I DARE You To Call Me A Freak. That's My Preferred Prefix, Loser. I Am A Freakish Little Beast, With

Avan Jogia photographed by Raul Romo for Grumpy Spring 2023

Waiting patiently for the other to show up, he knew it might take a moment or so, given which neighbor this was. He supposed he had a lot more in common with them, now, than he did before. Though in spite of that, he wasn't turning into more agoraphobic behavior, he had to keep up appearances, in the face of constant hounding on where he had been for so long in his absence. Azazel breathed, bringing a hand up to brush against the potted plant, trying to keep that same energy even now.

Seeing a movement at the blinds, he tilted his head a bit. Then looked to the door the moment the other came to and opened it, “Hey-” He glanced away, looking across the neighborhood, sure others were again watching him. Watching them. Closing his eyes a moment, he laughed a bit before opening his eyes and staring over at Alice's place, “Yeah. Everything's…well, great? I guess? Considering everything.” Adjusting the potted plant, he turned more toward Seokmin, giving the other his full attention, “Just been out watering my yard-and noticed I had too much-uhm, stuff. So I'm taking it over to a friend's. But wanted to stop by, check in-” Glancing toward the stack of papers, and having remembered the overgrowth of the yard, he figured the other was alive, but that it was good to check, just in case, “What about you, get out lately?”

existing somewhere between collapse and endurance, seokmin moved through life like someone walking a fraying tightrope: careful, numb, always bracing for the inevitable fall. survival, after all, was still survival — even if it had long since ceased to resemble anything like living. the lawn had grown wild, grass in need of a cut; a few sun-bleached newspapers forgotten about on the porch, their headlines irrelevant now — not that they’d ever been read in the first place. and yet, there was something almost charming about the chaos. a scattering of stubborn plants clung to life, climbing trellises and curling along the siding; to some, it might have even looked like a quaint, overgrown cottage, tucked into its own little jungle. it was a nice place to return to after a long day ( or night ) at work. luckily, there was no need to leave the shelter of his humble abode tonight. his security jacket hung untouched by the door, a silent confirmation that, for the next twenty-four hours, he could exist separately from the outside world — just the way he preferred it. which made the knock at the door all the stranger. who could possibly need him now? whatever it was, it seemed urgent enough — the noise grating. reluctance settled in his chest. seokmin moved soundlessly across the room, pausing by one of the windows to peek out of one the blinds, lifted just enough to see without being seen. always cautious. always on edge. it was only his neighbour. still wary, but less so upon seeing a friendly face on the other side, he unlocked the door and opened it. “hi, azazel,” he greeted, clearing his throat. “what, um… is everything okay?”

My eyes burned, tears clawing their way to the red brims. I didn't have time to pity myself. If I did, if I gave in to the pain and betrayal and fucking sadness, I didn't think I could pull myself back out. What is an angel without wings? What is a monster without teeth?

Blood So Brutal - Emily Blackwood

this was honestly so frickin HOT

I am a human being, capable of doing terrible things.

Whatever source it was that drove the universe forward conspired against him, that he was certain of upon opening the door to find the other standing on his doorstep. Azazel narrowed his eyes, thinking that if he believed in any god or higher power, he would fight them upon his death, which was his highest calling at this point. Glancing down to the ground, he moved his right arm up, resting it against his door frame before bringing his forehead to rest on his forearm, the sweat coating his body at that moment, accumulating enough in that spot to have a drop fall from his arm a moment later, muttering under his breath as he did.

He did need a drink, and the medicine he was on to numb the pain long enough he could pass out so comfortably onto the floor for, at least a short while, in some brief moment of absolute bliss, he supposed. Going by his drool that still remained on the floor. It didn't need to be five, however, to get that drink or otherwise. That was his current lifestyle at the moment. Which is why he had just kept the arrangement with his sibling to take his son in for the time being while he worked on all of this. Laughing a bit, he pulled his head up from his arm and looked at Sévérine, feeling a little unstable for a brief second before catching himself. Clearing his throat, he dropped his arm from the door frame and leaned against it instead, “I guess they don't know about Girl Scouts where you're from, neighbor.” Hell, he thought, that had to be where the other was from.

