Tonight I'll Be Crooked | [Haleon+Uma]

[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

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Funerals have always been an easy thing to attend. You grow up with them in my neighborhood, someone dies almost weekly. It's just far more difficult when the funeral you're attending is one of a boy you've known for a few good years, who had a lot of fight in him, who had a girlfriend and a mom and dad that loved him. He was a good guy, fierce and loyal to the very end. The worst part is, I never told him goodbye, how proud I was of him. That's hard, knowing he's one less face I'll never be seeing again but for in games flashbacks on the television. His story will now be made a public display, a drama, or something. He's gone, but his memory won't ever be laid to rest because the Capitol won't give him back. By rights, we have his body but he still belongs to them. We all do, in the end I guess.

Too many strangers showed up to his funeral. Like most, he'd asked to be buried at sea. He was placed inside an old rowboat because he wouldn't have minded, and laid with the flowers that grew at the base of his tree house. Then he was dragged to sea by an old tugger, and released to the waves. We watched the boat and body disappear, watching until it was past the horizon. I remember that he believed the world had an edge. I hope he doesn't fall off. After that, we all dispersed, nothing left to say, unable to look at the parents, white faced and thin already from the loss of their other son last year. It really hits you, the unfairness of it all.

And you'd think with a father like Tom at home I wouldn't be the type to even touch a drink. However, I've always been the type of boy more interested in facing his fears than running for them. It isn't that I chase after alcohol, that I want to be drunk all the time until I forget myself, like Tom. It's more like I don't mind having a drink every now and then with the guys, more like tonight I feel like having one for my fallen friend. Sometimes we'd come here, just the two of us, to this bar out on the docks. It was because we both lived in this direction, him making his home on the water, me making my home in the place beyond these pines, in the guttermost part of the District. It was a halfway point.

Of course it has been months since then. The last time I saw him, he was standing on a platform, shit eating grin on his face, waving goodbye. I guess I'm happy, he went down fighting, doing what he loved. That's more than I can say for most of us, usually recipients of hunger pangs, cold, abuse and the like. Still, it's with a whistling air of melancholy that I make my way into the shadows of this particular bar, nestled at the crossroads of a canal. My black jacket is crisp at the edges, having not worn out it's press, my shoes shined, looking almost like new. My identification isn't checked at the door, the days of that are long passed. I'm not a kid anymore.

It's with an adult's intensity that I make my way through the already smoke filled and crowded room. Something is already happening on stage, I suspect it always is nowadays. With both of District Four's tributes dead, there is nothing much to celebrate so we have to make it ourselves. I catch the eye's of this particular club's owner, and he gives me a nod. Sometimes when I come across him, I almost feel like I should be bowing down to him, the air of regality he carries is almost overwhelming. He's a good enough guy though. Sometimes he'll come to us brawlers and he and I will wrestle each other down to the ground. I push my way to the bar front and wait patiently, hands splayed across the bench top.

I look for the bar man I'm used to, but he's not there. I have to remind myself that it's been at least a year since I came here. It makes sense that the bar will change every now and then. Instead there seems to be this younger man and I cannot tell who he is by the set of his shoulders, or if I should know him. I'm always careful about that, the District may be big but it's a small world, I wouldn't want to offend someone. I wait until he turns back around to make my order, "A beer please, on tap." I've never really gone for those fancy mixed drinks, and I stay the hell away from moonshine.

H A L E O N

{ and i have never been good at looking back }

[presto][/presto]

[cass]

The bar was filled with people. Not that that was unusual whatsoever, after all the bar was owned by Bastille Styx, well known underworld ‘lord’ that was known for his many dealings with criminals. I didn’t mind it, however, I worked for the guy and he was the only person I knew that didn’t treat me like some broken damaged toy. Living with Parkinson’s disease was not easy. It was a degrading, debilitating disease that was going to end my life. When I say that it wasn’t in the sense of I was slowly dying, like it was cancer or something like that, it wasn’t. It was the fact that I had a condition no one had until they were in their sixties and when you got it at that age you were pulled off the shelf and left on the street to die. It was incurable and it wasn’t going to be fixed, instead it would get worse and worse until I either ended it myself or I made some fatal error that gets me killed or someone else ends it for me. I’m not going to die of old age or natural causes.

