38 Armand Has an Epistolary Experience

August 8th - One week until the convention

My alarm went off at three in the afternoon, and I pawed at it angrily. It was the weekend, no need to scramble out of bed, shock my body into well-feigned sobriety, and rush to the university. I could lie here if I so wished, for hours, in a state of utter gormlessness.

Waking up was starting to feel a bit too familiar: the ashy mouth, the chlorine burn in my sinuses, the pounding headache and shriveled insides. I could tell before I'd even opened my eyes that too much light was leaking through the blinds. That the moment I did open them, my eyes would begin to melt, the world would tilt away and pulse in an unstoppable flicker vertigo. Full Bucha effect.

I dug the heels of my hands into the hollows of my eyes, intensifying the pain briefly to the point of ecstasy, and then reached for the water bottle a kinder—if inebriated—version of myself had left on the floor near the bed. I downed it, breath whistling through my nose, then started the slow, precarious undertaking of sitting up.

I'd fully buggered my sleep schedule, staying up too late—or too early, rather—texting with Lucas. I was glad to hear he'd talked to Skyler, and that he was generally feeling better. The same acerbic wit that had made his little notes and naggy texts such a weirdly guilty pleasure had begun to suffuse his tone again. Back were the unexpected bits of dark humor, the flashes of self-deprecation, and streak of pure meanness. The mix of sweet heat and bite was what first kept me from dismissing him as nothing more than a fussy, bothersome flatmate. The same reluctant respect I'd developed for him early on had grown, despite the fact that he hid my ink and whined about all the ways I cocked up and the rubbish I left behind; respect which had then been transformed by concern and had bloomed into a full-blown affection.

Bollocks, Finch was right. I did only ever take to people who offered me verbal abuse.

Speaking of abuse ... I slowly stood up out of bed, still shielding my eyes from the light that trickled through the window. My body was re-adjusting to consciousness, but it could use some help. I stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hall to the toilet, where I washed and engaged in a brief spell of glowering at myself in the mirror.

I'd barely done any work last night. I was nearing the manky end of my Yerkes-Dodson curve.

And I was drinking too much.

The admission felt like the tear of a muscle, the crack of a bone, a bloody moment of emotional incontinence ... or an emotional moment of bloody incontinence.

I glared down at the mobile I'd brought with me to the loo. At the next step I absolutely had to take.

"Sabah el khir, habibi. Good morning, America!"

I winced at Karim's cheerful, deeply obnoxious voice. "It's afternoon here, I think."

"Well, it's just after midnight in Southall, technically morning, so ... four in the afternoon in California?" He chuckled, both of us painfully aware how typical it was for him to be versed in time zones, while I struggled to locate myself in the known universe. "Getting dicey over there, is it?"

There was no point in sanitizing any of it. "I'm on a bender. It started with just a few nips to get my nerves in check, but then ..."

As expected, Karim commended me for making the call, and when I started dragging him into my spiral of shame, reminded me that lingering on blame and self-loathing was its own kind of indulgence.

"You know you have to find a meeting, hayati, I can google—"

"So can I, Karim. Thank you."

"You must. What would your Lakshmi say?"

She'd tell me to find a meeting. Rather, she'd threaten me into it. So would Sam, and Craig, forever the peacemaker, would offer to cook me supper or go see a film and then, over the length of an evening, slowly manipulate me into going to a ruddy, rotten, wretched meeting.

A mere three weeks away from my friends, from my carefully controlled environment, and all the work I'd done, all the progress I'd made over the past year, was effing and blinding at me from the bin. This trip was supposed to be the catalyst through which I would redeem myself. Prove that I was, against all expectations, a real person. Not merely a person, but a person that a corporation like Drake House might consider as a long-term investment.

And instead my head pounded, and I bent to drink more water from the tap, letting it run over my face as well. I couldn't stop all at once. The convention was right around the corner, only a week away—shit—and if I showed up shaking with the sweats and the trots ... The thought did not bear contemplation. I had to be smart about this, control myself like a rational adult with the barest hint of moral fiber.

"You still there?" Karim's voice echoed off the tile surrounding, and I fought the urge to simply hang up.

