Phone Drabbles

Delicate


Important situations were generally easy for a man like him to deal with. He knew how to analyze the problems in order to annihilate them. He could easily sort priorities. He always knew exactly what to say in order to sway the odds in his favor. However, this didn't stop him from freaking out every time he was presented with a delicate situation.

God only knows what he might screw up. For all his good traits (and he liked to think he had a lot of them), he had a bad one to balance out each and every one of them. While he could easily analyze things, he could also overanalyze things, giving him more reason to panic. Priorities were nice and all, but he could never seem to distinguish what he wanted from what he needed, and this could make ordering his goals a more difficult prospect than it had to be. While he knew what to say, he didn't know what not to say. That had gotten him in more trouble than anything else. He really needed to learn to think before he spoke.

Thinking these things over only made it harder for him to concentrate on his preparations. Not that he'd really been concentrating on them before. He was mostly just focusing on not letting himself run his fingers through his hair to relieve stress. It'd taken half an hour to make himself presentable; all he needed right now was to mess it up because of his nervous habits.

The next thing his mind singled out were sounds. The light patter of his socks on the wooden floor of his study as he paced back and forth. The soft crumple that resulted whenever he set his foot down on a stray piece of paper; different notes and files that he'd scattered not long ago whilst looking for something that turned up in another room altogether. The quiet hum of the netbook that sat on his desk, letting light pour through his study, basking everything in a dim glow.
The note displayed by the laptop's desktop returned his attention to the problem at hand: his job interview.

Oh, hell. How was he going to manage this?


Sophisticated


The Italian man seemed to just scream pretentiousness. The lax expression he wore as he strode around the showroom, waiting for someone to help; the expensive labels he dressed in and bragged about constantly; the way he spoke to his coworkers, slowly, with a strain in his voice that made it clear that their mere presence bothered him. Magro had to be one of the most supercilious people Marcio had ever met.

The annoying man was waiting by his cubicle at the moment, hands clasped behind his back. He rocked back and forth slowly; rolling to his heels and shifting his weight back to his toes over and over again. For once, he didn't look stuck up and bothersome. His lips, normally curled in distaste or pressed in a tight line of annoyance, were curved down, displaying a frown that blurred the line with a pout. Generally, his weird blue eyes were half-lidded, and his eyebrows raised expectantly. Today, his eyes were wide and his brow knitted nervously.

That guy confused him. What was he so upset about? He doubted he'd ever find out.

Marcio gazed around the empty showroom, letting his eyes linger on the new Mustang for a moment (that had to be the sexiest car he'd ever seen), quickly skipping over the Focus and Edge. The sun's light poured in through the dealership's windowed facade, reflecting off the curves of all the cars and letting the shadows of each salesperson's cubicle stretch across the floor. Marcio envied the outside world. So bright and green and warm. This was probably one of the last nice days they'd get this year; it was already September after all. He mourned the hours he'd killed waiting in the showroom, looking for his next commission.

Perhaps that was Magro's problem, too. Maybe he had realized that being a salesman really sucked sometimes, and he'd rather be outside in the sun.

Somehow, he doubted it. A sophisticated, elegant man like Aaron Magro out frolicking in the late summer sun? Yeah. No. He was probably just bored of the abandoned showroom he watched like a hawk.

Footsteps. One of the paper-pushers was coming down to taunt the salespeople for their slow day.

Oh. No. That wasn't the case at all; the man scaling the stairs was Carson, the meekest in the dealership.

Too bad. A fight with a paper-pusher might take his mind off of everything he was missing.

The blonde made a beeline for Magro, and Marcio couldn't keep from wincing. Aaron and Carson didn't seem like they'd get along; what, with Aaron's stuck-up, high-strung attitude, and Carson's cowardly, sensitive nature. There's no way they'd be able to tolerate each other.

Even so, Carson wore a cheery smile as he paced up to the dark-haired salesman. "Slow day?" He inquired softly, smile widening.

Oh, God. Here it comes.

Poor Carson. He must not know what he was getting into.

Aaron swiveled, face lighting up as Carson spoke.

Marcio frowned. What was this?

"Yeah," Magro admitted, smiling widely enough that wrinkles appeared in the corners of his eyes. "Sucks."

Carson laughed quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm pretty sure it's not your fault."

