He awoke on the cold floor with an unsettling jump-the kind you have only when you dream of falling. Thoughts poured into his head at an alarming rate; he wondered why everything was so much brighter, why (of all the cliches) he was on the floor of the master bathroom, and the most important of all-why and when had he lost consciousness?

Sleep was not a topic he was keen on. He'd fallen asleep few times in his life since the change, and had to fake it plenty. He'd lay in his bed curled up in his hoodie for hours, typing away on his phone in a desperate attempt to entertain himself, barely breathing when his grandparents would peek their head into the teenager's dimly lit room to check on him. He didn't know how he'd manage to keep all the secrets he had so long. In fact, he barely remembered when he had to start.

Most boys have a decently normal life, you know. A mom and a dad, maybe a few siblings and a dog or a cat. And Robbie always felt like a black sheep-enough to over dramatize his entire life and exceedingly darken his clothing choices-but he never really saw this life as the fate he'd been destined for. Destiny was a whole bunch of bullshit in his own mind, but even though this life would be the dream of a typical high school goth stereotype, it didn't suit him as much as he'd imagined.

It was 2006 when he'd first been sent to Gravity Falls, Oregon by his mother. She was having issues supporting him while simultaneously keeping up with his bad attitude-and while he would loudly retch at anyone who admitted it, he was a huge momma's boy and was never really the same after that. His grandparents were overbearing, clingy, and the worst part was they were so nice, he would be the asshole if he outwardly disliked them. Robbie recalled slowly how he became more and more antisocial over the years, and eventually stopped speaking to people altogether, preferring to sit in the back of the classroom with his hoodie tucked over pale skin and shaggy raven hair.

But he was still normal. A little dark in appearance and cynical as all hell, but still, a normal kid.

Gravity Falls' graveyard rested across the street from a baseball field and extended back into the thick of one of many surrounding forests. He'd gone there every night, far out of town, to admire the silence. Robbie could never explain to you, in retrospect, why he felt so at home when walking over the loose soil and breathing in the chilled mountain air. Even in the cold Oregon winters and through the snow that lasted into Spring, he was always there, sitting on the picnic table and letting himself drift off the face of the universe.

It was only when he brought his guitar to seek inspiration from the crumbling utopia that things changed. He'd brush his fingertips across the vines on the older headstones, melodies running through his head, pristine lyrics documenting the pain of the dead who had no one left to pay them respects. He'd gaze at the fresher flowers, adorning the headstones as kind gestures, and make up stories in his mind about every last one of them. Respect for the souls wandering his little playground, the only place where he could feel the strange solace that blanketed him whenever he creaked open the dew-coated gate and drolled in. He rested his legs on the seat of the picnic table, breathed in through the foggy night, and strummed quiet chords that flitted through the air, void in melody but soaked in serendipity.

His only mistake was allowing himself to become lost in that music he so lovingly clung to. It was almost all he had left-the cemetery and the tales he told through his music were his only escape. So he drifted, and zoned, and he never heard the dirt being cracked through, or the heavy footsteps and staggered breaths that only seemed to grow in numbers. He didn't hear the chants, or smell the odor of rotting, mangled flesh surrounding him. No, Robbie just opened his eyes and locked them with the glowing green gazes surrounding him, dropping his sight to the claws pulling at his legs, only wincing slightly at the thick yellow nails that sported crimson red as they scraped at his flesh.

Robbie didn't scream because he didn't feel wrong. He didn't scream because after a life of feeling like you don't belong, nothing will ever comfort you more than simple words like "One of us."

Robbie did scream when he felt browned and rotting fangs gnashing messily into his neck, because it hurt like a bitch.

He was suddenly taken back to the present, staring at his reflection in the mirror, and wiping sweat from his brow that wasn't even there. Hiding the fact that you're undead can make you more self-conscious than you've ever been in your life-most teenagers see themselves and wonder how they can look slimmer today, how they can hide their acne or do their makeup. Robbie curses the fact that his internal monologue has gone from "does my hair look okay?" to "hey, mirror, I don't look too undead today, do I?"

Robbie was still an angsty teenage boy caught somewhere between middle-school-emo-phase and I'm-seriously-gonna-stop-shopping-at-exclusively-Hot-Topic-now, really! but for a while at least, he felt more normal than he ever had in his life. He had a mom and some pets and grandparents and even friends and a girlfriend now. And he was a zombie. Big fucking deal.

Except it was, because no matter how well he fit in with the humans he'd so grown to appreciate now that he didn't have to share their goddamn genus, there was always the chore of going back to that cemetery and having to actually talk to his first real friends in Gravity Falls.

