There’s a plastic bag in my right hand, and it’s all twisted up and digging into my fingers. It’s pop, cigarettes, and a box of some kind of food covered in a language I don’t recognize. I don’t know why we bought it, but I got The Author to pay for it. There’s a picture of a potato and a grapefruit on it, and a big 45% in red letters, but that isn’t very reassuring because it could mean just about anything. I’m not really sure why he wanted it, especially since he hates potatoes, but he insisted and I’m kind of afraid that I’m going to be the one tasting it first.

I pry the bag off my fingers as we step out of the elevator and I hand it to Author. He made me go to the store with him, even though I was busy and didn’t even want anything. He’s always trying to get me to go places and do pointless stuff with him, especially when I’m busy. Tossing my coat onto the kitchen counter, I nudge off my shoes without untying them and head back to my room. The bookstore I work at is getting a bunch of stuff in this week. Since I’m apparently the only person who works there who understands math, I’m stuck working out delivery times and payments. It’s a used book place, and we get a bunch of weird stuff, so it’s always a big deal when we get anything new.

The door to my room is wide open because Author practically dragged me out when we were leaving. Phoebe said she was going to be cleaning today, but I don’t think she would have gone in… She better not have, at least. Not noticing Author is still right behind me, I push the door closed as I walk in and it almost hits him in the face.

“Hey! If you don’t want me in here, just tell me.” His voice is muffled a little because he has a newly lit cigarette clenched between his teeth.

“I don’t want you in here,” I say shortly, although I don’t really mean it. Obviously not caring, he shuts the door behind him and wanders over to flop down on my bed. The state of my room is a disgrace; there are clothes and papers and junk all over the floor. I’ve been meaning to clean up, but I just haven’t gotten around to it. It’s sort of uncomfortable, actually. I’m not a clean freak like Phoebe or anything, but I do like my stuff to be organized.

“Too bad, kiddo.” He exhales smoke as I sit down at the desk, and I turn to glare at him.

“Don’t call me that,” I snap. “And don’t smoke in my bed, what’s wrong with you?” He doesn’t say anything, so I just sigh and turn back to my paperwork. Even though I was so concentrated on getting this done earlier, I don’t want to work on it at all now. The Author is so damn distracting. I’m adding up numbers and I can’t focus because all of a sudden I start hearing squeaking coming from the window. When I look over I see that Author is occupying himself with breathing on the window and writing in the fog with his finger. It is a little cold in here, now that I think about it, but that’s ridiculous. At least he’s put his cigarette out, crushed in some pop can sitting on the sill.

“Do you really have to do that?” I pick a crumpled ball of paper up off the desk and toss it at his head, and he turns to give me the most pitiful puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen. It was probably intended to make me feel bad, but I just laugh at him.

“It’s too cold in here!” he whines. He tries to get under the blankets but ends up getting stuck because the bed isn’t made and he’s hooked his foot into a fold. Moron. I just turn back to my work while he mutters and wrestles with the green comforter.

“You can blame Phoebe, she won’t turn on the heat.” 51.70 times 6 is 310.20, plus 254.95 is 565.15. Plus 13% is 638.62. I write it down on my paper, not bothering to check it with a calculator. I don’t know whether the other people at the store don’t understand it, or just think that I really love math. Either way, I’m a little annoyed that I got stuck doing it, because while it’s not difficult, I’ve been adding and multiplying for ages. The only reason I went to the store was because I was getting sick of it.

“Well, she’s got her reasons,” he says, still struggling. “I couldn’t for the life of me tell you what they are, of course, but I’m sure she has them.” I make some sort of noise that means ‘Yeah, I guess’, and jot down some more numbers. I don’t know how they’re friends. Phoebe and Author, I mean. Aside from the way they both seem to think they’re the most important people in the universe, they don’t seem to have anything in common.

Phoebe is always completely focused on her work, and doesn’t seem to have a sense of humour at all. Everything she does is based on logic and seems to be part of a bigger picture. It’s all just a step towards getting something else done. Author, on the other hand… I don’t think he ever knows what the hell he’s doing.

Looking over at him, I see that he’s given up and is just staring up at the ceiling, half covered by blankets. I can’t hear him, but he’s mouthing words to himself. He probably figures I don’t want him to talk to me, since I didn’t really respond to him. That’s not completely true, really. He can be distracting, but it’s too quiet in here, and in all honesty it sort of weirds me out when he talks to himself. It’s weird whenever he’s even remotely quiet, really.

“You okay over there?” I’m sure he has something to say, he always does. I keep writing down numbers and shuffling around papers.

“Hm,” he replies, helpfully. There’s a bit of a pause, but then he continues. “I was just thinking.”

“Ah. You do that?”

“Only sometimes. I was thinking about getting up and leaving because I wanted to smoke, but I figured that would seem a little rude, leaving you alone to go slowly kill myself. So I stayed here.”

“That was polite of you.” Putting my pen down, I look over at him. He’s still staring up at nothing, hands folded on his stomach. I’m probably going to regret saying this – I don’t know why, I just usually do – but I sigh and say, “You oughta quit that, you know.”

“What, smoking, or thinking? Because I think I can manage the latter.”

“Shut up. You know what I’m talking about.”

“But that’s like trying to fix a mistake after you’ve made it. Like realizing you’ve messed up and trying to rectify what you’ve done wrong.”

“…isn’t that good though? If you’re trying to fix it, I think that’s pretty respectable.” I realize that I’m not going to get any more work done, so I go over and sit on the bed beside him. Picking up a book on the floor to make room for my feet, I flip through it. I need to vacuum.

