《Pascal》 Hey, You. Dean Lamper leans against an office counter, looking into the eyes of an exhausted secretary who is searching for the strength to suppress a mental breakdown, as she does every single day. ¡°I''m looking for Pascal Williams. I''m... an old friend.¡± Dean reads Margaret on her name-tag. ¡°He''s not accepting visitors at this moment.¡± ¡°He''ll want to see me.¡± ¡°Please.¡± She says in a moment of vulnerability. ¡°Please.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± Dean turns around, and sits in the first chair he sees, immediately plopping a raggedy journal onto his lap, along with a black pen in dire need of more ink. He sees Margaret glancing at him with a phone to her ear, she''s talking in hushes and mutters. Fuck. Come on. Dean stands, ready to evade security for the fifth time today. ¡°Pascal Williams is on his way.¡± ¡°What?¡± Margaret doesn''t reply, but has a look of surprise on her face, which soon turns into a tired smile. ¡°Thank you.¡± Dean can tell she''s tired of talking. ¡°Seriously. Thank you.¡± She gives him a sly eye, hinting that Pascal is right around the corner. Dean tightens up. He hasn''t felt this way in years. The door swings open. ¡°D?¡± Pascal scoffs incredulously, and then laughs when all the memories from University floods his mind. They unite in a hug that transitions into an embrace. ¡°Hey. Come into my office for a drink.¡± Pascal looks at Margaret while talking to Dean. ¡°We''re closed for the day, and so we won''t have any interruptions.¡± He continues, now staring at Dean.¡°Macy is expecting me home at seven, and the drive home will take an hour in traffic, so that gives us about forty-five?¡± ¡°Count me in.¡± Dean''s smile has expanded to the entirety of his face. ¡°Good.¡± Pascal squeezes his shoulder while nodding. ¡°Good.¡± ¡°We have a-lot to catch up on.¡± Dean feels Pascal''s other hand on his forearm. ¡°I''m not as successful as everyone makes me out to be.¡± ¡°Well.. You certainly have me beat.¡± Pascal looks at the carpet for a moment dim-eyed, then returns to Dean with a warm expression.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. ¡°Follow me. And don''t worry about getting home if you drink too much.¡± If Pascal could have seen Dean in that moment, he would likely have apologized. ¡°Yeah. I''ve cut back since school.¡± ¡°Oh. We wouldn''t be here today if we hadn''t.¡± Dean spots his room, it''s hard to miss being plastered in accolades, all inscribed with his name, Pascal opens a polished mahogany door for him. Dean enters, and immediately spots a thick bottle of whiskey sitting on the table, two crystal glasses front and center. Pascal must''ve set it up the moment he received the call. Dean subconsciously chuckles, but is then taken back. Their graduation photos are gilded and framed, sitting right besides pictures of Macy and his children, along with their year-book, where they had an entire page for themselves, arm-in-arm. ¡°It''s been a long time, but.. I''ve never forgotten.¡± ¡°Yeah. We had a-lot of great memories together.¡± Dean says, with a slight tinge of resentment. ¡°Sit.¡± Pascal pulls a chair for him, and then one for himself, immediately filling their glasses. Dean gazes at the whiskey like a polluted body of water, stagnant. ¡°I''m sorry for what I did.¡± Pascal takes a sip, Dean hears him swallow. ¡°What did you do?¡± ¡°I tried to contact you. I even came to your apartment, it took me six hours by car. I had to lie. And when I finally got to your door, and knocked, and knocked. You refused to come out. I thought that was enough to finally rid what left I had of us in my head. But it wasn''t.¡± ¡°Am I the one who refused to come out?¡± Pascal nods somberly. ¡°You know enough to bury me. I''ve always known that. But I''ve always trusted you to keep it our secret. Even if it''s not a secret to you.¡± ¡°I don''t know why I''m here right now.¡± ¡°I''ve tried to contact you.¡± Pascal grits. ¡°Even with my wife. With my children. When everything and everyone was on the line, it never stopped me.