Samson Frisk

“I would certainly appreciate it,” she responded, her voice still cold as ice. While she wished to toy with him further, she did wonder just what these pastries tasted like if he was willing to keep the shop open just so more people could get to them. What harm would it do to try, especially if he was willing to open it up just for her?

At his question she let out a chuckle, the only hint of warmth she was going to allow herself in front of this stranger. Even then, the sound that came out was perhaps one people would prefer not to have to listen to. “Nicely observed, yes. It appears this place decided to take me just as I was running out of places to go. Convenient, if not for the fact it seems I cannot leave.” 

In more comfortable circumstances she might have offered a hand, though this time she decided to do away with the formality. “Anastasia. You’d do well to remember the name, I plan to make sure people around here hear it often.” The best way to make her mark on this town was to show everyone in it just who she was, then perhaps whatever forces were keeping her here would think twice before denying her again.

“Anastasia.” He smiled, unlocking the door and flipping on the lights, holding the door for her, “Nice to meet you. I’m Samson, welcome to The Mix-Up... I didn’t name it.” He added, chuckling. He let the door close behind her, going around the counter to grab his apron and quickly tie it on, grabbing a pair of gloves. “What can I get you?”

He motioned towards the display before him, there weren’t a lot of pastries left, and those that were there were already covered by plastic wrap. But everything still looked appetizing in the glow of the light.

It was far easier to simply let Samson speak on his word. He could eat the (frankly, delicious) pastry, and the boy could speak on his recent work and the shop in general, and perhaps then Peter could feel better about this entire interaction. Because it had not at all been what he was expecting it to be. He had expected Samson to yell at him, maybe throw things at him and tell him to get the hell out of his shop. Which, in fairness, Peter would have taken in stride. It would have made sense if that had been the boy’s reaction. Hell, Peter thought that he might have preferred that to be the boy’s reaction. Not pleasant conversation and free food.

Though, the pit in his stomach reminded him that he shouldn’t be looking free food in the mouth when he could barely keep track of the last time he’d eaten more than a couple of bites of something. If pressed about it, he could lie and say that he had been busy. Between the horror event at the Preview and the general work that running the theater on a day to day basis brought, being busy wasn’t exactly a lie. But the listlessness that he often felt made taking a pause and remembering basic needs rather difficult. It was neither here nor there, though. There was no reason to bring it up, or even think on it, too much. He was fine.

He managed to choke a bit, however, when Samson spoke again, and took a moment to cough the crumbs that lodged themselves into his throat, head shaking rapidly. “Doing okay.” He repeated, tone full of disbelief as he stared at Samson, sure that his facial expression must look to the boy like he’d grown three extra heads suddenly. Because anyone who knew Peter, even a fraction, would know that he and ‘okay’ were not ever in the same room. Sure, that was mostly his own fault, because he refused to be okay on general principle, but lately, he’d been… lying and saying that he was okay.

But, as Samson had clearly already pointed out, he was rather bad at that. “You are aware that you’re talking to me, right? Peter? Werewolf with so many issues that I rival Vogue magazine? I’m a literal monster, my best frie–” Peter felt his voice crack, dip for a moment, and he had to close his eyes to force back the emotion. “–former best friend hates me and I can’t even talk to you without it being weird, and I’m apparently your ‘fuck boy’. No, as you pointed out before, I’m not okay. But I’ve never been okay, have I, so what does it matter? Don’t answer that.” 

The pastry was gone almost as quickly as the mood shifted in the room once more. If emotions could physically slap you, Samson would have backed away from the force at which the words lashed out from Peter, eyes wide. He was too fucking high for this. He shook his head, trying to gather his own thoughts among the chaotic emotions now flinging themselves about the room, an ache beginning behind his temple as the man’s voice cracked. God, what was he supposed to do here? He opened and closed his mouth a few times, simply trying to parse through the tidbits of information fed to him, trying to think of anything he could say or do that wouldn’t just result in another disaster.

