#98zhou

Zigmund— Zig— Callahan, was always too close for comfort. He was often considered a genius and he sure lived up to the title, afraid of being a fraud. He seemed to have an answer for everything; he had control over the chaos; he was the kind of guy who was always solving problems— except the one inside of him.

Shots of liquor and a phone call was enough to refurbish the memories he thought he'd long left behind. Is one still considered intelligent if they're programmed to choose flight instead of fight each and every time?

Zig's POV

"I'm gonna stop, I... I need to go home." I say sparingly as I down my presumably last shot. My eyes were sunken and my cheeks were flushed, the reflection of my relatively sober colleague merely fogged in my glasses the moment I sighed. I look like a mess. It was out of character for me to drink; I avoid chasing the taste or feeling of alcohol because I hate the aftermath of my terrible hangovers. So I don't indulge in it, I remind myself it's just another day. Only it wasn't; today was special. Today was the day I completed a successful experiment in the lab, one that took me an extensively long time to acquaint research for. As a chemist, and as a decently positive human being, these are the moments worth celebrating. And so celebrate I did.

I slur my words and my stomach remains hot as I set the shot glass down and let my gaze fall along with it. Absentmindedly, I rotate my wrists to gently stir the shot glass, watching the residue of hard liquor spiral much like the way my mind does. I've been unwell these past few months. I barely recognize myself at all. The only people I find myself talking to are Estelle, the friends I've made through work; a decent and respectable group of nerds, and Damon too, of course— before we fought. Now I try my best to occupy my life with work, allowing my disastrous life outside of the lab to remain untouched. I don't have to face it yet, right?

My colleagues continue the shift in turns to drink and I reach for my phone kept in my pocket, taking a little longer to enter my passcode as I try to fight back my drifting vision. My gut tells me this isn't a good idea; or at least it tells my stomach that. Then my brain. Then my heart. I can't see straight and the liquor starts to get brave inside of me, repainting the world around me and cutting the line of rationality right when I was at the peak of an important decision. This is bad.

"...Hello?"

"Hi! Hi Axel... I'm out right now..." I sigh, adjusting my glasses "It's so nice to hear your voice..."

"Zig? Are you drunk?" He asks, sounding more sure than I would've wanted.

I run a hand through my hair, glancing around at my coworkers who seemed to be enjoying themselves more than me. I pinch the bridge of my nose and sigh, "Doesn't matter..."

My muscles loosen and a smile forms on my lips. "I miss you, Axel." I blurt out. Before my mind tries to stop me; before my senses shut down. The red flags grow increasingly visible and the alarm sounds ring in my ignorant ears. Nothing seemed to matter, nothing seemed to feel like a bad idea anymore. I had Axel's voice again after a year. Silence fills the distance between us through the phone and I start to wonder if he ended the call.

"Zig, you're drunk." He says after clearing his throat as if those three words took him try after try to choke out.

"Axel..." , "Please, Zig. I can't do this right now. I'm hanging up."

I feel a pang in my chest and I answer almost immediately, "No! No— please— don't hang up on me... I want to hear your voice." I sound like a desperate and selfish child, pathetically begging for something he knows he doesn't deserve. That was exactly the case between Axel and I.

"Please, Axel, I want to make things right..."

"No, you don't. Zig, stop..."

He sounds more and more pained as he speaks, as if every word I say strikes a different nerve or tears open a different wound. Once again, there's silence from the other line and I take it as my own invitation to keep talking, hyperaware of the fact that what I'm doing is wrong, selfish, and irrational; and yet my body makes no effort to stop. I need an intervention.

"I want to see you so badly. I've been such an asshole and I want to see you— I need to see you. We can make this work, please, Axel—" I hardly process what I'm saying and where I'm going until I find myself outside the bar, slowly crouching to my feet and nodding my head down, tears streaming down my face like bullets in a crossfire. "Axel?" I sob. The line cuts. I feel myself growing dizzier and my knees weaken. I drop my phone and I blackout.

