Under all of the layers of self-hatred I've detected in Dallon, he's somehow back, and not even a suicide attempt could silence him. He absolutely abhorred himself, and he never even looked in the mirror because he didn't need to. Other people's reactions were enough. Are their mouths wide open? They're stunned by him. Are their brows pinched with a clothespin? They're disgusted by his presence here. Are they rushing up to hug him because they haven't seen him in a while? He must've forgotten them, forgotten their impact on his disposition because not once did he glance at the reflection of himself, and that's where he went wrong, because now he has no idea who the hell he is, and if I was such a grand part of him then he's forgotten me, too.

I'm grateful, at least, that he's complied with my wishes to bring him home to have him explain what in the world is going on with him and his brain and why I'm so pushy all of the sudden towards the millions of answers I've amassed inside of my head and on the index cards I've drafted to him that he will never read, and though Dallon is hesitant, he's here nevertheless, plunging his black Converse sneakers into the bricks of my front staircase leading towards the house where he will provide me with the closure I never thoroughly received by thinking that he was dead.

He's confounded. Of course he is. Who wouldn't be confounded when someone you don't know rushes up to you claiming to be your best friend? Yeah, it's from amnesia purposes, but I'm still a stranger to him, but I'm praying that by the time I'm finished with this visit like it's one of our old tutoring sessions that he will be my companion once more.

But I'm still nervous about it all, because Dallon doesn't know me — not really, only in the depths of his mind, the depths that he cannot access — but I know Dallon, and I know everything about him that there is to know. I know that his favorite animal is an otter, that he hates cheese, that when I was awake and scared in the night he looked angelic in rest, and I also know that I never want to forget these things like he did.

Therefore, it is my duty to remind Dallon of every detail that was once his, because he deserves to understand the most essential part of him, an essential part that he himsef has been developing since birth but has now been halted due to amnesia. Square one is the worst place to be, and I'm digging Dallon out of that pit.

"Brendon," Dallon says, just testing out how my name wriggles on his tongue, how the r catches in his throat due to his mellifluous accent of Bordeaux, how he's never said it before while being in this amnesic state, how it meant so much to me before in the terms of love but now only shrivels between narrowed eyes like a flower that hasn't been watered in the month that Dallon has been gone, in the month that left me to my own spiteful devices, and all throughout that time I was running away from danger when the danger was in my shadow, running away from me because of the monster I had become.

"Yes, Dallon?" I respond, still as timid as I was in the shadows of the lockers, but my old friend drops his words like he wasn't going to say them at all. "Anyway, Kara (that's my sister) isn't home, so we can talk privately about what the hell is happening to both of us and what we used to be."

Dallon acknowledges me tacitly, completing his journey through the door as he warily glances at me to make sure that he did the right thing, but I clap him over the shoulder and guide him towards the living room, where he settles into the chair directly across from me like he's a client and I'm the therapist he definitely needs but won't dare to admit his thirst for.

Silence sweeps fidgeting silhouettes across the oxford walls, painted in silence and chipping with each second we wallow in the quietness of being friends without reciprocation, of being amnesic and clear headed, of being estranged from the ties we once gripped so tightly like they would fly free if we didn't, but they eventually loosened, and we were thrown into a void, so now we've been resting in hushed tones for thirty-seven seconds, and Dallon decides that it's time to speak.

"Can you tell me about myself? Like, who was I before I..." — he nods to me, accompanied by rolling hand gestures, to convey his message — "you know."

I slam my hands together frankly. "There's a lot to tell."

"Well what did I enjoy? What did I love?"

I don't reply for three seconds, only guarded by a slight smile at the corner of my rosewood lips as I recall every magical detail about my beloved Dallon Weekes, bittersweet like reflecting upon the summertime of years ago and wishing your life were like that now, but it's not, so I only thrive in a distant memory before all of the chaos and turmoil spread rubble over this relationship. It's beautiful while it lasts.

"Though surrealism was your specialty, you loved finger painting out of all of your art styles, for some reason." My eyes tumble into my lap, the tiny grin still present. "I think it made you feel like a child again, when nothing ever mattered besides Saturday morning cartoons and play blocks."

"Yeah, I can see how that would be nice." Dallon recompenses my smile, displaying those pearly teeth I've always envied. "I remember that I love psychology and art out of my interests, but I think that's it."

"Well you also enjoyed waltzing, though you never showed me your moves."

Grin conquering wider portions of Dallon's face now, he promises, "I can waltz with you later, if you want."

"That would be amazing, and we can also waltz to the classical music in which you constantly indulge."

Dallon spikes an enticing brow, somewhat like an entertainer for hire.

I smirk. "Your favorite is Mozart."

I'm trying my best to keep my cool, and I think it's going pretty well, with all of the giggles we're exchanging together like our friendship never ceased, if only temporarily, but one day I'll have to admit that I'm not okay with what he did to me, because he was all that I needed. He was the nothing that I craved, but I didn't want it in this way. I could've settled for his life, his beautiful life, not his suicide attempt, but what the human mind desires is very different from what the human mind receive.

"You love birds, too," I continue, as excited as the child I hope to be again. "The blue jays are your preference. They match your eyes."

"I've begun to adore the wrens, too," Dallon muses, beholding the landscape outside of the window, where those admired birds frolick in the air, and his vision then strides to me. "They match yours."

Embarrassment graffitis my cheeks in scarlet, a scarlet for whom I'm pleading to leave me alone to replace itself with security and not the amused effects of Dallon witnessing my unease and transmitting his alabaster teeth to my sight, but I endure the tint to my skin in the faith that it'll vanish soon.

"Your favorite number is fourteen, by the way. I don't know why that's useful, considering you detest mathematics, but there you go."

"I actually quite like mathematics," Dallon negates as he ponders this subject.

Disappointed, my jaw deploys from the remainder of my face. "Please don't tell me you've converted to the dark side."

A chuckle slots Dallon's throat, jubilant in character and just as fulfilling. "I think I have good judgement."

"You also have a kink for playing with my hair."

My companion drapes himself in an erotic expression, toying with the few emotions I still retain. "Do I?"

I roll my eyes. "Ugh, you're already a pain in the ass."

Winking obnoxiously, Dallon counters, "But you'll remember how much of a pain in the ass I am. You'll remember me."

Yes, of course I'll remember him, because I don't deny people the common courtesies they should be endowed. And no, I'm not blaming Dallon for a case of what seems to be dissociative amnesia, because obviously that's in no way his fault for being terrified of his mistakes, but I just wish he would've never forgotten me.

"When people say they want to be remembered, they mean they desire a legacy to trail behind them, like their face on a billboard or their name constantly in a magazine or the praise for even their minor achievements. But with us, I want you to look me in the eyes and know that I was your goddamn world, and that's all." Permitting a segmented sigh to gear out of my lungs, I carry on. "And there was something that you used to say. I'm wondering if you remember at least that." I've anticipated the dark route that this conversation is headed, but it needs to be broached. "Je n'aime que toi. I—"

"I love only you," Dallon finishes, smitten by a significance that he has somehow remembered through the loads of pandemonium and frustration of these circumstances, that he has survived towards enlightenment. "And then you used to respond with toujours—"

"Toujours, mon chéri. Always, honey."

It's almost like we said it. It's almost like we meant it.

~~~~~

A/N: this chapter is so sweet,,,,why do I mislead you like this

aesthetic: well, not to brag, but my friend bailey looks bomb af today (just sayin')

~Daesthetic