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You slouch in the bathtub until the waterline is just beneath your nose. It leaves your knees exposed, shallow as the tub is, but the fire you started in the living room chases off any draft that might otherwise linger in the small house. You have a couple candles lit on the window sill as well, but they provide more in way of ambiance than they do heat.
Fall is approaching full swing, and you with it. Lately, most of your days are spent in your fields; planting, tending, harvesting, replanting, repeating. You hardly have the time, never mind the energy, to venture further into the mines or try out the new fishing pole you worked your ass off to save up for. You’ve as good as sold your soul to the soil. You were always impressed with your grandparents for managing to raise a mostly well-adjusted kid, but now that you’ve experienced the marrow-deep exhaustion that comes from farm work, you’re more impressed that they made one at all. It would probably help with the stress, sure, but the thought of even attempting sex with your jello limbs just makes you feel more fatigued.
Even handling it yourself would be too much effort tonight. Maybe it would be worth it if you had inspiration, but one of the greatest drawbacks to living in the middle of nowhere is how poor the internet connection is. You can barely stream music, let alone videos. You need to set up that router you bought last month, which is still sealed in its box next to the TV. The problem with that plan is that you have no idea how to set up a router, and the only person in town who might know how is the last person you want to ask. The carpenter’s son is quiet, but observant and a bit nosy, and he’d probably only need to ask three questions before piecing together your sudden haste in establishing a secure signal. You’re closer to his friends than to him, but you do know him well enough to suspect he wouldn’t hesitate to tease you about it.
You think of entertaining the fantasy that he might offer services of a different, more hands-on nature, but he’s the only person you’ve ever met who’s as cripplingly insecure as yourself, and ever so slightly more awkward, so the thought is more amusing than it is arousing. And though you’re hardly uninterested, you’re also starting to drift out of consciousness. You may plan to remain in Pelican Town until your dying breath, but you don’t intend to drown in your bathtub before you’ve even lasted a year here.
You pull the plug, take a moment to watch the now-cold water swirl, then heave yourself out and stumble your way to bed, passing out the second your head hits the pillow.
…
You were only going to drop in to bring Sam the amethyst he asked you to find for him (“Abby’s birthday is coming up and I have nothing, I’ll pay double what Clint would!”), but then he asked you to give feedback on a new chorus he was working on, and then next thing you know it’s been twenty minutes and Sebastian has showed up for band practice.
“Sorry,” you say as you start reaching for your bag, “must have lost track of time. I’ll go.”
“Oh, hey, Seb knows tech, maybe he can help!”
Ah, right. You’d mentioned the router thing to Sam, thoughtlessly, during a brief lapse of judgment in which you forgot there isn’t a single thought he hasn’t shared with his best friend.
“Help with what?”
“Uh, I bought a router and still haven’t figured out how to hook it up. I can just find a tutorial online, though, don’t worry about it.” You try to sound casual, but the only thing you can hear is your own insides tying themselves into knots over the way he’s staring at you, expression unreadable.
“You’ll find a tutorial on the internet,” he says, slowly as though he thinks you won’t follow, “to tell you how to access the internet.”
Your face feels warm. “The library has a computer.”
“Right.” He leans over to plug in the synth, and you find yourself suddenly fascinated by the patterns on Sam’s popcorn ceiling. “Well, if you decide you do need help, you know where I am.”
“Right.” You clear your throat, force a smile. “I’ve got to get to Pierre’s before he closes, I’ll see you guys around. I’m excited to hear the rest of that song.” You direct the last part to Sam, already inching your way toward his door.
“For sure! Don’t tell Abby about her gift, please?”
“Of course not.” You wave, and you nod jerkily toward Sebastian’s raised eyebrow, and you flee. There’s a cigarette butt outside the front door, which you only notice because your eyes are pointed steadfast to the ground. You pick it up and drop it in the trash can a few steps away, shaking your head to yourself.
…
Abigail is slumped behind the counter, chomping away at her gum as she glares in the direction of the door that separates the shop from the rest of the house. She deflates considerably when she sees you, and even offers a small smile.
“Hey,” she says, but she doesn’t sit up. You idly hope her classes are going well, because you’re not so sure she has a very promising future in customer service.
You return the greeting, and buy a small selection of groceries and an amount of seeds that makes your back twinge in protest. If only you were a little more financially stable, if only pumpkins weren’t so profitable. You promise to set aside a few especially for Abigail, and listen to her ramble about her birthday plans as she rings you up.
