#get it cus his name is Manfred

[crypt1dcorv1dae]

Holding my manatee to feel better (his name is Manfred and he is my son)

I might go upstairs and try to calm down by getting under my blankets too idk ... Maybe some music?? Music helps usually...

- ok nevermind another Mishap happened that stalled me long enough that now I have to wait until after dinner to go upstairs so I might as well just wait. Whewww I hate this feeeeeelingggggg

Anyway shout-out to comfort items, adults carrying around "childish" things because they help them feel safe and secure is normal and good... My main one is actually my VERY old and fucked up teddy bear, but he's so good of and fragile I can't really cuddle him or take him anywhere anymore cus I wanna keep him safe...

What are your comfort/emotional support/etc things? Pets and people count too

[fragglez]

the man, the legend, the mammoth 🦣

[pendragonfics]

(the man) across the hall

Paring: Markus/Reader

Tags: gender-neutral reader, gender-neutral pronouns, alternate universe - modern setting, Markus’s last name is Manfred, Leo Manfred is a racist, domestic fluff, slow build, angst and hurt/comfort, threats of violence, gun violence, angst with a happy ending

Summary: The apartment opposite was always a home to someone. The fact that nobody ever stayed long made for a tradition of regular baking, practicing the welcome speech, looking forward to who was coming afterward even before the newcomers had settled in.

Word Count: 3,265

Current Date: 2019-10-14

Tagged: @angelwrote 

The apartment opposite was always a home to someone. The fact that nobody ever stayed long made for a tradition of regular baking, practicing the welcome speech, looking forward to who was coming afterward even before the newcomers had settled in. Not that you’d been in your apartment long; two years in your little nook just outside of the city centre of Detroit was one area of stability that kept your routine in check. Waking at dawn, drinking coffee darker than pitch, and working eleven-hour days down at a convenience store on the main street. And in the other thirteen hours of the day, that was for night school, and sleep.

You’re coming home after the long day of chasing shoplifters and deflecting strangers’ advances and stranger conversations, to find a newcomer in the apartment opposite. The door is wedged open with two textbooks on psychology, both thicker than your head, and there’s muffled music playing from the squeaky sound system of what you assume is an old phone. You’ve been awake too long, and your head is as heavy as a fire truck, but still, as you fumble for your keys, you spare a glance inside.

There’s the same furniture as the last tenant, but instead of a ratty throw over the couch, a cliché phrase cross-stitch framed on the wall, there are nice pillows and a calendar with art of American monuments. The month of October is somewhere in New England with autumn leaves and Halloween-esq art.

A man walks from the other room, and spies you as you manage to slot the right key in. He looks to be the same age as you and wears his locs with a patterned bandana, his hair cascading just above his shoulders. His eyes are two colours, but both light up as they meet your own.

“Hi, sorry, I’ll turn down the - I’m Markus Manfred,” he introduces. By the time he gets to his doorway, hand outstretched to shake, you’ve opened your door. But it’s then he realises you truly don’t have any hands free “Can I lend you a hand? Your hands look a little bit full.”

Your mind is empty, no words cued for the newcomer. You felt a rush of heat pool upon your face, neck and lower stomach, astonished at the politeness of your neighbour.

“I -,” you offer a bag of shopping to Markus, a small smile gracing your face, “yes, thank you so much.”

He helps you in and flicking the lights on, both of you move to kitchenette. It wasn’t a studio per se; the bathroom was small adjoining your room, and apart from that, there was room for your couch, and a bookshelf full of knickknacks.

“You know, you tell Markus. “I’m usually the one who welcomes people to their homes, not the other way around,”

“You know what they say, see a need…” he re-joined. “I’d hate to come off as an asshole.”

You take Markus in, head to toe. The only thing that screams “asshole!” about this man is the fact that he’s wearing a plain white tee tucked into his blue jeans, but other than that he looks every part as nice as the words that are coming from his mouth.

“Something tells you that you can’t be one of those,” you reply, and with your hands now free you place your hand in his. Not only is his demeanour warm, but slender fingers, too. “I’m _________. Welcome to the building.”

