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You’re not real unless you’re speaking.
There is no objective measure of what is and is not, but he knew this in every cell of his body, in all the hollow spaces inside joints and the weird twists of his crooked teeth. You are not real. He had never been real--somewhere there is a birth certificate that says Cecil Gershwin Palmer and every other field was ???? and his own mother couldn’t look at him except to predict his inevitable death.
Maybe. That part might not be real either.
He is a passive vessel. He is a record. He likes coffee and ice cream and gin, he does not like jelly donuts, he is technically an ex-smoker, after a fashion, assuming he isn’t relapsing. Stress was an issue. The familiar smell was an issue (the smell of Leonard’s cigarettes was still in this chair, staining the walls, and it was a safe smell, the smell of someone who knew, another vessel. Leonard liked his coffee light and sweet and he kept a flask of rum in his vest pocket for emergencies and he almost never remembered Cecil’s name, but when he did it was like the sun had come out, it was glorious on his tongue) (his mother smoked too but he did not remember the smell, just being very small and watching the little clouds drift around, trying to catch them).
He could be quiet around Carlos. In fact, it was often preferable--Cecil’s chatter was distracting, he was annoying even if Carlos was too good to say so. He wouldn’t be the first if he did; Cecil had never been able to shut up, and anyway he talked about himself too much, and anyway what even was there to talk about? All part of adjusting to a new relationship, of course.
“Babe,” Carlos would say, not looking up from his Very Important Graphs, “I’m kind of in the middle of something, can you--”
“Sure!” Cecil would chirp, and he would smile and shut up and if he could claw all his skin off inch by careful inch he would, for no reason at all.
It’s better when Carlos isn’t here--this one thing is. Because they’ve never really talked about it. It had been noticed, however, and to his credit Carlos made a brief attempt.
“Oh, that?” He said. “Yeah, I was so dramatic as a kid! So embarrassing. Don’t even think of it.”
And Carlos made a face that was annoyed and maybe a little concerned too, but he didn’t say anything more. Carlos was lovely and sweet and did not push the issue.
His tongue sticks out between his teeth and this is very focused, this is essential, it almost makes a sound and if he is very still and quiet he can almost hear it. Pull skin tight. Better result and less effort. Move quick, before you can go easy on yourself, you coward.
It is white underneath, with little dips, like the surface of the moon, before the red floods in. That’s the best part, watching that, because it is quiet--there is no sound, but it is real, it is focused, and sometimes he draws a bath and winces and sighs and breathes and watches over and over and over while the water gets rusty orange and it doesn’t matter--he isn’t coming back, he is never coming back, they don’t ever, he is gone--
“You okay, Gersh?”
Abby means well. She had resented the situation, not him, not this awkward empty child who needed so much, more than she could be reasonably expected to provide at 18. And that was her mother too, remember.
“Huh?” He blinks, rinses a plate. “Yeah, fine, why?”
She looks to the living room, where Janice is doing schoolwork, where Steve is not. Fucking Steve. Talking all the time, creating all kinds of nonsense with his mouth. What if someone heard him? What if they believed him?
Steve is whole and Cecil is not, Steve is a person and Cecil is an outline, an empty box.
“You don’t sound fine,” Abby says, and what could she mean by that? “You’re flat. Janice likes to listen, and she says you sound sad.” She dries the plate, puts it away, waits impatiently for the next. “You want to stay here for a while? Until Carlos comes back?”
He’s not coming back-- “No, I’m--I’m alright. I’m just busy. And tired. Work has been stressful lately, and you know, the whole--” he gestures vaguely to indicate the mess that is Lot 37, the unfairness that his general disconnection from the world is being used against him.
(violated) (get over it will you fuck it doesn’t matter)
She is not convinced, but doesn’t press the issue. She has an immature lifeform to care for, and Janice on top of that. This, she does not have to say, is stress she does not need.
Cecil is aware that he drinks too much. Not in a destructive way--he doesn’t, say, drive anywhere, or even really involve anyone else (most times). He’s usually just in his home, chainsmoking at the window and thinking, and then he isn’t thinking, and it hurts but he is quiet, he doesn’t even make noise when he cries
(of course here you go again, curling up and crying, that’s not fair and you know it, stop playing the victim and fucking say something).
