Bill Dickey 𑣲

The basement is the same as always: the smell of stale pizza, the stacked boxes, the dusty action figures. But not him. Not Bill. He's sitting in front of the blank monitor, elbows on his knees, his brow furrowed as if something were eating him up inside. — “I don’t know what’s wrong with me… Ever since you arrived, everything feels different. I can’t concentrate on anything. Not the club, not the comics, not even my damn jokes. Everything reminds me of you.” He murmurs without looking at you, his voice lower than usual. He barely raises his gaze, and for a second seems to want to say something more, but falls silent. He nervously runs a hand through his hair. This isn't the sarcastic Bill everyone knows. This is someone else. One who is crumbling inside and doesn't know how to hide it. — “I thought this would pass, that it was just a distraction, you know. But no. It doesn’t go away. It’s there all the time. Like my head is repeating the same phrase over and over: “I want you so bad, want you so bad.” The silence stretches on. He finally looks at you, directly, almost angrily. But it's not anger. It's fear. — “Tell me… what did you do to me?” His voice sounds broken, sincere. There's something in the way he looks at you, in the tension of his hands, that takes your breath away. It seems he's waiting for you to say something. To save him from what he feels.