Dishing out varied cups for the both of us to store the same old orange juice we've always consumed at dinner, Kenny requests, "Dallon, could you help me set the table please? I have a lot on my hands right now, in case you haven't noticed in your impenetrable art trance."
Yeah, he does have a lot on his hands. He's been back and forth between work and home with only an abbreviated period of repose to collect himself and pray that he won't be a victim to premature wrinkling at such a young age of twenty-five, but he's already gathered lavender bags under his eyes and a weariness in his step, so aiding him in his notably mundane kitchen ordeal is the least I can do for the harrowing circumstances.
Kenneth Harris must be a saint if I've ever seen one, as he never raises his voice in anger, only to snare my attention when I'm lost in a creative trance like I am now, even through these piles of anxiety and guilt for not being the person his parents wanted him to be in the workplace and in the economy, for he's pulling through for me and for himself, because he cares that much. I understand that mac and cheese for what appears to be the thirty-fourth meal in a month isn't so appealing, but what else can I ask of him? He's already doing enough for me, and it's my unspoken duty to appreciate him and his gigantic efforts.
My pencil halts in the middle of an insignificant line around the wrist of my figure (who may or may not be Brendon Urie) to drain the artistic essence from my soul. The outside world becomes clearer now that I've cascaded into reality like a leaf cascades to the ground thickening in vibrant colors during autumn, and I immediately realize that the time is just over six o'clock and that I've been drawing for a little under two hours, just sketching and erasing because it never looks as perfect as I had imagined it to be, and it probably will never reach that point as long as I'm working on it, because even though I've only met Brendon Urie once in this amnesic state, he and his irises reminiscent of a wren's nest are too magnificent for me to portray upon something as lowly as sketchbook paper.
However, I've been cognizant since the beginning of my art career that nothing I will ever create can be flawless, so at the commencement of my drawing session I was simply scratching idly at the paper until I recognized that Brendon Urie was floating in my subconscious and ordering me to draw him, and that is what I was inadvertently doing, and ever since then I've been captivated by each stroke and curve and texture of his body, of his skin, of his eyes — oh his eyes, how I adore them, so dainty like fine china that will break at the slightest of touches, so I refrain, instead maintaining a distance at which it is safe to observe and marvel at their hickory wonders and itch for a pencil to be chained to my fingers so that I may bury him in paper, not once being disturbed by the prosaic comedies of other humans who know nothing of art and its muses.
Normally, I begin to fume at interruptions during my art sessions, never being able to reign in the creativity after even a brief cutout of three seconds or so and most often just abandoning the work entirely, but this is Kenneth Harris I'm addressing, the only one who has brought me up for the past month without any major conditions that would seem out of the ordinary, and all he asks if for me to help him set the table when he's been stressed out of his mind because of work and the fact that this work is the only source of food and shelter and warmth for us two, so I rise from my chair, gently planting my newest drawing of my newest friend on the coffee table so that it won't be harmed, and dash to assist Kenny.
"Could you pass out the silverware please?" Kenny inquires, now rooting through the cabinets for two bowls for his perpetual specialty of mac and cheese (it's not so much that it's unpleasant to the tastebuds, just that it's mutated into something monotonous).
Barely acknowledging Kenny with a gesture, I unlatch the drawer from its slot and reveal the array of both plastic and metal silverware amassed over the years of parties and shopping visits. The plastic utensils are somewhat chewed by repeating the ramifications of either a previous dog or tumultuous use, and the metal utensils have relinquished a portion of their shine from their age and the corporal section of the inheritance that Kenny probably never needed but couldn't decline because his parents would've complained about how he's an ungrateful, entitled, spoiled son when in reality he just doesn't have enough space for heaps of items in his house that's already too cramped for the passengers it currently serves.
I select two forks and two spoons (to provide both of us with a preference in utensil while we consume the ever present macaroni and cheese that's too amorphous to decide beforehand how it will be operated), then migrating over to the table, where most of the items have been strewn about the mahogany surface and clue me in to the notion that Kenny has completed most of the job and didn't really need me much anyway, just hoped that I would get up from my two hour dream for fear that it was transforming into something incipiently unhealthy.
As I fill my chair once concluding that everything is prepared for dinner (which didn't require as much time as I had suspected, meaning I could've finished my drawing of my new friend), Kenny lugs the ceramic pot of macaroni and cheese to the table, where it clanks upon the mahogany with a thud and a burst of steam from the cracks in between the body and the lid of the container, and he then drips the contents into both of our bowls, blowing on his to eradicate the insurmountable heat from the pasta's edible flesh.
"So how was your first day of school, Dallon?" Kenny investigates promptly after melting into his chair.
Instantaneously I clam up, like a zipper has slid through my vocal chords to transport them elsewhere, because truthfully it's not in my nature to assess how my day was, chiefly when all I received was confounded stares and a friend who claims to have known me before I attempted suicide. I'll try to decode this cesspool, though. It's for Kenny.
"I met someone, in fact," I finally state, nodding my head as a reassurance to myself that I can share my experiences with Kenny. "His name is Brendon Urie, and he's the first person who talked to me when I got there. The rest of the people only stared at me like I was an alien."
"Well to be fair, you did basically just rise from the dead."
I shrug, my vision wading in the lumps of cheese and pasta occupying my plastic bowl. "Brendon was genuine, at least."
"Then you should keep him as a friend," Kenny suggests, spooning a small bite of heavily cheesed macaroni into his mouth.
Fiddling with the fork between the tips of my two fingers, a small smile weaves into the edge of my lips, indulging in the simple pleasures of life and near death. "Yeah, he's quite nice, actually. I think he's something special."
Damn it. I can't be falling in love with someone I've just met. All Brendon Urie did for me was invade my personal space, and this could've been justifiable in the sense that he was unaware that I have no idea who the hell he was and who the hell he is currently, but I'm nevertheless suspended in a fog that's toying with everything I thought I understood, and that invasion should be a warning of Brendon's mental pandemonium. Maybe, on the contrary, I still subconsciously store the wonderful memories of him in the back of my mind, memories that are protesting to be displayed. My brain knows that Brendon Urie must have meant something to me back when I was craving to be dead, but should I allow my brain to be correct now that I'm all right in my mental health? For all I know, Brendon could've been manipulating me into dangerous situations in which I otherwise wouldn't have found myself, so what's the real truth? What do I do about this festering crush?
Nothing, because I'm very much a person who will go with the flow when they have no other options, and it might be fun to be swept away into a love that never really died. I need a muse, anyway.
~~~~~
A/N: dallon is just like me like honestly if you even laugh at my jokes I fall in love with you
aesthetic: WRITErs or ARtSITS A+++ siGn M e U,,P
~Dakoterrible
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L'Appel du Vide (Nocebo Effect P3)
FanfictionL'appel du vide: "the call of the void", the demons who tell you it could all be over. Dallon Weekes tried to kill himself -- he doesn't think it's a big deal, seeing as the amnesia swept over him before he could register where he was. He doesn't ha...