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Who: Lou Sweetapple & Rory Fairfax.
When: 2008 (15 years ago).
Where: Burlington, VT.
What: The opposite of a meet-cute, and the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Warnings: Inebriation; a fistfight; depression; language; two men, no social acumen.
lou—freshly-transplanted and wallowing in his own self-pity about his recent break-up—squints back at him even though rory is not actually looking at him; how many drinks has he had again? does it even matter any more? nothing matters. he's twenty-seven years old and everything is terrible and he's feeling very dramatic about it all.
the room is looking wobbly; even the room is out to get him now. and what exactly is this guy looking at? does he know? does he know that lou is a monster? why else would he be looking at him, really?
"hey, what's your problem, man?" lou mumbles, his tone accusatory. normal people like staring guy here didn't realize how good they had it.
"you're in my–"
the stool teeters and rory reaches out to grab something, anything, to help him regain his purchase.
his hand lands on his whiskey sour.
...
that works too.
"you're in my way," he mumbles back, petulant and rocking back ahead to nearly slam against the bar. "m'tryin' to get a LOOK."
lou already has his hackles up, but this just further triggers his fight-or-flight response.
"a look at what? at… a… a freak of nature? or a demon? or whatever?" he says, projecting his own emotional issues onto this complete stranger. he stands, feeling a little like a cornered animal.
rory squints again — this time at a new guy. not the blond one. the weird one. the one with the beard. (for the record, he's also burry.)
(rory briefly considers growing a beard like his, though. it's impressive.)
"the shit?"
"i didn't ask to be like this," lou says defensively. he gives rory a little shove, half because he wants to show him he's not about to be pushed around, and half because he's actually trying to keep himself from toppling over.
"the fu"
and then he's flailing, which is so cartoonish it's nearly audible until he realizes he's on the floor.
"the FUC
"owwwww," lou complains, more offended than hurt, as rory's fist connects with his face. he stumbles and loses his balance, then clumsily rights himself right before he's completely on the ground.
"what the fuck, man? fuck you—"
he has no idea how they've gotten here, or why they are doing this, his only instinct is to respond in kind. lou staggers forward and aims his own fist at rory's face-ish. it's not a very good punch. he doesn't particularly want to hurt this guy with excellent taste in flannel shirts, he just wants to end this and go home, or get knocked out so that he doesn't have to think about anything any more.
this one, to the angry weirdo's credit, does smart. it probably has something to do with how rory's in the middle of trying to turn his face and look at where they'd ended up, so the angle is just– it's not good. he can already feel the sharp pain and copper tang in his mouth that point to a split lip, and when he reaches up to wipe the blood away before it spreads (second nature, now), he does three things: his toe catches against the uneven flagstone, he pitches forward, and he flings out an elbow in the ensuing panic to stay upright.
the trajectory? beard's nose.
lou lets out a pathetic little yelp as the big guy's elbow makes contact with his nose with a small crunch, causing him to fall back on his ass. almost immediately (he's always had a sensitive nose), telltale purple blood starts gushing from his nose, and lou panics as he tries to hide it before the other man sees, burying his face in his shirtsleeve.
"okay, fine, you win, all right? i'll leave. i don't want any trouble," lou mutters, only half-intelligibly.
rory's regret begins even before the sound effects added, and by the time the dude's hiding, he feels baaaaad. guiiiiilty. he's a lover, not a fighter!!! what the fuck, rory?!?!?!
"aw. shit– bro, i didn't mean to like–" he's already pulling his flannel off and pushing it at beard, something more substantial to soak up the blood.
(the colour of which he hasn't clued in on because he's too focused on feeling like an asshole.)
"can you pinch your nose for me like uh–" he demonstrates on his own face, first by nearly poking himself in his eyes because he's a wasted idiot, but he gets it on the second go.
lou's brain feels soupy , and the pain on top of the alcohol only makes him that much more confused; he recoils as though he expects to be hit as the guy approaches him, but is pleasantly surprised to discover it's only to offer his shirt instead.
"what—what is happening? i thought you hated me… is this like, a trick or something?" he mumbles warily, then pinches his nose anyway and tilts his head back anyway, both out of habit and because the guy sounds like he knows what he's talking about.
"i thought you–
"–tilt forward–
"–didn't you SHOVE me???"
lou squints at him, utterly bewildered. "i thought you were trying to gawk at me because i'm a… a… " he can't bring himself to actually say it, so he just awkwardly gestures to himself drenched in purple blood.
rory blinks. "... mess?"
lou shakes his head, unsure how to elaborate since words are hard right now. instead, he just does some sad little jazz hands and all of the wildflowers in the general vicinity suddenly burst into bloom.
"so are you like, gonna run me out of town for being a monster? because that's already happened to me once this week, and if so, i think i'd prefer if you just punched me in the face again." he mumbles, and then he just lies down in the dirt where he feels he belongs.
already not too quick on the uptake without a system full of vodka and miller high life, it's an agonizingly long moment while rory shoves the square pegs into round holes.
sad guy drinking alone âś…
he seems kinda angry at the world âś… âś…
âś… his favourite word's "monster
something something run out of town something âś…
flower show âś…
the party-lookin' blood âś…
he's too in awe of the daisy by his knee for the last point and all its implications to fully sink in, but when it does:
"FUCK BRO???"
and he holds out the fist he'd used to wipe his mouth, party-lookin' blood and all.
lou blinks up at it uncomprehendingly for a full 30 seconds, the cogs in his own brain turning slowly from his place on the ground. when it finally clicks, he sits up to get a better look, unsure if he's just seeing things because he's even drunker than he thought he was.
"wait… dude, you—?"
"okay wait cool so like now that you're back up can you do the nose-pinchy-head-tilty thing for me again please"
lou does as he's told, still a little stunned by this discovery. as it sinks in, his anxiety and anger quickly gives way to shame and guilt.
"oh my god, i'm so sorry, i'm such an asshole, i'm sorry…" he apologizes while doing the nose-pinchy-head-tilty thing.
rory picks up one sleeve of his flannel and rubs at the blood he'd shown beard, doing a... somewhat decent job. in the end it looks more like a bruise than proof of anything potentially otherworldly.
and he flops down beside the other guy, wincing as he goes. "i mean. kinda? yeah??? like what the fuck bro?"
"i'm sorry, i genuinely thought you were hating on me, i'm sorry, i'm an idiot, i'm sorry, i don't have any excuse," lou stammers, unsure how to make this right. he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of loose bills and change.
he awkwardly offers this to rory. "for your drink and uh, your shirt, bro. and uh, your face and shit. i'm sorry. please forgive me."
making no move to take cash that he doesn't want anyways, rory just asks: "are you always like this or is this like. a bad one for you." (he knows which he's hoping for.)
