To say that things were ‘calming down’ was not quite the truth, but it was almost an accurate statement. Rather, Laurence was finally getting to the point where he felt like he could breathe a little easier. It was a heavy burden, to know that his brother was out there—alive—but somewhere he couldn’t find him. He’d received a letter that indicated the purification was a success, but there was only so much that Tobias—or whoever he was—could actually tell him.

…It was for the best. Laurence had been having dual thoughts, lately.

All of this was so much trouble.

He was worn thin; work was upset with him for calling out so often—and he’d used nearly all of his sick days, bereavement days, paid time off…

His parents were exhausted and shuffling their emotional burden onto him—but, of course, offered no support of their own.

Laurence should have been used to it. He should have known to expect it, and yet there was some stupid part of him that just couldn’t give up. That hoped that this would bring him closer to his parents. He’d foolishly, selfishly, thought they could bond over Tobias—thought that in his absence, maybe they’d feel like they should spend more time with Laurence.

It hadn’t happened; he’d been more shunned than ever, sans with the new onslaught of obligations.

He was tired, beat down, exhausted.

But finally, finally, had a night to himself. It wasn’t anything glorious; he had been out earlier, only his third day back at work and he’d been working partial shifts. His parents were driving just out of town to make an appeal to their locals, just in case anyone had seen Tobias exiting town in that direction.

He wanted to tell them they were wasting their time, wanted to tell them that Tobias was fine, but he couldn’t incriminate himself. They’d ask too many questions, and then they’d hate him for letting them go through all of this.

His mood soured at the thought; he’d just gotten back into his apartment after a brief grocery run. His shoes were haphazardly kicked off by the door—unlike him, and his usual need for proper organization—but he didn’t care. His jacket, disposed of sloppily on the arm of the chair. As he passed through the living room, he reached for the remote and turned on the television. The news, what a surprise. But, without his parents’ faces, or any mention of Tobias, he didn’t even care. He just wanted the noise to escape the eeriness of a silent house. After all the hustle and bustle he’d seen in the weeks following Tobias’ initial disappearance, he couldn’t shake the odd sensation of being alone.

Trudging into the kitchen, he first grabbed a cold bottle of beer from his soon-to-be-less-sparse refrigerator; the plastic bags he’d come in with were abandoned on the counter in favor of the alcohol he didn’t remember buying.

Opening it was effortless, and though he thought the acrid taste disgusting, there was something oddly refreshing about it.

Dinner was nothing fantastic; he’d picked up some fried jalapeno poppers from the deli as if he could have made that his whole meal. He’d gotten a few sides and a rotisserie chicken, but he wasn’t hungry enough for most of it. Appearances, though.

He wanted to blend in. Wanted to look normal. He doubted anyone would even recognize him despite how much he’d been on television with his parents—despite the fact that he himself had to make a plea for any information on his brother’s whereabouts.

It was probably his own guilty conscience that made him think everyone was looking at him.

He could hear whispers of ‘liar’ in the air—in a crowd, alone.

Laurence stared at the wall across from him and chugged half the bottle, willing the thoughts to just disappear. Willing the guilt to disappear.

How could he expect to be favored by his parents when he behaved like this? Did they know what he was, at his core? Could they tell that he knew more than he was letting on? By all accounts, he’d played his part well.

Numbly, he began to unpack the staple groceries. He left out his would-be dinner, despite already knowing he had no interest in anything but the jalapenos. Maybe he’d pick at the other things, he’d said to himself—but he was just lying there, too.

No one was around to see him lower his guard, to see him weak; he didn’t get a plate, just pried open the plastic container and ate there. A ravenous hunger consumed him; he had three in his mouth before the flavor had really even registered. His elbows propped on the counter top and he closed his eyes while he chewed.

Again, he thought of Tobias.

Even when he wasn’t around, he was the center of attention.

There was bitterness in the thought, but he couldn’t help but scoff, and the vaguest of smiles formed on his lips just because.

How so very typically Tobias.