“You’re coming, right?”
You didn’t know you were invited. “I should be able to, yeah. It sounds like it’ll be fun.”
“It will be.” She frowns, turning a side eye back to the door. “It better be. I think I deserve it after this week.”
You nod in agreement, hoping she won’t start venting because you still have more work to do than hours left in the day. She seems to sense your hurry, so she just prints off your receipt and hands you your groceries one by one so you can put them in your tote. She smiles once more as you turn to leave, and even manages a have a nice day without sounding too disgruntled about it. Not for the first time, you find yourself grateful that she likes you, because you’d hate to need anything from her if she didn’t.
…
There’s a knock at the door, and then your tea kettle whistles, and the back-to-back sounds nearly send your heart into your throat. You move the kettle off the hob first before it can exacerbate your budding headache, and then open the door, and then wish you had stayed in bed today.
“Hi?”
“Hey.” Sebastian nods in the direction of your TV, fingers tucking an unlit cigarette behind his ear. “Router in the living room?”
“I told you not to worry about that.” The protest is weak since you’re mumbling, but he likely would have shrugged it off even if you meant it.
“I wanted some fresh air, so I was in the neighborhood anyway.” Your expression must be unconvinced, because after a long pause he amends, “Fine, I got in a fight with Demetrius and stormed out. Do you want internet or not?”
“Yes, please.” You step aside to hold the door open for him, shutting it after as firmly as you can without slamming it. Should really have Robin come check over the hinges. “Do you want tea?”
“What kind?”
“If you want organic, I’ve got some of that green tea that Caroline’s been growing. There’s also jasmine, but that’s from a tin.”
“Jasmine would be great, thanks.” Sebastian’s already knelt by the coffee table, unboxing the router and skimming over the instructions. He looks focused, so you don’t ask how he takes it; you know he drinks his coffee plain, so you doubt tea is any different. You fill your two least chipped mugs and carry them to the coffee table, sitting on the edge farthest from him.
“Anything I need to do?”
“Should be a one man job. Just have something ready to test the signal when it’s plugged in.”
True to form, Sebastian sets up the router effortlessly, as if it’s the easiest thing in the world. Maybe it is, and you’ve just lost one too many brain cells from months of toil under a hot sun. You still suspect he did it more efficiently than anyone else could have, though.
“Want to pull up a movie and give it a test run?”
You blink, hand pausing midair where it was lifting your mug to your lips. “You want to stay for a movie?”
He shifts weight between his feet, staring hard at the black TV screen. “I’m not ready to go home yet,” he admits quietly.
His tone makes something twinge inside you, and you do your damnedest to keep your face neutral. “Pick something out,” you suggest, “I’ll make popcorn.”
You have a small couch. This is something you’ve known since you moved in and had to sleep on it for a week and a half while waiting for your mattress to be delivered. Somehow, it feels even smaller now, with almost the entirety of your leg pressed against Sebastian’s and no room to shuffle away. You’re hyper aware of the contact, because one of the first things you learned about him is how highly he values personal space. You sit statue still for the first twenty minutes, but eventually your back starts to ache and you relax back into the cushion, slowly so as not to jostle him. He shifts, and your heart stutters— but he just stretches his legs under the coffee table, knee knocking softly against yours. He doesn’t look at you, so you look back to the screen and pretend not to feel the warmth of his skin through the rip in his jeans.
Sebastian eventually leaves after two movies, and despite not having a smoke all afternoon, he walks away with seemingly less tension weighing on his shoulders than when he arrived.
(You don’t make use of your new internet connection that night, but maybe you do use your imagination.)
…
It’s not a crush. It isn’t, because you know so very little about him outside of the anecdotes and embarrassing school photos his friends have shared. He’s just attractive, is all, and noticing that doesn’t have to mean anything.
Sebastian comes over again two days later, with the same noncommittal excuse of being on a walk, and you guess he appreciates that you don’t push him to talk about whatever is actually upsetting him, because it turns into a pattern. Sometimes you watch movies, sometimes you play board games. He tries to teach you a few different card games, too, but you find you’re too distracted watching his hands shuffling the deck to really retain any of the rules. Sometimes he brings a laptop and sits silently at your dining table, glaring hard enough at the screen that you feel sympathy eye strain. You’ve started leaving a mug with a broken handle on the porch steps as a makeshift ashtray even though you only smoke when he’s over. You’ve committed to not reading into that.