"uhhhhh between finding out i have mutant powers and getting dumped by my fiance because of said mutant powers and moving several states away to get away from said fiance, it's been a bad couple weeks, man, i'm sorry. i'm usually… less awful. i'm a fucking mess," lou sniffles. he tries to focus on the tinny taste of blood in his mouth to keep himself from tearing up around this guy he's just met—and punched. he's pathetic. is this what rock bottom feels like?
so there's the liminal thing and the dumping and then moving and then maybe getting engaged. for the second time? or was it the first. or did he get engaged and then move away– but then what was he moving away from– was it another liminal?– no, it was moving away from moving away from a fiance
rory squeezes his eyes shut tight against a story that's as dizzying as the bar interior had been. he can't get any of it straight.
but like. obviously beard's having a bad time. that's a thing. and he's a new liminal, and it's not like rory was a star student of figuring out what the hell to do when your life gets unexpectedly irradiated.
for one very brief but also very lucid moment, rory remembers how he felt returning to his empty apartment the day he'd learned that the rifts had, for the second time, changed his life forever.
(bad. it felt awful.)
"i'm sorry," he says, nudging his flannel back over. in case beard needs a tissue. "it gets–" hm. no. he can't lie. "–different."
this just makes lou that much more emotional. he accepts rory's undeserved act of kindness and takes the flannel. "one minute he's telling me he loves me and the next he's calling me a demon and the minute after that i'm out here ruining a perfectly nice guy's night. i'm sorry," lou mumbles, and when he presses the shirt up to his face to staunch the flow of blood, he starts crying into it instead.
a long pause.
like he's asking whether beard wants his extra ticket to a minor league baseball game:
"wanna fuck about it?"
another long pause. is he actually considering it?
weepy lou finally hands the shirt back with a regretful, "maybe i woulda before i punched you in the face, so no, but thanks though." he does manage to crack a small smile, though.
apparently indifferent re: the outcome, he shrugs. "worth a try."
lou is still wracked with guilt for his poor behaviour, and he falls silent, trying to think of some other way to make it up to him.
"i could buy you a milkshake or something?" lou offers clumsily.
rory glances to the bar door but– no, he's pretty sure they're not welcome back after whatever behaviour got them outside in the first place. did he pay his tab? hopefully he'd paid his tab. tomorrow he'll come back and ask. if he can remember where the hell this place is.
anyways.
"i'd kill for a burger"
"i'll get you a burger. Whatever you want, man."
lou awkwardly stumbles to his feet, then looks around, disoriented.
"uhhhh which way's burgers?"
"shit, i'unno? do i look like i live here?" asks the flannel-having, jeans-wearing, woodsy-kinda-guy as he follows suit.
lou isn't sure what to make of the question. "do you live here? i think i saw some late-night greasy spoon open a couple blocks from here. it was—" he turned around to try to orient himself by some blurry landmarks. "—thataway." he looked at rory expectantly, waiting to see if he would correct him.
"nah." that's his answer to the first part. to the second he doesn't even catch beard's glance, he just takes the direction (however uneasy) and (after a stumble) (okay, two) sets off. because holy shit, he'd kill for a burger.
THE NEXT MORNING
When Lou wakes up the next day, he washes a couple of Tylenols down with a glass of water, then groggily decides to continue making it up to the guy he'd punched(???) — the details are still hazy — the night before.
He makes them both some coffee and a hearty breakfast while trying to piece together what on earth had occurred. The only detail that seems clear to him is that he'd been an asshole, and the other guy had been way nicer to him than he'd deserved.
Lou silently peers into the living room to see if the dude is awake, and if so, if he's angry too. Then, he apologetically enters the space and sets a tray on the coffee table.
"Mornin'," he greets.
Rory's pretty sure he's dead. He's dead and died. Dead and died and gone. He's fine with that, and mumbles a "mmmph" into the couch to signal as much. He's ready for the other side, Reaper, just give him that sweet release.
Lou just stands there awkwardly, unsure what to say or what to do with his hands.
"Alright then, I'll leave ya to it," he says finally, then backs away to go grab his own food from the kitchen.
... Huh. A familiar voice, on this side of the veil?
"Wait," croaks the lump, and Rory rolls over. A brief pause to smack his mouth and think about how much it tastes like ass.
He doesn't open his eyes yet because the glow behind the lids already tells him it's interrogation levels of bright in wherever they are. (Read: lights are on at all.) There's about 100 questions in his mind right now but each one pounds against his skull and none of them are welcome.
"Where's... this."
Lou tries to think of a way to explain what little he remembered from the night before. "It's uh, my apartment? You needed a place to crash, so we came back here? I think? You slept on the couch. There's a bottle of Tylenol on the breakfast tray. Y'know. If you need it." he says, gesturing awkwardly at the table.
A long pause, then Lou adds sheepishly, "I think I hit you? I'm sorry for hitting you. Not hitting on you. Just… hitting."
That sparks a little recognition and Rory runs his tongue over his bottom lip — where blurry shots of the night before suggest there should be a split.
There isn't.
At least that jogs something else along. Between a milkshake(???) and a gas station(?????) he remembers a fist, and some daisies, and an elbow–
"You're..." He trails off as he tries to open his eyes, but no! It's still fucking bright!! One grope around the couch later and he can yank his hat out from between the cushions, jam it on his head. "Y'know. Like me." Please, Lord, don't let that set the guy off again.
Lou winces, but nods hesitantly. "Afraid so. I'm a Liminal, or y'know. Whatever you want to call it," he says, looking a little like he's bracing himself for rejection, even from someone with similar abilities.
"I'll leave you alone, though. I'll never bug you again. Sorry about everything." he says quickly.
Rory's quiet for a long moment.
Being lonely sucks. Maybe it even sucks donkey balls. Which's a weird-as-hell expression, now that he thinks about it.
"Sorry you've had a bad time lately," he offers, finally peeking out of barely-open eyes from under the safe shade of his hat. "Breakups suck enough without everything else."
"It's all right. It's no excuse. Not your fault. Shouldn't've taken it out on you," Lou says, feeling even more guilty that this guy who has nothing to apologize for is apologizing to him. He wishes a sinkhole would open up and swallow him whole right about now.
"You seem perfectly nice, and I'm a goddamn mess, and I regret imposing on you. I don't even know your name."
God. He keeps saying so many words. Rory sifts through them in much the same way that, once he's able to drag himself upright, he sifts through the breakfast tray (BREAKFAST. TRAY. A TRAY OF BREAKFAST. maybe he'll stay forever.)
And while he agrees that no, he shouldn't have taken anything out on a complete stranger, the guy seems ashamed enough as it is. No point rubbing it in. Unscrewing the bottle of painkillers, he settles on: "Rory."
Lou—again—uses five times as many words because he's nervous and desperate to make a slightly better second impression.
