Archive of Our Own

Pugsley dreams.

Like a normal person, of course he does.

But he's an Addams. So his dreams are.. different to say the least.

He dreams of another universe, where something else could've happened.

He dreams of memories that don't exist.

He dreams of moments where Eugene wanted. Or maybe, even yearned.

He dreams of watching himself yearn for Eugene.

It was weird.

Because his dreams were fragments. Broken memories from various versions of himself he didn't know about.

Maybe it doesn't exist.

But sometimes, when he remembers the dreams he has about the other countless him—he desires those moments to just exist in his world.

It was dumb. To think that his dreams actually meant something. Like they were real.

Like fragments from different stories we didn't know existed in the first place. And yet, sometimes, Pugsley can't help but believe it. Some are too real. Some feel fake.

And in the end, they're all part of a story made by someone.

He thinks of this one dream, he felt that it hit too close to home.

"Possible isn't the same as probable. You let hope make a fool of you." Wednesday said, steel in her voice.

"I didn't ask to feel this way!" He shouted back at her.

"No," She said, "But you chose to keep feeling it even when you knew what you were."

"Then what am I, Wednesday?"

"Too much for him. Too alive. Too.. Addams."

Wednesday held his gaze for a moment too long, turning to the door.

"I don't think being too much is a bad thing," She said, "it's just.. not for him."

That dream felt too close to something that would happen to him.

But Wednesday wouldn't do that or say those things to him.

Right? Pugsley couldn't tell. He knew that the "him" in question was Eugene. His name just came to mind when he woke up.

He didn't know why. But Eugene wouldn't do that sort of thing too. He was nice, sweet—and undeniably a bit adorable.

But he knew Eugene wouldn't treat him this way here. He was different from that other place. Probably.

It was just a dream anyway. Why would he care about something fake?

The bees buzzed too loud in their dorm. It felt planned. Like the bees knew what he dreamt about.

"—sley?" Eugene spoke, looking at him worriedly.

"Uh—yeah?" He responded back, snapped out of his trance.

"You haven't like said anything back in a minute, are you okay?" He asked, eyebrows raised.

" 'm fine, won't do it again—sorry." He couldn't just tell Eugene that he dreamt multiple times of different moments of them together. They were sort of romantic too—which he found.. weird.

But he also liked it at the same time.

If he told Eugene about these dreams (or glimpses of others) of them, but not them, Eugene would probably think that he'd finally reached his limit of how insane he could get.

Maybe he could believe at least one of those dreams would come true. They varied, from heart-warming to gut-wrenching. Some had happy endings, and in some others—it was left open. That it didn't need to continue, because those parts of the story where all that were needed.

He believed all of them existed.

He believed that Eugene and him were supposed to be friends in every universe that they both existed in.

But why was it that those broken memories were romantic moments between them? He knew he didn't have feelings for Eugene—I mean, Eugene's practically a normie in outcasts standards, he didn't already want to stand out more than enough in his family by liking him. It was still weird on how sometimes he'd have the urge to hold Eugene's hand and just.. not let go. He told himself it was just friendship and it stopped at that.

Eugene was talking to him, and he managed to nod and making small little "mhm" sounds at the right parts—he didn't process anything Eugene was saying, but he looked pleased to see that Pugsley was paying attention.

For the rest of the day, Pugsley contemplated.

He thought about his dreams, he didn't understand what they meant but they were something.

For the rest of the day, he was stuck—stuck with those thoughts.

He knew it was normal to have dreams that were sort of weird. But it felt real. Too real. Every detail of Wednesday felt real. He doesn't know why the dream felt more of like a memory more than a dream was.

And when he slept that night, he dreamt again.

“Oh, don’t turn this into some sob story about how poor Pugsley just wants love and attention. You’re not some tragic little outcast. You’re a walking circus!” Eugene shouted.

“I know I’m a lot,” Pugsley said, voice cracking slightly. “I know I’m weird and loud and clingy. But I never lied to you about who I was.”

His voice got quieter.

“You did.”

Eugene blinked, like he wasn't expecting Pugsley to say that.

Pugsley looked at him then, and really looked at him. “You act like you’re above all of this! Like feelings are beneath you. But I see you, Eugene. You sit up at night reading when you think I’m asleep. You take my earplugs and then complain when I snore. You hide your little bee doodles or whatever it is because you think that I'll say it's shit when I wouldn't!”

Eugene didn't respond.

Pugsley continued, the words coming faster now, blurting them all out with no remorse. “Everyday, I try to make this place feel like something more than a cage we’re forced to be in together. And everyday, you act like I’m doing something wrong just by existing near you.”

His voice cracked again—and this time he let it.

“And the worst part?” he whispered. “The worst part is that I still want you to like me.”

Eugene looked like he’d been slapped, his eyes were wide.

