Expo Spork & Mari - Vignettes



Gee, the grass sure was interesting. The moss, too, come to think of it. Mari didn’t catch any of Spork’s looks, didn’t notice their confusion. She just kept staring forward, fingers tapping out an erratic rhythm that had no clear tune. She didn’t really know how to tell them, she didn’t really do emotions normally. Even with Spork, it was usually just at her worst, when things got too much for her to bear and they exploded. She supposed that’s why she was here.

“My parents got a divorce.” Mari deadpanned, letting the statement fall to the soft, slightly wet ground below. She let out a sigh, mirroring Spork’s smoke-laden exhale, trying to steady herself. “Mom got the certificate today.”

She’d made a habit over the years of checking all the mail that came to her house. It started with a curiosity as to the mail that she gathered before her mother came home from work, wondering what was inside the letters that weren’t addressed to her. The Internet made it easy enough to find out how to discreetly open various types of letters, as well as how to reseal them. Mari had been doing it for a few years, now, and today had been no different. She got home, gathered the mail, and began opening it at the kitchen table. It was a sort of routine that she’d gotten into.

She hadn’t known what to expect in the official-looking envelope with her mother’s name on it. She certainly hadn’t expected her mother would come home from work early. She hadn’t even heard the keys in the lock, just heard her mother’s voice as she came around the corner. Mari didn’t even try to hide that she’d read it, just shoved the paperwork back in the envelope and said she was going to go hang out with Spork. And here they were.

The words didn’t make her feel better. She’d thought they would, that’s what they were supposed to do. It still twisted her up like wires wrapped around the inside of her chest. She still wasn’t looking at Spork, didn’t want to look at them and see the expression they wore. It didn’t matter if it was pity or comfort or just plain nothing. Especially not with what else she had to say.

“They’d signed the paperwork a few days ago.” The wires tightened, threatening to choke her. Mari hunched forward a little, unconsciously wrapping around herself. Her hands had stopped moving and instead lay on the ground, nails digging into the soggy ground.

“On my birthday, actually.”

 


The news had Spork grinning from behind their hand, apprehension forgotten. Finally. They weren’t surprised that Ms. Ito had finally kicked her terrible husband to the curb - they were just surprised that it had taken this long. Seriously, they would’ve thought that Mari’s parents were already divorced, what with the way her dad lived in his own apartment and only ever showed his lousy face for holidays and spelling bees.

They’d timed him, once, on a particularly vindictive Christmas where Mari had gotten ahead of them and expressly forbidden them from sneaking cat litter into his shoes. He stayed for exactly an hour, and then got a mysteriously well-timed “work call” that had him out the door almost to the second. He was, in no uncertain terms, an asshole, and they had no idea why Ms. Ito kept letting him in her house. Good on her for finally kicking him to the curb.

Their mirth died quickly when they realized that Mari wasn’t sharing it. She sounded pretty broken up, actually, clipped and tight in that way that meant she had her hands around the neck of whatever emotion was currently troubling her. Spork still wasn’t the best at the whole comfort thing, but they’d learned enough to know they should drop the smile. They did, turning in her direction just as she dropped the second bombshell.

“Oh, shit,” they hissed, after a second, as the implications dawned on them. “What an asshole.”

He’d planned that, hadn’t he? Keith was just the sort of dirtbag to bail as soon as he didn’t have to pay child support, and Mari had just turned eighteen. They reached a hand out, then reconsidered, drawing it back and offering her their other hand instead, the one with their half-smoked cigarette in it. She had never taken them up on their offer before, but it seemed like the kind of thing that would tell her that they were in her corner.

They considered saying something else, maybe a reassuring ‘at least he’s gone?’, but they weren’t sure how she would react to it. Despite how long they’d known each other, Spork didn’t really know much about Mari’s relationship with her dad. They knew that they hated him, with the kind of instinctive dislike that had led them to smear increasingly outlandish shit on his too-fancy shoes for several Christmasses in a row, but they were drawing a blank on how she felt about the whole thing.

“That sucks,” they said instead, lamely, ready to draw their hand back when their offer of a smoke was refused, as it usually was. “It’s like the world’s shittiest birthday present.”

 


Spork’s revelation was not news to Mari. She’d known that he was, as they put it, ‘an asshole’ since her mother had first told her that her father had gone to live in his own apartment. Originally they’d promised that time would be split between the two places, that it was close enough that it wouldn’t disrupt her normal routines too much.

Except Keith’s place wasn’t close enough to Spork’s for them to walk over, and he hadn’t been willing to drive her in this direction unless it was to return her to her mother. Like taking her to see her friend was more of an annoying errand than something fathers did all the time. Split time became weekend stays. Then those weekends began to alternate. Not long after that, they became little more than dinner at a restaurant near Keith’s house and sleeping at his place before catching the first ride back to her mom’s. If he noticed that she was using his card to pay for it, he never said anything.

Those dinners became less and less frequent, until they too faded into obscurity. All that was left were the bare pillars that were required to maintain what could generously be called a presence in her life. Mari got a card with a check in it for her birthday, and he stayed for approximately an hour every Christmas. Keith also made the occasional appearance at her public competitions, events, or milestones. She didn’t doubt that he’d appear at graduation, sitting through the ceremony and politely clapping, taking a single picture with his hand lightly on her shoulder before leaving again.

She’d changed her last name to her mother’s as soon as she had the opportunity for fuck’s sake. Mari knew her father was an ass, she hadn’t wanted anything to do with him as soon as it became apparent that he didn’t want anything to do with her. She didn’t realize that her fingers had sunk into the mossy ground. She ripped them out, wiping her hands free of the wet earth that clung to them. Her breathing had become ragged as she’d been lost in her own thoughts, and she glanced in Spork’s direction.