What kind of dark magic was at play here? Why wasn't Aaron killing his exact opposite? Why were they getting along? Aaron didn't sound the least bit annoyed, and Carson wasn't fleeing for his life. It must be the apocalypse.

The coworkers continued to converse, calm grins and even tones making them seem like old friends.

Impossible. Sophisticated Aaron and awkward Carson could not be friends. Marcio's brain, bored to the point of desperation, was obviously playing tricks on him.


Gentle


Aaron was a hard man to figure out. He wasn't secretive or deceitful; he'd never hidden anything from Carson, but even without lies and evasions, Aaron somehow managed to be confusing as hell.

The closest Carson could come to explaining it was that Aaron had multiple personalities. Not like schizophrenia or anything, just different ways of acting around different people.
For instance: at work earlier in the day, one of their coworkers had been poking fun at Aaron, who had just tripped over his own feet, clumsy as ever.

Their coworker had cracked up and began taunting Aaron, and the dark-haired man had instantly phased into attack mode, steadying himself and spinning around to begin screaming at the other man.

That was when Carson ran away. Aaron could be downright terrifying when he wanted to be, and it seemed to scare Carson more than anyone else. Perhaps Aaron was just genuinely scary, but Carson was pretty sure that wasn't the case. This was where the multiple personality thing came into play.

After lecturing his coworker until his throat must've been raw, Aaron had sought out Carson. Carson nearly jumped out of skin when he found that Aaron had followed him up to his cubicle on the second floor instead of returning to the showroom like he was supposed to.

Aaron wasn't on lunch break. What was he doing away from his duties as a salesman?

"Was I too hard on Marcio?" Aaron had questioned softly, hands tucked guiltily behind his back and an apology burning in his gaze.

"No worse than you normally are," Carson replied with a grimace.

Aaron pouted and avoided Carson's eyes. "And it scared you away?" he assumed.

Carson hesitated before nodding. "Yeah. Yeah, it was... you can be...."

"A dick?" Aaron finished for him, eyes flicking back up to meet Carson's. "I know. I'm sorry."

"Why are you apologizing to me? Marcio's the one you snapped at."

Aaron scoffed. "Marcio's an asshole. He deserved it, but you didn't deserve to be scared." He sighed, wandering carefully closer. "I'm sorry. None of it was directed at you. I'd never yell at you like that."

Unable to resist Aaron's gentle tone, Carson had stepped forward and caught him in a hug that probably made him wish he'd never said anything. "I know. I know you're really just a big softie with anger issues."

"'Softie'?" the dark-haired man protested, trying to squirm out of Carson's arms. "I'm not soft!"

"Notice that you don't deny your anger issues," Carson jeered, holding his friend tighter to keep him still.

Aaron only groaned.

With one last giggle, Carson let him go. Aaron had stormed off, muttering things about getting back to work, and not appreciating having his organs crushed.

Even when Carson compromised his dignity, Aaron was unbelievably gentle towards him, but if someone else, even someone Aaron liked, did the same, he would jump all over them. Carson wasn't complaining, but it still confused him beyond belief.


Stylish

Liking clothes didn't make him gay. He knew, because his best friend was gay, and he dressed like he was homeless. So, no; stylish was not necessarily synonymous with gay.

He didn't know why he liked clothes the way he did, and found he didn't care. All he knew was that as soon as he walked through the doors of a department store, his wallet was guaranteed to take a beating. Unless, of course, Carson came along. That man was like a condom for his wallet. He'd tried so hard to convince Carson of the importance of nice clothes, but still his friend refused to let Aaron pick anything out for him, and continued to dress like he lived on the street.

He'd thought having a gay friend would be awesome. Finally, a man who could go shopping with him, and help him pick out new outfits, and understand why Aaron needed clothes the way he did, but no. What did he get instead?

"Sak's? Again? You were just there last week!"

"I dunno; it just looks like clothes! You could be wearing the same thing you were five minutes ago for all I care."

"I thought you said you were trying to save money. Blowing your paycheck on crap you don't need helps this somehow?"

He was beginning to think Carson would never understand him.


Fun


"Return it."

"But—"

"Return it, Aaron," he repeated.

The smaller man pouted. "It's my money; I can do what I want with it. If I suddenly feel like buying a Playstation, so be it."