I’m going to suffer until the end no matter what.

I’ve accepted it though. I don’t want it, but I have no choice. It is one of the reasons why I give myself shift upon shift at Bastille’s bar, I work everyday, and I generally stay a good sixteen hours per day, when I get home I sleep and then I come back to work. I can’t bare going hoe and seeing my mother these days. Ever since my sickness spread she just gets upset. At least here when I break things or have little accidents the customers react like normally people, they get upset and yell at me and I apologise. Bastille never does though, but he also never looks at me with pity or sympathy, he treats me like a human being, but at the same time doesn’t blame me for something I can’t fix.

Nut when I am at home I have a mother that is being eaten alive by despair. Maybe I am being selfish when I say that I can’t stand it, but it eats away at me as much as it eats away at her. Seeing her in so much pain hurts me because I’m the one causing it. When she cries I know she doesn’t blame me, but each tear that falls is my fault. Every bit of pain and anguish she feels when she looks at me is because she sees her broken son. So I stay away. For her sake. It was the only thing I knew I could do to protect her.

Ducking under the bar I pull out a glass, I slide it across the bench to a customer, they grab it, and I quickly follow up by grabbing a bottle of vodka from the bench, before unscrewing the lid and pouring it into his cup. He nods thanks, and turns away from the bar, before sauntering over to a group of scantily dressed woman. I knew how they were; they came in every night and all of them left with a man. I didn’t know if they did what I thought they did, or if they just did what they did because they liked doing it. I wasn’t in any position to ask.

Pulling out a cloth from the half apron that is wrapped around my waste I wipe down the bar in front of me, people sat up and down it, hunched over their drinks or catting avidly with other people. It was funny how you had such discrepancies between people, there were those here trying to drown their problems in alcohol and those drinking alcohol to have a good time. I preferred the people that came in looking for a good time. They ere always bubbly and happy and eager to talk to you, they weren’t the ones that looked at you like their life was your entire fault – even then I had to stop myself from asking them what was wrong. Sometimes I was in the mood to hear what they had to say, other times I didn’t want to listen. Today I felt like I was standing on a fence.

I didn’t know what I was feeling in all honesty, I’d gone home this morning for a few hours more then I normally did, and mother had been awake. She’d been annoyed that I hadn’t spoken to her for a few weeks; I told her everything was fine. She was persistent, intent to know about my most recent accidents. I didn’t want to tell her. I didn’t need her worry, I didn’t need her to know that within the last three days I had broken ten glasses, or that I had cut a customer by accident and lost more then two hundred dollars worth of stock at the bar. It was enough that I had to remember it everyday; I didn’t need her constant reminder. So I walked out. It took all my will to not walk back when she tried to follow me, when she began to cry.

Wiping my hands on my apron I tuck the cloth back into the small pocket at the front. The doors open and another person comes into the bar. I look upwards and at him, he walks past Bastille and there seems to be a moment of understanding between the two, a polite nod, welcoming glance and instantly I know this is someone who must surely be important. To know Bastille and get something more then a few words of indifference they had to mean something to one another. I tuck the cloth into my pocket and draw out a glass as the boy sits down. He looks a little sad in all honesty. There’s like this aura that hangs over him, a brewing storm. It reminds me of me. He was cute looking and had the features of a man who was clearly in his early twenties, but someone who suffered a lot all the time.

Did I carry that same facial expression he did? Those same dark eyes? No longer did I feel indifferent to my feeling, I wanted to talk to him. Find out why he seemed so down, maybe I’d be surprised and he’d tell me it was something silly, like he broke a vase. I think I’d laugh if he said that. Maybe there is someone out there who isn’t suffering unmeasurable pain.

”A beer please, on tap.”

I nod once before turning around with the glass, the taps sit behind the bar; a little while ago they had sat at the front, but I found too many people seemed to think it was okay to reach over and just fill their lass again as they pleased. So I had them moved. Filling the glass up to the top I turn around. That’s when it happened. My right hand shook, just a small tremor, but because of the condition my hand seems to loose total control of itself. It was only minor shake, lasted no more then a second, it was the beginning before the storm, before the real mess, but the glass fell from my hand all the same, hitting the bar and spilling everywhere.