Pugsley’s hands dropped to his sides.

“I’m such an idiot.”

“No, you’re not.” Eugene said quietly, the words sounding like they came out of his pure thoughts and hadn't been meant to be said.

“You don’t have to like me,” Pugsley said, shaking his head. “But don’t make me feel like I’m less just because you’re scared of letting anyone in.”

“I told you,” Eugene said, defensive again. “I’m not scared.”

“Yes, you are!” Pugsley snapped, stepping closer. “Because if you weren’t, you’d admit what this is.”

“What is?”

“This,” Pugsley said, gesturing between them. “Whatever this is—the reason you look at me when you think I’m not watching. The reason you look so weirdly at me when I talk too much!”

Eugene stared at him, stunned at his words.

“Why do you care so much if I’m loud?” Pugsley asked, eyes narrowing. “Why does it bother you unless it’s because you can’t not notice me?”

Eugene’s mouth opened, closed, opened again.

“I don’t—” he started, but he didn't continue.

Pugsley gave a crooked smile. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

He turned and walked back to his desk. His hands trembled as he picked up his wrench again, but his voice was steady when he spoke:

“Don’t worry. You won’t have to deal with my voice anymore.”

Eugene didn’t say anything back.

Pugsley woke up in a panic. It felt like a nightmare rather than a dream.

Why did it feel like something that would've happened between them?

Sure, in the early days of their friendship or whatever they had—it would've probably happened. But they were friends now, something more—maybe—he didn't know what they were, but he knew they were friends.

Eugene wouldn't say these words.

And for days later after that, he couldn't stop. He couldn't shake the feeling off. It was just a dream wasn't it? Meaningless. Stupid. But it clung to him anyway.

Every time Eugene was a bit too loud, or said his name in that sort of tone he had in that dream—something in him would just twist.

He started paying attention to things he hadn’t before. The way Eugene’s voice lifted when he was excited, the way he leaned forward when he listened. How he smiled without realizing.
They’d always been close, but now Pugsley was aware of every inch between them.

He tried to act normal. He failed.

Because sometimes he’d see Eugene talking to someone else and think of that dream—of that version of Eugene who could look him in the eye and insult him with no hesitation. He’d feel it all over again, like a phantom bruise being pressed.

And yet, he still sat next to him every morning. Still walked with him to class. Still let Eugene ramble about his bees and the weather and some weird story about Wednesday being Wednesday.

Because that was what they did. That was who they were.

Until one night, when sleep finally came, the dreams came with it.

He’s back in the dorm again. The same one. Everything looks the same, except the air feels thicker. He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the wall, and he doesn’t know why his chest hurts.

He hears Eugene speak.

“I think I miss you.”

Eugene’s voice.

Pugsley shuts his eyes. “You shouldn’t.”

He hears movement—the sound of a mattress creaking as Eugene sits down.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.” Eugene says, quiet and defeated.

“You already said it,” Pugsley answers. “You said nothing.”

There’s a long pause. The air speaks with everything unspoken.

“I read everything,” Eugene finally admits, his voice small. “I didn’t mean to, but.. I couldn’t stop.”

Pugsley’s jaw tightens. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

“I didn’t know what to do—I,”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” Pugsley cuts in sharply. “You just had to be normal. You just had to not disappear.”

Eugene opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

“I didn’t disappear,” he tries weakly.

“You left,” Pugsley snaps, looking at him—really looking at him. “You just did it while standing in the same room.”

“If you didn’t care, you should’ve just said so.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

The silence after that feels unbearable.

Then Eugene breaks it. “Do you.. still write about me?”

Pugsley woke up before he could answer.

His throat was dry. His chest ached. The room was dim and quiet, only the faint buzzing of the bees outside their window breaking the silence.

He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, feeling the dream stick to him like sap.

Why did it always feel like he was losing Eugene in every version of his dreams?

Why couldn’t he dream of something good for once?

He turned his head to the side. Eugene was asleep, one arm dangling off the bed, his mouth slightly open. Peaceful. Unaware.

Pugsley wanted to be angry. He wanted to shake him awake and demand why his mind couldn’t let him go—why every time he closed his eyes, Eugene was there, hurting him in ways he couldn’t even name.

But he didn’t move.

He just watched.

Because, he didn't really hate it.

He didn't want those dreams to stop.

Because, in each and every one of them—they were together. And he was fine with that.

Pugsley sat at his desk, fiddling with a pen he wasn't planning to use.

Eugene was across the room, working on fixing a broken part of a terrarium. Ever so often, he'd glance at Pugsley—and their eyes would meet before Eugene would tear away the gaze.

It wasn't really anything unusual, he'd seen him like this before—but now it just felt different. Knowing that there was something that made Pugsley's chest tighten.

"Hey.." Eugene said hesitantly, not looking up. "You.. you okay..?"