"Loudon Sweetapple. Elkins, West Virginia. Friends call me Lou, or at least they did when I still had friends. How d'you do, Rory?" he says quickly, automatically moving to offer him a handshake before second-guessing himself and crossing his arms instead.
How's he doing? Rory just raises his eyebrows. He's hungover, Loudon Sweetapple from Elkins, West Virginia. He's so, so hungover. "Uh. Wyoming here?" Not that he's unsure about it, but because there's so much to unpack.
"Rory from Wyoming, pleasure to meet you," Lou says, then continues rambling on to preemptively fill the awkward silence that may or may not have followed. "Y'all got some great national parks over there. And cowboys. And Jackson Pollock. Pretty dang cool. What brings you to Vermont?"
A slow nod; they do indeed have all of those things, and Rory likes at least two of them. He picks up a sausage like it's finger food because he just can't with cutlery right now. "Roommate wanted a rebound 'n I've got the truck." (And with his other hand, fishes in his pocket for his cell phone because oops, oh yeah, he should probably reassure her he's still alive. He sends an I'm fine. R u done being horny yet before he flips it back closed.) He could ask why Lou's here too but honestly? It doesn't occur to him so he chomps the sausage instead.
"It's not a far walk back to the trucks, at least," Lou tells him, happy that he at least has that much good news to give him. He scratches his head. A pause.
"Hey, did we go bowling, or am I just imagining things?"
Rory also pauses.
Did they?
Cue thoughtful munching.
He flexes his free fingers... and apparently he's made a medical discovery—that that's where memories are stored—because, just for a second, he gets a flash of something back: those very fingers sliding into a glittering green ball. And...
"... Bumpers?"
Lou frowns, trying very, very hard to contort his brain into a shape that remembers anything more from last night.
Finally: "Bumpers." Lou nods. That sounded familiar.
And then, another memory came back to Lou: "I tried to write 'ASSMAN' on the scoreboard thing, but I forgot how many 'S's were in it, so it just said 'ASSSS'." Appropriate, really.
"Don't reckon we played much better than ASSSS anyways," Rory points out from behind a mug of coffee. He can feel the headache subsiding with help from the help of food and whatever probably lives in his grape-lookin' blood, which he's still too out of sorts to think about on any philosophical or medical level.
It brings him back to pre-bowling. It already feels like a week ago. "The flowers were neat." Vague enough that they've both got an excuse if overheard.
Lou gives him a nod and a sheepish shrug. "It's not much," he deflects. "I'm sure whatever you've got going on's much better." The vagueness continues. He's still new to all of this, and some part of him wishes that—if he had to get fancy new abilities that would blow up his entire life—they could at least be something cooler than flowers. He doesn't ask Rory what exactly his powers are; it seems to Lou that it would be better to mind his own business and see what Rory says of his own volition.
Lou gets a noncommital shrug at first. Truth be told, it's hard to tell what the range of abilities could be — what the nightly news isn't telling them. "I liked it, and I've known folks who'd cream themselves over bein' able to grow shit that fast." Leaning back into the couch, mug still cradled between his hands, Rory offers: "Mine're more... situational."
Lou nods as though he knows what that entails, even though he definitely doesn't. Instead of prying, he offers a little more about his own newfound abilities: "I can grow shit fast, but I can also ruin shit fast. I wilted this year's crops on the family farm before I was aware of what I was doing. Still feel bad about that. I guess it can be kinda cute, though."
He gestures and makes a nearby potted pothos gently raise its tendrils up to form the shape of a heart. Lou hopes that this assures the relative stranger that he's usually pretty harmless, really.
Rory, who knows that fine balance all too well, just grunts. No rule says he's got to divulge his own powers and beyond the absence of a split in his lip, he doesn't feel compelled to. "Sending hearts already? You work quick."
Lou rolls his eyes and switches the vine art up into the shape of a hand flipping the bird instead, which earns a full tee-hee!-style giggle from the other man.
"Are you just moving it or like... " (contemplative consumption of coffee) "inside it?"
Lou has to think about this for a moment. He frowns thoughtfully. "I dunno, I guess it's kinda like a hivemind thing? It's like they're an extension of me? But they're not me. But also I can kinda feel what they feel. Does that make any sense? I dunno, I never got an instruction manual when this got tossed my way." he explains inarticulately.
"Makes more than anything else I could've figured out." Rory props his feet against the edge of the coffee table, knees up and feeling some peculiar combination of anxiety and comfort. He's so unused to discussing life as a Liminal that he doesn't even know what he should or shouldn't say, and while parts of him want to just open the floodgates and let everything out to see what happens, it's been years of secrets and barriers. Even now—with him registered and everything—there's still the paranoid expectation that an IRIS agent'll bust through the door like this is all some sting operation. But the logical part of his brain (however small that is) knows it won't happen.
So he tries. "I got mine in, uh– '04."
Lou is a little surprised to get any info at all, but he welcomes it. This is the first time he's really talked to another Liminal about being one, and he's happy to get any tidbit of info at all, anything that makes him feel any less alone in this weird situation.
"So you're one of them early adopters. Cool. You must know way more than me by now," Lou says, complimentary. Upon realizing that Rory has a few more years of experience in this than he does, the guilt and embarrassment quickly creeps back in. He crosses his arms, feeling self-conscious again. "I must seem pretty pathetic, then. Scared little country bumpkin lashing out. Again, I apologize for being a drunken dumbass. I'm usually… slightly less awful. If only they were wrong about that whole 'not getting a second chance at making a first impression' thing."
Lou pauses for an awkward beat, then confesses, "I'm sorry for talking your ear off. I'm really nervous."
Like so many times Loudon Sweetapple from Elkins, West Virginia has opened his mouth thus far, he's presented Rory with about 20 different strings to latch onto. Which is a lot for Rory. And which he mulls over for a long moment. "What if you try and stick with one thing at a time," he suggests, none too politely even though he doesn't mean it to be rude. It's just A Lot.
"I'm sorry," Lou says sheepishly, then makes a face as he untangle those 20 strings in his own brain in order to prioritize them by order of importance. Rory shrugs.
He settles on, "So. Are you like, an expert then?"
"Don't know shit about shit." It's the honest answer. "I registered 'cause they made me but ain't ever done any of their... I dunno. Programs or whatever. And I barely know anybody else like us." (To be fair: he barely knows anyone, period.)
Lou wilts a little, slightly disappointed that Rory does not, in fact, have all the answers. "Well, shit." he says. A pause.
"So. You just like, live your normal life, then?" Lou asks. Whatever that means.
Rory nods, slow: "Such as it is."
Lou sighs. "This is all so fucked up," is all he can think of to say to that.
