Be Mine

by Max Hudson

  He plucked his foam cup up from the heap of papers and stood from his chair, promptly heading for the employee lounge where he dumped hot coffee into his cup. As he raised the dark liquid to his lips, he felt a sniffle crawling up his throat.

  No, not now—not here.

  Tears welled up in his eyes as his nose grew hot, his cheeks quickly filling with heat. He set the cup in the sink and headed out toward the front door, leaving his messy desk behind. He turned left and headed straight for the park right down the road to find a private bench to sit on—and to cry.

  Nothing about that argument was right. As he hugged his shoulders and rocked forward, he found himself wanting Tristan's comfort all over again. The emotions that filled him now were awful, horrible, and unbearable. He had a chance to say what was on his mind and he took it—and he did it all the wrong way.

  Why am I like this?

  He hugged himself harder and curled his knees up to his chest, burying his face between his knees. He could hear the sounds of the world around him, the busy indications of life going on without him, and it just added to his depressive crying fit. There wasn't much of anything out here for him. Though that was his typical attitude, it felt worse than before, much worse, almost like a looming sense of doom that would break him in two at any moment.

  Because now, without Tristan, the world really didn't matter. If he didn't have Tristan with him, then he didn't want anything else. He didn't want the sunshine barreling down on him or the sweet sounds of birds chirping in the trees. He didn't want his art, or his job, or his studio apartment.

  He just wanted Tristan.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Tristan stood next to his snake's tank with a baby mouse pinched between tongs, holding it inside the glass. He set it gently down on some brush and withdrew the tongs, setting them down next to the tank. He had his phone tucked between his chin and shoulder as he bent down to get a better look.

  “No, Derrick. You don't understand what happened,” he claimed into the phone. “He was ridiculous.”

  Freckles uncurled herself from the corner of the tank and slithered over the brush, hissing as she approached the dead mouse. She reared back slightly and snapped forward while extending her jaws to devour her food. Smiling, Tristan returned the mesh to the top of the tank and placed her heating lamp back in its place.

  “Well, help me understand. Tell me how everything went down,” Derrick invited.

  “It started on Friday night when you called. After we talked, I went out into the living room where I found Mark dressed and ready to go.”

  “Okay, that's not entirely weird. Maybe he was tired.”

  Tristan groaned. “But he wasn't tired. That's the thing. He told me yesterday that he thought you were basically my secret boyfriend.”

  “Oh, that's a laugh.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Still, his concerns might be understandable. Did you try to explain what happened before he left your apartment on Friday night?”

  Tristan rolled his eyes. “Well, no. I didn't really have time for that because he was walking away so fast.”

  “What about over the weekend—what happened?”

  “I mean, nothing happened. He didn't really call and he didn't answer when I called. When he did answer his phone, he didn't say much.”

  “Did you try to explain it to him on the phone?”

  “Well...no. I didn't.”

  Derrick clicked his tongue. “See? He didn't know. He probably just got wrapped up in his head and got lost in anxiety.”

  “That's kind of a huge problem for me.”

  “Why? Don't you get upset when your expectations aren't met?”

  Tristan sighed. “Derrick, it sounds like you're taking his side.”

  “I'm not—I promise. I'm just trying to show you what he could be feeling by helping you empathize with him.”

  “He's supposed to tell me. You shouldn't have to guess for him.”

  “Well, not everybody communicates like you do. And, I should point out, you still hadn't communicated to him why you said what you said on the phone. So, I mean, that's on you.”

  “You're not helping. Are you still salty about Sal disappearing without calling you?”

  “Honey, I'm made of salt. I carry the ocean with me. But that's not the point here. Y'all just had a breakdown in communication. It can easily be fixed.”

  Tristan's shoulders sank. “I don't know, Derrick. I don't think he wants to fix it.”

  For a moment, Tristan watched as Freckles fully ingested her food. He watched the lump move at a slow crawl down her neck and waited a moment before heading for his bed. He collapsed against the comforter and pulled part of it over his head.

  “The only way you're going to find out if he wants to fix it or not is by talking to him,” Derrick explained.

  “But what if he doesn't answer the phone?”

  “Then, leave him alone. Let it lie. That's something that's completely out of your control.”

  “But I want to control it. I want it to be perfect.”

  “Honey, this isn't a photograph you can tweak and manipulate until it's perfect. This is life. And life is messy.”

  Tristan released a frustrated groan. “I don't like it.”

  “Nobody likes it, but we all put up with it. Is there anything else I should know?”

  “Well, I kind of dropped the ball on him about Gregory.”

  “Ma-a-aybe not the best timing for that.”

  “I mean, I told him in my apartment before things got weird.”

  “Yeah, but that's not something you absolutely need to share up front. That can wait a while. But I mean, if it felt right at the time, then it's fine.”

  “I just felt okay sharing things with him.”

  “I get it. You were comfortable.”

  “So comfortable. It was strange. I felt like we had this true connection, this solid and tangible bond that I could practically touch.”

  Derrick chuckled. “You and your twin flame thing.”