Eventually barely knowing him turns into sort of knowing him, and that turns into knowing him well enough to consider him a friend. You have no idea whether the sentiment is mutual, because he still has an impossible poker face, but he’s so casual in how he offers new information about himself and his interests that you think he must like you somewhat. He at least doesn’t hate you, which you would have considered a miracle when you first met him. Sebastian hates most things.
You learn that he actually likes quite a few things, too. He likes coffee made from the beans you grew all through spring and summer. He likes sashimi, which is quite convenient since you always end up preparing more than you can eat by yourself. He likes cult classic horror films from the eighties, and underground grungy music from the nineties, and indie games you’d never heard of before he brought them over to play with you. He likes the frozen tear sitting in your kitchen window, and you like the way he smiles when you tell him to take it. Small, surprised, stunning.
So maybe it’s a little bit of a crush. You’re still not going to read into it.
…
The bell that dings when you enter the building almost startles you, louder than you remembered it. Robin would have seen you regardless, since she’s sitting at the counter flipping idly through some sort of catalogue.
She perks up when she notices you, removing her reading glasses and grinning. “Well, good morning!” she chirps. “What brings you by today?”
You clear your throat and answer with the same words you rehearsed on the hike up here. “Sebastian helped me set up my router a while back, and I wanted to bring him a thank you gift.”
“Oh, how thoughtful of you! He should be up, I heard the shower running a while ago. His crypt is downstairs.”
You chuckle, both at the comment and with nerves, and thank her before descending toward the basement. You can hear music playing through the door once you’re halfway down, and you smile to yourself, a little proud that it’s a song you recognize now.
You take one more steadying breath and turn the handle. “Hey, I brought you someth—”
“What the fuck!”
You barely hear him over the blood suddenly pounding in your ears as it rushes to your face, or over the door you slam closed in front of you. Wouldn’t matter if you had missed it, because he says it again.
“What the actual fuck!”
“I’m sorry!” You’re not sure if he can hear your whisper-shouting, but you’re already afraid Robin will come to investigate the loud bang you made when you reinstated the barrier between yourself and her son, so you don’t dare to raise your voice.
“Do they not fucking knock in the city?”
“Do you not lock doors in the valley!” You don’t know whether you want to laugh or cry. Both, probably, as well as maybe scream and pull your hair out and spend the rest of the day having a cold shower. You peek open an eye, and finally notice the do not disturb sign layered over a couple of posters. Guess signs only work if you bother to read them. Noted.
The door swings open, and you cringe at both the strong smell from the hazy room and at the face glaring down at you. Sebastian’s hair is disheveled, his face and bare chest red, his eyes glassy but alert, his sweatpants low on his hips.
Doing very little to hide the now deflating boner he’d just had his hand wrapped around.
“What. Do. You. Want.”
“Uh.” You hold up the small gift bag, purple with a shiny black bow tied around the handles. “I brought you something?”
His brow furrows even further, confusion joining frustration. “My birthday’s not for another three months.”
“I know. It’s just because.” You shake it until he accepts it, thankfully with his other hand, and you clear your throat as you start inching backward. “It’s for the, um, migraines. That you complained about? Supposedly they help, I don’t know, science or something.” You laugh, and the sound is so sudden and forced it makes you both wince. “I’ll go now. Sorry. Really.”
You’re at the top of the stairs and darting toward the exit before he has a chance to say anything else, and you’re out the door before Robin can question your panic.
…
You don’t speak to him again until Abigail’s party the next evening. You’re watching Emily make the drink you’ve been sent to order when Sebastian leans against the bar next to you and says, “Thank you.”
“What?” You hope the question sounded less squeaky to his ears than it did to your own. You’re only on your second drink, but Emily has been making them stronger than usual per the birthday girl’s request, and you’re steadily beginning to feel the effects. You wish you’d brought your glass with you so you could take another sip to stop yourself from gawking, but change your mind when he rolls his eyes exasperatedly. Realistically you’d only embarrass yourself further if you kept drinking now.
“For the glasses,” he clarifies. “I tried them last night, and you were right. Didn’t get a headache. Guess the whole blue light thing is no joke.”
You duck your head shyly and let yourself blame the warmth blooming in your chest on the alcohol rather than the smile on his face, small and private. “You’re welcome,” you murmur, quietly enough that he probably wouldn’t have heard if he wasn’t standing next to you.
