After a few chapters wholly in the present tense, we're back to the past. Here, you'll get to see things that in OMIYS were just briefly mentioned. Did anyone say "dialogues"?
Plus, there may or may not be a The Office reference down there.
Plus-plus, the whole armchair-pose vibes are inspired by a 1960 movie called "Plein Soleil" (the original Tom Ripley, guys). Highly recommended, especially if you're into twinks with a psycho side about them.
Chapter 8 – Where have you been?
October 16th, Tuesday
Fake Claire exited the bathroom with a gloomy look on his face.
He thought that this whole shit was slipping out of control – if there ever was a moment it'd been under control in the first place.
About twenty days or so had passed since his life had been snatched away from him, crumpled up and handed over to Claire to carry on on his behalf. And vice versa. Twenty-two days to be exact and it just couldn't be alright if he was on his period again.
Alright, he'd never been a girl before that autumn, yet he certainly never lived under a rock when it came to womanhood! He knew that normally it occurs once a month. Once every four weeks is normal. Once every five, six weeks is "kinda okay" too, as Mom once mentioned. But twice a month is fucking awry! Damn, it doesn't take a real woman to figure out something's not working alright down there.
Fake Claire sat on the edge of the large bed in Girly Room and sighed in dejection.
At least, this time it wasn't painful. Actually, he wouldn't have even noticed if he hadn't glanced down on his panties while peeing. Good thing he was already home and it didn't happen at school! It'd have found him utterly unprepared!
Oof... school.
The school-week had just begun and he was already so stressed out he wished he could sleep it away until Saturday. All hunched inside that tiny body, real Chris felt like crying but he stubbornly struggled to fight back his tears. Stupid hormones that make girls cry, right?
Failing to repress himself longer, real Chris wept quietly. How do girls keep it all together when their whole bodies seem to push them into the deepest pits of despair? Or was he a special girl? Could it be possible that he was so unused to normal girls' hormones that he felt them harder somehow?
Or was he just downright overwhelmed by his worries and hormones had little to nothing to do with his current state?
Somewhere inside Chris knew it wasn't just womanhood making him emotional.
He was breaking down under the hardest pressure.
Things at school were going down. It was like he just couldn't learn how to fake a believable Claire, and his friends – well, "her" friends – wouldn't stop quirking brows at every single misstep he took. Every time real Chris failed to nail the "Claire Redfield impression", someone around him wouldn't miss to notice – and make him notice they noticed. If there ever was anything fun in pretending being someone else, it'd been blown away by then.
The only positive thing in all that story was that Claire's grades had improved, at least when it came to tests but, even there, it was to very little avail since he would be scolded every two minutes for not taking notes during classes – he couldn't show his real handwriting to anyone and Claire's was... it was impossible for him to replicate. All in all, Claire's school situation wasn't improving that much. No matter how hard he'd try, he'd keep giving with one hand and taking with the other.
And now this.
A bleeding vagina.
A vagina bleeding too soon, too early.
And he couldn't get out of his head the intrusive thought that somehow it was his fault. He'd sure done something wrong and pushed his body to freak out like that. Maybe, he thought, he'd gone too hard down on himself last night and- a low and long growl resounded in the silent bedroom and, for a moment, it silenced his stupid nonsensical rant.
So, yeah, recap: a bleeding vagina and a growling tummy. If period cramps weren't surprisingly missing, he'd get another full-Monty of crap this time as well.
Chris had enough of being a girl.
He had enough of that shit. Life was so easier when he was a boy! His real body was so low maintenance in comparison!
Growling in anger and hunger, real Chris stood up and went downstairs to grab a bite. For some reason he felt the urge to stuff himself with whatsoever contains sugar and calories.
Chris was quite glad to find Lily by the kitchen sink, busy arranging a bouquet of white roses in a glass vase. He'd use some advice from a real woman now.
"Have you seen Claire?" real Chris asked as he walked into the open-space kitchen.
"Oh, hi, Chris, darling," Lily said, slightly startled by the sudden appearance, only then acknowledging his silent presence, "yes, she's in her room. Your room. Your real room. How's it that you two call it now?"
"Man's Cave," Chris telegraphically answered.
"Then, she's in Man's Cave." Lily lamely laughed, only pretending to joke when instead she was heedfully observing her son hesitate to speak. "Everything alright, darling?"
