ashytwig: I'm glad to hear that I was able to realistically portray the emotion of such an event; however, I'm sorry you were able to recognize it, if that makes sense. Thanks for the review; take care.

"So yeah, I think I'm sick. I feel like sh-trash, bro."

"Really? How so?"

"I just don't feel good. I didn't even get up on time today." Alfred realized, of course, that this wasn't a very helpful description. He realized that Kiku probably enjoyed being alone in the morning, and also that Kiku probably didn't really care. Despite this, he continued, "I woke up feeling a little woozy. I just didn't want to wake up today." Alfred never wanted to wake up, ever, but this time he hadn't wanted to wake up for something so trivial as feeling physically ill.

While Alfred did feel woozy, it was an almost pleasant feeling. Finally he felt somewhat above this thing, as if the body did not weigh so heavily on his soul.

"Woozy," Kiku echoed. "Were you around anyone that was sick?"

"I don't think so. I haven't been outside since the New Year."

"Not once? It's been a few days."

"Not once."

"Not even for a walk?"

"Nope."

"Do you feel anything else?" Kiku asked him.

"I guess a bit nauseous."

Kiku sat at the table, bit into an apple. After he got about halfway through the apple he finally suggested that Alfred eat something.

Alfred ate a bowl of vegetables and it cured him of his ailment, but he almost wished it hadn't.

...

"Alfred! I have been waiting for the day we would cross paths again!" A man stopped him on the street, shook his hand excitedly.

"Really," Alfred replied. He returned the motion out of obligation. Alfred was rather limpwristed, all things considered, and the man noticed his supposed weakness.

"How did you stop that car?" The man asked. He tapped Alfred's arm as if to check that Alfred wasn't hiding a bulking mass or pure muscle underneath his jacket. "You don't look very strong." The man moved closer to him, much too close.

How unapologetic. Alfred could guess now that the car incident was what this was about, but then, how did the man know his name? "S'pose it was a miracle," he said shortly, moving away.

"You're religious?"

"I believe in miracles."

The man smiled at this; rather than kind, it seemed tolerant, as though Alfred had annoyed him somehow. "I'm Ivan Braginsky."

"Alfred Jones," Alfred replied.

"I know," Ivan replied. "I owe you a meal, yes?"

"No. Why?"

"For saving my life, of course!"

"How did I do that?"

"By stopping the car!"

And with that, Ivan pulled him into a nearby restaurant and told him to sit. Alfred obeyed, but he couldn't help thinking— what if he'd had something to do? Or simply hadn't wanted to eat? How astonishingly inconsiderate, for an act of thanks.

The waitress came quickly enough, and they ordered. Ivan ordered vodka— an interesting choice given the time of day— and something whose name slipped by Alfred. Alfred ordered a glass of water and an appetizer.

"You wanted an appetizer?"

"I'm not very hungry," Alfred replied. He turned to the waitress and asked if the appetizer could please be brought out at the same time as Ivan's meal. The waitress nodded and left.

"I have read much of your accomplishments," Ivan started. "They're plentiful, aren't they?"

"It depends on what you mean by 'accomplishment'."

"Your writing, of course!"

"Oh." It hadn't occurred to Alfred that, due to the nature of his career, so much of him was already on the internet. It hadn't occurred to him that anyone paid attention. "I've accomplished nothing with that."

"Art in itself is an accomplishment, yes? It is truly a gift, to be able to articulate— wouldn't you agree?"

Alfred decided that he disliked Ivan, if only for how he suggested answers. It was hard to say anything contradictory. "You could look at it that way if you wanted to. But I wouldn't consider most writing to be art. And definitely not mine."

"Is that so? I thought your work intriguing."

Alfred almost let himself become elated over the compliment. Instead he asked, "How did you know who I was?"

"When you stopped the car, I followed you because I wanted to thank you then and there." Ivan said this as though it was the most normal thing in the world. "But then, when Francis stopped you, you looked a bit annoyed by it. So I decided it would be best to wait."

