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randomoranges · 4 years ago

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the other day i lost the friendly wagerino and @allbeendonebefore was like hey i want 70s stuff but maybe also make it not shitty?

idk if i delivered. i had this idea after she herself made an art and showed it to me revolving around the 70s. i figured id use it. it has a point of hope at the end? maybe it’s the origin story we all needed lamao

also please enjoy the repeated pattern of ed and ét forever saving the other a seat/making room for the other.

also the running gag is how vague can i keep things about the 70s when also writing a fic about the 70s lewl

vague references to many things being made here

Empire of Ash Somewhere between 1971 and 1975

He doesn’t know why he bothers – doesn’t know why he’s here. There’s no longer a point to any of this anymore. He feels the shift – feels it in the way the others look at him – the way they don’t look at him and it makes his blood boil.

He used to run this show. Would walk in, grace the others with his presence, and they would fawn over him – trip themselves trying to be him. That or they would seethe behind their jealousy. They either wanted to be him or be with him and Étienne had always been willing to oblige. He understood their envy. Understood their want. He couldn’t really blame them. The proverbial world seemed to revolve around him and he’d reigned it with such ease and grace.

It wasn’t always peaches and cream, naturally. He’d struggled – his people had struggled – they still struggled, but – overall, he’d been the example to follow – the one people wanted to emulate. Innovating. Exciting. The place to go – the one to be. An icon. He’d loved it. Loved the attention and the praise. The ease of it.

It had only amplified when he’d been awarded the world exposition. It’d been a last minute decision, sure, but he’d thrived. He’d given them all a show they would never forget. Had put himself on the map for good. For years and decades to come, they would talk about Expo 67. This, would be a Moment never to forget. People would exchange anecdotes about what they had seen – what they had done. About how great and innovative it had been. How wonderful and spectacular. It was, after all, the type of work he loved – bettering his image and his city – thinking ahead. Planning. Putting on a show. Entertaining.

He was very good at entertaining.

He could entertain in so many different ways.

Everyone had looked at him during Expo. Everyone had wanted him then. The stroke to his ego had been enormous. Had been satisfying. So satisfying. It had never been a dull moment. One giant party that had never ended for days and weeks and months. The afterglow had lasted – had pushed him through one winter and then the next. He’d drifted on his high – on his cloud, basking in it for days after, already a fond nostalgia settling in for the long run. The rose tinted glasses and such.

And then it had skittered to a halt. Had come to an abrupt end. The proverbial rug had been pulled from under his feet without warning, leaving him with whiplash that had left a bitter taste in his mouth – that still lingered and rippled. Crept into his body and settled in; poisoned every last remaining good memory. Destroyed and shattered all his hard work.

His empire had crumbled before his very eyes, leaving him with nothing but a pile of ash. Everything he had carefully built, everything he had worked for, gone, in a blink. Because, apparently, they could no longer trust him and there was now too much instability over some political variation of ideology. Because the people in a province that never felt like it cared for him wanted more. Because people dared to want to be recognised and had – taken – action.

Years of loyal service discarded.

It wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t called the shots. He was a victim. A victim of the system. Yet, he bore the lasting consequences of them all.

It was ironic, in a sense, that after years of feeling the oppression of religion, after fighting to break from it – after starting to find his true voice in this world, it was all being taken away and he was being pushed back – returning to a nobody.

However, now he has a chance – another one, to prove to them that he’s still relevant – that they’re all wrong – have been wrong to cast him aside. This will be his redeeming arc. This has to be his redemption. He has no choice. No cards left to play, his deck long ago discarded.

On a good day, he pours every ounce of energy and time into the plans for the Olympics. It’s touch and go; not as flawless and easy as Expo was. He tries to find that same magic, but it seems as though it’s one problem after the next. If it’s not some delay in construction, there’s a strike. If it’s not a strike, there’s a delay. As the calendar ticks on, his anxiety builds and his passion for the project dissipates.