Anger was beginning to roil up in his chest, unwanted and unwilling. It felt like it was choking him as it bubbled beneath his throat, and he could feel his fingers tense on the fabric of his apron, feeling the threads pull. He quickly moved his hands to the counter, on the edge of the display case, not wanting to tear apart the apron as he felt the telltale itch of claws wanting to spring out from his fingertips. Clenching his jaw, he breathed in through his nose, trying to calm himself down from an unwelcome shift.

Peter felt his jaw tense, ever so slightly. A bolt of annoyance at Samson’s words, at the fact that they had hit him at all, gotten him angry for a moment before he managed to reign it in. Why should he be angry? It wasn’t as if what the boy was saying was any great surprise. Of course he was allowed to feel something about the whole thing. That didn’t mean that he wanted to feel anything about it. He was sick of feeling upset, sick of feeling sick, sick of feeling miserable and mad and every other bad thing that just kept drilling into him. How many things had he messed up at this point? He had cut Kolya completely out, closed the door in the man’s face when he had probably needed him, wanted him, the most. 

He had ignored Samson for as long as possible to avoid the feelings that went along with seeing him, and with the entire ordeal. He had proven time and time again that people shouldn’t rely on or count on him, and still thought that he could just come waltzing into their lives anyway. Maybe the wolf wasn’t the thing that made Peter the monster. Maybe that was the man. 

“I am aware that I’m allowed to feel things, but what’s the point in it?” He hadn’t intended for his voice to have the bite behind it, but it came out anyway, and he offered a soft sigh, head shaking a bit. “Sorry. Perhaps I am… upset. I’m working on getting over it.” A hand came up, pressed against the bridge of his nose for a moment. It was all so stupid. He missed his best friend, or whatever it was that they had become, and he missed not feeling like absolute garbage every moment of every day. Sure, he had always spent at least 60% of his days feeling like absolute garbage, but he always had that 40% to look forward to. “Whatever it was, it’s… It doesn’t matter anymore.”

An eyebrow lifted when the boy offered the pastry free, and he opened his mouth to protest. His hand reached out mechanically to grab the bag, and he hesitated for a moment. “Thank you. Though I do wonder how you plan to keep a business running if you give away free things.” Biting his lip, he snatched his hand back quickly. He was unsure what to really say now, and he cleared his throat, ripped the bag back a bit to take a bite of the thing. “Oh… Oh, that is good. You’ve still got it, Samson. Is that apricot?” 

He had to physically bite his own tongue to stop himself from coming out with some more ill-received advice, teeth digging in and drawing blood. Maybe he should be more careful about things like that. He barely flinched, however, and instead offered what he hoped was a sympathetic but neutral enough smile. It was hard to tell where he should be on the subject, and honestly, he wasn’t sure where to even begin trying. But what he kept learning was he should just not speak, ever, and Peter would probably be better off. At least they seemed to be moving past the subject once more.

He couldn’t help the slight chuckle as Peter dug into the pastry, pride welling up in his chest despite the uncomfortable air he seemed to be so good at creating. “Well, I don’t give away free things to everyone, for one. And it helps to be one of the only bakeries in the immediate area.” He laughed, shrugging, “And yes. Apricot. I haven’t worked with it in a while, and I’ve had a lot of...” Time on his hands? “Ideas lately. I have at least three or four new things a day right now, and I rotate them all out the next day. It gives me something to do while I get this place under control, and it keeps people coming in despite the change in ownership.”

His fingers tapped along the side of his leg, catching on his apron and tugging on it. He was getting antsy, standing in one place. It had honestly been a while since he had been stuck talking to someone one on one that wasn’t Evie, and she already knew enough that he didn’t have to parade through normalcy with her. He’d definitely have to give Jasper a call soon because after the stress and self-doubt he was running himself through with this interaction, he would probably be digging into his supply before he even closed the shop. Not a good idea, but he didn’t seem to have many of those outside of baking lately. He just hoped that however Peter was dealing with this, it was better than him. 

