You had a wild grin on your face as you sprinted for Brahms' car, which was parked and rumbling just outside of your home. It was gorgeous, a sleek black with a white top that looked as if it were pulled right from an old photograph. As Norman pushed the passenger door open from his spot in the back seat (it was only a two door car) you shielded your head with your arms and slid into the safety.

"What a downpour!" You cry out over the rain as you pull your legs inside and slam the door shut, letting out a breathy laugh, your grocery bags of snacks in your lap. Brahms is smiling from the front seat just like you as he slides the gearshift back into drive and eases onto the gas pedal. The seats in the car were a dark, fancy leather and the steering wheel was one of the vintage restomod ones. "Quite the car, wow," You lean forwards, running a hand over the dashboard and admiring the perfect condition of the aged surface.

"I know, right?" Norman chatters from behind you, leaning one arm on the back of your seat to poke his head up between yours and Brahms'.

"It's a Chevrolet Bel Air 19... 57, I think. It's my father's pride and joy." With a quick ask for permission you bumped on the radio, grinning at the orchestra who began to pump jumping notes through the tinny speakers. It was a very Brahms style music, you think, as you twist the knob to find something a little more akin to your own tastes.

"Is this okay?" You ask, tilting your head half over your shoulder so the question is directed at Norman as well- Lemon Boy by Cavetown was playing, just hitting the second chorus. Norman shrugged one shoulder, indifferent, and Brahms began to tap his finger to the music on the leather surface of the steering wheel, immediately tuning into the rhythm and soaking it up like a sponge. "You like music, huh?" You lean back into the seat, staring out through the front window at the sheets and sheets of rain pouring relentlessly down from above.

"Yes," Brahms says, "I've been studying it for as long as I can remember," The soft smile on his face demonstrated the passion that you had noticed he carried himself with. Brahms was a very different man, nothing like the boys you'd known back in New York. He had an abundance of human emotions and he wasn't afraid to show them- you could see his sensitivity, his softness, blooming brilliantly behind his emerald green eyes every time you looked into them. They were like glass, entirely transparent; Brahms was a boy you could trust with anything. "I play piano with my mother, and both she and my father like to visit the orchestra in the next town over. We often make a weekend of it, driving down there to visit my aunt and watch a show."

"Sounds lovely! I've never gone to an orchestra, but my dad went to one once. He came back and looked like he'd been crying," You grin, and turn to look at Norman, "What about you? Have you ever been? What are your passions? Hopes and dreams?"

"Oh, I really don't do much," Norman shrugged one shoulder, his cheeks going a little rosy. At once, Brahms let out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh, something louder and more boisterous than you thought possible for the boy. In school he was always so silent and polite; it was strange to see him roll his eyes at Norman, grinning ear to ear and saying in a cheeky tone,

"I wouldn't say that," He dragged his words out as he spoke, relishing in the way Norman let out a quiet groan and hid his face in his hands, "Norman, it really isn't embarrassing. I don't know why you always hide it; he likes to clean, and he crochets with his mother. He likes to cook, he likes to knit- it's all fine stuff for him to like but he never tells anyone."

"Because it's-" Norman trailed off, waving one hand around as he struggled for his words, "Soft. I feel like a grandmother." Brahms let out a coo, one hand leaving the wheel to reach over and pat his shoulder.

"It's okay to be a grandma. I love my grandma." With that, Norman heaved out a sigh and slumped down to rest his chin on the back of the front seat again.

"Nothing's wrong with that, Norm, I'd be ecstatic if I enjoyed cleaning- that would solve a hell of a lot of my problems." Without really thinking you patted Norman on the head, enjoying the sight of his soft smile in response and also noting how he, too, was one of the best people you'd ever had the pleasure to know. It was clear that a lot of the kids in Ashboro High weren't fond of him, and you had no idea how that was possible. He was totally kind-hearted, innocence in the purest form. He was an angel, just like Brahms. "So, tell me about where we're going? Not to be judgemental, but 'The Forest' sounds like a place where someone would get murdered."

