#mostly I just need to stop ruminating and spiraling and Thinking About Shit | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

desertno3 · 3 years

Text

Violet – Chapter Four (5/7)

When Sean finally meets his daughter, you wonder why you ever left him in the first place.

Sean Wallace x fem!reader Chapter Four: 1991 words

Prologue // Chapter One // Chapter Two // Chapter Three

A/N: Hi! This chapter became longer than I ever planned it to be lol and as a result this series is now going to be seven parts instead of six! Low-key excited about what’s coming up but for now, I hope you enjoy this chapter! 🧡🧡

Taglist: @ysmmsy @prettyinpayne @the-a-word-2214 @peakywitch @danceyreagan @ella1grace03 @whenthe-smokeisinyoureyes

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for this series!

You wipe your hands on a tea towel when you hear the front door open, signalling Violet and Sean’s return. You then hear Violet’s footsteps pitter-patter down the hallway, immediately followed by Sean telling her to come back and take her shoes off first. Smiling to yourself, you leave the kitchen and head over to greet them, finding Sean knelt down and helping your daughter out of the aforementioned shoes.

“We’re back mum!” Violet says happily when she sees you.

“Yes, I can see that, love,” You smile before giving her a look. “Vi, you know how to take off your own shoes.”

“It’s fine,” Sean assures you, leaning over to place them neatly off to the side.

He had been visiting frequently ever since you and Vi moved into your new place - an arrangement you both had agreed on not long after everything had been dealt with. He wanted to be an active part of Violet’s life and you were more than willing to let that happen, knowing how much it would mean not only to him but to Violet, too. She still didn’t know the truth about Sean but it was clear she’d grown attached nonetheless, her eyes never failing to light up every time you told her Sean was coming over. Today, she had been particularly excited because he promised he would take her to a park.

“There was a pond at the park, mum!” Violet exclaims excitedly, practically bouncing where she stood. “And we saw so many ducks! And swans. And gooses! One got angry at Sean.”

She’s giggling as she tells you the latter and you look at Sean with an amused expression on your face. Still crouched before your daughter, he glances up to give you a deadpan look as if to say don’t even ask, which makes you snort.

You both miss the way Violet’s gaze flits between the both of you curiously, a happy smile forming on her face. She then throws her arms around Sean, hugging him farewell.

“Bye Sean.”

He sways a little at the force with which she throws herself at him but manages to steady himself, chuckling as he hugs her back.

“So eager to be rid of me, hm?”

Violet pulls away with a sheepish look on her face, “I’m going to watch TV now.”

“Go on then,” He taps her nose. “I’ll see you later.”

She grins at him and then she’s gone, energetically sprinting past you and down the hallway, making a quick beeline for the living room.

“You don’t need to run!” You call out to her but it’s futile, she’d already disappeared into the other room. Behind you, you hear Sean chuckle.

“You’re such a mum,” He teases, getting up onto his feet.

You let out an amused scoff in response, folding your arms across your chest. “Don’t even start, she'll be a little terror if I don’t give her some rules to adhere to.”

Sean smiles fondly, thinking about his little terror of a daughter. While you were mostly joking, Sean knew there was a bit of truth to your statement. It was a task and a half to wrangle Violet sometimes, the headstrong little thing that she was. Unsurprising, Sean thinks amusedly, considering who her parents were.

But as difficult as she could be sometimes, Sean had seen first-hand all the good values you’d managed to instill in her. You’d definitely raised a sweet kid, one who was wonderfully earnest and full of kindness, and he tells you just as much, with a genuine sincerity in his tone that catches you off guard.

“You’ve raised her well, y/n,” He says sincerely, leaving you speechless for a moment. You didn’t expect to hear that from him at all.

“Thanks, Sean. I feel like I’m a terrible mum sometimes,” You confess quietly. “So that’s… that means a lot.”

He smiles and you’re sure your heart skips a beat.

You didn’t want to admit it but you enjoyed Sean's visits just as much as Violet did. The more time you spent around him, the more you found yourself falling for him all over again. You’d forgotten how well the two of you could get along and on top of that, watching him and Violet spend time together made you melt. You had no real inkling as to how he felt about you but moments like these definitely didn’t help your growing feelings.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?”

It comes out of your mouth before you could even think to stop yourself and when you see the surprise and hesitation on his face, you immediately regret asking.

“You don’t have to, obviously,” You assure him, trying to backtrack. “You probably have things to do.”

He winces apologetically, “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’ve got to go back to the office tonight, unfortunately. Take care of some things.”

“That’s fine!” You reply almost too quickly, embarrassed at the fact that you might’ve been too forward by asking him in the first place. “No worries.”

There’s an awkward pause where neither you nor Sean know what to say next and you sigh, feeling like you’d just ruined a perfectly good moment between you two.

“Well I won’t keep you then,” You continue as nonchalantly as you could, hoping he didn’t notice how mortified you were. “I hope you have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

He gives you one last parting smile and you watch as he heads out the door, hating how disappointed and embarrassed you feel after it clicks shut behind him.

You stand there for a moment before letting out an agonised groan and heading back to the kitchen, trying to forget that conversation ever happened.

The rest of your night is filled with your usual routine - dinner, dishes and then giving Violet a bath before bed - but no matter how hard you try, you can't help but keep dwelling on the exchange, ruminating on what it might have meant.

You were starting to feel foolish for thinking that maybe things were changing between you and Sean. That’s what led you to ask him to stay for dinner to begin with, thinking you were both at a place where that could happen without any tension or awkwardness. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe he wouldn’t have stayed even if he didn’t have business to attend to.

You shake your head, trying to stop yourself from going further down that rabbit hole. You were going to drive yourself crazy if you kept thinking about it. The fact of the matter was that you had no idea how Sean felt about you but he was here nonetheless because he cared about Violet. You just had to live with that and forget your feelings.

Easier said than done, you think sourly. When the mere sight of him makes my goddamn heart race.

"Mummy?" Violet asks while you shampoo her hair, bringing you out of your spiral of thoughts.

"Hm?"

"You and Sean should get married."

You nearly choke on the air you breathe. Pausing your actions, you look at her in bewilderment but her eyes are on her hands as she glides them through the soapy water.

“Why do you say that, Vi?” You pry gently.

You wonder if you’d been that obvious with your feelings or if maybe Sean had said something, but she just shrugs like it was simply a passing thought she decided to say out loud.

“Sean and I are friends, darling,” You say to her, though you were starting to wonder if maybe that label was a stretch. “Usually people who get married are dating each other."

Violet makes a contemplative face, “Will you and Sean do that?”

“What, date?”

She nods, leaving you more confused than ever.

“I doubt it, Vi,” You sigh.

I burned that bridge a long time ago.

You massage her scalp gently, lathering up the shampoo as you watch her continue to play with the water, your own mind racing.

“Did you want us to date?” You ask her, still trying to figure out where this was coming from.

She nods again.

“Why?”

Violet looks sheepish now, patting away at the bubbles that surrounded her, and she says shyly, “So then I can have a dad.”

You sit against your headboard with your head in your hands, thinking about everything that had transpired since the late afternoon. Not only were you dealing with your reemerging feelings for Sean - who most likely did not reciprocate them - you were also dealing with a daughter who suggested you marry the man because that was the only way she thought she could get a dad.

Letting out a frustrated groan, you press your head against your forearms. You were acutely aware that you would not be dealing with any of this if you’d never left Sean in the first place. You sit there despairingly for a long while before a persistent buzz from your phone starts to fill the air. Lifting your head, you blink in surprise at the caller ID before answering it.

“Sean?”

“Hi,” His voice comes through the speaker, making your heart involuntarily skip a beat. “Sorry, I know it’s late.”

“It’s fine,” You assure him, shifting the phone to a more comfortable position. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine, I just… I wanted to apologise again for not being able to stay for dinner. I should have taken you up on it, the meeting I went to instead was the dullest shit imaginable.”

You can’t help the small laugh that bubbles out of your throat at the grouchy tone his voice takes on as he tells you about how dull it was, “Sorry to hear that.”

He hums in response and you could just imagine the amused smirk on his face. “You don’t sound very sorry.”

“Well, I don’t know,” You reply. “Violet spent all of dinner telling me about every animal you saw at the pond today. Not sure if you would prefer a play-by-play of your own day over the meeting.”

“You underestimate how boring the meeting was.”

“No,” You laugh. “I’ll take your word for it.”

There’s a natural lull in the conversation and you know you have to take the opportunity to clear the air, for the sake of your own sanity.

“Sean,” You start, steeling yourself with an inhale. “I hope I didn’t overstep earlier, asking you to stay for dinner.”

“Overstep?”

“I… I worried you might’ve thought it was a bit much. The three of us have never properly spent time all together so I realise that it might have been a big ask and-”

“It was fine, y/n,” He says softly, quelling your worries. “I was surprised you asked but it wasn’t a problem. I would’ve liked it, the three of us together.”

After all that time you’d spent ruminating earlier, the statement is more than you ever expected from him. So much so that you’re rendered speechless, your heart in your throat.

“That’s why I called, actually,” He continues. “I wanted to ask if you and Vi wanted to come over for dinner next weekend. To make up for the fact that I couldn’t tonight.”

You don’t even have to think twice about your answer.

“Yes, of course. We’d love to.”

“Great,” He says and you can hear the smile in his voice. “I’ll see you both then.”

You can’t help but smile in return, “Looking forward to it.”

“Me too. Goodnight y/n.”

“Night, Sean.”

You’re giddy as you place your phone on your bedside table and settle into bed for the night, Sean’s call single-handedly flipping your entire mood. Maybe it was silly to feel that way after just one phone call but you couldn’t help it, not when it came to Sean. Against all your better judgement, you feel a little spark of hope in your chest as you drift off to sleep.

Maybe there was something there after all.

#sean wallace #sean wallace x reader #gangs of london fanfiction #violet series #*writing #gangs of london imagines #sean wallace imagine #sean wallace fanfic

133 notes · View notes

lonestarbabe · 4 years

Text

Eye of the Storm: Chapter 3: The Road You Take Alone

*Can be read as a stand alone (AO3)

Carlos tries not to let his mental health spiral out of control.

Carlos isn’t used to waking up to an empty bed, and he misses hitting a limb when he stretches his body too far onto the other side. Even though T.K. still technically lives with his dad, he’s been spending a good deal of time at Carlos’. Carlos has gotten used to having him around, so when he’s gone, it’s too quiet, and Carlos can hear his thoughts rage in the stiff air of his mind, forming hard peaks like beaten egg whites. His thoughts are becoming unruly. They’re angry and anxious. You’ll never be happy, they tell him. Something will always make you feel dissatisfied. Things always go wrong, and you never know when the awfulness will strike, so you have to be prepared for all the badness that will come. If you aren’t prepared, bad things will happen.

His head pounds as the thoughts crescendo. His bed is lumpy under his body and his sheets are oddly scratchy. Usually, his bed is a safe little oasis, and the worrying doesn’t start until his feet reach the floor, but his thoughts are bolder today; they have no regard for those blessed moments of aimless contemplation that he loves so much. There’s no time for you to be tranquil. The world is unhinged, and you’ve got to find a way to fix it, or at least your little part of it. I just want to relax. No time for that. You’ve got to start your day. Five more minutes. Start your day. Two more minutes. Start your day. One more minute. I won’t say it again: start your day.

