#thread: freddie kolbeck

[morrisxn02]

✍︎ @freddiekolbeck

When he was 15, Edward made a bet against himself that he could read The Brothers Karamazov. It was one of those silly little gambles that self-conceited teenagers make to prove to themselves that they really are that smart. Long story short, after two long months, Eddie finished the book and was left feeling rather frustrated at the end. Not only because he did not understand a great portion of the novel (turns out, 15-year-olds are not the most equipped audience to comprehend the nuances of a 19th-century Russian epic), but he also kind of wished there was more. A follow-up.

And that was how their last conversation ended. The epilogue of a novel that demanded a sequel. Maybe, like with The Brothers Karamazov, that was more his own need for a continuation, than a real narrative necessity. Perhaps, things would be better off bookended. Freddie’s back to him as he walked out. His fatalistic words – I wanted you to be more upset than I was, but that seems to backfire so, let’s just call it a day – left hanging. Forever. But the ones that came right before – You know me better than that. Even at my worst – have haunted him since… What are we even fighting for?, implying that there was something they were fighting for. That their fight wasn’t pointless. Well, it had never been for Edward. But he couldn’t stop thinking about how that meant that there was something in it for Freddie too...

With everything that happened in the days that followed, though, he had no time or energy to think about talking to Freddie again. Greer’s now very likely death, the only thing in his mind, draining him like a black hole.

But a couple of weeks have passed now. The feeling of inertia over the situation finally settling in again. And, with it, a little more mind space to focus on other things that consumed him. Namely, Freddie Kolbeck.

It was easy to ignore it when they were apart – well, not exactly ignore in the sense that he could pretend the thoughts didn’t cross his mind but ignore in the sense that he could push them aside and tell himself that there was nothing he could do about it. Now, with Freddie back at Ogden, where they were bound to cross each other's paths sooner or later, Edward would be possessed by an urge to talk to him, like water simmering in his chest, whenever he saw him around. Sometimes, that simmer reached boiling point. Sometimes, it outright exploded. But other times, it just stayed there, very close to bubbling up, until he found a way to turn the heat down...

This is not one of those times.

Smoking behind one of the arts buildings, silently contemplating nothing, Edward sees him in the distance, making his way toward Waverly. He just watches for a moment. A pace he’d so often have to slow down a little to match – Freddie always complaining that he walked too fast. He shouldn’t go after him. He should let it go. Let it die. Maybe it would be best for the two of them…

He can’t really bring himself to believe that, though. Not when the words still echo in his mind. What are we even fighting for? And, when the doors to Waverly swing open and Freddie disappears inside, Edward lets the simmer boil.

In an instant, he is at Freddie’s door. He doesn’t catch up to him. He doesn’t want to have a conversation in public again and risk it escalating into yet another argument. So, instead, he gives him enough time to enter his dorm before he knocks on the door. And when Freddie opens it, Eddie greets him not with a hello, but with a low, “Can we talk?”

[morrisxn02]

He needs this put this way. He needs to hear this yelled at him – why the fuck do you think I’m here – for pieces to fall into place. For confirmation.

Convinced by his own self-righteousness that Freddie’s heart held only hatred towards him, Edward never allowed himself to once question this belief. His fatal flaw since childhood: always the most accomplished, always the best in class, he had grown to believe himself never wrong. Now, standing in front of Freddie, unable to look him in the eyes, cheeks flaring red with anxiety, he is starting to question this self-proclaimed infallibility.

And then, when he says that he’s done with this, Eddie, it feels like his beaten-up, tired voice ties itself around his heart and starts to suffocate it. It strangles it and hauls it downward with the weight of a sadness he isn’t expecting to feel in his presence.

He isn’t one to care much about what people call him. Edward is just fine. Eddie himself would only introduce himself by using his full first name when meeting new people and never once suggest to someone that ‘You can call me Eddie’ or say over text something along the lines of ‘it’s eddie’. Not that there’s a problem with people calling him nicknames. It’s fine, really. He just doesn’t care about this faux-intimacy gesture that people like to perform where they're like hey eddie! and he... doesn't even know them? But hearing Freddie call him by this nickname – one that would so often be misheard as Frederick’s own, as though something about the two was intrinsically intertwined – he feels like he’s reached a breaking point… He too can’t keep doing this anymore.

The problem is that he doesn’t know what to say. Still shaken up by Freddie’s rant, he looks for eloquence, but all he finds is a cluster of convoluted ideas.

“What do you mean I win, man?” He fires back quietly, behind an eye roll as he stands to meet Freddie at eye level. “What do you think I’m winning, exactly? Not talking to you anymore? Do you think this is a win for me? Do you think this is what I fucking want?” And he wants to confess things that he’s put down on paper several times – unfinished short stories, half-written screenplays, discarded handwritten letters – but he cannot bring himself to articulate his thoughts into anything coherent. “I’m just as tired of this bullshit as you are, Freddie. But how was I supposed to assume that you weren’t doing this out of spite?" The follow-up is rushed and not well thought through. A quick attempt at taking some of the blame for himself too because he doesn't want this to go back to the same discussion again, just none of them admitting to anything they've done. “And I don't blame you for hating me, I know I fucked up. But if this is what happens every time we talk, how do you expect me to think otherwise?”

freddie's eyes rolled to the back of his head, where if there had been ten pins stacked together in a triangle he surely would've gotten a strike. he thought, if he pushed it to the extreme, eddie would be able to see what was happening here. instead, he reacts with an explosive reaction freddie doesn't quite buy, and as eddie continues with his legs spread over the table, he realises that maybe he's walked straight into a trap.

"fucking ridiculous," freddie mutters harshly under his breath, shaking his head. they'd been talking at each other but had entirely different conversations, and the second he leaned into eddie's, he was acting like the world's most hard done by. this was probably what he wanted all along. a concrete reason to draw a bold thick tally against his name so that when they'd next compare their wrongdoings against each other, the scales would tilt in eddie's favour. but my camera, eddie says, and freddie couldn't help but scoff.

he was willing to drag this out to the very end, to burn what was left of whatever the fuck this was now until they had nothing to come back to. he was tired. he didn't want to have to convince eddie that he wasn't this guy. he shouldn't have to. whilst they were no longer friends, and freddie would confidently say he hated eddie, that didn't mean he stopped caring about him. but he could start from today.

if the only thing you want is to make me fucking miserable, why not just go out and tell everyone?

he might've made up his mind, to drop the coffee pods on the floor and leave eddie to sit in his own self-pity, but a wave of outrage takes over and before he knows it, he's up on his feet and standing in front of eddie. "did you even listen to anything that i said? are you even seeing me right now? or are you too occupied in figuring out how to work this into your next script?" yes, he'd thought about eddie whilst watching the fabelmans. "if i wanted to tell people, i would've just fucking done it. if i wanted to blackmail you, don't you think i would've just sent you a screenshot and done it over text? i wouldn't put myself through having to look at your miserable face first, you fucking idiot. so why the fuck do you think i'm here? did you not hear me say that they need to be more careful who they say this to?"

a heavy sigh escapes him, like he's exhausted all his fumes. "i'm done with this, eddie. i'm finished. i can't keep--" a hand runs down his face. all he wants to do is close his eyes and feel nothing. "i can't keep doing this. you win."