Without hesitation, she roughly grabbed the offered cigarette, jammed it in her mouth, and sucked in a breath. The smoke that filled her lungs was harsh and bitter, scalding hot and ashy, and just as quickly as it entered, it left in a series of violent, hacking coughs. She held the offending tobacco product out from her body, as if reducing its proximity would lessen its effects. White-hot tears welled up in the corner of her eyes, which she wished could be solely attributed to her coughing fit.

“That.” She choked out, her voice rasping as the words slid against her raw throat. “Fucking. Asshole!” Mari yelled, slamming a fist against the ground as her scream was cut short by another coughing fit. “Of course he’d do this now. You’re about a decade late, Keith!” Her words were interspersed with coughs, fist colliding with moss to punctuate her words.

She took a few shuddering breaths, chest heaving as the last of the smoke left her lungs. She brought herself to her feet, unable to keep from pacing agitatedly. Flashes of something kept passing through her mind: spelling bees, science fairs, and the like, all with Keith in the background, the same neutral expression.

“He’s not just an asshole, Spork. Sometimes I wish I had one of your parents instead, because at least they pretend to fucking care. Keith treats me like I’m some doll that he gets to take out and show to people before putting me back in a glass cage until the next time he has to show me off!” Mari was yelling at this point, moving around the small clearing with envenomed rancor. Her cheeks burned and tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. She made no move to wipe them away.

“He didn't care about being at any of my events, he didn't care about seeing me do well, he didn't even give me a 'good job'! He just wanted to do the bare minimum to stay in my life, the least he could do while still claiming that he had a hand in every single thing that I did good at. And you wanna know the worst part?" She wheeled on Spork, pointing a finger in their direction uselessly.

“I know for a fucking fact that he was counting down the days until I turned eighteen. You know how my mom got the divorce papers today? It also contained a copy of their marriage agreement. You know what it said?” She knew Spork wouldn’t answer but she didn’t care, didn’t care who heard her at this point. She crouched down in front of them, eyes locked with unseeing eyes.

“It said that if Keith divorced my mom, he’d have to pay a ton of money in child support. The only way to get out of it was to wait until I turned eighteen.” She let that sink in for a moment, flopping down next to Spork and staring up at the trees above them, ignoring the faint damp that permeated the area. “Then, no more money. No child support, no money to mom. If he waited until I was an adult, he'd be able to sign away any claim to me as his daughter." Mari sat with Spork in silence, tears quietly sliding down her face and falling to the ground below.

“What kind of guy does that?” She said quietly. “And why did he want to be a dad?”

 
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If Spork’s eyebrows lifted any higher, they might just escape their face. They leaned forward as Mari coughed, carefully tapping their way up her arm and then plucking the cigarette from her fingers. Yeah, no, they weren’t letting her take another hit. That coughing sounded awful.

They weren’t sure that they wanted to finish it either. They felt kind of bad, actually. Rather than putting it back in their mouth, they dropped it into the lemonade can, where it could fizzle out amid the watery ashes.

“You tell him,” they said, approvingly, tilting their head into their shoulder as they considered whether they should attempt to pat her on the back. That was what you were supposed to do when someone was coughing, right? They weren’t actually sure.

Before they could reach a consensus, Mari recovered on her own, launching to her feet and into the most passionate tirade they’d ever heard from her. For the most part, Spork sat back and let her rant, occasionally egging her on in their own way.

It went something like this: “I wish I had one of your parents” (“lol”) … “He didn’t even give me a ‘good job’!” (“What an ass.”) … “You wanna know the worst part?” (“Mm?” (They had produced an untainted lemonade from behind a tree root and were taking a sip, but they sat forward with interest.)) … “He was counting down the days until I turned eighteen.” (“Wow. Creep.”)

“You know what it said?” For once, they were silent. They placed the lemonade in the dirt beside them, and didn’t even tap their fingernails against the can. She had their attention. It seemed like the only thing they could give her, at that moment.

Their lips tightened into a flat line at the confirmation of their theory. Yeah, they thought it might be something like that. Keith was a jerk, but he was a smart one. There was a reason they’d had to get increasingly inventive in their quest to keep vandalizing his shoes.

For once, Spork didn’t have a smartass comment to defuse the tension. They couldn’t think of anything to say that would make things better. It was just a shitty situation, and Mari didn’t deserve to be caught in the middle of it. But she was, and if she was wrapped up in it then so were they. They’d made a promise to her, years ago, and they weren’t planning on breaking it.

She sat beside them, and Spork put their arm around her, drawing her into their side. They weren’t built for comfort, they thought, not for the first time. But for her, they would learn. Their hand, already beginning to develop the rough calluses that they would only further cultivate over the years, patted her arm, and they bent their head down to speak to her as softly as they could. “I don’t know. That was… really, really shitty of him, you’re right. But, hey, you know what I do know?”

They abandoned the lemonade can, twining their fingers with hers in a way they didn’t do for anyone else. Their smile was solid, reassuring in the way a deadbolt was. Familiar. Safe. They squeezed her arm, and lifted their joined hands to wipe her cheek with their wrist. “I’m not going anywhere. Neither is your mom. Keith can be as shitty as he wants, and that won’t change. I promise.”

(It would be the first promise they broke, between the two of them. They wouldn’t even realize, not until they were setting their bags down on the other side of the country and breathing free for the first time in their life. They didn’t mean to break it, not really, but they never would’ve stayed in that town forever. Mari understood, they would reassure themself, when they had time to think of it at all.)