Panic spikes through my veins like wildfire. With the sharp increase in my heartbeat I move forwards, frantic to fix the giant mess I had made. Normally I would be a bit more clam and civil about this, but I felt as though I had to impress this fella, he was close to Bastille and I was always trying to impress Bastille, always fearful of the day he will turn around and say leave. What if this made him fire me? Spill beer on a friend. I tug the rag out of my apron and fling it onto the table, my hands start shaking, they always did when I panicked, they always did after those first few tremors. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shitshitshitshitshitshit.

My hands try to grab the cloth, but they just won't work.

"I-I-I... I'm so sorry." I stutter, and I look to the side, because I cannot bare to look at him and I cannot look down at my hands that shake uncontrollably.

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[gamemaker kelsier]

[presto][/presto]

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My knuckles are raw still from last night's exertion. The days are long past where my father could give me a thorough beating. Where he used to be able to put me down easily enough, the drink has wasted him and I have only proven to become stronger and stronger. Although it isn't uncommon for him to push me to the ground, to bring a pan across the back of my head, even a wrench. I always have to be on guard against his insanity. Sometimes I forget and it results in some new pain. I always have to be on guard. I can feel the results of being slack every time I narrow my eyes, the scar barely hidden below my hairline tightening.

However, Tom has nothing to do with the rawness of my knuckles tonight. Last night I spent the evening in the ring with another boy, teaching him a lesson about respecting his elders. Ah, it was all in good faith too. Less raw from punching, they are red from too many noogies. A faint smile crosses my lips at the inside thought, followed by a flicker of regret. It wasn't long ago that I was finding myself in the same position with one Eye Saw, the little boy dead. It doesn't do good to dwell on it, I know. Tom is always saying how you have got to let the past lie, rich words coming from him. I took them to heart anyway. Eye wouldn't want me crying over him anyway.

I watch as the boy behind the bar retrieves a glass with expertise and sticks it under the bar tap. As far as I remember, the taps used to be against the bar so the barman could look you in the eye while he poured, to make sure you weren't up to any funny business. Eye and I always thought that was hilarious, as soon as his back was turned we'd always have a fill up. Stealing from Bastille Styx was never a good thought, but it was so easy that you couldn't blame us for not being able to resist. I didn't realize this place held so many fond memories.

I lean against the bar as I weight, folding my tall frame into a seat so that I can comfortably cup my chin in my hand and watch the shoulder muscles of the boy at work in front of me. I'm not sure why I study him so hard. I am the type who does this though, drinking in the world around me as if I can never get enough of it. Sometimes I feel like I'm just a cataloging system, Edgar's training drilling it's self so deeply into my brain that all I can think about is business. He's always telling me how first impressions are of the utmost importance, how within ten seconds someone has already decided what they think of you, even before you've opened your mouth.

Absentmindedly, I catalog him. He wears the crisp, white top of a barman. It doesn't appear to be stained from here. He's the type who must take great care in his appearance, you can tell by the straightness of his hair cut. His hair is lighter, bleached blonde whether by the sun or some unfortunate accident I do not know. He is tall. Not as tall as me, I think. He must be in his late teens, at least eighteen, maybe nineteen. Just a kid, barely old enough to serve drinks. Still, it doesn't seem to matter when his boss is around the same age. He wears an apron, white as well. It's tied expertly, the lines of each end the same length. He has precision, or at least attempts it.

He proves this thought slightly wrong in the next instant. He pours the beer alright, but somehow, in the next instant it is spilled. I watch, intrigued as his hand shakes, without rhyme or reason. Barmen are not the nervous type, it could not have been nerves that made him drop the glass. Even so, it lands on the bench top in front of me and beer is displaced. It flows over the bench top and I am fast enough to pull back and stay untouched. My reflexes are honed to perfection after years of living with a father who used pain as a teaching method. I move quickly, slipping off the bar stool, arms raising off the bar so that the beer that flows over it, beginning to drip onto the flow amidst shards of glass does no damage.

