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phoenixmakeswords · 5 years

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Dented Ch. 3--AU

Finally thought of a name for the AU.

“Why haven’t you answered my texts? Do you not want me anymore?” I ask carefully. Just asking hurts. I forgot this much pain was possible.

“What? Kristoff, of course I want you. You’re my son. I just got your texts five seconds ago. Remember I was going on that camping trip? I told you about it at the restaurant. And that I wouldn’t have cell service.”

“I feel like a dumbass.”

“I still love you. Come in. You’re not okay. What’s going on?” She leads me from the entry hall to the spacious pale blue living room.

“Besides Regan being horrible? I went to a party on Friday. Clare’s girlfriend was having at her lake house. Anyway, it happened again.” My face twists into a grimace as I sink onto the matching blue sectional. It’s much softer and more plush than mine.

“What’d Regan do? Who was it?”

I show her the text reluctantly. It gives me a little time to dredge up the courage to tell her about the party.

“I was really drunk. Blackout drunk. Clare told me today he was blond and she thought his name might be James. I remember doing shots with Clare and then I woke up in a bed.”

“Did Clare know? Did anyone try to help you?”

“Yeah, she knew. Apparently, I could be heard over the music. Nobody did anything that I know of.”

“How’re you doing with this?”

“Oh, I'm peachy. I lashed out at the one guy I actually trust. I'm cutting class because I don’t want to look at Clare right now. Things are just fabulous. Oh, and I'm not sleeping and I'm really depressed. Can’t get better.”

“Have you thought about getting help? I believe you, Kristoff. I hope you know that. I'm sorry you’re suffering.”

“Yeah, telling a stranger about this sounds great.”

“Kristoff.”

“I might be leaving the bakery.”

“I thought you loved it.”

“I sorta slept with a guy’s brother and he’s being a jerk to me about it.”

“Were you a couple?” She sounds more excited than I expected by the possibility of me having a boyfriend.

“No. Just a hookup.”

“You know that’s not safe. Are you using protection at least?”

“If they don’t wanna use a condom, I don’t sleep with them. That’s like the only rule I have.”

“At least you’re being smart.”

“How was the camping trip?” I don’t want to discuss my sex life.

“It was good. There’s something really important I need to talk to you about.”

“You found a fae village in the woods.” I smirk teasingly at her. She’s my best friend. That might make me a mama’s boy. I don’t care.

“No. I met a guy. He’s really sweet. He asked me to dinner for this Friday.”

“What’s he like?”

“He’s sweet. He’s genuine. He has kids of his own. He’s very respectful.”

“Does he work?”

“He’s a video game designer.”

“How’d you meet him? Was he a client?”

“His sister is my best friend. He came on the trip with us. The poor thing, he was the only man there. We started talking and we just…clicked.”

“You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” The idea fills me with horror.

“Kristoff!”

“Now you know how I felt.”

“You’re a brat. If you need to not be alone, you know you can stay here.”

“I know. Ransom’s been staying since it happened. He sleeps in the guest room. And he keeps making me breakfast.”

“Do you like him?”

“Does it matter? I'm so fu—screwed-up. I mean, yeah, we slept together before it happened.”

“You deserve to be happy, sweetie. I know that’s hard for you to believe. But you do.”

“If it hadn’t happened, he was gonna ask me out.” I sigh softly.

“And? How do you feel about that?”

“You sound like a therapist. It would’ve been nice. I mean, he’s a great person. He’s hot. He’s smart.”

“Is he still interested?”

“I think so.”

“Are you interested?”

I nod slowly. He’s someone I would like to date. Someone I could maybe be with.

“He sounds like a good guy. He might be good for you,” she tells me gently.

“He is a good guy. He deserves better than a mess like me.”

The depression has become a physical weight in my chest. What happened and the fact I don’t deserve to be happy or in a stable, healthy relationship don’t help any. I am worthless.

“Alright, you have me really worried. Kristoff, are you thinking about killing yourself?”

