/‘hir,āeth/
noun
a homesickness for a home you can not return to or a home that never was.
but i'll never get to know
---
vent/pining/nsfw sideblog
/‘hir,āeth/
noun
a homesickness for a home you can not return to or a home that never was.
I wanna scream and hit the wall and rip open my skin, but instead of doing anything about it I’m just lying in bed doing nothing
Warnings: emeto, alcohol
Fandom: My OCs (Jax Beach)
I know this is late, and it was going to be like a 200-word drabble, but then I started writing it and it just kept going and going. I’ve been neglecting Todd’s storyline for a long time, and this was a really good opportunity to introduce more of his world.
_____
“Hey, Todd, can you come in the boardroom for a minute?”
Todd hastily swallows and caps his flask, then drops it in his desk drawer before spinning his chair around. “Yeah?” He coughs. He doesn’t have the energy to be flustered today, but the sight of his boss towering over him still isn’t too welcome.
“What’s in that thing, anyway?” Amadeo raises one eyebrow.
There goes his hope that nobody would notice his surreptitious sipping. Shared
office spaces are good for collaboration, but bad for privacy. Usually the open, minimalistic layout makes Todd feel like he’s in college again, which he likes. It reduces the “real world” pressure of having to be an adult with a job. Today, though, his patience for everybody else’s keyboard clicking is waning as his headache waxes. He’s beginning to think he has a bit more than just a cold.
“Fucking Dayquil, man,” Todd says thickly, even though it’s not. But whiskey
sluggishness is similar enough to the drag of DXM and sinus pressure that it
hardly matters. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss, I just…” He gestures vaguely at his forehead, then tucks a few strands of hair behind his ear.
“Yeah, I know. You’re infecting us all.” Amadeo smiles. “How ‘bout this: come demo your project real quick, then you can go home early.”
“Who you got in there?” Todd asks warily, nodding toward the glass-walled boardroom in the center of the office space.
“Prospective customers. Interested in security, accounting software, that kind of thing.”
“Ah, boring stuff.” Todd nods sagely, then grins. “You sure you want me
representing the company? And like, sniveling all over them?” He coughs on cue, then swallows a mouthful of mucous.
“Stuff you’re good at. And they’re kids with a start-up. They’ll like you.”
Amadeo may be an unconventional manager with his Hawaiian shirts and long
grey ponytail, but even Todd has to admit, he knows how to keep the company humming. And a little ego-stroking never hurt anyone. “And I trust you to cough into your elbow.”
“Alright, if you say so.” Todd gets to his feet and follows Amadeo through the rows of desks. He’s been stationary long enough that his head protests the change in elevation with a flurry of renewed throbs. He’s had a few sips from his secret stash, and when combined with the gunk clotting up in his nose and throat, it amounts to a feeling of being unanchored, as if his center of balance is asleep at the wheel. Or is already headed home for the day. Everything in Todd’s peripheral vision has a fisheye look, ballooning into a massive blur around the edges.
He takes a deep breath and coughs a couple times before stepping into the boardroom. A man and woman in their mid-20s sit at the polished table, open folders and half-eaten donuts strewn out in front of them.
“Alright, this is Todd,” Amadeo introduces him. “He specializes in security programs.” He says the customers’ names, and what their company is called, but Todd forgets them immediately.
The man holds out his hand to shake, but Todd says, “Oh, um, fist bump?” He offers his closed hand. “Sorry. Flu season.” He forces a laugh that just stirs up the phlegm in his throat.
“Yeah, smart.” The man and woman look at each other and nod. Amadeo gives Todd a thumbs-up.
“Ok, so I’m working on streamlining secure login,” Todd explains. “Kind of like being a digital locksmith.” He looks around for the box of prototypes they keep around for such demonstrations. It’s under the table near Amadeo’s feet. Todd bends to retrieve it, and his head swims when he straightens up.
“Whoa.” He nearly drops the box, and has to grasp the edge of the table to stay on his feet.
“Are you ok?” The woman asks.
“Yeah, sorry.” Todd shakes his head, hoping to get rid of the dizziness. It’s the wrong move, though. The vertigo turns to nausea, and his palms immediately break out in a cold sweat. “Whew. Alright.” He paws through the box, taking his time finding the right tools so he can use the opportunity to regain his composure.
“So,” Todd starts again, pulling a number pad out of the box by its USB cord. He plugs it into the laptop Amadeo has ready for him. “Two-factor authentication is standard, but it’s clunky. You got a password and a PIN, that kind of thing.” He pauses to swallow. His chest feels a tight, like his stomach is trying to squeeze in between his heart and lungs. “What I’m trying to do is meet both factors in one step. Like, what if you had a 6-digit PIN, but one of the digits was your fingerprint?”
Todd steals a glance at the customers’ interested faces before he opens the mock-up login app on the laptop’s screen. “Right now we have these,” he nods at the number pad, “That have, like, one extra button that’s a print-reader, but we’re working toward one where all the keys have that capability. You train it to understand how you type, what fingers you use, so…so…” There’s suddenly too much spit in Todd’s mouth. It tastes like salt and alcohol. He tucks his chin to quell a sick belch. “So no one can hack—”
Sourness explodes over his tongue. Todd presses his lips together and swallows frantically, but it won’t go down. More is coming up, burning his throat. There’s a small trash can just outside the boardroom. At this point, he’ll be lucky to make it that far.
Todd turns and bolts for the door. He’s so dizzy he clips his shoulder on the edge of the frame. His gut roils again as soon as he’s in proximity to the trash can. He gags and brings up a rush of fluid mixed with strings of snot that cling to his lips and the stubble on his chin.
“Fuck,” Todd mumbles. His knees shake. He’s going to end up on his ass if he doesn’t ground himself. There’s no choice but to reach out and plant his clammy palms on the glass wall in front of him. Todd can’t bring himself to look at Amadeo or the customers still inside. He retches again, then rests his forehead on against the back of his hand. He hears the rest of the office grind to a halt; all the murmuring voices and typing sounds giving way to silence that’s even more unbearable.
Finally Amadeo speaks. “Like he said, flu season.” He laughs, and Todd hears his chair slide back from the table. A moment later, the older man’s arm is around Todd’s shoulders. He picks up the trash can and pushes it into Todd’s heaving chest, then starts walking him back to his desk.
“God. Fuck. I’m sorry,” Todd hiccups, grasping the edges of the bin in his trembling hands.
“Yeah, maybe not the best impression,” Amadeo sighs. “But nobody in their right mind would do that on purpose. I know it’s beyond your control.”
Todd clenches his teeth, desperate not to throw up again. But like his boss said, it’s out of his control. A trickle comes out of his nose this time, which hurts. Todd hopes he’s the only one who can smell the whiskey.
“Can I, like, reschedule with them or something?” he chokes. He’s not one to take on extra work voluntarily, but that’s the only way Todd can see to fix this.
“I’ll see what they wanna do.” Amadeo says. “You got your car today, or should I call the wife? A deal’s still a deal. Take the rest of the day.”
“Nah, Mel’s got it,” Todd replies. He spits and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand. Forget feeling like he’s in college; he may as well be back in high school, waiting for someone to pick him up from the nurse’s office. “I can call her. Don’t worry about it.”
“Alright.” Amadeo pats him on the back. “Take tomorrow too, if you’re still not 100%. In all my years here, not sure I ever saw anything quite like that before.”
“Yeah,” Todd sighs. “Me either, man.”
“And this urge to run away from what I love is a sort of sadism I no longer pretend to understand.”
— Martha Gellhorn, from a letter to Stanley Pennell