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Clive wakes to the sound of the wind blowing through the curtains, and the feeling of the breeze on his cheek, and the scent of flowers filling the room.
He lies very still, eyes shut tight, afraid that he's dreaming, afraid that if he moves, or even breathes, that this beautiful, natural atmosphere will vanish. Finally, he can't bear it anymore. Slowly, he opens his eyes, taking in the room fraction by fraction, noticing its blue walls, the dresser in the corner, and the vase of daffodils on the bedside table. He lifts his hand, reaching toward the vase, and tentatively brushes his fingertips against it. The glass is cold, solid.
It's real.
Clive lets himself breathe again.
He isn't locked up anymore. He's with the professor now. He's… home.
(If he's allowed to call it that).
Although he's undoubtedly slept for hours, he's still exhausted, too tired to move. He lies still, acutely aware of the softness of the pillow against his cheek, and the warmth of his blanket, and the scent of the outdoors drifting through the window. Perhaps such simple sensations shouldn't be so comforting, but somehow, they are.
It was sterile, where he was before, and cold. The memory of the sharp, chemical, "clean" scent of the hospital (from his childhood, and from yesterday) is so strong that he can almost smell it now. But the scent of fresh grass on the warm breeze makes those memories seem like long-forgotten dreams in comparison. He took this sort of atmosphere for granted when he was little, before he went mad, and lived in hospitals, and then underground, and then in hospitals again.
He almost feels like he isn't mad anymore.
Of course, that thought itself is madness—he'll never be truly sane—but still, it's a nice feeling. He stays very still for a moment, basking in it, gradually expanding his awareness to the room around him. The sunlight pours through the window, dappling the walls and lighting up the clock on the wall adjacent to the bed. He squints at it in disbelief. Four in the afternoon… and he'd arrived at the house around seven in the evening yesterday, hadn't he?
He'd slept nearly an entire day.
Clive sits up with a jolt, throwing his blankets aside. He's just been lying in bed for hours and hours, and he hasn't even said thank you, or done anything useful, or… or anything at all. The professor and Flora must think he's a self-centered ingrate.
He… he has to go and find them, and thank them, right this instant.
(But why does something so simple make him feel so nervous?)
Clive stands slowly, struggling to keep his balance; he has no idea why he's still so tired, after sleeping this long. He brushes a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of how messy it must be, and how awful he must look. A glance in the mirror on the wall confirms his suspicions; his hair's messy, yes, but the darkness under his eyes and the paleness in his face makes him look as if he hadn't slept in a week (which isn't entirely inaccurate). It's been so long since he'd last looked in a mirror. Perhaps he should continue to avoid it: if he looks this awful, then ignorance is bliss. But then again, he has to look presentable, now that he's living in a proper house again, and now that he's living with these particular people.
After some searching, Clive finds his suitcase (he'd seemingly shoved it under the bed before his twenty-one hour nap), and finds some clean clothes. After ten minutes, he's managed to clean himself up enough that he isn't entirely disgusted with his appearance. He exits the room, tentatively closing the door behind him.
As he walks down the hallway, he looks around, taking in the photos on the walls, and imagining what lies behind every closed door.
He can hardly remember making his way up the hallway yesterday, or hardly anything about yesterday at all; somehow, he'd been so tired. It had been such a long day, and so long anticipated. He'd barely been able to sleep all week; his mind hadn't stopped running, alternating between elation and pure terror. Yesterday morning he'd been packing, and filling out paperwork, and pacing, and phoning Flora to make sure that the professor really was coming that day, and that Clive hadn't mixed something up. And then there had been those anxious hours afterwards, spent wondering if the professor was going to come, or if he or Flora would call and say that they had changed their minds, that they didn't want anything to do with Clive. And then he'd tried to plan for what would happen if they did that; where he would go, and what would happen to him. And then the professor had come, and, he'd been so relieved, and so anxious at the same time, and--
Had he even spoken to Flora when he'd arrived?
The memory hits him like a slap to the face. Oh. Oh, yes he had.
He can't remember exactly what he'd said, but he'd… he'd humiliated himself, hadn't he? He vaguely remembers swaying on his feet last night, saying something emotional and embarrassing, but that may have been a dream, or perhaps he'd accidentally said the ridiculous message of gratitude that he'd rehearsed in his mind the whole week before the professor had come to take him here. Heat washes over his face at the thought. He hopes that he didn't actually say that.