Carson gave a short huff of frustration. "Y'know how I used to say I couldn't figure out how you could be in debt?" He waited for a nod from Aaron to continue. "I take that back. I get it now. Go return it."

Aaron pushed the box to him, holding it against his chest. "I can't. It's yours."
On reflex, Carson reached to steady the box. He was not going to let Aaron drop three hundred dollars. "How do you figure?"

Aaron smiled sweetly, and, immediately, Carson knew bad things were going to happen. "I bought it for you! It's a gift! I can't return something that's not mine, now can I?" Aaron shot him one more huge grin.

Carson let his firm glare loosen up a little. Aaron was buying him gifts now? What was wrong with him? He glanced at the white and blue box, then back to Aaron, brow furrowed.

"You're welcome!" The dark-haired man exclaimed, still beaming.

"Thanks, I guess."

Suddenly frowning, Aaron crossed his arms across his chest. "I buy you a Playstation, and all you do is yell at me? I thought you'd like it. You could use some fun."

"You're wasting money you barely have. How did you expect me to react?"

"I was hoping for something like 'Gee, Aaron; thanks for the PS3! It's so cool. You're the best friend ever!' but, no. You're just a jerk instead. Now I'm sad." He turned away from Carson dramatically, feigning a few sniffles.

"Sorry," Carson muttered, holding the box away from him a little to get a better look at it. "It's just that you're supposed to be using that money to get a new apartment. Showering me with random gifts isn't going to accomplish anything for you." He sighed, shaking his head. "I appreciate the gesture and all, but I just can't let you waste all your money every time you get a paycheck."

Aaron spun around, expression now somber, and jumped back when Carson offered him the box. "It's too late now. I gave it to you. And even if I did take it back I still wouldn't return it."

It was impossible to argue with Aaron. Carson knew this, but he tried and tried anyway.
"Fine," he gave in, "I'll keep it, but you're not allowed to pay rent this month."


Soft

"Carson," the smaller man cooed. "Carson, it's okay; she didn't mean it."

"She did so, and you know it," Carson whimpered between sniffles.

Aaron sighed, and for quite possibly the first time, Carson could swear he saw genuine pity in the dark-haired man's gaze.

"She just doesn't know you. If she'd look past the whole gay thing, I bet she'd love you."

"Yeah right," Carson grumbled. "Even if I wasn't a fag she'd hate me. Everyone would."

"Nobody hates you, Carson, and stop calling yourself a fag."

"Why? Everyone else does."

"Everyone else is an asshole," Aaron argued, scooting closer to brush the hair out of the crying man's face. "Just don't listen to them, okay? They don't know you, so they can't judge you."

Carson gave a half-hearted attempt at laughter. "Like hell they can't. They can judge me as much as they fuckin' want! Who's gonna stop 'em?"

Aaron stayed close, trying to dry Carson's tears as they rolled down his face. "I'm sorry. I wish I could help you, but I'm only one person, and no one'll ever listen to me."

Carson leaned away from his friend, swatting his hand away. "Why should you bother, anyway?"

Aaron stayed stubbornly snuggled against Carson's side, but narrowed his dark blue eyes at him. "What's that supposed to mean? You think I don't care about you?"

"Why should you?" Carson said with a sneer, still trying to shove the smaller man away from him.

"Because you're my best friend. Why wouldn't I care about you?"

Finally giving up on prying Aaron away, Carson settled for simply glaring at him as he sat up to keep wiping away the blonde man's tears. "Because I'm a disgusting faggot, for one thing, and because hanging out with me makes you look bad. I have nothing to offer you and never have; I'm unintelligent, useless, and annoying; you have way better things to do than tag along with me; you're just way better than I am. Need I go on?"

Aaron looked to be on the verge of tears himself as he stared into the other man's bloodshot eyes. "None of those things are true, and if I catch you believing them ever again, I swear to God, I will kill you."

Carson simply raised an eyebrow at his friend. Even at his softest, it seemed, Aaron was still one determined son of a bitch.


Amiable


Today was obviously going to be a good day. Spencer had determined this shortly after meeting Allen.