And then of course, everyone is kind enough to remind him that he’s nothing but a has-been – that there’s nothing left to him. His light has shined and now dulled, time be shelved and replaced.

So he decides to stick to what he’s good at. Stick to what everyone wants. What everyone expects him to do. Put his moniker to good use. He knows how to play up his part, after all. He’s never even liked his obligatory job. Never saw the point to the meetings he’s obliged to attend. In his opinion, they run too long. He’s always found them boring, but at least, before, he was able to go and have a good time. Everyone had wanted his opinion. Everyone had wanted him. Because he was the best. He was somebody.

Was.

He is no one now.

In any event. There’s no point to it anymore. He’s found better and more lucrative ways to spend his time. Better ways to chase the thrill of before – to feel alive where there is nothing but decay and rot. He’s found a way to feel wanted, even if for a little while. He knows where to put his skills to good use and make some cash while doing it as well. It’s more than could be said about these sorry meetings.

The best part about his side hustle is that it makes his mayor mad. Makes the tiny bald man seethe and rage. But it makes Étienne grin. He loves that it enrages his mayor. Loves that he can keep finding ways to tarnish his plans of “cleaning up the city.” Étienne no longer is the wide-eyed-bushy-tailed naïve man who had blindly followed him. He’s grown since Expo. (It is a shame though; they’d mostly gotten along then – he’d enjoyed chatting up the man about his vision for the city. He misses the camaraderie, if anything. They may have not always gotten along, but – the man had vision – had helped him make a name of himself. This, however, he disagreed on.)

With Expo, he’d – broadened his repertoire, so to say. Gotten a taste for the more delightful sinful pleasures of life – the full range and experience – had really let loose. It had been thrilling, what with everything else going on from the change in fashion to the freedoms the rest of his people were finally allowing themselves to experience without the fear of God breathing down their necks. His little personal discoveries had proven to be useful now that he needed an extra escapism and a different way to earn his living. The face his mayor had made had been worth it.

Étienne wouldn’t have bothered showing his face to this meeting; would have flipped everyone off and returned to his new life, but his sister had insisted. Had reminded him that with the Olympics looming forward, he had to get his act together. Look presentable. Make an appearance. Remind everyone of what they were. It was all bullshit. He was tired of the hypocrites – the ones who’d died to have his opinion who’d now turned their backs on him. Tired of the fake airs everyone gave themselves at these meetings. The redundancy of them and the lack of anything ever getting done. He could be spending his time in so many other better ways.

But. Élyse had begged and insisted. So he’d gone.

Except now, he itches to get out of the place and get some air. The cigarettes he’s been smoking nearly nonstop since he’s gotten here have done nothing to calm his nerves and even though he knows he could go for something a little stronger to help, he also knows that with these stuck-ups they would have a conniption and keep passing their snide remarks. He tells himself he’s doing it for Élyse. She’s been through enough and – he doesn’t want to make it harder on her. Yet, he feels like he’s either vibrating out of his skin or that suddenly his body is too big, or too small for the ricochet of thoughts in his head. He needs air, a distraction, a hit of something, before he causes a scene, and luckily – miraculously – a break is called just as he’s about to bolt out.

He lights up another cigarette as he looks for somewhere to wait out the break and scowls when all the benches are taken. There are spots left, but the last thing he’s in the mood for is polite small talk. It may have been his forte once, but the idea of it now makes him want to hurl. Étienne considers taking a walk and maybe finding something better to do for the afternoon, but the sight of a familiar sulking figure draws him close.

He recognises Edward after a beat and only feels slightly relieved. Edward is his friend, sure, but they’ve sort of lost touch over the past few years. There’d been a frenzy of letter exchange after Expo and even before that, but – he can’t be bothered to remember whose turn it had been to write back. Then again, Étienne’s got a lot going on in his life at the moment and Edward feels as though he’s part of his old life.

