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And the Nobel Prize in Inventing Stuff is hereby awarded to…
The cool night air chills his lungs as he struggles to suck in breaths, as he throws the service doors open and runs outside. He's stumbling, tear-blind, and it's only by some miracle that he doesn't tumble completely when he trips on the edge of the sidewalk, barely managing to catch himself halfway down.
He drops to the sidewalk, holds his temples in his hands. It feels like there's a vice around his throat, tight, tighter, and he gasps, chokes on his own breath and he's falling, falling—
"Hey, whoah, you okay?"
Melvin barely hears the question, can barely make out anything besides the pounding of his heart in his skull and his own wheezing. He barely registers the feeling of a careful hand on his back.
"Hey, hey, it's okay, it's—it's okay, Melvin, just—just breathe, alright? Take it easy now…"
Gentle, rhythmic motions on his back slowly pulling him back to reality. He inhales, shaky, sputtering; exhales, slow, hiccupy. He notices now that his hands are clenched tight enough to hurt and he lets them unfold, trembling.
"There we go, that's what we're looking for, just keep breathing…"
Why is his vision so blurred? Oh, wait, no—his glasses are just smudged beyond functionality. With still shaking hands he pulls them down, fumbles them trying to get them to the hem of his shirt because he'd forgotten that he's wearing a suit tonight and he almost drops them entirely before they're caught by another pair of hands.
Those hands use the tip of a necktie to wipe his lenses down, deft. Wait a moment for him to get his own hands under control before he's finally able to take the specs again, slowly maneuver them back onto his face.
It still takes him a minute to process who it is he's seeing.
"George?"
A small smile. "Hi." But next his face is going grim and George asks Melvin, "Feeling better?"
Melvin does not, in fact, feel better. Actually, he feels terrible, but all he can bring himself to do in response is simply shrug his shoulders. He fixes his gaze to the ground, the road beneath him. He sniffles.
George pries anyway: "What happened back there? One minute you're up on stage, and the next we can't find you anywhere." In a voice rendered uncharacteristically soft with concern, he adds, "I'd thought that you'd be happy about today. Nobel winner at 20, it's literally your dream come true—"
"I don't care about the stupid award!"
It echoes all down the quiet street. Stark as a crack of lightning through the dark. George leans away, eyes wide.
Melvin doesn't realize what he's said for a few seconds, too swept up in fury, but once he does he clamps a hand to his mouth and shrinks back, crumpling into himself like he's trying to tuck himself into a shell. He stammers, "I—I mean—I didn't…"
From behind them the faint sounds of an orchestra playing waft out from the ornate building they were both inside of just moments ago.
Wordless, George raises a hand, a careful, silent request for permission. Melvin hesitates, goes to say something, stops himself. Looks away.
He nods. George lays his hand on Melvin's shoulder. Gives it a squeeze.
Again he asks, "What happened?"
And what did happen? Melvin can scarcely figure it out himself. He remembers hearing his name called, walking up onto the stage, holding his award. He remembers looking out at the sea of faces and spotting George, Harold, Billy, madly cheering him on from their shared table.
He remembers…
"I… when I was up there, I…"
He begins, but suddenly he's choking on his words again and there's no use trying to sugarcoat it now, not after George has already seen him fallen to pieces.
He gets out, "My parents said they couldn't make it," and oh, oh no, he's crying again. He scrubs at his eyes furiously.
"They ss-said they'd be busy at a conference all weekend, that they couldn't afford to lose any time on their project." Louder now. "I wanted them to come! I wanted them to see me up there, and I wanted to see them, too, but—!"
A moment to catch his breath. Gripping his knees.
"...They both think they're so important… their own son gets nominated for a Nobel Prize and they can't be bothered to show up?" Venom in his voice. "What kind of blithering fools do that?"
The silence that follows isn't what George would call awkward, or even uncomfortable, but it is… heavy, and it takes him a moment to think of what to say to his friend next.
"Melvin, I… I'm sorry."
Melvin scoffs. "You're not the one who needs to be apologizing."
