Chapter 2 - Growing Bonds and Shared Ambitions

The scent of spring was thick in the air, mingling fresh grass, blooming flowers, and the faint metallic tang of the city’s ever-present hum. The world seemed alive again, shaking off the cold grip of winter, and nowhere was this more apparent than at Alley’s Scoop Shop, a tiny, hole-in-the-wall ice cream parlor tucked between two towering structures. The neon sign flickered erratically above the entrance, buzzing like an old radio caught between stations.

Inside, Ezra and Julie sat across from each other in one of the few booths, remnants of birthday cake-flavored ice cream melting in their cups. Ezra was savoring his last few bites, while Julie had devoured hers with reckless abandon, now licking her spoon with an air of smug satisfaction.

"See? This is why you take your time," Ezra said, gesturing toward his nearly full cup. "I still have ice cream, and you don’t."

Julie rolled her eyes, slumping dramatically against the booth. "And yet, I am satisfied. Because ice cream is meant to be eaten, not hoarded like some dragon’s treasure."

"It’s not hoarding," Ezra countered. "It’s strategic consumption."

Julie smirked. "And yet, here we are. Me, content. You, still holding onto something that was meant to be enjoyed in the moment."

Ezra blinked at her, then frowned at his melting ice cream. "…I don’t like that you just made a really deep point about dessert."

"You’ll get used to it," Julie said, stealing his spoon and taking a bite before he could react.

Despite his protest ("Julie! That’s theft!"), the moment set the tone for the rest of the summer.

Ezra stared in horror at the empty spoon Julie had just swiped from his hand, the stolen bite of birthday cake ice cream already melting on her tongue. She had the audacity to smirk at him, eyes glinting with unapologetic mischief as she chewed with exaggerated slowness.

"Julie," Ezra said, voice flat. "That was mine."

"Correction," Julie replied, licking the spoon clean with an infuriating amount of smugness. "It was yours. Now it's mine."

Ezra groaned, slumping against the booth. "You are the worst kind of person. You belong in a maximum-security prison for that level of theft."

Julie shrugged. "Worth it. Your suffering makes it taste better."

He narrowed his eyes, staring at the meager amount of ice cream left in his cup. Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for his spoon, took a slow, deliberate bite, and sighed dramatically. "Mmm. Wow. This last bit? Probably the best ice cream I’ve ever had. Too bad some people will never experience it."

Julie raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"

"Oh yeah," Ezra said, smirking now. "It’s like… if the universe itself crafted the perfect balance of sweet and creamy, a celestial masterpiece only meant for the most worthy of souls. Which, tragically, does not include you."

Julie snorted, shaking her head. "You really think that’s gonna make me jealous?"

"No," Ezra admitted, then grinned. "But it makes me feel morally superior, and that’s what matters."

Julie rolled her eyes, but she laughed anyway, bumping her shoulder against his. "You’re such a dork."

"And yet, you keep stealing my food."

"Well," she said, flashing a grin, "you do make it look delicious."

Ezra sighed in mock defeat, shaking his head. He should have been mad, but somehow, with Julie, frustration never quite took hold. No matter how much she teased, how much she pushed his buttons, he couldn’t help but enjoy it—because beneath all her antics, there was an unspoken trust between them. A quiet understanding that, no matter how much they bickered, neither of them would ever really let the other go hungry.

And in the grand scheme of things, losing a few spoonfuls of ice cream seemed like a small price to pay for that.

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As the days stretched long and golden, Ezra and Julie made it their mission to explore every corner of the city that they were allowed (and some that they weren’t). Museums became their second home, vast halls of history and science offering endless debates and discoveries.

Julie would pull Ezra toward artifacts from ancient civilizations, her eyes practically glowing as she ran her fingers over glass displays. "Can you imagine living back then? No digital archives, no history on demand—you had to remember everything, or write it down by hand."

"Or just make it up," Ezra mused. "That’s probably how half of history happened."

Julie groaned. "Don’t say that. That’s exactly what the White Coats want—for people to think history doesn’t matter."

Ezra shrugged. "I’m not saying it doesn’t matter. I’m saying that, statistically, at least one king probably exaggerated his war stories just a little."

Julie stared at him for a long moment before nodding. "Okay, yeah, I’ll give you that one."

In turn, Ezra dragged Julie into exhibits on space travel, black hole physics, and gravitational manipulation. He would launch into excited explanations about how wormholes might be real, how gravity was less a force and more of a curvature in spacetime, how—

"Ezra," Julie interrupted one day, "you talk about science like it’s a fairytale."

Ezra blinked. "Because it is," he said simply. "Every discovery is like turning the page of a book you didn’t know existed."

Julie stared at him for a long moment before saying, "You’re weird."

"Thank you."

Despite their wildly different interests, their curiosity and sense of adventure bound them together. They made an unspoken deal—Ezra would let Julie ramble about ancient civilizations as long as she let him wax poetic about space, and somehow, it worked.

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Their walkie-talkies, once used for childish games of hostage negotiation in the past, became their lifeline during the humid summer nights. The city would quiet, the buzz of activity dimming to a low hum, but their voices crackled through the static like secret messages from another world.

"Okay," Julie said one night, voice softened by exhaustion, "hypothetical scenario. You have to live in any time period except this one. Where do you go?"

"The future," Ezra answered immediately.

"Ugh, that’s cheating."