¡± ¡°Those five years you pretended I didn''t exist almost killed me, Pascal. I''ve had problems trusting ever since then. I haven''t been able to sleep right since then. I haven''t been able to love since then. And I don''t blame anyone for being repelled by me, they can all smell the ash.¡± ¡°You''ve been completely alone?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Dean takes a hard sip. ¡°As you can tell, my dashing good looks have far left me.¡± ¡°No. You just need a good hair-cut and day at the salon.¡± Pascal smiles, and then creases his lips when Dean responds by glaring at the table. ¡°What do you need? I''ll give you what I can.¡± ¡°Well. Can I be honest?¡± ¡°Honesty excites me. It always has. Even more-so from you.¡± ¡°You were my last ditch-resort.¡± ¡°It looks like things haven''t changed much since University, then.¡± ¡°I don''t have a job, in-fact I''m unemployable after I conjured a character in a meaningless story that meant absolutely nothing to me. By the end of the month, I won''t have anywhere to stay. All I have is a degree in journalism with a minor in creative writing, and every night I try my hardest not to end it all by jumping off the tallest floor of my roach-infested apartment complex. I was going to lie to you. I knew it would be a long-shot anyways, but I really really need funding for a story. I shouldn''t actually say that. I need you to buy me a car, and enough money for gas, food ¨C minimal, I''ll lose ten pounds even if I don''t have much to give. But this this story I''m working on, I think will change my life forever.¡± Pascal replies almost immediately. ¡°I''ll give you a job and a place to stay, free-of-charge for the first four months, and then I''ll ask you to pay seven hundred a month on a place that would cost you twenty-seven hundred with fees. I won''t ask you for a deposit. I won''t ask you for anything else. Nothing will be a surprise. I''ll hand you one-thousand dollars in cash before you leave tonight, it should be enough for food, and public transportation if you need it, but it''s in walking distance from here.¡± ¡°So the answer is no.¡± Dean stands. ¡°The answer is yes. You''ll make twenty-five an hour doing minimum wage work. You''ll be able to pocket most of what you earn. You can fund whatever you''re doing with the money you make.¡± ¡°Whatever I''m doing? What do you know about what I do?¡± ¡°I''ve been following your career ever since it began, and ended.¡± ¡°Fuck you.¡± ¡°My offer stands. Whenever you want to take it. It''s there for you.¡± ¡°How''d it go?¡± Margaret asks as Dean strides towards the exit-door. He doesn''t respond. Long Ways ¡°Look. I just need some money. I''ll pay you back ten-fold when this thing hits. I can''t ¨C I can''t tell you about it right now. It''s too big. I don''t mean it like that. Please just stay on the line.¡± Dean throws his cell-phone onto the concrete, it skids onto the gutter. He chases after it. ¡°Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!¡± Dean grabs it, and on his way up, realizes a man is staring at him, a homeless man. ¡°I don''t think it''s going to turn back on, man.¡± ¡°Why do you say that?¡± ¡°Because the chips in the back fell out.¡± He points back to the gutter. ¡°And they''re lying in the water. And that water is really bad for you. I wouldn''t drink it if I was dying.¡± ¡°Fuck me. Fuck me!¡± Dean screams, and throws the cell-phone back onto the ground. It doesn''t skid, it thuds, breaking into tens of pieces scattered among a needle wreathed surface. ¡°You didn''t have to do that.¡± The man says. ¡°Could have just sold it or something.¡± ¡°No-one wants to buy a broken cell-phone.¡± ¡°Five dollars? Someone would''ve paid that for it.¡± ¡°Yeah. Guess you''re right. It''s too late, now.¡± ¡°Mind if I have a seat?¡± Dean looks at the curb as if it was private-property. ¡°I already made room for you, man.¡± He slaps the concrete. ¡°Not too many people like us out here, now. But there will be.¡± ¡°Us?¡± Dean says, taking a place next to him. ¡°You''re just like me. Just don''t know it yet.¡± ¡°Yeah. You''re probably right.¡± ¡°I am right. Now wouldn''t you like to have five-dollars? Shit.¡± ¡°I have one-thousand dollars.¡±A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. ¡°You don''t have one-thousand dollars.¡± Dean laughs. ¡°What''s your name?