Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Blackberry drugstore chapstick.

It could be around five years old already, and still halfway done since it had barely been used through all this time. And still, you had carried it everywhere, it was full of memories attached...

Of that time you spent alone on that cheap hotel room, putting it all over as you imagined what it would be like to kiss the main singer of the band you had travelled to see.

Of that movie that was so boring you kept smacking your lips with the tube because your friends, both on each side, were invested on it and you wouldn't dare to just leave.

Of when your tire broke but you still were in the mood for sweets, so you walked your way to the nearest pattiserie, putting and tasting the flavor of the stick over and over, thinking if just taking a bite from the thing would be bad for you.

Little fragments of days that had a small object as a side piece, and yet it was that little object what gave you back all those memories.

One day it was gone.

An unusual disappearance indeed, since you never went out of the house without it, always resting inside of the side pocket of your favorite bag. Bag which, mind you, hadn't left it's place in the closet ever since the whole dateviators ordeal.

To lick the top because of the flavor or to just fidget with it as some series played on your tv or you read something in your laptop, the use was of little importance now. What mattered is that your favorite chapstick was missing, and that affected you more than you could think so.

-"It's stupid, I know..."- Your words came out in a bit of a hurry as you rummaged throughout the bag. -"I can easily buy another but- like, I dunno, I don't want to. It's like..."- a struggle to get the right words -"I don't want a chapstick, I want mine, you know? It's weird."-

-"Hmm... Because it's frustrating having to spend money on another one when you weren't finished with that one yet?"- her tender voice felt like a gentle breeze on your tense shoulders. Betty, the first one to be activated that morning, tried to give your solace on your search. If there's anyone you can always turn to, free of embarrassment, it's her; she's seen you in every way possible, at your best and worsts, in your moments of shame, she was your soft embrace.

-"I mean, yes, but not only that."- you tried to muster, having emptied the bag and not putting it's contents back in again -"I just feel like it meant something for me. If it wasn't important then I wouldn't be feeling so shitty about losing it."-

-"Like Teddy?"- She asked.

-"What do you mean?"-

"I'd like to know that too"- a warmed voice popped up, Teddy in all his glory now that you've decided to place him on the bed. You see a slight flush of embarrassment on Betty's cheeks, looking away from him. With a sigh, he spoke before he could. -"I'll give you the benefit of the doubt, ok?"-

-"I'm terribly sorry. Please, let me explain to them, and to you."-

That upset tone in his voice dissipated, placing a soft hand on Betty's bare shoulder. -"I know you don't mean ill, Betty, just be mindful of your words. Being careless with them might end up hurting someone."- and he looked back at you; it was a message he wanted both of you to carry.

She walked up to you, lending you a hand to pick you up from the ground. She guided you and sat you on the bed beside her. Teddy laid comfortably on the pillows. -"Very well... Mindfulness"- she muttered on a low voice as, with her hand, she turned your attention over to Teddy behind her. -"Our sweet Teddy here, he is..."-, with questioning look, she waited for your answer.

-"Kind?"-

She contained a snort, it came out so sincere. Teddy formed a heart with his hands as his bright smile lit up the room, but spoke nothing as not to distract Betty.

-"Physically, object form."- she repeated.

Huggable? No, she probably doesn't mean an adjective, but something more... -"So... A teddy bear?"-

-"Exactly. Soft and snuggly. But, just like the rest of us, there's many of him out there. If he got lost, you could buy another. Another Teddy, another Hank or Scandalabra. Another me, if money allows. Though I'm not easy to get lost"- she whispered, before going back on track -"Replace, as much as I dislike the word."- the air felt heavier. Replacement for an object is such a dire matter as death to humans -"But it would hurt, wouldn't it? You love Teddy and just letting him go would be awful."- With a hand, she tugged your shoulder. -"He matters to you, and so does that lip balm. What I'm getting at is that it's important to you, and that's all that's important. Its not a silly matter BECAUSE it is important to you."-

Holding as much as possible to not tackle Betty down into a hug, you gave her a sympathetic smile. Tangling herself between the line that divides love and friendship, she gives you a forehead kiss. She turned around to face her friend.

-"Teddy, dear, do you think Barry knows? It's technically his domain"

-"I'll go ask."- He told her, turning his focus on you. -"Say, why don't you go search for it someplace else on the meantime? Try and clear your head while you're at it."-

-"I'll appear when you less expect it. That's what missing objects tend to do"- her soft smile dissipating the cloud of stress in your throat.

-"Thank you, guys. You two make a great team at cheering me up."- you spoke as you waved them goodbye, ready to take of your dateviators as you headed towards the door. -"I'll thank you both with a snuggle tonight!"-

-"Until nighttime, lover"-, the last voice you heard before they left your face. Their reassurance was effective, but the feeling of overwhelming over such a stupid thing as a chapstick settling on you like a headache. 'Lets try not to worry about it, just... Continue the day as usual and talk to objects, then ask about it... Casually'. Thus commenced your quest.

Your meeting with Florence was short. No, it hadn't fell off, and no, it wasn't beneath or in between her boards. -"Actually..."- she spoke with her usual sweet tone -"I don't think I've ever had it before. I know you can be a bit of a klutz sometimes, dear, but your messes never get to me. Try asking other surfaces."- You had to convince her not to call Celia, it wasn't such an urgent matter.

Able wasn't of much help either, he told you that he hadn't felt it on him since ages and to maybe ask Dasha instead, since you had the habit of cluttering your desk.

In between every one of your little chores, the powers of your dateviators allowed you converse with the usual suspects as the day went by, but neither Cam, Beau, not the aforementioned knew of the chapstick's whereabouts, and your were already out of charges. You could always continue your search tomorrow morning, but a thought crept up your spine, in between embarrassment and frustration, holding down your shoulders like weights:

-"I'm acting up over some one euro piece of plastic. Damn I'm embarrassing"- you muttered out loud.

You had stopped all movement, water still running through your hands as you were doing the dishes.

-"And now everyone probably thinks I'm weird... Weirder. Weirder than usual."-

Closing the tap, you let the remaining dishware damp on the counter, aware of the stern talk you'd receive from Daisuke tomorrow.

Even though you've already spoke about the matter with two of your closest inanimate companions, it still felt weird, your own mind punishing you for your own feelings. They were understanding, but didn't know the feeling themselves.

As you got lost on Betty's bedsheets and Teddy's fuzzy fur on your arms, the back of your eyelids pictured a certain someone. A person... Well, object, whose conversation could make you feel better, someone who surely knew the feeling of dread over what others might consider insignificant. This sweet but clumsy figure, always a pleasure to be around, might be just who you needed to talk to tomorrow. Who knows, maybe his knowledge of knick knacks and lost things could be the key to find the chapstick

That chapstick that was on someone else's hands.