"I'm sorry no one was ever there for you."
At that Melvin freezes. Everything in him grinds to a halt. His jaw works mechanically, soundless.
George continues, "You were always under so much pressure as a kid, and none of us really noticed because you were… well, you were Melvin." He wants to say it with fondness, with nostalgia, even, but it just comes out bitter. Regretful. "And we were all just dumb kids."
"You're not dumb."
When George looks over at Melvin he sees that the latter is still fixated on the pavement, but his hands are flickering restlessly. "I mean… you weren't dumb. Back then. You never… you've never been dumb." A shadow over his face. "I'm the dumb one. I was the one too blinded by my own self-pity to realize you were hurting, too."
Another silence. Long, long, long. George staring at Melvin. Melvin staring at the ground. Leaves rustling along the sidewalk behind them.
Finally, George tries to break the tension the best way he knows how: with comedy. "Wow. Okay, well, that one could've gone down way easier than that." He chuckles, clearly straining for it. Whatever. "If you wanted to spill your heart out to me, Melv, you could've at least done it over dinner—"
"Why are you here, George?"
George bites back the rest of his sentence, taken aback. Wasting no time he answers, "I came to look for you."
"No, I mean—" Melvin shakes his hands in frustration, clamps his eyes shut. "I mean why are you here? With me, tonight? After everything I've done to you and Harold, why—"
A whisper:
"Why don't you hate me?"
That's it: no more long pauses. George grips Melvin's shoulders, turns the confused redhead to face him and sternly says, "I don't hate you, Melvin, because you're my friend. Because I forgive you. Because I'm old enough to recognize when someone was just being a dumb kid."
He breathes in hard. His voice hitches.
"We were ten years old, Melvin. Neither of us deserved any of that shit."
Melvin's gone wan in George's grasp. Quiet, oh so quiet and shivery he says only, "We were nine."
"That's beside the point!" Letting go of Melvin at last, George throws his hands up and down like he's watching his team lose the big game. "That's beside the point. What I'm trying to say is—" He cuts himself off, takes another deep shaking breath. He blinks back the sting of tears in his eyes.
"... God, tonight was supposed to be your night, Melv." Running a hand through his hair. "I'm sorry it had to end up like this."
"There you go again, apologizing for things that aren't your fault." It's meant to be angry, truly, but without wanting to there's an edge of softness to Melvin's voice, something in him finally giving way. Now it's his turn to pat George's shoulder.
"I…"
George, Harold, and Billy, standing at their table, whooping for all the world to hear.
For him to hear.
"I appreciate your being here. All of you."
And George laughs at that. Not a hearty laugh, not a particularly happy laugh at that, but a laugh nonetheless, and it suits him so much better than misery does.
Gently he slaps a palm to Melvin's back. "Hey, don't even mention it, bub."
The young men smile at each other, small and soft and not quite there but it's a comfort all the same. Behind them the music carries on.
Says George, "And you know, Melv, if you ever want to talk to somebody—you know, about everything…. I can recommend a pretty good therapist."
"Tch." Melvin pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, playing the impenetrable smart guy even in spite of the tear tracks down his face. "You know I detest asking for help, Beard."
But the next instant his eyes soften again and he admits, quieter, "Maybe you could leave me their number after the gala?"
"Oh right, the gala. I almost forgot." George blinks, purses his lips in a thoughtful pause. "Hnnn… actually, you know what?"
He hops suddenly to his feet, leaving Melvin befuddled on the sidewalk. George stretches, leans down. Offers Melvin his outstretched palm.
"What's say we grab Harold and Billy and blow this pop stand?"
Melvin splutters. "Huh, wha—?? I don't think we can do that!"
"Eh, they already gave you the award. What are they gonna do, take it back?"
Melvin wants to weigh his options here. Wants to pause to consider the consequences of his actions. But…
…but oh, what the hell. Why should he be afraid of breaking the rules a bit when he's the same guy who once rampaged through the city as a giant snot monster?
He takes George's hand.
"Let's go."