Chapter Text
Pierre barely got home without passing out. In fact, he barely made it home at all. He was drunk, as per usual on a Friday night, and he was pissed off. Also as per usual on a Friday night. It certainly didn’t help that Caroline was asleep in bed by the time he got back, turned towards the wall, a pillow wedged under the small of her back and another blocking him from the rest of her upper body, like an insult carefully set up for him before he even got home.
He didn’t know why she still did it. He didn’t recall them even kissing in weeks. She knew full well that he would rather shoot himself than cuddle her right now. Or, at least, he hoped she knew.
He was tired. He could seethe in the morning when his head was clearer. Pierre sat down on the edge of the bed when something caught his eye. A glint of orange, from the blue-painted, carefully carved wooden box that sat perpetually on his nightstand, that he couldn’t, for the life of him, recall what it contained. He picked it up and flipped it open less than gingerly, only to see the pendant Caroline had slipped around his neck, what, 20 years ago?
Yoba. He softened for a moment, in a way he wouldn’t when he was sober. He ran his finger along the edge of the shell. It was shiny, the ridges deepening shades of orange that blended into each other in harmony, only to swirl up into dark purple at the point of it. He used to wear it every day, but he guessed it was either practicality or a passive-aggressive quarrel that had provoked him to put it back in the box years back, and leave it there to collect dust, save for special occasions, like his and Caroline’s anniversary. Come to think of it, when was their anniversary?
Pierre stood up for a moment, but his body didn’t cooperate, and he tripped over his own feet. The pendant flew out of his hand, and the spirits must have had a vendetta with him that day, because it dropped directly onto the corner of the dresser and shattered into dozens of little pieces, like one of those overly fragile pieces of elementary school pottery.
He knelt over, and being so inebriated, realizing he had destroyed his pendant didn’t phase or alarm him. He calmly picked a few of the shards into his hand and tilted them around, watching the way the lamplight glinted off of the pieces at different angles.
Huh. The shell was all purple and shimmery inside, violet, like Abigail’s- his daughter’s- hair. He’d never noticed that before. The colors were beautiful, but they unnerved him, for a reason he couldn’t quite place, but rather one that curled up in his gut and sat there, sure and still as a stone. It made him nauseous. Though, maybe it was just the beer.
Pierre quickly gathered the rest of the pieces into his palm drowsily, not wanting to look at them any longer. His glasses had fallen off of his face at some point, he didn’t notice. He tucked the purple shards back into the little blue box with more caution than he knew he possessed after a few drinks and fell asleep as soon as he hit the sheets.
When Pierre awoke the next morning, sunlight had already began to shoot into his eyes unrelentingly, the blaring indicator he had slept in like an idiot and would have to open late. Again. His head ached with dull pangs. Maybe he had a little too much last night. Oh, well. He took his annoyingly unpolished glasses off of the nightstand, where they had been carefully placed next to a glass of water and two aspirin, courtesy of Abigail.
He swung himself out of bed, downing the aspirin like an old routine and pulling his jacket back over his shoulders, having fallen asleep in his clothes again.
He made his way into the shop, only to find Abigail tending the counter in a professional-looking (compared to her usual attire), ironed out shirt, and couldn't help the small smile that crept into his face. Pierre slipped behind the counter and leaned next to his daughter, “You didn’t have to open by yourself, you know. You should’ve woken me up.” He tapped his fingers on the glass a little.
“You needed your sleep,” Abigail said, “I don’t mind. And, I’m 19, I can be responsible.” She cracked a smile, “Sometimes.”
“No, I need to stop being irresponsible,” Pierre sighed, “This isn’t your job, you should be out doing your… teenage rebellion... things.”
“My what now ?”
“Band practice, or egging Jojamart or something. Preferably the second one. Where’s your mother, by the way?”
“I dunno, she left early. Probably went to Marnie’s or something.” She shrugged, he nodded. There was a beat of silence, “Are… are you and Mom okay?”
Pierre’s smile fell.
“Abby, that’s really nothing you need to worry about.” “But are you?” He sighed, “Of course, sweetie. We’re just going through a bit of a rough patch is all.” That was the understatement of the year. Abigail looked like she wanted to ask something again. She cast her blue gaze to the floor, the usual twinkle in her eye gone flat, muttering something along the lines of “I need to change” as she pushed past him.
It turned out to be quite a mundane day at the shop, Pierre’s only amusement being one of the farmers rushing in and ordering 50 grass pallets at once, for whatever unholy reason. Classic Z. For once, he was thankful for the lack of customers, because he had the time to do some thinking. He came to the conclusion that Abigail was right. He was also wondering if they were doing okay. He needed to try harder, if not for him or Caroline, for their daughter. So, he closed up a little early, after three, and waited for his wife to come home. She could stay out late, he knew that, but it wasn’t like he didn’t have other things to do, right? He was used to it at this point- Caroline waking up at the asscrack of dawn and leaving the house, not even giving him a chance to get out as much as a ‘good morning’ to her- PIERRE. DO NOT THINK LIKE THAT. YOU ARE BEING POSITIVE. It wasn’t Caroline’s fault she was a busy woman. She had friends. Maybe it was him that needed to get out more. He blamed most of this on himself, anyways. He had driven her away, and he needed to fix it.