Tickets, paper clips, unknown remains of organic matter hidden in between bottle caps and old, broken art supplies. The three meter tall room, spacious in theory, was cramped up to every crevice, it's size reduced significantly. The moonlight entered through the small gap of the trapdoor at the ceiling of the back of the room. That was the space that your desk drawer became whenever those glasses activated it.

Akin to a trashcan to many, but an important piece of the house to you. The many things you threw there were nothing at first sight, but whenever you need something very specific, that's when you knew where to turn to, who to turn to.

Jerry remembers every interaction with you like it's the first.

How you first met him and we're appreciative of his collection, as well as concerned over his hoarding issues. He'd learn about the magic of DIY as a method of having control over his habits, and you were there on every step, with a smile and unaware touches that left him disoriented.

He also remembers that day you came to him with watery eyes and a raggedy piece of cloth in your hand, asking if he had any safety pins 'or anything, really' for helping your favorite tote bag, now with a handle being torn apart, to stay alive. Old band pins that were lost on his domain, giving your life a new stunning look. Letting go of them made his chest feel heavy for hours, but alongside that heaviness came a perpetual smile; because you had turned to him and only him for help, and because the collection he was so proud of brought a smile to someone else. To see you smile, he swore he'd thrown away his greed for your happiness.

And yet, now he was selfish.

Laying on the ground, playing with a small plastic tube. Rolling it up and down, doing hand tricks with it, never letting it go very far, caged in between his chest and his arms.

Jerry had your chapstick.

The polarization of his heart was painful, on one side: so happy he could tear open the desk door and rest under the moonlight on your front porch without a care in the world. On the other, so ashamed he wanted nothing more than to be buried in his own belongings and suffocate there, hoping no one could ever find his body nor bothered to do so.

He felt good because he had something so precious to you, you whom he considered his friend. You whom he'd always wanted more than friendship but could never find the bravery to neither ask, demand or beg for. Something so simple and yet so intimate as your chapstick, who you usually carried with you. Which your lips touched repeatedly. He could feel his entire body heat up, head dizzy as his imagination toyed with the simple idea of you putting it on. He felt good because he had never felt this close to you while also being apart.

He felt awful because he stole it.

Right in front of you, no less.

Even though things seemed to pop up on his drawer on their own, sometimes he felt like it was too... Little. Not enough things. He valued them all but every few days or so he had this ache of needing something else, just another thing, no matter what it was. And if you didn't drop it there, he'd go out and seek for himself if he found anything else. 'If it's on the ground, then no one wanted it. I could save it', that was the line of thought.

Before he knew it, he had made all the way upstairs, to your room, and was opening your dresser door. He didn't even notice you were sleeping right behind him.

Right there, hanging from the side pocket of your bag, was your chapstick. The color, the faded letters, all the scratch marks on the bottom, he loved everything that composed it. The moment he realized it was yours, he couldn't look away.

It was tilted. The top was touching the floor. 'They don't want it anymore. I could save it'.

In a second, it was gone. Tucked away inside of one of his many coat pockets. The thoughts that clouded his mind seemed to dissipate in an instant, now fully aware of his surroundings; where he was and where you were. His whole body froze, turning around on the spot. He didn't process you couldn't even feel his presence without the dateviators on, even when he tip toed out of your room, unable to stare at you.

He held the tube close to his chest as he laid back on the floor. Rubbing the reliefs on the letters with his thumb, it felt as if the rest of the room slowly disappeared, leaving him in a tranquil void. He toyed with the cap as his head imagined all the history it could hold.

He looked at the deep mulberry color of the outside, maybe you used it as a fidget toy while doing something else, popping the magnetic tap open and close, up and down, just as he just did.

The sweet smell of blackberry was strong enough to be spotted from a mile away. Even he was starting to crave something sweet. He wondered if you just used it for the taste, the image of you licking your lips over and over as an oral fixation invaded his brain like a parasite. He was enraptured by images of you in that darker shade, putting it on in front of a mirror.

Then, it wasn't just a mirror, it was his broken pocket mirror; one of his most priced possessions, for he loved how the light shined on it, reflecting on his desk like a disco ball. You looked at your reflection in all the shattered pieces. Beautiful, like always. You'd catch him staring just beside you. He'll try to remain calm and collected, but failed miserably and you'd laugh. The sweetest laugh on the most beautiful lips. And then, he wouldn't contain himself, holding your hand, getting close to your face until finally...

A cold, pasty sensation on his lips woke him up. The smell of sweet berries drowned him.

When, he didn't know, but your chapstick was on his lips. Magnetic, he just couldn't get it away from his skin, in each attempt he just dabbed it more and more on his lips, each time more secure, with slight pressure, feeling a shudder, a wave of heat and fuzzy feeling. All at once, every time. He didn't stop until he knew all his lips were covered, all colored, they felt so strange, so tingly. He'd never done something like it.

With a jolt, he snapped out of it. Sitting on the floor, he pressed the back of his hand firmly against his lips. As he pulled back, the kiss mark on that somber dark hue was firmly imprinted on his pale skin. He couldn't help but wonder how it'd be like to be covered in them, or to cover you himself if you'd let him. He'd have it in any way.

He guided the back of his hand to his cheek, pressing roughly, trying to mimick how it would feel to be kissed by you. The frustration of its failure was only overriden by softness of his imagined scenario as he closed his eyes. When he pulled back, he didn't try to look. He knew the mark would be there.

He wanted to keep going, to know that all his face would be covered by what he wished were YOUR lip stains. But he couldn't, there was no way he could so selfishly waste all of the lip balm in just a whim. It wasn't just a chapstick to him anymore, it was a treasure. One if not the most important things under his care now. He wouldn't waste it, he'd cherish it, keep it safe as his most valued item. If he weren't that weak, he'd promise that he'll never use it again, but knew he'll most likely indulge no matter how hard he'd try to resist.

It took a while, but the thought got to him as he stared back at the lip balm. How you had used it prior, and now him. The concept of an 'indirect kiss'.

The flush on Jerry's cheeks was a similar match to the lipstick hue, but he felt no embarrassment whatsoever. He laid sideways, holding the balm close to him, as if he had to shelter it from the rest of the world. So giddy, he wasn't aware he was kicking his feet. As he closed his eyes, he contemplated: first thing in the morning, he'd store it inside his secret treasure trove, away from prying eyes.

