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glsneeg-enthusiast · 16 days ago

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canonically pspsps

Maybe Henrik was drunk, or on another three day cocaine bender, but he made his way back onto Randy's kitchen floor. Randy didn't mind this, he had started expecting to see Henrik in his house late at night. It started nearly a month ago, he remembered when Henrik first climbed through the window that he forgot to lock, beaten black and blue and so drunk he couldn't stand back up. That was always the state he was in whenever he did this, bruised and bloody and some form of intoxicated, one of the reasons Randy had never told him to stop (the other reason was that it almost made him feel better, knowing Henrik was sleeping, or just inside his house at all, rather than on sidewalk or in the bed of some girl he had hooked up with). The only thing Randy wasn't a fan of was that Henrik insisted on staying on the floor every time, saying that he was hot and that the cold floor helped, though he was always shivering whenever he tried to explain. It would be another one of those times, Randy could tell with how Henrik was basically face down on the floor while hacking like he couldn't breathe.

Randy should've let him be, really, he shouldn't have gotten him to sit up, because he wasn't entirely sure how to respond to the crying that followed, or the blood dripping down Henrik's face (he didn't look all that bad with blood and tears running down his face or with bloodstained teeth and tongue, but Randy thought he looked better without it). He was sure Henrik himself didn't know what he was crying about, he looked pissed off more than sad as he just clung to Randy's shirt and whined. And Randy, without realizing, had started counting again. It was hardly audible over Henrik's crying and mumbling and coughing, but he was on ten now, and Henrik's breathing was starting to level again. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, zero, zero, one, and so on. That's how it goes, what Randy follows and what Henrik's starting to learn, something Randy had learned from his mother and what she had learned from her own mother. Henrik didn't know how to deal with anything, all he would do is get high or drink or sleep around until he ends up unconscious in the road, Randy figured he would try to give him any other way to deal with himself, he liked Henrik after all. Randy continued counting as Henrik, painfully slowly, got a grip on reality again. He had never let go of Randy's shirt, nor did he stop shaking, but he was (mostly) breathing normally again, and that's the main thing Randy wanted.

Which led to the next part, getting Henrik off the floor. He wouldn't give a shit if it was anyone else, not that he would even let anyone else in his house like this, but he didn't hate Henrik so he would put up with it for however long it takes. He normally tries to get Henrik somewhere in his room in the event that something happens (bleeding, choking, vomiting, nightmare, anything that could fuck him up more), which it often does happen, but even getting Henrik on the couch would be okay, Randy wouldn't mind staying in the living room tonight. And Henrik was doing that thing again, where he buries his face into Randy's shoulder and mutters things into his shirt. So uncharacteristically quiet, it almost made Randy miss his regular almost yelling. Randy always hated this, hated feeling Henrik's skin and the bones underneath, the warm breath that reeked of alcohol, the blood that would soak through his shirt. He hated being able to feel Henrik's bones the most, hated that Henrik had lost nearly all his body mass, Randy was sure he didn't even weigh a hundred pounds anymore. Henrik was already so small to him, a coward that was small enough to hide from too many things, and now you could make out all his bones and he weighed ninety pounds at most. Maybe it wasn't his fault, maybe that was the only way he knew how to survive. Regardless, Randy hated it. Henrik was so small and insignificant, another drug addict doing lines in a gas station bathroom, another alcoholic sleeping on a sidewalk, another person smoking outside of a building, another boy trying to get into every girl's pants, another boy who got dealt the short end of the stick, Randy didn't know why he cared about him so much. He does care an unusual amount, it was obvious to anyone that knows both of them, he's inconvenienced himself too many times to go drag Henrik out of whatever trouble he's gotten into, even Henrik's "friends" had noticed it. It almost felt like everybody except Henrik knew.

