How long has it been?
.
A good couple of months. Give or take, more or less. Mind like Lateran cheese, full of holes and ravines, can't even trust himself most of the time. Strands of it clung together like web to a slipper leaf bathed in the morning dew, blah, blah, all that.
Life felt like a constantly repeating roll of a black and white film being played at an empty drive-in theater. There he sat, all alone in his van, in the very middle of the parking lot, staring out at the big screen and watching the gray days blending into one incoherent pile of colorless slop. Ghosts poured from the sides, passing by as he traversed the empty streets, sailed the concrete ocean of Lungmen's brutal infrastructure with a blank expression staining his face - ghosts of concerned colleagues and friends. Blonde, black, apricot, and sometimes crimson. The crimson ghost made attempts to brush past and approach this faceless sailor more often than it did before, with varying results. It'd invite him into its lair after long workdays of running empty packages across the mountains of glass and lights, dead set on "repaying" for a fault once committed, twice repeated. Buried in open pizza boxes and cheap Yanese noodles, they'd sit there, the sailor and the ghost, staring with empty eyes at the TV, rewatching Lungmen's most tacky action flicks for the fifteenth time. The ghost would listen to the sailor's stories of war, of raging seas, repeated again and again - anything to keep him talking, to keep him saying anything, just speaking words. Words she, the ghost, could use to justify her actions and slap away the hounds biting at her conscience. After all, if he hated her, he wouldn't have sat there all those nights, would he?
Andy blinked. Somewhat synchronized, the countless chandeliers above his head blinked along, wavering in their only task. Darkness poured from the overly grandiose windows that protected the library's exterior from any unwanted homeless ori-fiends, as the slums had no fancy lights to keep the streets nice and safe. He found himself at home, sitting not in his usual spot, the leather office chair that sometimes made him feel like a king claiming a grand throne, other times shielding his crying face from the world, but on top of his desk. Legs crossed, he couldn't even remember how he got there. A full day of running deliveries for Duflot's union in exchange for barely enough money to pay off the electricity bills had him in a tight chokehold, quite literally beating the memories of that day right out of his head.
His head. His weary, heavy head.
His hair's grown long again, but he hasn't even noticed. Too busy watching the camera that span around his life's film roll over its metal claws to even notice his own deplorable condition. A gentle, yet slightly annoyed sigh arose from behind, as a pair of fleshy tweezers dug into those gray curls at the back of his head. His spine sent a wave of shivers all the way up to his brain, before his body managed to find some familiarity in the careful touches of those fingers running across his hair. They weren't foreign to him, not at all.
"... Y'know, baws, ya should really invest in a pair 'a scissors. 'An tha's comin' from me." A roughly pleasant voice soon followed. A millisecond was all it took for him to connect the dots and assign a friendly face to the bodiless sound. Miss pastry girl, staying after hours once more.
Why? He had no idea. But he was so glad she did.
"Yeah, I know." Andy muttered and allowed himself to lean back a little. His shoulder blades pressed softly against the girl's chest, as if hesitant to push any further. The two of them were, after all, strictly bound by nothing but a contract and a professional work setting. Of course they were. "Just haven't had the time. Just all these… these damn boxes." His half lidded eyes scanned the room, picking out each pile of cardboard mountains scattered over the place. They tumbled over one another, reaching as far as the mighty chandeliers hanging by the ceiling, all threatening to fall over and bury the two underneath their weight. What even lurked beneath the paper, he did not know. Duflot made himself clear, "no opening boxes, Andy! Those are our clients' worries, not ours."
Croissant let out a sound somewhat reminiscent of a disapproving snortle mixed in with a low purr. Her fingers gathered some of his hair into something that resembled a ponytail. A very messy, curly, gray and sad ponytail. "Uh-huh. Damn boxes makin' ya forget 'bout yer own hair, baws? C'mon…" She giggled a little and reached further behind his ears to gather some more loose strands for her grand creation. Sweeping back hair, her touch remained surprisingly tender, void of any of the usual roughness she'd grace anyone that came into close contact with her - friend or foe. Andy did not protest in the slightest, opting to instead stare at the ceiling and imagine all the flickering chandeliers as stars that brightened up the sad, night sky. What a nice thought.
