Chapter Text
Mason 'Dipper' Pines was never one for parties. Except this wasn’t just any party. It was a graduation party. A ceremony honoring the accomplishments of both Mabel Pines & Dipper Pines, marking a new beginning for the twins. Mabel's passion for fashion & design led to her acceptance into Pratt Institute gaining praises from everyone who surrounded her.
Dipper was thrilled for his sister, truly he was, but— Well, let's set that aside for now. Unlike the many who surrounded him tonight, he found himself unable to simply move on. Instead, he yearned to plunge deeper into the mysteries of Gravity Falls the same way he did when he spent his first summer here as a pre-teen. Yet, the fear of further disappointing his family held him back. Hadn't he already done enough of that? He remembered the day he found out he was rejected by West Coast Tech, how he tried to take solace in Mabel's cheery words: “It’s no biggie, Dip.” She said with a sympathetic smile. “You don't need some top college to prove your nerdiness. You’re so much more than that!” She said with a small nudge of her elbow trying to lift Dipper’s spirits. Mabel, always the optimist. Though Dipper nodded in agreement, the whispers of self-doubt gnawed at his mind. He then chose to attend a still highly regarded college, even if it paled in comparison to WCT. He had to appeal to his family somehow, right? To show he had his life on track, that he had some sort of plan in life. Although most times he thinks he's just better off dead.
Dipper inhaled a shaky breath, reality pulling him back in with an unrelenting grip. Right. He was at a party—his and Mabel’s graduation party, to be exact. His fingers tightened around his Pitt-Cola as he tried to steady his nerves. The music pounded through the room, and his eyes landed on Mabel, the undeniable star of the evening. She was in her element, spreading joy in a way he never could, dancing with Candy and Grenda, who mirrored her happiness. All around him were the people he cherished, and he observed them intently. Wendy’s laughter rang out at one of Nate’s jokes, Soos was indulging in the not-exactly-so-free buffet, and Pacifica who he’d grown to be friends with over time chatting someone up. These were the people of Gravity Falls, his friends. Deciding not to linger in the shadows like some creep, he resolved to join the party. As he approached, Wendy spotted him and called out, “Yo, Dipper!” She set her drink aside and made her way over, a few others trailing behind. “What’s up, man? Long time no see,” she greeted him with an affectionate noogie. Dipper chuckled softly at the semi-painful act. He straightened up more as he spoke. “Hey Wendy. Yeah, sorry about that. Been kinda swamped with, uh, studies, y’know?” he admitted, still awkward despite the years. Wendy arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms and leaning against the shack wall. “No shocker there. Still a nerd, huh? It suits you.” Dipper laughed lightly. “Guess so.” His gaze drifted to Mabel and her friends, his expression dimming slightly. Wendy noticed and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Hey, wanna get outta here? I know parties aren’t really your thing.” Dipper nodded almost immediately, gratefully accepting her offer.
Perched atop the shack's roof, a place that always wrapped him in a blanket of nostalgia, he found something that felt close to solace. Memories danced around him—some sweet, others downright bizarre, like the time he squared off against a wax figure of Sherlock Holmes. He shook off the strange memory, looking over the trees that surrounded them & how the evening's gentle summer breeze caressed them, he and Wendy sipped their sodas in near-perfect unison. “So, what’s up? You seemed pretty off back there.” Wendy asked, tilting her head slightly. “Feeling jittery about college or somethin’?” she added, her tone casual. “Yeah, you could say that. It’s just, uh,” Dipper hesitated with his reply. There was a storm brewing beneath his calm exterior—hidden scars & semi-fresh cuts under his flannel, relentless nightmares from summers past, and the sense of dread that constantly gnawed at him, taunting him. He bit his tongue, refusing to let those thoughts spill out. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he chuckled nervously, hoping Wendy wouldn’t see through his poorly held together facade. Dipper's worries quickly got brushed off when Wendy exhaled a small sigh, a melancholic smile gracing her lips. “Man, you’ve always been such a worrier. Trust me, college has its highs and lows, but you’ll get through it,” she reassured, taking another sip of her cola. “I guess so, it’s just... a lot, you know?” he stammered, words tangled in the web of his emotions. Articulating his feelings had always been a challenge. Wendy nudged him gently, making him meet her gaze. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze. “Hey, you’re the smartest guy I know. We’re all here for you, you know that. Especially Mabel.” Dipper managed a faint smile at the mention of his sister. “Thanks, Wendy. You always know what to say,” he replied gratefully. Satisfied that Dipper was okay, Wendy announced she was heading back to join the others, leaving him alone on the roof. Dipper felt a mix of relief and dread as she left. Now, there was nothing to drown out the nagging voice in his head. ‘She’s lying, you know. They lie to spare your feelings. They don’t want to deal with a whiny boy like you, Mason Pines. They leave the moment they can, not wanting to throw a pity party for you every second of the day.’ Dipper’s eye twitched. “Shut up,” he hissed to the empty air.