"It is not cheating," he defended. "You never said I had to pick the past. The future is unknown, full of potential, and I want to see how far we go."

Julie huffed. "Fine. But what if the future sucks? Like, what if everything collapses and you end up living in a tin shack in the middle of a radioactive wasteland?"

"Then I’d figure something out. Science always finds a way."

"You put way too much faith in science," Julie teased.

"And you put way too much faith in history," Ezra shot back.

"History has answers."

"Science creates them."

There was a pause before Julie admitted, "Okay, that was kind of a cool response."

Their personalities, once seeming at odds, now complemented each other in ways neither of them fully understood. Julie’s fire pushed Ezra to think beyond his comfort zone, while Ezra’s steady logic grounded Julie’s wild ambitions.

One night, in a moment of unfiltered honesty, Julie confessed, "I always thought people just saw me as some rich girl who only cared about fancy parties and expensive vacations."

"I didn’t," Ezra said, no hesitation.

Julie blinked. "Why not?"

"Because you care too much about things that matter to waste time on all that."

For once, Julie was speechless.

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Seth saw the changes in his son over the summer—the confidence in his voice, the ease with which he debated and dreamed. He watched the way Ezra would come home from their adventures, eyes bright with ideas, voice animated in a way it never had been before.

"You two are quite the pair," Seth mused one evening, watching as Ezra and Julie sat at the kitchen table, poring over an old map of the city’s pre-collapse ruins.

"She’s a menace," Ezra said fondly.

Julie smirked. "And yet, you keep me around."

"I tolerate you."

"Oh please. You love me."

Seth chuckled, ruffling Ezra’s hair as his son rolled his eyes. "You know, kid, you’re lucky to have a friend like Julie."

Ezra looked at his father, expression sincere. "I know."

Julie sat up, crossing her arms. "And Ezra’s lucky to have a friend like me."

Seth laughed. "That’s exactly what I just said."

Ezra smirked at Julie. "She just likes hearing it twice."

Julie kicked him under the table.

Ezra twirled the last remnants of his ice cream with his spoon, eyes distant as he mulled over their ongoing debate.

"You know," he said, grinning slightly, "I think part of the reason I love science so much is because it feels like magic you can actually learn. Like, roleplaying a wizard is fun and all, but imagine if you could actually control gravity. That would be—"

"—pretend," Julie cut in, wrinkling her nose. "I never got the appeal of playing pretend. It always reminded me of the White Coats."

Ezra blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. He tilted his head. "The White Coats?"

Julie rolled her eyes, stabbing at the table with her spoon. "You know. The people who act like they own history. Like my dad always says—'They don’t just rewrite history. They manufacture it.'"

Ezra leaned in, intrigued. "Okay, you might need to explain that one. I mean, I know they’re rich, I know they control the news and all, but…'

"They don’t just control the news, Ezra," Julie said, folding her arms. "They control what people think. They started popping up a few centuries back, but their whole thing is making sure people remember history their way."

"And that’s different from normal historians because…?"

Julie’s face contorted like she was personally offended by the question. "Because normal historians actually care about finding the truth! White Coats? They just make stuff up!"

Ezra frowned. "Okay, give me an example."

Julie didn’t even hesitate. "Bajookieland."

Ezra’s eyes widened. "Oh no. Not Bajookieland."

Julie threw her hands up. "YES! BAJOOKIELAND! The greatest, most powerful empire that never existed! The White Coats push this absolutely unhinged narrative that, while Rome was fumbling around with wooden spears, Bajookieland was out here waging wars against gods and riding dragons into battle!"

Ezra started laughing, but Julie wasn’t done.

"They say Bajookieland had cities bigger than Rome, bigger than anything, but oh—conveniently, not a single artifact remains! Not one! No ruins, no texts, no graves—just ‘lost to time’ because of some vague catastrophe."

"To be fair," Ezra wheezed between laughs, "it does sound kind of fun."

Julie groaned. "Ezra, you cannot take them seriously!"

"I don’t take them seriously, but come on! Bajookieland is kind of a meme at this point."

"A meme that makes people dumber," Julie shot back. "People believe in Bajookieland more than they do actual history. No one wants to read about ancient Rome struggling with bad plumbing when they could hear about Bajookieland's golden airships powered by soul magic."

"You made that last part up," Ezra accused.

Julie grinned. "Yeah, but you believed it for a second, didn’t you?"

Ezra opened his mouth to argue—but she wasn’t wrong.

They sat in silence for a moment before Ezra finally sighed, nodding in reluctant agreement. "Okay. You win. The White Coats are ridiculous."

Julie beamed, and before he could react, she threw her arms around him in a quick, triumphant hug. "Good. I’m rubbing off on you."

Ezra stiffened for a moment before awkwardly patting her back. "Uh… glad I could… see the light?"

Julie pulled away with a smirk. "As a reward for your enlightenment, I guess I could help you study for real history."

Ezra raised an eyebrow. "Oh? You mean actually study, or is this another excuse for you to come over and play pretend?"

Julie gasped dramatically. "How dare you suggest such a thing! I am a serious academic!"

"Right," Ezra said dryly. "So serious that the last time you ‘helped’ me study, we ended up building an entire fictional kingdom where you ruled as Empress Julie the Unyielding."

"Hey, at least my kingdom had realistic infrastructure. Unlike Bajookieland!"