No matter what, it had probably been the wrong thing to say.
He needs to do better this morning—or afternoon, rather. He'll give her a proper thank-you, one devoid of oversentimentality.
But then, what is he supposed to say to her now, when he sees her, if not those same overly sentimental words that he'd rehearsed? Everything he can think of sounds so trite, so inadequate. His feelings of hope from fifteen-odd minutes ago seem so far away, now.
He's not sure what's wrong with him, why he's so tired, and yet so anxious.
Emotional exhaustion, maybe, but what a ridiculous thing to be exhausted by. He's happy, isn't he? He's not in prison, or in a hospital. He's with the professor now, and with Flora.
Maybe that's the problem, though. The fact that he's with them, and the fact that, maybe, they don't actually want him to be here.
Really, who would want to speak to him, let alone have him live in their house, after what he'd done?
But he still needs to thank them, anyway, even if he doesn't know the words.
Clive swallows, and keeps walking.
It would be easier to talk to the professor first, he decides. The professor always has a way of putting Clive's mind at ease; he always has a kind word and a smile on his face. Of course, it's not as if Flora doesn't do any of those things for him, too, but… but…
It's complicated.
As he descends the stairs, he smells something odd. Is something burning? After his initial alarm, he realizes that, whatever it is, it doesn't seem to be actively burning; it must be the remnants of some kitchen mishap from some time ago. Clive can hear the clattering of pots and pans from a distance. Something is happening in the kitchen.
Clive follows the sounds through the living room until he finds the kitchen door. He tentatively peeks around the corner. Flora stands at the kitchen counter, her back to him. She stirs something vigorously, humming a quiet tune. Suddenly, she turns, grabbing the bowl and heading toward the table. Clive freezes, sure that she'll see him (and what? Laugh at him, yell at him, tell him to leave forever?), but she doesn't. Totally absorbed in her work, she sits at the table, spreading icing from the bowl over a batch of cupcakes that Clive was too blind to notice before.
It feels so odd, seeing her here, in this context.
Clive likes to think that they'd become something like friends over the last few years, but he knows better than anyone that there's an element of performance when visiting someone in a place that they aren't allowed to leave. When he'd visited Constance those last few times, he'd put on a smile for her, even when he felt like crying. Of course, he was locked away in a very different sort of place than Constance, for a very different reason, but Flora was no doubt putting on a brave face for many of her visits, if not all of them. She's such a nice person, after all; she probably didn't want to make him uncomfortable with her own discomfort.
Here, though, she seems perfectly happy, smiling as she works, lost in her own dream world.
(She's not going to be smiling anymore when she sees him).
It'd be better if he said thank you later. He should… he should go and find the professor first, and talk to him, and then the professor can be there when—
"Oh, Clive!"
Clive startles, blinking himself back into reality. Flora's looking at him, smiling up toward him as she sets the bowl aside. Clive tries to see if there's any apprehension behind her smile, but there's only concern in her eyes. "You finally woke up!" she says, coming towards him. She laughs, relief in her voice. "You were asleep for so long, I was kind of wondering if you were dead, or something."
Her laughter sounds so musical here, free of the telephone's static and the echo of the white halls where he used to live.
Oh. Oh, yes, she's waiting for an answer.
"Not yet," says Clive automatically, and instantly regrets it so much that he'd like to die right now. He forces out a half-hearted chuckle in an effort to salvage his response. "I'm very much alive, as… as you can see…"
It'd be nice if he could say something that wasn't completely idiotic.
"Good," says Flora genuinely, her smile growing brighter. She turns toward her cupcakes again. "I mean, I wasn't too worried. Just a little. The professor said you'd had a long day yesterday, so I figured it'd be awhile until you woke up."
"Mm-hm," says Clive. It's safer if he doesn't open his mouth. He leans against the doorframe, watching Flora work. Her creations look slightly… frightening, now that he looks at them more carefully. He's not quite sure what those flecks are in the icing on the cupcakes, and he can't put a name to the colour of the icing. But still, she seems to be enjoying her creative process, and that's… nice. It's nice to watch; it's soothing, in a way. And above all else, watching her is far easier than saying any of the thank-yous and I'm-so-gratefuls that he's recited to himself over and over again in preparation for today.
