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Maybe they should’ve expected this, they’re surprised that they didn’t. Flaky, despite their paranoid nature, seems to always let themselves finally relax the second something happened.
In the face of danger, Flaky would scream. All the stress and adrenaline, the hard, fast beating of their heart, it would all be too much, and they’d scream. They’d feel their limbs go numb, their breathing quickening. On the thin line between life and death, playing with their demise, each and every time they’d panic because how could they not?
Whether it was stepping a little too close to a blade, or suddenly a car rapidly driving towards them before they could react, Flaky was cursed to be constantly wary. Forever scared of their surroundings, knowing they couldn’t leave the town without being torn apart, destined to die over and over. Quite frankly, after such an amount of screaming, your throat gets sore.
It hadn’t been a very exciting night. The sky looming gray and dark, as the rain poured immensely. If one took enough time to check the weather, you’d think there was a storm coming up. But hour after hour had passed, and there was no thunder to be heard, though the anxiety of one still lured Flaky in.
Flaky has changed, if just a little, over the years spent here. They were still cautious, still nervous. Death still scared them greatly, though they met it all the time. But they’re better, trying to be better, at least. Socializing, greeting friends down the street.
Sometimes they wonder if they would’ve turned out radically different if they hadn’t spent so much time in this town, if they would’ve had more friends and less fears or if they would’ve been happier in life. They’ve let themselves go, they don’t feel the same need to yell and shriek and run and hide anymore. They still do it, because no one wants to die, just not to the same extent. Desensitization, they narrow it down to. If it’s a good or a bad thing, Flaky does not know.
Nevertheless, Flaky just wants some peace and quiet. The little community they live in provides that, on good days. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.
Their little house, too small for many but just big enough for Flaky and Flaky alone, is dimly and comfortably lit. Flaky did not do much for a hobby but they’ve always found something special in reading. A good book during a rainy afternoon, undisturbed and content in the safety of their home, Flaky can only wonder what could possibly ruin it.
The light of a lit candle on the coffee table next to the sofa, in which Flaky is lying on, flickers intently, making the red carpet look orange.
It’s to their own surprise when there's a knock at the door, three firm bangs. Flaky, startled, jumps in their seat and scrambles to the window. Placed at an angle where they can look out and see who’s at the door without being directly seen, Flaky feels their heart drop at the familiar red liquid splotched on the pavement.
Blood is being washed away by the rain, they could almost sense the smell of copper that must be lingering outside. The stains are leading to their own house, Flaky realizes. It’s a perfected red trail, you could almost make out the barely visible mark of footsteps in it.
It’s so much, so surprising and yet Flaky isn’t even shocked. It’s just a natural instinct, the fear. To curl up and hide, to impale their predators with sharp quills. But Flaky doesn’t, and instead just stands and stares with a slack jaw and widened eyes. There’s a lot of blood, probably gallons, and Flaky doubts this is even half of it. It’s probably not even near a quarter.
Three firm knocks, now sounding more impatient and desperate, wake Flaky up from their thoughts. It didn’t hit them to actually see who was standing at the front door, but something inside them says they already have an idea of who it might be.
Glancing nervously to the side, forcing themselves to tear their eyes from the bloodbath that’s mixing up with the water, sloshing around and painting the streets red, Flaky catches a glimpse of a familial green. Green like pinewood trees and four-leafed clovers. Evergreen, like the last grass in the fall.
Two, or three, various cold, dead shades of green, ones that were a little too resembling that of military clothing.
At first, their breath hitches, and they pray that they wouldn’t end up like whoever’s spilt blood that is on the pavement. Then, Flippy looks around, nervously biting his lower lip raw. Not that it matters much, he is covered in blood head to toe anyway. Only lower parts of his jacket and pants seem to have been spared, Flaky doesn’t understand how in the world he keeps cleaning it well enough to be completely fine with no traces of what happens during days like these.