[ogdencollegerp]

THE WINTER BREAK TRIP

Thanks to THE SOCIAL BUTTERFLY's genoristy and continuing presence at the center of all social circles, all students who were close to THE GOLDEN GIRL (or at least appeared to be and maybe some mistakes) have been invited out to the Hamptons. It's the offseason - so whilst many people are jetting off to ski resorts or warm islands, the beaches are deserted, quiet, and covered in snow.

Perfect to celebrate the end of a year - and most importantly, honor Greer's life, of course.

See below the cut for the roommates everyone will have while on the trip !!!

IC DATE: DECEMBER 26TH - JANUARY 2ND

OOC DATE: AUGUST 25TH - ....TBD

PLEASE NOTE: Current threads do not have to be paused for the duration of the event, but any starters (both open and closed) should take place during winter break. Please note there will be further plot/date markers from the main throughout the event, as IC it is taking place across a week. As always, feel free to DM the main with any questions or concerns !!!

BEDROOM 1:

Robin Morgan

Charlie Fletcher

Henrietta Astor

Sassa Fiske

BEDROOM 2:

Freddie Kolbeck

Milo Navarro

Cara Morrison

Logan Iyande

BEDROOM 3:

Monty Richler

Ollie Inoue

Minnie Lee

Lola Rhodes

BEDROOM 4:

Edward Morrison

Genevieve Upton-Crane

Mari Zuko

Natalia Vega

BEDROOM 5:

Nathaniel Shaw

Jesse Hart

Silja Spence

Anya Saetang

BEDROOM 6:

Parker Walsh

Rhiannon Falla

Jacqui Velazquez

[morrisxn02]

✍︎ @freddiekolbeck

Had he not been alone that afternoon at the beach, Edward would have promptly turned to the person he was with and walked past Freddie like he wasn’t even there. Had their gazes not met for long enough to acknowledge each other’s presence, he would have just pretended not to see him and go about his business, like he had been doing over the past few weeks. Had something in Edward not wanted to go to him, he would have just turned around and walked in a different direction... But none of those hypotheses mattered because that was not how things went down. Instead, when Edward spotted Freddie on the sand just as he was leaving the boathouse, and their stares crossed for a second too long, what he did was let the gravitational pull guide him, drag him across the beach all the way to him on a slow, lazy stride, feet drawing a long trail of steps leading from the deck to Freddie on the sand. “So, the prodigal son returns…” Edward didn’t even bother sparing him a greeting as he reached him. His voice assumed a quiet, low tone that only they could hear, intently bitter and cold in nature. “How long do you assume it’s going to last this time?”

[morrisxn02]

Edward stares in pensive silence, takes a drag from his cigarette, and shrugs, extending an open palm loosely in front of him as if to say go on, before he leans back against the balcony railing, arms crossing over his chest like armor.

setting: nye, late in the night, after his conversation with ollie @morrisxn02

"can i talk to you?"

[morrisxn02]

I don’t want you to follow me back to LA.

He emits a little huff of air. A disappointed, little, aborted laugh.

Follow.

An inherently harmless word in and of itself. But, contextualized in the current circumstances, a mean, unprecedented low blow. An unfair way to trigger an age-old insecurity that seems to have been done just for the sake of hurting him.

All the softness on his features disappears, giving way to a scowl. Brows furrowed and lips pursed tightly as the frustration of this betrayal transpires.

The lump in his throat and the pressure in his forehead drive his attention away from Freddie’s following questions. His words almost muffled by a feeling of tension that seemed to tighten every fiber in his body.

And, before he can help himself, Edward has already pushed himself off the bed and is standing just inches away from Freddie’s face. “Nobody fucking put me up to this.” He explodes, his voice certainly audible out in the hallway and downstairs as it bled through the window. “I came here to talk to you. I came here because I wanted to see you!” He slams his index finger against Freddie’s chest, only realizing it a few seconds too late.

There were a lot of other reasons for his coming. Reasons he only realized the moment he impulsively – and naively – asked Freddie if he wanted company. But all that went out the window, the second Freddie fired back.

Jesus, how he wishes he had thought that through instead of fucking asking a dude he hadn’t talked to in years if he wanted to run away together. How fucking childish of him. Hadn’t his impulsiveness already gotten him into enough trouble?

But regret wasn’t the reason for this sudden burst of anger. It was the fucking way Freddie phrased his response.

Follow…

Trivial as it may seem, the way Freddie referred to him triggered an age-old insecurity. Something he has learned to conceal under layers upon layers of unwavering (and sometimes dreadfully bothersome) self-confidence. A consequence of a childhood spent vying for parental validation. Choosing unquestioning obedience over fun. The feeling that he was utterly boring.

Freddie had always seemed immune to Edward’s unfaltering submissiveness to his parents. To all the refusals to stay up late, or to sneak out, or to ditch French class to play video games at his house... Even if other kids would mock Eddie for being too uptight, Freddie would always be entirely unfazed by it.

The later impacts of this pressure to perfection might be a topic for another time but the point is that when Freddie said he didn’t want Eddie following him back to LA, it reminded him of all the times that he felt like he was being a burden that people dragged around for convenience because ‘if Eddie’s coming, then Greer’s coming’. Which, again, in and of itself isn’t exactly the problem. The problem is that this time, Freddie is the one saying it. The one person who had never treated him like a fucking drab. And that’s what sends him over the edge.

But, by the time he realizes he is starting to get physical, he forcefully restrains himself – taking a deep, heavy breath in and stepping backward. “But you’re right. I wouldn’t want to follow you to LA like a fucking dead weight.” He says, more calmly, but with enough sourness to corrode the floor they stand on. “So, since there’s nothing left for me to say to you, I guess I’ll be on my way. Have fun in LA, man.” He shakes his head, opening his palms in the air as if to say he’s giving up. Again. Even if he never truly will.

