life is a dream, it's so hard to believe : arsen&mew

He reached for his ghost sketchbook but his fingers caught dust. Life was a shade grayer without his artistic outlet, and the reminder that his memories had been lost because of a stupid fall and a silly fantasy sparked a twang of disappointment in his gut. He always loved jotting down his most vivid dreams, especially when he could recall the smallest details and sketch them into a tangent picture. Now, as the remnants of his dream faded to stardust, he sighed and rolled out of bed with nothing. It was stubborn of him to refuse buying another sketchbook, but his sentiments were buried in those pages. Letting them go would be a regret and an emotional tragedy, even if there was no hope left for its recovery. Someone had probably tossed it by now, or it was wrinkled and ruined by rain.

All for a fantasy.

It was cute while it lasted; the idea of a handsome hero appearing to break all of his falls. It was what he craved. He was a clumsy, handicapped mess so of course his scrambled mind would fabricate such a character. That was why the kiss happened in the first place – he knew none of it was real. He felt real, he tasted real, and it was beyond believable, yet he knew better. His senses were tricksters. That was why he had the rubber band around his wrist, to snap himself with the tiniest shockwave of pain as a reminder to think twice. It was the looking glass through which he saw the real world. No more imaginary girlfriends, no more dead people standing in his home. He couldn’t upset his dad like that again.

Oatmeal filled his belly and the morning sun kissed his cheeks. He worked a full shift today, anticipating a not so crowded shop and an oh so boring afternoon. If he had his sketchbook, he could spend his hours collecting more treasures. He felt stupid for prolonging a replacement. All he had were sheets of paper and he was not keen on hanging wall pictures or shoving them into a folder somewhere. He had money saved on the side for a brand new one. What was he waiting for? A miracle or a breaking point? Eventually, he would fidget too much and misery would seep its way into his wilting sanity. Starting over would suck, but maybe it was time for a change.

Two hours sauntered by without any noteworthy events. He twirled his pencil over the counter and listened to the brush strokes of Matteo’s broom sliding across the floor. There was nobody here to track dirt, but he knew his manager was bored. Everyone was bored, and Arsen didn’t have his sketchbook to flip through. His lunch break was still two hours from now, although he supposed it didn’t matter when he ate lunch at this point. Slow days were always quite grey.

He yawned as the front door opened. The bell drew his gaze like a magnet, and he instantly dropped his pencil.

”The bell was sort of loud, you know?"

Panic-stricken, he searched for his manager across the room. His eyes were also glued to the guest, but casually. Just another customer – except it wasn’t, and his gaze confirmed that what Arsen could see was not his imagination. It was the mystery boy who caught his falls and captured his lips when he decided hey, I’m going to kiss a stranger, but he had executed that idea while under the assumption that he wasn’t real. Evidently, he was very real and Arsen had kissed a complete stranger without his consent. Now he was standing here, very unexpected. Arsen could feel his cheeks heat up like wildfire.

”Hello,” he called out, sounding uncharacteristically like a mouse instead of the impassive drone he usually was. He normally wasn’t so polite to customers either. It was why his artwork saved his life; without it, he would’ve been fired ages ago. His lack of consideration for others was probably why he had trouble making friends as well, but Theo was enough to keep him happy. The wine and ice cream sleepovers he held were much more interesting than the odd customers who came clambering in, somehow drunk before the sun could even set. They asked for the dumbest tattoos: ames on their backs, hearts on their sleeves, and same butterfly drawn on fifty different people, although he was incapable of creating anything bad.

He was tempted to retreat and let his manager deal with this, but since he was the finest artist in the shop he knew there was no escape. Maybe he wouldn’t recognize him? If he was lucky.

He smiled half-heartedly, hoping for the best. ”How can I help you?”