¡± ¡°Malcolm. Pleased to meet you. Mr. One Thousand Dollars.¡± They shake hands, and then stare at the passing cars, shoulder-to-shoulder. Dean feels every single facial-expression given, ranging from disgust to the middle-finger. Malcolm is unblemished. ¡°I could really use a hamburger and fries. You look like you could, too.¡± ¡°Yeah. Let''s go.¡± Dean says so nonchalantly, that Malcolm looks at him for confirmation. He continues. ¡°Really. Let''s get out of here.¡± ¡°Hey, man.¡± Malcolm says near on Dean''s ear. ¡°We can just take out some fast-food. A few double cheeseburgers from Micky, and we''ll be eating all night.¡± He eyes the restaurant. ¡°I don''t even know what an eatery is.¡± ¡°What''s wrong with this place?¡± Dean ask as they enter the line, well on the side-walk. The patrons seem guarded, but they either look away, or move a few steps to the side. ¡°Too many people.¡± ¡°You don''t seem to mind me.¡± ¡°You''re a person. You ain''t people.¡± A teenager looking at her phone bumps into Malcolm, and when she looks up at him, she scatters away only after making an audible gasp, further distanced by her parents, who glance back at Malcolm and scowl. ¡°I don''t like people either.¡± They''re sitting in an abandoned construction site between two highways, surrounded by leaning chain-link fences. Seven double cheeseburgers. Two milk-shakes. Three large fries, and five large cokes. Their eating is louder than their words, and their words are all but gluttonous moans and groans. Sitting on concrete slabs by trash-cans withered by wind and wind alone, they''re now passed the point of being full, and are quietly sulking in the grease filling their bellies. ¡°How long have you been out here for?¡± ¡°Last year?¡± He said hesitantly, and then settled on ¡°Last spring.¡± ¡°Live here your whole life?¡± ¡°Naw. Came here from up north.¡± ¡°Why Shere City?¡± ¡°Cause it''s a city but don''t got that many people.¡± He says, on his third cheeseburger, wrappings bundled underneath his sweatpants. ¡°Mom used to live here, too.¡± Malcolm flushes out the obvious awkward question. ¡°Didn''t grow up with her.¡± Smoothie to his lips. ¡°But I kept track-¡± Slow to finish his own sentence in dead air, the next three words from his lips are deep and near-whispered ¡°until she passed.¡± ¡°I''m sorry to hear that.¡± Dean says, stopping himself from downing a french-fry, feeling as if it would be insensitive. ¡°So you just, live out here?¡± Dean knew it was a dumb question, one he already knew the answer of, but could think of nothing better in the moment. Malcolm sniffs. ¡°Yeah. Out here.¡± They simmered in silence, having their fill of fat and sugar, smelling of salty oil. Dean looks up at the sky beyond the twin highways, and then at Malcolm. ¡°I think it''s time I go.¡± ¡°Hand me a twenty?¡± Dean pulls out a twenty and hands it over, their palms pressed together, bill between. ¡°Take care of yourself, Malcolm.¡± ¡°That''s my life.¡± Sevens Seiner Heights. All Dean had was a key and a phone number just in-case someone stopped him at the front, luckily he managed to turn the lock and close the door behind him before anyone impeded his entry. Dean flicked on the first light after making it to Room #0307. Third on the seventh floor, the final floor. He was never one to ogle material goods, but had no shame in gawking at this fully-furnished two-bedroom apartment, wine on the coffee table, rum on the cabinet, luxuriously spacious. It looks like someone has a drinking problem. Dean made his way to the kitchen. Dishes are washed and dried, but still stacked by the faucet, a jacket wrapped around the spine of a chair. It''s clear someone was recently here. Pascal''s home away from home when he just can''t take the family anymore. He couldn''t bare to see the sight of food, and so he shied away from the kitchen, besides grabbing a bottle of water to counteract all the sodium. Walking into the bedroom, one of two, a wide-smile overtook his face as he noticed it was king-sized with an assortment of pillows and blankets too rich for his blood, all that was needed was a bed canopy unfurling with silky violet drapes. All he had was one duffel