 


It was the ass-end of dawn, and Spork’s phone was dead. This wouldn’t have been such a big deal, normally - they’d made a habit of staying up late, lately, and somewhere along the way late had become early and then made the slow but satisfactory slide into ‘whenever’. While they could keep up, their phone often couldn’t, as they frequently forgot to charge it. It was whatever. Such were the perks and quirks of being their own damn person, and no longer beholden to such petty things as ‘sleep schedules’ or ‘partying in moderation’.

No, the problem was that they were a few states removed from their usual territory, and while they were fairly sure that they had the right address for Mari’s quaint little college not-frat-house, they weren’t one-hundred percent sure. And they had no way to double-check, so they had to take the cabbie at his word that he had dropped them (and all their bags) at the right place.

But, like, they were pretty sure. So it was probably fine. They could probably charm their way out of it, if they’d stumbled up to some stranger’s house instead. Yeah. That was an excellent plan. If it came to that, of course.

They leaned their elbow into the doorbell again, listening to the answering buzz ring within the house as they sipped at something fizzy and fruity. The drink was kind of shitty, but it was from the airport, so they didn’t have high hopes to begin with. They couldn’t really taste the alcohol in it, though, which was a shame. They should probably get something stronger. Either that or give in to the crash of supernatural proportions that they could feel waiting just beyond the horizon.

But both of those options required Mari to open her damn door, first. Seriously, what was that girl doing in there? Wasn’t she expecting them? They’d sent her the plane taking off emoji and everything! How much clearer could they be?

Alright, so they didn’t actually tell her in as many words that they were dropping by for a surprise visit-slash-couch-surf. And they hadn’t texted her when they landed, because they forgot, and then their phone died in the cab over. But they were sure it would be fine. They’d just explain when they saw her. Which they would, any second now, because she was going to open the door. Any second.

“Maaaarrrriiiii!” There was a dull thunk as they knocked their forehead against the door, already impatient. They were booored. Planes were the worst. They’d been cooped up for way too long, and they did not have enough alcohol or hot chicks to offset this offense. Not that Mari counted as a hot chick, but at least it’d be someone to talk to. “Let me innnnn.”

 


Whoever had made the decision to let Mari go to college deserved to be shot. Whoever had decided to let her get a double major in two fields that were only tangentially related at best deserved to be shot twice. Whoever decided to also allow her to get double minors and participate in a five-year master’s program deserved to be shot three times. Then again, if everyone got what they deserved then all Mari would have to show for her troubles would be six bullet holes, and she’d be no closer to getting her work done.

That was the kind of joke Spork would’ve laughed at, their proper risk-of-snorting laugh, not their polite ‘ha’. Not that they were incredibly polite before they’d both gone off to college. It had always been a given, at least in Mari’s mind, that they’d go to the same school when they graduated. They’d keep up the old routine: she’d keep their head above water, they’d do their best to annoy her whenever they could. Their routine had been comforting, and Mari would have been lying if she said she hadn’t enjoyed the time they spent together as partners in crime.

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to her that Spork would choose a different college, one more suited to their “play hard, work hardly” lifestyle. Of course she’d helped them get in, although honestly they’d done most of that work themself. Her job was mainly ensuring that Spork’s parents thought whatever booze-soaked post-secondary school they chose had plenty of accessibility options and would be the perfect place for their darling child to thrive.

That was the last big project she’d done that had involved them. There had been the fierce bearhug that she’d gotten when she left, but the difference in schedules meant that Mari wasn’t able to go help them move in, regardless of how not so subtly their parents tried to bribe her. She hadn’t seen them much since then. There was the token holiday appearance, naturally, but they both kept it pretty short. Mari because she was itching to get back to her projects, and Spork because they were itching to be as far from their parents as possible.

They didn’t talk much anymore. The last text she’d gotten from them was an emoji of a plane taking off, which she’d taken to assume meant their plans for the evening involved getting as high as they possibly could. She’d responded with a short “See you when you land” to keep up the joke/metaphor thing before throwing her phone onto her bed and herself into her work.

Mari didn’t know what time it was when she was jerked out of her slumber. The fact that she was sleeping at all was the first sign something was wrong. She’d planned on staying up the whole night, lost in a haze of wires and breadboards. She’d considered moving on to the actual soldering parts of her project, but decided that sleep deprivation and molten metal was a quick way to lose her security deposit.

She blearily glared at the traitorous carafe that sat on her workbench. The carafe, to its credit, managed to look perfectly innocent, dregs sitting in the bottom, perched upon a two dollar pot holder. Mari had anticipated the night in front of her, brewing a full pot and adding cream and sugar directly to it. Mugs were a luxury for those who could afford to sleep. Something in her pointed out that sugar could lead to a caffeine crash, but a harsh buzz shoved that thought deep into her brain as all synapses began firing towards a single purpose:

Figuring out what the fuck that noise was.

It didn’t actually take long to realize the sound was her apartment’s buzzer. She didn’t know what time it was, but judging from the gray sky that peeked through the curtains she never bothered to fully close, Mari figured it wasn’t a time any sane person would be at her door. Then again, whoever it was didn’t seem sane judging from their slurred yelling. Great, that would be another noise complaint filed to her landlord. Mari twisted the lock and pulled the door open, ready to tell off whatever drunken frat boy had gotten her apartment mixed up with his shitty bachelor pad.

The smell hit her first, sickly sweet fruit and stale alcohol came off them in waves, mixing with the distant yet familiar scent of cigarettes. She took in the rumbled clothes, the shaggy and unkempt mullet, the shades on their face and the cane dangling from their wrist. It took Mari a moment to register the bags in their hands, but she ignored it and focused on them instead. Sure she’d given them her address, but she figured it was a courtesy thing, like a “keep in touch” at the end of summer camp. But here they were, wavering slightly under the weight of their bags and the presumed alcohol in their system.

“Spork?” Mari said, hesitantly. The tiredness was gone from her voice, replaced by a tone of incredulity as she attempted to figure out what was going on. “Why are you here? How did you get here?”