Before he closes the door behind him, he turns to Freddie one last time, looking down at his messy suitcase, and says, “And good luck packing up the Marshalls clearance section.” Which he wasn’t exactly sure existed, because he had no clue what a Marshalls store looked like on the inside…

he swallows thickly as eddie moves to sit on the edge of the bed, begrudged by having to twist his neck to keep his eyes on him. which turns into something worse, as the way eddie looks at him confuses him. he realises he might be searching for something that simply isn't there. there's nothing cold in his eyes, nothing sharp and malicious, only a sadness that feels raw and unfiltered. it probably was not meant for freddie to see, but he couldn't look away.

glimpses of pensiveness flashes in his own eyes until eddie's question splinters his train of thought. he looks up at him, as if he's being accused of something, wondering if eddie's trying to catch him out. was this another manipulation tactic? was he close to falling for another one of eddie's tricks? how many times had freddie asked him to run away with him? now, after all they've done to each other, he wants to go?

the answer comes easily to him then: "no, eddie. no, i don't want you to follow me back to fucking la." a sharp huff escapes him. he jumps off the bed, as he finds it hard to move past the sudden rise of suspicion in his chest. now stood, streams of paranoia begin to flood his thoughts, and freddie opens the doors wide open to let them in. did eddie only apologise for one day to get freddie to apologise for the past few years? did he only offer to go with him to prove this is what makes freddie a bad friend?

in reality, he knows, if eddie stays, or if they continue to have this conversation, he will not want to leave. and he has to leave, but if he does, he becomes a contradiction to the kind of friend he would promise to be to eddie if they decide to move on from here. the kind of friend he couldn't be, due to what happened with greer, which makes it impossible for him to apologise. he'd wondered before, after their argument by the beach: is it guilt or is it grief? did one birth another or are they two separate animals with the same appetite?

"i don't think you actually want to come. you haven't even told me why you're here." so much remains unresolved. in a desperate attempt to gain some footing, he shoots back, "seriously. what do you want. did my mom call you? did your mom call you?"

[morrisxn02]

As the scene unravels in his mind like a movie montage, his cheeks flush with the warmth of a sweetly embarrassing memory. And when Freddie smiles, Edward does, too. Not out of reflex, but because it just feels good to see his smile – even if it’s faint and momentary – and to bask in this moment of nostalgia after fighting for so long.

But when the conversation aggravates again, with the revelation that Freddie himself couldn't think of a happy memory when his therapist asked, Edward's smile fades into a frown. Forehead wrinkling and a crease forming between his brows. First, softly, in penitence. Sorry – and almost self-reproachful, as though it was his own fault.

But then, his eyes narrowed too, making his frown look more puzzled than sympathetic.

He doesn’t know what he wants from this conversation either. An apology, too, as he felt like he was owed? An olive branch? Forgiveness…? At least in part? The one thing he isn't expecting was what he gets…

He understands Freddie cannot apologize yet. He understand Freddie couldn’t be there for him. But he wished things could’ve been different. Wishes. Still.

In the silence that follows, he pushes himself off the wall and walks to the bed, taking a seat on the edge so that he’s facing the bag, and he and Freddie are side by side with each other now.

His gaze shifts to the open bag and the little mount of misfolded clothes that only someone who had never seen a single Marie Kondo video would make. Maybe the forgiveness Eddie is looking for is somewhere in there…

He huffs a little puff of air through his nose in a sluggish chuckle because that is such a Freddie way to pack. But, then a sense of urgency quickly overcomes him, tightening his chest and deepening the sadness of the big blue eyes a mutual friend once deemed ‘naturally sad.’

I’m leaving anyway. And his heart starts to race like he has to get everything out at once.

It sounds so easy when he says it...

He wonders where he’ll go. If he’ll have fun. He hopes he’ll finally make a happy memory to tell his therapist about…  

But part of him cannot help but wonder how come this is so easy to some people? How they can just pack up and leave like nothing was tying them back. No ties binding them to family. No roots tethering them to duties that they didn’t choose… They just get tired and decide to walk away... Why can so many people let go of everything so effortlessly while he is forced to carry his bonds and responsibilities around like he is being punished by some Greek deity?

Perhaps, in another universe, he would’ve said a big fuck it to the whole shitty friends to each other in the last couple of years thing and let the blind faith he has always deposited in Freddie guide his next actions. Perhaps, in another universe, where he wasn’t so tamed by the expectations of the adults that surrounded him all his life, he would’ve ignored that Freddie still didn’t have it in him to apologize and said or done something truly drastic.

In this universe, all he does is ask, “Why?”

But, before Freddie can answer, in the millisecond that it takes him to form the words, Edward decides that right now, with him, he wants to be this Eddie from a different universe. That if there was anyone he owed it to, it was Freddie. And so, in a thoughtless impulse, he asks, “Do you want company?” As if by leaving, Freddie meant to say going away for good. And in doing so, unbeknownst to him, he realizes what he wants from that conversation...

eddie’s gaze drifts past him, as if he’s taking himself someplace far away and freddie keeps his eyes on him, as if he’s looking to follow. he wants to see what he’s seeing, whether they go to the same place when thinking about the answer to this question. if he could, he'd take a shovel and dig through eddie's memories to see which ones laid at the top and which ones were buried at the bottom.

my year abroad, eddie says, and freddie's heart sinks a bit. he presses his lips together and nods once dejectedly, like he should've known eddie would've chosen the one time when they were the furthest apart. it only further reinforces what freddie had been thinking, but that doesn't make him feel any less stupid for feeling a little hopeful. his eyes fall to the floor then, landing on eddie's shoes where the cable of a laptop charger lies to the side of them, and briefly he's taken back to a much simpler time.

it was many years ago, when their cheeks were fuller and eddie was annoyingly taller than freddie. they were at a beach and the skies were grey, so they had the whole stretch to themselves. freddie had stuck a stick in the stand next to where eddie's feat had been and told him to stay put. he drew a long line as he walked further and further away, yelling back at him not to move, and continued until eddie had become a small dot. it'd amused him to picture how confused he must've looked. when freddie returned, he'd asked eddie if he could see the end of the line. 'no,' eddie replied. 'good,' freddie said. in his naivety, freddie thought their friendship would last as long as the drawn line, with no end and no interruption. they'd grow old together and be friends forever. they'd meet on the beach again, with each others wives and kids, and their kids' kids, and tell them all about the long, long line drawn in the sand.

and just when freddie starts to accept that this may be the end of the line for them, eddie specifies he was talking about thanksgiving week, of his year abroad. it takes him a few seconds to realise he'd been there. parker, too. the faintest smile flickers across his face, as the memories come flooding back. "and we got invited to that random wedding, where we caught the bride with the best man?" he remembers writing it down, to include it in eddie's wedding speech. but the point, what was the point? "i don't really know." a huff of a humourless laugh, lifting his shoulders into a listless shrug. "i guess there isn't one, really."

"my therapist asked me and i didn't really know what to say." if his memories could be pulled from his mind like a reel of film, it'd show as one big blur and choppy where his worst moments had been cut. he knows he has happy memories, but for a handful of them he can't recall the details. sometimes they don't even feel like his own, like he's made them up to fill in the blanks. other times, it feels like shoving a square peg in a round hole. does they count if he was high? or if eddie was secretly thinking he was being a shitty friend? "but that's not important."

he runs a hand through his hair as he lets out a heavy sigh, glancing down at his suitcase for a brief moment. "i just-- i don't know what to say to that, if i'm being honest. which is fucking ridiculous," he admits. "you've come here and apologised and i can't even say it back. your sister goes missing and i can't suck it up and just be your fucking friend." he lifts his hands in the air as if to say: it's a fucking joke, before they land on his sides. "i don't know what you wanted from this conversation but whatever it is..." another sigh. "i don't know, man." a beat. "i'm leaving, anyway."