  “Oh, come on! You said the same thing about--” Tristan cut himself short and licked his lips. “Anyway, I didn't go to work today and I've been hiding in my apartment. Valentine's Day is on Thursday. I thought about surprising him, but then I remembered he hates the holiday.”

  “I find that hard to believe if he's this upset about you expressing affection to your friends.”

  “See? That's what I think. He claims to be void of emotion or whatever, but he's taking everything so seriously.”

  “Maybe he's scared.”

  Tristan paused for a moment, considering the comment. “Maybe.”

  “Love can frighten people, especially those of us who have been through absolute hell and back. You've been through all that crap with Gregory, yet here you are willing and ready to love again. Maybe he's just not ready.”

  “So... what should I do?”

  Derrick hummed thoughtfully. “I'd say do the Valentine's surprise. Maybe he'll like it or maybe he'll burn it. You won't know until you do it.”

  “That's what I'm afraid of.”

  “Listen, fear never stopped you from getting on a plane and going to a country that had malaria. I don't see how this should be any different.”

  Tristan smirked. “Other than not being exposed to a serious illness?”

  “Shut up—you know what I mean.”

  “I do. I appreciate your insight.”

  “Any time, kiddo.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “I mean, I've settled down a bit. Sal finally called me and said he had to take off to see his father.”

  Tristan smiled. “God, that's a relief.”

  “I know, right?”

  “Did you tell him to leave a note next time?”

  “Yeah, I'm about to head out and join him. His dad doesn't have much longer to live and... well, it sucks.”

  “That's awful. I'm so sorry.”

  Derrick sighed. “It is what it is
, you know? I have to run, but text me whenever you get things patched up so I can tell you that I told you so.”

  “Don't you always?”

  “I do. Be careful, honey. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  When Tristan set his phone down on his pillow, he felt the weight drift from his shoulders. At least that was letting up a bit. On his night stand was the picture of Mark that he had printed off and kept nestled between his lamp and a few photo books. He studied it pensively in the silence of his room, ears prickling whenever the air kicked on.

  As the cool air rushed from the vent above his bed, he closed his eyes in silent wonder. How were things going to turn out? This wasn't his usual case of the mopes. Something about Mark had struck him. Not just Mark's words, but Mark in general—his very strange and interesting way of seeing the world as well as engaging with it.

  Derrick had offered great support even though Tristan felt attacked. And as much as he hated admitting it, his best friend was right. He wouldn't know until he tried. When he sat up, he pulled his laptop toward him and immediately jumped into action, renewed energy coursing through his veins.

  “If I'm going to do something, it has to be meaningful.”

  He typed rapidly into his search bar to find the nearest floral shop. Once he had that located, he sifted through some tabs related to sailing. A vigorous search revealed that it was too soon to try to plan that for Valentine's Day, but at least he could bookmark the page for later reference. Everything was quickly coming together—maybe not too quickly this time. He suddenly felt sure of himself, his hope rapidly returning without any conditions.

  “Whatever happens, happens,” he stated confidently. “I'll accept whatever comes my way—but I hope Mark leans in my favor.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Mark sat in his dimly lit closet surrounded by his usual piles of canvas as sappy love songs played over the speakers in the other room. He listened to the corny lyrics wafting through the hall and even sang along to a few, cringing at the feelings that were cropping up as he painted.

  “I don't like this,” he claimed. “I don't like feeling things.”

  It had been two days since his awful argument with Tristan and it was nearly midnight—about to be Valentine's Day—and here he was without much else on his mind except for Tristan. He was bothered. His forehead had stayed scrunched up for the past couple of days, visibly upset by everything that was happening. As he slapped raspberry and burgundy paint on the nearly-full canvas, the sappy love song ended and the tape player clicked.

  When he walked into the main room, he felt the cool air wrap him in a hug and he coughed. “It's stuffy back there. Maybe I should take a break.”

  He wandered toward his stereo and switched tapes, opting for a cassette of an eighties synthetic pop band called Cranky Crow. He popped it into the tape player and pushed play, waiting to adjust the volume as the music came over the speakers. He adjusted it to a comfortable setting and then went into the kitchen to explore his snack options.

  Upon opening the fridge, he discovered the box of chocolates he had broken down and bought. He hadn't gone into work, but he had gone to the store, and he simply couldn't resist the temptation of chocolate. His stomach gurgled and he reached for the box, scowling at the red and white hearts decorating the plastic wrap.

  “Why am I doing this?” he asked as he pulled open the lid. “I never do this. No one makes me feel this way.”

  But someone was causing it—and it was Tristan. As he plucked one of the caramel-filled chocolates from the box and slipped it into his mouth, he focused on the delicious sugar rush that erupted from the tasty morsel. He closed his eyes for a second to enjoy it and blindly closed the fridge, taking the box with him back to his desk.

  He glanced at his phone that had sat untouched for most of the day. When he lifted it, he scrolled back through the host of emails that had piled up during his time away from work. One was from his boss outlining why it wasn't okay to call out of work minutes before he was scheduled to come in. Another was also from his boss about the Valentine's Day cartoon that was due Tuesday morning. And yet another email from his boss explained the importance of open communication.

