#rebelarc

buy yourself some pimento cheese, and some white bread. you take 2 slices of bread, and, you spread, the correct amount of cheese, like so. then, you close, and you're done. congratulations.

“ woahhhh ! hold on, ” he stalls, digging past a cardboard box or two, “ wait a minute - ” how could he have been so careless. at the very back, slightly wrinkled but as pristine as the day it found him, lies a humble pile of suede.

❛  i  don’t  care  about  your  stupid  jacket .  ❜ / @rebelarc

there's a brief struggle as his sweatshirt is tugged over his head and replaced by the old relic. “ this, ” steve huffs, “ is no ordinary jacket. shame on you. ” no need to look her way — her eyes can be felt boring a hole through the back of his head. waiting, perhaps, for the thought process to spill out so they can move on with their day.

She tried the kind and gentle approach; tried giving him space when that made him cringe. When they couldn’t keep their distance from each other — who were they kidding, really ? — she tried finding the humor in it. God knows that’s what he would have done if the roles were reversed. You just couldn’t get enough of me, could you ? Bring it in, buddy. So her judgment is harsh to the ear. It’s supposed to be, having tried everything else for him and failed.

Eyes on the red glow of the sun as it dips below the trees, Steve twists his cigarette into the ashtray sitting on the step between them.

“ Don’t. ”

Because it’s been a nice night. Because laughter pains him less and less, ignoring the indulgence that makes this possible ( there’s been less of that, too, or doesn’t she believe him ? ). Because he’s here to watch the sun set with his dearest friend, and isn’t that good enough ? It would be enough for him, and in fact . . .

“ When you were losing your shit over Laurel, you still got to talk to her. You got to make sense of it. ” A click of the tongue, a shake of the head. It comes with a rush of adrenaline — fear of his own bravery, or whatever this is. How brave is he for saying it when he can’t even look at her ? When all he can do to stop his hands from shaking is dig the lighter out of his pocket. “ What do I get ? ” The question is barely a mumble, stifled further by the balancing act — click, click, click, all light and no smoke. “ I mean, the hell do you want me to do ? Just snap out of it ? ” Click. “ There. ” He sits back uncomfortably, waving vaguely at the point trying to be made: “ I’m a changed man. ”

Someone else’s voice can be heard so clearly if he listens. It’s no wonder that it comes to him now, giving him another reason to be furious with it: Play nice, honey. Steve imagines an ever-accompanying wink — and although his eyes sting at the memory, he keeps them open so as not to let that picture develop any further. It’s only in the dark that it can.

 “ Yeah, I'll pass. ” Of course, like her, he could feel the days of uselessness finally catching up with him. It started with the gnawing at his insides — easier to ignore in private. When his stomach protests again, no doubt Robin can hear it. Unlike him, though, she must not be thinking of the movie they just watched: Alex P. Keaton, or whatever-his-name-is, disappearing from the family photo like he never existed. That's what hunger will do to him if he isn't careful.

Yeah, yeah, right, anyways . . .

It hasn't. He eyes the bowl of fruit on the table — bananas and apples and peaches, all purchased before the world fell to shit again. Not that long ago. Their days of uselessness are only just starting to show, bruising and puckering the skin. The very first signs of rot.

He watches her toss a yellow peel into the trash, followed by a second. Too quick. All those weeks in the Scoops trenches have perfected her technique: vanilla, chocolate, hot fudge already drizzled—

story interrupted,  it takes him a second to hear her properly. She says something that sounds sympathetic — the right tone, the right tilt of the head when he turns to face her — and to her credit, it’s probably sincere. But his eyes narrow on her.  “ Really helpful, Robin, ”  he deadpans,  “ thank you. Last time I open up about anything. ”  

Seriously, he means to add, but he realizes he’d be lying. 

Catastrophic as she tends to be, Robin has a talent for saying the right thing. And in all earnestness, given or not, he does tend to feel better. Which is why he goes on, ignoring the chime of the front door and any patron expecting a greeting.  “ Like, it’s gotta be me, right? ‘Cause Linda’s great. There’s nothing wrong with Linda, so what the hell’s my problem, you know? At least if it was— ”  he waves his hand as he recalls her phrasing, “ —flesh-eating shit, maybe then I’d get it. Maybe. ”  

They’ve been over this before, though:  “ they ”  being a slight exaggeration. He’s been over this as she’s done her best to take his supposed worst fears seriously.  (Just last week beating himself up over Debbie and how he could stop returning her calls if he really loved her, so maybe he didn’t, and maybe he’ll never love again — a terrifying thought — and I get it Steve, but I do think I’d put tortured by Soviet agents a bit higher on the list of terrifying thoughts.)  So this time, he feels the need to make an admission.  “ I realize none of this is world-ending, by the way. It just… well, you get it. ”

It sucks. Maybe only in the normal, growing-up sort of way, but there’s something oddly comforting about that. Aside from the things they typically don’t talk about, mall included, they’re just normal kids. He doesn’t really have to worry about dying alone. Because either of them could have. Because neither of them did.