#ft. foster

FOSTER Once he'd been left in the apartment alone, Foster's first priority was unpacking his duffel of notebooks. A test run of the shower, a rough trim up of his beard, and the first clean clothes in too long followed, before Foster let himself out to wander Redwood before sunset. Taking the worn path west, Foster was almost immediately looking through windows of a book store - library? It felt perfectly sensible for the surrounds, and completely surreal. Like muscle memory, Foster circled to the door, observing the cold of the door handle, the weight of opening it. Real. Even the smell inside, the wood of the shelves, the aged paper - it gave Foster the same nostalgia an old song might. How many hours had he spent in spaces like this? He ran his fingers along spines, drifting and grounding. A book selected at random and Foster leaned a hip against the desk, flipping idly through pages.

LUCIEN The library had been empty for a couple of hours, leaving Lucien alone with a half finished book and a half finished meal. Conditions that once felt ideal had lately begin to feel slightly suffocating, somewhat between his own injuries, his brother’s fragile state and the constant sense of impending doom hanging over the town- he couldn’t exactly pinpoint when solitude stopped offering the solace it once did, but the quiet had gradually become deafening. He left his desk and headed for the small room in the back, where he kept some essentials and put on the kettle- his excuse was that he drank so much tea and coffee that it only made sense to have the equipment at hand, but the truth was that going up and down the stairs to his apartment felt like a burden too heavy to carry just for some more chamomile. With the filled up mug at hand he returned, only to find someone leaning against the wood, lost in the pages of a book, a tall bearded man he hadn’t seen before. “New in town, I presume? Welcome to Redwood’s library.”

FOSTER If the doubling of past and present hadn't been there already, it certainly dropped into place at that voice. Foster could hear that same voice asking for chapter reviews, another wine, which tie was best and that things just weren't going to work out.

Stupidly, quietly, Foster answered, "You finally gave up on contacts." Of all the things to say, of all the times he'd brooded over what he should have - could have - said? That was the sparkling opener he went with.

He held the book tight, an impromptu comfort item. "Sorry, yes. New."

LUCIEN At first, he was confused at the stranger's words. What kind of contacts was he even talking about? And then he took a longer look at him, through the glasses that he could always see better out of but refused to wear. Very few people knew that, but as it turned out he wasn't much of a stranger after all.

And then, it was chaos. The mug fell out of his hands without even realizing that his hand had gone limp in surprise, shattering into a hundred pieces at his legs, the tea making a mess of his pants that were just thick enough to save him from a rather serious burn. He tried to lean down to fix it, but a pain shot through his whole right side at the movement, making him grab tighter onto his cane to no follow the glass in shattering on the ground.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, partly out of pain, partly out of embarrassment. "Foster?" He looked at him with wide eyes, wondering if this was all some kind of dream, thinking that making such a fool of himself would have been enough to wake him up. "How… What are you doing here?" he asked, stupidly, childishly."

FOSTER Muscle memory moved him, book abandoned on the desk. He tutted, "Ah, Lou. Hang on," and stepped around the shattered pieces. Moving directly past Lucien in the direction he'd appeared. "Broom back there? Towel?"

He paused in the doorway, hand braced on the frame and back to the rest of the room. God, years apart and it was still Foster's instinct to step in and handle things.

The cane was new, the reaction time slow. Foster reconsidered. "Do you need to sit before that gets cleaned up?"

LUCIEN He stayed frozen for a second or two, still mesmerized by Foster's presence in a room he had not dared to ever imagine him in, jumping to action like he always did at times of crisis. But as the man moved, his thoughts started moving as well, wandering and wondering about what his old friend might be thinking of him, standing there unmoving and helpless, waiting for someone else to save the day.

"I don't need to sit down," he exclaimed, like a child being asked whether maybe it's time to go to bed. Decisively, and powered through sheer adrenaline, he walked to the back room, pausing only momentarily next to Foster, trying not to stare too much, hoping he wouldn't disappear.

He grabbed a towel and an old dustpan whose handle had been broken long ago, forcing him to lean down on his good leg to pick up the broken glass. He winced in pain, glad he had his back turned, knowing all this action would come back to haunt him eventually, but not really caring. "Of all the ways I've imagined meeting you again, this was most definitely not on the list. I'm not dead, am I?"

FOSTER He watched, leaned against the wall with arms folded. Lucien was determined to prove some vain point, and Foster knew better than to get in the way of that dervish. Even if he wished, it was no longer his place.