"Aye, Karim, thank you. I'll find a meeting. Good night, Sidi."

"Good afternoon, Armand."

I hung up and returned to staring at myself in the mirror and making promises. There was a solution: not temperance, but moderation. Prudence. Calm, rational, good choices that I made for my own benefit.

For example, coffee.

Once I was back in my bedroom with a mug of sanity and a leftover muffin, I settled on the floor against the side of my bed and took stock of last night's failure to produce. I'd inked a page and a half, and then at least had the presence of mind to notice that my crosshatching had turned somewhat less than precise. I held my hand out over the floor—just the slightest of tremors. A quick nip would take care of that, and I could make up the work. Of course I could.

I settled down to work, trying to find comfort in the familiar world of ink and sable brushes and nib pens. I missed the contained little bubble I had at my drafting table back home, but the lap desk I'd brought with me had served me well. Though, I did need more light.

I steeled myself before standing and reaching for the blinds, but just as I did, my phone chirped from its place by the bed. I reached for it instead—almost leapt. I hadn't heard from Lucas since the day before, so I was surprised—relieved, even—to see a block of texts coming in one after the other:

Lucas: But how do you know if someone is right or wrong for you

Lucas: people wear all kinds of faces in public vs in private, how are you supposed to know who to trust?

Lucas: and if someone shows you who they really are but you don't believe them, and don't believe everyone else who tells you for years that this person is no good, then does that mean you deserve what you get? Asking for a friend

Lucas: sorry if this is tmi, it's just

Lucas: this is what I don't understand about skyler getting up naked in front of people because like I never realized how much more naked you feel when someone who knows you, knows every part of you, decides that those parts are broken

I sat back down on the bed, staring at my phone, heart in my mouth. I tapped out a reply before I could think on it for too long, I know how that is.

That wasn't enough. I didn't want Lucas to think I was placating him or offering empty cliches. I swallowed.

Armand: I've been there. It's such a bloody mindfuck.

Armand: Like who can I blame for my own stupidity? And how can I ever trust myself again?

And then I panicked.

Armand: not that you're stupid, I just mean this sounds similar to something I went through with an ex

Lucas: yeah

Lucas: Did you ever recover?

I put my phone down and scrubbed at my hair with both hands. Why was this so hard? I took a deep breath and picked it up again, carefully texting.

Armand: Yes and no.

Armand: My friends helped, so I wasn't alone. I tried to isolate myself but they wouldn't let me.

Armand: One person can break you down but when so many people are trying to build you up, it's only fair to try and stand.

Oh god. Shut up. What tripe.

Lucas: damn that's deep, you a poet now? ;)

Lucas: #dropthatpoetryanthology

I groaned to myself softly.

Lucas: but seriously though, thank you. I've never really talked about this with anyone before. Like my mom kind of gets it, but ...

Lucas: also I'm the third wheel in my friend group and skyler is a teenager, so

I floundered, trying to find a way to say no please keep talking to me I love it without sounding utterly deviant or deranged.

Armand: I like talking to you.

Armand: I hope that doesn't sound weird.

I was holding my phone so stiffly my fingers had started to ache. I shook out each hand in turn, realized that I was making a horrible, sad little whine in the back of my throat, and that I'd been doing it for quite some time. Why wasn't Lucas responding? Had I ruined it? What, exactly, was it that I had potentially ruined?

I was about to start typing out apologies when my phone nearly buzzed out of my hands.

Lucas: It's not weird. You're sweet.

Oh god. Why was my body reacting to this simple conversation like it was a thrill park ride? I stopped, took a deep breath, and tried to regain even the slightest, barest shadow of chill.

Armand: Speaking of sweets, any requests?

Armand: I was thinking raspberry sticky buns? I could have them ready by the time you get home from work today?

Too much? It was likely too much. Why didn't I have the ability to operate in middle gears? Why couldn't I person? And to make things worse, I was agonizing over every line like a bloody teenager.