They’d had their rough patches, but—he paused, grabbed the beer, and downed the rest of it—Laurence missed him. He was pissed off now, but it was more of a lethargic anger. It was something he had expected but hadn’t been prepared for. He thought his parents would have been more convinced that their poor, forgetful son and run off on vacation and lost his cell phone, or something absolutely stupid. But no, he was gone for twenty four hours and they ‘just knew something was wrong’.

And they weren’t giving up hope any time soon.

He reached for his phone, mouth stuffed full of three new jalapenos, and skimmed his text messages. No updates, just the same old text message his mother had sent him an hour ago when he’d asked if they were headed back yet.

‘Just hitting the road’ had been the simple, emotionless reply.

A casual reminder that she couldn’t be bothered to reply with the simple mom phrases. No ‘love you’, no ‘xoxo’, no cute heart emoticons like she’d always texted Tobias.

But Laurence didn’t care, not tonight. He was in the refrigerator with a second bottle, quite content with his brilliant plan to drown out his own inferiority complex. Eleven more jalapeno peppers, two more bottles of mediocre beer, and a bowl full of peanut butter ice cream, and Laurence finally decided he should get out of the kitchen and sit down.

He should have cleaned up a bit; the place was dusty with how little he’d touched it, and while his house was far from a mess, there were a number of things out of place. Instead, he decided he wanted a hot shower. Another trail of clothes littered the floor; carelessly, he stripped as he walked, right into the bathroom. A mistake, he realized, as he found himself impatiently waiting by the bath for the water to heat up.

The chill, while unwelcome, only made the steam rising from the water so much more wonderful. It made him tired, but even that was exciting.

He was going to get a good night’s sleep—maybe right there, out on the couch.

Yeah.

He’d bring out all his blankets, his pillows, just curl up in front of the television so he could be close to the kitchen. He could have all the midnight snacks he wanted, watch all that bad television, be right underneath the air vent.

He could sleep.

Laurence rarely drank outside of a glass or two with dinner sometimes, not (just) because he was a bit of a lightweight, but because he didn’t really like losing control.

Tonight, though, he craved it. He was excited, for something as stupid as camping out in the living room.

The shower could have gone on forever and he wouldn’t have complained, but when the water began to chill, he still had his living room plans to look forward to. Shutting off the water, he was aware of a strange noise almost immediately and his hand hovered over the hot metal faucet. He paused, squinting, and trying to figure out if there was something wrong with the pipes.

A steady thud, six times, in rapid succession, and then a pause. It wasn’t metallic and didn’t sound like something loose, rattling. Not the air conditioner, it sounded too much like wood.

Fists on wood.

A distant voice, agitated and muffled; he could barely make out what they said but he could have sworn he head his name.

Someone at the door.

He hastened out of the shower, almost tripping over the curtain as it wrapped around him. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around himself, but wouldn’t be caught dead answering the door undressed. “Hold on,” he called, feeling oddly flustered.

It was nine at night, no one needed to be at his door. Not that he wasn’t used to people showing up at all hours—investigators, neighbors, people who liked to pretend they were friends so they could snoop about his missing brother. A sense of dread flushed through him, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he had anything to be afraid of or because some fear of being caught tipsy and saying something stupid.

“I’m coming,” he called, drying himself off hastily with the towel. He backtracked, picking the clothes up off the floor and sliding into them quickly. The knocks subsided, apparently fine with giving him a few seconds to reach the door. Vaguely, he saw his phone lighting up across the room, but with someone at the door he was concerned more with making sure he didn’t look terrible.

His hair was soaked and though he’d run the towel through it as fast as he could and tied it back behind him, he knew he was a mess. He stumbled to the door and tried to open it first without unlocking it—realized his mistake—and was pulling the door open before he even remembered that the smart thing to do, especially in this city, was to look through the eye hole in the door.

It wouldn’t have mattered if he had, though; as soon as he opened the door he realized that all traces of a peaceful evening was gone.

Nothing to sober you up faster than two stony faced police officers on your doorstep.