There’s so much he has to do, he knows that, but his mental to-do list is disjointed like building blocks after a child has torn them and scattered them across the room during a tantrum. He needs to piece them back together, but it takes so much energy just to do that let alone tackle the items on the list. The world is an overwhelming place when you can’t even process your own thoughts. I need to get going or I’m going to waste the entire day. Listen to yourself. You’ve got to hurry up and get something done before you give up on trying. I can do this. Getting my shit together can’t be that hard, can it?

Order is not something that Carlos likes to do; it is something he has to do. It keeps me from losing my head. Nothing feels right when left to chance, so each morning, he shakes the question marks as well as he can. He plans and he prepares for the day ahead. He lists the things that are likely to go wrong, and he thinks of ways he’ll address them when they happen. He reminds himself that he can handle the obstacles because, at one time or another, he has prepared for them all. But there are too many variables, and you cannot alphabetize a list if you don’t know the first letters of the items on that list. You can make deductions and guesses, but you can’t know. It is fruitless to try to control the inevitable mystery that comes with being alive, but Carlos tries. If he thinks about a thought long enough, he can work it to death. Once it’s dead, he can feel okay. For a while.

He’s got his thoughts under control most of the time. He’s learned to work through them efficiently, shoving them out of the way each morning and each night before they can drag him too far down into the abyss of rumination. While he’s taught himself to work through them quickly, some days, thoughts are sticky. They are gum glued to the ground with superglue, waiting for an unsuspecting shoe. The thoughts cling to his mind, oozing over the information he actually needs, and he has to work just a little bit harder to scrape them off of the walls of his brain.

Thank god people couldn’t see thoughts because if they could, they’d see that Carlos’ thoughts are twisted remnants of what thoughts should be. They’re the warped pieces of metal left after a plane crash— they don’t have much function, but their sharp edges can cut you. He doesn’t want today to be one of those days that brings those destructive thoughts to the forefront of his brain, but Carlos feels darkness sneaking into his brain with about as much stealth as a cat with a giant bell weighing down her steps. Somedays, it slips in without a trace, but it doesn’t matter because no matter how it comes, it always gets in.

He wishes he didn’t have the day off work. The space in his schedule leaves too much room for intrusion. Distraction has always been the thing that keeps Carlos sane. Work, working out, going out with friends are some of the things that keep him on his toes and feeling level. Distraction can’t take away all the darkness, but it can hold it away until it finally crawls back into bed with Carlos one quiet morning.

He should have known that the darkness would come on like this. The darkness – that’s what he’s always called it, but he isn’t sure whether the name makes it sound worse or better than the clinical name. You wouldn’t expect it from him, the depression, but it’s a familiar foe. He’s usually the one that people use as a strong pillar, and he hates how weak the darkness makes him feel. His depression comes in waves, and it comes unexpectedly. Some things may trigger the depression, sure, but it can come when he’s feeling good, just as it can come when he’s already feeling bad. It usually doesn’t last long, but it waxes and wanes and hangs over him even when he can’t see it.

It’s time to get up, his brain persists, urging him to suck up the lowness in his core and get on with what he has to do. Stop lazing around and do something. You could get so much done today if you just did it. Why are you like this? What’s stopping you other than yourself? Do something. Anything.

He drags his feet over the side of the bed, and the ground comes against his heels too fast, and he has to balance himself to not tumble back into bed. Oh, but I’m tempted. I could give in to the urge, wrap myself in blankets, and close myself off to the world. As the urge to do nothing calls to Carlos, his need for order also beckons. He has a routine for a reason because that routine keeps him from spiraling. One missed part of his routine can turn into pacing his apartment for two hours replaying his whole morning in his head to catch any discrepancies.

Somehow, I’ve got to get through this day. Carlos has learned that when a day seems impossible, you have to take it one step at a time, but he’s never been a one step at a time kind of guy. He’s good at taking tiny, careful steps because they feel safe and require the precision he’s programmed himself to give, but those baby steps grate on him. They bring out the obsession and make him exert way too much energy for what should be easy. He becomes consumed by little details that shouldn’t matter until he can’t think anymore.

The perk of a small apartment is that it doesn’t take long to pull his body to the kitchen and drag his feet down the stairs. Carlos feels like a robot as he prepares breakfast. Prepares is a strong word for what he does, but on days like today, pulling a toaster pastry from a shiny aluminum packet counts as preparation. The treat should taste like cinnamon sugar, but it’s cardboard against his tongue. He finishes it, and then he eats its waiting twin because he knows that’s what he should do. He washes his breakfast down with instant coffee that looks and tastes like mud.

He doesn’t have to clean the dishes because he’ll use the mug for more coffee when he’s showered, but even though he ate neatly and didn’t make much of a mess, he wipes down the counters as he usually does to simulate a normal day. Because I need to act normal. You’ll never be normal. But I can try.

After he cleans up breakfast, fatigue pulls at his eyes. I could just go back to bed. I have nothing to else to do, so I might as well just give up. What else am I going to do with my time? Going back to bed won’t make him feel any less tired, though, so he decides to force himself into the shower. He stands under the hot stream, letting it purify his thoughts more than his body. He stands there until the hot turns cold, and he’s so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the change until his teeth begin chattering.

Carlos forces himself into new clothes, and he doesn’t know what to do next. He’s restless. You have so much to do. Your life is a mess. Start by trying to clean that up, and then, we’ll go from there. If you can’t get your act together, you’re hopeless. Cleaning— I can handle that.

Cleaning isn’t Carlos’ idea of fun, but it seems like the natural solution to messiness, and maybe if he can get his living space spruced up, he can sort out the clutter in his head. He’s diligent when he cleans. He doesn’t just scrub surfaces; he uses three different products to make sure every square inch is wiped off as well as humanly possible. It probably doesn’t make much of a difference, but putting so much effort into something keeps his brain from scrambling. He dusts every crevice, and he vacuums using all the attachments to make sure no corner goes untouched. He even wipes down the bottom of his table just because he can imagine how much dirtiness must be under there. Cleaning is just the right amount of mind-numbing to pass the time without making Carlos have to think too hard. Since he’s cleaning, Carlos decides, what the hell, he might as well do some laundry, knocking all the dirty details of life off his list. Getting stuff done normally feels good, but Carlos doesn’t feel much of anything.

The morning blurs into the afternoon, and Carlos only notices the difference when his mom calls just a little after one. Carlos dreads the conversation as much as he’s glad that it will give him something to do. Carlos loves his mom, but she doesn’t stop talking whenever she calls, and she usually comes to him to vent. He doesn’t think she realizes that she’s doing it, and mostly he doesn’t mind, but he’s already feeling drained. Even with tiredness pulling at his brain, he answers the phone because it’s his mother, and how can he not answer the phone? She won’t stop calling until he responds, anyway, so he might as well get it over with. “Get it over with,” what a way to talk about your mother. You can’t try to be just a little nicer? She gave birth to you. The least you can do is listen to her. How much energy could it possibly take? Suck it up and do your job as a son.

His mom’s worked up about Carlos’ brothers’ grades. She gets worked up about his brothers a lot, and it’s not so much that the twins do anything that wrong. Mostly, they’re her last babies, and Ana is having a hard time accepting that all her children have become adults. Carlos’ brothers have never been academic, and he knows no matter what Ana says to them, they’re not going to change. “There’s something wrong. They’re not as diligent as you were,” Ana complains. “I don’t know why they’re so easily distracted.” Carlos wants to tell her, Of course, they aren’t as diligent as I am. They’re not anxious nutcases who try to be angels to keep from causing any negative emotions in other people. They don’t have to be diligent because they’re allowed to be regular kids. They aren’t responsible for their mother’s emotional balance. “They’re smart kids, but they’d much rather make jokes than do their work.”

“That’s hard,” Carlos tries to sympathize, “but they’re hardly kids anymore. They’re in college. You can’t micromanage their grades. I know it’s a challenge for you, but sometimes, you need to let go a little bit. You’ll always be their mother. College isn’t going to change anything.”

Ana tuts, “They still live in my home. They’ll follow my rules. They shouldn’t disrespect their mother. I may not be educated, but that doesn’t mean I’m a fool. I know plenty. It would serve them to remember that. I’ve been on this earth over a half-century!” Carlos’ mom has always been insecure about her lack of higher education. She’d always been good in school, but going to college had not been in the cards for her, and now, she feels lesser with all her children having more education than her. She’s proud of them, Carlos knows— she’s always been so proud of her children— but he can tell that she thinks about all the things she might’ve done if she’d found a way to go to college. In most areas, Ana is confident, but in others, she’s full of insecurity. Maybe that’s how all people are. A bit of confidence and a world of insecurities.

Carlos is quick to reassure Ana, “No one thinks you’re a fool. We know how smart you are, but when you’re young, the wisdom of your mother isn’t that appealing. They’re probably just trying to find themselves. They’re testing their limits, and it won’t always turn out well for them, but they’ll learn. They’ll come back to you when they need your help.” Carlos doesn’t know that. He’s not a psychiatrist, but it sounds like the right thing to say. Ana probably won’t see it that way, though. She never sees things your way, and I don’t blame her. You’re crazy and unstable and act like you’ve got it all under control when you can’t even reassure your own mother properly. What good are you if you can’t accomplish the one thing you’ve been practicing for pretty much all of your life? Get it together Carlos.

Ana goes on, and Carlos knows the conversation has only just started, but he already wants to make an excuse about why he can’t talk any longer. But I can’t do that to her. “I’ve indulged all their interests. It wasn’t easy, but I made sure they could do all the sports they wanted. All I ask is that they keep their grades up, and I don’t like that they aren’t keeping their end of the bargain. I’ve made sacrifices, so many sacrifices.” Carlos always felt a pang of guilt for all the things his mother had sacrificed. They’d never had a lot of money, and Ana had given everything for her children so that they could have whatever opportunities they wanted.

All his life, Carlos has tried not to take too much. I need to be careful what I ask for. If I can’t get it myself, I shouldn’t have it at all. He’d gotten a job as soon as he could. He’s saved his money and paid for as many of his own expenses as possible. She’d never asked him to do it, but he knew how much she gave to her children, and he never wanted the burden of depriving his mother. He hated to see her not having the things she wanted because of her children, so he made a vow to pave his own way. Yet, she’s still given him so much that she will never make him give back. And you don’t deserve any of it. What have you done to deserve it other than being a bitter son who resents his saint of a mother?

He knows that way she makes him feel isn’t normal, and it probably isn’t healthy, but it’s too late to set boundaries, and he knows that she isn’t doing it on purpose. He feels selfish whenever the bitterness pops up. She loves you unconditionally. How can you be mad at that? What kind of a monster resents his mother who has only tried to give him the best? She’s not perfect, but no person is, so why hold her to some unachievable standard. There must be something wrong with you if you cannot accept her how she is. She’s not the problem— you are.

