Alive
By: Aviantei
18 mph
It takes me far too long to process what's going on. Undeniably, that's Cunningham at my door. Even without color, I wouldn't mistake him for anyone else. That dumb casual appearance and baggy clothes and stupid hair. The only saving grace is that he looks just as stunned to see me as I feel about seeing him, like he didn't actually expect to see me on the other side of the door.
Or maybe he's just put off by how much of a mess I look.
I consider slamming the door in his face.
Thousands of alarm bells are going off in my mind. What good will that do? He knows you're here. He could easily go ahead and send the cops your way, and you wouldn't have much luck. He knows where you live, Kirsten, why does he know where you live—?
Cunningham isn't the type to have followed me home. I don't see him hiring an informant to dig up where I live, either.
But I do know an informant who would contact him first.
"What the fuck?" I whisper. The question was more directed at Mariya, but Cunningham's the one who hears me. I decide to roll with it. Not like our relationship can get any worse than it is now. "What are you even doing here? How did you find me?" Why didn't you just let it go when I stormed out of your place?
Cunningham lets me go on, still with that half-stunned look on his face. "I wanted to see you," he says, and I hate how sincere his voice sounds. "And someone who said they knew you contacted me and told me where you live." Yup, that's Mariya alright. I'm so going to kill her the second I can. Cunningham looks around, scratching at the back of his head. "Come to think of it, this looks a bit creepy, doesn't it?"
I have to resist the urge to snort; Cunningham finding where I live with unprompted help from Mariya is far less creepy than me intentionally seeking out his home and breaking into it. "What do you want, Cunningham?" I don't have the patience for his joking—don't have the patience for anything, really. Breaking his wrist is starting to sound even more appealing if it has the slightest chance of getting him to go the fuck away.
"Like I said, I wanted to see you. And," he adds, before I can snap back at him, "I want to talk. I tried calling, and you didn't answer, so I want to know what I did to upset you so much." Though I can read his body language enough to tell that he wants to come inside, he stands still, not coming anywhere closer to me than he already is, as polite as ever. "I like to think that we're friends, Kirsten. Even if I don't know everything about you. Was I wrong?"
I've dealt with my fair share of assholes in the past, who all know how to use pretty words to get their way, who will drag you into mistake after mistake if you let them—and Cunningham isn't someone like that. He genuinely thinks of us as friends, and I did, too. Part of me still feels that way; that's why the idea of cutting him out of my life has hurt so much. And life would be so much fucking easier if he was an asshole, because then I could move on.
Because then my jealousy wouldn't feel so ugly.
I resist the urge to run away (stupid idiot would let me) and shove my hands into my pockets, the soft fabric not even the slightest bit comforting. "This isn't something that you did," I say, not having the courage to let him know that wasn't wrong, that I'd easily call him a friend, even if he hadn't said it out loud first.
"Kirsten, you don't have to lie to me."
"I'm not lying. This isn't about you." Oh, if I wanted an easy out, I could have easily made it about him. But I don't, and now I'm stuck debating if I should even bother to explain, if how the world looks like nothing but gray could ever make sense to someone who hasn't seen that sort of thing. Who the hell else is going to get it if it's not him? "This is about something I couldn't do." About how I couldn't keep a hold of that color, even though I wanted to.
Cunningham's brow furrows, his brain trying to make sense of what I'm talking about, even though I'm being vague as hell. Does it count as me stumping his level of genius if I'm just not giving him the answers? "What couldn't you do?" Even the thought of saying the words turns my tongue sour—or maybe that's just the nasty taste leftover from the past few days of abandoning anything remotely close to self-care. "You helped me. So if I can, I want to help you in return."
My next laugh is a broken, weak sound, but it's nowhere near as bitter as when I was trying to get him go away. "That's just the thing. You're not the only one who's dissatisfied with the world." I can't stand to see his face when I say it, so I pivot around, taking steps back into my apartment like I'm balancing on the world's worst tightrope. "You're not the only one who's bored every goddamn day."
A sob catches in my throat, but I refuse to let it out. Instead, I clench my hands into fists and let myself shout, "Because you get to be happy now and I just get to sit around and imagine what the hell it's like to actually enjoy life since I can't actually do it! That's what this is about!" I suck in a breath that shudders but doesn't turn into tears. I blink a few times, just to make sure I'm not crying, and then I realize that I've walked all the way to the opposite end of my living room, the drawn curtain blocking the light from coming in through the glass door that leads to the balcony.
Turning around, I can see Cunningham standing in the doorway. It would take a few seconds for him to cross the distance between us, but he's still waiting at the entrance, respecting me and the boundaries I put up, even if they're stupid ones. But I can tell, from the gray-smeared expression on his face, that he wants to be there beside me, wants to offer some help, even though he may not be able to tell what the best approach is.
I let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm not going to call the cops if you come in, you know."