Tight-lipped, real Chris shook his head as his girly face grew hot in uneasiness.
"What happened?" Lily asked, resting the flowery vase on the marble countertop of the kitchen island.
"Maybe I should just tell Claire but..." Chris muttered and he seemed he couldn't find anything to look at for more than two seconds straight, "but... I'm not sure. And sure, I don't know how to do it. I fear... I fear she might get mad at me."
"Just tell me what happened, we'll figure out together whether to tell her or not."
Real Chris cleared his throat and, downcast eyes, he murmured, "I'm... I'm on my periods again. Is it normal?"
Lily's eyebrows jumped up in evident surprise. "Again? You sure?"
Real Chris widened his eyes, "of course, I am, Mom!"
"Oh, well, that's okay, it can be irregular wh-"
"I did something wrong, did I?" real Chris heatedly blurted out, his round blue eyes glistening in flaming upset, "it's not okay! Claire said it was always pretty regular and now it's up to me to take care of it and I fucking mess it up! It can't be a coincidence!"
"Okay, calm down now," Lily said, trying to keep her son from starting hyperventilating and let all the neighbours know there's something abominable going on in the house Redfield.
She grabbed her fake daughter by the shoulders and gently thumbed up and down. "You're right, darling. It's not much okay, but it's not the end of the world either. It can happen. Your period can be affected by...uh, deep stress or anxiety." Real Chris was about to retort that still it didn't excuse him but, as if Lily had read his thoughts, she clutched her eyes with his and continued, "hey, look at me. I want you to understand that we have no, damn, control over it. Zero. Nothing."
"But-"
"I've been a woman since way before you were born, honey," she interrupted, "I may know a thing or two about uteruses."
Fake Claire tightened his lips and sighed, his chest and shoulders deflating as he released the breath through his nose. "Okay but... If I didn't frea-"
"Did I stutter, Christopher?" Lily pointed out, forcing out an easy-going little titter straight away, "don't blame yourself if life's gotten hard and..." her voice suddenly broke and Lily fell silent as she gulped down her words. It took her a few seconds before she could look at him in the eyes again. She squeezed his shoulders a bit before releasing him and she flashed a tender smile. "You know, when I was young, I used to get all stressy and antsy before finals and it kinda was a tradition that my periods would go crazy then. You'd be impressed by the number of periods I could get and... miss in a single semester span!"
Chris smiled along and nodded. Unconvincingly feigning amusement, he murmured, "good thing finals season is still far ahead, then."
"Totally." Lily laughed and affectionately pinched his rosy cheeks to gently shake his head from side to side.
"I'm so sick of this, Mom."
"I know."
Every smile faded away to leave room to a tense, pitiful grimace on both faces. But that brief moment was soon interrupted when another growl resounded loud and clear.
"I just baked cinnamon rolls."
"Oh, thank God! I'm starving!"
Just like his mother had requested when their little "all-girls" meeting was over, real Chris took the glass vase with the neatly arranged white roses to the living room. He hunched over the short black coffee table to rest the vase onto it and, when he straightened back up, he winced in fear as soon as he... sees me sitting on the armchair, literally appearing out of nowhere.
Duchess slant pose, posh updo, I'm wearing total black. I'm killing it.
Pearl necklace, black turtleneck, matching high-rise chino pants and suede loafers, I swear, I couldn't be more "effortlessly chic" than this. This timeless outfit will never go out of style. Really, only the furry white cat is missing for me to look like the evil dude from that old-fashioned James Bond movie I can't quite recall the name now.
"Good afternoon, dear," I say, spelling words like those dramatic women in the roaring-twenties movies. I finger-comb a rebellious tendril of hair back in place and resume my "effortless" upper-class posture. It's a matter of seconds before my back starts aching for the unusual straight-up pose I'm forcing it into. Oof, student backbones problems.
Fake Claire glares at me with a remarkable fury in his otherwise limpid blue eyes. "Not you, not today, Fangirl. Leave me alone!"
In spite of how outraged fake Claire seems to be by my rather dramatic manifestation, I leisurely lay back, sinking more into this comfortable armchair and cross my feet over the fluffy pouffe. Roaring twenties time is over, now I'm all early-sixties Alain Delon.
"I think I'll stay a little longer, Chris, if you don't mind."
