Drabble: srodulv is now following you. Or the story where Lucas realizes whose IG page he had just come across.
Notes: I mean, come on! Lucas posts on IG stories like he doesn’t know what it means to be away from neither his phone nor the app, so of course we needed this scene.
Lucas stares at the screen, eyes dully focused on nothing in particular. In one scene, a thin paper is strung on the wall, his curiosity piquing as he notices the casting of an easel, far-off in the distance, not whatsoever relevant to what was being shown.
It’s a re-run episode of the Bureau and from what he remembers, this was the scene where Malotru, the dude with the penchant for watching paint dry, somewhat trying, failing miserably, to convince his lieutenant on a co-op he wants to join in on.
It’s just a set-piece yet it does nothing but unnerve him. Because somehow, despite the canvas being shoved behind a dresser, he’s able to take notice of it, as if the white was not a splotch but consumed the entirety of the screen.
He doesn’t dwell on it for long because his phone buzzes, which happens to be plugged into the charger that is plugged into an outlet, which is on the opposite side of where he has found himself tucked under. Lucas kicks his feet in an attempt to extend one of his leg to thumb the corner of his cell.
He knows it’s counterproductive because there was no way in hell he could even get the sole of his foot to kick it towards him, rather far, way farther away.
When it ends up dropping onto the floor, a resounding thump drowning the not-so-silent room, he pushes off of the sofa and goes to retrieve it.
Lucas’ bends stealthily, only to tilt his head. Mika grits bitterly under his breath as he appears from the bathroom, makes his way past Lucas before halting.
“Lucas, tell me. Do I look like what Vincent Cassel would if he was thirty-two years younger and drank less?”
He fists his phone into his palm, blinks as he processes what exactly he was being asked and more particularly on what to expect from how he answered.
“Not in this lifetime.” He settles for, as he pulls the blanket over his head in an attempt to avoid whatever point Mika thinks he was going to make.
It’s a little after ten. The couch has become a tenth less uncomfortable since the last time he had inhabited it. He’s had a sandwich, wheat bread, ham and butter-the only three things needed to make anything delicious, really.
He’s pried the window open, let’s the cool, heavy air settle, the kind that holds the promise of a rainstorm.
Lucas manages to avoid Mika’s thigh shoving unwittingly into his hip, scooches back hastily as Mika presses, instead, up against his shoulder, tugging his cover down. “Lucas, this is a case of mistaken identity.”
“M-what?” He flips through the channels, pressing on the button until there’s not an inkling of white to be seen. He’s gone through at least twenty before he switches the T.V off, in vain.
Lucas has a feeling, though, that white would be a color he’d grow to dislike.
Just because.
“Maybe he just has the dexterity of a toad.”
From what he’s gathered, there’s a guy. A guy who DMs Mika after following him on snapchat, asks him whether he looks like someone, behaves surprised when told no and does just enough to have Mika going on a spirited tirade on the merits of making social media accounts private.
Mika gets to his feet, a wayward look appearing on his face. He jabs a pointed finger at Lucas, mutters with indignation: “Do you plan on having the borough to the hamlet following you on Instagram?”
Lucas chortles at what’s being insinuated.
“What’s wrong with that?” He’s aware of the fact that some-how he’s accumulated a significant audience in the past couple of months, but what can he say. It’s endearing. They’re following him for a reason, a reason unbeknownst to him, but present nevertheless. “It’s the eyes.” He jokes, because Mika’s irked and pupils are supposedly Mika’s characteristic trait. He knows he’s pressing a nerve when he’s met with a glare.
Lucas raises his hands over his chest, apologetic. “I’m kidding.” He grins, kicking his feet on top of the table.
Mika resumes to snapping bitterly under his breath, brisk as he makes his way back to his room. A room, with four walls, and a door. A door that could be closed and opened whenever he wants it to be.
He misses having a room. He misses having the choice to sprawl his clothes on the floor, kicking his shoes into a corner and fixating on books that seem haphazard but, in his mind, they were placed in schematic.
Lucas rubs at his temple as he slips his hand back under the duvet. He curls inward. There’s warmth that emanates from his fetal position. It’s comforting and reminiscent of a bed he’s no longer sleeping on.
He lowers his gaze when a green bar appears on his screen.
Arthur: I think if we’re getting free food, I’m in.
Lucas swipes his thumb. He opens their group chat, reads with promptness, to get a gist of the messages he’s somehow missed and have accumulated to the point that there’s a plan in unison for them all to meet at the foyer, tomorrow, and work on that fucking mural.