Their conversation had gone on for a while after the introductions. He'd learned that Allen's favorite color was green, and that he liked listening to David Bowie and Van Halen (just like Spencer), and that he had a brother, who liked to draw just as much as Allen and Spencer did. He'd told Allen a little about himself; nothing he could remember now, though. Who really cared about him, after all?

Allen, apparently. The blonde boy had invited him to sit next to him at lunch, which was the highest honor Spencer could imagine receiving.

The cafeteria made him nervous. There was no real control in there. The other students were all over the place, being loud and obnoxious. They liked to tease Spencer, and, though it didn't really bother him, he hated that no one cared enough to make them stop. New Yorkers were jerks, it seemed. Not that he hadn't been bullied back in Jersey, but a few people had the decency to stick up for him there.

Today, however, he was in a hurry to get to the cafeteria, and it was no mystery why.
It was crowded, as always. Crowded and noisy. It made him feel claustrophobic.

Just go find Allen. Find him, and everything'll be fine.

That was more easily said and done, and Spencer knew it, but he had to forget that. He had a mission to complete.

Blonde hair and blue eyes. Couldn't get much more vague than that. Had there been anything distinguishing about Allen? His hair was really messy, and he was kind of short. He'd been wearing a green sweatshirt with some band logo on it; he couldn't remember which.

Spencer's optimism was beginning to run out.

He gazed around the cafeteria, eyes wide, and a slight shiver making its way up his spine. He searched desperately, swiveling on his heels to get a look at every angle, until, finally, he saw him.

Wait, no; he saw two of him. Two Allens. What the hell? How was this....

One of the Allen's sat up eagerly as he spotted Spencer. This was his Allen; the one wearing the sweatshirt. The one to his right was wearing a white tee-shirt with some abstract design on it. For now, Spencer would have to rely on this difference to tell them apart.

"Spencer!" Allen number one called. "Over here!"

The other one looked up from his sandwich, eyeing the first one quizzically, then turning his gaze on Spencer, still looking bewildered.

In spite of his own confusion, Spencer smiled widely and made his way to the Allens' table.

"This is the guy I told you about," Spencer's Allen said to the other, motioning for the other to scoot over. The other obeyed, but not without another searching gaze.

The first followed him, still grinning up at Spencer. Spencer mirrored him as he sat down in the newly cleared space.

"This is Alex, my twin brother," Allen told him, nodding at his brother. "Alex, this is Spencer. He's in my science class."

Alex quirked an eyebrow at him, clearly surveying him. "Hi," he greeted him without much enthusiasm.

Allen turned to glare at his twin. "Oh, come on. I'm allowed to have my own friends; I don't care what you think."

Alex simply stuck his tongue out at him.

"So mature," Allen groaned. Rolling his eyes, he turned his attention back to Spencer. "Ignore him. He's being a jerk. He just doesn't like it when I make friends."

Spencer didn't listen. He stole another glace at Allen's less amiable twin, who was now frowning intently at the back of his brother's head.

This was a little more weird than Spencer was sure he wanted to sign up for.


Yearning


It wasn't fair.

This shouldn't have happened. He should still be with Spencer, enjoying the secret relationship they shared. He shouldn't have had to break his heart, and he shouldn't have seen the way he cried.

The image was burned into his mind now: tears welling up in Spencer's dark brown eyes as Allen explained what had happened. The tears spilling over as Allen told him he couldn't talk to him anymore. The heart wrenching sobs he heard as he walked away.

He wanted to curl up and die. After what he'd done to Spencer, that was what he deserved. He wanted to crawl into a little hole and never come out. That way his parents wouldn't be so disappointed, his brother wouldn't be so conflicted, and Spencer could move on.

But what if he didn't want Spencer to move on? He didn't want Spencer to be with anyone but him, and that couldn't happen anymore.

No. He didn't want to die, and he didn't want to disappear. All he wanted was Spencer, and he really, really wanted him. He yearned for him. He yearned to feel his hand squeeze his own again; to be pulled into a hug and held safely against his chest; to share more kisses with him. He yearned to be back by his side. Back where he belonged.

It was impossible, though. He'd been stupid to think it wasn't. He knew his parents would find out eventually, he'd just expected them to be understanding. What a mistake that turned out to be.

Maybe that was all this was: one big mistake. Maybe it was just a stupid mistake. Maybe it was time he surrendered.

But he couldn't do that, could he? No. He couldn't let them win.