It’s evident that he’s panicking, or is trying not to. His stance is rigid, he seems to be hurting. Though his eyes are widened, with dark circles underneath, they’re not that sick golden yellow that everyone has come to fear or despise. They’re green, a scared and pale green, glistening with tears that are close to falling. Brows furrowed, back straight, ready for battle. Flaky realizes that Flippy is the one standing at their door, not Fliq. The redhead just sighs and decides to go against their gut, slowly moving to the door, leaving white specks of dandruff behind on the floor. It is not often you see a soldier cry.
Maybe Flaky should note to be more careful next time, and not let in the most unstable one of all habitants into their home. But actions can’t be undone, and time is not reversible. They’ve always been a little too forgivable, and little too easy to toy around with.
They simply can’t help it, it’s just like their anxieties. They’re too empathetic, prying and digging deep trying to find the good aspects of a person in an attempt to overlook the piles of bad ones. They do not owe anyone anything, but they choose to repay them out of the kindness of their heart, out of willingness to help and aid. You could kill them, over and over, because they were doomed to die anyway. They would still always come back the next day, smile, forgive and brush it off.
There is no real reason to let Flippy in, and anyone in their right mind would refrain from doing so, but Flaky isn’t just anyone. Quiet and reserved, always in the corner of their home, they’re extraordinarily ordinaire. Nothing goes past their gaze, they’re more observant than you’d think, but they’re too shy to ever speak up. Maybe that was more of a curse than the dying, or maybe they are being too dramatic again.
Warily, aware of every movement and sound, Flaky fumbles with the locks on their door. Flippy moves on the outside, hearing the clicks from the door now unlocked. Flaky opens slowly, taking time to gawk at the impressively disgusting look of the man who was standing in front of her. Flippy squirms under their gaze, but allows it. He’s been through it many times before, the staring and screaming, the judgment. It wasn’t his fault, he’d try to explain. He didn’t want to end up like this, cleaning up the aftermath of yet another incident. But it was very rare that anyone listened, or took the time to reflect on his words and actually understand just what he went through.
Sure, everyone knew, to some extent. If not by personal experience then they’d at least been a witness of it. But it was just scratching the surface, and Flippy had enough baggage to extend into eternity.
It wasn’t just war. Though it made up for a large portion of just why he turned out this way and why he now had to live like this, it wasn’t the sole reason. He had never been very social, not even before his departure and then his discharge. Flippy, the real Flippy, the Flippy before everything, had always been fascinated by blood, interested in weapons and the glimmering surface of a sharp-edged bowie knife, he’d always been a little odd. Kind, polite, lovable, he wasn’t a bad kid, never a bad person. He isn’t now either. He’s a sweetheart, full of regret and guilt, but a sweetheart nonetheless.
But pondering over it always made his head hurt, and thinking of old memories, bad memories, brought him a little too close to the thin, psychological line between being in charge of his body and suddenly being slung back into things he was sure he’d already experienced once before. Fire and explosions, the coppery scent of blood. It was crazy how many everyday things sounded like gunshots.
Flaky is observing his clothes, the dark red is covering most of the green. Dripping on the carpet, it’s lukewarm still. There are chunks in it of god knows what, and Flippy doesn’t want to find out what it is.
Flaky doesn’t question what happened, they both know. There’s something begging to be said, but Flippy doesn’t find the right words.
In the end; “...Uh, hi…Flippy.”
Flaky pushes out, it’s hard to speak when taken by surprise. But they’re polite, they manage, despite how strangely awkward it is. It’s almost like nothing was wrong, like this was nothing unusual and they just happened to bump into each other in the store.
Flippy blinks, and for a second, Flaky is scared that he - or, well, not really him in a sense, but you get what I mean - is going to grin that devilish grin. Bare his sharp teeth before sinking them into her skin. She’s seen him consume parts of others before. Though already dead, she knew Fliq wasn’t above anything.
But Flippy doesn’t, because he’s Flippy and he’d never try to hurt someone intentionally again.
“...Flaky,” he breathes. “Please don’t scream.” And to that, Flaky obliges.