Dipper exhaled sharply, his frustration boiling over as he slammed his fist onto the creaky wooden table. God, he despised this—he despised everything! In a fit of anger, he hurled the half-empty Pitt-Cola can into the yard. “Dammit. That was unnecessary,” he muttered under his breath. Whatever, he’d deal with it later. He left the rooftop and trudged up to the attic, where his old, scuffed-up backpack lay. It bore the scars of countless mythical adventures from his younger days, patched up with care. If only he could be twelve again, he mused silently. Well, not really. There were things he’d rather not relive. Dipper rifled through his bag, finding an old, rusty hunter’s knife he’d once discovered in the shack, some bandages, his journal, and other essentials. Good enough, he thought. He slung the backpack over his shoulders, tightened the straps, and descended the creaking stairs. The house was empty; everyone was out partying. Grunkle Stan was probably schmoozing people and trying to swindle their money. Dipper scoffed at the thought. He paused, thinking of Ford, who was undoubtedly busy in the lab below. They no longer shared theories or went on adventures together. Ford was digging his own grave working alone, and Dipper had decided he didn’t care anymore. The brunette stepped out the front door, gazing up at the forest trees. He inhaled the crisp forest air and set off on his usual route, deep into the woods. Was it smart to venture out at night? No. But he didn’t really care if some multi-headed barbarian did mutilate him. He rolled his eyes at the thought, what a bizarre way to go. He ran his fingers along the tree bark, feeling the familiar textures.
This was his sanctuary. If anyone ever discovered the true reason he frequented this secluded forest, why he found solace among the whispering trees, their perception of him would shift, and not for the better. It wasn’t merely his passion for gathering mythical herbs or investigating peculiar phenomena—though he did relish those pursuits. No, his real purpose was something else entirely. He halted abruptly. The sight never ceased to captivate him: the stone effigy that seemed to gaze back at him, the statue of none other than Bill Cipher, the dream demon. Over the years, it had become shrouded in moss and marred by cracks, remnants of the time when Grunkle Stan had taken a few swings at it. Of course, Dipper hated Bill. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. But over the years, he found himself sitting beside Bill’s statue on the damp grass, talking to him about everyone and everything, as if Bill could actually hear him. Maybe he could. Dipper sometimes longed for Bill, and he hated himself for it. The demon had once planned to throw his body off a water tower when he was twelve. Now, he wouldn’t mind that so much. Dipper leaned his head against the cold stone of the statue. “I fucking hate you,” he said to the silent figure, tossing a pebble at it. “Hmph.” He huffed again. “Few weeks of summer left. Then college. Woo,” he said unenthusiastically. “I wonder if you’d still kill me if you saw me. You know, maybe I wouldn’t mind.” When he was beside the statue, he didn’t feel sadness or anything at all. It was an emptiness he had grown fond of. He took off his backpack and set it aside, pulling out the hunter’s knife and staring at his reflection in the dirty blade. Eye-bags, messy, overgrown brunette locks, and doe-like eyes that yearned for some kind of end. “Is it you in my head? The voices? I pretend they’re you sometimes. It makes it feel better,” he said, contemplating. “I miss you,” he finally confessed to someone who he wasn't even sure was there.
