The weeks passed quickly for B, little more than a pleasant blur of luxury and discovery. Wammy's House was not a shelter, not an orphanage, not even a boarding school to him. It was his home. A place of safety, warmth and comfort.
Despite its reputation, the classes at Wammy's were no more difficult than those of an ordinary school. B barely devoted any of his attention to his grades, as they seemed to naturally regulate themselves. He was left with the perfect scenario: a best friend, a beautiful home, and hours and hours of free time. It was paradise, and B quickly acclimated to the mentality of his new surroundings. Survival was a given. Perhaps life could be fun.
As the days flew by, and late summer gave way to fall, A and B became inseparable. They would frequently make midnight runs to a nearby convenience store, spending their accumulated spare change on energy drinks and strawberry Twizzlers. A was a controlling factor in B's life, and he accepted that reality; he had always thought friends to be a sign of weakness, but with A in his life, so much more was possible. The unconditional trust A seemed to have for B was a completely new idea for him, and he took great comfort in the stability A loaned him. A was always so encouraging, so enthusiastic. B admired him for that.
B was naïve then.
The crisp autumn air stung B's cheeks as they walked, the breeze chilling him through his thin hoodie. A was utterly undaunted, as always, and walked at a slightly quicker pace than B, wearing nothing more than his typical collared shirt.
"So… How did you end up here, anyway?" He cast a casual glance at B. "Assuming you don't mind telling."
B increased his pace. "My father was killed during a mugging. My mother and I joined the Witness Protection Program. That's why I have such an unusual name. I gave it to myself when I was relocated. My mother didn't mind; she had hoped it would cheer me up." He paused, sighing. "I was very young. I don't even remember my birth name, and, thanks to the U.S. Government, I'll never know it. They've destroyed all documents linking back to my original identity. I suppose it was for the best, even though my mother didn't live much longer than my father. She was killed in a train accident."
A slowed himself, allowing B to catch up. "That's awful, man. Really. Do you miss them?"
"Yes. But… I never really got to know them. My memories of them are quite muddled. After my mother died, the government placed me with a foster home. I lived with the Masons, a family of 9. I was highly outcast by the older children, and, when they began to become violent, I ran away. I was quickly caught by Child Protective Services, and adopted by Wammy's." He paused for breath. "Or so I believe."
The two walked in solemn silence, reaching a turning point in the boundary fence before breaking the tension. The sun desperately tried to pry through the overcast clouds, but the mood remained dark and sober.
"Why are you here?" B finally muttered.
"My father was a raging drunk, and my poor Mum was too meek to do anything about it." A subtle hint of Irish accent snuck into A's wavering voice. "I had a little sister, too. She was too young to understand all the appaling, despicable things her daddy did. He was an orgre of a man. And no one had the guts to stand up to him. One night, he came back from the bar early. He was bloodied and spouting obscenities – I think he lost a fight – and he stumbled into the house, grabbed his gun, and held it to Mum. We were terrified. He ordered us into his car, spitting and swearing... We did as he said – Little Sis, Mum and I – and he drove off. Said we were moving to London. He only drove a few miles before he slammed headlong into oncoming traffic. Our car rolled. I swear to God, only my seatbelt saved me. And when we came to a stop, my father's innards were spilled over the dashboard, and my Mum had been speared by glass. Little Sis was alive, but bleeding from a gash in her neck. I held her as she died." He shook his head sadly. "I was ten. My sister hadn't even turned four."
B flinched. "Oh…"
"After that, the government came and got me. I lived in a hellhole of an orphanage for a few years, then came here." A smiled weakly. "But things are better now, right?"
"Yes. …Better." The words seemed forced from B, and they were – he didn't want to drag on what had been a few painful minutes. Still, he couldn't quite bring himself to look A in the eye, and he concentrated on his sneakers.
"Yeah. This sucks, doesn't it?" A laughed, his smile flashing from serene to semi-psychotic. "Haha. Yeah. It does. Because, while we've lost everything, while we know what it truly means to suffer…" His grin completely faded. "Wammy's is a new kind of oppressive, stuck-up shithole. Hilarious, right? Haha." He spat into the grass beneath their feet. B shivered, suddenly freezing.
"Are you okay?" he offered, concerned.
"Ah… Of course." A ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah, B. I just got carried away. Pretty stupid."
"Oh, no… I agree with you," B replied. "Or, I would, were I in your position. I can scarcely imagine the stress."
"True, that." A fell silent, the hatred drying from his expression like rubbing alcohol from a wound. B sincerely hoped their walk would end; it was cold outside, yes, but he was sure that he would have been shaking just as violently anywhere else.
B threw back a few mouthfuls of Red Bull as if it were shot liquor, shuddering audibly from brainfreeze and digging his toes into the beige carpet floor. Only the trace amounts of caffeine kept him awake. Yawning, he glanced up at A, who had collapsed onto the bottom bunk of their bed.
He couldn't procrastinate any longer. A needed to know.
"Hey. Are you awake?"
A let out a bedraggled moan in response. "Yeeahhhmmm…?"
"I need to tell you something." B hoped to convey a somber tone.
"'Kay. What?" A mumbled without sitting up.
"A, it's serious. Get up and look at me."
He groaned and propped himself up on a pillow, brushing his hair out of his eyes. B could barely make out his expression in the dim lighting. "Alright, alright. I'm listening."
B composed himself, hugging his knees to his chest. "This will be hard to believe. Impossible, even. You just have to trust me."
"Spit it out."
He locked eyes with A. "For as long as I can remember, I have seen numbers floating above the heads of every person I've ever met, along with their full name. The meaning of the numbers is unclear to me… Though I have reason to believe that it's a date or time."