And it’s quiet. It’s tense.
Flaky studies his face, his shoulders, his arms. They notice rips and tears in his clothing, long red gashes and wounds underneath them. For just a moment, they feel bad, until the realization comes that the wounds were probably by someone else fighting Fliq back . They did not succeed, obviously and predictably. No one does. Not even Flippy himself.
But Flaky doesn’t push him away, or shun him like most. They don’t look at him in disgust. Sometimes in fear, but Flippy understands. Flaky is just trying to stay alive.
Flippy doesn’t need others to establish who he is or to remember himself, he has enough medals of honour and framed diplomas at home to make himself sure. His dog tags were marked with his name, the necklace was discolored and dented at places, now stained with blood. Once again.
But Flaky is the only one who has accepted him with open arms, they’d hug him when he cried without a second thought, though he could feel them tremble in his embrace. Flaky would bring his mind back to the present when he was slipping away, and he didn’t know if they were aware of the effect they had on him. He relied on them, more than he’d like to admit.
Rubbing his face with his hands, smearing the blood across his cheeks, Flippy whined softly. A hollow sound, Flaky couldn’t help but feel bad.
“I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t…” He begins, reteriating and pulling back, metaphorically. He does not actually move from his spot, either because he’s not even really sure where he was just yet, or because his heavy combat boots are weighing him down. Nailing him to the floor.
Flaky puts their hand on his arm, Flippy stops himself.
Had it not been for the gross sensation of thick blood on a bare hand, Flaky would’ve kept their hand there and assure him that all will be okay. That everyone is understanding - everyone is not, but it feels like the right thing to say to put his mind at ease.
The rain is trying desperately to find a way inside the open front door, smattering against the porch, drops hitting the edge of the carpet inside. Flaky doesn’t particularly like cleaning.
“Come on, get in- get inside,” Flaky asks, their casual words overpainted by their stuttering and mumbling.
Flaky doesn’t have to repeat it.
Flippy marches in, posture straight that of a flagpole. Despite his love for just lazing around in his free time, spending hours just snoozing out in his hammock in his yard, he’s always had a marvelous posture.
Most likely a habit from the military, their postures were one of the few things they - Flippy and everyone else who enlisted at the same time - learnt during the first day. Stand up straight, ready for command. Flippy does as told, he did then and he does now. He’ll do anything and everything as a repayment, just to prove his innocence, that he’s a good guy. He promises, he really is.
Sure, Flippy has his multitude of downsides and weak spots. He’s not the best, he’s not perfect. But he’s trying, isn’t that enough?
Flaky shuffles to the kitchen, not daring to make a comment on the stains of blood or the smell of it. Normally, Flippy has a scent of smoke and pinewood. It’s homely, the veteran had always enjoyed the forest. But there’s always a lingering undertone, something that tickled your nose and made you stop and wonder what was so familiar about it. Like copper and rust.
Flaky shakily grabs a cup from their cabinet, holding it with both hands in hopes of not dropping it the more violent her trembling got.
Flippy looks at them, and then the floor, with shame. This isn’t the first time.
“...W-want some coffee?” Flaky nervously tugs.
“Uh,” Flippy can only think of how absurd this is, that Flaky should be more reactive, more concerned and would make a statement on it, until he realized what place they lived in and that he was still the intruder in their home.
“Sure,” he comes down to.
As Flaky did what Flaky did best, their own thing in silence, Flippy eyed the room. He hadn’t actually spent too much time here, never found the time to. The interior was reminiscent of a cottage, the tablecloth checkered red and white.
A white vase of porcelain, that held a bouquet of now withering, ugly brown flowers. In fact, there were multiple porcelain objects put up as decoration across the kitchen, sitting on shelves in an organized manner. Some had motifs of flowers and moss, others of animals, they were all hand-painted. Glass jars with nothing in them, heaps of cooking books with old pages, the kitchen was filled to the brim with small eye-catching decor and it all fit together, like a puzzle.
