Lucas and Aaron
There once was a boy, who used his fists in times of rage- he didn't know how to communicate with people of his age. His parents couldn't understand- they wouldn't even try- and pumped him full of medicine until he'd learned to cry...
(Just noticed a bunch of mistakes, this is me republishing- hopefully a new chapter will be out soon)
Reminder that there are two more updates before this one <3
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
[...]
Lucas' PoV 3 days later
[...]
Smuck smack
Someone knocks on the door, an irritating disturbance to the night of binge-watching tv I had planned.
Staring at the closed entrance I debate, for just a second, whether to pretend like I'm not home. To prevent the anxiety of speaking to another living being and remain in the comforts of my blanketed nest for just a few more moments.
I sigh, looking back at the video I was watching, pulling the silky elegance of my duvet further over my frozen shoulders.
My stomach growls loudly in my body, begging for some food that I would be unable to provide.
Working at the local bar pays minimum wage and means that money and time is far and few between. I'm rendered to one meal a day, along with an apple at breakfast, to get me through my life.
Smuck smack Smuck smack Smuck smack
Another round of knocks rumble from the visitor again and I realise- with hopelessness rising in the pit of my stomach- that they're not buying my act of invisibility (possibly it was something to do with the noise of my TV or the light shining underneath the thin door).
Perhaps I should have thought this through a little more.
Great, now not only was I going to look like an awkward, stumbling mess but a rude, awkward, stumbling mess.
So I stand up, with legs trembling underneath me from hours of YouTube binging. Waddling towards the door, an attractive sight I'm sure, I tug stray popcorn pieces off of the oversized t-shirt I'm wearing.
My hands shake at a scarily fast pace as I do so- another reminder to get this visitor to leave as soon as possible.
I try to make myself look presentable, yet not really caring if I don't. Opening the door, ignoring the scars acquired from previous outbursts, I go to speak and-
Oh god how I wish I had put a little more effort into the way I looked.
There he is, Aaron, the kind-hearted Yorkshire man that lives in the flat directly opposite. Standing there, or rather leaning, like a rugged Viking ready to conquer England.
Yet, something seems off; something seems wrong.
Much like Harold Hardrada in the Battle of Stamford Bridge, a stronger enemy was winning.