Still, he supposes that Edward hasn’t been unkind to him even if they haven’t sat down to have a heart to heart and at the moment, it’s better than the sneering and jeering. However, the idea of sitting down with someone he knows and having an actual conversation makes him want to set the world on fire. He considers getting out of here again, but just as he’s about to turn on his heels, Edward seems to notice him as well and moves his bag over so that Étienne can sit if he so desires.

He’s ever so thankful when Edward leaves him to his moody thoughts and Étienne is able to breathe a little easier for the first time all day. It might almost seem like companionable silence, but he knows better and takes it for what it’s worth.

Étienne smokes quietly as he lets his thoughts wander for a bit. He reflects on his strange friendship with Edward and how unlikely they came to be. He’d honestly never thought that his own ennui back home would have pushed him to set off exploring the Great West only to stumble upon another lost soul who would turn to be a friend – a confidant really.

He’d – never expected Edward to take him up on it, back then – when he’d told him to keep in touch and write to him. He’d jotted down the address, given it to his friend and then had headed off, not thinking of the hassles Edward might have with finding an actual post office. Yet, eventually, when he’d nearly forgotten about it, a letter had appeared from Edward and Étienne had been more than surprised, even if he’d been delighted.

He’d taken to writing to Edward frequently – or as frequently as was possible at the time. Sometimes, he would run back to the post office to add more to his already long letter, always having more to say to his friend and over the years and decades, he and Edward had built a steady if bizarre friendship through their writing.

It’d been – easy to write to Edward. Easier than it’d ever been to say things out loud, anyways and he’d opened up about many aspects of his life he’d kept close to his heart with the years. In his opinion, Edward knew a lot more about him than Emma and even Élyse – not that he’d let them know. Yet, despite being able to write to his friend about everything that had ever bothered him, this time, he wants to keep his new secret to himself. He’s rather proud of this one anyways and he’s – not sure Edward would understand. Not entirely, anyways.

He sighs and takes another drag of his cigarette. It’s a complicated mess and he’s lost so much already – doesn’t want to chance this at the moment. In case.

It’s strange to think that even though he feels as though he’s found some sort of kinship with the new people he hangs around with, he feels even more alone than before. He’s – different from them. It comes with his status and the fact that despite his appearances, he is not like them – not really human in the full sense and there are certain hurdles he’s gone through that he cannot simply open up about to them.

His musings are brought to a halt when he hears exasperated grumbling from his side. He’s about to scoff and tell Edward to quit it, but then turns to find the other man patting his pockets looking for something. Étienne overhears the words “cigarette” and “forgot” and figures out that Edward must have left his pack inside. He watches the little tantrum unfold for a moment, taking pleasure in seeing someone else frustrated for a while, before it gets on his nerves.

He has enough to deal with as it is. He doesn’t need Edward’s complaining on top of it. With another sigh, Étienne fishes out his own pack and takes a cigarette out before he can reconsider and before Edward can get into a real fit.

He wordlessly hands it over and waits for his friend to realise that there’s an offering being made.

It takes Edward a moment and Étienne gets to the point where he’s afraid he’s going to have to jab the other man’s arm to get his attention, but before that has a chance to happen, Edward sees the cigarette and accepts it with a grumbled thanks. Étienne is about to take out his lighter, in case, but Edward already has it in his hand and lights up his cigarette without much trouble.

It’s the extent of their conversation for the time being and for that, Étienne is grateful. He’s in no mood for talking and he appreciates that Edward keeps to himself. For the first time since the start of the day, Étienne feels slightly less alone and even though they don’t do much, he appreciated the presence of Edward. It��s – familiar, in a sense, even though they haven’t spent all that much time together.

He can probably count on one or two hands the number of times they’ve legitimately hung out together – or even seen each other in the last century, but despite that, Étienne has considered Edward to be one of his closest friends for years now. Yet, somehow or other, even though the live miles apart, they’ve – clicked and bonded and somehow or other stuck around each other.