"I mean... well. Yeah." It's been a few years since Rory went through The Anger Stage and truth be told, he can't remember how he pulled himself out of it. ... Then again, it hadn't lasted long before he'd chucked himself cleanly into The Depression Zone, which also hadn't done him much good, so maybe his methods aren't worth repeating anyway. "At least it's not like, I dunno. Everything you touch turns into frogs."
"Yeah. I guess that would be more fucked up," Lou admits, now wondering if that's a power that actually exists somewhere out in the world. He's currently still vacillating between the Anger Stage and the Depression Zone, but right now in this moment, he just feels exhausted.
"I need coffee," he says wearily, then excuses himself for a moment to go get his breakfast. When he returns, he sits down in the chair across from Rory and gloomily sips from his mug, looking contemplative.
It takes Rory a moment to react to Lou's return — he's puzzling over his roommate's belated reply, a No. Go away. "I should let you get on with your day," he finally says. Even if he doesn't know where he's headed next. "Seeing as I've already taken over your couch 'n like half your groceries."
Lou looks a little disappointed, a little resigned, as he sets down his mug and rises from his seat. "All right. I'll let you get to it. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have a nice life, Rory from Wyoming."
He awkwardly offers the other man a goodbye handshake.
"Appreciated the hospitality. And the left hook." And he takes Lou's hand, but there's another pause. "D'you know how I can kill a few more hours? Y'all got hiking trails or something around here?"
Lou's face lights up a little—finally! Something he actually did know! He hurries into the next room and returns promptly with a pile of trail maps and brochures he'd gathered once he'd arrived here.
"I can't vouch for all of these personally because I haven't done them all, but there are at least a couple good ones. Here." Lou says, handing over his collection.
"Wow. Okay." So Lou's not just a sad, angry drunk with as many nice plants as he has truckloads of guilt about his general existence. He also likes hiking. He's an outdoorsy hikey guy. Maybe like Rory? Maybe?
That explains the beard.
A sliver of pity's replaced with ?hope? about forming genuine connections with other human beings, but Rory doesn't know that's what's going on because he doesn't usually let himself get this far without at least a blowjob under his belt. Or more accurately, someone else's. "Is one of these, um–" he almost knocks the pile over so he just takes the first half into his lap and begins to sift through names and pictures that hold little meaning for him. "One you like?"
Lou's previous job as a wilderness guide kicked in, and he eagerly lapses back into that more comfortable role. Way better than being a sad, angry drunk with ~magic powers~, or whatever. "That depends—what's your experience level, and how much of a challenge are you looking for? What kinda shoes d'ya got?"
"Uh..." Rory pauses on a glossy photo of a lookout tower, not sure how to qualify his skill level and rarely comfortable with talking himself up. "I can handle myself, I guess?"
Lou spots the lookout tower and nods approvingly. "You'd probably like that one, then. Nice scenery. Lots of birds. I could pack you a lunch," he offers, still feeling like he has to make up for the previous night's bad behaviour.
Birds are good. And scenery. Rory ignores the lunch offer in favour of holding up a brochure for MT. MANSFIELD: VERMONT'S HIGHEST MOUNTAIN!!!, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth for the first time. "These are some cute li'l hills. Did you find 'em in those Polly Pocket sets?"
Lou shrugs. "I'm not from here. I ain't defending this," he says quickly, putting up his hands in surrender.
Rory tosses the brochure at Lou without looking, all casual-like. It veers to the right as soon as it's out of his hand and lands precisely nowhere near his target whatsoever. He doesn't seem bothered. "I used to work cattle out near the Bighorns," he explains, eyes still on the pamphlets. He sets aside another couple trails of note as he eases into the more familair territory. "Don't mind a trek and my boots are just fine."
"The Bighorns are gorgeous," Lou says fondly, forgetting his current predicament for a moment to reminisce about places he used to be able to go for fun and adventure. He watches Rory with a mixture of fascination and admiration. "Probably anything here that's got a glossy brochure's gonna be a walk in the park for you, then. D'you like rock climbing? I could lend you some gear if you want." He gestures at a photocopied brochure with a photo of a person dangling off some steep precipice on the front.
"I mostly–" only climb shit for work, he nearly says, then remembers how he'll break out in hives if he talks about three facts about himself one single conversation with a near stranger "–just wanna be feet to the ground today, but thanks."
"Fair 'nough," Lou says. Thoughtfully, he picks up one of the maps and opens it up, stroking his beard as though it might give him more woodsmanly insight. "Y'know, if you do this one, then veer off at this point and hike about a mile north of there, the view's better, and nobody would bother you." he suggested. "There's nothing I hate more than running into some asshole with a bluetooth speaker when I'm tryna walk in silence."
Rory's noncommittal grunt is meant to convey the lack of hate in his own heart for such folk. Either that or he felt the need to reply with something, and this way, he doesn't have to choose a side. "Seems like as good a choice as any," he says, stacking the tower back to its former top-heavy glory, which is absolutely a cover for his shoddy attempt at feeling at least 2% less lonely: "What about your shoes? They in decent shape?"
Lou raises an eyebrow as though he isn't quite sure if he heard him correctly. For a moment, his face betrays the fact that he's doing some mental math here, and not all that skillfully.
"They're good," Lou says finally. "...why?"
Rory shrugs.
Lou doesn't want to invite himself along on a hike with a guy he punched the night before, but—like a vampire—he would go along if he was invited. He waffles on whether he wants to take that leap or not, but in the end, he's too depressed and guilty to just ask outright if he can come.
"Did I step in dog shit last night or something?" Lou asks instead, playing dumb.
"I dunno?" Man playing the 'ignorance' card, meet man who never needed a card to be ignorant about a social situation in the first place; Rory's a natural. "I was asking if you wanted to come. You're all lit up about the trails and whatever."
It's impossible for Lou to hide his excitement. He looks like a puppy that's just been invited to go on a walk (which isn't really far from the truth). "Yes! Of course! I used to be a wilderness guide, hence the—" (he gestures at the pile of paper) "—maps 'n shit. You really don't mind if I come?" He already looks delighted.
Palms braced against teetering brochures, Rory steadies himself—hands and courage both—with a long breath before he responds. "Just seems like..." Another breath, this time when he catches himself almost saying We could both use a friend because it's too embarrassing an admission even if they'd been exchanging blows not 12 hours ago. With a shrug, he settles on: "We could both use it."
When: 2008 (15 years ago).
Where: Burlington, VT.
