﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

angst ⭐︎ ~ fluff ☽ ~ smut ✧

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

──⋆ the last of us

⋆ ˖ ࣪ ellie williams

➝ if i could do it all again, i know i'd go back to you [5.9k] ⭐︎☽

two years can change a lot. and bring two people closer than before. wounds are opened and secrets are revealed. especially the ones you had no idea about.

➝ the truth is stranger than my own worst nightmares [9.3k] ⭐︎

"life's worth living, not just surviving."

➝ not on my knees quite yet, but i was a fool back then [9.1k] ⭐︎☽

ellie would’ve saved a lot of time if she stopped avoiding uncomfortable conversations.

➝ till the end [3.3k words] ☽

in the midst of brutal madness, ellie finds a moment to confess what she fears the most.

︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

⋆ ˖ ࣪ joel miller

➝ lead me to the truth and i, will follow you with my whole life [9.5k words] ☽

perhaps now, twenty-one years later, joel finally found the courage to face his fears. (platonic)

➝ there'll be no rest for the wicked (au) [4.6k] ⭐︎

more than enough of your mother's vices waltzed into your life unannounced, leaving without a trace. but then, then there was joel. (platonic) ↳ alone and forsaken (au) [4.6k] ⭐︎

➝ the fair and the brave and the good must die [7.1k] ⭐︎

it felt frightening when the world gave you a second chance. but how many chances could you give joel, before it was too late? (platonic)

﹒˚ ₊ ︵﹒⊹ ๑ ︵︵ ๑ ⊹﹒︵

──⋆ the materialists

⋆ ˖ ࣪ harry castillo

➝ plastic box [2.6k] ☽

usually the things you are looking for, happen to be right in front of you. or, in your sheets.

➝ i don’t know how to be silent when my heart is speaking [2.8k] ☽

Harry never liked sharing, never really possessed the quality of patience—especially when it came to things he really desired. Things—companies. People—you. Even for him, the whole situation was utterly absurd. Look across the room after giving his friends heartfelt speech of not wanting to be tied down like his brother, there you were. He would have laughed, made fun of himself if he wasn’t so fucking swept off his feet the minute you laughed at the terrible opening line he offered. 

Jesus Christ—he must have gotten insane the moment you opened your mouth. That tone of your voice, like you were already up to his shit, two steps ahead with those curious eyes of yours. Younger, just barely done with your BA, but definitely not done with him. But you would never make it easy for him, he was well aware of that. And for some forsaken reason? That only seemed to made that ache for you grow a little stronger. 

Subtle? Never. 

Not when his hand brushed against yours and his breath lingered just way too close to your ear. 

Dedicated? Hundred percent. 

“I can take you home, my car’s big enough,” he smirked when you were getting your coat—which he graciously offered to help you with.

Smile that cost million dollars, that one he had given you. That and ride home, in the backseat of his car, watching you as though no Manhattan lights could ever outshine whatever he was seeing. So profoundly, he almost couldn’t believe until you cleared your throat, starting to grow uneasy under his gaze. Only then Harry shook his head and looked away—but his hand still found a way to brush against yours. 

The same way when he pulled you both out of the car in front of your Brooklyn apartment complex. 

“I could buy this whole building for you,” he mumbled as though it was nothing, shrugging his shoulders. 

You snorted. “Oh yeah. And buy psych-ward next. Seems like you need it.”

He wasn’t used to that, not really. Which, even to him, sounded incredibly dull and shallow—that he managed to surround himself with people like that. A breath of fresh air, that’s what you resembled. One that was impossible to catch—always finding ways to slip right through his fingers. You knew the type, the rich, older one. The ones bored with the monotone way of living, the one they fought so hard to get. 

The golden cage they have voluntarily locked themselves in. 

And you were not going to be a project—a man’s way of liberating himself. 

Though, you had to admit that he was relentless. In week or so, your apartment possessed more flowers than air, the red roses sitting in expensive glass vases he had sent with them, along with a note and his phone number. By Sunday, you knew his phone number by heart. 

But you still didn’t call. 

So, next week—he sent books. Having remembered that you were just finishing your BA thesis, he couldn’t find better idea than to order expensive, barely-able-to-obtain research books and papers right to your doorstep. And because you were snoopy enough, you could not help yourself but to google the prices. 

Yes, that is when you called. 

He was perched in his office, three o’clock coffee like always, browsing through his papers before another meeting when his phone buzzed. Confident smirk lingered on his lips as he accepted the call. 

You smudged that off pretty quickly. 

“This has to stop,” you murmured into the phone. “I’m growing allergic of those roses—literally.”

Harry was never the one to back down easily, or perhaps, in general. 

So, he leaned against his leather chair and spoke: “My, oh, my. Don’t tell me you’re allergic to fine literature too.” 

The mocking gasp, the dramatic tone of his voice. You almost laughed—almost. You wouldn’t give him the pleasure of that. 

No, sigh was what you given him as you paddled barefoot around your kitchen, trying to find that one angle that would make him see the situation more rationally. The room settled into silence, not a breath heard. And he waited, not patiently, mostly just eager to hear any more of your arguments, more reasons he should stop. 

“The books must have been expensive,” you whispered, at last. 

However, none of that came. 

And that soft tone of your voice?

That finally smudged that fucking smirk off his face as he leaned forward, elbows crashing against the expensive desk, right hand gripping the phone. 

“They were,” for once, he didn’t fuck around. 

You settled against the kitchen counter, pulling down the sleeve of your grey, worn-out sweater. Fingers fiddling with the loose fibres sticking out as you sighed, again. 

“I was looking for that collection of Virginia Woolf’s essays for weeks,” you admitted, nibbling on your lower lip, paddling again. 

And for one, just one moment—you gave him the pleasure. 

“It’s a really good piece, especially that commentary on Modern Fiction,” he whispered. 

And for one, just one moment—he wasn’t an asshole. 

You chuckled, shaking your head. 

“What?” he snorted—easing up as leaned back into the leather chair, crossing his legs. “You think I don’t know who she was, what she wrote?” 

With shrug of your shoulders, you hummed quietly: “So, what did you like about Modern Fiction then?”

“The comparison of Chekhov,” he replied almost instantly. 

And if you were testing for him being genuine? He passed with flying colours. 

Fuck. 

“Go on,” you spoke, almost amused—still unsure, partially. “I’m listening.”

He haven’t heard that sentence in a while, nor he have talked about Virginia Woolf’s essays. 

The latter probably for the very first time. 

“Their focus on consciousness, no external forces,” he spoke again—his voice almost shaking. “She spoke of modern fiction lacking the internal approach, only external. That if one goes to look for such things, no one does it like Russian authors, Chekhov, Dostoyevsky, you know.”

It was quiet, he almost thought you hung up. 

He was almost sweating—like he wasn’t sure if his words carried any actual meaning or load of bullshit. 

Just about when he was convinced you departed the conversation, your soft laugh carried through. 

He didn’t even realise the breath he was holding, sucked in, until he heard you again. 

“Try White Nights,” you whispered. “Then get back to me.” 

Was the last thing Harry heard before the line went dead. 

Christ—if Harry didn’t stroll into the first bookstore right the next morning. Hauled the first sales assistant, bought the hard cover (not a paper one, never) and went about his day, carrying that barely-hundred pages long, Dostoyevsky’s masterpiece at the bottom of his briefcase right into his office. For half his day, he wasn’t sure, why exactly he was doing this. 

It only took first five pages for him to understand. 

And two days, before your phone rung at eleven in the evening. 

You may or may not have saved his number in your phone, already. 

“I think I hate you for recommending me that.”

That was his opening line this time, no sweet talk. Just Harry, sitting in his expensive penthouse, wine bottle half empty, book thrown across the room on the floor. 

And all he got? A laugh. 

Not a mock, amusement more so. 

“What’s so fucking funny?” he retorted, getting off his couch. “That shit—Jesus Christ.”

He must have look way too comical. Dishevelled hair, angrily paddling around the coffee table. 

That’s when you dared. “Good?”

Harry stopped in his tracks, fingers gripping his hair. “Phenomenal.”

Carried through the line in his quiet, rough tone. 

His living room settled into silence that for once didn’t feel so foreign.

“Sholokhov, Fate of a Man,” you spoke again. “Book, before the movie.” 

Three days later, at exactly the same time, Harry called again. And he could have sworn, he never so much and so little at once. All his emotions drowned out—for man his age, a book should not have gotten him so undone. But there he was, on the line with you, talking again. 

And you listened, patiently and curiously when he rambled, complained and sighed about the soul-crushing plot, the climax and Sholokhov’s way of writing the angst so profoundly, he was left with nothing but a hole in his chest. Three hours, that’s how long you listened, writing your thesis listening to Harry’s voice. To his own surprise, he could spent hours talking about these books, Russian gut-wrenching literature. 

He did—he really did. 

You recommended him Chekhov, to understand his method. Harry read, the whole piece, first to last page. On lunch breaks, under the contracts and files, was a book, wide open with accidental coffee stains that he groaned about—mad at himself for being so clumsy. Though, further the story progressed, less care he seemed to have about these details, when they were much more interesting ones to pay attention to. 

Like the way you made subtle jokes at his expense. Each time he had gotten just a little too passionate—because Harry never half-assed anything, not even a rambling review of literature you had recommended him, you could not help but tease him a little. He would roll his eyes, throw smartass here and there but somewhere deep down, where his conscience would allow him to admit it, he enjoyed it. 

Before either of you realised, he wasn’t calling for the books anymore. 

On a particularly rainy Tuesday evening when he flew to Boston for work, your phone rang. He called. To briefly talk about some more of Chekhov’s book he read about your recommendation. An excuse he thought through, twenty minutes before he called. 

Until, a few days later, even that was lost. 

“I just wanted to hear you,” he spoke, from Philadelphia, when the sun was down. “Talk to me, tell me more about Dostoyevsky, would you?”

You would, each time he called. Harry didn’t even realise the art of patience you had taught him through these calls. The art of slowing down, breathing out. Soon enough, each time he sat in a hollow hotel room, your voice on the other side of the line provided strange sense of warmth he was not familiar with. And from that moment? 

He called every day. 

New York, Philadelphia, Boston, Seattle. 

Eight o’clock, eleven o’clock. 

The phone rang, the call went through. 

Words lingered. 

And his heart did that strange little movement. His chest tightened a little too much when you chuckled and his breath shortened when you said his name. 

It was completely absurd. 

And he was loving every second of it. 

For the books, for the plots, for the sound of your voice. 

“I’ll be back in three days,” he spoke one night in Seattle, settled in the sheets, holding another book. “I’m taking you for dinner.”

You chuckled as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. 

“So you can have your literary rant in person and over expensive food?”

“No, because I want to be able to look into your eyes when I make you laugh like this.”

Your heart followed Harry’s pattern, twice as fast. Pushed against your ribcage and held your breath for way too long before you exhaled again, holding the phone just a little tighter. Swept off your feet for once, you couldn’t deny it. The pull, that you were not meeting halfway, on the line. 

Three days, like a clockwork, eight o’clock, like he wrote. Stood under your window in an expensive sweater and pants. He was practically coming straight from the airport—stopping only to get a shower and change three times because for once in his life? Harry was actually nervous to go out with someone. For once, he wanted to make an impression, based on himself, not idea he was used to selling regularly. 

Nothing opulent—no, this had to be different. No expensive restaurants, nothing of such. No place where two people would sit by a table way too long to strike any intimate, meaningful conversation. No, instead, Harry decided to be old school, decided to bet on what he thought you would appreciate.

“Looks like we’re late,” you hummed softly when you stood in front of the New York Public Library with all the lights off. 

Approximately half a second after you uttered that statement, the door opened and the security greeted Harry who grabbed your hand and slipped you both inside. “Of course,” you chuckled. “I should’ve seen that coming.”

“You should’ve,” he spoke, thoroughly amused. “Alright, you have twenty minutes to pick some books—then we gotta continue.” 

“Harry—“

And then, he was especially proud of this one, he continued: “From the no loan section.”

You froze for a moment, just waiting for the catch. “You’re kidding me.”

But that bastard just shrugged his shoulders, almost nonchalantly. “Go on, your time’s running.”

He was being dead serious, with that awful shit-eating grin on his lips as he leaned against the wall, his hand urging you to get a move on. 

And fuck—you did, strolled that library like you were on some goddamn scavenger hunt, books pilling in your hands like your own skyscraper. From the Russian literature, all the way to the rare copy of Mary Stuart’s biography that you wanted to get your hands on for so long, but it was all too expensive. Here it was, casually lying on top of your collection as you tried to balance your walking. 

