PFM snippets #2

#Alan: “Just look at me. Forget everything else.” + “I’m going to ask you how you are, and I would like you to answer me honestly.” + “Show me where it hurts.” 

What ought to be an objectively good workday falls completely apart with an hour-long lecture you receive over the phone. It’s funny, in hindsight, how little your age matters, and how long it’s been since you graduated. For your parents, you’ll always remain their wayward child - the black sheep of the family, their biggest regret and disappointment.

As you exit the office building, dodging the judgmental stares of your coworkers, you briefly wonder how much of the angry monologue they heard, then quickly dismiss it, knowing that it doesn’t matter. No matter what, neither side would let you forget what cost you to be here, and who you owe for all your life’s fortunes.

Your hands still shake as you turn off your phone, carelessly chucking it into the glove compartment in your car. Nursing the silent rage and overwhelming hopelessness, you decide against driving. The last thing you want, after all, is to end up in the news with a mugshot and an unflattering headline. 

Alois’ club isn’t far, and that’s where you head. It’s barely dusk, but you can count on him to be ready to play anytime. Or, well, usually. Today, he’s curiously absent. You accept a drink, then two, then three - and four? - from the barman, but eventually drag yourself off the couch and take your ass home.

The neighborhood is quiet after nightfall, and so is your apartment. There’s no one waiting for you, no one to welcome you but the empty fridge and the ceiling lamp you forgot to switch off when you left early this morning.

Not bothering to turn on other lights, you enter the living room, guided by only the ambient glow coming from the hallway behind you. It’s adequate for you to see the outlines of the furniture, though sadly not enough for you to notice the broken glass shards you were meaning to clean up after work.

A stab of pain rushes from the base of your foot all the way to your knee. Swearing, you flop on the carpet, pulling your shoe off as you descend. 

Despite the shard being mostly blocked by the outsole, your white sock slowly stains with blood. Your eyes sting, but not from discomfort. It doesn’t even hurt after the initial injury, not with the alcohol still flowing into your system. You feel miserable and pathetic, and the whirlwind of emotions that has spared you before now pushes you over the edge. 

Incensed, you toss the shoe onward, narrowly missing... Alan, who has just appeared on the threshold between the living room and the hallway. The shoe flies past him, slamming into the opposite wall with a dull clack. 

Neither of you turns that way, however, as you stare at each other for a long, pointed beat of silence, both in a similar state of puzzlement. With scarcely any light shining on his front, you see only the outline of his profile. 

Alan shakes off the stupor first. Shadows move in accordance with his facial muscles, creating sharp outlines as he frowns. “...You left the door open,” he remarks slowly, tone, as usual, measured and dry. “Ajar,” he adds, as though it’s important for you to know.

“Oh,” you mutter when his expression becomes expectant. You try to remember the moment of your entrance but fall short. “I guess I did.”

Alan refrains from making a comment, which, for him, must be a difficult undertaking. “Alois said he left the case folder at your place,” he explains, lifting the aforementioned item for you to see. A red-bound stack of documents. You’re pretty sure you saw it by the door.

“The inheritance?” you chance. It has to be, as you doubt that Alois got himself in trouble in just one day, though knowing him, nothing is impossible. “He did leave it here last night, yes. I don’t know where he is now, though.”

“Neither do I,” Alan deadpans. His expression adds, ‘Hence my visit.’

You open your mouth to say, ‘Okay,’ or ‘I see,’ but what actually comes out has you wincing. “I thought you were avoiding me.” Damned booze. “After, uh...” After you almost kissed at a banquet two weeks ago. Fun times. 

Alan doesn’t immediately go for the beloved ‘I was busy,’ excuse, nor does he point out that your avoidance was very much mutual, confirming, in your mind, that the unsaid agreement was, in fact, that.  

Before you have the chance to brush it off or tell him to leave, he lets out something that sounds partially like your name, partially like a sigh. It’s soft, but you can hear it acutely in the overwhelming silence of the room.