He waits a moment longer—and then he places one hesitant step inside the doorway, followed by another. Once he gets going, his momentum carries his all the way across to me, standing within arms' reach, his hands half-raised, like he's not sure what to do with them. How would his fans react, if they saw the confident and composed Cunningham fidgeting, not knowing what to say next?
Except this isn't Cunningham, IGPX superstar. It's Alexander.
"The other day," he manages to say, "when I was trying to say that you'd held up your end of the deal, I wanted to say that you could stick around anyways." Oh. I've been throwing an unnecessary fit over my own paranoia. Brilliant. "My reason was stupid, though. So how about I return the favor? If you're saying you're just as bored as I was, let me help you get over it. Like you did for me."
If I hadn't been steeling myself mentally, I probably would start bawling my eyes out right now. But I'm enough in the mental zone that I manage to put on a smirk. "Those are some pretty big words for someone who was having a hard time enjoying himself not even a month ago."
Alexander blinks once before returning my smirk in kind. "What can I say? I'm not one to back down from a challenge." After all his hesitation, he raises his hand to give me a pat on the shoulder, the kind he gave to Jan and Dew when they were messing around between rounds of drinks and food. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I saw you smiling more than once when we were together. Or was that some sort of act you were putting on?"
I shake my head, feeling somewhat giddy that he noticed what was going on. Alexander noticed. "It wasn't an act. I did enjoy myself." More than any stupid, adrenaline chasing stunt I've gone on before. Skipping around the world, going on adventures with someone just for fun, even if it wasn't the craziest trip ever—those weeks with Alexander were enough to wash the gray away, even if it slipped back in. It was possible. The thought pushes a fresh wave of tears up to the surface, and this time I don't have the willpower to hold them back.
"Whoa, are you okay?" Alexander asks, and he sounds seriously panicked now. How often has he had to deal with someone crying?—not often, if Jan and Dew are as protective of him as I think they are. Alexander's hands come up again, hesitating just short landing on my shoulders. "Kirsten—"
Taking the step forward to close the distance between us, I plop my forehead right down on his button up, though the muscles underneath don't make it nearly as comfortable as a landing as I was anticipating. At least he can't see my crying anymore. "I'm okay, Alexander." It's the first time I've said his name out loud since we fought. Unlike usual, he doesn't protest. "I just… I want to see things in color again. Will you help me with that?"
With how close we are, it's easy to hear Alexander swallow. "Is that what it's like for you?" I nod, not wanting to admit it. Then again, I can't deny it, either, with my gray tears falling onto my gray carpet, easily one of the most depressing things I've ever seen. Alexander lets out a hollow little chuckle. "I guess that's what it looks like, right? I can imagine that." Alexander, who's also lived trapped in boredom. Who the hell else is going to get it if it's not him? He shifts, and I wonder if he's going to take me out of his personal space, but his hands rest on my back, a gesture of comfort and solidarity. "I'll do my damn best to help you out, Kirsten. I promise."
I nod again, not trusting my voice to come out even. Taking a moment to compose myself, I turn off the valve of tears, deciding to let out any leftover bursts of emotion later. I'm wiping my eyes when I stand up straight again, and Alexander's hands pat my back one more time before slipping away. "I'm gonna be counting on you. Don't disappoint me, Alexander."
"Wouldn't dream of it." His voice is soft, but he's still reliable. I guess he's the team captain for a reason. "Besides, if I went and lost where you succeeded, I'd never live it down."
I cock my head at him with an innocent blink. "Would losing to me a second time really be so bad?"
"See? Exactly like that." Alexander throws up his arms in mock exasperation, and for a tiny moment, I can see his eyes in green again, though it's gone second later. It's still something, though, and if Alexander can make me see color in tiny moments like these, I'm not going to waste my chance. "You know, going by our usual schedule, today's the day we go out and do something fun. You up for an impromptu adventure?"
I roll my eyes at him, because he knows just as well as I do that that's not even a real question. I flick his chest and turn towards my bedroom. "I'll go get ready. Make yourself comfortable."
[Author's Notes]
This week's exciting news is that I have... (drum roll) officially finished the draft for this story! All the chapters are ready for sure, so those weekly updates I mentioned before are confirmed into their slots until the end of the year, and we'll end 2019 with a fanfic bang (along with my other writing surprises for that part of the year)! I'm just kind of ecstatic that everything is lined out and ready to wrap out the year.
I may or may not plan things way too far ahead.
But enough of that future talk! This chapter has some angst and reconciliation floating around, and we're shifting into the next arc. I could have extended out the angst a bit longer, but given that Kirsten's "coping" methods are essentially isolating herself, there wasn't much more to drag out. Besides, I don't know if you've guessed by now, but this isn't a 100% dark or serious story, so... There's a new deal in town! How will this one work out?
Once more, we're looking at weekly updates for the rest of the year, so strap in, folks! I'll see you next Saturday, so please look forward to it!
-Avi
[09.02.2019]