"And you knew about my writing?" Alfred asked, neglecting to ask whether or not Ivan genuinely thought this was a better time.

"It was easy to figure it out, because of your writing. The websites you write for require... a bit much information. But I've been following your work for a long time; I quite enjoy it."

Well, there was nothing Alfred could do about it now except change the subject and hope nobody else thought to stop him on the street. "What do you do?" Alfred asked him. "How do you afford New York City?"

"I'm the Representative of this district."

Alfred looked away, attempted a quick recovery. "Oh." At one point Alfred had cared for and had written about politics, but these days he barely read the news. Alfred wondered if Ivan had read any of his earlier works, if he would still call pure political garbage 'art'.

The waitress came by again, with Ivan's vodka and Alfred's water. "You didn't want something else? No alcohol?" His tablemate asked.

"I don't drink."

They talked a bit more. Ivan had a habit of moving his hands around, almost unnaturally so. Communication. Articulation. Alfred was good at neither, but he imagined it was necessary as a politician.

Ivan once moved his hand too quickly and too close; he'd made no move whatsoever to hit Alfred, but Alfred flinched anyway. Ivan gave a small smile in response, one that was sympathetic to an almost pitying extent; he at least spared Alfred a comment, electing instead to stop moving his hands so dramatically.

Instead of making Alfred more comfortable, it only served to make him feel as though he was again at someone else's mercy, as if he was a child again. This probably wasn't intended— after all, Ivan knew little of Alfred's past— but Alfred was still a bit rattled by it.

Alfred's appetizer came before it was supposed to, because of course it did. So now Alfred had food and Ivan did not, and the only reasonable thing to do was wait. The situation was stifling, really, so Alfred began to fidget, mostly by cracking his knuckles. As usual, they didn't crack when he initially tried. So he applied more force. Every time he cracked his knuckles it hurt immensely and he was forced to wonder if he'd finally messed up and broken a finger; this was the case today as well. But Alfred continued until each of his fingers were screaming in this unwarranted agony.

Ivan's food eventually arrived, and finally Alfred took the time to look at his appetizer. He had ordered bread; it had been the cheapest appetizer on the menu, and was barely suitable for one person. While Alfred was once again starving and felt rather faint, he was more than pleased to see something so unsatisfactory. Another day of spite.

Alfred took a sip of water first, stared at the food in front of him. All for someone that can't use a dishwasher, he thought, and suddenly it was almost hilarious. Alfred didn't deserve this. What had he done to save their lives? If it wasn't for things Alfred couldn't control— strength and instinct, mainly— they would both be dead. Alfred hadn't done anything, and really this was too much for him.

Ivan continued to speak. His maneuvers were childish, almost comically exaggerated. As a result, Ivan got his meaning over every time he spoke. Alfred, meanwhile, fumbled with the idea of understanding.

Ivan spoke as if Alfred had any idea who he was. Alfred was not who he had once been; yet, Ivan seemed to presume that he knew Alfred quite well, that Alfred's writing had betrayed the self. Alfred had never written anything too personal, and had not once written of his childhood. As far as Ivan was concerned, Alfred was just a regular person. Alfred felt a bit like a fraud; Ivan kept asking him questions that implied that Alfred had some sort of mystical process to writing. This was not the case. The right words just came out, and when they didn't come out Alfred thought of different, inferior words, and wrote those down instead. Then he would draft everything again, and usually during the second draft he would find better words. But if not, then he did a third draft. To Alfred it was nothing special, but Ivan still seemed interested.

Ivan acted as though he knew Alfred well, but he had a distinct way of making Alfred feel as though he ought to be what Ivan thought he was. He also had this air of importance, which was a frankly ridiculous act for one of New York's representatives, but somehow it still seemed to command respect.