He couldn’t stop smiling when you returned (or laughing, semantics). He definitely didn’t expect you to be modest and come back with one, tiny, not even no-loan zone copy, but Christ, when you returned with those twelve titles in your hands, your head not even visible at this point, just those legs, he could fight the soft look in his eyes all he wanted; it was staying. 

You too, for that matter. That he decided. 

“Seizing the opportunity,” he hummed, almost approvingly as he lifted majority of the pile off your hands, waving back at the security guard. “C’mon, we gotta go.”

So, there he was. Nonchalantly walking out of the library, holding books you could barely touch during opening hours, let alone take home with you. But you figured—he must have been a donor, probably sat in the board, or hell, donated some of these himself.

“Just so we’re clear,” you mumbled, walking feet behind him, “you’re not getting yourself into something illegal with this.”

He had to fight the snort as he stood in his tracks, before he turned around, trying so hard to keep straight face on. “Oh yeah—we’re gonna be selling them on the streets, how else do you think I made money?”

You rolled your eyes, finally making him laugh. “You’re not funny.”

“Bold of you to say that to someone who’s got you this,” he smirked, like a winner, holding the books. 

Loaded the trunk like it was nothing, opened the door for and smiled so mysteriously, you wondered if eyes like his would get their own poems written two hundred years back. Perhaps you should’ve written your own, silly thought. But as you sat in the passenger seat, the smell of old books and expensive choices lingering around, you could not help but wonder at the sight of him, sitting so calm, driving to destination unknown to you. 

That evening, Harry’s eyes never shifted away from yours, his hand always found away to hold yours. Into the late screening in downtown, watching Scorsese’s movie, his favourite one. With a bucket of salted popcorn and can of soda, Harry felt eighteen again, simple. Didn’t spare a second to Gangs of New York, only spent the whole time watching your little reactions. The way your eyebrows shifted, rose a little at each shot, how your lips quirked. They way you rested against your knuckles at the final scene, watching with your whole soul. 

Harry wasn’t certain when exactly he found himself falling, but by the time the credits started to roll, he was already asking for a second date. Not rushed, not demanding. Almost a soft plea with his brown eyes, attentively watching yours when you rambled about the movie as you sat in a cafe, tucked away from the main street, sharing a pre-heated donut.

“I think this is what Dostoyevsky meant,” he whispered, meeting your eyes over the trim of your coffee cup, heart hanging on his sleeve. Silent invitation. 

Something in your eyes softened, lips quirked up tenderly. “Even with the tragic ending of unrequited love?” you spoke, teasing him. 

Harry actually snorted. “Fucking smartass.”

Shaking his head, demanding the last piece of donut, almost atypically nervous. 

A different man from the one you met at the wedding. This one, perhaps—didn’t opt for what he wanted, but for what he hoped for. 

And maybe—just maybe, it didn’t need to follow the fate of White Nights. 

“I think I can promise better outcome than Nastenka,” you whispered at last, catching his surprised eyes. 

Transactional—that’s all it was ever supposed to be. University student trying to make life enjoyable in a city as expensive as New York. Man with packed schedule blowing off some steam once or twice a week, that’s what it was. One night in a club where neither of you wanted to be, ending up in his sheets that neither of you wanted to leave until reality knocked on the door and plan was drawn among wrinkled clothes, ruffled hair and cups of morning coffee to kill the hungover. Meeting spots established, time set for each of those days, never going out of the schedule. Never asking for more, never offering more. 

Two people with decades of experience separating them, personalities that would under different circumstances crash and burn. But in the sheets? No one spoke the same language, no one mapped your body the way he did, no one made him pray to God like you did. No one ever screamed your name across a million dollars worth penthouse. No one had you questioning your own sanity every time you slipped into your Martens and departed his place into the cold streets of New York, taking the same route as always. 

There wasn’t a timeframe, deadline to meet. No words that should be uttered. His name saved in your phone by his initials, yours by the nickname you once slipped—the one you never gave anyone permission to use but for him, you made that pointless exception, that, for fuck’s sake, was not so pointless after all. Lines were so easy to be blurred, asking to be crossed like a desperate wish neither of you would vocalise. The only sound each of you made was to moan one another’s name at late hours. 

Roll your hips like a song you knew by heart, tilt your head the way he liked, when he pretended to make a love mark, but never actually left anything behind. That would mean claim, right? That would mean that you weren’t just two people fucking. That would only open the door to the possibilities neither of you was eager to face, knowing that at any point, the fatal outcome could actually end up leaving someone with a broken heart. 

Possibly both, if the universe was twisted enough to do so. 

Beating around the bush (or just his apartment, really). Walking in, holding your stacks of books, dropping them on the floor, hopping on his lap like those copies weren’t fifty years old and you didn’t have to fight someone off at the antique store to get them. But that was the thing. You could both act so fucking nonchalant and pretend it wasn’t deep, just a mutual agreement but whenever your phone buzzed, he would always perk up, against his better judgement. And whenever he cancelled last minute, you would always wonder if there was someone else. 

Even if you shouldn’t care—really, shouldn’t. Because hope only ever breeds eternal misery, or something along those lines, like Nietzsche has said. Yet, you come each time with something dangerously close to expectations. And Harry? He leaves a copy of a book on the table, trying to grab your attention. Usually the one you admire the night before, in his spacious library that would make anyone lose their breath. 

Clueless to the point it’s almost fucking comical. 

“Met a matchmaker,” he says one night when you’re sitting in his sheets, wearing his white shirt so casually like he didn’t almost lose his shit the second you put it on. 

You look up, fiddling with the sleeve. “A matchmaker? That’s still a thing?” 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Yeah, smartass. Still a thing, though I suppose it has elevated since the last century.”

You snort, rolling up those sleeves before you meet his gaze. “You wanna get hitched? Since when?” 

He frowns. “Who says anything about getting hitched?” 

It makes you roll your eyes—and your body, in his sheets, for that matter. “Isn’t that the point of matchmaking? You don’t go there asking for casual fling, you go there in hopes of settling down.”

“Then, maybe I wanna settle down,” he hums, propping himself on his elbows, naked in his expensive sheets. “House, wife, kids, all that kind of stuff.” 

And you chuckle, not precisely to mock him, perhaps just the absurdity of the whole situation. 

“Okay,” you hum, amused and far too unbothered to hide it. “So, I would be like your mistress?”

It’s supposed to be a joke but it strikes a little deeper. You never talk about longevity of your arrangement, future plans—because that would ruin the purpose of temporary distraction. But it does make you wonder what would happen, had either of you found someone else? You don’t want to think about it, that and someone else. The entire concept of seeing someone, sleeping with someone, other than him, seems like a foreign idea. 

Which should be warning of its own. 

He tries to laugh it off. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?” 

And you do too, except it comes harder, dragging that laugh out of yourself. When you walk home that night, it becomes a stuck record, unwilling to be skipped or burned down. The thought of him and someone else, it aches in places where it shouldn’t. People say, this becomes the point where you ought to stop an arrangement like this—before it gets dangerously real for both parties. But selfishly? You can’t.

Even if you tried. Even if you prayed for higher power, you would still be rolling on his hips the next evening. 

And you are, for that matter. But it feels distant, detached. And when he spills, mid-fucking you, that he actually set an interview with the matchmaker, you excuse yourself for a glass of water and dip from his apartment so fast, it leaves the doorman surprised. He knows your time like the back of his hand—in at seven o’clock, leaving around midnight. But not tonight. 

Certainly not for a week after. 

That one after too, for that matter. Like a true grown-up avoiding the situation altogether because the thought of even opening this type of conversation with Harry? No a fucking chance—you would rather go around ghosting his calls and Tribeca in total. The problem is, the truth is clear as day. He’s older, lived twice the life you did and maybe he should settle down. But are you the kind of girl man like Harry would settle down for? 

Most importantly, would you settle down, for him? Getting lost in the life he offers seems almost suffocating for you. In the polished silver dinners, cufflinks and roses perched on the dinner table like an apology for being late every time? Does financial security really stands above all? That’s what you keep asking yourself. 

Without realising that you shouldn’t even think about it to begin with. 

Once you see him and the matchmaker, walking down the Fifth Avenue, the pompous bouquet in her hands and that rich smile on his lips that almost makes you want to wish the ground would just swallow you whole. Yet, that’s not how it works. No, instead—the universe forces you to run into them, face to face, knee deep in this lovesick shit when you see his hand just casually resting on her hip like it wasn’t gripping yours just two weeks ago when you were sitting on top of him. 

For Christ’s sake. 

You smile. 

Widely, it almost pains you. Strolling away the first chance you have, leaving Harry twice as shocked as you are. Reality called him. The moment he saw you—two worlds coming together in a way he had not anticipated. You didn’t call and he was never one to do so, not when he wasn’t hundred percent sure on what answer he could bet on. Matchmaker’s words are lost on him, that entire afternoon, thought of you plaguing his brain. Still, he does not pick up the damn phone and calls. And neither do you—which makes you couple of idiots unwilling to fix your own shit. 

“Was she your assistant?” 

She asks during dinner, snapping him out of his thoughts. He stares, confused—close to barking some snark remark until he realises where and with whom he is. So, he just shakes his head and takes a sip of his wine. Once, twice, until he asks the server for another bottle. By the time he takes her to his place, he’s shitfaced. It doesn’t go smoothly, in fact, it’s a complete disaster that leaves her ordering a car home at two in the morning, cursing under her breath and Harry on the floor in the living room, not bothering to call out an apology, even if it should be half-assed. 

No, he’s drunk enough to reach for his phone, pull it out of his back pocket, kick off his expensive leather shoes and sprawl on the carpet, dialling your number. 

Having you blink three times, staring at the screen. 

“So, I’m not settling down, apparently,” he snorts into the phone. 

You sigh, leaning back on your kitchen chair. “And that information couldn’t wait until the morning for what exact reason?” 

Nonchalant, but not so really. 

“I threw up on her dress.” 

It’s hard to imagine someone so well put-together doing that. He prides himself on stability, confidence and reassurance and there he goes, throwing up on matchmaker’s dress because apparently, running into you on the street could make even a man his age lose his shit way too easily. 

You try to suppress the laugh but it seems impossible. 

“It’s your fault actually,” he hums, matter-of-factly. 

Which makes you frown. “Come again?” 

He rolls on the carpet, sitting up to brush through his ruffled hair. 

“Since when do you walk down Fifth Avenue?” it sounds like an accusation, more so a plea. 

He’s drunk, of course you know that. Foreign concept, one that makes you get off your chair and lean into concern you’re not supposed to harbour in the first place. 

“Since when do you get shit-faced?” you retort, making Harry chuckle. 

“I asked first, spunk.”

You groan, “You’re home?” 

And he’s not really sure what he should say.

“Why?” he asks, almost taken back by such simple question. 

It makes you sigh as you pull over your sweater. “Well, are you?” 

“You want me to puke on you as well?” he spits out. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you,” you murmur, hanging up. 

Back of a cab, vacated streets of New York and your restless fingers tapping against your knees. Pyjama shorts and sweater, no such thing as wasting time when you hop out in front of the building, much to the doorman’s surprise. Your absence seems almost atypical at this point. But now, you’re here, standing in the elevator, pushing the penthouse button with certain uneasiness in your stomach like you’re not exactly sure what you’re walking into. 

If you even should. 

It’s far too late for that when the door opens. 

Quiet all around, dark from corner to corner except for lamp in his living room, where he sits on the ground, legs sprawled, eyes lazily cruising around the room until they land on you. In full flesh, half in your sleeping clothes, socks sticking out of your sneakers and for him? That’s a sight for sore eyes, especially when he’s so hammered. 

“I be fucking damned,” he chuckles. 

You walk into the barely lit space, the smell of alcohol hitting you right in the face. “You smell like a distillery.” 

“And you look like my future wife,” he grins. 

You stop in your tracks, snorting. 

To which he frowns, offended. “The fuck are you laughing at?” 

You shake your head, walking closer, again. 

“You don’t believe me?” he snaps at you and you chuckle. “Alright, fucking alright,” he shifts, trying to crawl on his knee.

“What the hell are you doing?” you stare at him, wide-eyed. 

He doesn’t reply, just props himself on one knee, fixing the half unbuttoned shirt and ruffled hair, like he didn’t throw up on the matchmaker’s dress not even an hour ago. But that’s the thing for Harry. For once in his life he doesn’t let things go according to his pre-planned schedule and maybe that’s the magic of it all—in some bizarre sense. 

“Harry,” you sigh. “Quit that shit.” 