If he was going to say anything more, it’s interrupted by Emily setting a plate of zucchini fritters and a brightly colored cocktail down in front of you. “Sorry for the wait! Is Abby having a good time?”
“She is,” you answer with a polite smile. Can’t decide if you’re annoyed by the interruption, or grateful for it. “Thanks for these.”
“It’s what they pay me to do.” She winks at you, nods kindly at Sebastian, then flits to the other end of the bar where Pam is loudly flagging her down.
Abigail isn’t having all that good of a time, actually, judging by the frustrated kick she’s giving the arcade machine when you reenter the side room.
“Prairie King sucks,” she declares, volume control declining in tandem with sobriety. She grins when she spies the glass in your hand and grabs it with a singsong thaaaaank yooooou! and takes an impressive chug.
“Holy shit,” she stage-whispers, “this is the best drink I’ve ever had.”
Sebastian snorts behind you, setting the plate down on the edge of the pool table. “As if you can even tell what it tastes like this wasted.”
“Of course I can,” she insists. “It’s…” another gulp, a thoughtful pause, “it’s pineapple.”
“Mango,” you correct softly.
“Whatever, it’s delicious, try it!”
You placatingly take a small sip, nod along as she continues to wax poetic about the mixed drink as if it were the nectar of the gods themselves, and reach for your own drink you’ve yet to finish, the one Sam had slurredly promised to keep an eye on in your absence. There's a lot of creeps in bars, I’ll make sure no one touches it! As if either of the only two people in the room could or would ever drug someone’s drink, but it was a sweet offer and you appreciate it nonetheless.
Sam stands from where he’d been reclined into the corner of the sofa, stretching his arms over his head until his back pops and his fingers nearly graze the ceiling. You marvel, not for the first time, at the height of this absolute building of a man. He then walks to the Prairie King machine, almost tripping over his shoelace, and enters another quarter while smugly telling Abigail to watch how it’s done, son.
Sebastian is munching bemusedly on a fritter, and raises an eyebrow inquisitively when you meet his eye. “What?”
You tip your glass at him. “Why aren’t you drinking?”
He scoffs and picks up another fritter. “Because I’m a wet blanket, I guess.”
“That’s not what I meant.” He levels you with a dry look. “Do you not think, like, one beer, or maybe a shot would help you relax? Get out of your head and feel less…” You wave your unoccupied hand in front of you, as if hoping to slap against a word that articulates what you’re trying to say. “Less tense? Anxious?”
“I know it wouldn’t help.” He glances at your friends, who are bumping into each others’ sides to try and gain the upper hand. You wonder if they’ve forgotten that the game is meant to be played as a team. “I’ve tried, before, but at best alcohol doesn’t do anything for me, and at worst it makes me more anxious. And it usually tastes like shit.”
“You drink black coffee. I figured you liked shitty drinks.”
His eyes narrow. “I’ll let that slide since you’re drunk.”
“Ask me again sober, I’ll still say it.”
He laughs, surprisingly loud and genuine, and you take another sip to hide what you suspect is a blooming blush. You catch movement from the corner of your eye and turn to find Abigail watching you, face screwed up like she’s thinking hard about something. Whatever conclusion she comes to is a good one, or maybe a dangerous one, because she grins so widely you can see the sharp of her teeth even from across the room.
…
“Sooo…” You glance up in the mirror, watching Abigail lean back against the bathroom door. She’s raised her voice enough that you can hear it over the running water you’re washing your hands under, but she’s not borderline yelling anymore, which you’re incredibly grateful for when she continues, “How long have you and Seb been hooking up?”
You maintain eye contact with her reflection only so you don’t have to face the reality of your tomato red face. “Excuse me?”
“Come on! You guys are totally being weird!” That stupid grin doesn’t falter, but your heart rate does. “I thought maybe you guys had a fight, because you weren’t even looking at each other, but then you go and start flirting—”
“We are not flirting—”
“Come on, it’s my birthday, don’t lie to me!”
Damn her stupid puppy eyes. They’re nearly as effective as Sam’s, falling short only because his are typically sincere and hers are always a ploy to get her way. “I’m not lying, we aren’t hooking up.”
“Well, obviously something happened.”
“He—” You clear your throat and turn off the tap, reaching for a paper towel. “I interrupted him yesterday, is all.”