Mostly, I am confused, wondering if he dropped the glass on purpose. There was nothing to trip him up, nobody shoved him. He just seemed to shake suddenly, as if someone had yanked on his hand. As quickly as it happened, he is faster, flinging a cloth onto the bench top, wiping up beer as well as glass. Where he seemed calm before, there is obvious embarrassment on his face, mixed with something that might be panic. He is apologizing as if he just stabbed me in the chest instead of nearly spilling beer all over me. My gaze had gone hard without me realizing it. Softening, I reach out and beckon for the cloth, taking it from his hand so that I can mop up the spilled beer that is slipping onto the floor on this side.

There's something about his expression that makes me think of myself, of nights when I would lay in darkness, waiting for the sound of a slow gait along the floorboards, hearing one bottle of moonshine after another being opened until he was finally ready to come looking. It is the feeling of fear and I understand it perfectly.

"Careful," I say softly, "There are shards of glass, you could cut yourself. Do you have a dust pan?" I know how to clean up broken glass, I am master of it, but I'm even better at ducking as empty bottles come flying at my head. "You don't have to worry, I didn't get wet," I say to him, tone light and coaxing. I am not bothered, neither should he be.

H A L E O N

{ the winter has passed and the spring has come }

[presto][/presto]

1-7�1-7�1-73ODgtJjg

[cass]

Fear is something I know all too well. It is difficult for me to go two or three days without feeling that spine-crushing anxiety ridden emotion that sends your heart into a rapid, blinding dance of panic. The chaotic beat of a snapping heart is all to familiar. The teary eyes and aching soul are such constant feelings that it is any wonder I know anything else. If someone were to hand me a piece of paper and tell me to write down the emotion that I feel most often it would be a tie between worry and fear. For an eighteen-year-old boy I don’t think that is a particularly good sign, but then neither is my entire life. Maybe it was a sign telling my mother not to have another child, ‘it’s already going to be screwed forever with this son, have another, see what happens.’ She did try. Miscarriage after two months. I think when I was diagnosed she wanted to walk away, leave me be, an eighteen year old boy should be able to look after themself, after all.

Then after a few days she remembered that I was her son and then she became like glue. I hate the way people look at me when they find out what is wrong, like I am some fragile breakable thing that is going to crash and burn at any moment. Like a bomb that is about to go off and if they get too close they will be hit with the recoil. And then there are those who think if they get close enough they won’t be hurt, because they can pretend I am nothing more than this thing that doesn’t understand what is happening to their own body.

I hate myself when I break things in front of people. Especially when they adopt those sympathetic eyes and looks of pity. So when I finally manage to drag up the courage to look back at the boy I was supposed to be serving I find myself freezing in shock. At first his gaze is hard and the fear attacks me like a double edged blade, but then all at once it kind of melts into a soft expression and for a moment I think I am going to start glaring at him, but it stops before any sign of sympathy can slip in,and I can breathe again. He wasn't like the others. Instead he reaches forward and takes the cloth from my trembling hands and he begins to mop up the beer. I want to take it back from him in an instant, but I know that if I even tried I would just make myself look like more of a fool then I already did. I’d spilled a drink on him and now I couldn’t even clean up the mess I made. Pathetic.

I drag my hands off the bench table and shove them into the single pocket at the front of my apron. It visibly rattles the shaking in my hands not as strong as it was moments ago, but still painfully obvious.

"Careful," he says, tone soft. I find myself staring at him, unable to look away, that edge of softness unfamiliar. In this bar you don’t hear people talk like that, even the woman have a rough and tough, ragged tone and the notion of anything close to soft is non-existent. His tone reminds me of how mother used to speak to me before she started crying all the time. It was when she had patience and didn’t get work out so easily. When I broke things she would laugh lightly and then smile and tell me it was okay. She’d fix it all up and then we’d move on. It only took a few months for her to break.

"There are shards of glass, you could cut yourself. Do you have a dust pan?" I am no stranger to broken glass. In fact I am a master at breaking glasses, cleaning it up is always the tricky bit. I look around myself; there is always a dustpan close at hand, especially near me. I can still fill my hands shaking, but some part of me doesn’t want to disappoint this guy. I cannot just stand here and let him clean it all up, I felt bad enough already that I had spilt his drink and that he was moping it up, not me. It was my job, after all, not his. Instead of responding I simply nod my head and I move over to where the dustpan protrudes. I stare at it. I take a deep breath and pull one of my hands out. It shakes.

