The rain on the roof of the trailer was a relentless, tinny drumbeat, a sound as familiar as his own heartbeat. This was his world. The one that smelled of damp earth, cheap beer, and the faint, metallic ghost of regret. The canon world. The one where his father was a monster in his head, where he’d fucked up everything good he’d ever touched, including you.
And then he’d seen the other one.
For a glorious, gut-wrenching week, he’d lived it. A universe where Auggie Smith had died quietly of a heart attack before he could fully break his son. A universe where he, Chris, had a little house with a porch, where Eagly had a bigger perch, and where the biggest decision of the day was what to throw on the grill. A universe where he’d never been stupid enough to let you go.
He’d been pulled back, of course. A cosmic glitch, a wrong turn in the multiverse. Now, the memory of that other life was a phantom limb, an ache so profound it was a physical presence in his chest. And it was dying. He could feel it, a slow, sickening unraveling in the fabric of something he couldn't see. The perfect world was collapsing because he wasn't in it, because the canon version of him—this broken, fucked-up version—was an anchor, tethering him here, to this shitty reality.
He’d tried everything. Argued with Economos about theoretical physics until his ears bled. Yelled at an unfeeling cosmos in the woods. Nothing. There was only one person left who knew him, the real him, well enough to maybe, just maybe, untangle this.
You.
Standing on your porch in the pissing rain, he felt like a ghost. The light from your living room window was a warm, golden square, a diorama of a life he’d forfeited. He could see a bookshelf, a plant, a throw blanket on the couch—all artifacts of a stability he could barely comprehend. He raised a fist, knuckles hovering an inch from the wood. This was a worse idea than that time he tried to fist-fight a metahuman. But he had no other plays.
The door opened before he could knock. You stood there, backlit, holding a mug. You were wearing sweatpants and a worn-out college hoodie. You looked… solid. Beautiful. You didn’t look surprised to see him.
“Chris.” Your voice was flat. A statement of fact, not a welcome.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, the old petname sounding pathetic and desperate in the downpour. “Uh. You got a sec? It’s kinda… multiversal.”
An eyebrow arched. But you stepped back, letting him in.
The air inside your house was a punch to the gut. It smelled of lavender and the pasta you’d made for dinner. It was clean. Peaceful. It was everything his trailer wasn’t. He stood dripping on your welcome mat, a hulking mess of leather and rainwater in your serene space.
“So,” you said, leaning against the doorframe to the living room, arms crossed. “The multiverse. Let me guess. You found a universe where you remembered to put the toilet seat down?”
He almost smiled. God, he’d missed your shit. “Something like that.” He ran a hand through his wet hair. “I found a universe where… where everything was okay. Where we were… y’know. Still us.”
The air in the room shifted. The casual sarcasm drained from your posture. You just looked at him, waiting.
“And I was there for a minute. I took that Chris’s place. But I got yanked back here. And now that place… the good one… it’s falling apart. I can feel it, babe. It’s like a song going out of tune.” He was babbling, his words tripping over each other. “The other me, the one from there, he’s probably a vegetable or some shit. He can’t hold it together. He doesn’t know how to fight for it. Not like I do.”
He took a step forward, his boots squelching. “I can’t get back alone. The door’s closed. But you… we could. I cannot do this without you, baby.”