Henrik liked Randy, or at the very least tolerated him, Randy knew that much. Henrik had made a point to not touch people he didn't, let alone put almost his entire body on. Randy hated being touched at all, whether it was because of his "problem" or because the first people who had ever touched him were his mother, who had to scrub herself clean every time afterward (but it was never her fault, she also had a "problem," it was just slightly different from Randy's), or his father, who loved him like a priest instead of a dad. He never did seem to mind as much as normal whenever it was Henrik. In fact, he had grown used to it, Henrik clinging to him even when they were alone, holding onto Randy's sleeves in public, standing so close that his shoulder would press into Randy's arm. He was becoming accustomed to this as well, Henrik putting his face in Randy's shoulder or sometimes the crook of his neck, holding onto Randy's shirt with one hand and clawing at one of his own body parts with the other.

Randy wasn't sure when he stopped counting but he did, and Henrik hadn't, he could still make out the muffled whispering. He was on seven now, eight, nine, ten, zero, zero, one, two, three, and his voice had gotten quieter and quieter, the rest Randy could only make out from voice cracks, four, seven, ten, zero, and he had either stopped or Randy couldn't hear him anymore. Just like every other time, Randy noticed every noise and every little detail while he waited. The dripping from the sink faucet that Henrik hadn't fully turned off, the creaking from the ceiling fan, Henrik's breathing speeding up and slowing down, the nearly dried blood on the tile, the blood soaked in Henrik's shirt, the mixture of vomit and blood running down the kitchen counter, Henrik's left hand on his ribcage. It was always his left hand, his left hand is weaker than the right (Randy thought that maybe it was because of the burns on his hand, that maybe because his knuckles had been burned he had lost some kind of control over it), so he grabs Randy with the right and himself with the left. And sometimes he holds Randy with both, when he can't breathe or think and he's convinced this is how he'll die. And sometimes Randy wants to tell him that he's right, that he'll die with maybe one person next to him, that theres maybe one person that still gives a shit about him in the entire world, that he'll only be remembered for ruining so many people's lives, an addict, alcoholic, asshole that can't keep his emotions in check or control himself, a stupid stuttering idiot that never did anything with his life. But Randy never said it, and he probably never will, because he hates seeing Henrik cry.

Henrik had stopped a few minutes ago, tore himself from Randy (he had struggled to do so, Randy was sure he was shaking more now), his face was only covered in smeared blood, even though most of it had been rubbed off onto Randy's shirt. And Henrik had that look again, the one where anyone could tell he wasn't really there mentally, horribly dilated pupils staring through the ground. He had these eyebags that made Randy's look like nothing, small acne scars across the sides of his face, his hair was messy and in his eyes (swooped more to the left like it always was), the blood meshed with Henrik's face so wonderfully that Randy had nearly forgotten it was even blood. Maybe if he ever had the balls Randy would tell Henrik he didn't look half as bad as he usually thought he did, not even when he was crying or bloody or scared. It would change nothing about how Henrik views himself, it would only give Randy the peace of mind that he had said what he perceived as the truth. Randy had started counting in his head again (one, two, three, four), he always did whenever he thought of Henrik like this. Standing up, Henrik grabbing at Randy's legs in a weak attempt to keep him from walking away, wetting a rag, watching the remaining vomit and blood run down the drain, sitting back down and trying to scrub Henrik clean of blood as gently as possible, it was starting to feel monotonous (five, six, seven, eight).

It was pathetic, Randy's care and Henrik's desperation to not be alone. And Henrik looked pathetic and he truly was, bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils, blood and vomit stained shirts, trembling that would never really go away, he would never be anything more. Randy would never be anything more either, he'd decided (nine, ten, zero, zero). Randy had settled on doing this until he dies, never leaving this town he hates, taking care of Henrik because nobody else will, praying to God every night and never getting a response, drinking until he passes out every other weekend. This is all either of them will ever be, and maybe Henrik knew that, maybe he was only trying to speed up the process of dying. Henrik wanted to be something, he told Randy this so many times, he wanted to do something good for at least one person, but he never got the chance to and he was sure he never would, no matter how much he wanted it. He didn't know he already had, he was something good, he was to Randy. Randy had told him this once, and only once, on one of the nights like these. It was late and Randy wasn't fully awake, maybe he wasn't really sober either or thinking straight, and Henrik had gotten too close and he kept taking fistfuls of Randy's shirt and he had started talking again, about how he wasn't any good, and Randy needed to tell him even if he wouldn't remember, because that's what you're supposed to do, isn't it? It was almost funny, Henrik didn't remember it (or, if he did, he didn't act like it), and Randy thought about it so often, something he was sure that he regretted.