“I'm not quite there yet.”

“Bu you’re still really bad?”

“Yeah. I don’t get like this.”

“I know. If you need to check in somewhere, I’ll take you. You have my support.”

“I don’t want to. I don’t wanna be hospitalized. I don’t wanna start therapy. I just wanna get through this crap on my own and go on with my life.” I rub my fingers absently over my phoenix tattoo. It was the first piece of ink I got. And it’s the most meaningful. Because phoenixes rise from the ashes. No matter what I face, I'm able to bounce back eventually. Right now, I need that reminder.

“I hate to tell you this, but you’re not Superman. There’s no shame in getting help.”

“I know that.”

I don’t want to need help. I know how society sees people who have mental health issues. And I don’t want them to see me that way. Ransom comes over after his shift tonight. He has a black duffel bag with him this time. Anger flickers in his jade eyes, despite his friendly smile.

“If you don’t wanna babysit me, it’s fine,” I assure him quickly.

“You’re not the problem. I like you. I met your sister.”

“How’d that go? Regan’s a nightmare, isn’t she?”

“You’re nothing alike. We’ve already butted heads.”

“So, they hired her?”

“Don’t threaten me like that. Did you know your sister doesn’t like Jews?” An edge slips into his low voice. I don’t like the distrust in his green eyes.

“No. Ransom, if I had, I would’ve told you.”

“Riley told her off. I know she’s your family and everything, but she was an utter bitch to me.”

“That would be Regan. Are you okay?” I touch his forearm gently. The sleeve of his black hoodie is soft.

“I'm irritated with her. I'm more worried about you.” He smiles gently.

“You still like me? I'm sorry she was nasty.”

“You’re not racist. You okay? I’ve dealt with it a lot.”

I shake my head quietly. I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve talked about it enough today.

“What do you need? We can go do something. Or watch movies or whatever will help,” he murmurs gently.

“I'm sorry. You don’t have to stay.”

“You’re my friend. You’re in crisis. I'm not abandoning you.”

I didn’t think he’d want to stay. I know it’s inconvenient. A hassle. Which means I am. But here he is.

“Thanks.”

“How was class? Did anything interesting happen?” He sounds so genuinely interested it surprises me. Guys don’t do that.

“I walked out. Clare and I got into it and I didn’t want to look at her.” I sigh shakily. I feel like all I do anymore is break down. So much for ‘masculinity.’

“You cut class? You never do that. What happened?”

“She knew what happened. Everyone knew. And nobody tried to help me. She blamed me. I didn’t hear from her all weekend either.”

“I thought she was your friend.”

“Yeah, so did I.”

“For what it’s worth, I believe you. And it’s really crappy that they did nothing.”

“Thanks. How’d you meet my sister?”

“I did a tattoo for her. A simple rose she picked out of the book. Took twenty minutes. She argued with me about the aftercare. Called me a stupid kike. That was when Riley stepped in.” He rakes a hand through his hair.

“She should’ve never done that. You’re not stupid. And she should’ve never called you a slur. I'm sorry.”

“I didn’t get a tip. Because my people are ‘money hungry penny-pinching misers.’” He toys with his blue Star of David necklace. I’ve noticed he does this when he’s upset.

“How much was the tattoo?”

“Forty. It’s not a money thing, Kris. It’s the fact she played the anti-Semitic card. The fact she used my race as the reason to not give me a tip, not my work.”

“I knew you were tryin’ to get a new car. That’s why I asked. I'm sorry.”

“You’re not giving me the tip your sister should’ve. I don’t take handouts or pity.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to piss you off. I'm sorry, Ransom. I was tryin’ to be nice.”

“Were you? Or were you trying to be my ‘rescuer’?”

“Yeah, I was! I thought you’d be happy that I was tryin’ to make up for her.” I flinch at the sound of my own raised voice.

“I stand on my own feet. By my own merit.” He sounds just as angry as I am.

