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Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
John wants Arlo, despite the latter’s protests and reasoning, to try again to free his best friend from the authorities’ grasp.
“I can’t do that again! They would fire me on the spot. They’ll think I’m going to try something again.” Arlo argues, gesturing in the air towards an invisible being.
“What do you mean, again? Just try asking them! It’s been long enough, right? They think you’re on their side already!” John insists, unwilling to give up his cause. “It’s simple! Just ask your boss or whatever about her, and suggest doing something about her!”
“Don’t you understand? No one trusts me, John! No one there trusts me!” Arlo shouts, seconds away from just straight-up screaming at the other. “I’m a fucking intern, not a long-time worker! A seventeen-year-old high school student that’s supposedly performing much better than most of the people in my department! It would be strange to them, wouldn’t it?! Someone like them must be a spy, that was given information from their headquarters to use, worming into their system and then destroying them from the inside! It’s not that simple, John! I can’t just waltz into the leader of the Anti-Corruption department and demand Seraphina’s bounty to be removed from her head!”
“So what? We sit here and wait for them to catch her?!” John shouts back, not understanding Arlo’s reasoning.
“Yes! No! I don’t know! How am I supposed to know?! She’s the one who refused to swallow her pride and take the offer!”
“You fucking bitch! Take that back! If she didn’t agree to your fucking deal, then it must’ve been a shitty one! Sera isn’t stupid!”
“You must be, then.” Arlo mutters before stalking out of the classroom, leaving John alone, once more, wondering where the hell everything went wrong.
Circling.
Just circling.
Like a dog chasing its own tail.
Like a loop.
Like a cycle.
A never-ending sequence, with its split ends and sharp edges coiled into knots, leading into one another, one after the other.
The same choices, the same outcomes, the same choices, the same outcomes.
Like a suffering hamster forced to be stuck in a running wheel connected to a lightbulb which, at all costs, can’t be put out.
The lightbulb’s light is dependent on the hamster, yet the hamster is dependent on the lightbulb all the same. The hamster stops running— the lightbulb goes out. The lightbulb goes out— so does the hamster.
Just like Arlo, running in his own hamster wheel; his job which he chose and its rules, connected to his life— his own lightbulb. He could choose to escape from the wheel to help others’ wheels turn, whenever he wanted to, but it would be at the cost of his life.
And each time he left and came back, the wheel would become more and more stuck.
Eventually, one last time, the lightbulb would go out, never to be lit by him again.
A new hamster worker would replace him in the wheel, suffering the same as he did.
A cycle; a loop; a sequence.
A sequence that all knew but never told. An unspoken rule.
Because when they did, their own wheels would refuse to turn.
And the glowing lights of dependence would vanish, never to be seen with them again.
Arlo knew that his Aunt Valerie was an EMBER agent. He’d been told so many times. By clues, by his friends, by his gut.
He ignored it, in favor of her, thinking that someone who saved his own life wouldn’t destroy the lives of others. Of course not— the authorities exist for a reason, and that reason is to promote and make decisions for the common good of everyone.
No, she wasn’t an enemy. She was the one who guided him out of his darkness, and she would guide and lift others out of their downward spirals as well.
Deep down inside, he knew that it was her, all along. The one who burned red flames onto the skin of dead bodies, the one who stabbed Rei in the back, the one who lied to him and maybe thousands of other mourning families and friends with a smile on her face with her flaming fingernails behind her back.
“Don’t let them influence you. You’re a good person, Arlo, and you have a future. Don’t waste it.” she would always say, as he fought to catch up with her long strides. Eventually, he grew to be able to follow in her footsteps, and it wasn’t hard to keep up with her advances.
The protocol he’d followed since he was young, and she was the only one in his life that mattered. To him, to his ability, and, now, probably, to herself, too.
Valerie always used two words that separated him from others: “them,” and “you.”
A few more words that elevated that cause: “waste,” “shame,” and “others.”
She was good with words. Now that he thinks about it, it’s probably because she’d had to act apologetic and torn in front of thousands of people asking her to find their lost family members, wondering where their friends went, and breaking down. She’d probably seen it all and brushed it off like an annoying problem that kept resurfacing, eventually shooing them away.
“You are a good person, Arlo. You have a good future if you stay on the right path, unlike the others. You shouldn’t waste your talent like they did. It would be a shame if you became like them, wouldn’t it?”
Ever since he was young, and lost.
But now, he is older. And he couldn’t find any other reason for the sounds of a running sink behind her voice in their phone calls, the tiny speck of blood on her white shirt sleeve, the familiar blond hair under the brim of her hat, and her shining diamond earrings that he knew very well.
He couldn’t find a reason to explain her twitching pupils, hardly noticeable at all, pulling ever so slightly into slits during the daytime.
Arlo was wrong about her.
Now, it doesn’t matter anymore what he thought of Valerie.
There’s nothing he can do about it.
And that is what scares him the most.
He sighs in defeat, leaning onto the back of the chair. “I don’t know why I care, anymore.”
“You don’t need to,” the other replies swiftly without missing a beat. Much too quickly, in a way that gives him no time to think of something— anything, to follow up with. Their last fight was explosive, like the death of a red star. They didn’t die, but everything collapsed into shambles, the huge supernova ringing through their universes for one long minute.
His body stiffens, fingers curled into fists, resting on the cold seat where he’s been sitting on for an excruciating five minutes.
“What do you mean, I don’t need to? You know what I said,” Arlo says through gritted teeth, running his hand through his now messy, yet still achingly perfect hair. “I… don’t know why I care.”
