Tensor by Adoraincerta

Ikea is an ideal place to hide after working hours. If you exclude shelters whose bathrooms are full of needles, it becomes the only place.

Maglor detours to a door painted “Staff Only” and fishes out the paper ruler from his pocket, inserts into the keyhole and tweaks for no more than 3 seconds and sidesteps into the dim warehouse. Through the only road designed for trolleys, he can find a way directly out. With no light upon the assembled furniture, they seem stiffer and less attractive than usual.

After pretending to be the first batch of tourists arriving at the exact time Ikea opens on weekdays or a husband suddenly discovered his stock of bulbs had run out last night and he had to fulfill it immediately, Maglor notices on the elevator that a familiar staff is putting a new decoration - a mother-of-pearl vase whose color shines differently from various angles - in the first bedroom suite. It is always her throughout his time here that is responsible for tidying up and changing layouts in this 150 sqft bedroom, and she always keeps the room impressive enough for visitors. Today, she kindly tosses a glance at him, as if he were someone living nearby and couldn’t resist touring Ikea every day.

The glance sweats him, however, a hint, Maglor thinks, to leave here and head for his next niche.

His first destination is downtown, as always. It’s a resourceful place, though those who don’t get to know it thoroughly say there is too much danger. You won’t be attacked even on the so-called most dangerous street under daylight, but Maglor knows it only takes a small turn into a thinner lane to get you killed.

Food banks will be his last resort, and as he passes by one, a dialogue drifts away toward his direction.

“…please let us know if you need anything else. Hope these are enough but you’re welcome anytime.”

He turned into a filthy lane where drug deals happen a lot and feels his panic washing over his mind like waves, until the familiar voice is buried by shoutings and screaming nearby.

Only if he didn’t recognize him.

When Maglor’s heartbeat goes into peace again, his preparation for the next meal has long gone. During dizziness it is expectable, only that he needs to cope with it before tomorrow morning or he’ll have a needle in his elbow soon or later, which isn’t what he hopes to end up like.

It’s a compact studio, located in the heart of the city. Bright, well-furnished, but still need to replace the table with a Morphy bed during the nighttime. Too familiar with such space (the compact part, not the newly decorated part), he always assumes no one can break into it without him sensing, as there are no other rooms besides the equally tiny bathroom, all furniture laying just in front of him, thus no safety issues at all, except the annoying smoke detector.

Elrond just quits an animal shelter where he’d worked as a volunteer and joins another NGO. Indeed the shelter had been giving him a continuous sense of achievement for over a year, but with fewer gaps to breathe between endless theories and lab work, his empathy ebbed with a speed he never expected even before the semester ends and the residency starts. A month ago, he gave his two-week notice out of consideration to do something more human-related.

After assuring he has abundant experiences with people, his new leader at the food bank allows him to get in touch with their main targeted group. Elrond’s responsibility, namely, is handing the packed food to whoever needs a food bank package and explaining to them what it contains, which of them should be consumed as soon as possible, and what could be preserved longer.

They are running short of staff recently; NGOs always are. So not having time to get a break actually helps him temporarily distract from schoolwork. After finishing the day's work, there's only 5 minute's walk to his condo.

Lately, a few of his plates have been carefully misplaced. Just an inch from its original position. Slightly skewed. All the same but in the opposite direction. No fingerprints on the door of the microwave or oven, but several pieces of cereal are scattered on the tabletop.

It’s easy to rise suspicion, living near the most dangerous block in the district, having heard drug dealers whispering around the corner every night. Elrond goes to the seldomly-working concierge, praying that at least one surveillance camera survives from constant attacks by beer bottles.

“3 working days later, please.”

It’s unfair to say such a reply is entirely unexpected. He returns to his unit, lowers to the height of the keyhole, opens the flashlight on his phone, and finds not a trace but familiar scratches from the last tenant.

Meanwhile, he comes up with a quiz.

Elrond hesitates for a few seconds, pausing in front of the cabinet, then takes the plate moved most frequently by his mysterious intruder on the counter. He hasn’t seen any food crusts, so diversity may be a good choice: a bar of black chocolate, a piece of Baguette and a pack of dried fruit, placed from left to right on the plate. Does they need some drinks too? Having done all these, he has the best sleep in a while.

He’s almost delighted the second morning, to discover the chocolate disappeared but the other two remained. Undried sink reveals his suspicion about the drink is reasonable, which only causes him to further wonder how can he be not woken with the tap open 2 meters away.

The first time he stands before the shelf storing fast food, considering perhaps the committer of the break & entering needs a wider spectrum of nutrition and diversity than he needs. For health’s sake, he hasn’t been there for years, until picking up some classic items this time.