Ezra burst into laughter again, and Julie joined in, shaking her head at the absurdity of it all. Maybe she hated pretend, but she’d make an exception for Ezra—because unlike the White Coats, he never tried to rewrite reality. He just wanted to make it fun.

And if she had to endure a little make-believe to keep hanging out with him, well… she supposed that wasn’t so bad.

As the days grew longer and their dreams grew bigger, one thing became clear—this was only the beginning.

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GROWTH, TEASING, AND THE MARK OF DESTINY

The first time Ezra noticed it, he thought it was a trick of the bathroom light. He leaned in closer to the mirror, squinting as he rubbed his fingers over his upper lip. It was there—undeniable. The fine, soft hairs forming his very first mustache had a distinct and unexpected trait: a single streak of stark white running through the right side.

His stomach twisted. Was this… normal?

His father, Seth, had always joked that growing up came with surprises, but Ezra wasn’t sure he liked this surprise. He tugged at the white hairs, wondering if they would just fall out. They didn’t.

“Dad?” he called hesitantly, stepping out of the bathroom, his voice carrying an unusual edge of unease.

Seth glanced up from his seat on the couch, where he had been scrolling through his work tablet. He took one look at Ezra’s troubled expression and smirked. “Finally noticed, huh?”

Ezra blinked. Finally?

“What do you mean ‘finally’?” He approached his father cautiously, fingers still hovering near his mustache like he could will the streak away. “Has this always been there? What is it? Am I—am I sick or something?”

Seth chuckled, setting his tablet down. “Come here, kid.”

Ezra hesitated, then stepped forward. His father reached out and ruffled his hair, then leaned back and turned his own head slightly to the side, pulling back the dark strands near his temple.

Ezra’s eyes widened.

There it was—his father’s own white streak, running like a thin lightning bolt through his thick, dark hair.

“It’s a family thing,” Seth explained. “We get these white streaks young. It’s not a disease, and it’s not some weird mutation. It’s just… stress.”

Ezra furrowed his brows. “Stress? But I’m twelve.”

Seth laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, life hits us different. I had mine by the time I was fourteen, but you? You’ve always been a deep thinker. Wouldn’t surprise me if your brain’s been working overtime since birth.”

Ezra let out a slow breath, still processing. He wasn’t a freak, then. He wasn’t sick. But still, the unease in his chest didn’t fully fade.

“Hey.” Seth nudged his son’s chin with a knuckle. “Don’t let it bother you. It’s just hair, kid. It doesn’t change who you are.”

Even after his dad’s reassurance, Ezra couldn’t shake the gnawing discomfort in his gut. It wasn’t just about the hair itself—it was what it meant. What if it made him look weird? What if people thought he was some kind of freak? It wasn’t like other kids had streaks of white popping up on their faces. Would it just get worse? Would his whole head turn white before he even hit sixteen? The thought made his stomach twist. He wasn’t sure which was worse—the idea of looking different or the feeling that something wasn’t normal about him.

Ezra nodded slowly, but as he retreated to his room, his mind churned. His father made it sound simple, but the truth was, things like this did change how people saw you.

And he wasn’t wrong.

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The mall was the worst.

Ezra had barely stepped into the air-conditioned space before a group of boys near the arcade caught sight of him.

“Whoa, dude, is that, like, old man hair?” one of them snickered, pointing directly at Ezra’s mustache.

“Dang, bro, you skipping puberty and going straight to grandpa?” another one jeered, and the group burst into laughter.

Ezra clenched his jaw, shoving his hands into his pockets as he walked past them, pretending he didn’t hear. But the words still sank deep, making his stomach twist uncomfortably.

The food court wasn’t any better. While waiting in line for a soda, he caught a pair of girls whispering behind their hands, sneaking glances at him before giggling. He tried to ignore them, but he could feel his ears burning.

Was it that weird? Was he really the only one? By the time he found a table, he wasn’t hungry anymore.

Then Julie plopped down across from him, her tray overflowing with a ridiculous amount of fries. She didn’t even look at him at first, just casually stole a fry and popped it into her mouth before giving him a sideways glance.

“What’s with the long face, Grandpa?” she teased.

Ezra groaned, slumping forward. “Not you too.”

Julie grinned, nudging his tray with her finger. “Relax. I think it’s kinda neat.”

Ezra scoffed. “Oh yeah? You wanna trade?”

“Nah, it suits you.” She grabbed another fry, munching thoughtfully before smirking. “Maybe it’s a mark of destiny.”

Ezra raised an eyebrow. “A what?”

Julie leaned in dramatically, lowering her voice. “Think about it. Legendary heroes always have some kinda weird mark, right? A scar, a glowing eye, a streak of silver hair that shows they’ve got powers beyond mortal comprehension?” She gestured wildly with her hands before pointing at him. “Boom. That’s you.”

Ezra blinked. “You just made that up.”

Julie shrugged, grinning. “Maybe. But you gotta admit, it makes a better story than ‘oh no, my mustache is quirky.’”

Despite himself, Ezra laughed. “Okay, that was a little funny.”

Julie leaned back, looking smug. “See? And anyway, if anyone messes with you about it, just tell them your ancient bloodline is awakening, and soon you’ll unlock god-tier powers. That’ll shut them up.”