Even if no one ever really came to visit him, he'd still protect it with his life. It was the closest thing he had to the one wish he'll never be granted.

Chapter Text

The cold light of morning brushed against your skin, cool breeze coming out of the open window as the AC tried as best as he could to keep the temperature stable. If only your pajama were of a warmer material, you wouldn't need to be tangled up on the bedsheets. Nerves staring to awake faster than your mind, you still felt Teddy's fabric enclosed in your . He hadn't felt to the floor las night, good.

It took quite a while, as always, but you had finally woken up and done your bed, no longer hastily but with care for your object friends. Having a shower, putting on a new, clean set of indoor clothings... Staying in bed all day sounded wonderful, but ever since knowing of the conscience of the objects around you, you tried to make an effort to be more active, to give everyone a use, including the upstairs gymnasium. 

It was a perfect exchange, after all. You've helped back the objects with their own issues as a thank you for, quite literally, being there for you. Besides, it was good for your health, most said.

You tried not to let the idea of you new acquaintances all around you bother you much. It was still the comfort of your home and you were going to be comfortable. You favorite pair of pants with a thin grey t-shirt, the marks of hair dye, oil, bleach and whatever else forever staining it: messed up but still beautiful. You chose in between walking with socks or with slippers, but not both.

Being friends with objects had it's perks, you'd place your mug with chocolate milk and cinnamon inside Luke and bread slices inside Miranda as you told them good morning and they'd turn on on their own, cooking your food while you finished yesterday's dishes. As you were done and went to pick up something for the toasts, Freddy would open himself up to you. All that still left you a bit flustered, as if not feeling worthy of such pampering even though you held the title of "homeowner".

With your mind clear and your stomach being filled up again, your mind wandered back to yesterday, to the futile search of that chapstick. There was nothing else to do in the house and, quite frankly, not having found it yet left you with a bitter feeling. 

Your hands pressed the pause button on the controller as your player character reached a safe room, half the day being spent on both doing chores and spending time playing with Connie, hopefully she's enjoying the new game you've bought, even if it's just a remastered version of a classic. Mind drifting back to yesterday's quest. 'Out of all of the places', you thought, 'I haven't checked the office yet'. 

The door to the place opened up, sunlight of autumn's evening washing over every color of the room. You walked towards the shelves, seeing if it might have been left there by accident. Nor there, nor anywhere on the bookshelf. You thought of asking for help, but it would be rude to awake any datable just for asking, right?

And yet it was still nowhere to be seen. 

Sitting on your desk chair, you took a quick look through the surface, checking in your supplies mug and on the floor itself. You tried to open the desk drawer, lair of everything and anything, to see if it could have landed there by mistake or slip of the mind. No matter how deep you rummaged, there was no sight of it in-between all the junk.

A metaphorical lightbulb lit up on top of your head, unlike his. 

Jerry! 

Though you were looking at everything that composed him, there was no way you could know if he actually had it, given all the dateviators shenanigans. Maybe he knew where it might be. Either way, the idea of talking to him put a smile on your face. A few weeks had passed already ever since the two of you met. 

It would have been crazy to say, but you liked him since day one.

And the more and more the two of you conversed and hanged out, on good terms, nothing more than friends, you came to know and understand all of his flaws and imperfections; underneath a man you liked was a pile of bad habits, covered by a blanket so that no one could see it, but it's size making it impossible. 

You were no nurse, no psychiatrist, but you knew he wasn't a bad man at all, just troubled in a way he himself was unable to see. Like the rest of the objects, you offered him help and support where and when needed, and guided him, baby steps, into breaking his unhealthy attachments to his surroundings.

Upcycling was the key. The gleam on his droopy eyes when he realized he could use what he already had to create something so beautiful, entirely new, will never leave you. And you come back like a puppy hoping to see it again. 

Because underneath those flaws, you still liked him. Loved him, even. And still wished he would have loved you back.

What would normally be your usual flirting became dust when it came to him. It came almost natural, the first time. On your first encounter, as he showed to you the place that was the drawer, all filled with random objects, he asked anxiously what you felt. About the place. Essentially, about what he was. 

You didn't break contact with his eyes as you said -"It's beautiful, all of it"-

Maybe the honesty was mixed with subtlety, hard to get, but in the end it flew over his head. And that felt like a punch on the stomach. Your mind tried to settle in between two answers: 'he didn't get it, I should have been more direct' or 'he politely ignored what I said because he doesn't like me that way', and as much as it stung, you settled for the former. You stopped trying ever since.

That could never stop you from seeing him. Even if you had to held onto the wish to just straight up kiss him sometimes, he was still someone you held dear, and if friendship was all he would offer, then you'd gladly accept.

Lost in your train of thought, your hands had reached the button of the dateviators subconsciously.

Click.

In a flash, your reality was warped into something completely different. The base of it could only be classified as a museum office, that of antique wood and old furniture, big and spacious albeit a bit dusty. It was filled with brown hues, some green ones and perhaps something more underneath all of the trash filling the room, mountains and mountains that caged you on a 2x2 meter space. The amber hues reflected upon the piles of everything and the three only pieces of furniture that were visible, almost clean of clutter: the big, shiny pine bureau desk, it's accompanying wooden chair with orange sitting and the Persian style rug you were on top of. With a bit (lot's) of a clean up, Lara Croft would kill for a place like this. 

On classic object fashion, you'd notice some new details you hadn't seen before. The big window was just behind the desk, hanging high. On its left, what would normally be a portrait on the wall was instead a dotted art piece. Thumbtacks on a boars, all having been painted over, one color each. From afar, it looked like a picture of twin mountains and a forest.

Rustling sound came from the other corner of the room.

With a smile, you spoke up loud, almost a screech -"This one's new!"-

In less than a second: a scream, a thud and a bang.

Before you could ask if he was ok, Jerry was already scurrying from his spot and showing himself from behind the pile. -"Wh- Hi! Glad to have you here! Ever heard of knocking?!"- his voice loud in a mixture of irritation and a heart attack.

Holding your laugh, you walked over to him. Your hands fell on his face, moving to see if he had gotten hurt. In the process of readjusting his fallen glasses, the pout on his lips fell, quivering as corners fought something in between a shy smile and an expression of shame. His eyes looked anywhere but you.

-"I thought you could tell when I opened."- you said back to him. The moment your hands left his face, you could swear his chest began rising again.

