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If he wasn’t on the top floor he probably wouldn’t be able to hear the rain cascading down the roof. Although there wasn’t anything scheduled for today, Stan was a man who liked to think he had his life put together. (Or at least as put together as a time traveler can be) So he got up, got dressed in his one of his usual flamboyant outfits and went to wake Walter.
“Up and at em” Stan said in a singsong voice. Opening the door to Walter’s room displayed the scene of him awake in his pajamas sitting on his bed…writing?
“Uh, are you going to get ready for the day or?” Stan quirked an eyebrow. Walter looked up from the mess of papers he had sprawled across his bed.
“Sorry, what did you say?” Walter’s voice had this sleepy drawl to it. It would almost be hypnotic if he didn’t sound like it half the time.
“Are you going to get dressed or just sit there?” It wasn’t much of a question. Walter slid off his bed, Stan closed the door moving to the kitchen to start the coffee machine.
A sigh, Stan could see the mess in front of him, dish piles, tea stained countertops, half of what was in the fridge was probably beyond recognition. To be fair, (or generous) both of them had been busy at their jobs. Time travel doesn’t exactly pay the bills.
Walter was the book-smart one, he worked at the local library three blocks down. Stan worked at a cafe and sometimes Graves hired him for a modeling gig. Together they scrounge up enough money for groceries and machine repairs.
Nevertheless, he should assess the situation and clean up. Stan figured he’d start with the worst part, the fridge.
Opening it Stan recoiled from the stench, it was just open a crack. Holding his breath he flung the door open, there was mold, something had grown roots across the back of the fridge misplacing some of the shelves, and the milk they had had was practically cheese by now. If Stan was sick queasy from just the stench Walter would’ve been knocked out.
Footsteps, Stan quickly shut the door closed and Walter walked into the kitchen. Huh, for once Walter had dressed himself and didn’t look like an absolute toddler. Stan’s fashion lessons must have been paying off because here Walter was dressed in some brown jeans, a dress shirt and loose red tie. He even made an attempt to tuck the shirt into his pants. Though it seems he stopped halfway through it actually sort of worked for him.
“Wow this place really is a shit-show—“ Walter swiped his finger across the counter and left a streak of white against the dusty gray tile ”—I am not cleaning the fridge though.” Emphasis on the “not” Walter took a step back recoiling from the fridge.
“Yeah, that seems like a good idea,” Stan agreed with Walter. “You clean the bathroom and kitchen, I clean the fridge, machine and go get groceries. Fair?”
“Yep” and that was that, Walter reached up to the cabinet that kept their cleaning supplies. Stan watched the way the shirt creased around his shoulders and untucked a bit more from his waistband. It only lasted a moment as Walter, having grabbed all the needed supplies, moved to the bathroom.
Stan simply put on some gloves and got to work opening the fridge. Holding his breath would be useless. He’d have to breathe eventually and when he did the stench would just hit him harder from his lack of air.
First things first, the milk. He grabbed it out of the fridge and threw it in the trash, he would just make more of a mess if he tried to empty out whatever it had become. Some old coffee was poured down the drain, leftovers were thrown out with the containers. Sure it was a waste, but the containers were probably crawling with bacteria and mold that Stan did not want anywhere else in his home. Some “fresh” vegetables were also scrapped from the fridge and tossed in the trash with the others. Finally Stan had to get whatever was growing across the fridge removed. Some quick observation showed it was a…potato?
“Why would we put a potato in the fridge?” but still it must be removed so Stan got on with it. He took some scissors to the main connecting roots and took out the source potato. Then he got to work cutting and carefully unwinding all the potato roots and new growths.
“Potatoes are pretty hearty, we could probably grow these’...’Walter, how would you feel if I started to grow potatoes?” Stan thought about the idea then yelled loud enough their neighbors downstairs could hear him.
“Sure, go for it I guess,” Walter shouted back.
Stan riffled through the cupboards until he found a suitable container for the potatoes and put them inside. Now all that was left to take care of was the mold. With an obscene amount of cleaning solution and a bit of elbow grease the fridge was back to looking spick and span.
“Now that there’s room in the fridge I may as well get the groceries” Stan said aloud to himself.
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“You’re going outside?” Walter questioned Stan as he stepped out of his room. Stan had put on his brown trench coat and stupid high heel boots. “It’s raining you know. If you get pneumonia and a concussion I’m not coming to save you.”
“Oh boo hoo, it’s called having a sense of fashion” Stan quipped back. He walked through the kitchen grabbing an umbrella, his hand on the doorknob.