Markus beams, releasing your hand from his. His handshake had a good grip, and you swear as your mind lingers on his surname that it is vaguely familiar. You can’t place a finger on it. Perhaps you read it in one of the newspapers at the store or heard it in the news. At the moment you hesitate, Markus moves to help unload your bags, and you watch him, somewhat flabbergasted, somewhat ashamed of being aided.

“I can do that, please,” you shoo him from the bench, but the majority of the first bag is emptied. Markus watches you, his green and blue eyes following your own. “You’ve got your apartment to unpack, and besides, I’m making potato bake for you.”

“I can’t possibly -,” he begins.

“I always make food for neighbours on their first day…consider it repayment for helping me in.”

He goes to protest again but thinks twice. A hand in his pocket, he gives you a little smile, and it widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, _________. Really.” He places his spare hand on your bench, and as he turns to return to his apartment.

“Are you allergic to anything?” you ask.

Over his shoulder, Markus calls out, “Just soy!” and closes the door behind him.

Though you’re tired as hell and quite frankly are behind on an assessment, you start at the potato bake, glad that you’ve met the newcomer. As you turn the oven on to preheat, you bite your lip, studying your reflection in the window. You have a good feeling about Markus Manfred; something tells you that that won’t be the last you hear from him.

---

It’s two weeks later, and your boss has finally hired another person at the shop. Her name is North (and she hates that Kimye made her name a thing) and though her uni schedule clashes with the store hours, it means you’re working shorter hours, more frequently. It feels weird to sleep in until nine, get ready, and then take over at twelve, to finish at six. While it’s costing your boss more to keep the convenience store open another hour, the sales more than compensate for the loss, and you’re coming home with more pep in your step.

It also means you have more time around the apartment for the first time since moving to Detroit; and more time for incidental meetings with Markus in the hallway.

You find out that he’s a social worker who got reassigned from New York City, that he painted most of the art that hangs in his apartment, and that his dad is Carl Manfred, i.e. the American painter of the century. You learn all this over various coffees shared on his, or your couch, spread over the weeks that passed since you first met. It’s amazing how much you’ve hit it off with him; last time you were somewhat this friendly with a neighbour was a year ago, with old Mr Kamski who had too many Persian cats - all named Chloe after his daughter who lived in Scandinavia - to count.

“So, you’re a social worker, saving kids’ lives, making a difference one day at a time,” you overstate, waving a hand in a general manner, the other cradling a cup of tea, “and make time for your passion, family, and mental health? Sounds fake, but okay.”

Markus laughs into his mug. “I suppose I’m the lucky few,” he says. “But what about you? You’re at the -,”

“Mini Mart, down on the main street.” You supply.

“- and when you’re not working, you’re here?” He motions around your apartment. Since the first night when you met Markus, you’ve had more time to tidy around the place and keep it that way. “I mean, it’s nice, but I refuse to believe that’s all there is to you.”

“I’m studying, actually,” you tell him. You place your mug on the coffee table, and add, leaning back into the couch, “Night school. I’m going to make something of myself.”

“Nurse?” he guesses.

“Doctor,” you correct, feeling a little bit proud. “I’ve always wanted to work in triage. It’s hard, but…”

“You know, _________, I can see you in that,” Markus remarks.

There’s a warmth in his eyes, and since you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve come to see it more often in his face. He goes to say something else, but you’re interrupted by the sound of someone pounding at the door. More specifically, not at your door.

He and you share a glance, confused, and as you unlock the door, you find a young man standing at Markus’ door. He’s shorter than you, with dusty brown hair, a hoodie and jeans with holes, and from what you can see, his skin is kind of pale that makes you wonder if he’s anaemic rather than descended from the Irish. He continues at bashing at the door, the side of his fist connecting with the door rather than knuckles.

“Leo?” Markus approached your side, incredulous.

The man turned around. He looked tired in the blue eyes beneath the black one, which was an ugly shade of puce. His lip was cracked, with recently dried blood smeared across his chin. He bared his teeth in imitation of a smile, locking eyes with Markus.