A smirked, and waved his hands over his head, the glowing text wafting in the breeze. "So, like, right now, my hands are touching holographic numbers?"
"Your hand appears to pass through them, like an illusion. But they are very real to me." B dropped his voice to a whisper. "Sometimes they really scare me. I don't know why – they're just numbers – but I think they'll continue to scare me until I understand them."
"And… You've always seen them, over everyone's head?"
"If I have seen their face, I immediately see their name and a set of numbers. I only ask for names out of courtesy, Aidan Emory McFarland."
A raised his eyebrows. "Shit. You're not kidding, are you? So… Those numbers. What do they mean?"
"Like I mentioned earlier," B replied with a slight note of annoyance, "I don't yet know. But they're arranged like a timestamp, with ten numbers indicating the date, and six numbers indicating the time. The only problem is that I've seen people who have large numbers in the month numeral slot – numbers far larger than twelve. So I am lead to believe there is some kind of formula." He trailed off, eyes catching A's baffled and hazy expression. "…Of course, this is all just conjecture. A hunch. For all I know, the numerals may just be their credit card numbers or something like that." B shrugged. "But of the names I am certain."
A yawned. "Sorry, sorry, I was paying attention… Really. That's freaky. Is there anything else?"
"My vision often goes reddish, as if I were seeing the world through the red lens of a pair of cheap 3-D glasses. But it corrects itself within a few minutes, until the red tint returns."
"Damn. Hallucinating is one thing… You get colorblind like that, you're stuck being colorblind." A snickered to himself.
A pang of anger seared B's heart. "They're more than just hallucinations! I swear to God, I'm not just making this up! …I was a fool to think that you'd believe or support me, A. Forgive my mistake."
B covered his eyes and sank to an awkward lying-down position on his stomach. Fury was an uncomfortable new sensation, and, his rage spent, he was too ashamed to hazard a glance at A. "Sorry."
Suddenly, he felt the touch of a human hand on his shoulder, and instinctively tried to pull away. He accidentally dragged his attacker closer, and A landed on top of him, hand still clinging good-naturedly to his friend's arm. A gave B a gentle hug around the waist and released him, recalling his discomfort with people touching him.
"I may not understand what you're going through, but I believe you. Maybe you're crazy. Maybe the numbers are real, and you're just the only person who can see them. I don't know, and I won't pretend to. But I do know that that kind of admission can seriously fuck a person up, no matter how sane they were to begin with."
"To begin with…?" B shifted himself to face A. "What are you talking about?"
There was a long pause as A gathered his words, a terrified glint in his expression. He took a deep breath, and fished a small plastic egg from his pocket. The egg popped open to reveal a glob of Silly Putty, which A began to knead between his fingers. It seemed to calm him, but the putty was taking a serious beating.
"Look… I, uh, I'm bipolar." The sixteen year old hid his eyes in his dark locks. "Bipolar II, to use the proper terminology. You know what that is?"
"I've heard of it. It's a mental illness, but that's the extent of my knowledge."
"To put it simply, being bipolar is like having chronic, dangerous mood swings. There are two stages in most cases – mania and depression. I switch cycles every two to three weeks, with a few days of normalcy in between. You've only seen me during a manic cycle so far; that is, I experience mania as a period of elevated mood and increased mental productivity. If I was always manic, I would already be working with L. But I'm not, which is the major downside of being bipolar: depression. I'm going to head into a depression cycle in a few days, which you'll see as a personality change. I'll be more distant and cold, and you may not even recognize me as the A you knew a week ago. But that's why I needed to tell you. No matter what happens, know that it's not your – or anyone's – fault. I'll just need some space until another manic cycle starts."
A made it all sound so minor, so insignificant. But his body language couldn't hide his shame. He slumped over a pile of pillows, making sure to hide his eyes.
"Isn't there treatment?" B blurted, curiosity taking priority over tact.
"Yeah. Medication and therapy. But I hate my shrink, and the meds… God, B, if they figure out you see numbers and names, they'll drown you in meds. Me? My pills put a massive fog over my mind. Like trying to think and live in slow-motion. It was horrible, way worse than my original condition. So, Watari convinced the doctors to let me off the hook. But there are still times when the bad cycles get to me, and, awful as the meds were, I wonder if keeping my intelligence is worth enduring my condition without them."
"That's… terrible," B mumbled, eyeing his friend with newfound respect. "I had no idea."
"Well," A chuckled, "you've got screwey eyes. I'm pretty sure you got the worse deal. I mean, that's gotta suck. I don't blame you for being so quiet all the time."
"Yes… But it's something I live with, like you and your… condition." B attempted a smile. "It helps having a friend. You're the first person to believe me."
A raised what remained of his Red Bull, swirling the can as if it were wine. "I'll toast to that." Without waiting for B to toast, he pressed the soda to his lips, and downed the whole thing in a few seconds.
When he finished, A slouched back onto a pillow and whispered a "goodnight", leaving B alone with his insomnia.
((A/N: Alrighty, let's just hope this thing makes sense. I wrote A's and B's backwards, from end to beginning, so if there are any continuity errors, please, please, please, with strawberry jam on top, let me know. Critique is good, people.
Also, I just wanted to say that this whole shebang is dedicated to my dear friend, xtifaxfinalxheavenx. She's responsible for a good deal of A's character, as well as this illustration of him (see below). Through the good and the bad, she never ceases to inspire me, and deserves as much credit for this as me. We've been through a lot, but thankfully, we've both been a bit luckier than A or B. So, this is for you, Tifa. 3
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