“I... I hope you’re doing okay, Peter. Outside of all of this.” Damn it. He couldn’t just let it be, could he.

It took a moment, a moment too long, to school his features into something flat, something indifferent. To smooth out the lines in his forehead and let his face fall completely blank. To wash away that hurt and replace it with that all too familiar feeling of nothing that he’d been working on lately. It was like a warm blanket that he wrapped around himself, the numb indifference, and once he’d fully embraced it, he simply offered a shrug of his shoulders. “It doesn’t matter.” His tone had even fallen flat, and that was probably for the best. Feelings were the bane of his existence, too much trouble for what they were worth. Hell, even the mutt didn’t snarl as much in his head when he embraced that feeling of nothing.

He didn’t allow his expression to crack, even as Samson started speaking again, keeping that mask of indifference as his eyes moved to examine the display case, to look over all of the pastries displayed there. They looked good, which wasn’t a surprise. Samson was a good baker. He was good at what he did. Of course his display would look mouthwatering and delicious. The baker boy should be proud. “I’m sure that when he’s over whatever mid-century crisis he’s currently having, he’ll understand. Probably forgive you.” He wondered if he should be worried about that flat tone of voice. It was far too easy to use once he’d allowed himself to sink into it, even with the tugging and jerking and pulling in his chest, the way his skin crawled at the lifeless feeling. “Besides, you were protecting a loved one. You should never feel bad about protecting something important to you.”

Those words were enough to break his mask, just for a moment, to make him wince. As if Peter had any understanding of protecting something important to him. He shattered anything that meant even a fraction of something to himself.

Another sigh left him, though he tried to regain that mask of indifference as he nodded toward one of the pastries in the case. It looked new, and more importantly, it looked good. He couldn’t ignore his clawing, empty stomach forever. “How much for that one. It looks good.” After a moment, he decided to respond to what Samson had actually said, however. “I’m fine. Good health, decent turnouts at work. Absolutely nothing to complain about. I almost feel as if I should be insulted for that dig at my appearance.” He did his best to crack a playful smirk, though he felt it straining around the edges. It was better than nothing. He was trying. Trying to bring that bravado of cocky, amused, confident. “I’m under no obligation to do anything, you’re absolutely right.” Finally, he looked at Samson again, almost pointedly, though he was aware that a bit of the strain shone through. “So I suppose I’m not here out of obligation, but a genuine desire to be. You shouldn’t assume things, Mr. Frisk.”

Samson pursed his lips, watching as Peter schooled himself into the perfect emotionless statue before his eyes. While his own empathy had wandered off somewhere, he was still a very perceptive person, especially when it came to people he happened to have a crush on. Sadly, along with his empathy, a lot of his tact had also left the building, and he couldn’t exactly stop himself from speaking his mind.

“Wow, you’re worse at hiding things than I am. You’re allowed to be upset, you know. The whole situation sucks, and he is... was your best friend. It’s okay to let yourself feel things.” He did manage to stop himself from rolling his eyes, wincing slightly after the words left his mouth, hanging awkwardly in the air between them. He jumped on the opportunity to change the subject, dropping the towel into a small cloth hamper near the kitchen door and quickly washing his hands before slapping on a pair of gloves.

“Free. You haven’t been in for a while, and I still need to prove to you I’m a better baker than a teenager at a carnival.” He ducked behind the display, eyes wide as he mentally berated himself. He really wasn’t doing well here, and honestly, when did he ever seem to do well around Peter? He was a walking disaster and the man seemed to amp up his rating from spilled milk to train wreck. He grabbed the pastry and a waxed bag, placing it gently inside before hesitantly standing once more and holding it out to Peter.

i often question myself is this what i want

and if he were i know what he’d say

that life’s beautiful just look and see

hold onto your heart and show the world that you are

Date: Summer, 2007 || Summer, 2012 || Fall, 2016 || Winter, 2018 Location: Teakettle Falls, WA || On the Road || Blainsville, GA || Ashbourne, ?? TWs: Self hatred, homophobia, drug use, sex work

Prompt:  “In all aspects of life, we take on a part and an appearance to seem to be what we wish to be–and thus the world is merely composed of actors.”  ― François de La Rochefoucauld

Word Count: 757

She also tell you the part where she almost attacked me in my office?