“Interrupted him,” she repeats. You can almost hear the cogs turning in her head as stares at you in the mirror. “Wait, interrupted, interrupted? Like…?” She makes a crude hand gesture, smile growing even more maniac.
“Yeah, like. Can we just be glad he doesn’t hate me forever and go back to your party now?”
“Holy shit, that’s classic. Did you see—”
“No, and even if I did, I’d pretend I didn’t. Let’s go.” You place a hand on her shoulder and firmly turn her to face the door, pushing insistently.
“You should have offered a hand.”
“If you do not shut up—” You fumble to push the door open from behind her, and Sebastian narrowly misses walking right into it on the other side.
Abigail laughs, loud and hyena-like, and you think you can see tears forming in her eyes. “You two have got to stop meeting like this.”
You have three more drinks before the night is over.
…
The hangover you wake up with the next morning must be some kind of record. Your throat feels like sandpaper and your head is throbbing, and sitting upright takes more effort than it should, considering the decent shape months’ worth of farm work has left you in. You groan as your stomach churns angrily at the movement, and slowly convince your eyes to open, and scream.
Sebastian jumps where he’s sat in your chair, clutches at his chest and blinking blearily at you. “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck yourself!” You shift one leg against the other, discreetly trying to check your state of undress. You appear to have shorts on, and he’s still fully dressed and on the other side of the room. All good signs. “What are you doing in my house?”
“Making sure you don’t choke on your own vomit in your sleep. You’re welcome.” He yawns and nods to your side table, and you gratefully swallow the tablets you find.
“Surely I wasn’t that drunk.”
“Uh…” He chuckles, straining his head to one side until his neck cracks. You cringe at the sound. “Sure, we’ll go with that.”
You sigh, resting your chin on your knees. “How bad?”
“You started crying when Shane wouldn’t let you have one of his breadsticks.”
“I mean… that seems like a valid reason to cry, still.”
He rolls his eyes, standing and reaching for your now empty glass. “Glad you think so, because just about the whole town heard it. Do you have eggs? That’s all I really know how to make.”
“You don’t… you don’t have to make me breakfast?”
“You need to eat something, it’ll make you feel better.” He’s already disappeared through the door to the rest of the house, and after a brief moment of dwelling in your own disbelief you sleepily follow.
“I’m sorry,” you tell him as he opens your fridge.
“For what?”
“Needing a babysitter. And not knocking. And just… a lot of things, I guess.” You pull yourself to sit on the countertop a few feet from the stove, where Sebastian has left the kettle to heat to a boil. “I don’t actually try to be such a nuisance.”
“You’re not. You don’t have to apologize for any of that.” He opens a couple of cabinets until he finds a pan. “Well, maybe the not knocking thing.”
You groan and bury your face in your hands. “Trust me, lesson learned.”
“Uh huh.” His voice sounds stilted, a bit, and you mean to ask him if something else is wrong, but the kettle whistling interrupts you. Figuring you may as well try to be useful, you set about making two cups of tea while he scrambles four eggs. You don’t speak much more, and he leaves after breakfast to work on a project with a fast approaching deadline. You allow yourself a few minutes to sit at your table and gaze at the now empty chair he had just occupied before dragging yourself up to clean and start your day. Now is not the time to compare an empty chair to other things.
…
Sebastian comes over less often after that morning. He says he’s busy with a big project for a client who’s offering twice what it’s worth, and you pretend to believe that’s the only reason you’ve gone from seeing him nearly every day to only seeing him on Fridays.
Hypothetically, you could always go visit him. Hypothetically, you’d rather stick a fork in an electrical socket. The other day— which is now dubbed The Incident in your mind— you had shut the door before you could actually see… anything, but what you did see is still burned in the forefront of your mind, and your imagination has filled in the gaps in numerous variations. It’s infuriating, a bit, because Sebastian’s friendship wasn’t easily earned, and you feel like you’re watching it slip through your fingers faster than that damned eel you failed to catch in the mines a month ago. You invaded his privacy, you embarrassed him, and then you proceeded to embarrass yourself as well. If you didn’t have so many responsibilities on the farm, you’d probably pack a bag and run. Yoba knows you’re good at that.