He didn't answer him right away.

"You've been like.. avoiding me." Eugene said, softly. Not teasing. Not accusatory. But he sounded genuine. Curious.

Pugsley shrugged, "I'm not."

He raised an eyebrow. "Really? You've been sorta quiet recently. You barely talked with the others at lunch you know."

Pugsley froze.

He remembered the sting of that dream. The shouting. The words he wanted to erase from his mind but couldn't help but replay. He wanted to tell him that it had nothing to do with him, that dreams weren't even real, and nothing mattered—but yet, he stayed silent.

"I'm fine," He said, forcing the lies to come out. "Just.. thinking, is all."

Eugene tilted his head slightly, studying him. There was something about the way he looked at him. Unflinching and it didn't tear away as easily as it usually did. he hated that. He hated that Eugene could read him so easily. Even when he tried to hide.

"Thinking about what?"

He looked down, twirling the pen around.

He didn't answer. Instead, he watched Eugene from the corner of his eye, the way he was careful with the parts of the broken terrarium, the little tired sigh he had when something didn't fit right or didn't work properly.

It was sort of mesmerizing.

He couldn't take his eyes away.

He shook his head slightly, trying to take his gaze off—trying to convince himself to stop staring.

"You've been staring a lot at me today you know."

.

.

.

"... What? I-I wasn't! Honest." He said, eyes widened.

He smirked slightly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right. Not staring."

He wanted to say something clever back, something that would make Eugene laugh. But the words stuck to his throat, and his mind refused to cooperate.

So he just nodded.

Eugene went back to his work, tapping a tiny screwdriver on the edge of the table. The sound was rhythmic, and somehow—somehow it made Pugsley's chest ache.

He didn't know he was holding his breath until Eugene looked up at him again. "Are you okay? Like actually." He said, concerned.

He swallowed, he wanted to say yes—he wanted to just say everything, about the dreams, how he felt, why Eugene was in his thoughts even though he tried not to let him be there. But he didn't.

"Yeah," He whispered. "Don't worry."

He nodded once, going back to his work.

For the rest of the afternoon, they worked in unison in silence—He tried to focus, but his mind was elsewhere. But ever so often, he'd catch Eugene looking at him and a weird sort of flutter he'd never really cared about before, would flutter even more than it had before—still small, but undeniable.

And for the first time, Pugsley didn't see Eugene as just a friend.

Not just that.

And he wasn't sure if he liked it or if he was terrified.

The next morning, Pugsley found Eugene already awake—books opened and assignments carelessly scattered on his desk—pen in hand.

"Morning." Eugene said, softly—not looking up.

"Morning." He mumbled back in response, plopping down on his chair and grabbing a wrench—trying not to stare.

For the first few minutes, they worked in silence. Pugsley was trying to focus on his own personal project—yet, his eyes kept wandering to a certain person. Eugene's hands wrote fast, and precise—moving with an intensity that made Pugsley's chest twist weirdly. He hated himself for noticing, but he couldn't stop.

"So.." Eugene started, looking up at him hesitantly. "You're still.. fine right?"

He paused for a moment—his wrench frozen in his hand. He wanted to lie. But something, something in Eugene's face made him hesitate.

"I'm fine." He said quietly—the words sounding more hesitated than a response.

He hummed, nodding. His gaze lingered on Pugsley for a bit longer, a pause that said more than words ever could.

His stomach did that weird fluttering and knotting thing again. He didn't like it. Not hate. But he wanted to shove it down deep into his mind and just never acknowledge it ever again.

"Hey," Eugene said suddenly, smile faint. "Do you wanna help me with this?" He gestured at the books scattered around his desk.

He hesitated for a moment—his instincts were telling him to just not do it and to focus on his own work, but who was he to follow his own instincts?

"Sure." He stood, moving closer to him.

As they worked together, side by side—there was a little shift in the air. The room felt smaller and warm, like the room was closing in on them together. Each accidental brush of shoulders made his heart go wild, and for the first time in a few days—he felt safe. Content, almost.

"Thanks." Eugene said, looking at one assignment he'd manage to finish. "I like doing this with you."

He nodded, "I like it too."

Eugene's smile widened slightly, and Pugsley felt a small pang. Not sadness. Maybe hope. But he doesn't want to call it that. It would be bad if he called it anything.

For the rest of the morning, they sat together—talking about the subject and assignments they were doing, filling the silence.

By the time lunch came around, Pugsley realized he had thought of Eugene in ways he hadn't before. Not in dreams or other universes. But him. The way he laughed, the little breaths he took and everything he hadn't noticed. It was.. unfamiliar, new. He always thought this sort of thing would be painful to think about, but.. it wasn't entirely. It was alive.