Ezra shook his head, but for the first time that day, he didn’t feel as self-conscious. Maybe Julie was onto something. Maybe it was kinda cool.

Or at the very least, maybe he could fake it until he believed it.

And that?

That was a start.

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That night, after an exhausting day of overthinking and dodging remarks about his mustache, Ezra sat on the edge of the bathroom sink, watching as his dad rummaged through a drawer. Seth pulled out an old-fashioned safety razor, a can of shaving cream, and a pack of fresh blades, setting them on the counter with the same practiced ease he used when fixing the car or working on home repairs.

"Alright, kid," Seth said, leaning on the counter, his expression amused but patient. "Time to teach you one of the great mysteries of manhood—shaving without butchering yourself in the process."

Ezra huffed. "I don’t even have a real mustache yet."

Seth smirked, giving his son’s upper lip a scrutinizing glance. "Sure you do—if you squint hard enough. But hey, better to learn now before you wake up one day looking like a werewolf and have no clue what you’re doing."

Ezra rolled his eyes, but curiosity flickered in his chest as his dad picked up the can of shaving cream and shook it.

"First lesson—never rush shaving," Seth said, pressing the nozzle and spraying a puff of cool foam into his palm. "This isn’t about speed. It’s about method." He reached out and smeared the lather across Ezra’s upper lip and chin. The shaving cream was cold, and Ezra shivered slightly at the sensation.

"What’s the point of the foam?" Ezra asked, running his fingers over the thick layer.

Seth grinned. "Good question. Shaving cream does two things. First, it softens your hair and makes it stand up, which makes it easier to cut. Second, it protects your skin. If you ever try to dry shave, you’re gonna learn the hard way why it’s a terrible idea."

Ezra frowned. "So what happens if I just go at it without this stuff?"

Seth leaned in like he was about to share a dark secret. "You get razor burn. Ingrown hairs. Bleeding." He waggled his fingers like a horror movie ghost. "The cursed red bumps of doom."

Ezra grimaced. "Gross."

"Exactly," Seth said, rinsing his hands. "Now, here’s how you hold the razor. Light pressure. You’re guiding it, not trying to carve a turkey. And always—always—shave with the grain, not against it. Your hair grows in a certain direction, and if you fight it, you’ll pay for it."

Ezra nodded as he took the razor from his father, gripping it carefully. He hesitated for a moment, staring at his reflection, the white lather making him look ridiculous. Then, he placed the blade against his skin and slowly dragged it downward.

At first, it seemed easy. The razor glided over the foam, leaving smooth skin in its wake. But as he worked around his chin, he got a little overconfident. He pressed a bit too hard, moved a bit too fast—

And—

"Ow!"

Ezra flinched as a thin sting cut across his skin. A drop of red bloomed under his jawline.

Seth winced sympathetically but didn’t panic. Instead, he grabbed a piece of toilet paper, tore a small square, and pressed it to the cut. "Congratulations. You’ve officially joined the ‘Every Guy Who’s Ever Shaved Has Done This’ Club."

Ezra groaned, holding the tissue in place. "I failed shaving."

Seth chuckled. "Nah, you just got cocky. Everyone nicks themselves at first. The trick is remembering why—too much pressure, wrong angle, or rushing. If you take your time and follow the steps, you’ll get the hang of it."

Ezra exhaled, nodding slowly. "Okay. I get it now. Shaving isn’t just hacking hair off your face. It’s… an art?"

Seth grinned. "Now you’re getting it."

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The next day, Ezra tried his best to hide the fact that half his face was covered in tiny bits of toilet paper, but the moment Julie spotted him, it was over.

She gasped theatrically, her face lighting up with wicked glee. "Oh. My. God."

Ezra groaned, tugging his hoodie up like it could somehow protect him. "Julie, don’t—"

"Did you lose a fight with a lawnmower or did your own face betray you?" She snorted, doubling over with laughter.

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Ezra sighed, crossing his arms. "I shaved, okay? It was my first time."

Julie clutched her stomach, wiping away a fake tear. "And you lived to tell the tale? A true warrior!"

"Barely," Ezra muttered.

Julie leaned in, inspecting the battlefield that was his jawline. "Aw, don’t feel bad. You’ll get better. Maybe. Or maybe you’ll just have to wear tissue paper forever. You could start a new fashion trend—Tissue Chic."

Ezra shot her a glare. "You do realize you’re gonna have to learn how to shave someday, too, right?"

Julie smirked. "Please. I’ll be graceful. I’ll ascend to shaving mastery on my first try."

Ezra rolled his eyes, but as she continued to cackle, he found himself laughing too. Because despite the stinging cut, despite the embarrassment, despite everything—

Julie made it fun.

And somehow, that made it all worth it.

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A week and a half later, Ezra stood in front of the mirror once again, facing the shadowy remnants of his mustache. This time, there was no hesitation, no nervous glances—just quiet determination. He remembered his dad’s advice: take it slow, don’t press too hard, and let the razor do the work.

He shook the can of shaving cream, spraying a cool dollop into his palm before spreading it evenly over his face. He took a moment to let it sit, feeling the way it softened the hairs, lifting them ever so slightly.

Then, gripping the razor carefully, he began.

His strokes were smooth, controlled. Light pressure. No rushing. With each pass, the shaving cream disappeared, revealing clean, smooth skin beneath. He followed the grain, tilting his head to check the angles just like his dad had shown him. No nicks. No razor burn. Just methodical precision.