“It’s been a long time, brother,” He barked. It wasn’t his tone; his voice sounded dry, just as chapped as the skin around his lips. “What, no welcome? Who’s your friend?”

“They’re none of your concern,” Markus replies.

His eyes narrowed, and you watch as he stalks across the hallway to Leo, the man who called Markus his brother. You keep yourself in your arms, staying half-hidden in your own doorway, observing them both. Back when you first met Markus, you had skimmed a Wikipedia page for Carl Manfred as a sort of homework. Right now, watching the two men interact, you vaguely remembered reading about another son of his.

“Are you okay?” you ask, feeling a little hollow.

Even though you face people like Leo every day at work, it feels different, alien, to have an encounter - for Markus to have an encounter - at your home, your safe space.

He nods, but it doesn’t put you at ease. He lets Leo into his apartment, and as he closes his door, you do the same, and slide down it, sitting with your knees tucked in tight to your chest, heartbeat hammering in your ears. While the thoughts ran through your head, you felt your stomach drop, a fear that you hadn’t felt for a while taking root.

You hadn’t felt this way for anyone in a long time.

Later that night, you’re on the cusp of sleep after the evening worrying when your phone buzzes. Fast, you grasp at it, reading a preview of a text from Markus’ number on screen, and in a ballet of texting, you type back, until you stare at the last message he sends, your fingers lingering over the screen, and as you reply, feeling something you’re not used to.

---

It’s about a week later, and you haven’t really heard from Markus. To be fair, you’ve been bogged down in the coursework of your classes and being bumped up to supervisor by your boss. It’s one way that he’s fair but cruel; the pay isn’t that much different, and it means you’re around to either lock up or open when he’s not around.

You saw Markus for five minutes in the hallway, as he was returning from work, you off to it, and apart from the fact that he looked quite handsome in his grey hoodie, you barely shared words. From what you overheard through the walls was that Leo was still around.

It didn’t make you feel any better. You sure didn’t sleep well at night.

But that could just be because of your shitty mattress, you thought, massaging your back idly. It’s a slow night, with customers few and far between. It might be because of the weather, or the night; it’s bucketing down on an idle Tuesday evening, the sunset to leave the post-daylight hour left to the imagination, or consultation of a clock. Usually, customers come in to escape the rain, but seeing it’s well after rush hour, you’re just as tired as the last patron - fifteen minutes ago, in such a rush they didn’t say please and thank you or look you in the eye - and want to close up.

Alas, there’s half an hour to go.

There’s only so many times you can clean a cleaned bench, face up the snacks when they haven’t been touched, tidy up the change in the register until it looks immaculate. You give one of the security cameras in the corner of the room a half-hearted smile, knowing that the boring night wouldn’t be glanced at on tape.

That was when it happened.

You heard a bang, and turning to the noise, you saw, almost too late, the window shatter, and a car plough through the front doors of the store. You dove below the register, but it was a reaction, and you felt the sting of flying glass. But the car kept going, and defiant of structures, the roaring engine forced its way further into the store, ramming into the bench you hid behind.

You’d seen enough movies to know what was going to happen next, but still, it shocked you when a single hand pulled you upwards by the back of your shirt. Manhandled, you stared at a poorly made balaclava and handgun.

Your hands were slow, the side of your arm staring to bleed from where it caught glass, but you didn’t feel it. You trembled, feeling the gun pressed against your head, heart racing so fast that you felt like a piñata that would break all by itself. You passed the bills to the robber holding you, fearful, afraid. The gun was still pressed, albeit not as hard, but no matter what, there was a gun, and it was at you. You’d never liked them and weren’t about to start liking them now.

“A-are you going t-to kill me?” you stammered.

The man behind the balaclava smirked, that much you could see. He let go of the back of your shirt, stuffing the money into a bag a cartoon villain or the Monopoly Man and looked you in the eye. They were blue and wild, and you caught your breath as soon as you recognised the voice of the guy holding you, and the store at gunpoint.

“I could,” Leo taunted.