 
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Spork was beginning to contemplate the merits of finding a window and a large rock, rather than continuing to scratch at Mari’s front door like some kind of sopping wet beast. They were not a pathetic meow meow, they were more like a stray dog, if anything, and they were fully capable of getting into any building they were sufficiently motivated to get into. The only thing stopping them, really, was the faint but persistent knowledge that Mari would be rather upset with them if they broke her rental property. And, well, the equally faint but only marginally less persistent thought that they might not have the right address, and did they really want to go to jail for this? When there were so many more interesting things to put as the first entry on their rap sheet?

What was the coolest crime, anyways? They pulled their phone from their pocket and were halfway through tapping out the password before they remembered that it was dead. Frowning, they tucked it back into the tender embrace of their hawaiian shirt’s boob pocket, then rolled their eyes and poked a finger into the buzzer again.

A sharp clack drew their attention, and Spork tipped back the last of their drink, lowering it just in time for the door to swing open. Out of habit, they crunched the can in their hand, crumpling the aluminum in one sharp gesture. And they waited, holding their breath, almost, for the moment of truth.

It was Mari’s voice that greeted them, and not a random stranger’s. Spork’s responding grin could outshine the sun.

“Mari!” They swept forward, barreling into her with enough force to knock her off her feet - and then, suddenly, they were the only thing holding her up, their arms around her in the bear hug to end all bear hugs. The weight of a whole other person, however skinny, destroyed their balance, and they bashed their shoulder into the doorframe trying to regain it, but they were laughing, crushing her tightly against them and just as quickly drawing back to ruffle her hair, squeeze her shoulder fondly - a sharp ting! as the crumpled can met the floor, but they didn’t care - and, eventually, just as suddenly as they’d begun their onslaught, they were pushing her lightly away. “I flew, duh. And boy are my arms tired! Man, it’s good to see you. Get it? Ha, of course you do.”

Taking up the handle of their suitcase - the duffel was still balanced on top of it, thank satan - they walked right into the apartment. The toe of their shoe caught the side of the can they’d dropped, sending it clattering off with a metallic racket that they studiously ignored as they turned a wolf’s grin on their friend. “So, where should I set up?”

The entryway led into a cozy little hallway. Kind of bare, from what they could tell, but they could work with that. They swept their cane over the floor near the door, found where Mari left her shoes, and kicked their own off haphazardly before wandering down the hallway and deeper into the building, suitcase trundling after them.

 


It was too early for a lot of things, but Mari never expected one of those things to be being pulled into a massive, bone-crushing bear hug by her blind best friend she hadn’t seen in months. Hurricane Spork swept her up in a whirlwind that took her breath away and yanked the floor out from under her feet. She honestly expected herself to go crashing to the ground, at least that might have rattled enough brain cells back into functioning that she could properly process exactly what the fuck was happening here.

Because this was Spork. They were here. They reeked of shitty alcohol and cigarettes and it had definitely been a few days since they’d showered, but there was no mistaking the near-feral grin that brightened their face, wide enough that you probably could have fit a banana in there and they’d still have room to make a sex joke about it.

But they were supposed to be a thousand miles away, getting drunk in some frat house with sticky floors that were incredibly uncomfortable to sleep on (a fact that they had felt the need to inform her of several times), not on her doorstep crushing her bones.

The sharp sound of metal hitting wood brought Mari’s thoughts back into focus, tuning into Spork’s usual verbal maelstrom. There was something off about it, but Mari couldn’t quite place it as they brushed past her, moving her out of the way with a gentleness that would have been out of place with anyone but her. It brought back memories of a simpler time, of them doing their best to comfort her when she’d needed them, even if she hadn't really returned the favor. She got so lost in the haze of nostalgia and 4 o'clock in the morning that she didn’t realize their question until they were already halfway down the hall.

“Set up? You mean your stuff?” She was a bit slow on the uptake, but she was going with the excuse that up until five minutes ago she had been in the throes of REM sleep. She raced to catch up with them, forgetting just how quickly they moved despite being both blind and in an unfamiliar place.

“I mean, I don’t have a ton of space.” It was mostly the truth. There was the kitchen that she rarely used, the living area she rarely used, her bedroom that she rarely used, the bathroom and her workspace. “I’ve got a couch? And there’s a hall closet you can probably put your stuff in…” It took her way too long to figure out where this was going.

“Wait, what? Spork, why aren’t you in Florida? You know, where you have classes? And a dorm? And a bed?” Mari knew they were impulsive, but they hadn’t sprung a surprise visit on her before, so why now? Already her thoughts were drifting towards the empty carafe on her workbench and how nice it would be to fill it with another helping of coffee. She might be able to make up for lost time if she got caffeinated now, but first she had to finish dealing with the Spork in the room.

 


“No, my turntables.” Spork snarked, turning to grin over their shoulder at Mari. “Yes, I mean my stuff! Who else’s stuff would I even have?”

They stopped once they reached the end of the hallway, dithering for a moment as they considered which direction to confidently wander in next. Right, they decided, taking a step in their chosen direction and immediately running right into the wall when it jumped out at them, revealing that right was not, in fact, a direction in which the layout continued. Another point for the walls, and negative points for their poor shoulders. Ah, well, it wasn't like they were lacking in random unexplained bruises.

They turned to the left and put their hand on the wall, trusting the floor to be relatively clear since Mari lived like a Tibetan monk. The space opened up on their other side, but rather than explore the great unknown they followed the wall until they found a door, immediately opening it and poking their head in.

