Dylan's eyes flew open for the third time in half an hour, waking himself up once again from his uneasy sleep. He'd thought that once he got back from Henrietta's house after killing the final spirit, or banishing it, or whatever the hell had happened, that he would be ready to sleep for roughly the next twelve years, but not so. Every time he closed his eyes he would slip into some kind of hideous nightmare about the spirit not being banished at all, and every time he opened them he wasn't able to stop himself from peering fearfully into every shadow of his room, replaying its terrible voice over and over in his head, convinced that one of them was about to detach itself from the others and kill him.
Normally, Dylan was not at all afraid of the dark. He was a freaking Goth kid. This, combined with the fact that he had sustained the least injuries out of anyone, prevented him from picking up the phone to see if anyone else was having these problems.
He was determined to tough it out, but as he lay stiffly underneath his stifling blankets, he couldn't help but wonder miserably if he'd ever be able to get a full night's sleep again. At this point, it didn't seem likely.
He wasn't sure how long he stayed that way; maybe a minute, maybe two hours. He was roused from his half-asleep state, however, by the sound of his door softly opening, as if the person on the other end didn't want to wake him.
Nevertheless, he sat bolt upright in bed, groping around on his nightstand and switching on his lamp as fast as he could.
As its glow filled the room, he saw Evan step through the door and couldn't help letting out a sigh of relief.
"Oh," he said. "It's just you."
Evan just nodded, sitting down on the edge of Dylan's bed and kicking his boots off. There was snow in his hair.
"What are you doing here?" Dylan asked, trying to pretend like he hadn't just had a mini panic attack at the sound of his own door opening.
"Couldn't sleep," Evan admitted, and once again, Dylan felt relief.
"Me neither," he finally admitted. "It's so stupid, right?"
"Well, Evan reasoned. "We did just finish fucking up six ghosts with the power of our minds."
Dylan just shrugged. "Post-traumatic stress is for conformists."
"Right," said Evan tolerantly, stretching out on the bed next to Dylan, who helpfully extended the edge of his comforter so that Evan could climb underneath. He obliged, opening up his arms so that Dylan could pillow his head on his chest. The blankets had seemed oppressively hot before, but somehow this just felt nice. "But it's okay to be freaked out by this stuff. I mean, you're the only one who communicated with them directly, right? That had to be a headfuck."
"It was," Dylan agreed, surprised that Evan wasn't calling him a pussy. "You dealt with most of the physical stuff, though."
Evan smirked down at him crookedly. "And it freaked me out so bad that I walked all the way to your place in the freezing cold, at night."
In answer, Dylan just pressed closer, wrapping his arms around Evan's waist. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, Evan's voice spoke again, low and tired-sounding.
"You know," he said. "Henrietta wants us to play a show tomorrow."
Dylan let out a sleepy groan. "No way," he said grumpily. "I think we've definitely earned a vacation."
"She says bands don't go on vacation when they're still as bad as we are," Evan reported wearily. "I told her that wasn't even true, but she won't budge."
"I can't even think about this right now," said Dylan. "Let's just go to sleep."
And go to sleep they did.
They were woken up the next morning by Dylan's phone ringing on the nightstand, with Henrietta on the other line to repeat what Evan had said about the show.
"Come on," she pleaded. "It'll get our minds off things."
Dylan had to admit that he could use a distraction. And so that was how, the next evening, they ended up driving to yet another faggy vampire kid's house the next town over.
They were given a hero's welcome once they showed up; for one ludicrous moment, Dylan thought that people had somehow found out about their whole ordeal. It turned out, of course, that they had just heard from their friends about the "awesome special effects" that the Manic Episodes had at their shows, and they were gearing up for a good one.
Of course, no such special effects were forthcoming. Dylan thought it was a good set, anyway; they'd gotten a lot better at multitasking while they played, and they could almost pull off a seamless group hair-flip. Evan even licked Dylan's neck during Canadian Bondage, which was usually good for at least a few delighted screams. This time, however, the audience reception was lukewarm at best; probably the first time they'd played a show that the faggy vampire kids hadn't eaten up.
They played through their set, and once they were finished came a smattering of disinterested applause and then a general exodus to the kitchen, where somebody had wine-coolers.
As the kids moved away, Dylan caught snippets of their conversations;
"Totally lame now, oh my God—"
"—Can't believe I wanted them to play my birthday party—"
"Yeah, there just wasn't that same dark energy as before—"
Dylan looked around at the others, who were all wearing matching expressions of incredulity.
"Fucking faggy vampire kids," said Georgie. "At least Ike is a true fan."
From his place of honor, front row center, Ike gave a thumbs-up.
"You give them a ghost and they take it a mile," Henrietta agreed, leaning over to unplug her keyboard. "Oh, well. Maybe people who don't suck will start liking us more now that they're over it."
Evan just shrugged, and Dylan flicked his hair out of his eyes.
"So lame," he said. "So. Lame."
THE END