Work Text:
There are things that Farliegh took for granted. 3 months after leaving Saltburn, he realizes that money isn't really one of them.
Instead, he finds himself folded over a mug of lukewarm coffee at 2am, staring down a collection of postcards mounted on the far wall of his local diner. He had just finished working a double, unwilling to decline an offer that would bump both his pay and reputation. Farleigh has 8 hours until his next shift. He's staring at a postcard from Greece, a name hastily penned onto the front; the edges are worn, and the corners bent. He's wondering what's written on the side pressed to the yellowing popcorn walls. Almost absentmindedly, he lifts the rim of his mug to his lips and thinks, I wish I told them how much I wanted to see Mykonos. The coffee is bitter.
It becomes a constant, after that. Walking through the American snack isle and passing his favorite cereal brand, thinking I wish I had told them how good Reece's Puffs were. Catching the eye of a boy around his age with a piercing through his left nostril, thinking I wish I told Felix to get that one. Going, alone, to a movie theater and thinking I wish I told Venetia that I loved Rocky Horror Picture Show. On and on it went.
I wish I told them I saw the Grand Canyon, and that it was so gorgeous I lost my breath. I wish I told them that I always preferred white wine over red. I wish I told them that my silk bedding was so my hair wouldn't dry out, tangle, or tear. I wish I told them about the friendship bracelets I once made for us; that I kept all three in a box under my bed. I wish I told them I was scared of being insignificant.
I wish I told them that I missed my mom and dad, that I'm farther from myself every day, that I might hate myself despite my arrogance.
Farleigh has spent his life hiding. There were dinner party invites that didn't extend to his father, yet somehow included him. Farleigh remembers sitting secluded, for once wishing he kept his hair short. Older women who wanted so badly to be young, gravitating towards him with greetings like "You're Frederica's son! I always wondered what you'd look like. I never expected a handsome young man like yourself." And the men; rough yet unworn hands that sometimes gripped the nape of his neck. "You're unique, Farleigh. It's hard to find someone who looks quite like you. You're maturing quickly." On and on it went. Despite the itching, Farleigh never cut his hair short. The Cattons would ask him why he insisted on such messiness, contrary his otherwise sharp fashion. Silk pillowcases. Five shampoo bottles, an array of hair creams--all kept out of eyesight. Better to let them believe his hair was a casual affair, and intentionally so.
The cocaine had been the least of his hidings (and look where that landed him). People are always sequestering the sunburnt, raw-rubbed, defective pieces of themselves. The things they so desperately clung to, bad habits like a bright red blemish on a ledger, or a lifeline. The first time Farleigh saw the inside of a teacher's lounge had been 30 minutes past the final bell, with a head of tangled hair that he had styled perfectly just 7 hours ago. He remembers accepting the offered cup of tea and thinking Felix won't notice I'm gone. He had told Felix what he did that evening, anyways. This, Farleigh had never thought to hide. Better not to. Better to tell Felix, who was so prone to flippancy, that he would do anything for a good grade.
"What, you're that shit at school, mate? Jesus. You better not tell anyone; you'd get ousted in days." Felix had said, a painful looking blush to his face. They had only been 16, after all. "I mean, seriously! I never took you for a pillock." At that, Farleigh had raised his eyebrows skeptically. There are some things that were abundantly clear. Uncle James had insisted that Farleigh required a higher education than whatever American dumpster he would be learning his times tables in, and the rest of the Cattons had quickly glued themselves to the idea. They liked to think that they were saving him from stupidity.
In the end, it had been Felix who told someone Farleigh's secret. Namely, his new friend that had been sitting in Farleigh's seat for the last 2 weeks. After countless meetings and scoldings, and significant attempts to publicly humiliate him, Farleigh was sent back to Saltburn before his transfer. When Elspeth and James asked, frantically, what Farleigh had been thinking, he had told them that he needed a better grade. They'd just have to try harder to save him. In truth, there were some things that never really went away, like a teachers lounge and a fresh cup of tea. Something secret, something just for him.
The things that Farleigh insisted on hiding were good things, already half-stained by the bad. A family photo album inside of a shoebox inside of a pillowcase inside of a duffel bag under his bed, next to the ornate little chest where he obviously kept his drugs. Photo strips, polaroids from New York City, his mom's peach scented powder blush, his dad's discarded tie clip. If you keep what really matters just far enough to the side of what people consider a secret, they'll never look any harder. Farleigh has always believed that your worst mistakes only marginally define your humanity. Really, it's what someone loves, isn't it? It's who they would change for. It's who they would make bracelets for.