“Shut up and give me your hand,” he smirks, unfairly confident. 

“You’re drunk,” you groan—but you still manage to make those few steps until he holds your hand in his, partially to gain some stability, which makes it that much more comical. 

But his eyes—those bastard’s eyes tell more than you wish. That unguarded look under the glasses of wine he consumed tonight, trying to talk himself into enjoying the date when all he could possibly think about were ways he would touch you. The ways he would do this.

Like the most obvious outcome dawned on him somewhere between those glasses.

“You’re like a plague,” he opens and you roll your eyes. “Infuriating plague.” 

“Jesus Christ,” you shake your head. “You’re so fucking—“

“And God so help me if I don’t love you for that.”

That’s when it all becomes all too real for a drunken businessman. Sobered up by the hope, drunk on fear. 

“Harry,” it almost comes like a warning and you’re not sure at which one of you it ought to be pointed. On your hope or Harry’s audacity? 

“You know, the matchmaker’s fucking good, let me tell you that.” 

“Oh yeah?” you sigh, looking away. 

Harry nods, without hesitation. “One dinner with her and I was sure I would marry you. That’s a talent, don’t you think?”

No pretences and beating around the bush, for once in this union. 

Straight-up served on a silver platter (or, on his fluff carpet, what’s the difference?)

It still splashes a soft smile on your lips, as though part of you does not consider him a complete lunatic for doing this and yourself twice as much for believing it. 

But God, if this isn’t the kind of love his heart would go into bankrupt for. 

“C’mon,” he chuckles. “I’m a catch, she said.”

Laughter, which is half-win for him, he knows that. “Oh, yeah. Going from one date to propose to someone else. Sure as hell a catch.”

He grins, not even considering backing down. “Sudden realisation,” he hums nonchalantly, smirking at last. 

“How sudden?”

“Weeks old actually,” he admit like it’s nothing, like it didn’t make mess in your head. “Courage’s the sudden part.” 

Something cracks and you’re not sure whether it’s your sanity or the crafted walls you had built. 

But it makes his eyes soften by fraction. 

And your heart twice as much of mess as it was when you walked into his penthouse tonight. 

“I’ll ask you the same in the morning,” he states, to him, the most obvious thing—like he would do anything to ease your doubts. “And in the evening, too. By that time I will have that goddamn ring I put on hold.” 

Your eyes almost fall out, right on that fucking carpet. 

“Come again?” 

“At Winston.”

Part of you wants to smack him for being so matter-of-factly about it. 

“Harry Winston?” you repeat in disbelief, frowning. 

“Where else?” 

He smirks. The bastard smirks as though it’s the most natural conversation he could have right now. 

“They probably could even deliver it now,” he shrugs his shoulders. “I’m a well-paying client.” 

“And a fucking lunatic,” you whisper, shaking your head. 

“You’ll be one too if you don’t say yes,” he grins again, squeezing your hand. “So, what’s it gonna be, smartass?” 

You have to chuckle, there’s no better reaction to it. Nothing sane comes to mind. 

“See, if I wake up my dear friends at Harry Winston, I need to know their whole expedition here won’t be a complete waste of time,” he shrugs his shoulders, looking up into your eyes. 

Like he would place all his bets on you. 

The piece clicks. He stops running, comes with open arms, on his knee. 

And come dawn?

It sits on your finger. 

The hope of it all. 

Wrapped in couple of diamonds. 

A few months ago, if you were to describe what kind of man Joel Miller was, there probably would not be enough curse words to spit out. A few months ago, if you were to choose between saving him and saving yourself, you would probably be the one responsible for his demise. A few months ago, Joel's presence in your life was a mere part of the deal and nothing more, or less. A few months ago, you would not allow his existence carry that much importance in your life.

But now, no question needed to be asked. No hesitation on your side, no second thoughts. Just a gun in your hand, finger on the trigger, eye focused on the one who would stand in between. Because for Joel, you would not question anything. For Joel, you were prepared to walk to the edge of the universe and back. For Joel, you would lose yourself.

Not him, never.

You walk through half of the continent with someone, expecting to keep to yourself. The final destination hanging in your mind like a warning. You are not here to make friends, you are not here to share wholehearted life stories around the fire. The only reason your steps kept following Joel's, was his lead. Lead towards someone you have been searching for ever since you escaped the FEDRA school. With stolen ration cards in your back pocket and shiv attached to your belt. In the dark of the night you ran through the Boston's quarantine zone, knowing exactly who you were looking for.

He was the best at this, you kept hearing. No one had the soldiers wrapped around their finger like him. Side to side, the word didn't change. If you wanted to find someone who decided to become unwanted, he was the right fit. You bet your everything on Joel Miller. He was your one-way ticket out of this shithole. Following the same tale you had been studying since your mother died. 

Whether there was some credibility to her words, you never found out. But she made a plan for you, from one connection to another, from person onto the next one. Until you found yourself standing by his door, knocking so persistently until he could no longer pretend he was not there.

Disgruntled and annoyed, he looked at you, your hair wet from the rain, muddy clothes. He was prepared to send you away, tell you to go back where you came from. He was no babysitter, no tour guide. 

But then, you pulled out the picture. Ripped in the middle, old polaroid picture taken by your mother, you presumed. And he wondered. If it were her, looking for him. If she were to survive, get lost in the escaping crowds. Would she be standing in your place, at someone else's house, with his picture?

The salvation was something he could not decline.

Not when you kept looking at him that way. The desperation hidden behind your determined stance. The little child in the eyes of someone who had to grew up before the world did it for them. You were too much of a painful reminder to shut the door in your place. Especially once he let you come inside and saw the scars on your neck, from pulling through all the wired fences around your school. Fresh, washed down with the rain, drips of blood on your collar. It was either him or some other smuggler. Who would use the desperate adolescent asking for help.

Taking more without giving anything in return.

No, Joel made the decision. Let you lay out on the table all of the leads you had gathered over the past few weeks, from the connections your mother had left you. Day and night, he planned, he searched. And before long, he knew exactly where your father happened to be. There was a warrant on his head, not so long ago. Nothing good came his name.

Except for you.

At dawn, three days later, you set off. You noticed, second before the door shut, that he had left a note on the table. For a moment, you wondered for whom it was written but before you found the answer, Joel was already nudging into your shoulder, urging you to move faster. You had one shot at sneaking out of the zone. And although Joel had become experienced traveler over the years, he did not take your inexperience into consideration.

And thus, how the trial started.

It appeared the second you and Joel set foot out of the quarantine zone; trouble seemed to follow you everywhere. Closed calls turned out to be a daily dish and ammunition rarity that you almost never stumbled upon, unlike the traps in each city you wandered in. Just two days in and Joel started to regret not thinking this through. 

No amount of ration cards was worth saving you from every trap you managed to step into, he thought. You were a loose cannon, catastrophes seemed to walk hand in hand with you.

"How was I supposed to know it's going to be a trap?" you mumbled, whilst trying to fix the cut on your left ankle.

Joel looked up from his backpack, where, just a second ago, was trying to find what was left of his first aid kid. If he knew you would be such liability, he would pack more. No, he would not have gone in the first place.

"Common sense?" he hissed, walking over to you. "Didn't they teach you that in school?"

"No, they just taught us how to hang smugglers on the streets," you replied.

The amount of sarcasm accompanying your cutthroat response kept making it harder for Joel to maintain his calm demeanour.

Without much thought, he threw the bandage away and got up. "Fix it, smartass. We're leaving in ten minutes."

Not wanting to poke to bear any more, you hurried up and managed to join Joel back on the street. With revolver in his right hand, he looked at you, disgruntled.

"Move, we gotta make it before sundown."

You didn't know at which particular comment or situation Joel started to withdraw. His patience seemed to be running out with each day he was forced to pull you out of the trap or save you from a close call you had caused. Every time, you would be sitting on the ground, fixing up, looking at a dead point, trying to get through his scolding. He would yell, throw hands in the air, taking out all of his anger. 

At a certain point, you weren't sure whether your behaviour was truly the reason, or his chance to get everything out of his system and blame it on your recklessness.

Neither did Joel know. 

There was something so triggering about seeing you so helpless. Seeing you get into numerous troubles that could have cost you your head. He had no emotional attachment to you whatsoever, you were a business part -- if a teenager setting off with smuggler could be even called something like that. But the look, the damned look in your eyes. Each time, with each moment, his paternal instincts awakened a little more. You were a walking reminder of what he had lost, what could have been.

He would be sitting by the window, late at night, keeping the watch, wondering. How easy it would have been to take his backpack, walk through the door and never look back. No note, nothing. Go back to what he had got used to -- the stillness of life in Boston. Where nothing would remind him, nothing would pull out those rotten roots. That settled somewhere in the pits of his mind, along with the shame. No one to force him to face his mistakes.

It was odd what power your presence had in Joel's life, despite knowing nothing about you. Perhaps, when you stick to someone, twenty-four hours a day, when someone else's life depends on your actions, the fine line becomes thinner. 

Until there's none.

In certain aspects, at certain points, he could no longer tell the difference between you and Sarah. The way you quickly came to enjoy making fun of him and testing his patience. The days you spent on foot, you kept irritating the living soul out of him. You found the string to play on and there was no reason to stop. You hated the silence, that he was subtly trying to enforce.

You noticed pretty quickly the effect your comments could have on him. And, of course, you found amusement in it. The days on the road were long, especially without a vehicle so you were looking for anything that would distract the anxious thoughts in your mind. 

The longer you were gone, the more second thoughts arrived.  

You had never met your father yet here you were, travelling across the infested country to see a man who, perhaps, was not even interested in acknowledging your presence.

Why did he leave your mother? Why did he leave Boston? Did he know about you and if so, what did it say about him?

And why would your mother send you to look for someone who might not even be aware of your existence?

The answer was simple, at least according to your conclusion.

You had no one.

Your mother was the last person you had and when she died, you found yourself living in a tiny, three-bedroom dorm room at the military preparatory school. And every night, after the curfew, you kept on reading her notes. The letter she had left you. Place like that did not leave enough space to carry a hope, yet you managed to squeeze it in. But were her last words enough of a reason for you to risk your own life? Perhaps, you were about to find out.

Although, probably not from Joel.

He was not the most talkative individual. After all, his only job was to lead you to your father, collect the rest of the ration cards and head back. This was strictly a business deal, which he kept reminding himself, each time he caught glimpse of you. Looking at you made him wonder -- about you, your life. Where your parents had been. He knew that now, in the world, there were far too many children like you, wandering alone. 

Even in the Boston QZ, there would not be a day that Joel would not run into a child, sitting on the pavement, counting their last ration cards. He usually paid no mind to it, fed with false belief that he was not interested to care in the first place.

But then, there were you. And that hopeful spark you had every time you looked at him. He was there to protect you, despite the reasons. So, naturally, after years of almost forgetting how it had felt, you found comfort in Joel's presence. He could have been mean and spiteful. And you could send him to the deepest pits of hell, screaming your lungs out.

And yet, you would not turn back.

You could have screaming matches all the way through abandoned suburbs, you could slam the door in his face and ask him to go fuck himself for being such an asshole to you.

Despite the inner voice telling him to leave, he would sit down on the stairs and wait. Until an hour later, when your anger boiled down, you would open the door and go back on the road. And he would follow. And that conversation would never be brought up again.

That was the cycle.

Through the cities, through the suburbs, through the meadows, through the highways.

There were times, where Joel's patience ran over the edge, and he ended up going further than he had initially intended. Only then his falsely justified arguments came to slap him in the face. When his eyes would lock with yours and he could see how determined you were to keep your tears back. 

"You are being an asshole," you whispered, grabbing your backpack from the floor, not giving your impulsive ideas second thoughts.

Joel sighed, rubbing his chin, before he looked your way. "Where are you going?"

"Anywhere," you shrugged your shoulders, opening the doors. "Anywhere but here."

He chuckled, crossing his hands over his chest. "Good luck with that."

Your eyes fell on the cracked floor, as you let out a deep exhale. "You really are an asshole," you whispered. "Fucking asshole."

Trying so hard to keep it together, not giving him the pleasure of winning over you, you stood by the door, watching the raindrops outrunning each other. It was already dark out there, the storm was settling in the skies, as quickly as one falls asleep, and you had no idea where to go. And when you thought about it, it was probably better to draw your guns now, as opposed to coming back here, hours later, soaked and cold. Serving the win on a silver platter.

Joel waited, convinced you would not leave. He was the compass holding this plan together and besides, as he knew, you had nowhere else to go. Your father was your only remaining connection. Joel was aware of the position he found himself in. An argument he already knew was a win. But in his preoccupied mind, there was no lust for such thing.