No one else is aware, but Cecil is, and he isn’t bothered by it. Although he is bothered by how not bothered he is. Shouldn’t he see an issue and fix it? Shouldn’t he be actively trying to get better, problem realized? What was he waiting for, someone to come make him act like a responsible adult? He sips the drink and scratches his neck and shifts, feels the little wounds open again like mouths ready to silently issue their red opinions. They will be gone by the time Carlos gets back which will be never because Carlos isn’t coming back, because he is alone, and there’s no point in wondering if this would be different if you were better because there is no different, there is only this.
He opens his mouth and croaks a little half sob.
It wasn’t that he forgot, how irresponsible would that be? He’d just--maybe it slipped his mind a little, maybe he--
(what is the right answer? What will make them happy?)
It doesn’t matter. It’s over. The Sphere has moved on, and he just has to clean up that little breakdown mess, pretend things weren’t as bad as they were.
He knew this would happen! He knew he was safe. The whole station was safe, they were always safe.
(objectively, on the off chance he had died, just--considering the possibility, not like it means anything, just hypothetically--then none of this would be his problem anymore, would it? There’d be nothing to explain. And the glasses he threw at the wall last night, or the fact that he had run out of gauze and wasn’t sure he could straight-face his way through another trip to the drug store for first aid supplies--well, none of that would have mattered, would it? Theoretically.)
(everyone knew his face, everyone knew his voice. So everyone knew, but no one would stop it)
The right combination of words would make this all go away. And then he could go home. And tomorrow might not even happen
(and there suddenly isn’t enough time and he almost wants a conflict, almost wants someone to confront him but when they do he smiles sheepishly and waves it off and is so, so sorry to worry them, is more than willing to correct the misunderstanding. And they never see the problem again, because he’s put words to it, because he rewrote the meaning of everything they saw, and anyway the interns and his sister and Earl and everyone have already done their due diligence, they have asked if the sickboy is sick again and now they can all be very surprised when he crashes and burns, because he always seemed so happy, he was, as they say, the quiet type).
“Hmm?”
He is playing dumb. Ridiculous. Because Carlos is too smart. But pretending he doesn’t know what Carlos means will buy him a little time to think, to plan his words. Reality hinges on what he says next, on how he explains this.
They had talked all night and fucked at dawn; Carlos’ lips descended on him in desperation, unspoken apologies and unasked questions and guilt, guilt so thick even Cecil felt it. He’d wanted Carlos to feel guilty, wanted him to see what his abandonment had done; he did not want that anymore.
“Fuck me,” he whispered, and it meant I’m sorry, it meant I take it back, it meant let’s pretend it is as it once was, like none of this happened and then Carlos was inside him and they were loudly and wordlessly one and it was alright, for a little while none of this had happened and everything about them was perfect.
Carlos was home now. Everything would be alright. He was home now.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Carlos says, and he gestures vaguely in the direction of Cecil’s thighs. He is good enough not to also indicate the right shoulder or upper arm (No one cares if you keep your wrists clean, if you can roll up your sleeves, if your blouse is unstained).
“No, it’s--I’m fine,” Cecil says, with a little laugh. He scratches his cheek and shifts and the scabs don’t open, the silent wounds have nothing to add to this conversation. He has aired out the house and recycled the bottles and tucked all the details away--first aid tape in the medicine cabinet, gauze replaced in the box under the sink, shattered glass swept up and thrown away. He has been careful. He always knew Carlos would come back, was always ready for him.
“You know--you can tell me anything,” Carlos says. “I’m always here for you” (liar) “I love you” (oh you think) “and there’s nothing you could say that would change that” (bullshit) “nothing you could do” (try me).
He can’t forgive Carlos. Of course he’s forgiven Carlos! Everything is perfect and wonderful and frightening and horrible and fine.
Carlos loves him. He can trust Carlos. He can’t trust anyone, he is unlovable, and if Carlos had stayed gone he could have exploded in peace and been done with it.
“I know,” he says. “I love you too. I’m alright, really. It was--the last year was really. Difficult. But it’s over now.”
And that’s the truth, now. He said it himself.