Strong For Too Long Trilogy ✔️

03. The Agency

CHAPTER 3: The Agency
(Aaron's POV)

Tobias gives me an undignified look. I blink, struggling to get the sleep out of my eyes as I grab a bottle of whiskey, forgetting the glass and just skulling on it like water, he stands in front of me, before ripping the bloody thing out of my hands and slamming it against the floor, the tiled floor-I watched it slide and pour all over the place as he stands there-angry.

"I am sorry you lost her, but doing this to yourself is so fucking childish, Aaron. You cannot do anything now, do you understand that? There's nothing that can be done for her now, only getting yourself cleaned up, for goodness sake." He spits at me, shoving himself past me to grab a towel.

I stumble forward towards the tap, literally only wearing a pair of black shorts, my torso bare as he steps back into the kitchen of the hotel room I randomly stepped into last night, not remembering a single thing except being really close to punching a girl who tried to slide her hand under my shirt.

I slam the tap on, shoving my hands under it and watching the transparent liquid pour onto my skin so fluidly, "I'm not a child, Tobias. Just get the hell out of my apartment, would you?" I grumble, shoving the water against my skin, I slap it closed as I part my lips to breathe.

He cleans up the mess, begrudgingly, before pausing at the mere sight of something I started working on a while ago. I look down at it too as he pauses and stands straighter, his face twisting, "Jesus, what have you done?" He asks me, cursing as he looks at the book in front of him, where I'd not only wrote about her, I drew her today.

My head hurt.

My heart ripped around in its webbed seams.

My muscles ached and my fist formed against the sink.

It took six weeks to get her hair right, before I analyse my memories of her eyes. Emerald green, it was the only part of her I'd began painting, using a mix of colours. Three months after Agent Soren attended her...funeral.

He slams the book closed, "This is what I'm fucking talking about, Aaron. This isn't healthy, not one bit. You need to get out of this place, alright. You've worried the entire team with your random disappearances." He spits, moving the towel towards the laundry as he shakes his head at me in disbelief, incredulously for what? For fucking drawing her emerald eyes, her sunshine blonde curls that I couldn't ver forget, nor that I'd ever want to.

It took me a long time to decide whether writing everything down was the best idea, but I couldn't stop it.

He steps back into the room, shoving a pair of shorts and a plain shirt at me, "Get dressed, we're going for a run." He tells me, bossily.

I close my eyes and pinch the bridge of my nose, "I'm not going anywhere." I mutter, reaching for the book, he grabs it first, due to the alcohol in my system and the lack of sleep controlling my movements, I stare at it, even as he holds it firmly in his grasp.

"You should burn this. Along with her fucking clothes in your closet." He says to me.

I gesture to him, "Hand it over. Now." I wasn't kidding either.

He slams it against the dining table, "Seriously, take a good fucking look at yourself and tell me, with a straight, sober face that this is what Olive would have wanted? You; a drunk-off-his-arse idiot with a stubbornness so far up it goes higher than all airplane grid lines, huh? Do you seriously think she would want this?" He throws that bullshit in my face.

I give him a pissed off look, "No, but she's not here to tell me that." I spit at him, leaning against the table as he stands there, shaking his head at me before strutting towards my room, black and blood red anger thrives in my alcohol-infested veins.