A/n: NEXT CHAPTER! Yay! Thank you SO SO much for the reviews! Oh, and Christine, thank you SO much! I can't reply, so this is the next best thing XD.
August 21st
Breakfast.
What had once lingered as Emmet's favorite meal, favorite time of day, and a sub-favorite part of his life, now only scratched and tore at his fresh, bleeding scab. Waking up alone, in his own bed, without Lucy curled around in his arms, felt akin to pacing in the abandoned, obsolete rooms of one's childhood home. Something is missing, yet everything is there.
Getting out of bed had turned quickly into a dreadful morning routine. He scampered out the moment his senses had alerted his eyes to wake up his body. Two mornings in a row he had nearly tripped over his bulky cast trying to rid himself of the vile rising in his throat, before it wormed into his mind, where it would fester, multiply, and plague his thoughts with ill, pessimistic attitudes he was not used to.
One morning, however, Emmet had no rush to get out of bed, though he did not understand the reason. No urgency to move and keep moving slammed him in the back of the head. He was free to linger until late-morning, usually one of his and Lucy's favorite time of the day, when they would snuggle, stay in bed for hours, sleep…
He had to stop thinking.
The cast and crutches, like every obstacle in his life, had gently, quietly submitted into the corner of his life, and he had surmounted the hindrance without much difficulty. Drawing with vivid permeant marker all over the white plaster didn't hurt, either.
A good deal of sprucing had helped his bleak apartment, with Unikitty's help. His kitchen had needed, and received, the most attention. Cleaning took most of the credit. A good wipe-down here, a heavy dusting session there, a lot of repainting resembled giving a squeamish, middle-school boy a new haircut and a fresh, pressed suit. A small amount of effort, and a wonderful payoff.
Emmet reached up onto the tip of his cast, a most likely forbidden action, and grabbed the necessary components for his usual, well-balanced breakfast. His Master-Building skills had given him some unexpected benfits, for instance, he could cook fifteen waffles and garnish them within five minutes in his sleep.
In fact, he remembered, he had done that once. Lucy had found him at three in the morning, hung over a plate of waffles with strawberries smashed in his hand.
The plate cracked in his hand.
Emmet paused, hot breath in his throat, eyeing the clean, precise divide in the plate, spilt straight through the middle. His hands trembled against the porcelain, and he had never controlled his emotions so far when he placed the dish gently against the counter, sucked in a breath, and quieted his quivering frame into stillness.
Breath. Keep breathing.
The steady rush of hot, humid air from the teapot rushing in and out of his system drudged him from the black hole of his mind, and he learned to trust his lungs again as his shoulders dropped.
Another plate, one he promised not to break, slipped down from the counter into his hand, and he continued preparing breakfast, running through different plans and to-dos in his mind. He had to call Unikitty, vacuum the apartment, call and make sure Batman wasn't acting too egocentric, order a new set of plates…
Only when he sat down at his island to eat did he realize he had prepared three different dishes.
One for himself, extra-sugary and topped with everything in the fridge and cabinet.
A second for Unikitty, colored with natural dye and fruits of taffeta and violet, a concoction that had taken a year to perfect.
The third, decked with dark-chocolate shavings and orange zest, mocked him the loudest.
Look at you.
Pathetic.
No. He shook his head. He wasn't pathetic. He was scared.
Lip quivering, Emmet gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white and eyes clenched. "Huge difference…" There had to be a difference. He wasn't sad. He wasn't pathetic. He wasn't shameful. Scared. He was scared.
You never deserved her.
"SHUT UP!"
He slammed his hands into the dishes.
They all crashed to the ground, the shatter resonating and echoing in his mind for several minutes after, as he stood, trembling and watching the broken plates and smashed food as if it, too, would stand up and start berating him.
Beep…Beep…
Emmet jerked at the phone vibrating behind him on the counter, and his heart didn't fall back into his chest until Unikitty's name and smiling face shone on his phone, reminding him that an outside world existed. He wasn't alone.
"Unikitty?" he asked, as if there was a question if it was her. "Thanks for calling, I really needed it."
"Emmet, we have a problem."