“I know, Mamá, but it’s normal for them to want to stray from the nest.” Ana would never be the kind of mother who took a back seat, even as her kids grew up and started families of their own. So much of her identity is centered around caring for her family, and the changing way she cares for them has made her feel like she’s lost her purpose. She’s one of the most self-sacrificing people that Carlos knows, and even when she’s given all that she could possibly give to her children, she wants to give more.

“You never did. You were always such a good boy.” At what cost? I tried so hard to be what you wanted that I forgot how to be myself. Until he had joined the police academy, Carlos had been unsure of what he wanted. What his mother wanted for him had become such a big part of his mindset that it drowned out what he wanted for himself. He became a chameleon to please her, to boost her confidence, and make her feel like a successful mother, and it was hard to learn to be himself again, which is why sometimes he feels better when he keeps a distance from Ana. He loves her, and he’ll always be close to her, but he also needs a life of his own, or he will go crazy.

“I’m a different person, so I needed different experiences. There’s nothing wrong with that. It just shows that we all have different abilities.” We all don’t feel like we have to change ourselves to be what other people want. “The twins are fine.” They’ve never been that into academics, and they are mostly still in school to continue with sports, so Carlos never expected them to get good grades. “They’re not failing, are they?”

“No, but they can do better.” Not while being happy, Carlos wants to argue. He doesn’t want his little brothers to go through the same turmoil that he has.

“You can’t force it.” Carlos knows better that the more you try to force something, the more out of control you become. Not that knowing that stops you from trying to force control. You can’t help it, can you Carlos? You keep trying to capture something that was never meant to be held. You’ll always come out a loser like that.

“I know that, Carlos, but maybe you should talk to them.” I should have known that this is where the conversation was headed. She always wants me to be the voice of reason, the cool older brother who gives them wisdom that they wouldn’t listen to if it comes from their mother.

Carlos tries to keep the agitation out of his voice. “And say what?” He shakes his head, but she obviously can’t see it. “They’re not going to listen to me either. They think I’m uptight.” Carlos’ family always jokes that he should relax a little, and he does relax. He can be spontaneous and flexible, but it’s harder to be that way in front of his family because they’ve come to rely on his rigidity, his ability to never bend under pressure. It’s all just a façade, but they don’t need to know that. They don’t need to know about the insanity in my head. They would look at me differently if they knew, and I can’t afford their perception of me to change. He’s afraid of what they would think if they knew the truth. What would his mom do if she knew that Carlos wasn’t okay all the time? She would probably blame herself, and Carlos couldn’t have that.

He imagines coming clean, sometimes. It is so lonely to handle the weight of his dysfunction on his own. He likes to fantasize about blurting everything wrong out in one go and not giving a damn what everyone thinks. It would be cathartic, and he wouldn’t feel like he has to hide so many parts of himself because that’s what he is doing. He’s hiding because it’s easy to hide than to own his imperfections. He doesn’t want anyone to see him as broken, especially when they sp desperately need him to be solid.

“They do not see you that way. They look up to you. You’re their big brother. They’ll listen to you. Just tell them to shape up. I’m worried about them.”

“That’s a bad idea. I don’t want to get in the middle of this.” As the oldest boy, Carlos usually takes his role as an older brother in stride, but he’s so exhausted, and he doesn’t think there’s anything he can say that will please everyone involved, least of all himself. He’s not up for handling this family drama, especially when he doesn’t really understand what the drama is. “I don’t think it will help for me to say anything,” Carlos adds so he sounds less defiant, but he’s got to hold his ground on this one thing or he’ll be sucked into a mindset that makes his obsessions and his worries worse.

He hears Ana sighing loudly on the other end of the phone, “Do you think one of your sisters can talk sense into them?”

“Mamá, I don’t think anyone is going to change their minds. They need to take the initiative for themselves.” But she won’t listen to me on that. She can be so stubborn sometimes, and I don’t know how to make her hear what I’m saying. You might as well give up talking because she’s never going to change.

To Carlos’ surprise, his mother laughs. “You sound so much like your father sometimes, Carlos. He always believed that you kids would sort yourselves out if we gave you the room to experiment.” He can hear her smiling over the phone. She always smiles when she talks about Carlos’ dad. “I was never able to be like that. I worry too much. You’re all my babies, you know. Even now that you’re old. I remember holding you in my arms. You were a big baby, but even a big baby is so tiny. I was afraid the world would break you.”

“I got stronger,” Carlos says,

“You were always a sensitive kid. I’m glad you grew out of it. The world is hard on sensitive kids. And foolish ones. Your brothers are foolish ones. They’ve got a lot of ambition. They’ve got good ideas, but they have no sense about how cruel the world can be. You’ve seen the bad. You saw your father’s flaws more than they did. He gave you kids your freedom, but he liked things a certain way.”

“We don’t have to talk about this.” It isn’t that Carlos minds talking about his dad, but he knows a conversation like this can cause his mother to spiral. She tries to hide her mental distress when it happens, but Carlos sees it. Like mother like son. He notices the way she becomes quiet and the way her eyes are red more than they aren’t.

“I want to,” she admits. “Your father could become… withdrawn.” Your freakshow comes from both sides then, huh? “He’d focus on one thing, and everything else would become background noise. You and Glo were old enough to see that.”

“I remember, but that’s not how I remember him. I remember him cooking us meals and running around with us at the park. I remember him reading us books and helping us imagine our futures. I remember hugs when we were scared and soup when we were sick. Everyone has bad days, but Papá’s were mostly good.” Some people are better at hiding bad days than others, but we all have them, especially in my family.

“I never told you kids how he died.” Carlos can barely stand to hear how choked his mother’s voice is. It sends a ripple of fear through him.

Carlos feels his heart skip a beat. He’s not sure why she’s bringing this up now, but nothing that she’s saying is a surprise. She’s never said the words. She’s refused to admit that their father didn’t die in his sleep, but the kids all know. There’s a quiet understanding between them that he’d drunk himself to death. Carlos had never really seen his dad his drunk. His dad had always kept his addiction secret, but there had been signs. Looking back, he always knew. Everyone around them knew, but they didn’t mutter the words. They kept what was behind closed doors behind closed doors, and that never helps anyone.

“We know,” Carlos says so his mother doesn’t have to say it. She’s been denying the true cause of death for over a decade, and Carlos is afraid of what will happen if she says the words out loud. It’s why no one in his family has ever brought it up. “Glo and I figured it out.”

“He wasn’t a bad man.” Carlos only ever saw the part of him that was good. Come on, you knew. You always knew. You pretended you didn’t, but it was clear as day that your dad had a problem, and you should have done something about it. You should put the pieces together sooner and tried to do something about it. Now, he’s not a good man or a bad man; he’s a dead man.

“I know. He was sick,” Carlos says. Just like me. Just like you. Just like all of us. “He did the best he could.”

“I wanted to protect you from it,” Ana says, and Carlos isn’t sure if she’s trying to justify the lies or is slipping back into the delusion. No, you wanted to protect yourself, he wants to shout, but he bites his tongue because he’s not going to fight with a woman who tried to give him everything in her power. Making her unhappy wasn’t going to make him happier.

“It’s okay, Mamá. You did the best you could. You don’t have to be sorry,” and just like that, he absolves her. He always absolves her, even if it means condemning himself. Isn’t that just what a decent son is supposed to do?

When his mother is done talking, Carlos hangs up the phone. He stops fighting the thoughts growing louder in his brain. He gives in to the urge he’s been resisting all day, and he goes back to bed. Because what’s the point of staying up any more. What else do I have to do? Sleeping will make the day go quicker, and right now, that’s what Carlos needs.

When Carlos wakes up, he doesn’t feel refreshed. He’s still thinking about the conversation he had with his mother, and he thinks that maybe he should call his brothers after all, but he doesn’t. Instead, he calls his oldest sister, Gloria, because as the oldest sibling, she knows very well how it feels to be given more responsibility than you are prepared to carry. “Did Mamá call you?” Carlos asks after a brief greeting.

Gloria laughs, “She called me first. It was unusual. You know you’re the favorite.” You’re only the favorite when something goes wrong and needs fixing.

“You know that’s no true.” If I am the favorite, it’s because there’s so much of me that I hide. She’s only seen the parts of Carlos Reyes that she needs to see. I’ve buried all the rest because doing so will make her happier. Carlos knows that if his mother knew that he’s not as level-headed as he pretends to be, she wouldn’t feel the same way about him. She wouldn’t turn to him for help, and she wouldn’t talk to him as openly. Telling the truth could destroy the relationship with his loved ones as he knows it, so he chooses to keep silent.

“You’re all she can talk about with her friends. She’s so proud.”

“She’s proud of us all,” Carlos assures his sister.

“That’s what favorite children always say,” Gloria teases.

“You can take a turn being the favorite, Glo. She wants me to talk to Gabe and Dave again. Their grades aren’t high enough for her liking.”

“You set the bar too high and now the poor kids are expected to be straight-A students.”

“Like you were any better.”

“Maybe not,” Gloria says, “But she knows they have trouble in school. David especially.”

“Meanwhile, Gabriel is the one who jokes through his studies.” Gabriel distracts David, who has a hard enough time focusing on his studies in the best of circumstances, so having the two boys together can do more harm than good.

“You didn’t call to talk about the twins, did you?” Gloria asks astutely.

“No,” Carlos admits. “I’m not interested in trying to get their grades up. As long as they're not failing and doing decently well, I don’t see a need to get involved.” He can be honest with Gloria because he knows that she feels the same way that he does.

“Why did you call then?” Her voice is gentle, and it reminds Carlos of when his mom used to sing him to sleep.

Carlos sighs. “I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to check-in. I’m worried about Mamá.”

“She seems okay,” Gloria reassures him.

“She talked about the way Papá really died today, Glo.” There’s a long pause, and Carlos can hear his sister breathing over the phone, but she doesn’t say anything. “Glo? You still there,” he adds to try to get her to reply.

“She actually said the words?”

Carlos’ brain sinks a little. “Well, no. She didn’t say it explicitly, but she admitted that she never told us the truth about what happened.”

Gloria sounds indignant, “As if we didn’t know. The denial has never been for us.”

“I know that.” He crosses his arms over his chest like a petulant child.

“Did you tell her that?” Gloria’s voice has raised just enough that Carlos knows this conversation has gone off course. He doesn’t know why he chose to do this to himself, on a bad day especially. He doesn’t have the energy, but since it’s too late to get out of the situation, he has to find it. When he needs to, he can always embezzle it from other parts of himself that need less upkeep. When he has bad days, sacrifices must be made.

Gloria sounds annoyed now. “Of course, you didn’t. You never tell her how you feel.”

“What does it matter to you?” It’s his life and his feelings. He can tell them to whoever he wants.

“Because you shouldn’t censor yourself anytime she has a mood. She’s not going to stop having them just because you cater to her and I know it’s a lot for you to manage. You’re not responsible for protecting someone else from themselves.” But that’s what Carlos has always done. He’s a protector by nature, and when he sees someone in trouble, he steps in.

“Be nice. She’s your mother.” Gloria’s frustration with her mother is obvious. It’s not that she’s not sympathetic, but she’s never experienced what Gloria has experienced. She doesn’t understand how hard it is to rise above your bad days.

