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Robert Small steels himself and knocks on the perfectly painted door. He hears muffled footsteps making their way closer inside, and straightens up even more, shoulders back, chin raised. It’s the posture he holds when he’s getting ready to square up against someone, except he hopes that this encounter won’t end with him getting decked in the jaw and on his hands and knees spitting out blood. Twenty-four hours ago, he would have put money on it being fine. Now he’s not so sure.
The door opens a couple of inches, just enough for a bright blue eye to appear in the gap and peek outside. It widens the moment its gaze lands on Robert before disappearing into the gloom inside, and Robert barely has seconds to lean his hand against the door and wedge the toe of his boot in over the threshold.
“Leave it, Rob.” Joseph says softly, barely audible through the small space.
Robert hesitates. He could leave it. Could back off, accept that it’s none of his business. Go back to his house and drink and jerk off and then pass out on the couch, which is becoming an increasingly common occurrence. Or--
“Don’t fuckin’ call me Rob,” he grunts, and then leans more weight on the door. There’s resistance for a few seconds, and Robert wonders if he’s going to have to get a little more insistent, but then Joseph relents, taking a few steps back and letting the door swing open. Sunlight floods the living room, and Joseph squints and blinks and then tries to shield his eyes from the glare with his hand. It’s probably the most natural light he’s seen in days, Robert thinks, and casts his eye over the man in front of him. Joseph looks, well…
He looks awful.
His face is drawn, hair a mess and four days’ worth of stubble growing on his jaw in a sparse way that hints that he could never grow an actual beard, and he honestly looks dead behind red-rimmed, exhausted eyes. The blue sweater that’s perpetually tied oh-so-casually over his shoulders is absent, and the pink polo shirt he wears is wrinkled and stained. Plaid pyjama pants have replaced Joseph’s usual neatly-pressed beige chinos and his feet are bare. Robert stares. He’s never thought that Joseph Christiansen could ever look anything less than perfect, but here he is, looking like…
Well, kinda like Robert after a heavy night drinking, if he’s being perfectly honest.
Robert waits a moment, and when there’s no more resistance he pushes into past Joseph who says nothing and slowly shuts the door. “Kids ain’t here?” He asks gruffly, hyper-aware of how quiet the house is now that he’s inside.
Joseph swallows and shakes his head. “With my parents,” he croaks.
Robert grunts in acknowledgement and shoves his hands in his jeans pockets, turning away and wandering to browse the knick-knacks on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. It’s dusty, he notes, but there are places that aren’t and he wonders what used to be there up until recently. Joseph says nothing else, and when Robert looks over his shoulder, he’s still standing there by the door, gaze firmly on the floor and shoulders sort of hunched like he wants nothing better than to curl up in a ball and disappear. Robert continues to watch him for a moment, then turns back to the mantelpiece. Realisation dawns on him. All of the photos of Mary that used to be there are now gone, and so is the ornate wooden cross that used to sit centred above the fireplace.
For as long as Robert’s known Joseph, that cross had hung above the mantelpiece; an anniversary present from Mary, Joseph had told him once, pride shining in his eyes. A heavy weight settles in his gut and his right hand slides to the pocket of his jacket. He clears his throat, feeling like he should say something. He’s always enjoyed the silence that comes between conversations, but this is far too much, even for him. “Listen, I-“
“I know that you knew.”
Robert glances over towards the door to find Joseph staring at him now, blank eyes boring holes into his. “What?”
Joseph takes a step closer to Robert. “You knew, all this time. And you didn’t say anything.” His voice is hoarse from lack of use, but Robert can hear the underlying fury there this time. Dimly he thinks about how he’s never seen Joseph angry, either, and goddamn is he experiencing a lot of firsts today. “How could you not have said anything?”
Robert opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, then makes a noise of derision. “Of course I fucking knew, Joseph,” he scowls, and tries to wave a hand dismissively, but his stomach rolls even as he speaks. “Everyone knew.” Lie. “It was the worst kept secret in the whole damn town.” Another lie.
Joseph’s eyes darken, but he takes another step forward. “But you were with her. All the nights, at the bar, when she was…” He swallows thickly, like the words are sticking in his throat. “When she was getting drunk and- and flinging herself at other men, you knew, and you watched it happen and you did nothing. How could you just do nothing?”
Don’t do it, you asshole, Robert thinks as his hand grasps at the pocket of his leather jacket again, feeling the vague outline of the object inside. Don’t fucking speak or you’ll say something you shouldn’t and it’ll make it worse, just give it to him and leave. But Robert hasn’t come here to be guilt-tripped. He hasn’t. And the words are leaving his mouth before he can stop them.
“Because,” he spits back, “because I wanted what you had, you dumb shit! A perfect life with perfect fuckin’ children who want to spend time with you and don’t wish you were dead and don’t think you’ve let them down, and watching her do that made me feel good because it was how I knew that you didn’t have everything.” A pause, and then, “I may be a goddamn mess, but at least my wife didn’t fuckin’ spread her legs for any guy dumb enough to buy her a drink.”
He knows he’s crossed the line even as he says it. Mary would kill him if she knew. He watches Joseph’s trembling hands curl into fists at his side. Shit. Maybe he will be leaving with blood between his teeth.
Robert half expects Joseph to lose it, to march over to him in a blur of motion and lay him out with one solid punch to the mouth. But he doesn’t move an inch. Instead, he says, “Okay,” in a strangled voice so quiet that Robert thinks he may have imagined it.
“’Okay’?” Robert echoes. For all that he couldn’t stop the words from pouring out thirty seconds ago, Joseph’s response is rendering him near-speechless. “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say?”
Joseph’s blue eyes rake over him, head to toe, and for a moment Robert feels utterly exposed. Then they wander to stare at a point on the wall behind Robert and it’s like he’s withdrawing back into himself all over again. “I’d like for you to leave now.”
“Fine.” Robert forces out between gritted teeth, and he takes a deep breath. “Yeah, fine. Alright.” He moves back towards Joseph, towards the door, stuffing his hand in his jacket pocket as he goes. He pulls out something hardly bigger than his fist, wrapped in red cloth, and holds it out to Joseph. “Here.”
Joseph drags his eyes away from the wall to look blankly at him, then at his extended hand. He takes the item gently, pale fingers grazing over Robert’s tanned hands covered in tiny white scars from his whittling knife.
“Burn it if you want. I don’t give a fuck.” Robert grumbles. “But you should know that I’m sorry. That’s-- shit, Joseph. That’s what I really came to say.” And with that he’s out the door, pulling it shut behind him with more force than necessary.
Joseph stands there for some minutes, unmoving, knuckles white where they grip the object in his hand. Then he starts unwrapping the cloth, one corner at a time, until laying in his palm is a small wooden cross, hand-carved and varnished.