He'd had them perfectly memorized before he came here, even if they were ridiculous. And he'd been able to talk to Flora without tripping over his own words before he came here, as well; he'd only just talked to her yesterday over the phone, and listened to her excitedly tell him about the activities she had planned for when he arrived, and asking him if he's doing alright, and what he wanted to eat tomorrow, and he'd been able to chat and laugh along with her, as they've been able to do for months now, and pretend as though he didn't feel like throwing up from nervousness.
He doesn't know why he's being such an idiot now.
"You can sit down, if you want," says Flora, and Clive hesitantly complies, pulling out a chair across from where she's sitting at the table. "The professor's at the university right now," she says, one eye squinting as she squeezes unintelligible shapes out of icing onto the cupcakes. "But he should be back soon-ish. He was going to stay home when he saw that you weren't waking up, but I told him that we'd be fine on our own." She looks up, a shadow of doubt crossing her face. "I hope you don't mind."
"Of course not," says Clive carefully, hoping that he doesn't sound disappointed. Of course, the professor has a life of his own, and he doesn't begrudge him that, but he'd hoped to be able to thank him now; waiting until he gets home will be torture.
"Good," Flora says again. "It's good that he's taking awhile, anyway; I'm kind of behind with cooking." She laughs nervously. "I just couldn't get the colour of the icing right. I was trying to make them that certain shade of green that you like, and I kept trying, but I just couldn't get it exactly right…"
They're for him? Clive blinks, examining the cupcakes again. Well, they're very imaginatively decorated, and they're certainly colourful. She's put in all this work… maybe they really will taste good. "They're lovely," Clive says sincerely. "They're… they're my favourite colour. They look very nice."
Flora blinks, then she giggles, but there's no malice or insincerity in her laughter. "What's wrong with you? You weren't this nice last time I made these."
Clive's face gets hot again, but he feels himself smile a little. "Well, they weren't the right colour last time." The air feels a little lighter now than it did a second ago.
"O-kay," laughs Flora, drawing out the last syllable. "If you say so."
They both sit there, chuckling a little, until their laughter fades away, and they settle into a silence. Clive's not sure whether it's a comfortable silence or an uncomfortable one; either way, it's an opportunity to express his gratitude. But somehow, he can't take advantage of it; everything he thinks of saying sounds so ridiculous.
It's so odd, how he used to pride himself on his improvisation skills; how he'd been able to come up with a story or an excuse so easily. He'd even done it with Flora when they'd first met, although even then, she had an uncanny knack for throwing him off his game. But now… he just can't say anything now. Somehow it matters so much more now what she thinks of him than it did then.
(Of course, if he really did say what he might have said last night, then he's already made a fool of himself…)
"Can I help?" he asks without thinking. Maybe it will be easier to talk if he's doing something with his hands.
Flora blinks. "But it's your first day here."
"Then I'd like to get in the habit of being helpful." Clive shrugs, and hopes the desperation doesn't come across too much in his voice.
Flora bites her lip, looking away, then smiles, dashing into what Clive assumes is the pantry. She comes back, lugging an enormous sack, which she heaves onto the table in front of Clive. She then runs and fetches him a knife as well. "You can peel potatoes," she says happily. "We're going to make shepherd's pie."
Clive's… never peeled a potato before. But he's not going to tell Flora that. "How many should I peel?" he asks, gingerly picking up the knife.
"Whatever feels right." Flora's sticking candles in the cupcakes, now. She smiles towards him. "We're going to play it by ear."
Clive's not quite sure about how successful that will be, but Flora undoubtedly knows more about cooking than he does; he hasn't cooked anything more complicated than a boiled egg since coming to live with Constance. He dutifully begins an attempt at peeling a potato, turning it over in his hand and clumsily scraping at it with the knife. The challenge of getting every scrap of peel off of the potato is pleasantly frustrating, distracting enough that, for a minute, he can forget what he actually came down here for...
"Do you like your room? You were comfortable, right?"
It takes Clive a moment to register Flora's question. He looks up from his singular peeled potato. "What? Oh. Oh, yes, of course. Why do you ask?"
Flora shrugs, but her nonchalant gesture is only a thin veil over the concern in her eyes. "I just wanted to make sure everything was okay with it, since you didn't say anything about it."