“And I love her, but she needs professional help. Too much of her life is centered around being our mother. She can’t rely on us to fill in all her gaps. She needs a life of her own. I hate seeing her when she gets bad, and she’ll keep getting bad unless she decides to make a change.” If Ana knew that she was talking about her this way, it would devastate her, and just the thought of her overhearing this conversation makes Carlos want to end it, but he lets Gloria say her piece.

“Well, that’s never going to happen.” That’s the problem. He knows that she’s never going to seek help on her home, so it’s either he tries and fails to help her or he doesn’t try at all. Trying feels better than doing nothing.

“So what then? You have to be whatever makes Mamá happy?” Isn’t that what I’ve been? How can I be anyone else at this point? She needs me, and I can’t let her down. Carlos knows that they don’t have healthy boundaries, but that’s just how his family is.

“I don’t always choose what Mamá wants.” For as many concessions he makes with her, there are some that he is unwilling to let her cross for his own sanity. “She didn’t like the idea of me being gay.”

“She always accepted your sexuality.” That’s the simple way of putting it. His mom has never been anything but supportive. When he told her, she hugged him and said that she loved him no matter who he loved, but he had always had a feeling that her initial acceptance had been because it would make her a bad mother not to accept him, and being a good mother is the thing that she has always most wanted to be, often to the point of too closely resembling the stereotypical image of a mother.

“I know she always loved me just the same, but it took time for her to get used to it.” He doesn’t remember her saying bad things about gay people, but he had seen her smile fall just a fraction when he told her the truth.

“She’ll get used to other things, too. Your relationship with her can evolve if you let it. It might be better for everyone.”

“I can’t stop worrying about her.” The worry is lodged in his mind. It is one of his oldest friends, and no matter how far he goes, it is part of him. He’s spent so long concerned about his mother that not exhausting so much energy worrying would leave a hole in his life. As messed up as it is, he doesn’t know who he is without his fears. If he let them go, even just some of them, he thinks that things might get even worse. No one else seems to understand the way he needs to indulge the worry to feel safe.

“And I’m not asking you to, but you don’t have to deal with everything alone, hermanito.”

“Yeah maybe,” Carlos says because he’s too tired to argue with her about her. “I’ve got to go Glo,” he says as an escape from the conversation. “T.K. is calling.”

“Okay, Carlos, go talk to your man. I love you.” He’s lucky to have Glo. She’s always trying to look after him when he’s trying to look after everyone else.

“I love you too. Talk soon,” he says before hanging up and putting the phone beside him. The phone is silent now, and he misses the noise, but he is relieved that he doesn’t have to listen anymore just the same.

He lays back on his couch and flips the TV on. He turns to his favorite crime drama, the one that got him interested in law enforcement, but he doesn’t pay attention. He lets the scenes pass through his brain mindlessly without leaving a dent in his memory. He stays there for hours, only getting up when he’s hungry or needs to use the bathroom. He lets the hours blur until his mind is so numbed that he needs to do something just to remember there’s a world outside his apartment.

To find a connection to the outside world, Carlos has T.K. over in the evening because starting the next morning, T.K. has to work for two days, and Carlos doesn’t want to wait that long to see him even though he’s not in the mood to be around people.

When Carlos opens the door to his apartment, T.K. throws his arms around Carlos. He tilts his head up for a kiss. He smells sweet, and maybe time with his boyfriend is exactly what T.K. needs. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you.” T.K.’s hold is firm and the weight of T.K. against his chest knocks out the breath that Carlos has been holding.

“Long day?” Carlos asks. T.K. opens his mouth, but he looks at Carlos’ face and closes it again; T.K. swallows hard, pushing the words on the tip of his tongue down to his stomach. He can tell that something is wrong with you. Get your act together. He doesn’t want to hear about all your issues. Keep that shit to yourself and don’t bother your boyfriend about it.

T.K. says, “You look tired.” Tired was too light of a word for the utter depletion Carlos felt in his bones. You’re so whiny. Could you shut up for just five seconds? You’re giving me a migraine.

He’s not going to like that answer because for some reason he wants to learn everything about you, even the worst parts of Carlos Reyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.” They could circle like this forever, redirecting each other’s words because neither wants to burden the other with what they both try and fail to hide.

Carlos doesn’t miss the way T.K.’s eyes are overcast, but he watches T.K. tug a smile onto his face as he pulls back whatever he might’ve said if he hadn’t noticed that something was off with Carlos. Carlos feels guilty. You’re the worst boyfriend. You can’t even support him when he needs you. I’m trying. Not hard enough. T.K. pecks Carlos’ lips. “I missed you, that’s all,” T.K. adds, and Carlos can’t help but worry that there’s more to it than that. He wonders if his perception is off. Maybe he’s making a lot out of nothing. He tends to do that. You sure do.

They order pizza and put on a movie when Carlos can’t find many words. T.K. picks at the pizza and Carlos doesn’t pay attention to the movie. Aren’t we a fun pair? By the time the credits roll on the screen, Carlos has no idea what just happened as T.K. gives his impromptu review of the movie. T.K.’s excitedly talking, and Carlos doesn’t process the words he is saying, but it feels good to hear T.K. being so full of life when Carlos feels so depleted.

“Yeah,” Carlos says distractedly to something that T.K. says. “That’s true.”

T.K. gives Carlos a confused look. He chuckles. “You’re not paying any attention to me, are you?” His voice is light, but it still makes Carlos feel like shit. Guilt spikes in Carlos’ bloodstream. I should be more attentive when we get to spend time together.

“I’m sorry, Ty.” How many times can you say “I’m sorry,” before it starts to lose its meaning? It’s always the same old story with you Carlos. Try something new for once. I’m so bored.

T.K. shakes his head, “Don’t be. You know I don’t mind talking to myself.” But you shouldn’t have to, Carlos wants to say. Your boyfriend should be more attentive.

“I should still listen.” That’s right you should, but you’re so selfish. You try to do things for other people, but it’s only because you’re greedy for their love.

“Really, it’s fine. I get it.” He doesn’t get anything. “Are you okay?” T.K. asks, and Carlos knows that he should be able to talk about it— the depression, especially. He remembers T.K. telling him once about everything being gray, so he knows T.K. gets how it feels. Carlos’ depression is different than T.K.’s, though. It’s fueled by pathological obsession and worry more than anything else. Still, he thinks T.K. might understand or try to understand more than most people would. He wouldn’t be one of those people who tries to understand and then doesn’t listen. Carlos has met many of those. They hear the word depression, and they start to assume. They think depression is laziness or intense sadness after the loss of a loved one. They think it is just a feeling. “I’m depressed,” they say when they are feeling sad, but they don’t consider what it must like to have depression. It’s not a passing mood Sometimes, they have a deeper understanding, but very few can understand the nuances, and even though T.K. may get how Carlos feels, Carlos doesn’t think he can talk about it. His throat feels like it may close whenever he starts to say the words, so he shuts up.

It’s a strange role-reversal when Carlos tells T.K., “I’m fine.”

T.K. raises his eyebrows, probably because he knows that people who say they are fine are usually lying. “We’re both hypocrites, aren’t we?”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“We both want honestly about how we are, but we both don’t want to give it.” That might be the closest thing T.K. has been to admitting he’s not fine. It might be the closest he ever will be. Carlos gets it. It’s hard to accept that you might not be okay, especially when other people need you to be okay. It seems simpler to pretend that you’re fine. The thought takes the air from Carlos’ lungs and not in the way that feels like a release.

“I’m not trying to push you to talk about anything, but you know that you can talk to me, right?”

“Of course,” Carlos lies, trying to force a smile.

“Do you need to talk now?” T.K. pushes him just a little further. Carlos shifts his body further from T.K. on the couch, and T.K. sags against the cushions. Maybe now he knows how he makes you feel all the time, the malicious part of Carlos thinks.

“No, I’m good.” He can hear the waver in his voice. I’m so tired, and I can’t shake the drowsiness no matter how hard I try.

“Carlos—” T.K. tries to say, but Carlos will have none of it. He doesn’t want his thoughts or his feelings to be dissected because they’re not something he can share with other people. They’re his alone, and he’s not going to burden anyone else with them if he doesn’t have to.

“Drop it, T.K.” Carlos’ voice is authoritative, and maybe that’s the wrong move because T.K. has never listened much to authority. But to Carlos’ shock, T.K. almost backs down. Almost.

T.K. bites the side of his cheek. “I’m just worried.”

“Well don’t be,” Carlos can’t help but say harshly, and he regrets the words the minute they leave his mouth.

He feels hopeless because he wants to make everything better, but there’s no easy fix for not being okay. There’s no way to wake up and immediately exterminate the termites that chew at the core parts of your mind. You have to swim through a boiling, sludgy roux as it begins to curdle and drag you down with its soiled weight. You have to pull back your skin to see what’s happening inside. You have to hope that something changes even when change is an upside-down mountain that you somehow have to climb.

Carlos isn’t sure he has the energy to climb, at least not right now.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” T.K. says, sounding sincere, but it irritates Carlos to hear the worry in his voice.

“You don’t have to worry about me,” Carlos insists, taking on a calmer voice. Try worrying about yourself, he wants to tell T.K., I’m not the one slowly killing myself. No, you’re just worrying yourself to death.

“I’m not an expert, but that’s kind of being in a relationship, isn’t it? Worrying about the other person and wanting to make sure they’re okay.” T.K. puts his arms around Carlos and leans his head up to whisper in Carlos’ ear. “I’m here if you want to talk.” T.K.’s breath is hot in Carlos’ ear, and it warms Carlos to know that he isn’t alone, but it also doesn’t make a difference because there are some things that Carlos needs to keep to himself. He likes to think he’s saving T.K. from the pain of knowing what Carlos struggles with, but deep down, he knows that what keeps his lips pressed shut is the shame that comes with not being the strong, unwavering pillar of support that he wishes he could be. Carlos wants to be that person that doesn’t bend under pressure. He wants to be the effortless kind of okay because most of the time, he is okay, but he has to fight to be that way.

“It’s been a long week,” Carlos admits, but he doesn’t know how to explain the week wasn’t long because it was awful. It’s dragged for no other reason than there’s something off inside Carlos’ brain.

“Jenkins being an asshole again?”

“He’s always an asshole,” Carlos replies about his least-liked coworker. “But no, Jenkins hasn’t been worse than usual. It’s just been hectic,” Carlos explains because that sounds like the most normal reason for not being your normal self.

“How so?” Carlos doesn’t feel like talking, but he doesn’t want to reject the efforts that T.K. is making, so he figures he can just give a little and maybe that will create harmony between them.

“You know how you have a really busy shift and then when your mind stops being pulled in so many different directions, you get really tired, and then you don’t know what to do with your time?” T.K. nods, encouraging Carlos to go on. “It’s like that. I’m crashing after a long several shifts.”

“But you can handle it?”

“Yeah,” Carlos assures, kissing T.K.’s forehead and running a hand through his hair. “All I need is time to recover before my next shift. It helps to have you here.”