Flaky had always had a thing for the smaller beauties, the happiness in the little things. Maybe because they were small themself, always shrinking in under the hem of their blood-red sweater. And though Flaky is the red to Flippy’s green, now they seem more identical than ever. They’re both more similar than they’d ever realized, both struggling on their own. Though Flippy’s issues were more physical, more vivid and scary, Flaky was plagued by paranoia and anxious thoughts, loud in their own ears and inaudible to everyone else.
They did not complete each other or mellow the other one out, they certainly were no match made in heaven. They weren’t even a thing . They had just found each other, that was that.
Flippy needed help, Flaky wanted to be needed. And since no one else had come to the rescue, Flaky had aided him, laughed at his jokes and later on been spared their life during the former’s episodes. ‘Look, aren’t I nice? Aren’t I a good person?’, they’d ask themselves, maybe feel a bit bad for doing something only for the feeling of being nice, but evidently not paying too much mind to it because they were doing a good thing, right?
Outside of moments like these, or the occasional talk on the street or meeting in Petunia’s diner, they never really spoke much. Though it felt like they needed the other, Flaky was still scared. Flippy’s sanity was still in shambles. Such is life for them, they’d all come back the next day anyway, no matter what happened.
Flippy flicks off a chunk of bloody red flesh tissue from his arm and grimaces.
Setting down two steaming cups of coffee, sugar and milk, just in case, since Flaky doesn’t know how Flippy preferred his coffee, Flaky sighed shakily. They stare, Flippy wide-eyed down on his cup, Flaky with half-lidded sunken eyes in the other direction. Flaky’s coffee is half milk, just a little sugar. Flippy drinks his pure black, just the way one would expect.
Flaky drums their fingers against the surface of the table and clears their throat with trepidation, Flippy flicks his head up at the sound.
“...So,” they start. The uncanny appearance of Flippy along with the awkward atmosphere is enormous, a strangely melancholic feeling that only the two of them could truly achieve. “What happened thi-this time?”
Flaky doesn’t intend to be condescending, they never do, but come off as such anyway. Flippy flinches at the implications, but can’t argue.
He scratches the back of his head, looking sheepish in such conditions. It’s nonsensical, and that will never change. To act so normally while covered in blood, to speak of everyday life over a cup of coffee with the local maniac. But what else can they do? The two of them already live in fear. Nowhere to go, nowhere to hide, they’re at the last stage of grief.
Flippy scratches his nail against the wooden table rhythmically, tracing a circle over and over as he swallows thickly. Everything in his body is screaming at him, from his fingers numb from the cold of the rain to the muscles in his legs begging him to rest. His knees are barely holding him up, and his mind is as destroyed as a minefield.
It always felt like this, the couple of minutes, sometimes hours, after an incident. Though the feeling of some kind of trigger that made his blood run cold was eerie itself, the aftermath was exhausting. He was tired, worn out, unsure of where he was and what was real. Flippy’s trembling grip on reality was more loose than he wanted to admit, even though it was obvious to those around him.
He did everything right, he never deserved the fate that he’d gotten. But he’s learned his lesson, he’s recovering. On good days, he’s halfway normal. Tomorrow was always a fresh start. Flaky doesn’t want him to be, because then Flaky would be useless. Without anyone to heal, to fix, what would they do? Sit and stare at the wall all day? They need something to keep them busy, to have some kind of purpose.
Flippy was sick of himself, of all the things he ruined when he was in a state of mind that wasn’t really him. The actual blood and violence didn’t faze him much, though it was extreme even in his tastes. It was the people, because he knew them and he hated to see his friends chopped up in one of his frantic attempts to attack what he had thought was an enemy.
But he was never sure what was real or not, who was against him or kind to him. Somewhere in his mind, the wires did not quite connect, a product of all the things he’d had to endure. Flippy was probably stronger than most people here, if not the strongest. It wasn’t fair that he had to be the one to end up this way.
“...Mmh,” He mumbles incoherently, not meeting their gaze. He doesn’t continue.
