#especially for her fans who ARE larries who now feel bad for drawing the OBVIOUS PARALLELS between Larry and the plot

[nooelgallagher]

.

[kindawriter-blog]

Retrograde - Part 11

(a/n: It’s been forever and a day since I’ve posted so character pics and parts 1-10 are here: https://kindawriter.tumblr.com/Retrograde 

Should I start marking whose POV it is? I’ve tried to make it obvious but I don’t want to be confusing. I didn’t expect to switch so often when I started this. If it helps, *** = setting & probably POV change; --- = setting change but not POV change; and -*- = POV but NOT setting change (a POV change within a scene). This Part starts with Tina’s POV. Feedback always wanted!)

Part 11

I watch Larry leave from my bedroom, digging my nails into the window frame. The paint chips off, lodging under my fingernail and I jerk my hand back. I quickly dig it out with another nail and look out the window again. I watch his back move down the street.

‘He’s not walking toward Marienne’s,’ I think with a sigh. I’m about to turn away when I see him stumble toward the side of the apartment building down the street, leaning against it. After a few moments he steadies himself, pulling his coat tighter and dragging his feet until they fall into step.

 Turning around, I look over my room. It’s a shrine to misplaced hopes and dreams.  A box of fabric overflows in the corner, my desk has stacks of filled sketchpads, and posters for Spirited Away, The Paris Opera Ballet, and poster boards covered in magazine cutouts of Couture gowns cover the entire wall around it. And fragments of Larry’s and my relationship are hidden in enough places that I’m reminded of him when I usually don’t want to be.

 The little white teddy bear he silently handed me one day hiding under the pillows at the foot of my bed. The hoodie in the back of my closet that he thought he lost, but it smelled like him; like ash and honey. So sweet you’d choke on it.

 Larry and I met officially at a party. I knew who he was, because rumors of the “hot pot head” got around. I’d seen him at one other party before, and I noticed his pattern. He was the candyman. He went from person to person, helping them feel good. He would tell girls he loved their smile, and boys that their hand-me-down kicks with sharpie-drawn designs were dope, he’d make sure to find the quiet people in the corners and make jokes until they laughed enough to draw a crowd. Then he’d turn and walk away as his toothy grin faded to the slightest hint at the corners of his mouth. I’d watch his eyes then; I could tell there was something bearing down on him. He looked lost.

 Finally, at the next party, he noticed me. I was quietly sipping a Sprite on the couch because I agreed to help my friend Izzy get home at the end of the night. I had just set it down and taken out my sketchbook when his skinny but surprisingly heavy body dropped onto the cushion next to me.

 He grabbed the back of his letterman jacket and pulled it roughly over his head, knocking off his snapback. The hat landed on my sketchbook and I grabbed it and tapped him on the arm with it. For some reason it took him a second to notice me. I was watching the way his thin arms suddenly made their muscles known as he pulled his arms free of his jacket. I considered trying to draw them but quickly snapped out of that when he took the hat from my hand.

 “Thank you.” He smiled. “What are you doing over here, all alone?” he asked as he attached his hat to his belt loop and ran his hands through his twists.

 “I just don’t feel like dancing tonight.”

 “What do you feel like doing?” he looked like he actually wanted to know.

 I shrugged. “I was thinking about drawing for a bit.”

 “You draw? Can you show me?” he scooted in the seat a bit until he was turned completely toward me, resting his elbow on the back of the couch and his head on his hand.

 “Um. Sure. What do you want me to draw?”

 “A fox.” He grinned, tapping on the paper. “Like... a magic fox.”

 “You’re going to have to help me with this.” I laughed, moving my pencil carefully along the page. I started with the ears and moved carefully down the silhouette, and ended with a wispy tail.

 “You’re really good at this,” he said, “but it doesn’t look very magical yet.”

 “I think that’s the part I need help with.”

 “Yeah, everyone knows magical foxes need a lot of tails.” He grinned, holding his hand up with his fingers fanned out.

 “Well, since you’re the expert...” I held the pencil out to him.

 He had been leaning closer and closer to watch me, but when I offered the pencil he immediately pulled back and shook his head.

 “I don’t draw. I can’t draw.”

 “That just means you need practice.”

 “I can’t, my-I tried. I’m really bad.” He stammered over his words. It was the first time I’d seen him uncomfortable talking with someone. He usually charmed his way through every conversation.

 I couldn’t remember the last time a guy talked to me and I definitely couldn’t remember ever feeling like the most confident one in the conversation. I wasn’t about to let go of that feeling.

 “Here, it’s not that hard, okay? You’re right handed?”

 He nodded.

 I placed the pencil in his hand and put mine over his, guiding us to the page.

 “Now, you just think of how you want it to look and go with it. I’ll try to help it come out how you want it to. It’s ‘magic’ so it can look like anything you want.” I smiled at him and our hands began to move.

 I could tell he was going for graceful designs and I tried to help them happen. I showed him how we could lay the pencil down to use the side of the lead to make broad ribbons. Eventually our picture looked like a fox sitting in a swirling night sky, with several tails curling and waving behind it.

 He looked at our picture for a moment then gave me a guarded smile. Then someone across the room called for him and I didn’t see him again the rest of the night.

  The next week Larry’s shadow fell on me in the courtyard at school. I was sitting against a low brick wall, sketching between bites of cafeteria chicken nuggets.

 “So what are you drawing today?” he asked. I could only squint up at his silhouette, I couldn’t see if he was smiling. Then he dropped to the ground in front of me, and his bright smile almost made me search for my sunglasses.

 I had pulled my knees up to hide my sketchbook out of habit, and I glanced down at it.