“More like purposefully endangering yourself” Walter’s remark was ignored by Stan who walked out the door to finally get the groceries. “That man is going to give me a heart attack” Walter thought as he started to wipe the counters down with a rag. Back and forth, back and forth, the repetitive motion of cleaning was soothing to him. The window was cracked open a bit to let the smell of rain in, “Maybe I should put on some music” he thought. Washing the rag of all the dust, squeezing the excess water and hanging it to dry he crossed the kitchen to their seating area and put on one of his jazz records. “Perhaps my books could use a little reorganizing” he had previously organized them by time period, a stupid idea in hindsight as he was never able to find what he wanted quick enough though the process had been therapeutic. “I could organize them by topic, color, alphabetical order; title or author. I could just put them where I want and go with the flow.”
He began taking each book off the shelves organizing them in meticulous piles. Dostoyevsky here, a Van Gogh biography there despite how neat and tidy the piles were there wasn’t much rhyme or reason to them. When the last book was taken off its shelf and placed in its respective pile he started to put the piles back on the shelves. “If Stan was here he’d probably call me a nerd”, the task of organizing his books usually took an hour and a half, sometimes more. It would be a daunting task for anyone else. In fact he’d bet the day Graves picked up a book it’d be a cold day in hell. He chuckled aloud to himself.
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It was raining hard. He wasn’t expecting it to rain this hard. He hugged the paper bag to his chest with one hand and held the umbrella close with the other. If the bag got wet Stan thought that it’d be the death of him.
No one was outside, the sidewalk vacant aside from the occasional wet rodent. However in the distance a figure walked toward Stan, or at least in his general direction. Click, Click, Click, in his mind it was like a western shootout but neither participant knew how many steps to take before turning around. When they cross their guns would fire, but why would they? Stan wasn’t antisocial, even if it was raining he wouldn’t mind a conversation. There was no reason for him to be nervous.
There was no reason for him to be nervous, but he thought he recognized her. Her silhouette was.… familiar. As he got closer he could see her leather jacket, platform shoes, corset top, his veins filled with dread. Irene, that was Irene’s signature fashion, the chance she’d start up a conversation was low but not zero. That thought did not help calm his nerves at all.
They crossed paths and Irene walked on. Then a hand appeared on his shoulder.
“Hi, I hate to bother you especially in this weather but you just look so familiar, have we met somewhere?” It was Irene, he’d know that saccharine voice anywhere. Stan’s eyes widened unconsciously out of shock for just a moment before he smoothened his facial expression.
“Oh. Umm….I don’t believe we’ve met before” His voice wasn’t the steadiest but it could just be brushed off as surprise. He wasn’t expecting to have a conversation so the surprise was half genuine.
“No, we’ve definitely met before…Stan! Oh, Stan, you don't need to play dumb with me.” She had that stupid smile on her face, the same smile every time she…When did he get backed up against a wall?
They were in an alleyway, his umbrella and bag of groceries forgotten somewhere near its entrance.
“You know I can’t believe you’d just forget about me, I wouldn’t let you. So why would you lie? Why would you lie to me? After all we’ve been through you’re ready to throw me out like I’m just another one night stand?” her voice rose, back straightened and her face was inches away from his staring straight into his eyes. “I thought you loved me. Even if we broke up, is it really that hard to treat me like a decent human being?”
“Crocodile tears, every single last one of them” Stan was looking away from her, with their height difference it wasn’t particularly hard but even after years Irene still had that magnetizing essence to her. Her hands were on his chest, her torso pressed against him, his heart beat faster. Drenched in cold sweat Stan wasn’t sure he could take more of this interaction but he was frozen in place. Now her hand was on his face, “Oh god, please not again”.
She slapped him. He bent at the waist, eyes looking at the damp floor, tears rolled down his cheeks. “No, not again, not here, never… never again.” Stan straightened, steeled himself, he brushed past Irene despite her protests and lies. He grabbed his bag of forgotten groceries and umbrella and walked faster than he had ever before. Maybe she’d follow him home, he didn't really care, he just wanted to be safe, to be with Walter, to be out of the god damn rain.
He arrived home, taking the lift up to the top floor, he opened the door and there was Walter. Walter organizing his books swaying softly to jazz music under the warm light. He wasn’t really sure when he put down his umbrella, when he changed into something more comfortable, more… modest. Though he does remember sitting down in the chair next to Walter’s. Walter’s eyes taking one look at him then putting some tea on the stove to boil, asking him if he was okay, rubbing his back and reassuring him he was safe.