Quibble buys a stack of Terry Pratchett novels because they fit in his coat pocket and because he likes them. Then he sits in front of Wilder’s apartment in the horrible winter cold, wearing gloves and sipping from a thermos. He reads his books with light attention, eyes occasionally flicking up toward their barred window, their apartment door. This is how he notices Wilder’s tightening orbit before they notice it themself.
At first, Wilder tries to exist as they always have, ignoring their newfound Awakened Power (and huffily and purposefully ignoring Quibble, though they can plainly see him, day in and day out). They walk to the library, but that is, potentially, the worst place they could try to work, for it is a swirl of whispered language.
Another morning, they try to work at a bakery close by, which Wilder hates because they have to spend money to be there. No sooner than they’d sat, they are chased out of the room by Czech.
Then it is to the grocery store only—and Quibble notices, of course, that they look like they’re summer-sweating in the dead of winter when they leave the store, quicker than he anticipated (and with about half of what they actually need).
Then it is just to the tamale woman for a lunch one day as to avoid the grocery store a little while longer, but Wilder can’t help but order in Spanish and they look like they’re going to pass out as they speak. The sensation: like taking a sip of seemingly refreshing water from a glass and instead getting a mouthful of a single round rock that tastes orange and knocks against their teeth.
Then they do not leave at all. Through all this, Quibble sits and reads. And watches.
The Two of Swords-ness goes on for some days—enough days to be counted in weeks, but only just. The thing that breaks the stalemate is Wilder’s migraine, which is unfortunate—it could’ve been personal growth, a longing for softness and connection, anything. But it is pain. Whenever they do bring themself to leave the apartment, all the words sound like they are melting, the world too loud and nonsensical. Now even Andy’s voice is beginning to give them as much stereo static as the outside world, and while he is frequently asleep, Wilder notices their butthole clenching before they can get surprised. In their own home! It is untenable, to exist this way all the time, and no amount of Reddit or YouTube has brought them closer to balance or control.
The other thing that breaks the self-imposed siege is money. Wilder cannot get the itch out of their head, what Quibble said on that first day: “You could work at the UN.” And they haven’t been able to work their normal way with the constant headache; their bank account is so empty it’s starting to smell like basement mold.
And yes, deep down, there it is: the longing to return to Cowboy Jacqueline’s. To see the Adam and Steve Show, which is fast approaching, though how they will do it, they’re not sure.
Finally, finally, they walk up to Quibble on one afternoon in the cold-bright sun, squinting even as they wear sunglasses. Quibble notices, also, that they have earplugs in, the cheap kind from the pharmacy. Instead of any of the more polite options, Wilder opens with “Don’t you work?”
“Nope,” Quibble says with a smile. Not a sarcastic one, either. Just a turning up at the corners of his mouth with the ease of someone who doesn’t worry about money. He puts his book aside, cocks his head like an attentive dog. He wants to say a thousand things that are gentle roasts and lightly sarcastic, but he holds his tongue as he holds his breath. He doesn’t want to scare Wilder back into their apartment. He just waits, listens.
The city seems to help. It goes quiet in that moment, a rare and incredible stillness. It’s difficult for Wilder not to experience both a momentary relief and a subliminal interpretation of that shining comfortable second as a sign, a brief calm breath that means they’re doing the right thing, the destined thing, the only thing. They are going to quip back, “Must be nice,” and in the version of the world where they do, this conversation doesn’t go as well. But with the weight of the city lifted in reversed gravity, they don’t. And it could be Magic, it’s true, that this near-silence happens right this very instant. But it could also be random, the consequence of living in Queens long enough that, occasionally, there is a rare moment when everyone’s brief pause lines up perfectly, a trick of statistics made possible only by a chaotic world. And isn’t that Magic in and of itself, anyhow?
“You could teach me to control it?” they ask instead.
Quibble’s head remains cocked as he thinks. “It depends on what you mean by ‘teach.’ More like we all troubleshoot together until we figure something out. We tell you what we do, we see if it works, and if it doesn’t, we keep thinking and trying.”