“Babe, I’ll be here whenever you need me to be.” But Carlos would never ask that of T.K. T.K. leans his head on Carlos’ shoulder. “I know how hard your job must be. You see some crazy things on patrol.” The funny thing is that it isn’t mostly the things he sees at work that get to Carlos. There will always be incidents that cut deeply, but for the most part, he’s good at compartmentalizing the bad things that happen on the job.

T.K. sits up and leans closer to Carlos, and he kisses the spot just above his collarbone. His lips are soft and warm from the coffee he’d just had, but Carlos can barely sense the warmth. “Is there something I can do to make it better?”

Carlos cannot tell T.K. how he is feeling because this mental tumult is the road he takes alone. It is a road of shame and self-doubt. It is a road of feeling unprepared for each new day. It is a treacherous road that’s just dirt, rocks, and inclines. Carlos wouldn’t want to bring anyone he loved with him down that road. Yet, he knew they would all go down it if he asked— if they knew it existed. They wouldn’t just go down it with him; they’d help him pave it. They’d help him put guardrails on the edges and streetlights in the dark corners. They’d form a community around the darkness. But Carlos isn’t ready to put his secret little road on the map, so all he can do is try to stay on his feet and continue on a lone journey down the road.

#text #my writing #elise writes #my fics #long works #8000 words #eye of the storm

7 notes · View notes

deanstop13billyjoeltraxx · 4 years

Text

Superposition

a deancas college roommate AU

Chapter 4 is up on AO3! (Chapter-by-chapter masterlist here.)

They’re Gonna Love You

Three Years Earlier

Cas was terrible at making friends.

He really was trying his best — he spoke up in class whenever he could, he talked to his seatmates when it was appropriate. And that was fine, everyone was perfectly nice to him. But he couldn’t figure out what exactly he was supposed to say to make himself less “that one guy from accounting” and more “Cas Novak.” So, he was three weeks into college with nothing to show for it.

Nothing, save his roommate.

Unlike Castiel, Dean had already found a group of friends from their floor. He was hardly ever in their room. Cas didn’t mind so much; it gave him space to focus on his homework, which already felt overwhelming and never-ending. But every day, like clockwork, Dean was back by seven, and he dragged Cas away from his computer and into the dining hall with him.

Castiel had to admit that dinner was the best part of his day. Dean rarely failed to take his mind off of the dangerously constant spiral of social anxiety and school-related stress. Cas learned that Dean moved constantly because of his father’s job, that his brother, Sam, was “a textbook nerd,” that Dean’s guilty pleasure was Grey’s Anatomy (“Don’t look at me like that, Patrick Dempsey is in it”), that he loved pie probably more than anyone should be allowed to. And Castiel told Dean things, too, things he’d never had the luxury of sharing; how he decided to be a writer after reading The Great Gatsby for the first time, that his attending college had made him the black sheep of the family, how he had never lost a game of Trivial Pursuit (“Is that a friggin’ challenge, Cas?”).

They had occasionally eaten with Dean’s friends from the dorms, most often on Fridays when the group was heading to a party afterward. That is, until Castiel brought a copy of Pride and Prejudice to the table to read before his next literature class, and Cole Martin asked him if he was gay with a smirk. The table had gone silent; Cas just looked at him, heat flaming across his face; Dean was staring daggers. Cole, refusing to get the message, prodded for a response, at which point Dean asked if he could talk to him for a minute.

Dean didn’t speak to Cole again after that.

He apologized to Cas profusely on Cole’s behalf, the “sorry’s” punctuated by assurances that it was great if Castiel was indeed gay, that Dean didn’t care, that Cas was Cas. But even if he was curious, Dean never asked the question. And that was good, because Cas wasn’t quite ready to have that conversation, seeing as coming out to Bartholomew during his senior year had led to six months of no-contact. Instead, Cas just informed Dean that he was accustomed to the treatment by now, that bringing Twilight to school his freshman year placed him solidly in the “insert homophobic-slur here” category, according to his peers. This only partly fixed the issue, because while Dean stopped apologizing, he started on a tirade against Castiel’s high school demons.

Cas had never had anyone care enough to stand up for him. He thought he was very lucky to have Dean Winchester as a roommate

It was Thursday, and Castiel was agonizing over a problem set for accounting when Dean walked in.

“All right, Einstein, let’s go,” he announced, dumping his backpack next to his desk. “Dinner time.”

“Give me a minute,” Cas muttered.

Dean moved over to Cas’ desk and leaned over his shoulder.

“Damn,” he said. “You really are a genius. I don’t know what any of this shit means.”

“Save your accolades for when I pass the class,” Cas said, sighing.

“You’ll pass, but not if you die from starvation first.”

Cas rolled his eyes. “I think you’re projecting.”

“Maybe I am,” Dean said, shrugging. “But you still need to eat.”

“All right. I’m coming.”

The pair walked to the dining hall, Dean explaining the details of the party he was attending the following night, how he hoped the girl from his English class would be there. Cas never had much to add to these types of conversations, but he typically tried to remain engaged. Tonight, he just uttered monosyllabic responses when it seemed appropriate.

Cas couldn’t stop thinking about how alone he had become. The novelty of college had worn off; all Cas could see now was how many hours he spent in solitude. He couldn’t help but feel as though he was doomed for a repeat of high school. The interaction with Cole certainly didn’t help matters, and though Dean was a great friend, Cas couldn’t escape the feeling that everything he did was out of pity.

“Okay, dude, what’s up?” Dean asked.

“What?”

“You’re acting all weird. Kinda mopey,” Dean explained with a mouthful of pizza.

“Oh,” Cas said. “I apologize. It wasn’t intentional. I just…”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“I’ve just been distracted tonight.”

“By what?”

Cas gave Dean a look. “It’s not important.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue, but Cas interrupted him, changing the subject.

“How are your classes?”

Dean shrugged. “Eh. Whatever. I don’t pay attention much.”

“Have you thought about what you’re going to major in?”

“Wish I was smart enough for engineering, but… Nah, I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Dean,” Cas said. “I’m sure you’re smart enough for anything you want to study.”

Dean chuckled. “Appreciate that, Cas, but definitely not.”

Cas eyed his friend a moment, but didn’t say anything else.

“Hey, you know the party I was telling you about?” Dean said after a moment of silence. “You should come. It’ll be fun.”

Castiel nearly choked on his chicken strips. There was only one thing that would make Dean invite him to a party. The thought of Dean feeling that bad for Cas made him want to become one with the floor. Not to mention the idea of attempting that level of social interaction was enough to send him into a tailspin.

“That’s very kind, but I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Cas said. “I’m not much for parties.”

“Oh come on, Cas. You’ve never even tried it!”

“I understand the general idea.”

“Man, it’s the experience.”

“Dean, I’m not going to a frat party. I have enough to worry about with my classes. Besides,” Cas looked away, refusing to meet Dean’s eyes. “I’m not… particularly adept at social interactions.”

“What?” Dean exclaimed. “Dude, you’re awesome. You do fine with me!”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” Cas sighed. “You tend to do most of the talking. It saves me from ruining things.”

Dean just looked at him. “Ruining things?”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly your typical college student.”

Dean laughed. “Well, I mean, no, but that doesn’t ruin things. Plus, I can guarantee that every girl at that party would be all over you. Most of the guys, too, probably. You’ve got the sexy nerd thing going on.”

Cas blushed profusely. “That’s irrelevant. The point is, I’m not going.”

Dean sighed, long-suffering. “Fine. I give up. For now.”

Cas let out a breath of relief.

They finished dinner and headed back to their dorm. Dean asked what class Castiel liked the most, which led to Cas gushing about creative writing for ten minutes. Dean graciously humored him, and when Cas apologized abashedly, Dean punched him in the shoulder and told him to shut up.

When they got back to their room, Dean put on another record (Wish You Were Here, by Pink Floyd, Cas was informed) and left to take a shower. Cas finished his problem set with “Have a Cigar” in the background, grateful for the distraction from his earlier thoughts. That was the one good thing about his double-major — he truly did not have time to ruminate on his problems.

Dean returned to work on an English essay, talking to himself the entire time. Cas did his best not to laugh at the muttered “what the hell am I even trying to say” and “I can’t use ‘demonstrates’ again.”

Hours later, after trying, and failing, to read ahead for philosophy, Cas resigned himself to his bed for the night.

“Tired?” Dean asked from his desk.

“Yes,” Cas said, throwing off his t-shirt and getting in bed. “But you can leave the light on if you have more work to do. I’ll fall asleep eventually.”

“Nah, I’m tired too.”

Dean flipped the lights off and climbed in his own bed. Cas closed his eyes against the quiet blackness.

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

“Are you all right? Level with me, man.”

Cas sighed. He supposed this conversation would happen sooner or later, if this friendship was to continue. “I’ve never had many friends,” he said. “I told you, after Cole, about the comments regarding my sexuality?” Dean made a grunt in understanding. “Well, it didn’t help that I was homeschooled until I was fourteen. I was what I believe is called ‘the weird kid.’”

Dean snorted. “You? Weird? Never.”

Cas rolled his eyes in the darkness. “I’m serious. I just don’t want to be the ‘weird kid’ again, I suppose. I believed college would be my second chance, but it’s beginning to feel like a bad sequel.”

“Dude,” Dean said, “you have me. And Benny and Charlie like you, too. If you just went out more —”

“I’m not sure I want my friendships to be predicated on underage drinking,” Cas replied, and cringed at the way it sounded. When Dean didn’t respond, he added, “I just mean… I want people to like me, not my drunken antics.”

“Right,” Dean mumbled. Then, “What was homeschool like?”

Cas furrowed his brow at the change in subject, but humored Dean, anyway. “Terrible. My father attempted to teach all five of us on his own. It was mostly history and religion, which, coming from him, meant racism, fire, and brimstone. He had this grand plan for me, and for my brothers, to become pastors.” Castiel paused. “I had to sneak out to the library with Anna just to teach myself basic algebra.” Another pause, a breath. “Anna kept me sane most days. She was more of a mother than a sister.” I miss her.

“Where was your mom?” Dean asked.

“Not sure,” Cas said. “We were all adopted as children. My father never took a wife, and I never knew my real parents. I asked my father about them once. He told me they died ages ago.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Cas.”

“It’s okay.”

“That makes more sense,” Dean said after a moment. “I was wondering why none of y’all looked alike.”

“I probably should have explained that earlier. I forget it isn’t common knowledge,” Cas replied.

Dean was quiet for a long time, so long that Cas suspected he may have fallen asleep. Cas was about to follow suit when Dean said, quietly, “Sometimes I was the weird kid, too.”

Castiel snapped his eyes open at that. It seemed unbelievable to him that Dean Winchester could be disliked by anyone. “What?”

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled. “Always moving, you know. Sometimes, people liked me. Sometimes, they really fucking hated me. It sucks, you know.”

“I do.”

tagging @nguyenxtrang :)

#destiel #deancas #supernatural #superposition #destiel fic

8 notes · View notes

sockablock · 5 years

Text

Once upon a time, @inkedinserendipity tagged me in a post by @superssonica asking what would happen if Caleb got a bit too used to the Polymorph spell.

Seren, you monster, this one goes out to you:

- - -

Beau disappears into the clouds below the branches, trailed—then outpaced—by a second crack of thunder.

