Phaedon
Wagging the caramel frappucino in front of my face, I smiled. The small organ behind my ribcage fluttered with excitement, and unadulterated satisfaction. Making others happy, and smile, and laugh, in spite of my own well-being, was what I lived for. Cayman nearly bull-rushed through Evans in his hurry to snatch the tasty treat that I held, and I was happy to oblige him. Like a rent-a-martyr; I lived to please others, and sometimes Magnus told me this wasn't a good idea because people wiped their feet on doormats like that. Why did I always brighten when my friends are happy—it's because of something I said, or did. It's a self-satisfaction that I can't really explain, but it's there, and it sounds like the pitiful beating of my Thomas-the-tugboat heart. But, this means I can't ever say the things that I need to say, I choose to say nothing at all. I'll stand for them, and I'll expel my energy so they'll have parachutes when they fall out of ten-story-windows; I'll do anything at all just to see them smile. Cayman, Luke, Tailor, Kaida, Magnus; they're precious to me. Thankfully, it wasn't like pulling teeth to make them happy.
Allowing Cayman to grapple the drink from my slender fingers, I teetered back on my heels and grinned. “Da, I thought you'd like that!” I piped back, cheerfully. When Cayman threw his arms out around me, I lifted him from the ground and spun him in a short circle, releasing him back to the ground. Being tall had it's advantages. Cayman always gave the best hugs—they felt genuine, and warm. His delighted rhythms sounded like the happiest flutes, magnetically leading all of the mice and friends and people behind him, without even trying. He was sunny days without a cloud in his sky. The redhead turned away from him and questioned Tailor about ordering pizza. My heart flopped in my stomach and I glanced up questioningly, trying to hide the floundering hurt I felt. Why hadn't anyone called me about this? It was stupid of me to get upset over it, because after all, it was just pizza. I hated being left out, though. I glanced out into the hallway and spotted Alessia pacing with her phone, and closed the door as gently as I could manage.
Kaida's exuberance was intoxicating, and I could help but laugh whenever she was around. I knew that if I wanted to know about this secret lovely lady, or that dobroy nochi, I'd have to wager something she wanted. It looked like offering her smut books wouldn't work. Not to mention the fact that if she gave me those puppy dog eyes, I'd falter. Anyone, with the right words or look, could get anything from me—it was an unfortunate weakness that I hated. I wasn't the strongest person in the world, and people knew that. My friends made me feel safe. They wouldn't take advantage of me, and I felt like I didn't need to rip my heart out of my chest to make them happy. Warmth filtered through me when I slipped into the kitchen, and I took my usual spot against the clean, tiled counter. Still balancing the tray in one of my hands, I watched as Kaida disappeared into the living room. Honestly, they needed a bigger couch because by the end of the day they all seemed to huddle together, either watching movies or playing with each others' hair. Which got me to thinking: almost everyone in the apartment had long hair. Weird, huh? Subconsciously, I combed my fingers through my hair, and tightened the small purple band holding my ponytail.
I heard Kaida's voice and laughed, dropping my hand back against the counter. “Mm, how 'bout a movie or sometin', milaya moya?” I called back over my shoulder, rolling my tongue over those Russian words I loved so; my mother tongue, I have to admit, is my favourite. Even though I've been living here for years, my accent was still pretty heavy. No one seemed to have trouble understanding me any more, so I was glad. It'd been one of the reasons why I was bullied so much as a kid; people didn't like the fact that I stuttered when I struggled with my English, and did cruel things when I swore in Russian, thinking that I was cursing at them in a foreign language. Kids were cruel. Magnus, my childhood, school friend, was teaching me what little French he remembered, and sometimes I wondered whether or not he was kidding around with me when he said he didn't speak it. He always told me he hated it when people automatically assumed he was French, and he'd purposefully ignore them to piss them off—pretending he didn't understand a word of it, or really, maybe he didn't? I don't know. The words he did know sounded perfectly fine to me. In return, I was teaching him Russian.