"I do mind! Get lost!" He snarls at me but I'm chilling too hard for him to actually stand a chance to upset me.
"Today's afternoon daylight is exquisite," I comment and shake the glass of bourbon I poured myself with my fantasy so that the golden liquid whirls and the ice cubes rattle. I may not have a white cat, but the evilly-sipping-drinks vibes are all here. Yeah, James Bond would be charmed. "And this ambrosial liquor is better than any herbal infusion I have at home."
"Listen, Fangirl, I understand you have nothing better to do with your life," real Chris sighs, "but you have to stop intruding my house like this! You're freaking me out!"
I take a long sip from my drink and let the liquid rest on my tongue to savour it fully. Differently from real-life bourbon, this tastes like heaven. I lower the glass and let it dangle from my hand hanging over the armrest. The sunlight hitting the drink creates quite an interesting lightshow on the wooden tiles of the floor, and it really catches my attention.
Lost in my chilling, I casually mumble, "next time I'll make sure to send a memo first."
"I'd rather have no next time at all."
I look at fake Claire with a playful pout on my face. "Oh, come on, aren't you being a little too rude to your guest?"
"You're not really welcomed," fake Claire deadpans, "and you act nothing like a guest. You show up as if you own the place. That's rude."
I raise an eyebrow and nonchalantly shrug as I point out, "that's because I do own the place."
Fake Claire frowns and flares like a bull to the torero, throughout addressing his death-stare right at me. Had he got a set of knives instead of eyes, I'd be good and dead by now, that's for sure.
"Listen to me," a frowning fake Claire growls, earnestly, "I'm menstruated, and that alone it's already far too fucked-up on its own. Plus, I'm tired and worried. You better get the hell out of my house before I lose it. You picked the wrong day to mess with Chris Redfield, girl!"
I wonder whether he himself believes in his own words being spelled by such girlish voice in the first place.
"Chill, honey, chill." I soothe, and I don't care if I sound like a certain questionable American politician by saying that. Me like "him", we both are dealing with a certain teenage girl who annoys us, only that, that Greta sure has better reasons to argue than Chris.
Why can't Chris just appreciate a little moment of serenity with me?
He should've learned already that when I'm in the scene, when I'm openly manifesting, no major plot twists happen. He should know by now that my appearances only bring a pause to the course of the events. It's like the story's suspended, in a certain way. After all, when I zone out in the real world and show up in this one, it's basically because I need either information or comfort. Why can't he learn to cherish me? Instead, he just keeps fighting and rejecting me. I'm sure he's going to kick me out of this little piece of paradise any time now.
Against any prediction, much to my surprise, Chris does what I think will make history as the less characteristic thing Chris Redfield has ever done since the invention of fanfiction.
"Moooom!" He yells as he starts stomping towards the living room arched entrance.
Oh, c'mon! Are you serious, Chris? Threatening me you'd call your mommy? Have a little dignity dude!
"Moooom!"
"Hush, baby boy," I eyeroll, "she can't hear you."
Frozen by my words, fake Claire stops on the spot and turns towards me, even more bully than before. "Why?! Is she like frozen when she's not… around? Do you freeze my parents?!"
"Oh, no, no, good heavens, no!" I heavily shake my head and shift upwards on the seat. "She's pretty much like the Tyrant in- errr... ahem, I mean… she does her thing on her own. Just elsewhere." Y'all really advanced NPCs, but it's better if I don't put it this way. "I told you, y'all have a life of your own."
"Unlike you apparently," real Chris sputters.
"That's unkind to say. Even by you."
Crossing his arms over his chest in a contemptuous manner, real Chris justifies himself with a scornful grimace. "I'm on my periods."
"That doesn't make you any special, sweetie."
I know, I'm playing with fire.
Chris is a hot-headed jerk on normal days, God knows what a pain in the ass he can get during "that time of the month". And I sure ain't doing any good to my cause by calling him sweetie, honey and baby boy. It's the second time I catch him in this condition and, if last time he didn't attack me and gnash my throat, this time I can't be so sure he won't go berserk on me and I'll make it out safe and sound. Even though he's a little more experienced this time, there's a buttload of piled-up crap in addition I cannot not consider.
