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Alan Wake stood in front of an apartment door, his fist poised to knock. For reasons he couldn’t quite place, he was... nervous. His heart twisted itself in knots behind his ribs. He didn’t even know if Barry was inside: he’d tried to message the man before coming all the way to California, but Barry had blocked him immediately, likely thinking it some kind of cruel joke. Alan couldn’t blame him–– what normal person would believe their long-dead friend had pulled a Lazarus on a random Tuesday? Alan had seen those emails in the dark place, he knew Barry had been convinced nothing from that god-awful week in 2010 was real. That Alan had just killed himself. That Alice had followed him seven years later.
He also knew Barry had never, in that entire time, forgotten Alan, or stopped trying to protect his legacy. He wasn’t afraid Barry would turn him away, he was just... afraid, in general. That he wouldn’t believe Alan when he explained where he’d been, perhaps? Or that he’d be uprooting his friend’s life, that after all this time it would be better to let sleeping dogs lie? He’d never brought Barry anything but grief, anyway; just messes to clean up.
It was bone-deep terror that forced Alan’s only slightly trembling hand to rap on his friend’s door. Without Barry, he was completely alone in the world. Alice was still in the Dark Place, out of his reach with the FBC monitoring him so closely, and before any of them had even heard the name Bright Falls Alan had done a pretty good job of pushing everyone else away. Saga and Casey surely wanted nothing to do with him; why would they? He’d almost gotten them killed. Had gotten so many others killed.
He swallowed harshly as he waited for Barry to answer, fighting an urge to bolt that only grew as the seconds passed.
When the door finally swung open, Alan was certain he must have looked like a deer in headlights.
Barry blinked at him. A range of emotions crossed the man’s face, five stages of grief and then some, before he settled on mimicking Alan’s wide eyes. He looked... well, a lot different. There were new lines sketched across his face, and he’d lost weight, along with a few inches from his hairline–– which was now peppered with grey. It took a moment to rectify the image Alan had had of his best friend. He hadn’t expected him to look the same, of course, but that didn’t help how jarring the evidence of just how much time had passed was.
One thing hadn’t changed: Barry’s fashion sense had not improved. His bright purple button-up decorated with Pina Coladas would’ve set him apart in Times Square.
The thought made a nervous smile creep across Alan’s face. He cleared his throat, making sure that if he tried to speak sound would actually come out.
“Hi.”
“Son of a bitch.”
The barrier broke with that, and Barry yanked him into a hug. The abruptness of it nearly knocked Alan off his feet. For a moment he was was stiff, struck by a spike of panic; he’d spent over a decade in a place where being grabbed meant danger, something pinning him down to tear at his throat, or clawing at his arms to drag him into its waiting blade, waiting teeth. That it was subjective, only half-real in a place already built from dreams, did nothing to lessen the agony of a knife separating the vertebrae of his spine.
The startle response faded when he smelled Barry’s cologne. It was the same shitty stuff he’d been wearing since high school, some cheap oriental scent that he’d always applied way too much of. Alan couldn’t remember the name, but the smell was as deeply ingrained in his brain as the english language.
The tension bled out of him with a shaky exhale, his head dropping bonelessly against his friend’s shoulder. He found himself lacking the energy to raise his arms. His eyes burned with the building pressure of tears, vision blurring.
It was Barry who eventually pulled away, though he kept a grip on Alan’s shoulders, looking him over until their eyes settled on one another again. Barry’s mouth opened and closed a few times, struggling to find the right words. Alan didn’t really have any either, so they just... stared for a while more.
“Where the hell have you been?” Barry settled on, his voice thick with emotion.
“You... know where I’ve been.”
“What?”
“The lake. Cauldron Lake, the dark place. You were there, you helped me get to Cynthia Weaver–– to the clicker.”
Barry retreated a step at that, shaking his head.
“That’s... no, that didn’t happen. I–– I just made it up so I could pretend you were... still...” He trailed off, looking at the very-much-still-alive Alan before him. The words seemed rehearsed, something that had been repeated to him multiple times, something he’d been brainwashed into believing.
Alan could pinpoint the exact moment the illusion shattered, because Barry paled three shades.
He brought his hand up to rest atop his head, huffing out a harsh breath. The whiplash of his mixed emotions was palpable; sure, he’d gotten his best friend back, but now he had to re-come to terms with the Lovecraftian horror he’d witnessed back in Bright Falls. Things did not often go well for characters who witnessed Lovecraftian horrors.
... maybe Alan should have left well enough alone.
As if sensing the thought, Barry shook his head, letting his hand run down to his neck before dropping it to his side.
“Just–– just come in, I don’t need my neighbors seeing my brain melt outta my ears.”
He took a step into his apartment, motioning for Alan to follow. Alan found himself hesitating at the threshold like a vampire without an invite, uncertain he should obey. He wanted to. Really, he did. But he knew a heavier conversation was coming, and he didn’t know if he could stomach it right now.
That didn’t matter, though, did it? He’d made his decision, there was no backing out. The least he owed Barry was an explanation.
With a taut jaw, he followed his friend inside, shutting the door behind them.