Clive remembers now; she'd been quite preoccupied with asking about what he'd like in his room during their phone conversation yesterday morning (or was it the day before? It's so difficult to remember). Well, of course he likes it. He shouldn't even be here, and yet he's been given a place to stay, and that's more than he deserves, let alone all of the effort that Flora must have put in to arrange things in the way that would make him most comfortable.
She shouldn't have gone to all that trouble for him. But there's no way to tell her that without sounding horribly ungrateful, which is the exact opposite of what he wants.
He lets out a hesitant chuckle instead. "It's wonderful, don't worry. I've just… I'm trying not to say much of anything at all, honestly."
"How come?" There's genuine concern in her voice.
(She shouldn't have to have any concern for him).
How to explain without ruining everything? "Because I don't… I don't want to say anything… anything else ridiculous."
"What do you mean? Like what?" Flora leans forward, eyes wide with gentle curiosity.
The humiliating half-memory, half-dream of his over-tired, emotional self from last night fills his mind. The way that his hands might have shaken, the thousands of thank-yous and I'm sorrys that he might have said over and over again, like a broken record, the way that he might have cried.
"Whatever I said and did last night," he says evenly, avoiding her gaze. "I don't remember it all that well; I must've been half-asleep, and I wasn't… I wasn't myself then. I… I haven't slept much lately, and..." He's rambling now, making foolish excuses. Lovely; his face is burning again. "I probably made you uncomfortable and I'm sorry for that."
"Oh."
In the corner of his eye, Clive sees Flora's expression shift, her eyes widening. He turns away. This was a mistake. He shouldn't have talked about it. He'd already ruined his chances of starting off well here by letting himself get emotional last night, but perhaps whatever had happened would've been forgotten if he hadn't brought it up again…
"It wasn't ridiculous at all."
Clive blinks, looking up in shock. "What?"
"It's a lot to get used to, right?" Flora smiles hesitantly. "I mean, you were locked up so long, so of course you'd get a bit emotional coming here, right? I just…" she looks away quickly. "I just got a little worried. You seemed so… so sad, and I...".
What did he say? "Flora, I'm sorry—"
"That's it, though." Flora laces her fingers together, resting her chin on her hands, staring off over her shoulder. "You don't need to keep saying sorry. But you do, and… I don't know why you feel like you have to, still. You're not… you're not doing anything wrong right now. It just makes me kind of worried, and..." She trails away, still not looking him in the eye.
Clive stares down at the knife in his hand, trying to think of words that make sense, but nothing's coming to him. Sorry, sorry, sorry… that's all he can think to say. And it's ridiculous, because he's apologized so many times already, and there are so many other things to talk about, and so many things that they have talked about, when he was locked up. But now that he's here… he's sorry all over again, because they can't… they can't possibly want him, even though they've gone to all this trouble to bring him here.
He needs to give her some sort of an answer. He can't let her be anxious on his account.
He lets out a half-chuckle. "Really, Flora, it's simple. You… you and the professor have given me so much, despite… despite everything I've done, and I don't…" His voice is shaking (disgusting), and he clears his throat. "I don't want to be a burden or a nuisance or a bother, or… or anything. So that's why. But I'm not sad. I'm… I'm quite happy, and I'm very… I'm very grateful, and.. And there's no reason for you to worry..." His voice is shaking too much to continue. He clears his throat again, forcing a tight smile, and keeps his eyes locked on the knife. The answer is inadequate, but… but it's the best he can manage right now, without diminishing what she and the professor have done for him, and without getting emotional all over again…
"Clive…" Flora's voice is small. "Can I give you a hug?"
She can't… he isn't allowed to— "If you like," Clive hears himself say, as if he doesn't care either way (but he does), and then Flora's in the chair next to him, her arms gently wrapping around him. As he lets his forehead fall against her shoulder, he feels like he's back where he was last night, warm, and at-home, and safe, and yet, on the verge of tears.
(Did this happen yesterday, too?)
This wasn't the way he planned it. He was supposed to be telling her how grateful he is right now, how thankful he is, not holding desperately still, afraid that the smallest movement will make him break down, his face buried in her shoulder.
She can't see him cry. He's supposed to be happy. And… and he is, but he isn't, because he shouldn't even be here, even though he wants to be, and…
"Clive, you're not any of those things. You're our friend."
