Bad Liar | JamFilm

4.

"Your hobbies are quite peculiar, sir," said Jam in an even tone, as he tended to Film's split lip. Film, who couldn't bring himself to smile, looked at his interlocutor's slightly furrowed brows.

"I only came here for a coffee," Film's expression seemed to say, 'innocence personified,' but the barista just rolled his eyes.

"I meant your unique talent for finding trouble for your ass."

And that was meant to sound harsh. Well, if someone else were in Jam's place, he might have given the man a cold stare, crushing him with indifference. But Film only smiled wider, followed by a dissatisfied hiss.

"It hurts."

"If you keep smiling like that, the wound will never heal," and there was a mischievous glint in Jam's gaze, which earned a satisfied snort from Film. Pulling his chair closer to the barista and brushing their knees together, Film looked up at the man from below, resting his elbows on his own knees. Jam froze for a moment, as if he had stopped breathing, watching Film with a hint of suspicion.

"Are you nervous?" The corners of the man's lips lifted slightly, but it didn't sound sarcastic. It was more like genuine curiosity. Film couldn't quite grasp why he was so drawn to getting this stranger's attention. Why did he want to be closer to the barista? Why had he become so dependent? How?

Since when had he become like this?

Realizing his mistake abruptly, Film pulled away instantly, his expression completely transforming. There was a fear in his eyes that had not been there before, and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Film allowed himself to do as he pleased, he had power over people. He had the necessary knowledge. But now... Now he was exposed, facing someone he hardly knew.

He swore to himself never to depend on others again.

"I'm nervous," a whisper, almost imperceptibly. Jam closely watched the man's reaction, sensing the inner turmoil within him. He had no idea what was going on in the other's mind. He was peculiar, appearing cold on the surface, but inside, like the color of a deep blue ocean, there burned a bright flame. And anyone who entered that realm drowned irreversibly.

"Although, I must admit, I'm surprised you intervened," Film suddenly raised his head, squinting his eyes and carefully studying the barista sitting in front of him.

"Did you think I'm a cold-blooded bastard?" Film smirked. This time, the smile didn't reach his eyes, resembling more of a wolf's snarl.

"Would it surprise you if I did?" Jam calmly inquired as he closed the first-aid kit and stood up. Film felt a sharp pang in his chest. It shouldn't have upset him. It shouldn't have, but...

"I'm a narcissist willing to do anything for my own gain, so you're right."

"Right about what?" Jam frowned, stowing away the first-aid kit in a cabinet and crossing his arms over his chest.

"That I'm a bastard," Film casually shrugged, getting to his feet and momentarily averting his gaze, not daring to lift it from the floor. He didn't want to see disappointment. He didn't want to see pity. He didn't want to see anger. Rage. Hatred.

To his surprise, Jam looked at him with gentleness. There was sadness in his brown eyes. Even a hint of longing. And Film couldn't understand it.

"Those were your words," the barista simply stated, and the man blinked absentmindedly, as if trying to determine if the person in front of him was real. Then, the break room echoed with loud, hysterical laughter. Film couldn't hold himself together, doubling over with laughter, while Jam continued to watch him calmly, his expression unchanged.

"You're quite amusing, Jam. I almost believed that you really didn't mean it," Film wiped tears from his eyes, grabbed his jacket and briefcase from the chair, and waved a hand, taking a few steps toward the exit. "Thanks for patching me up, but I think it's time for me to go. I'll definitely drop by for coffee again – it seems to be my new weakness."

"You're running away." It sounded sharp. Too sharp. Film felt as if a other's voice reached every bone in his body, making him freeze... out of fear. And Jam's gaze was piercing. Stern... Understanding.

No hint of judgment.

Film wanted to run. Really bolt out of this room, back home, where he could lock himself in, away from all prying eyes. Far away from those piercing brown eyes.

"And what if I am, what then, Jam? Will you say I'm pathetic? Haha! As if I don't already know that! So, Jam, what?! What?! Tell me!" He didn't want to shout, didn't want to lose his composure. Damn it! He never lost it. Never.

"Damn it!"

Film turned sharply, his back to Jam, feeling like a caged animal. He really wanted to escape. Who could blame him for that?

"Do you want to know what I think of you?" The sudden abandonment of formalities made Film stare at the barista with a certain horror, who continued to stand by the exit, maintaining an icy calm. Film found it funny again. Usually, he was on the opposite side of the chessboard, but here...

"And what then? Huh? Tell me," he taunted. Venomously. Toxically. The words slipped from his tongue faster than Film could realize.

"I see a person who's afraid to trust others. Someone who once felt so much that he simply burned out, hiding the pain behind false smile," Jam took a step toward Film, making the man freeze in place. There was nowhere to go, except maybe jump out of the window. "Someone who cared too much about those who didn't appreciate it. Someone who once lost something important..." Film lowered his gaze, looking at his own branded shoes, which no longer provided the usual confidence. "Or someone. People took a lot from you, didn't they?" And there was so much tenderness in his voice. So much understanding that Film couldn't take it anymore.

"It doesn't concern you," he hissed menacingly, but Jam didn't seem impressed. He simply nodded, looking at Film as if he were a lost little kitten, then raised his hands and simply said:

"You're right. It's none of my business."

Film jerked sharply, intending to make his way to the exit, but as soon as he got close to the barista, a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, stopping him in his way.

"But it's my job to make sure my customers are feeling fine," and Jam's gaze was fixed squarely on the man who felt too weak, too insignificant compared to him. "So just answer one question: are you okay?"

And Film opened his mouth, feeling an involuntary scream in his throat, but the words froze into dead ice, not even allowing him to take a breath.

He wasn't okay! He was cold. He was suffocating. Loneliness mercilessly devoured him every night. His soul had long rotted away, forcing him to look at his own reflection through distorted mirrors – he had already forgotten his real face.

But those were his problems. Only his.

Pushing aside the other's hand, Film hurried toward the exit, feeling the watchful gaze of a guard dog on his back.

He wasn't okay! He wasn't!

But no one could know about it, or else the enemies would devour him, leaving nothing behind.

It was the food chain of humanity.

P.S. So... it is going... somewhere... :'))