This isn't weird.

Mr. Fucking Rogers

Arthur Wurst was about as nondescript as a person could be.

He wasn't particularly tall or particularly short. He wasn't especially slender, nor was he fat. Not a young man, but not yet middle aged. His hair wasn't blonde or brown, but noncommittally inbetween. It wasn't long, or very short. It wasn't carefully groomed, nor was it ever messy. His eyes were blueish-greenish-grayish and sometimes he wore simple wire-rimmed glasses; other times he did not. His features were soft and forgettable, with a somewhat-but-not-very round chin and a somewhat-but-not-very high forehead. He wore slacks and button down shirts that were always tidy but never crisp, sometimes with a tie, but rarely with a coat.

Millie had grown to find him remarkable.

He was soft spoken and patient, and an excellent listener. He had a knack for always asking the right questions. Those who engaged him in conversation tended to walk away feeling ever so slightly more important than they had before.

He collected model airplanes. His father had been a pilot in the air force. As a child he had wanted to be a pilot, too, but his eyesight, though not bad, wasn't quite good enough.

His mother had suffered from terrible panic attacks. He was an expert from an early age at recognizing the signs and talking her down. He was the one who, at age fifteen, found her after she overdosed. He cried about it for the first time at age twenty-five.

On Wednesday mornings, Arthur picked Millie up and brought her to the support group he had been attending for nearly a decade. He was well known and well liked there, and when he introduced her to the group, she was warmly accepted.

Afterwards, they would go for coffee, a ritual they had come to informally refer to as Audiobook Club. Despite the mountain of books he had acquired in attempting to get to know her, neither of them actually found much time to read, so they had made a habit of listening to the same audiobook on their respective commutes and discussing them during their weekly meet-up.

Ben loathed him.

It was much to his horror when Arthur had begun to attend their game nights. He was a bit shy, not at all competitive, and never laughed, but always smiled politely at jokes. His shyness seemed, inexplicably, to endear him to the rest of the group—even Indigo, for fuck's sake—and they all went out of their way to make him feel included.

Ben, meanwhile, spent most game nights trying his hardest to shrug off the attentions of the waitress he had accidentally found himself in a very one-sided relationship with. She constantly plied him with free drinks that he did not ask for, and he always left much drunker than he wanted to be. Which was just as well, because he had to be drunk to tolerate her company.

Her name was Cassie, and he couldn't fucking stand her. She always had something mean to say about everyone but him, and all she ever talked about was her mom's fucking cancer. She didn't even like her mom.

This was one such night. They were barely an hour in, and Ben was already so tipsy he could barely follow along with whatever the fuck card game they were playing. He was leaning lethargically back in his chair, only half listening, dreading the moment his turn would come and he would look like a fucking idiot with no idea what was going on.

He watched Millie from the corner of his eye. She was sitting right next to him, like always, but she felt so god damn far away. He saw her lean toward Arthur and whisper something in his ear. It made him queasy.

A hand squeezed his shoulder, but he didn't bother to look up. He knew who it was. Another shot glass appeared on the table in front of him and Cassie kissed his ear before slipping back out of the room. He still didn't acknowledge her, even as his friends glanced after her uncomfortably.