Hmm, no, that was definitely a bathroom. They kept walking, reaching the end of the hallway and finding another door, where they repeated the process. Mari was fumbling to catch up behind them, but they paid her little mind as they tilted their head consideringly at the empty room, taking in the stale air and the lack of whirring fans or buzzing electronics. Where was she keeping her computer, if not in her bedroom?

Oh, there was a door on their right. They opened this one as well, and finally, there was the familiar Mariko soundscape they had grown accustomed to. The room even smelled like a Mari room, in a way that the rest of the apartment didn’t. They were uniquely qualified to tell. A knot between their shoulders eased, and they leaned in the doorway for a long moment, drinking it in.

Mari was asking questions. Spork’s hand tightened around the handle of their suitcase, which they’d kind of forgotten they’d been wheeling around, and they took a moment to sit it upright, letting their hair fall in their face to shade their eyes while they tried to think of a good excuse. One that wasn’t - “I dropped out.”

Shit. They grimaced, cursing under their breath, and then turned a fake-confident smile on their best friend, knowing she’d see right through it and trying it anyway. They were all about pushing their luck. “But it’s fine! Totally fine! I just need a place to crash while I figure out how to get my parents off my back. When they find out. If they find out. Which they won’t, at least until the end of the semester.”

The plastic handle of the suitcase creaked dangerously, and they snatched their hand back from it, wiping their palm on their jeans as surreptitiously as they could. Gah. They hated having to ask, even in such a roundabout way. Maybe they should’ve gone with the window-smashing idea. At least then they could ask forgiveness instead of… ugh, permission. The discomfort of it sat like a stone in their stomach, dipping the edges of their smile until it could hardly be called a smile at all.

They didn’t know what they’d do if she turned them away.

 


Mari didn’t comment on Spork colliding with the wall. Even if they weren’t drunk, she’d seen them adjust to new spaces before, and they’d assured her that potential injury was vital to the process. They moved fast though, even though on some level Mari knew that she just was having a hard time keeping up with them because her head was spinning. She hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep for a surprise Spork visit, let alone a surprise Spork roommate.

They ended their explorative route at the door to her workspace and Mari saw them pause, some tension within them unwinding and letting them relax. She stayed quiet after asking her question, some part of her feeling guilty for breaking their moment of relaxation as their shoulders slumped, the weight that they’d been hiding falling squarely onto them once the suitcase could no longer carry it.

One eyebrow crept up at the sincerity in their voice, the quiet vulnerability. That was new. The closest she’d heard Spork come to that was when they’d done their best at comforting her. She hadn’t expected them to go to college at all, to be perfectly honest, but when she’d managed to catch up with them on the holidays it had finally clicked. College had been another escape for them, another way to be free of their parents’ overbearing clutches.

Now here they were, reaching out to her in the clumsy, intruding way that was all they knew. Sure, their cocksure attitude had surged back in full force, backed by a wave of alcohol and denial, but Mari’d had plenty of experience looking past it. Spork was scared. They were terrified that she’d slap their grasping hand away and send them back to their parents; a prisoner returned to their cell after so sweetly tasting freedom.

How could she ever refuse them?

Mari closed the distance between them, steps deliberate and just loud enough that Spork could hear her approach over their rambling. She grabbed the handle of their suitcase and pulled it toward her, letting out a surprised breath at how heavy it was. Didn’t airports have a weight limit on these things?

“I’ll go and put these in the hall closet. You can unpack your stuff in the morning.” She began walking back down the hall, raising her voice so they could hear where she was. “The couch is yours, I’ll get you a blanket so you don’t freeze.” She paused before she turned the corner.

“Oh, and Spork?” Mari smiled at them, soft and tired. She hadn’t realized how empty her apartment had been, but somehow it felt more comfortable in the past five minutes than it had the entire time she'd been living there.

“It’s good to see you.”

 
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“Shit!” Mari swore, shaking her free hand and jamming the soldering iron back in its holder. That was enough for the evening. She pushed back from her desk, standing and moving to the bathroom. She flicked the water on, made sure it wasn’t hot, and stuck her finger under it. This was the third time tonight she’d managed to burn herself with the solder and although Mari was stubborn, she knew when it was time to call it quits.

She stepped back into her room/office, passing a closed door with a ‘Beware of Dog’ sign on it. Spork added that shortly after they’d moved in, asking her if she’d seen it enough times that she had gotten suspicious. Sure enough, instead of a silhouette of a dog Spork had somehow managed to get one with a fursuit silhouette instead. How did they even get that so quickly? Did Amazon do next day delivery on furry novelty signs now?

She’d given Spork her bedroom after the first few nights they’d stayed with her. Every time she’d seen them they looked like they hadn’t slept at all. Mari knew they had, she’d made sure to wake up incredibly early one day to confirm that they were. It took a little convincing, but after setting up a twin bed in her workspace (and moving all their stuff into the bedroom while they were out), Spork agreed to take her bedroom as their own.

It wasn't hard to find a time to do that. Spork was out almost every night it seemed. They’d come back at some ungodly hour, sometimes with some drunken girl in tow but usually just by themself, staggering into their bedroom before presumably passing out to sleep until at least noon. Then it was a few hours spent milling around the apartment, popping in and out of their room before heading out sometime in the evening. Mari had debated following them on a few occasions, but considering they always came back more drunk than when they left, she felt that one of the various bars in the area was a safe assumption.

‘More’ was the operative keyword there. At this point, Mari felt like she had seen her friend drunk more often than she’d seen them sober these past few weeks. They hadn’t seemed to quite shake that tipsy demeanor that they’d worn when they first showed up on her doorstep , that sort of loosey carefree attitude that would have felt vaguely forced if that wasn’t also just how Spork acted on a regular basis.

Mari sunk down into her desk chair, contemplating the soldering iron once more. This homework wasn’t going to complete itself, and surely she wouldn’t burn herself a fourth time if she was careful, right?