Wilder wishes there were a formula, a quick way to ensure they stop feeling like this. They’re in so much pain. But they also know, deep down, nothing is fast like that. “Okay,” they say.
“Okay?” asks Quibble.
“Yeah. Okay. But I’m not joining anything. I just—Maybe just talk me through it. Once. And we’ll see.”
Quibble stands, puts his book in his coat pocket, and rubs his hands together. “If I have only one shot, you gotta really do it, okay? Like don’t phone it in and then say it doesn’t work.”
Wilder nods in response.
“Great,” Quibble continues. “Then if I only have the one shot and we’re going to do it right, we need to get to Artemis.” He reaches into his pocket and checks his phone. “She’s at work. It’s either three trains or Magic, your pick.”
Wilder thinks about all the languages ricocheting off the closed train car doors and turns an even shittier shade of green. “Magic,” and they are surprised at how easy the call is. But they cannot imagine willingly jamming into a metro.
“Okay, bud!” Quibble grins, tasting the exclamation mark at the end of his two-word sentence with relish. He is genuinely happy to share this with Wilder. Because it’s so—wild. Only two other people in the entire world have seen him the way Wilder’s about to. He is proud; the pride is hard-won.
When it came to his own Awakening, Quibble had it rough. He woke one morning feeling different, same as Wilder, but his Power was far less obvious, and he was deep in mourning. Numb. Not his most observant. Mostly he had the urge to put his hands in things. Rustic sacks of dried black beans at the fancy grocery store. Boxes after unboxing, filled to the brim with Styrofoam packing peanuts as he slowly began to sift through their things, sobbing. He wrote it off as a stress response, a sensory thing, just him being weird. He watched old Gak commercials from the ’90s and the fledgling slime Instagrams that would someday grow into whole teenage-craze conventions. Even competitive diving seemed satisfying somehow. Submersion. A body cutting through water, disappearing. He imagined what the cool, chlorinated liquid closing around him would feel like on his skin. He took a break from cleansing his life of his suddenly dead parents and shoving down his brand-new gender feelings; he went to Riis Beach, like many queers before him, to stand in the waves.
When he bent down to scoop up salt-watered sand in his hands and drop it back into the water, he felt a pull. A small whirlpool opened at his feet, no bigger than the Frisbees thrown on the shore. Curious, Quibble dipped a toe in. His entire foot submerged, then his ankle. The hole went quite a bit deeper than the inch or so of sand he’d removed. His eyes widened. What had he uncovered? He crouched down to get a better look. Was that the sun on the water, flicking the light around like so many fingers? Or was that—What was that?
Quibble shakes off the instant replay. Years and many trips between points in space later, he says to Wilder, “Keep your hands on my shoulders,” more confidently than he feels, “and don’t let go no matter what.” Partnered travel is still new for him. Something only Artemis and Mary Margaret have tried with him over short distances. Artemis let go on purpose once, just to see what would happen, and nearly fell down the stairs in her building. Quibble would feel much better if he could grab on to Wilder’s wrists and hold on tightly, but he needs both his hands free to start and end. Occasionally in the middle, too, when things became inexplicably rougher than normal, though it had been smooth sailing earlier today. Thank Goddess for little miracles. Quibble’s stomach lurches. This is the farthest he’s gone partnered. He is terrified. He tries not to show it. He tries not to feel it.
Wilder’s hands on his shoulders are both ice cold and clammy at once, and timid in their grip. “Like this?”
“Actually—go around my waist. With your whole forearm.”
It’s like riding on a motorcycle, Wilder imagines, except more awkward, being that there isn’t a motorcycle under them. They try to make sure their chest doesn’t touch Quibble’s back, but to get their forearms around him, they connect solidly at the waist. They feel his stomach tighten as they clasp their own wrists. “Like this?” they check once more.
