propensiity.

          a part of victor wants to scream. scream and last out and let out everything he’s feeling, which is quite a lot. how is one supposed to react when they find out that their dead mother hid so much -- no, EVERYTHING -- from them? there’s a fury inside of him that wants nothing more than to chuck the two boxes in front of him out the window and never look at them again.

          except he won’t do that. the other part of victor, the part that is usually curious and never stopping just -- can’t breathe. it feels like he’s not getting enough air, like he’s slowly chocking on his own tongue. there’s a sense of shame rinsing over him because who spends over three decades not knowing anything about themselves ?? for someone who prides themselves on being good at finding out information, he never did know much about his own family.

          he can’t look at dakota, can’t meet his eye but he also can’t move away, grounding himself in his touch. in the past hour, he’s found out that everything his mother told him, down to his last name, was a lie. he can’t help but ask himself what else is a lie, which is a slippery slope to go down because he can’t take much more of this, much more of this ‘is this real’ game his mother has left him to play.

          he can’t quite stop the tears from coming out, but also isn’t sobbing anymore ( the word ‘shock’ goes through his mind briefly, but he can’t explain why ) so he takes it as a good thing. it takes him a second to reach out to the box and pick up his mother’s birth certificate, the first paper he had spotted in the boxes. his hand is extremely shaky as he shows it to dakota but then again, so is the rest of him.

          ❝ margaret grace, you know who that is ?? ❞ fat tears roll down his cheeks as he talks, but he barely notices them. ❝ she was a sixteen year old runaway from upstate new york. some people thought she was pregnant, which would explain why she’d run away. ❞ he’s talking about this as if it was just another case but it’s clear from just how shaken he is that it isn’t. ❝ that’s my mom, dakota. maggie collins never existed. she LIED to me my whole life. ❞ there’s a lot more to it but his voice cracks and he drops the paper, hands barely able to hold themselves up.

          when he was young, victor’s mom didn’t tell him much about the life she had before he was born. she didn’t like talking about it and would always try to give victor answers that would get him to stop asking and if he asked too much, she would cry. in time, he stopped asking questions because if there was one thing he hated, it was to see his mother cry.

           when she passed away, victor’s life fell apart. he didn’t know what to do with himself and he ended up breaking ties with everyone in town ( dakota included ) and just left. he didn’t mean to, yet everything reminded him of her and he was scared he’d end up the same way as her.

          before he left, he emptied out the apartment the apartment that had one been theirs. it was easy, most of it going in the garbage or goodwill pile before he took off. his mom’s old clothes? goodwill. that drawer they left filled with random stuff? garbage. it was a long process but he refused to let anyone help him, because this was the last time he knew he’d feel close to his mom.

          before he left, he’d found two boxes under his mother’s bed. at the time, he was too upset to look through them and just assumed it was old receipts, maybe some tax forms he’d need because he knew they had always had trouble with money. so he put the boxes in his car and he drove off and no one ever asked to see any papers so he forgot about the boxes, left to pick up dust in his apartment like everything else.

          it’s been years since he thought about those boxes. they’d never seemed important to him, so he forgot where he even got them. as his career as a journalist picked up, the boxes got mixed up with every other box of evidence that found its way into his home. they laid forgotten until today, opened by mistake because they happened to look exactly like two other boxes.

          that’s how dakota finds him, sitting crossed legged on the floor, face streaked with tears that have yet to dry, furrowed brow as he looks through the content for the first time in his life. god, he wishes he never opened those boxes.

          ❝ did you know i was born in new york ?? i didn’t. ❞ his voice is extremely shaky, just like the rest of him as he tries to make a joke that falls flat when he finally notices the other male. he tries to wipe his eyes and act like everything’s fine, but his eyes simply well up more and he has to look away, has to look away from dakota before he starts sobbing again.

propensiity.

         he’s not sure where any of this is from, he could have easily ducked out without having said a word to dakota and his night would have been just fine. he could’ve gone home by himself and just gone to bed, like he’d planned but seeing the other’s face just -- changed his mind.

          victor doesn’t move his hand away when dakota turns, small smile still playing on is features as he looks at the other. his response only makes him smile wider, fishing for his keys in his jacket pocket and pulling them out to show dakota, tentatively letting his hand drop to take his hand ( he doesn’t intertwine their fingers and he certainly doesn’t think about it ). 

          there’s a quick flash of a smile to the people the other was talking to before victor steals him away, tugging at his hand to make him follow. his car is just out front on the curb and they’re only about ten minutes from his place, which is empty since his mom works night. he waits until they’re outside to speak again.

                    ❝ didn’t expect to see you tonight. ❞