“Hm.”
What childish hope for forgiveness that’s visible inside of Creston’s swollen features sinks somewhere back in his guilt-filled jowls at that one empty syllable. You just sit in your seat, observing the sad, bloated raven sitting parallel of you, noting the way each nervous breath inflates and deflates his already globular form. How the most subtle acts trigger a slew of involuntary jiggles and movements across his gargantuan frame.
This is Creston Wrencast. The same one who could bench-press his former weight in the prime of his youth, this miserable-looking behemoth of blubber and shame.The very epicenter of every cruel and vengeful thought that’d ever passed through your adult mind, those tubby, useless wings of his the same that’d dealt you so much abuse through what should’ve been the best years of your life.
“But listen, if you don’t wanna hear it, I’m not gonna beg that I’ve changed like it’s some kind of excuse.” He injects into your episode of self-thought, cheek squishing into his open palm. “...and if you wanna go nuts, or yell whatever you want at me, I won’t fight back.”
“The thing is, Creston, I didn’t come here to insult...” That claim does right in committee as no, that’s exactly what you came here for. “Eh...no. I don’t wanna insult you anymore. I think.” You correct yourself, and noting the sheer dimensions of his new body once again, “and honestly, I don’t think that you haven’t changed, either. I can...well, I can see that for myself. A lot.”
A little less scared of looking away from the floor, Creston gives the first sincere smile since you’d arrived, running a palm over the curvature of his stomach. “I know that every time I get dressed, but thanks.”
“But,” you lay down firmly, fastening into a bit of a glare that snipes down that warmth in him. “Even if you’re not the same person you were six years ago...you’ve still hurt me, Creston.” He’s hurt by the bluntness of your voice, but lets you continue, understanding. “Maybe it didn’t kill me. Maybe it made me stronger, and hey, maybe something really, really shitty happened to you and you just had to take it out on somebody or you’d go fucking crazy, but sitting here right now, I’m still hurt. I’m probably still gonna hurt for a long time all because of things that you did to me for no other reason than that I was there at the time, and even if it’d be the right thing to to do, it’ll be a long, long time before I can forgive you for that.”
“I know.” He concedes. “I probably wouldn’t forgive me, either.”
“...but you know what?” Getting up from the deformed couch, an action that makes that sad, beaten teenager that’d been festering inside of you wail a chorus of objections that for a few seconds drowns your free thought, and Creston cricks his head in confusion as you go blank, legitimately wondering...god, are you really doing this? “Even if I can’t say I won’t fail at it eventually, maybe...maybe I should try.”
There’s hope in his eyes, but he winces, almost like having that feeling was committing some kind of crime. “Ian listen, I understand if you don-“
“No.” You interrupt. “If I’d clung onto this anger for so long, and if I want that hurt to actually end someday, maybe I could learn a thing or two about changing, too.”
Creston sees the floor one last time, his last true friend throughout your little conversation. Maybe it’s a little slideshow of the past playing in his mind, evidenced by the subtle twangs of sadness, guilt and anger that twitches inside of his flabby glands before he gives you his next bit of eye contact, “Well, I’m not gonna ask you to rush for me,” He says wearily, but then smiles once more. “But thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” You answer simply. The ticking of a clock on his fireplace becomes the loudest thing in the room then, and satisfied that there were no choice few words left in your would, you take a few last looks at the cozy interior of his home before setting for the door. “Listen, I’m sure you’ve got your own stuff do do, so...I guess I’d been here long enough.”
“Long enough? He repeats, slightly surprised. “You’re leaving already?”
“Well, I came here to patch up a few holes in my life, and...eh, I’d got something.” You give a short, simple nod to him, maneuvering towards the door. “Anyways...see you around, Creston.”
But in an act turned torturous and slow by his weight, Creston ascends off the couch, the spectacle binding you from moving an inch. “Listen, you’ve already come all the way over here, and I’d just gotten up. Would you at least like some breakfast?”
First you see Creston for the first time in six years. You go having from a panic attack to seeing him for the behemoth he’s been splurging himself into for all this time. Then he apologizes, and then you forgive him. Now, when it seems all is clear and done, that the two of you can get back to you lives and keep the day from going off the rails any further...breakfast? Now you’re having breakfast with him?
But then again, you did say you’d try...and having intentionally avoided any bites the whole morning to get in that proper, angry mood to turn him down, what harm would it do?
“You know what? Maybe just one plate.”
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