Pinocchio
"Carved by a woodcarver named Geppetto in a small Italian village, [Pinocchio] was created as a wooden puppet, but dreamed of becoming a real boy. Pinocchio is often a term used to describe an individual who is prone to telling lies, fabricating stories and exaggerating or creating tall tales for various reasons."
-Wiki, the source of all credible knowledge ;-)
The office was dark and the jolly singing from the kitchen too loud.
"…happy birthday dear TON-NI~, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU~"
A boisterous shout punctuated through the jeers and clapping, "Drink up everyone! Tab's on the birthday boy today, ahaha, SO DON'T HOLD BACK!"
The loud clattering noises echoed into the next room where Romano listened from his back corner of the office, one lone monitor glowing softly in the dark hall. A silhouette appeared by the doorway's dim glow, and he waited uneasily as the white hair freak's head poked out.
"Hey Vargas, you going to grace us with your presence this time?"
Followed by an undeniably annoyingly French accent, "Mon Italien, a toast for this fine occasion, hmmmm?"
Romano felt his hand reaching behind his neck on its own accord, a nervous tick he had never outgrown but had learned to disguise as a nonchalant stretch, making him appear disinterested and rough around the edges. "Nope," he forced a yawn to make it sound convincing. "I…" he raked his mind for an excuse and settled on what ailed Veneziano last week. Yeah, that'll do. "Uh, can't. I had a mother fucking stomach flu last week, I'm still on the damn meds, so I can't drink."
"Huh." The response was too expectant, as if he knew he would decline.
Because the truth of the matter was, Romano declines, every damn time.
It was a well-known fact in the office that if he wasn't late, he was robbed on his way to work, or busy saving kittens for random old ladies. Romano Vargas was never available. It was as if he was allergic to the social scene.
"Sorry." Though the lack of remorse said otherwise.
"Whatever, short stop. Maybe next time."
"Yeah, maybe." Came the equally unenthusiastic response.
Romano mentally counted the number of footstep before clicking his mouse to bring forth the hidden Internet browser. This was his private shame, one he would never admit to even if confronted.
In a soft blue script, the title read 'How to Escape the Flight from Intimacy, Advice for the Social Recluse'. Romano's eyes drank in the words, while his fingers instinctively scrolled down the page.
Then out of nowhere, a warm weight settled on his shoulder.
Appalled, Romano whipped his head so fast he swore he felt whip lash.
"Wha-"
Whimsical laughter greeted his ire.
"W-what the fuck you bastard?!" Romano struggled to regain his composure.
Standing behind him wearing a paper cone hat, confetti sprinkled on his curly locks, and completed with a cheesy smile, was Antonio Fernandas Carriedos, every one's best friend in the office –well, almost everyone, just not Romano's.
"Don't' sneak up on people like that, you sick fuck." He hissed, even as his face aflame.
Oblivious or immune, the insult seems to slip off him as the Spaniard wiped a tear from his eye. "Forgive me Roma, you look so hopeful staring at Solitude. I've never seen anyone so intrigued by that game as you."
The words barely registered over the deafening drumming in his ear, Romano chanced a glance at his screen and almost shrank in his chair from relief. Sure enough, only a silly green screen with cards displayed was displayed.
A sigh almost escaped his lips, but when he caught Antonio's curious gaze on his face, a growl erupted from his throat instead.
"YOU! What do you want?!"
"Whoa there-" Surprise coloured the response.
"Do you dumb shit even know the definition of personal space?" The hysteria of almost being discovered mixed with relief was too much, he cannot contain it lest he tries, and it came bubbling over in a fit of aggression. His hands began moving on their own accord to expel this restless energy, and without meaning to, they found their way on the other's chest and shoved.
As though punctuating their force, he spitted his next words, "Touchy-feely people like you disgust me."
Just like how his hand didn't intended to push him, these words wasn't exactly what he meant to say. In truth, it was a gross inadequate summary of how he cannot stand to not fit in and appearing weak. For example, he had seen how Carriedo give hugs like a regular person give handshakes. By contrast, Romano can barely manage to accept the rare offer of handshake and even then with an incredible amount of painful awkwardness.
He needed Carriedo to go away, and take this feeling of self-hate to go with him.
By the crestfallen shoulders of his usually amiable coworker, and the silent hurt in those green eyes, it looked like Romano would get exactly that.
In a quiet voice that's so uncharacteristic of his charming coworker, his parting words dropped daintily in the quiet room like a pin. "As you wish."
As Romano watched the slumped retreating back disappear around the corner, guilt began to seep into his skin like a cancer and as anger fled from his vein, he didn't get the satisfaction he was seeking for. Romano expected this, his callous remarks always repel well-meaning people who approach him, but the useless foresight itself didn't make him feel any better.
"Che, what a loser." Romano softly chastised but refused to clarify for himself who that comment was directed at.
Meanwhile, down the hallway someone has taken to drum their hands on the kitchen table, establishing a booming rhythm. Now everyone had joined in by tapping their foot.
Ta-dud, ta-dud.
Amidst the festivities, Romano grabbed his overcoat, and left his chair swirling behind him.
End Chapter One.