em português by trsdley
en français by laplumeverte
v češtině by Tradley-Newtmas-cz
Tristan was being watched.
The feeling followed him every second of the day; two, deep holes burning into his back wherever he turned. It seemed as if no movement by the twenty-one-year-old was left unnoticed, or maybe his suspicions were all in his head, and the discomfort in his back was nonexistent, a figment of Tristan's imagination. The latter was what he convinced himself whenever he walked through dark, empty streets, alone, and he felt like each step he took was witnessed. He could never make sense of the thought of someone watching him. There was no reasonable answer Tristan could come up with to the question why anyone would find the blond interesting enough to watch constantly. He was far too bland, like a saltine cracker. One would never waste time in their day to watch over someone as uninteresting as Tristan.
But of course, there were a lot of things Tristan Evans didn't know about himself.
The morning began like every other: rain hammering down over the roof of his flat, drops of water periodically slipping from the ceiling into the bucket the light-haired man carelessly placed underneath the leak a month ago. He was exhausted that day due to his late night of finishing up an essay assigned months ago. Tristan liked to think of himself as a professional procrastinator, although there wasn't really anything in his life to distract himself with. Life for the twenty-one-year-old was as bland as his personality itself. Though, Tristan wasn't sure he minded it. If there were too many things for the man to occupy his days with, he wouldn't be able to keep up.
After throwing his head back and finishing the last drop of the raspberry tea in his favourite mug, he dropped it in the sink, slipping his black umbrella under his arm, and heading towards the door to begin his day. Wednesday and Thursday mornings were always occupied by his boring job at a bookstore not far from his house. You could walk to it from his apartment if you wanted to. But it was rare Tristan ever did, especially on such a drowsy day; though, everyday is drowsy for him.
Stepping out into the cloudly world, he extended his umbrella, shielding himself from the raindrops falling from the sky. Tristan trudged towards his vehicle, rubbing a fist over his heavy eyelids. Discomfort suddenly washed all over his body and sunk into his pale skin as he felt the same burning in his back. Paranoid, Tristan glanced around his blurred surroundings, cautiously taking in everything encircling him. He could never make sense of this stupid feeling. There was probably nothing wrong, and the blond told himself this as he continued the journey to his vehicle, his footsteps quicker than initially.
"Whoa, look who made it to work on time," his annoying co-worker (and best mate,) Connor teased as the twenty-one-year-old burst into the doors of the small bookstore. Being by himself only made his paranoia worse, and he was more than eager to not be by himself any longer hence his obnoxious entrance.
"Shut up," Tristan mumbled, playfully rolling his blue eyes at the younger boy. He carelessly swung his long legs over the counter and jumped to the other side. "Manager threatened to fire me yesterday."
"I'm not surprised," Connor voiced.
"Yeah, well, nobody asked you," Tristan said earning a playful glare from his best mate.
The rest of the morning was slow - consisting of silent customers and quiet banter between the two boys (nothing unusual.) Tristan was ecstatic when his shift was over, but he wasn't ready to slip back into his isolated world where anything could happen to him when no one else is around. The blond was becoming too cautious for his own good, even though there was nothing to fear of. Nothing bad had ever happened to Tristan, at least as far as Tristan knew. He assumed being an orphan when he was little was considered quite bad, but he'd never saw it as one, like other people would. To be honest, he liked that he was an orphan, because it led him to a small family that loved him unconditionally, and he'd have that over anything. Hands down.
"Why is that man by your car?" Connor asked as the two prepared to leave. It only took four words for the blond to whip his head around to the glass, his blue eyes widening as a tall figure stood at an odd distance to his car in full black clothing, a hood pulled low over his head. Tristan sprinted out of the small building, senseless to the light rain drizzling over his head.
"Can I help you?" Tristan asked the man as politely as he could.
The stranger slowly looked up, his face shielded from the twenty-one-year-old's view. "We're not safe," he lowly said in a dark tone that sent a shiver down Tristan's spine, like a long, cold finger running down his back.
Tristan furrowed his brows at the man's words, fear drowning his confusion. "Who's not safe?"
"Remember," he simply told him, "and it'll all make sense."
"Remember what?" he angrily shouted. "What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Remember," the man repeated before turning and running away.
Nausea washed over him, his eyes fixed on the dark figure until the crying world engulfed him. Backing into the bookstore, Tristan sharply sucked in a breath.
"What was that all about?" Connor asked with furrowed brows.
Tristan wished he knew.
. . .
The three words are etched in his brain for the rest of the day: we're not safe. Tristan didn't understand. What was that supposed to mean? And how would that person know? As far as the the blond's concerned, he had no idea who that man was, and as Tristan thought about it deeper, how was he supposed to know if the stranger wasn't another insane person wandering the streets? He most likely was, but it still bothered him, especially with the paranoia he'd been having for a month. Nothing seemed right about this picture.
As Tristan pulled into his parking space, he quickly jumped out of the car, placing his sneakers on the ground and slamming the car door behind him. He carefully took in his surroundings before popping the trunk to retrieve the textbook he placed inside that morning. Once again, glancing around, he quickly walked towards his car, pulling the trunk fully open. But he wasn't met with textbooks in his trunk; he wasn't even met with the spare tire he placed inside three months ago. Instead there was a lifeless boy, curled into a fetus position.