And so he pulled his hood over his head, traversed through the desolate woods his grandparents insisted on building their fucking mansion in, and let himself in through the gate he was so familiar with. He sighed audibly, propped himself up on the picnic table, and played one of his quiet hearse songs, sarcastically crooning at the crowd of glistening eyes and shredded limbs that hobbled toward him and started cheering. He'd played a lot of shitty clubs, but nothing really compared to the graveyard. He'd admit, the dead had great taste in music.

"Yeah, yeah, alright, show's over," He spat. "That means you, Adrian. Stop fucking clapping, you're gonna lose a hand again."

There were cold, dry chuckles that accompanied his onslaught of teasing, and he couldn't help but crack a forced smile at them. Sure, he felt a pang of resentment whenever he made eye contact with the patrons of motherfucking hotel six-feet-under, but they were still the first people to give him a chance here, and he could never really hate them.

He talked a bit more to a group of the younger zombies around his age, let himself get comfortable, unzipped his hoodie and breathed a sigh of relief. He'd been on edge all day, nearly trembling when he'd tried to play his guitar, and felt completely sick at the mere thought of everything that didn't involve standing completely still and not thinking. There was still a haze of nausea floating around his head, but he ignored the pallid feeling and tried his best to act natural. Robbie tried to focus on the things keeping him calm-the fresh air, the way the gravestone beneath his gloved fingertips was miraculously colder than his skin, the fact that he didn't have to wear a shit ton of body spray when he was around his dead friends, you know, little zombie pleasures.

But he still felt sick to his stomach, breathing hard and fidgeting and trying desperately to hide any signs of discomfort.

There was a hand on his shoulder, and he regarded it with apathy. When you spend all your nights in a graveyard with your undead friends, nothing really phases you anymore. He took a moment to wonder if he reacted too over-the-top to other weird happenings around town when he was with his human friends? The fact that he was forgetting how to act human scared Robbie. He loathed the day people started calling him on it, and he had to retire to the earth below him. I never realized how much I actually love seeing the sunlight, he pondered.

"Rob," whispered an old, decayed tomb of a voice. "You're unwell, boy."

He swatted at the man, who had died late into his life, at just the right time. "I'm fine."

"You're starved," He croaked, grabbing Robbie's chin and staring into his eyes, which were clouded over with a feverish glisten. "When's the last time you fed?"

"I don't know." He dismissed, turning his head away and burying it in his knees. "Weeks. Months."

The older ghoul shook his head. "You can't keep pushing this, boy. You know how it works. The instinct will kick in. You'll snap, you'll black out, and who knows what or who you'll go after."

"No... I... I did." He choked on his words. "But I stopped myself. Somehow, I... before I could find anyone... and I just... fell asleep. There was no... I wasn't full, it was oka-"

"You were lucky," He scolded, placing his dead hand back on the ravenette's shoulder. "Why do you do this to yourself, boy? Just pick off one of the lesser, weaker ones. It'd only take you a moment. Or that pretty little one you've been set on for a while... she seems fragile enough to take by surprise..."

Robbie near propelled himself off the grave, forgot about the hunger or the weakness overtaking his entire body, and locked his eyes on the man. His fangs were bared, leaking blood and venom, claws extended, eyes glowing a shade of red far unnatural for that of any zombie he'd known in his 300 years of life. The teen hissed words at him, sickly green claws lacerating the torn rags hanging off the undead in front of him, and his breath burned like dragon's bile against his nostrils as he spoke.

"WENDY IS NOT A FUCKING MEAL TO BE DIGESTED," he roared so that it echoed into the dead ears of everyone in the graveyard. "AND IF I SO MUCH AS SEE ANYONE HERE SUGGESTING HER AS SUCH, I'LL FUCKING SET FIRE TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU GREEDY, SLITHERING MAGGOTS."

Robbie let out a staggered breath of shock as his predatory gaze retracted and he fell to his knees, blood still running down his fingers, caked beneath his nails, clotting in his throat and dirtying his teeth. He panted heavily, nails dug into the soil, gaze fixed on the ground. His elder regarded him sadly, unphased by the attack.

"Tell me why," He near-demanded. "You tell us these stories of how you never truly belong. So we take you in, and make you become one of us, you finally belong... and you spend years thanking us, waking us every night to the sound of music we so deeply missed from when we walked the earth. Yet you spend all your time in the sunlight, around those humans, suddenly resenting who you really are. Why, Rob? You're destroying yourself. You aren't human..."

"I can't leave..." He gritted through clenched teeth. "The world of the dead isn't... where I belong... anymore... I belong with my family... my friends... with her..."

"You never so much as cast them a glance before you were turned. What changed you? Why once it was too late?"