"I don't have the timeee…" He whined like how a brat would, when faced with the prospect of being forced to fill out a homework answer sheet. "Or the cash."
"Cash?" Croissant tilted her head in slight surprise. "Ya don't have tha' cash for a damn pair 'a scissors?"
"Scissors?" Genuinely confused, he leaned forward and turned around to stare at her like a moron. "Scissors, like… like, I thought you meant it as a metaphor. As, like, slang for a hairdresser. Or something."
"Wha'?" Her eyes narrowed, then frowned at the sight of her carefully constructed ponytail being flung away from her hands and falling apart into a plume of messily brushed back curls. "Naw, baws, I meant it as is. Scissors. Scissors to cut yer hair, ya dummy."
"Cut my hair? On my own?"
"On yer own, yeah? 'S that really so hard 'ta understand? I mean, gee golly, I thought 'twas a common practice. I been doin' it fer years." She shrugged and ruffled her own hair around. In waves of bright apricot orange, her locks flew around the air, flung with the gentle force of her head shaking around and her hands rummaging through it all with some strange ferocity to them. Just then and only then, he noticed how tiny her horns really seemed, compared to the keratin giants one would expect to see on, say, a Sarkaz, or a Lung. A light shade of crimson sprawled comfortably across his face as the girl kept fluffing up her already fluffy hair, which brought along a heap of uncomfortable warmth that puffed up his cheeks. Andy felt his brain working overtime to shove the word "cute" back down the tar-filled bottle he'd push every single thought like this into. "... What're ya lookin' at me like 'at fa'?" She stopped, her hair all a wild mess, just to tilt her head like a confused puppy and shoot the boy a muddled smile.
"Nothing." He blinked a couple times and forced the claw-contraptions that ruled his mind to pump all the assaulting warmth right out of his face. "Just admiring the, uh… the scissor-work. Looks nice, you know, for a self-service kinda thing."
"Nice or nawt, does its job. 'As what matters." With a pause, she closed her eyes and ran her fingers through her hair a couple times to tame the wild mane that came forth, born from the vicious hair-ruffling. The visor she usually locked it all in place with was nowhere to be found, as she never really bothered with keeping up appearances when it was just the two of them. Southern Minoan hospitality, apparently. "... Could run ya through it all someday. But nawt today. We ain't even got a pair of scissors in this office, shucks…" With a sigh, she grabbed his shoulders and gently, yet forcefully turned him around. Andy didn't even think of protesting, as she gently laid his back against her chest, a little closer than he'd ever dare. "I can tie it fer ya, though. Dunno why ya wouldn't ever think 'a that befa', but…" As her hands started gathering back her ruined hair-creation and forming another ponytail, Andy frowned and crossed his arms.
"I did, though. I just never do it anymore, don't have the time in the morning." He uttered.
"Time? Ya sure?" She tilted her head and leaned over his shoulder. Their eyes met for a moment, those of a frowny brat reflected off her questioning mirrors. A hint of some sort of empathic worry glimmered in those irises. "Or is it motivation? Wheneva' I clock in, yer just sittin' by your desk, doin' nothing. Wiff' my cheapskate-y coffee in yer hand. Oh, and that dead look on yer face." Her fingers paused their hair-caressing for a moment. Just a short moment. "... Why? Why do ya just… just sit there?"
.
Why?
.
Good question. So good in fact, that he couldn't bring himself to answer.