Tristan jumped two feet into the air, letting out a scream at the top of his lungs. Instantly, the not-so-lifeless stranger jumped awake causing the light-haired man to scream once again, louder, his heartbeat wildly racing behind his chest.
"Get the fuck out of my trunk!" Tristan shouted. It was hard to sound tough with his body shaking. The curly-haired stranger looked confused. He blinked once, twice, before his brown eyes fell onto the shaking boy in front of him. "Get out!" the twenty-one-year-old shouted again.
The boy mumbled in response, and Tristan's blue eyes widened when he realised it sort of sounded like his name. "Tris..." the boy said more clearly. He slowly climbed out of the small space, still confused. Tristan fearfully watched him stand on his wobbly legs before he dropped into the taller boy's arms.
Tristan squealed like a little girl, quickly shoving the stranger off of him. The smaller boy fell to the ground. "How do you know my name?" the twenty-one-year-old asked, wide-eyed. When he received no response, he slowly poked the stranger in the shoulder with his foot. "Um, are you alive?"
"Tris..." the boy sadly groaned in response. Tristan wondered if that was the only word he knew.
He slowly backed away from him, his pulse wildly beating in his neck. "Who are you, and why were you in my trunk?"
The stranger slowly pulled himself onto his unsteady hands and knees and slowly looked up at the fearful man hovering over him before collapsing back onto the ground.
. . .
"So there was a boy you had never seen before until this day, unconscious in your truck," the police woman slowly repeated back to Tristan in disbelief, "and after saying your name, he fainted?"
"Yes, yes," Tristan quickly replied, nodding his head.
"Is this a joke?"
"No!" he told her, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know who he is, and I don't know what to do with him. He looks, like, I don't know, seventeen? He won't answer any of my questions. I don't even think he knows English."
The woman sighed and muttered something under her breath before saying: "Drop him off at the police station, we'll find out what to do with him."
"Okay." Tristan sighed of relief. "Okay, good. Thank you."
"Mm-hmm," she replied.
Tristan hung up and turned towards the boy sitting on his couch. The stranger's legs were pulled to his chest, and he looked bored of everything in Tristan's flat except the water dripping from his ceiling into the bucket that he weirdly eyed since the twenty-one-year-old managed to force him into his house. There were so many interesting things about the stranger. Mainly it was his outfit: a black striped shirt, black jeans, thick, black boots, and a large, olive green army jacket that hung off his little body. The next was his strange behaviour. When the stranger had woken up from his unconscious state, he was afraid of Tristan, and most likely had no memory of knowing Tristan's name. He eyed the blond as if he didn't know who he was, in complete disparity with his reaction to seeing him minutes before. But Tristan preferred the stranger not knowing him, it made more sense that way.
"C'mon, You, we're going to the police station," Tristan said. The nameless boy ignored him. "Hey, You, I'm talking to you. C'mon."
The boy paid him no attention, his eyes locked on the water dripping from the ceiling.
Tristan let out an exasperated sigh and trudged over towards his couch, stepping in front of his strange interest. "Are you listening to me, You? I'm taking you away, which is good for both of us. C'mon, use your little legs and walk towards the door."
He didn't reply, blankly staring ahead, like he was seeing through him.
"Legs. Walk. Door," Tristan said, imitating different exagerrated movements of him walking towards the door and leaving.
The curly-haired boy looked at him. "Your ceiling is lonely."
Tristan furrowed his brows. "What?"
"Your ceiling is lonely," he simply repeated. "It is sad."
"What?"
"Ceiling," the stranger repeated in the same voice Tristan had used earlier, pointing his pointer finger upwards. "Lonely. Sad."
"Cheeky," Tristan said, crossing his arms over his chest. "But perfect that you know English. Mind getting your ass off my couch and following me to my car?"
"Your ceiling is crying," he stated, ignoring the twenty-one-year-old's question.
"No," Tristan said slowly. "That's water. It's dripping from my shitty ceiling."
"Your mouth," he began, "it is so dirty."
"That's real fucking cute," Tristan sarcastically replied. "Now, can you get out of my flat?"
His innocent, Bambi eyes blankly stared at him. "Flat?"
"Apartment," he rephrased. "The building that we're in."
"But I don't think it's flat," the stranger challenged. "Why is it called flat?"
"I don't know! I did not create the word! Now, can you get out of my house and into my car so I can get rid of you?"
The stranger slowly looked him up and down. "I do not like you. You are loud and rude."
"I'm so heartbroken. Now, that you've expressed your opinion, can you go outside?" The boy stared at him. "Please?"
Instantly, the word worked like magic and the curly-haired boy extended his legs towards the floor, stumbling over to the front door. Gripping the golden doorknob, he pulled it forward, frowning when it did not open. He furrowed his brows and pulled it harder, falling backwards along with Tristan's doorknob in his hand.
"What the hell?" Tristan shouted, running over to the stranger on his hardwood floor. "How the fuck did you do that?"
He slowly rose into a sitting position, staring down at the doorknob in his hand. "Hm," he thoughtfully hummed before carelessly chucking Tristan's doorknob somewhere in the room and happily exiting his flat.
. . .
okay, so, this story is pretty different?? hahaha. i was randomly in the mood to write something weird and kind of mysterious. i already wrote five chapters of this, but i'm not posting the rest until i finish TGB. (also, shout out to my mom for helping me lots with sprouting my initial idea) ☺️