Quibble nods and tries to drop his shoulders down his back, plug them in. He takes a deep breath; it’s no good to do it scared. Then he’ll have two problems: scared and difficult. He sends his breath to the tips of his fingers until they feel the itch to submerge, pull, reach. He can’t see his own Power—that’s Artemis’s jam—but she’d described to him, once, what it looks like: his fingers dance with sparks, then run orange-hot like creeping lava.
He softens his gaze, lets his eyes unfocus until he can see the little dots swimming everywhere around him. Something to hold on to, something to rip. It used to be he could only do it with something physical, like bed linens or bread dough. In the months after the beach, he’d carried his mother’s moth-eaten silk scarves around with him in his backpack, ripping them angrily whenever he wanted to travel.
He folds. Grabs the air with one buzzing Hand and pulls. He feels Wilder hug themself into his back. The opening to That Place yawns before them. Time-space tears, big enough to accommodate a person, gaping like a train tunnel, a great black hole crawling with light-worms that don’t glow, not exactly. “If you shut your eyes,” Quibble says, “it’s worse.” He takes the first step forward. Steady. Breathing. He walks into the flickering un-light.
Wilder, on the other hand, is far less steady. As they cross the threshold, they feel as though they are on roller skates and, somehow, trying to stand on the bendy bit of an accordion bus. Where Quibble’s steps are slow and sure, Wilder can barely keep their feet under them. Don’t let go, don’t let go, they keep repeating to themself. Everything is purple shadow and what look like linked will-o’-the-wisps swirl around them. They eat light and give off energy that is, somehow, also light-adjacent. Wilder has no idea how they can really see anything here. When the Wisp Worms brush against Wilder, they feel like electrified fuzzy caterpillars. Unnerving. The ground tips beneath Wilder and they look down. The “floor” is a transparent ripple as Quibble takes step after step. This piece of solid air seems just big enough to accommodate both of them; otherwise it is bruise-dark nothing. Eldritch, the light-worms floating beneath them as they walk. Wilder wonders how it could be worse to close their eyes until they try it—their stomach flips, unable to make sense of what feels like speeding forward much faster than the few steps they are taking. They notice for the first time wind buffeting them from all directions. It feels crazy-making, coming from everywhere at once. They keep their teeth ground shut, their lips pressed tight. They switch from internally whispering Don’t let go to Don’t throw up in his coat collar.
They open their eyes and force themself to look out, not down. They catch scattered images in the purple dark, flickers like a poorly tuned television antenna. One minute they’re on a street corner, but shrouded in orchid, violet, lavender, thistle, mulberry, pansy. Then they are high in the sky, the Manhattan skyline visible Here as though it were night, with windows emitting the faintest firefly light. Breathtaking. Gorgeous. Nausea-inducing. A horror show.
Roof gardens. Park fields. Directly in front of a hot dog cart, a sweating man in a visor hat. A train track. A large stone building with columns and a statue. With each step Quibble takes, the after-images change, shutter-clicks, and Wilder can barely register what they’ve seen before the next imprint, a slightly off version of the world they know, flashes into view. They scramble to keep up.
Quibble swivels his head, looking for Artemis. For him, This Place is not a nightmare. He can sit in here; he does sometimes. It’s a place all his own. Quibble has no concept that This Place is scary, only that the walk behind him can feel rough. He spots Artemis and smiles.
Finally Quibble stops. Finally. He does that weird motion with his hands again and the shadow-world gives way to color, a veritable Oz. Both of them step through onto solid ground. The final lurch does Wilder in and without thinking or seeing or being able to control it, like a person possessed, they turn to their right and projectile puke on what turns out to be a fabulous pair of black boots laced with pink and white ribbon.
The vomit smells like coffee and bile. Immediately ashamed and prickling with upsetting familiarity—they’ve seen those Doc Martens before—they look up. They are outside, thankfully. Folks are staring, not thankfully. Artemis looks down at them, her beard still fully glittered even in the middle of the day. There is a war in her eyes. Kindness shines there, but so does—anger? Frustration? Disgust? All valid emotions in response to becoming a ralph target.
“Quibble,” she says. “What the fuck did you do?”