Henrik was doing it again, starting to get too close and putting his hands on Randy's and looking at him, and all the words nearly spilled out of Randy's mouth again. Henrik's eyes were so horribly unfocused but he was still looking at Randy, that was all that really mattered. Henrik's hands were cold on Randy's wrists, and Henrik had started rubbing his fingers across the scars from where Randy had tried to bleed himself free of guilt. He had done this before, and it gave Randy the same weird feeling last time, and he started shaking the same way he did before. Randy hated all of it, the touching and the feelings and the near unholiness of it all. He couldn't explain why it was unholy, he only had the horrible vomit inducing feeling in his stomach that meant he was doing something wrong (though God had made them to feel and experience things, hadn't He? He had wanted human connection, that's what this was). It scared him, really, maybe that was why he had rushed through wiping the rest of the blood off Henrik's face. Maybe it scared Henrik too, or maybe Randy scared him, he made one of those noises when Randy pulled away from him for the last time, a pained whine and choked out gasp for air. Randy stood up again and Henrik grabbed at his legs again, it made him want to throw up. Henrik was so desperate to touch, to know that he wasn't alone, maybe that's what he was afraid of instead of God. And Randy wasn't sure how long he had stood there trying to build up courage to just put his hands near Henrik again, how long Henrik had hyperventilated and weakly held onto Randy, both of them trembling and on the verge of crying. At some point, Randy had gotten it, helped Henrik stand up. He hated every second of it. Henrik could hardly keep his eyes open or keep himself up, and now he was leaning into Randy too much, and Randy could feel himself getting more and more nauseous.

He nearly thanked God that it didn't take long to get into his bedroom, or to just get Henrik to sit on the damn bed. Maybe Henrik was getting used to the routine too, he had taken his shirt off and showed Randy every bruise and scratch and bloody gash in his torso. This whole experience was miserable, too intimate, Randy hated that this had become a thing. He was never supposed to see someone like this, not Henrik and not anybody else, not even himself. But here he was, staring at Henrik's body as if this wasn't nearly the most unholy thing in the world. He had forgotten for a moment, forgotten about his father and the church and God, everything he had been told was wrong, how could this be wrong? Human empathy, the abhorrent understanding between two people, was this not what God wanted when He created man? The idea didn't last long, it never did, always a brief spark in Randy's brain that gets smothered within seconds. Wasn't it blasphemous? Sinful and disgusting? He would have to pray and beg for forgiveness for hours because of this.

Randy was hardly processing what he was doing now (this was always a problem he had, he thinks too much and gets stuck in his own head), absent mindedly bandaging the cuts in Henrik's skin, he wasn't even sure when he had grabbed bandages, or where he had gotten them from. Maybe it was the ones he kept under his bed, or the ones in the closet, he was sure it wasn't the ones from the kitchen or the bathroom, he was almost certain he hadn't left his room. And Henrik had cut himself, Randy could tell, they looked just like his own, the ones that hardly cut the flesh but would still sting and bleed. Randy was never sure if the bruises were from Henrik or somebody else, sometimes he felt it was a mixture, he knew that Henrik hits himself when he's upset (whether with his own hands or some blunt object), and he knew that anyone that used Henrik for whatever reason were always so violent with him. Maybe Henrik had wanted them to be violent, maybe he thought that if someone hurt him it meant that he had proof he was alive, that someone had cared enough to do this to him. Randy had shoved one of his own shirts into Henrik's arms, he usually did whenever there was too much blood or vomit on Henrik's, set the gross one on a steadily growing pile of Henrik's clothes that Randy had decided to keep until he washed them, because only God knows if Henrik's house even had a functioning washing machine, Randy had started to doubt it with how often he sees Henrik in blood stained shirts and pants.