“You don’t have to ta-talk about it if you don’t want to,” Flaky calmly states. Flippy seems to like that statement, and the two of them return to sipping their respective drinks in silence.
Flaky doesn’t find it too bad to speak to Flippy, though the conversation is stale and awkward. He’s a pleasant guy, most of the time, doesn't wish any harm upon anyone. Flaky almost kind of likes it, to have someone so broken in their circle made them look more normal than usual. Flippy is also understanding, he seems to catch every little signal anyone gives. When he’s too much, too intense, even when trying to be nice.
Flaky never really clicked with any of the girls. They didn’t have anything against them, they just could never seem to find anything in common. Giggles was a sweet girl, always happy to see them. But their conversations were brief, mostly due to their lack of topics to speak of. The occasional gossip, greetings and maybe a shopping trip or two weren’t too uncomfortable, but other than that they just never really spoke. Petunia was proper and assertive, she was more leader-like than anyone else. But even then, she just smiled awkwardly at Flaky when meeting.
It wasn’t until later on that Flaky found out it was due to their dandruff that Petunia didn’t like them. They’d try to explain it was a medical thing, out of their control, but Petunia was just like that.
Lammy had also been kind to Flaky, invited them over for tea and card games, more than once. But she was a similar case to Flippy, she sometimes did not know left from right. Along with that, Flaky was not a fan of her pickled so-called “best friend”.
As for most others, Flaky was just introverted. They blended in, hiding in plain daylight. Flippy had found them, and had understood and never asked about it. They never even spoke about why they’d met, they just went along.
“Can I ask you something?” Flaky suddenly almost whispers, Flippy furrows his eyebrows. Almost amused.
“Go ahead,” and Flaky hesitates for a second. It is a loaded question, maybe they should wait until a day where they’re both in better shape.
But Flippy gave them the green light, and now was as good a time as any.
“...How-how do you, uh, put up with it all…?” comes the question.
Flippy doesn’t understand right away, cocking his head to the side with a confused smile. He could tell what they were hinting at, nudging the conversation into a direction he isn’t comfortable with.
Still, he chuckles. He feels the blood on his face has dried when he twists his face into a small, shameful smile. He really needs to take a shower.
Flaky stares at him, seriousness in their eyes. They want him to say something about it, to keep the conversation from dying. Flippy does not comply, for once.
“I… Flaky, I really don’t wanna talk about…that,” he sighs, exasperated at their uncharacteristic stubbornness. He stirs his coffee before taking yet another sip.
Flaky decides to leave it, despite the itch in their head. They don’t know why they keep coming back to Flippy, how they keep walking in circles and ending up in the same place. They’re not friends, but still more than just acquaintances. They don’t lean on each other, they depend. Flaky is scared of pain, of death and blood, and, most importantly, Flippy. They’re terrified, even.
But something was fascinating to them, pushing them to keep accepting all his faults. After all, they were doing a good thing. They were being nice and kind, everyone admired the nervous little Flaky for putting up with such a deranged and broken person. At least, that’s what they told themself.
Flippy was always trying too much, to compensate. Too gentle, too keen. It’s understandable, but annoying. He must know it himself, too. Flaky’s seen all sides of him, they pick him apart with their mere gaze and it’s uncomfortable to say the least.
Flippy wants to comment on it, to tell them off for prying rudely in his psyche, but he can’t bring himself to lash out on others, he knows how bad he’ll look. Especially when he’s this disoriented, in Flaky’s own home, looking like something out of a horror movie. What kind of a friend is he?
Flaky suddenly points to Flippy’s shoulder, a bothered look on their face. Flippy gives them a questioning raise of an eyebrow.
“You, uh, got something on y-your shoulder…”
Flippy looks down to see that, yes, there indeed is.
A single pink, fake flower is laying on his shoulder, stuck due to the blood sticking to the fabric of his jacket. He picks it off, carefully, pinching it in one petal with his index finger and his thumb. Flaky stares at it, tilting their head to the side. Flippy meets their gaze.
“...Petunia.”
