Chris Traeger is a perfect storm of emotions. (waytogo) wrote in the100, @ 2015-07-31 02:09:00 |
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Entry tags: | !log/thread, cecil palmer, chris traeger |
Who: Cecil Palmer and Chris Traeger.
When: Late Friday afternoon (so slightly forward-dated).
Where: Cecil’s apartment.
What: Two guys being weird at each other. Also, herbs!
Warnings: Mental illness, likely mentions of disturbing Night Vale stuff.
It had been almost two weeks — thirteen days, if you wanted to be specific, and he did — since Chris Traeger arrived in this world. Thirteen days since he’d seen his best friends, since he’d spoken to his therapist, since he’d had a decent glass of flax milk. Of course as far as food went, he was fortunate: he worked in the kitchen where he could prepare his own meals, fresh vegetables were abundant, and because they didn’t have enough livestock yet, there was no artery-clogging red meat anywhere to be seen.
So, no, he wasn’t spiraling quite as badly as he could have been. He’d kept himself busy, focused on his goal of meeting and befriending every resident of Mount Weather, and when that wasn’t possible, he ran laps or lifted weights or whatever other mindless exercise he could squeeze in. On a good day, he could go entire hours without thinking about how much he missed Pawnee.
But to say he was doing well — that would’ve been an overstatement. He was simply putting off the inevitable nosedive into despair. He could already feel the crushing loneliness pressing in on him, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t keep trying to outrun it. He'd made such good progress over the last few months back home; he didn't want to see all his hard work crumble away like ancient ruins. Or like a decaying body. Like his body would someday crumble away.
Slinging the strap of what he called his herb belt over his shoulder, Chris bypassed the elevator in favor of striding down the staircase connecting his floor, 505, to the one below it. The halls were unusually empty; most people were out voting, he suspected. He’d cast his own ballot the moment the polls had opened that morning (with a twang of disappointment that he couldn’t write in Leslie Knope’s name). It was too quiet. He didn’t like it.
He wasn’t here to chat with passersby, though. Of all the new friends he’d had the pleasure of making so far — and nobody could make friends more efficiently than Chris Traeger — only a few had the potential to be best friends. Cecil Palmer was one of them. And what better way to connect with someone than to visit them in their home? As an avid practitioner of feng shui, Chris knew just how much a person’s living quarters could say about them.
Not that he intended for this to be a one-sided visit: that was why he’d brought his herbs, after all. Who would turn down some green tea or chamomile or astragalus root?
With a sharp knock on the door of apartment 504Z, Chris squared his shoulders and assumed a confident but congenial stance. "Cecil Palmer!" he called to whomever might be inside. "Are you there? It's me, Chris Traeger!" Only then did it occur to him that he didn't even know what sort of hours Cecil worked. He just assumed they kept similar schedules. Should he have texted first? Well, it was too late now.