You and Tick didn’t meet in some tragic, cinematic way. It was juvie. Ugly, fluorescent, stinking of bleach and piss. You were there because you broke into a corner store and boosted half the candy aisle like it was a heist. Tick was there because he lit an actual shed on fire. When the guards marched you past his block, he was sitting on the floor with his hands cuffed behind him, grinning at the smoldering smoke detector like it had personally congratulated him.

They threw you both into group therapy. Tick heckled the counselor, you heckled Tick, and suddenly you weren’t two screwed-up kids—you were a team. The staff hated it. You weren’t “rehabilitating,” you were laughing. Sneaking extra desserts. Trading insults and bruises in the yard. It was chaos from day one, and neither of you ever stopped.

⸻

Now, years later, nothing had changed.

Your “safehouse” was a crumbling duplex that smelled like mold, with a TV that only picked up three channels if you smacked it. You sprawled on the couch, watching some old rerun, when you caught a flicker of light in the corner of your eye.

Tick was sitting cross-legged by the curtain, lighter in hand, flame blooming inches from the fabric. He wasn’t even subtle—he was humming to himself, like a kid roasting marshmallows.

“Tick.”

“What?” He didn’t look up, eyes glued to the tiny blaze.

“You trying to burn the whole place down?”

He grinned. Wild, sharp, feral. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You sat up, groaning. “Bro. If you set the curtains on fire, we’ll be homeless. Again.”

“Guess we’ll die together then.” He said it so casual, like it was just another Tuesday plan.

You launched a pillow at his head. He dodged, cackling, lighter still in hand.

“Put it out!”

“Make me.”

So you got up, stomped across the room, and snatched the lighter right out of his hand. Tick yelped like you’d just robbed him of a limb.

“Give it back!”

“No.” You flicked it closed, shoved it in your pocket. “You get visitation rights when you learn not to commit arson in our living room.”

“You’re the worst,” he whined, flopping back dramatically, arms thrown over his face.

“You love me,” you shot back automatically.

“Unfortunately,” he muttered. Then he peeked at you through his arms, smirking. “But only because you’re even more screwed up than me.”

You grabbed the remote and cranked the volume to drown him out, but your grin gave you away. He saw it, and started laughing so hard he nearly rolled off the chair.

And that was the thing about you and Tick—everyone else saw two delinquents circling a crash-and-burn. But together? You weren’t broken. You weren’t even scared.

You were just chaos. And you liked it that way.