Even if he did, there was a button under the counter. Your boss had installed it in hopes of it not being used because he was the kind of man who’d do the bare minimum to save his ass. You managed to snag it; fingers pressed in as soon as you started talking. It was against the training, stalling a theft, because it meant you were at stake as opposed to the items being thieved, but in your fear, in your anguish of realising it was Markus’ brother behind the mask, all of that made you do it.

The whines of police arriving made Leo freeze, and he hesitated, caught between fight or flight. The car he had bludgeoned the storefront with was totalled, and his finger hovered over the trigger, one spasm away from your certain doom. But that didn’t come. The last you saw was the butt of the gun come down on your head.

You came to on the back of an ambulance.

The paramedic had wrapped you in a shock blanket, fussing over your superficial wounds. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol wipe that brought you to, or that you heard your name. But when you look, there’s nobody you know. It’s a haze but you see your boss has been dragged out at the late hour, and there are so many flashing lights and people talking around you, at you, to you that you’re not sure if it is your head wound or an oncoming migraine.

They let you go after you stop shaking.  

---

When you get home, you can’t hear any ambient noise. It’s eerie, almost, but then again, before Markus moved in, it was the norm. Even as you follow the usual rituals for the evening, turning the TV on in the background, you can’t help but feel like you’ve walked in a cold spot, and can’t shake off the shiver.

That night, you fall into a restless sleep. In fact, in all the next fortnight, it’s the same. You ache every day, some from the ghost of pain that followed, but most for Markus. It’s hard, because you had started to fall for him, slowly and surely, and now, following the incident, you heard not a word. The fear creeps in, and you feel like he’s left you. Sided with the brother who left you with a concussion, and therapy sessions you can’t afford.

Left you to your lonely heart. That longed…for him.

It’s almost a month since the incident when you open your door to music at eight one morning. Markus’ door is wedged open with an unopened sack of rice, and your heart flutters. You pause at the threshold, caught - but at that moment you are seen. You catch Markus’ eye, and you turn to leave.

“Wait,” he called out.

Despite yourself, you did. Markus looked good, but then, he always did. His shirt is a patterned button-down, and his jeans are cuffed, feet bare upon his floorboards. There’s no hairband around his hair, and it hangs loose, the locs long, long enough to brush against his collar.

“You -,” the words die on your lips.

“I know you’ll never forgive me,” Markus stalls at his doorway, biting his lip, upset. “but I let him in, and he - fuck,” he wipes a hand over his face. “If you don’t want to speak -,”

“I missed - I miss you,” the words tumble out.

The emotions you wear on your sleeve are wiped across your face so plain to see. Oh, if you were a hero in a novel, doomed to be plagued by feelings and things that darkened the skies, it would be worth it only if Markus was there, and here he was, he was here, and you felt almost sickeningly happy, afraid of the joy inside you.

“I’ve been in New York, helping Dad with the case against - I would’ve never left but it was the last straw. I -,” you blink, unsure of what you’re witnessing. Markus is stammering over his words too, almost nervous. He��s never been, in front of you; he was a saviour to the lost in the foster system, a pillar of strength and example of handsomeness, but never unconfident. And yet, here he was. “I’ll cook dinner for you tonight, if you -,”

“I’d love that,” you reply, too quick.

But too quick is not quick enough, and Markus smiles. “Are you allergic to anything?” he asks.

“No,” you reply. “But I think I’m into you.”

He crosses the hallway, and you meet him halfway. It’s almost clumsy, the way you fall into each other’s arms; it’s not like a Hallmark movie or something where Margot Robbie and some piece of eye candy look so dashing upon a movie poster. They don’t hold a torch against Markus.

“That’s strange,” he says, his mouth close to your face, breath hot in your hair, “I feel the same way.”

Life isn’t a movie, it’s real life, and Markus and you are just people. Ordinary people who managed to find each other in the chaos of life. If anything, Markus is a corner piece, and you are the spot beside which slots right in. The puzzle is complete now. The picture is clear, with answers, dinner, and sweeter things than each other’s touch on the horizon, between you, and the man who moved into the apartment across the hall.