“I don’t wanna fight with you.” I don’t have the energy. I’ve spent it on fighting the battle raging inside my head.

“Me either. And you didn’t need me arguing while you’re already feeling bad. Which makes me an ass. I owe you an apology for that. I'm sorry.”

“Forgiven. Thank you for staying.”

“You’re welcome. And I'm not being nice to you just so we can hook up again when you’re okay.”

“I wouldn’t hate you if you were.”

I wish that wasn’t true. I wish I would be angry with him if he was using me. But I can’t do that. Ransom’s sleeping soundly on the couch when I get up. He’s even more adorable asleep. I envy his easy sleep.

I start breakfast, even though I don’t feel much like eating. I don’t feel like going to work or class either, but I have to.

“Good morning. Did you get any sleep?” Ransom says, startling me.

“A couple hours.”

“You look exhausted.”

“I am. I'm gonna send my teachers a text and explain what’s going on.”

I know I can’t avoid Clare forever. I shouldn’t have to. She should’ve believed me and been on my side. But she wasn’t. We’ve known each other since we were fourteen. I mean, I used to go to her family’s holidays because Regan and I fought so much. Clare’s pretty much family to me.

“Good idea. Any way you can take your classes online?” He looks perfectly at home in my kitchen with one of my mugs clutched in his slender hands. I wish the thought didn’t make my stomach twinge. I’ve never had hope for a picket fence of my own.

“I’ll ask.”

I dread going to work almost as much as dealing with Clare. Maybe more.

“Text me on break?” he asks hopefully.

I agree easily. By the end of my shift, I'm ready to quit. Eight hours of being sexually harassed does my fragile mental health zero favors. My boss knows. She doesn’t care.

I don’t tell Ransom over text. I don’t want to upset him. If I tell him at all, it’ll be face-to-face.

I have a text from him, inviting me to dinner. He’s clarified that it’s not a date, which I appreciate. I agree easily.

Maybe if I wasn’t such a broken mess, I’d ask him out. Maybe if I thought he could like me more than for just sex. Maybe if I wasn’t so scared. But I am.

#my writing #lgbt fiction #kris pov #phoenix writes #writing excerpt #original fiction #original fanfiction #writers on tumblr #writeblr

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letsprayitwritesitself · 7 years

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groundhog dave part 4 - day three

At 6am sharp Davey was jolted from his suspiciously pleasant sleep. He remembered the night before, getting drunk in the bar with Jack. He remembered the night before that, getting drunk in the bar with Jack. He remembered them both, distinctly and separately, as two completely different nights.

And he knew that something was really, really fucked up.

He muttered along with the radio as he sat, unbelieving, on the side of the bed, staring glassy-eyed at the intricate vomit green and sludge brown patterns of the carpet. This was happening - he knew, he knew that February 2nd had already happened twice, but how could he prove it? He had only his memories to go off.

It was like a long, overly drawn out practical joke that the people of Punx plus Jack and Crutchie had decided to play on him - all re-enacting the same day, wearing the same clothes, walking to the square at the same time and in the same order while insisting that it was Groundhog Day. If his iPhone didn’t confirm the date for him he would half expect Ashton Kutcher or someone to jump out at him during the broadcast and half a dozen hidden cameras to reveal themselves.

As such he couldn’t reconcile himself with the reality of the day. It was like he was watching his own memories through a VR headset, like if he reached out to touch a lamppost or a pedestrian his hand would pass right through them.

The night before with Jack had been frustratingly similar to the one before. He hadn’t been able to hold back on the drinking, in fact, his anxiety at trying to improve the first night had translated into treating his pint glass like a crutch, sipping whenever a beat of silence dared appear. He managed to not call Jack pretty, instead settling for a ‘Hmm, wow’ when he said the thing about making sense of the universe. This did not stop him focusing for another moment on how pretty Jack actually was (it may have actually forced him to think of it, that attempted avoidance of acknowledging it) but he figured that he was only human, and it wasn’t exactly a full-blown infatuation or anything, more just... aesthetic appreciation. So he still blushed as he headed back up to the bar for his round, prompting the same remarks from the sexy bartender, the same free drinks.

