Monthly Bonus Content #2: 'Lonely Hearts Club' (Waiter Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: An image of a soft pink, paper heart strung on a string with a tear starting to rip through its center. The background is black, which makes the title: 'Lonely Hearts Club' in a pink and dusty rose colored font stand out. The font itself is retro.]

[Happy Valentine's Day! 💞 TFS Patrons, please be sure to see this post about adding my email address to your contacts so you can enjoy the RO character portraits.]

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The Fernweh Diner sign casts an unsettling reddish glow over the mostly empty parking lot. Its discharge tubes are well-made antiques, allowing the neon light to shine a vibrant crimson before weakening to soft pinks and muted reds as the excited emissions strobe through the tubing. The words look more alive the longer you take to study how they pulse.

The red and white color scheme is fitting for Valentine's Day, but it only seems disturbing at night.

Your latest nightmare was full of red…

You roughly yank open the door before there is a chance to dwell on why you're up wandering around town at this late hour. Fixating on the jumble of blood-soaked images didn't help, not when the snatches of emotion linked to each one ranged from abject terror to a sick sense of self-pride. It was both scary and confusing.

"Hey, Heartbreaker."

The sudden greeting only startles you a little as you continue tugging off your beanie to feel the welcoming warmth of the space. It takes you a moment to locate Mal in the dimly lit dining area. Is the restaurant cutting back on electricity due to the lack of late night customers? He waves for you to come closer when your eyes meet, no longer reclining in a leather booth to treat it as a lumpy mattress.

"You must be breaking at least one person's heart considering it's Valentine's and you're in a syrupy diner."

His clarification comes right as you sit down, taking notice of the line of syrup dispensers that have all been neatly filled to the brim from the nearby industrial-sized containers. They have Fernweh made seals on their sides. "I doubt that," you half-heartedly reply, still too wrapped up in your head to parse out the meaning of Mal's words. He doesn't take the themed banter any further, though his gaze lingers on you as a contemplative quiet gradually settles in. "Uhm, so, how are you…?"

Silence isn't a good thing for you right now.

"Probably better than you, but I'm not exactly a fan of today either."

Mal's answer comes in the form of a knowing statement that is softened by him giving you a hint of a genuine smile rather than the service-ready one his customers receive. It is only a glimpse because he turns to observe the clock on a distant wall, though it's very hard for you to see exactly where the hands align on its face. Is he actually checking the time, or did he want to look away? "You don't like the holiday?"

Mal angles his head back in your direction before beginning to group the dispensers based on syrup flavor. "It's not even a real holiday," he asserts with a hint of mockery seeping into his tone that is counterbalanced by his default smile. His actions are a little less effortless than usual, glass faintly clinking and jostling together as he sorts everything. "It may have meant something once, but that time is long gone; now, it's about sugar and clashing colors. The over commercialization of love. Besides, do you know how annoying it is to make heart-shaped pancakes on the griddle?"

You shake your head once, quietly surprised he is this passionate over disliking Valentine's Day.

"Well, it's hard to do; they tend to break right down the center," he explains. "What about you? Did you get anything from an admirer?"

Mal slows down his organizing efforts to watch you with an expression that would be hard to place even if you weren't preoccupied with your thoughts. Passing curiosity shouldn't be this intense. He seems to be looking a little too deeply, not prying or probing, but seeing too much in a way that feels inescapable. A container of blueberry or blackberry syrup hangs off the curve of his index finger, dangling from it despite its heavy weight that would have most people shaking out their hand by now. Mal is patiently waiting for you to say something, not marvel at his grip strength.

"Yeah, well, kind of?" You lightly clear your throat when he sets the syrup aside, releasing you from that encompassing observation as he focuses elsewhere. "Mrs. Dorran gave it to me."

"Mrs. Dorran gave you a valentine?"

"It's sweet," you assert to counter his dubious tone. The card has dainty lace and a hand-written message on its interior. You know she handed them out to everyone she cares for, which is why you aren't too jaded about today. There are people who choose to express their compassion for others even if this time has become linked with chocolate, jewelry, and flower sales. It's the emotion that matters. You feel slightly more awake and alert now, willing to debate his cynical outlook if it's going to indirectly question Mrs. Dorran's kindness. "It was in the newspaper that she was making them for the community. There was a basket on the front porch full of them."

Yours was obviously more personalized.

"She's definitely sweet, but I don't know if that valentine counts," Mal concludes, unable to hide a grin at your fired-up reaction over glorified greeting cards. Finding it endearing caused his smile to slip away. "It's the wrong kind of love for today; at least it's almost over."

Taking this any further is curtailed when Mal rises from the booth, untying his apron with one hand while slotting the last container of syrup into place. They all appear similar to you in this lighting, but if you peer hard enough, the blue, amber, purple, and burgundy tints to the thick, sugary liquid are noticeable. Is he done with the conversation or simply this task? You shift in your seat, aligning your feet with the aisle and standing from it when Mal moves away with a purposeful tip of his head in the direction of the door. He walks away to collect his red, leather jacket from an employee rack.

"Clyde is organizing the deep freezer."

You instantly recognize the name of the line cook, who typically makes your favored meal.

"Wanna go for a walk?" Mal asks. "He won't mind if I take a break since it's dead in here."

"You're sure?" you wonder, hesitant to create a problem for the diner, but also welcoming a distraction and change of pace. "I don't want to get you in trouble, or—" The repetitive clacks of the windchime serve as Mal's final answer as he holds the door open for you, purposefully rocking it slightly so the antique spoons produce a subtle racket that halts any of your worries from being voiced aloud. You join him.