Perhaps, not now. Not when he noticed how swiftly you wiped away the tears with your sleeves. Of course, it was not the first time that Joel had become the reason of your momentary sadness. His words managed to hit your sore spots one too many times. 

Though, why now? Why would the guilt float above the surface of his false beliefs, waving the red flag? Why now would the regrets start to squash his entire, washed-out being?

He would ask, despite already having the answers.

There was something about watching you sit there, on the floor, leaning against the door. The shouting, the threats of leaving. It was as though he was back in Texas, twenty years ago, sitting in the kitchen and listening to Sarah complaining about short curfew. Begging Joel to let her go out with friends, stay a little longer. And he would refuse, being as stubborn as he is. Inheriting those qualities, she would insist on her wish. Until it ended up in a scream match and she would threaten to go anyways, with or without his approval.

Then both sides ended up defeated. Sarah, sitting in her bedroom, listening to the regrets setting down in her mind. And Joel, sitting by the kitchen table, cursing himself for being too harsh. He was a man of few words, always has been, when it came to expressing his feelings out into the world. So instead of struggling to find the right ones, he would take her favourite DVD of Curtis and Vipper and knock three times on her bedroom door.

She would know exactly what he meant.

But you were not Sarah, you were not Joel's daughter. There was no relation, other than the business one.

Which, in the end, did not even matter anymore.

"You should have said no," you whispered into the rain.

The reality pulled Joel out of his thoughts.

He frowned, puzzled over your statement.

"You should have just said no," you mumbled, turning around.

He stood still.

"I should have talked you out of it," you whispered. "If I knew how much you will hate me, I would never knock on your door."

And suddenly, everything he had convinced himself with, came undone.

You found all the sore spots, striking into the pits of their existence. Until the shadow of man, he once used to be, stood right behind you, looking into his eyes. What he thought had died that night with her, was standing in one piece. He had nowhere to run, no beliefs to feed himself with, only the truth. Now it was up to him whether he was going to face it.

You wanted him to say something, more than anything. Even if he should just scream at your existence, damning you to hell. Everything would have been better than him, surrendering to his shame. The anger in you was starting to boil. You loathed Joel -- simply for the fact of what his role now meant in your life. Joel was your source of safety, despite the arguments, the curse words headed into his direction. And the only thing you wanted was to know whether there was at least a part of him that would sympathise.

You knew giving your hopes into someone like Joel was a risk with little to no chance of winning. Yet, you allowed yourself to hope, as you looked at him, awaiting.

You should have known how that would end.

Putting a faith in a man who’s past has been coming to haunt him every night for the last twenty years was perhaps as reckless, as running towards a clicker, with a friendly handshake. It would cost you an arm and a leg, you knew it. Of course, you knew it. 

But the hope, rotten to the core. The sweet-talking hope. 

Which he was well aware of, seeing it in your desperate eyes. The guilt was about to swallow him all. What Joel wanted and what he allowed himself to want were two different categories. And what frightened him the most, was the fact that you were in both. 

Despite his best of efforts to bury it. No matter what he tried, the truth could not be undone or destroyed. Even though his guilt kept feeding him with the false claims. Convincing him that after betraying her, he was no longer worthy of that title. When in reality, he would never become someone else. It was who he had always been. 

Didn't matter where would he run, what amount of liquid courage his organs would absorb to numb the pain, it would always be there. Waiting for him, waking up from a hangover. Joel spent twenty years searching for salvation in the wrong places, in the hands of wrong people. 

And there he was, scarred, old and defeated. 

You were his second chance. 

"Stop confusing me with the man you are looking for." 

But the anger, oh the anger. And the frustration he fought with. The what ifs, the possible scenarios recreating his life-long failure that haunted him relentlessly. It could go wrong, he thought. He could not even count the exact number; it was too many of them. 

So, he settled with the thought of doing what was best for both of you. But selfishly, as he was well aware, he welcomed the pain with open door and a handshake. Whilst you were left in the rain, watching it close. 

It would have been too dangerous to act differently, he continued to sweet-talk himself with lies as the dawn fell upon his feet. The truth kept on eating him alive, through the roads and through the woods. Flesh by flesh, until there was nothing left. Joel stood against his own mind, his own beliefs. 

How long could he keep on denying them? 

You wondered about it, even though you forbid yourself from doing so, when you stood in the door the following morning, eyes swollen from how you quietly cried yourself to sleep. The consequences of Joel's previous actions were falling down on you. You avoided him like plague, waking up before sunrise and hunting in the nearby woods before the two of you set off. 

He did not comment on your unannounced morning trip but with all honesty, there was not much to say anyway. One thing that Joel knew, which you were grateful for, although you would never admit it out loud, was to keep quiet when it was needed. 

Unfortunately, this habit of his showed up even when it wasn't required. 

The distance he created between the two of you could not be erased. So, for your own sake, you followed his lead. There were no more jokes, no more comments about Joel's age being close to dinosaurs. Because there was nothing left to say or do. 

And as the days continued, your guilt and regret, naturally, turned into anger. 

Anger towards Joel. 

The more you thought about it, the more resentful you had grown to be. You gave him a chance; you gave him a piece of something only your mother has been worthy of. Something you had once buried but for Joel, you would search for it through the deepest pits of your soul. 

You wanted to feel safe, more than anything else in this world. And there he was. When you looked at the picture of your father, then back at Joel, you knew which one was the option you would choose. 

But what would that be good for, when Joel did not choose you?

As hurtful as it might have been to admit it. 

It was pointless, stupid, you kept telling yourself. Joel's reasoning for this voyage was simple, different from yours. And it would always be different from yours. 

That's how it started to bubble up inside of you. Through days, through nights. It would take one look at him for you to clench your fists and curse yourself for ever being this naive. At a certain point, there was no reason for you to hide it. 

And Joel knew it. He knew how you felt when you yelled at him, spilled out that he should not care whether you had eaten or not, whether you had got enough sleep or not. You would let it all out, frustrated and disappointed. 

He would never say anything, just let you get it out of your system. And once you were done, he would hand you the last bits of jerky from his backpack because he was right -- you did not eat that day. But he would not once try to get back at you.

Perhaps, when he stood against you, watching your eyebrows dance up and down, your hands gesticulating in the air, hearing each word sounding faster and angrier than the one before, Joel had realised he now stood in your position. 

There it was. 

The metaphorical blink, perhaps? 

That found Joel standing above the map, marked with your estranged father's supposed location. 

If you kept heading east, you would arrive to his quarantine zone by next week, according to his counting. A week. 

Seven days. 

There was an odd feeling, growing inside his chest. The symptoms of guilt had arrived into their places, occupying his indecisive existence. The time was slipping through his fingers and selfishly, Joel did not anticipate the meeting that was yet to happen. Despite not doing anything to stop it. 

Your father was no exemplary man, quite the opposite. He made trouble wherever he went, so it was not that shocking when one day, Joel saw a soldier putting up a warrant flyer with your father's face. 

He was supposed to be hanged, the day he vanished from the Boston quarantine zone. FEDRA was searching through every place that could carry his trace, but nothing. A few months later, via radio tower, Joel heard his name again. 

With his connections around the zone, it was not too difficult for Joel to find his current supposed whereabouts. Still, as the days on the road went by, he started to have less and less sympathy for finding someone like him. If there ever was some. 

For personal reasons, of course. Being too attached and too subjective, he could not see past his selfish mind, despite doing everything in his power to have you run to your father with open arms. 

He could only blame himself for not seeing how lost you were. For not seeing through the opportunities falling upon his feet. Especially when they started to run out. 

"How long, Joel?"

Your voice pulled Joel out of his frustrated thoughts as he looked back at you, sitting by the fireplace. He realized he has been standing above the table the whole time, gripping the pencil. 

He has been still all evening, which you tried your best to not care about. Spent almost two hours drawing things on the map, running around the house, looking for more pencils. For a moment, you thought he was going insane. 

Would not be so shocking. 

You attempted to pay no mind to it, mostly browsing through the farmhouse, looking for something to kill your time with. The books were ripped apart, rooms raided, so eventually, you ended up sitting by the fireplace to warm yourself up. 

While you waited for the answer that did not seem to be coming. 

"Week or more," he replied, after another minute. "Though we will be lucky if he's still there by the time we arrive," he mumbled, packing up the map. 

The tone of his voice raised your eyebrows. You could have let it go. 

But weather got you both stuck here in the first place, you might as well square up. 

„Well, you won't be there to see it," you whispered. 

He looked at you, confused over such statement. 

"What?" you got up, "Wasn't your whole plan to drop me by the gate like some baggage? Suppose that was the only thing I ever was for you.“

There was no reason to suppress your frustrated thoughts inside. At such point, there was nothing to lose, not on your side. Miles away from Boston, in the middle of nowhere, your hands were empty. Nothing to treasure, nothing to hold. 

Nothing to hope for, anymore. 

The spark in your eyes that once scared the living soul of Joel was fading away. Perhaps, the reality of that became much more frightening for him. 

"You seriously don't have anything to say to me?" 

The desperate tone of your voice, breaking at the end, frustrated you. 

Not more than Joel's nonexistent stance, though. That was still at the top of your list. 

Just two feet away from you, halfway in the shadow of the night, he stood there defenceless.  

"Seriously, Joel?"

But then, for reasons unknown to your being, the cycle had fallen apart. 

"What the hell do you want from me?" his voice echoed around the living room. "We had a deal. That did not include reading you a goddamn bedtime story and tucking you in." 

Joel himself did not know why he was so harsh. The defence mechanism was running on its own system, leaving him out of the door. 

You could not help but chuckle over his angry statement. 

If he was going to cut deep, so were you. 

"Don't flatter yourself," you whispered, stepping closer. "I don't even think someone like you could ever be capable of that. You will always be too selfish for that." 

He knew he had it coming, of course he knew. Just, perhaps, did not realize how severely he would lose this war. How severely would the last strike hurt. 

Until those words left your mouth. Only then the dust settled as the room had fallen into a deadly silence, with Joel's dignity vanishing into the fireplace, like a lonesome soldier surrendering. 

There was no desire to look into your eyes. On Joel's side, there was no anger left; he waisted it all out. Now, the guilt had won the war, creeping through the pits of his mind, sitting on his shoulder, trying to pull down the rest of his tired, scattered being. 

The shame has been weighing on his shoulders for the past twenty years. Its existence could never be denied nor annihilated. He knew, somewhere in his heart, she would never want him to wander through life like this, of course. But choosing to let go was a price he was too afraid to pay. 

When in his mind, he was not allowed. To have life she could have had. It would have been a betrayal, he thought. To leave it all behind, to prove to you that there once had been and always will be part of him that would do anything for his child. 

Joel was aware of the amount of childish naivety you had within yourself when you knocked on his door. The dedication to see through the plan your mother had prepared for you, Joel knew the final moment would never live up to the expectations you had fostered in your mind. The salvation you had been waiting for. 

And there, it ached. The idea of having you reach the final destination, only for the spark of light in your eyes to die once and for all. To see the disappointment settle in your mind for the rest of the days. 

Same as the one you had; every time Joel let you down. 

By the time the truth had dawned on him, you were already sitting on porch, right by the stairs, wiping away the rest of the tears you had waisted on him. If it were not for the lack of weapons and dark night, you would have been gone. 

But where to road would lead, suddenly remained unknown. In the middle of nowhere, stuck by an old farmhouse, you wished to retrace your steps. Stay in Boston, pull through the military school, become another soldier without a soul and eventually, walk into death with open arms. 

What else would the world give you anyways. When what you had yearned for, has been declined. 

By Joel, standing still in the living room, analysing the spot you occupied just a few minutes ago. He looked around, seeing the glimpses of life this place had before outbreak. The last bits of wallpaper, the broken framed photographs on the credence. He used to wonder what it would have been like to set up a little sheep farm, somewhere outside the Austin, just him and Sarah. 

The two of them running the place, not needing anything or anybody else. Occasionally, they would spare a room for Tommy, force him to help out with the livestock, to repay Joel for bailing him out of the jail, again. It sounded almost idyllic; what could have been and never was. 

Joel knew that he was not the only father losing part of himself on the night of the outbreak. Yet, he found no comfort in this fact. If anything, it added another layer of guilt upon his shoulders. He thought, there was no father who had failed as miserably as him. In his eyes, there was no father guiltier than him. 

What he had buried under glasses of moonshine and traded pills, you ripped out. Pulled it on the surface and close the door on your way out. 

