The doorbell rings. It's a formality and Wallace Wells knows who it is even before the door clangs open and a hatted figure tumbles through it, seeming, for a moment, to be only an empty parka and snow boots.
It's Scott, of course, sliding to the floor to pull off his shoes out of habit, so that Wallace won't aim a paperback between his eyes. Wallace has been expecting his appearance, not only because Scott now has no place to live but because he usually ends up here when the entire world completely fucking sucks.
"Morning," Wallace murmurs, sliding in a bookmark and uncrossing his legs.
Scott doesn't reply, his face a dazed mask. It's been like this approximately three weeks, Stephen has informed him, but before now Wallace had only ever witnessed it at the funeral. It had been outside, everyone wrapped in coats and scarves, tossing solemn lilies with the ashes. And Scott, a granite statue, watching it like it was all a bad dream.
Wallace had come over to him afterwards, put an arm around him, asked him how we was doing. Scott had looked at him like a stranger, eyes empty. Finally, Scott has muttered simply, "Whatever happened to mystical powers?"
Wallace had always thought himself particularly blessed with the gift of conversation, of knowing what to say and who to say it to. It's why he was the first to face Scott's chilling shell of grief. And so he had replied simply, "Accidents do seem rather mundane, don't they? When compared to subspace, that is. The universe hates you, I suppose."
"No more doors," said Scott. Wallace had offered a few more similarly helpful words and then invited him to come by whenever, knowing that Scott would turn up eventually.
But now, with Scott half lying on the floor, blank eyes pointed on the ceiling, Wallace is unnerved. Scott has always been a little despondent, prone to pessimism, but this is beyond all that. This is like looking at a plowed field in winter, crumpled and barren. There are no words for this.
"Okay," Wallace says decisively, swinging to his feet from the pitted armchair. He pulls a blanket from the mattress and drags Scott toward the computer with it around his shoulders. A few moments later Scott has a warm mug between his palms and his dead eyes are watching the movements of a Fight Club era Edward Norton on the low resolution screen.
And Wallace stands back, taking this all in. Because it looks like he has a roommate again.
m m m
Fresh snow is falling on the Tuesday morning that Wallace makes french toast. Scott watches, slumped against the counter, unreadable.
Wallace sets down a plate for each of them, hands him a fork and a knife, and begins to eat his own. Scott just stares at the food for a moment, as though trying to decipher it's greater meaning. He looks up blankly a moment later.
"Where's Other Scott?"
Wallace raises an eyebrow. "Gone."
"Jimmy?"
"Gone."
Scott nods and his eyes drift to an unoccupied spot on the wall.
"I thought two was a bit much," Wallace continues, exhaustion creeping into his voice. "Complications are for the youthful."
Scott looks like he's about to say something, but doesn't. He swallows, and a while later comes the barely audible words, "Ramona used to like french toast."
"Everyone likes french toast."
"Everyone's not dead."
"Not yet."
A hint of Scott's old incredulity appears. "You're not very comforting."
Wallace shrugs. "Sorry."
It's all he can think to say because it's slowly dawning on him that he doesn't know how to handle this. That dead girlfriends, dead loved ones, might be beyond him. And it's strange, because nothing has ever defeated Wallace before. Or Scott, for that matter. He's battled seven exes to be ruined by unfortunate happenstance.
Maybe the universe really does hate them.
Though it's ten in the morning, Wallace tenderly prepares two Bloody Marys from scratch, and together they sit and drink and watch the world end.
m m m
The initial idea of plopping Scott down in front of Fight Club was clever, but it's turned against him in the days since. Invariably, Wallace now leaves for work to the sound of Tyler Durden's sermons and returns to explosions and Edward Norton's hysteria. It might be irrational but he's worried what sort of affect the movie is having on Scott's addled, vulnerable brain. He silently finds himself inspecting his roommate for signs of dissociative behavior.
When even Brad Pitt's finely sculpted shoulder muscles have become a bore, Wallace realizes it might be time to get out of the basement for a bit.
"Is this a gay bar?" Scott asks, eyes darting around shiftily, little lightning bolts of discomfort emanating from his being.
"Yes," Wallace deadpans. "I'm more likely to get laid so I figured we should go some place I like."
"So selfless," Scott mutters. "It's why I love you, Wallace. Such compassion." Scott is alarmingly articulate, and Wallace realizes a moment later that the smell of vodka is not from the bar, but rather Scott's breath. An inebriation meter helpfully comes into existence above Scott's head, and Wallace lets out a sigh at it's fullness.
Scott is soon letting himself be chatted up by a remarkably douchey looking fellow in a McGill sweatshirt, while Wallace looks at his watch and waits for the douche to catch any of the tells of Scott's obvious straightness. But they're both being remarkably thick, and at midnight Wallace doesn't have the wherewithal to watch it anymore and drags Scott out into the icy dark.
The bus home is half lit, and they don't speak. Wallace looks over once to see unrestrained tears dripping down Scott's face in the glow of a passing street light. He doesn't say a word, just wraps an arm around his shoulders and lets their breathing synchronize.
m m m
He meets Henri in a used bookstore on a dreary spring Thursday. One moment he's admiring a long line of Patrick O'Brians with cracked spines and the next moment his head has swiveled to enjoy a lovely pair of soft caramel hands.
Which is why it comes to be that when Scott jolts awake in the middle of a February night, Wallace has his arm around another man.
