'THIS IS FUCKING BAD JACKIE!' Holt mentally scremed at the back of Jackson's mind oh so helpfully.
Jackson forced a laugh, fingers twitching towards his left eyebrow—him and Holt agreed to having one when they first became a teenager and it has just stick over the past year somehow. "Oh this? Uh—me and Holt had a bet—"
Gil's gills flapped harder, lagoon water splattering the mirror. "Wait wait wait—you *and* Holt? Since when do you two hang out? Was Spectra's rumour actually right for once?!"
Jackson's reflection flickered violently for half a second—just long enough for Holt's smirk to flash across the mirror before vanishing again—as Gil's dripping webbed hands hovered near his eyebrow. "Uh, yeah! Total bet situation," Jackson blurted, left hand twitching toward the piercing like he could physically shove Holt back into hiding. "Holt said I couldn't pull off—I mean, *someone* said I couldn't pull off punk aesthetic. So. Spontaneous underground parlor. End of story." His laugh came out three shades too high, making Gil's gills flutter suspiciously.
"So... Spectra's rumor isn't true?" Gil pressed, his gills flaring as he leaned in. The damp bathroom tiles amplified every sticky shuffle of his amphibious feet. Jackson's pulse pounded in his ears—too loud.
But it shouldn't be.
Jackson's breath hitched as Gil's webbed fingers prodded at his eyebrow piercing—still inexplicably warm to the touch despite the bathroom's clammy air. Holt's lingering presence pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat, threatening to rupture through the fragile lie. Somewhere down the hall, a zombie janitor moaned as it dragged a mop across the tiles. The sound mirrored the staticky panic clawing up Jackson's throat.
"Whoa, chillax Jackie!" Gil's gills flapped with amusement as Jackson flinched. "Just saying, if you and Holt are together, I certainly don't judge."
"I-I appreciate that Gil, but seriously—Spectra's full of ectoplasm." Jackson's voice cracked as he swatted away Gil's damp fingers, the motion too sharp. The flicker in his peripheral vision wasn't just paranoia—Holt's laughter curled against his eardrums like smoke. *Oh for fang's sake, Jackie. Just tell him we're cousins.* The voice dripped with sarcasm, but the solution was stupid enough it might work. Jackson swallowed hard. "Actually, uh. Turns out Holt and I are related? Like, *shocking* family reunion stuff."
Gil's gills pulsed. "No way! You're family?!" His shout echoed down the hallway, drawing stares from passing monsters who decided to creep closer to the bathroom door to listen out of sheer boredom.
"Y-yeah, me and Holt are cousins on my dad's side," Jackson stammered, adjusting his glasses with shaky fingers. The lie tasted like burnt toast—dry and obvious—but Gil's widening grin suggested he'd swallowed it whole. "His mom married my uncle and welp... YEAH!"
The word *cousins* hung in the air like a bad smell after Heath's infamous "burnt marshmallow incident"—obvious, lingering, and impossible to ignore. Gil's gills flared with excitement, his webbed hands clapping together with a wet *smack*. "Ghoul, that explains *so much*! You two have the same kinda face, you know what I mean? Like, *weirdly* similar." His voice carried down the hall, and Jackson resisted the urge to melt into the nearest bathroom stall.
Behind his ribs, Holt's amusement coiled like a lazy serpent. *Oh, this is* rich.
"Okay, but *why* didn't you tell us all sooner? That way Spectra didn't release... That." Gil's gills flapped excitedly as he gestured vaguely toward the writing on the bathroom mirror—*JACKSON + HOLT*—smudged by janitor streaks.
Jackson's reflection flickered again, just for a slight second.
"We just found out... last night," Jackson lied, his fingers twitching against his backpack strap. The fluorescent lights of the hallway flickered unnervingly—or maybe that was just his reflection in the lockers, wavering like heat distortion over pavement. By the time he finally reached first period, whispers slithered ahead of him like living things.