After everything that happened, all through the woods, all through the meadows, there was one, last question Joel had to face. 

Was surrendering to his shame worth losing, perhaps, the very last chance of making things right? 

Of honouring what he once had, instead of grieving what he once lost. 

Of being the one for whom you had knocked on his door in the first place. 

Despite his actions, Joel was not an idiot. He was well aware that the chances and opportunities you had given to him would run their course soon. And then, then -- he will be left alone, awaiting the arrival of his remorse. Why couldn't he try, you wondered by the moon. 

You sat there, eyes on the skies. 

The thought of your mother danced in your tangled mind. Of the wish she had put together for you. Back in Boston, you would do anything to fulfill it -- after all, that is how you found Joel. 

But now, there was no desire to continue. 

Of course, there was the urge to know your father. The other half of you. But would he do what you had done? Would be travel across the states, just for you?

Even if he would, you thought, he could never live up to Joel. 

Whose steps pulled you out of your thoughts, as you heard him closing the door. 

Not so long after, he found himself sitting on the opposite side of the stairs -- doing so, when he realised how persistently you tried to maintain your distance. He would not blame you, only the numerous times he had managed to disappoint you. 

There was no desire to look at him. Part of you wished for him to never speak, to collect the little he travelled with and set off, for good. Part of you wanted to curse him out. 

But the other part, oh the other part. 

That damned part. 

The questions that came along, the thoughts. 

The fear. 

That joined you on the stairs, in the dark of the night. 

The fear you caught in Joel's eyes. Clear as the skies above you. 

There was one last battle remaining, for Joel. 

The broken watch sitting on his wrist caught Joel's attention. The crack was bigger than Joel had remembered. Surely, as the years went by, as the roads came along, some of the glass pieces fell out. But the hands stayed the same. The time forever more imprinted in his scarred mind.

Long ago, he convinced himself his clock would never resume, never having a reason to do so, without her. 

But, perhaps, the reason was sitting right next to him. 

"I know you think I am an asshole," he whispered into the night. 

Joel had to think. It has been a while since he led a conversation with an adolescent -- a conversation, not a screaming match. Surely, he had his fair share of arguments with Sarah. But the differences were incomparable. 

Unlike her, you grew up in the world where kindness came with a price ticket and dignity as an exception not many accomplished to hold onto. You had no recollection of what it meant to have a home. 

Or perhaps?

"That is an understatement," you mumbled. "It is not fair, you know?"

Joel's gaze met with yours. The sadness danced in your eyes. 

"It's not fair how hardly I tried to hate you, Joel, but failed miserably, whilst you succeeded for both of us," you uttered, not letting go of his sight. "You have to hate me, you made it so obvious. But, I  still wonder. Why walk through the woods, through the roads, through the cities with someone whose presence holds no meaning in your life?"

You got him, time and time again. How far was he willing to test your abilities to forgive him? Until there was none?

"Did you walk all the way because of the pity you had stored for me? If your guilty conscience needs a verbal order, then you are free to go," you mumbled. 

The silence entered the empty sphere. Your trembling voice went quiet, as the sleeves of your jacket wiped away the rest of the tears, strolling down your red cheeks. The anguish seemed to never end. 

"Joel, leave," you whispered, not daring to meet his gaze in such condition. "Pack your shit and just leave."

"Actually," he spoke, as though ignoring your disheveled state of mind. "Now, that the deal is off, I think I might stay for a while.“

For a short moment, you could not say for sure whether was mocking your statement or happened to be deadly serious about staying in this half-destroyed house. The jury was out. 

You dared to look up -- solely to convince yourself that there would be a vicious smirk on Joel's face, hitting the final nail in the coffin of hope you had left for him. 

There was no such thing, other than him, looking around. 

"Joel," you whispered, "Leave."

"Some of the walls are busted, the roof is leaking but it ain't nothing I could not fix," he mumbled, not paying a single ounce of attention to you.

You thought you might as well go insane. 

"Joel, I swear to fucking god, leave!" the frustration was pouring out. The hands were thrown in the air, the redness in your cheeks filled your whole face, as your voice rose because of Joel. "Seriously, you treat me like some fucking burden the whole time, but now, you have a what, a change of heart?"

He shrugged his shoulders, remaining calm. "I don't need a change of heart. I just need to fix this house."

Unbelievable. 

"If you do all of this to just laugh in my face, you are probably more pathetic than I ever thought." 

The longer you stayed, the heavier the ache had become. 

"You know, I was so afraid meeting my father would disappoint me," you whispered. "Thankfully, you had prepared me. Now I know that whatever waits in the east, it won't hurt nearly as much as this."

In that final moment, Joel knew the chances he waisted, took for granted, had, at last ran out. There were no words to say, no ropes to hold onto. Everything you had given him, everything you allowed yourself to feel for him, vanished into the night as you got up from the stairs, brushed off your knees and disappeared inside. 

The hopes you had given into this, now ached deeply in your chest as you walked upstairs. For a moment, you wondered, whether this would be the end -- of everything. Whether this wound be the final destination. 

Head buried in the bedding; you thought the agony would never go away. The suffocating feeling in your lungs, the cries. The pain swallowed you whole, piece by piece until you found yourself wishing to tear off your own skin to escape it. 

There has not been this much pain inside of you since your mother died. That night, you held her lifeless body, screaming until there was no air left in your lungs. Cursing yourself, cursing the world itself, wishing to come away with her. 

You hoped to never go through this ever again. 

Now, here you were. 

Yet, what turned out to be the worst part of it all was not the pain itself, however intense it might have been. It was the sole realisation that for Joel, you would go through it. The same way you had done with your mother, for Joel, you would do it, too. The role he had earned in your life, despite denying it, settled down. And there was nothing you could do about it. 

Only accepting the grievous conditions. 

He would not, you thought. No, you convinced yourself. 

Would he? 

He wondered, as he found himself standing by the door of your temporary bedroom, watching you sleep. Would he? Would he put his shame and guilt to rest? How many times would he need to ask himself this question before the time ran out? Before the last bits of patience, you had stored for him, vanished along with his chances. 

He looked around the room, taking it all in -- the teared-up wallpaper, missing pieces of furniture, cracked wooden floor. He was right when he said that house was no lost cause. He could have done wonders with it, saving the treasured, replace the destroyed. 

He would paint the walls for you, fix your bed, find new bedding for you -- just to make sure you would have a place to call home. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by peace. He would make you dinner, he would eat it with you on the front porch, whilst the two of you would be watching the sunset. He would force you to help around to garden -- only because he would want to make it safer for you. 

You mattered -- that was the most frightening part of it all. However big of coward he could be, his impulsive urges could never be stronger than the fear. The swallowing, harrowing fear.

So, would he? 

He asked himself again, sitting on the edge of your bed. 

Would he fix it? Instead of the broken windows and leaking celling, would he fix the damage he had done?

Joel sighed. 

His hands grabbed two ends of a blanket. 

There it was -- the feeling. Looking down on you, lying there quietly, he wondered again. 

He wondered that long he did not even notice you had woken up. 

Only when his gaze met yours, all red and tired, he realised he was still holding the ends of the blanket. 

He could have waisted the words. 

Or he could do what felt right for him. What felt familiar. 

"Joel," you mumbled, half-asleep trying to grasp the situation. 

It was hard to keep your eyes open, being too worn out. The only thing you felt was the warm of the blanket you wished to hold onto. You grabbed so tightly on the thread of comfort -- as tight as you could, before you passed out again. 

Holding Joel's hand. 

There it was.

His world collapsed. 

The spare defences left in his scarred hands, vanished. Now, the only one he could have held onto, was your hand. 

Almost twenty one years later, under the hoards of pain and buried memories was the feeling of peace he would never find at a bottom of any bottle. 

Looking down on your, falling asleep under his guard, Joel sighed, before he leaned over to your face. Staring at you quietly, he felt at strangely calm. 

How easy it was for Joel’s world to collapse, with just one look at you. If there were ever to be a salvation, a chance to fix what he had done, pay for mistakes no one would ever put on his name, there it was. Holding his hand.  

There was nothing to forgive, nothing to repay. Despite the anger and frustration he managed to awaken in you with confusing actions, despite your vocal wishes of leaving you alone, you held for your life on the last thread you had given him. 

He wanted to leave -- somewhere in his mind, the coward voice of his past failures urged him to leave and never look back. He could have done it anywhere on the road, having more than enough opportunities. But if his doubts made him a coward, then the fear of losing you made him a twice of one. 

He walked through the cities, through the highways, through the meadows for one reason. The one he denied himself of having, pushing you so far away, he almost lost the last thread. He could never lose the reason, no -- for it lived in him for the past twenty years. It never left, however much Joel tried to convince himself. 

There was something to fight for -- someone to fight for. 

He sat there for a while, losing track of time, holding your hand. He could not move -- he did not want, no. Instead, with shattered breath and trembling existence, Joel dared to squeeze your hand.

⭐︎

You never would have guessed how much liquid your body can absorb, not until you found yourself sitting on the cold tiles of your small bathroom, palms sweaty and itchy, as your head rested on the toiled seat. You could have timed yourself; it was like a clockwork. One round after another. 

Perhaps, it was supposed to be a universal slap for being so reckless. You drove away from your rutine -- your stillness and brought a catastrophe upon yourself. It was almost biblical -- which somehow, at three in the morning, made you laugh, whilst you coughed out the rest of your stomach. 

But the true, main crisis, was yet to arrive. In a form of your mother, furious that you had dared to interrupt her vacation with, being so obnoxiously selfish, making her consider how she could have possibly given birth to someone so self-centred. 

The call was coming from inside the house.

She would gloat -- however bad it might sounded. You knew your mother far too well to doubt her reaction. Especially, if the one delivering the message would be her boyfriend. 

A cop. 

A fucking cop. 

She sure knew how to pick them, you thought, crawling through the hall, drowned and exhausted, following the light coming from your room. 

How cursed your luck must have been, to have her boyfriend show up here, like there was no other police crisis around the whole town. No, here he was. Still in his uniform, placing a trashcan next to your bed. You barely registered his presence, being too preoccupied with your current state of mind. 

You noticed the badge on his uniform -- he was not a rookie. How could someone like him run with the same circle as your mother, you kept wondering. 

There was no speech from him, no word uttered. He left the room, vanished like a ghost, until you heard the slam of the front door. Only then, you buried your face into the pillow and for the following five hours, left the world behind. 

Until he stood there again, right by your bed, with bucket of ice water. You did not catch much of his words, barely a single one. Still with the bits of bold attitude left in your system, you chuckled over such image. The frowned face, the thin line of his lips, the fucking police officer stance.

You wished you did not chuckle. 

When the ice drops of water showered you from head to toe. Perhaps, stormed, would have been a better term. Considering the water dripping from your entire being -- your bed almost flowing. 

"What the fuck?!" 

You had to admit, no one ever managed to get out of bed that quickly. 

You nearly slipped on the water dripping from your bedding.

With disheveled hair stuck to your face, mascara running down your cheeks and furious thoughts circling in your mind, you looked up at Joel, almost contemplating to hit him with the bucket he was still holding. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you uttered, aggrieved. 

He was calm as a wind -- you thought he must have been used to such things. Being a cop, he must have been a pro in handling these situations back at the base. If not, too bad for him. 

Yet, that was the problem. This was not his station, and you were not a random drunken teenager who went a little hard on the teenage dream. You were a child of the woman he was currently seeing. If there was to be a professional distance to be kept, the line was already crossed. 

When he was standing in front of you with that damn empty bucket. 

"Time to clean the shit you made," he spoke. 

"To make it nice and clean for my mother's arrival?" you crossed your hands on your chest. "Don't worry Joel, you'll get your badge."

The sarcasm was sharp, cutting right through him. 

"Are you done?" he spoke, after a second. 

"No," you shook your head. "What are you doing here? Why the hell are you here? Out of the goodness of your heart? Spare me that nonsense. Go ahead and make the call, she must be eager to hear what the offspring had done, again."

Perhaps, the nature of his actions was not the one you were expecting. Perhaps, the one you did not allow yourself to even think of. But how could you place your trust in the hands of someone like him? You knew your mother's type by heart. And despite Joel not fitting that description, how could you let yourself falsely hope?

For all you knew, he could have been halfway out of the door.

And you wouldn't blame him, just like all those predecessors. Despite having enough reason to do so. All you had ever known about her partners was the departure. It felt almost natural, to see it happening again and again. Like a stuck record. 

He didn't say anything, even though he wished to. He saw the look in your eyes, buried under all the anguish and anger. The fear -- the look you had the night of your graduation. What promises could he make for you? Without betrayal.