bag with him. Back at the office? Hidden. And if it wasn''t obvious enough to Pascal, he took a greyhound to Shere City, for a claustrophobic man in need of space to just be ¨C it was terrifying... to a writer? It was enough to spark a few pages of interesting material. The clothing, towels, stress-balls.. glasses and hats, were of no-care, mostly gifts, anyways. What mattered most was the notebook, pens, signatures, contracts, and the fucking photographs. Tonight wasn''t going to include any spider-webs of evidence he''d methodically and artistically intertwined over the last thirty-six months, forcing him to crunch every-time the bills needed to be paid with a procedural story ¨C god forbid he try to make one interesting. No. Even he would tell you, they could''ve all been done a-lot a-lot better. Dean is lying in bed, holding up his notebook, whipping past the pages, making sure everything is chronological and logical, when he hears the door to the apartment open. ¡°Dean? You in there?¡± Pascal''s voice is tired, just like Margaret''s was. Dean looks at the clock high on the wall, it''s midnight, exactly midnight. He''s on the three-hundredth page, only fifty left. Fuck. He realizes it''s time to buy a fourth notebook.This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Pascal''s footsteps are coming closer, he must know Dean is in the main bedroom. He rolls over. Notebooks on the bedside nightstand. Jolts to his feet. Dizzied from the speed. ¡°Dean?¡± ¡°Hey.¡± Dean rubs his forehead, just now realizing he''s shirtless, wearing nothing but boxers that show too much, the kind you wear with the hopes no-one sees you, or for a special night. ¡°Sorry, I couldn''t stay away.¡± Pascal says, dressed as casually as a man this wealthy could, sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He walks into the room, staring obviously at Dean''s body. ¡°You''re still in shape. That hasn''t changed about you.¡± ¡°Well, I do my plyometrics every now and then, it''s the best you can do without equipment.¡± He looks around. ¡°I''m sure you don''t have that issue.¡± Pascal sits on the bed, the same side, but furthest edge away. ¡°I couldn''t sleep. I tried to, but...¡± ¡°The kids and wife?¡± ¡°Sleeping, I hope. But I''m sure Macy will have questions for me when I get home.¡± ¡°When are you planning on going home?¡± ¡°I don''t know.¡± ¡°Well, just so you know. And because I haven''t had a chance to tell you this, I appreciate everything you''ve done for me, without batting a single eyelash.¡± Dean looks at Pascal, who looks at him. He continues. ¡°I know I came off cold. But it''s been a long time, and I''m not the Dean you used to know. The one you used to love. You''re the same. Intelligent. Successful. Always clean-shaven despite every single hair on your body growing so damn fast-¡± ¡°It''s not about that. Anyways. Like I said, one trip to the salon, all-inclusive all-expansive, and you''ll come out a different man, one they could put on of those fashion billboards.¡± ¡°Don''t skew my expectations¡± Dean smirks, but Pascal looks serious. ¡°Dean. You''ve been honest with me. At-least I think you have. So let me be honest with you.¡± ¡°Then be honest.¡± Dean scoots a little closer. ¡°I love you. I always have. I still do. I love you. That''s what I came here to say. I''m not going to have a thousand nights of tossing and turning, headaches and emotional heart-ache. I''m not going to skirt around the point, or pretend that I don''t while I have sex with my wife, and pretend that her eyes aren''t yours, because that''s what I''ve been imagining ever since we graduated from Columbia.¡± Dean stands up, and stares ahead, like he was looking down a tunnel that went on for infinity. ¡°Did I say something wrong?¡± Pascal asks with a look of concern on his face. Dean turns towards him, and walks until he''s hovering over his body like a statue. Pascal stands in their claustrophobic binding, on the way up, their torsos grind, until their lips are nearly pressed against each-others. ¡°I love you, too.¡± Pascal palms Dean''s cheek, and they begin to kiss. Post-Mortem ¡°What are we going to do?