Fake Claire doesn't allude to come back and accept my invitation to simply enjoy this idle afternoon by the living room. He rather insists on his crazy intention of calling Lily. That makes no sense. What does he suppose to get?
"Why are you calling her?" I ask, grimacing in confusion. "The woman has a shit ton of chores to do, leave her be!"
"NO!" he yells, pricky. "I'll make her come over. She has to know what a freak I'm supposed to bear with!"
"Oh, Chris, please! There's no point to that."
"Why? ...Can't she see you?!" He wonders, strangely worried by such hypothesis.
Maybe to be the only one seeing me – aside from his sister, of course – may make him feel like his mental health is definitely derailing. Alright, I do want him to progressively freak out in this story, but I don't want him to go completely nuts. I have to keep him walking down that thin line separating distress and mental illness. Can I make it?
"Oh, no, of course she can see me if she were to come here!" I say, widely nodding – yeah, today I'm feeling smug. "She'd totally see and meet me if I want to," I lastly shrug and flash a little naughty grin at his direction, "but I don't."
"Oh, you better do!"
"You can forget it." I chirp.
"MOM!" He squeals on top of his lungs and flinches. I think he himself is surprised by the high pitch he just reached. Three weeks a girl and still hasn't gotten used to his girlish voice. Haven't years and years of Claire's yells taught him nothing? Well, if fake Claire is a soprano in the voice, I'm definitely a "Soprano" in the attitude, if you know what I mean. So, yeah, let him squeal.
"Can you just stop?" I huff, and shake my head from side to side, bored. "I told you she won't hear you! She's gone in the backyard!"
"Fine! I'll go straight there and I'll tell her everything about you!" real Chris says, aggressively brandishing his forefinger at me as if it were a gun, and resumes his stomping outta here.
"Okay, go," I shrug and I adjust better in this heavenly piece of fine furniture I'm sitting on. "Good luck on that."
Evidently made distrustful by my sudden and careless giving-up, he squints as he asks me "what are you hiding from me?"
I scoff and shrug my shoulders. "Oh, nothing. You said you wanted to tell her? Fine, just go and tell her, honeybee." I loosely wave the glass in the living room direction. "And when you're done, you'll find me right here." I smile and pat the armrests twice so it's clear that I won't be moving nor leaving.
This time he goes for real.
I can hear his stomping fade into the kitchen, the backdoor swing open then slam closed. I know it's a matter of minutes before he storms back in, all flustered and angered out. Maybe seconds. Yeah, it won't take him that long to understand the little trick I set for him.
Tsk, Christopher Redfield, ladies and gentlemen, the big badass hero who runs to his mommy 'cause he can't handle a single fangirl on his own!
If only he knew what kind of other fangirls and fanboys lurk out there in the dark of unmentionable fan-run websites, what shitty pairings he's forced into, what a pussy they make him be! What a- oh, he's already back. 58 seconds, y'all! Impressive. And he looks everything like I imagined!
"What have you done to me?!" fake Claire shouts as he stomps back into the living room.
"Let me guess," I say as I shift onward with by upper body so that now I'm sitting up. I hook a forefinger below my chin to sarcastically feign pensiveness and accompany my words with wide motions of the glass in the air, "you rushed to the backyard, found your mom probably pruning the rose bushes and... made a fool of yourself in front of her blathering nonsensical sounds, isn't it?"
"I couldn't fucking speak!" he heatedly bellows, "what the hell have you done to me?!"
I can't help but let out a wry titter at the perfection of the mechanics in the gears moving this whole alternate universe. I really think I gave it a pretty solid and consistent base. It's like I invented brand new physics laws and... oh, I guess I actually am a god here. Real Claire was right.
"The fuck you laughing at?!"
I condescendingly look at him and pout. "That's what you get when you try to break the first rule of fictional world."
"So now there are rules. Great! This is only getting better and better, I see!" real Chris snorts in exasperation as he thrashes his thin arms in the air to underline the absurdity of this rather unhealthy environment I set. "Let's hear it. What's this fantastic first rule, uh?"
Oh, he's curious. Baby boy wants to know more. Well, I guess it's safe to tell him. I can share the first rule with him so, hopefully, there won't be a next time.
A veil of seriousness falls over my face as I deadpan and stare at him with all the intensity that my fancy eyeglasses allow. A menacing scowl creases my forehead as I peel off the backrest and lean even more onwards. "First rule of fictional world is…" little dramatic pause just for suspense purposes, "you do not talk about fictional world."