After a while, Ivan lost interest. Alfred was not what he was supposed to be; this was an unforgivable sin most of the time, even if writers were rarely what others perceived them to be. Soon it became clear that Ivan was maintaining an air of interest only because Alfred was a constituent. Alfred decided then that it was time to leave; there was absolutely no reason to stay. He hadn't even wanted to eat.

Alfred finished his bread, stood up. It was awkward to leave now, but it would be more awkward to stay as Ivan finished his food. "Well, bye then," he said. "I— I have something to attend to."

Ivan grabbed his arm, thanked him again. Ivan smiled in the way only politicians and car salesmen smiled, and the only appropriate response Alfred could manage was a nod. Alfred pulled his arm away and left, as quickly as he could, and after that he just went home.

Looking in the mirror, Alfred had this 'icky' feeling, to put it simply. His collarbone seemed especially prominent now, the way the two protrusions were lined up. His hands seemed strange, somehow, in the incomplete flexibility of their movement, in the way the skin on the back of his hand was dry, in the way that his skin stretched over his bones with ease; it looked like it should have been painful. It was abhorrent.

All this distracted from the main attraction, which was of course Alfred's face. The only other noticeable things about Alfred's body were the burn marks on his legs ("She'll stop if she's disgusted with me" became "Why shouldn't I hurt myself if other people can?", which promptly resulted in an addiction), but he didn't think about those anymore. His face was the truly remarkable thing at the moment. His face— Alfred knew, logically, that it was in fact his face— felt off, somehow. Alfred couldn't recognize his face. He could point out all of the features that would make up his face and they were all there, but it just didn't seem right somehow. Nothing had changed and Alfred knew this. If it's not your face, whose face is it then, dipshit? Alfred's extraordinarily mean inner monologue had a good point this time, so he didn't bother to correct it.

All Alfred could really think was how disgusting it was that even he could not see anything other than a physical form in his place, how obvious it was that it wasn't him, and then he went back to what he typically did: loathing it.

Alfred hated the human body these days, the way the framework— both bones and blood— could be seen through the finished product like an overdone trope. It had disgusted him when he was still starving and, even though his rib cage was only somewhat visible instead of extremely visible now, it disgusted him again. It felt unnatural, as if his mere existence was a sin and he was condemned by this form and nothing else.

When Alfred was in the sixth grade, his science teacher had said that air could easily crush pretty much anything with its weight. Everything existed preadjusted to this weight, and thus able to survive. Alfred wasn't sure if that was actually true or not (his science teacher had been a bit eccentric), but air did have weight, and nobody ever noticed it.

The human body easily had to be the largest burden a human being could carry, even despite some of the things it ignored: heartbeats and the weight of air, to name a few. And yet everyone was preadjusted to it. Everyone, it seemed, except him.

...

So Alfred's shower was really cool and everything, and when he was done he returned to his room. But he didn't feel good there like he usually did; actually, he felt entirely unsafe. Alfred had this feeling a lot as a kid, but he lived in an apartment away from his parents now, away from everyone that would've hurt him, really. Kiku didn't want to hurt Alfred because Kiku didn't know who Alfred was. This lack of safety was completely irrational, so Alfred just changed into some more comfortable clothing and climbed into bed.

What Alfred really needed was a motel room: crisp white sheets and a shitty old kettle to make instant coffee. A window that overlooked somewhere that wasn't too familiar. Alfred needed one night in a motel room, and he could figure out the rest of his life from the safety of unfamiliarity. The next best place to go was anywhere away from the room crammed with all his things. Alfred didn't really care where he went, but only naturally he ended up in the common area. Kiku was sitting on the couch, reading a book.

Alfred sat down next to Kiku and tried to act normal, but he didn't feel safe here either. Alfred could only now realize what the problem was: he was stuck with himself. His skin was suddenly too tight, his fingers hot and seemingly numb from warmth— Alfred's hands were never warm and this felt wrong. Energy, or just discomfort, seemed to build up in his joints. His body wasn't even the problem in the end; he was more uncomfortable with the concept of being himself at all. How was he supposed to live with the guilt and the shame of being alive?