And now you’re spiraling, and so you stand from your couch and go for a walk. It doesn’t do much to clear your head, but the fresh air does help even out your breathing, and after what feels like no time you find yourself outside Sam’s house. You knock on his window, try not to think about what happens when you don’t knock in Pelican Town, and let yourself in at his cheerful insistence. He’s finished the song he was working on before, and he plays it for you now, interrupting himself a few times to point out how he intends other instruments to sound throughout it. It’s a fantastic song, and you have your suspicions as to who it’s about, but you don’t get to interrogate because the door swings open and Abigail and Sebastian walk in.
The latter pauses at the door, looking not unlike a deer in headlights. “Uh. Hi?”
Abigail smiles, but it isn’t teasing or kind, surprisingly; it’s the slightest bit strained. “We didn’t know you’d be here today,” she says.
“Just wanted another opinion on the new song. Have you guys been practicing it?” He turns back toward you and asks, “Wanna hear how the whole thing sounds?”
The silence that follows is nearly deafening, and you wonder if Sam is actually clueless, or if this is his attempt at handling whatever tension is now suffocating his room. You decline, smile even though you feel more like crying, and leave as soon as Sebastian steps out of the doorway. There are two cigarettes outside this time, but you do not stop to pick them up in favor of sprinting away.
…
It’s the Friday before Spirit’s Eve, and instead of meeting your friends at the saloon, you’re fishing in the mountain lake. What started as a heavy downpour this morning has now eased up into a light drizzle, so you aren’t worried about hypothermia, but the chill in the air is undeniable. It’s been a dry season, unusually so according to Willy, and if you can’t catch a walleye tonight you’re likely to be stuck waiting until next year. Why a supposed wizard can’t just snap one into existence himself is beyond you, but Rasmodius said he would make it worth your while, and you needed a good excuse not to meet with your friends to strategize for tomorrow night’s maze. Though you’re probably unofficially uninvited, given the way even Sam hasn’t spoken to you over the past week. It stings, but you knew when you moved here that you would end up spending most of your time in your own company. You just expected that would mean not making friends at all, rather than making and then losing them before a year’s end.
You’re focusing intently on holding back tears, and so when you hear footsteps approach you don’t turn to greet whoever they belong to.
You’re expecting Linus, based on the lack of greeting, but it only takes a moment to recognize that this silence isn’t companionable like ones the two of you usually share; this silence is tense, palpable, and your fear is confirmed when you hear the click of a lighter a yard from where you’re standing.
“Can you please tell Abigail,” Sebastian says flatly, “that you’re not interested in me.”
“…Pardon?” You can feel your heart drop into your stomach, pinballing off your other organs on its way down.
He takes a drag, lets it out with an agitated huff. “She’s asked me everyday since her birthday whether I’ve asked you out yet, so clearly she’s not listening to me. Tell her to drop it so I can pay attention to my work. Please.”
You wonder if your face is as pale as it feels. You draw in your line, deciding that Rasmodius will have to find a walleye some other way, or else wait another year. You’ve only seen Sebastian this irate twice before, and you’re not too interested in being on the receiving end of his rage. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why she’s doing that. I’ll call her tonight.”
“Good.” He ashes his cigarette on the dirt next to him and walks along the lake’s edge until he’s as far from you as he can get. You bite your lip until it bleeds, chapped as it already is from the cold, and gather your things quickly before trekking back to the farmhouse.
…
You consider skipping the festival altogether, but Linus has mentioned multiple times throughout the season how excited he is for you to see the maze he helps put together each year. He offered to make it a little easier since it would be your first, and you’d good-naturedly demanded that he not go easy on you, that he give you a worthy challenge. And Spirit’s Eve is your favorite , has been since you were a little kid, and anyone who’s been by the farm this season would know it from all the decorations you’ve put up. So you won’t skip the festival, but you’ll have to navigate it smartly if you want to have a halfway decent time.
You’d called Abigail last night, and all seven minutes of the conversation had consisted of mostly talking and not much listening before you’d raised your voice to say, “He’s made it pretty clear it’s not mutual, so will you please stop bugging him so maybe he won’t hate me!” and then hung up before waiting for an answer.
It didn’t hit you until now, as you’re struggling to open the door while holding one basket overfilled with cranberries and another with eggs, that you hadn’t really confirmed your feelings for him out loud until that phone call. But Abigail is infuriatingly observant, and selectively socially deaf, so it’s not a wonder that she realized and then took it upon herself to do something about it. You only hope she didn’t embellish with any creative details, but she almost always does, so your optimism is decidedly blind.