“Well… I’m trying to design clothing. Your fox started it. I’m trying to put fairy tales and city life together. I don’t know what to call it.” I relaxed my legs and angled the pad so he could see it. The outfit was a sort of 1950s style deep blue dress, with a crescent moon pattern on the skirt, and sunflowers drooping in the moonlight along the hem. The dress was sleeveless with a deep red faux fox around the collar, made to look like he was curled up sleeping.

 “This is art,” he murmured so softly I almost didn’t hear it. “The colors and the flowers make me think of that painter? The one who went crazy and sent his ear to some girl?”

 He glanced at me and I almost snapped to correct him (he was right about the story but the way he said it bothered me) but he turned back to the page too quickly. His rough finger traced cautiously over my lines. He didn’t smudge it even a little.

 “Van Gogh,” I said, watching as he studied my work. He nodded without looking away from the page.

 “Do you have more?” he asked as he reached to turn the page but he stopped and waited for me to answer.

 “I don’t have a lot more drawings, but I have ideas.”

 I told him about how I wanted to incorporate a shawl that looked like chain link fence into an outfit, and think of a way to use snails and garden snakes. I turned the page to show him a sketch of a girl in a rain coat patterned after a yellow taxi.  

 “You should make an umbrella for her that’s a leaf. You know Totoro?” He glanced away from the drawing to look at me. I felt my smile spring across my face.

 “Yes. Yeah I totally know what you’re talking about.” I nodded enthusiastically and he laughed lightly.

 “Try it,” he said, and gestured at the page. He watched silently as I drew the oversized leaf and began to add drops of rain.

 The sound of rain hitting my bedroom window takes me out of my memory. I look outside; there’s no trace of him on the street. I worry about him. I can’t help it.

 ***

 When Larry walked out the door, Laurent didn’t react how I expected. Mostly because he hasn’t reacted to anything how I’d expect. I thought he’d get quiet, and close off or go to sleep; the way he’s been this whole time. Instead his anxiety follows the form of Larry’s just moments ago.

 He’s pacing, and pulling at his hair and his eyes keep darting around.

 “Mari, we have to go after him. Where would he go?”

 “Lau, we can’t leave, we have to wait for him. I’m not going out alone right now, and neither are you, especially if that guy who threatened you is out there. He just needs to cool off. He’ll be back,” I grab Laurent’s hands from his hair and find his brown eyes with my own, “I promise.”

 -*-

 Looking at Mari I’m trapped between wanting to wrench my hands from hers and letting her hug me. Instead I gently squeeze her hands and let them fall, and turn away to walk into the bathroom.

 My breath comes out in a shudder and I turn on the sink to hide the noise. Steam starts to build up and I rinse my hands. The cut from the glass is healing. There’s so much I wish I could burn away from my skin. The fog shifts over my reflection and for a second I see Larry. But then I blink and I see what Larry has been seeing. I’m too skinny. My hair is wiry and dull, too lifeless to really call it an afro, despite Marienne’s best efforts. I don’t think about the rest of my body. I know what I’ll see there. I know every pattern of every bruise, flowering like poison roses crawling up my skin.

 Shutting off the hot water; I use my uninjured hand to scoop some cool water to my mouth. The motion makes my ribs twinge and I gasp, holding my side and gripping the sink until my knuckles ache. No. I don’t want to think about it. I can’t, I can’t. Fuck. I drop to the floor, and he’s delivering the first of many soul stealing kicks to any exposed part of me. He stops when Warren tells him to. They always do what Warren tells them to. I jolt back to reality with Mari’s knock.

 -*-

 Lau finally comes out of the bathroom and he’s not okay. I was hoping giving him a little bit of space, safely inside, would help him. But it had been like ten minutes when I heard that thud and I had to check on him.

 Now he still looks anxious but he also looks exhausted.

 “Lau,” I start, and he reluctantly makes eye contact, “I promise. I promise he’s coming back.”

 Laurent takes a deep breath and looks toward the windows. Suddenly lightning flashes across the sky and he jumps, “Shit!” he gasps and shuts his eyes tight.

 “Hey, hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” I pull him to the couch and rest his head on my lap, brushing my hand over his hair. “I’m sorry, it’s going to be okay.” But he gently takes my hand in his, and holds it still over his chest.

 “Please; please don’t do that.”

 “Oh, I didn’t even mean to do it, sorry. It’s habit, I thought it would help.”

 “I-It does, it used to,” he sighs, absentmindedly touching my braided bracelet on my wrist, still trapped in his grip, “Marcus used to do that to calm me down.”

 I watch him and he glances at me before quickly looking away. I push away everything telling me to interrogate him, find out who Marcus was and where he’s been. It’s not time. It’s not my place. I settle for not changing the subject, but also not digging deeper.

 “Did it work? Did it help you feel better?”

 “Sometimes. But I don’t… I can’t think about him right now.”

 “Okay.”

 Eventually Lau falls asleep and ends up on the opposite side of the couch. I don’t think he even does it on purpose. He’s so uncomfortable with touch, even in his sleep.

 I wait up for Larry until eleven, but I wasn’t lying to Laurent. I completely believe Larry is fine and he’s coming home. I finally brush my teeth and climb into my bed at eleven-thirty. By twelve-thirty I hear the front door open and shut. After some shuffling through the apartment I feel the bed dip behind me. His arm wraps around me so tight it’s hard to turn to face him. When I turn over he hugs me tighter and hides his face in the pillow.

 He’s in a dry t-shirt and shorts, but his twists are cold and damp. I run my hand over his hair. I smell the air between us out of habit, but I get nothing. “Did you drink?” I whisper. He shakes his head, still not looking at me. My hand moves to his cheek. “But you wanted to.” He nods barely and his shoulders start to shake. I hold him tighter and let him fall apart, cradling his head to my chest.

 I’m glad my comforting instincts can help someone. I have no idea what I’m doing anymore.