𝑓𝑒𝑒𝑙 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑, 𝑖𝑛𝑐

his eyebrows lift at the arid tone he’s greeted with, simultaneously feeling wildly awkward and also a little amused by the whole thing in a cosmically ironic sort of way. lucas has never been terribly good at tactfully dealing with encounters such as this one, and somehow he’s never managed to get better at them considering they’re not all that uncommon. still, there’s something intrinsically satisfying to him about the unavoidable chaos of the world. “not really that many other places to go,” he tries to joke, but it falls almost as flat as her attempt at a smile. “anyway, it’s cool, i was just, you know, doing my complaining thing. pretty good at that.” another bad joke, and this time he grimaces outwardly before pressing on, “so guess what? i got commissioned to do artwork for this really trippy graphic novel coming out in december and they liked those concept pieces i did last year, the ones you made me finish? pretty nuts, right? those would’ve been in a landfill by now if you hadn’t saved ‘em.”

bemused as he is by being handed chickens and told to act like he doesn’t see the drugs in the truck, luke doesn’t demand any answers--he’ll get them eventually. probably. then again, sometimes with savannah it’s better just not to know. “yes, ma’am,” he returns easily, taking two and holding them as far out from his chest as he can to avoid the frenetically flapping wings. with a bit of a struggle he deposits them in her trailer. “did you obtain these chickens within the bounds of the law?” he asks as he returns for more, casting a suspicious look at the man driving the truck. “because it’s totally cool if you didn’t, i’m just getting the feeling this is a truck full of illegal poultry.”

as soon as mickey drops his gaze with that timid look on his face, luke feels ( a little absurdly ) guilty for even having come over here. the absurd part, of course, being that he wasn’t not going to approach his ex he hasn’t seen in five years; his ex who, the last time luke had seen him, had been storming out of their shared apartment after a final fight which had gotten severely out of hand. he’s about to say something else, to perhaps tell mickey they don’t have to talk about it, but mickey’s next sentence stops him cold: it isn’t just how long it’s been, but how long i’ve been alone. meaning...what, exactly? the implication is clear but seems impossible. luke’s throat feels suddenly tight but he lets mickey continue, not asking for further clarification, not even sure mickey realizes what he’s just insinuated. he wants to speak again when he’s accused of having told mickey to leave, something he knows in his heart, at least, isn’t true--and if it is, if that’s how it had come out of his mouth and sounded to mickey, it certainly isn’t what he’d wanted. but he doesn’t say that, not even when mickey asks him a direct question that gives him a chance to tell the truth. about what had happened back then and about the fact that, no, that chapter of his life feels anything but closed. “yeah,” he says instead with a little nod and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “yeah, no, definitely. over and done with. no need to dig up the past.” lucas clears his throat and glances over at the line he’d abandoned, which stretches all the way back to the doors. “but, uh...it’d be cool to catch up, right? i mean, i didn’t know you were living around here. could i help you carry those to your car or something?”

it’s unusual that lucas gets eli down past even two lives before dying himself when they play super smash bros, but for a miracle he’d managed it this afternoon. in fact, they’re both at one life, and instead of risking defeat when he has such a rare opportunity to win, lucas reaches over and knocks the controller out of elijah’s hand, yelling in triumph as wario rams kirby off the side with his motorcycle and the latter disappears. “whoa, big loss there, buddy,” he throws his own controller down and puts a hand to his chest in a show of mock sympathy. “big loss, you gonna be okay? that was brutal. i’m gonna have to call it quits, ‘cause i just...i don’t wanna have to embarrass you anymore, man.”

no, mickey doesn’t have to talk to him. there are no rules obligating him to a conversation, no etiquette or decorum either of them are meant to adhere to. but there’s also no precedent to dictate what they should be doing, and luke feels like he’s floundering. it’s both frustrating and disheartening to be met with such a flat and unyielding denial, yet he recognizes there isn’t much he can do about it if mickey is this determined to have nothing to do with him. behind him, the line he’s now lost his place in is moving forward, but luke isn’t thinking about coffee anymore. he’s not thinking about anything but his first boyfriend, and his first relationship at all that had lasted more than a few months. mickey, with his dark curls and bright eyes and his fingernails that were always painted; mickey who used to crawl onto luke’s lap at night when he was too tired to care about looking tough; mickey, who doesn’t have dark curls anymore, and whom lucas no longer knows anything about. that isn’t quite true, though, and he takes comfort in the fact that there are inevitably things about mickey that haven’t changed at all. things that, even if they never spoke again, luke would always know about him. “my piece?” he echoes when mickey finally turns to him, and he feels a little out of breath being surveyed by those familiar blue eyes for the first time in five years. “i don’t--mickey, look, i’m not gonna force you to talk to me, but i...” he shrugs in lieu of words--floundering, he thinks again. “jesus, i mean, you’re working? so, what, you live around here? this isn’t...this isn’t tripping you out a little bit too? i haven’t seen you since--” since you walked out on me, he doesn’t say. “it’s been a really long time, mick. a really long time.” his voice quiets, a subconscious reflection of his uncertainty about his next words: “you’ve never looked back and wanted to talk about it?”

