Chapter Text
“Zam,” a voice cuts through the haze of his dreams shaped with alarm. “Zam? Why’d you lock the door?”
Now, of all times, this particular emotion of his pierces Zam with a pang of something his drowsy mind seems to have no time to figure out at all—Micro keeps jiggling the door handle so ferociously that it won’t be long until it falls off for good. He scrapes himself off the bed and trudges away from the warmth of the blanket begrudgingly, to prevent any more redundant expenses if anything. His neglected hinges creak like the gates to hell wouldn’t, yet what truly makes Zam frown is a miserable, absolutely shameless whine Micro lets out.
Just laying his eyes on the face that mocked him and hid itself gives Zam the answer as to what he’s been feeling all along.
“If you’re so desperate to come into my room, prolly shouldn’t have left in the first place, no?”
“Zam…”
“Don’t Zam me,” he lashes with a twang unusual for himself. “You’re a coward, and I don’t want you near me at all. Go to your own room.”
“Have you been crying?”
Of course, Micro notices right away—he’s your most observant guy who is somehow the densest among them all, too. Zam missteps by looking him straight in the eye in an attempt to not tell—which Micro is evidently trying to compel him to do—but to show and thus allowing him to make his genuine worry known. As Micro’s hand settles on his cheek soothingly, unlike most people that would feel their eyes stinging with another surge of tears, Zam can only feel his blood boiling to the point that he’d rather explode and paint the walls in it without their conversation ever going further.
“Are you hurt anywhere? Why’d you lock yourself up in here?”
“You hurt me, you dumbass!” he flips and recoils from his touch, feet carrying him back to the bed.
Up till now, Zam hasn’t even realized the door was locked. He might have done it unwittingly after the old memories had taken him hostage and pulled into the foul habit he thought had been long gone—confining himself in his room every time home would stop feeling safe. Letting it be an open house now that Micro is back, fidgeting in the doorway at that, Zam hates to admit that the vague premonition of danger completely wears off.
Micro manages to sweep the last flecks of his grudge with his careless buzz, too, and Zam despises himself for being able to forgive anything lest he be forsaken yet again.
“Can I sleep with you?”
“I thought you were crashing on Banana’s couch today,” Zam needles as he gets under the blanket and presses a plush toy against his chest. “Thought you were real mad at me.”
“I wasn’t mad at you, I just… I was just really upset by what you said,” Micro tries to explain and shrieks on stumbling over a paper bag in the pitch dark. “Fuck, we gotta clean your room badly… And Banana never picked up.”
“You’ve known each other for ages. You can just call on him whenever, he won’t even bat an eye,” Zam negates the reason in a level voice. “You’re a liar, Micro.”
“Alright, well—” Although Zam can’t see much aside from the glitter of his wallpaper, he can swear Micro only shrugs his shoulders and looks implausibly dumb while doing that. “Well, if I’m honest, I told him everything, and he kicked me out eventually. Said I’ve got things to fix.”
“Are you five? Why do you need other people telling you that?” Zam clicks his tongue, emotion getting the better of him. “And you’re telling me you wouldn’t come back otherwise?”
The racket Micro is supposed to hit the birdie thrown at him with vanishes into thin air; having nothing to refute it and realizing it’s no laughing matter to begin with, he heaves a deep lone sigh. His track jacket rustles flung onto the chair, and the bed imminently whines under the weight of two. Cold forehead pressed against his nape, Zam feels a warm breath on his skin as Micro whispers, “You know I would. I’m sorry I made you believe the opposite.”
“I hate you, Micro,” Zam says in return with no hesitation whatsoever and clenches his fists until his joints crack—to fight the first prickling tears, to fight sweet nothings he’s about to be drowned in. To take Micro himself down, if needed. “You ruined everything. Why would you even say something like that?”
“What’s so wrong about it?” Micro asks in dead earnest, then wraps his arm around Zam almost tenderly. “All I did is tell you how I feel about you, about us, and you said I’m being delirious? Of all things you could say? Mind you, no matter how hard you had it, I never, ever treated you this way. How is that not wrong to you?”
