falling short {arsen/mew}

His bones didn’t throb. Instead of suffering a blow against a hard surface he felt something snake through his armpit and drag him to his feet. He squeezed his left thigh in an effort to numb the burns with pressure, but his efforts were always for naught. ”Steady there,” said a man’s voice. It was only a stranger kind enough to catch him before his fall, an unfamiliar face that distracted him from the knots of pain unfurling in his hip. It was a dull ache by the time he muttered, ”Thanks,” and the stranger merged with the crowd. It was odd for someone to actually interrupt one of his falls. People normally didn’t have the reflexes or the shits to give. He must’ve been in his way.

Arsen shrugged and rubbed the side of his pelvis. Recuperation periods were quick, and he lingered in the crowd only for a moment to recall where he was and relocate the sign of interest. Milk and ice cream and vegetables, that was why he was here, and if anyone tried to shove him again he would be sure to climb right to his feet and shove them back. Even if it killed his left leg. He always hated it when it was somebody else’s fault. Falling on his ass because of a crippled leg – a scar nobody could see until it was too late – was pitiful. His muscles would turn to jello because of the pain and then his knee would wobble, and then he would collapse. It always hurt too much for him to prevent a fall. One would think he would be adjusted to it by now, but it was never any easier. It felt like hellfire in his flesh.

He patted his right pocket to feel for the bulge of his wallet, then walked inside.

---

Two days later, he collapsed again.

It was another scorching day. There was a whisper of a breeze here and there to soothe the skin. It was even more relieving to be lounging by the fountain in the park, perched on the edge with his sketchbook in his lap. There was a flock of pigeons gathering by a bench, awaiting food despite its vacancy. Their coos were cute and obnoxious. He watched their little heads bob curiously, and tried to draw as many of them as he could after he sketched a detailed image of the empty bench. Moms often brought their children here to take a rest and feed birds. Around sunset there were usually crows instead of pigeons, and they weren’t as popular.

Ducks were popular, but they were over by the pond. Sometime a goose would show up, but it was never wise to feed them. He remembered himself as a little boy at the pond when he hadn’t yet learned the difference between a duck and a goose. When tried to feed a goose it reared and chased him until he latched to his mother’s hip in terror. He didn’t mind geese all that much now, but he definitely wasn’t going to fuck with them.

He ended up finishing his drawing with thirteen pigeons. Some pecked at the ground, others stared at their creator as if searching his soul for bread crumbs. The shading was a bit off because the sun was trying to blind him, but overall it was a decent job. Hopefully a customer would never ask him to ink a pigeon into their skin.

His craving for a bag of peanuts compelled him to abandon his perch and cross the street. He knew there was a vendor nearby that sold cheap snacks, he just had to find the familiar sign since he couldn’t remember the name. He approached one of the buildings with a sign posted out front that said “Sale!” but then he skimmed it and the prices didn’t sound like much of a sale. His face scrunched in disapproval. He pivoted on his left foot and absent-mindedly stepped off the curb, forgetting that there was a drop off. The unexpected change in elevation made him stumble forward, but before he could face plant into the concrete his arms collapsed against something soft and sturdy.

His face collided with a chest that smelled faintly of dog and masculinity. He didn’t really know what it meant to smell masculine, but there was a scent there that tickled his nose and screamed the word “boy.” A strong pair of arms lifted him up and pushed him back up on the curb like a rag doll, but only because he had to make himself dead weight in order to resist taking steps backward. If he dared move his left leg back it would ignite, so he shifted only his right leg to balance himself away from the drop off. Somehow he managed not to fuck it up this time. It was an awkward transition but smooth nonetheless, and anything was better than having to cry out in pain for the second time this week.

”Careful,” his savior said, and where had he heard that voice before? ”You could have seriously hurt yourself there.”

He glanced up to give the stranger a pointed look. He wouldn’t have seriously injured himself, it was just concrete. A bruised knees and some scraped flesh would’ve been the worst of it unless someone decided to trample him, but he had been enduring accidents for years. Anything these streets could throw at him could be handled quietly and peacefully, even if it was frustrating. He was prepared to stubbornly counter with “I’m fine,” but then he recognized the stranger’s face and blinked the uncertainty out of his eyes. It was the same guy from before, the one who caught him the last time he almost fell on his ass.