Dipper bit down on his lip, his breath quickening with each passing second. Tears welled up in his eyes, threatening to spill over. He felt utterly pathetic, and he knew it. His heart pounded in his ears, the rusty knife still clutched in his hands. This hunting knife held so many memories, but he wasn't using it to skillfully carve up a small animal or hunt for food. No, the prey he was cutting up was himself. Initially, it was just superficial scratches, too scared as a curious boy to go all the way. He despised himself, yeah, but fear held him back. Of course, it did. It should, right? But then things changed. After Weirdmageddon, after Bill. He found a twisted bliss in it. He craved the rush, the feeling of being alive that Bill had given him. A sensation he rarely felt anymore. He began secretly taking Mabel's X-Acto knives that she used for crafts, dragging the small, sharp blade across his wrist. He inhaled sharply, eyes wide as he watched the blood pour out. The contrast between the dark red liquid and his pale skin was a macabre masterpiece. Не started doing it more often, going deeper, using the never-used gauze bandages from the shack to wrap his body. He was littered in scars, and no one knew. Bill had opened a new world for him, and he was too naive, too stupid, to realize the true wonders the demon had introduced him to during Mabel's failed sock opera. He tried everything to recapture the bliss he felt when Bill possessed him. He didn't realize how good it all was until it was too late. Dipper shook his head, blinking away the tears that blurred his vision. He set the knife down and rolled his shorts up to his hip. Taking a steady breath, his hands shaking, he picked up the hunting knife again. For Bill, he thought. "I must be really losing it this time, huh?" he said with a shaky voice, a huff of laughter escaping his throat. It doesn't have to be this way. You can see him again, you can feel it again! You can be happy. At the voice in his head, Dipper nodded. "Yeah... Yeah, I can be happy again. I don't have to feel this way anymore!" he said. He directed the tip of the blade to his thigh. He bit his already bloodied lip, taking a breath before slicing diagonally, then again, and then a horizontal slice. He huffed heavily, squeezing the knife as he pressed his head back against the stone. His heart felt like it was about to explode. He couldn't think. It was all white noise; all he felt was the burn in his thigh. He looked down at his thigh, the cut forming a perfect triangle. Blood quickly pooled from the deep slices, dripping onto the soft grass. "Oh God." Oh God, oh God-his thoughts raced, but his brain couldn't settle on any one of them. With shaky hands, he touched his thigh, smearing the blood, mesmerized. It felt so good. He thought for a moment. It felt so good. His breathing hadn't calmed since he picked up the knife, but he laughed breathlessly. He didn't know why. Oh, what had he done? "See, Bill?" he said to himself. He didn't even know exactly why he did this. It wasn't as if the voices in his head weren't his own.
It wasn't like someone was there, whispering what to do and when. Sometimes he wished someone was, so maybe he wasn't as fucked up as he thought. And maybe that he wasn't alone. He stuck a finger into his wound, causing more blood to gush out. His hands were covered in the warm, sticky liquid, the grass, everything. He glanced at the statue of Bill, frozen in time with his hand outstretched as if to make a deal. Dipper, with his bloodied hand, reached out to it, covering the stone hand in his own blood. He pretended to shake it. "There we go," he murmured with a faint smile, his eyes wide and gleaming with pure adrenaline. He slumped against the statue, exhaustion crashing over him like a tidal wave after his likely rash actions. The sting in his thigh began to intensify, as if he were sobering up from his brief high. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to focus on the chirping crickets and the gentle breeze rustling through the forest. He felt sweaty, sticky, hot, and cold all at once. It was overwhelming and underwhelming simultaneously. Then he heard a familiar sound. Humming. Whose humming? Dipper squeezed his eyes even tighter, if that were possible. No one. It's just me. But then he heard it again, that all-too-familiar jovial voice. Bill Cipher's voice. He snapped his eyes open, spinning around to see no one. "No. This can't-" He panted, utterly exhausted, yet his heart raced like a runaway train. Was he losing his mind? Then that cheerful hum echoed once more. He recognized that tune. We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when- Dipper frantically turned again, his head whipping to the right too quickly, a sharp pain shooting through his neck, making him hiss. But he forgot all about that when he saw the figure before him. No, it can't be- Dipper thought. "But it can be," the demon said. Dipper always loathed his voice, finding it grating and mocking, but now, he was utterly speechless. Bill. Or, supposedly Bill, stood in a human-like form. He was dressed opulently in a black and gold suit with a waistcoat, adorned with details Dipper couldn't even comprehend at the moment. He wore a black bow-tie and a small top hat, reminiscent of his previous, more recognizable form. A tall man with a grin that could rival the Cheshire Cat's. Sharp teeth and a gaze that could pierce through Dipper's very soul. His golden hair matched his single, mesmerizing eye, and where another eye should be, there laid an eye-patch. His eye captured Dipper's attention. It was a stunning gold, impossible to see deeper into his pupil due to the darkening sky around them. "You know, you put on quite the show Pine-Tree! say, I'm actually shocked!" He laughed, he always laughed. It sent shivers down Dipper's spine, making him uncomfortable under his flannel. He completely forgot about the gash in his thigh. Bill took a step closer, a black-gloved hand caressing Dipper's cheek, lifting his chin effortlessly with one hand. Like Dipper was a mere pawn in his game of chess, so easy to fondle with. "I should've known you were far more interesting than ol’ Sixer! That was a mistake on my part, huh?" He said with a brief bark of laughter, his eyes narrowing in thought as he studied Dipper's face. "It makes me wonder," he mused, pausing his words momentarily- squeezing Dipper's face tighter, more painfully, causing Dipper to hitch his breath as he stared back. Scared? Confused? Not even Dipper understood what he felt. He felt weak under his touch, that much he knew. "Just how much more you're capable of now that I’m back in one piece." He finished his sentence, humming his words. "My, it really is good to be back!" He chuckled again, even his laugh sinful. ¨Were going to have so much fun Pine-Tree.¨