Whatever she had to say, he did not want to hear it. He harbored no desire, no want, no curiosity. Why should he hear it if it hurt him? If it hurt him, why should he listen to it? Often, in Emmet's life, the cold, hard facts had only hurt him. They had not helped him. When had truth done anything for him? The Special was not real. Lucy had not thought he was tough enough. He, in another timeline, had spent years alone and abandoned. Lucy had lost her memory. These were all true. He did not want another truth.
Assuming his pause was enough, or not caring if it was, Unikitty, through scratching breath itching her throat, panted, "Lucy left this morning, I slept too late and missed her, she's gone. A date. She went on a date. It was to the movies, down the street, Gunner, Gunner took her."
You could stop it, you know.
He knew.
If you were a little stronger, a little tougher, you could stop it.
He knew.
If only you could exercise some of that untamed, raw, terrible audacity, the strength that makes you break plates, lash out at your friends, and destroy your own hope. If only you could take that and use it to win her back.
"Emmet, I'm going to stop them, I need you to–"
"I'll handle it," he ordered, his voice blunt, solid, rough, and unwavering. A sword. A piece of iron. A tree trunk. He could not be broken. "Thanks, Unikitty." Without a word, he hung up, and Unikitty's smiling, optimistic face vanished from his phone. Her protest hardly reached him.
"Sweet?" Only half of her name made it through after she picked up. His stomach churned, and he wanted to lie down. A smirk tugged at his lips, and he wanted to show the world. His gaze darted from the smashed plates to the ticking clock, and he wanted the day to be over. His shoulders dropped in smug, snarky self-satisfaction, and he needed everyone to know.
Across the line, Sweet heard a tint, a lull, a snap in Emmet's voice, and whatever it was, she didn't like it. "Uh, yeah?"
"I need a favor."
#
"Are you sure this will work?"
"Positive."
Sweet wasn't so sure.
As her hands, curled around the wheel and sweating, shuddered for her friend's sake, she shot a look at him. He stared out the passenger seat like he owned a personal vendetta against it. Rain tapped like an unwelcome in-law at the glass, drizzling and gushing between pauses, and Emmet's eyes seemed to follow each and every one of them. She couldn't, and didn't really want to, imagine what he was going through. Was he hurting? Was he afraid? Was he numb? What would she feel if she was in his shoes?
She shuddered.
"This is it," Emmet said, cracking the silence in half. He pointed up the soaking road towards a dimly-lit cinema, with titles, ads, and posters splattered across the eggshell brick. The windows reflected blurred, neon, shadowy letters, the only source of light on the bright light on the weary mid-morning. It reminded Sweet of a 50's diner, or something out of a retro movie. Old, familiar, yet strangely unexperienced.
As she guided the car into the parking lot, she debated back and forth whether to mention the ghostly, silver veil that fell over Emmet's face, or leave well enough alone. "So, just so I don't mess up, what's the plan again?"
"You're my date," Emmet replied, bluntly. Sweet longed to say something as his hands trembled around the seatbelt, but he spoke over the moment, "We're here to keep an eye on this guy Lucy's going out with. I don't trust him. If we see them, you're my date."
A breath, an unsteady, quivering, injured and limping breath stumbled over Emmet's lips, and he clutched against the edges of the seats. "I'm sorry I'm dragging you into this." His eyes blurred and mirrored the trickling rain crawling across the front window, but for a moment, she had assumed they were tears. "I know Benny is going to hate me, but—"
"Why would Benny hate you?"
Immediately, Emmet froze, and an old emotion crossed over his face: embarrassment. "Oh, uh, nothing. Anyway, I'm sorry, I just don't have many girl-friends who can help me with this. I know–"
"Emmet?" Sweet rested a hand on his shoulder, and while he flinched at first, she saw appreciation rebelling in his eyes.
"Yeah?"
She smiled. "It's ok, I'm glad to help."
A warm grin overtook his face. "Thanks."
The rain steadily poured, gushing and sweating on their heads, as Sweet and Emmet stumbled into the dry, overly-air-conditioned theater. A musky scent wafted up into their faces as soon as they stepped in, but Emmet noticed none of it. He didn't notice the fuzzed, cheap carpet beneath his steps, the expired candy in the bug-infested, moldy shelves, or even the shoddy, rickety lighting.
He only glared that anyone would take Lucy here.
"Wow, hey, Emmet, I wouldn't worry too much about this guy, he certainly has no idea how to take a woman on a date," Sweet chuckled, eyeing the décor with a light heart.