The worst part about the shakes was the fact that my nerves seems to forget how it all worked. It would be a lot easier and a lot more manageable if my body didn’t forget how to hold thing, and pick things up. But when it shook it just forgot how it worked and my hand became this, well, vibrator. That was all it did. I pull my other hand out, trying my best to remain calm, I breathe in and out over and over again, deep breathes that do nothing to improve my situation. I could attempt to scoop up the dustpan and maybe throw it on the table. Or I could just make myself look like more of a fool.

Sighing heavily I turn around, my embarrassment springing up once more. I shove my hands back into my pocket, trying my best to hide them. ”Look, ummm. The dustpan is here-“ I blink, face reddening. I can feel the heat crawling up my cheeks, ”but I… I can’t grab it.” I say, shoulders slumping with defeat.

Fucking useless.

I try my best to hold that gaze, but I can’t. Ripred I wish the ground would split open and swallow me up. But that would be too easy.

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[gamemaker kelsier]

H A L E O N G A U G E - E L L I S

I don't know why I've always felt the need to care for people. I suppose it's because I so liked being cared for too, and I never really got that when I was growing up. Every now and then Edgar would come by to visit and he'd pat me on the back, or tousle up my hair and for the smallest of instants, I could feel his care for me. However, it was often cancelled out by the aftermath of Edgar's visits, the things he didn't know about and the bottles that were broken over my bones. For the short sweetness of his care, I'd often pay dearly. To me, it became nearly equivalent. I was taught that love was just blood on the ground and fear, always fear.

Still, I've never been able to walk away from what others have deemed a lost cause. I suppose this is because Tom was labeled one, because I have been too, many times. They see the scars on my body and the red on my knuckles and they take me for another street rat, another hooligan. I suppose I am, but I am so much more than that too. I am a boy who grew up, against all odds, and never rightly learned how to hold onto anger and hatred.

I don't know what I see in front of me right now, but just another boy I suppose. He's got eyes that lend panic to the conversation and hands that shake more than Tom when he's too sober. I'm good at caring for my boys, the ones that run with me in my crew. I've held hair back over many a bathroom stall and bandaged up more cuts, tended more bruises than I can count. If there is one thing I don't mind doing, that I'm not afraid of is taking care of someone, relieving some of their pain, as much as I possibly can.

He stands behind the bar, presumably where the dust pan is. I watch him, even as my hand wipes the cloth back and forth, only succeeding really in moving the liquid about. It's odd, but he just stands there, his hands shaking as if he's holding a handful of ice and he can't put it down. I watch in confusion as he attempts to steady himself. I'm not sure what his game is. I know what it is to be so frightened that you can't move, but I've never seen a boy go from such confidence to terror because of me. I'm not sure what I've done to him, what he's done to himself.

Finally, he seems to reach a decision and he turns to face me, expression defeated. I'm not sure why, but his face makes my heart sink a bit, as if I have let him down personally. In response to his look, my brow furrows into a question, uncertain, worried. I hope I have not caused this sorrow within him because I have never wanted to be a harbinger of doom. All I really came in for was a beer and if I had known it would cause such a reaction to his emotions I might have kept on walking. I know what it is to receive mental and physical pain. I would never purposefully give it to someone who had not signed up for it.

”but I… I can’t grab it.”

I blink at him and then shrug. Alright, I suppose. Maybe he's got some dark past about dust pans. I know that there are some brands of beers that I'll never drink because of Tom, and some wrenches that I still can't work with because they were the ones that were thrown so angrily at my head. Maybe the guy has some horrid history with dust pans. We all carry our own scars and have gone through our own trials. Who am I to laugh at that. With a shrug, I lean my tall frame over the bar, passing so near to him that I swear, despite the loud music, I can hear the beating of his heart, and I hook a finger onto the edge of the dust pan.