(But how can that be true, after all he's done?)
"Maybe… maybe you need help remembering some of the evidence that proves we like you," starts Flora, hope filling her voice. "That'll help, won't it? Let's see… well, for one thing, when the professor said that you'd be able to stay with us instead of where you were, I was so excited." Flora laughs a little. "Too excited, I guess. Remember how I kept calling you? I was probably being annoying. But I just wanted to make sure that everything would be perfect for when you got here."
"It wasn't annoying," Clive finally manages. How could it ever be annoying? "It was just the opposite. But that's why I… I just… I just don't know why you went through all that trouble for me." All the phone calls, the daffodils in his room, the cupcakes with the icing that's his (new) favourite colour… he can see the evidence; he's memorized it, and yet it's so hard to believe in it.
"It wasn't trouble at all!" Flora's voice cracks. "You're my friend, Clive, and I… just worry about you, but that's just something I can't help. I saw how sad you seemed all the time where you used to be, and… and I was hoping that maybe you'd be a little happier here with us."
She can't help but worry, and he can't help but doubt, but he can try to reduce her worries (even if he can only try). "I-I am happy," he mutters, closing his eyes. "Or, I want to be. When I woke up, I felt happier than I have for so long. It's just… it's so… it's so complicated. It just feels too good to be true. That's all. Please don't worry about anything."
"I'll try. It'll be hard, but I'll try. But…" She pulls him a little closer. "But you have to try to believe that it is true. I'm happy you're here, alright? And if you try to believe that, that'll make me happy."
He wants to believe it so much.
"I'll try. I promise I'll try. Th… thank you, Flora."
Thank you so much. For everything.
They stay like this in silence for a long time, and the tears that threatened Clive earlier slowly recede. The warmth that he felt this morning returns—the peace, and the feeling of the breeze through the open window, and the way that Flora's breathing is so soft and regular, how calming the rhythm of her hand brushing against his back is, and how she feels so warm and real.
(Is… is that an odd thing to think about?)
(He wonders if she might be thinking the same thing about—)
"I see you two are getting along." The professor's amused voice shatters the silence.
"P-professor!"
Clive jerks away before Flora can let go, his face burning as he looks toward the professor. Somehow, this moment had felt very private, and he's not sure how the professor will react to something that had seemed so… so intimate to him. But the professor only smiles as he walks into the kitchen, coming to stand near where the two of them are seated. "I'm glad," he merely says, putting a hand on Clive's shoulder. "How are you doing, my boy? I think we were both a little worried about you."
"I-I'm much better, thank you, professor," says Clive, trying to regain his composure. His words are unsteady, but they're truthful; although he's still tired and although he still doubts, Flora's helped him immensely. "Thanks to Flora," he says sincerely. "She… she told me what I needed to hear."
(Is her face a shade pinker than it normally is? But no, she's already turned away; it's not something he should concern himself with).
"I'm glad," the professor says again. There's a twinkle in his eye."I was a little worried that Flora would grow impatient and wake you up, but I'm sure she didn't do that, did she?"
"Of course I didn't!" Flora says indignantly, turning back toward the professor.
Despite everything, Clive can't help but find her tone of voice to be amusing. "Oh Flora, no need to feel guilty; it's alright. I've already forgiven you," he says with a grin.
"But I didn't—oh." Flora stops, then shakes her head, a longsuffering smile slowly spreading across her face.
It's a sorry attempt at a joke, and her eye roll emphasizes that fact, but Clive hopes that she understands what it means—that he's going to try to be a little more lighthearted for her sake. It seems to work, at least enough to make her giggle a little too. "Shush," she finally says. "You've got to finish peeling the potatoes." She rolls another across the table to him. "We have to eat, right?"
"If we don't want to starve, I suppose so," says Clive with a joking smile, picking up the knife once again. He smiles as the professor joins them too, searching the shelves for a cookbook and flipping through it, placing it surreptitiously within Flora's field of vision. Between the three of them, they'll finish this up in no time. And then they'll have dinner, and then it'll be night, and then it'll be a new day, his real first day here. And even if he can't believe that they want him here, sharing his days with them… at least he knows that Flora wants him to believe it.
Perhaps someday, he truly will believe.