“Ah,” they respond, not saying much else. The sight of the blood and the thought of what must’ve happened to their friend was nauseating.
Flippy deems it his time to ask something, to put Flaky in the spot for once. Despite being the big bad here, looming over them at the other side of the table, Flippy feels so small. Vulnerable, just like he did back at boot camp.
He can hear the quiet mumbling of someone, something, in the back of his head. Someone else is there, part of him is somewhere completely different. But Flippy is in the now, he’s safe.
Flaky hums.
“Petunia’s your friend, right?” Flippy asks, and Flaky seems to be taken by surprise by the question.
The man in front of them doesn’t budge. Though his eyes are kind, he's as readable as a rock. Flaky has to pull themself together to answer.
They don’t need to answer, or be honest. But they do so anyway, because they’re a horrible liar and there was no reason to not tell Flippy. It’s not like he was friends with lots of people outside of themself. He was shunned, actually.
“...I guess.”
“You guess?”
Flaky eyes him narrowly, he looks apologetic for a second.
“...I don’t know,” they sigh softly. “Petunia doesn’t like me much.”
Flaky shrugs, Flippy doesn’t look satisfied but nods as if to say ‘alright then’.
Outside it’s dark still, if not darker than before. Flaky has no idea what the time is, not bothering to check it before and no clocks available in their kitchen. They doubt Flippy knows what time it is, seeing as he most likely went straight to their house after snapping out of this night's massacre.
The rain is still drumming on and on, hitting the window like gunshots. It’s soft, though. Quiet and subdued, and Flippy does not seem to notice the sound. His ear flicks, the movement startles Flaky.
Maybe they should pay more attention to the other’s well-being, but they don’t. They’re both too focused on their own struggles.
Abruptly, “do you think I’m a good person?”
Flippy stops at that, puts his cup down and tries not to think about the red smudge from his bloody fingers that had stained the white fragile cup. He’d been holding it like it was made of the thinnest of glass, scared to drop it. He was so gentle, he always was. He was the sweetest person you could imagine, he only wanted sun and happiness and everything good in the world. Part of him was just feral, out of control, snarling in the back of his mind like a wild animal.
Somewhere between holding the porcelain piece securely in his calloused hands and setting it on the table, he looks at Flaky. They’re small in their environment, and don't fit in. Their clothes are too big, their face too pale. Flippy wishes he could lean over, and cup their face, and assure them it’s okay just like they’ve always done for him. But he knew Flaky, they’d be scared out of their mind if he came that close. So he decides to simply answer the question asked instead.
“Of course,” Flippy begins. Though words fall easily off his tongue, something in him is doubtful of them. He can only narrow it down to his trust issues, hoping that he was right, for once in his life. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Flaky looks down, not meeting his eyes.
Maybe Flaky should come clean, tell him that they do not feel the same way for him as they know he does for them. They do not care for his kindness or friendly demeanour, they don’t want to be talking over this and that and whatnot over a cup of coffee with him in the middle of the night. They find themself here anyway, because nothing ever goes the way they want to. He never gets the hint.
Flippy likes Flaky, with all of his heart, he really does. He’d prove it to them over and over, if he wasn’t too scared of doing something hectic. Flaky knows, but they do not feel a thing.
There are many better people in Happy Tree Town, loads of others Flaky could happily see themself with. Flippy was not one of them, he was a beaten soldier that could easily overpower anyone he felt like.
Flaky helped him, came to aid his wounds when he’d gotten hurt. Flippy would be thankful, enough gratitude to spare and then some. And Flaky would just smile and wave it off, ‘oh, it’s nothing, don’t even worry about it’.
But Flippy kept coming back, and Flaky enjoyed the attention. The feeling of being someone’s first choice, important to someone else. Even if that someone was Flippy, they were desperate.
Things had gone way too far, further than Flaky had intended. And they couldn’t shun him or shut him out now, they didn’t have anyone else. Flippy was overbearing, Fliq was murderous. There was no inbetween with this guy, and there was probably no middle ground either. Either they could settle for a mental renovation project, or they could stop talking to him altogether.