Sliding it out, I catch it with excellent reflexes as it begins to tip to the floor. Grinning at my success, I straighten up and brandish it about my head like a trophy. "No worries, I've got it," I say, ignoring the fact that it's sort of obvious that I do. Sometimes calming someone down involves a lot of stating the obvious. It turns out that if you can make them feel smarter than you, then they'll think you beneath them and it will give them endorphins and they'll leave you alone. Not that I want this guy to leave me alone, in fact, I'm finding that I'm rather enjoying this random, but interesting interaction.

I just wish he'd stop looking like I'm about to either tell him off or punch him in the face. I know how easy it is to believe that the entire world is out to get you and how difficult it is to be brave. The effort is always worth it, I find. I offer him a slow smile, trying not to frighten him as I straighten back up. He attempts to hold my gaze, and it's impressive that he doesn't laugh at how crooked my smile is. Most people do.

"So what's your name?" I ask conversationally as I stoop down to brush up the broken glass.

I’m neither painful nor lonely
Happiness is all self-talk

[cass]

U M A
{ tonight i'll be
y o u r s }

I don’t know why I am so embarrassed, never before have I found myself so red-faced and ashamed of this problem I cannot fix. It is something I can normally overcome with a great amount of ease, it only leaves a lingering ache on my already troubled soul, but it is nothing I cannot overcome. Having dealt with it for this long I know how everyone reacts, no one either thinks into it, they just assume I’m stupid and cannot do my job, they couldn’t even begin to understand the real reason why. I doubt a single one of them has ever given a thought about it, that perhaps it could be for unfathomable reason like an illness. Oh, but that is just too hard to comprehend. I remember when I group of my friends found out at school, it had been after I had dropped a prized possession of one of my friends, and she had been showing it off to me. It had been an accident. After that I had explained the entirety of my condition and their responses were nothing other than “why don’t you just try harder to not shake then” or “I bet you’re lying, there is no disease that makes your hands shake”.

I suppose I have come to believe that those will be some of the only responses I will receive after telling another. So I bare such a punishment in silence. But sometimes I wish people would understand. I want them to see what is really wrong and not the image that they choose to see.

I am a lost cause.

A simple apology normally settles the problem, they scowl, get pissed and try and growl, but I can just brush it off as if it is nothing. Because I tell myself I can’t do anything about it, I tell myself that it isn’t my fault. So why is it affecting me so much tonight? Why am I stuttering and stumbling over my words and looking at this poor guy as though my world was about to crumble? This was distressing and problematic, I needed to get a grip of myself, and I needed to pull myself together.

Somehow, one way or another I always manage to sink myself into such thoughts. I always begin to drown in them and at the end of the rope I know there is a noose. And yet every time it happens I pull myself short and let go, I find some way to stop such dreadful thoughts from taking control. I find faith once more in the world around me, and I begin to think that perhaps no all is lost, perhaps I am not doomed for misery forever (a lie I tell myself to keep my head above the water, it works). Bastille was one of them, he was anew light in my life, someone who put faith in me, who knew the true story behind it all and did not look down upon me. He did not tell me to fix it, or brand me a liar. Instead he understood and gave me a job.

Perhaps this boy is another.

He doesn’t not question the situation and every expectation I have is destroyed. Normally I would have received some sort of verbal abuse, but instead this boy reaches forwards, past the bench and leans over to grab the dustpan I had indicated. He’s tall, and from that one movement I am blessed with the briefest glimpses of a well-tones body. I can see the strength and power hidden behind each of those movements. He smells nice as well. I feel that blush creep up and across my face and then I am blinking rapidly to clear my mind of all thoughts of him. I let out a loud huff of air and take a quick step back away, so that I am pressed up against the wall behind me.

"No worries, I've got it," he says, flashing a brilliant grin, before brandishing the dustpan above his head. I can’t help, but smile at his joy, it’s calming. And that grin twists my lips and then my teeth are flashing. His smile comes across slowly, and once it has bloomed it is hard not to stare. It’s crooked, it tilts, but it is adorable at the same time. It sits there and I can’t help but let my own smile broaden. However, no matter what he must think I am foolish for asking him to grab the dustpan and brush. What things must be running through his head? What lies is he telling himself to make sense of this situation? I would never know. I could ask, though.

"So what's your name?"