"Oh- no, we're not gonna murder you," Norman frowned as if he thought you were seriously concerned, "Jason has a forest behind his house. About a ten minute walk out there's a break in the trees. He has an old treehouse out there, but it's all broken and stuff now. We've talked about fixing it up a couple times, but-" Norman realized he was trailing off and smiled apologetically, "We pooled money to buy a fire pit, and we go out there every once and a while just to hang out. He always has marshmallows on hand, and sometimes we roast hot dogs, too." Some marshmallows sounded perfect right now, rain or no rain. You knew there was some sort of canopy to keep you dry, Jason had mentioned it earlier in your texts, and that paired with a nice warm fire would be peachy. It only took a few more minutes to finally arrive at your destination, a nice, small home on an acreage a decent distance from the minimal bustle of the small town. You could see the thick swath of trees sprawling out just behind it, tall oaks with sturdy branches and leaves still vibrant green from the ending summer season. Jason was seated on the steps of his front porch, a red mushroom umbrella perched over one shoulder. Michael sat beside him and was sitting cross legged at the top of the porch, just barely hidden by the roof hanging over it. As your car approached, the former waved excitedly and stood from his spot with a smile.

"I've got the umbrella, I'll come around so you don't get wet," Brahms said, grabbing that umbrella as Norman handed it to him from the backseat. Then, he pushed open his door and unfurled the parasol (which was huge, and would surely cover the three of you sufficiently- maybe even Michael, too), stepping out underneath it's cover. Brahms hurried around the side of the car and opened your door for you, offering a hand to help you out like a gentleman. Putting one hand in his and holding your two bags with the other, you stood and gave him a quiet thanks and a curt bow which he responded to with a chuckle. He popped your seat forwards so that Norman could crawl from the back, hiding under the umbrella all the same.

"Get ready for a bit of a trek," Norman warned, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down to cover his hands, "It gets chilly after a moment, but it's worth it in the end." The three of you make for the porch. The umbrella is black, victorian style and gorgeous, the water running down the metal ribs and off the tips in thin streams, the splashes occasionally dappling your shoes with dark freckles. As you neared the front porch the door opened and an older woman with curly golden hair, graying at the roots, stepped out with a backpack in her arms and a warm smile on her face.

"Oh, you're all here!" Her voice was adorned by the first cracks of old age, gleeful and content as she handed the backpack to Jason, her son, "And you must be (Y/N). Jason's told me quite a lot about you," you felt a warm spike of anxiety in the pit of your stomach and tamped it down with a smile of your own, holding out a hand to Jason's mother.

"Yes, that's me. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

"The pleasure's all mine, dear. I'm Pamela. I'm so glad that my son is making more friends, especially ones as polite as you!" Your hands separated and she took a step back towards the door. "I won't keep you; stay safe! Watch out for the traps!" With that ominous message, she turned and retreated into her home, leaving you a little stunned and with four pairs of eyes turning to you as they all collectively realized they had yet to tell you about the traps.

"Uh..." You chuckle, scratching at the back of your neck, "Do I have to ask?"

S A F E

Jason signs, and then turns to the others, passing them annoyed glances and silently urging them to fill in for his lack of words. Much to your surprise, Michael is the one to speak up first, his rough voice piercing the thrum of the rain in a peaceful manner.

"There's vermin. Foxes. The traps just catch them, but we know where they are." You smile at him, your brows furrowed in a wordless thanks for the explanation. Something in the way he's looking at you has shifted slightly; you don't see the same distrust that you did days before. If it weren't so gray and gloomy, if there were just a little more light, you would have seen the gentle, hidden twitch of the corner of his lips, the buds of a smile.

"We'll keep you safe, don't worry." Brahms nudged you gently with his elbow, his eyes gleaming with a mixture of excitement and confidence.

"You'll learn the layout in no time." Norman's own confidence was added to the fray, and then Jason was nodding his head in a sturdy agreement. "We should get going though. Before it gets too chilly." Again, Jason nodded, and then he was the one to lead away. Slinging the backpack he was given over his shoulders, he extends a hand to you in a request to carry one of your bags; you politely decline, and he quickly signs,