[morrisxn02]

Later that night, he would realize, sitting in the dark like the protagonist of Excursion into Philosophy, with a clear head and between slower breaths than the ones he heaved at that moment, that the reason why he’d gone to Freddie at the beach was a desperate, visceral need to talk to him. Whatever that entailed, he just needed to hear his voice. Not the recorded one he heard as he watched him list his four favorite films for Letterboxd or as he spoke to reporters in a podcast – he’d had enough of that already. It was his actual voice that he wanted. Live, directed at him. And what that entailed, was this.

And Freddie’s words reverberated in him with stark incontestability. An incessant background noise that he couldn’t stop thinking about. Maybe this time because they weren't words coming from just anyone... A shit friend. A shit brother. A shit boyfriend – this last one something he’d heard very recently and had yet not had the opportunity to talk about with anyone. He really was all these things. A shit human being, really.

In this moment of truth, Edward fell silent. Disarmed of arguments, of sharp words, and, worst of all, of all his fury. All he felt then was a quiet, tranquil sadness.

It was fantastic how Frederick still managed to do great things for Edward, even in blissful ignorance.

He was right. Everybody had shit parents. And not just about that. About everything. Edward was not special. All he was, was cowardly. That was the difference between him and everybody else. Freddie knew that, of course. Having always known, better than anyone else in the world, the vicissitudes of Edward Rufus’s obsessive, toxic relationship with his father’s appreciation. And maybe, as hurtful as this whole argument had become, hearing it from his mouth was a necessary evil. In part, to make him realize how there was a link between all the things he was was awful at, as highlighted by Freddie (id est, an alarming inability to take stance on things that mattered or to take up any emotional real estate). But also, it revealed to him how Freddie felt about this, and about him. And that was the worst of it. But, at least, this clarity about Freddie's perception of him would bring him closure...

And, if he were to be honest, he'd known what was coming his way long before that decision was made. Part of him – judgmental and self-aware as he could be – already knew, without the fight, that he was the one at fault. Sure, Freddie wasn’t an innocent, passive receptor of Edward’s negligence. But all in all, if an audience had to choose who the villain in their narrative was – the one who had turned his back on the other, who unilaterally decided there was nothing he could do –, Edward would get the title by a landslide.

Still, it was hurtful to realize that with his whole being now. That, and the finality that that conversation carried. Like that was it for them. Forever.

Finally, he said, a bit discombobulated still, in a very low murmur, “No. The shit brother thing is all me.” That was one thing he reckoned. And he was even trying to make amends. Trying. Not necessarily succeeding. But that was the one thing he knew in his heart that he couldn't blame his parents for. Not his parents, not Greer, not some external factor he could not control.

And, after another moment of silence, came a moribund, defeated shrug. “Well, I'm glad someone was there for you, at least.” He had no punches left in him. All the energy he'd initially put into the discussion flowing down a drain of his own insignificance. He had nothing left to say.

Well, he had something to say... He just wasn’t ready to say it. Not there, not like that. He was already on the ground. Pathetic as he was. He wasn’t about to start begging for mercy too… Plus, at this point, he wasn’t even sure that it mattered anymore. He wasn’t even sure he mattered anymore. And, in his heart, as much as he resisted the awareness of this, he knew that he couldn’t blame Freddie. Couldn’t blame him, couldn’t blame Jesse, couldn’t blame Cara, or Lucas, or Océane…

He felt a knot in his throat that he acknowledged with sheer and utter hatred. Not right now, he told himself as he held back a tear.

And, in the cold light of the sun that had just begun to set behind them, he lifted up his head, meeting Freddie’s gaze once again – his own eyes marred with profound hopelessness – and, after a sigh, said, “Good to see you're doing well, Frederick.”

He turned around, finally, and started on his way back to Alcott, the lonely tear he'd been holding back finally slithering out of his eyelid and down his left cheek.

he doesn't believe that. he doesn't believe that he treated eddie consistently like shit, at least not to the point where it triggered the end of their friendship. even if eddie's name had been on the top of the list of people he had to make amends with, he wasn't going to shoulder the sole blame for everything when eddie was making every effort to accept the part he'd played in it too. what started out as a confrontation suddenly turned into something different, a race beneath the water where only one of them would reach the shoreline and the other would chase the horizon. and freddie quite liked the feeling of keeping his feet on the ground.

"ohhhhh my god," he cries out in frustration, like he was draining himself of every last drop of hurt he'd been holding inside of him, hands rising to the sides of his head as his fingers pressed into his temples. "boo fucking hoo, edward morrison has shitty parents. " a sore spot of eddie's that he knew all too well, and for it to appear like this, in all its glaring red glory, meant that freddie had somewhat of an opportunity to regain some footing in this. "wah wah wah," he balls up his fists and brings them to his cheeks as he mimics a cry, willing to push as much as he could for it to really hurt. "wake up, bro. so does everyone!" what eddie's parents would've done meant nothing to freddie, even if he understood the situation to its most granular detail. eddie was his friend, he'd expected him to be there, in the same way freddie would've dropped everything for his friend. "are you going to blame them forever? how far does that go? you're a shit friend, because you have shitty parents. a shit boyfriend, husband? dad?"

when eddie starts walking away, freddie is hit with a heavy wave of guilt, wondering if he took it too far. or, knowing that he did, and thinking that was what he'd wanted, but being faced with eddie's back brought a realisation that he'd been wrong. maybe he'd just wanted eddie to care enough to stick around and fight, that he'd rather stand on opposite sides of the battlefield than not be there at all.

what he didn't expect was for eddie to suddenly be standing so close to him before his brain could even catch up with the fact that he was coming back. seeing eddie so close makes him want to take a step back, but it's pride that keeps his feet rooted to the spot, meeting eddie's cold gaze with his own, still heated. "i did," he says smugly. "she's a much better person than you. i can see why your parents don't like her." a beat. "i take it the shit brother thing is their fault too."

[morrisxn02]

Both, he thinks in response but doesn’t say anything, feeling somewhat frustrated in the face of Freddie’s passive-aggressive approach. Isn’t an apology what he wants? Knowing Edward as the most self-righteous human being in a 13-mile-radius, isn’t that a good enough start? Can’t he cut him some slack given everything he’s going though? Maybe not…

And maybe, Edward deserves it…

If that had been anyone else in the world, he would have certainly turned away and walked out on the spot. A speech about him always having to be the grown-up in the room, always ready to compromise in opposition to an inflexible counterparty, echoing behind him as he walked through the door. But Eddie’s sets of rules and statutes always tend to change when it comes to Freddie… So instead, he stays. He ignores the snarky remark like it’s a duplicated page on a novel he has read a million times, and just watches for a second, trying to resist the impulse to take the poorly folded clothes and refold them properly.