When he was done, he rinsed his face with cool water, patting it dry with a towel before checking his reflection.

It was perfect.

A grin spread across his face. No cuts. No tissue paper required.

Later, when Julie saw him, she squinted, inspecting his jaw.

"Huh," she mused. "Not bad, Grandpa."

Ezra smirked. "Told you I’d get it right."

Julie grinned. "Alright, alright. Maybe you’re a shaving wizard now."

Ezra laughed. Yeah. He was getting the hang of this.

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BULLIED AND ISOLATED

It started with whispers, then snickers, then something worse. Ezra didn’t notice at first—not until the cafeteria went dead quiet one afternoon, right before the boom of Brandon “Bruiser” Michaels' voice echoed across the lunchroom.

"Yo, Cumstain! You forget to wipe your face again, or is that just how you like it?"

The words hit Ezra like a slap. He froze, mid-bite, feeling every eye in the room turn toward him. A wave of laughter followed, some loud and obnoxious, others muffled behind hands or bent heads. He heard a couple of kids gagging dramatically, one girl squealing, "Ew, oh my God!"

Ezra clenched his jaw.

He didn’t know what it meant. Not really. But the way people reacted—like Bruiser had just roasted him—made his blood boil.

He wasn’t an idiot. He could put some pieces together.

It was bad.

And it was everywhere now.

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Doing nothing only made it worse.

The first time Bruiser shoved him into a locker, it was a test—just to see if he’d react. Ezra had barely turned the corner when bam—a shoulder rammed into his, sending him sprawling backward into cold metal.

“Oops,” Bruiser said, grinning. “Didn’t see ya there, Cumstain.”

Ezra gritted his teeth, shoving himself off the locker, but before he could take a step, Bruiser blocked his path, flanked by two of his friends.

"Hold up. You know the drill," Bruiser said, holding out his hand expectantly.

Ezra’s stomach twisted.

He knew what was coming.

Lunch money. Again.

For a second, he considered running, but Bruiser was bigger, stronger, and already between him and any escape route.

"Not today," Ezra muttered, gripping his bag tighter.

Bruiser chuckled, like Ezra was the dumbest person alive. Then—

WHAM.

Ezra barely saw the punch coming before it hit his gut, knocking the air from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, knees wobbling as he caught himself on the lockers.

"You sure about that, Cumstain?" Bruiser sneered.

Ezra, still wheezing, reached into his pocket and slapped his crumpled bills into Bruiser’s waiting hand. The bastard winked, stuffing the money into his own pocket.

"See? That wasn't so hard." Then he was gone, leaving Ezra leaning against the lockers, fists clenched so hard his nails bit into his palms.

His lunch was gone. Again.

And no one had stepped in to stop it.

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It didn’t stop in the hallways. Even in class, Bruiser found ways to make Ezra’s life hell. Group projects were the worst. “Hey,” Bruiser called loudly from across the classroom. “We gotta work with Cumstain? Damn, guess I’ll do all the work. Don’t want his mustache juices getting on my part of the project.”

Laughter erupted around them.

Ezra saw red.

“I don’t even know what the hell that means,” he snapped, finally unable to hold his tongue.

Bruiser smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Ohhh, you don’t know?” He turned to the rest of the class, grinning. "Guys, should we educate him?"

A couple of kids laughed harder. Someone muttered, "Oh my God, he seriously doesn’t know?"

Ezra’s stomach twisted.

There was something wrong about the way they were all looking at him—something filthy.

Bruiser grinned, taking out his phone. “I mean, I could show you—”

“Mr. Michaels!” The teacher’s sharp voice cut through the laughter like a blade. “Enough!”

Bruiser held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Jeez, alright, Miss K. Didn’t know Cumstain was so sensitive.” The class erupted into giggles. The teacher sighed but did nothing more.

Ezra stared down at his desk, hands clenched into fists.

He had never wanted to hit someone so badly in his entire life.

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Through it all, Ezra kept his struggles to himself.

He didn’t tell his dad.

He definitely didn’t tell Julie.

He couldn’t.

What was he supposed to say? Hey, some asshole at school calls me Cumstain, and I don’t even know what it means, but everyone thinks it’s hilarious?

No way.

It was too humiliating.

So he swallowed it down.

Every taunt. Every shove. Every stolen dollar.

And with every passing day, the weight of it settled heavier on his shoulders.

Because for the first time in his life—

Ezra felt completely alone.

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Seth had just sat down for the evening, a beer in one hand and his tablet in the other, when he heard it.

Muffled. Gasping.

Uncontrolled sobbing.

His brows furrowed. He set the tablet aside, listening for a moment. The sound was coming from the bathroom.

Ezra.

Seth exhaled through his nose, running a hand down his face before pushing himself off the couch. He knew better than to barge in, but the raw, broken quality of those sobs twisted something deep in his gut.

He knocked lightly. “Hey, bud. You alright in there?”

No answer.

Another sniffle. A sharp, frustrated inhale. Then—shhk, shhk, shhk.

A razor.

Seth didn’t hesitate. He pushed the door open.

Ezra was standing in front of the sink, face blotchy and red, shaving cream smeared unevenly across his cheeks. His hands shook as he dragged the razor across his face with way too much force.