He didn’t plan on any big romantic gesture- just being affectionate was a good start. Maybe he should put on his pendant. That was a great idea, actually! He went to retrieve the box, and it was a little odd that it wasn’t latched, but it hadn’t been the first time he had forgotten to close it. Pierre’s heart dropped as soon as he saw the purple and orange shards of his pendant, set carefully in the middle of the padded box like it had been cleaned up. When had it broke? He hadn’t exactly been too attached it as of recently, so it wasn’t like anyone was taking it out of the box, right?
He had sworn he had seen it for a moment just last morning… had he broken it last night? Oh, no. He couldn’t recall what exactly had happened after the fifth drink… oh no oh no oh no. OH, NO. He couldn’t fix it himself, and like hell he would tell Caroline. She would divorce him in a second!
Not knowing what else to do, he tucked the box into his jacket and rushed out of the storefront, ignoring everyone’s usual warm greetings, and made it through the small square and over the bridge in record speed. On any other day he would have stormed right up to the redheaded cashier -Ruby, he thought her name was- smoking a cigarette outside of Jojamart and inquired about the ethicality of her corporate shill manager trying to run a small business into the ground. Then again, maybe he despised her so because he so desperately needed something to take his anger out on. He still felt a twinge of anger, but not enough to interrupt his panic routine, because this was not any ordinary day. This was the day he somehow managed to ruin his marriage more than he already had.
After a moment of staring her down, Pierre took a hard turn and walked south, around the bend to the blacksmith’s shop, and shoved the door open so hard it probably put a dent in the wall. Clint, who was asleep at the counter, jumped up, “Yoba!” His face shifted into its usual frown, “Oh. Uh. What can I do you for, Pierre?” He looked tired, and completely done with his shit.
“Um…” He took the box out and slid it onto the counter. To Clint, Pierre probably looked like he might drop dead, brown eyes wide, broken into a nervous sweat, and knowing the man, it made him apprehensive to open the box. He cocked an eyebrow as he flipped it open, scanned over the contents for a moment, then gaped.
“Pierre, what in the oblivion happened?” “I-I didn’t mean to!” “If it’s that bad, you really should start thinking about-” “No! No, I just- I was drunk and I-” Clint sighed exasperatedly, “You were drunk, and somehow that makes it better? You know you can’t solve your marriage by drinking your problems away, right? This wouldn’t have happened if-”
“You go to the saloon as much as me!” Pierre’s voice cracked. Clint rolled his eyes, “Yeah. Because I’m a depressed millennial who wants to see his friend who works there, sue me. You, sir, are a grown-ass man with a daughter and responsibilities, and instead of talking to your wife about your emotional issues, you act like a character in a silent French film and drink your sorrows away sorrows away.”
Pierre blinked. Suffice to say, he was ever-so-inept at taking criticism, let alone a blatant insult. When he couldn’t come up with a retort that sounded good in his head, he just nudged the box further towards Clint, “Can you fix it? Or not?”
Clint eyed it again for a moment or two, though he already knew his answer, “No. I’m sorry. It’s destroyed. And besides, it’s too small for me to work with. I would say your best bet is the Mariner.”
“The Mariner?” Pierre narrowed his eyes, “You know I don’t buy into all that religious stuff.” “Neither do I, but the pendants are comin’ from somewhere. And besides, with everything that happens here, you find a ghost the weirdest?”
Pierre wanted to protest, because he really didn’t believe, but Clint was right. There were forest spirits, tales of faeries, even the mine was infested with fantastical creatures, according to his own daughter. Not to mention the Casino run by a man rumored to be an alien just outside the valley. Small towns, he figured. Always something hidden under the surface.
The Mariner in question was the foretold ghost of an old sailor- the tale went like this: he was returning to the coast to see his love and propose to her using a pendant he was gifted from a mermaid, or something like that. Pierre didn’t pay too much attention in theology class. It was customary in their small town, not to propose with a ring, but with a Mermaid’s Pendant, as Caroline had. It could only be acquired through the ghost of the Mariner, who appeared on the rock pool-littered side of the beach on stormy days.
Normally, he would regard the whole thing as an old wive’s tale, but in his desperate state, Pierre thought it to be more of a gamble he would take. He left Clint’s shop in a hurry, only to realize that it was, in fact, clear as water outside, and that their hot summers didn’t permit for much rain. He went home and checked the weather. Tomorrow… still clear. He supposed he would just have to wait. He didn’t want to risk telling anyone else.
For the next few hours, Pierre waited at the house for Caroline to come home, feeling guiltier than ever. He passed the time by finding a decent hiding place for the pendant under the sink, showering, reading, cleaning, doing anything that interested him, and eventually getting bored. Being idle wasn’t a great option for his ADHD. Six o’clock rolled by, and him and Abigail ate dinner alone. Then seven, eight. Still no Caroline.