-"O-Of course I do."- he muttered in a low voice, before raising it up again. His eyes looked behind you, at the window. The only other source of light was just above in the ceiling behind him, some glass panels at the edges connecting to the back wall. It felt weird that, instead of a door, the only exit was a trapdoor in the ceiling. -"The blinds are automatic in that way, when you open, whoop, so do they. So when I see any light, I know you're most likely coming along. Like an omen."- he looked back at you -"A-A good omen, I mean!"-

-"It's fitting because you're, well, like the sun in my life."-

It happens so often. He couldn't help the thoughts from spilling from his throat, but he could stop them from leaving his mouth. He always shut his lips close when this happened. To you, he was just humming something, just another one of his many quirks. You once admitted it was adorable, he prayed you never found out.

'Ugh, no, so corny', Jerry thought to himself as the rosy tint of his cheeks shone through. -"Anyways..."- he coughed. -"What did you say was new? I don't remember finding anything lately."-

-"Right here, this... Artwork?"- You extended your hand towards him, but before he could decide whether to take it or not, you simply motioned for him to follow you. With a sigh of disappointment, he did.

The two of you stood in front on the colored board. You waited a few seconds so he would kickstart your favorite part of hanging out with him. As his eyes lit up...

-"Oho! You've noticed! That's this week project! I..."- he stopped for a second, but found solace in your eyes to keep going -" I listened and went to give as many of my- uh, t-the thumbtacks as I could back to Penny, an entire box! So when I was with her she goes and tells me that a lot was unusable! Rusty and totally bent from being with me for so long, apparently..."- his voiced turned sour, a bit hurt -"But I wasn't giving up on them, you know? They've held receipts on that board for so long so well!"-

In a brink of excitement, he gets closer to the artwork. -"And I knew I had to do something. Board, thumbtacks, it all connected! I put all of them on the board. On. A. Grid. Perfectly aligned! I wanted it to be organized by color, like a rainbow, but I was so engrossed in having it aligned that it ended up being an absolute disaster! Total chaos of primary colors, it hurt to look at."-

Unbeknownst to himself, Jerry started to pace around back and forth as he kept on explaining. It amazed you how he could walk around the mess so fluidly now that a bit of order was put through. No thumbtacks incidents anymore. -"So I went back to Penny again and asked her for some paint or markers. A bit of everything, you know? I had no idea what would work, I've never painted before."-

-"Paints which you gave back. Right, Jerrymiah?"-

-"Wh- Yes, of course I gave them back!"- his offended tone, towards you, was nothing more than dramatics, like a kid being asked if he brushed his teeth. Plus, he knew it was futile to ask you to stop with the nicknames. -"...Penny didn't leave until I was finished with them anyways. A-And I don't like having people staying here long, what if they take something while I'm not looking?! ...I mean, I know I need to free space, but I have to be the one that does it."- his eyes darted back at you, trying to read your expression. -"Not you, of course! I know you'd never do such a thing."- He looked away from you, and back to the piece on the wall. He coughed, continuing. -"So I painted each one a different color with those Posca things, like diamond painting, they're awesome! Its basically pointillism with extra steps. And I might have used too much metallic green, but somehow the sky looked better on that color than plain light blue, like a vintage filter of sorts. On that note, I'm sure you recognize the picture, it's from that TV show you like so much! The two peaks were too iconic, but I just couldn't write the text with just dots in a way that looked good so it's just the view of the mountains, and I must say, I don't think I've made such an awful job with the col-"-

His words died out with a single look at you. At your smile and laugh hidden behind your hand. Embarrassment drowned him as he became aware of how much he was talking. He still didn't know you could hear him talk for hours and never get tired of it. His apology was drowned in your childish admiration.

-"It looks wonderful. We should watch the series together sometimes, I think you'd like it."- an electrifying sensation ran through Jerry's system, a compliment and an invitation both in the same sentence. -"...And that explains why all the receipts are on the ground"-

You could barely see the ground. It was all receipts.

-"Well, I mean, since they were on the board, I don't know where to put them now"- he answered with a sheepish smile.

-"I'm pretty sure at least half of these we could get rid of"- the expression on his face was easy to read, a frown that explained it all. Those words cut deeper than an axe, but you knew that he needed to start getting used to them.

-...All of them?"- he muttered in a low voice, his eyes scanning all of the papers littering the floor with a saddened look. They could amount to at least three new centimeters of height.

'Rome wasn't built in a day, but it was destroyed in one.' You didn't know which datable gave you that quote, but for some reason it always came to mind when talking about Jerry's bad habits. -"Nope. We'll keep the important ones."-

-"Oh, c'mon, don't you get it?! They're all important! They're all mementos of your past, it'll be like-!"-

-"I'm pretty sure..."- you said as you picked up a bunch of papers that had been glued together by the rust of a thumbtack -"...That I don't need to remember all these days I went to get a single cappuccino on work break. They're not good memories either, you know?"-

-"But still, they're..."-

-"So I want you to help me find the best memories"- He looked surprised, unable to understand your request. -"Like, I think you should still have that one receipt of when I dined out at night and ordered three ramens all to myself cause I said 'why not? I deserve it', even when my stomach disagreed later."- a mission, to keep his mind occupied from the noise -"Make a top ten, nothing more, and I'll hang it in the freezer, or you can display it here too, if you prefer."-

He toyed with his hands, conflicted by the quest at hand. -"But just ten? Look, I'm pretty sure I have more than three digits of-"-

-"I know."- you cut bluntly. -"That's why ten is enough"-

Enough. That was the word you wanted to engrave in his heart. To make him understand the thin line, non perceptible to him, between too much and enough. It was a safe word of sorts, when it was spoken, he knew you were trying to help him, that he should try and put his fears aside and just... Listen.

-"Very well. It'll take me a while to search and come to the conclusion of which ones contain the best memories."- he did his best to keep a steady tone, erasing the background noise of his head and imagining the other side: how proud you'd be, and how much better he'll be... In time. -"So, shall I place the ramen regale on number one?"- he asked you with both joke and honesty.

-"That it's up for..."- You got closer to him, flicking softly the lightbulb on his hair playfully -"you to decide."- he shooed your arm away from his face, knowing that if he kept whining the next thing to suffer you rage would be his glasses.

Not that he would mind it, but if you took them, he'd have to wrestle you blindly to get them back. Most likely one of you would bring the other down, hopefully you on top of him. You'd win, and putting his glasses back on him, you'd lay down to kiss him. Maybe you'd miss his lips on purpose, maybe you'd go for his cheek or just head south...

-"Anything I do for you?!"- he spoke loudly, stopping his train of thought before it could derail any further. -"I-I mean, I know you don't come see me just because of welfare checks. At least I hope you don't."-

-"Aside from coming because I like being with you, Jerry, I wanted to ask you something."- he nodded eagerly, bit blindsided by the first half of what you said. -"Have you seen a lip balm anywhere?"-

His heart skipped a beat. 