What: The opposite of a meet-cute, and the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Warnings: Inebriation; a fistfight; depression; language; two men, no social acumen.
rory squints across the bartop. because he's drunk. no, because he's old. he's not that drunk. but he's not that old either but something's gotta get the blame for how fucking blurry everything is. maybe there's a fog machine. maybe he needs glasses. maybe that third round of vodka shots were to blame– wait
why was he squinting, again? what was the
oh yeah.
he leans back to try and peer around a flannel wall, get a better look at the blond dude on the far side, and his stool wobbles a precarious threat.
why was he squinting, again? what was the
oh yeah.
he leans back to try and peer around a flannel wall, get a better look at the blond dude on the far side, and his stool wobbles a precarious threat.
lou—freshly-transplanted and wallowing in his own self-pity about his recent break-up—squints back at him even though rory is not actually looking at him; how many drinks has he had again? does it even matter any more? nothing matters. he's twenty-seven years old and everything is terrible and he's feeling very dramatic about it all.
the room is looking wobbly; even the room is out to get him now. and what exactly is this guy looking at? does he know? does he know that lou is a monster? why else would he be looking at him, really?
"hey, what's your problem, man?" lou mumbles, his tone accusatory. normal people like staring guy here didn't realize how good they had it.
"you're in my–"
the stool teeters and rory reaches out to grab something, anything, to help him regain his purchase.
his hand lands on his whiskey sour.
...
that works too.
"you're in my way," he mumbles back, petulant and rocking back ahead to nearly slam against the bar. "m'tryin' to get a LOOK."
lou already has his hackles up, but this just further triggers his fight-or-flight response.
"a look at what? at… a… a freak of nature? or a demon? or whatever?" he says, projecting his own emotional issues onto this complete stranger. he stands, feeling a little like a cornered animal.
rory squints again — this time at a new guy. not the blond one. the weird one. the one with the beard. (for the record, he's also burry.)
(rory briefly considers growing a beard like his, though. it's impressive.)
"the shit?"
"i didn't ask to be like this," lou says defensively. he gives rory a little shove, half because he wants to show him he's not about to be pushed around, and half because he's actually trying to keep himself from toppling over.
"the fu"
and then he's flailing, which is so cartoonish it's nearly audible until he realizes he's on the floor.
"the FUC
[footage not found]
the next thing rory sees, or remembers, or something, is the look on lou's face when his (rory's) fist pulls back from his (lou's) jaw. or, like, the same stratosphere that lou's jaw also exists in, because it was an awful punch. almost like rory isn't used to fighting.
"how'd we GET here," he insists(?), staggering back to keep some tiny amount of balance.
"how'd we GET here," he insists(?), staggering back to keep some tiny amount of balance.
"owwwww," lou complains, more offended than hurt, as rory's fist connects with his face. he stumbles and loses his balance, then clumsily rights himself right before he's completely on the ground.
"what the fuck, man? fuck you—"
he has no idea how they've gotten here, or why they are doing this, his only instinct is to respond in kind. lou staggers forward and aims his own fist at rory's face-ish. it's not a very good punch. he doesn't particularly want to hurt this guy with excellent taste in flannel shirts, he just wants to end this and go home, or get knocked out so that he doesn't have to think about anything any more.
this one, to the angry weirdo's credit, does smart. it probably has something to do with how rory's in the middle of trying to turn his face and look at where they'd ended up, so the angle is just– it's not good. he can already feel the sharp pain and copper tang in his mouth that point to a split lip, and when he reaches up to wipe the blood away before it spreads (second nature, now), he does three things: his toe catches against the uneven flagstone, he pitches forward, and he flings out an elbow in the ensuing panic to stay upright.
the trajectory? beard's nose.
lou lets out a pathetic little yelp as the big guy's elbow makes contact with his nose with a small crunch, causing him to fall back on his ass. almost immediately (he's always had a sensitive nose), telltale purple blood starts gushing from his nose, and lou panics as he tries to hide it before the other man sees, burying his face in his shirtsleeve.
"okay, fine, you win, all right? i'll leave. i don't want any trouble," lou mutters, only half-intelligibly.
rory's regret begins even before the sound effects added, and by the time the dude's hiding, he feels baaaaad. guiiiiilty. he's a lover, not a fighter!!! what the fuck, rory?!?!?!
"aw. shit– bro, i didn't mean to like–" he's already pulling his flannel off and pushing it at beard, something more substantial to soak up the blood.
(the colour of which he hasn't clued in on because he's too focused on feeling like an asshole.)
"can you pinch your nose for me like uh–" he demonstrates on his own face, first by nearly poking himself in his eyes because he's a wasted idiot, but he gets it on the second go.
lou's brain feels soupy , and the pain on top of the alcohol only makes him that much more confused; he recoils as though he expects to be hit as the guy approaches him, but is pleasantly surprised to discover it's only to offer his shirt instead.
"what—what is happening? i thought you hated me… is this like, a trick or something?" he mumbles warily, then pinches his nose anyway and tilts his head back anyway, both out of habit and because the guy sounds like he knows what he's talking about.
"i thought you–
"–tilt forward–
"–didn't you SHOVE me???"
lou squints at him, utterly bewildered. "i thought you were trying to gawk at me because i'm a… a… " he can't bring himself to actually say it, so he just awkwardly gestures to himself drenched in purple blood.
rory blinks. "... mess?"
lou shakes his head, unsure how to elaborate since words are hard right now. instead, he just does some sad little jazz hands and all of the wildflowers in the general vicinity suddenly burst into bloom.
"so are you like, gonna run me out of town for being a monster? because that's already happened to me once this week, and if so, i think i'd prefer if you just punched me in the face again." he mumbles, and then he just lies down in the dirt where he feels he belongs.
already not too quick on the uptake without a system full of vodka and miller high life, it's an agonizingly long moment while rory shoves the square pegs into round holes.
sad guy drinking alone âś…
he seems kinda angry at the world âś… âś…
âś… his favourite word's "monster
something something run out of town something âś…
flower show âś…
the party-lookin' blood âś…
he's too in awe of the daisy by his knee for the last point and all its implications to fully sink in, but when it does:
"FUCK BRO???"
and he holds out the fist he'd used to wipe his mouth, party-lookin' blood and all.
lou blinks up at it uncomprehendingly for a full 30 seconds, the cogs in his own brain turning slowly from his place on the ground. when it finally clicks, he sits up to get a better look, unsure if he's just seeing things because he's even drunker than he thought he was.
"wait… dude, you—?"
"okay wait cool so like now that you're back up can you do the nose-pinchy-head-tilty thing for me again please"
lou does as he's told, still a little stunned by this discovery. as it sinks in, his anxiety and anger quickly gives way to shame and guilt.
"oh my god, i'm so sorry, i'm such an asshole, i'm sorry…" he apologizes while doing the nose-pinchy-head-tilty thing.
rory picks up one sleeve of his flannel and rubs at the blood he'd shown beard, doing a... somewhat decent job. in the end it looks more like a bruise than proof of anything potentially otherworldly.
and he flops down beside the other guy, wincing as he goes. "i mean. kinda? yeah??? like what the fuck bro?"
