Thunderlight

(Cont.) We Need to Talk

The panic bursts like dam, and Mott has to physically restrain himself from jumping up and shouting denials. His head is so cluttered and frazzled that he'd look like a raving lunatic if he tried to articulate everything—but there's so much he wants to say. His impulse is to deny all of it, to explain that he's never wanted to be so close to another person, but what good would that do? It's not like he has much evidence to back it up. All he'd be able to do is promise and swear and vow that he means it, but after the events with his uncle, he knows his promises mean shit.

But he means it. He means it more than he's meant anything in all his life. These few months with Lenny have been some of the best, some of the worst, and some of the most enlightening months of his life. They've been thrilling and terrifying, delightful and miserable, victorious and devastating. Never before has his life been so rich with possibility, so fraught with tension. Living in an ivory tower all his life dulled his perspective and understanding of his surroundings. It closed the universe down to a bubble that existed solely for him. It killed the nuance of the world. It's because of this journey—because of Lenny—that he's been able to truly open his eyes for the first time.

He wishes he had the words to convey it all. What he'd give for a moment, for the ability to stop time, just so he could write down everything he's feeling. He'd wrangle in his delirious, rambling thoughts and iron them out into something genuine, something contrite, and present them to Lenny only when they're perfect. Because Lenny deserves perfect, and he's far from it.

"That's not true," Mott pathetically blurts, instead. He winces at how weak his own denial sounds.

Clearly, it's not enough to convince Lenny. "Do you even care about me?"

Mott's eyes flick down to Lenny's bandages instinctively. They're so close to the sand, they shouldn't be that close, what if they get infected?

He swallows anxiously. "Yes."

"Then why don't you talk to me?" Lenny demands, irritated. "Even now, you're holding back on me!"

Mott doesn't know what to say.

"Are you ashamed of me?"

"No."

"Are you upset that you don't have your fancy rich friends anymore; are you upset that you're stuck with me?"

"No."

"Are you embarrassed that you have to mingle with some dumb country bumpkin?"

"No!" Mott shouts, jumping to his feet in a blind fit of rage. "I'm embarrassed by myself!"

Pure, unfiltered anger channels into his water abilities, rushing out from him and causing a spray to shoot out from the ocean. Culminating into a large wave, it nearly threatens to crash down on them—but he unsheathes his scallop shell and slashes through it. With the flow of the wave disrupted, the water sprinkles harmlessly around them. Mott hangs his head, feeling the water rain down on him as it spatters into the sand.

When he faces Lenny, he's met with wide eyes and a look of surprise. He's still sitting in the sand, his limbs splayed out as droplets trickle down his face.

"I'm ashamed of myself," Mott says, his voice a broken whisper. "I fail at everything I do; I can't even fix my own mistakes." A bitter laugh escapes him. "Hell, I don't even know what I want to do with my life or who I am anymore. I have no direction. I'm just a—worthless, useless, no-good waste of time."

Silence.

Too late, it occurs to Mott that he just brought about the very thing he'd been trying to avoid—revealing just how weak he truly is. He wishes that he could take every word back and shove it down, keep it hidden. The pain of being seen, truly seen, is too much to bear. He looks away from Lenny, unable to stand against the scrutiny of his gaze.