"You imagined me?" That, Foster realized, was not the kindest question. It was his illogical, old and unaddressed hurt talking. To cover, Foster laughed at the idea of Lucien being dead. "This is neither Brontë nor Dickens, Lou. Neither of us is here to haunt the other."

LUCIEN Lucien stood up with a grunt and turned to face Foster with a pain in his eyes that he couldn’t quite conceal, but would probably blame on the strain he had put upon himself.

“I didn’t mean it in a haunting kind of way,” he said and left it there. The fact that he didn’t see Foster as the ghost of a hurtful past did not mean that the same applied vice versa.

“How are you?” he asked earnestly, no matter how stupid it sounded.

FOSTER Some things didn't change. Lucien was as dramatic as he'd ever been, for better or worse. Foster'd been under the impression Redwood was a place for surviving together. Which implied Lucien was specifically rejecting Foster.

"Currently? Uncomfortable." He pushed away from the doorway. "Feels like I shouldn't be here, Lou. Like I'm breaking a rule."

LUCIEN An alarm went off in his head at Foster's words, one that he had long forgotten to be there, detecting the awkwardness in the air between them, blaring that something was wrong and should be fixed. If only he knew how to fix it, if only he hadn't been the one to break it apart.

"Here in Redwood or here in the library? Because making you feel unwelcome in a library comes with a guilt I can't quite bear," he gave a sad half-smile, leaning against the desk for support, refusing to listen to his body and sit down, afraid that he would ruin whatever fragile balance was building between them.

FOSTER He rubbed his face with one hand, his laugh dry. "C'mon, don't do that." As if that was the line in the sand.

It was a defensive gesture, but Foster crossed his arms. "We're adults, Lou." God knew surviving the last few years had been a hell of a lot harder than heartache. "I'd be just as uncomfortable in the street or on a plane or… some hotel lobby. Because it's you, and because of the way things ended." Dancing around it wasn't going to make it less true.

LUCIEN "God, this is so weird," he said with another chuckle, in the least humorous and least religious way imaginable. He finally pulled out the chair from behind the desk to sit down, stretching out and rubbing his right thigh to numb the pain, with a newfound sense of embarrassment that he tried to ignore.

"I understand that you hate me," he admitted, the words bitter in his mouth. "But we found each other at the end of the world," 'my love,' he almost instinctively adds, the sound of his old nickname making him want to use his as well, but accepting that he relinquished that right long ago. "You can choose to ignore my existence, but if you ever want to talk through this bizarre serendipity, I'll be here. It's not like I can go very far, anyway," he said, gesturing to his general state.

FOSTER "Stranger things, I'm sure." Foster watched Lucien ease himself into the chair, rub his leg. It was his nature to care, but Lucien hadn't even let him help with a broken cup. Hadn't wanted help. All he could do was observe.

"You-" Foster caught himself, pulled back. For a writer, Lucien certainly struggled to understand words when in a mood. Foster said uncomfortable and Lucien turned it into hateful. What did he think Foster was doing, if not talking about it?

He rubbed the back of his neck, calming mindfully. "The state of you. How'd it happen?"

LUCIEN The state of you, Foster said, and even though that’s how Lucien thought about it just moments ago, the sting was there. He hated that he had to see him like this- he was never good at drowning out his troubles in front of him, but knowing that now it was practically impossible made a part of him want to run away. Again.

He didn’t. Instead he reached out with his cane and latched it on a chair on the other side of the desk, swiftly dragging it closer to them and gesturing for Foster to sit down and join him on this trip down memory lane, to fill in the many gaps that were left open in their history.

“The short version is that I got impaled by a tree branch while running away from zombies. The long version would require some more time,” he said, offering him the option to refuse, hoping he wouldn’t.

FOSTER "You're good with that thing," Foster offered, something like a laugh punctuating the comment. He obliged Lucien, sitting to listen.

"Impaled? Jesus. How long ago?" It sounded like a miracle that Lucien had survived the encounter, especially with hospitals no longer an option.

LUCIEN He laughed back at his comment, swinging the cane around in his fingers absentmindedly, like he always did when his mind drifted off, almost an appendage of himself after all this time.

“A couple of years now. The people of Redwood put me back together and I’ve ended up running the library at the end of the universe. Very Douglas Adams of me, can’t complain,” he instinctively threw the literary reference, knowing Foster would bite. “And you? When did you make it out of DC?”