It’s only then that I realise my hands have stopped shaking. I glance down at them quickly, delighted that they were calm once more. But just as a precaution I tuck them behind my back and once more turn my attention back towards the boy in front of me.

“Uma. I’m Uma” I grin at him, feeling a lot more comfortable now that my hands have relaxed. I spin around quickly and grab another glass before filling it up with some beer. I face him and move forwards before putting the glass on the table and sliding it over. ”Thought I ought to finally give you that long awaited drink. What’s your name?” I ask, leaning forwards and onto the bench.

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[gamemaker kelsier]

H A L E O N

I don't really believe in fate or love at first sight. All that crap is meant for pages and words that people made up. After a good twenty years of never feeling more than lust for anybody, I've come to believe that love is just a myth too. I mean, there's the feeling I have for my friends, my crew. I'm not sure if that's love or not, but I trust them with my life and I know that they trust me with their's too. I'm aware too, that it's problem something that people teach you about by caring for you. All I learned from Tom was how to be good at dodging anything from a wrench to a question. All I learned from Edgar was how to put business before family. So you could say that my grasp on love is looser than most.

I know unconditional too. People are the way they are, wanting to change them to suit yourself would be like saying that you like rain but then you always carry an umbrella. The entire idea of loving someone unconditionally is to love them as they are. I don't want to find a fixer upper, whatever that means, I want to fall in love with someone's imperfections. I want to fall so deeply and maddeningly in love with someone's flaws that to me, they become just the opposite and then I want to make them feel my awe for them, my dedication every single moment that I am near them. I just want to make them realize their import to me and to the world. I think if I had a way to define my idea of love, that'd be about it.

I don't know really what's got me onto this other than I like the way the boy's shoulder blades move (lust) and the fact that he still sort of looks like I'm going to hit him.

I could show him my hands I guess, raise 'em up high to the ceiling to show him that I come unarmed and in peace. It makes me wonder how many times something like this has happened before and if the reason he looks so put out is because he's used to it. That or he was secretly hoping I'd grab his shirt and pull him over the counter and give him a good one, right in the kisser. Those lips of his do look very kissable after all. Ripred, I'm such a sleeze. I haven't even had any beer yet and I'm making not-so-gentlemanly-comments in my head right after the funeral of one of my good friends. I focus on sweeping up the glass, making short strokes with the little brush, making sure not to press the glass into the ground. I'm far too good at cleaning up glass than I should be.

“Uma. I’m Uma”

I wonder if Uma means anything in particular or if it's just one of those random names. I can't really talk with a name like mine. Mine is all grandiose and makes me sound like some asshole with a rich mother and father. Come to think of it, I don't even know what my own name means. I've always been curious as to why the generation before us has regular names, like 'Tom' or 'Carol'. Then you have us, the bunch of weirdos with new age names like 'Eye' or 'Bastille'. Our parents were on drugs. After some careful consideration spent kneeling over the remains of my recently deceased beer, I decide that I actually quite like the name Uma. It's fun to say at least, which cannot always be the same for mine. When the boys are drunk, suddenly my name becomes an obstacle course.

I straighten up just in time to catch the beer that he slides across the counter and it's almost as if the universe is apologizing for before. I catch it easily and bring it up in one motion to take a drink. There is nothing more spectacular tasting than a beer well earned and I do believe I have reason to say that this one was. With the drink in my hand, and the brush and pan on the bench top beside me, I can finally relax. It seems Uma can too. He leans forward and I have to restrain myself from moving back out of reflex. (Not every movement is an attack, Haleon old boy.)

He speaks again just as the music on stage suddenly bursts into a hale of noise and I have to lean in a bit closer just to hear his words. "Me? I'm Haleon," I say and for some reason that doesn't seem quite enough, I have to give myself a title and I add, "I make watches, at the shop down the street?" I don't know why I phrased it like a question. I'm a bit of an idiot sometimes when it comes to talking to people. I'd like to pretend I'm like Edgar, all elegance and no missteps, but I was raised more by Tom who sometimes couldn't even get a word out edgewise himself. To cover up my embarrassment, I take a long drink from my beer.