“I am right!” Zam retorts, turning around half-way. “You can’t just go round saying you love them to anyone and everyone, and that’s exactly what you did.”
“I only addressed it to you, and you’re not just anyone.”
Spitting his feelings out slowly brings all the fears up to the surface, yet fortunately or not, Zam doubts he can hit the brakes straight before the ledge. “Micro, you don’t even mean it. We’re not something to describe as such, and I… I don’t think we’ll ever be.”
A short wry laugh escapes Micro’s lips. “I was running back home to apologize, Zam. It’s you and me every single day, and I’m hugging you in your bed now, and even if I never said it out loud, there’s no way I didn’t mean it when doing other things for you. You can’t be serious,” he mutters under his breath, voice almost imploring. “It’s what I said to me. I’ll never force you to reciprocate. It just would be nice if you weren’t, like, so burdened or disgusted by it. And if you really are, then—”
“No, no,” Zam cuts him short and sits up feeling the lump in his throat gently smothering him. “Fuck, you misunderstood everything… And I don’t know how else I can get it straight. Fuck.”
Zam drops his head in hands and sniffles, perturbed. He seems to have grown overly complacent with the way Micro will make him out at a single word, will help him read into things with care and bring them to cohesion kindly. When there’s no chance for a favor like that, Zam proves to be the same good-for-nothing, hopeless and helpless, lacking everything normal people possess and, perhaps, everything it took Micro to build what was the reason they’ve fought in the first place today.
Treated with patience and acceptance time and time again, Zam can’t wrap his mind around as to why Micro won’t understand something as simple this once as well. Why would he reduce himself to a burden, a nuisance, when it’s Zam who has indeed been one all along? Why would he beat feet when Zam was lost and had no one else to ask for help? Why would he find a voice about his love when there was, in fact, none put in those?
“You know how it used to be. You know I’m not used to stuff like this, and I need it chewed first and then shoved in my mouth like baby food. I was hoping you’d stay and do it like you always do, but you just left, saying I’m wrong at that, and I—” Zam takes his hair away from his face, its strands annoying him by getting stuck to his wet lips, and wipes his cheeks with his sleeve. “I was begging you…”
“But you told me to go—”
“I didn’t mean it!” Zam hisses, turning around and shooting daggers at him. “Don’t act like you don’t know me!”
“Well—” Micro throws his hands up, his eyes giving him a fleeting look as if Zam were a mere vexation. “I’m no mind-reader. If you want me to stay, just say so. Not to go blow my cobwebs away or shit like that.”
Zam scoffs and shakes his head, concluding, “You made me feel like I need to deserve it then, and you keep making me feel like that now, and if it’s your love, then fuck your love and fuck you, Micro. I’m not begging for anything, did plenty of that as kid. Lots of love verbally, and none in reality.” He lies back down, clinging to the wall so that not a single atom of his body should get involved with Micro in any way. “I don’t wanna talk to you anymore. Figured I have to clarify that because you’re being dense as hell.”
Micro takes a deep breath and croaks, “I hate myself… I’m sorry, Zam, I really am. That’s not what I was implying at all.”
Zam keeps his mouth shut, in no mood for mercy yet, and places the stuffie between them in a menacing manner. He has no energy to budge his own body whatsoever, but can rest assured Micro respects him enough not to breach the invisible wall and leave him alone for the night instead.
“What do I do to make up for it? I promise I’ll never say that again…”
“We both made a mistake, so I suggest pretending tonight never existed.”
After a short while of debating the matter in mind, Micro hums in the affirmative. With how emotionless he is upon the choice, Zam’s curiosity spikes, purely spiteful in its nature—if his love isn’t mere words, will he not only cut his tongue off but fetter his own self entirely?
Just like Zam thought initially, Micro has no clue what he was talking about.
Despite dwelling under the same roof, avoiding Micro for at least a few days feels like child’s play almost every time Zam goes for it.
Mostly, Zam owes his small win to Micro’s manners, for he never comes in without permission and to get one from someone even sleeping with headphones on or pretending not to hear a word when in low spirits, he’d have to purchase a full-fledged gong. There’s also no denying the fact that Zam has resorted to the life of a nocturnal animal ever since the confession incident befell them. Unfairly so, despite asking to forget about it that is, he’s felt particularly embarrassed—not because of the confession itself, but because Micro had been as wrong as he’d been done wrong which Zam realized not until he’d played the night in his head good umpteen times and had to struggle through every stage of grief for his crumbling ego.