Flaky doesn’t know which option sounds the least unhealthy. Call them immoral, call them controlling, call them whatever you want. All that Flaky knows is that Flippy wanted someone to be near, and they had come to listen to his struggles with one ear, enough to make him feel somewhat recognised. They were doing a good deed, weren’t they?
“...I-I don’t know, it was dumb of me to ask. Sorry,” Flaky mutters. Flippy doesn’t look convinced.
They’re distant, always have been. Flippy notices it out of the corner of his eye, Flaky is hiding something. But Flippy doesn’t meddle or intrude, he was raised not to. Still, he feels entitled to know. Oh, well. He just hopes that Flaky will someday be ready to tell him about it. He’d give them the world and the moon if he could.
“I don’t think it was dumb,” he states. And there is that sickenly sweet tone of voice, the one that annoyed Flaky to their last nerve. He’s trying so hard, they know that. They know he has all the right to speak however he wants to, he’s a grown man and can take care of himself. He has all the right to be kind, or to be upset.
But it still doesn’t keep it from being irritating, and Flaky is put off. The aura is going from awkward to plain out unbearable. This was not how they wanted to spend their night.
“Of course.”
Flippy taps the table, his dog tags jingle around his neck.
“It’s getting pretty late,” Flaky points out.
Flippy stretches, grimacing and baring his abnormally sharp teeth as he does so. He needed to get home, to take a shower and get some rest. To recharge and get ready for tomorrow, or to be hit by a truck on the way home and wake up in the morning again. Either one was fine, as long as he didn’t have to see the disgruntled look Flaky was sending him.
Maybe they both have issues, but Flaky insists they’re the sane one of the two. True to a degree, but still not entirely honest.
Flaky doesn’t love Flippy, but they stay out of pity. He doesn’t know that, he’s not going to either. They were giving him what he wanted anyway, why ruin it?
He probably knows. Somewhere, deep down, him and Fliq both know. It’s sad, heart-crushing even, but life was never fair. Especially not to them, Flippy has dealt with worse.
“Yeah. I should head home,” Flippy walks to the door. Flaky follows him shortly after, desperate to have him out of their house.
They just wanted some peace and quiet.
“Be careful.”
Flippy turns to them, a warm smile on his face. He’s happy, despite it all, he’s oh so happy and swears that Flaky has made him a better person. That there was some light in the end of the tunnel, after all.
Flaky feels obligated to smile back, and it doesn’t really reach their eyes.
One is broken down and shattered, one isn’t truly honest. They’re a misfit, subconsciously adding onto their already existing troubles. Flaky decides this is not a good time to break the soldier’s heart, and decides to keep their mouth shut yet another day. They could live with him, they could manage.
Flippy would always ask if he was making them uncomfortable, making things worse. Each time he’d receive a no, and so their days went on.
“I will be. Goodnight, Flaky,” Flippy says as he leaves the warmth of the inside, stepping out in the rain. The effect is immediate, his clothes are close to soaked within seconds and the rain is diluting the bloodstains.
“Bye, Flippy,” and Flaky shuts the door.
They sigh, how long would they keep doing this? Flaky didn’t know.
They tip-toe out to the kitchen, putting the dirty coffee mugs in the sink, promising to clean them up tomorrow.
The silence of the empty house was pressuring their eardrums, Flaky wished they had a radio to put on some kind of background noise. They should head to the store tomorrow morning, when there aren't as many people out. When the chance of seeing him would be smaller and they’d spare themself from an awkward encounter.
Tomorrow they’d wake up, and everything would be the same as it always was until something went wrong. The cycle would repeat, their anxieties looming like clouds over their head, making it hard to see and think clearly.
Maybe one day everything would be fine, and Flaky could live in peace and without guilt. Maybe they'll be okay, maybe all really will be good. But for now, they’ll have to settle for below mediocre. They’re sure he won’t mind. They're just trying to survive.