¡± Dean says, his hand firmly on Pascal''s chest, spooning him. It''s still in the dark of morning, but they can hear a rise in vehicles hitting the road, the heavy engines of buses. All of the windows are open, so gauging the time is easily done with the lively ambiance of city life. ¡°I didn''t plan on doing this.¡± Pascal says, almost mournfully. ¡°I have to go home.¡± Pascal rolls out of bed, and heads straight for the closet, pulling out an assortment of ironed clothing with fluid precision. ¡°I''m sorry if this causes complications.¡± ¡°It''s not your fault, Dean.¡± It was the last thing Pascal said before briskly leaving the apartment, still pulling up and putting on pieces of an opulent business suit as he turned the final door-knob. Dean falls back asleep, and wakes up five hours later. ¡°I love you.¡± Dean says to his lonesome, sitting bedside, almost shocked that those words left his lips when they did, the catalyst for everything that unfolded, the jet-fuel for their atmospheric passion. Every movement was filled with years of emotional agony and guilt, guilt that spiraled into every single direction, with a multitude of reasons, all different, some polar opposites. Yet they floated at times, a turbulent ocean stabilized by one single word. It made three hours feel like five minutes. Remember what you''re here for. Dean is now sitting at the kitchen island, face stuffed into his palms, groaning with a thumping headache that constantly reminds him of the decision to rekindle the soldering bundle of plywood that was their relationship, now a burgeoning flame that will likely leave everyone in the vicinity with third degree burns.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Dean grabs the first cup he sees, and fills it with faucet water, drinking it all and doing it again, submerging his feelings to the depths below like a bad baby-sitter. He decides to do a little cleaning to meditate his mind which is now becoming lucid, the prospect of working on his groundbreaking story at this time fills him with a worry that he''ll do something dumb and impulsive that''ll cost him ten-fold in revisions, and so he stows it away. Starting with the bottles of alcohol strewn around, he stuffs them into the pantry, putting away the cleaned dishes, rubbing the tiled-floors with a washrag laced with soap. The blinds had collected an ample amount of dust, bits of charred food by the burners, nothing he can''t handle. After a good hour, he decompresses and goes to the single coffee machine, one that uses pods, no option for drip. Looking at his options for morning black, there''s two, and a whole lot of them: five rows of coconut caramel crunch and highlander grogg. They taste sweet and he hasn''t even brewed them yet. ¡°I see your taste in coffee has stayed the same.¡± Dean says, it reminds him of the dual-occupancy dorm they shared for two years, non-stop caffeine heads, always something flavored. He sits at the dining table, mug steaming coconut goodness that makes him feel younger. Dean wonders what Malcolm would say at this moment, likely something that''s blunt, rude, and wise, all at the same time. And then he wonders for the first time what Pascal had in mind for him regarding the job, janitor or errand boy depending on his mood that day, he laughs. The phone rings, and goes to voicemail. It''s Margaret, and she''s speaking like Pascal''s ear is to the box, as if he''s done this before, which equates in Dean''s mind, to Pascal being derelict of duty, likely still at home and getting hell from Macy. The prospect of Pascal frequently having men over in his private-quarters, being this apartment, doesn''t feel right to Dean, but it''s clearly a possibility. Which spurs the question of Margaret''s closeness to him, and how she even knows the number. Dean remembers a Macy from school, but doubts that his wife is that Macy, just by temperamental comparability alone, but goes entirely blank on a Margaret. Who is Margaret? He wonders. ¡°Damn-it.¡± Dean shakes his head, and realizes that it''s time to get some air. Being alone often means getting lost in your thoughts, and sometimes your thoughts lead to no-where, and no-where means the bad ones probably have reservations.