He glanced at Eugene who was packing up his things, and for a brief second—Eugene looked at him back. Their eyes met, and something unnameable—a connection, undeniable but true.

He looked away quickly, going back to his own lunch. Somewhere deep inside, he realized that maybe, maybe, he was finally seeing him.

That night, he couldn't sleep.

He tried—closing his eyes shut, turning and tossing, not thinking—but his mind couldn't quiet down.

Every time he started to doze off, his brain would flicker with images. Not memories. Not exactly, at least. Just flashes, flashes—of Eugene's face saying words he didn't remember him ever saying, under a dim light and the feeling of something hanging between the both of them.

He wasn't supposed to think about these things. They were just dreams. But lately, each dream kept coming more and more often—coming more as a memory and not just a dream, each one was clearer than the last. It sort of terrified him. That they started to actually feel real.

He glanced at Eugene's bed, the other boy was asleep—the rise and fall of his chest a rhythm. He envied him for that. Being able to sleep without a hundred other versions of another reality clawing your mind

Eventually, exhaustion won.

And the next dream began.

He found himself looking at him.

"You've been weird lately." He heard himself speak.

"Weird?" He could only assume he was in Eugene's body.

"Yeah. Like.. quieter. You avoiding me or something?"

It sounded like a joke—light and easy. But he found Pugsley—his own eyes lingering on the body he was in for any emotion, for something—anything.

And his own thoughts were invaded by a different voice in his head. He felt himself crack. But it wasn't him that he felt crack.

'Yes, I'm avoiding you because I want too much, that it hurts, because you only want a friend and I want something so much more than that—and I don't think I can stop wanting.'

What?

He felt himself swallow, feeling his face forcing a smile. "Nah. Just tired."

He watched as Pugsley—himself scan him, then shrug. "Don't burn yourself out, dude. You know I've got your back."

And that—that broke something in his chest. Even though it wasn't even his. It still hurt.

Maybe because he found that he meant it. That he cared. But not in the way Eugene did.

And that night, he found himself transitioning—a place to another—whispering words in the empty room that only he could hear.

"Why can't I hold him the way I want to?"

When Pugsley woke up, it was early—barely even morning.

He sat up slowly, his chest beating in ways he didn't understand.

he could still hear the whispered words in his head.

"Why can't I hold him the way I want to?"

It didn't feel like hearing someone else, but being someone else.

Pugsley pressed his palms over his eyes, groaning quietly. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

Across the room—Eugene stirred in bed, "You good?" he murmured sleepily, still drowsy.

" 'm fine, just some dream stuff." He hummed something back in response, going back to sleep in seconds.

Pugsley stared.

For a long time, he didn't move.

Because now, he didn't know if the ache in his chest even belonged to him. Or if it was another him that owned it.

He didn't know which scared him more.

The next morning, the place felt off. Not off, exactly—but shifted. Like someone managed to tilt the whole world by a few degrees and he was the only person to notice.

The sunlight that spilled through the curtains felt too pale. The hum of bees were too distant, muffled somehow. Even Eugene’s usual talking—normally the first sound to pull him out of sleep—was quiet.

Pugsley blinked against the light and found Eugene already dressed, hunched over his desk. His curls were a mess, hands fidgeting with a pen. He wasn’t writing—just spinning it between his fingers.

The same person from the dream. The same voice that had whispered "Why can’t I hold him the way I want to?"

It hadn’t even been his voice, but now—watching Eugene like this, Pugsley couldn’t separate the two.

He swallowed. “You didn’t sleep?”

Eugene startled a little, looking up. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I—uh—woke up early, I guess.”

He said it casually, but his eyes darted away too fast, his smile too small.

Pugsley wanted to ask what was wrong. He wanted to tell him about the dream—the one that felt too real, too close—but his tongue wouldn’t dare make a move.

So instead, he nodded. “Right. Early.”

Eugene grinned weakly, rubbing the back of his neck. “You, uh—talked in your sleep.”

Pugsley froze. “What’d I say?”

Eugene shrugged. “Didn’t really catch it. Just your name, maybe? Or mine. It’s whatever.”

The way he said it—light, dismissive—was too practiced. Like he’d already decided it wasn’t worth remembering in his mind.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Pugsley forced a laugh out. “Guess I was arguing with someone in my dreams.”

Eugene smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Happens to the best of us.”

The room fell into a strange silence. Not the comfortable kind they used to share—just still, heavy type of quiet. The kind where everything unsaid seemed to echo louder than anything said.

Pugsley sat up, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t stop seeing fragments of the dream—the way he heard Eugene's voice be so sincere, the way it had hurt.

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t real. That the ache in his chest was just the dream lingering, not anything more.

But when Eugene glanced back at him, eyes tired and distant in a way they hadn’t been before, Pugsley felt that same hollow ache twist deep inside him.