  A reminder at the bottom of the last email was highlighted in red. It said, “This is your last warning. I will fire you if this continues.”

  Mark sneered at the warning. He set down his phone and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, staring at the paint peeling in patches. As he studied the shapes and sizes, trying to piece together a picture, he felt a pang in his stomach.

  “Okay, chocolate is not a meal. I get it.”

  He held his gut, feeling it gurgle even more. He ignored it in favor of another piece of chocolate, attempting to silence his stomach with sustenance. This one was a molasses chew. He smiled as he remembered sharing a piece with his childhood friend from foster care, struggling to remember the kid's name. When he was finished chewing and swallowed, the memory vanished and he turned sullenly to the papers on his desk.

  Each drawing was worse than the last. All he could muster up were bloody and decrepit scenes about broken hearts and lost souls. It was nothing that would ever be appropriate to turn into the paper. And if it ever was, he'd be working for quite an odd newspaper. As he went through the drawings, he picked a mildly acceptable one and plucked his pen from a coffee mug.

  He inked in the penciled outline, tracing over each one meticulously so it was perfect. Behind him, a synthetic piano came over the speakers with a dark voice glumly singing about love lost and hope regained. He tuned into the music and nodded his head as he outlined his picture, leaning closer to the page until his nose was practically touching the paper.

  His nose smudged the ink. “Fuck.”

  Huffing with frustration, he set the paper down and tossed the pen on top of it, splattering ink on it and further ruining the drawing. It was fine. Everything was useless, anyway, and it wasn't like he was planning on turning it in. He just wanted to see how pretty it might look upon completion.

  He folded his hands together and stared at the stereo, debating whether or not to turn it off. There wasn't much sound without it. Thursday was practically upon him and he didn't want to sit in the silence of his thoughts. When he rose from his chair to return to his painting, he heard the doorbell ring.

  Curiously, he stepped toward the stereo and stopped the tape. The room's silence was imposing, almost menacing, and it made his ears ring, but he wanted to know who was at his door.

  He approached the front door hesitantly and peeked through the peephole, scanning the hallway. There was nothing out there except for a card sitting against the far wall. Confused, he stepped back, opened the door, and knelt down to inspect the abandoned gift.

  The card was a dull red with no writing on the front. There were no hearts or designs, which was a mild relief for him, but he was still suspicious of its presence. When he reached for it, he noticed rose petals on the ground that led all the way down the hall toward the staircase.

  He rolled his eyes. “Must be the neighbors.”

  He lifted the card. Written inside in perfect cursive was an invitation to follow the petals all the way outside. He frowned at the flowing script, feeling a medley of emotions bubbling in his gut. There was no name written at the bottom and no indication of who it might be, but he had a feeling it was Tristan.

  Who else would be this romantic?

  Mark folded the card and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans, slipping on his sneakers before stepping out and shutting the door. He stood there for a moment with his hand on the knob, wondering whether he should go back inside. Although it wasn't entirely appealing, he still felt the pang of insatiable curiosity in his chest. He wanted to know what Tristan had for him outside.

  He wanted to see what would happen.

  It seemed his legs had the same idea. They turned him around and led him down the hall to the staircase, moving without any prompting from his conscious brai
n. The curious pang in his chest turned into a ripple of fear, rising up in his throat as he exited through the front door and wandered out on to the sidewalk.

  There, he found Tristan holding up a bouquet... of stems. Tristan squirmed when he saw Mark and appeared flustered, raising the bouquet while running a nervous hand through his ginger hair.

  Tristan stammered over an explanation, “Oh, hey—I thought maybe—I thought—I just had this idea that—Well, I thought since you don't like V-Day, that you might like a bunch of destroyed roses.”

  He awkwardly held out the thorny stems.

  Mark stood with his mouth hanging open and his hands tucked in his pockets. He stared—it was all he could do in that moment and he wasn't even sure if his mouth would make words happen. His brain couldn't compute. All functioning muscles in his body were stiff and his stomach threatened to release his tense energy all over the sidewalk.

  He swallowed hard instead. “Oh.”

  “Yeah, I thought it was dumb, too.” Tristan lowered his arm. “And really, I came because I wanted to apologize.”

  “For what?”

  “For not really... taking your feelings into consideration. I feel like I did rush things with you. I did a lot in a small time frame and I think that scared you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, I just wanted to say sorry for that. I know it probably seemed weird that I used to live here a while ago, and I'm sorry I didn't really tell you that before. I guess I just...”

  Mark held up a hand. “Please, stop.”

  “I'm sorry. I should have called.”

  “No, Tristan—just stop. I'm the one who should apologize.”

  Tristan looked confused. “Well, I... go ahead.”

  The emotional well inside Mark was beginning to overflow. Everything he had been bottling rushed to the surface and came out in the form of tears that streamed down his cheeks. He didn't sob or make a sound, but just stood and silently cried in front of Tristan.

  After a deep breath, he calmly whispered, “I'm sorry.”

  Tristan nodded, glancing down at the oddly bent bouquet of rose stems he was still clutching.