Something rather valuable but not useful can be of help too. Elrond digs out a watch from the deep box heaping each other in the corner, and lay out the combination of food, water and the watch on the counter.

Between lectures and a part-time job, he comes back sharply at 8 pm, relieved no one has entered yet. Some takeaways from dinner remained, so he can finish tonight’s menu, replacing the chocolate with a piece of pizza. Plus a glass of water.

The next day, with an email saying he’s been permitted to choose a time slot to watch the surveillance footage, the last pack of his dried fruit- a small luxury for him, actually- left, not bothering to say goodbye, together with half of the water. The watch was moved, leaving no fingerprints. He imagines the lens once projecting whoever broke in again.

After checking the calendar, it’s both disappointing and reassuring, weirdly, to know there are another 3 days ahead of him before he can technically have the time for the footage, though he ceases to hold any hope. He leans back on the counter, contemplating, is sure a clue lying in the corner has been omitted. From ceiling to floor, from the uppermost point on the wall to the door nob, his gaze finally stops at the patio. He never pays attention to it, a bare patio just big enough to stand without furniture. Also, his tight schedule limits his moves indoor. Alongside, a theory buried before untimely breaks his sense of security, that a meticulously pretended recklessness is what the intruder intends to look like. From the beginning, he knew staying up late would be the best and fastest way to confront them, but between crazy finals, he’s simply not allowed sacrificing sleep time for a seemingly harmless stranger.

Therefore he acquiesces to similar interactions, which means he begins to spend even less time indoors, to fill what the intruder eats. Occasionally, on a day or two, he senses the intruder escaping before dawn, but as quick as he wakes, not a wind blows. Footage shows no suspicious figure or even a silhouette has tried to break into this property, and he gradually gains the habit of dividing the dinner in two, leaving the smaller part intact, like keeping an invisible pet. Most of the time, the intruder saves his time of doing the dishes.

He puts the calendar on an obvious spot, draws a circle around each day as the end of the semester is around the corner. After the last exam, Elrond spares himself a deep sleep, delighted discovering a full plate turned into an empty one. If the intruder ever wants to surface themself, tonight is the time.

He hurriedly goes to the library, picks 3 books without a thorough inspection, fills the refrigerator with fresh vegetables instead of fast food, cozily lies on the sofa, waiting for the mysterious guest.

Dusk covers the skyline with orange, then with crimson. Rarely he has the opportunity to observe the full process of sky blackening then embellished by stars, nor does he sleeps with them for a long time. It’s the most comfortable season in this city, breeze blowing through the gaps of windows, until seeing an all-black silhouette outside them. Elrond’s almost asleep, view blurred with entangled words, fingertip clamped between pages. He bites his lips to obtain temporary sober, gets out of the warm quilt, approaching the patio with bare feet.

As the sliding door opens, the breeze becomes stronger winds, blowing to erase all other sounds. Only one step left, but there’s no need, for he already senses it, the familiar stance, dark hair and the contour in profile.

Maglor now appears randomly during the daytime. They have minimal overlap, but his trace can be sensed in the air. Vacation ends abruptly, and Elrond now has a full-time co-op job and three courses to attend. The busiest semester of all, he sighs, quits his part-time job, returns only at midnight nearly every workday. Hallucinations can easily invade in such time, just as he once hoped a surveillance camera could detect Maglor’s move. New food he never bought fills the drawers in the refrigerator. The first night he comes back before nine, Maglor waits until he arrives, already expecting a conversation.

Elrond feels embarrassment before speaking.

“Did you get that food from the food bank?”

Maglor shakes his head.

“Or something like Too Good To Ho?”

“I bought them. Is it unexpected?”

He flushes, rushes his words before framing them.

“You know I can afford it. There’s no need… I mean, even if Elros moves in now, I can still afford it.”

Wow. Maglor doesn’t say it, or think of it, but Elrond turns around the moment he realizes what he said, dashing into the bathroom. When he comes out, no one’s on the sofa.

It’s their last conversation in a month. The following day, with lack of sleep, or due to the schedule - the one before is tiring, but not exhausting as today - when he wakes up on the way home, he’s already one stop away from the supermarket. There’s nothing he bought left, only those belonging to Maglor, temporarily stashed in his room.

I’ll return it tomorrow, the exact same things, once I’m available. Elrond bites his lips, staggers into the room, and grabs the nearest food he can see. Obviously Maglor’s taste, the one he’d constantly wanted to try again but had always procastinated and hesitated in the first three to four years. Its taste hasn’t changed a bit.

At the time he’s already too hungry to enjoy the food on his plate, only swallowing it. Yet memory is harder to mess up even after a lot of weird years. Elrond returns to his consciousness entirely, carries the plate back to the bedside. After the first and ferocious wave of hunger fades, it’s terrifying to continue to eating anymore, as buried memory better remains buried. A voice deep inside tells him his stomach will protest and it's only a matter of time, but to not waste any of it, Elrond still gulps all crust down the esophagus, then drains a glass of tap water, twice.

