Stork couldn't hear his breath.
It was perhaps because he was so accustomed to that rattling sensation of palpable fear clogging his thorax, that slight chipping in the normal air waves about his head rank with trepidation, or perhaps it was more that his trembling hands could not co-ordinate their movements over the laces of his sneakers.
The muted sound of theatrics was louder than ever now that it spoke to him here, and Stork cringed when it was replaced by unmistakable applause. A thunderous not-so-uniform assortment of a thousand hands—a thousand hands!—slapping themselves against one another. And that was supposed to encourage him?
Well, not me, he thought. And then with dread: At least not yet.
Too preoccupied with his high strung world, he had grown used to the shadows that often crossed over his, but did not tune into one particular outline that hesitated a little longer. There was a knock—Stork flinched melodramatically, scooting back, eyes darting up and his entire body metabolism suspended until he either relaxed (entirely unlikely) or sprung up and away to a far safer place than this.
Surprisingly, calm did reach him, and his shoulders slumped slowly, his gnarled posture recovered once he recognized Aerrow, his hand still resting on the lightweight wooden prop tucked away in a discrete corner behind a black blind; Stork—and the rest of the paraphernalia surrounding him—could scarcely be seen backstage.
"What are you doing here?" Was Stork afraid to ask? Perhaps a little, but as he held some semblance of an answer, he did not cringe away as violently as he might have once Aerrow crouched down beside him on the floorboards.
He said, "Piper told me that you might be here."
Almost annoyed, Stork muttered, "Is there anything Piper doesn't tell you?"
Stork was unsure if his eyes did flicker slightly, or if it was simply a pun upon his eyes as a result of a shadow flashing briefly over them both. He wasn't surprised though, in such a skeptical age everyone was bound to have their little secrets—or a multitude of such.
"Are you seriously considering not doing this, Stork?" Aerrow continued, making himself comfortable. As much as possible, he wanted this conversation to be casual and familiar and for once without this soul rooted ability to avoid, evade and run. At the same time, was he able to corner Stork without igniting claustrophobia? Paranoia? Hyperventilation? As subtly as he could manage, Aerrow leaned against the wall and drew his legs back to allow Stork a berth to move away should it be necessary, but recently there was no such need.
His eyes remained focused on his perpetually wary comrade who savored Aerrow's words. At last, Stork replied, "Perhaps…I was wrong to have given into your persistent urgings." His eyes looked up, away from Aerrow as he continued, "I'm sure of I had survived another week of your bullying I might be comfortably analyzing the unicellular reaction to excess peptide enzymes." He missed his little study, cluttered and a labyrinth of paper and equipment, and untouched by anyone but him.
Aerrow felt a flare of remorse the instant Stork said "bully". He had meant his friends to be Stork's as well. He showed no outward signs of fear towards them—keyword being outward—but could their persuading him into this predicament severely crippled that? Aerrow was perplexed.
Was it a good thing to let Stork perform before an audience with the hope that his anthropophobia would dissolve away into a memory? Or would it make his over-active neurons fire even more in crowded rooms?
At last, Aerrow abided, "Stork, how can I convince you that this might actually be a good thing?"
Almost comically, Stork asked with a straight face, "Being frightened to death?"
"No," Aerrow frowned, "actually doing something different. Rather than staying stuck in your room all day, staring at microbes through your microscope—."
"The amoeba, specifically," Stork interrupted. Naturally, Aerrow was among the many who did not understand the fascination—and the necessity—of epidemiology. Again, he dreaded his safe haven of controlled environments in plastic Petri-dishes and between thin sheets of glass.
Aerrow sighed. In the silence that lapsed between them, the noise of the stage filled in with the bubbles bursting with energetic conversations, heated arguments, the shuffling of boots, the sounds of costumes brushing up against one another, of trolleys rolling back and floor along the floor carrying either heavy equipment or refreshments for performers, and then the echoes of ongoing performances.
Eventually, Aerrow glanced at Stork again, having heard a strange zip-and pull of fabric against course cloth. Stork's hands trembled as he tried to steady the laces into a knot, pulling unsuccessfully and leaving the tongue of his sneakers uncomfortably loose again. How had that been undone in the first place? In a surreal paternal act, Aerrow leaned over and tied the laces together firmly, ignoring how Stork winced or began to protest.
He stood, and brushed off the excess dust from his jeans. Gently, "I'm not going to force you Stork," he began, and made a gesture as though he was going to continue, perhaps touch upon an apology or begin to express the benefits of using his talents. Instead, he turned away and blended so easily into the crowd that Stork felt himself mildly stunned.
In time Stork too rose to his feet and stepped around the curtain of black where he could glimpse the light on the stage. He stared, without fear, without doubt, but simply…observant. Unsure.
He took one hesitant step and paused before he turned around to find the nearest exit.
…
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