"Jackie and DJ Hyde are *cousins*?" Venus McFlytrap hissed to Rochelle Goyle, her vines twitching with gossip-hungry delight. The news had spread faster than a werewolf's shedding season—by the time Jackson shuffled into History of Scaremonies, half the class was staring at him like he'd grown a second head.
Which, technically, wasn't far from the truth.
Only he's already had two since as long as he could remember.
He ducked into his seat beside Frankie just as the first bell groaned through the speakers—a sound suspiciously like the zombie janitor's midday nap noises. Jackson kept his head down, but the weight of twenty pairs of eyes prickled against his neck like static.
"Jackie," Frankie whispered, her voice a spark of normalcy in the charged air. She tapped her pencil against her notebook—*tap-tap-CRACK*—a tiny bolt jumping between them. "So you and *DJ* are, like… related?" Her stitches pulled tight as she grinned, clearly delighted by the drama. "No wonder he stole your sweater last week!"
Jackson's grip on his pen faltered.
He hadn't worn that sweater in months—Holt must've dug it out of his closet just to mess with him. "Yeah, uh. Family reunions are *real* awkward." The lie tasted like ash, but Frankie's laughter fizzed like soda pop, momentarily drowning out the whispers rustling through the room.
Behind him, Heath Burns—cousin-by-technicality, fire hazard-by-nature—leaned in with all the subtlety of a lit firecracker. "Dude. Does this mean I get to call Holt *cuz* now?an the ghouls are gonna be all over me now!" His grin was a flash of white teeth, his flames flickering in excitement.
Jackson just wanted to become like Invisi Billy and dissaper into the ether.
Sadly he was the more human half.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead like a swarm of trapped bees—too bright, too loud, too *everything*—and Jackson pressed his palms flat against his desk to steady himself. Frankie's pencil-tapping had morphed into a full percussion solo, each click syncopating with the clock's ticking. *Four-four time*, his brain supplied unhelpfully. The exact tempo that could unravel him.
"Jackie," Heath stage-whispered, flames licking at his shoulders like overeager pets, "you gotta tell Holt to teach me his *moves*. Dude's smoother than ectoplasm on a staircase." His grin widened as Cleo's zombie servant groaned in agreement, arms outstretched toward Jackson's half-empty juice box.
Jackson's laugh came out strangled. "Yeah, well. He's… got a *knack* for trouble." The lie curdled in his throat. Holt didn't have a knack—even he had a limits, though Jackson had more if them.
The classroom clock ticked louder, each second a hammer.
The universe has a twisted sense of humor, and right now it had decided Jackson Jekyll was the punchline.
------
The cafeteria roared with its usual midday chaos—trays clattering, ghouls laughing, zombies groaning like background music that never quite turned off. On any other day, Jackson could blend into it, let the noise swallow him whole.
Today?
Every sound felt too sharp. Too loud. Too *pointed*.
Every glance lingered just a second too long.
Every whisper felt like it had his name in it.
Because it did.
"—they found out at a secret family reunion—"
"—no, his *dad* was hiding it—"
"—I heard DJ Hyde used to babysit him—"
"—they've got the same vibe, you know—"
Jackson hunched over his tray, gripping his fork in his left hand like it might anchor him to reality. It didn't help. Nothing did.
Across from him, Draculaura leaned in, eyes sparkling with curiosity and just a *hint* of concern. "Jackie," she whispered, "is it true you and DJ are *cousins*?"
There it was again.
That word.
It didn't even feel like language anymore—just noise wrapped in expectation.
"Yeah," Jackson muttered, stabbing at his food without looking. "Apparently."
Clawd raised an eyebrow. "Wild. You don't really look related."
*That's because we're not,* Jackson thought, his stomach twisting.
*Speak for yourself,* Holt chimed in lazily from the back of his mind. *I've got better bone structure.*
Jackson's grip tightened.
Not now.
Not here.
