Catalyst Encounters // Brallon AU

8. Growth

There were many ways someone could consider themselves 'fucked'. Perhaps one might've spilled a secret to the wrong person or missed the train for an important appointment. Dallon could empathise with these people as he too, was also completely, utterly fucked.

It was all well and good to become a righteous knight for a day and ditch a date for a friend in need, sure. But there was no reason not to text the other party about it after they had explicitly joked about being stood up. The entire night Dallon's phone had sat heavy in his pocket, but he couldn't find the nerve to unwrap his arms from Patrick and excuse himself to Brendon.

'Not socially inept, my ass,' Dallon thought bitterly, recalling Alex's comment. He cringed as he dried glasses behind the bar counter, wishing he could wipe away his entire existence as easily as the lipstick stain on the glass rim.

A few more text messages had come through in the morning, but Dallon figured the best thing was to simply continue to ignore the problem. Obviously it had only served to make things worse. He only needed half a brain to know that. Now he felt a guilty spike whenever his phone vibrated and an urge to dunk his head into the filled sink tub in front of him whenever someone walked through the bar's entrance.

It was immature, he knew. He completed a communications degree for Christ's sake. But when it came to Brendon, it seemed that every wire in his brain faltered and did the exact opposite of what he wanted.

He gave a thick sigh and raked a damp hand through his hair. "I don't have enough serotonin for this," Dallon muttered weakly. He resolved to focus only on the dishes to be washed in front of him, allowing the sloshing of water to carry the time on while he thought about anything else he possibly could other than the situation at hand.

"What's Gucci, Dal? One of the usual!"

Dallon wasn't sure when he forgot about the customers in the bar, but he definitely didn't jump a foot in the air when Alex planted himself onto the stool in front of him.

"Fuck, Alex, don't scare me."

"Eh, I walked straight up to you, bro I don't know how I could be much more forward."

Shoulders sagging, Dallon responded, "My mind's in a different place, I guess. Nicolas II, last Tsar of Russia could've been there and I wouldn't have seen him – it's nothing personal."

"I'm teasing," Alex grinned impishly. "Not that I know who that is right enough."

A simper worked its way onto Dallon's reluctant lips at the sight of the familiar face. He gathered the bottles for Alex's cocktails, sparing him a backwards glance. "Is it not a bit early for you to be here yet? Or did you humiliate yourself in public again?"

"You know me so well," Alex purred wistfully. "We may as well skip the foreplay and just get hitched already."

The words brought an incredulous laugh from Dallon. "I think I'd rather have a spider lay eggs in my eyes than be stuck with your degeneracy for a lifetime."

Alex exploded in laughter, letting go of the façade. "You've always been a pure bitch, you know that?"

Dallon slid the drink over the counter gracefully, swiping the cash and tip from Alex with a strained smile. "Yes, funnily enough you remind me most days."

"Epic."

"It's really not."

Alex sipped at his drink thoughtfully, occasionally drumming his fingers to the music of the overhead speakers. "Where's it been then?" He dragged his eyes back to Dallon who just finished with the washcloth he was using.