He didn’t register the boy picking up his dropped sketchbook; he was too busy trying to make sense of the situation. This couldn’t be real. The odds of this same boy catching both of his falls at two different points in time in two different locations were zero to none. His mind was playing tricks on him again, inventing some kind of handsome hero. It was probably to make him feel less pathetic about his clumsiness.

The boy walked away and left him bewildered. He had forgotten to double check by slapping the rubber band against his wrist, but was it really necessary? He knew it wasn’t real. Somehow he had caught himself or couldn’t register the sensations of the accident. It was confusing to contemplate, but then again he had hallucinated Emelia’s existence for four months. Every touch, every kiss, every conversation had felt real. If he thought about it too much he would remember, and his skin would tingle.

He hadn’t hallucinated in a while, but it made perfect sense.

To make matters worse, his sketchbook had disappeared. He was pretty sure he had dropped it during his fall. Since his hero wasn’t real, he couldn’t have taken it. Did someone steal his shit? Some kid with no impulse control? In its place was a book about moon landing, but he didn’t care for literature. He had just lost all of his hard work, all of those damn pigeons. It had been a waste of time.

He huffed and walked home.

---

Three days later, he suffered another unfortunate accident in the District Square.

There was a street performance that had gathered a circle of on-lookers. It was a man – probably a retired career – juggling rings of fire. The spectacle was impressive now that the sun was preparing to set, but Arsen didn’t want to push himself through a crowd to earn a front row view. Instead he sat on the cobblestone with a journal and a pencil in his lap. It was a temporary replacement until he either found his sketchbook (unlikely, but he was stubborn) or purchased a new one. The lined paper pissed him off. All he wanted was a solid white canvas.

He flinched when some rude kid rushed right in front of him on his bike. He felt air whip against his cheek and scowled. Couldn’t he just sit here in peace? It was pretty easy not to step on someone, so it shouldn’t be difficult to avoid running them over with a bicycle.

Evidently, he was wrong. The kid on the bike charged him and he couldn’t tell if he planned to change direction last second, so he rushed to his feet and stepped to the left – only to have a dislodged stone catch the tip of his shoe and jerk him toward the ground.

The world didn’t tumble like he suspected it would. The only impact he felt was flesh against flesh, a victory against the wrath of gravity and clumsiness. He was jerked upright by a strong pair of hands, and his imagination was already running wild with guesses as to who it could be – except there was only one guess in mind, the only one that made sense. The only person who would actually appear out of the blue to “catch” him in the nick of time. He wondered if he had invisible bruises where he had actually impacted the concrete. Maybe he would ask Matteo about it, or snap his rubber band until a skinned knee proved his hypothesis correct. There was no denying it, honestly, but the injuries would at least confirm that he was still messed up in the head. It wouldn’t be comforting, but life wasn’t about comfort anymore. He needed to know the truth.

He glanced up at the familiar, grinning face, and felt his lips twitch into a tiny smile of its own. ”Ahh..it’s you!” he exclaimed, and it was touching. His mind was very clever, it knew exactly how to flatter him when he would appreciate it most. It was amazing the type of fabrication it could conjure; the boy was tall, handsome, cheerful, probably strong like a machine, with heroic reflexes and incredible timing. It was no wonder he was a hallucination. People like that didn’t exist. Cute boys didn’t catch Arsen in the streets and smile at him like he deserved recognition. There was Theo, of course, but Theo never caught him. He just loitered; and he wasn’t even single.

He stared at the figment of his imagination. Now was the perfect moment to turn around and walk away so he didn’t engage. He didn’t want to become attached to somebody that didn’t exist. Reality was more important, real friends were more important. But he also couldn’t help himself; he snaked his left arm around the taller boy’s neck and kissed him. Hallucinations aside, it felt as real as Emelia had, and maybe that was why he did it. Why not, anyway? It had been over two years since he touched anyone intimately, and even if his savior wasn’t real he would feel real enough, so he kept their lips pressed together for a nice warm seven seconds. Then he leaned back and opened his eyes and smiled. That would last for a while.

Without a word, he pivoted on his left foot and walked out of the square, making sure to obscenely expose his middle fingers to the kid on the bicycle. This time he hadn’t been careless enough to drop his book. It was gripped firmly in his right hand with his pencil, but nothing had been accomplished while sitting in the square. He had apologized to Matteo for not bringing in any new designs. He hadn’t seemed too concerned. Matteo was a patient man, and he said they had enough designs anyway. Arsen disagreed. There was always room for novelty.