But somehow, their supernova created a new star.
Inside, John has no idea what to do, nor say. His quick retort was something he often used to say in order to end uncomfortable conversations he didn’t want to continue with.
No, this exchange isn’t any different. He finds Arlo’s stress worrying, even slightly endearing, with a stretch. John couldn’t lie that the sight of Arlo, a normally calm and composed person, was startling to him. His eye bags only grew darker every day, and who knows what he’d been doing ever since he’s warned Remi, Blyke, and Isen of the authorities’ ever-oppressive grasp onto their freedom?
He had no idea whether Arlo was even telling the truth when he pulled him over from the hallway into an empty classroom, pleading John to hear him out. He was dubious of the other’s actions and angry, nonetheless, at the blond. Not for supposedly selling Seraphina out in favor of his aunt, but for not doing anything about Valerie’s attacks against Seraphina.
But Arlo provided an explanation to that, which John accepted with gritted teeth and balled fists, muttering strings of colorful swears and even slapping the blond across the face, to which the other said nothing. Arlo’s face, a blank slate, his lips, still kissable, although now only angrily.
He had no choice but to believe him— they were talking about the authorities, who were still stubbornly on Seraphina’s tail, even after they promised not to be. He wondered where that dedication went with their other "cases."
“Well, I said that you didn’t need to.” John repeats, wondering how long this one-sided conversation will last.
“Didn’t need to care about anything?” Arlo stares at John blankly, his normally angry blue eyes hollow, emptier than the stares of some of even the worst, and glaring. The emptiness hit him like a stab to the chest, cold and gone, devoid of emotion. No, Arlo was not angry, he was suffocating.
Just like John was forced to accept that Seraphina would be found and gone in weeks, Arlo had been forced to accept that his aunt Valerie was not the person he knew. At first, John rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath about how blind Arlo is. His faith, his trust— all twisted and turned to forever be in the direction of Valerie.
Days passed, and the silence somehow rang louder. His lips pressed into a straight line, coping with the loss of someone who, he found out, was never there in the first place, his perfect poker face, haunting. John began to think. Arlo was the only… friend(?) he had left at Wellston, and no matter how much he’d like to deny it, he was worried. So much that he scooted in a little bit and let his lips brush lightly against the other's, his hands holding the other's shoulders.
“No. You don’t need a reason to care…” John says quietly afterwards, wondering if his own words were true as he releases Arlo's shoulders from his grasp. There's definitely something wrong with him today.
Arlo’s vacant eyes bore into John’s skull, and he starts looking at the ground. Maybe he didn't even mind. Maybe he didn't even notice.
“Do I?”
John’s patience was waning, and it was leaving fast. He exhales shudderingly and fidgets with his sleeve as he searches for an explanation.
“I mean… if you care, then do something about it. It’s not like the world is going to end if you give a fuck about someone else.” John says, slightly annoyed at the sudden turn to him giving Arlo a literal pep talk.
Arlo, visibly startled by John’s sudden shift in tone, glares at the other even more intensely. “Well, I can’t really do anything about it by now, if you can’t tell.” he snarks, anger returning to his previously empty eyes.
“Listen. Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not your fucking therapist.” John spits back, now tense and ready to stand up and exit the room at any moment. “You dragged me here for some reason that I don’t know, so finish your rant or shit and leave.” He winces at his harsh tone, but he really doesn’t want to waste any more time talking to this (former?) asshole.
A moment of silence passes and Arlo averts his eyes to the side, staring at the room’s blackboard, scribbled with chalky doodles and messy insults. John could notice his already pale skin flush slightly. It was a strange sight.
“Sorry,” Arlo mutters, cringing at his own tone of voice but nonetheless remaining silent afterwards. “Sorry for not doing anything. About Seraphina.”
Is it now the time to tearfully exchange apologies? Should he angrily lash out, blaming Arlo for Seraphina’s near capture? Should John bitterly punch him in the gut again, cursing his name with red in his voice? Or merely stare at the other before sighing tiredly, standing up from his chair and leaving the other behind?
“You said you couldn’t do shit about it. So you didn’t do shit about it.” John replies plainly. He’s surprised at both himself and Arlo— that he hadn’t lost his temper and that the other had apologized to him for the second time in his life.
Arlo smiles. He fucking smiles, the motherfucker.
It was more like a slight smirk, but it held no smugness nor satisfaction. It was an acknowledgement. An acknowledgement that they were on the same page, and it was no one’s just fault now. Slightly concerning, yet comforting.
Is this the end of their exchange?
John really had no idea what to say anymore.
“Er…how’s everything else going?” he mumbles. The atmosphere was only going to get increasingly more awkward at this rate.
“Horrible.” Arlo deadpans.
“Well, no shit, Sherlock.” John retorts.
The insult rings in the air as no one bothers to return with another.
Has an argument ever been this empty before?
If he was honest, it didn’t really seem like the beginning of one.
Arlo stares at John in complete silence, before replying, “I’d like for you to do better before saying that, John. I wouldn’t like for you to throw around pointless insults. It’s a shame that you can’t think of anything better.”
Well, damn.
“You really didn’t have to phrase it like that, then.” John responds, now looking at the blackboard with the chalk markings decorating its dark green surface.
Arlo shrugs with a neutral face, hiding his amusement. “I suppose so.”
It’s nice.
Pretending that they had a choice to fight or not.
Pretending like their worlds won’t soon collapse into a huge supernova.