-"M-Maybe?"- he whispered, barely audible. -"How does it look like?"- He felt his throat dry, his skin itchy.

-"Dark purple like a bruise, got letters in white... I used to toy with it when I was bored working here, maybe you saw it. You know the one?"- Your pleading eyes broke something in him.

-"The one! Yes, the one, I know what you're talking about. You almost left it in me a couple times, heh. But... No, I haven't seen it."-

-"Are you sure? Maybe you have it and don't kn-"-

-"Well I'm SURE I know what I do and do not have inside me!"- his voice so high it gave you chills, like he was trying to talk to someone outside of the drawer. 

A wave of uneasiness washed upon you. Jerry, always chirpy and friendly, completely inoffensive, his loud tone of voice at you woke up the fight or flight response. -"Do you at least know where it could be?"-

-"And why do you ask me?! Maggie would know!"-

-"I wanted to ask YOU!"- his eyes turned like plates at the rise of your voice, all his movements halted. -"You know about lost things, so I thought, maybe, I don't know, you'd knew where it could be? I'm sorry, Jerry, I wasn't trying to upset you."-

Shame tore his ribs apart from the back. It felt like his innards were melting with hot coals as he processed not only your words, but his. Your named scaped from his lips like a hushed whimper.

He closed the distance in between the two of you, impulsively grabbing your hand with both of his. He tried hard to look at your eyes, but he couldn't help looking away every so often. Your bitter stare was tearing him apart. -"No! No, no, please don't apologize! I-I just yelled at you, that was... Fudge, I'm sorry, I really am. I don't know what got over me but you didn't deserve that..."-

-"You're not upset?"- your voice softened, but didn't quiver. You looked away, feeling... As if thrown aside.

-'What? No! I could never be mad at you"- his eyes landed on your hand as the words fell naturally from his chest. 'All my fault', he whispered as his eyes got lost on its features: the uneven fingernails, those small scars... He wanted nothing more than to rest his head on it, for his cheek to be caressed by your thumb. But he wouldn't; not now not ever, specially after acting up on you like that he didn't deserve it. 

As he saw the smirk on your lips come back, he let your hand reluctantly. He cleared his throat. -"Going back to the chapstick, it makes me really happy that you came to me for help, actually. I might not have it, but I'll help you find it."- he put a hand of his face, thinking. -"Normally, lost objects tend to pop up when you've finally forgot about them. Kind of petty, you know? Like, 'you've forgotten me! How dare you condemn me to eternity under the fridge! I'll roll back out and make you trip, maybe that way you'll remember my existence!"-

A disappointed shrug. -"So basically, 'don't worry, it'll appear'

You saw something in his eyes as he looked back you, a feeling you couldn't read. -"Doesn't bring much solace, does it? I'll search for it myself."-

-"Jerry, you don't have to..."-

-"Well I want to! Fret not, I'm a professional at this. Besides, it'll be my way to thank you. For all you've been doing for me."- instead of shutting his lips, he let the words come out, needing them to reach you. -"I know I wouldn't have gotten this far if it wasn't for you... I owe you more than anything I've ever had."-

A condensed, short sigh escaped from your lips. 'As if I couldn't love this man any more', the sincere sweetness of his words made your heart ache. You tackled him into a hug, careful not to smash away any of his clothes, his back slamming against the wall. Aside from the air from his lungs, the only thing that escaped his mouth was an earnest chuckle, holding you close.

He surrendered into your embrace, slowly reshaping his position just to fit better in your arms. His fingertips brushed against the fabric of your t-shirt; Jerry, a coward that wouldn't dare stroke your skin. His grip wasn't brute, just firm. He wanted wanted to lay there until tomorrow. No, next week.

-"Ow..."-

-"Hm?"- Jerry hummed as he looked at you.

-"Something's puncturing me..."- 

Quickly he let go of you, holding you by your shoulders and pushing back a bit. You held onto your stomach, the culprit right in front of you, and he looked down at it too: his handles.

The two of you couldn't help but laugh (though your ribs ached when you did), no other sound felt as tender as that of your laughs intertwined. In the heat of it, he was completely unaware of how you were holding his wrist now.

-"Thank you, really"- you spoke, voice full of glee. -"I can always trust you with this stuff. You're the best."-

A noise, akin to a whine, came from his throat as he hurriedly moved his hand away from your touch, resting on his chest instead. His awkward movements contradicted the sincere love in his eyes. -"Oh. Oh boy, ah. Thank you. Thank you, really. Means a lot. Whole lot, I, uh... Woof, I don't know what else to say."-

-"You good?"- you asked, concerned over how much he was shaking. Rather, vibrating.

-"I, uh. Geez, I don't think so, I-I feel a breath away from a heart attack."-

-"Okay, okay, I don't want you to die so young."- you were understanding over how easily he could get overwhelmed, placing your hands on the dateviators. -"I'll take my leave..."- the red creeping from his cheeks all the way down his neck left you with a giddy feeling -"Buh bye, StrawJerry"-

Click. And you were gone from the room in the blink of an eye.

-"Straw...?"- He placed his hands on his cheeks. They were burning up. 'Oh golly...'

Fighting against his heart, which wanted to jump out of his chest, he walked towards the bureau, sitting on the ground with his back against it. Thump. Thump. Thump. It seemed to calm down, but not enough, still beating on his ears. 

'...I should have said something', he thought. The ache in his heart grew bigger by the minute, an entire different reason.

He opened his secret compartment. He quickly picked up the chapstick, holding it with sheer force, as if it would run away on its own.

'I haven't seen it', 'I'm sure I don't have it', all bullshit and he knew. It was as if he couldn't help the words from coming out of his mouth, as if he was unable to stop the lie; no, he knew he could and yet he didn't.

Of course he had it, he's the sole reason it's missing, and now you...

-"No."- he spoke out loud. -"It's fine. It's really fine, Jerry. They'd forget about it... Eventually. That's right."-

Besides, if I really did such a bad thing, then why do I feel so good about it? I DO feel good when I hold it, when I look at it. Even if it's theirs, I appreciate it a lot more than they do, it's got its own special place, even. I deserve to have it. Objects get lost to the trials of time all the... Time. They're only upset now, but in a few days they'd forget it even existed, so it's better if I have it.

His eyes went towards the countless receipts on the ground. Something he should be focusing on instead, that would make them happy. Both of them.

Like a goodbye, he gave a small kiss to the tube before placing it on its rightful place.