Seth took one look at the angry red patches forming along Ezra’s jaw and stepped forward. “Alright, alright—hold up there, champ.”

Ezra flinched, avoiding his father’s gaze as he tried to keep going. Seth placed a firm but gentle hand on his wrist, stopping him before he turned his face into raw hamburger meat.

“Let go, Dad,” Ezra muttered, voice thick with tears.

“Nope,” Seth said calmly, prying the razor from his grip. “Not until you tell me what the hell’s going on.”

Ezra shook his head violently, his breath shuddering as he looked anywhere but his father.

Seth sighed, stepping back to lean against the sink, arms crossed. “Ezra.” His voice was softer now. “Talk to me.”

There was a long, heavy silence. Ezra clenched his fists at his sides, his whole body trembling with exhaustion, frustration—humiliation.

Then, in a voice so small it barely reached the air—

“…What does cumstain mean?”

Seth blinked. His entire body stiffened.

“…Huh?”

Ezra wiped his sleeve across his face, eyes still welling with fresh tears. “They keep calling me that,” he choked out, “and everyone laughs, and I don’t even know what it means!”

Seth opened his mouth, but—oh no.

It hit him.

It hit him hard.

His lips twitched. His chest tightened.

Then—snrk.

A snort.

A goddamn snort.

He tried—he really tried—to keep it in, but that one sound was all it took.

Ezra’s face crumbled.

“You’re laughing?!” he wailed, voice breaking into another sob.

Seth ran a hand over his mouth, rubbing at his chin, forcing his composure back down. “No—no, buddy, I’m not—”

But Ezra shot him a glare through his tears.

Seth took a deep breath. Think, man.

"Alright, alright," he said, pushing off the sink. He crouched slightly, meeting Ezra at eye level. "Look, kid. You’re not ready to know what cum is, and that’s a conversation I’d rather not have while you’re holding a razor to your face."

Ezra hiccupped, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. "Then what am I supposed to do? Just let them keep calling me that?"

Seth exhaled through his nose, ruffling Ezra’s hair. "Nope. That’s where I come in."

Ezra frowned, confused.

"You’re gonna be thirteen next year," Seth continued. "And when that happens, I’m takin’ you to work with me."

Ezra blinked. "…Huh?"

Seth smirked. "Gonna throw you in with some real roughnecks. The kind of guys who’ll teach you how to handle nicknames, dish ‘em back, and get some actual manly hairs on that scrawny chest of yours."

Ezra sniffled, scrubbing at his cheeks. "You’re just saying that."

Seth shook his head. "Nope. This is me officially telling you—hold out for one more year. Push through this crap. And one day—when they least expect it—you’re gonna go from Cumstain to..."

He clapped a hand on Ezra’s shoulder, grinning.

"The Cum-Back Kid."

Silence.

Seth’s smirk immediately faded.

His eyes widened.

Ezra’s sniffling stopped.

There was a beat of absolute, crushing stillness.

Then—

"WHAT?" Ezra howled.

Seth’s soul left his body.

"Wait—no—that’s not what I meant—"

Ezra gawked at him, wiping his nose aggressively. "THE CUM-BACK KID?! DAD?!"

Seth clapped both hands over his face, groaning into his palms. "Jesus Christ, abort mission, back up, rewind! UNDO!!"

Ezra hiccupped through his remaining tears, but—against all odds—his lips twitched.

Then, against his own will, he snorted.

Seth peeked through his fingers.

Ezra’s shoulders shook.

A laugh.

A real one.

And suddenly, somehow, they were both laughing. Ezra was still ugly crying, but he was grinning through it, and Seth had to lean against the counter just to keep himself from wheezing.

Ezra wiped his eyes, shaking his head. "God, you’re so bad at this, Dad."

Seth groaned dramatically. "I swear, that sounded way better in my head."

"Yeah? Well, your head sucks."

Seth let out a breathy chuckle, ruffling Ezra’s hair again. "Yeah, yeah. But listen." He squeezed Ezra’s shoulder lightly. "You're gonna get through this, alright? I know it sucks. I know it feels like forever. But one day, you’ll look back and realize it was just a bump in the road. And trust me—when you’re grown, you’ll have a comeback for everything."

Ezra sniffled again, but this time, he nodded.

Seth smiled. "Now, put the damn razor down before you end up looking like a plucked chicken."

Ezra rolled his eyes, but there was a small—real—smile there now.

Seth gave his shoulder one last squeeze before standing. "C’mon, kid. Let’s get some ice cream. I heard that’s good for shaving-related trauma."

Ezra scoffed, wiping his nose again. "Ice cream isn’t a cure for trauma, Dad."

Seth grinned. "Try telling that to me after your mom left."

Ezra blinked.

Seth blinked.

"…Well," Seth muttered, clearing his throat. "That’s probably not the best example, but you get my point."

Ezra, despite everything, let out a small, exhausted laugh. "Yeah, yeah. Let’s just go before you say something even worse."

Seth ruffled his hair one last time. "Atta boy."

And with that, they left the bathroom—Ezra feeling just a little lighter, and Seth already mentally kicking himself for "The Cum-Back Kid."

----------------------------------------

It wasn’t until the next day that Julie found out.

She had been standing by her locker, half-listening to the chatter of some of the gossipy bitches at school, when she heard it.

"Oh my God, have you heard what they’re calling Ezra now?"

"Yeah, ‘Cumstain’—"

Julie froze.