Strangely, the silence was more agonising than him screaming at the top of his lungs, spitting the curses of your impolite behaviour. Instead of waiting around, drowning in the stillness of this situation, you grabbed the bucket from his hands and departed the conversation. 

The living room look like a modern-day battlefield -- if the ammunition was alcohol and the enemy your digestive system. There were cups lying around, spilled drops of alcohol on the floor; the smell was horrendous. You decided to start right there, pick the pieces of what the fallen side has left behind. It took three rounds of mopping the floor and three rounds of vacuuming for it to stop smelling like rotten meat. 

Somewhere between looking for your plastic gloves and plastic bags, you registered Joel's footsteps approaching. Perhaps he was ready to pick up where he left off. You hoped that the headphones on your head would be enough of an indicator to leave you alone. You wanted to bear through your consequences, clean the mess and impatiently await the arrival of your disappointed mother. 

Disappointed that her vacation could not last longer. 

About an hour later, the living room started to resemble what it once used to be. The bags of trash lined by the cabinet -- a vintage piece your mother travelled three hours to get, missing your dentist appointment in seventh grade. She said it was a rare piece; she needed that. One of the many motherly moments you two have shared. 

You never understood her approach. And the first, natural thought that arose in your prepubescent mind was the fact that it was you, who must have been the problem. But whichever ways you tried to find in order to achieve her attention, it did not seem to work. The literary olympics, the valedictorian speech. It was simply never good enough. 

And however much you pretended to not care about it, not let it get to you -- each time, you failed miserably. 

Somewhere in the pits of your mind, you hoped that one day, you would arrive at a point, where it would not hurt anymore. 

Or it would, at least, hurt less than the headache that has been wearing you out all day. 

Consequences of yesterday's actions, you chuckled to yourself, as you picked up another trash bag full of plastic cups, bags of chips and plastic bottles you had lying behind the sofa. Not even two painkillers could stop the banging you have been enduring. It was gruesome. 

You had to take a break, for a second, switch the chores. Whilst cleaning the mess you had made; you might as well do those chores your mother had written down on a list that was hanging on your fridge. Laundry seemed like the easiest option for your headache. 

You had to admit, the house was not the cleanest even before the armagedon, given the clothes lying on the floor and the basket filled with freshly washed ones that now, smelled like a distillery. 

Somewhere in your mind -- you hoped Joel would be gone by now. Even though there was a part of you wanting to find out his true intentions of staying past what was his police officer duty, you could not allow your mind to settle on hopeful scenarios. 

By the time you had gotten to taking care of the laundry, your head was demanding a third painkiller. With basket full of clothes that has been lying around for days, you entered the kitchen to search through your mother's first aid kit -- only to find the police offer himself. 

Spoke too soon, you thought. 

The hope arrived at the doorstep, once again. When you spotted Joel with plastic bag in his hand, picking up empty cups and bottles of beer lined up by the kitchen counter. You vaguely remembered playing beer pong -- that must have been a reason for the insane amount of beer bottles lying around. 

For a split second, you stood there, gazing as if you had seen a ghost. He could have left -- he should have left. Perhaps the news has been delivered to your mother, right on time. And now, he was fulfilling the role of responsible partner. You had to admit -- that theory started to sound like a paranoid reach. You needed to calm down, take a few breaths. 

Joel quickly became aware of your presence but decided to pay no mind to it -- and instead, finish what he'd started. You placed the basket on the kitchen counter and reached into the third shelf to grab another painkiller, hoping it would bring the desired salvation. Only then you buried your hands into the dirty laundry -- wanting to sort out colours and materials. 

But then -- there it was. 

A piece of paper, hanging from your back pocket, buried under t-shirts and cloths you picked up around the house. That was the gruesome part you wished to forget -- never think of it again. But how could you, when there was a waving reminder? It hit you like a storm, swallowing you whole, the same fear you had, in the exact same place. 

It must have been one prolonged nightmare, you thought. Especially when you pulled out the paper with his name, a abhorrent message he definitely wrote in hopes of impressing you and a phone number that engraved into your mind. For a moment, you felt as though a tight rope wrapped around your neck. 

In the heat of the moment, you grabbed the pair of pants you wore yesterday and almost theatrically shoved them into the trashcan -- finally, earning Joel's attention. Seeing you standing above the trashcan, the panic glancing in your eyes. 

It was quiet, for a second, as though the time has stopped. Until your eyes met with his and a sudden cold wave of embarrassment covered your body -- the flaming heat in your cheeks. Without a thought, you grabbed the basket and slammed the kitchen door so loudly, that people down the block must have heard it, too. 

It felt as one, turbulent rollercoaster of emotions, that got ahold of your body. You found yourself leaning against the washing machine -- each exhale was heavier than the one before. You had to calm down, you had to keep your shit together. 

You could not give Joel the time of the day, watching the consequences of yesterday hitting you this hard. 

Joel, who stood by the door of your utility room, watching the nervous breakdown unfold. Took you nearly two minutes to realise he was there -- you turned around to pick up the laundry, instinctively jumping back as soon as you saw him, hitting your back against the washing machine. 

It must have been the longest thirty seconds of your life as you kept sniffing and wiping your tears away with your sleeves. You could not possibly look into his eyes -- no, not like this. 

"Just go, Joel," you mumbled, shaking your head -- as if you disagreed with your own words. Did you really want him to go? 

He stood there for a moment, just staring. As though he was contemplating his own mind. 

The silence was aggravating. 

"Go get changed," he ordered, at last. 

"What?" you frowned. "Joel-"

"It wasn't a discussion," he mumbled. "Ten minutes, I'll wait in the car."

With that, Joel departed the room. It was almost frightening how calm he was. He did not bother to wait around for any more of your observations and questions. Two minutes later, you heard the engine in the driveway, urging you to stop staring at the spot he'd just occupied and go get a move on.

You decided it was probably best to not test his patience right now and took only two minutes to change out of sweatpants and grab your stuff before you were walking down the stairs. To be honest, you could not quite figure out the purpose of Joel's sudden urge for road trip but felt that it was probably for the best to not ask. 

The drive was quiet, except for the Pearl Jam tunes filling the space around. You tried your best not to stare at him, you could not bring yourself to stop -- you wanted to figure him out. Despite talking yourself into his approaching departure from your lives, you could not escape the curiosity about his persona.

Joel noticed the not-so-subtle stares you were giving him but rather decided to not acknowledge them and follow the green light. A few minutes later, and just in the time -- once you heard the squeaking sound coming from your stomach, Joel stopped in front of something that resembled a restaurant. 

The state of it was a slightly concerning -- but there was no time for second thoughts, as Joel was already out of the car, heading towards the entrance. 

It was a textbook classic diner on the outskirts. Oddly chosen colour of the interior, boxes with leather seats -- they were probably twice your age, considering the peeled off state of their existence. It was simple, nothing to write home about. But it had a good atmosphere. 

And loads of cops. 

On the way to one of the boxes, Joel managed to grab two menus from the counter, nodding to an elder woman standing behind it. He was probably a regular, you thought -- especially once you saw the numbers of cops sitting by the bar, munching on club and roast beef sandwiches. 

Straight out of a script type of place. You wanted to chuckle. 

You quickly noticed number of them waving and greeting Joel -- it felt like a goddamn police officers meet and greet. Thankfully, Joel was polite but reserved -- only nodded back, did a pathetic little wave and then finally, at last, sat down. 

For a moment, the silence swallowed your box. 

"How many other cop hangouts do you have?”

Until the sheer curiosity mixed with loaded sarcasm crept into your mind. 

Joel did not really try to hide the annoyance your question had caused. He slowly pulled his eyes from the menu, staring at you for a second, contemplating whether you were being serious. 

"I'm making notes, y'know. In case I wanna contribute to town's tourist guide. God knows this city is dead, we have to spice things up."

As soon as those words left your mouth, a loud groan escaped from Joel's. He rolled his eyes before looking at you again. 

"Do you happen to have any personality traits other than being so desperately unfunny?"

You chuckled, shaking your head before your eyes locked with the menu, again.

"Do they have milkshakes?" you wondered out loud. 

Joel seemed almost shocked by that question. 

"You're not getting a milkshake," he replied. 

The profound confusion in your face made him roll his eyes. 

"Kid, you got a hangover," he spoke -- the police officer demeanour crept in again. 

You wanted to quickly jump for your own defence, but he continued. 

"Don't argue with me, you look like shit," he frowned. 

"What does have to do with my food choices?"

"You can't drink milk on hangover stomach, Christ," he seemed so theatrically offended by your lack of hangover cure knowledge. "You need something that is going to soak up the alcohol, something greasy."

"I don't think there is any more alcohol left in my system," you mumbled, closing the menu.

He could not help but chuckle. He was clearly enjoying it.

"See? This is why you shouldn't drink, when you know shit about it."

With that, the conversation died off. For once, because his words managed to aim to your sore spots and, because the waiter finally arrived -- in the right moment. 

Joel took the menu from your hands, handed her both of them, before ordering double cheeseburger and ranch friends, for you. He did not even let you speak, only looked at you once the waitress went away with your order. It was odd, being dealt with this way. You and your mother never did this -- no dinners, no lunches. Only takeouts at home that each of you ate on their own. 

Now, you were sitting in a diner with Joel, who was sipping on his decaf, looking around, as though trying to figure out where is the right clue to start the conversation, again. His words felt sore, but tone of his voice made you doubt the true meaning behind it. 

He was not gloating, no. But you also would not let yourself believe he had done it out of the goodness of his heart. 

And because there was not holding you back, you dared to ask what you feared. 

"Does she know?" you mumbled. 

Joel looked up from the window, eyes locking with yours, frowning over your question. He seemed almost offended, pulling away, shaking his head. 

"You think I am that kind of an asshole?" he spoke. 

"I haven't figured out what kind of asshole you are," you whispered. "Y'know, my mother had dated all kinds of them. I have to take precautions."

Crossing his hands over his chest, he leaned back into the seat, taking an unsure look at you -- he did not know what to think. 

"By declaring me to be one, already?" he stared a hole into you, his eyebrows nearly dipping into his eyes. 

"You know what, yes!" 

Your hands flew in the air as you gesticulated the frustration that has been building inside of you. 

"Joel for all I care we could walk out of this diner, and I would never see you again," you sighed. "I am not like my mom. I won't let you walk into my life, disorganise my existence, pack your shit and leave without saying goodbye. So yeah, Joel, for now are an asshole." 

Now, there it was. The harsh truth that left a bittersweet taste in your mouth. Having been burned so many times before, how could you willingly give Joel a free pass without even considering the consequences. How could you dive right in and bet on your hopes when you were not even sure whether there was someone holding the other end of the rope. 

Or was there?

You saw it in his face, the urge to let his emotions get the best of him. Of course, he wanted to speak, jump for his defence. Only, at last, the truth had dawned on him. 

The fact that, at the end of the day, Joel could not promise you anything. 

Not, unless he wanted to line up next all those who preceded him. To declare himself an asshole on his own, with empty words to offer. 

And he couldn't. Joel wouldn't. 

He knew he couldn’t do that to you. 

So, he didn't spoke and no justifications arrived. He failed to find any words that would fill the empty space between the two of you. He welcomed the silence with open arms and sighed. So loud, you thought the people three boxes away must have heard that too. 

But despite the absence of desperate attempts, he could not look away. And you were aware of it, too aware. That’s why there was no desire to look into his eyes, when you felt so defeated. The only thing you wished to do was to finish your meal, grab your belongings and depart this entire situation. 

The pressure on your chest became too heavy to ignore. Once again, the invisible rope around your neck tightened a little more. You swallowed the rest of your meal so quickly; Joel thought you might choke yourself. He kept staring, utterly confused with your sudden change of behaviour. 

In a minute, the plate was empty. 

You wiped the sauce from your lips, as you looked up, at once. 

"Can we go now?"

And he stared, still. Almost cynically. 

"What the--?"

Then, a tale as old as time for anyone who has ever been drunk before, your stomach hit the reverse.

And there it was. 

For the second time, in the spawn of twenty-four hours, Joel had found himself standing by the bathroom door. Again. 

It went down so quickly, figuratively and literally, that before you knew it, you were standing in front of the bathroom sink, gripping the edges, feeling the cold drips running down your cheeks. Convinced that if none of the before forced Joel walk away, second time's a charm. 

The ride home was quiet.

There were no cassettes, this time. No tune that would fill out the nothingness around. Just you, counting the cabrios in the rearview mirror. 