Once it’s the weekend and neither of the two has plans, the long-awaited—or deeply feared—encounter is only bound to happen.
“Whatcha got there, kid?” Zam speaks first after bumping into his body as Micro has been heading into his own room with a richly steaming plate. “Smells nice.”
“Frozen lasagna. There’s still half left in the kitchen if you want some,” Micro nods behind himself and winces, his jaws moving more and more slowly with every chew. “Tastes like ass though.”
“Knowledgeable much?”
A much more visceral disgust stains Micro’s face than just a few seconds ago. “Put this kind of jokes in the mouth you took them from,” he recalls the fashion immediately. “I swear I heard Panzer for a second there. This is not like you at all, you two hang out too much.”
Zam lets out an awkward giggle, frantically moving cogwheels failing to mesh inside his head.
“More than you do, I guess?” Micro squints in return, quizzical look on his face. “I’m pretty sure you two had some sort of plans for today, that’s why I—” Zam bites his tongue before letting too much slip off it and looks around as if someone were on full alert to overstep and finish all the talk for him.
Micro doesn’t seem to care about his acutely obtuse state and so responds as nonchalantly as he possibly could, “He’s got a date. Apparently, the mates-before-dates rule loses its viability once the former becomes the latter…” His unimpressed voice wears off, eyes looking more like perfect surgical slits. “Zam, you suddenly look so upset, it’s alarming. You jealous? Want a date with the guy too?”
“I’d traumatize him down to a mental health hospital.”
“Too bad Panzer is already doing great job at it?”
The way he articulates it carries no indication of him feeling bad for the guy whatsoever. Speaking of which, that sounds about right; nothing to retort with, although Zam always feels like he absolutely has to, out of spite for Micro and out of solidarity for Panzer.
He looks downwards, his gut screaming a threatening cloud is about to loom over him, and slips past, into the kitchen, to grab a cup of milk. The moment he takes a peek inside the cupboard, however, the shelf he needed appears entirely empty.
“No cups there if that’s what you’re looking for.”
“My, my, how could it even come to this?” Zam puts on an act of a theater level, tut-tutting and shaking his head. The itching in his throat is in fact exasperating when he adds, “Well, I can do just fine without a drink.”
Presently, the corner of his eye gets caught by Micro’s complementary show: he stretches out his free arm in front of him, fingers copying the barrel of a gun and pointing at Zam’s head. His chin goes up compellingly, his posture mighty and perfectly upright. “It’s about time, eh?” he asks. “Let us decide this like real men. Show me into your room, Zam.”
“You just reminded me,” Zam giggles, much to his own surprise, not even shifty on purpose. “You ever had this pic taken of you when you were a kid? At a random mall, with all kinds of ridiculous props?”
Micro quirks his eyebrow, then clears his throat. “Next question.”
“So, I was wearing this cute cowboy outfit, and they also gave me a huge hat and plastic revolver. Dad never dropped by again to grab a picture, but I’m sure it turned out lovely.”
Casting a cautious glance sideways, as if making sure no one else will hear it, Micro musters up the courage to confess, “I had a dress and a crown on and was sitting on a giant stuffed lion because I lost to Banana in rock paper scissors and his parents thought it’d be funny.”
“Was he the Prince to Your Highness?”
“Next question.”
“Will you leave me alone if I put all the cups back?”
Micro places the bowl—probably so tepid that it’ll make the lasagna completely inedible anyway—on the table and smiles at him ruefully. “Why are you acting so funny? You know you can talk to me if something’s up,” he says like he always does, like he means it and however often it needs to be repeated, doing it won’t ever burn him out. “You know you can just say you wanna lie down or do anything together, not just come by when I can barely give you any attention.”
If Zam has to make no bones about it, his mind has been a rotting dumpster lately. By neglecting his worries, he inadvertently ended up neglecting everything else around him. A single morning on his own amidst an absolute shambles thus forced him back to the point he always fails to clamber up out.