There are other things to address too, like how Uma's hands just stopped shaking and how he refused to pick up a pan and brush. I guess I'd rather have him explain himself, rather than me bringing it up. I suppose if he doesn't want to, that's his choice too. I'm not the type to pick at scabs of barely healed scars anyway. Still, I don't really want him to go away, not when it's just getting interesting. I've got his name, asking his age would be a bit weird and I know his location already. "Hey listen," I begin, entirely uncertain of where I'm taking this, just knowing that I've got to take it somewhere, "Just to show you that there are no hard feelings, let me buy you a drink later. When do you get off?"

Smooth, Haleon. Real smooth.

[cass]

U M A
{ tonight i'll be
y o u r s }

The music springs up in a shower of cries and cheers, and it echoes for a few moments. In the time that passes after I have spoken I become consciously aware of the way he has leaned forwards to speak with me. Of the way he smells, and the way his hair falls around his face. He has nice hair, mine never seem to settle, a new look every day, every time you speak to me, it doesn’t have a particular style, but rather a million different trends and appearances. It annoyed me, having it like that meant there was no way I could have it fall correctly. It never pleased me, but in the end my hair had become a lot less of an important part of my life. I found that after a few months of being diagnosed I never thought about it, because there were just so many more important things going on.

So why was I thinking about it now?

I’d be a fool if I believed that it was the heat of the bar that made my cheeks flush bright red. In reality it was very much the boy in front of me, with his charming crooked smile, lovely hair and nice smile. He tells me his name, Haleon, and I repeat it, mumbling it under my breath (Haleon, Haleon, Haleon). It wasn’t an odd name it was simply different. But when you name was Uma and the man you worked for was called Bastille you didn’t think much of different names. I liked the ring to his name, I don’t know why, but there was something angelic about the way it sounded.

Maybe it was because it sounded kind of like halo? It didn’t really matter, I just felt like it was a word – no a name, that I was going to commit to memory thinking of an angel. Silly, huh? Then he tells me he makes watches at the shop down the street. I’ve never been there before and I feel almost guilty about it. But I don’t go to many places, if I wasn’t working here I’d probably just stay at home all day dreading the next moment my life was turned upset down and the cracks spread.

Mother says I should get out more often, stop worrying about it – she says it like it is something that can be cured, as though one morning I’m going to wake up and this curse is just going to disappear. But it isn’t and she doesn’t understand that it is just going to get worse and worse, the end of this is my complete and utter inability to do anything. I won’t be able to take of myself, I’ll be a burden to whoever thinks I’m worth their time and I’m so scared of that. I’m so scared of someone thinking I’m not going to make his or her life miserable, like it’s not going to get worse, like it’s going to be easy. It’s not.

I want to fall in love, I want to be with someone, but every time I think about it I just get sad and angry and so very fearful. I can’t bring what I’ve got to a relationship, I can’t pile up this sickness and make it their problem as well, it’s mine and I should bare it alone, no one should have to suffer as I do. No one should have to love something so incredibly broken. I tell myself this day in day out and I ask myself why am I still here then?

And I can’t answer that question.

He speaks again and I’m stunned by the question I’m asked. My immediate reaction is to say yes, to nod and tell him straight away that I finish in the next half hour. But I bite my lip, because I’m afraid, I’m afraid that this boy – Haleon is going to get hurt, I’m afraid Bastille will get hurt everyday I see him, I’m afraid anyone who talks to me will get hit by whatever shrapnel I leave behind after I explode.

But this is just one drink, nothing more. One drink. Reduce the damage, don’t do it. I can do it. Save someone from pain. Nothing can come of one drink, one drink and a chat. You’re going to hurt him. I can’t hurt someone in such a short amount of time, he doesn’t even know what is wrong with me. So I nod my head at his request to buy me a drink, ”sure, I’d like that.” I say, and I offer him a smile, tucking my hands into my apron. I bite my lip I don’t finish for another half an hour but-

”Just go, Uma, we’ll be fine.” I look behind me in surprise, Kissy, another bartender offers me a cheeky smile. And I’m all flustered and don’t know how to respond, she raises a hand to make a shooing gesture and I simply nod, dumbfounded by what had just happened.

”Yeah, sure… um okay so I can leave now?” I don’t know why I say it like a question, and I look up at Haleon and I wonder if I’m making a mistake.

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