Azazel takes in a breath before continuing, when the other made a demand of him, “Do I look like a fucking grocery store to you?” Apparently that's what he was now. His jaw clenching, however, he reminded himself not to cause waves, all manner of people lived on this street, who were most likely spying on him. No, most certainly were. Though his paranoid state of mind at the moment wasn't just causing him stress, he wasn't dealing well with, but anger, he wasn't dealing well with. Not only this, however, but intrusive thoughts, especially in this moment. His imagination, conceptualizing great atrocities he could be committing on this neighbor, if he were just to snap right then in there, in a fit of rage. He wondered how the rest of the neighbors might react at the scene he could be causing right now. But, he steeled himself to those notions, shrinking again as a wave of nausea started to rise from his gut, “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” He didn't understand that last bit, and he didn't want to.

Pulling away then, he made his way toward his kitchen, not bothering to close the door. As if it were an unconscious invite to 'try him' on his rising intensity and dip into greater madness. Coming up to his fridge, he yanks it open and drops into a crouch, reaching out toward his container of eggs, pulling it out, opening it, taking two, and replacing it back as it was before. Though, he paused, staring absently at the eggs as another bout of errant emotions suddenly bombarded him. Breaking down a bit, his eyes filled with tears, soon enough spilling over and trailing down his face, an unhinged sob left him, almost making him sound like he was laughing, maybe giggling from the distance he had been at.

Bringing the back of his hands to his eyes, he thought, briefly, how stupid it was to be sobbing over fucking eggs, of all things. But that's not really what he was crying about. After the briefest moment of that, he took a few deep breaths, trying to control these emotions with his breaths. Once he did, he wiped away the remaining wetness on his face and searched his cabinets for the sugar, “Get your shit together, focus, no one cares if you're fucked up. You have to control your shit.” He told himself under his breath, seeing another package of sugar as he did, he grabbed it before making his way back to the front of his house. As he came to the door, he put up his best smile he could muster at that moment toward Sévérine, “You're in luck, I have the stuff.”

Sévérine wasn't the type to stir the pot between familial demons that would circle one another in a spaghetti Western gunfight at sundown no matter what he did. What was there to gain from something that was inevitable? If anything, long as he stayed out of it, he didn't see himself reaping the bloodshed. However, that didn't mean that the on-call translator thought it frivolous to always play by the book of no contact, and even in a city as big and bold as Las Vegas, one was bound to run into their mortal enemy. Life was full of impossible standards, like the saying that microwaves gave people cancer. ( Not so funny joke now, in retrospect, but the French native seldom made out like anything bothered him at all and laughed hollowly at the joke, nonetheless. No one was getting past his defenses unless they were going to pry him open with a crowbar. If it was going to be the Vitellis, though, he'd like to think he wouldn't give up trade secrets. Maybe. If they brought out an electric razor to his hairline, he'd reconsider that argument. Hey, it was hard work to grow it back. ) Thus, after weighing the odds, he couldn't say definitively that he was there on innocent terms, but neither was he intentionally playing the part of gambling with fire.

"...It's five o'clock somewhere?"

The brunette didn't exactly understand the query, raising his eyes to take note that the squeezed orange colors of the desert sky were certainly present. "Hm. Funny." For once, he didn't have a smart-mouthed quip in return; maybe he wasn't looking to take shrapnel to the throat, after all. Lifting his chin slightly, a hand fussed with the rim of his beanie. "Sugar. And two eggs." For what? Well, that was none of anyone's business, regardless of where he hailed from; it didn't pertain or award itself a positive result to the questions are you making meth or are you attaching something to someone's mailbox that might combust. "...S'il vous plaît."

“All I feel are the assaults of apprehension and terror at the thought that I am the only one who is entirely unlike the rest. It is almost impossible for me to converse with other people. What should I talk about, how should I say it?—I don't know.” -Osamu Dazai, No Longer Human, 1948.