Back to the diner, back to the present, back to a time and place where nobody really cared to distinguish a secret from a statement. Back to the postcard from Greece that Farleigh wants to rip off the wall, just to read what is obscured. Saltburn was so large of a life that it was impossibly surreal, too many millions of dollars past tangibility. Whatever was written on that postcard was touchable. A small piece of an even smaller existence. Farleigh was terrified of what it meant to be alive. To stash pieces of himself in dark places like stowaways on the Titanic. To carry what was left after the rest capsized.
I wish I'd given them those bracelets. I made them so they'd think of me, even when I wasn't there.
- - - - -
"What's your favorite color?"
It was, once again, nearing 2am. Another double, another late-night coffee from his new sanctuary. Another hour of staring wistfully at postcards, imaging the stories behind each one. This time, a woman is sat a couple barstools to his left. Her hair is blonde, the tips colored purple. She's wearing overalls.
Farleigh has been plagued by opportunities he doesn't quite remember missing.
"Pardon?" The woman asks, now turned to face him with her eyebrows drawn together.
"I asked what your favorite color is." Farleigh says, impassive. He doesn't quite know why he asked. Something has been tugging at his chest through these long months of liminal aloneness.
"Oh. Um, purple." She gestures to her hair. "It can be gaudy, I know, but I quite like lavender. The plant as well as the color. Eggplant is nice, as well. Again, the plant and... the color." She's blushing, now. Embarrassed by her nervous rambling, although she has no reason to be. Farleigh wouldn't have known how to respond if he were interrogated by a stranger, either. He almost feels guilty for catching her so off-guard.
"That's lovely. Mine is..." Farleigh swallows around something thick building in his throat. "I haven't quite picked a favorite, I don't think. I've been liking soft greens, but I usually would've said pink."
The woman seems to perk up slightly, resting her fingertips along the rim of her mug. "Why not pink tonight, then?" She asks, head tilted slightly. Farleigh wasn't used to this kind of talking. He had always been... nervous, just slightly on edge in any social situation. There was always the giving and taking, the weighing of odds, the things he'd only ever see through his peripheral.
"I guess it just doesn't feel like me, anymore."
"I get that. I used to feel blue. Now I'm purple." At that, her face is cut cleanly by a smile.
"Why not blue, then?" Farleigh follows the turn of his head with the rest of his body, now facing her.
"I suppose I just realized purple was a better color."
"I'm Farleigh." The woman blinks a few times, fingers stilling from where they had begun circling the rim.
"...Farleigh. Well, I'm Ellie, although I'm still confused as to why we're speaking."
"Nice to meet you," is all Farleigh responds with, turning away from Ellie. He's regretting the decision to indulge himself as a familiar discomfort settles into his skin. Ellie seems lovely.
"...Charmed."
- - - - -
Farleigh sees her again, in the following weeks.
His apartment slowly takes a more reasonable form. He was honest, when he said he's been enjoying green. What little money he has after food and rent is often spent on a humble potted plant. He doesn't have a bedframe, opting to purchase a couple cheap wooden pallets from the nursery instead. He... likes it. He likes the new home he found for what used to live under his ancient metal bedframe, at Saltburn. The walls are covered with photos from every stage of his unintelligible life, and he's taken to developing film in the darkness of the small bathroom in his apartment. The more that he comes to love his new life, the more his grief weighs unbearably on the margins of his mind.
They don't speak again until almost a month after their introduction. It's 1am, this time. It had snowed, tonight, meaning business was slow enough to close early. Farleigh has tea instead of coffee. He's never liked tea all that much. The times he accepted it were always for the sake of politeness. And... well.
"Farleigh the American." Ellie murmurs as she drops heavily into the barstool next to his.
"Oh. Hi?"
Ellie blows out a puff of air, her head falling towards the counter. "Don't sound so surprised. You jumped me first. I'm returning the favor." Her hair is brown, now.
"Your hair is brown, now."
She snorts into the counter. "I'm aware."
"Do you not know how to talk to people, or something?" Farleigh snaps, because the discomfort is back, and it's never really went away. The months of solitary, tentative existence have confirmed what he knew since he stepped foot in Saltburn: The Cattons were the only opportunity Farleigh had to mean something, to matter the same amount as everyone else. To belong, however grudgingly, in the same world as someone like Felix. Also, tea. Farleigh should've just ordered coffee.