He supposes, not for the first time, that it must count for something. Maybe.

He’s not sure he wants it to, but as he finishes his own cigarette, Étienne finds himself with the same sense of ennui from before. The idea of sitting though another few hours of meetings still makes him want to hurl and the appeal of getting the hell out whispers soothingly in his ear.

He spares Edward another glance and takes in his friend’s own sour look and discontented face. He figures that maybe – just maybe, Edward might not want to be here too and might want an excuse to get out.

“Hey,” He says, finally breaking the silence between them. “Wanna get out of here? I think I saw a diner worth the detour on my way over.” It’s as good as an offers as he’s ready to make, but Edward, after a moment’s hesitation, carefully nods and stands up.

They walk towards the street and fall into step together, as Étienne thinks that maybe there’s an analogy to be made about misery loving company, but he’d rather hope that instead, maybe he and Edward have more in common than he thought they originally did.

FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #fic #projocanondoko

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randomoranges · 4 years ago

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these blurbs are recycled. back in 2015, i had written these for another teacher au verse for another fandom. i never got around to posting them for the other fandom [i don’t think so. if anything they’re on my old LJ somewhere, but anyways.] i decided to re-read them and update them a little. these are based on true events and some wishful thinking.

the wishful thinking part is that i really would like to have an Edward lamao.

Teaching AU

Planning

Étienne had no idea what it was that had possessed him, when he agreed to this contract. Sure, he had a degree that said he could teach, yes, he actually did want to work, but he had no idea how to organise his lessons and the curriculum only helped him so much. He could do anything he wanted and the idea was overwhelming to say the least. That was the way art was – basically, he could have the kids do whatever project he so desired, so long as they ended up learning whatever it was the Progressions of Learning said. It didn’t matter how it was the students learned about primary colours, so long as they did. Étienne would have preferred some guidance – some left over projects from the year before to at least get him started and guided.

He was still a little shell-shocked. This was his first contract, the staff was nice, but the school was enormous and he felt as though he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. It didn’t help that he was the only art teacher in the building and therefore had no other art colleagues on hand, (why had he agreed, why?) He would have liked to been able to exchange ideas with someone else – someone who knew the program and had done this for a few years – who knew the school.

Étienne sighed and tried to calm down his racing heart. He hated feeling like an incompetent. He could come up with projects easily, but – would the students enjoy them? Would they be able to do them? Would they breeze through the project in thirty minutes instead of the four periods he had planned? And then there was the grading – the groups – so many groups, so many projects and thus, so much grading. How did one manage it all? How did teachers not sign their souls over when they started?

There were high hopes riding on him and he didn’t want to disappoint.

If he was honest with himself, Étienne would admit that he had spent the past two weeks fretting during sleepless nights over this job and that so far, it was more stress than fun. He hated this. He missed his free time. He missed going home and doing something for himself. Something fun. He was always bone tired when he got home and there was always something work related to do; e-mails, grading, planning, preparing, thinking – thinking – thinking. Even when he tried to sleep, his brain would kick into gear and play over the days lessons and over think the upcoming ones. There was no break. Ever.

But he wasn’t one who gave up.

He would show them, damn it. He would show the man who hired him that he had made the right choice.

Even if it meant more sleepless nights and more after hours at school trying to keep his head above water.

Étienne sighed and opened up another tab on his computer, looking for some inspiration. At least the school was quiet now.

Printer

Edward didn’t know why, but somehow or other, he had decided that this year, he would make the new science exam, since apparently, the one the school had used last year was garbage and he had So Many Great Ideas.

Even though he had three other colleagues who equally taught fifth grade science, he had volunteered to do it, to show that he was willing to be part of the team, help out, and get involved. Or something equally wonderful and daft.

That was fine, except now he found himself alone, in the teacher’s room, on a Friday night, two hours after classes had let out, trying to coax life into the printer.