it’s impossible not to run into liv around town and most often when he does, it’s at teddy’s or trinity--they’re at the former when he spots her now, and unless he feels like waiting until she goes somewhere else to get his drink, being seen is inevitable. he doesn’t so much mind anymore; it’s liv who doesn’t usually like seeing him. he doesn’t necessarily blame her, either, but if he can avoid being yelled at in portuguese--in public--he will. weighing his options and deciding it’s worth the risk, he goes up to the bar and tries to flag down the bartender, but he’s dealing with at least five other people nearby. with no other choice, he finally turns to face liv and feigns surprise at seeing her. “oh, hey, liv,” he tries a mostly-genuine smile to accompany the greeting, “sorry, i didn’t even see you there. this place is crawling tonight, huh? can’t even get a fucking drink.” he grimaces a little internally, disgusted by his own reversion to small talk. “so, you, uh...you good? work alright and everything?”

“not a consensus with myself, dude, it’s just how it is. and elton himself would agree with me.” he’s not actually sure he’s heard the song in question more than a few times in his life, but he’d definitely gotten choked up about it, so it isn’t a lie, necessarily. he just has a tendency to argue, and unless he’s reeling from a breakup, luke has never been one to care much for love songs, anyway. “but hey, if it’s a love song to you, man, then it counts. everyone but you can go to hell for disagreeing with me.”

he accepts the beer gratefully, readjusting himself on the couch as sophie climbs onto his lap. “the bigoted, misogynistic red necks aren’t closeted, dear, they’re just assholes,” he says mournfully, affecting a deep frown with a jutted lower lip. “you should have kicked his ass, but i’m sure whatever psychological torture you put him through was equally as satisfying, if not more so. and there’s nothing hotter than a woman just absolutely destroying a man.” he lets her place the joint between his lips, pulls in a harsh lungful of smoke, and plucks it back out again with thumb and forefinger. “my pretty face looks good with a couple black eyes. adds to the just-crawled-out-my-grave aesthetic i like to shoot for. it’s ideal when people can’t tell if i’m five minutes from death or if i’ve been dead for five minutes already.” he gives her an overbright smile and then leans in to kiss her cheek, tossing the remainder of the joint over her shoulder back onto the table. “so was the rest of your day as exciting as having jed clampett himself call dibs on you? because i spent my afternoon arguing with the world’s biggest moron who wants a helicopter on his back, in flames, and expects me to work around the garden of zits he’s growing back there. now i know that’s appealing, so if you’re suddenly thinking about leaving me for him let me warn you ahead of time he looks a lot like gimli from lord of the rings.”

of every response luke might have expected from his ex, flat denial wasn’t on the list. he’s completely thrown by it, in fact, and for a few seconds can’t even think of anything to say, watching mickey--he knows it’s mickey--with a slight frown. even now, lucas can recall with perfect clarity the last time he’d seen him storming out of their rhode island apartment with wet cheeks and puffy eyes and dark brown hair still damp from a shower. he can even remember what mickey had been wearing, perhaps because he’d replayed it in his mind times without number. he knows mickey’s lying; the question, then, is why. it had been lucas to make the first move when they’d broken up, but he hadn’t been the one to leave. in his guiltiest moments, he clings to that: he hadn’t left. mickey had. “really, mick?” it feels strange to say the name, even stranger to be using it to address mickey himself, standing right there. the blond makes him ethereal and lucas wonders suddenly how long he’s had it that way. “it’s been, what, four years--” he knows for a fact it’s been a little more than five, “--and you’re still not gonna talk to me? even when we run into each other in the middle of fucking nowhere? come on.” with what would have been excellent comedic timing had the situation been anything close to comical, mickey’s name is called and lucas glances over to see eight cups fit into two holders. he’s morbidly curious, but doesn’t ask. “can you just look at me at least, please? can we talk for one goddamn second?”