"i'm sorry, i genuinely thought you were hating on me, i'm sorry, i'm an idiot, i'm sorry, i don't have any excuse," lou stammers, unsure how to make this right. he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of loose bills and change.
he awkwardly offers this to rory. "for your drink and uh, your shirt, bro. and uh, your face and shit. i'm sorry. please forgive me."
making no move to take cash that he doesn't want anyways, rory just asks: "are you always like this or is this like. a bad one for you." (he knows which he's hoping for.)
"uhhhhh between finding out i have mutant powers and getting dumped by my fiance because of said mutant powers and moving several states away to get away from said fiance, it's been a bad couple weeks, man, i'm sorry. i'm usually… less awful. i'm a fucking mess," lou sniffles. he tries to focus on the tinny taste of blood in his mouth to keep himself from tearing up around this guy he's just met—and punched. he's pathetic. is this what rock bottom feels like?
so there's the liminal thing and the dumping and then moving and then maybe getting engaged. for the second time? or was it the first. or did he get engaged and then move away– but then what was he moving away from– was it another liminal?– no, it was moving away from moving away from a fiance
rory squeezes his eyes shut tight against a story that's as dizzying as the bar interior had been. he can't get any of it straight.
but like. obviously beard's having a bad time. that's a thing. and he's a new liminal, and it's not like rory was a star student of figuring out what the hell to do when your life gets unexpectedly irradiated.
for one very brief but also very lucid moment, rory remembers how he felt returning to his empty apartment the day he'd learned that the rifts had, for the second time, changed his life forever.
(bad. it felt awful.)
"i'm sorry," he says, nudging his flannel back over. in case beard needs a tissue. "it gets–" hm. no. he can't lie. "–different."
this just makes lou that much more emotional. he accepts rory's undeserved act of kindness and takes the flannel. "one minute he's telling me he loves me and the next he's calling me a demon and the minute after that i'm out here ruining a perfectly nice guy's night. i'm sorry," lou mumbles, and when he presses the shirt up to his face to staunch the flow of blood, he starts crying into it instead.
a long pause.
like he's asking whether beard wants his extra ticket to a minor league baseball game:
"wanna fuck about it?"
another long pause. is he actually considering it?
weepy lou finally hands the shirt back with a regretful, "maybe i woulda before i punched you in the face, so no, but thanks though." he does manage to crack a small smile, though.
apparently indifferent re: the outcome, he shrugs. "worth a try."
lou is still wracked with guilt for his poor behaviour, and he falls silent, trying to think of some other way to make it up to him.
"i could buy you a milkshake or something?" lou offers clumsily.
rory glances to the bar door but– no, he's pretty sure they're not welcome back after whatever behaviour got them outside in the first place. did he pay his tab? hopefully he'd paid his tab. tomorrow he'll come back and ask. if he can remember where the hell this place is.
anyways.
"i'd kill for a burger"
"i'll get you a burger. Whatever you want, man."
lou awkwardly stumbles to his feet, then looks around, disoriented.
"uhhhh which way's burgers?"
"shit, i'unno? do i look like i live here?" asks the flannel-having, jeans-wearing, woodsy-kinda-guy as he follows suit.
lou isn't sure what to make of the question. "do you live here? i think i saw some late-night greasy spoon open a couple blocks from here. it was—" he turned around to try to orient himself by some blurry landmarks. "—thataway." he looked at rory expectantly, waiting to see if he would correct him.
"nah." that's his answer to the first part. to the second he doesn't even catch beard's glance, he just takes the direction (however uneasy) and (after a stumble) (okay, two) sets off. because holy shit, he'd kill for a burger.
THE NEXT MORNING
When Lou wakes up the next day, he washes a couple of Tylenols down with a glass of water, then groggily decides to continue making it up to the guy he'd punched(???) — the details are still hazy — the night before.
He makes them both some coffee and a hearty breakfast while trying to piece together what on earth had occurred. The only detail that seems clear to him is that he'd been an asshole, and the other guy had been way nicer to him than he'd deserved.
Lou silently peers into the living room to see if the dude is awake, and if so, if he's angry too. Then, he apologetically enters the space and sets a tray on the coffee table.
"Mornin'," he greets.
Rory's pretty sure he's dead. He's dead and died. Dead and died and gone. He's fine with that, and mumbles a "mmmph" into the couch to signal as much. He's ready for the other side, Reaper, just give him that sweet release.
Lou just stands there awkwardly, unsure what to say or what to do with his hands.
"Alright then, I'll leave ya to it," he says finally, then backs away to go grab his own food from the kitchen.
... Huh. A familiar voice, on this side of the veil?
"Wait," croaks the lump, and Rory rolls over. A brief pause to smack his mouth and think about how much it tastes like ass.
He doesn't open his eyes yet because the glow behind the lids already tells him it's interrogation levels of bright in wherever they are. (Read: lights are on at all.) There's about 100 questions in his mind right now but each one pounds against his skull and none of them are welcome.
"Where's... this."
Lou tries to think of a way to explain what little he remembered from the night before. "It's uh, my apartment? You needed a place to crash, so we came back here? I think? You slept on the couch. There's a bottle of Tylenol on the breakfast tray. Y'know. If you need it." he says, gesturing awkwardly at the table.
A long pause, then Lou adds sheepishly, "I think I hit you? I'm sorry for hitting you. Not hitting on you. Just… hitting."
That sparks a little recognition and Rory runs his tongue over his bottom lip — where blurry shots of the night before suggest there should be a split.
There isn't.
At least that jogs something else along. Between a milkshake(???) and a gas station(?????) he remembers a fist, and some daisies, and an elbow–
"You're..." He trails off as he tries to open his eyes, but no! It's still fucking bright!! One grope around the couch later and he can yank his hat out from between the cushions, jam it on his head. "Y'know. Like me." Please, Lord, don't let that set the guy off again.
Lou winces, but nods hesitantly. "Afraid so. I'm a Liminal, or y'know. Whatever you want to call it," he says, looking a little like he's bracing himself for rejection, even from someone with similar abilities.
"I'll leave you alone, though. I'll never bug you again. Sorry about everything." he says quickly.
Rory's quiet for a long moment.
Being lonely sucks. Maybe it even sucks donkey balls. Which's a weird-as-hell expression, now that he thinks about it.
"Sorry you've had a bad time lately," he offers, finally peeking out of barely-open eyes from under the safe shade of his hat. "Breakups suck enough without everything else."
"It's all right. It's no excuse. Not your fault. Shouldn't've taken it out on you," Lou says, feeling even more guilty that this guy who has nothing to apologize for is apologizing to him. He wishes a sinkhole would open up and swallow him whole right about now.
"You seem perfectly nice, and I'm a goddamn mess, and I regret imposing on you. I don't even know your name."
