The forest creeps in on him. The shadows close in as the moon pulls further into the sky.

The wetness of the mist dampens his throat as if to cleanse the smoke from his lungs. He stomped out the barely finished cigarette back at the parking lot minutes ago, yet it still stings his throat. The mist is welcome.

The dare still hangs heavy over his head. The one his sister and her friends held over his head until he finally gave in. It's a simple dare to follow. Follow the path up the old Cavry path until he reaches the old house in the middle of the park. Go inside and kiss the painting of the handsome man.

Gross but doable. It's simple enough. One that 12-year-old Dipper wouldn't take but 20-year-old Dipper would. Asa kid he wouldn't fuck with ghosts. But it's only a painting, and who knows, maybe it wants a little action.

Hell, he'll even bring the stupid painting back with him.

His breath is visible in the chilly, wet autumn air.

His hoodie does nothing to ward off the cold. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. Ringing them together in the shared pocket to keep warm.

Soon enough he makes it to a house in the middle of the woods.

He takes in the faded red brick and dark wooden frame. The overgrown brush and vines made a home in the cracks. Most of the windows are dusty and mossy—the rest are broken and cracked.

He checks his phone and notes the time to be 10:27 p.m. before shoving his phone back into his pocket.

He's careful hoping up the stairs. They squeak and creek under his weight. The door screams as he pushes it open.

His eyes catch on the painting instantly. Up, front and center. It looms over the balcony. Whoever this guy was, he must have loved himself. Or afraid he'd forget what he looks like.

Dipper heads up the stairs to the balcony.

The painting is rather large. Larger than he expected. He wonders if he can even take the painting back with him. Where would he even hang it if he ends up keeping it? If he even wants it.

The man in the portrait is as pretty as the rumours say. A full head of thick gold hair swept back and out of his Sapphire eyes. His shoulders are large and broad. His expression is bored.

Dipper takes out his phone and snaps a picture as proof. He tucks his phone back into his pocket before looking up at the painting. He lulls his head to get a better look at it.

The lips of the man are slightly faded from years of teenagers coming in and kissing the painting. Be it a dare or some stupid test of courage.

He runs his hand over the shoulders, gently caressing the painting's face. Feeling every brush stroke and dab of paint long since dried over decades.

"You weren't taken very good care of, were you?" He asks the painting. He looks into the empty sapphire eyes knowing a response won't come.

It's a little stupid talking to a painting.

"You must have been quite the lady killer when you were alive." He laughs to himself. The longer he looks into those empty eyes, the more his heart strangely tightens.

He sighs, thinking of all the failed relationships he's had. He rests his head on the chest of the painting.

"You're totally my type too," he sighs into the portrait. In looks at least.

His last girlfriend was had this unapologetic grin and laughed at everything. But this guy is probably ten feet below and rotten down to dust and doesn't look like he smiled too often.

He sighs and pulls back from the painting. "Welp. Pardon me."

He leans up on his tiptoes to kiss the lips of the painted man. Out of habit, he closed his eyes. He felt stupid and opened them just as quickly.

When he pulls back and Dipper is slightly confused. The painted man looks to be smiling ever so slightly.

Weird but it's probably his imagination.

He gives the painting a small wave goodbye before he makes his way down the stairs and out of the house and hopefully, not return.

END..?

(Can we just appreciate bi Dipper? Yas king!)