J U S T A S K

"Sure thing, Jay. Thanks." The five of you set off into the downpour, Michael walking without an umbrella at all. He tipped his head skyward, staring up into the rain and blinking cooly as the scents of the forest washed over you all. The downpour diminished drastically as the trees swallowed you up, stretching up high above your heads and reaching their gargantuan branches in a criss-cross of directions, overlapping and intertwining like railroads. You all were silent, listening, breathing, living, simply soaking in the pleasantness. About five minutes in Jason stopped abruptly, and turned to you, motioning with one hand for you to hop under his umbrella and follow him. "What's up?" You ask, and he rapidly signs out,

T R A P

With your interest piqued, he broke from the path as the others waited patiently, stepping through the thin part in the underbrush created by the footsteps of animals big and small. You took your steps slow, scouring the floor, suddenly nervous that you'd step right into the awaiting jaws of something violent and painful. Jason slowed and so did you, sticking right to his side. He peered forwards, reaching out a hand to push at the leaves of a thick briar to show off the shining metal of a nasty beartrap right inside.

"Jesus," You mutter out, squinting through the shadows to look at it closer. Spiked teeth of thick steel pointed up towards to sky, the metal trigger-plate in the center of the contraption looking fragile and frail, as if even the wind could set it off. "How many are there?" You step back and look at Jason as he does the same, holding up five fingers, closing the fist, and holding up another five. "Ten?" Your jaw drops as you speak, and then you let out a chuckle and shake your head. "I'd hate to be a bear in this place." Jason smiles at that comment and nods his head, letting out a sound alike a snicker and then motioning for you to follow him back to the group. The last of the walk is easy, silent- the path here is well-trodden, flat and clear. The nature around you is stunningly beautiful in contrast to what you'd grown up with. The plants seem to be singing in the rain, their leaves and petals glowing green and pink and yellow, shifting and swaying the gentle breeze and basking in the dripping rain. You spot the break in the trees up ahead before you step out into it, staring in a whimsical wonder at what it is you see.

In the center of the clearing is a tree bigger than all the rest, the trunk thick and sturdy and the leaves creating a roof of cover that lets no more than a drizzle soak through. Halfway up the trunk is a treehouse just like the ones you would always see in storybooks, a simple square with two cut windows and a door, a rope ladder hanging, decrepit, from it's maw. Beneath the ruins of Jason's childhood is a tan canopy standing on four legs of steel, brown mesh curtains hanging on each exposed wall to catch any moisture or bugs. The side facing you is pinned open to reveal a fire pit inside and a collection of different seats.

"Wow!" You breathe out, just a little stunned by the surrealism of it all, "It's beautiful!" You all continue forwards, silent for another moment, and step underneath the canopy's protection. Umbrellas are closed and seats are taken, you sitting down in a camping chair of a dark blue colour. The ground in here is bone-dry, soft, springy grass, so you kick your wet shoes off and let your socks rest in the earthy greenery. Jason got right to starting a fire, a neat stack of logs resting in a back corner. You watch as he sets a few logs into the firepit, pulling out a metal tin of kindling from his backpack and a pack of matches. He works with the expertise of a seasoned camper, his movements sure and confident. The tent is lit by a soft red glow in an instant, warmth beginning to stretch and curl around you.

"Who wants marshmallows?" Michael offers, looking more serene and human than you'd ever seen him. The statue-like qualities that usually hardened his face and stiffened his muscles had faded, and he looked like any regular teenage boy.

"Me, please," Brahms passed you a nervous glance as he spoke, his voice high-pitch- it was the voice you'd heard on that first day you'd met him. You smile, a silent reassurance that he can speak however he's the most comfortable. He doesn't need to explain himself; you'll like him for who he is.

"I'll take one too, if you don't mind." Norman digs the marshmallows from Jason's bag and tosses them in Michael's direction as he asks for one himself. "What about you, (Y/N)?" Michael looked to you expectantly, waiting for your answer to Norman's question.

"Yeah, sure, if it isn't too much trouble." Metal roasting sticks were leaned against the back wall next to the wood, and Michael grabbed one of them then tore open the bag of the fluffy, cloud-like treats. It was a two-prong one, basic but reliable, and four mallows were skewered on the ends then extended to roast for the next few minutes.

"So," Michael asks as he settles more comfortably in his chair, his intense gaze raking over the faces in the room. He had to raise his voice ever so slightly to be heard over the drumming rain, and it only amplified the rough, underused quality of it, "I'm sure you caught wind of the party tomorrow." This question was met with a multitude of eyerolls, one from yourself as well. Was this party really that big a deal?