How would one go about giving a response to such a query? Would they look into her genuine, worry-filled eyes and spill their heart out about each and every little issue plaguing their mind? About the early mornings spent in absolute silence, but for the city's sleepy buzz? The sound of the early birds hurrying in their metal, ori-powered canoes to catch their non-existent worms? How they'd spend hours upon hours, staring at the ceiling of their tiny room, the same, tiny room that resided right above this library? How the waking sun would seep in through the open balcony and bring with it the scent of poverty and crime? Garbage and death? Sickness and crushed dreams? Or how the ticking of the clock barely hanging off the wall would remind them of a promise they, themselves failed to adhere to? Tick, tock. Lost, somewhere in the land of rain and crime. Tick, tock. Lost, sitting up in bed, alive, but just barely. Sand lining their heavy eyelids, they'd get up, get dressed and sit at the desk. Sit and stare. So many things to worry about. Catastrophe Raiders, the damn union, their own roof above their head, Lem… All of it could be gone with the click of a firing pin. A thought or two, about the ori-dust bubbling inside a nine millimeter cartridge. A new, crimson paint job for the library's old walls. Just the flick of a hand.
No, that's too much. Too much to think about. Too much to burden her worried eyes with.
.
Andy shrugged.
"Dunno. I just like sitting here, I guess. It's a nice spot."
"Nice spot." She repeated, with her own, southern twist on the words. It was quieter than most sounds that slithered from behind her lips. More gentle.
Her eyes failed to waiver, to avert and look away, as she only kept staring deeply into his, as if searching for some hidden truth beneath the meaningless words. Piercing through him, she tried reaching into his brain and pulling the reasons and mountains of worries out herself, yet all his empty, gray eyes betrayed was… was pretty much nothing. The eyes of someone who's seen a lot, that's all she gathered. Someone who's seen too much. Way too much. It made her cheery heart swell with the weight of his unspoken burdens, dry up a little, even. She wanted to help. Not for a raise, not for a couple more Lungmen bucks thrown into her pocket, no. She just wanted to help him.
But he just refused to be helped.
"Nice spot." Andy nodded. "That's all there is to it."
"..." Croissant knew she couldn't fight him. Resigned, she leaned back and pulled his shoulders a bit further down, a bit closer to her little heart. He seemed to relax in her touch, his shoulder muscles tensing up for a moment, but then immediately softening, as his back pressed into her tank top. "Yep. 'S always like 'at with ya." She murmured, gathering his ponytail once again. Her fingers slithered through his hair with care and attention, gathering every last bit of loose curls, but his messy bangs. It was almost there, her beautiful creation. Just needed some finishing touches.
She brushed back as much as she could and held the fluffy tail in place with one hand. With the other, she reached for her own hair and latched onto the cheap rubber band holding most of it in the shape of an apricot waterfall that slid gently down her back and curled up by her thighs. It all fell and tangled into one mess of orange, a storm of fluffiness and softness, as the carefully crafted creation came apart. A moment later, she wrapped the band around his freshly created ponytail, each finger working in unison with the others, making sure not to pull or hurt him in any way. Each twitch he gave, each little move of his head, brought the girl a strange sense of comfort. A tingly warmth that spawned somewhere at the very bottom of her stomach, just now growing larger and larger with each tender stroke of his hair. At some point, she caught herself running her fingers through his curls without a reasonable motive. Why? Because it felt nice. Because the soft, slightly oily hair felt nice on her hands, calloused and hardened from years of various labor-heavy jobs. What was it, before logistics? Ah, right, catastrophe-messaging. What a failure that was. An absolute waste of time.
.
He wouldn't be here if it wasn't for that mistake of a trip to Kazdel.
.
Andy closed his eyes, seemingly relishing in her touch. At no point has he realized that his head had somehow shifted onto her shoulder. Neither did he mind, when the fact struck him like a bucket of cold water dumped out of the blue. His lids came wide open, as he decided to simply stay there without a motion, stay there and stare up at the "night sky", the darkness that grazed high above the bright chandeliers, the void that never quite left. Below its overbearing nothingness, the chandeliers truly did seem like stars. Like bright, constantly flickering stars. The stars that warped into hiding here, above Lungmen. Above Kazdel, they used to be so bright. So brave and beautiful. Like a false memory. Like the fleeting hope of a friend he once held so close, so overly, inexplicably close. Too close. Close, like the way she held him. Close to her chest, to her beating heart - the tiny instrument of mortal immunity. Of the life-wine constantly coursing through her veins, the warm, crimson paint clogging up each artery and allowing her to breathe, to live and to be.