In the middle of the drawer.

Above that silver heart shaped locket, whose interior had been empty ever since you got it. No one had ever filled the frame.

Below the library card, metro card, and old ID... Several expired documents that had in common having your pictures in them. So old, so many yous. The type of pictures you'd look back and laugh; "how did they allow me to look like this?" He only saw different stages of beauty.

To the right of old doodles, sticky notes and attempts are letters, your handwriting changing in each one of them. One was a crumpled piece of paper with several J, E, R and Ys cut and glued in a poor attempt to mimic what it would be for you to write his name.

Left of a bottle of nail polish. Drugstore one, your favorite color. He wishes he could have tried it at least once, but it was already dried when he found it.

Surrounded by little trinkets that you left to him over the months, pieces of what were once your clothes: charms, loose pearls, rhinestones, buttons... His favorite, a hair clip with a butterfly design. Being able to one day put it on you felt like sunshine in a drizzly rain.

On top of that precious, ancient iPod. You were hesitant to give it to him, but seeing his efforts into getting better, that one day he came to you with a box full of office supplies to give back to Penelope, how could you not? You didn't ask him, he did it on his own. He deserved something nice, just this once.

The chapstick was the crown jewel of his most important collection: the one dedicated to you.

He grabbed the handle and closed the second drawer of his chest.

Chapter Text

One cappuccino. One cappuchino. One cappuchino with a slice of apple pie. Does that one count as special? No, probably not.

In between many receipts there were some for pieces of electronics, some games, several cds and merch ones... But alas, in all that mess, the ones that reigned were the food ones.

-"Well this was easier said than done"- Jerry sighed. It hurt, having to get rid of most of these. At least he found solace in being able to give them to someone else. He wasn't particularly thrilled knowing that all his collection would end up in Cam's hands. (Even the name set an alarm on his head. 'Kill him, Jerald, kill him!') Instead, he tried to focus of the ones he would keep. The 'Top Ten Homeowner's Memories: Dated and Selected!'. Your name would be made with neon lights, or it would be if Holly hadn't taken them back.

-"If I have less of everything, I'll appreciate each one even more... Yeah right, as if I didn't do it already"-, Jerry sighed. He couldn't say all those things out loud to you. He knew you cared since day one, but the way you wanted things to be was just too hard to take in, and he was starting to grow bitter over that mantra.

He was happy with how he was. Your ways would take meaning out of him. -"What is a junk drawer when it's all clean and organized? That's no longer junk, and I don't want to change my name."-

It started when you came along. It started with a loose string. 

Then, a few other things. Starting small, you told him a good start would be the dust itself, the dynamic duo between you and Dolly came along that day, scouting for it and anything tangled within. To soothe him, at least, you let him register the dust before handing it to her, in case anything special would pop up. He said it did a lot of times, but there was no fooling you.

Oh, and how could he forget about the "no organic matter" rule? No food remains nor envelopes that could contain them. He was too late to save that one box of your favorite sweets, they might have been already infested by so many ants that the sweets were already long gone, but he wanted to keep the envelope for his collection of you. What if he wanted to buy you some one day? Now he doesn't remember the brand nor flavor you liked!

And on the topic of insects, he could only keep the moth over two reasons: it was alive and it was his friend. Yes, his dead fly quite literally down the drain. In between you and Celia, he knew who to turn to for mercy, but even yet none of you would budge. You said that "if they were at least resin specimens" but how was he meant to do that? Cast the resin around the fly like a wizard?! Even your small slip of permissiveness was unnatainable.

A few things he couldn't deny was, for example, how much more room he had now, at least now his little moth assistant has it's own spot. And he finally could sleep on his chair like intended, no longer at the mercy of the many dangers on the ground (not that he uses his chair much, the rug was more comfortable).

And, in a way, he felt more... Focused. As if his mind had stopped worrying about what he had and had not, at least at times.

The only thing that was true is that he had changed. And it was because of you.

Suddenly, his eyes were glued to a piece of paper:

    x1 Kimchi Ramen

    x1 Tonkotsu Ramen

    x1 Tantanmen Ramen

    x7 Water Bottle

He went from sitting to being on his knees with a halt, a smile creeping up on his face.

-"It's real!"- he said in between laughs. -"Bedknobs and broomsticks, why did you need that much water? Isn't ray-men a soup already?"- his hands straightened the piece of paper, setting aside the mountain of "to discard" as not to mix them. -"Maybe it was spicy? Or are these names types of ray-men that don't have water? Wait, no! A fire!"- he jumped from his seat, floor finally free of thumbtack related danger -"Oh that's definitely it! A table next door must have caught fire, so you ordered water to put it down! What a selfless hero..."-

His eyes glued to the receipt, he still thought that was too much food for just one person, but maybe...

Never letting it go from his hand, he walked towards the bureau. The surface, illuminated dimly by the moonlight that escaped through the blinds, was mostly clean, being the space in which he could organize and analyze things now. 

On the crevices he put what he thought were the most unique pieces: a broken mirror, pieces shattered but still holding on (He saw at least seven realities) and several dices, missing from board games (He sometimes made decisions with it's results: pair means yes, odd means no. Did keeping them mean that Chance was kidnapped?)

But among them, what reigned were works in progress. A number of unfinished or otherwise "too embarrassing to show" art pieces: a necklace made out of can rivets, a picture of a bird (or what seems to be a bird) made out of pencil sharpener waste or what looked like a car made out of glued mismatched things. He planned to do paper flowers with the receipts just to keep a few; a nice bouquet, preferably. Maybe he'd use it, if he was ever brave enough.

Sitting on the chair, he let the receipt take the center of the place. Then, he opened his chest drawer to your collection, taking out the butterfly clip, the iPod and, most important, the chapstick. He placed them all on top of the desk in front of him.

Plugging some old, discarded earbuds on the iPod and putting them on, he turned the device on. Took an entire day to even find out the type of music he liked, but Mac was over the moon to help. He still remembers how they talked for hours and didn't take anything with him when he left, just the new music his new, unlikely friend had downloaded for him.

He was left with film OSTs and your and Mac's recommendations. The music was the first thing he ever organized in such a long time.

His fingers moved along the buttons, looking at the different album covers. Click, click, click and then...

Up next: Lisa's Theme - Alexandre Desplat

A perfect start, a beautiful mood setter that could be described as both nostalgic and romantic, of the very few movies he himself had seen. His fingertips rested on the piece of paper as the arp notes came along. 

The building... It has to be somewhere cozy, free of external pressures. No other place he would feel more comfortable than, of course, the drawer itself. I'd be mostly cleaned up just for the ocassion. Although, what would the occasion be? 