“No,” he says. Of course. That’s what he and Phoebe have in common: being completely stubborn. “It’s being cowardly. If you make a decision, you shouldn’t feel as though you have to go back on it.”

“What, so you’ve never changed your mind about anything? You’re dumber than I thought.”

“I don’t mean ever,” he laughs. “Just about important stuff. Things you should have really thought about before doing them anyway. If you can’t commit to something important, how can you commit to anything?”

“That’s why you won’t quit then? You think it’s being weak?”

“Why, are you worried? No, I just don’t care.” Even though I can barely see him out of the corner of my eye, I know he’s looking at me. I don’t even know why this is embarrassing, but apparently it is, because I can feel my face going red.

“Yeah, I do worry,” I mumble. “I care. So what?”

“So nothing. I get it, I love you too.” He pokes me playfully in the arm, laughing. Gods, I don’t understand him. He’s laughing about something that I could never say, even if I were just joking. I hate how he can just throw words around without any worries at all, but I choose my words carefully because I’m so afraid of giving anything away. And it’s not like he doesn’t already know or anything. What’s wrong with me? Frustrated, I knock his hand away, which just makes me even more irritated. Why do I have to do things like that to him?

“Why won’t you ever leave me alone?” I snap. “I don’t understand you, why do you like me at all?” The Author responds with a blank look. He’s so dumb. I bury my face in the pages of my book. I don’t even know what it is; it’s upside down.

“Are you serious?” I can’t see him, but I know he’s making that confused face that’s so adora- no, dammit, it’s not! “What do you mean ‘at all’? Even if I didn’t love you, I’d still like you.” Shut up, shut up, shut up. Why does he have to be so loud? I feel my face burning red and I don’t say anything. He sits up and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, and I want him to just go away.

“Sanford, look at me,” he says. “What’s the matter? Have I done something wrong?” I still don’t look up, and instead of taking the hint he wraps his arms around me. My heart catches in my throat as he pulls the book down from my face. I don’t want to look at him… or I don’t want him to look at me, I don’t even know anymore. I’m not mad at him or anything, I’m mad at myself. Turning red, I realize I’m just going to have to say this.

“Even from the beginning you’ve been so nice to me, and I’ve done nothing but yell at you. The first time you told me you… l-like me, I freaked out and left for two weeks, and I’m still mean to you now, but you never give up and I don’t understand!” I must sound crazy. I’m babbling. But it just doesn’t make sense. It’s not like I have any good qualities at all, there’s no reason he should even consider me his friend. He’s not saying anything; I knew he didn’t have a good reason.

“Where did this come from all of a sudden?” he asks after a while. “I love you. It doesn’t matter if you’re mean to me sometimes, I know you don’t really mean it.” I sigh. How can he just say it like that? Over and over, like there’s nothing weird about it at all. The best I can do is telling him I don’t hate him, which is true, but still not all that great.

“Sometimes?” I ask, exasperated. “When am I ever not mean to you? It’s not like I’m a big ball of sunshine or anything.” He laughs at that and pulls me closer to him. My hands drop onto my lap without my permission, and one of them grabs his thumb. Stupid. His hands are bigger than mine. They’re smoother, too, because he doesn’t do as much work. He smells like clean laundry and smoke. Why the hell do I notice these things? And why am I just letting him do this?

“I appreciate that you’re mean,” he chuckles. “You’re the only person who calls me out when I’m being an arrogant jackass, which, I will admit, is regularly.”

“I can’t see how other people don’t notice it,” I say. “Someone needs to knock you down a peg.” I smile, just a little, and he laughs some more.

“Exactly,” he agrees. I still don’t think that explains anything, but I don’t say anything. What else is there to say? I always do this, where I feel like I should say something, but there’s just nothing useful I can add. The Author breaks the quiet though, quietly, and almost… shyly.

“You don’t actually want me to leave you alone… do you? Because if you do, I will, really. I won’t like it, but I don’t ever want to make you unha--”

“No!” I interrupt, maybe a little too loudly. I turn to look at him, and now he’s blushing. You don’t see that every day. It throws me off guard a little. “N-no, I just… I don’t know, okay? Don’t leave.” I feel even worse now, I really didn’t mean it. I don’t know why I can’t just tell him I like him – that I love him, even when he can just say it so casually. I do, I really do, but he’s not a mind-reader, he doesn’t know what I’m thinking. Looking down at our hands, I try to gather the courage to say something… but I just can’t.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bug,” he assures me. Where that name came from, I have no idea, but I’m not complaining. I look back up at his dumb smiley face, and without thinking, I kiss him. It doesn’t really last long, because when I realize what I’m doing I pull away. Well, shit. I guess that spoke for itself.

Pulling myself away from him, I stand up and cross the room quickly, pausing at the door. Liking him goes against everything I know, everything I was taught growing up. This irrational fear is pretty much the only thing I have left connecting me to my life before him. Even though it’s selfish and horrible, and not what I want at all, I can’t let go if it. It’s one of those stupid things, like not wanting to throw a piece of paper out in case you need it sometime in the next ten years, or putting off doing something you really want to do, just because you’re afraid you’ll screw it up. I guess that’s my mistake that I just can’t fix.

“I’m getting something to drink,” I announce. “D’you want anything?” Expecting some sort of comment about what just happened, I’m surprised at what he does say.

“Bring that potatofruit thing we got, you should try that. And water would be nice.” I turn back to him, about to grumble something along the lines of ‘no fucking way’, but I don’t. He’s sitting there smirking at me, obviously amused with himself. So proud of himself, it makes me smile. Jackass.