"Alfred, are you okay?" Kiku tapped him on the shoulder.

Alfred jumped, and quickly hid his face in embarrassment. "I'm fine."

Kiku didn't say anything for a minute or two. Finally, "You seem upset."

What an observation. Alfred opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out; he just shook his head instead. "I just don't feel like being in my room," Alfred managed. He'd thought he could just walk out here, in his extreme emotional distress, and not bother his roommate. He'd been wrong about that.

"Why not?"

"I don't know." Alfred hugged himself and tried not to think too hard about how a loving God would not allow him to only feel comfort in something he hated. "I don't know."

"Is there anything I can do?"

How different their issues were. What a monumental mockery of human interaction. What a mountain between Alfred and everyone else.

Kiku was offering to help him. Saying 'no' would be rude, wouldn't it? Or were those just regular boundaries? Wouldn't Kiku want to know that Alfred was alright? What if Kiku didn't leave him alone?... Kiku wasn't that sort of person, but still. Didn't Kiku have the right to know, since Alfred had dared to be in his company while distressed?

Alfred thought of a task, of one that would make Kiku feel like he was helping. "Will you go on a walk with me?"

...

Ten minutes later they were outside, going on a walk. It was hard to believe Alfred had ever felt bad in his life before; the weather was preferable and he felt better outside.

They didn't speak for about a mile of the walk. Alfred was starting to think they should turn around; he wasn't going to force Kiku to walk as much as he forced himself to walk.

Alfred felt he owed Kiku an explanation, however brief, of why they were taking a walk together. He started to think of what he could possibly say to Kiku, who probably hadn't done anything terrible in his life and probably wasn't particularly selfish. If one just went by association, Alfred was godawful. If one went by the individual, they'd find Alfred physically repulsive from a sheer amount of loathing. But only Alfred knew enough to be repulsed, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Still, Alfred would need to explain why he was this lousy individual to explain why Kiku had to take a walk with him. Alfred began to assemble sentences, connected paragraphs and pages— if only human suffering was brief; if only betrayal didn't cast such an ugly shadow. "Kiku," he began. "Kiku, I-," and his breath caught in his throat. "I'm sorry that you're taking a walk with me." How unlike him, to apologize for something like this. Perhaps it was warranted, if not to Kiku then to all the people he'd manipulated. Survival wouldn't excuse the suffering he'd inflicted on others. The people around him had been empathetic and he had been a parasite.

Kiku didn't respond to his apology. The burden of initiating human interaction was always finding something worthwhile to say.

Alfred discarded the mental rough draft. He could only reasonably put The Incident into words; everything else was too shameful, or too unbearable in some other aspect. Alfred could handle others knowing what a horrible person he was, but he couldn't fathom anyone knowing about the things that had been out of his control. Sure, this was still oversharing, but Kiku was taking a walk with him and thus probably wanted to know why Alfred was such a traumatized piece of shit, and what did Alfred ever give people except what they wanted? What would burden Kiku more, that was the real question; was not knowing worse than knowing, just due to the nature of what Alfred was upset about?

Even if Kiku was owed an explanation, it was too late to say anything at all. Alfred had remembered something vital about Kiku, another mountain. "Kiku, what do you think about cats? Like, the animals."

"Cats are great." Another few paces and then, "What do you think of cats?"

"Yeah. Cats are the best, dude. Cats are awesome."

A/N: I had a hard time writing the interaction between Alfred and Ivan, the main reason being that a Human-AU in which one is the other's constituent certainly changes things. Also, that they've only just met. That changes things as well, for obvious reasons.

The app (I have given up hope on accessing a computer for a long enough period of time) has a habit of deleting spaces in between words. I'm afraid I can do little about this; I shall try to fix it once I can get back to the Desktop website again.

A review would be great. Have a good day and stay safe.