I can hear him tsk at me. I can only guess he saw that movie I stole the line from. Headshaking, he waves a hand as to dispel me and my bullshit away. "I'm so done with you and your... your fucking control mania!" he bemoans, "fuck you, Fangirl!"
I giggle in amusement. Normally, I'd already be all heated up and I'd spare no retorts, no insults to someone testing me. But today… today no. Today it's chill day and all I'll do is chill out and…
"C'mon, sit down and relax," I entice, "just go with the flow."
I don't know what to say now guys, except for uh, I presume those words triggered him on some degree. Really, I have no clue why he's lost his mind like this.
"Go with the flow?!" real Chris roars, blue eyes flaming in unbound wrath, "you don't go-with-the-flow on me!" Truly guys, his voice is so unbearably high pitched and annoying right now, he's killing my vibe. "Go with the flow my ass! The only flow going on here is in my pants, and it's bloody, for fuck's sake! And you better make it stop now!" The living room is so rife with his shrill yells that I almost regret I picked Remake-Claire as co-main character for this story. I didn't remember her voice to be this annoying. Perhaps, I got minor changes in my head-canon and Claire's voice must be one of these. Anyway, he's unstoppable and he keeps yelling more and pacing around like a mad, in ever increasing rage. "Twice a month it's not alright! Make it stop! Make this whole thing stop! Goddammit!"
Uh-oh... Do I see emotions being poured out?
I feel something else sneak out, hidden between his rage. I better pay attention to every word he says now. It might be uttermost useful for my next chapter. Chris is expressing how he feels and that's quite what I need to help me and the readers bond with him on an emotional level. And if he doesn't help me there, then there's no way I can accomplish it on my own. I'm not that good.
"Haven't you heard your mom?" I say, "women can't control periods."
Real Chris rolls his eyes. "Uh, hello? You're the author, you've got the power to do it."
"Uh, hello?" I mock him, "news flash, I'm a woman too! I can't control mine, let alone I can control yours!"
His voice quivers in rage as he shouts, "then get the fuck outta here, you useless bitch!"
Uff, again with that get-out-of-my-house thing. What are you today, Chris? Taylor Swift in the Look What You Made Me Do videoclip behind the scenes reel? Then, you need to calm down. You've been too loud... and I'll stop here before any royalty's due.
Anyway, since my friendly invitations to calm rather have a triggering effect on him, I decide to repeat myself even if at cost of being assaulted. Who knows what a triggered Chris may let out or... confess?
"C'mon now, you're making such a big deal for nothing."
"Shut up! I'm so sick of you! I've had enough of all this shit!" Do I hear a little crack in his voice? "First I need help and you won't let me speak to Mom, now you won't help either! I do need help, can't you see?!" His voice quivers until he falls silent and slumps onto the nearest couch, right next to my armchair, and starts weeping.
I stand up, rest the glass on the coffee table and take a seat right next to him.
Real Chris sniffles and pouts and, with a cry-broken voice, he mutters, "every day, it's a nightmare and it keeps getting worse. I can see no end to it. What's the point of all this suffering?"
I think that a little caress on his shoulder won't do any harm so I go for it. I fondle his back in slow motions, just to instil a little comfort in his depression.
"It's overwhelming, isn't it?" I whisper, tenderly, "when you feel like you're facing a mountain too high to climb barehand..."
Real Chris sniffles more and shyly nods. I reckon it must cost him a lot to admit he feels weak and vulnerable. Jesus, do I understand!
"Oh, sweetie..."
"Don't call me that."
"Okay-dokey, as you wish, Chris. It's fine," I sooth, caressing his shoulder a little more, "you don't need to run to your mom for help. I know exactly how you feel."
"I don't think you do," he disagrees, "you don't know a thing about how I feel, you ain't living what I live."
"I wouldn't say so," I say, shaking my head and as I absently look away, "if there's something I've grown to know too well is the feeling of... of complete paralysis you get when you think you're not strong enough. Like, things need to be done, decisions need to be taken and all you can do is lie down and feel powerless and wish it all to end soon. And you think you lost control over your life and yourself. I do know that. Maybe it's not the same thing you're going through, but at least know that I know the struggle of keeping it all together."