But that bit stayed in Peter’s head, the only sign of his thoughts the way his eyes narrowed the slightest bit. He couldn’t fault the girl, not really. She hadn’t necessarily been wrong. Still, he was pretty lucky that the girl hadn’t taken a bite out of him, lucky that the girl hadn’t left him a bleeding corpse in his own office. He wouldn’t have blamed her for it, wouldn’t have even been mad at her for it. Hell, if she had gotten that far, he wouldn’t be feeling anything at all anymore anyway. 

A harsh sigh left him through his nose and he reached up to run a hand through his hair. It was greasier than normal, a testament to how long it had been since he’d had a shower. The smells in the bakery didn’t help his empty stomach, either, and the growl that left it was almost embarrassing. Eyes darted around the room for a moment, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling in him, unable to really look at Samson as he spoke. 

Truth was, he didn’t want to hear any more about that night. That had been the worst night of his so far rather short life. But the boy just kept going, talking about how he could have killed the vampire, how he would have, and his eyes closed against the idea, blocking out the words to the best of his ability by digging his nails into his palm again, harder than before. He could feel his hand getting a bit sticky, and realized he’d made himself bleed. Fucking great. He would just keep his hand in his pocket, then. 

One thing stuck with him, though, and he let out a quick woosh of air before he finally spoke up. “Was. He was my best friend. I don’t believe we’re on speaking terms any longer.” It was so hard to get the words out, he was almost positive that it would be clear to the baker boy that he was still rather hurt by the whole thing. He’d driven the man away, allowed him to go waltzing out of his life. That had been Peter’s choice, to tell the man to go. His own regret at the action didn’t matter. “And I am well aware of what you did. I… saw it for myself.” A hand came up, pinched at the bridge of his nose under his glasses. 

“I’m not upset. Not with you, anyway. You should be upset with me, though. For not checking in, even knowing about the attack.” A pause, and he opened his mouth again, closed it, finally. “I’m sorry.”

He should really stop talking about it, it was obvious by the look on Peter’s face that he didn’t want to hear about it. But he couldn’t. Normally so careful not to offend, so empathetic to how others were feeling, Samson was closed off from the guilt he should have felt in the moment. But the topic was coming to an end, and he couldn’t stop himself from raising an eyebrow as Peter admitted the distance between him and the vampire.

“I... I see. I’m sorry about that. I can see you aren’t very happy about it.” He stated, biting his lip. And he could tell. The way Peter said it, the way he looked as he did. He was heartbroken. It made his heart squeeze, and a sour feeling began to build in the pit of his stomach. He was so goddamn selfish, wasn’t he? Peter was hurt, and he could only sit here and think about how awful his own life was. At least he had something to numb the pain.

Speaking of which, had he been blinking? Could Peter tell if he wasn’t blinking enough? He blinked a couple times to make up for it just in case, a small flurry of fidgeting going through his body. He grabbed a towel from under the counter, wiping the crumbs off his hands, fingers tugging at rag. “And I’m sorry for what I did, as well. You may not be upset with me, but I am upset with myself. I’m not proud of it. I don’t... I don’t like hurting people...” He trailed off, knowing enough to not bring the topic back to life.

“It’s... It’s fine, Peter. You, ah... don’t look great, so I know you’ve been dealing with everything on your end. So don’t worry about it.” He frowned, the emotion a little more clear in his voice, a little less muddled, “You’re under no obligation to worry about me.”