Lucas: I'm supposed to be dieting damn it, I haven't earned my treats this week

Lucas: but yes those sound amazing

Lucas: also no work today

Lucas: just a depressing lonely day at home

I blinked down at the screen, the hangover still pulsing dully behind my eyes and my mouth going very, very dry.

Lucas: also didn't you say you bake when you're upset? Did I bum you out?

I swallowed thickly, heart thumping in my chest, palms sweating. I knew I should type slowly and carefully but my hands were hardly listening to me.

Armand: I'm not upstart are you hammer?

Armand: upset home

Armand: Are you currently at the flat?

A moment, then:

Lucas: yeah

Lucas: wait, are you?

I stood up. I couldn't help it—my body was suddenly brimming with nervous energy and I circled the room twice before realizing I hadn't responded yet.

Armand: Yes.

I stopped in front of the closed door of my bedroom, every inch of my skin prickling. Beyond this door was a hallway, and at its end was another door, and behind that door was ...

Lucas.

Lucas, who was in pain. Lucas, who was lonely. Lucas, who wouldn't even accept a bloody bun without passively commenting on whether he was deserving of it. I held my phone in both hands, all but pressing it into my chest like a pastor with their bible. Like a child with her doll. Like a monumental idiot with his phone.

Lucas: what are the odds lol

Armand: Considerably better than what's been happening so far.

Lucas: fair

I fisted a hand in my hair and made two more rounds of the bedroom, my thumb trembling over the screen as I carefully tapped out the words: Do

you

Don't be such a damn coward, Demetrio!

want

I had to stop and gnaw at my knuckles for a time before I could continue, to step out into the living room?

I sent it. Then dropped into a crouch and hugged myself, realizing in horror that I still hadn't gotten dressed today—I was in my pants and a T-shirt. But just as I was starting to scramble for a pair of jeans, Lucas's response came.

Lucas: I'm sorry if this is selfish but I kinda don't want to be seen right now? I know you're leaving soon and it's dumb that we haven't met but I'm still feeling raw.

Lucas: is that ok do you hate me

I stood to my feet again and collapsed onto the bed, my body gone all but liquid in relief. There was a hoarse echo of disappointment as well, but mostly I felt strangely proud of Lucas that he was willing to make that admission. I was even more strangely proud of myself for having apparently made him feel comfortable enough to make that admission.

Armand: Not in the slightest.

Armand: That is I don't hate you in the slightest. It is very OJ.

Armand: *ok bollocks

Lucas: can we keep talking though?

I grinned at my phone despite myself and sent a quick yes. Then followed that up with a please. And then, in a moment of outright audacity, I asked if he might see his way to sending me a picture of himself.

Lucas: I look better in person. Or I will eventually FML

Armand: FML?

Lucas: oh god you ARE an old man! or do we blame this on brits not understanding american slang? bc that happens too

My body locked up in horror. I had spent this entire time assuming Lucas and I were close in age, but I had no reason to believe that—didn't Americans move out on their own at absurdly young ages? Like Skyler? Like Skyler, who was Lucas's friend. But Lucas had referred to him as a teenager, which meant he was likely older, but how much older? Was he joking about the "old man" or was this where it all went to utter shite?

Armand: I am 28 as of last September.

Armand: Please tell me you are beagle.

Armand: *ladle

Armand: *lacerated

Armand: * L E G A L I'm so sorry

Lucas: WHAT IS YOUR AUTOCORRECT

Lucas: I'M DYING

Lucas: but yes I'm legal beagle lol I'll be 26 in nov.

Once again my muscles dramatically relaxed and a groan bucked at the back of my throat. I tapped out, thank god, sent it, then realized that perhaps I was showing my hand a bit too freely.

Lucas, however, did not seem at all bothered, because he sent me a winking emoji followed by a cheeky question as to what I was wearing. Without missing a beat I replied, a three-piece suit. Dior. And something incredible happened.

I heard him laugh through the wall.

The timbre of his voice was somehow golden, bright, like the rich tone of distant music. He sounded like the human embodiment of warm sunlight against the side of my face. I was filled with a happy prickle at the thought that I'd made him laugh, the idea that he was just a few meters away, smiling down at my words.

In less pain, if only for a few moments.