the screen. "C’mon, Lister. You know I can’t paint for shit."

"That’s exactly why you should do it!" He scooted closer, adopting a wheedling tone. "You can learn how to not be perfect at something for once."

"Wh- I can be bad at things." 

It was so classically Rowan- needing to prove that he could succeed at failing- that Lister had to laugh. How can a person be so smart and yet so dumb?

"Aw, mate, I know. I’ve played Mario Kart with you."

"Literally. One. Time."

"Yeah, because you threw down the controller and had a hissy fit when you lost. You... do realize you’re just proving my point here, right?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"Oh, am I?"

He crossed his arms, and that's when Lister knew the conversation wasn't going to go any farther. Not unless he wanted to debate for two hours and then inevitably let Rowan win, because- newsflash- he didn't actually care that much.

Even though he was right.

"Okay! New plan!" He stood, pushing his chair back. "I'll go after Jimmy, and the two of us will pick a therapist together. No objections. And if you still hate them after the first session, we can move on.”

"...Fine. This is for you guys, anyway. Not me."

Do you seriously not see how fucked up you are? Lister had thought he was past that by now. Anyone who stayed with him for an extended period of time could see that Rowan's behavior wasn't normal. Slipping out of events early to quadruple-check that he'd locked the car door? Organizing all the containers in their fridge by size and color? Following the same morning routine every single day, and freaking out if he was even slightly off schedule?

Textbook OCD. Not that Lister had ever read a textbook, but he had made some very informative Google searches. 

To Rowan, everything was a competition... even mental health. Only the prize was a giant golden medal that wrapped around his neck, strangling him and pulling him towards the ground. It was a tragedy, but it was who he was. Lister scooped up his computer (a new model that he was still trying to figure out) and headed towards Jimmy's room, realizing a second too late- always a second too late- that this meant they'd be in an enclosed space together. Alone. Thinking before acting? He didn't know her.

It was what had led him to kiss Jimmy the first time.

It was what ended up getting him stabbed.

It was the undoubtedly stupid thing he was about to do now.

Good going, me.

Really fucking good.

He opened the door.

"Shit."