MalloS

It was frightening, sometimes, the quickness with which Croe’s mind processed information too obscure for anyone else to notice. Most people regarded Mallos an unsolvable enigma, owing to his impulsivity, unpredictability and eccentricity. Even his immortal friends had taken decades to make sense of the slightest shift in expression: the precise size of the smile, the speed with which his fingers flew over the helpless artefact they grasped, the choice of adjective. With far less experience than any of them, Croe thoroughly undressed him. Always.

He didn’t deny her identification of Lorraine or question how she knew. It was enough of an effort to refrain from wincing when the name was spoken in that cool, flat voice. Lorraine had a grudge with Croe and a history with him; he worked with her in a job neither could retire from; her immortality and power made her a permanent feature in both their worlds. Could there have been a worse person? He couldn’t quite meet Croe’s eyes; instead, he watched her hand move to her belly while a sick feeling swelled in his. For once, he made no effort to conceal the movement of his face or the twitch of his fingers. He had already determined that honesty was the best course of action, and Croe would only accept honesty in its totality.

It was like her to fall on the one question he didn’t have an answer to. I don’t know, he wanted to plead. I didn't want to. And he couldn’t find an answer.

It certainly wasn’t the one she subsequently supplied.

“No,” he exclaimed involuntarily. His tone and volume had been sharper and louder than he’d intended; he reined it back in with some effort and slipped his hands into his pockets. Finding them empty – he must have left his phone and lighter on his desk in his office – he lifted his hands and pushed them through his hair instead. Even as he did, he could feel his brain urging him not to. Croe never acted irritated by his impulsive or hyperactive behaviour, but that was probably only because she had better self-control than everyone else. “No, I don’t want you to leave.” There was a brief pause while the wording he should have used occurred to him. “Please,” he supplied, the word alien and disused in his mouth, “please, don’t leave.”

Mallos put his hands back in his pockets, took them out again. In lieu of a toy to dismantle or fidget with, he opened and closes his hands a few times, trying to consider what he should say next while an increasingly constricted throat threatened to prevent him from saying anything at all. I’m sorry? I love you? Those were actions, not phrases. His actions rendered the words hollow and vapid.

Instead, he tried to force his brain – which was simultaneously firing and stalling on every cylinder at once – to return to her original question. There was only one answer which really made sense.

“Because,” he said slowly, but with grim conviction, “because I’m a shit person, Croe.” Lorraine’s words returned to him, like a whisper in his ear. “Because I’ve done this in every relationship I’ve ever been in. But,” he forced himself to meet her eyes in a plea of sincerity, “but this is different. I did the wrong thing. It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”