Real Chris looks up and stares at me until we make eye contact. "Then why do you let this happen to me too?"
I can't keep his gaze any longer so I look down. How am I supposed to tell him I don't know the answer to that? Why do gods let their creatures suffer? People been asking it for millenniums and still no one gave it a satisfying answer.
I simply stretch a faint, sympathetic smile. "You know, sometimes, mountains turn out being just hills and you realise you could do the climb, you could make it to the top and off to the other side." Is this conversation meaning more to myself than it does to him? Well, I don't want to think about that now. I nibble at my lower lip for a little before continuing. I need to think my next words right through. "I think you can make it, just... just have a little faith in this story and don't fight the course of events back." Yeah, that really makes me come across as the insecure writer.
In spite of the tears still running down his cheeks, real Chris scoffs in derision and shakes his head in surrender, "I can't believe you basically just told me to go with the flow again."
I can't help but mirror his defenceless smirk while I try to make the most heartening look I can – despite my eyeglasses. "Because that's what you have to do!" I titter, jokingly.
Real Chris tugs at the hem of his sleeve and uses it to wipe away his tears. A little mascara may have leaked but I see he's learned how to wipe his eyes without turning into a panda. My little fake girl! Growing so fast...
He leans backwards, against the backrest, and starts to stare at an indefinite spot in the white ceiling, silently and pensively. After a few moments of quiet, he looks at me.
"Where have you been all this time?" he asks, his beautiful girly voice reduced to a sweet whisper, "it's been days since I last saw you."
"I thought you didn't like to see me around... So, now you care about me?"
"I don't," he says, quite jokingly, I can't tell what to read in his tone, honestly, "but school's going shit and... I needed you and you weren't there to tell me everything's gonna be fine."
"I thought you hated me when I say that."
"I do. But I need to hear it. And you're the only one who seems to know what's going on around here."
My eyebrows rise in curious surprise as I ask "so you trust me when I say it's gonna be alright?"
"Looks like I have no choice."
I widen a warm smile at him.
He may look like Claire, like a girl, but to think how powerless and different from his very self the great Chris Redfield must feel right now kinda breaks my heart. "Everything's gonna be alright."
"Thanks," he smiles back and resumes his absentminded ceiling-stare. "You haven't answered yet," he murmurs after a short while, glancing back at me, "where have you been?"
"Struggling to get shit done," I answer, "I failed anyway. I failed many things, including you apparently. But I'm here now and I won't let you down for so long again." I nudge at his side and cheer, "I'll be right a daydream away from you all the time."
Chris scoffs ad shakes his head at me, his wavy ponytail swinging accordingly, "you are one helluva freakish gal."
"Well, thanks," I smile, "I'll take it as a compliment."
Now that the wave of wrath seems to be over, I decide I can get a little more comfortable with him.
"C'mon, Chris," I encourage, snuggling more into the couch, "let's catch up, tell me eeeeeverything I've missed."
"So now you're playing the friend card on me?"
"I know you don't see me as a friend but, believe me, I'm a skilled listener. Sometimes also advice giver. All my friends say so, so... let's have a little only-girls moment, shall we?" I say, and quirking a malicious eyebrow, I purr, "or do you like calling yourself a girl only when it suits you best?"
"Of course I do! I'm a girl for convenience, you know?" real Chris jokes, pouting and batting his eyes like those girls saying hi-guys in lifestyle YouTube channels.
We both share a hearty laugh and the afternoon seems to turn brighter. Yeah, this is what I came for. This is what it's all about: no matter how dark and hard things may seem, there's always the sun beyond the heaviest clouds. It's only a matter of finding the silver lining leading you through it.
"C'mon, let's gossip!" I exclaim, gently slapping his thigh in encouragement, "it's sharing time! It's been so long since the last time I've been around. Man, I haven't seen you since... wooh, Carlos's birthday!"
"What?" real Chris gushes, widening his eyes a little, "you were there too?"
"Er... yeah." I admit, tittering bashfully.
"You were spying on us again!"
"No, I was just... looking around, see what's going on... you know, I needed a few references for the uhm, location descriptions..." I mutter, "see how teens party these days, what music's trending... things like that."
"Yeah, right," he snorts.
"You don't buy it, do you?" I ask, tight-lipped.