'We could watch it together', your voice echoed on his head like the wind. He held his head in his hands, fighting the oncoming grin from invading his face. 

Someway, somehow, he'll find a way to get a projector and play the series in there, on the back wall. The glow of the light would be the only thing that'll illuminate the room, the tops of your heads casting shadows as you move along the different episodes. He'd let you have the chair seat while he sat on the ground, just at your feet.

-"Or I could sit on the chair and they could sit on top of me. That'll be..."-

He shook his head.

The two of you would sit in the rug, back resting against the desk.

What should he be wearing? Maybe a suit of sorts? But it's not a cinema, it's just the two of you, watching a movie. "Casual, Jerry, don't overdo it". A dark brown, either plaid or argyle pajama set. What could express more 'I feel comfortable around you' than sleep wear? The whole thing could turn into a sleepover if the dateviators allowed. Now you, his favorite topic. You could wear a onesie for all he cared, but this time, for the sake of the scenario: a black set, short patterned pants, long top with an image.

As his imagination took form, his free hand picked up the chapstick, leaving the cap on the table. His hand toyed with it, fingers rolling it around as he closed his eyes.

Ramen, ramen... How does it look like? A soup with lots of stuff. Hopefully not mushrooms. Three, so one for each and one for sharing. Instead of water, there would be... No, nothing fancy. Some coffee mugs were good at any hour of the day, though maybe leaning on the sweeter side: hot, with chocolate and cream on top. A weird food-drink combination indeed, but he wanted to mix both your likes and his.

Long would be the evening, eating while watching the different chapters of the series go on, the murder mystery unraveling more and more. With the three red ramen bowls in front, on the floor, you'd eat slowly, feeding each other pieces from time to time, just enjoying the silence and each other's presence.

If there was talking of any sort, he wouldn't do any of it, the only things he wanted to hear was the screen and you. The hours and hours on end with the reverberating voices and ongoing leitmotifs, he would stop it all if only you began to talk: about yourself, your hobbies, what you did earlier that day, even the weather for all he cared. He had grown tired of his own voice, always seeming to interrupt yours. He would be so engrossed in watching you that he wouldn't pay attention to the screen. You'd notice that.

Up next: Peer Pressure - Jon Brion 

Your disappointed eyes would meet his, and even so he would take a few seconds to notice. But in this scenario that imaginary Jerry wouldn't look away. He would control his nerves, breathe deep and be brave enough to tell you what's been eating him for ages.

-"I love you"-

Once again, he was using your chapstick on himself, gentle, soft strokes on his own lips. It was getting hard to breathe. Even in his own imagination, he was nervous. How would you react? Blush and look away? Laugh and shrug it off? Maybe you'd make a move on him as well?

Anything but rejection, please.

You'd get close. Not too much, you were just waiting for him. 

Stopping the projector, he leans closer to you with his usual, sheepish smile. He couldn't help it. Crawling closer, towering you slightly with his thin frame. Your hand holds his cheek, giving him a final push...

His tainted lips met with the palm of his hand, searching in vain for a sensation similar to a kiss. His rough, scarred hands could not compare to what your lips would feel like. The music had changed again but he couldn't care or recognize it anymore.

Holding him by the neck of the shirt, not letting him go, as if he would have tried. Blindly he searches and intertwines his fingers with yours. He feels as your free hand crawls up his neck, nesting on his head, nails and fingers scratching his head, grasping locks and tugging.

He didn't stop the whine that escaped from his lips. He shook his shoulders, trying in vain to take off his coat. Heart pounding his chest violently, the room became unbearably warm and his clothes felt all too tight, especially his pants. He pushed away from the desk, back resting against the seat. He looked at the palm of his hand, what was meant to be a kiss mark had smuggled all around; his face must look ridiculous now.

Still looking at that mulberry stain, only you came to mind.

Your relaxed smile when you look at him.

The disgust in your eyes when you'll find out what he did. What he was going to do.

Clumsy fingers fought against the buttons of his pants, his mind only preoccupied with images of you. That scenario was only one of many that roamed every empty space of his head, but he never let's them get this far. He's already crossing the line with the sole idea of kissing you, going any further means he's disgracing you even more, mischaracterizing you: you'd never do any of those things, not to him. Yet that lip balm of yours, that held the shape of your lips, the taste of them, it only made the noise in his head louder, whispers of your voice against his loud conscience. And somehow, yours were winning.

The wave of disappointment upon seeing his covered erection out of his pants made him slump on his chair. Something deep inside him yelled at him to stop at any cost, but his imagination was doing everything possible to blind his judgement. 

You let go of the kiss so suddenly it freezes him. Looking at him intently, tilting your head slightly with a smile. He's way too focused on kissing you again, just a bit more, but you push him back. The looks of your body from below are mesmerizing. Sitting on top of his legs, you lean closer and let your hands roam around his chest. 

Looking to the side in embarrassment, Jerry starts taking off his coat, the clanking sound of several objects against the wooden floor as he drops it carelessly to the ground. He doesn't remember the last time he's taking it off for something other than dusting. His thin yet tender arms, splashed with moles and small marks, felt so strange unclothed, but the heat coming from inside him was just unbearable. He loosened his bow tie as well, letting it hang loosely. As if he craved more air from his lungs, harder to breathe, he left his drawers half opened.

He doesn't stop, not for a second, as you begin unbuttoning his pajama top. He doesn't take it off, just lets you open it up, revealing just a peek of his torso. You began toying around with his handles. It wasn't exactly erotic per se, but you wanted to play around, touch all of him, all he was willing to give you. A test drive of sorts. He tried as he might to hide an embarrassed smile from you, only for his breath to hitch the moment your hands reached the bottom drawer.

His tainted hand followed the same path his head dictated.

Your fingers reach the waistband, tugging its side down slightly to uncover his naked hip bone. You tell him a joke about his lack of underwear that fell into deaf ears. He sits as he halts your hand, a brink of non existing confidence, looking at you in the eyes and asking whether you really want to continue. It could be concern or just a dare.

Oh god, they would do none of that. Do you really think they're even into us?

But you'd still say yes, bringing the glasses down his face a bit and giving a reassuring kiss on the bridge of his nose, leaving a dark, mulberry mark. With a swift move, you free him from his pants and pull them lower. And they'd look down at their earned prize.

Yeah, in disgust maybe. 

Jerry let out a groan; not pain, not pleasure, he felt just... Strained. Eyes looked at the floor, unsure of what to do. He pulled down his blue boxers, freeing his already dripping cock. His fingers moved slowly, up and down along the shaft until he felt a shudder crawl up his spine. The voice crawled through the membrane behind his eyes.