The question that followed, juxtapositioned with the familiar sight of a jacket he hasn’t seen in a long time seems intentional. Knowing Freddie, it might as well be. But it might as well not.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Their sophomore-trip to Italy would be the obvious answer. Perhaps, even the one Freddie expects to hear. But an unlikely sequence of recent events shifted his perspective on certain things – on the people that make him truly happy, and the memories he cherished the most. And so, he takes a minute to think. Well, almost a minute – which is still a long interim of awkward silence where he’s just staring out the window as though the answer would come in with the wind. It doesn’t. Instead, it comes from a process of rationalization. Like most things when it comes to him. He tries to find a time where Lucas and Océane were around. But also, Freddie. And Parker. And also, it would have to be some time when he was in France. And, most importantly, away from his family.

“My year abroad.” He says, although there is a bit of uncertainty to his voice, as if he weren’t fully convinced. Because, well, he isn’t. Sometimes you become so engrossed in your own self-pity and melancholy that that you don’t spend time thinking about the things that make you happy. “November, to be precise.” He completes, still not looking directly at Freddie. “Thanksgiving week.” When both he and Parker were in France to visit him. Parker eventually returned to America to spend the day with her family, but Freddie stayed. It was the first Thanksgiving he ever spent away from his parents. And, if he weren’t so naïve then, perhaps he would have realized that it was so much better this way… “I don’t get the point of the question, though.” He finally looks at Freddie and his ever-growing pile of poorly folded clothes that he would never be able to fit into his bag.

you know how i suck at improv? his gaze narrows in confusion at that, almost wincing since he can't tell where eddie plans on going with this and from the sounds of it, eddie doesn't know either. the last thing he expected, however, was to hear the words 'i'm sorry'. a part of him wants to tell eddie to stop there. if they start with the last time then they'll go all the way back to the first time, and he's not sure if he's ready to have that conversation.

by the time eddie finishes, freddie's fingers curl into his palms without his consent, pressed firmly against his skin, holding onto something he can't pinpoint.

for a long moment, all they do is look at each other. it feels like the first time, since they've been at ogden, where their eyes have told the honest truth. he looks back at eddie with the same sentiment, of regret, frustration and a little bit of sadness. he's sorry too, for everything. he wishes things didn't have to be this way. if eddie had knocked on his door a week or two ago, maybe freddie would have said it back. but perhaps that was their issue -- a week or two ago, eddie probably wouldn't have come.

"are you apologising to me or thanking me, man, pick a struggle," he says quietly through the exhaustion, saying something just to say something. then, he turns to move the suitcase and the clothes from the floor and onto his bed. only once his back is turned does he truly allow himself to feel all of eddie's words with his whole self, and each part of his body becomes wreckage: here lies his heart, his head, his lungs, his palms.

freddie sticks his hand in the pile of clothes and pulls out a jacket, one that eddie had gifted him and he'd worn in amalfi, and decides now is the best time for him to fold it sloppily. he continues with the next piece of clothing, then another, and another. deep in thought, he barely acknowledges eddie's presence until he lands on the conclusion that he must've followed him here. this makes him turn back around suddenly.

"can i ask you something? when would you say you were most happy?"

[morrisxn02]

“No fucking way.” The words burst out of him in instinctive, angry response.

The camera had been one of the last things his grandmother had gifted him before she died, a few weeks before they all went to Italy in the summer of their sophomore year. The first picture Eddie had ever taken with it was of Greer, Freddie, and himself standing in front of an old mirror displayed in the window of an antique store in Amalfi, lined up by their heights, like a little staircase. That picture was still on his corkboard, right next door, on top of his desk. Even if he had taken down the other ones of him and Freddie (that he still kept in the second drawer of his bedside table back home), he never had the courage to take down any photos that contained Greer. Now, he wishes he had thrown away every memory he kept of Freddie...

Is this all he wants? To hurt him gratuitously? Is this whole thing as pointless as he dreaded? Is this all just a little show for Freddie's amusement? For revenge?

His anger begins to dissipate, giving way to a sense of frustration and sadness. What an idiot he had been to think that Freddie still cared enough to keep his confidentiality... How naïve of him to think that, even if they were on two sides of a chasm, somehow, there was still hope to build a bridge... But demanding the film camera in exchange for secrecy was about as low as a blow could get. A declaration of permanent war. It was Freddie admitting that he simply didn't care anymore.

God, how he wanted this to be different. Now he fears it will never be...

“You know, for a second I thought I could actually count on you.” He scoffs, dropping his weight on a chair, his own tired legs coming to rest atop the table in a manner that is very unlike him. "Like, yeah, sure… I get the coffee machine. You want me to wake up every day and remember that I'm a piece of shit. But my camera?" The way he says it sounds like he is talking about his firstborn. "If the only thing you want is to make me fucking miserable, why not just go out and tell everyone?"

he watches eddie move around the room, trying to match his movements with his words, like trying to piece a puzzle together where none of the edges matched. just to keep what? he would've pushed eddie to finish his sentence, if the following words hadn't punched him in the throat and forced his jaw to lock.

it stung, not only for that statement alone but what came after. eddie defended lucas and océane so easily, so naturally, just as easy it was for him to constantly make him out to be the bad guy. did eddie ever defend him like that, when he wasn't around? he couldn't really picture it now. not that it mattered much anymore. but what annoyed even more was that even through his anger, of feeling so fucking stupid for even thinking to try and be there for eddie when he clearly didn't want him, there was a sense of relief in hearing that eddie had the support he needed when greer went missing. he'd been the only one freddie had wanted to talk to at that time, and he'd spent many nights wondering if eddie didn't have anyone either. he supposes now that was all a waste of time.

freddie, now holding the coffee pods in his hands, which was another thing he didn't understand -- why would eddie have them if they tasted like ass, which evidently he actually liked now -- looked at the coffee machine which was placed by his feet. it clicks to him then, as the pieces of the puzzle come together to paint a picture he couldn't fucking believe. it's going to be like that, then? fine.

his eyes glaze over as the realisation sinks in and a mundane gaze meets eddie's, though it was clear what lied beneath: hurt. he speaks in a voice that matches the way he looks. "actually, now that i'm thinking about it..." a beat. might as well see how far he could push it. "i'd also like your film camera."

[morrisxn02]

You’re the one who decided I wasn’t worth your time. The words were a gust of wind blown on Edward’s delicate house of cards. Nothing he came up with from then on could hold ground against one simple, indisputable fact: Edward had been the one who made the choice to distance himself.

He had his reasons. Dated, color-coded, and alphabetically organized like books on the shelves of Shakespeare & Co. But if that was what Freddie believed – that Edward didn’t consider him worthy of his time – then there really was not much he could say in his defense.