He wanted to go home.

These exams needed to be printed now, so that they could be looked over on Monday and then distributed by Tuesday. Therefore, now was not the time for the printer to stop working, thank you very much.

Edward would have gone to a different printer, but this was the only decent photocopier that could staple and hole punch the documents as well. He would have asked another teacher, but it was past six and no one was left in the school. Well, no one he knew of. No one in their right mind, really.

He was tired, hungry, on the brink of a nervous breakdown because of this stupid printer, stressed, anxious and overworked. He had piles of marking to do this weekend and he had lessons to plan. To top it all off, today had been a day six and he hated those. (It was the one day in his schedule where he didn’t have a specialist and of course it fell on a Friday, when the kids were more excitable. He’d tried to make his afternoon easier by putting on a movie, but that had been met with only partial success.)

It was a lot. It was too much. Why had he ever agreed to any of this? Why did anyone ever agree to this? And most importantly, how could anyone ever even think that teachers’ had it easy? This was anything but. Sure, he loved his students, would do anything for them, but.

He let out a frustrated cry and slammed his hand on the printer. There was no way the paper was still jammed or that the ink cartridge was low. He tried rebooting the machine, but he got the same error message as before.

He was going to give up.

He had let everyone down.

He knew he shouldn’t have gotten so involved; he should have kept his mouth shut.

He should have minded his own business.

He should have – he let out a mangled sob and then heard a soft cough from the door.

Edward spun around quickly and wiped his eyes. He wasn’t alone anymore.

He squinted at the door and saw the new art teacher – Étienne. What was he doing here? At this time? Why wasn’t he home?

“Late night?” He asked, all smiles and casualness, but Edward had a feeling that Étienne was just hiding his own exhaustion behind his friendly smile.

“No – I mean – yes, I mean...” He looked at the printer and wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

“Printer problems?”

“Yes... and I was almost done. Well, for the day. Not like we’re ever done.”

Étienne laughed and stepped inside the dimly lit office. There had been daylight before, but he hadn’t bothered turning the lights earlier, too absorbed in his work.

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go ahead. It can’t get any worse than this. Although, if you fix it, I might just want to kiss you.” He joked and then realised how that sounded. He was about to apologise for the comment, but Étienne offered him a smile and a soft laugh instead. Edward stepped aside and let Étienne have a look. Étienne turned on the lights and Edward squinted at the sudden bright lights.

Étienne looked at the printer and hummed in concentration. He opened the tray, checked for a paper jam, and Edward wanted to tell him that he had done all of that already, but, well, Étienne could have the pleasure of finding that out for himself.

It took Étienne a little over an hour, during which they exchanged polite conversation. Edward tried to print his document, when it seemed that it would work, but every time, without fault, the printer stuttered or printed out blanks, much to both of their discouragement.

Finally, after four threats of setting the damned thing on fire, three litanies of curses and one break to cool off, the photocopier finally spat out Edward’s document.

Edward first kissed the stack of freshly printed-paper and then launched himself into Étienne’s arms.

Art Room

Edward looked at the small mountain of exams he still had to grade and groaned. He hated the end of term for many different reasons and this was definitively one of them.

He had more grading than he cared to do and the report cards needed to be filled in afterwards as if he didn’t have enough to do already.

It was a good thing he was on top of his grading.

He could only imagine what it would be like if he wasn’t.

Actually, he didn’t want to imagine.

At least he only had twenty-eight students to deal with. He had no idea how Étienne managed. He’d drown. He’d never be ahead. There was no way. Sometimes, he looked at Étienne correct projects and he wondered how he did it – how he decided what was full marks and what deserved less. Étienne had explained it to him once; had shown him his very detailed rubric, but even then.

Edward threw his red pen down and fished out his cell phone. He needed a break. He wanted to go home and forget about all of this. He wanted to pretend he was a regular man with a regular 8 to 4 job that didn’t follow him home. He wanted to go on a date with his boyfriend and not pass out on the sofa by nine-thirty like some ancient dinosaur man.