"Not a single word."
"Good, 'cause I'm lying to you."
Fake Claire tsks in derision. "Telling lies is not your strong suit, let me tell ya."
"I know, my face is basically an open book." I sigh and pout in a pensive manner, "people can read right through me most of the times."
"Brave of you to lie to a menstruated girl, anyway."
"Oh, so you keeping calling yourself a girl," I joke, feigning a mumbling tone, "do I have to change the purpose of this story to finding your true inner gender like a real Redfield?"
Real Chris glares at me without restraint, he still hates being called a girl by others – especially if the other is me – but I see a little sly spark glisten in his eyes right after.
"Speaking of," he says and casually looks at his nails, "remind me what's the purpose of this story again?"
"Can't remind you what I haven't told you," I say, finger-gunning at him.
"Then tell me now."
"I don't think I ever will."
"Yes, you will."
"No."
"Yes."
"No!"
"Yes."
"Nnn- dude. Do you really want to keep this up?" I wonder, "I have a Capricorn brother at home, I can go on with this the whole day and no mistake!"
Real Chris stays quiet for a couple of seconds blankly staring at me dead in the eyes. I start feeling the weight of his impossible blue eyes and I can't keep it more and then he just goes "tell me."
Ugh, eyeroll. "No."
"Why?"
Feigning a slightly insulted expression, hand loosely rested on the chest, I explain, "a good author never reveals their intentions to the characters, lest they'd turn against the story's pattern and try to break the weave." I know it's a little prolix but it's accurate if you think about it.
"Now, that's the finest bullshit I've ever heard."
"I wouldn't call it so," I protest, "you know, the more you'd try and fight against fate the harder will be the difficulties you'll have to face. The story will always follow its natural course. It's like a stream, there's no way to stem the tide. You can't oppose it and, if you try, you'll only get yourself harmed, one way or another."
"You call it fate but I know it's just you! You decide most things!"
"I did, once." I say, uttering those words with solemn slowness so to let them sink in. "I took a decision indeed, and it created this whole world you see and feel." I totally sound like that typical voice-over in every fantasy movie or series intros. "I can do little magic here and there but, the rest of the world? It goes on its own. You know," I nod at his belly, "just like with your periods. Since you are a girl, they will happen, naturally, willy-nilly."
Real Chris seems to struggle to accept as truth what I said so far. "So, you telling me you know nothing."
"I say I'm just discovering this story little by little as it unravels. The rest is chaos." I trace a circle in the air waving my fingers as to caress an invisible crystal ball. "I mean, of course, the big picture is quite clear to me, I do know the direction, but how you'll get there is mystery to me as well. All I can do is to show up every now and then, check how the timeline is going and maybe interact a little when things threaten to deviate, but only to prevent collateral damage from happening."
Real Chris grimaces in confusion, "Collateral damage? What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing in particular. It's just that really, things can slip out of my control so easily that I'm starting to think I really have no control at all."
And such feeling only deepens when I'm acting like a character, when I'm "inside", but I'm not comfortable with saying it aloud now.
"Take the other night for example, ha!" I scoff, "you won't believe what I had to do not to let Carlos's party turn into an absolute tragedy!"
"Tragedy?" real Chris veeery carefully asks.
"Yeah, ugh, there were so many potential threats..." I huff and eye-roll, "and, man, let me tell ya, it ain't fun to spend the night by staying planted by a stupid staircase like an underpaid bodyguard not to let anyone else go upstairs!"
Fake Claire's face turns from gingerly confused to utterly alarmed in a very blink of an eye. He's too smart not put two and two together. "You know what happened at Carlos's?!"
"I do, of course. I'm insulted you even asked!" I say, laughing jokingly.
I can see fake Claire's face flush in embarrassment. His thin eyebrows furrow just that little enough for a tiny frown to dawn on his feminine features. If his discomfort was tangible, I could quite cut it with a knife now and sell it in big fat slices.
"I guess you..." I murmur, glancing at the living room direction just to make sure Lily isn't around, "you... ahem, enjoyed yourself the other night. Both of you."
Real Chris shifts on the seat as if this soft couch has suddenly become made of rock and pricks, but the discomfort lies all within him. There's no pose that could ever ease it.