After a moment, the massive boughs sway. A few leaves tremble, then fall still.

Caduceus takes a seat in the newly-sprung grass. Yasha joins, sheepish at his side.

“My wings were not made for flying,” she mumbles. “I think I will just stay on the ground.”

Nott tugs on Caleb’s sleeve. “I kind of want to go,” she says. “Do you have a way to get us up?”

He follows her gaze. He considers the tree. He mulls over a mental list of spells, then rummages around in his pouch for silken string.

The tiny cocoon gleams silver in the light.

He gives Nott a smile.

“Ja, sure. Hop on.”

—

Caleb is flying.

He’s never flown before, only seen and heard through Frumpkin’s eyes, back on the safety and security of the ground. But for a person, for a human, for the child of a farmer and a soldier, long ago, he’d like to think that he’s not doing a bad job.

The skies seem to tug at something deep within his soul, something feral and instinctive, something finally freed, something soaring, something lifting, something wild—alive.

In this euphoria, he tucks his wings close, driven on by a craving he’d never felt before.

He spins into a barrel-roll, diving through the clouds, Nott on his back, screaming—maybe it’s a cheer—all he really knows is the rush of the wind, the thrill of the ether, the endless expanse.

It is beautiful, so high in the clouds.

His mind lets go. There’s no need for control.

It is empty. It is peaceful.

Serene.

—

Later on, he turns back into the same bird to ferry Beauregard up to the nest. He lingers in the form a bit longer than needed.

It’s to save spell slots. You never know.

—

They arrive in Bazzoxan well after dusk and fall into the first and only bunks they can find. Jester and Caduceus look well enough tapped, and Fjord still occasionally plucks gravel from his chest. Yasha and Beau are as unfazed as ever, but this is as much of a habit as an act. Nott is fretting somewhere in the background, still searching desperately for her flask.

As far as evenings go, this one is fairly standard. It has been nearly a year since the Mighty Nein assembled, and all of these bustling midnight sounds are just a part of the familiar nightly song.

But when the lamplight fades, Caleb cannot sleep. He lies there, unmoving, eyes open in the dark.

He cannot stop thinking about what he’d done that morning. He cannot forget the way that it had felt.

Of course, he cannot forget anything. He’s never been able to, never known how.

But for that a minute, for that hour, for that daydream in the breeze, it had been so wonderfully easy.

—

He changes a few more times during the trip. Once towards the tomb, once within, once to dive past narrow, winding stairs. He mostly sticks to eagles—he knows them, they’re safe, and a part of him fears the uncertainty of other shapes.

He remembers the story that Jester had told about becoming a moth. She hadn’t been able to control her mind. She hadn’t been able to focus her thoughts. He remembers being a giant ape, and knowing nothing but the adrenaline and the bloody haze.

To a wizard, to a scholar, to a son of the fields who’d crawled his way up through sheer brains alone, this is something that rips at his core. It is horrifying. He must avoid it at all costs.

Still, though, he wonders, at dusk, by the campfire, as he stares alone into the flames:

What would it feel like? How far could he go?

His fingers brush a tiny cocoon. It glimmers faint and gold in the light.

—

They go home. To a home, anyways. They report to the Queen and her stance does not change, but Caleb’s convinced that there’s a new nod of care, maybe fondness, for their motley crew. They have continued to serve the Dynasty well. They have continued to help the Krynn win the war.

And gods, if the reports can be believed, the Krynn are winning this war.

She allows him to see the Vollstrecker.

Caleb’s soul is still rattled when finally, he leaves.

—

He goes to bed alone that night, alone in his room on the first floor of their house.

His mind is a well of isolation and regret, of a churning desire for a wish he’ll never have, of plans and ruminations, more distant by the hour, of dreams, calculations, memories long and past, all flooding, all filling, overflowing, overmuch, much, much too much—

He drags his fingers down the sides of his head, sweat dripping from the tangle of his hair.

He needs air. Breathe. He needs air.

Below the silence of the ever-present moon, his footsteps creak against a polished floor. His palm brushes the smooth wooden banister, and then he reaches the stairs to the roof.

He opens the door.

He inhales, below the tree.

The little globes of daylight are dormant at this hour, still and cold beneath the stars.

Caleb looks up into the branches across the sky. Their tree is not nearly as large, as enormous, but still, it is familiar all the same. It makes him think...it makes him remember...

"But not a bird if it’s night,” he murmurs. “Something else, something...”

Ah, yes.

He reaches into his little leather pouch. He pulls out another silk cocoon.

He’ll have to pick up more, soon. But that is a problem for another time.

Polymorph trips off the curve of his tongue like a dream he’s dreamt a thousand times before.

And then he is nothing but a tiny, squeaking bat, a single lone heartbeat aflutter in the night.

—

The spell lasts an hour.

—

If you cast it once.

—

That next morning, Caduceus makes breakfast. Caleb trudges down the stairs.

“Hey, what’s up with you?” Beau asks, as he pulls up a chair and collapses against the table. “Did you sleep bad? You look like shit.”

“Thank you, Beauregard,” he mutters, and pulls a mug of...of something, to his face. “Your razor-like honesty is always appreciated.”

“Alright, fuck me for asking,” she scowls, and turns around to harass Fjord instead.

Nott, seated across the table, is feeding something to Yeza. It is amazing, the change he brings to her.

Caleb’s gaze drifts away. He focuses on a faint spiral in the wood, a little point of difference in a world of smooth grain.

After a while, he is aware of someone calling his name. He jerks up, just in time to see a fried egg slide onto his plate.

“Didn’t sleep well?” Caduceus asks kindly. “You, ah, I hope you don’t mind my saying, but you seem a bit tired, today.”

Caleb gives him a weak smile. “Ja, I stayed up last night. Working on...working on magic,” he adds.

Technically, it is not a lie.

However, Caduceus is hard to talk around. His eyes give a flicker, and though he doesn’t argue, it certainly doesn’t seem like he is fully convinced.

Still, he gives a nod. He moves on to feed the others.

Caleb feels guilty, and he isn’t sure why.

Then again, he muses, stabbing at his plate, there’s a lot for him to be guilty for.

He sinks just a bit lower in his chair.

—

They decide, unanimously, that despite the uncertainty, they desperately need a break before heading to the north. Another week wouldn’t be too bad, adds Jester, so one more week of downtime is had. Almost immediately afterwards, Beau grabs Fjord to train in the cellar, saying something about—I can’t let Dairon down. Nott and Yeza disappear to the lab, to steal every moment they can before they part ways. Jester and Caduceus opt for some therapeutic shopping, leaving Caleb by himself, alone with his own devices.

Three months ago, that wouldn’t have been so bad.

He drifts around for a bit, idly doing tasks, re-sorting the library and polishing the windows, making his bed and then stopping to make the others’. He even takes a whole hour to scrub their tub, draining out the water and rolling up his sleeves, getting down on both knees and working the basin with a towel.

It is noon by the time he is finished. There are still seven more hours until sundown.

There are still one hundred and fifty-one until their week-long vacation ends.

Caleb sits down at the edge of the pool. His fingers run aimless across the soapy rag as he tries desperately to think of more to do.

He even briefly debates seeing Essek.

After a little while, he stands up.

It is pointless. Nothing is as good.

—

“—and we’ve got a deal on clay, too. Great for Earthquakes, Feeble Mind, Shaping Stone, if that’s something you’re interested in. Only 10 silver for a—no?”

“No, no,” Caleb says quickly, carefully pouring the silk threads into his pouch. “Thank you, but I am well-stocked in that...regard. Er...thank you, madam.”

“Well, if you change your mind,” says the goblin, waving her hand and watching him go. “Come back soon, you know where to find me!”

Caleb does.

And he is sure that he will.

—

He deliberates only a few minutes more as he stands atop the stone wall along their tower. It is dark in Rhosana, that is the problem, otherwise a bird would be the obvious choice. Then he thinks harder, and laughs at his own foolishness, and smashes the silver cocoon in his hands.

His wings spread wide, don’t make a sound.

His eyes, large, yellow, seeing all, drink in the energy and movement of a city that he—for now—does not entirely understand.

—

He comes home that night feeling mildly rumpled, somewhat wind-swept, all his spells spent. Still he agrees, as he collapses at the dinner table, that was a long afternoon well-spent. Caduceus is cooking again, of course he is, though Nott is assisting and Jester offers advice.

The food is amazing, once it is complete. Though he eats much, much much more than he usually would, a fact that a number of his friends pick up on.

“Did you and Essek bone or something?” Beau asks. “Dude, chill out, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Jester snickers as Fjord thumps him on the back, giving him a sympathetic hand.

“I did not,” Caleb says, affronted, and coughs one more time just for good measure. “I can assure you, we did nothing of the sort.”

“So what did you do?” Caduceus asks. His eyes, usually so dazed and relaxed, have focused onto Caleb with an uncomfortable accuracy. Damn the priest, Caleb thinks. What is this? A confession?

“We just reviewed dunamantic basics,” he murmurs, well aware of how it sounds to Jester. “I do not have any spell slots left, but I can certainly show you at a later time.”

“Firing blanks now?” Beau asks with false sympathy. “He must have really worked you hard.”

Caleb groans, and deliberately turns so that he cannot see her. Even Nott is grinning at him widely, seemingly pleased at the idea of...well, of whatever they think that he is doing.

He wonders, idly, as the conversation shifts to other inane topics, if this is because she is gently, in her own way, trying to let him go.

After all, she has Yeza now. She has a son she needs to go home to. She has a mission she needs to accomplish.

Caleb is supposed to have one too. But at some point during the months that have passed, he is trying less and less to think about it.

He has a feeling he knows why, but that does not make it any better.

—

That evening, his mind churns again. But he is exhausted, and depleted of his spells. He has to force himself to rest, even a short nap will do. He lies there in bed, undreaming, for hours, until he is finally dormant long enough to tap into his old training and conjure up a burst of magic.

It is just enough for one final spell. Time to make it count.

He closes his eyes.

He curls up against the mattress, and imagines what it would like to be Frumpkin.

—

There is no sunlight in this city, which means no morning gleam through the windows, but the distant hum of activity in the house, the far-off clamor of voices and life, signals to Caleb that the day has now begun.

And Frumpkin is there. Asleep against the covers, but stirs when Caleb starts to shift.

Very quickly, he is up and locking eyes with his wizard, draping across his lap and purring up a storm.

The sleep-muddled curve of Caleb’s mouth forms a smile. He runs his fingers across Frumpkin’s scalp, gently strokes his thumb against his cat’s fur.

“Dir auch einen guten morgen,” he murmurs. “I thought you were out enjoying yourself in the city.”

Frumpkin mrows in response and rolls over onto his back.

There is a moment, and then suddenly, Caleb frowns.

“Was? What are you talking about? Do not be silly, everything is fine.”

He absently scritches the fur on Frumpkin’s chest. But now his rhythm is a little unsteady.

“I am not sure what you mean,” he adds, after another pause for silence.

Frumpkin purrs. He opens one eye and peers at Caleb.

“I am not,” Caleb says.

Frumpkin turns over. Caleb scowls.