Before she had the chance to fall for her own lie, Mari heard the bang of the front door being closed a bit too forcefully. She checked her phone, a puzzled expression on her face. The clock showed a time that was at least two hours later than she was expecting. Damn. Normally she was in bed or even asleep by the time they got home.

“Spork?” She called to them through her open door. “You got company?” Usually they texted her in advance, but they sometimes forgot and the last thing Mari wanted was a late-night conversation with one of Spork’s one-night stands while they not-so-subtly were trying to advance things to the ‘fade to black’ portion of the evening.

 
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Spork hadn’t meant to slam the door. It had just kind of slipped out from between their fingers, shutting itself with aplomb before they could catch it and lever it closed more gently. They gave it a dirty look as they reached over to turn the deadbolt, accomplishing this, at least, with some modicum of quietness. Similar success was reached in toeing off their shoes, near soundless as they slipped out of their sneakers and left them in the hall closet. Their cane was set gently in the corner behind the door, hardly a whisper of plastic against plaster to give them away.

All their sneaking turned out to be useless; Mari was awake, proving so when she called down the hallway in a voice that was decidedly ‘still awake’ and not ‘suddenly awakened by Spork being a dipshit’. They’d learned to tell the difference. They felt their shoulders go tense as they stopped dead in the middle of the hallway, fingers curling into their palms as they considered their reply.

“Just me,” they finally called back, after a long moment of utter silence. Ugh, no, they should’ve lied and said they had brought someone home - then Mari would be guaranteed to stay in her room with the door shut, and they could sneak past her way easier. Dammit.

They continued down the hallway with slightly louder steps, giving up on their tiptoeing but not daring to fully commit to their usual heavy tread. Maybe if they were quick about it they could still stick to their original plan. They’d go to the bathroom, wash off whatever blood was on their face from their split lip, and then hide in their room until the stinging bruise on their jaw went away. This was a perfect plan. Best of all, it meant that they didn’t have to drag Mari into any more of their problems. They already felt bad enough about crashing her apartment, even if they were paying half of the rent.

Even with their totally solid plan crystal clear in their mind, they stalled out just around the corner from Mari’s bedroom, just barely out of the line of sight they’d felt out over the past few weeks, steps stuttering and almost leading them on the familiar route into her room.

She wasn’t usually awake when they got back. When she was, though, they usually dropped in to chat with her, to listen to her talk about her projects and classes until they couldn’t keep their eyes open anymore. They’d only fallen asleep on her floor a couple times, but they usually slept a little better those nights regardless of where they passed out.

Maybe they should market nostalgia as the new melatonin, Spork thought. Then, not that any of that means anything. They gave themself a mental slap, told themself to suck it up, buttercup, and crossed quickly through the line of fire to reach the bathroom. Plan. They had a plan.

 


Mari could tell something was off. For all their chaos and bluster, Spork was a creature of (moderate) habit. If they didn’t have a hookup, they usually came and perched on the edge of her bed or flopped down on her floor, encouraging her to ramble on about her classes and various projects she was working on. Not that it took much encouragement when Mari was genuinely interested in the material, but she admitted that sometimes once she got going it was hard to stop.

Sometimes they fell asleep on her floor, and Mari pretended not to notice their eyes getting heavier and their posture slowly slumping. She usually made sure they had a blanket on them before she went to bed. She tried to put a pillow under their head once and had nearly woken them up.

This was different. Their delayed response could have just been the hesitation of a drunk getting their bearings, but something about it set Mari on edge. She rose from her chair, socks quiet against the vinyl flooring as she moved to the doorway. She poked her head out, glancing down the hall at the now-audible footsteps that were just a little bit quieter than she was used to. Mari saw Spork turn the corner and stare in her direction, unmoving, unseeing, before moving to the bathroom.

In the flood of light that came from her room she could see that they were hurt. Some unknown feeling twisted through her before she pushed it away. Mari forced herself to look over their injuries as they stared at her like a deer in the headlights, even though they had no way of knowing she was standing there. Their lip was bloodied and a dark splotch covered some of their jaw. Maybe they’d fallen? Could happen, especially with a drunk blind person. But Spork had pretty good coordination, and when Mari glanced at their exposed arms and legs (who wore cargo shorts to the bar?), she didn’t see any scrapes or blood.

Correction, their knuckles were also bruised and battered, one hand hanging a bit looser than the other. Something complicated lodged in the pit of Mari’s stomach, and she tried to push all the whirling thoughts down as she adjusted herself to be fully standing in the doorway.

“Hey,” Mari made her presence known, hoping not to send them scurrying back into the dark. “Rough night?” She kept her voice level, allowing only the tiniest amount of worry to creep into it. If she came off too concerned, the walls would go up and they’d shut her out. Mari had seen it before, it wasn’t pretty.

“I’d hate to see the other guy.” She half-joked in a feeble attempt to lighten the tension that choked the air around them.

 


“Jesus fuck!” Spork cursed, loudly, startling away from Mari’s soft voice. They slammed their palm into the wall to catch themself before they could teeter fully off balance, their wild-eyed, one part guilty, two parts stunned look finding her with startling accuracy. Their heart was hammering against their ribs like it was trying to break free, and they felt shocky and sick as they put their other hand over their chest, another barrier preventing its escape attempt. “Gahhh, how long were you standing there?”

They were going to put a bell on her. They were going to do it, and no one could stop them. Surely there was some way to swing it so that sewing bells into their roommate’s clothing counted as an accessibility aid, right? There had to be. Even if they had to sit through hours of research, they were going to find some throwaway bylaw and exploit the shit out of it.