Her entire body went rigid as the girls cackled, going on about how Bruiser had practically branded Ezra with the name.

"It’s soooo nasty, but like, kinda funny. He doesn’t even know what it means!"

"I know, right?! He just gets all mad and storms off! So freaking hilarious!"

Julie slammed her locker shut so hard that the girls jumped. She turned, staring daggers at them.

"Wow," she said flatly. "You guys are so funny. Real comedic geniuses."

The girls shut up fast.

Julie was already gone.

----------------------------------------

She found Ezra outside, sitting alone on the curb, scuffing his shoe against the pavement.

"Hey, Cumstain," she called, grinning as she plopped down next to him. "What’s up?"

The second the word left her lips, she knew she had messed up.

Ezra’s whole body stiffened.

Julie’s smile died.

He didn’t look mad.

He didn’t roll his eyes or snap back.

He just… stared at the ground. Shoulders tense. Hands clenched in his lap.

Julie felt it. The shift.

"Ezra," she said quickly, "I didn’t mean—"

"Don’t," he muttered. His voice was tight. Small.

Julie’s stomach sank.

She knew teasing. She lived for it. But this? This wasn’t teasing.

This was damage.

"Hey," she said, softer now. She nudged him, but he barely reacted. "I’m sorry, alright? I won’t say it again."

Ezra swallowed hard, shaking his head. "They won’t stop," he said, voice raw. "Every day, they just—*"

Julie grabbed his sleeve, tugging lightly. "Hey. Look at me."

Ezra hesitated before finally meeting her eyes.

Julie exhaled. "I mean it. I won’t call you that. Ever."

Ezra’s throat bobbed. He gave her a small nod, looking away again.

Julie let the silence settle before smirking slightly. "Buuuut… you do know what it means now, right?"

Ezra’s face scrunched up. "No, and I don’t care."

Julie grinned. "Ohhhh, you should."

Ezra scowled. "No, I shouldn’t."

Julie leaned in conspiratorially. "It’s sperm, dude."

Ezra blinked. "What?"

"Cum. It’s another word for sperm."

Ezra stared at her, unblinking. "No it’s not."

Julie cackled. "Ohhh, it absolutely is."

Ezra sputtered. "What the f—?!" He immediately scrambled away from her, wiping aggressively at his upper lip as if trying to erase something cursed. "WHAT THE HELL?!"

Julie was dying, clutching her stomach. "Oh my God, Ezra, relax—"

"THOSE SICK FREAKS!!" Ezra yelped, still frantically rubbing at his face. "WHO SAYS THAT?! WHO THE HELL CALLS SOMEONE THAT?! WHO HURT HIM?!*"

Julie wheezed. "Oh my God, I love you so much right now—"

Ezra gagged, gripping his head like he had just learned the darkest secret of humanity. "What the fuck is wrong with them?!"

"Middle schoolers are awful, dude," Julie giggled. "Absolutely unhinged."

Ezra groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is so much worse than I thought."

Julie nudged him playfully. "Hey, at least you’re in the know now. Knowledge is power, buddy."

Ezra let out a long, pained sigh. "I want to go back to not knowing things."

Julie grinned, resting her chin in her palm. "Too late now. You’re corrupted forever."

Ezra glared at her through his fingers.

Julie just winked.

----------------------------------------

After Ezra recovered from his existential crisis, they sat in silence for a while, watching the wind kick up little spirals of dust in the parking lot.

Then, Julie spoke.

"Hey."

Ezra glanced at her.

"You know they’re wrong, right?"

Ezra looked away. "Doesn’t feel like it."

"They are." Julie nudged him lightly. "You’re smart. You’re funny. And you’re a good person, Ezra. You’re not whatever garbage they say you are."

Ezra chewed the inside of his cheek.

Julie exhaled through her nose, leaning against him slightly. "Look, I can’t punch every single dumbass in school, but I can promise you one thing."

Ezra glanced at her again.

"They can say whatever they want. But as long as I’m around, you’ll never have to deal with it alone."

Ezra’s breath hitched slightly. He swallowed hard.

Then, slowly—hesitantly—he leaned back against her.

Julie didn’t say anything else. She didn’t need to.

She just sat there, warm and solid, and for the first time in weeks, Ezra didn’t feel so damn alone.

----------------------------------------

QUARANTINEMAS, WISDOM, AND COMFORT

The countryside near Turin had a stillness unlike anywhere else Ezra had ever been. Back home, the city never truly slept—holographic billboards flickered through the night, space elevator schedules hummed on a constant cycle, and the streets were always buzzing with life.

But here, in Nonna Francesca’s old villa, the only sounds were the soft crackling of the fireplace and the occasional howl of the winter wind against the shutters.

Quarantinemas had always been a strange holiday. A full two-week period of isolation, a global tradition meant to combat seasonal plagues, where families stayed indoors and embraced the forced stillness. Some people hated it, but Ezra found something comforting about the way the world just… paused.

Even still, his mind wasn’t resting.

He should have been enjoying the quiet, the warmth of his grandmother’s cooking, the holiday movies flickering across the ancient television set in the den. But instead, he sat near the fire, staring into the embers, feeling the weight of everything pressing down on his chest.

The laughter.

The shoves into lockers.

The stolen lunch money.

The godforsaken nickname.

