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heyheydidjaknow · 2 years

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This is becoming a series. I did not mean for it to become a series and I’m not sure if I’m a fan of it being a series but serialization is certainly happening. I’m not making it a proper series so I have the liberty not to follow a timeline but it certainly feels a lot like it. Anyways, here’s probably the longest part of this adventure we’re going on together.

A Talk

“Hey.”

It had been a little more than a month since you had seen him. No phone calls, no letters, no emails; the only sign that he had ever been with you was the jigsaw sat on your coffee table, which you were loath to move because you had no idea how to keep it from falling apart. You would ask him, call him or write to him yourself, but you had no way of contacting him apart from the number he called you at which, you learned, was the hotel’s number, not his. You were not surprised by this outcome exactly– it had been a possibility and you knew it had been. No, there was just something disheartening about it.

“Hello?”

It was fine. Life moved on. You were going to get on with your life, find someone else who probably could not and would not live up to your expectations, but that was fine. You were fine. You were absolutely not letting some Tim Burton character brought to life consume you. That would be very foolish and unhealthy. No, you were absolutely not obsessing. Why would you? He was not even that great.

She snapped her fingers in front of you. “Hey!”

You jerked up. “Order!”

The woman standing in front of you retracted her hand from your face. “Hello.” She smiled. “Order for Alisson.”

“Oh. Oh!” You rushed back, grabbing the bag off the counter. “I’m so sorry; I’ve been zoning out all day.”

“It’s alright.” She took the bag, setting her exact total— you don’t remember having read her the bill— on the counter. “Have a good day.”

“You too!”

This was not the first time this had happened. This was not even the first time this had happened today. You were not exactly sure why, though. He was hardly your first boyfriend– which, you reminded yourself sharply, he was not, officially– or your first fling. He was not particularly attractive or charming or charismatic or anything like that. The only really attractive quality he had was that he was good conversation, but that was hardly worth all this grief. All that he had was some indescribable quality, something behind the eyes, like a snake, like a siren.

Well, that and that consciousness that first time.

You missed it.

You went to put the cash in the register, folded. As you smoothed out the bills, something– a receipt, it looked like– fell from the stack. As you moved to go and call the woman back for it, the lettering at the top of the paper caught your eye. It was in the right type for it to be a normal receipt, the right format, but the bill number was too short; four, separated by a colon; either a Bible verse or a time.

You did not know an Alisson.

You pocketed the receipt, suddenly alert as you went back to work.

As soon as you got home, you got to work picking the piece of paper apart.

Preliminary observation: the bill was not a valid bill. It was the right sort of paper, but you could feel the indents of the pen on the other side of the sheet and the handwriting was too straight; if this were an actual receipt for a diner— it was formatted like a diner receipt— there would be no way for the server to press that hard down. Also unusually, the words were all written on the lines, which, while not impossible for someone to do, was incredibly odd for any waitress or waiter to bother to do.

The top line of the bill, where the name of a restaurant might go, was generic; you could buy these sorts of tickets from most office supply stores. The order itself consisted of one cup of “sugar with coffee”, one triple oatmeal cookie, and a few other miscellaneous items. The price assigned to each item was seemingly random, and adding tax– which you could immediately tell was off– the price came out to be a clean seven dollars, which was almost the most illogical part of the whole thing. The bill itself was dated two weeks in the future Using your sub-par investigative skills and the assumption that the man who had sent this message– because you were fully convinced that coincidences like these did not happen– you got this much:

He was on a plane bound for a local airport, supported by the miscellaneous items’ first letters all spelling out the name of an airport not far from you.

His plane was arriving and/or he wanted to be picked up at twenty-three-fifteen, supported by the odd order number.

He wanted to be picked up at terminal seven, which was supported by the oddly even number.

You understood that these conclusions were wild leaps in logic. These conclusions relied on your being right about a lot of things you were unsure of. Taking the advice of what could logically just be a very weird receipt was incredibly stupid of you and only spoke to the depths of your obvious obsession with literally just some guy who you were neither in a formal nor physical relationship with. By all accounts, he should have meant absolutely nothing to you. He had been the one not to call you for weeks; even if he was trying to talk to you via receipt– which the logical part of your brain reminded you raised so many red flags– he had no right to you, nor did he deserve to crash at your apartment or whatever he wanted. He was irrelevant, out of the picture, and you deserved better.

Of course, you were never good at telling what you were worth.