A wrinkled nose, an unfocused gaze, and a head cocked to the side denounced the early stages of a reluctant acceptance of his defeat. But if he was going down, he was going down swinging. Because, as much as it was true that Edward had been the one to cut ties, his decision hadn’t been an unmotivated one.

As the silence overstayed its welcome, his breath started to become unusually fast, heartbeat accelerated, too, like he was in the middle of running a 10k on top of the Kilimanjaro. But, instead of giving into the anxiety – partly generated by this conflict in itself, but also motivated by the imminent, looming sense of loss – he took advantage of it. Inflated his torso, narrowed his eyes, and grabbed hold of Freddie’s blurry gaze once again – his body’s decision to fight predominant over his mind’s will to flee. “You begged?” He spat with a scoff. “That’s a strange way to put it, considering how you consistently treat me like shit.” And for the first time, he could sense his tone raise palpably in a last attempt at an offensive.

And, to him, precociously independent, but childishly naïve, that seemed like it was a good enough reason to push away someone who manifestly needed him. But even if it wasn’t, he was more than willing to share another few. “And what did you even expect me to do for you? Take you into my parents’ home? In that state?”

He hated recalling it. The paleness, the cold sweat running down his forehead, the mania. And so, he never did. And, perhaps, that was part of the reason why Edward failed to hold himself accountable – because he simply couldn’t bring himself to look back on what had happened.

Never had he considered himself an overtly emotional man. Someone who felt hurt just from recollecting things. To him that was something that only happened to irrational people. Not to people like himself. No. Never. And yet, he could never muster up the courage to dwell on past events and to rewatch someone he loved so much tear his life to shreds like cheap tapestry. He had never mentioned it to Freddie. How he felt as he witnessed him spiral. How sad, and worried, and sometimes angry, even. How he wanted to protect him and take him away from it all, but also how it seemed like he was voluntarily throwing his life away, burning down all the great things he’d accomplished. Be that as it was, there was no point in even thinking about it, now…

“You know them. You know what they would have done.” Edward had never had the guts to stand up to his parents; had never had the dignity to counter their decrees. All he ever did was obey them, like a dog. So, even in the face of a friend in need – of his best friend, for that matter – he still wouldn't do anything to tarnish his pristine reputation with them.

He turned around, stomping hard towards the lake as if to leave, but instead, he just turned around, indignation tensing every fiber of his muscles, and walked back in th direction Freddie, standing closer to him now than before, “If you wanted a friend so much, why didn’t you just go to Cara?” He was sure she would’ve taken care of him. After all, weren’t they best friends now?

what happened to you? the words resonated with mean indignation. they reached inside between his sticky ribs like a coroner's hand, pulling out his rotten parts just to prove that they exist. but he'd bleed, so dreadfully, every time his skin had to learn to knit itself back together. so freddie knew, there was no real care behind the question. he could hear it in eddie's voice now the same way he'd heard it in his father's, and his mother's, and everyone who'd eventually given up on him.

eddie was looking at him, but freddie knew he couldn't see clearly. maybe that'd been the problem between them. they never saw each other the way they wanted to be seen. he wanted to scratch eddie's eyes out, make him blind, at least then he'd have a good reason.

"me?!" he practically barked, hand landing on his chest with a thud like a gavel. all of his emotions rose to the surface, offering eddie free ammunition to arm himself with. "when did i become cruel?"

"you're the one who fucked off!" he protests like his life depends on it. "you're the one who decided i wasn't worth your time!" for so long, his family had kicked him out like a stray and that had only given him another reason to love them. he'd done anything to be let in, but over time he'd made a home out of others. his friends, those he could always turn to. and as a dog always finds its way back home, he'd always found his way back to eddie. until he no longer opened the door for him. "you're the one who wasn't fucking there when i was begging you to just be my fucking friend."

[morrisxn02]

“Are you fucking serious?” Frustration and resentment aggravate his angry scoff. But he doesn’t wait for an answer to snap, “You come in here with all that bravado, tell me you’re about to ‘make my day infinitely worse’,” He air-quotes his words for ridicule, “And now you’re asking for my coffee machine just to keep–“ He heaves a heavy sigh, shakes his head with an eye roll, irritated to the point he doesn’t even want to talk about it again. “It’s really hard to not make you out to be the asshole, you know?” He taunts again, but gets up regardless, starting for the coffee machine.

He doesn’t protest Freddie’s ransom. He knows it’s just theatrics. That all he wants to do is hurt his pride. Nothing will happen if he doesn’t give him the espresso machine. But he unplugs it from the socket, anyway. He wants this to be a thing. He wants to be able to bring this up and call it blackmail the next time he goes up to Freddie, seeking another banal argument just as an excuse to talk to him. And then he’ll have something else to use against him, to try and justify that he still hasn’t apologized even if he has made peace with the fact that he is more responsible for their tussle than Freddie is. You’re the one who’s blackmailing me, and you still think you’re the victim?!

“Fucking take it.” He mumbles, gathering the capsules he won’t need anymore. “And you can take this disgusting fucking thing too.” He tosses Freddie’s Ethiopian Ristretto his way. “Tastes like ass, anyway.”

But Edward is so caught up in this silly, futile dispute that he almost forgets what Freddie just said about Lucas and Océane. And, suddenly, he feels like he needs to defend them. Or, maybe, he just wants to explain himself to Freddie, even if under current circumstances. He doesn't really know... “They’re not shitty people, by the way.” Part of him wasn’t so sure – still trying to convince himself that reaching out to Freddie had been a calculated provocation, at worst, and a well-intended approach, at best. “They were there for me when my sister went missing, you know.” Freddie would have been there too, and he knows it. Which is why he doesn’t allow him the time to counterargue. “They probably just thought you knew...”

Between Océane’s indifferent shrugs, and Lucas’ irritated grunts, Edward just stopped mentioning Freddie altogether at one point. Not because the thought didn’t occur to him, but because their reaction was not what he expected. Tu as des autres amis, Océane would assure him, lackadaisically, as if what he and Freddie had was a fungible bond. Whereas Lucas would hiss something along the lines of Ce mec est un connard… Laisse tomber., with blatant jealousy. And, since neither of them cared enough to ask Eddie about it, they might have drawn their own conclusions...