Like maybe—just maybe—the dreams weren’t dreams at all.

Maybe they were warnings. For something,

They walked to class together, like always.

Eugene talked about a bee that had escaped the hive last night, about maybe naming it “Rebel” if it ever came back. His voice was bright again, like sunlight through glass—but Pugsley could tell the cracks were still there.

He wanted to say something. Anything.

He wanted to ask if Eugene was okay. If something had happened. If he was the reason Eugene sounded like he was trying too hard to be okay.

But instead, he laughed at the right parts, nodded when he should’ve, and kept walking.

And in between the words, something quiet grew.

A distance that wasn’t physical—but felt like it anyway.

That night, Pugsley didn’t even try to stay awake.

He knew the dreams would come again.

And part of him wanted them to.

Because maybe—if he dreamt enough—he’d understand what they were trying to tell him.

Or maybe, he just wanted to see Eugene again.

Even if it wasn’t real.

And he dreamt.

“I was kind of an asshole.” He heard Eugene admit, hands in his pockets.

“You still kind of are.” Pugsley said, feeling his body turning slightly so one of his eyes could look at Eugene. “But I’ve met worse than what you are.”

“I just—” He heard him hesitate. “Everything’s been so different lately. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You’re allowed to be mad,” He said, his voice sounding flat—yet with meaning. “Just don’t pretend I don’t matter.”

“You do,” he said, quieter now. “Matter, I mean—to me.”

Pugsley turned to fully look at him, Eugene facing him.

“I know I do.” He said back in response before waking up.

When Pugsley woke up, he didn't wake up feeling an ache in his chest or a dry throat and a wet face. It wasn't like the dreams that left him hollow and empty. This one—this one left a lingering warmth in him—he heard his heart beat pulse softly behind his ribs, he sat up slowly—hearing the rise and fall of his breaths from the room he was in. He let the feeling settle over him, hands pressed on his knees.

The dream wasn't perfect—hell, he didn't even know what it meant. But it was something unlike the others. Something he could hold onto for some sort of stability. It was a soft kind of ache, the kind that appeared when he was Eugene.

And he had only started to realize now that he liked the ache. He could still feel the certainty of Eugene's words in his head—"You do, matter—I mean—to me."

Something fluttered in his chest, something gentle—and impossibly hopeful.

"Morning." He heard Eugene speak.

"Morning." He mumbled back. But there was something different in the way he said it. Like he was savoring the presence of him.

"You seem good today." he smiled slightly.

He blinked, caught off-guard momentarily—he tilted his head casually, "Yeah, I sort of am."

He nodded slowly, but he could feel that Eugene still had some doubt in his eyes.

Breakfast passed in near silence, but not the same kind of empty quiet that had haunted them before. This was.. different. It was warm, with a subtle tension Pugsley couldn’t explain, but he liked it.

When Eugene laughed at a joke Pugsley didn’t even hear, Pugsley felt a little flutter in his chest. Not pain, not hollowness. But good flutter.

And for the first time in a long while, Pugsley realized—he wanted more. He didn’t fully understand it yet. He didn’t have words for it. But he wanted to be close, to be noticed, to matter. He wanted to hear the Eugene he had in his universe to say that he mattered.

The ache from the dream still lingered behind his ribs, soft and almost sweet.

It wasn’t terrifying.

It wasn’t unbearable.

It was something like hope.

And maybe, he thought—just maybe—that was enough to start.

The next morning, the dorm felt softer somehow. Light slipped through the curtains, cutting across Eugene’s face as he sat by the window, sketching something in his notebook. The pages were half-covered in bees and half-covered in something that might’ve been Pugsley’s shadow—though he’d deny that if asked.

Pugsley blinked in a haze, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “You’ve been up long?”

Eugene looked up, startled. “Uh—yeah. Couldn’t sleep.”

He said it too quickly, and Pugsley caught it—the way Eugene’s voice always trembled when he wasn’t telling the whole truth.

“You could’ve woken me,” Pugsley muttered, sitting up and ruffling his hair. “I don’t mind though.”

Eugene smiled faintly, eyes flicking to him and away again. “You looked.. peaceful.”

Pugsley squinted at him. “What, do you watch me sleep now?”

Eugene coughed, cheeks going pink. “No! I just—you were snoring, man.”

“Sure I was.” Pugsley said, grinning—snickering under his breath.

It was the kind of morning that felt delicate—like one wrong word might shatter it. Eugene laughed, quiet and breathy, and Pugsley felt something twist warm in his stomach.

Later, they ended up in the greenhouse. Eugene was explaining something about hive patterns, talking fast with his hands, and Pugsley wasn’t listening—not really. He was watching Eugene’s mouth move. The way his lips curved around the words, the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about something he loved.

“—and that’s why they always go back to the same flower.”

“Huh?” Pugsley blinked.