You stood in terminal seven of the airport at eleven-fifteen two weeks later, entirely done with airports as a concept. Unsurprisingly to you, his flight had been delayed; all of them had been. The only nice thing was that you were not the only person sitting and waiting for people to show up. You just so happened to be seemingly the only one not to think to ask someone to sit with you, which was entirely your fault but not one you wanted to acknowledge. In your defense, you had figured that if you asked anyone to come with you, they would have tried to talk you down, which was nice of them but generally against the cause. You could have asked to join someone else in waiting, but that would necessitate you having the social skills necessary to do that, which you lacked.

A part of you hated watching the time literally pass you by. Ten minutes turned into twenty, then an hour, then two. It was about one o’clock in the morning before you thought it might be time to call the whole thing off. Still, you waited.

He looked odd to you from where you were sitting. He had never been a bastion of healthy living– you could not remember having ever seen him eat– but you had never seen a man look so simultaneously awake and exhausted beyond comprehension before, like he was both painfully and fully alive and two seconds away from falling into a coma.

He looked almost as shocked as you probably did, not even bothering to glance at the baggage claim, having apparently brought everything he needed in a backpack. “You came.”

The words were out of your mouth before you even comprehended them. “You look like shit.”

He smiled, almost relieved. “Oh, I’m sure it’s not as bad as how I feel.” He started walking as if he knew where the car was. “Which one did you get?”

“Which?” You grabbed your things, quickly matching his staggeringly staggering step’s pace; if he fell you would rather you caught him. “There was more than one?”

“Yes. Five, actually.”

You stuck your hands into your pockets, giving him a once over. You had not imagined it; the bags under his eyes were most definitely deeper than they had been before. “You’re a dick,” you huffed, reminding yourself that you were mad at him. “You didn’t call for a month.”

“I am,” he agreed. He did not look particularly sorry. “I’ve been incredibly busy. You are unbelievably selfless for picking me up.”

“I’m not.” You watched your feet as you started heading out to the car. “I just have terrible taste in men. Don’t make it out to be like I’m doing you a favor.”

“I never said you were. Only that you’re generous.”

“If it’s for my sake, how can that be generous?”

“I’ve been told it’s possible.” He stuck his own hands in his pockets; you could feel his eyes on you. “It comes down to whether or not you believe that intent is important in determining the value of an action.”

You let him talk.

“But that all depends on which philosopher’s word you want to take on the matter. In regards to the law here, for example, heavy emphasis is put on intention, and while that’s typical in regards to crimes such as murder, for smaller crimes it really does differ heavily from country to country. Are you not saying anything because you’re upset with me or because it’s one o’clock in the morning?”

You could not answer.

The two of you reached the car. You got into the driver’s seat, him the passenger’s. Neither of you said a word for a solid ten minutes, the soft sound of the radio filling the silence poorly. It was an odd sort of tension, like the two of you had just been screaming at one another, uncomfortable electricity still hanging in the air. It made your stomach churn.

Finally, you spoke. “What were you going to do if I wasn’t there?” The words were weirdly soft.

He did not look up from his fingers. “I’m here on a connecting flight,” he said. “If you hadn’t been there I would have just taken the connecting flight.”

You nodded. “Can I have another question?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

The answer was slow to come. “I was busy.” He picked something out from under his nail. “International calls are expensive. There was no way for me to secure a good connection at the time. Your phone could be bugged. I would likely have been unable to say anything at that time without letting information you are not supposed to know slip through the cracks.” He tore a bit at his cuticle.”I was lacking in vital faith in humanity. There are plenty of factors. Of course, I’m sure these are not satisfying answers.”

You did not trust your ability to tell whether he was lying or not.

“If it’s any consolation, it was not for lack of desire to get in contact with you.” Finally, he looked at you. “You don’t believe me– which is fair– but still.”

You sank back into the seat. “You don’t have many friends, do you?”

“I don’t.”

You glanced over at him. “It shows.” Something occurs to you. “Your uncle guy– Watari– isn’t here, is he?”

“He isn’t. I trust you won’t kill me.”

“Do you have a place to stay?”

“I can if needed.”

You paused. “Is that implying you would be able to sleep at my place?”

He smiled. “You’re making the assumption that I am going to sleep.”

“Because that’s what people typically do?”

“Typically being the operative word there.” His hands were shaking. “I’m not very typical. Besides, at this particular stage of exhaustion, I’m the most productive.”

“What do you mean, at this stage?”