Whatever he means to say next is forgotten the second he flicks the lights on and takes in the... slight mess on the floor. The sudden brightness blinds you, forcing you to momentarily shield your face.

When you let your hands fall, Alan’s right beside you, no doubt holding in a sarcastic comment or five. 

“I’m going to ask you how you are, and I would like you to answer me honestly,” he starts, slow and measured. His expression is placid, and only his tightly pressed lips indicate his worry. “So. How are you?”

“Tipsy,” you respond promptly, abiding by his order. When his eyes start to squint with displeasure, you hurry to add, “And pissed. It wasn’t a good day.”

Alan scrutinizes you for a second longer before shaking his head. “Show me where it hurts.” You don’t get to, though. He figures out as much without your input.

Ignoring your mumbled excuses, Alan helps you assess the damage, muttering a litany of less-than-flattering remarks about the wisdom of leaving broken glass uncleaned and walking around blindly. 

When he moves to fetch the first-aid kit, you stop him, saying, “A bandage won’t help.”

“Should I kiss it better?” he asks in a tone so warm and indulgent that it startles even him. The hand that was resting on your ankle freezes before it’s all but yanked off you. “I’ll get a disinfectant—”

“It was a vodka bottle, it disinfected plenty,” you insist, grabbing at his arm to prevent him from fleeing. “It’s shallow, too. Doesn’t bleed anymore.”

Alan looks at you skeptically, but he’s even less of a nurse than you, so he doesn’t argue. His amenability might have more to do with the wobbly quality of your voice rather than his lack of acumen, but the fact remains that he lets the matter slide.

Letting you pull him into a seated position, Alan opens his arms for you to crawl between, and you waste no time before taking advantage of his offer.

You know he doesn’t like when people touch him, and yet he allows you to clutch at him like a teddy bear for however long you need. Usually so neat and tidy, he says nothing about the tears and snot that you spread over his shirt as you unravel. 

When you finally extract your face from the groove of his shoulder, he simply wipes your cheeks clean with the edge of his sleeve. “Better?”

“Mhm.”

Tactfully, he doesn’t ask you what happened, only, “Do you want to talk about it?” 

You shake your head, worried that if you try to speak, you’ll crumble once more. 

“All right. Just look at me, then. Forget everything else.” 

“You’re not that pretty for me to forget everything—”

“Clearly you’ve recovered.” Sliding his palm from your cheek to your mouth, Alan appears more relieved than annoyed at your quip. “Aside from your creative rendition of Rudolph the Red—”

“I’m drunk!” you exclaim, clutching at your nose. The tip of it stings where it was rubbed nearly raw. “You’re so petty.”

“You only just figured that out?” Alan chuckles, pushing himself off the floor. You don’t stop him this time. You don’t have to. “Get some rest.”

“But the glass—”

“Now you’re worried about it?” he huffs, reaching out to steady you as you try to stand. “Go. I’ll take care of it.” 

He waves off your thanks as he leads you to your room, making sure there are no other surprises scattered on the way there.

As you burrow yourself into the sheets, the last thing you remember is Alan’s face, skewed and upside down as he pulls a blanket to your chin. After that, you really do forget everything else.

#Reed: “I want you to know that it’s okay to cry.”  + “You’re doing amazing, I’m so proud of you.” + “This is so stupid.” “It’s not stupid, it’s your body. And I’m here for you until it stops being stupid.”

Aside from the regular changes that come with graduation, and the revisions that ensued as a result of Reed’s status shift from ‘alive’ to ‘deceased,’ at the very core of himself, Reed has stayed the same even at his lowest, but more so during the recuperation after.

It’s because of all the preserved similarities that you become aware of the subtle differences, highlighted against the memory of ‘what was.’ 

Like the way he dresses less for himself and more to make a statement, the scrutiny he places upon himself, how his jokes are no longer light, but pointed, and everything he says is careful, far from purposeless. 

He smiles more than before, as well, no matter his emotional state. A grin has always been his mask, but now it’s a weapon that he wields against those who like and hate him. 