Yeah, as much as the tangent of their thoughts was drawing their attention helpfully away from the elephant in the room, they didn’t have grand hopes of avoiding it forever. They winced at Mari’s question, pushing off of the wall only to touch a hand briefly to their jaw, wince again, and turn their face so that the bruise was out of sight.

A scoff was their only answer, but it rang hollow, too short and sharp to pass muster for their usual repertoire of sounds. A sharp, mean, twisting smile found its way onto their lips at her joke, sending a new sting of pain singing through their nerve endings. They didn’t bat an eye at the sensation, but the reminder of the source of their injury made their smile dwindle to nothing.

“Yeah,” they said, and then, in a sudden rush, “Nah. I shouldn’t have-”

They cut themself off, the fingers on their injured hand curling and uncurling, each movement a dull throb. They needed to practice their form. They hadn’t actually gotten in a fight before, for all their posturing. Not that it had been much of a fight - they’d been arguing with someone, over something stupid that they probably should’ve just let go, would’ve just let go if they hadn’t been so frustrated, restless, aimless, whatever, and then that someone had introduced their fist to Spork’s face. And Spork had hit them back, not knowing why they were doing it aside from how convenient, that they finally had an excuse, a halfway-decent target for all their bottled emotions, and then - too soon, not soon enough - there were arms pulling them back, shoving them out into the spring air.

And they’d gone home. No, they’d gone to Mari’s apartment. Jittery, dazed, scuffing their sneakers on the sidewalk with every step. But they’d gone. And now they were here, and Mari was a few paces away from them, and they didn’t know how to explain any of that to her. They didn’t know if they even wanted to.

No, they realized, feeling their stomach lurch at the mere thought, they knew. And they definitely didn’t want to. It would be too much. It would be the straw on the camel’s back, the final signature on the eviction letter they’d been drafting in their head with every second they spent leeching off of her stable existence.

Because the simple fact was this: Mari didn’t need them, not really. They’d just been there, and soon she was going to realize that there were other people in the world who would be there for her too. People that would do a better job at it than they ever could, because for all that they tried to hide it, to cover it with bluster and big smiles, there was something in the core of Spork Fuchs that was fundamentally broken. Mari was too smart not to solve that riddle, eventually. And then she was going to leave them, or worse, she’d try to fix them, like how their parents always tried to fix them, and they’d be forced to leave her.

They didn’t have the strength to handle that. Not yet. Or not tonight, at the very least. They offered a weak smile into the silence, the barest quirk of their lips, and shook their head, their hand lingering like an afterthought on the doorframe of the bathroom as they stepped through, socked feet meeting cold tile. “Nevermind.”

 


Mari winced as Spork added yet another bruise to this evening’s collection. She forgot sometimes how jumpy they could get when someone managed to sneak close to them. She usually did her best to announce her presence well before the distance was this short, but it was certainly useful for taking a look at someone who didn’t want to be seen.

Because Spork didn’t want her to see them. They turned their head away, hiding the bruises in the dark of the unlit hallway. Their hand clenched and released, as if they were contemplating which pose would make their raw knuckles stand out less. Ever since they were kids, Spork had been proud of every cut, bruise, and scrape. They’d shown them all to her in gorey detail before covering them up in order to keep their parents from restricting what little freedom Spork had won from them.

That feeling that had settled itself in the bottom of Mari’s stomach shifted, crawling its way up to her chest and sitting heavy in her throat as the silence stretched on between them. Mari noticed the far-away look in Spork’s eyes, the sightless gaze that appeared to be staring at something miles off in the distance. Something was weighing in their mind, a maelstrom that they were trying to find the words to put together. She’d seen it before, equal parts panic and confusion, wrestling for control inside of them. Mari had a decent idea what it was about.

Spork had gotten into a barfight. They’d probably started it, to be perfectly honest. Mari knew they could be a hothead, sometimes with more bravado than brain cells, and one drunk mouthing off to another was a sure way to get the fists flying. She assumed, at least. She’d never set foot in a bar, and Spork had never invited her to tag along. Maybe this was why.

The thing that had migrated to her throat tightened painfully as the final piece slotted into place. The near-constant state of inebriation, the stench of cigarette smoke that clung to them like a second skin, the random hookups and sleeping most of the day away. Hell, the whole reason they came to live with her in the first place was because they’d dropped out of college. Spork hadn’t given her a reason, and she hadn’t asked for one, instead just snarkily thought about how she was surprised they’d lasted that long.

What kind of friend was she? Spork had been in a downward spiral for who knows how long and Mari was only just now seeing it. She didn’t know what to do. How could she, when she’d never dealt with something like this before? It wasn’t exactly every day she realized her best friend was self-destructing in as spectacular a fashion as possible, drinking and smoking themself into an early grave.

Part of Mari wanted to listen to them, to believe that it was nothing and that she shouldn’t mind. She could just mutter a quick ‘goodnight’, close her door, and get some much-needed sleep. Spork would presumably clean themself up, crash, and in the morning they could both pretend this never happened.

Mari at least knew she wasn’t that kind of friend. She pushed off the doorframe as Spork padded into the bathroom, slipping past them before they could close the door on her. She opened the closet and pulled out a couple of washcloths and a first-aid kit that was one of the few things her mother had insisted she have in her first apartment.

“Take a seat,” Mari said softly, gesturing uselessly to the toilet. She wetted and wrang out the washcloth before turning back to Spork. “I’ll help you clean up. Why don’t you get your lip?” Calm, gentle, firm. A suggestion they could deny, but in a voice that let them know it would be a lot easier if they listened. She passed the washcloth to Spork before wetting another and kneeling on the floor by them. Mari took their hand in hers, dabbing the blood and dirt off their knuckles.

