31 Armand Mourns a Loss

July 26th - (Still) Twenty days until the convention

The first figure-drawing class was going far better than I'd had any right to expect. Skyler was brilliant, of course, but the students had a hand in it as well— having a body to draw really seemed to be igniting something in them. Everyone who'd grown listless was suddenly bright-eyed again, drawing like they were consumed with the fiery passions of creation.

I wandered the room, trying not to burst with pride at the general air of busyness that had settled over the students. I paused beside Ashley/Ashton The Mulleted; they were excitedly scribbling character-study after character-study, finally allowed to indulge in micro-expressions and outfit design.

"Watch the feet," I muttered despite myself, and they nodded.

"I will not go the way of Rob Liefeld," they responded, with the air of a soldier on the eve of battle mouthing their commander's words of wisdom under their breath.

She of the blue glasses and adorable afro-puffs (another A name, for sure), was doing an excellent job crafting a story told entirely through body-language, not a word bubble in sight. "Nice," I said softly as I passed by her easel, and she paused to beam up at me.

The renewed energy among the students was fantastic, and it was just in time for them to begin preliminary work on their final projects.

I almost felt bad calling time and couldn't help smiling when the class groaned as one. "Buck up, lads, we get to do this all again tomorrow!" I handed Skyler his robe. "Shall we thank our model?"

A brief round of applause turned Skyler a bit pink, but then he stepped up to the edge of the dais, now clad in the thick, stolen Manchurian robe, and gave a regal bow—winning every last heart in the room.

The students filed out, and after Skyler had dressed behind the privacy screen I'd set up, he said goodbye, glancing sadly at the upper rows. I followed his gaze: there was still a figure sitting slumped in one of the chairs, head in his hands.

Skyler hesitated, but after a few seconds, when Finch continued to ignore him, he made his way out.

I waited till Skyler was gone, then made my way up between the seats and finally sat down across from Finch, leaning over the back of a seat.

I tried to make eye contact, but he kept shrinking further and further into himself until he appeared to be nothing but a small, fuzzy, orange creature hiding in a pile of clothes.

"Titch ..." I cajoled, "what happened?"

He peeked up at me, looking so pathetic and miserable I had to physically fight the urge to yank him forward into a hug. As it was, he made hugging impossible by raising both his arms and wrapping them around his head, face hidden in the crooks of both elbows.

He then, naturally, attempted to communicate.

"ArnmfuuuWAA ..."

"Right," I tried, gently poking one of his forearms, "care to try that again?"

He lowered his arms, revealing a damp face. He took a deep breath and leaned his head back so all that was visible was his Adam's apple. "I am such a freak!"

I waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't, I sighed and sat up, rubbing my temple. "Look, Titch, I love adolescent meltdowns as much as the next bloke, but I'm going to need a bit more to go on."

He straightened and finally met my eyes. "What the hell does Titch even mean?" he squeaked. There were actual tears now.

Oh, lovely.

I shut my eyes tight for a few seconds, then forced myself to reopen them and deal with the sniffling child in front of me. "Titch is like ... squirt or pipsqueak," I admitted. This did not seem to rally his spirits. "It's affectionate," I added, a little desperately.

He sniffled and wiped at his cheeks with the heel of his hand. "Okay. Fine. I'm sorry I'm literally the worst person in the world."

"I get it." I laughed awkwardly. "If I were your age, I'd be distracted by Skyler too. And we've all embarrassed ourselves before. I've fallen out of plenty of chairs." I patted one of his delicate knees. "I know it seems like the end of the world—"

"Shut up." He flicked my hand away and crossed his arms. "I've met him before, okay? It's more complicated than that."

"Aye?"

"Yeah. He ... he rescued me last week." Finch hunched in on himself defensively, once again avoiding my gaze. "And then I asked him out, and he said yes, only apparently he thought I was asking him out as a friend, and then he spent half the time talking about this girl he left back home ..."

Oh.

Dear.

"I'm sorry." I reached out again, then stopped myself. I wanted to ask if being Skyler's friendreally was such a letdown, but I stopped myself.

Finch managed an unhappy little smile. "Yeah, me too. I kinda ran away after that. And I've been ghosting him. For four days."

"And this is the first time you've seen him since?" I would've done a lot more than fall out of a chair. Poor Finch. Poor Skyler ...

Finch nodded, still sniffling a little, but starting to laugh as well. "I told you, I'm literally the worst person in the world."

I shrugged. "But now you've seen him and made a fool of yourself. That's the worst of it, innit?"

He snorted down at his lap. "I guess ..."