All in all, the fact that neither of them particularly liked Freddie – despite how affectionately Eddie spoke of him – should’ve raised a red flag. But, by the time everything went down, he and Freddie were already at odds. And so, their distaste for his (now ex-) best friend simply stopped seeming like an impediment… “They knew we weren’t speaking. But they might have assumed we ended up sorting it out…” He explains. Just for honesty's sake, of course. When he’s done, he places the coffee machine in front of Freddie, resisting the urge to kick his feet off the table playfully, like he would have done in the past. “Anyway, is this all or do you want me to carry it all the way to your dorm, your majesty?”

freddie had known it was true before eddie's wordless message, which could be seen in the way he was already looking at eddie when their eyes met. a miscalculation, on his part, as he'd waited for embarrassment or shame to swallow eddie up for choosing friends like lucas and océane, who would spread lies about him to the wrong people. he should've been able to bask in the victory, that he'd never been the cruel one here. eddie was wrong, he was right. and, yes, he wanted eddie to feel bad in the process.

instead, he'd watched eddie's reaction unfold in front of him, as if he'd been wrapped in barbed wire and he was squirming to be freed. it was hard to look at him this way, knuckles turning white and bleeding with indignation. he gained no satisfaction from it, and it's different to the loss he'd felt on the beach. this was different. he felt angry for eddie. and, suddenly, for a fleeting moment, it feels like they could be on the same side as they talk in silence, one look exchanged for another. his eyes betray him as they reveal those very thoughts, almost apologetic, and maybe if he'd held eddie's gaze for long enough his own message might've been delivered: there's a friend card here if you want to play it.

what a fucking idiot he was for that. in a cowardly move, he dropped his gaze to the spilled coffee before manging to extend the olive branch. what eddie says is so different to what freddie thought he'd understood, that he decides maybe he just can't read eddie like he used to anymore. this snaps him back to reality.

"well, first of all, i'd like your espresso machine," freddie says insolently as he puts his feet up on the table, knowing how much eddie would hate that. "and you know what? i'm real sick and tired of you making me out to be the asshole." as angry as he was, he couldn't quite hide how hurt he felt. even at their closest, freddie never should've found out this way, and now, as they stood worlds apart, with no entitlement to any part of eddie's life, even less so. he would never use it against him. "i came here to tell you that your precious little darlings fucking suck." a beat. "now i'm telling you that they're shitty fucking people. you need to tell them to be careful who they say shit to." he'd told them as such, but he figures his delivery might've had something to do with them not taking him seriously.

[morrisxn02]

Myopic vision blurred the world in front of him, making it hard to distinguish the features on his interlocutor’s face. But he made no effort to reach for the glasses in his bag. He still remembered what Freddie’s face looked like like he remembered the way from Charles de Gaulle airport to his grandparents’ Paris apartment. He knew his forehead would be slightly wrinkled, nose flaring, as his lips pursed together awaiting a response, torso projected forward ready to fire another missile.

But he didn’t say anything. He just stared at where he knew Freddie’s eyes would be in silence, a solitary index finger running over his cheeks to clean the embarrassing tears that had started to dry on the sides of his face. There was triumph in this silence. To him, at least. That was the chivalrous way to respond. The gentle, polite, superior comeback.

And after a long, loaded breath, he asked, “What happened to you?” His voice weighed with disappointment like a father’s – like his father’s, specifically. And, although that seemed planned, charged with months of hurt he had been harboring, it had been completely improvised. The truth was that Edward didn’t expect Freddie would want a reason. In reality, Edward didn’t even know what to expect when he walked across the beach to him. All he did was go to him, solely motivated by impulse. Nothing more. No reason, just action, like a Stanislavskian stage actor.

After a beat, Edward asked him something again, “When the fuck did you become so cruel?” And then, when he heard his impulsive words sound over the crashing waves and the humming wind in the background, he realized that maybe that was the reason he was there. That, perhaps, that was what he wanted. An explanation. Not an apology. Not a hug. Just a reason.

It wasn’t true. Not entirely. Part of him wanted something else. But he was far too rational about his emotions to understand what that was.

a glare remained fixed on eddie as he scrambled around, wanting to catch every single sliver of his reaction. even as tears rolled down his cheeks, freddie couldn’t help but think how fucking good that felt, knowing it was but a drop compared to the number of times freddie cried at night whilst missing his friend. the way eddie says his name sounds like he remembers it too, that they had been friends once, best friends even. the kind where he'd always known that they'd be in each other's lives for a really long time. now, the empty space where eddie once had been was one held together with the ache of knowing how quickly things could change, and nothing lasts forever. if he could fill it, by returning all of the hurt eddie had caused him, then he'd surely hold onto it like a life line.

there's a hard roll of the eyes as eddie fishes out some eye drops -- so fucking soft, he thinks to himself. he hopes it'd been painful. he hopes it'll continue to sting for the rest of the day. but whatever twisted triumph that was giving him reprieve is swept away as eddie's words struck him in his chest. “oh, i'm sorry, was i supposed to give you a hug and pretend you're not the most boring fucking person i've ever met? god, you’re such a fucking asshole!” he shouted back at eddie, anger flashing in his eyes. he could feel his blood boiling as his throat started to tighten. “why don’t you try acting like a real fucking person for once, and then i’ll consider it,” he snaps.

his chest burns with so much resentment and it spread like wildfire. “you wanna know something? my life has been so much better without you, so why are you here? what the fuck do you want from me?”

[morrisxn02]

Okay then... His body says – eyes widening and palms flicking upward in a defensive motion, almost as if trying to prove his innocence before being pat down by a cop. But he’s not going to be the one who starts an argument this time. If Freddie doesn’t want to talk about the suitcase, they won’t talk about the suitcase. “All right.” He clears his throat in preparation for the long monologue ahead.

“You know how I suck at improv?” Edward has always heard from teachers that he takes himself too seriously for improv. That he needs to learn to expose himself to ridicule if he wants to be truly comfortable with himself.

He doesn't.

Actually, all he wants is to become other people. If he wanted to be comfortable with himself, he could just go to therapy – which he would inevitably quit because ‘it was not a real science, anyway’, but that's beside the point. The point is, Edward isn't open to failure, hence, he has a hard time improvising because – as someone once said somewhere, once – failing to plan, is planning to fail... On the other hand, though, Edward has an (unsurprising) knack for more dramatic work! But then again, that's beside the point, because he's already made up his mind.

“This is going to be that, but tenfold...” He says as a warning. A last disclaimer before he goes on a talking spree that he is bound to regret in the near future. But it's either saying something or facing the consequences of not doing so... “I'm sorry for what I said last time... For assuming you were going to tell Cara or expose me, or some shit..." There is a lot more he wants to say. But, for a moment, he considers stopping there. His cheeks already flushed with embarrassment and his heart going wild with anxiety... Apologizing to someone's face is so much harder than apologizing to the image you have of them in your head... But his eyes drift to the open suitcase one more time and a chill runs down his spine. Maybe it’s the last time he’ll get to say this… And so, he continues. "I guess you're right. About me knowing you better than this..." He paraphrases the words that have been stuck in his mind since their last conversation. To know someone. In their world, where people lie more than they tell the truth, and waltz around in masks, truly knowing someone – knowing him – feels like a gift. "I just... got confused. With all the arguing and fighting... I thought I had fucked up so bad that you kind of just... hated me." He pauses, realizing that Freddie not hating him was more his assumption than an actual statement made by him. The assumption that guided him there, by the way. But being in his presence changes things. There's too much tension in the air to distinguish what he is feeling. "I mean, which, I guess, is fine if you do." It wasn't fine. Actually, if Freddie did not deny that he hated him at one point in some way, Eddie would be absolutely devastated. "Like, I was a huge dick to you, so that's justified. But even so, I wanted you to know that I'm grateful you didn't say anything to anyone..." His gaze is heavy with emotion – regret, frustration. and even a little bit of sadness. All the things he usually tries to disguise behind cold, neutral, undistinguishable baby blues. But even if he wanted to hide what he was feeling – to talk to him in a cordial, lackadaisical manner, to become the politician he always was–, that would be impossible in Freddie's presence. After all, Freddie knows him better than that...