Ellie's head is lifted from the counter, now. Farleigh half-expects her to be offended, but she just looks curious. That's decidedly worse.
"You're odd, Farleigh."
"Yeah, well. Purportedly." He shoves the steaming mug farther from him, irritated by the smell.
"Fancy word." She says airily. The comment sends his thoughts spinning back to boarding school. The condescension that plagued his academic maneuvering. Logically, Farleigh understands that Ellie is an innocent bystander, caught in Farleigh's ambivalence. There’s a possibility that he lost his grip on logic months ago.
So, all he says is an eloquent "Fuck you." Ellie glances to the mug of tea now perched precariously on the far edge of the counter. She calls the server over and asks for two coffees with cream and no sugar.
"Why are you in England?" Ellie questions, once Farleigh's tea is replaced with a cup of coffee that blissfully scalds its way down his throat. She's trampling on all his tripwires, and she doesn't seem to care. He's very much regretting his choices.
"Family."
"Your family lives here?"
"Aunt and uncle. In the countryside."
"Are you rich?"
Farleigh laughs around another mouthful, narrowly saving himself from choking. "God, no. Not anymore, at least. It was never really my money, anyways."
"Is it ever really their money," is what she replies. Farleigh raises his eyebrows in her direction, making a conscious effort to look judgmental. Snobbery used to be his favorite cover. "Don't fucking look at me like that, ass. What did your family do to earn it?"
They probably had evil ancestors, Farleigh thinks, but he ends up saying "They were white."
Ellie cackles, earning a few sleepy looks from other corners of the diner. "God, I probably could've told you that myself. Boarding school babies, eh?"
"Fuck. Fuck. I hate boarding school, don't even talk about it with me."
"Wow, they were really in your business--mucking it all up--if they sent you to bloody boarding school." And... nobody had ever said something like that, to Farleigh. It must show on his face, because she follows herself up with "What? I mean, really. No way was that fun. It had to be awful. I've spoken to very few boarding school boys out of concerted effort. Horrible lays. Even worse friends."
Farleigh nods solemnly in agreement. This conversation felt unreal. He was having trouble following it. "I mean... yeah. Yeah. Not good."
"Do you not know how to talk to people, or something?" Ellie parrots to him teasingly.
"Fuck you." And then, "Still purple?"
She looks back towards her hands, wrapped around her warm mug. "Blue, again."
Farleigh envisions a tacky blue flannel, crudely tucked into awkward khaki pants. He knows blue, like moonlight streaming through the window of a sleeping castle. His window. If Farleigh thinks hard enough, he can still remember the way his posters looked through his peripheral, that night. What would he have told Felix, if the other boy had noticed? Would he have told Felix that it had never been about grades? That he never liked tea, yet always accepted it out of habit?
"...And you? Are you pink again?"
Felix wouldn't have noticed. He never did. "I'm trying not to be. I've been buying plants. I've been... I've been trying to..." Farleigh licks his lips. "I've been trying to feel like a person, again."
- - - - -
"Do you want to come to my apartment?"
Ellie visibly stalls. "C'mon, mate. You had to offer right after I made plans with a pretty barista?"
Farleigh laughs into his palms, his face resting in his hands. "As a friend, Ellie. Not a date."
"You wouldn't have asked me on a date?"
"Not when you just made plans with a pretty barista. That would be rude."
"Goddamnit!"
- - - - -
Farleigh has spent the last 20 minutes chewing on his fingernails, pacing the length of his apartment. He's already pulled most of his photos from the walls, tucked his skincare and hair products under his sink, stashed his shitty American snacks in the back of his kitchen cupboards--he doesn't know what else to do. There's a steal clothing rack across from his bed; one of Felix's favorite shirts is hanging there, one of Venetia's favorite sweaters right beside it. Farleigh doesn't have the heart to hide the clothing somewhere dark, somewhere cold. Somewhere forgettable.
He's spared the spiral by a buzz from his intercom. 3 minutes later, Ellie is standing in his doorway wearing light-wash jeans and a Beatles t-shirt.
"It's boring in here. Farleigh, why is it boring in here? You're not a boring person. I like the Donna Summer poster, though. I'm just confused why it's your only poster. How do you live like this? I have, like, three wool carpets layered on top of each other, in my flat. They're all different colors, too. I'm terrified of dullness." She babbles, strolling around in circles. Farleigh just watches her, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Despite his overwhelming nervousness, he's standing like he used to. Back straight, legs together, arms folded casually over his chest.
