By midnight, Paddy's had completely transformed. What was once a modest dive bar with cracked leather booths and sleepy beer signs had now erupted into a makeshift dance floor. The lights dimmed to a neon haze. Someone had commandeered the karaoke machine and was now DJing with all the chaotic energy of a college freshman discovering bass drops for the first time. Every few seconds, a new song blared through the speakers—one hit wonder after another—and bodies started moving, drinks sloshing, shoes squeaking on sticky floors.
Archie hadn't planned on dancing. He never did. But somewhere between his third drink and the look William gave him when Dancing in the Dark started playing, something inside him unspooled.
William raised an eyebrow, his grin slanted and easy. "Come on. I saw you up there earlier. You owe me one good dance move."
"I'm not drunk enough for this," Archie said, even as he stood.
"I am," William replied.
And then they were dancing—terribly, joyfully, without rhythm or shame. Anne screamed when she saw them and joined in, dragging Marco back from the bar to flail beside them. The four of them moved like satellites caught in the same strange orbit, bumping into strangers and laughing through the kind of pure, unfiltered fun that rarely survived adulthood.
Someone passed Archie another drink. He didn't even know what it was. It tasted like melted Jolly Ranchers and regret. But it made the lights blur in a nice way, and it made the music feel like it was pulsing right through his bones.
William grabbed Archie's hand at one point and twirled him like they were at prom. Archie stumbled, laughing, and leaned into William without thinking, their shoulders bumping, heads close.
"Too many people," William yelled into his ear over the music.
Archie nodded, breathless. "Where do you wanna go?"
William's answer was a simple tug of Archie's wrist, leading him past the booths, past the flickering jukebox and a couple making out by the restrooms. They ran up the stairs, giggling like kids escaping curfew. Up one flight, then another. At the top of the narrow stairwell, they found a fire exit door, cracked open just enough to tempt them.
William pushed it, and they stepped out onto the rooftop.
It was cool up there—quiet, above the noise and sweat and strobe lights. The sky stretched endlessly above them, dark and wide and spattered with stars. The city's glow flickered in the distance, but the stars were what caught Archie's attention.
He stood there for a moment, frozen, staring up.
William watched him. "You like stars?"
Archie smiled faintly. "Always have. They remind me... there's so much beauty out there. Stuff I forget to see most of the time. When I'm overwhelmed, or too deep in my own head... looking up helps. It always has."
William leaned beside him on the metal railing, following his gaze. "They don't change, do they?"
"No," Archie said softly. "Not really. That's the comfort of it, I think. They're always there, even if we're not always looking."
A long silence followed. The kind that wasn't awkward, but heavy with things unsaid. The wind picked up slightly, brushing through their hair, cooling their flushed faces.
Then William spoke. "I was in a car accident three years ago."
Archie turned sharply. "What?"
William's voice was calm, but faraway. "Lost control on a highway in Vermont. It was raining. I hit a guardrail and flipped. They told me I was lucky to survive. But I lost... memories. Big ones. From the year before. Some things came back. A lot didn't."
Archie swallowed hard. "I... I didn't know."
"No one really does," William said. "My family doesn't talk about it. They act like it never happened. Like pushing forward is more important than remembering what was lost."
He paused. "But sometimes I... feel it. Like someone's missing. Someone I used to know. Someone important. But I can't see his face. I can't remember his name. I just... feel it. A weight. An echo."
Archie's voice was barely a whisper. "Do you think you ever knew me?"
William looked at him. Really looked.
"I don't know," he said, voice cracking. "Sometimes I think maybe. Like déjà vu but worse. Stronger. But it's like reaching through fog."
Archie's heart pounded. "At the diner... you didn't remember me."
"No," William said quietly. "But after that night, I started having dreams. Bits and flashes. Someone's hand in mine. Music. Laughter. A boy who looked at me like I mattered."
Archie felt the burn behind his eyes. "Was it me?"
"I think so." William looked tortured, torn open. "And I've been trying to remember. I even asked my parents, but they shut it down. They're too focused on my engagement."
Archie blinked. "The girl from the restaurant?"
William nodded. "It's all arranged. Families aligning. Legacies, image, business. We've known each other forever. But it's not love. It's convenience dressed in diamond rings."
"Why didn't you say anything before?" Archie asked, voice shaking.
William turned toward him. "Because I didn't know how. And part of me... part of me was scared. Of what remembering might mean. Of what I might have lost."
The silence fell again, only this time it was trembling on the edge of something.
Then William said, "But tonight? Being with you... dancing, talking, laughing... It felt like something waking up."
Archie's eyes brimmed with tears. "I've been searching for you," he whispered. "This whole time. I thought maybe I was going crazy. But I knew there was something."
William stepped closer.
Archie didn't move away.
And when William kissed him—it wasn't hesitant. It wasn't soft or questioning.
It was desperate. Full of memory and longing and something raw, something breaking open.
The stars above them sparkled cold and ancient, indifferent to the boys clinging to each other on a rooftop. But for Archie, it felt like the whole universe had tilted. Like all the dissonant notes in his chest had finally found their melody.
He kissed William back, holding him tight, as if afraid he might disappear again.
And somewhere in the city below, the music kept playing. But up here, everything was quiet—just breath and stars and two boys finding something they'd lost long ago.