baseball map

Behind Closed Doors [a Tate Langdon imagine]

Request: Living in the murder house and you think Tate’s like the neighbor boy and being like a prep popular girl but then when you’re home alone you blast smashing pumpkins nirvana sublime and perl jam all that junk and like throw fucking rad parties and stuff. And like ditching your house party w Tate and climbing the roof and like maybe being high maybe not and being hella hidden grunge but Tate KNOWS Bc he a creep and creeps on you secretly and he likes ur punk kid side of course more than public you
a/n: omg love this concept REQUESTS CLOSED


Nobody really knows you. At school you are a prep girl; that wears skirts and does your nails, who’s a ‘goody two shoes’.  But behind closed doors, that changes. You blast punk music whenever you’re home alone; letting your true colors show. 

Parties are your specialty. It seems you throw one almost every weekend. Which is what you’re doing at the moment. Music blares through your house while you push through the sweaty bodies, bumping into someone. “Oh, I’m so-Tate? Surprised to see you here; thought you hated parties.” You smirk, holding the red solo cup in your hand. 

A pair of brown eyes meet yours as he scowls. “My cock-sucking mom made me come. I don’t want to be here. Too many people…” He scoffs, pulling the sleeves of his blue baseball shirt. His gaze maps out the whole house before landing back on you. 

You frown. He really doesn’t want to be here; his body language says that. His shoulders are slouched and his arms wrap around himself. Gripping his pale hand, you drag him through the ocean of bodies to your room. 

When you step inside, you drop his fingers; the tan carpet sinking under your shoes. Popping the window open, you swing a leg out, peering over your shoulder. “Well?” You raise an eyebrow, “Are you coming or not?” You grin, jumping out on the roof, not waiting for an answer. 

His head pops out; fingers wrapped around the windowsill. “I knew you were a rebel.” He smirks, stepping a red converse on the roof. “Tate Langdon knows a fellow grunge kid when he sees one.” He says as he sits next to you. “I see you jamming to Pearl Jam and Nirvana.” He chuckles, leaning back on his elbows.

Brushing, you curl your legs up to your chest; your ruffled purple shirt flowing around. “And I see you staring! Creep!” You joke, bumping your shoulder against his. Smiling, you look at him; his dimples appearing when he chuckles. He is so cute. 

Blond locks dance around his face, “It’s not my fault! You blast your music up wicked loud!” He raises his arms in defense. “At least it’s good; not radio shit.” He shrugs, staring up at the stars; you do the same. “You know, I like that you. The real you, not the fake prep girl you.” He sighs, scrunching his nose.

“Hmm…” You mumble, playing with the ends of your light blue jeans. “You’re the first to say that, congrats… Maybe we should hang out more…” You trail off, tilting your head. 

Tate looks at you, grinning wide. “If you’ll be real, then I say hell yeah!” He beams, making you laugh. “Um…Is it a bad time to tell you I’m terrified of heights? Cuz I think I’m slipping off your fucking roof, not gonna lie.”  

Ezekiel Jones

Ezekiel Jones remembers. He remembers every loop and every painstaking skill he had to learn. He remembers death after death after death. He’d already lived the loop a hundred times before they figured out it was a game. He feels wrong with his healed hand. He lived lifetimes with those scars. He remembers convincing the others again and again and again that he knew what was going on. He got exhausted. In some loops he just locked the others up and walked to his fate. It seemed inevitable by that point.
But then he’d look at their faces. Cassandra needed to grow, to show the world she was amazing. Stone needed to learn more, do more. Eve was…Eve had to live because she always died for them.

So Ezekiel made sure it was him. He died and then he did it again. He spent 12 loops learning exactly how he needed to turn the wrench to get past the coolant. He spent longer than he cares to remember dying beside Eve as they succumbed to the sheer number of enemies. Again and again and again. He watched them die. Watched them yell. Watched as he felt himself grow old as they stagnated before him. Ezekiel lived lifetimes in that building.

He never told them. He did what he did best, he stole. He stole the truth, he stole back the years he spent going in circles.

He thinks maybe Baird worked it out. He walked into dangerous situations one too many times, forgetting that he could die. Forgetting that he didn’t need to. He sometimes reached for his backpack before he could remember that he didn’t have that here. That his life wasn’t ties to a map, a baseball bat, and the same conversation he’d lived a thousand times. He thinks Baird can see the age in his eyes.

Months later, when Ezekiel felt his hair should be going grey and his bones tired with how much life he had lived, he burnt his hand. It was a simple thing but it made him smile. And when it scarred he was so sure it was a sign that the world hadn’t forgotten either.

Ezekiel Jones lived lifetimes in an hour. He changed and grew old without ever looking like he did. But he stole back his youth and who he was. He pretended he didn’t flinch in crowds now, when they pressed against him. He pretended he didn’t reach for a backpack that wasn’t there. He had a scar on his hand that felt like an odyssey. He lied to his friends so they didn’t know how very old he felt.
And if he never touched a video game again no one was ever the wiser, they never asked. He was their friend. They weren’t his.