He’s long found but a vicious cycle in his desperate searches for a path, running in it like a hamster in its wheel, hoping someone would remember to care for him, someone would drag him out before he’s withered away dead. Only for that, he’s been coming to Micro these weekdays, crawling under his blanket at daybreak which will leave enough time to huddle up and no chance for any conversation before uni or work whatsoever.
Zam never needed Micro’s attention; if anything, he’d shun it at all cost at a time like this. He needed a trace of his warmth and a chip of his presence. A poor confirmation that Micro is still here—the reason why Zam would have no permission to think he’s at his worst. Most despicable. Most unlovable. Yet, to give it to Micro straight has always felt inconsiderate, and so Zam would keep his mouth shut, indulging himself until he couldn’t get away with it any longer, just like he can’t, cornered, now.
“You know I’m not here to judge you.” Micro follows his steps as soon as Zam gives a budge towards his room and rubs his back at the moment of uneasy hesitation. “I’m here to help, alright?”
Although not feeling like it, Zam lets him in and joins in cleaning. If he’s being perfectly honest, it’s not even so much work if one, in fact, commits to it—old dishes to load in the dishwasher, both fresh and already worn clothes to sort out and take to the bathroom. Other than that, he’s only got a bunch of cables, makeup items, and study tools that move around in turns for lack of more free space and any will to do anything about them to put in the right place eventually. Provided he’ll be left alone at long last, Zam can scrape up, Zam will take great pains to carry it through.
Once the room feels more spacious, Micro gives him a small smile of reassurance and he allows himself to plop down and breathe out.
Then Micro rolls his sleeves and does the unholy—fetches the vacuum and drags it all the way to the back of Zam’s sofa bed.
“Are we not done yet?”
“I need you to get up so I can move it a little bit,” he drops in dead earnest, almost making Zam spring up. “We haven’t done it for ages, it must be real dusty there.”
“Are you dumb?”
“You’re not getting up is what I’m hearing.” Micro taps his fingers on the upholstery, giving him a few seconds to change his mind only for Zam to respond with a firm shake of his head. “Great. Hell yeah. I’ve never been more motivated about the spring cleaning. We’re gonna shipshape every little thing in your room today.”
“Micro! What the hell?” Zam raises his voice in indignation, yet Micro remains unwavering in his decision. Huffing, he settles back down enclasping his plushie and waves it off. “Go off, kid. Show the world your huge muscles.”
“I’m a lab rat, cut me some slack! And I’m also hungry.” He pulls a long face, probably thinking about the lasagna he could have eaten but for attempting all these pointless stunts. “Now I crave good, actually good lasagna. We should make one from scratch.”
Feeling his bed being shoved violently, Zam flinches and indifferently watches the lamp fall as one of arms bumps into his desk. “You just love to complicate everything, eh?”
“No, Zam, you don’t get it. Mom used to make one with homemade pasta sheets, too. It just hits different when you make it yourself and add lo—” Micro never finishes his line, half his body still hidden behind the bed. “Found something. Some file folder with notes. You still need those?”
Genuine fright rushes through Zam’s body, his hair immediately standing on end. The moment he realizes what it is that Micro got his hands on by rotten luck, he springs to his feet, covers the distance between them in a single step, and smacks him on his hand. The trove falls onto the floor as Micro hisses, perplexed by the fierce reaction.
“You didn’t even ask if you may touch it!”
“But it’s just study notes… Or is it?”
Zam picks the folder up and turns away, hugging it with both his arms. “It’s notes,” he confirms, trying to think of a better and more secure place to keep them in from now on. “Different kind of notes. I won’t tell you, so don’t nag me about it, okay?”
“Okay,” Micro forces out a nervous laugh. “Though I don’t do that usually, I don’t think.”
Just like that, he starts the vac immediately.
Although Zam can only see his slightly arched back, he can swear that face will be stamped with a pout for the rest of the day. Threatening him to stick around until all is shiny and neat, Micro will end up cracking a joke of mercy and leaving once he’s over and done with the task. He tends to be petty when his trust and goodwill aren’t met with transparency, and the fact doesn’t necessarily beget guilt in Zam, but somehow rubs him the wrong way. He might keep his most shameful feelings a secret from Micro, but as for secrets per se, with how interwoven their lives have been for a while now, they’ve indeed had none of late.