Henrik had put the shirt on, not without help, and he really needed to go to sleep, it was already late and only getting later. Randy had to basically shove Henrik into the mattress to get him to lay down, but it was more like fighting, really. Randy didn't know what specifically he did, but Henrik had started panicking again, screaming and kicking and clawing at Randy's arms. It didn't take very long to get him to stop writhing (or it didn't feel like it did, but maybe Randy just got caught up in it). Henrik had hid himself under the blanket, and he was still crying, Randy could hear it. It was some awful reminder that Henrik was still a kid, he wasn't even eighteen yet, and he would act and do things that made him seem like he was twenty five. Maybe he had gotten too used to pretending that he was, he had been with too many twenty-something year old women for pills or alcohol or whatever he could get from them in exchange for them being able to say they got to sleep with a pretty boy that would do whatever they wanted. Henrik was seventeen years old and he almost never acted like it, either too grown or like a scared little kid. Maybe thirty minutes had passed of him hiding under the blanket (Randy didn't dare move during this, if he had gotten up for any reason Henrik would've cried more) before he slowly worked his way out from underneath, he never sat up but he grabbed Randy's hand again, mumbling incoherent pleads while he tried to keep himself awake. And then he choked out a beg for Randy to stay, to stay here with him because he was scared, to stay here only while he slept and then Randy could fuck off to wherever he wanted. Randy wouldn't leave, he assured Henrik of this. He wouldn't ever leave, he'd stay here as long as Henrik did, he would've been happy with rotting away right here if it meant Henrik felt okay (of course, he didn't tell him that part). Randy offered to "sleep" on the ground, only to make Henrik more comfortable, and Henrik had nearly thrown up at the thought of it, in whatever mental state he was in that counted as leaving. He wanted Randy in the bed with him, or to just stay sitting where he was at least, he didn't even have to lay down or anything. Henrik was convinced that if he woke up next to Randy he wouldn't be scared in the morning, that Randy being right next to him was some form of safety that he desperately needed. Maybe he was right, Randy had noticed that Henrik never woke up screaming whenever he was closer like this, maybe it was some psychological thing, falling asleep knowing it was Randy instead of his father or a stranger.

Henrik thought Randy was someone good, safe, why else would he come running to him whenever he was scared? He shouldn't think of Randy that way, Randy had fought with him too many times, broken too many of his bones, said awful shit to him too many times. He had these awful thoughts about Henrik, ones that would range from murdering him to more unholy things, surely Henrik would hate him if he ever knew. He thought about it sometimes, telling him about all of those thoughts with gruesome detail. He wanted Henrik to hate him, maybe it would make it easier, but he had this awful feeling that nothing ever would, not even Henrik hating him. Randy had this awful gut feeling that nothing would ever stop this, that it would never get easier, that he would always care too much and he would always get this horrible feeling in his stomach every time he looked at Henrik. Randy had learned as a child that nothing would ever go the way he wanted, he thought of it as some cruel joke from God because his father was one of His messengers, he was sure that all of this was just another part of it.