"Sadly. It's all Bo Sinclair talks about to his brother in my history class." Brahms kicked off his own shoes and pulled his feet up onto the chair, curling them tightly to his chest and resting his curly-haired head on top of them, "It's a nuisance, really."

"I think he just likes to make other kids jealous," Norman let out a dry chuckle and gently mussed the slight dampness from his dark locks, "Sometimes he's got a bigger ego than Danny Johnson does. I'm guessing none of us were invited again?"

"Actually-"

"Well-"

Both you and Brahms freeze, looking over at each other with wide eyes and raised eyebrows. There's a beat of silence (save for the rain and the fire) and then Michael is letting out a heavy sigh and Jason is crossing his arms and wearing a puzzled frown.

"Both of you were invited? How?" Norman is just as dumbfounded as the rest of the group, it seems. Brahms lets out a sheepish chuckle and scratches at the back of his neck while you only shrug one shoulder, a little reluctant to tell the story.

"I had Stu Macher as my partner for an english project last semester. We still say hello to one another when we pass in the hallways. He invited me." This party must be something really special, because now all eyes were on Brahms and each face was coated in a concoction of awe and irritation. Then, those eyes turned to you.

"And you? If it took one of us years to get an invite, how did you do it?" Michael flipped the marshmallows without looking away from you, his brows furrowed. For the first time you noticed the scar scratched over the top of his left eye and brow. It was usually hidden by his hair and a downturned head, but now that he was closer you could see it clear as day.

"It's... kind of a long story, actually. I don't know if any of you would even be interested but-" Jason snapped his fingers for attention, his form of a shout, and then, knowing you were trying to skirt the question, signed,

J U S T T E L L

You sigh, and nod your head. As quickly as you can you explain the supermarket, the soup dilemma, Danny's unwelcome arrival and the accident following right after. You mention his mother (and make a few comments about how nice she is in contrast to her son) and how she insisted you stopped by. As you finished the marshmallows were taken off the fire but they weren't yet passed around, the expectant gazes still demanding further information. You shrug and wring your hands together, not knowing what else to say.

"You're not going, are you?" Grabbing for the campfire rod, Norman talks as he pulls one golden marshmallow from the top then passes it over to Jason, who takes the next. Whether you were going or not you had yet to really consider; you had simply figured you might as well, for the sake of the lovely lady who had invited you. You felt like you owed it to her after you put her son in danger and scared her half to death.

"I think I kind of have to. I don't want to, but I probably should." Everyone had been leaning forwards in their seats, and now they sunk backwards once more, deflating like balloons. A guilt bloomed in your stomach alongside your newfound conflict- did you go, or did you ditch it? "What about you, Brahms?" You turned the attention away from yourself as Brahms claimed his own marshmallow and passed it to you to take yours, "Are you gonna go? We could go together. That would make it at least bearable."

"I... I don't know, (Y/N). Danny Johnson isn't my favourite person, and I can say the same for Amanda Young. They haven't always been the nicest to us in the past." A ripple of agreement passed around the group and you bit into your marshmallow. It was delectable, cooked to perfection, but you couldn't really taste it over the anxiety that had begun to buzz through your head.

"Can you do it, for my sake? We don't have to talk to them and we don't have to stay long, either. We can just check in and then leave." Brahms looked away from you and bit out a sigh, chewing on the inside of his cheek in a deep thought. Then, he raised his head again and stared around at the group with his lime eyes. No one said a thing, no one objected. With one last sigh and a slump of his shoulders, Brahms nodded his head.

"Fine," He muttered out, "But I'm not gonna be happy with it. And we're only stopping in."

"Yes!" You grin, "Thank you, Brahms, I'll pay you back somehow. You're making this a billion times more tolerable for me." Your friend looks at you again and smiles, uncertain and shaky, but it's a smile nonetheless and that's more than enough for you. You no longer have to go to this stupid party all alone and that is something you're extraordinarily grateful for.

