Note from the Author:
Hey all.
One more chapter, patience is boiling up at The Complex, where life isn't supposed to be a picnic. For a better understanding of the scenario and setup, I recommend reading Chapter one first.
This chapter came out a bit later than expected, but I'll try to keep up the flow.
Thanks for the previous comments and messages, and for keeping me inspired.
Hope you enjoy :)
*****
Chapter three -- The rag doll
They don't talk about their jobs, or whatever these "projects" entail. Research and development of what?
There was a quick knock on my door. The very first time it had happened.
"Hey," Sam stood outside the open door. He seemed to be dressed for work, but somehow the button-down shit with sleeves rolled up to elbows further accentuated his boyish looks. "So, I was wondering. I know we only spend time together later, but I'm also in charge of the kitchen today. Do you want to come down for breakfast?"
The request was most unusual. Up until then I had had my meals alone in times I wouldn't be inhibiting conversations with my mere presence.
"I'm making pancakes," Sam added in tone of indisputable conclusion.
I could not find a way to refuse it, and was gifted by a bright smile from the young patron. As I joined the kitchen after a brief freshen up, Sam worked the pancakes while enthusiastically discussing a sports match with Edward. Beside the latter, at the table, the only patron I hadn't met yet.
The unknown patron had a buzz haircut, and dark brown eyes. He sat with his elbows on the table, seeming to lay little attention to the conversation. Either way, the topic changed when I approached.
"You asked him to come down in the morning?" mused Edward, with an eyebrow raised. "That spells despair."
"It's just pancakes, I didn't want him to miss them," Sam dismissed, plating together a pile of four pancakes. He turned to me with the plate and a smile. "Do you want any syrup on it?"
"No, thanks. They look great as it is." They did. Sam had made them fluffy and added berries to the batter. His eyes followed me as I ate, and I was fully conscious of my every move.
"It's burning," Edward warned, perhaps a minute too late. Awoken, Sam cursed in low voice while, using a spatula to scratch off the ruined pancake.
"Idiot," was the first word I heard from the anonymous patron who hadn't made a mode to introduce himself.
"I'm Callum," I said, taking notice of the fact.
"Carlos." His eyes turned to me coldly.
Carlos was handsome. I mean, they all were, but Carlos stood up even among the impressively good-looking housemates. The shape of his nose, or maybe a specific charm related to his air of disinterest. He faced away as if the the one-word exchange had been all the conversation he'd care for, then got up and walked away, leaving behind his empty plate.
"He's douche-y like that, don't think too much of it," Sam broke the tension without a worry. He opened back his smile. "So, you and I later?"
"I'm looking forward to it," I replied automatically, still half hooked on the vacuum Carlos had left behind. It apparently was more than enough for Sam, though.
"Great! I'm thinking of relaxing with a game after work. And I'm in a serious lack of worthy opponents," he added, then turned to Edward. "No offense, dude."
*****
I could imagine that gaming room filling the eyes of people more prone to pub entertainment. Lighting was dimmed and focused on stations. A billiard table, a foosball table. A corner for darts and targets. A table for board games.
It makes sense, considering these guys are stuck in here.
On another corner, a four-seat sofa faced a very large screen embedded in the wall, and that was where I spent my afternoon adventuring through the games recommended by Sam. I was not particularly good at video games, and most of my interest in them had faded well together with my young years. Still, I practiced and tried some on, if only to give the guy some challenge later.
By the time Sam arrived, humid hair from shower and stay-home attire, I had already dusted off my old skills and was absorbed into
Mortal Combat
. He grabbed a controller from the center table and ignored two of the seats, sitting directly by my side.
"Nice choice!" he approved, focused on the screen. Which did not change the fact that he was sitting the closest one could be without actually being on my lap. Pressed between him and the arm of the couch, I could smell the soap from his skin. "Let's see if you'll give me too much trouble."
I did my best, but I could not. From the moment the fight started, I tried some commands that had worked well for me before, only to see Sam's character dodging my attacks with ease and move back. Then, in the split of second my own fighter was in the air, Sam counter-attacked. With a flow of precisely input combos, the round was over.
"It wasn't that bad," he lied. "Come on, round two!"
More rounds and more fights followed, with similar results. It took three full fights before I was able to at least block some of his advances when the flurry of blows started. While our levels were clearly distant, each desperate attempt made Sam happier.
As we played, we chatted. Mostly he did, as whooping my ass on the game did not seem to take much of his focus. Sam was an unsurprisingly nice guy, easy to make smile, eager for attention and, without a doubt,
needy
.
And
touchy
, too.
I felt his bare arm touching my sleeved one when he threw me a cordial hit with his elbow in response to a particularly inventive (and almost effective) counterattack. The arm didn't move back for a long time.
Sam cleaned his throat during the pause in which we changed to a racing game.