And Joel, staring ahead. 

If there would be a contest of avoiding each other’s sight, you were not sure which one of you would be the ultimate winner. Sitting next to each, there has never been a bigger distance. Each to their own, neither dared to look. 

To be honest, despite the situation, you were not exactly anticipating the return. Not only there was the remaining mess that needed to be taken care of, it was the emptiness the house reeked of. The prolonged, insufferable emptiness. That, at this point, not even your false confidence could have saved. It was fun while it lasted, having the entire place to yourself. But the longer, she was away, the harder it was to maintain yourself above the surface. 

And not let it all swallow you. 

The days were long, the nights were short. Eventually, it all blended into each other. If it was not for the work at the movies, you would find to desire to leave the house. Each day, it was exactly the same. Nothing to do. 

No one to talk to. 

Now, with the only difference of rubbish laying around. 

The driveway in front of the garage was too big for one car, you thought when Joel pulled in. One car, that was most of the time gone anyways. It was almost a rare occasion to arrive home from school and see her car, see the living room light on. Most of the days, the house was dark. No light to hold out. 

At a certain point, she felt like a distant relative, not a mother. You saw more of her notes on the fridge, than of her face. Yet, even after all this time, she was still someone for whom you kept the light on, despite the fact that she did not deserve it. You should have kept the door closed. 

It kept bugging you, what the two of them had in common. There must have been something wrong about Joel, you were almost convinced of such. An error, a crooked part of his being. Or else, how could he run into your mother? If he was to be the person he proclaimed, there must have been something. 

It was almost pathetic, how desperately you wished for Joel to be crooked. How much you wished for him to be a traitor — empty handed traitor, who, by now, would have shown you all of his true colours. But however much you tried to look for such signs, there was nothing. Which, in the end, was even worse. 

You would rather wish for Joel to be a deceitful sociopath, that a decent human being. A person worth of the kind of efforts your mother never bothered to acknowledge. Everything would have been easier. 

You wouldn’t be sitting in his car, holding the hope in your hands. 

It would not be this frightening. 

To wonder whether he would dare to carry it. 

The engine stopped running. 

But the two of you continued to sit there, like ghosts. Two people who ran out of all their excuses - at least that was your case. What was going through Joel’s head, you failed to figure out. 

What was going through yours, he figured out quickly, seeing how fixated your sight was on the front door. There was no desire to leave, no slamming of the door. You stared out on front porch, looking for courage to finally depart this entire day. To walk away and never look back, pretend there was no existence of the last forty-eight hours. 

To sit down by your desk, open your laptop and search for the Pearl Jam song he had on. Look up the police station, for all you cared. Look up his name, wanting to learn more. More of who he was. Because all the chances you could have had, you forbid yourself from accepting. All those open doors, you locked from the other side. 

And there was no key. 

Unlike the one, who started the engine. 

Again. 

He must have gotten tired of you sitting around, wanted to urge you to leave; you thought. So you dared to look back at the driver’s seat, waiting for your clue, but there was none. Too preoccupied with browsing through his cassettes, he didn’t see the puzzled look in your eyes. And when the desired piece of Hank Williams filled out the empty space in between, Joel turned the key one more time and hit the reverse. 

There was no sign, no cue — not when the lights hit the garage door and the driveway started to fade away. He said no word, paid no mind to your confusion, only listened to what has been left unspoken. Your desire to not yet return back to the battlefield and the previous conversation, the two of you left in the diner. 

Each, he answered simply by handing you his box of cassettes. 

“Pick the next one but choose wisely, it better be good,” he spoke, at last, as though to remove at least one part of your confusion.

Only then his eyes locked with the road again as you dove into his collection. 

At the very top, the Pearl Jam cassette sat. The one you were determined to search for in the deepest pits of your interest browser. But now, there was no need for it anymore. It was right there, with Future Days written on it with a black marker. 

Perhaps, right there, you understood. 

He could have followed the pattern of absurdity and hang on words that took more than they promised. He could have done it, for the sake of his guilty conscience, because he would not be the first one. Or, instead, Joel could have walked away from the line of his predecessors. 

And hold out his hand. 

Or, metaphorically, a box of records. 

“This one,” you mumbled, as you handed him the cassette. 

He swiftly look over the tape, chuckling as soon as noticed the title. 

“Future Days, huh?” he wondered. “Must’ve made impression.”

You shrugged your shoulders, leaning into the seat. “The jury’s still out.”

There was a look you gave him, a very brief one, that he reciprocated. It hid no promises behind. Only the truth. 

Your mother was never the nurturing type. For her, this word did not exist in her vocabulary. She loved you, you supposed, because there was never a clear sign. You were left to wonder. Whether she really cared and if so, where was she?

Throughout your childhood, your mother seemed like a visitor. Someone who, once in a while, passes through. There was never a holiday, spontaneous trip or even a lunch. She had lunch, just not with you. Her friends, her social life -- it was everything for her.

And it seemed, as though, you were not part of that list.

From time to time, as you were growing up, the idea of your father popped in your mind couple of times. Your mother never told you his name, went as far as to not include him in your birth certificate. There was no clue. So, for a child, who's yearning for a presence of loving parent, your imagination stepped in.

Whenever your mom would be on a business trip or simply out with your friends, you would sit on the windowsill, counting the threes below your apartment window. Until you fell asleep. Until the dreams, the wishful thinking, the cycling imagination, gave you what you had been looking for.

A father.

It was natural, you thought. You wished to be saved from your mother's claws. Unmaternal claws that suffocated you. The desire in your eyes, she saw it. But never bothered to do something about it. Your mother never cared, she never listened. She never came to your recitals, school races or when you gave a valedictorian speech.

You put your sweat and tears into it -- trying to figure out that your message will be received. It was a significant moment in your life, or so the teachers kept saying. The praises were coming from every direction, except for the one you wished for the most.

This was the moment you were hoping for -- that she would finally acknowledge your achievements and efforts. And she would come, sit in the first row and cheer you on.

But the reserved seat stayed empty.

And you found yourself standing in the middle of the parking lot, diploma in your hands; your mother nowhere to be found. You waited, for almost an hour, before pulling out the keys from your backpack and setting off, walking the streets in your graduation robe, wiping away the tears you promised yourself not to waste.

Not on her.

When instead of trying, she stayed at home.

With a man.

The anger was running through your veins and the patience was standing on the edge of a cliff.

You could go ballistic.

Who would have blamed you anyways. Your mother's attitude gave you enough reasons to scream it out of your lungs and lose control. But, perhaps, the anger was the one, standing on the top.

The bittersweet taste of disappointment, there it was again.

"Hey, how was school today?" she asked, casually, as though it was an ordinary day -- to be frank, she probably had forgotten about your ceremony anyways.

The man, standing by the kitchen island, with a glass of brandy in his hand, turned around.

Compared to what had travelled through your apartments over the years, he looked decent. Well-dressed, without an awful cologne and more importantly -- without a fake smile. Most of your mother's short-term partners would always pretend wanting to find out more about you.

When they only wanted to find out what was under your mother's clothes.

Still, it would not last forever, you thought.

"Good," you mumbled, putting the cap back on your head. "Same stuff as usual."

There was an urge to leave this uncomfortable setting but before you made a move, the strange man had noticed the clothes you had been wearing and smiled, again. As if though it was contagious.

"Congratulations," he spoke.

Your mother looked up, eyeing your appearance.

"Oh, you had the thing today, right?" she mumbled, grabbing her glass of vine.

You couldn't help but chuckle. Somehow, the bizarre kept getting worse.

"Yeah, the Valedictorian thing, if that's what you mean," you mumbled, holding onto the red case of your diploma.

"Cool," she nodded, "Hey, how about you go pick us up some celebratory dinner? Noodles down the street?"

The anger crawled back into your mind.

"It's raining outside," you shook your head.

"Ever heard of umbrella?"

You never attempted to lash out at her -- solely because of knowing the fact that she would not care. But now, when she stood next to her latest boyfriend, vine in her hand and disinterest in her eyes, you just wanted to scream.

Every symptom of emerging emotional breakdown was on its way, and you knew, you had to get out of there. Not another word said, as you departed into your room. There was no energy to slam the door -- to give a little statement.

Throwing off the robe, along with the diploma, you laid down on the cold, wooden floor and closed your eyes. Five minutes, you just needed five minutes to gather your thoughts. You got four years left, in the same household. Then you would be free.

You never understood her stance. Why was it so easy to show to all of her dates and parties, but never to yours? When you stood on the stage, reciting your speech, you could see the numerous pairs of eyes of those proud parents.

You did want her to sit among them and weep.

You just want her there.

At this point, you would be grateful for anything. For the tinniest amount of your mother's affection that she so graciously gave to her boyfriends.

"Can I come in?"

The voice on the other side of your door pulled you out of your thoughts.

There he was her boyfriend.

You did not know why he knocked on your door and frankly, you did not care. He was going to be here long, there is no point in getting to know a temporary vise.

He could not overlook the redness in your cheeks and how swollen your eyes had gotten.

At that moment, you were thankful he decided to not care either.

Or perhaps?

"So, what food for the celebration?" he asked, trying to cheer up the mood, after a minute of an awkward silence.

You frowned.

"I was thinking, since it's raining, we could take a drive and pick up something for dinner."

There was an urge to leave the house, without a doubt. And you could either take a walk and come back soaked and cold, and mainly, hungry. Or you could follow him to the front door, watch him grab the cars keys and make yourself comfortable in the passenger seat.

The further the house had gotten, the lighter your shoulders had become. The burden of your frustration kept following you everywhere, like an unwanted traveler. But now, you had a moment to breathe out a little, after everything that had happened today.

Even if it meant taking a ride with mom's newest obsession.

For a moment, you cursed yourself for not taking your phone -- since the first few minutes of your drive seemed awfully awkward. You could have at least pretended to read something profoundly engaging instead of staring out of the window, visibly trying to avoid his sight.

He was not very talkative, but still, had this odd aura that floated around the car. There was no tension, especially once he put a cassette in, having the tunes of Billy Idol fill out the space between the two of you.

He had a good taste, you thought. But still -- he was not going to be here longer than two weeks. Why invest your time, you thought.

"So, valedictorian huh?"

After ten minutes of the drive, he finally decided to break through the initial awkwardness.

You looked up from your sneakers, staring at him.

"It's just a stupid red diploma case, nothing else," you shrugged your shoulders, whilst rubbing your fingers, nervously.

He chucked, shaking his head.

"You cannot be so modest, c'mon," he so exclaimed enthusiastically, you found yourself staring at him, little taken aback. "I mean," he gave you a quick look, before locking the eyes with the green light, "You should give yourself a little credit. It is an achievement."

Somewhere, in the pits of your heart, under the walls you were forced the built, there was laying a part of you, wishing to hear this. Only if the source could have been your mother. She had these sweets words for everyone, but you. There was never an applause to be given -- not that you would be asking for it. But a little pat on the shoulder never hurt anyone.

But she never cared enough to do it. So, you settled yourself with the determination to do more, to try more. The desperation ran through your veins like fuel.

Despite the desire to hide it, his words brought a smile on your lips. With that, the awkward silence vanished, as you drove through the suburbs, with Billy Idol's White Wedding.

That evening, somewhere in the middle of ordering your victory dinner, you learned that his name was Joel. And for the first time, you caught yourself thinking that, perhaps, it would not be so bad if your mother's newest vise stayed for more than two weeks.

Over the summer, to your surprise, your mother and Joel had grown significantly closer, travelling almost all the time. You found a job at your local cinema -- with too much free time on your hand, you could have used it for something practical. Saving money was always a good choice. You spent your days watching the same comedy three times in a row, covered by the smell of cheese popcorn and splashes of coke on your sneakers.

Of course, your mother would stop by -- although, mostly to just repack and set off, again. Throughout the summer holidays, you hardly ran into each other. Usually, she left before you got home from work. She would leave a concise note on the fridge (or, if she was running late, a text message) stuck together with a small chunk of money.

As the days went by, you happened to notice the uneasiness that suddenly settled in the pit of your stomach. You knew the source very well -- the good, old, fear of missed opportunities.

It was supposed to be your last summer before high school, naturally, there was the teenage urge to do something memorable. Something, perhaps, completely out of your comfort zone.

And, as it turned out, your empty house presented an incredible opportunity.

Before this sudden urge to fit into your generation, you had never thrown a party. Frankly -- you had no clue how to throw one. Clueless to arrange but eager to learn, the help of your friends seemed as the best fit. As people more fitting for the extrovert description, it posed no issue for them.

Thus, the curse landed on your shoulders.