Lucas: Yeah, no.
Basille: Daphne’s going to really have a good impression of me. Okay, fresco, 8 hands, an hour, free lunch.
Yann: What part of I’m paying for my own meal did you interpret as free-of-charge?
Basille: Yeah, complimentary food. Can’t get any better.
Arthur: I have no ideas. So, I wanted to make that clear. None, whatsoever.
Basille: I’ll be on her good side, right? Every time she looks at that wall, she’ll know that I had a part in it.
Basille: Luc, we’ll be walking together from 4th anyway so it’s okay. I’ll carry you there. You won’t have to use much of your stamina.
Lucas is aware of what they are doing. He’s thankful that there were them, who are trying to soften the blow of a moment that has him feeling wretched, shameful, angry—all at once. He appreciates their endeavors, albeit ridiculous, more than anyone.
A bar appears from the top of the screen, interrupting his thoughts.
srodulv is now following you.
It’s instinct, or an inherent roundabout way of Lucas, having been somewhat preoccupied, in extant, by the conversation he just had with Mika, to click on the notification. He’s re-routed to the app, an unfamiliar profile pops up.
He doesn’t scroll much, doesn’t have to, because he finds himself, breath abated, fingers halting, frozen in their spot, vision bleary—staring at a familiar sketchpad, at the caricature he’s seen a countless number of times, notices the date—it’s stamped 26.02.19.
Shit.
Lucas takes a deep, shaky breath. He lowers his gaze, curls his toes into the carpet, wants—no, needs to feel the ground because it ceases to exist as his head starts to spin. Lucas grits down on his jaw as he forces himself to be levelheaded.
He’s deliberate, conscious, alert and painstakingly awake, as he goes from one picture, to the next, to the next. There’s a glimpse of the racoon’s ears behind a brick wall. There’s Mike Walters and a scene from My Own Private Idaho. There are pelts of fucking raindrops, right after. There’s an idyllic excerpt from a book.
All of it seems too intentional, distinct, clear-cut.
Lucas stomachs his way through an obfuscated racoon, a video of that face of his, a clandestine painting (mostly rattled by how permeated the canvas was by something so noir), a wonky sketch of a keyboard—he doesn’t have to look at the date to know when it’s posted. It sears into his mind, that all of this, every. Single. Fucking. Post. Is. too. Deliberate. To. Be. a Goddamn. Coincidence.
It’s when he notices the cat. The cat and the racoon, affectionate, huddled, together—does he glance at the time-stamp: 03.01.19.
Weeks, it’s weeks before they’ve met.
He knows what he’s insinuating, what he’s convincing himself of.
Blithely, Lucas exits out. He grips at his phone, a little too tightly, the flesh of his palm becoming a ghostly white. He lets out a harsh, rugged, rough exhale, blinking in despondence to clear his mind of that fuckingcat.
He knows who that cat is. He also knows that it’s way before—
Lucas clamps down on his jaw, biting his tongue until a cascade of blood pools out from his gum.
What the actual fuck is this.
Lucas can’t help the way he goes tense. It’s not that he’s envious or angry or anything like that. He doesn’t, precisely, feel shitty. He just...
Okay, no, he feels kind of shitty. And weird. The whole situation is both shitty and weird, and Lucas doesn’t know how to make himself feel better about any of it. He hasn’t seen Eliott since that morning, although he’s mostly grateful for that, because it’s a glimpse. It’s all he needs, even though it’s all he’s getting.
But this-
This is all too telling without disclosing jack shit.
Lucas huffs, fingers arranged in a cursory manner over his screen as he types out: Drag me out of class. I’ll be a willing participant. He shoves the phone under the sofa, slams his face into the pillow as he nestles his neck in a position that isn’t too awkward.
Closing his eyes and inhaling deeply, he decides on taking a nap. Sleep, he had foregone. But a nap, yeah that would help him become somewhat sane. Maybe even eliminate the moping, the fairly unreasonable amount of moping, he’s been displaying.
He jabs his forehead into the padding of the cushion, whispering to himself the lyrics to smells like teen spirit—over and over again—With the lights out, it’s less dangerous. Here we are now, entertain us—just to erase the clout of susceptibility, the wistful hope rising from the solitude corners of his psyche—I feel stupid and contagious.Because there was no way in hell he was going to be stirred by this. Here we are now, entertain us. Screw, cats. Screw, Racoons. I’m worse at what I do best, and for this gift I feel blessed. Fuck that fresco. Fuck that white easel. Go to hell, Vincent Cassel.
