The stupidest thing about the kind of jock jostling and idiot masculine posturing Fabian gets up to, in Krouse's opinion, is that it worked.
He can't figure that out. Of all the people Krouse would have called being able to tolerate being around after that clusterfuck of a month, Fabian wouldn't have made the top ten. But here they are, in Krouse's painfully organized apartment, having beers.
It was an impulse decision on Krouse's part. An idea that hit him in the Kwik Trip, standing in front of the beer display, staring at the Spotted Cow label and trying not to think about anything (anyone) it reminded him of. Drinking alone is pathetic. Drinking with someone is a social activity. Krouse doesn't want to do social activities, but he doesn't want to drink alone, working himself up to the kind of dulled out haze he's almost never actually indulged in.
So he grabbed two six packs of beer and a bottle of vodka, because he doesn't actually know how much he needs to drink to get drunk, and sent Fabian a text. And now Krouse is standing in his bedroom, holding the neck of his third bottle, staring at a picture. It's next to another one, of Krouse and his mom, but Krouse is only handling so much at a time.
Gingerly, he takes the dried grass bracelet off the corner and sets it on the nightstand. He picks up the frame, careful not to put his thumb on the glass, and carries it back out to the living room.
"This is Noelle," he says, holding the picture where Fabian can see it, and tips his beer back to down what's left of it, warmth liquid and nauseous in his stomach. But he's good. He's together.
"She's," Krouse says, bouncing his knee, "She was - "
Noelle, all of fifteen, smiles awkwardly up out of the picture. She's sallow and hollow-cheeked, her shoulder-length brown hair frayed at the ends, her brown eyes sunk in shallow purple hollows. Her shoulders are slightly hunched under her large hoodie, her legs poised on the school picture day stool swallowed in baggy jeans. She looks fragile, strained.
But Krouse can see past that. He can see the glint in her eye, watchful and alert. A line of steel along her spine even as it curves unseen by the photographer's lens.
"She was my team captain," Krouse says, quietly. "She had...something kind of like Gorgug had. The anger issues, you know? Not her fault. She got sick."
She was sick in this picture, too. Krouse knows the signs now the way he didn't back then. But that's not up for discussion. His secrets might be everywhere, but he's keeping as many of hers as this place will let him.
"We were..." Krouse clears his throat. He swaps the empty beer bottle in his hand for a new one from the coffee table with a flex of his power, then feels like an idiot, because he doesn't have a hand free to open it. He doesn't want to put the picture down.
"We were together. Probationary. I was the one on probation." Krouse forces a thin, papery laugh, not looking at Fabian, who probably is looking - sympathetic, or worried, or something. "I still don't know why she ever gave me a chance. I was such a fucking prick."
Is a fucking prick.
"I always pissed her off, too," he says, and now he's just rambling, tongue loosened with alcohol and exhaustion, "You'd think all the practice would have counted for something with him, but - no. I guess I'm just good at pissing people off. Trash at making them feel better."
action; post october-mission
He can't figure that out. Of all the people Krouse would have called being able to tolerate being around after that clusterfuck of a month, Fabian wouldn't have made the top ten. But here they are, in Krouse's painfully organized apartment, having beers.
It was an impulse decision on Krouse's part. An idea that hit him in the Kwik Trip, standing in front of the beer display, staring at the Spotted Cow label and trying not to think about anything (anyone) it reminded him of. Drinking alone is pathetic. Drinking with someone is a social activity. Krouse doesn't want to do social activities, but he doesn't want to drink alone, working himself up to the kind of dulled out haze he's almost never actually indulged in.
So he grabbed two six packs of beer and a bottle of vodka, because he doesn't actually know how much he needs to drink to get drunk, and sent Fabian a text. And now Krouse is standing in his bedroom, holding the neck of his third bottle, staring at a picture. It's next to another one, of Krouse and his mom, but Krouse is only handling so much at a time.
Gingerly, he takes the dried grass bracelet off the corner and sets it on the nightstand. He picks up the frame, careful not to put his thumb on the glass, and carries it back out to the living room.
"This is Noelle," he says, holding the picture where Fabian can see it, and tips his beer back to down what's left of it, warmth liquid and nauseous in his stomach. But he's good. He's together.
"She's," Krouse says, bouncing his knee, "She was - "
Noelle, all of fifteen, smiles awkwardly up out of the picture. She's sallow and hollow-cheeked, her shoulder-length brown hair frayed at the ends, her brown eyes sunk in shallow purple hollows. Her shoulders are slightly hunched under her large hoodie, her legs poised on the school picture day stool swallowed in baggy jeans. She looks fragile, strained.
But Krouse can see past that. He can see the glint in her eye, watchful and alert. A line of steel along her spine even as it curves unseen by the photographer's lens.
"She was my team captain," Krouse says, quietly. "She had...something kind of like Gorgug had. The anger issues, you know? Not her fault. She got sick."
She was sick in this picture, too. Krouse knows the signs now the way he didn't back then. But that's not up for discussion. His secrets might be everywhere, but he's keeping as many of hers as this place will let him.
"We were..." Krouse clears his throat. He swaps the empty beer bottle in his hand for a new one from the coffee table with a flex of his power, then feels like an idiot, because he doesn't have a hand free to open it. He doesn't want to put the picture down.
"We were together. Probationary. I was the one on probation." Krouse forces a thin, papery laugh, not looking at Fabian, who probably is looking - sympathetic, or worried, or something. "I still don't know why she ever gave me a chance. I was such a fucking prick."
Is a fucking prick.
"I always pissed her off, too," he says, and now he's just rambling, tongue loosened with alcohol and exhaustion, "You'd think all the practice would have counted for something with him, but - no. I guess I'm just good at pissing people off. Trash at making them feel better."