“Well… Good to see you, too, I suppose.”

Something bitter had wormed it’s way into Peter’s chest, that aching feeling making him immediately defensive as he watched Samson. The boy looked like he would rather Peter be anywhere else in the world than standing in his bakery, and some part of the werewolf tugged at him to just turn on his heel and walk right the fuck out of there without further comment. Why bother? Clearly, it was time to snap this rubber band, as well, let it fly back and snap him in the face, complete the cycle and go back to isolation and casual acquaintances. 

Who needed friends anyway.

His hands curled in his pockets, fingernails biting hard into the skin of his palms to ground him in that bit of pain. That control helped to keep his feet firmly planted where they were, watching the boy collecting the fallen treats with little more than passing interest. It was quite clear that the baker boy was upset with him. This was going to end badly, might as well get it over with.

“I hired your sister.”

The words were simple, spoken without the question to accompany them, and he lifted his shoulders into a shrug. “She’s a nice girl. I’m glad that she’s alright after the attack.” A pause, long, a bit too long. “I’m glad you’re alright as well. Can’t imagine it was a very fun fight to be in. Ko–” Cutting himself off, Peter closed his eyes for a moment. “He certainly looked worse than I’ve ever seen him. I’m— sorry that I didn’t reach out sooner. Suppose I assumed that you wouldn’t want to see me, considering the actions of my…. Of him.”

He didn’t rise from the ground, pausing in his quest to clean the buns from the floor to take a breath. He was too high for this. Too high to be around Peter right now, after all the craziness that had happened, after the literal hurt of being ignored for just over a week. He knew about the attack, Samson knew he did, and this proved it. But... he hadn’t expected the hurt to get any worse. But who was he to think he deserved the attention?

“I heard. She’s extremely proud of herself for getting the job, and I’m happy for her. She’s dedicated, so I know she’ll be a good employee.” He continued to gather the buns, letting them drop onto the tray and picking it up off the floor once he was done, putting the ruined treats on the counter unceremoniously to discard of after. Would Peter be able to tell her was high? V didn’t exactly have a tell. He finally looked at him, looking him over. He looked... sad. Broken, almost. And hurt. He ignored the petulant, childlike voice inside that called him a hypocrite. The downside. Highs were high, lows were low, and he couldn’t really control that.

“I’m glad she is alright, too. She healed up pretty well, the bites on her neck are almost invisible now if you aren’t looking for them.” He was glad she was okay, as there had been a moment he was absolutely terrified he would lose her, “She held her own pretty well for someone who hadn’t ever been in a situation like that before, but I ah... I took care of most of it.” Not that you’d guess, looking at him. Samson didn’t have a scratch on him, aside from the scars left over from his run-in with some wayward kidnapper. Aside from having lost some weight, he didn’t really look like a person who had been in a fight at all.

Eyebrows shot up when Peter gave his reasoning for not stopping by. Samson wanted to bring up the fact that he could have texted, or called, knowing he likely hadn’t based on the fact that it hadn’t been brought up. Samson was prompt in responding, and even Peter would have mentioned it if he noticed he hadn’t replied. “You... you think I’m mad at you for what Kolya did?” He laughed, shaking his head, “I know he’s your best friend. I was more concerned you’d never want to talk to me again. Peter, I tore him apart. I could have killed him, and I would have for what he did to my sister. But that isn’t on you.”

No, he wasn’t mad at Peter. He was hurt, of course he was hurt. He had placed himself at a place of higher importance even though he knew Peter would be upset with him for what he’d done. But he wasn’t mad at the man. No, he was ashamed with himself, for so so many things. But mainly, he just didn’t want Peter to know he had let it all drive him back to the same hole he’d dug himself so many years before. But it didn’t seem he’d have to worry about that. The man didn’t know him that well, so it would be fine.

“I wouldn’t blame you for being upset.”