The ground is less muddy than you’d expected, thanks to a surprisingly warm day for the end of fall, so you only have to wear your slightly heavy boots and a thick sweater. You draw a nose and whiskers on your face last minute, just so you can say you technically have a costume, and lock your door before beginning the walk to town at 9:30. You spot Marlon in the middle of the square when you stop to get yourself some punch, and you’re about to go over and greet him when you spot a flash of purple just a few feet past him. Abigail and Sebastian are standing in front of an iron cage, and you can tell they’re having an intense conversation by the way she’s flapping her hands around and the tense set of his shoulders. You quickly down the drink you’ve just poured, nearly choking at the burn as it goes down— you don’t know whether to blame Pam or Shane, but someone has definitely spiked the punch— and rush to the entrance of the maze, hoping Abigail won’t notice you despite you being directly in her line of sight.
You wouldn’t call the beginning of the maze challenging, exactly, but it’s certainly well decorated. The ambiance captures the spirit of the season perfectly, and were it not for your current anxieties, you could easily pretend you’d been transported to a different realm entirely. You can hear other people through the hedges, but Alex is the only one you actually pass. He’s pacing along one wall, muttering about how he can see something on the other side but can’t find a way to it. He asks if you think he’d get in trouble if he just muscled his way through, and you dissuade him best you can before continuing.
You find an exit, and are about to pat yourself on the back when you see Sam sat on the ground in front of you, holding a pair of plastic fangs and chugging a Joja Cola.
“Dead end,” he shrugs. He sounds disappointed but not overly so, like it’s only a minor inconvenience. “I’m starting to think the whole maze is. I could’ve sworn someone was ahead of me, though.”
You hum in response, trying to think of something you can say to excuse yourself. You sincerely doubt he has any personal grievances with you (you sincerely doubt he has them with anyone, really), but he was Sebastian’s friend first, and you’re willing to respect that. If Sam’s supposed to be avoiding you in solidarity, though, he doesn’t seem to be aware of it, because he carries on trying to make conversation.
“So are you enjoying your first Spirit’s Eve in Pelican Town?”
Not nearly as much as you had hoped to. “It’s nice,” you tell him, “but I am a bit upset at how poorly I’m doing here. I used to be the best at mazes.”
“So did I, until Linus started pitching in. Kinda think he did it just to knock me and Seb down a few pegs.”
Your laugh is only partly genuine, faltering a bit at the mention of the man you’re currently hiding from, like a child who’s been scolded. Sam must notice the change in tone, because his smile turns less joking and more pitying. Not unkind, but not encouraging. He starts to say something else, but you cut him off.
“I’m not ready to give up just yet. I’m gonna poke around a bit more and see if I can’t find the end.”
You wave before turning to leave, and he returns it, friendly bastard that he is. You turn toward the same direction you were going before, and shriek when a hand grabs your shoulder from behind.
“Yoba, you scare easy.” It’s a close thing, but you don’t scream again, though it would’ve been out of frustration if you did. You turn to face Sebastian, praying your face looks even half as neutral as you’re attempting to keep it.
“If you’re here to ask for directions, you’ve come to the wrong place.” You aim for a light tone, but he simply rolls his eyes and steps past you. You watch him walk a couple yards ahead, bewildered, until he turns around with an expectant look.
“Are you coming, or…?”
Like a damn puppy, you heel, making sure not to lag too far behind lest you lose sight of Sebastian’s shadowy form. It looks like he hasn’t bothered to dress up, either, the only change to his wardrobe a leather jacket over a white shirt instead of the usual ratty hoodie. His hair is pushed off his face, though, and that’s absolutely not doing funny things to your stomach, not in the slightest. He stops at what looks like another dead end and pulls out his lighter, using it as a small torch as he searches along the wall.
“I’ve already been this way,” you tell him, then gawk as he pockets the lighter and disappears straight through the hedge.
“Cheater,” you admonish.
“Nope, it’s a secret entrance. Er, exit.” He leans down a bit and stretches his arm through the narrow gap he’d slid through, hand held in your direction. “Come on, it’s almost the end.”
You press against a few different spots before following, and the hedges are indeed denser everywhere except where his arm is still poked through. Confident he’s not lying about playing dirty, you discreetly wipe your palm on your jeans before taking his hand and letting him guide you through the gap. You’re the one who lets go, partly to check your hair for twigs, but mostly because he seems to have forgotten to do so. He directs you toward a cave mouth you’re certain you’ve never seen before, through a dimly lit tunnel, and out into another, smaller clearing with a chest. You can hear someone walk past on the other side of the hedge, footsteps heavy like they’re irritated.
