homos (rewrite)

prologue.

Three knocks.

Two fast, one slow against the ragged oak door. His fist lingers against the wood for a few seconds.

Three knocks.

His hand drops.

So familiar in a way that stings, in a way that drags the pain residing consistently in his heart down to the pits of his empty stomach.

He knows his friend is sat beside the other side of the door. His friend knows exactly who is daring to bother him. After all, it's always him.

Everyday,
at 6pm.

Piers finds himself waiting for these appearances each evening. He expects them, he despises them, he needs them. Some sort of comfort comes from knowing that Raihan will keep returning, keep trying to reach out. He enjoys knowing that he's still cared for.

He allows each knock to hit his heart, swallowing him up with melancholy guilt. And once Raihan has left in defeat once more, Piers has to continue his day as if the world wasn't crumbling before his eyes. Even though he knows that as soon as he's back home, it'll all come back again.

On the rare occasion, a little note will slide through under the thin crevice between the door and the floorboards.

Very few words written on scraps of paper, barely legible but somehow Piers doesn't fail to understand the messy handwriting each time.
He pretends as though those notes mean nothing to him and are simply another inconvenience. He pretends as if he hasn't got a small tarnished box under his bed, where he keeps them safe and away from anyone to find. He pretends as though he doesn't look through them in the dead of night when he's unable to sleep, tracing the sharp letters with his index finger and basking in the exhaustion from the performance he had done merely hours ago.

He just gets on with his life, ignoring the burden of waiting at home between tasks.

October 24th, 6:02pm.

The sharp Galarian breeze of the mid-Autumn evening shifts its way through the tangles of Piers' unbrushed hair, enabling itself to form gentle goosebumps along the back of his neck. The view outside of the nearest window is somewhat beautiful, the neon lights of Spikemuth's streets illuminating the growing darkness of the night.

He is once again sat beside the door, heart gently racing with anxiety as he waits for Raihan to arrive once more.

Raihan has unknowingly become part of Piers' daily routine, a vital part even. Those same three taps against his door became necessary to enable Piers to carry on with his day, just so he knew that Raihan was still checking on him.

Though today, of all days, he was late. By only two minutes at the moment, but it set Piers' mind on edge and his stomach fell even more than usual. It wasn't as if Raihan was there at exactly 6 each day, after all that would be rather strange, but he often managed to make it very close. Yet today of all days, it'd been nice to feel his faint presence from through the thin wall.

Ten minutes pass.

He really should be starting to get ready now. He has to leave in 15, yet he hasn't even showered yet. Yet the need to know that Raihan is there stronger than any will to attend a forced birthday celebration would ever be. But he couldn't appear late and let Marnie down, not after all the effort she and Team Yell put into his celebration.

Another 10 nearly agonising minutes pass, it's around 25 past 6 and he needs to leave soon.

The pale light of the ticking clock near his bed displays the numbers partially causing that oh-so-familiar pit of guilt within Piers as the numbers flick from 6:29 to 6:30.

That's it, he's got to get ready now. Piers clambers off of the floor back onto his feet, nearly tripping in the process and starts to move away when he hears footsteps.

And then a long sigh.

He expects the usual knocks, and then peace once more, but that doesn't happen. Instead,

"I know you're there, Piers." A soft voice whispers. "Happy birthday."

That was the last time his evening was disturbed by those three agonising knocks.

[714]

in true tradition, I'd like a
letter in the post as thanks of me doing this for you mr deliteism
/j