Spare time, though lasting no more than half a day, comes with feelings of emptiness. Only then he notice something, though unutterable, changes over months. He pictures how his room used to be, with every piece of furniture still in its place but much emptier then. Life trace invades subtly into the atmosphere, and he’s suddenly in the mood of purchasing decorations. With less space, the room he deliberately kept minimal already distorts his prospect and leads itself to a cozier place.

Of course it is not himself but another person that creates trails to be attached to. 

Another day, when a time slot enough for him to squander appears, Elrond sorts through to a heap of cardboard boxes in the corner. They’ve been standing there silently and invisibly as a pillar, both in real space and in his mind. It requires great courage to move one of them from the top, cut the tape he glued years ago, and accept whatever is in it. A precious reminder of past time, maybe; but nightmares’ in it, preparing to pop up too.

Fortunately Elrond finds what he needs before digging deeper. On the top layer, a music box, whose songs were recorded by Maglor, still works perfectly. No battery needed, once the clockwork is wound, the mechanism still has its power.

He puts it on the nightstand.

It’s been half a month since a trail left by Maglor sensed by him. There isn’t any physical evidence, messed-up cabinets, toppled bottles, crumpled sheet or anything like that. There isn’t any scent either. Like he was once told, all such imprudence can be easily erased by a simple checklist. What’s behind these, is the thing finally manipulates his instinct, and thus his move.

Instead of podcasts or an audiobook, he opens the music box again, expecting reassuring yet intensive background (it’s become less frightening now) while he’s finishing the prep for dinner. At first, he found noise outside enough to focus; at a point three months before, his mind was full of askew thoughts need to be compressed and thrown aside, so a relaxing podcast stepped in. Now is the time to face the past, but that's not to say he’s fully equipped to hear a new soundtrack recorded by Maglor 3 days ago.

After the initial panic, inconsistency of voice and pace emerged from the new one, which only then he has the capacity to pay attention to. Elrond’s mind is still printed with the prospectus arrived at the same time as the music box: capable of containing 64 songs. He could use this as a private voicemail.

Another 20 days passed before the message he recorded was marked as read - that is to say, deleted from the music box, but Elrond’s focus has turned around to deeper concern. He is still able to recall the last time he saw the only adult, who appeared fatigued, his lips pressed into a straight line. For the first time, regret arises for not further asking where or how Maglor spends his nights now. Not in any shelter for sure, as they are all too crowded and equipped with volunteers ( him once included) to distinguish aliens. Maglor prefers wandering with no specific destination much more, especially sea shores, which is so sufficient in number in this city and a total perimeter is too long to locate a single figure.

He never thought of another missing before, that at least Maglor should have something to say or request, that he should realize Elrond never blamed him for never coming back. Now he doesn’t have the slightest clue where Maglor will end up. Maybe the past months are just an ethereal reminder of the comfort he could have had.

Deep breath. A panic attack won’t help, he tells himself, but a different mindset may. In retrospect, he spots a solid feature of places he’s sure Maglor once has been. Beaches and forests rare people visited, this he’s learned for long; but another characteristic in common yet to be extracted, that is where music won’t be blocked or disturbed or attract any attention. The patio is a good choice when passers-by are scarce, but playing a violin from 300 feet high almost always draws more staring Maglor intends to need; same as the prior, he’ll never reside in the underground, where sound can be amplified by tunnel infinitely. A deep forest near the brim of the city is ok, and an unattractive lake is better.

After those filters, he’ll have a shortlist. Elrond grabs a map to the corners of the table and circles the locations with a black pen. It's not possible to calculate the possibility of where Maglor would be in each place, but weather and population help to exclude some options. As temperatures go down after dusk, lakes and the areas around could be full of danger, whose risk he doesn't think Maglor will take; speaking of beaches, tourists and residents so desperately desire sunlight are rushing there and devouring the last month they can receive Vitamin D from nature but not pills. Forests can be dangerous from brown bears too, while city parks and botanical gardens can't. There are many destinations, which he then draws with a brighter blue marker, and the one he's most impressive is where he had his liberal arts courses during the freshman year.

He also has to determine the time slots, or it's probably that he and Maglor miss each other again and again. They usually return to camps before sunset and set everything they need by the last shine to avoid raising campfires, and it's an unobtrusive choice to distract attention, though he expects well-intentioned tips from staff like 'Oh we're going to close so hurry or you'll be stuck for a whole night'.

