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It wasn’t unlike Sylvestre to wander around and pester Fischer during the day. It was a common occurrence between the two; bickering and arguing about something, then Sylvestre agreeing to help out Fischer with something when he needed an extra set of hands.
What was unlike Sylvestre, was when he found himself in Fischer's lab, not making any effort to chirp or find anything to fill the silence with his eccentric voice.
At first, Fischer didn’t really notice it. Too focused on his current task with being lasered in on specifics. Around ten to fifteen minutes had passed in silence when he finally perked up from what he was doing, empty silence apart from the rustling of clothing and occasional clicking of Sylvestre’s heeled boots, or the scribbling of a pen.
“You are.. oddly quiet.” Fischer raised a brow at Sylvestre’s back, staring at something in a cabinet. The other only turned his head slightly, face not visible from his hair shielding the angle.
Fischer didn’t say anything afterwards. He didn’t question it—besides, he wasn’t the one who mainly caused conversation to spark between them. He just assumed he was just bored enough to poke around in silence or felt kind enough to let Fischer work.
(Which seemed unlikely.)
After ruling out those quite obvious possibilities, Fischer began to worry. Not a visible amount, but enough to distract him.
Letting out a huff, the doctor stood up from his chair and adjusted his posture, then looked back at Sylvestre.
He was still staring at the same spot from about a few minutes ago.
Fischer’s mind was as equally as confused as he was worried. “Sylvestre?”
. . .
“Sylvestre.” He repeated sternly as he stepped towards the cabinet to look at what captured the others' attention.
It was nothing. Nothing was on the shelf. Not even an empty glass or vile. Just nothing. Fischer did find the man grating to the ears, but now he was full of worry, completely pushing his work to the side for a moment.
Sylvestre’s breathing was a bit uneven, a little hurried or panicked, much like when someone had woken up from a disturbing dream that obviously couldn’t be real.
His eyes finally tore away from the blank shelf, glancing down towards Fischer's horrid coverup over a worried expression.
“Ah, nothing. Just zoned out for a moment!”
Fischer only stared at him with an expression that could only be described as a “seriously?” face.
“I’m serious. It is nothing, bubbles. Don’t you worry about me~!”
The angler fish brushed past the pet name, marking it off as a slip of the tongue, or something of the sort. He scanned through all of Sylvestre of what he possibly could.
That same distant expression on his face like he's gazing off a million years into the future or past… That's normal.
His hands. They were normally steady and calm, maybe fidgeting with something in his hands or his own fingers occasionally, but now, they’re trembling.
The distant look on his face looked even more distant, somehow. A few moments of silence passed with Fischer staring at him trying to discern the problem.
…
“Can you keep talking…” Sylvestre couldn’t even meet Fischer's gaze. “Please?” His voice sounded flat and forced, pausing to swallow down his own spit at an awkward pause, almost a little intentional.
Fischer only hummed and didn’t question it as he went on to wander about his lab and ramble about something or other related to different objects in the cabinets, or voicing his own scientific questions out loud just to fill the dead air.
His eyes flashed back to Sylvestre, who had moved a little bit and was now facing him, but his eyes still refused to look at him like he was Medusa.
Fischer stopped talking and stared at Sylvestre, who looked miserable. He didn’t know what to do for him. How was he supposed to comfort someone if he doesn’t even know the source?
He never had issues with eye contact, even when they sometimes have meaningful talks under a few drinks. So why now was he so oddly avoidant and quiet?
Fischer took a few steps toward Sylvestre, unsure of himself or what he could do now. It felt as if the weight of every galaxy in existence was on his shoulders. He never had issues with rambling on about meaningless things or science topics, why now freeze up?
The air felt so thin it could’ve been cut with a playing card. Neither didn’t know what to say or what to do.
“Sylvestre. Just speak. What's the issue?” Fischer was now standing directly in front of Sylvestre, and he still refused to meet his eyes.
As if the command had flipped some sort of switch in the other's brain chemistry, Sylvestre finally glanced at Fischer, but now his eyes looked glassy and scared. His hands were shaking and his whole body was just stuck.
“I can’t—“ Sylvestre opened his mouth to speak, only for the words to die out in his throat immediately. Tears began to fall and once neat mascara and eyeliner were now runny and ruined.
Panicking and unknowing what to do, Fischer placed both of his hands onto Sylvestre’s forearms, hoping it would be somewhat grounding to him. Sylvestre only cried silently, standing there making no noise. He only stared at the floor, vision blurry and splotchy.
Don’t pass out. Don’t do it. Stay here. You are okay. Stop crying. You look weak. Not in front of him.