However, Emmet had other goals. "Ok, I texted Unikitty, she said Gunner was taking her to an action movie."
The pair, after shuddering at stale popcorn, searched the endless rows and hallways of movies, flicks, and short-films. A romantic mystery here, a horror film there, and comedy pictures lined up everywhere. Not until Emmet came to the poster that frightened him the most did he realize he had found Lucy.
"Sweet?" he called to his companion, who rushed over to him from the other room, nearly tripping over a stray wire. "I think we found Lucy."
"How could you know this is…" Sweet droned off, and the title of the movie, Brooding on Beveeria: A Sci-Fi Picture for the Ages, spoke for itself. "…yeah, Lucy's in there, let's go." Sweet reached to Emmet's hand, grabbed it, and tugged, but resistance and hard, frigid rebellion stuck with him. "Emmet? Are you coming?"
He shook his head. "I don't wanna go in there."
What was he feeling? His hands trembled one moment, then after a quiet breath, they sat silently at his side, like a quiet child, until a hiccup in his ragged breath ran a pale, liquid flush down his face. Ever since she had known Emmet, he had been a good friend. Simply a wonderful, kind, optimistic friend, one she could turn to. He was one of those people that the world loved, and he loved the world back. A million people could pile their problems on him, he would know what to say and how to say it, and he could do it all without a sweat before breakfast. Stable. He was stable.
Now? What was she supposed to do? This was, if anyone's, Unikitty's department. She was foolish for accepting such a request, even if it meant proving that Unikitty was not the only friend Emmet could have.
"Hey, we'll get through it, right? We always do!" That was what Unikitty would say, right? Unikitty would rub his shoulder, smile, and tell him everything was alright. Even if it wouldn't be.
Emmet paused, the warmth of a woman's hand against his skin sent a vile slush slipping down his throat, but when he looked, Sweet's eyes held nothing but friendship, a gift he needed more than he understood. "Yeah," he replied. "Maybe."
Maybe.
Grabbing his hand, Sweet smiled. 'Maybe' was alright with her.
If the pair had thought all the world's musk was bred and born in the cinema's main halls, then the tangible, malleable gloom of the theater, coated in powder and the scent of ancient coats, must have been where dust went to die. Sweet pinched her nose, wincing and shuddering. "Emmet, trust me, you have nothing to worry about, this guy is a terrible date."
How dare he.
Emmet wanted to punch. He wanted to kick. He wanted to teach the man a lesson. Lucy was special, she was his special, how could a man take her here? She deserved a beach, a sparking, glittering beach, filled with teal waves and pearly sand, where all her troubles could melt away. She deserved that and more.
Like the first flicker, the first spark on a shadowy Fourth of July, Lucy lit up the gloomy theater just a few rows before them.
"It's her," Emmet whispered, as if Lucy was a spy, or perhaps an evil mastermind, or a slick, fast-paced high schooler no one liked, but everyone loved. His heart, crumpled and crushed, lumped in his throat, and a taste similar to antibiotics and vile rose in his throat, and his stomach twisted against his spine, pleading and begging with him to lie down on the dirty floor.
Silence echoed around the room, only interrupted by guns hollering and bombs bursting across the screen as Emmet and Sweet found two cramped seats, two rows behind Lucy and Gunner.
"What does he look like?" Sweet asked, shielded by a wiry, lofty man in front of her. "I can't see him, is he ugly?" A smile broke out on her face, but it faltered not a moment later, as Emmet's lack of response shushed her like a scolding teacher.
A rough grunt passed over Emmet's pouting lips. "He's good-looking, I guess. He's her type."
Not like I was ever her type.
Self-pity felt good. Pity agreed with him, pity sympathized with him, pity loved and cherished him. Pity didn't betray him. Pity didn't scoff, tell him to grow up, or ask him to change. Pity didn't forget him.
Had he ever meant anything to her, if she could forget him so easily?
A bomb crashed in his stomach.
His vision tilted. Shadows and flames sang before his eyes, a chair a few inches before him flew miles ahead, while the screen pressed itself up against his eyes. His silver hands clutched the seat, and the awful, foul scent of the air meant nothing as he sucked in the largest breath his quivering lungs could. Was he going to pass out? Perhaps it was for the best.
"Emmet, look away."
"Huh?" his whisper, raspy and restrained by sheer, struggling will, barely hit Sweet's trembling air.