"Okay, but no drinking, please. They'll have alcohol there for sure, but you don't want to drink anything Danny Johnson has to offer," Norman's voice took on a commanding tone, something motherly and chastising, "Who knows what he'll hide in it to get everyone drunk? And I don't think we need to warn you about drugs, but just in case, don't do those either!" The scolding and warning continued as Michael joined in, adding on to Norman's words with his own do's and don'ts; Don't go home with anyone, don't trust anyone with your drinks or food, don't sleep with anyone random, etc. So, basically, you were going to this party to stand against a wall and disassociate, which was more than fine with you. You didn't have to be told not to do these things, they were never even on your mind in the first place. As the night dragged on and the fire roared higher, the topic shifted away from the party, from Danny, and wandered into something more amicable. The sun had tucked itself in for the night by now and the rain had eased into a gentle patter, not a wind stirring the trees and underbrush. Somewhere far, a coyote howled, ominous and echoing.

"I just want a nice, easy life. What's wrong with that?" Michael was growing defensive, more talkative now that he'd gotten used to having you with him in this safe place.

"You don't want something adventurous?" You gape at him, a can of coca-cola in one hand and a bag of chips in the other, "God, I want to see the world! I want to go skydiving and water-skiing- maybe I could learn to surf or something, too. There's so much I wanna do."

"I don't know, I think I agree with Michael. I'd be just fine living here for the rest of my life." With the way Norman spoke it seems that he was entirely serious. How could anyone want to stay in one place for their whole entire life? Especially a small town like this?

A G R E E D

Jason signed with a hearty nod and then paused to toss the final log into the dying fire before continuing.

C O T T A G E I N W O O D S

"That sounds lovely," Brahms says with a smile, "But (Y/N) has a point. The world is so big- I want to go to Italy, France, Japan, Greece- So many experiences." Jason began to sign letters again but decided that that was taking too long. With a frustrated groan and an apologetic glance in your direction he began to sign quicker than your eyes could follow, reverting to signing out full words instead of individual alphabet. It seemed all the others struggled to keep up just the same, save for Michael who hardly shifted and blinked as slow as ever, unbothered. At one point Norman lost track of the phrases and let out a disappointed sigh, and then Brahms did too. Jason continued, looking at Michael, and then finally stopped as soon as he had started to let Michael explain for him.

"He says he wants to buy some sort of land nearby and open a summer camp. He wants to live there with his mom, help kids have great summers. Teach em to hunt, archery, kayaking, swimming- all that stuff."

"How do you keep up?" Norman chuckles at Michael, then bumps Jason with his elbow, "That sounds great, Jason. I'll make sure to stop by when it happens." The last log begins to die out, the flames lapping low and fitful and dim. A solemn silence settled over the five of you as if you were mourning the death of the evening, and then, almost in unison, all of you stood to pack up your things. Trash was packed into Jason's backpack as he himself left the tent to pick up a small container of water. He spread out the last of the coals with the branch he'd been using as a fire poker and poured the water over the last of the flames to drown them out once and for all. With the fire dead and the trash packed up, umbrellas were reopened and the trek back was commenced. You all moved slow and silent to really adore the last moments in the wilds, listening to the mulch crunching beneath your feet and inhaling the cleanest air you'd ever known. Once you arrived back at Jason's house, his mother already asleep, he waved you all goodbye and you all piled into your cars; Michael said his farewell and drove off into the night as you, Norman and Brahms climbed tiredly back into the Bel Air 1957 and began your own drive home. Still, you were all quiet, the late hour finally catching up with you tugging yawn after yawn from your lips. When the car rolled to a stop outside of your house you thanked them all for the ride and the umbrella, bidding your adieu and telling Brahms you'd get something figured out for the party the following day. You climbed from the car and shut the door behind you, waving briefly before hurrying inside and out of the rain once more.