Fischer let go of Sylvestre’s forearms as he slowly sank to the floor to sit with his knees toward his torso, and Fischer followed suit and sat down next to him.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Sylvestre let out a shaky breath, “I don’t know.”
“Then what do you want?” Fischer glanced over his shoulder to look at Sylvestre. He was met with a wall of coloured hair from him. Fischer judged by the shaking of his shoulders, he was still crying.
“I… don’t know, bubbles.”
“Can I do something for you? To make it better?”
Sylvestre let out a shaky sigh and opened his mouth to speak.
“Do you remember when we met? When I was still doing work for the Scrapers, and I stopped doing it and I wouldn’t answer why?”
Fischer hummed as he stared off at the wall, listening to the other.
“I.. uh..” Sylvestre hesitated again, taking a breath in. “Lost a dear loved one. To me. I lost hope in it. Didn’t see any point in it.”
“How important?”
Sylvestre only sighed in response. His breathing had become more normal and less sporadic.
“My guidance? My reasoning? My everything?”
Sylvestre flitched when Fischer touched his knee. He knew he was trying. He didn’t know how to help.
“I felt so horrible. It was so sick to see.. any of it. That feeling and vision I can’t ever shake out of my mind. It's scrubbed there for eternity. Stamped in my damned head like its some sort of movie scene or something.”
A beat of silence passed, then he continued.
“Everytime I close my eyes I see them. I fucking see them, Fischer.” Sylvestre repeated again, his voice becoming unstable and hurried. “And when I open them I only see them again. I keep seeing them. Like their spirit is haunting me.”
He turned his head to look at the doctor. His mascara was runny on the side of his face that was visible and his eye twitched.
“I can’t go anywhere without them feeling like they’re just… here. And I can’t do anything about it. God, and to make it sting more, you found me. Maudit soit ce monde damné.”
French spilled off of his tongue like a prayer. Fisher didn’t know what any of it meant. He was only here to listen.
Sylvestre turned his whole body to look at him, then grabbed his face with his gloved hands and stared into Fischer's eyes. Tired eyes meeting his distressed one.
“Putain, l’amour. I only see them in you.” Sylvestre’s hands slipped from holding Fischer's face, now crying and heaving again. His head landed on Fischer's shoulder. It was an awkward position, with Sylvestre being taller and lankier than Fischer, but it worked for both of them.
“I want to escape you so, so, so badly—but I keep finding myself drawn to you. I can’t escape it, Fischer. I can’t depend on you for my own fucking mental stability. Je ne peux pas passer à autre chose.”
The silence felt stale and stiff, almost like the whiff of a rotten apple that once was fully ripe, now abandoned to wither away with no one to care for or to eat it.
Fischer didn’t know what to do. He’d never been tasked with such emotions laid out in front of him. He had never experienced a motherly cradle or a fatherly scorn for all he remembered.
“Why can’t you just tell me what's wrong with me, mon ange? Why can’t I just fix it? Why won't they leave me alone? They’re long gone dead. I want to move on.”
Words spilled out of Sylvestre’s mouth as quickly as he thought of them, inhaling for barely a second, giving no extra thought to what the others might think of him in the aftermath. His eye felt heavy and stung like salt in a wound, tears still threatening to drop but he refused to let more fall. He refused to look weaker.
“I’m supposed to be perfect, je ne le suis pas? Why do every flaw and crack I must have, have to break now? I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”
Sylvestre tore his face away from Fischer as an attempt to hide from anything, only to be met with leathered hands now holding his face and forcing him to stare at Fischer.
He couldn’t even get a word in before Fischer started to hush him. “Stop that, Sylv. Why would my opinion of you change? I am a doctor and scientist, but I’m not that evil, no? I don’t know what it feels like to lose someone like that, but I’m not leaving soon. I’m here. Grounded with you.”
The look on Sylvestre’s face is what could be described as “ugly,” with all of his mascara running down his face, black lipstick a bit smudged and once exotic hair now disheveled. Fischer caressed Sylvestre’s cheek with his gloved thumb, careful not to move the hair covering what once was his other eye.
“I look like shit, don’t I, non?” Sylvestre’s breathing had evened out by now, and he forced a laugh that came out more like a cough than anything.
“Yeah, well , you’re my shit.”
“So you admit it?”
“What? Admit to what?”
“You looooooooove me. Don’cha?”
Sylvestre playfully rubbed his arm against Fischers, and was met with the playful look of fake disgust.
“Most unfortunately.”
“Ah Ouais?”
“Yes, really.
“Oh so now you know French? Espèce du tètu.”
“Not that much.”