“I do not see why this is any of your business. And even if I was doing for that reason, it is not a harmful habit. I am just taking advantage of the skills I have learned. There is nothing wrong with that.”

Frumpkin stares until Caleb can no longer stand it. Brow furrowed, he plucks his cat from his lap and drops him onto the bed.

He says:

“I need some time alone. Do not bother me.”

—

Frumpkin is a familiar, bound by an eldritch pact. He cannot allow his master to come to harm, and he cannot disobey Caleb’s commands.

He cannot disobey Caleb’s commands. He cannot allow his master to come to harm.

Frumpkin is a familiar, and they had made a pact.

Then again, Frumpkin is also fey.

And fey do not take “no” for an answer.

—

“Gods above,” Beau grumbles, leaping to the side, “hey, jeez, calm down, already. What’s gotten into you?”

Frumpkin sits back on his haunches and yowls purposely at her knees. His tail lashes through the air impatiently.

Beau scratches the top of her head.

“Are you trying to tell me something? What’s wrong?”

She can swear that the feline is rolling his eyes. She crouches down and frowns at him.

“Is...oh, shit, is it Caleb? Where is he? Is he alright?”

—

The spell that Jester and Caduceus had woven into the ribbons of daylight on their tree illuminates the top of the tower for a few hours every day.

It is the closest thing that Rhosana has to sun, to a good and honest warmth. Caleb had decided, just minutes ago, to utilize this to its fullest potential.

He is content, here. He is basking, and at peace.

And then, just at the edge of his hearing, there is a faint disturbance.

“—what, that? Are you sure?”

The voice is familiar. Right now, Caleb can’t seem to remember whose it is, but he is vaguely irritated. It had been so quiet before, it had been so calm—

“You have to be really sure. I’m not gonna kill a random lizard.”

His little reptilian heartbeat leaps. He can sense a shadow looming over him now, all his instincts scream to run—

“Alright, alright, calm down, I’m doin’ it—”

—his muscles bunch, he gets ready to jump—

And a hand descends from the heavens above, the edge colliding with Caleb’s spine, there’s one second of awful, horrible pain, of a bright-yellow smudge staining the rocks, and then he is growing, aching, stretching, tumbling onto two legs, not four, glaring up in a light too bright and snarling at the unmoving face of Beau.

Now the physical is secondary. His mind is back, and it is angry.

“Arschgesicht! I had forty-two minutes on that spell!”

Beau doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even respond. Instead, in true Cobalt Soul fashion, she stares him down with such a gaze that for but a second, Caleb almost feels sheepish.

Then the furry bubbles right back to the surface.

“Why did you do that?” he demands. “Beauregard, why would you interrupt me?”

“Uh, what exactly did I interrupt?” Her eyebrows are raised, her chin turned up. “Caleb, what the fuck were you doing?”

“I was—I—magic!” he shouts. He gestures wildly to the smooth stones. “I was just practicing my spells! You know you are not supposed to interfere!”

He feels something dull at the back of his skull. It is like a pressure, though rapidly fading, and as he whirls around towards the source, he just sees the tip of a ginger tail vanishing down the tower stairs.

He almost shouts. He does not, but almost. He begins to storm off towards the door, his foot falls once, hard, into the grass, but then comes a grip like iron against his wrist.

Beauregard always says that her hands are her weapons. Even Caleb, in this state, remembers this well.

“Good gods,” she says, eyebrows rising further. “Dude, seriously, what’s up with you? Why’re you pissed? You can cast it again, can’t you?”

“Yes, Beauregard,” he manages, “yes, of course, of course I can. But that is not the point, here. The point is that Frumpkin disobeyed what I said, and, and coerced you to come here. I know you are innocent here, but he—”

“Wow.”

Caleb pauses.

“‘Wow’ what?”

Beau lets go of his wrist. She takes a step back, crosses her arms, looks him over with the sudden terrible stare of understanding. “Damn, dude, I came up here because I thought you were in trouble. That something was attacking you, or something’. But I guess trouble comes in different forms, huh?”

Caleb frowns. “What do you mean?”

She points at the rocks, where he had been resting. “Sometimes it’s a lizard. I’m guessing sometimes it’s a bird? A giant one, with eagle-wings?”

His eyes narrow. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Yeah, well, I barely do either, but Frumpkin seems to think there’s something wrong. With you, I mean. And I guess with your spells.”

“There is nothing wrong with me. And there is no reason for you to think that.”

She leans in.

“You and your cat are telepathically linked.”

“And? What of it?”

“If there was something goin’ on in your head, don’t you think he would have noticed?”

“He is overreacting,” Caleb huffs, “there is nothing—”

“Come on, man, this is Frumpkin. He cares about you, he’s just worried. And honestly, based on the way you’re acting, I’m starting to worry too.”

Caleb stops.

He goes still.

His gaze falls to the ground.

“Ja, well,” he murmurs. “Perhaps you should not bother.”

To his amazement, Beau rolls her eyes.

“Aw, come on,” she says, stepping forward. “Don’t play that face with me, alright?” She prods him in the chest. “Alright, spill. What’s up? Are you still pissed about that Scourger that got caught?”

Caleb sighs. “No, no, that is not it. It is…” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “It is just...other things. You know.”

“I don’t.”

He inhales. Then he sags, finally defeated.

“Ja. Ja, I suppose that is true.”

He watches her cross her arms.

“I won’t know unless you tell me,” she says. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He feels the last of the rage drain away. His stares intently at the dirt.

“It is...I believe it is everything. Everything that has been happening. Everything that has happened.”

He falls quiet.

“I think it may be too much.”

Beau gives him a very level stare.

Eventually, she gestures to the stones. Warm under the glow of light made by a friend.

“Alright,” she says. “Fine. Let’s talk.”

They both sit. It is quiet, for a moment. And then, Caleb sighs one last time, and speaks:

“We are in a very strange place. And we are trying to...we are trying to do some very big things. Things that...as every day goes by, seem more and more impossible to accomplish.”

Beau leans against the bark of the tree.

“Yeah, I…feel you there.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow.

“What did your mentor say, by the way? How much does she know about...about the things we have done?”

Beau meets his gaze, eyes blank and cool.

“Oh, no. We’re doing your problems now. We can talk about all that later.”

Despite everything, this makes Caleb laugh. It’s nothing more than a faint chuckle, but Beau smiles back, gives him a nod.

“C’mon,” she says. “Go on. Keep going.”

Caleb tilts his head up to the boughs of the gnarled tree.

“I am...well, I am not sure. Not really. I do not think I have been, for a long time. And…seeing that V—that Scourger, it made me realize that…that for all of my memory, all my knowledge, for all the things I had swimming in my head, I realize now that I did not really have to think. I just...really, I just had to believe. I had to obey what my Lehrer—teacher, said. Really, I was not expected to think. And everything, for all its complications, everything was so, so simple.”

He glances down at the ground. Tufts of grass lay silent below his feet.

“Today, my friend, today they are not. We are...we are trying to do very big things. And we are trying to help many people. And I think that is good. Really, I do. And I think it has given me...in some ways, a...a goal. Something that seems a bit more feasible, anyway.”

“More realistic then bending reality.”

He gives a faint smile.

“Ja, you could put it that way. But, ah...but as you can likely see, that goal has gotten slightly more...complicated. And trying to stay on the right path...even finding that path itself, is not a straightforward process. It requires thought. It requires so much thought. And now, after everything, after all we have seen and tried to do, I believe...I am sure...that I am just tired of thinking.”

Beau nods sagely as his voice trails away.

“Okay,” she shrugs. “Then you should just stop.”

Caleb blinks.

“Jus—what?”

Beau sighs. “I…I dunno, man. I think, honestly, I think that’s all you need. To stop thinking about all that shit. Not—” she adds hastily, “—not in the way that you’re doing with the lizards. Not like that. But just...I dunno. When you’re being you.”

“But when I am me, I cannot do that,” Caleb says. “I have a perfect memory, Beauregard. There is nothing I can forget.”

“Oh, wow, look at you. Wow. I’m so impressed.”

“Beauregard—”

She grins and raises her hands. “Sorry, sorry, I couldn’t resist. But, uh...yeah. I guess that makes sense. That...that sounds pretty rough, dude. If I had a record of my greatest failures playing all the time in my head, I think I’d go pretty crazy too.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow.

“Now I am confused,” he says. “Is this conversation supposed to help me?”

Beau throws her arms into the air.

“Hell, I dunno,” she says. “I’m not the feelings expert, or whatever. I’ve just seen people do this kind of shit before. You’re supposed to talk things out, right? That’s supposed to...I dunno, fix things, or something?”

“Is it?” Caleb asks, incredulous. “Who told you that?”

She scratches the back of her neck. “Uh...I dunno. Probably Caduceus.”

“That seems like something that he would say.”

They fall silent for a few moments after that, drinking in the sunlight and the distant city sounds.

Then Beau says:

“I wasn’t lying, though. I don’t really know what it’s like to feel like you. I can’t imagine having a brain like yours. But...but I do kind of know what you’re going through.” He glances over, and she nods. “Yeah. I do. I think...I think it’s a pretty common thing. Maybe not in such perfect detail, but...it can be hard to stop thinking about all the times you’ve fucked up. And it can be even harder when you know that, uh...when it feels like the fate of a hundred thousand souls rests on every stupid decision that you make.”

“We have made many stupid decisions, eh?”

“God, you’re telling me?” Beau groans. The back of her head rests against the tree. “I’m amazed Dairon didn’t kill me. And honestly, I’m amazed all of us are still alive. But...I mean...I guess that’s just it, right? We’re still alive. We’re still here. And, most important, we’re still truckin’.”

She tilts one eye towards Caleb.

“We’re still here, and we’re still trying to figure it out. As shitty as it is, sometimes. As much as...as much as it hurts. And as tired as we get. We haven’t given up, and we’re still alive. Seriously, think about it in math. The odds are definitely that we should’ve died by now.”

He can’t help but snort. “Ja, absolut.”

“But we aren’t,” Beau shrugs. “And as shitty as that is, as much as it hurts, as fuckin’ terrible as it can sometimes be...that means we still have a chance. To do...whatever it is that we’re supposed to do. Or not supposed to do. And I always get pissed when people tell that I’m lucky for it, or whatever, but...I dunno. Maybe we are. And maybe it’s rotten luck for the world that it’s us, but...here we are. All of us, here we are. And...and we’ve got each other. And I won’t pretend to know what I’m doing, and I definitely don’t know...not really, how to help, but, uh. I’m here for you. Okay? Whatever...whatever you need. As long as it’s not bullshit—" she raises an eyebrow, Caleb chuckles.

“—but yeah. Seriously. I’m here. And I’ll always listen, whenever I can.”

She leans back against the bark. She closes her eyes and gives a nod.

“I mean that,” she says. “I really do.”

Caleb feels the sunlight glow against his skin, feels the warmth of its whisper brushing across his face. And there’s another light too, maybe brighter, maybe warmer, coming from either side of his form—it’s the gentle sigh of a shoulder pressed against his own, and the curling, purring softness, of a cat beneath his hands.

He glances down at Frumpkin. Then he turns to look at Beau.

Here we are. All of us, here we are.