“Did you at least get a good hit in?” Mari asked after a moment of quiet. She wasn’t sure what to ask, and maybe that wasn’t the right question. Perhaps it wasn’t really helpful to this whole situation. But the question was more to fill the silence as the gears in her brain began to turn, as she tried to think of how best to help her best friend. Knowing Spork they'd fight it the whole time, groaning and complaining and insisting there was nothing wrong and she was wasting her time, but Mari would do her best to pull them out of their nosedive.

That's what kind of friend she was.

 
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Mari brushed past them, cutting off their escape route once more, and Spork could only sigh, stopping with one hand on the edge of the sink. They swayed in place, tired and drunk and… just, sad, down to their bone marrow, frowning blearily at her as they waited for her to explain herself. If she had to use the bathroom, she could’ve just said so.

They heard her shuffling about in the cabinet, and their patience stretched thin, almost to the point of snapping by the time she finally spoke up. They couldn’t keep the fire lit, though - it banked, their shoulders dropping along with their chin as they sighed, again, put-upon and almost disbelieving, and then shuffled over to perch on the edge of the tub.

“I had it,” they mumbled, without any real heat behind their words. They took the washcloth, letting it drip over the floor for a long moment before they relented and wiped their eyes, their forehead, their cheeks (their sunglasses were pushed up into their hair for the first two, revealing tired eyes ringed by dark circles from too many sleepless nights, then dropped back in place with blonde strings still tangled in the frames). They paused, considered, switched hands, shrugged, then swiped the cloth over their lip, scrubbing at the thin crust of dried blood in what probably counted as a gentle manner for them. If you squinted.

They twitched when she took their hand, almost jerking it back out of pure instinct - they hated holding hands with anyone, even her, and always had - before forcing themself to relax, their fingers to uncurl. Though they tried to hold still, their eyelids kept trying to squint shut with each soft brush of cloth against skin, flinches in miniature that kept them coiled and tense.

Her question dropped into their lap, and they picked it up, turned it about, quiet and considering. Did they? Yeah, yeah, they probably had. More than one, they thought, though the whole chain of events was already knotting into a tangled blur in their memory.

They tilted their bruised jaw into their hand, washcloth pressed damp and cold against the side of their face, and didn’t answer. Their eyes were closed. They had stopped wincing at her every touch, their perpetual motion channeled into their bouncing left leg instead. Even that was half-hearted - they would jitter it for a few seconds, fall still, and then pick it back up again, starting and stopping jerkily. Their shoulder was pressed against the wall, and they curled further in that direction as she continued her ministrations, dropping their head to rest against the vertical plane, pressing their leg up against the plaster. They looked like a wilting flower, or a deflating lawn ornament. They looked tired.

Eventually, it was over. Spork took their hand back, opening their eyes and automatically flexing their fingers to test the give of the bandages. It felt fine. Fine enough. They gave her another smile, somehow even smaller than the last, and tucked their hand in their lap. Their mouth opened, dry lips peeling apart in a tiny rush of air as though they were about to say something, but the breath just blew back out again, unaccompanied by any words.

“Thanks,” they managed, after another breath, shoring their smile up into something that was almost halfway decent. Then they lapsed into silence again, still leaned against the wall like it was the only thing holding them up. They didn’t feel like moving, didn’t feel like dragging themself to their borrowed room just to lay awake for hours more. They would, though. Just… in a minute. They just needed a minute.

 


“Mhm.” She murmured noncommittally. In truth Mari had no doubt that Spork could have cleaned themself up. It just would’ve taken longer, been less effective, and somehow they would’ve caused more damage to themself in the process. Mari knew that she wasn’t good at this, but she tried to remember moments of her mom cleaning her cuts and scrapes, her gentle touch, her soothing words. Spork probably would’ve taken to the words like a cat to a pool filled with dogs, so Mari tried to stick to the touch.

Every flinch gave Mari a shock of some feeling that she did her best to push down. It was fine, sometimes you had to hurt a little to help. That’s how it always went. She looked up at Spork as they peeled their sunglasses back, their eyes bloodshot and watery. The gray one looked worn, the green wilted. Both looked faded. Mari didn’t want to think about whether it was just the alcohol, or if the mischievous light that had burned so bright during their youths that it had shown through the clouds had dimmed so severely.

The shades fell back down, drawing the shutters closed so hard Mari could almost hear them slamming shut. Mari noticed Spork pulling away, pressing themself against the wall in either an attempt to escape or a search for something to support them. Perhaps some of both, if the dark circles under their eyes were any indication.

After some effort, they managed a thanks before giving her another half-hearted smile. Even through all the shoring up, Mari could still see the cracks at the edges of their lips, the barely-held together facade that would crumble if she pushed. Their silence spoke volumes about it, even if they didn’t want to say anything. Spork was never quiet, would never turn down the chance to chatter excitedly about whatever had happened to them that evening.

Mari slumped down by them, letting the tub press against her back as she studied Spork. They leaned heavily against the wall, as if it was the only thing that kept them from collapsing to the floor and laying there forever. When they weren’t moving or running away, Mari could actually see how tired they were. Their ragged edges were thrown into sharp relief by the bathroom light and their uncharacteristic stillness. How could she have missed this? Mari already knew the answer to that. She'd watched Spork play a wide variety of parts in their life: the perfect child, the cool kid, the rebel. She just never thought that she wouldn't be privy to the script.

Mari let her head fall sideways, resting on Spork’s leg as her gaze shifted away from them to slide out of focus. She could feel the tiredness creeping into her muscles, her eyes getting heavier. Part of Mari knew that she should be trying to get Spork into bed, to help them sleep off the alcohol and get a fresh start in the morning. But that would be forcing Spork to do something, and forcing them was the quickest way to get them to stonewall.

She’d just rest with them for a moment. And when they were ready, she’d help them get moving.

 
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