The guilt, anger and all of the resentment he had suddenly realized he’d built up against his wife took its toll on him, and without her there, Pierre found himself at the Saloon out of habit. It was a lot livelier on a Saturday night, surprisingly. He almost felt judged as he sat down at his usual spot and Gus, the bartender, shot him a concerned look. Despite that, he settled within a few minutes.
“Pierre!” Oh, no. That voice. That shrill, annoying voice that signaled his economic disparity. As if his day wasn’t bad enough already, he slowly turned to see Morris, the practitioner of the Jojamart running him out of business, and the absolute bane of his existence, sitting only a barstool or two away from him. And, of course, after spotting his prey, he moved to sit next to him. Going in for the kill, Pierre thought, what humble brag or subtly veiled, infuriating insult would he be subjected to this time?
“Let me buy you a drink,” Morris said, “You look like you need it.” Okay, not what he was expecting, but he still might have mal intent? Right? Normally, he would have questioned his motive of talking to him, made some snippy comment or left, but again, today was not any normal day. And, besides, it wasn’t as if the man didn’t owe him, so he bit with a curt nod.
Morris held up two fingers to Gus, then turned back to him, “So, how are your sales going?” Oh, Yoba, here it comes. Pierre groaned internally, but tried to be light-hearted about it. More anger wouldn’t get him anywhere, “Why, you plotting a counter-sale?” He tried to force a dumb smile, but it expressed itself as more of a sneer.
“Oh, no. I was fired,” He said, nonchalantly, just as Pierre had taken a huge swig of his drink, which he nearly spat out. Suddenly, his day seemed a great deal better. Still, though, he tried to be courteous.
“Why? Did they fire you, I mean?” Pierre didn’t apologize, but at least he showed some concern, which was appreciated.
“Why do you think?” Morris grinned, but his smile came off as a bit hurt. Fake. One of his prosthetic fangs was close to popping off, and it dug into his lip and fit there, as if he had been biting at it often. It was only then when Pierre noticed the shadows under his eyes, and the way his usually tamed black hair was sticking out at odd ends like it had been pulled at. He recalled that just six months ago Morris had been known as Mar ísa, and Abigail’s excitement at the change.
He softened at the connection, and if only for tonight, he held back his comments about karma and supporting corporations, “Oh. That’s… that’s terrible. I’m sorry-”
“You really don’t have to do the whole condolences thing,” Morris sighed, eyeing him over the rim of his drink, “I would be happy if I was you, too. But, they’re gonna ship in some replacement soon enough.” He paused, taking a long sip, “I knew it was coming. Now I’m just worried about Ruby and Lani.” Pierre gave him a look at the names, “Uh, my cashiers. They’re about your daughter’s age, college kids. Need someone to look after ‘em. Sam and Shane live here, but those two… I dunno. I don’t mean to talk your ear off.”
Pierre was a little surprised. He supposed he hadn’t considered the concept that Morris, despite their constant battle for customers and his overall personality, was, too, a human being with complex feelings and friends and sympathy. Maybe just not as much for him during the time they were rivals.
“Have you figured stuff out yet?” “Yeah, of course. I’m moving out of my apartment tomorrow. I guess you could say you’ll be seeing me around a lot more…”
“Did you get a job here?” Pierre raised an eyebrow, who would hire him?
“I guess you could say that,” Morris grinned, a more genuine one this time. The other made a hand motion urging him to elaborate, “You know Z and Timmy?”
“You did NOT.” Pierre laughed. Morris didn’t. “You’re moving onto the agricultural fund? What are you farming, the souls of the innocent?”
“Pomegranates, I think? Apparently, Z has a surplus of them…” Pierre wondered if it would be too early to fill him in on the pomegranate mess. “I’m sure I’ll be fine planting things. I grew, like, a rose once. But enough about me,” Morris looked tired, “Tell me something that won’t make me depressed.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you there,” Pierre deadpanned, “My marriage is failing, I think my daughter blames me for it, aaaand that’s about it.” He held the smile. The way he said that was so casual, he would have been disgusted at his own words a year ago.
“Jeez, man.” Morris smiled, if a bit awkwardly, because Pierre was, and he didn’t know another appropriate way to react, “Toast to going through it, I guess?”
Pierre got back home around midnight, slightly toasty but overall fine. He hadn’t had much to drink, usually, he was left alone, but he had actually had someone to talk to, and it really helped. Even if he did just make bad jokes about his impending doom, to someone he still borderline hated, whom may or may not use that information against him in the future. He could care less.
When he got home, Caroline still wasn’t there. He supposed he couldn’t be mad at her, he was out at the same time, but the fact that she had up and left before he even woke up peeved him a little. He started to get ready for bed when the front door shut, so he waited.
Eventually, Caroline came into their bedroom, and he got up to hug her, kiss her, whatever married couples were supposed to do. She walked around him. Pierre faltered for a moment, “Hey, how are you? I missed you today.” She stared at him, or maybe past him for a moment or two, as if to say ‘sure you did.’ An exasperated huff escaped her, “I’m tired.”
Caroline promptly threw her coat off and went to bed without saying another word to him, and Pierre was left wondering what he had said wrong. It was always his fault somehow.