It was at this point he decided to let the night roll over him, reliving it all - the conversations, the ramble home, the vomiting, If he tried this again, he would plan ahead better. Spreadsheets, maybe a powerpoint. Definitely at least one flowchart.

So, the absence of a hangover was his first clue that today was his third February 2nd. The next was the radio broadcast. And now, the walk into town.

‘Morning sunshine!’

He stared at Jack. ‘Everything good to go?’ he asked weakly. The band onstage struck up and nausea overwhelmed him as the chirpy music assaulted his ears. Crutchie was saying something about the video link and the studio in Philly but Davey couldn’t comprehend it. He had done this twice already, had hated it both times - ‘I can’t fucking do this.’

He forced his way out through the crowds, the world spinning around him. As soon as he was out of the square he sank into a crouch, sucking in mouthfuls of air. He needed help.

‘Say “aah.”‘

‘Aah.’

The doctor peered down his throat and he stared up at the ceiling, disillusioned. The difference between knowing that something was wrong, and knowing what that something was, was huge. The urge to have it looked at, to be assessed by a professional, had taken him to a doctor’s office, and he didn’t know exactly what he expected them to say, he just needed some kind of insight.

‘Well, your tonsils look fine! No headaches, pains, anything like that?’

‘Nausea. Deja vu. Just... disorientation.’

‘Mmhmm, mmhmm. Had a knock to the head recently?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’

‘Eaten anything bad?’

‘No.’ The doctor stared at him, tapping his pen about the metal desk. ‘Have you recently come off any medication?’

‘I have literally done nothing. This is happening to me and I don’t know why.’

The doctor took a few more seconds to think, then leaned forward, narrowing his eyes and glaring at Davey. He took a deep breath in, paused - and then let out a huge sigh, and shrugged his shoulders.

‘So you’re depressed?’

‘No. I’m literally reliving the same day. February 2nd has happened to me... three times now.’

He sat opposite Punx’s premiere psychiatrist, who eyed him anxiously, pen poised over her clipboard, though she hadn’t yet taken any notes.

‘So you’re... delusional?’

‘No - I’m.’ He hadn’t said it out loud before so he could totally understand her response. ‘I’m being very serious.’

‘My initial thought is to prescribe you this very mild anti-depressant. Sometimes days can feel like they’re bleeding into each other and really you just need a little pep!’

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and stared at her. ‘I don’t know why I thought this would help. Give me the pills.’

‘I feel like I’m trapped in a loop - like I’m unstuck in time.’

‘I sense a lot of anger in your aura,’ the guru nodded sagely. ‘And I think that’s why you’ve come apart from reality.’

‘I haven’t come apart from reality? I’m here - reality has... has come apart from me.’

‘I’m just going to see where your moon is, and then I’ll be able to get a better idea, alright? Now, what time were you born?’

‘I know exactly what you mean.’ The sexy bartender leaned over the bar and fixed him with a glare. ‘Like every day is exactly the same, right?’

‘Right! Like literally the same. Like I can’t even butterfly-effect it, I’m just floating through like an unwilling witness.’

‘Like nothing you do matters?’

‘Kind of!’

‘Oh yeah, I’ve been there.’ He pushed over a freshly poured pint. Davey traced his fingertips through the condensation on the glass. ‘I’m Spot.’

Davey had given up trying to explain his predicament to medical or spiritual professionals and had opted instead to indulge in the fact that in a metaphorical sense the entire town probably felt like him. He had peeped through the door of the bar to check that Jack and Crutchie weren’t there, because he didn’t at all feel like explaining himself to them, before taking a seat at the bar and treating the bartender like a therapist.