Things about his behavior were starting to make sense. Not just the normal odd stuff— though all of that was still clearly present— but the heaviness, the staggering, and the odd emotional availability could probably all be chalked up to exhaustion. “I’ve observed that people— myself included— go through certain phases of exhaustion. It seems to be a bit like a runner’s high; after not sleeping for long enough, every sense in your body is heightened and sharpened to a razor’s edge.” His hand shook as he brought it to his mouth. “In this particular stage, I believe I could solve all the world’s problems if you put me in front of a computer.”

“Okay.” It was fortunate that he was so exhausted as to feel comfortable in your home; at least then when he inevitably died he would do it with someone to make sure he did not knock his head into a coffee table and die. “How long have you been awake, then?”

He chewed on his thumb. “What’s five times twenty-four?”

You did the math. “One-twenty.”

“Then about one hundred twenty hours.”

You reminded yourself that he was an adult and that chastising an adult for their health-related stupidity was not kosher when you did not know them very well. “And how have you managed to do that?”

“My work, while soul-crushingly sad, is incredibly engaging. Besides,” he looked down at his hands again, “I can’t relax until something’s finished, as you may have noticed.”

“That doesn’t sound very healthy.”

“It’s probably not.” He smiled. “I’ll probably die of a heart attack by the time I’m thirty. Until I do succumb to that inevitable heart attack, however, I intend to do whatever I decide at the moment is what’s best to do.”

“Your opinion isn’t going to matter much if you’re dead.”

“Three decades isn’t bad.”

“That’s half the average life expectancy.”

“That’s thirty more than I would expect to live, frankly.”

” That's almost worse.”

He called you by your name. “I’d like to know your opinion on something.”

“Oh goody.” You adjusted your grip on the wheel. “Mine specifically?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Two reasons.” He counted on his fingers. “You’re the most unextraordinary person I know, for one.”

You whistled. “Cold. Murder me, why don’t you?”

He blinked. “Did I say something?”

“What a thing to call someone, unextraordinary.” You shook your head. “Party foul, sir.”

“I don’t mean to insult you. I mean to say that you’re the most normal person I know.”

“You’re just digging this hole deeper.”

“I promise I mean it as a positive.” He gestured with his hand. “I mean that you’re ordinary, plain– I’m hearing it now.”

“Took you long enough.”

“What I mean to say,” he clarified, “is that you are not nearly as eccentric as the people I normally surround myself with, which is refreshing, and I’d like to know your opinion on this.” You would not say that he seemed nervous. You would describe it more as eager, almost pleading, as if he was imploring you to understand him.

You sighed. He was getting to you. “Sure, man.” You kept your eyes on the road. “What’s the question?”

You felt his eyes back on you. “What do you think of murder?”

You held up a finger at him. “Trick question, sir. I’m not about to be convicted of anything.”

“I mean as a concept. What do you think of it, generally?”

You took a deep breath. “I think that it depends.”

“On what?”

“On who and why.”

He hummed in acknowledgment. “Elaborate.”

“Well,” you shrugged, “it’s like the bomb stuff. Obviously, it’s not great that it’s a thing but as a last resort… I mean there are worse things.”

“Okay. I’ll ask another question.” You heard him shift on the seat. “How many people have to die before that stops applying?”

You pursed your lips. “I don’t understand the question.”

“That is, how many people die by one person’s hands before it stops being about morality? At what point is it evil?”

You thought about it. “I don’t think it’s a number.” You glanced out of your rear window. “I’d say that it’s just at the point where the aggressors are dead. If you’re killing for self-defense, for example, as soon as you kill someone not involved or just because they’re related, then that’s a matter of sins of the father, which is wrong.”

He nodded. “What about if it was for religion?”

“More context needed.”

He set his head on his knees. “A man killing because he believes that sin must be eradicated and that, therefore, eliminating the root of that sin is morally justified: would you say that’s evil?”

“No.”

“How so?”

“Evil implies malice.” You rubbed your eyes with the heel of your palm. “He’s not evil, his moral code is just totally screwed.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “So you think intent is important in judging the morality of an action.”

“Yeah. You know this is a weird line of questioning, right?”

He turned his head to face out the windshield. “I do. Still, I feel like that’s something important to know.”

You nodded. “You have an opinion on this, I take it?”

“I do.”

“Care to share with the class?”

He took a deep breath. “There is such a thing as objective morality. Murder, for example, is objectively wrong. Because objective morality exists, if you intentionally, undeniably kill someone, that is an evil act and should be punished as such.”

You nodded. “So outside of whether or not you mean to murder, to you, it doesn’t— or, rather, shouldn’t— matter?”

“Correct.”

“Question: why did you bring it up?”

“I don’t know.” He smiled bitterly. “I don’t know. I guess I do, but I don’t know how to articulate it.”