So Elrond empties the backpack and fills it again with a blanket, some chocolate bars and a bottle of water. Hasn't assumed it will cost more than a night, only the absolute necessaries should be brought or there's a higher risk of letting Maglor disappear for good again. The weather's fine now, and there is no one else on the light rail he takes but himself.

He practices what he'd say.

“Would you come back to my apartment?”

His arms beginning to quiver, his heartbeat louder than ever, physical exhaustion engulfs and covers mental resistance. He cannot sleep right now, right here, for it’s not yet a safe zone, though safer than anywhere else in a long time.

A mug in his hand is taken by someone, who supports his forearms through soft warm wool, and lowers his back, letting his head fall on a throw pillow. He becomes disoriented and tries to reach out before yielding to unconsciousness.

“You really should treat your heart better and sleep more.”

When Maglor wakes, the first thing he checks is the striped blanket still on his legs. He turns to see Elrond put down the same mug, the sky outside already darkening.

His throat tightens, the lingering soreness constricting his reply.

“That doesn’t make a difference.”

Elrond sighs deeply, with an expression half stern and half knowing.

“Even you cannot endure staying awake more than 72 hours. So please… just stay there whenever you want.”

He points to the space in front of the couch, and not until then does Maglor notice the coffee table with four legs has vanished, replaced by a higher but smaller 3-story cart. Elrond pushes the cart aside and pulls another half of the couch from below to form a bigger plane.

“You see, it’s a sofa bed now, and don’t worry about the space. I still have my single bed.”

Maglor sips some hot chocolate from the mug. The friction in his throat goes instantly, but the giddiness before sleep comes back and blurs his brain.

“Sorry for missing your graduation.”

He pauses for a moment, though the words still come out before elaborately designed. “And I’m sorry for a lot of other things.”

Elrond freezes and almost blushes. The city is now in its best seasons of the year and the indoor heat was turned down a month ago, so he cannot claim the rising temperature of his cheek is because of that. It would be lying to say he never expects Maglor’s attendance, but it’s a long shot after all. He’s not sure what Maglor is referring to either, leaving him and Elros behind after settling everything down and never sending a message again, or the blood and massacre of a previous generation.

“You don’t have to apologize.”

At that moment, an imperative need to divert topics surges, to avoid discussing the past he can’t face either, or stop Maglor from blaming him and Maedhros for disappearing. But in such circumstances, Elrond’s mind sets up a barrier between petty things to chat about and his throat. Silence for a minute, the only words he comes to say is, “I should pour more water for you.”

When Maglor falls into sleep, as he originally wished, the effect of aghast and excitement has also overwhelmed him. Elrond tries to gulp icy water to keep awake, but both his mind and body tell him otherwise.

The second morning, along with his set up, Maglor again restores all furniture to their original positions and leaves not a note. Anxiety wells up inside him. He sits all morning waiting for Maglor to return, hoping that Maglor meant his apology, unless he didn't actually intend to come back at all. The only thing he can do to relieve his anxiety is mechanically making prefabricated meals enough to fill the fridge and provide for the following week. So it is also during his wandering in mind that Maglor catches a gap to sneak in from the patio soundlessly.

Before he can react, Maglor's already fallen asleep.

Elrond changes the habit of napping long ago, so he just watches the wax and wane of Maglor’s chest, his nape between the pillow and the sofa cushion, where he knows is full of past scars, indented and embossed. Elrond imagines the touch of kissing it, holding them so smoothly that Maglor won’t be squeamish, ends with pulling the blanket upper to cover both  Maglor’s shoulders.

Never does he anticipate the second temptation comes more fiercely.

In the first month after his graduation, Maglor barely follows his fixed schedule. It’s a new thing to come back to the condo during daylight, though most of the days he spends it in the public library. One day he recalls his file still at home, there is no other choice but to return during lunch break: he doesn’t mean to disturb Maglor, admitting only a small chance of him being there.

Maglor’s on his bed, covered with his quilt, head on his pillow and facing the side wall. He gets it by the shape of the quilt-Maglor buried his head, and only the forehead can be seen.

It feels like his heart is gripped and tossed on the ground, knowing Maglor, willingly or unconsciously, repeats what they’d done so many times in his childhood: sharing a bed. They built a tent under the quilt, told a fairy tale (that is, an adapted version of how Maglor survived) under dim light, and messed up the sheet until Maglor cleaned it the next day.

He forgets his file and runs away. The door doesn’t make any noise, which takes him 30 seconds to close.

His mind is as disordered as the boxes he has never dared to open and organize, caught between wakefulness and sleep in a way he hasn't experienced for a long time. He’s walking, to where he doesn’t know, though certainly as far from his condo as possible.

That night, when he comes back and realizes Maglor has just gotten up and is ready to leave, he blurts. “Should we buy another bed?”