Compared to how he deals with others, to you, he’s forthright and open, yet not as much as before. You’re not one to judge, however, seeing as you weren’t the most honest either when you first met. 

Though he still maintains his usual charm, his face looks gaunter. The weeks, if not months, he spent in a bender have taken its toll on him. 

Whatever else had happened to him while you were gone, the fact that he was betrayed by someone he trusted remains. You understand that he needs more than just time to get over it.

And he’s already well on his way. Since he stopped reaching for a drink as a means to cope, going as far as to refuse the courtesy shots at work, he’s obviously determined not to let the past haunt him, no matter how much of his life it ruined. 

He bounces back fast, one might say too fast, but witnessing him push himself to get stronger is better than seeing him punish himself for something that wasn’t his fault. Despite his usual outward levity, even as a student, he’s always been dutiful. Now, he’s taking it to the extreme.

The worst thing is that he neglects to ask for help, reluctantly embracing it when you provide. The only reason as to why you refrain from calling him out on that is that you don’t want to be dubbed a hypocrite, no matter how accurate that label would be.

So, you watch him from the sidelines, offering whatever comfort you can until you grow too concerned not to address it the next chance you get together.

It isn’t exactly rare for you to meet, but you both have your own commitments, you especially, trying to establish yourself in Elazar as best as you can, given your circumstances. 

As for Reed. He seeks you out when he’s happy. He holds your hand, as it’s habitual, but he withdraws into himself the moment his scent turns salty and sour. Just like today.

You know it’s a bad day when he doesn’t immediately cling to you, throwing his legs over your lap or looping his arm with yours as you settle on the couch. He perches on the opposite end instead, placing a tray with snacks between you.

He turns the movie on, but neither of you is watching. Your gaze is fixed on him, and his is too unfocused to pay attention to what is happening on the screen. His frame is shaking through the multiple layers he’s huddled in, but the dead giveaway, as always, is the growing misery in his scent.  

“I want you to know that it’s okay to cry,” you start without preamble, knowing that he heard you perfectly well when his expression scrunches up.  

It’s as though he was waiting for permission. His eyes fill with moisture, but he stubbornly blinks it away. “I’m tired of bein’ a mess,” he mutters, reaching for his cup. He takes a sip, then puts it back on the tray. 

“You’re not a mess,” you insist, and even if you had to lie when you said it before, now you really mean it. “You’re doing amazing—”

Reed laughs, or rather the sound bursts out of him against his will. It’s sharp, crackled, contrasting sharply with the amiable smile he quickly pulls over his face to smooth out the delivery. 

For a second, you think he’ll brush you off or placate you with a lie. He doesn’t. Eventually, he settles on, “I’m not. I have a party I need to attend later, and I don’t... I don’t know how I’m supposed to just go there and act like nothin’ touches me.”

In a perfect world, you’d be able to tell him that he doesn’t have to mask himself. That he can let people see him raw. But with the people he associates himself with, that would be akin to a death sentence. 

“I’m over it,” he continues, pulling the wide sleeves of his hoodie over his hands, “in my head. But my fuckin’,” he pauses to huff with disgust, indicating his earlier almost-outburst, “Pathetic, really. This is so damn stupid.”

“It’s not stupid, it’s your body.” Moving the tray from the couch to the coffee table in front of you, you let yourself breach the space Reed made between you. His eagerness can be subdued, but the littlest things in him still give him away. “And I’m here for you until it stops being stupid.”

When Reed freezes with his arms already half around you, you realize he misunderstood your words.

“And I will be there for you after,” you add, dispelling the sharp tang of hurt. “No matter what.”

“Always?” he asks, voice tentative and muffled as he presses his face into the crook of your neck. It’d probably shatter him completely if you said no. 

“Mhm.” Ever since he strutted into your life, it became impossible for you to picture your world without him in it. Through good and bad days, you want to be there to watch him grow. “I’m so proud of you.” 