Very, very slowly, he closes his eyes.

And it isn’t the cure. Not by a long shot.

But certainly, it’s a start.

#critical role #critfic #fic #fanfic #critrole #caleb widogast #beauregard #the mighty nein #long post #SUCH A LONG POST #SORRY IF THE BREAK FAILS #jay writes #jay tagged #seren you monster i did this for you #text #drabble #thank ya thank ya thank ya for reading!!!

247 notes · View notes

loser-62 · 4 years

Text

here's how my life goes:

recently ive really been wanting to kill myself. i get myself into these random doom spirals of rumination where i just fantasize about my death and its aftermath for hours. and i cant stop thinking about it, i get in this whole mindset where im so certain that i'm going to kill myself so i start planning my legacy, writing suicide notes, filming videos where I talk about my life that are to be discovered after my suicide. i think about people's reactions, who will find me, how i'm going to do it, and to be honest these thoughts are some of the only things that let me relax or give me comfort because for a moment nothing matters because it will be all over. for a moment the past doesnt matter and neither does the future because none of that will exist soon enough and there's nothing to worry about, nothing's wrong anymore. so yeah, then when im in this state long enough and im convinced that im going to die soon i start binging on lots of drugs because i dont give a fuck anymore and if i die, well i was going to die anyway. and it feels good and i need to sedate myself from these obsessive thoughts. so i do a fuckton of drugs, mostly percs, dxm, weed, alcohol, coke, and fent and i binge a fuckton. like to the point where most of the times when i use i feel like i am going to die or like ive really fucked up my body in some way, and my insides are sore for like a week after a good binge. like i cannot tell you how many times i have just had to accept my death while im high because i genuinely think it's going to happen. then after a while i'll trip on like a fuckton of lsd and have a spiritual revelation about how i need to get my shit together and stop hurting myself, and then magically i start being productive again. then something happens or i get caught in a shitty daydream again and i get suicidal again, and the cycle starts all over.

0 notes

ladycapuletwrites · 7 years

Text

Come Downs and New Clowns

I’m hiding in my room as I have to have a conversation with the bar manager about how early I can get out of my 14 day contract. I want to go to Ecuador with the boys but I'm in two minds about it.

That’s the next stop on the list.

I could stay, have a break, relax and chill out for a week and then go meet them, or I could leave earlier and get the party started over there. God, I don't even know where Montanita is, I’m just living for the people around me, and the boys, these beautiful men who have grown into a collective consciousness with me.

With Eloise’s arrival there has been news, and more people. She is one of the first imports from chilly Cusco to join the beach-side family. She gets a job the day after she arrives, and so does The Israeli Girls. I call them this because they deserve a title. I could call them The Wonder Women. And I could do that because I’m writing this is present tense, but in hindsight. So for now, they are The Israeli Girls. Or rather, four beautiful girls named Aviva, Noga, Yuval and Adi. They are the sunshiniest new employees to enter the bar and are more than fit to replace the boys. I’ve loved them from the moment they laughed and drank with abandon. But I still want to go with the boys. Safety in the fun I’ve been having, I feel like we’ve banded together. A band of Brothers.

I don't know if that's the cocaine talking, and to be honest there was a moment there last night where I knew I had a choice between doing it and not doing it. I was sitting on Rico's bed and Angel was waving at me from the window with a joint, and Rico sitting on the floor with a racked up computer, and I could have just smoked the joint but instead I racked the line and then smoked the joint because nothing says excess like excess. And this, the result. The Israelis have invited me to drink by the pool, but I’m sitting in my room thinking the fan is talking to me again. “Girl you a party animal”.

I feel so out of it today though that nothing makes any sense and I can't write my story cos my brain doesn't work properly. I used to get like this with meth comedowns, spend all these twilight hours looking up the long term effects of amphetamines and googling how long it takes you to get addicted just in case I was spiralling out of control.

Holly Whitaker says that if you're lying awake at a ridiculous hour questioning whether or not you have an addiction, you probably do. Cocaine is such a strange, persuasive drug. It delivers what it promises, but then you find yourself scattered to the wind the next day and questioning which parts of your thoughts are you and which parts are the cocaine. It's a strange come down, I've never had quite so much of an urge to smoke weed before, either. But the combination of cocaine and weed is not only hysterical but has a tendency to explore your propensity for creativity more. Either way, I still question if I have a problem.

My best friends’ email in my head every day, challenging me to access that other part of my personality that craves sobriety. But then, getting high is fucking fun. I think that's the problem with traveling and taking shit whilst doing that. There are no yesterday's on the road, if you feel like shit, you really can leave whenever you want.

Eloise brings news of the Cuzco crew with her when she arrives. Snir has removed more and more things from his diet in lieu of his alcoholism. First he was taking cocaine but didn't like the fact that it sobered him up, then he removed two meals from his day, and then, began just eating snacks instead of meals, and now he's at a point where he's refusing to drink water because he also believes that this sobers him up and interferes with his beer. I just see him in my mind, completely fucking insane. Angel says he saw Snir the first month and then a month and a half later, that he thought he was a broken man at that point. But it's been two and a half months now and Eloise told me a story about how she woke up at midday to the vision of Snir, naked and pole dancing on the outside tables, hugging a balustrade.

Shay got back from Cuzco and she said she saw this girl behind the bar who was completely fucked up and trying to serve drinks but her eyes kept rolling back into her head. I asked her what she looked like, showed her a picture of Stacey. That's the one.

Eloise tells me a story about an Irish guy that’s staying at the hostel now, married a Peruvian girl. This was an entrance into the insanity of Peruvians because we all agree that the bar manager, Michelle, is terrifying. Hence my hesitation to tell her I want to leave, and with the promise of frienships reignited, and female energy gained.

So this Irish guy, marries his Peruvian bride and is for some reason always staying at Loki Cuzco because he keeps getting kicked out of the house. After the latest glitter party he arrived home to find himself locked out of the house. He climbed through the window and she came at him then, baseball bat swinging, knocked him clean out. He awoke and she was screaming at him, she’d noticed the glitter on his face, that had been administered by one Eloise, and Miss Peru goes mental because she believes he’s been out cheating all night with a glitter clad whore. She proceeds to trash the house, and he runs right back to Loki, where he drinks himself into a stupor and passes out in the staff quarters.

The next day, he arrives home to find that Miss Peru has done thousands of dollars worth of damage and that the house is basically unlivable, so he comes back to Loki, after hearing that his wife has moved in with her sister and insists he fixes the house for being a lowly cheating scum bag.

He doesn’t, so now there is a house in Cusco that’s been abandoned because of a glitter party.

I ruminate on this, and decide that drinking with the Israelis is exactly what I need. I’ll save the chat with Michelle, The Peruvian bar manager, for tomorrow.

I head up to the top dorm, the one that I sleep in but don’t actually keep my stuff. I have one bed in the lower dorm that I’m supposed to stay in, and one bed in the top dorm that I sit in with the boys and wax lyrical about nothing whilst smoking on the balcony and sticking my head in a locker to intermittently snort lines. Speaking of which, I find Rico and Bruno, holding a rolled up note, poking their heads around the locker door.

“Well, you’re right on time”’ says Rico, handing me the note. “Girl you a party animal” I sing, and lean in.

Down at the bar, the girls have just come back from surfing. What the fuck is that. I’ve been here for over a week, which is more like a year in Loki time, and all I’ve found time for is, well, you already know. Aviva is sucking down on a slushie and comes up very close to my face.

“Hello Beautiful, I hear you like to do things in groups”.

Thanks Eloise.

Angel has already given me the lowdown. “Aviva the Conqueror”, were his slanted words. Every pretty girl in fifteen miles is charmed and bedded by this fearless mistress, and she is mildly intoxicating, standing so close, aware of her power, I start to think about the fact that there isn’t many things in the world more attractive than a woman aware of her own power, no matter what it is being used for. It’s exotic, foreign, and though it shouldn’t be, it feels taboo. The chained and trapped lioness released from her bonds, ready to claw your heart out. I liked her immediately.

The other three, wet from the surf, and Eloise perched on a stool smoking her cigarette with that finesse I could never bely, all beckon the boys and I over. It’s like a school disco on the third dance when finally, all parties move into the centre of the square.

“Wanna smoke a joint in the pirate ship?” Says Noga,

The Pirate Ship is an abandoned ship wreck that’s been painted brilliant colours about a kilometre down the beach.It’s fitting, and at the mention of “Pirate Ship” Ryan appears out of thin air. I’m buzzed from the coke and high from the weed so this all sounds like a splendid idea.

Our ragtag crew wander down into the sunset, watching the horses carrying awkward tourists along the shoreline. Take our flip flops off, but put them back on to climb into the ship, as it’s littered with glass shards.

Noga, slightly stoned, begins a story, about Yuval. She’s talking about Yuval coming out of anaesthetic. It goes as so many anaesthetic stories do; some freakish developmentally delayed demon takes over your friend and suddenly your friend is a mermaid and is missing teeth, and they’re in a ketamine-like fantasy world. Adi is absolutely wetting her pants laughing. She explains that it’s the first time she’s ever heard this story told in English.

We take a snap. Well, I take a snap, miss documenter, chaotic narrator and gonzo journalist. We are all standing happily and the sun is doing that thing that it does every night in Mancora, making pink cocaine streaks out of the sky and telling the future for our little beachside home. Smooth sailing, evermore.

***

We have to remember that I was mostly high when I was doing this, so recreating the story from fragmented experiences is the only forte allowed to me.

With that in mind, the next thing I remember is being in bed with Bruno and Adi.

Bruno and I make a bro pact that we won’t touch each other; it would be too weird, like sleeping with my cousin.

But we decide to share Adi as if she were a prize. I kiss her, then he kisses her. We all take our cloths off, and lay in bed with each other like sardines in a can, squashed either side. It gets awkward for Adi having to turn her head left and then right so I decide to go down on her. Only, the light is shining through the window and Rico is in the bed adjacent to us sniggering like a child. She can’t enjoy herself, and I’m, exhausted, and the light is hurting my eyes. It’s like that scene in Romeo and Juliet (The Baz one) where Leonardo is under the covers making grand gestures of love, except there are three of us under the covers and it is awkward, and this is all taking place in a dorm filled with people who are too high to sleep pretending that they are asleep. Well, everyone except Rico. I decide to leave the party, and get into the bed further down the dorm.

I slip uneasily into a jagged sleep, lulled by the sounds of Brunos bunk knocking against mine.

***

“I know exactly what you guys were doing last night”, taunts Rico.

“Nah man, we were just sharing the catch” said Bruno, over our toasties, trademark cigarette hanging out his mouth.

“Didn’t touch each other, too weird.” I say.

“You know it’s our last day today Sare” says Angel.

“Yeah”, I say, pulling a cigarette out of Brunos packet to stave off the nausea.

“ My mate has come down from Montanita, his names James.”

And again, as if things happen by magic in this story, James appears, just as I hop behind the bar for my shift. He is cocky and very sure of himself, young and “bro” and Australian and I can tell why Rico likes him. I can also tell exactly why I won’t.

#southamerica #prose #non fiction #creative writing #writers

0 notes