In this universe, we fight because we can’t fuck. Call it Universe A, or One, the Golden Age where it all began. Though “began” is relative when your timeline is constantly rewritten, rebooted, shattered to bits. Call it the universe where we aren’t even supposed to show emotion, unless it’s anger, let alone kiss. Your fist skates over my jaw, bone against bone, skin brushing skin. I tie you up. Your muscles strain. We grapple, sweat-slick, though you never seem to sweat half as much as I do. Everything is easy, you never have to try. At least that’s how it looks from the outside. No wonder everyone thinks I hate you. Neither of us wins or loses, not permanently, and it all starts over again the next time. We’ve even killed each other in this universe a time or two. I’m almost certain I remember dying in your arms. Every fight leaves me shaken, breathless, wishing for more. But in this universe, we don’t fuck, so this will have to do.

• • • •

In this universe, we switch roles—I’m the good guy, you’re the bad. We still don’t fuck, but look how little separates us, how similar we are.

• • • •

In this universe, we’re both in female bodies, though I won’t make any assumptions about your gender if you don’t make any about mine. We still don’t fuck, but everything is suggestive, because the audience—there’s always an audience—is assumed to be straight and horny and male. Our chests heave. We bite our lips. You stand close when you talk, and when I threaten you—tied up again, of course—my hand rests alongside your jaw. Bone against bone, skin brushing skin. You have superpowers; you could easily break free. But maybe you’re happy here, right where you want to be. You smell like green apples in this universe. Probably your shampoo. Our backs make impossible curves, and we’re each missing ribs. I’m not even sure we could fuck in these bodies without breaking them. Not that our other bodies are practical either, especially yours. Still, the smell of apples is nice. I hope I’ll remember it when this version of you is gone.

• • • •

In this universe, we’re flung back to prehistory, a beginning before it began. We flee and hide from dinosaurs and eventually team up to get back home. It’s a temporary alliance. I wouldn’t call us friends.

• • • •

In this universe, we’re actors playing our characters on a much-beloved show. Or we were. It was cancelled after three seasons. There have been rumors and campaigns and meetings ever since, discussing a reboot, a sequel, a sidequel, an homage in which we would appear. Nothing ever comes of it, but hope remains. We’re at a hotel bar after a long day on a convention floor, signing autographs, doing meet and greets, answering questions. It’s an anniversary year, so there are more demands for our presence—more retrospectives, where-are-they-nows, and please-oh-please-let-the-reboot-rumors-be-true. So many years after the show, we’re friendly, but not friends. We see each other at conventions, exchange texts every now and then. But tonight, this universe has conspired so there’s nowhere else either of us has to be. The bar is dark, removed from the convention, and no one recognizes us here. We talk about the old days—injuries on set and difficult guest stars. We share war stories from projects we’ve worked on since, and a little bit of our personal lives. You spent time in rehab; I briefly quit acting to write a book but failed.

Eventually, we get around to the convention itself. Fans with tattoos of our faces, amazing cosplay. We talk about the weirdest things we’ve signed, and the lovely gifts we’ve been given. And the slash, you say, now that you’re buzzed; I laugh and try not to blush. I know, I reply, it’s amazing how many fans want to see our characters get together. You say, not just our characters, a cheeky grin, us too.

We laugh again, because it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? I think about the universe where we don’t fuck and your fist skating over my jaw. I wonder if this moment—our hands close, but not touching, the goosebumps rising on my arm—is because of all the things our characters have never been able to say and do to each other. Or maybe it’s this moment that ripples out to affect the way our characters feel.

Have you ever, I start to say, as you say, Do you wonder, and we both stop, looking at each other, laughing again. Are you nervous, excited, embarrassed, hopeful? It’s hard to tell. Our hands inch closer. I angle my head down, so I don’t have to look you in the eye. I say, I did have a tiny little crush on you back in the day, but you were married, and we were friends. I feel you watching me intently when you reply, I’m not married now, and let the words hang. I smell apples.

Just at that moment, the fucking fire alarm sounds, and we’re ushered outside. In the parking lot, waiting for the fire department to give us the all clear, we bounce on our toes to stay warm and exchange awkward smiles. We joke about maybe next time, because the soap-bubble moment is broken and won’t come again. Six months later, you’re diagnosed with throat cancer. You announce your retirement. We text occasionally, because talking hurts. We don’t see each other in person again. This universe sucks.

• • • •

In this universe, I’m a cat and you’re a dog. The multiverse is a weird place, but I kind of like this. We spend days separate but together, you happily chewing a ball in the sun, me stalking the fence line, hunting birds. It’s simple, uncomplicated. I wish we could stay.

• • • •

In a dozen universes, we’ve never met. My mother died while she was pregnant, or my parents never fucked. You never developed superpowers. You’re an accountant and I’m a schoolteacher and we both lead perfectly mundane lives.

• • • •

In a dozen other universes, it’s always too late. I attend your funeral, or you attend mine. We watch quietly from the back row until someone tells us to leave, or a fight breaks out, or we get up and speak, sharing grudging admiration or open regret that things weren’t different, that we couldn’t see eye to eye.

• • • •

In a hundred fics and AUs, illustrated and written, shared on forums and swapped via email, we have always been in love. We fuck in every conceivable combination, all genders, and none at all. With cat ears and mer-tails, as ghosts and demons, sentient trees and distant galaxies. We are everything and everyone and we are still ourselves, right down to our cores. Maybe this is the truth of us, rippling outward, the seed of what we always should have been and from which every other universe grows. Are there universes where there is no audience? What would we be there, without the demands of story? Would I still . . . ? But that isn’t worth thinking about. Though I do wonder—without constant resets and reboots, how might we grow? Would we even exist at all?

• • • •

In this universe—call it universe Y, or Fifty-Two, the first, the last, reset number who’s even counting anymore?—we’re in middle school. Another beginning before the beginning, starting us all over again. A tree grows out of the asphalt, casting shadows across the yard. A bully knocks me down; you’re the only one who sees. You walk over, speak to the bully in quiet tones, then offer me your hand. My nose is bleeding, and you apologize for not having a tissue. I say it’s fine and wipe the blood away. We stand awkwardly under the tree shadows, not knowing what to say. I can tell there’s something different about you, something special. Your powers haven’t manifested yet, but they’re there just under the surface of your skin. In this moment, I don’t feel like swearing revenge against the bully or making everyone sorry that they laughed at me by showing them all someday. Who knows, that might change.

But right now, it’s enough to stand here with you being kind, smiling and giving me a little wave and saying, I’ll see you around, and me saying, okay. I don’t know if you mean it or if I do, but I smell apples, and I hope, somewhere in some universe—even if it isn’t this one—we’ll be okay.