There's no comfort in the way your heart beats faster when your scared, or hurt, or humiliated. So, when I caught the strange glance shared between Evans and Tailor, I licked my lips and stared hard at the drinks I'd brought along with me. It was the only thing I was holding between me and everyone else; a frosty shield of treats, protecting me from all of the shifty looks I was getting from Evans. Whenever he looked at me, I swear I felt naked. And then suddenly Tailor was shifting towards me, walking in reluctant steps that told me something was about to take place—or maybe not, and I was just imagining all of it in my head. With uncomfortable, jerky movements, I held the tray up between us and plucked his ice-capped smoothie from the tray and placed it in his hand. As gullible as I seemed, I was pretty good at reading situations and people; my perceptions were honest, and often correct. Something was off. Tailor, ever-fascinating and beautiful, whispered words that I wished... I don't know, I'm stupid.
And I don't like where this is going, and I hate this feeling even more. In the corners of my eyes, I could see limbs writhing on the couch and then I looked back at Tailor, and I could hear a sad, discordant sound. Almost guilty. I glanced towards the hellion grinning like a sea-lion in the background; pearly teeth and wicked collarbones, and I couldn't help but feel like I'd walked off the planet. “Da,” I managed to say, between perplexed blinks. His name was swirling on my lips, not Evans, and I am proud to say that I've never told him any half-truths. I'm proud to say that I've never lied to him, and I probably never will. So, why then, did this feel wrong? During the pause, I released the other two treats from the tray, discarded them on the table and held the empty cardboard to my chest. No comfort, at all. Why did it feel like he was going to tell me someone died?
You guys should go out sometime. “Shto?” What else could I say? Pardon me, I don't get your meaning? I don't like spinning roller coasters or the sight of trains; I don't like them as much as I don't like hidden meanings, and confusing words. Honestly, we joked about dating guys' like Evans all the time, so hearing this from Tailor's mouth was surprising. Surprising enough that I didn't know what to say, so I lowered my head. Impact; like a bullet in the lung. There were reasons why I said 'I don't know' when people asked me who I liked, and he was it. I felt sick, but I understood the meaning of his words. Where they'd come from was a different matter. Don't cry, don't cry, I repeated the mantra in my head until I was strong enough to look at Tailor again, but now he was staring at the ceiling, and then over at the couch. Fingers appeared from nowhere, and I realized I hadn't been paying attention to anything but the thrumming noise pounding in my ears, and then the arms that so suddenly snaked around Tailor's waist. Evans' head rested next to Tailor's neck, so close that I could feel the heat rising across my face.
I managed to grin at Tailor's small gibe, watching as he broke out of his friends' unwelcome hold; rebuking his efforts. And then he followed everyone back into the living room, leaving me with Evans whose eyes bore into me like wildfire. I felt naked, and I wanted to disappear along with them. Luke still hadn't been given his drink—yeah, that was a good excuse. Before I managed to say anything, Evans closed the distance between us and stood an uncomfortable proximity away from me. He smelt like musky cologne, mixed with something I couldn't put my finger on. I didn't have anywhere to step back, so I leaned against the counter and gripped the counter, watching Evans through my bangs. Sweeping them back from my face with my free hand, I deposited the tray next to the sink and grabbed both Luke's drink, and mine, smiling awkwardly.
I heard something about pizza, and tomatoes, and looked towards the living room. It was my salvation to make it there, but Evans was standing steadily in my path. I didn't want to bustle past him, and I didn't understand the situation; my heart was jammed into my throat, and I was replaying Tailor's words, trying to come to some consensus. It didn't make sense. “I want some too, pozhalujsta!” It wasn't that Evans wasn't attractive—because he was, he really was—but I felt weird standing here, avoiding his critical eyes. He had eyes that could break someone. With all of the nonchalant courage I could muster, I stood straighter, indicating that I wanted past, and arched my eyebrow. People often said I looked intimidating because of my complexion, my height and my long, navy hair. People that knew me thought this was funny. My lips pouted for a moment as I reformed the English words in my head, and mumbled, “kak eto skazat po angliyski?” And then a curt nod.
“Are you stayin' for pizza?”
((Phaedon's Russian translations: Dobroy nochi: good night, Milaya moya: sweetheart, Shto: what? Da: Yes, Pozhalujsta: Please, Kak eto skazat po angliyski? How do you say that in English? ))