They've both trained themselves to be preternaturally heavy sleepers at this point, so it can be deduced that Scott was thrashing around quite a bit before he shook himself awake and out of panic, or just a primal desire to just get away, leapt to his feet and raced for the exit. Wallace's eyes focus just in time to see Scott's pajamas vanishing out the metal door, the sound of his ragged breathing disappearing with him.
Henri is cleaning off his glasses hurriedly, as though Scott might just be a fleck of unwanted, slightly psychotic dust.
Wallace crawls out of bed, searching instinctually for a coat even before turning on a light.
Henri sends him a questioning look as he dives into boots.
"He's a friend," Wallace mutters. "A grief stricken friend."
"I understand," Henri nods, shifting out of bed.
He probably doesn't, but Wallace appreciates it anyways.
m m m
Scott is standing at a bus stop when Wallace locates him, and he doesn't protest when Wallace takes his arm and leads him delicately back to the apartment.
m m m
He's taking the metro home on a Friday night when he stumbles upon the realization that he may have just had one of the worst days of his life.
It had begun with a broken alarm clock and ended with a dinner date cut short and in between he's been chewed out by his boss and overworked in his shift and dumped, rather unceremoniously, by Henri, when not two days before Wallace had been contemplating the possibility of his being "the one," if such a thing sounded less like bullshit.
It stings like hell, of course, because he's never been dumped quite so unjustifiably, so indifferently. Henri had simply said it wasn't working out. And then he'd shrugged. He fucking shrugged.
Wallace is used to a little more theatrics. The ending would often be equally heart-wrenching but at least satisfying in it's inevitability. This leaves him with a deep insecurity, and unwittingly he sees himself searching for his own faults, for triggers and clenched jaws and for god's sake anything that might make sense of this.
He pushes these thoughts from his mind, knowing it'll tear him to shreds.
At home, things somehow manage to be worse. One look around and he's immediately wondering if he has the strength to crawl back out into the night. Because Scott's lying spread eagle on the floor, a cradling a broken toaster, and murmuring to himself. He's so wasted he's gone beyond chatty and less awkward and has progressed to incoherent and miserable. And though on some level he knows he needs to show mercy, Wallace is far past patience.
And so a moment later Scott is sitting upright in the recliner, watching Wallace toss the remains of the toaster into the garbage and letting the name escape his lips again and again.
"Ramona, Ramona, Ramona..."
Wallace appraises him cruelly, takes in the lips releasing the rhythmic word repetitively, as though it were a song of worship.
Scott pauses, finally, and meets Wallace's eyes. "I can't believe she's gone."
Wallace is just on the edge of losing his mind because he thinks he's just on the edge of watching his life waste away. He pictures a future where Scott never recovers and Wallace never finds who he's supposed to be with. Where whatever they have now is not a phase but a never ending reality. He pictures this and he can hardly keep himself upright.
He approaches Scott slowly.
"Scott," he says, placing the gentlest of hands on his shoulder. "Listen to me."
"You're not kicking me out again, are you?"
He shakes his head. "We both know you've never been able to take care of yourself on your own."
Scott doesn't even try to dispute this, remaining attentive.
"It's been months now. It's time to sort out what's going to happen next. No more of this transition shit," Wallace pauses, watching his reaction. "This is the moment where you have to figure out what this means. You have to figure out if you're going to let Ramona's death define your life, or be an event in your life. And you can only let it define your life if you're going to start a charity or a nonprofit and make it your life's purpose. And you're not gonna do that, are you?"
"Well, I might...I mean, anything's possible—"
Wallace raises a skeptical eyebrow.
"Er, probably not."
"Alright then. So it's an event in your life. An event that's passed. I'm not asking you to forget. I'm not even asking you to fall in love with someone else. But I am asking you to realize that you're not that old and there's a lot of life you still have to live."
Scott swallows. "Without her."
Wallace presses his lips together. "With seven billion others."
Fight Club is still playing on the laptop and so they settle themselves in to it with a couple of cocktails, not because Scott really should be drinking anymore than he already has but because Wallace really fucking deserves a drink after the kind of day he's gone through. They sit, shoulder to shoulder, backs against the wall, and somehow are more together than they've ever been.
m m m
Stephen Stills calls on a Sunday evening to inform Scott that Sex Bob-Omb is nothing without him. His exact words are something along the lines of "Young Neil has gone back to his violin and is now concert master of some European orchestra and Scott is the least terrible bassist we know," but Wallace picks up the phone and all he hears is that Scott might actually have a reason to leave the house. So he paraphrases.
It's the first day of a Canadian spring and so they're sitting on the curb, wearing light jackets and dark sunglasses, when Kim comes by to formalize the invite. She explains apathetically that they've just signed with Subpop and if they don't have a bassist to record with in three days she's going to blow her brains out. She mimes it, of course, a bright yellow pow! leaking enthusiastically out her ear.
"You need me," Scott says, looking dazed.
"Congratulations," Kim replies, unaffected, and wanders off.
Scott turns back to Wallace, his voice full of wonder. "They need me."
Wallace claps him on the back. "Looks like it."
The brief sun is setting, the breeze crossing over from refreshing to chilling. Wallace thinks about going inside but Scott makes no sign of movement. The street turns dark and silent.
"We're alone," Scott observes.
"Alone together," Wallace offers. "Technically."
Stars come out. Everything, along with the two of them, is still.