"Why, Oscar..." He gasped for a breath between the name of the man who made him who he was now, this creature, and wheezed out his words. "Why can't I be both? Why do I have to exclusively be dead or alive?"

"Well, there's no debating it, boy. You're dead now. There's no going back. Keeping yourself from feeding won't change that."

"No... I'm not dead. Not completely."

He stared at the ground still, but could feel Oscar's condescending gaze on the top of his head, judging him as always. As he spoke, he rose his stare to meet his, the red tint still gleaming in his dead eyes, making them look just that much more alive like he so claimed.

"Wendy... she keeps me human..." he nearly choked through fatigue.

The older man backed away from him, taken heavily aback by his words, terrified at the humanity beckoning from the young zombie's glare. "You love her," he whispered.

Robbie's eyes actually spotted with tears, and he swallowed the pang of anxiety eating away at him as he nodded. With one last longing stare, he turned from what he perceived to be his cool, suave, mysterious demeanor to the scared little boy he actually was. "What do I do?"

The dead man simply lowered his head-his face contorting with sick empathy-tightened his familiar squeeze on Robbie's shoulder, and wept silently.

"Can you promise me something?" Robbie says as he runs his pale fingers through Wendy's long hair, trembling not because he's anxious, but because that's simply what she does to him.

"Sure thing, loser." She smiles and says without even thinking about it (as always.)

"We've been together for a long time, Wendy. So, uh... would you ever, like, break up with me if you found out I had my share of... I dunno, weird secrets?"

She tipped her head in thought, freckled cheeks bunched up against her eyes. "Well, everyone's got their fair share. I suppose I'd want you to be honest with me, and as long as you were, I can't see myself leaving you for the things you'd rather not tell everyone."

He shakily ran the eglet of his hoodie string along his fingertips, staring at the adjacent couch cushion. "Why'd you break up with all those guys you dated?"

"You're still worried about that?" She brushed a stray hair behind her ear. "I told you a million times, Robbie, they were boring. They didn't have enough dark secrets."

He swallowed, and Wendy raised her head from out of his lap, moving her legs onto his and wrapping her arms around his neck. His face just barely heated and he wondered how undead he really was around this girl. She touched her forehead to his, noted the fear in his eyes, and got the message that he really needed to talk to her.

"I got an idea," She smiled at him, as warm as she'd always been. "How about you tell me your big secret, and I'll tell you one of mine, that way we're even?"

His breath caught in his throat, he could feel his stomach flipping and he was never quite sure whether it was how completely scared he was or just that he had the only girl he'd ever felt anything for gazing into his eyes like everything in the world was just fine. They were teenagers, it was summer, everything was going fine, and Robbie let a single tear fall from his crystal blue eyes and onto Wendy's hand, where she brushed it away, ignoring how ice cold his skin always was in comparison. In that single minutia of the thousands of years he would probably live, Robbie felt more human than he had in years. She cupped his jawline and let her always-chapped lips press up against his, and he held her there for what he could only hope was forever, knowing the next thing he said could end in her being gone forever. He was still crying, without shaken breaths, not at all choked sobs-just silent, quiet squalls.

"Wendy, I'm a zombie."

"My dad wrestled a beaver to death to make this hat for me."

"What?"

"What?"

Robbie's heart dropped, and he stared at his girlfriend in disbelief, not saying anything. She stared back as if nothing was wrong, completely unphased, and spoke again.

"I thought we were sharing secrets?" She grinned. "I'm totes serious, this hat is like 110% pure beaver, dude."

"Okay, I got that," He pinched the bridge of his nose, almost glowing with nervousness at having to reiterate. "And I'm a zombie. You got that, right? Like, you know, 'braiiinsss!' Yeah, that's me."

"Yeah, I heard you, goofball."

"But did you hear me?" His expression didn't change. "This isn't a joke! I'm serious, look!" He flawlessly yanked off his left hand, practically dangling it in front of her. "This... this isn't normal, Wendy, look at this."

"Hey man, I've lived here for like 10 years now, do you honestly think this is the weirdest thing I've seen? I work with the Pines family."

He was amazing at how every and all bit of anxiety that had been plaguing him washed away with those simple words. "But I'm..."

"So, Robbie V is undead." She shrugged. "He's a lot of other things too, and honestly, as long as you aren't eating my brain, I can dig it just fine."

He gaped at her still, with tears still staining his eyes, and with a very warm, very human smile, he absentmindedly reattached his hand, pulling Wendy into a hug and never letting go. She clung to him in return, melting away all his problems, accepting every last bit of who he was, and the pessimistic raincloud that always hung over the undead boy's head finally started to break apart. He broke apart from her and jumped, swearing in that moment that he had felt his heart beat.

"So, like, did your dad get rabies?"