Zam boots the cleaner before even drafting the speech in his head and waits until they’ve locked their eyes to take a seat on the very edge of the bed and beckon Micro over. Given how tough of a challenge opening up unprompted proves to be for him always, he thinks he really shouldn’t miss out on a golden opportunity like this.
“First things first, I wasn’t trying to be sneaky with this. I mean—” Zam scratches the back of his head, for he feels like he’s lied just now after remembering how the notes got behind his bed in the first place. “I was to a certain extent, not on purpose, I promise. You knocked on my door trying to lure me out the other day, and I panicked for a second and dropped them in the gap between the wall.”
“You don’t have to spell it all out to me.”
“Shut up, Micro,” Zam hushes him. “I can see when it’s benevolence, and when it’s not. You were sulky like a kid just now, so shut up or I’ll smack you again.”
Putting the hose on the floor with extra care, Micro slowly sits down beside Zam lest he frighten or upset him with a single move slightly off for a very specific reason he could assign to it. “I don’t come in unless you let me. Was I being too pushy?”
“My hands just moved on their own, it’s, like, uncontrollable when I’m in this kind of state.” As Zam explains, he feels Micro’s hands pull the folder out of his grip, laying it in his lap still, and come back to his hands to hold them gently. He’s got a clear guilty look on his face, so Zam hastens to assure him, “And no, this whole mess could drag forever, that’s why you kinda need to be dogged about it with me. I know you wouldn’t hurt me. I just made it by habit, thinking of all scenarios and feeling really ashamed at the thought of you, um, finding out about this.”
“This?” Micro lightly nods at the notes.
“Yeah… Remember those notes you’d leave on the fridge for me for some time? I’ve got all of them. Months of them,” Zam admits and stumbles down onto his back, pulling the folder over his pulsating face. “I didn’t wanna talk to you this week, I had no clue how I can even strike some kind of conversation after that. Then I remembered I’d kept all these, reread them, and it got me so sentimental. It made me believe nothing changed, it gave me hope you wouldn’t hate me now that we’ve gone through all this. Even if only for the time being.”
Of all possible answers, Micro blurts out, “You’re kidding…”
Somehow, these words stab Zam with a gut-wrenching pang. “I’m aware I take your kindness for granted sometimes, but you know…” He bites his lip, hating to be sensitive to such trivialities. “You know you can tame it a little bit for me.”
A vague stupid croak is what Zam receives upon his request. Shortly, Micro scrambles to his feet and rushes out of the room. Before his heart contracts in a sickening horror, Zam can hear more to it for his inability to see. In contrast to what Micro was just a week ago—frustrated and dumbfounded, plain mess—he’s moving like there’s a streetcar he absolutely needs to catch or the earth will swallow him whole. The streetcar he’ll in no way let slip from under his nose so easily.
Slightly out of breath from running around the house—a lab rat in the flesh—Micro lands right next to him with a wallop and rustle. “Zam,” he calls out, thumb grazing the curve of Zam’s exposed hip bone. “Look down here for a sec.”
It takes a moment and a deep nice inhale, his heart palpitating and face twisting into a grimace of doubt. It’s akin to a Ferris wheel ride, yet instead of towering buildings and parks reaching far, there’re only… notes. Having spent too much time over those going back to where it started, Zam can say these look slightly different—the color is off, the pen is spattered and bold—albeit written in time-honored fashion.
“What’s this…”
“Another week’s worth notes?” he says with a smile. “I wrote all these over this time span because I didn’t want to force you into a conversation. Never did that because, I don’t know, it made me cringe. I knew you’d say I’m an idiot.”
Zam raises himself and crosses his legs, eyes constantly shifting between Micro and all the creased pieces. “I would never call you that,” he states firmly, adjacent pictures seizing his mind’s eye immediately. Clearing his throat, he corrects himself, “I’ll be honest, sometimes you’re dumb. You really should’ve stuck them on the fridge. Though if you’re dumb, everyone else is… so much dumber. It’s unbelievable.”