Certainly, you had no idea how quickly these thinks can come together. It took bunch of your friends, pack of plastic cups, one text message and before you knew, the beer was lined up by the front door and your suburban house was filled with at least thirty people from which almost a half of it were high schoolers.

Seniors, if you may add.

Quickly, they managed to turn your dining room into beer pong game hall, with liquid spilling all over your mother's expensive rugs. Only then, the feeling in your gut started to cry out for help. There were the warning signs, hanging in your mind -- but each one was followed by a cup of beer, until you found yourself looking for a balance.

You lost the track of time, somewhere between your cups, as well as of your friends. It was supposed to be one, welcoming drink. But the more your house turned into a trashcan, the bigger was the urge to kill the voice in your head, cursing you.

For being so reckless in the first place.

Before this spontaneous get together, you had not encountered alcohol -- certainly not in form as large as this one. Rules of drinking were unknown to you; not that you would be too intrigued about them, in your state.

In that moment, the only think you cared about was to stand on your own for more than two seconds. The world around you had become a little dizzy -- this state of being was completely new for you which was quite noticeable for the ones around you.

So, it happened to be a matter of time before one of the seniors posed himself as the knight in shining armor.

If only.

You were aware of his presence but paid no mind at first. After another lost round of beer pong (with no surprise, against him), you had decided to get yourself some water to freshen up. You had no desire whatsoever to lead a conversation with him, let alone anyone else. You wanted to stumble back to your bedroom, lock the door and sleep this off.

Unfortunately, in your current state, path to your bedroom down the hall felt like a ten-kilometer-long hike.

trigger warning for the part below

"Are you okay?"

He could not have asked more useless question. The false concern almost made you chuckle.

"I am absolutely perfect," you grinned your teeth at him.

"You should get some rest," he spoke, unsettling smile on his lips as he brought himself closer to you, locking your possible ways out.

He was much taller, undeniably stronger and determined.

Without a doubt, that was the worst combination.

"Thanks," a forced smile landed on your lips. You had to be smart about this, given his advantages. "But I should actually go and look for my friends."

There was an attempt to make a move, quick slip out of his claws.

You have not even fully tried it, he was already in your away, again.

"I can help you look," the creepiness of his smile imprinted on your brain. "We can search your bedroom first."

The gulp in your throat grew so big, you thought it was going to explode in your stomach, pulling everything out as well. The anxiety was circling throughout your body, up and down, the sweat was running down your shoulders, despite how cold the room had become. Every bone in your body, every nerve sent a signal into your brain.

The fear was going to swallow you whole.

You have never encountered a situation like this. The uneasiness that suddenly held so tight on you.

You could have screamed but what that be good for? Everyone around were too drunk to notice and too unbothered to care, anyways.

Or perhaps, there were exceptions.

end of the trigger warning part

Just not exactly those you would ask for, voluntarily.

You always knew that the universe had its ways to fuck with you.

But this time, this time, came the cherry on the top.

When the scream echoed around the house, buying you an escape from this situation, leaving him too shocked to notice, you ran into the shambles that once used to be your living room, coming face to face with universe's sense of humor.

Dressed in a police uniform, wearing your mother's boyfriend's face.

There he was, catching the sight of your drunken appearance.

"Oh, fuck."

Your stunned reaction came louder than you initially intended, reaching the wrong ends.

His end.

"Officer Miller, we arrived at the scene of disturbance, over..."

You mother's never mentioned his occupation -- not that you would be dying to know, but having this intel beforehand, before you had decided to tarnish your and your mother's reputation, could have been a little useful.

Now, there was no way back, as you watched three other police officers enter your nearly-destroyed house. The number of scenarios lined up in your anxious mind, one coming off worse than the previous. Frankly, just the idea of your mother receiving such phone call, interrupting her annual girls' trip, the wrath would be horrid.

After that, you would wish to be invisible, in her eyes.

You had no idea how these things work. Couple of your friends once mentioned how a party, they attended, ended being busted but the process was never shared. So, you stood there, as though your limbs had frozen, watching the cops escorting all of the kids outside.

He could have been an asshole -- with all due honesty, part of you thought he would be. Your self-made catastrophe presented an incredible opportunity to turn himself into a hero in your mother's eyes. Her brave vise that had stopped her adolescent daughter from drinking her brains out.

But when the distance between the two of you decreased and his hand landed on your arm, you founded yourself letting a sigh of relief escape through your lips.

You were not out of the woods yet.

As inconspicuously as one could, Joel walked you out of the filled living room and back into the kitchen. He was aware of the liquid courage running through your veins -- after all, he was a cop. This, most likely, was not his first rodeo.

Also, he was not an idiot.

Or so you thought, for now.

It all depended on the events that were about to unfold.

"Here," he mumbled, handing you a glass of tap water, "get some more, I will be right back."

Within a second, he was one foot out of the door.

"What now?" you called out, curiosity prevailing the fear for a glimpse of second.

"They'll do search up, so unless you wanna get your ass busted, you better stay here."

With that, he departed into the hallway, as you dissolved into your anxieties, chucking one glass after another, naively hoping the sobriety would arrive sooner.

Despite the conditions, your foggy brain was capable of holding onto the ends, getting the grasp of what was going on, from the pieces you had gathered. There had to be an advantage he had found in helping you out, you thought. The possibility of him acting on the goodness of his heart seemed too absurd to even consider.

All at once, every partner your mother had brought into your life was a copy of his predecessor. One shallow as the other, hollow and unauthentic as the one before. None of them, especially those who you once had decided to give a little faith, succeeded.

So as exaggerated as it may came to be, you could not let yourself get easily fooled. Despite the part of you that wanted to.

Undoubtedly, there was something about him, the warm your mother never had.

But once that you started building castles in the air, you knew it was over.

So, you had to snap out of your liquid-influenced thoughts and stood stern on the ground.

There was no time to be naive.

Especially, once the so-thought, banished glimpse of danger entered your space, again.

just in case, (last) trigger warning for part below

In all directions.

It still baffled you how tall and buffed he was -- he could surely pass for an adult. Adult that should have no interest in girl your age, but here he was. With that intense gaze, sheepish smile and hands that quickly found their way to your hips.

"Brought you something," he whispered, reaching into his back pocket.

He slowly reached closer, his breath brushing against your cheeks, as his hand slipped in the back pocket of your jeans, tucking something in. Only then, he pulled away, hands still resting dangerously close to your body.

"Your friend told me you're coming in September," he smiled. "Figured we could finish what we started."

In that moment, you were stone cold sober.

"I think you should go," you mumbled, rubbing your fingers. "The cops and everything.."

You had to find an easy way to let him down. Words from people like him, especially the fabricated ones, travelled faster than one would have wanted.

But he turned out to be too persistent for your abilities.

"Seriously, you're gonna get in trouble," you chuckled, as forcibly as one could, to shake off the fear.

He laughed, shaking his head.

The false care was the right string to pull, as he became more curious of the sounds coming from the living room. The voices layered over each other, mostly coming from the cops and their walkie-talkies.

He turned around, one last time -- and the second his face lowered to your height, the worst flew over your mind, as the fear squeezed you like a ball.

For the first time in your life, you found yourself wishing to throw up.

Right into his face, right all over him.

end of the trigger warning part

"What the hell are you doing here?"

But perhaps, digestive problems could have been postponed.

When you found officer Miller standing by the kitchen entrance.

Officer Miller.

You were not sure whether it was the alcohol or the bizarre nature of this situation, but there was an urge to laugh over this phrase.

How absurd, you thought, that of all people, your mother would decide to date a police officer? The more you thought about this, the more you reassured yourself that he, truly, was not her usual type.

Whether it was a good or bad thing depended on the following twenty minutes.

The obtrusive boy gave you one last, nightmarish smile, before he followed your mother's vise out of the kitchen. You could not shake off the feeling his intrusive actions had left on you -- the eerie look on his face, the smile of winner. For awakening the fear.

You wished for this situation to disappear, cursing yourself for ever having such ideas.

After a while, the house fell into silence. The sirens outside the front door started to disappear, along with the heavy steps and chatters. You could not even think of the consequences that would follow this dreadful idea.

The urge to throw up arrived again.

And the kitchen sink turned out to be the only available option. So, naturally, within a second, every liquid your body had absorbed tonight, ended up exactly there.

There was no point in asking if this situation could have gotten any worse.

Because it could.

In the middle of cleansing your organs, whilst your hands were gripping the edges of the kitchen sink, you heard the slam of the front entrance, before a set of footsteps headed towards you.

It really could get worse.

Hair disheveled, mind on a rollercoaster and balance slowly disappearing into the night. Your already skilled friends knew how to throw a party -- just did not give you the manual of processing one. For a moment, you wondered whether your cheeks were splashed by the water, or perhaps, if those were tears, running down your neck.

Nothing about this night you wished to treasure. And you knew that what was about to follow -- was right behind.

Literally.

The pat on your shoulder startled you, almost hitting your forehead against the kitchen cabinet above. Slowly, turning off the faucet, you took a deep breath, trying to keep your existence in one place -- in all senses.

Knowing your current state -- Joel chose to be careful with the physical closeness, moving his hand away as soon as the room felt quiet again. Letting you turn away on your own, he stepped back, remaining focused, just in case your balance would decide to betray you.

"Get some more water," he mumbled, hands on his hips, as he watched you jump up on the cabinet. "That ain't smart, doin' this, y'know."

"Do I look like someone who makes smart decisions?" you hissed, wiping away the drops on your chin. Perhaps, the liquid courage was awaking, you thought.

Sigh escaped through his lips, now formed into thin line.

"Where's your mom?" he asked -- stepping into his police officer demeanor, frowning.

You chuckled, shrugging your shoulders, leaving him more confused than before.

"You don't know?" you looked up, mockery tone now swallowing your voice. "I'm surprised, considering you know more about her whereabouts than I do."

The sentence left a bittersweet taste in your mouth.

The frown has disappeared, as he stood there, noticing the shift in your attitude.

"Does she know?" he asked, after a moment.

The look in his face almost made you roll your eyes. It was the typical look of someone who was about to offer you a lecture no one had asked for. Considering your experience with your mother's temporary better halfs, Joel was just passing through. None of your mother's relationships passed the three months mark. He was about to be gone in a blink of an eye.

"Look, I am trying to help you--"

Now, there it was.

The sentence, all of them had practiced. The sweet-caring tone of his voice, the pitiful look in his eyes -- all of them were the same.

Or perhaps.

You could not bet on him.

"Okay," you mumbled, chuckling again. "Good for you."

Joel's frustration started to arise. You did not make it easy on him.

He shook his head, trying to maintain his patience.

"Listen, smart ass," he stepped closer, as the frown arrived again. Although, this time with disaffection. "An ounce of gratitude would not hurt you."

Bitting your lip, you got off the kitchen counter, now standing face to face with Joel. He was much taller, with broad shoulders -- he was the epitome of someone who tried to play the good cop.

"Okay, Joel," you whispered, deadly sarcastic.

It was a risky situation; you were well aware. But the events of this evening emptied the rest of your decency.

"Thank you for being such generous police officer, even though we both know your true intentions," you smiled and curtsied.

Now there it was.

The thin ice had been broken and Joel's patience ran over the edge.

"Excuse me?" he asked, offended.

"Excuse me," you whispered. "I've got a house to clean. So why don't you go ahead and give my mother a call? She'll be delighted."

Part of you knew that being this harsh could come back and bite you in the ass. Perhaps it was the defense mechanism -- your mother had never brought an exemplary man into your life. And if they happened to resemble one and you chose to believe it, they vanished into the thin air before you knew it.

You could not settle with the thought of Joel being an exception.

For your own good -- for the high hopes you would be willing to give him.

Joel stared at you for a little, without uttering a word. Which, you chose as an opportunity to leave this conversation for good.

But it took one step in your condition, for you to fall on your knees.

Howls of pain escaped through your lips.

And two steady hands pulled you back before you managed to smack your face against the cold, kitchen tiles.

"Fuck!"

Curse words were flying left and right, though Joel had decided to ignore that. He could have paid you back -- which you were kind of expecting. Instead, with one swift move, you were back on your feet, with Joel being the one responsible for your balance.

The world around became slightly dizzy. And, for a moment, it felt as though your limbs were made out of Jell-O. The funny bubbling in your stomach made you laugh.

"I think I am gonna throw up."

Was the last thing you whispered, before leaning against the floor, letting the remaining bits of alcohol depart on the tiles.

It was Joel who, once again, caught you in the last minute.

"You really are a fuckin´ pain in the ass, kid."