Reed doesn’t speak. He can’t. His mouth is open, but only to swallow his gasps as he finally lets his tears flow.

#Flavio: “Tell me to stay, and I will be here for as long as you’ll have me.” + “You’re normally the tough guy. Today, let me be tough for the both of us.” 

For someone you thought was a clown with the depth of a fishless pond, Flavio’s well-learned unwillingness to admit his problems never ceases to amaze you. In this case, negatively. 

It infuriates you how long it takes you to notice a single crack in his visage. Even now, as he’s serving you the takeaway meal that he insists he cooked himself, narrating animatedly about some unimportant meeting he had at work, it doesn’t dawn on you that something is amiss until you pass him the atrocious salt shaker and he flinches.

The metal is cold, but not enough to warrant such a reaction. 

“Ouchie, my finger got all stiff,” Flavio announces, not missing a beat, tone and expression half-serious, half-joking. Still wailing under his breath, he massages the offending knuckle by repeatedly brushing it over his thigh. He only stops when you place the shaker back on the table. “I guess the universe is telling me to watch my sodium intake, eh?”

But it’s not about the salt, is it? Now that you’re conscious of it, the flashes of all the clues you’ve missed fill your mind like an avalanche. Clues you didn’t even think to watch out for, because why would you? 

Earlier, when Flavio picked you up from work, his jacket and accessories were all gone. Anything sharp or metallic was absent from his person and his apartment. Even his keys were replaced by a door card that he usually insists he doesn’t like to use. 

He said he left his wallet at the HQ, and you assumed that the word he truly meant was not ‘left’ but ‘forgotten.’ And while it’s a likely story, there’s more to it than meets the eye. 

As rare as they are, whatever anomalies he displays can all be blamed on the side effects of his affliction. You can only imagine how hard it is to not only see but experience dying over and over and over again. It’s a miracle he’s taking it so well.

“Keep looking at me so intently, and I’ll start to blush.”

Seeing your calculating gaze, Flavio chuckles, unconsciously straightening himself in his seat as if preparing for an interrogation. It’s been so long since you saw him act this rigid. You almost forgot how he looked like without a smile.

“Difficult case?”  

Hoping to the very end that you’ll either remain oblivious or refrain from mentioning it, Flavio winces, caught red-handed. 

“Since when are you so perceptive?” he jokes, reaching for his plate that you snatch from him at the last moment. 

You might have given in to such redirections before, but letting him stuff his mouth with food to avoid having a conversation is not going to fly this time.

“Sweetie pie, you’re picking up all the wrong things from me,” he complains, grasping a cup of coffee for something to hold. “All right, I’ll admit. I was a bad, bad boy. I don’t deserve the dessert. But honey, to snatch the main dish from me? A dish I painstakingly—”

“Is it the aftereffects?” you ask, ignoring the yapping, and he nods, lips already parting around the ‘it’s not that bad,’ that you just know is coming.

“It’s not—” 

“You could have said something.”

Flavio flicks his tongue, like you’re the one being difficult. “For what?” he mumbles, taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not that bad.” When you send him a pointed stare, he goes on to say, “I’m dealing with it. Really, I’ll forget all about it soon enough. You know me. The perks of Death Speaking - my memory is worse than a goldfish.” 

That’s a blatant lie, but there has to be some sort of a psychological barrier, otherwise, you can’t imagine anyone surviving with his affliction relatively unscathed.

“I’m not going to baby you, Flavio,” you say, giving him his plate back. He doesn’t immediately dig in. There’s no point in distracting you now, after all. “If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t.” 

He’s never been shy with voicing his grievances, especially at the beginning of your acquaintanceship, from the most grave to the pettiest. But where you thought he was the kind of person who wore their hurt like a badge of honor, he hides it best from the once he most cares about. You suppose you should be flattered. 

“Aww, no? But what if I want you to tuck me in and sing me a lullaby?”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

Mhm. And if you were to deliver, he wouldn’t last even a minute before wrapping you in a blanket himself. You’ve been through it before. 

