Sarcasm Is the Lowest Form of Wit; Not.

The bang bang banging on the door woke him from his thirty seven minutes of sleep. His arched back on the couch clicked as he bent it back to its normal position, his fingers pressing in between the spaces of the different spine sections.
“Hello?” he called out. “Who goes there?”
From behind the dresser and door, a loud sniff followed by some whimpering was heard. He thought it was a male but he couldn’t quite decipher. “Do you love me?” came the response.
“I think you have the wrong shit hole.” he muttered, sinking back under the sheets and cursing under his breath as some mentally inaccurate man had woken him from the first trace of sleep he’d had in five, no, six, painfully long days. But it’d seemed like one ludicrously long one, refusing him entrance into the unconsciousness.
“No one loves me!” he shouted, over and over, drowning out as the man distanced himself away from his door.

Knowing that he would not sleep again, he got back out of his sofa bed and threw down the sheets. He placed his sore, blistering feet to the holey carpet and picked the sheets back up, holding the corners in his finger tips and folding them precisely into squares. Then, he slid them under the second-hand couch and fluffed the pillows so it looked as presentable as something this worn out possibly could.

His pajamas were crumpled and wrinkled against his skin, making him throw his shirt across the room as the itchiness couldn’t be tolerated anymore. Anything wrinkled or imperfect caused him to sink into agonizing pain and make him spiral into insanity. As long as it was perfect he could survive, no matter how much effort this takes or took.

He grunted as the door had force pressed against it again, by what sounded like a foot rather than a curt little knock from a hand. It happened again and someone whimpered, scratching their bitten nails down the wood. He shook out his limbs, rolled his shoulders back and then clutched the corners of the dresser, pushing it away from the collapsing door. His shaky hand slid its fingers around the fake brass door knob, then twisted it and pulled it open at great speed, squinting and backing away in case something threatening was on on the other side of the door.

Instead, there was a young man with a very battered bear suit on the floor, clutching at his furry knees. There was a drip machine attached to him, but no needles had penetrated his gray skin. Instead it was handcuffed to his wrist, the clear tubes wrapped around and intertwined between the metallic loops of the chain holding him to the medical device. On closer inspection, after looking past the abnormality of the bear suit and drip, you can see his face. His cheeks looked as if they should normally be rosy, but the color had completely diminished. They were also tear stained, coming from his watery blue eyes that must have bulged out of his head when he was an infant. On his forehead, there was a tiny scar, with a few stitches left in that probably should have been taken out several years ago.

And he was shaking; violently so. Through a mixture of rage, deep sorrow and from the cold atmospheric conditions he was in.

He bent down to the ‘bear man’ and furrowed his brow a little, staring at him intently. It was something so odd in front of him, something so fucking odd, but also so infinitely beautiful. It was inexplicable, but just spat gorgeousness.

“Are you… alright?” he asked.
The man sniffed and rubbed his eyes, tugging at his drip, the wheels creaking and moving towards him slowly. He looked at it and stroked his fore finger down the main pole, a layer of dust floating away like the falling snow prior to this moment. It made him cough and splutter but he quickly regained composure.

The bear man shook his head and raised it slightly from the ground, straining as he did so, the veins in his neck jutting out and his jaw clenching ever so tightly.

“Do you have any weaponry on your person?” he asked.
The bear man shook his head.
“Alright, you can come in to my shit hole temporarily. Make note, emphasize and underline ‘temporarily.’ Got it?”
“Yes.” he choked out and slid his hand forwards, like he was trying to crawl up. He sighed and helped the bear man up, picking him up into a tight embrace, steadying him into his two feet. The bear man lost his footing and his face slammed into the wall, making him swear and clutch at his unruly, sweaty hair. Rather than ask for help again, he clung to the wall, slowly limping into the apartment, the drip following his every step. Eventually he fell to the couch and he sighed, groaning in excruciating pain.

“What are you called?” he asked, making sure the bear man didn’t dirty things up too much. “Or rather, what would prefer to be called.”
“What’s the difference?” he scoffed.
“Well, I’m called Jake, but I’d rather be named something exotic, with a story behind it. Like… Rodriguez.”
“Rodriguez?”
He frowned. “I’ve let you in when you’re in a pretty damn shameful state, and you choose to mock me? Wise decision.”
“Okay, okay. As we’re sticking with a stereotypical Italian theme here, I’m going to go for Masimo.”
“Masimo.” he said, pronouncing every syllable carefully and concisely. “It suits you.”
Masimo let out a stifled chuckle. “And how an Earth could you tell it suits me? You do not know me, nor do you wish to know me, thus you could be very incorrect, Roddy.”
“One, do not shorten such a beautiful name as Rodriguez to ‘Roddy’ and two, you do not know that I do not wish to know you.”
“Do you wish to know me?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.At the very least I would like an explanation to as why you are wearing such intriguing garments.”

Masimo smirked. “If I could answer that question dear Roddy, believe you me, I would be more than happy to tell you.”