When I open my eyes, I find myself in my apartment. My head throbs and it forces me to sit up. All sorts of memories from last night scatter and fog inside my mind, all but the most important one. I let out a groan and look for my phone, finding it on the table beside my bed. One—or three of my coworkers must've brought me home. The aftermath of my idiocy makes my head spin even more and I find myself dreading the thought of going to work and facing those people again.

I get up and go on about my daily routine lackadaisically, my mind at an immobile rest. My mere surroundings made me sick and lethargic, I didn't want to leave the house and function like a normal human being. To my misfortune, errands needed to be done. I have to get my shit together somehow.

I get dressed for my one day off and get my phone, about to create a to-do list. That's when I'm immediately bombarded with previous texts from last night sent by Estelle, my coworker. I check my inbox, seeing if I have any other messages as if I were a bustling sensation when I reached rock bottom. And if I wasn't about to throw up before, I definitely was now. I look at my call history and see a number I know all too well, followed by the caller ID. Fucking hell. I called Axel?!

The horrors drift from my phone into a contorted mortified look on my face as I inevitably imagine all the things I might have said to him. Questions to questions flood my brain and I suddenly wish I could stop thinking. Because who would want to wake up knowing they just called the guy they never really let go of? This was bad.

Axel and I were meant to be history. I've spent the past year trying to convince myself that what happened between us was a mistake and I made the right decision of running away. He didn't deserve that call, not from me. He's the last person I should've dialed.

I feel sick to my stomach as I try to power through. I close my phone, writing my to-do list on a slip of paper instead, scribbling on it intently as if it were the only thing worth paying attention to. Fuck this. I don't have to face it yet, I don't. I won't let myself slip like I did last night. Because vulnerability was dangerous. Vulnerability meant losing control.

When I arrive at work the following day, I receive more looks than a usual morning greeting would warrant. I proceeded to work, tightly gripping the stirring rod as I mixed the solution. It didn't require thinking. It was precise, controlled, and simple enough as something I knew wouldn't screw up.

Estelle enters the lab, her bright voice loud enough to cut through the silence. "You're gonna burn a hole through that beaker."

Estelle was the coworker who helped me home along with a few others, and the one who nearly blew up my cell with messages asking about how I was. She was good company, not that it mattered to me right now.

"I'm fine." I reply with little to no emotion as I continue working, not bothering to look up. My gaze remains fixed on the chemical reaction and Estelle leans on the counter beside me, watching me for a beat before speaking again. "You sure? You've been running on autopilot for a week."

I lie through my teeth, "I've been busy." The excuse was thin and I know it, but I wasn't about to open up and talk about my feelings. Not to her, not to anyone.

Estelle's the only coworker I consider an actual friend, she's seen the other end of my professional side but remains unaware of what actually goes on inside my head, as things rightfully should be. Nobody needs to see through the cracks, I've pushed everyone far away enough. Estelle gives me a nod, "Just... careful, yeah? You're a walking stress ball."

"I'm fine." I repeat with more finality. She gives me another nod and doesn't press any further, letting the silence settle between us yet again as my thoughts begin to drift. My mind finds its way back to the phone call, trying to remember how drunk I sounded and how hurt— no, disappointed Axel did. At this time, it was all coming back to me in fragments. I'm a mess and Estelle was right to point it out. I wasn't here, I was elsewhere, I was there with Axel in the agonizing deepness inside my brain. The worst part lies with the fact that maybe I wanted Axel to hurt. I've worked so hard to keep my distance, to shut Axel out, to make sure nobody saw through the cracks.

But Axel already did, that was the problem. He's always been able to see right through me.

A soft sigh escapes my lips, and for a second, I feel my façade falter, just a fraction. But only a fraction.

I shake my head, dismissing the cloud of thoughts racing inside and I straighten my back. There was work to do. Problems to fix.

Precision.

Control.

That's all I need.