"…That's better…"

You just barely catch his murmured comment as the door shuts and he falls into step with you.

Mal's personal space aligns with yours, careful not to infringe or overtake it, but there is something natural, if not familiar, to how he orients to you rather than walk his own path. His eyes remain trained on the glistening pavement with its patches of neon-colored puddles thanks to the reflection of the sign's light. Asphalt gives way to cement and then to carefully maintained sidewalk as your walk continues, but Mal's focus stays on the ground. The longer you dare to subtly watch him, the more his smile lengthens until he catches you.

Your eyes lock for a fraction of a second.

It is too fleeting, but a thrill races up your spine, dissipating into crackling tingles that quiver through you until you loosely cross your arms.

That didn't feel like a normal shiver…

"See anything of interest?"

Maybe you could have if Mal wasn't suddenly adverse to direct eye contact; there is a degree of petulance to your conclusion that you prefer to ignore. "No, not really," you lamely reply. The chill in the winter air doesn't seem to nip at you as much, possibly because he is so close by or the direction your thoughts are taking. "Why?"

"Because I do see something intriguing."

He delivers the remark like it's a smooth compliment, except he isn't facing you, but one of the lesser monuments that dot Fernweh. It's some sort of aged bronze figure that helps to break up the sidewalks and public crossings by serving as a focal point with curb appeal. You don't remember it. "I guess it's a nice statue."

"I wasn't talking about it; just wait a sec."

Mal's admittance coincides with him stepping off of the sidewalk and onto the manicured lawn flanked by shrubbery that houses the statue. Your gaze darts between him, the stern sign that clearly says to keep off the grass, and the desolate road. No one is out to report this to the Board's town beautification committee; it's probably fine. While you shift your weight from one leg to the other to dispel any nerves, Mal ambles closer to one bush in particular.

Why is he taking so long?

The nearby stoplight is perpetually green due to the lack of cars, but you still keep watch. It's only when you hear his boots against the sidewalk again that you turn back around to see Mal casually presenting something to you. A flower is hooked between two of his fingers so its curved petals remind you of a chalice that gives shape to its interior. The spotlights near the monument work to your advantage, helping you see the tiny yellow spires that stick up from the center of the flower. Its petals are a snowy white with a purity that is very striking.

"For you," Mal fills in the quiet. "Roses are a bit too cliche, so a Christmas rose swerves that."

A sudden realization clicks into place as to why he kept looking down at the ground during the walk. He was searching. You take the bloom with a faintly uncertain smile, touched by his gesture, though it's tempered by confusion since he has strong feelings about this holiday. "I thought you were, hm, 'anti' Valentine's Day?"

"No matter my feelings, you still deserve a proper valentine…"

You expected a laugh or a well-timed retort, not for him to grow serious as he returns your attention without any hesitation or wavering. Is this connection what you were missing during the walk? It's only now that you notice his hand is still outstretched from where it was acting as a holder for the flower, palm splayed open and seemingly wanting now that it's empty. The bloom only occupies one of your hands. Its petals are silky soft and somehow lack any of the frost or ice crystals that dust the grass, but how would his hand feel in yours? It would be warm; you somehow know he can feel heated, or maybe that's a solid guess. Temptation to reach out to Mal coaxes you to make a move before your thoughts stop you from acting, even if he would wait with that interminable patience that goes beyond working as a waiter. He always waits for you.

Will Mal always wait for you?

His hand against yours dissipates the half-formed musings of your sleep-deprived brain; it anchors you to this moment in the present as you align your palms. His eyes only widen a fraction in surprise. A brittle sort of hope? An unsaid fear? It's a blink and you would miss it change, which soon becomes an afterthought as he pulls you closer with ease because your feet practically glide across the frosty sidewalk, responding to Mal's implicit invitation. The warmth of his body chases away the cool night air in a rush that entices you to melt into the embrace to escape the chill. He lets you, drawing you closer and accommodating without being asked, until his leather jacket now feels like yours as well from how your arm unintentionally slipped inside.

The pristine white of the Christmas rose stands out against the red leather, a striking contrast.

You're careful to rest your other hand against his chest, unwilling to crush the delicate petals of the bloom by cupping it as Mal leans in with the hint of an enigmatic smile playing at his lips. It's too knowing—too secure in something elusive that's just out of your reach—but that isn't why you meet him partway, ignoring the uncertainties and giving into this one of a kind feeling.

Perhaps, he hasn't been the only one waiting…

It's an actual kiss; none of Mal's trademark teasing shades how he moves with purpose, no longer reacting but acting once you show you're receptive. His heated skin greets your forearm in a skimming touch that grows more consistent as his shirt rides up when he partially dips you with a calculated, deceptive strength, encouraging your arm to hook that much further around him for stability lest you feel unsteady. Only after you hold onto him, does Mal reward you by deepening the kiss, though you could feel his self-satisfied smile stretch against your lips for a fraction of a second. Does he want you to cling to him? A subtle, sugary sweet cinnamon flavor lingers on your tongue; he must have been chewing gum while enduring the late night shift. The flavor somehow suits his personality, though you doubt he would take kindly to the comparison.

He can be sweet when he wants to be, like ditching his job to get you a 'proper valentine.'

A bell's chiming toll propagates through the town causing you to flinch and break the kiss along with the moment, though you still remain holding onto Mal.

It's officially midnight.

The courthouse's bell tower is decreeing the day is done.

"It seems I was just in time, Heartbreaker."