He had carried it all with him, even across the ocean, like a sickness he couldn’t shake.

----------------------------------------

“Tesoro mio,” came Nonna Francesca’s soft voice, pulling him from his thoughts.

Ezra turned his head. His grandmother sat in her worn, high-backed chair, wrapped in a thick woolen shawl. Her hair, still thick despite her age, was pulled into a loose bun, and her wise, sharp eyes studied him carefully.

“Come, sit,” she said, patting the seat beside her.

Ezra hesitated before standing, crossing the room, and lowering himself onto the small wooden stool at her side.

For a moment, they sat in silence.

Then—

“What is troubling you, my dear boy?”

Ezra swallowed hard, staring at the floor. He hadn’t told anyone about the bullying. Not really. His father knew something was wrong, but Ezra had brushed off most of his concerns. Julie, despite all her support, didn’t know just how much it hurt.

But here, in the dim glow of the fire, with the weight of his grandmother’s presence beside him… the words came spilling out.

“It’s school,” he muttered. “This kid—Bruiser—he’s been messing with me. And it’s… bad.”

Nonna Francesca listened, never interrupting, as he told her everything. The taunts, the shoves, the humiliation, the exhaustion of waking up every day knowing it would happen again.

When he finally finished, he let out a shaky breath, his hands gripping the edge of his seat.

His grandmother reached out, gently placing a hand over his.

She didn’t speak right away. Instead, she gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before finally saying—

“I know how much it hurts, amore. But let me tell you a story.”

“When I was young,” Nonna Francesca began, “I traveled to Jerusalem as a student. It was the first time I had been so far from home, and I was terribly homesick. I missed my family, my friends, the sound of my mother singing while she cooked.”

Ezra watched as her fingers traced the worn edge of her shawl.

“One day, I found myself wandering through the markets, surrounded by merchants selling all kinds of treasures. There was one old man, a seller of trinkets, who caught my eye. He told me he had something special—a ring that once belonged to King Solomon.”

She chuckled softly. “Of course, it wasn’t real. Just a simple silver ring. But he told me a story that I have never forgotten.”

Ezra leaned in slightly. He sat quietly as Nonna Francesca continued, her voice carrying the warmth of a storyteller who had told this tale many times before.

“King Solomon,” she said, “was known for his great wisdom—a man who ruled with unmatched intelligence, yet still sought to understand the world in ways no other king had before. One day, he called upon the greatest jeweler in his kingdom and gave him a challenge.”

Ezra listened intently, watching the firelight flicker across his grandmother’s face.

“Solomon told the jeweler, ‘Make me a ring that will lift my spirits when I am sad, yet humble me when I am joyful.’”

She smiled softly. “Now, this was no small request. The jeweler searched far and wide, consulting the wisest sages, pondering what words could possibly hold such power. But at last, he returned with a simple golden band, and on the inside, he had inscribed four words:

‘This too, shall pass.’”

Ezra let the words settle.

“The king took the ring,” Nonna continued, “and the moment he read those words, he understood. When he was at the height of his power, when his kingdom was thriving, when he was celebrating victories—he would look at the ring and remember that even the best of times are fleeting. And when he faced war, loss, or great sorrow, he would look at it again and find comfort, knowing that even pain does not last forever.”

She patted Ezra’s hand gently.

“That, my dear boy, is the power of those words. They remind us to cherish the good and endure the bad. Because everything—no matter how grand, no matter how painful—will pass in time.”

Ezra swallowed thickly, staring down at his hands.

It wasn’t just a legend. It was a truth.

One he needed to hear.

Ezra’s breath slowed as he absorbed the words.

“I bought the ring,” Nonna Francesca continued. “Not because I believed it was real, but because I needed that message. And I kept it for many years, always reminding myself—whatever sadness I felt, it would pass. And whatever happiness I had, I must cherish, for that too would not last forever.”

She turned to him, squeezing his hand again.

“You, my dear Ezra, are in a storm. But storms do not last forever.”

Ezra swallowed hard, his throat tight.

Nonna Francesca gave Ezra’s hand one last squeeze before slowly rising from her chair. "Wait here, tesoro mio," she murmured, moving toward the wooden cabinet by the fireplace. Ezra watched as she opened a small, ornate box and carefully pulled something from within.

When she turned back, he saw it—a simple silver ring, strung onto a delicate chain, the metal worn with age but still sturdy.

“I made a necklace out of it years ago,” she said, draping it over her palm. “And now, I think you should have it.”

Ezra’s breath caught in his throat as she gently placed the chain into his hands. The ring felt warm, as if it carried all the years of wisdom his grandmother had poured into it.

----------------------------------------

As the night wore on, the sound of celebration began drifting in from the small village below. Even in quarantine, people found ways to mark the occasion—music played faintly through the streets, and the distant chime of church bells rang through the crisp winter air.

Ezra sat beside his grandmother, his heart feeling just a little lighter.

She didn’t give him a way to fix what was happening. There was no magic solution, no promise that the bullying would stop tomorrow.

But she gave him hope.

Hope that one day, he would wake up and Bruiser wouldn’t matter anymore.

Hope that the things that seemed so massive now would shrink into something distant, something he could barely remember.

And as the countdown for the New Year’s space elevator ball drop began, he sat with his grandmother, feeling something he hadn’t in weeks.

A small, quiet certainty.

That this too, shall pass.