I could only hope Finch's delusions wouldn't ruin his and Skyler's chances at a deeper connection. "This is what we do, y'know."

He looked up at me. "‘We'?"

"The piners." I grinned winsomely. "We're born without dignity and we die without love. But you mustn't let the ... the fantasy kill the future."

"Wow. That was corny."

"I know. I am also the worst person in the world."

"Thanks."

"Aye."

We sat in silence for a few minutes longer, then I coughed. "Well."

"Yes."

"Would you like me to drive?"

"Is there any chance you'd stay on the right side of the road?"

"It is unlikely."

He sat up straight and smoothed his hair out of his face, which still shone with tears. "Guess I'd better get a grip on myself." He smiled at me tiredly. "I don't suppose I could be excused from the rest of the figure-drawing classes?"

I shrugged. "If that's what you want. Or you could, perhaps, talk to him? Salvage your chance at friendship?"

He got to his feet and stretched, all 170 centimeters of him. "Sure, right. I'll definitely do that. You know—" he gave me a paternalistic smile "—you're really getting a lot better at this whole ... talking gig."

Color rose to my face, but I did my best to ignore it. "Titch," I began warningly.

"I mean it." He placed a hand on my shoulder and leaned in, eyebrows climbing. "I think teaching has been really good for you. It's been a while since you tried to commit verbal suicide in front of the class."

"Damn it, I am capable of human interaction!"

"Yeah, now you are. Seriously, you're going to do great at the con." He scampered down the rows toward the exit. "Race you to Camille."

"I withdraw from said race," I muttered and started down as well.

Finch chattered animatedly all the way back to the flat, as if those moments of vulnerability back in the classroom had never happened. Though as he did, there was something fragile about his smile and how he skipped from one topic to another.

I let him ramble on. Had it even been my place to engage him as much as I had? Thwarted love was a natural part of growing up, as was the realization that Skyler's friendship had greater value than whatever romantic fantasy Finch was concocting in that head of his. Who was I to stand in the way of his bloody bildung?

My trainer briefly caught on the welcome mat, and I realized I'd climbed the stairs without noticing and already had my key in the door. My heart expanded to fill my throat, remembering the note I'd found earlier in the day—Lucas had come home; he could very well be just past this door—

He wasn't.

I considered calling out again but was overcome with a new bout of shyness. Especially once I saw that my second batch of muffins had vanished. Best leave him to his own devices. He'd surely come out once he was good and ready. Like a badger.

There were messages from Lakshmi reminding me of the latest deadline and that I should be working on my convention speech. Lest the cushy bubble we'd been living in, courtesy of Drake House, pop and splatter us with sudsy failure and sticky obscurity.

I got to work, slowly pickling myself in whiskey and inking like a madman, occasionally muttering to Gaston and LeFou, trying to explain the intricacies and contradictions of teenage angst when contrasted with mature, well-aged malaise. They didn't seem to be paying as much attention as usual—LeFou especially seemed lethargic and uncommunicative.

I worked till four, realizing when I stood to make my way to bed that, as usual, or as was becoming usual, I'd drunk a bit more than I'd meant to. It stood to reason—I was nervous about the con, sad about Lucas, and concerned for Robin and Skyler. I just needed to start paying better attention. Setting limits for myself.

Using the wall as support, I made it to the toilet and performed all the voiding and ablutions required to once again become a person. I was considerably grateful that Lucas had remained in his bedroom.

Despite whatever progress I'd allegedly made over the past week and a half or so, I still wasn't fit for human consumption.

July 27th - Nineteen days until the convention

When I woke the next afternoon, Lucas still hadn't emerged, and Gaston and LeFou were both floating at the top of their tank, already starting to smell like the underside of a pier.

I came upon them while brushing my teeth, and the brush hit the carpet with a hollow thud, spattering my legs with paste.

I'm not proud of this, but I reached into the rancid tank and tried to animate them, as if part of me thought they were just asleep. It was possible that I might have been speaking to them as well, whimpering and begging them like a child to Wake up, please. When there was no response, I retrieved my phone with slimy fingers and desperately googled: reviving dead fish.

Retrospectively, it seemed like there shouldn't have been as many hits as there were.

There wasn't, however, anything useful.

I ended up standing over the tank and, aye, weeping—softly and with what was hopefully a certain amount of manly dignity.

I had been talking with—at these fish for weeks now, and I felt we'd had ... How could they just ...?

A second realization dawned on me. I'd thought the disappearance of the second batch of muffins had been a positive sign.

How badly was Lucas doing? What had happened?