FOSTER "The council seemed sensible enough - I like the holding period. Is the medical care really that good?" Fortuitous for Lucien, indeed, and for everyone else.

"Mm, I don't know, I didn't hear one report of dolphins abandoning the planet." It was easy, now that they'd both acknowledged the discomfort. Now that Lucien set aside dramatics. Easy to speak civilly, to exchange their references. The elephant would sit politely in one corner if they let it.

Foster sat up a little straighter. "How did you know I was in DC?" He'd been unpacking in their newly-purchased home when Lucien so unceremoniously broke things off. An educated guess, maybe? Journalist going where the news was.

LUCIEN “I mean, they did the best they could,” he replied with a general gesture, still fairly self-conscious of being seen like this by him in particular. The people of Redwood knew him as nothing else, but the thought that Foster might see him as broken tugged at his heart with a force he had forgotten.

With a smile placed there by the acceptance of his bait, he pondered over his question for a moment, figured there was no point in lying, not when the universe had decided to throw them together again. “I read all your articles. Like I always did,” he said, matter-of-factly but with a hint of confession in his words. “I was in DC as well, trying to convince myself not to come find you when my group had to go on the run.”

FOSTER Clearly, this was a point of pride for Lucien. Functionality, appearance - it mattered to him now, and Foster wondered how much it had always mattered. If it were Foster, would he care as much?

The first instinct was to doubt. To ask why. But - under reactions, there was a kind of logic. Lucien had made his choice in a frantic state. Committed to it, never took it back while he could. But he'd follow the writing. "But you didn't," Foster sighed. Tired, but not accusatory. A resigned statement of fact.

Ruffling his hair, Foster managed a smile in spite of himself, however ironic. "Because that's how the story always goes, Lou. Could have. Didn't. Choices and consequences."

LUCIEN “But I didn’t,” he echoed, and it didn’t come with as much pain as he had expected it to. It came with a numbness and a relief and the constant wonder of having Foster across from him to speak these words to.

“I am not the same person who made those choices, those mistakes,” he said without thinking, or maybe after having thought for way too long, years and years, imagining what he could have done differently, what he would do in the hypothetical scenario of meeting him again. He owed it to everyone to put the hypothesis to the test. “I am older and more tired and in pain and so incredibly sorry that I hurt you,” he admitted, the words almost liberating. “You can believe as much of that as you like. The story chose to bring you here, but you can be the one to hang up the phone this time.”

FOSTER He listened, sympathized, understood. But, it made Foster so sad, right down the middle of him, that Lucien would think that way. "Ah, Lou," he sighed again, reaching to pat the hand of his old friend. "That's the thing I worry you don't understand. I'd never do that."

The sigh was brief, exhaled through the nose before Foster stood. "You'll want to clean those before they stain." He moved the chair back to where it had been, and hesitated there, hands on the back of it. "Thank you for the apology."

LUCIEN His hand still burned where it had been touched as Foster stood up and Lucien could almost hear his own heart break all over again. He wasn’t going to clean the spilled tea- maybe it is stained it would be a proof that this was real.

“Wait, Foster,” he said in an almost panic, hastily grabbing his cane and getting up with effort. Don’t leave, he wanted to say, scared that he would never see him again, like when he closed the door of their apartment, never to come back. “Do you want a book?” he said instead, knowing that if anyone could understand the meaning of that offering, it would be him. “For company, I mean. I know how lonely Redwood can get, especially when you’re new,” he explained, gesturing towards the bookcases behind them. “People here don’t appreciate Dostoevsky nearly enough.”

FOSTER He had to hold himself in place, hands firm on the chair. Lucien hadn't wanted help. So, he waited. "Philistines," Foster managed a laugh. Still, he shook his head, declining. "I don't think I'll be in a headspace to curl up with a book tonight, Lou. But I'll be back to see what's available. Another day."

LUCIEN "Another day," Lucien agreed with a nod, hoping he actually meant it. His knuckles were turning white, mirroring Foster's grip on the back of the chair. Fingers that were so used to being linked once, having to be desperately held back.

He held his gaze for a while, before a sound made it drift towards the back. His cat lazily landed on the wooden floor, sniffing the spilled tea, passing between Lucien's leg and cane, and then focusing on the strange presence in his home. He smelled Foster's shoes to test the waters, deemed him worthy enough and happily rubbed his back against his pants with a purr. "Gatsby!" Lucien scolded him, getting back just a brief look of indifference. "Feel free to shoo him away, he obviously doesn't listen to me," he explained apologetically.