"You have no manners. At all." Farleigh uses the haughtiest tone he can summon from the recesses of his brain. He's barely been talking to people, let alone pretending he's better than them.
"Piss off. I did not reschedule my date with pretty-barista just to be berated by a boring, soulless-"
"You better reschedule your date again, unless you want to show up with split ends."
Finally, Ellie ceases her march in the center of the room, arms folded like his. Farleigh can tell she’s chewing on something, mulling over the words she’s collected since meeting him. "You're not boring." You're not nothing.
Farleigh struggles against the urge to curl into himself. It's funny, how loss feels so physical. "I could be. How do you know that I'm not?"
Ellie shrugs. "You're just not. Boring people don't start conversations with strangers."
"Maybe you had just looked pathetic." Farleigh's stomach lurches, as he says it. He knows quite a bit about pity. He knows how food tastes when it's handfed to you. He knows how food tastes when you're starving. Clearly, she knows the feeling too well, if the way her face twists is any indication.
"Fuck you."
"That's my line."
Ellie leaves in a flurry, muttering about a hair appointment because I already made one for later today, prick. I knew this wouldn't last long.
- - - - -
It's another month before they speak again. Farleigh doesn't even see her at the diner.
He doesn't talk to people outside of interactions with customers and the fleeting words he exchanges with his coworkers. He makes enough snarky comments to piss people off, ward off their curiosity. He's careful to keep his plants alive, although they've wilted slightly throughout the steady passing of minutes, hours, days, weeks. Farleigh feels a sense of comradery with their slow decline in health. He feels stupid, bringing guys from the bar home. Conveniently, he hadn't replaced the things he removed from his apartment walls. Ellie's accusatory words had echoed in the empty room for hours after she left. "You're not boring," she'd said. Aren't I? he thinks. Is any of it real, if nobody was there to see it? If I never told them how much I loved them?
Morbidly, Farleigh wonders if he could find his way to Felix's grave. His cousin's ghost could stare at the friendship bracelet Farleigh would place on the headstone.
Maybe ghost-Felix would agonize over it. Maybe ghost-Felix would regret not knowing him as much as Farleigh regretted never letting him. Maybe Aunty Elspeth and Uncle James wonder about him, from time to time. Maybe he'll see them again, sometime in the future. Maybe his dad would message him back. Maybe his mom will forgive him for running away to England yet having nothing to show for it. Next time he talks to her, he'll tell her that her son is boring.
Farleigh giggles around the cigarette between his teeth. The man sleeping next to him stirs slightly before settling back into the cotton sheets. He reminds Farleigh of one of his mom's friends. Rough-soft hands that wandered into Farleigh's curls, fixated on what they've never quite understood. Something secret, something just from him. He could be that, couldn't he? Maybe that’s what Ellie meant.
He wants to start over. The hiding wasn't enough to keep the stain from spreading; even his happiest memories are saturated in bittersweetness.
- - - - -
"What's your favorite color?"
It's 1:30 AM. Farleigh didn't work today. There's a cup of tea in front of him, and he's wearing Venetia's old sweater. It's not hers anymore, not since he finally read the news from months ago.
"Pink."
"Wrong answer, try again." Farleigh turns, sluggishly, to look at her. She's looking at the counter. Her hair is blue, this time. It's an electric color, and she looks good. He takes another sip from his mug, before fixing his gaze on a postcard from Greece.
"I wanted to be like them so badly."
Ellie reaches over to pry his hands from his mug, waving down Val who nods automatically. "I don't really like purple, anymore." She whispers, like it's confidential information. Farleigh frowns.
"Blue?" His fingers flex.
"Nah. I like yellow."
Farleigh meets her gaze for the first time in nearly 2 months. "I think that's breaking a rule, Ellie."
She reaches for his face, rubbing away a smudge of eyeshadow on his temple. "It's just colors, Jesus Christ. That's the thing, Farleigh. You're allowed to love whatever you want. And because you're allowed, it doesn't have to be a mystery. So, wear the sweater if you want to, but it isn't yours. You have your own fucking clothes." Val sets two mugs on the counter in front of them, and Ellie is shoving one towards him. Farleigh feels his own life, cupped between his palms. He wants to twist it into something that lurches, tangles, writhes out of his grip.
Instead, he accepts the offered cup, and asks, "Do you like friendship bracelets?"
- - - - -
Oh, I don't want to see me,
I wanna be trapped in you.
Oh, I don't want to be me,
But I'm gunna pretend for you.
-Alex g, Pretend.