He had no idea when her arms snaked their way around his waist. No idea when she hugged him tight.
She didn't understand, but that was fine. She didn't know, but it didn't matter.
She was there. She was there when no one else wanted to be.
.
And she was warm.
.
So, so comfortably warm.
.
He could only stare. Gaze up at the nothingness above and allow himself to bask in her warmth. Thoughts of leeching, of being unworthy crept into his head, but something, someway told him to discard them almost immediately. He did not care. He could've been Terra's biggest con artist, biggest scammer and human-leech to ever live, and he wouldn't mind. The guilt of living with such a title seemed like the right price to pay for the few moments spent in her genuinely close embrace. When glimmers of embarrassment did shine through the weary strands of his brain, when he tried to lift himself away a little from the source of loving warmth, her arms wouldn't let him. She pulled him right back and hugged even tighter than before. Even closer.
"... Don't." The girl whispered. A fuzzy, apricot shower graced his shoulder, as she shifted to allow their bodies to fit more closely together, like a key fits into its lock. "Just let me, Andy. Just fa' a moment or two."
The way she softly murmured his name. The sound of the clock ticking, far, far away. The thumping of two hearts beating in unison. That sound, and not any other, filled his ears, and filled them good. Like a slow, soft harmony of serene peace, it rang all across his body, overtook his mind whole. Quivering, his legs curled up to his chest, as he allowed himself to lean into her embrace a little more. A tiny bit.
It felt strange. As if something that had long remained buried suddenly came to life and oozed down his stomach, down his fleshy interior to cause a tiny tummy ache. A little, bubbling sensation. Like a flurry of wild birds spreading all over his guts, spilling across his nervous system in a wild, electric discharge.
And then she purred. She purred some words, some words meant just for him. Him, and no one else.
"... Please, just tell me. Tell me anythin'. Anythin' that's worryin yer little head." Her soft voice slithered into his ear. How warm it felt. How it melted the wall of black ice that had long formed around his little world inside. How it warmed each and every rusty nail poked through his halo. It felt as if they weren't even there. As if that terrible night was nothing but a nightmare.
Worries. How many worries were plaguing his mind? Way too many to count. Way too serious to ever bring up. Not to her, not to anyone.
But wants?
He had wants. Some, just a few. One, in particular. The want to fulfill a promise he once made. Once, in a cathedral as large as the pile of delusions that ate his brain like cancer.
In.
In, came a breath of air. It was permeated with something familiar. Some homely, cheap perfume and sweat - the proof of a good day's workload.
"... I'm worried I won't do what I want to do, Crossie. What I need to do." He whispered back, with the lousy chandeliers glimmering far brighter than they had ever shined before.
.
The arms around his waist tensed up. Tightened. Acknowledged his worries, however wrong they might've been.
.
"... Do what, exactly?" Asked her voice.
.
What? Fulfill a promise. Meet the other one. Apologize face to face, not in a feverish nightmare.
.
"Visit home." He murmured. "Laterano. Just once. Just for a day, even."
.
For an hour. Hell, even fifteen minutes. Just one visit at the cinnamon shop. One stroll down the school hallway. One last dive into a marble fountain.
.
A shudder.
.
Her arms responded in kind.
.
"... Andy."
.
He blinked. Unaware, his own hand closed around hers and rubbed her fingers, as if they were going to grant him three wishes. One's already done, anyway.
.
"... I got ya out of Kazdel, 'member?"
.
.
Just a hint of playfulness lingered in her whisper.
.
.
"... I'll get ya to Laterano. I'll get ya to the end of the world if I have to."