He still hadn't responded to any of my texts. My eyes wandered toward the hallway, to the door of his bedroom. I could, I could always just, but that—

That didn't ... No.

Just no.

Even in these, the gravest of circumstances, I couldn't handle the idea of knocking on his bedroom door. Not hungover, with a tear-stained face, dead fish in my hands.

Instead, I retreated into the numbness of my own mind. I wrapped Gaston and LeFou in a plastic bag and set them gingerly in a corner of the freezer. Then I took on the impossible task of notifying Lucas. I couldn't bear the thought of giving him the news over text, so I grabbed a page from the pad on the counter.

The fish are dead, I wrote. Then: They're in the freezer.

Oh fuck. They were dead before I put them in the freezer.

This was a disaster. I crossed everything out, crumpled the note, and began again on a new page.

It's not my fault.

No, my condolences, bloody hell, something's happened. How was this getting worse?

In a desperate attempt to be done with this task, I scribbled something nonsensical onto a fresh note and slapped it on the side of the empty tank.

I focused on getting dressed and presentable in time for Finch to collect me. Then ignored his concerned inquiries about my welfare and his comments on the fact that I was, once again, visibly hungover.

"Are you sure you don't want to go to the doctor? The campus clinic does walk-ins, and you're looking really pale—"

"Titch." I groaned helplessly. "Just drive."

Finch was unrelenting in his attempts to get me talking right up until the moment he realized that if he followed me to the classroom, he'd likely have to face Skyler again.

"I. Um. I can't make it to class today, emergency rehearsal," he said, in a deeply unconvincing manner, before abandoning me at the entrance to the arts building, just as I was having a realization of my own:

Skyler!

Perhaps Skyler had heard from Lucas. Perhaps he knew what had happened—I hurried to the classroom, then sat on my desk and tapped one of my heels against its side until Skyler finally showed up.

The moment he walked through the door, I stood, nearly toppling over in my eagerness. "What's happened!"

Skyler froze on the spot. "W-what?"

"What's happened to Lucas?" I squawked. "Gaston and LeFou are dead, man, dead!"

It was at this point that I heard myself and sat down heavily, putting my face in my hands and trying to pretend the last few seconds had not happened.

"The fish?" Skyler muttered sadly. "Really?"

I peered up at him over my fingertips, hoping against hope that he had somehow missed my ridiculous outburst. "Aye, they were floating belly-up this afternoon. Have you heard anything from him these past few days? Anything at all?"

Skyler worried his lip and fidgeted before pulling out his mobile. "No, but I can call Cheyenne and ask if there's been any news." He held it to his ear, and I could hear the ringing mocking my anxiety.

"Who's Cheyenne?"

Skyler mouthed, His mom.

His mum?

"Oh, hey, Cheyenne." Skyler stepped away. "Have you heard from Lucas lately? Oh." His eyes widened, then, as I watched, his entire face slowly softened. "Wow. And that's ... good? That's good. Okay, thanks. No, no, that's— Thank you. Heh. Yeah, I'll see you tomorrow." Then he hung up, slipped his mobile back into his pocket, and gave me an uncertain smile. "She says they had a fight, but that it's a good thing. She says he's fine."

I gaped at him. "You know hismum?"

Skyler shrugged. "She runs The End Is Neigh. Lucas and his mom are really close, so I think if she says he's good, she's probably right. She says they finally talked about Darren."

I was gnawing on my knuckles. "Who's Darren?"

"He's— Well, he was Lucas's boyfriend." Skyler shrugged again. "He was not a nice person, if you ask me." He scratched the back of his neck, then glanced up at me, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. "So have you guys run into each other yet?"

I shook my head, still partially stuffing my fist into my mouth.

"Then he doesn't know you're this worried about him?"

I accidentally bit down and all but broke the skin of my thumb. "Gwha? What? No! That is, aye, yes, I am worried, w-wouldn't you be? A-aren't you?" I tried to shove my hands into my pockets but my jeans were too tight to achieve this while seated. I abandoned the attempt and crossed my arms, trying to ignore the softly amused smile Skyler was giving me.

"Not too worried. I mean"—Skyler thoughtfully ran a hand through his hair—"if Cheyenne says he's doing better ... But I think I'll call him tomorrow morning, just to make sure. Are you okay?"

"Aye, quite, ehrm, yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Oh just shut up and take your clothes off." I stood and started preparing the dais. "Just, er, let me know if you hear from him, will you?"

"I will."

I could practically hear the grin in his voice.

I turned my efforts to the imminent lesson, doing my best to take Skyler at his word and keep my worry in check.