Tear You Apart || Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

𝟼𝟶| 𝐇𝐞'𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐭 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐕𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐬

"Holy hell," you goggled at the old Hollywood-esque mansion that belonged to John Milton, taking in all its glory. "How fucking rich is this guy?"

Randy tutted as the two of you strode past a rectangular swimming pool in the courtyard on your way to the front entrance.

"Too rich," he replied, scornfully. "That decrepit fuck has probably made millions off our trauma. And we never even saw a cent."

You huffed out a laugh, eyes training on the giant red "Happy Birthday" banner for Roman that decorated the brick wall above the door.

"Right... maybe we should sue." You suggested playfully, and Randy rolled his eyes at how unserious you were.

"We should be suing Gale Weathers for writing those fabricated books about our lives. If it weren't for her, there wouldn't even be the Stab movies." He adamantly declared while shoving his hands into his pant pockets.

"Oh, please." You clicked your tongue as you paused at the house's entrance, knocking on the door. "You're just upset because she referred to you as, 'The geek who lived'."

You snickered at the scowl on Randy's face as you had promised not to joke about it after the book came out, however, it was simply too comical not to bring up again.

A few seconds ticked by before the door opened to reveal a drunken Roman, and you noticed the virtually empty champagne flute in his hand.

"Oh, hey, Y/n..." He greeted, then glanced at Randy. "And Y/n's friend."

You gave a friendly smile as he raised his hands, the champagne sloshing around in the glass, nearly spilling out. "Come on in guys! Join the party."

Randy wore a wary look as the two of you followed Roman inside. Walking through the compact foyer, he opened the double doors that lead to the recreation room. You spotted Dewey and Gale waiting by the fireplace while three cast members — Angelina, Tyson, and Jennifer — were chatting amongst themselves on the couch.

As Randy waltzed right over to Dewey, you pulled Roman by the sleeve of his shirt back inside the foyer. He wobbled slightly, discombobulated by your swift action as his brows pinched together.

You just wanted a little privacy while you gave him his gift.

Reaching into your jacket pocket, you pulled out a miniature white box and handed it to him. "Happy birthday, Roman."

His bemused gaze flickered from the gift to you, then back down to the box as he gently took it from you. Wordlessly, he set his champagne glass on the wooden bookshelf behind him before carefully removing the lid.

The crease between his eyebrows faded, his expression displaying astonishment as he saw what was inside—a golden keychain embellished with a Trojan horse. He held it flat against his palm as he scanned the back to find your name engraved with the words, "To Troy, we march!" You felt it was fitting given your Greek history with one another.

"I know it's not an amazing, out of this world, gift but–"

"No, it's great." Roman shook his head as he carefully placed it back inside the box. "It's really great, especially since it's the only birthday present I've ever gotten."

He chuckled solemnly, hoping you'd find amusement in his jesting, but you just felt bad for him. Thirty years old, and not a single gift from a loved one. The thought alone triggered your sympathetic heart, and you couldn't resist the urge to hug him.

Stepping forward, you pulled him into your embrace as you wrapped your arms around his neck. Roman seemed taken aback, the whites of his eyes somewhat expanding as he processed this foreign form of affection.