‘I’m used to it,’ he’d said, when Davey had apologised, sheepish at having rambled about his problems. But Spot had kind eyes (when he wasn’t glaring at rowdy customers) and a warm smile (when it eventually surfaced), and it made him feel like he could share without being judged. ‘In fact, what you’re saying sounds a whole lot like my day-to-day.’ And he had told Davey in turn, how tending bar in a place like Punx, was a steady paycheck thanks to the town’s band of alcoholics (”drunxsutawney”) but it wasn’t the most fulfilling, or exciting, or the best way to meet people. This was why, he explained, he couldn’t not introduce himself when a news crew of three cute guys passed through. Davey raised his eyebrows and accepted the drink.

‘David.’

‘David.’ The repetition with a smile sounded like validation. And Davey liked it. ‘How long you in town for?’

‘I’m... not sure. I don’t know.’

‘One night? More?’

‘Hopefully not more.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Me and Punx don’t get on. We’re not friends.’

‘Go on?’

‘I miss Philly. I miss my apartment on top of a 7-11, and I miss the constant buzz of noise and activity. When a town is too quiet, it’s... unnerving. I don’t like it.’ This was a new realisation. But there it was. Punx was so quiet that it forced all his problems to the forefront of his mind - how lonely nights in his one-bed got, or how stilted his career already felt despite being solidly okay for his age. How he had all these ideas exploding around in his head but what felt like no power to make them heard. ‘How about you? What makes you say that you’re stuck? Apart from, I guess, Punx just making everyone feel like that?’

‘I just - this is my pop’s bar, right? He passed eight years ago, just in time for me to graduate high school and take over - like he timed it. But the thing about my pop is, he saw beauty in the small things. Glass coke bottles, beer mats, musty pool tables. He loved this place. But I just - can’t. Can’t romanticise it like he could. But I love him, so. It’s what he would have wanted.’

‘You to be bound here? Sorry - I know it’s really none of my business.’

‘No, no. I don’t know. What if I get rid of this place and don’t find something better? He set me up here, y’know. Can’t sniff at it. But will anyway, right?’

‘Right.’ At the same time that Davey wanted to shake Spot and tell him to chase his dreams or whatever, he knew where he was coming from, and saw a good deal of his own issues in him.

‘I mean. One day something else will appear. Something so good that it’ll propel me away from here and I won’t feel bad. Just... not tonight.’

‘Something like what?’

‘I’ll know when I see it.’ He smirked, holding Davey’s gaze for a few seconds before stepping back and nodding towards the rest of the bar. ‘You’re the last man standing. Mind if I join you for one before last call?’

‘Be my guest. Or your own guest. Or whatever.’ Davey watched him pour a beer before venturing round to the other side of the bar. A glance over his shoulder confirmed that the place had emptied around them. Spot sat on the bar stool next to him, swivelling to face him, their knees just touching.

‘And what about you, huh? What do you want?’

The apartment was dimly lit in orange by a solitary lamp on an end table. Lived in but not messy. Clearly one person’s abode.

Davey followed Spot in, and paused in the living room as his host wandered into the kitchen. As Davey replied to the drink offer thrown to him he took a second to centre himself. He touched the doorknob first, as he closed the door, a knuckle on the polished brass, and then the back of the couch, memorising the rough texture of the cotton or wool or whichever material it was. He ran a fingertip through a fine layer of dust that had collected on an old War and Peace on the arm of the couch, and then finally encountered a little cat who breezed over from its bed in the corner. He picked it up, holding it to his chest, scratching behind its ears. It purred, nuzzling into his hand.

He was definitely here. He was definitely in this apartment.

When he woke up the next morning under that stifling duvet full of stale laundry fragrance, with the hotel radio singing about groundhogs plus the brand new memory of Spot’s hands and mouth and skin - that was his first realisation that nothing he did now had any consequences.

#newsies #newsies fic #davey jacobs #spot conlon #don't shoot me this is javid i promise but stuff will happen on the way obv!!!!1 #bear with bear with

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