You nodded. “I get that. One of those days?”

“More like two weeks, but yes.”

“It shows.” You shrugged. “If it’s any consolation it happens to everyone.”

“Sure.” He wrapped his arms around his legs. “Can I ask you something else?”

There was that electricity, again, like the first time, that startling alertness. “You can ask anything you want; I’ll just choose not to answer if I don’t wanna.”

He was picking at his nails again. “How do you know when you’re too desensitized to something?”

You glanced up at one of the street signs as you drove by. You were not too far from home, now. “Example.”

He brought his fingers to his mouth. “If I get punched in the throat every day for a decade,” he started slowly, “and, at some point, I stop feeling when it happens, should I feel grateful that I don’t feel it anymore? Or should I feel something negative because I’ve lost feeling in that area, that I’ve been made tougher?”

You paused. “What do you think?”

“I think… I think I mind it.” Shadows from the highway lights slid across his face, turning his skin an odd shade of yellow. “I haven’t always been so numb to things that should bother me. I feel inhuman, almost. It’s not a good feeling.” He looked up at you. “That’s part of why I went out of my way to try and see you again; I genuinely care about seeing you.”

“Then you have your answer.” You did not understand him. You never would, fully. But here, now, you could see why you had bothered to spend all that time waiting for him at the terminal, why you had gone even though he had ghosted you for weeks. Because behind his cold black eyes glistened a vulnerability, and if you had to stand at terminals for the rest of your life, you felt as though you would. In those hunched shoulders laid a hypnotizing weakness. You would be the one to see it.

He rubbed his eyes. “I see why people do this.”

“Do what?”

“This. Talk to people.”

“Do you not?”

“It’s not that I don’t,” he exhaled slowly, “but it’s never about stuff like this. It’s always about work. In all fairness, that’s partially my fault.”

You smiled reassuringly. “Don’t you worry.” You gave him a thumbs up. “I’m always down to talk.”

The rest of the ride was generally uneventful.

The walking skeleton that was your roommate stepped inside, looked around, exhaled, and collapsed in a heap on the floor.

Fortunately, he did not hit his head on the coffee table. Unfortunately, he did not seem to be waking up. Naturally, this was somewhat distressing to you. Thoroughly panicking and not sure whether or not you were meant to call a doctor or if he would be opposed, you dug through his bag until you found his phone— a burner phone, but it would do— and called the only number in the call history.

The voice on the other end sounded groggy. “Are there—“

“Is this Watari?”

There was silence on the other end.

You continued without him. “Hi, I’m— well, I don’t know his name yet, but he’s my… I dunno, but I drove him home,” you heard yourself panicking, trying very quickly not to sound as if you were. “Well, he passed out and he’s not waking up.”

There was more silence.

“Do I call an ambulance?”

“He will be asleep for the next seventeen to twenty-four hours,” he explained calmly. “So long as he doesn’t lie face-down he will be fine.” And with that, you were hung up on.

He woke up nineteen hours later. He seemed confused, almost, given the situation; he laid carefully on the couch with his head resting on a pillow, you, in the kitchen, trying your hardest.

He sat up, blowing a piece of hair out of his face. He rubbed his eyes, silently confirming that he was not being kidnapped, before finally settling his sights on the coffee table. There, displayed in all its glory, was the completed image of A Starry Night.

You popped your head into the living room. “Morning, sleepyhead,” you called. “Well, evening, but you get the gist.”

He looked back at you over his shoulder. “You finished the puzzle.”

“I did.” You stepped properly into the room. “You still look dead.”

“Why did you finish it?”

You leaned against the doorframe. “What do you mean why?”

“You hated that puzzle.”

You stuck your tongue out at him. “What else was I supposed to remember you by? Your coffee cups?” You crossed your arms. “That shit’s gross.”

He looked back at the puzzle, back to you. “You wanted something to remember me by?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged, glancing off. “I liked spending time with you.”

He stood up, sliding his hands into his pockets. “That’s usual, right?”

“Yup.”

He smiled. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Just in general.” He walked over to you, looking over your shoulder. “Lasagna?”

You nodded. “It’s one of three things I know how to make.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Not really.” You pushed him away gently. “But you need to wash up. You smell like airport.”

He checked to confirm. You were not lying. With a nod, he grabbed his bag, staggering off into the bathroom with the confidence expected of a man who just woke up in an apartment other than his own.

You watched him leave, sighed, went back to the kitchen. There was a window in that bathroom. He could leave if he tried, if he wanted.

He did not, and for that, you were grateful.

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