Eugene sighed, smiling. “You weren’t listening.”

“Sure I was,” Pugsley said, leaning against the table. “You said something about.. uhhmm...—flowers?”

Eugene rolled his eyes. “Unbelievable.”

“You’re cute when you’re mad, you know.” Pugsley said before he could stop himself.

Eugene froze.

The silence stretched, heavy, alive.

Then Pugsley cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to examine one of the honey jars. “I mean, you get cute when you talk about bees. That’s all I meant.”

“Right—uh huh—” Eugene said, too fast. “Bees.”

But his voice sounded different—quieter, more careful. And when their eyes met again, neither of them looked away.

By dinner, everything between them felt slightly off-balance, like something had shifted but neither of them had the nerve to name it. Eugene’s hand brushed against Pugsley’s when they reached for the same plate, and instead of pulling away, they both froze.

The contact lasted less than a second—skin against skin—but it was enough to make Pugsley’s heart lurch.

Eugene swallowed hard. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Pugsley said, too quickly. He was still staring at their hands even after Eugene moved his away.

They didn’t talk much after that. The silence wasn’t awkward—it just was, thick with something neither of them wanted to admit.

Back in the dorm, Pugsley sat cross-legged on his bed while Eugene changed the sheets on his. The hum of the bees outside the window was steady, soothing.

“You’ve been quiet all day.” Eugene said after a while.

“So have you.” Pugsley replied.

Eugene gave a small laugh. “Guess we’re both being weird.”

Pugsley tilted his head. “You ever think maybe we’re just like.. weirdly tuned to each other?”

Eugene glanced at him, eyes wide—startled, then soft. “Maybe.”

For a long moment, they just looked at each other. The space between their beds didn’t feel far at all.

Pugsley smiled, a little crooked. “Good. I don’t want to be out of tune with you.”

Something flickered in Eugene’s gaze—warmth, or something dangerously close to it.

He looked away first. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” Pugsley murmured, voice almost fond. “You love it.”

Eugene didn’t answer. But when he turned off the light, Pugsley swore he saw the smallest smile on his face—the kind that meant more than either of them dared to say.

Sleep came slow. Pugsley lay there listening to the quiet breathing from the other bed, the hum of bees just beyond the glass, and the faint ache that wasn’t really pain.

It was warmth. Wanting. Something like hope.

And when the dream came, it came gently—like an echo from a softer world.

He blinked, and there was Eugene again, sitting with him on the same bed in the dim light.

“I sped up my blood flow using my sparks. If I use it subtly on my body.. it speeds up my blood flow and it makes my skin run warm.” He flexed his fingers slightly, letting Eugene feel the faint waves of electricity through his skin again, just enough to notice, just enough to be aware.

He watched as Eugene scanned their intertwined hands, feeling Eugene's own pulse speed up slightly.

Then, in the next second—he watched his body move without permission, their arms wrapping around each other. He didn't know what he was doing, but his mind was going wild and crazy and all of the sorts.

He felt the warmth become equal in their arms, and his mouth spoke.

"So," He said, grin widening slightly. "Tell me when it gets hot, okay?"

And he felt Eugene freeze in place. He was clearly stunned. Even though this wasn't real, he kind of liked seeing Eugene like that.

"Oh-okay.. cool." he whispered back in response. He saw how pink he was. Pugsley can only wonder that—if he did this in their world, would Eugene do that too? Would he be pink as pink as he was in this dream?

"Good, that's good." He stopped for a moment. "You're like.. a good friend."

He watched as Eugene pulled his arm back slightly, but he watched as his body moved without command and their arms were kept intact by him—still comfortable but impossible to let go. Like how he felt for Eugene.

"You're.. warm." He heard him say—sounding casual but sort of breathlessly—like he was trying to adjust to this soft side of him.

And Pugsley didn't get to respond, because in the next second—he saw the bright light of the morning seeping through their curtains—it was already day, it being the weekend. For a second, he didn't move. He just laid there in his bed—unmoving.

His skin still felt warm. Too warm. Like his body hadn’t caught up with reality yet.

He pressed his palm to his face, exhaling slow. The sensation of Eugene’s hand—or what his brain thought was Eugene’s hand—was still there. That pulse of electricity that wasn’t his. The way he’d said you’re warm.

And now it wouldn’t leave his head.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair, groaning softly. “What the hell was that.”

It wasn’t like the other dreams—those were broken in a way, sharp, full of guilt and distance. This one was soft. Too soft. And that was the problem.

Because somewhere in that softness, he’d felt something that didn’t feel like confusion anymore. It felt like wanting.

He shook his head. “It’s just a dream..” he muttered, but his voice was too thin, too careful.

Then there was a knock on the dorm door.

“Pugsley?” Eugene’s voice, muffled through the wood.

Pugsley’s entire body went stiff.

He hesitated before answering, “Yeah?”

“You up?”

“Yeah,” he said again, a little too fast. “Yeah, I’m up.”

“Cool. There's breakfast already by the way. Wednesday’s already judging me for getting the stuff she likes.”

Pugsley managed a half-smile even though his heart was racing. “I’ll be there.”

He sat there for a few seconds after Eugene’s footsteps faded, staring at the empty space in front of him.

He wished he could say the dream didn’t mean anything. But it was the way Eugene’s voice still echoed in his head that told him it did.

He couldn't contemplate about this right now. He had breakfast to get to, and he was starving. He dragged himself out of bed, still dazed from the dream. His feet hit the ground, cold and hard—but his mind wasn't on the ground, it was somewhere in the clouds. Somewhere where things were warm and simple, and you didn't have to know if things were real or not.

He splashed water on his face before getting ready and heading to the dining room—he was trying to wash out the lingering electricity in his arms that seemed to hum all throughout his body. But yet, there he was—Eugene, sitting at their usual spot—expression nervous, Wednesday standing over him with a scowl on her face.

"Oh my God—Pugsley, thank God—" Eugene said worriedly, eyes looking up and darting to Wednesday and him.

"Morning to you too." He snickered.

"Pugsley." She said coldly, stare still plastered on Eugene—her arms crossed.

She bent down to Eugene's ear, whispering, he barely managed to catch it, "The last thing you will taste is the metallic taste of your blood in your mouth." before she stood back again properly—with Eugene looking absolutely terrified, "I will see you soon."

He watched as Eugene gulped, only relaxing once she walked away. "Oh my God. I'm so glad you were there."

Pugsley slid into the chair next to him, watching as Eugene took big breaths. Eugene continued, "Oh-uhm..—good morning by the way."

He leaned closer slightly, observing him quietly—"You look a bit tired."

He hummed. "Weird, weird dreams."

That caught Eugene's attention. "Weird how?"

Pugsley hesitated, fork hovering above his plate. His mind flashed through the images—their hands, the warmth, the words. “Just like.. weird in general.” he said finally, a little too fast.

“Like the ‘someone is chasing me’ kind or the ‘I just kissed my best friend’ kind?” Eugene teased, trying to sound casual.

And Pugsley froze.

Eugene laughed, like it was nothing. “Relax. I’m kidding. You look like you saw a ghost.”

“Yeah,” Pugsley said quietly, forcing a grin. “Something like that, I guess.”

He stared at his plate, but he couldn’t eat. His stomach twisted at the sound of Eugene’s laugh—how easy it was for him, how close it sounded to the one in the dream.

Because now every time Eugene looked at him, Pugsley’s brain filled in the rest. The closeness. The warmth. The heartbeat against his own.

He hated how real it felt.

But more than that, he hated how much a part of him wanted it to be.

The afternoon came—and Eugene was half-sprawled on his bed, notebook open, pretending to write something useful. Pugsley sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddling with a jar of honey Eugene had left on the nightstand, spinning it absently between his palms.

It should’ve felt normal. It didn’t.

“Your bees have been weird lately, honestly.” Pugsley said, voice too casual.

Eugene looked up. “Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Buzzing more. Like they’re gossiping.”

“They’re bees, dude. They always gossip.”

Pugsley snorted, but the sound cracked halfway through. He didn’t look up, just rolled the jar again, sunlight glinting off the amber. Eugene watched the way it painted gold across Pugsley’s knuckles.

He shouldn’t have noticed that.

When Pugsley finally glanced up, their eyes met. Too long. Just long enough for the air to change shape around them.

Eugene coughed, suddenly fascinated with his notebook. “You, uh—you still spar with Wednesday on Thursdays?”

“Yeah.” Pugsley grinned, bright and crooked. “She keeps threatening to stab me in the leg, but I think that’s just her love language.”

Eugene smiled despite himself. “Sounds healthy.”

A pause. Not silence, but something heavier. Or maybe lighter.

Pugsley tilted his head. “You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“That thing where you look like you’re gonna say something, then don’t.”

Eugene’s laugh was soft, thin. “Maybe I like keeping you guessing.”

Pugsley’s grin faltered, then came back slower, warmer. “Yeah? Keep doing it then. It’s kinda fun.”

He moved up to the bed without thinking, collapsing beside Eugene, close enough that their shoulders brushed. Neither of them moved away.

The buzz of the bees outside the window blended with the steady rhythm of two heartbeats trying way too hard to stay calm.

Pugsley leaned back on his hands, close enough for the faint electricity of him to hum through the air. It wasn’t enough to spark—just enough that Eugene felt it, like the memory of the dream still echoing somewhere under his skin.

“Y’know,” Pugsley murmured, “You’re warm for a guy who keeps saying he’s cold-blooded.”

Eugene huffed. “And you’re terrible at personal space.”

“Yeah, but you never actually tell me to move.”

That landed somewhere between them, quiet and heavy.

Eugene’s pulse skipped. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”

Pugsley turned, slowly, like he was afraid any sudden movement would make it less real.

And for a heartbeat—just one—they both hovered there, the world narrowing to breath and eyes and almost.

Then Pugsley smiled—small, knowing, like he’d figured something out he wasn’t ready to say.

He nudged Eugene’s shoulder. “You hungry? I’m starving.”

Eugene exhaled, shaky, relieved and disappointed all at once. “Yeah. Let’s get food.”

As they stood, their fingers brushed. Just a touch.

Neither of them pulled away.

The courtyard was almost empty by late afternoon. The bees drifted lazily above the flowerbeds, sunlight leaking through windows like honey. It was quiet enough that Eugene could hear every shift of Pugsley’s breath beside him.

They were sitting close again—too close, really—but neither said anything. Pugsley was leaning back on his elbows, the loose curls at his neck catching the light. Eugene tried not to look. He failed miserably.

“You ever think,” Pugsley said suddenly, “that we spend too much time pretending we don’t feel things?”

Eugene blinked. “Where’s that coming from?”

He shrugged, eyes on the sky. “Just dreams, maybe. Weird ones.”

Would it be bad to admit?

.

.

.

.

.

It wouldn't hurt to take a chance.

He let out a small laugh that didn’t sound like amusement. “I keep seeing us—me and you—but not us. Like other versions. They fight. Or they don’t. Sometimes they don’t even talk. Sometimes they..” he hesitated, “—sometimes they’re close.”

Eugene’s throat went dry. “Close?”

“Yeah.” Pugsley’s eyes found his. “Closer than this right now.”

The air between them calmed.

Eugene wanted to say something, anything, but his voice was a ghost.

“So I think maybe..” Pugsley continued, his tone quieter now, “If I can feel that in a dream, maybe it means something. Maybe it means I want to feel it here too.”

Eugene stared at him—really stared. “You—” he began, then stopped. “You mean—”

“Yeah.” Pugsley’s smile was soft, nervous, too honest for its own good. “I think I do.”

And then he moved. Slowly, like he was waiting for Eugene to stop him. He didn’t.

The warmth between them folded in, and before Eugene could think, before either of them could talk themselves out of it—Pugsley kissed him.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t perfect. It was just soft and real and finally. Like the universe had been hinting at this in every dream and had finally decided to let it happen.

Eugene’s hands found their way to the front of Pugsley’s jacket, holding him there, not too tightly—just enough to make sure it wasn’t another dream slipping through his fingers.

Pugsley’s sparks flickered against his skin, gentle, like they’d learned how to touch instead of burn.

When they pulled apart, both of them were laughing. Breathless, stunned, and alive.

Pugsley grinned first. “So.. guess this is the part where we stop pretending, huh?”

Eugene nodded, cheeks pink. “Yeah. I think I’m done pretending.”

There was no grand declaration. No dramatic music.

Just sunlight, and bees, and the feeling of something right at last.

And when he slept that night—the universe sent Pugsley just one more sign. And this time, it was as clear as day.

“I won’t ever leave.” He heard himself speak. And the words were right.

Both of their voices were shaking, but his voice was filled with absolute certainty.

“You came. You always did.” He watched Eugene smile.

“And I’m glad I did.”

Their hands trembled as they hug each other tighter, never letting go.

“Would I be enough for you to stay?”

“You always were, even before you said a word to me.”

Eugene’s face crumbles, a sob escaping his throat as they clung to each other like a lifeline.

“I’m scared.”

“I know.”

He feels his body move without command, leaning in and kissing him—even though his body moved even though he hadn't told it to, he still would've kissed him anyway if he did have control over his body.

“Stay,” Eugene begs, “even if I break again.” He knows Pugsley will always reply with the same answer. And yet, Pugsley never hesitates to say the same thing, over and over—no matter the universe they were in. Sure, this was a dream—but he'd still say that he'd stay to make Eugene happy no matter what.

“Then I’ll pick up the pieces with you.”

And Eugene doesn’t let go, because he knows Pugsley won’t too.

When Pugsley wakes up, he stares at the boy that loves him. And he knows what this dream is about. He knows that now—in every universe they were meant to be.

Maybe, In another universe—they weren't meant to be lovers, but they were still together.

Maybe, in another universe—Pugsley would be the one to whisper Eugene's name like a shield while he slept.

Maybe, in another universe—Pugsley would be the reason Eugene slept well at night.

Maybe, in another universe—Pugsley yearned.

Maybe, in another universe—Eugene would want.

But in this one?

Maybe, in this universe—they had a chance.