Seeing as his attempt at misdirection failed, he lets out a defeated sigh, leaning backwards in his chair. “What about you?” he asks, fingers playing with the edge of his plate. “You hardly ever contact me first until something’s wrong.”

“That’s... not important anymore.” 

Flavio snorts, as usual, enjoying throwing you for a loop. “Is this about—”

“It’s about nothing,” you say, launching yourself forward to stuff one of your appetizers into his gaping mouth. 

Though he’s not beyond talking through a mouthful of food, this time he chews, frowning at you all the while. If he tells you that you’re childish, you’ll bring him a mirror. 

“Here,” you start before he can. “Watch me pick up one more ‘wrong’ thing from you. I’m fine. I’m dealing with it.” 

“I don’t sound like that,” he mumbles, apparently dissatisfied with your mimicry. He swallows, wiping a stray bit of grease from the corner of his lips. “I thought you wanted to vent.”

Feeling your cheeks tingle in embarrassment, you consider lying to save your face. Admitting the truth, especially right now, fills you with chagrin. “It was just a stupid argument,” you mumble, settling for a partial disclosure. 

“Yeah? About what?” As he dons his best gossipmongering expression, Flavio’s question drips with the undertone of, ‘tell me all about it.’ But there’s nothing to say, not truly. 

His eagerness to hear you out unfolds you in the end. “Honestly, I was looking for an excuse to see you.”

Flavio blinks, seemingly thinking he must have misheard you. When he realizes he didn’t, his eyes start to gleam, though you can’t be sure what pleases him more, the confession, or your embarrassment.

“Wow. Really? That’s adorable.”

Ugh. “Well. Now that the cat’s out of the bag. I can’t rope you into consoling me.” Flavio tries to oppose, but another piece of appetizer stops him from interrupting you. “You’re normally the tough guy. Today, let me be tough for the both of us.”

Flavio pushes the food into the inner crook of his cheek, in a way that tells you he’s holding down a smile. “Are you really gonna tuck me in?” he asks. 

“No. Though... Actually, you might want to sleep it off. I remember you saying that sleep helps.”

Flavio makes a suspiciously long humming sound, eyes darting away from you.

“You lied about it, didn’t you?”

“I, uh, said it ‘usually,’ helps.”

“Ah. I guess you meant ‘it helps other people,’ huh?” Flavio’s eyes dart your way, quickly returning to his plate. “You’re a liar, a cheat, and a fraud.”

“But I’m also very handsome, right?”

Ugh, that man. “You’re decent at best.”

“High praise, coming from you.” Flavio laughs, sensing the change in your mood. “It really does help. If I can fall asleep.”

“Oh. Then, should I—”

“Wait, wait!” Forget standing up, you don’t even get to finish the sentence before he takes a hold of your arms, keeping you seated. 

“Flavio?”

“I, uh.” Laughing his reaction off, but keeping his hands where they are, he faux-pouts, “If you’re not offering to tuck me in, I’m not gonna listen.”

“Why?”

“B...ecause. Um. Beeeecause.” It sounds like it’d be easier for him to pull his own teeth out than admit it. Nevertheless, he pushes through. Eventually. “Because I don’t want you to go. Especially today. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”

Of course. Leave it to him to walk you in circles rather than plainly saying what he means. “Tell me to stay, and I will be here for as long as you’ll have me.” 

“As long as I’ll have you? Aww, gee.” Flavio chuckles, dragging his hands away to wrap them around his utensils instead. “Then you better get your things in here, I guess,” he mumbles, gaze fixed on his plate. 

“...Are you serious?”

“I— Yeah. I mean, unless you don’t want to. Which, fair enough, ’cause you lived with me before, and I’m not what they call the most pleasant comp—”

“I’ll call the moving company tomorrow.”

“Ah. Cool. But we could make it today if I call Alcide—”

“Let’s finish the meal first.”

“Okay!”

“Then, let’s give you a long, relaxing bath.”

“...”

“Normal bath. Stop smirking like that.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake!