Lorne (
nomorekaraoke) wrote2010-08-10 10:30 am
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Entry tags:
- beth,
- dream plot,
- rp
[In Need of a Friend]
That morning, waking up was the most confusingly lovely thing he'd ever done. It was wonderful, and scary and thrilling at the same time, and it made him feel like something had sucked his heartbeat right up to his chest. It was so wonderful it left him feeling slightly giddy, ever so slightly nauseous with overwhelming excitement.
~*~
He's been smoking all day, walking around the place like he's a very antsy alarm clock just waiting to go off. He'll start screaming soon. If he stops moving, he'll start throwing things around and upset his neighbors, and he'll scream and then he won't know how to stop.
Maybe if he just keeps breathing, he'll be fine. Maybe the smoke will keep him warm enough that he doesn't notice just how empty his too big apartment is. But why stop there? Why not include his whole life into the equation?
Lighting up the last cigarette in his last pack of them, Lorne takes a long, unsteady drag and exhales. Even his breath sounds like death warmed over, and suddenly he's struck by another string of thoughts. His record's stuck on repeat: I don't want to be alone
I don't want to be alone!
I don't want to
He picks up his cell phone off the coffee table, going through his call log and picking out the only number he can trust. And what does he get for it? He gets the answering machine. 'Hi, this is Beth. You know what to do after the beep.'
"Beth, are you there? I didn't know who else to call...but I'm having a really bad day, and I'm not dealing very well, and I just think I need someone to talk to. I didn't know who else to call, I'm sorry if this is totally inappropriate, I just... Call me when you can, all right?"
~*~
He's been smoking all day, walking around the place like he's a very antsy alarm clock just waiting to go off. He'll start screaming soon. If he stops moving, he'll start throwing things around and upset his neighbors, and he'll scream and then he won't know how to stop.
Maybe if he just keeps breathing, he'll be fine. Maybe the smoke will keep him warm enough that he doesn't notice just how empty his too big apartment is. But why stop there? Why not include his whole life into the equation?
Lighting up the last cigarette in his last pack of them, Lorne takes a long, unsteady drag and exhales. Even his breath sounds like death warmed over, and suddenly he's struck by another string of thoughts. His record's stuck on repeat: I don't want to be alone
I don't want to be alone!
I don't want to
He picks up his cell phone off the coffee table, going through his call log and picking out the only number he can trust. And what does he get for it? He gets the answering machine. 'Hi, this is Beth. You know what to do after the beep.'
"Beth, are you there? I didn't know who else to call...but I'm having a really bad day, and I'm not dealing very well, and I just think I need someone to talk to. I didn't know who else to call, I'm sorry if this is totally inappropriate, I just... Call me when you can, all right?"
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The familiar green logo is right ahead of them, and for a miracle, the place isn't too crowded.
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Lorne gets a small latte to go, completely annihilating the foam with several packs of sugar. He doesn't talk the whole time.
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"It's pretty empty in here," she says quietly. "You wanna sit down, or keep moving?"
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"I got this thing because of those dreams. Figured I should get out there, seize the day. I couldn't be sure he'd find me just twiddling my thumbs at work. At night. I had to get proactive."
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(The he registers; she notices it and moves past it in the space of a second.)
A very soft mm-hm when he stops, just enough to let him know she's listening.
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At least the coffee's sweet. Takes the edge off the sickening squelch surrounding his heart. He tells himself it helps. "Somewhere along the way, I made a friend."
He never makes friends.
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It's making her dread what has to be a hell of a twist ending coming up.
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"I was kind of hoping... Or beginning to think that, maybe-- Because he's the sweetest thing there is, you have no idea." He swallows hard, completely and utterly unable to look up from his coffee.
"I had the dream again. Third time's the charm, right? And he was there. It was him, I know it was, but it was his perspective and suddenly I realized it's been his perspective all along, and it isn't my future, it's his, and I don't know how to tell him."
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"Oh."
Stupid useless syllable, oh. But she can't think of anything else to say.
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Without thinking, she reaches out a hand and rests it on his arm.
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All because there's someone there who gives a damn. "I'm sorry."
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She reaches for the small pile of napkins on the table, and passes him one.
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"I don't even know how to face him after this."
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Small-voiced: "Well ... you don't have to tell him, do you?"
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(She has a pretty good idea who the guy might be.)
"You could," she starts, and stops.
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He looks up tiredly; he just knows he won't have a good night's (or day's) sleep again for a long, long time. "Do what? List all the reasons why it wouldn't be a good idea to even entertain the notion?"
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"...I never make friends," he says, apropos nothing, really. Nothing at all. "Why did I have to make friends with him?"
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"And if we're being inclusive, there's Angie and Ramon. ...and my dreamboat what dare not speak its name. I can't afford to make friends, but sometimes..."
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She knows why.
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"I never had all that many friends, in LA," he says, then, as if talking about the weather. "I could count them with the fingers of just one hand. Three of them died in less than a year, and I couldn't do one thing to save them. I didn't see it coming."
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Her voice is tiny, and softened with sorrow.
"How awful for you."
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