the subject is revealed as their last conversation and freddie could barely hide his unwillingness to go anywhere near it. there are too many angles eddie could possibly be approaching this with that he can't even begin to guess his intentions or prepare himself for what's to come. did eddie really think there was a possibility that he could walk away from another conversation without feeling worse than he did before? was he not sick and tired of feeling like shit? and freddie, with pride dented in the shape of rejection, isn't confident he'll be able to mince his words. he's sure the best option here would be to not say anything at all.

the questions draw out an immediate response from him as he scoffs lightly, "yeah, good one." a sickly feeling swells in his gut and he clings onto his pride for dear life -- he can't be made out to be the idiot again. so, another pause splinters their conversation, as he considers his words carefully. "just get on with it, man."

[morrisxn02]

Hey Freddie, this is… How are you? We’re reaching out because… It’s been really hard to get through to… Do you think you can…? The eloquence makes him know, almost instantly, that it’s Océane who’s typing – Lucas, for one, preferred longer texts like his millennial older brother, and would never be able to write that much in English without making mistakes. The texts seem pretty inoffensive until he finally reaches the apex. The climax. The one that Freddie had been sadistically excited for him to reach.

And, as anger starts boiling up in his stomach, bile getting ready to race up his throat, hands gripping Freddie’s phone with newly gained strength – prepared to throw it across the room at any second – he reads the last message, We thought he would’ve told you, at least, and all the churning in his stomach immediately ceases. Part of him knows that he couldn't blame Lucas and Océane for thinking that. To them, it was always Freddie this, Freddie that, so it was easy to assume that, even if they had been en désaccord for a while – like Edward had explained – they would've eventually sorted everything out. Only thing is, they never did.

But something still burns in his belly somewhere between his chest and his throat like an ulcer, and he just drops the coffee cup, still full, on the table with a rattle, not caring if it spills and makes a fucking mess of everything. It might as well. It might as fucking well break so then at least he could eat the fucking porcelain and fucking kill himself instead of having to go on with this fucking conversation.

He expels a heavy, frustrated sigh like it’s steam; like he’s about to explode from the heartburn.  And then he turns to Freddie, holding out his phone in an insolent, annoyed swing of his hand.

And in an unexpectedly intimate gesture, he gives Freddie a look that says a lot without really saying anything – It’s true. He confesses. Why would they lie about something like that? It’s true, so what? Oh, and you're obviously the only one who knows. Something only two people who were once so close that they could communicate without a single word would be able to understand. And he knows Freddie immediately does. But whatever complicity materialized there for this brief little exchange, it’s gone the next second.

“What do you want?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Like, really. Did you just come here to tell me you’re going to run to my sister and tell her about it? Or did you come here to make me feel bad about not talking to them? Because you sure as shit didn’t come here for the fucking details.”

It was twistedly amusing how this seemed like the perfect full-cycle moment. Freddie had always been the first one to know everything. Sometimes the only one. And, again, there he was. Only this time with something that could fuck him over.

right off the bat, freddie says, "nothing, hopefully. because they're fucking boring and i hate them." far from the point he was trying to make, but in the moment he felt it was important to make that very clear. he'd never liked lucas and océane, and that hadn't changed. they were pretentious, full of themselves, and truly had nothing to bring to the table, and yet eddie was always banging on about them. lucas and océane this, lucas and océane that. then, suddenly, they'd been condensed into two simple words: 'we', 'us'. how did something so easy sounding make him so annoyed? well, if it took two people to replace him, then that ought to count for something. "let me read you something." he fishes out his phone from his jacket pocket, and finds his text conversation with lucas and océane. "actually, why don't you read it for yourself." he was a slow reader and didn't want to make room for any condescending comments. so, chucking his phone at him, freddie moves to prop himself up against the armrest of eddie's couch and waits for him to reach the last message, which freddie didn't reply to, but had called them instead. "you really know how to make people feel like shit, you know?" he offers some commentary during eddie's read, then when he catches that glint in eddie's eye, he adds, "i told them, there's no way. you've got the personality of a dry graham cracker. and they told me, to ask you."

[morrisxn02]

“What the fuck, Freddie?!” He yelled, appalled, as the sand hit his face in one discombobulating thud.

Too concerned about the little particles that had fallen into his eyes, he didn’t realize how boyish his pronunciation of his former best friend’s name had sounded then – how strangely reminiscent of their past it had been, like an echo of a distant past life. It had been so long since he’d last said it, that he had forgotten how familiar it was to him, how easily it rolled off the tongue. And, in retrospect, he would recognize how much it felt like they were just two teenagers again, playing video games on his bed, having an argument about something stupid that would quickly get forgotten because that was how it always was. Or rather how it had been… But at that moment, there was no space in his heart for nostalgia, or for the very real longing that he invariably felt for Freddie Kolbeck. All there was, was rage. A blind sort of rage he could not recall having ever felt towards anyone. Something that burned his cheeks a bright red and that made him want to kick Freddie in the stomach as strongly as he possibly could.

Sand stuck to his contacts, little grains tickling and scratching his cornea, as tears ran down his face involuntarily in a desperate attempt to expel them, forcing him to pull out the lenses in one swift (and disgusting) movement. He produced a little bottle of eyedrops from his bag – he always carried those with him – and dripped it into his eyes. “Can’t you ever act like a fucking adult, man?” He blinked away the last grains of sand. “Or is your brain so fucking damaged that it can’t develop anymore?”

He knew he shouldn’t have said that. Even if he and Freddie weren’t talking anymore, nothing justified weaponizing his addiction. But he was so blinded by his hurt and his rage – and the sand, that literally blurred his vision – that it somehow felt justified.  

an initial drop of doubt sinks into his mind, and it continues to build for as long as he lets eddie's words hang in the air. was he remembering it all wrong? freddie's memory was blurry at best, especially during his later teenage years, but he could never forget the way eddie turned his back on him when freddie needed him the most. he remembered every single time eddie ignored his calls, every time eddie walked away from him, as he remembers every scar on his body. " bro... " he laughs humourlessly, shaking his head, anger slowly simmering and creeping up his throat, turning his voice taut, " you need to get sectioned, man. you're a fucking sociopath. " the hurt catches up with him a few seconds later in delayed frustration. once it hits, he grabs a handful of sand and throws it in eddie's face. " and you're a fucking cunt, too. "