As much as I'd normally not inquire another person's innermost thoughts unless they make it clear they'd use a word, I decide to question him a little bit nevertheless. If not to actually make him confide and get some shit off his chest, at least to grab some useful information for myself. After all, I do really wonder how far he's gotten down the spiral of perdition that this AU weave set for him.
"Hey, Chris," I say in my gentlest tone, "I know what happened, in the bathtub... and, if you feel like talking about it, it's safe to do it with me. It's way safer than telling your parents, or your friends. And it's even safer than talking with Claire herself, as much as it may sound crazy, but it's true. I'm your most loyal listener here." I see him caress the tempting idea to actually confide with me, but he hesitates, out of shame perhaps. "Never fear the author's judgement, for your thoughts are mine."
"Maybe it's my own judgement that I fear the most," he mutters, downcast and shaky.
"Yeah, I know that feeling. It sucks."
Real Chris looks at me and, worried, he asks, "do you think I'm a pervert?"
"I don't." I say and I know I'm speaking the truth. I don't think he's a perv, even though I call him so in the story all the time – but he doesn't necessarily have to know that.
"Then why do I feel like being one?" he mutters, in the most defenceless tone I've ever heard him speak.
"What makes you feel like that?" I inquire.
"Well, you saw me... touching myself, right? But it's not really my self." By the way he sighs, gestures and restlessly looks around, it's apparent that he's struggling to put his feelings into words. "I... sometimes I... feel like I'm imprisoned in this body and... I... whereas all I wish is... is to get out of it and... ugh" he lastly sighs out in dejection. Evidently, it's something really hard to speak about but that only means we're getting closer to the real shit.
I stay silent and allow him the time to collect his thoughts and keep going. After a few moments, in fact, he starts speaking again, in the most hushed tone he can produce.
"When I touch myself... I just wish it wasn't my self."
There, he said it.
"You wish it was somebody else?" I inquire, mirroring the same quiet tone.
"I wish it was... I wish I could touch it from the outside," real Chris finally admits. "I often dream of that."
"There's nothing wrong in wet dreams."
"But I dream I'm making love to it," real Chris whispers, worrying his hands out of nervousness.
"And do you enjoy it or... or is it like a nightmare? Wet dreams can be quite antsy somet-"
"It's the only reason why I fall asleep each night," real Chris states, daring to look at me as he does, so bravely, so desperate for salvation, "don't get me wrong, I have nightmares almost on a daily basis but... but when it's not that... I always dream of her."
Bam. There it goes. The truth. The right pronoun, in the end.
Her.
He's admitted it.
His Hotness Christopher Redfield finally admits he's attracted, sexually attracted to his sister. And I am so glad to hear that! The story is flowing flawlessly!
So far, I couldn't help having this feeling like he's been holding something back, like he's always sugaring the truth not to sound downright like a perv, but now, by the little he said, he said quite it all. Chris is on the right path. A downward spiral. He's falling – and, oh, how many prepositions could follow this verb and still fit this narrative so good! I can't wait to see how, when, why they'll get there!
I reckon my job here is done for the day. I'll leave now. I got something to work on and work it into next chapter.
"Well, honeybee," I say, leaving a sound pat on his thigh as I stand up from the couch, "I wouldn't give it much thought if I were you. These are hard times for you and if you found comfort in that smoking-hot body, you're not to blame! I mean, who wouldn't be attracted as well?"
"But it's my sister's!"
"It's yours now," I say, standing up right next to him, "you said that yourself, many times! Also, your sister is more than just a body. Without her inside it, it's just a body. It's not her."
"What about when it'll not be mine anymore?" Chris asks, a hint of worry soiling his voice, "what will happen when I'll give it back to Claire if I got so used to...?"
"One way to discover."
Fake Claire frowns in sad worry. Just as I'm making my way to the front door, he forcefully stands up and asks, really straightforwardly, careless to check who else might be around, "is that the purpose of the story? To just get me to yearn fucking my sister?"
I turn and wink slyly, "one way to discover."
Thankfully, I'm nothing like that toxic of a person in real life. So, yeah, that's fiction. You know, the nice thing about this quirky crossover is that, somewhere hidden between the lines, there is actually a part of me. But it's mixed up with so much deceit that you can't really tell who or how Fangirl is. Unless you know me.
BTW, by no means I usually refer to people by their Zodiac sign.