God. He keeps saying so many words. Rory sifts through them in much the same way that, once he's able to drag himself upright, he sifts through the breakfast tray (BREAKFAST. TRAY. A TRAY OF BREAKFAST. maybe he'll stay forever.)
And while he agrees that no, he shouldn't have taken anything out on a complete stranger, the guy seems ashamed enough as it is. No point rubbing it in. Unscrewing the bottle of painkillers, he settles on: "Rory."
Lou—again—uses five times as many words because he's nervous and desperate to make a slightly better second impression.
"Loudon Sweetapple. Elkins, West Virginia. Friends call me Lou, or at least they did when I still had friends. How d'you do, Rory?" he says quickly, automatically moving to offer him a handshake before second-guessing himself and crossing his arms instead.
How's he doing? Rory just raises his eyebrows. He's hungover, Loudon Sweetapple from Elkins, West Virginia. He's so, so hungover. "Uh. Wyoming here?" Not that he's unsure about it, but because there's so much to unpack.
"Rory from Wyoming, pleasure to meet you," Lou says, then continues rambling on to preemptively fill the awkward silence that may or may not have followed. "Y'all got some great national parks over there. And cowboys. And Jackson Pollock. Pretty dang cool. What brings you to Vermont?"
A slow nod; they do indeed have all of those things, and Rory likes at least two of them. He picks up a sausage like it's finger food because he just can't with cutlery right now. "Roommate wanted a rebound 'n I've got the truck." (And with his other hand, fishes in his pocket for his cell phone because oops, oh yeah, he should probably reassure her he's still alive. He sends an I'm fine. R u done being horny yet before he flips it back closed.) He could ask why Lou's here too but honestly? It doesn't occur to him so he chomps the sausage instead.
"It's not a far walk back to the trucks, at least," Lou tells him, happy that he at least has that much good news to give him. He scratches his head. A pause.
"Hey, did we go bowling, or am I just imagining things?"
Rory also pauses.
Did they?
Cue thoughtful munching.
He flexes his free fingers... and apparently he's made a medical discovery—that that's where memories are stored—because, just for a second, he gets a flash of something back: those very fingers sliding into a glittering green ball. And...
"... Bumpers?"
Lou frowns, trying very, very hard to contort his brain into a shape that remembers anything more from last night.
Finally: "Bumpers." Lou nods. That sounded familiar.
And then, another memory came back to Lou: "I tried to write 'ASSMAN' on the scoreboard thing, but I forgot how many 'S's were in it, so it just said 'ASSSS'." Appropriate, really.
"Don't reckon we played much better than ASSSS anyways," Rory points out from behind a mug of coffee. He can feel the headache subsiding with help from the help of food and whatever probably lives in his grape-lookin' blood, which he's still too out of sorts to think about on any philosophical or medical level.
It brings him back to pre-bowling. It already feels like a week ago. "The flowers were neat." Vague enough that they've both got an excuse if overheard.
Lou gives him a nod and a sheepish shrug. "It's not much," he deflects. "I'm sure whatever you've got going on's much better." The vagueness continues. He's still new to all of this, and some part of him wishes that—if he had to get fancy new abilities that would blow up his entire life—they could at least be something cooler than flowers. He doesn't ask Rory what exactly his powers are; it seems to Lou that it would be better to mind his own business and see what Rory says of his own volition.
Lou gets a noncommital shrug at first. Truth be told, it's hard to tell what the range of abilities could be — what the nightly news isn't telling them. "I liked it, and I've known folks who'd cream themselves over bein' able to grow shit that fast." Leaning back into the couch, mug still cradled between his hands, Rory offers: "Mine're more... situational."
Lou nods as though he knows what that entails, even though he definitely doesn't. Instead of prying, he offers a little more about his own newfound abilities: "I can grow shit fast, but I can also ruin shit fast. I wilted this year's crops on the family farm before I was aware of what I was doing. Still feel bad about that. I guess it can be kinda cute, though."
He gestures and makes a nearby potted pothos gently raise its tendrils up to form the shape of a heart. Lou hopes that this assures the relative stranger that he's usually pretty harmless, really.
Rory, who knows that fine balance all too well, just grunts. No rule says he's got to divulge his own powers and beyond the absence of a split in his lip, he doesn't feel compelled to. "Sending hearts already? You work quick."
Lou rolls his eyes and switches the vine art up into the shape of a hand flipping the bird instead, which earns a full tee-hee!-style giggle from the other man.
"Are you just moving it or like... " (contemplative consumption of coffee) "inside it?"
Lou has to think about this for a moment. He frowns thoughtfully. "I dunno, I guess it's kinda like a hivemind thing? It's like they're an extension of me? But they're not me. But also I can kinda feel what they feel. Does that make any sense? I dunno, I never got an instruction manual when this got tossed my way." he explains inarticulately.
"Makes more than anything else I could've figured out." Rory props his feet against the edge of the coffee table, knees up and feeling some peculiar combination of anxiety and comfort. He's so unused to discussing life as a Liminal that he doesn't even know what he should or shouldn't say, and while parts of him want to just open the floodgates and let everything out to see what happens, it's been years of secrets and barriers. Even now—with him registered and everything—there's still the paranoid expectation that an IRIS agent'll bust through the door like this is all some sting operation. But the logical part of his brain (however small that is) knows it won't happen.
So he tries. "I got mine in, uh– '04."
Lou is a little surprised to get any info at all, but he welcomes it. This is the first time he's really talked to another Liminal about being one, and he's happy to get any tidbit of info at all, anything that makes him feel any less alone in this weird situation.
"So you're one of them early adopters. Cool. You must know way more than me by now," Lou says, complimentary. Upon realizing that Rory has a few more years of experience in this than he does, the guilt and embarrassment quickly creeps back in. He crosses his arms, feeling self-conscious again. "I must seem pretty pathetic, then. Scared little country bumpkin lashing out. Again, I apologize for being a drunken dumbass. I'm usually… slightly less awful. If only they were wrong about that whole 'not getting a second chance at making a first impression' thing."
Lou pauses for an awkward beat, then confesses, "I'm sorry for talking your ear off. I'm really nervous."
Like so many times Loudon Sweetapple from Elkins, West Virginia has opened his mouth thus far, he's presented Rory with about 20 different strings to latch onto. Which is a lot for Rory. And which he mulls over for a long moment. "What if you try and stick with one thing at a time," he suggests, none too politely even though he doesn't mean it to be rude. It's just A Lot.
"I'm sorry," Lou says sheepishly, then makes a face as he untangle those 20 strings in his own brain in order to prioritize them by order of importance. Rory shrugs.
He settles on, "So. Are you like, an expert then?"
"Don't know shit about shit." It's the honest answer. "I registered 'cause they made me but ain't ever done any of their... I dunno. Programs or whatever. And I barely know anybody else like us." (To be fair: he barely knows anyone, period.)
