Chapter Text
He fidgeted, quite noticeably, seemingly caught between wanting to know, and not wanting to take the mask off. You figured he'd drop it, and the conversation would, naturally, turn somewhere else. You turned to the side, grabbing your drink. You moved to take a swig, disrupted by a soft click.
The mask was on the table. Zacharie wasn't looking at you - at least, not with his eyes. There were scars on his face, and you could remember there being some on his neck. They weren't large, nor distracting, but they were certainly there.
You're buzzed, and you know it. Perhaps you're doing things you wouldn't normally, but, you reach up, and rub a thumb along a scar near his lips, curiously.
"That isn't why, particularly." Zacharie mumbles, eyes still cast aside. His form is rigid, his voice is tense. It's so unlike his fluid nature that you feel suddenly startled, as though slapped in the face.
You want to ask why, but your mouth has barely formed the 'w' when he answers.
"I'm shy, I suppose. I've never cared for showing off my face to others, least of all in public. I started covering it when I was fairly young." He's looking at you, finally, with eyes that are impossibly sad.
They hardly seem like they should belong to the man with the velvety laugh and coy personality.
Zacharie takes your hand with the same gentleness you've become accustomed to from him, and pulls it away from his face. You go to apologize, but he beats you to it, again.
"They have bad memories attached to them, the scars." He says simply, lips pulled ever so slightly upwards, a humourless, joyless smile on his features. The Merchant didn't look at all how you'd expected. "So, my dear Batter. Why are you here?"
Right.
This had been a deal, after all.
You nod, and, much to your displeasure, Zacharie slips his mask back on. But, he'd held up his end of the bargain, and now it was your turn.
"I'm taking a break from baseball." You began, knowing full well that wouldn't satiate the man's curiosity. "I... Hm." You'd never been good at this kind of thing, talking about yourself, your feelings.
Your problems.
"I was involved with a woman. We... Were close, for a time. I accidentally got her pregnant, and, by the time he was born, she'd..." You fall quiet, struggling for words. Part of you wanted to make it sound as simple as possible. A separate part wanted to let Zacharie in, let him know why, how you felt.
It was easier said than done.
"She... Saw what kind of person I am. I don't go by my name because I share it with my father. He was an insufferable bastard." You couldn't look at him, not right now.
Not now that you could imagine that sad fucking expression you knew he was wearing under that fucking stupid mask. You didn't need his sympathy, or gentle touches, or that god damned silky voice. You didn't need his fucking pity, and yet, you knew you ached for it. You could feel yourself burning at the soft 'oh' noise you heard Zacharie make.
"I'm a bastard in the same fucking way." You seethe, knuckles white from clenching your drink so hard.
Fuck Vader. Fuck Zacharie. Fuck France, and Norway, and that stupid fucking kid you'd never get to see. You'd never get to hold again, or teach how to catch a ball. He'd never know your name, or how fucking sorry you were. Fuck you, Michael Sr. Fuck you for making me this way.
And you risk a glance over - It's probably the worst mistake you've ever made, because, now that you know what to look for, you can see his eyes. You can see Zacharie's eyes, and you're pretty sure you've never seen a more pained expression in your life. Not when you told your mother you hated her, not when you told Vader she was a stupid, useless bitch. Not even after you'd spent the entire night, bawling like a child, when you got the restraining order in the mail.
And you can't fucking take it anymore.
You scream, and hurl the glass against the wall, pretending you don't notice when Zacharie flinches the way she did, because you're not so sure you can deal with scaring someone off again. Someone you never meant to get close to, someone who was just supposed to be a little fun.
But he's turned into so much more than that, hasn't he?
You shout again, a short bark of an exploitative, and curl in on yourself. You're too buzzed, too miserable, too bitter. You can't take it right now; Not after seeing the Merchant's face, so raw and human. Not after seeing him so... tense. So aware of being bared to you, yet so willing to open himself up and trust.
You burn.
You fucking burn, and you feel him - in all of his foreign softness - embrace all of your six feet and some odd change of broken. Because at this point, who's going to fucking deny that that's what you are?
Zacharie just holds you there, and you don't even know what kind of noises are made, from that point forward. But, they're more human than you've let yourself be, in a long time, and they're kept secret, between the two of you.
There's broken glass on the floor and in the wall, and there's a splash of booze to boot. Eventually, he gently ushers you to go to bed, and you only agree once it's been clarified that he's coming.
He even takes off the mask.
You don't have sex that night, or the next night, or the night after that. He doesn't say anything, and things feel a little bit like how they had before, between you and the fine wares Merchant.
But, he's there. He's there when you sleep, and most of the time when you wake. He's there when you eat breakfast - and he eats too. You see each other, in public, as you go about your business, quite often.
You sell the apartment: You'd never been planning on staying there, anyways.
You renew your contract elsewhere, and, even though you're still full of holes, you get by.
You'd never planned on staying in France.
That was about 2 and a half years ago, now.
"Good morning, Sunshine~" A familiar voice greets you, surrounded by the kitchen in the apartment you've come to call home.
You simply grunt in response.