“Congratulations,” Sebastian deadpans, “you completed the maze.”
You pout exaggeratedly. “It doesn’t count if you do all the hard work for me.”
“Fine, don’t ask me for help next year then. Can we, um, can we talk?”
Ah, yes, talking. Fuck. “What about?”
He scoffs, and you’re reminded that playing dumb never works with Sebastian. “About whatever shit Abby is on.”
“Uh, right.” You rock on your heels a bit, before letting out an anxious sigh. “Do you have any more of those?” You nod to the cigarette tucked behind his ear.
He moves it to his mouth, and hands you the pack from his back pocket while he lights it. He lights yours, too, and you pray the flame isn’t illuminating the flush you feel spreading across your cheeks. You take a shaky drag, and say, “I really don’t know what made this whole thing come up. I never said anything to her.”
Sebastian leans back against the cliffside as he exhales. “You didn’t have to. I’m the one she’s trying to embarrass.”
Obviously, because being interested in you would be embarrassing. Humiliating, even. “I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not after an apology; if anything I should be giving one. I just wanna make sure that we’re, like,” he shrugs a shoulder, fiddling with his cigarette, “that we’re okay.”
You feel a pang in your chest at how his voice falls quiet at the end. “I mean, I’d like to be. Guess that’s kind of up to you, though.”
He blinks, frowns. “What?”
“I mean, I know it’s probably uncomfortable for you…”
“Hmph. Believe it or not, you’re nowhere near the first person to reject me.”
Not the first person to— “What?”
“I promise I won’t be weird about it, okay, I just… I miss hanging out w—”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
He stares at you, dumbfounded, and it’s the first time you’ve seen real color in his face. “Um. My big embarrassing crush on you?”
“Fuck off.”
You don’t mean for it to slip out, and it clearly wasn’t the best thing to say, given the way his expression closes off. “Sorry,” he snarks, “for thinking this could be a mature conversation—“
“You do not have a crush on me.”
“Sure, if that makes it more comfortable for you.”
“I have a crush on you, dumbass.”
He stares hard at you. “…Fuck off,” he says quietly.
You laugh in disbelief. You could actually cry, probably. “Is that not why Abby kept bugging you?”
“No. Well, maybe? I don’t know.” He takes another drag, chest shaking like he’s also laughing. You don’t hear it if he is. “I don’t know anything, apparently.” He says it like it’s an epiphany.
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” You ask gently. “I thought maybe I was being annoying, or something.”
He smiles, and if your heartbeat stutters it’s only because you haven’t seen that smile in a few weeks. It wouldn’t affect you so strongly otherwise. That’s the story you’ll stick to, anyway. “I was more on edge about whatever Abby might have said.” He stubs out his cigarette on the wall of rock behind him, almost drops it on the ground but seems to think better of it.
“Literally nothing. I thought she was avoiding me too, both her and Sam.”
He’s definitely blushing now, and you have to bite your tongue not to full on coo over it. “Nah, Sam’s just been… Sam’s been trying to distract me, I guess. And Abby’s been dividing her time between working and giving me false hope.”
“Not so false after all, huh?”
“No,” he hums, “I suppose not.”
You open the chest before leaving the maze, and find what appears to be a pumpkin spray painted gold. It’s deceptively heavy for its size, and Sebastian offers to carry it for you, but with a childish urge to show off, you turn him down. You do let him guide you back out of the maze, however, and find Sam and Abigail standing close together at its entrance, speaking quietly. The latter grins wolfishly when she spies you, nearly shouting when she asks, “Have a good talk, then?”
You blush, and a side glance at Sebastian confirms he won’t be gracing her with an answer, so you stutter out, “Yes, it was very, uh, productive.”
He actually face-palms beside you, and your friends bend over with their laughter. You laugh along weakly, still unsure whether tonight hasn’t actually been some wild, elaborate dream. Sebastian’s elbow grazes yours, and when you look back at him he’s smiling, eyes sickeningly fond.
May you never wake up.
…
You do, of course, wake up the following morning, but you’re not so upset about it when you open your mailbox to find a flyer advertising bouquets from the general store with Abigail’s scribbled handwriting along the side:
you should totally come buy one of these ;D
Yeah, you think to yourself, you totally should.