Chapter Text
Paul didn’t know what was going on.
Sure, he’d always been an anxious man. Rather stay at home on his computer than go out to parties, or getting short of breath in close quarters, and picking at the skin around his knuckles when he felt uncomfortable. His social aptitude was fairly low, having a stutter and never having the right words lined up in his mouth. And maybe he felt a little depressed with his life, a sadness that gnawed away under his rib cage… But that was a chronic feature of his life.
Nothing like this. Not seeing things.
---
It started about 8 months after he finally asked Emma out on their first date. Or more pushed into it after Ted left his number of a coffee sleeve and bolted before Paul could even pull money out to pay for the order. Emma received it well, laughed and agreed to meet at the café on 42nd street that weekend for some decent coffee. Paul only stuttered twice through the whole interaction. Ted’s coffee ended up in the trash can.
Everything seemed to be going well since then. Their dates became weekly, including late nights at each other’s apartments. Each break was spent at Beanie’s counter. The dates then turned into something more that Paul was too excited about to ask about the formal title for, and his life seemed to be on the rise.
The night before, Emma had stayed at his apartment, using the excuse that his place was closer to her job than her own. She didn’t need an excuse, but Paul let her anyways. He watched in the early morning as she puttered around before leaving for her shift, still pretending to be asleep. Once she was gone, he gave it another twenty minutes before beginning his own morning routine. That’s when he noticed it. In the basin of the sink after finishing his daily shave. Blue spots, almost florescent against the porcelain. Paul thought nothing of it, barely taking a second to study it before splashing some water towards it. The water was clear going down the drain.
It was just a blip in his day until he noticed it again, little ink marks on the back of his fingers. He frowned, he hated blue pens. No particular reason for it, but it kept his desk clean from any color other than red. The ink wiped clean from his skin from a simple swipe. Paul took a mental note that time. And again, he spotted some drops on the counter of Beanie’s. Day after day, just small flecks, barely noticeable across Mr. Davidson’s tie, on the collar of his work shirts. Paul did his best to ignore it until the bright blue liquid was leaking out from behind Ted’s lips during a water cooler conversation.
It startled him so badly that he almost dropped his coffee right onto the floor.
“Whoa man, fucking butterfingers over here, am I right?” Ted snickered, waving his hands trying to get others to look over towards them.
Paul knew it wasn’t there, probably. When he saw the substance that looked like blue ink in other instances it usually appeared and disappeared without much interference. Gone within the time it took for a second glance to confirm it was there. Never had it interacted so authentically with another human being, dribbling down his skin leaving a diluted trail.
Once he regained a firm grasp on his coffee cup, Paul motioned towards his own chin. “Uh, you got—you got something on your face there, Ted.”
Still smirking, Ted swiped a hand across his face. The streak smeared across one side of his chin. Paul tapped his fingers against the coffee lid uneasily. He stopped listening to Ted’s narrative of his own affair, plastered on a smile and kept his eyes up at Ted’s own gaze, only daring a glance down to Ted’s hand to see that it was clean of any illuminated colors. Impossible with the soul patch of blue still stuck on his chin.
Paul didn’t remember where their conversation started, nor how he ended back up at his own desk. He kept to himself the rest of the day. Just sip his coffee, fix the printer, turn in his report, and stop staring at Ted, or any other instance of glowing blue spots. All other occurrences were minuscule, mostly forgettable compared to what he was on Ted. He hoped it would stay that way.
---
The blue spots become somewhat routine in Paul’s life. Changing his contacts didn’t fix it, and when he made a comment to Emma after dinner one night, as he caught a glimpse of it in the sink as they cleaned off their dishes, she seemed to think it was a joke, waving him away after looking down into the drain. He gave her a half-hearted chuckle, but between the bottle of wine they shared during and after dinner, he didn't know if he needed to be more concerned.
Another time, after watching a movie on Emma's couch, he brought it up again. A hypothetical about something weird going on, "Or, or, y'know, if something was happening in the world that everyone else seemed to be completely ignoring and left it as normal."
"I'd say that they shouldn't be watching anymore horror movies." She said, reaching across him for the remote. "Maybe we'll skip the next It movie when it comes out."
"No, no, Emma. Not like that. Well, actually," he rubbed the back of his neck, craning it to one side, "I guess that is kind of what I mean. You think some people see things other people don't?"
"Because of a demonic clown?"
"What-no, I'm not actually talking about It. I mean in real life."
Emma furrowed her brows, studying him intently. He kept his cool as best as he could, pretending to be intently reading the summary of the next movie viewed on Netflix. If she reached out to take his hand, she'd notice how sweaty it was. But she didn't. "You're quite a fucking piece there Matthews. If you're trying to pull something over me I'm gonna kill you." His thumb picked at the nail on his index finger. "I guess I'd have to drop you to the Clydesdale psychiatric hospital over the river, since we don't have one here. Leave you there for them to sort out."
Paul's eyes widened. "Wait, no, I'm not talking about--"
"I know you’re not talking about you, you fucking ding dong. You’re not like those people.” She balked. “But let’s change genres. Maybe an It marathon wasn’t a good idea.”
He only nodded as something new was started. The conversation must not have stuck out to Emma, as she was already antagonizing the main character for their poor taste of music.
---
Two weeks had passed since the incident with Ted and Paul has been able to keep his head down. It became the ordinary, his ordinary. Ignoring the blatant glowing marks that were in the sides of his vision. Slowly gaining control of his somewhat exaggerated expressions to create a strong poker face. His eyebrows barely rose when he spotted Charlotte’s homely cat sweater splattered across the stomach with blue ink. The kitten was saturated from neck to paws. Somehow it looked sad.
Charlotte only noticed his staring when Ted made a lewd comment at Paul’s expense. He stuttered out an excuse about how his grandmother had a cat the same type as the one on her sweater. He sounded ridiculous. Type of cat. He could feel his inner voice scoffing at him with a scathing reminder how Charlotte wore the exact same sweater weekly. But it worked, Charlotte smoothed the sweater, blue liquid darkening as it seeped further into the fabric. Spots towards the center looked to turn almost to a black, like it was trying to disappear. Her hands were impeccably clean after. Paul fiddled with his tie as she happily gave him the Etsy page she bought the sweater from. He took the scrap paper with a closed smile, knowing well it would wear to a pulp in his wallet before making leave for his coffee break.