Her voice rumbled urgently against the air. "Look away, just do it!"
If only she had told him sooner.
If only she had shielded him herself.
If only he had never come.
If only he had never fallen in love.
If only, then maybe he wouldn't have seen Lucy kiss Gunner straight on the lips.
Salty, pathetic, stifled tears clouded his altered vision, yet he thanked them profusely, for they were the only thing he could feel. He could not hear the gunshots. He couldn't smell the musk. He couldn't feel the itchy leather. He couldn't taste the vile sweat on his tongue. He couldn't see Sweet pleading with him to snap out of it.
Look at you.
Pathetic.
He knew.
As Sweet whispered gentle words to him, asked if he wanted to talk to Unikitty, promised him everything would be alright, and wrapped her arm tightly around his frozen frame, he never opened his eyes.
#
"It's going to be fine, I promise. He wasn't that good-looking, and I don't even think he's Lucy's type, he's totally boring. He's too goth for her taste, trust me. Batman at least had a personality."
Sweet tugged with a gentle, defeated touch at the wheel, and Emmet sat, silent and in another realm, next to her. He had not spoken since what Sweet had dubbed 'Deafcon Lucy,' and she suspected that she would not get another word out of him for weeks.
"Sweet?" Emmet said, murmuring into the soft, humid air inside the car, eyes distant and wandering among different galaxies in different dimensions. A secret hung on his lips, or perhaps a tragic defeat, or even just a question only a girl could answer.
"Yes?"
A soft, slow, smooth sigh passed over his lips, and as his hands twiddled on his lap, he whispered, "Do you think Lucy…does she remember…" Losing the ability to put together the sentence that thrashed around his thoughts, he shook his head. "…never mind."
"You want to talk about it?"
A pause followed, and he opened his mouth, but shut it. "No, I'm ok." Only after turning sharply around the corner did Sweet realize they had just passed Lucy's house, high and wet above their heads. It stood proud, like it had something to show, like it was an award Emmet and almost won, but failed at the last second to snatch.
"Do you want to stop and talk to Unikitty? She might make you feel better." What else did she have left? Batman? At this point, even the dark, somewhat eccentric superhero was a plausible option. "She's always got something nice to say, and if not, she'll shower some sparkles all over you."
Laugh, please.
"Nah, it's ok. I just wanna go home." Emmet shrugged, leaning back in the seat like it was a bed, and this time, Sweet knew that the damp, wet beads in eyes were not raindrops.
The rest of the melancholy ride drifted in silence along the soaked, slippery road, and Sweet pulled along the stretched lanes, coursed around cars, until they floated into Emmet's apartment parking-lot, where a thin rain swam on the cover above the entrance, perhaps the only thing his building had invested money into. "Well, we're here," Sweet announced, watching Emmet's hands unbuckle and fall onto the car door. "You're ok?"
For a moment, she received no answer.
"Emmet?" Tears tapped and poked at the back of her eyes, but she promised to hold them back. She wouldn't cry in front of him. "Are you ok?"
The car door gave a soft click as he pulled back, rain and damp wind rushed past and into the opening, and Emmet stepped onto the damp pavement. "Yeah, I'm ok. See ya, Sweet." He gave a small, insignificant wave, and his uninjured foot touched down on the ground.
No.
Emmet froze, midway out the door.
It's not going down like this.
Before Sweet could realize she had no time to fight him, Emmet leapt back into the car, dragged his crutch inside, snapped the car door closed, and stole the wheel from her hands. "Move, Sweet," he ordered.
"What are you doing?" Whether it was her decision or not, Sweet crawled out of the front seat and into the back of the car.
Pedal-to-the-medal, Emmet slammed down on the brakes, sent Sweet crashing back into her seat, and his buckle clicked in shortly after. The car rocketed out of the parking lot and back onto the street, where he had one goal, one destination, and one ambition. The sloshing and spraying of rain hardly distracted him, merely reminded him not to go too fast as he pushed through traffic, somewhat mystically, towards Lucy's house.
"Where are you going?!" Sweet's back, forced like an April wind hit it, crashed against the leather seat as she grabbed the seatbelt with a death-grip.