Your own house was silent and dark just like Jason's had been. Your dad and brother knew you'd be out so it makes sense that they were already asleep. Kicking off your shoes, you stretched your arms above your head and yawned wide, tired- a shower would be nice but you were dead on your feet from the walk there and back; what time even was it? With a glance at your phone you were a little shocked that it was nearly 2:00 am, and decided then and there that, yes, a shower could wait. On the way to your room, your feet dragging, you thought over the events of the night with an exhausted smile on your face. Your friends really were fantastic; oh, how you had gotten lucky. You simply couldn't believe that life was really going your way, moving in your favour, blessing you day after day with four great people who, as far as you were concerned, would never try to hurt you. Maybe this was the world's way at paying you back for all the shit you'd been put through the whole rest of your life; karma's not always a bitch, it seems. Sometime's, things really can be-

You heart leaps into your throat as a terrible sound pulls you from your sluggish thoughts. You come to a dead stop in your bedroom doorway, knowing that the sound came from August's room. The door was open, you could see inside if you just turned around, but you didn't want to. A fear bubbled in your blood, warm, slow, sickly. Reluctant, suddenly terrified, you forced your legs to move. August had spoken of a ghost and that sound surely did sound horrifying enough to fit into the category. Slowly, you pivoted, and his window came into view. It was dark, hardly showing the yard through the rain-streaked glass, and you now knew that you had to walk closer to properly assess the situation. Swallowing hard, your sleep-muddled brain went against your better judgement and sent you walking slowly forwards, one small step at a time. The sound came out again, something high, whining, just like August had described it on your first Monday morning in Ashboro. It sounded spot-on to his reenactment, just as frightening, just as odd. You grew closer and closer to the window by the second until you were right there, peering out of it, confused and jumpy, your nerves frayed. You saw nothing; the small gazebo sat in the middle of your yard, heavy undergrowth and fairy-like stone pathways winding around a bubbling man-made stream. The water of that stream jumped and rippled as the rain poured down upon it, but you didn't see anything out of the ordinary. With a burst of confidence you undid the windows latch and, all at once and not allowing yourself to rethink your decision, you threw the window open wide.

There weren't any screens on the windows here, they simply swung outward and then let the elements pour in- now, as you flung this pane of glass in a left-facing arc, something big and white leaped up onto the sill and you slapped a hand over your mouth to stifle your startled cry. Your heart sprung high up into your throat and pure terror streaked through you, triggering an onslaught of adrenaline that pushed away your tiredness and made your chest squeeze painfully for an instant, before you recognized the creature for who it was.

"Jesus Christ, Claude! You scared the shit out of me!" You hissed out the words as you surged forwards again, closer to the windowsill and the white persian cat seated elegantly where the window had been before, unaware that you had even been startled. The rain was angled away from this side of the house, sparing you and the poor kitty from getting drenched. "What are you doing out here? Shouldn't you be at home?" With a heavy sigh that calmed you down and bled the adrenaline away, you leaned against the wall right by the window and reached out a hand to pet Claude's head. "Was that you making all that noise? Scratching at something? Christ..." Sticking your head out the window you spotted a white gutter just beside the window, the paint scratched away in long strips to reveal the silver of the metal underneath. The cat had been scratching at it, begging for attention. "Silly cat," You huff out, and shake your head. "I've gotta go to bed, kitty. Let's get this window shut and I'll open mine- you can stick around if you want, or you can go. Your pick." Gently, you shoo Claude from his perch and shut August's window once more, motioning with a flick of your head for Claude to stick close and quiet to your heels. Obediently, he does just that, trailing you to your own bedroom and not protesting as you shut the door behind you. Then, you cross to your window and crack it open for the cat to slink away whenever he'd like.

"Goodnight, silly cat," You kneel as Claude steps up to you on light paws, rubbing against your outstretched hand and beginning to rumble. With a quiet chuckle and one more stroke along his back, you stand up again and go to your closet to change into your pajamas. From there, you're quick to cross to your bed and curl up under the blankets, feeling the mattress shift gently as Claude hops up with you to curl up by your knees. You're out like a light that night, falling asleep thinking of the gentle crackle and spit of an open fire and the laughter of close friends as your fear fades to nothing. It's pleasant.

(A/N): I don't know how I really feel about this chapter; It's a little slow, which isn't always a bad thing, but I feel like the quality might be a little lower than usual. Tell me if I'm wrong!

So, I started a discord server for all of you lovely readers to join- let me know if you're interested and drop your discord information here! I'll friend you and send you all invites!

Lastly, I have an enemies to lovers playlist on my spotify that I'm totally obsessed with right now. I listen to it on repeat for hours at a time and I'm updating it pretty frequently; let me know if you're interested in a link or something like that :) Thanks for reading and stay tuned for more!