FOSTER Foster's laugh was indulgent and immediate. He knelt to offer his hand. "It's a hug - when cats do that. He might not understand you scolding him for affection, Lou."

When the cat ignored his hand in favor of continuing the investigation of his shoes, Foster shrugged and stood once more. "Gatsby, not Gatz?" His question was for Lucien, but he tsked the feline. "You're on a rough course, pal."

LUCIEN "You know I've always been a sucker for a tragic ending," he said, but no matter how ominous it might have sounded, he couldn't help but smile at the sight of Foster with his cat, so mundane and heartwarming. "But this Gatsby is terrified of water and in no risk of getting shot, because everyone loves him."

"And he definitely likes you," he continued, wondering when the last time was that his own cat spent that much attention on him. "Which is perfectly on brand with you charming my pets."

FOSTER "Small mercies," Foster chuckled. The little beasty wound between his feet, and it was all too easy to imagine tripping over Gatsby repeatedly. "So is he the mascot or guard, then?"

The reference to Lucien's dog saddened Foster. "Heath, yeah. He stuck it out with me a long time. All my running around to cover the story and he'd keep up every step." Foster could only manage a sad smile. "You'd have been proud."

LUCIEN "He is my annoying roommate," was Lucien's immediate answer, like every other time someone asked about Gatsby and he tried to deny that the cat was his. "He lived here before me, so I couldn't exactly kick him out when I moved in," he continued, only to realize that a few parts of the story were probably missing. "Oh, yes. I live upstairs. So all those jokes about living in a library? I kind of made them come true."

The mention of Heathcliff made Lucien's heart break anew, in a way he had almost forgotten. "Sounds fitting," he said and contemplated not elaborating on the subject- a part of him wanted to believe that his dog was running around happily somewhere, with people that loved him as much as he did. He hoped he didn't feel like Lucien abandoned him, although a conversation about abandonment did not seem fitting between the two of them. "I hope he didn't suffer," he ends up with, the curiosity getting the best of him, even if he had to try hard to fight back the tears that were filling up his eyes.

FOSTER "No, he's not," Foster laughed. "You're the guy who moved into his place." Shaking his head, he couldn't smother the smile.

But the way Lucien's voice thickened, the emotion in it, hurt. "He didn't, I promise." Foster held his gaze, nodding to emphasize his words. "He was a lot of comfort to a lot of people, Lou."

LUCIEN "I'm sorry, I don't know what got into me," Lucien said, sniffling his nose and quickly wiping his eyes with his thumb. It was still his instinct to try to hide his weakness and he had been away from Foster for long enough to be able to resist the urge to instantly open up to him.

But that smile, he had missed it so much. "I'm really glad you're alive," he said before he could stop himself.

FOSTER "Feelings, that's all," he chided, but gently. "Which, one must remind one, all people experience." Again, Foster caught himself slipping so easily into their old patter. Slipping into a role that was no longer his.

Momentarily surprised, Foster ruffled his hair with both hands. "That's… good to hear." He hadn't doubt it, but hearing it was better. "I'm glad you're alive, too, Lou."

LUCIEN "Sorry, I-" he started again, but he figured out it was no use. They had gotten to the end of the world, the least he could grant himself was the freedom to say true things. "I will stop apologizing now," he said with a laugh, some invisible weight lifted off his shoulders.

"Let me know if you need any help with settling in," he offered, but quickly thought again. "Emotional support and questions about the town mostly, because it's not like I can carry things. And when you inevitably need books, because I know you will," he commented with a smirk, "we've got a wide variety. A couple even dedicated to you."

FOSTER Though he shook his head, Foster was smiling all the same. "Some things just don't change, do they?"

Tapping his fingers on the back of the chair, he laughed. "What - you kept writing after the third book? Or did someone write me into the acknowledgements of other books?" Foster glanced at Gatsby, although whether it was an accusation or hope for information was unclear. "I'll need books soon enough, and I said I'd come back, Lou. You don't have to entice."

LUCIEN "No, neither of those," Lucien laughed. "That was pretentious author talk for 'I have exactly two copies of my third book, one of which is currently held together purely through luck, good will, and my staring daggers at anyone who tries to touch it."

Even the scolding, he had missed. There was a bit of self-consciousness and embarrassment at Foster's words, but he chose not to apologize again. "I will see you around, then."