"Just stay in the car." Emmet's words clicked against the air, quickly and urgently, he rounded the soaked corner, and drove the car in the muddy, malleable grass. The tires sank the moment they kissed goodbye to the pavement, and Sweet's breath hitched in a panicked, shuddering tap when it halted, at the top of the mountain, in the spineless grass.
"Emmet, what are you doing?" Was he nuts? Had he snapped? Losing Lucy would certainly do that. His hands quivered on the seatbelt as it rounded and flung across his shoulder, and he paid no mind to his cast as he maneuvered himself out of the car. "Shouldn't you think about…whatever you're about to do?"
No.
Emmet snapped the door back in place without a response, the slick scent of rain scratching his breath, droplets crawling and dripping down his face. "If I think about it, I won't do it."
The rain hardly let up as he passed under the home's meek shade, but it provided some relief, some steady constant, as his hand rumbled against the door. In the time it took for someone to answer, he debated all the positives and negatives of Unikitty answering, and the pros and cons of Lucy responding. All-in-all, he preferred Unikitty.
A shift clicked in his ears, and the door pulled back, revealing Lucy, a soft, cross scowl on her face at the interruption, but his presence quickly replaced it with confusion as she looked him up and down. Only as her eyes fell over him did he realize how he must have appeared. Soaking, shivering, upset, miserable, terrified, or all of the above?
"Uh, hi?" It was a question, and a forced one at that. She opened her mouth to say more, but shut it. What could she have to say to the sopping, quivering, emotional mess that stood on her doorstep?
A rickety, wobbling breath in his chest, unrewarded kindness in his heart, and cautioned bravery on his tongue, Emmet asked, stumbling over his words much like he tripped over his own feet, "Are you free tonight?"
Only once had he seen Lucy's eyes so wide.
"Huh?" No emotion, no preference, no siding lay in her tone, and the slick invitation to continue beckoned him with a slimy finger, promising she wouldn't hate him, berate him, or laugh at him.
A hard, thick liquid ran down his throat as he swallowed. "Tonight. Are you free? As friends. You know, the movies or something. As friends, I mean. I was just wondering."
A lonely, pathetic man before her, Emmet lay his heart out on a silver platter, handed her a knife, and asked whether or not she would kill him. It was a simple, easy answer.
No. She could say no, slam the door in his face, and be done with him. That would be easy.
And, looking at his big, wet, dark-chocolate eyes, the hiccup in his shoulders, the way he bit his bottom lip, and the hopeful, apprehensive, daring turn of his lips, she knew it would also be one of the hardest things she had ever done. "Emmet, look, you and I…we aren't…"
"Just as friends," he repeated, as if the one element of his offer clung to his sanity. "Please?"
She was beautiful.
Even standing there, judging him, mocking him with her eyes, wishing he was gone, she was beautiful. Her hair framed and curled lightly around her freckles, one of his favorite parts of her. Her hoodie clung with a gentle touch around her figure, and she leaned, careless and unassuming, against the doorway, a kitten playing with her toy, Emmet, toying with the idea of wrecking him to pieces.
"Alright," she relented, biting back a sigh on her lips. "Just as friends, alright? Nothing more." If he could not accept the situation, she had to be cruel, she had to be the mean one. It was fine. She was used to it.
His smile, that dang, stupid, adorable smile that fluttered her heart and washed every thought out of her mind, beamed at her through the muck of the afternoon rain. "Thanks, Wyldstyle."
"Pick me up at eight, and don't tell Unikitty, you know how she gets." Lucy grinned softly, rolling her eyes and brushing a strand of her hair out of her face, biting her lip at the lovesick, melted look on his face. After all, why couldn't she enjoy his head-over-heels love for her?
His breath bounced like a balloon, first in his stomach, then in his throat, until hardly touching his lungs as he replied, "Ok, got it, thanks, I'll see you, yeah?"
Nodding, she tilted her body half into the door, offering a small wave. "Yeah, see ya."
"Bye."
The door clicked in his face, and from inside, Lucy gave up rather quickly on hiding the blush, the drum of her heart, and the soft grin on her lips.
Unikitty beamed. "See? I knew you would like him."
As Emmet hopped into the car, Sweet demanded answers, her voice perplexed and desperate for an explanation, if only to satisfy her starving curiosity. "What happened?"
"Everything is kind of awesome, Sweet." With a wistful look to the house, Emmet nodded again. "Everything is pretty awesome."
Maybe truth wasn't so terrible.