Lou wilts a little, slightly disappointed that Rory does not, in fact, have all the answers. "Well, shit." he says. A pause.
"So. You just like, live your normal life, then?" Lou asks. Whatever that means.
Rory nods, slow: "Such as it is."
Lou sighs. "This is all so fucked up," is all he can think of to say to that.
"I mean... well. Yeah." It's been a few years since Rory went through The Anger Stage and truth be told, he can't remember how he pulled himself out of it. ... Then again, it hadn't lasted long before he'd chucked himself cleanly into The Depression Zone, which also hadn't done him much good, so maybe his methods aren't worth repeating anyway. "At least it's not like, I dunno. Everything you touch turns into frogs."
"Yeah. I guess that would be more fucked up," Lou admits, now wondering if that's a power that actually exists somewhere out in the world. He's currently still vacillating between the Anger Stage and the Depression Zone, but right now in this moment, he just feels exhausted.
"I need coffee," he says wearily, then excuses himself for a moment to go get his breakfast. When he returns, he sits down in the chair across from Rory and gloomily sips from his mug, looking contemplative.
It takes Rory a moment to react to Lou's return — he's puzzling over his roommate's belated reply, a No. Go away. "I should let you get on with your day," he finally says. Even if he doesn't know where he's headed next. "Seeing as I've already taken over your couch 'n like half your groceries."
Lou looks a little disappointed, a little resigned, as he sets down his mug and rises from his seat. "All right. I'll let you get to it. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Have a nice life, Rory from Wyoming."
He awkwardly offers the other man a goodbye handshake.
"Appreciated the hospitality. And the left hook." And he takes Lou's hand, but there's another pause. "D'you know how I can kill a few more hours? Y'all got hiking trails or something around here?"
Lou's face lights up a little—finally! Something he actually did know! He hurries into the next room and returns promptly with a pile of trail maps and brochures he'd gathered once he'd arrived here.
"I can't vouch for all of these personally because I haven't done them all, but there are at least a couple good ones. Here." Lou says, handing over his collection.
"Wow. Okay." So Lou's not just a sad, angry drunk with as many nice plants as he has truckloads of guilt about his general existence. He also likes hiking. He's an outdoorsy hikey guy. Maybe like Rory? Maybe?
That explains the beard.
A sliver of pity's replaced with ?hope? about forming genuine connections with other human beings, but Rory doesn't know that's what's going on because he doesn't usually let himself get this far without at least a blowjob under his belt. Or more accurately, someone else's. "Is one of these, um–" he almost knocks the pile over so he just takes the first half into his lap and begins to sift through names and pictures that hold little meaning for him. "One you like?"
Lou's previous job as a wilderness guide kicked in, and he eagerly lapses back into that more comfortable role. Way better than being a sad, angry drunk with ~magic powers~, or whatever. "That depends—what's your experience level, and how much of a challenge are you looking for? What kinda shoes d'ya got?"
"Uh..." Rory pauses on a glossy photo of a lookout tower, not sure how to qualify his skill level and rarely comfortable with talking himself up. "I can handle myself, I guess?"
Lou spots the lookout tower and nods approvingly. "You'd probably like that one, then. Nice scenery. Lots of birds. I could pack you a lunch," he offers, still feeling like he has to make up for the previous night's bad behaviour.
Birds are good. And scenery. Rory ignores the lunch offer in favour of holding up a brochure for MT. MANSFIELD: VERMONT'S HIGHEST MOUNTAIN!!!, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of his mouth for the first time. "These are some cute li'l hills. Did you find 'em in those Polly Pocket sets?"
Lou shrugs. "I'm not from here. I ain't defending this," he says quickly, putting up his hands in surrender.
Rory tosses the brochure at Lou without looking, all casual-like. It veers to the right as soon as it's out of his hand and lands precisely nowhere near his target whatsoever. He doesn't seem bothered. "I used to work cattle out near the Bighorns," he explains, eyes still on the pamphlets. He sets aside another couple trails of note as he eases into the more familair territory. "Don't mind a trek and my boots are just fine."
"The Bighorns are gorgeous," Lou says fondly, forgetting his current predicament for a moment to reminisce about places he used to be able to go for fun and adventure. He watches Rory with a mixture of fascination and admiration. "Probably anything here that's got a glossy brochure's gonna be a walk in the park for you, then. D'you like rock climbing? I could lend you some gear if you want." He gestures at a photocopied brochure with a photo of a person dangling off some steep precipice on the front.
"I mostly–" only climb shit for work, he nearly says, then remembers how he'll break out in hives if he talks about three facts about himself one single conversation with a near stranger "–just wanna be feet to the ground today, but thanks."
"Fair 'nough," Lou says. Thoughtfully, he picks up one of the maps and opens it up, stroking his beard as though it might give him more woodsmanly insight. "Y'know, if you do this one, then veer off at this point and hike about a mile north of there, the view's better, and nobody would bother you." he suggested. "There's nothing I hate more than running into some asshole with a bluetooth speaker when I'm tryna walk in silence."
Rory's noncommittal grunt is meant to convey the lack of hate in his own heart for such folk. Either that or he felt the need to reply with something, and this way, he doesn't have to choose a side. "Seems like as good a choice as any," he says, stacking the tower back to its former top-heavy glory, which is absolutely a cover for his shoddy attempt at feeling at least 2% less lonely: "What about your shoes? They in decent shape?"
Lou raises an eyebrow as though he isn't quite sure if he heard him correctly. For a moment, his face betrays the fact that he's doing some mental math here, and not all that skillfully.
"They're good," Lou says finally. "...why?"
Rory shrugs.
Lou doesn't want to invite himself along on a hike with a guy he punched the night before, but—like a vampire—he would go along if he was invited. He waffles on whether he wants to take that leap or not, but in the end, he's too depressed and guilty to just ask outright if he can come.
"Did I step in dog shit last night or something?" Lou asks instead, playing dumb.
"I dunno?" Man playing the 'ignorance' card, meet man who never needed a card to be ignorant about a social situation in the first place; Rory's a natural. "I was asking if you wanted to come. You're all lit up about the trails and whatever."
It's impossible for Lou to hide his excitement. He looks like a puppy that's just been invited to go on a walk (which isn't really far from the truth). "Yes! Of course! I used to be a wilderness guide, hence the—" (he gestures at the pile of paper) "—maps 'n shit. You really don't mind if I come?" He already looks delighted.
Palms braced against teetering brochures, Rory steadies himself—hands and courage both—with a long breath before he responds. "Just seems like..." Another breath, this time when he catches himself almost saying We could both use a friend because it's too embarrassing an admission even if they'd been exchanging blows not 12 hours ago. With a shrug, he settles on: "We could both use it."
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