Heath leaned over from the side, flames flickering with excitement. "Yo, Jackie, if DJ's your cousin, you gotta hook me up. I need those moves. Dude's smoother than melted wax."
Jackson forced a weak laugh. "Yeah. I'll… pass along the message."
*Please don't,* Holt said immediately. *I have standards.*
Jackson's fork scraped loudly against the tray.
Too loud.
Everything was too loud.
The cafeteria noise pressed in on him, building, layering—forks, laughter, footsteps, zombie groans—all stacking into something dangerously close to rhythm.
And that was the problem.
Because rhythm meant—
*Hey,* Holt's voice sharpened slightly. *You feeling that?*
"Don't," Jackson whispered under his breath.
"Don't what?" Draculaura asked.
"Nothing," he said too quickly.
But it wasn't nothing.
It was *time*.
------
Jackson checked the clock on the far wall.
Halfway through lunch.
Right on schedule.
Like some kind of internal alarm neither of them had ever been able to turn off.
His chest tightened.
"I—uh—I gotta go," he blurted, standing so fast his bench screeched across the floor.
Draculaura blinked. "Already? You barely ate."
"Not hungry," Jackson said, which was technically true. Nausea had taken over that job.
He didn't wait for another question.
He just left.
------
The hallway felt quieter, but not by much. The muffled cafeteria noise still bled through the walls, a distant, steady hum.
A beat.
A rhythm.
Jackson quickened his pace.
*Relax,* Holt said, far too calm. *This is normal.*
"Normal," Jackson muttered. "Yeah. Totally normal."
He pushed open the bathroom door and slipped inside.
------
Silence.
Not complete—but close enough.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead. A zombie occupied one of the stalls, groaning in slow, content intervals like it had nowhere better to be.
Jackson moved straight to the sink, gripping the edges as he stared at his reflection.
Messy hair.
Crooked glasses.
That eyebrow piercing—shared, stupid, *theirs*.
He exhaled shakily.
"Okay," he murmured. "Same as always."
*Same as always,* Holt echoed.
There was no panic this time.
No sudden trigger.
No chaotic spike.
Just the slow, inevitable shift that came every day like clockwork.
Jackson's left hand twitched.
Heat prickled under his skin—not burning, not painful, just… there. Like something waking up.
His reflection flickered.
For a split second, flames danced where his hair should be.
A grin that didn't belong to him curled across his face—
Then it was gone.
Then back again.
Stronger.
Jackson's fingers tightened on the sink.
"Alright," he said under his breath. "Tag in."
*Finally,* Holt replied, a grin in his voice.
The world tilted.
Not violently—just enough to feel like stepping off a curb you didn't see.
Jackson's vision blurred at the edges, colors bleeding slightly as if someone had smudged reality with a thumb.
The fluorescent buzz stretched into something deeper.
Something with bass.
Then—
Blackout.
------
Holt Hyde came back with a sharp inhale and a slow, satisfied stretch.
"Man," he muttered, rolling his shoulders. "You always leave me the tense muscles, Jackie. Rude."
He glanced up at the mirror.
Flames flickered where hair had been. Sharp, confident eyes stared back instead of anxious ones. The same face—but not the same presence.
Holt smirked.
"Now *that's* better."
Behind him, the zombie in the stall groaned approvingly.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Holt said, pointing at the mirror. "Glow-up of the century."
He adjusted his jacket, then paused, noticing the way Jackson had been gripping the sink.
"…He was spiraling again, wasn't he?" Holt muttered.
No answer, obviously.
Just the faint echo of Jackson somewhere in the back of his mind.
Quiet.
Holt clicked his tongue softly. "We're gonna have to work on that, Jackie."
He straightened up, energy snapping back into place like a live wire reconnecting.
Then his grin returned—easy, effortless, a little dangerous.
"Alright," he said, turning toward the door. "Let's go remind this school who actually runs lunchtime."
He pushed the door open—
—and stepped back into the noise like he owned it.
Not like he and Jackie had much of a choice.