“That’s truly sweet of you,” Micro giggles and rolls over to settle himself supinely. Something seems to be bothering him, making him kick his feet and heave a deep sigh. “Fuck. What am I supposed to say now? Seriously, I wanna say it so badly. Should I pull the same move against you?” He sighs, and his voice comes off different than usual, “Zam, I hate you. I hate you so much.”
The audacity leaves Zam fazed for a moment. He gasps for air, then babbles, “That is not true… And what’s that same move supposed to mean anyway?”
“I mean, you say that to me all the time, too. Shut up, I hate you, get lost, and whatnot,” Micro elaborates with no bitterness whatsoever, yet still makes it hard for Zam to swallow. “It mostly happens when you’re being shy. When you’re happy and don’t want me to witness it. For some reason.”
“No, hold on. Do I say it, like, a lot, a lot?”
“A lot, a lot.”
“But you know I don’t mean it?”
“No, of course not.” Micro’s voice is nothing but candor, although his body remains strangely fidgety. “I didn’t mean it either, by the way. Instantly felt guilty after saying that. It just sounds inherently wrong.”
That’s when it strikes home—the fact that Zam is aware and too used to such reactions to feel the need to stop, the fact that Micro swallowed all of them and hasn’t directed a single remark at him despite his guilty conscience nagging him for simply repeating what seems to have long been normalized, for trying Zam’s mask on for a split second whereas he’s lead exactly so his whole life.
“I don’t,” Zam says in low voice, hugging himself in a semblance of defense. “I never feel guilty for saying that. Does it mean something is—”
“Nope. No, absolutely not, sorry, poor phrasing,” Micro mutters and takes a seat across from him, wiping his hands on his pants nervously. “There’s nothing wrong with you; that’s just how it is for me personally. We’re all different and express it in different ways. I know you don’t mean it, Zam, but also…” He pauses with a scoff, seemingly fumbling for the right word. “I’ve been trying to figure out what you do mean by that, then. What’s on your mind when it slips? What do you feel, Zam?”
“What’s up with all the questions…” Zam giggles in return, trying to dodge the attack Micro doesn’t realize he’s subjecting him to. “I don’t think or feel anything. I just say it because… Just because.”
“I see… Well, whatever you’d say, I’d be fine with anything probably.”
Seeing Micro shrug his shoulders like it’s no big deal makes his heart sink. Zam might not reflect on his decisions maturely enough, but he can certainly feel something. Until fairly recently, it’s been nothing but right by Micro’s side, to the point that Zam never even questioned the nature of it, well aware that in his attempts to fix or refine, he tends to ruin inadvertently. It’s the fact that Micro doesn’t deem such ways wrong, too—or simply pretends not to—while religiously sticking to his own principles that ignites pique inside him.
Even if it doesn’t play out in his favor, Zam has to prove the opposite no matter what, starting with admitting his fault and rounding it off by breaking all the bad habits eventually.
“All this time I genuinely thought you’d thrown them away,” Micro barges in his train of thought all of a sudden, drawing circles with his finger on the file folder. “You never responded to any of them, and I was actually beating my brains with what I should say or ask you. I just couldn’t keep looking at your grumpy face every day when there was already nothing but doom and gloom left in life. By the time I’d come home, the note would’ve already been gone. We really should talk more, eh? Maybe things would be different if we both knew how much it mattered all along. Not only notes, you know… Pretty much everything.”
In all honesty, Zam never got rid of them lest he be haunted by the feeling of being an absolute asshole. The first ever day with no note was what truly took the winds from his sails, what nudged him to realize how wholesome it was for his crestfallen soul—a word or two of simulated care or curiosity, a treat or a piece of advice to assuage his misery as well as it could possibly get.