He had never been interested in masturbating before: hadn't tried nor wanted, and now that he couldn't think of anything else he had no idea what to do. Every movement was clumsy, imprecise, looking aimlessly to know what he wanted. 

His eyes landed on his hand, on its lipstick stain.

That color, the color you'd wear on your lips, the color he wanted to be bathed in. Only because it was yours. You, it was you. A problem, a blessing, the best thing that's ever happened and yet your sole existence seemed to morph everything in him, for better and for worse. He could only see the worse.

He guided the tainted hand slowly, painful was the burn in his chest that begged him to stop.

The sensation was electrifying. It didn't feel different than the rest of his skin, but it just was different. He closed his eyes, air heavy.

You wasted no time. The moment he looked back at you, your mulberry lips were millimeters away from the tip. The sight alone was already breaking him. You knew what he wanted the most, of course you knew. The first kiss was heaven. Then another, and another one further below. Your eyes look back at him in between moments, gaze piercing his soul.

Looking at that weirdo that does nothing more than take, take and never give.

Before he knew it, then came your tongue. Oh god, how would your tongue feel? From the base up, you'd move it with intention. Unlike him, you seemed to know what you were doing. Or at least you didn't look as pathetic as him.

His breath became raggedy the more he thought about it. He wrapped his fingers along the shaft, slowly moving it up and down as the natural lubricant aided. With the other hand he held tight into the seat. He bit the inside of his mouth, careful so the sounds wouldn't escape. The rhythm was inconsistent, but he knew he was getting somewhere, like tension melting away. 

You open your mouth to take him in. Bit by bit, teasingly parting away every few seconds. His hands imitates. He looks at you in between pants, the sights alone break his muffled sounds into stifled whines. 

His moves became automatic, stroking up and down as his brain could only focus on the image of you, meanwhile avoiding the other voice. A voice turned camera.

The camera flashes on the back of his eyes, images of the two of you. Spending time, as always. Him, pleading. The chapstick in your hand. The disgust in your eyes. Your eyes, your eyes, your eyes.

The feeling of bile crawling up his throat was a total opposite to the pleasure he was feeling, an infestation of the fear of getting caught, of your reaction. And yet he wouldn't stop. He tried to imagine the contrary, how if you found out you wouldn't mind, after all, you liked him.

Look at us, look at us! Look at what we're doing! Do you think they'll ever like us after this?!

On the other hand, that look in your eyes, it can't mean disgust or anything. It's strange, it's intense, it's a frown but it can't mean that you dislike him.

Because they loathe us, you dunce! We're beyond redemption! 

His climax was so close, he could feel it, and not even at the mercy of his own head he would stop. The background noise of his own voice inside his brain was loud, unbearable as he kept on stroking his dick, and almost desperate, violent rhythm. His back arched on the seat as he tried desperately to muffle the sounds coming out of him, but it was useless.

All he could see was the hatred in your eyes.

The orgasm was sudden, catching him by surprise. He could feel all the tension of his body dissipate as he eyaculated, semen dripping down the desk and into the floor boards. His heartbeat began to settle, along with his breath and he could only feel... Shame.

As if everything inside his head had shut down. On the only earbud he had on now, the faint sound of some words seemed to build up: "Fade out again, fade out again..." His eyes looked down at the scene, at his hand and his dick, both still having a glimpse of the tint of your lip balm. There was a black hole on his chest. Jerry's body wanted to clean everything up straight away, but he wouldn't budge. His eyes were becoming blurry, watery.

His body slumped on the desk, eyes looking at nothing, mind processing everything. On the corner of his eyes, the faint moonlight shone brightly on something: the pocket mirror.

The several pieces all showed the same image: Jerry, face flushed, hair sweaty and messy, half naked. His glasses were on the brink of falling down, and behind them his eyes, vision clearing as tears began to fall. There was no pride in looking like this. A semblance of a smirk began forming in his face as his mouth started to move, thoughts coming without a stop.

-"Wow..."- his tired, sore throat voice began half whispering as he looked at his reflections. -"Hoarder, thief, liar and now a pervert."- the scoff came with choked tears and a sniffle -"I really am a work of art"- the more he looked, the more he felt buried alive by shame. He looked back down at the desk. His things... Your things stood there, haunted by the memory of what he had done. Your chapstick, he couldn't even look at it without the urge to puke. 

-"Oh... What have I done..."- He suddenly felt so, so cold. He hugged himself, an attempt to feel smaller. -"I'm awful..."- he didn't fight the tears or the sobbing anymore. -"I'm just awful"-

The chapstick, the hair clip, the iPod, the inside of his drawer, looking at them made him feel dizzy. Vile, disgusting, if he touches them they shall rot away. He doesn't salvage anything, he doesn't treasure anything, he just keeps it away from everyone and ruins it forever. Please, bury me away in everything that isn't mine.

His eyes stared longingly on the screen of the iPod. You were the one that had chosen that song for him. It sounded nice.

Like a click, something changed in his brain. His feeling of shame evolved into something more, mixed with frustration. The pain in his chest felt even stronger. The tears continued pouring, though now they felt scorching hot. With his elbows on the table, his hands turned into fists, they held his head, until he lifted the right one up. Thud, against his own head. Back up, and repeat. 

He bit his lip as he hit himself, it wasn't painful but it felt necessary. His words came out trembling. -"Me this, me that. Because it all has to be about Jerry's own damn drama!"- his outburst stopped as he looked back at the objects placed on the bureau. He rubbed his hand roughly against his pants, 'cleaning' it and gathered enough courage to simply tap the chapstick with his finger. It rolled a few centimeters.

-"It's not about you"-, Jerry told himself. It's about them, the person they loved the most, whose trust they broke doing something so repugnant behind their back. There was no reason to evaluate the ups and downs, the pros and cons, because there was only one truth: he had to do something and deal with the consequences of it. Not in a hurry, but firmly, he picked himself up, pulling up his pants and getting up to pick his coat from the ground. He didn't care about the rubber bands or receipts that fell out of it. 

He didn't put it on, just held it close to him. He looked to the side, to the desk. Useless dices, he was already set on what to do, he didn't need any guidance or second opinion. He caught a small glimpse of himself in the mirror once again, but all he could see was the disappointed look of a sick man. He had never felt so aware of himself, and everything he could see felt vile. -"I don't want to be this kind of freak anymore..."-, he muttered.

His tired feet walked towards the window, looking at the faint light that came through the blinds. It'll be a long wait.