Henrik had fallen asleep and Randy hadn't moved at all. Henrik still had his glasses on and his hand was still on Randy's, it was so horribly disgusting that Randy cared too much to get off the bed, that he watched Henrik's chest rise and fall for so long, that his eyes kept flicking back to Henrik's face. There was something so awfully wrong with him doing this, something that made him relieved he didn't live with his parents in fear of them walking in on this, he felt sick knowing that God could see what was happening. But surely God would understand, wouldn't He? How deeply Randy cared, Henrik was the first person that Randy had ever truly cared about, would God not be happy that he had learned? Maybe Henrik was right about not believing in God, it seemed so much easier, he didn't care even if God was real. Randy screwed his eyes shut and bit down on his lip until he tasted blood, and he thought of calling himself a crybaby for a moment, the idea was almost immediately replaced with the fact that Henrik was so much more of a crier than Randy ever would be. Henrik wasn't even truly crying earlier, it was the most defeated and miserable cry Randy had ever seen from him. And that memory where he had heard it for the first time clawed its way back into his brain, when Henrik had gotten beaten by his father and he ended up with a broken arm and damn near broken ribs, and he had all these cuts and bruises, choked out so badly it looked like he had hung himself, he walked all the way to Randy's doorstep covered in blood and bruises with torn clothes and broken bones. He had begged Randy to not take him to the hospital, so he didn't, and he was the one that took care of Henrik's wounds, right there on the couch in his living room, that was when Randy first heard it. The horrible mixture of crying and screaming and wheezing and coughing and voice breaking and choking, the broken screaming of Randy's name, begging Randy to stop and half apologies and screaming that it hurts in between the choking, blood and tears and mucus and sweat running down Henrik's face, the writhing that was only making everybody worse, how he had vomited from pain and all the blood and mucus running down his throat, so much of Henrik's blood and vomit covering Randy's hands (sometimes he swore it was still there, that he could feel it). It lasted for hours, it was so burned into Randy's brain, he could recall every movement and every word and all the times Henrik screamed his name in some nightmare mixture of pain and fear and hate. Randy had some medical knowledge, he had to with what he did in his free time and just with how Henrik was, it just wasn't enough for everything that was wrong with Henrik that night. Maybe if he knew more it wouldn't have lasted as long, he wouldn't have had to shove painkillers down Henrik's throat, Henrik wouldn't have cried until he passed out. There were so many "maybes" for the whole thing, Randy would've done anything to go back and make it better for Henrik. He slept on the couch that night and Randy stayed right next to him for the whole sixteen hours it took for him to wake up, just like he was doing now. If he really wanted, he could prove that the two of them were living in some kind of horrible loop, maybe the days weren't repeating but the scenarios were, Randy drinking himself half to death, Henrik getting so intoxicated he can't stand, running to Randy whenever it becomes too much for him to handle by himself, all of this has happened already, and it's going to keep happening, and Randy can't do a thing to change it.

Maybe this was what he was supposed to be, a "savior" that could barely keep one person safe, maybe his father was right every time he had swore Randy to hell and looked at him with disgust, maybe this was God's plan for him. Some disgusting ironic plan. After all, God's real son didn't have a good life either, did he? Why would Randy have it any better? Randy truthfully didn't even deserve to have it better, maybe he might have at one point, but not anymore. That was one of the few differences between him and Henrik, Henrik deserved to have it better and Randy didnt. Oh, Randy was so sure Henrik deserved better than this, constantly drugged out his mind and selling himself out in some attempt to feel wanted, Randy would do all of this a thousand times over if it meant Henrik had even the smallest chance at having a better life. Maybe that was why he had never told Henrik to stop coming here, or why he never tried to stop this basically loop of events, because he knew he could help this way. And part of him thought it was working, that Henrik wasn't getting worse. Randy felt selfish for it, his brain was always screaming at him that he liked how much Henrik relied on him, and deep down Randy knew it was true. Randy had nearly choked on his own blood, so lost in his head he hadn't even realized he was still gnawing on his lip, and if Henrik wasn't sleeping he would've gotten up and washed his face off. Randy's chest started hurting again, it always did when he stared at Henrik too long, and all those gross thoughts started building in his head again. He did like that Henrik needed him, it made him feel good, like he finally had something to live for.

Maybe Randy needs him the way Henrik needs him.

#is this coherent? No 😇#incoherent self indulgence my favorite #also weird paragraph breaks because tumblr hates long paragraphs #me when im sick and ill over my creations and nobody will understand why #i wrote this a billion years ago i js keep thinking about it

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