Zam recollects it like it happened yesterday: Banana—who he wasn’t acquainted with at the time—in their kitchen, apologizing for intrusion and promising to leave after watering a bunch of their houseplants at his friend’s request. A fresh note on the fridge, surprisingly written by Micro who was certainly gone, an awkward breakfast for two, tea bitter from grief and regret—on Micro’s friend and Zam’s end respectively. Being considered a devil’s ivy—something to care for—together with the one staying on their windowsill was ludicrous. Still, after Banana parted with him, seemingly sleek and satisfied, Zam found a trace of thirst left in himself; he wondered why Micro would go as far for a stranger, for they weren’t anything more than that, how talking to him would feel when a short conversation with his friend turned out liberating in a sense. Zam could never forget the feeling of slowly opening up and Micro turning his screwed up routine downside up eventually.
“We’re talking now,” Zam states the obvious simply because he knows there’s something Micro won’t get out of his system. “You wanna say something—do it now.”
“I wanna hear you talk first.”
“I—” Zam draws a blank and shrinks away, for good measure. “I’ve got nothing on me. If there’s anything, then maybe I haven’t realized it yet. Geez, Micro, let me breathe…”
His answer seems to suffice, judging by a slight nod in return.
“I’m not trying to twist your arm, don’t get me wrong. Just wanna make sure you always feel free to speak when I’m around.” In spite of clarifying his persistent siege at long last, Micro somehow sets up an ambush worse still for him. Hands on both Zam’s sides, he moves absurdly close and places his head on his shoulder, adding in a small voice, “I missed you. Thank you for bearing with me. Thanks for letting me in and letting me stay here.”
Micro, get away from me, Zam’s inner voice shrieks headlong. In the state of heightened awareness, he bites his own tongue just in time, thankfully, figuring it would come off as too harsh in response to a revelation so vulnerable.
A harrowing shame cloaks him, gooey and frigid, for other than that, he’s got not a single clue on how to react. Unable to feel his touch, Zam lets his arms dangle listlessly as Micro wraps his own around his body. One thing is clear—it’s desperate, carrying no hope albeit a wish for it to be mutual, and it’s unfortunate that there’s nothing in Zam that he could let go of in order to kindly oblige. He would love to hug Micro back, but he feels too prickly. He would love to bare his whole soul, but he knows that no matter how he puts it, it will never be deserving of the deeds done by Micro’s kind and candid heart.
With his gaze drooping, one of the new notes Zam never gave a read, crossed out still but halfway through, catches his eye. An alternative virtually suggests itself, so he blurts out, “Micro. Leave another note.”
“Huh?”
“If you’ve got any thoughts to share, if they’re like this especially, just leave me a note,” Zam explains letting Micro back away somewhat begrudgingly. “How do I put it… It’s easier to digest them? At least for now. I’ll have enough time and space to think, to answer you properly.”
Nothing seems to get to the guy: even after getting a cold shoulder, Micro smirks at him playfully. “Are you gonna leave a note for me too?”
“Nuh-uh, can’t promise that.” He plumps for honesty, knowing sugarcoating will lead to nothing but greater heartache on both parts. “But I can promise you that I’ll at least try.”
And what else should he expect? A single promise is enough to light up Micro’s dull eyes. He jumps to his feet and grabs the vac like no normal person would, all giddy and cheery. “Thanks,” he says, face the other way. “For giving me the chance.”
Zam rubs his arm that seemed to move on its own just now, when distance between them started growing slightly. He nods and whispers his response even if Micro can neither see nor hear him.
Whatever might gush from that restless mind, Zam swears he’ll look forward to it.
He’ll wake up in his room alone but in no way lonely, with one of the curtains drawn slightly to the side and sheets fresh with a hint of lemons. He’ll have his late make-ahead breakfast, the one they prepared the day before with Micro, knowing he won’t be around at the time, and the note primly held by an old magnet will stop him and will imminently stop the time.
Zam would expect it to say something cheesy or stupid, something capable of putting a smile on his puss, but will only witness a painful banality, the three words that seemed to be the reason why everything between them suddenly went south. Yet, with Micro’s previous attempts ingrained in his mind, he will notice it differs. There won’t be a crease, or smear, or shudder, for it would be done with a sleight of hand, as if Micro gave it no thought whatsoever or ruminated on it so much as to never, ever hold it in doubt.
And so starting tomorrow, Zam will try harder. He’ll leave the note where he found it as reminder and vow, in hopes that Micro will understand that he would hate to simply tread what he is given down.