He opened up his conversation with Étienne, typing out a new message quickly.

“Are you almost done?” He typed out. Maybe, if Étienne was nearly done, he could use it as an excuse to head home.

The reply came a few seconds later, “Not even close. You?”

Edward sighed; so much for an earlier night. “Likewise. I need a break. Mind if I pop by yours for a bit?”

“God, please. I need a distraction something fierce.”

Edward put down his phone and stretched luxuriously, letting out a groan. His neck was stiff and his shoulders were sore, but standing up felt good.

Étienne’s art room was two floors below his own classroom and they had made the art room their own little meeting point when they wanted to sit together away from everyone and everything else. The art room’s doors had no windows, there was a comfortable plush couch in the back of it, and there weren’t any other classrooms beyond it. Therefore, it was the perfect place for some quiet time together.

Edward made his way towards the other room and took a moment to listen to the quiet of the building. There was something soothing and a little eerie about a quiet school in the dead of the night. He thought it was calming. It was different from the regular hustle and bustle of the day, with the students running down the stairs after class, before class, during class being their rowdy selves. Now, he could hear himself think and breathe.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Étienne greeted him at the door with a pleased little smile.

Edward couldn’t stop himself from grinning. He liked the fact that he could meet up with his boyfriend like this. He had friends who wondered how it was they ever had anything to talk about when they worked at the same place. It worked for them. They made it work. If anything, it meant that Étienne understood his work reality and vice versa. They both knew how demanding it was to teach and so, they never fought over the other “being lazy and not having done a chore” or something. Edward liked that they had the morning and evening commute together, even if they didn’t say anything. Just being together and sharing the same space was enough.

They exchanged tired, fond smiles and Edward closed the door behind him, before pulling Étienne close for a hug, leaning back against the door.

“God, you look how I feel.” He told Étienne.

Étienne laughed and gave him a one over. “I can say the same about you, Murphy, and yet you’re still a sight for sore eyes.”

“Kind as always, Maisonneuve.”

“Only for you.” Étienne said, soft, and closed the distance between them, cupping Edward’s cheeks with his hands to press a kiss to the corner of Edward’s mouth.

“No. Kiss me proper, damn it. I need something to survive this hell night.” Edward pouted.

Étienne’s laugh was more of a rasp, but he was never one to refuse Edward a kiss. He pulled him closer and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear, looking into those eyes he loved so much, before he kissed him properly this time. Edward sighed against him, held him closer and chased another kiss when Étienne made to pull back.

This was by far the greatest perk of working with his boyfriend. It wasn’t as if they used every chance they got to make-out, but it was nice to know that they could. That when Étienne needed a hug they could sneak one in behind closed doors and that when they were both doing their usual unpaid overtime, they could indulge in a little moment or two to make the night a little easier.

After Hours

Parent-teacher interviews were finally over and the desks and chairs had been put away. Tomorrow was a PED day, but at least it meant a reprieve from the kids, even if they still needed to be in at the same time and then have to sit through meetings that could always be summed up in an e-mail but never were.

Even though Étienne was exhausted and he wanted nothing more but curl up in bed and sleep until spring, there was a get together in the staff room and he could go for a little socialising. It wasn’t as if he had time to see his friends anymore anyways.

Being the new teacher, he hadn’t really gotten the chance to make new friends, but Edward was there and so he figured he could hang out with him. If anything, there was free booze from the looks of it and that in itself would make this a little more interesting.

Luckily, being the art teacher meant that even if he didn’t really know the other teachers, they knew of him and that he existed in the school. They all exchanged polite hellos and congratulated themselves on surviving the night, before toasting to that.

Étienne found Edward by the back of the room, sitting on one of the couches. He seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with the other fifth grade teachers and Étienne figured he might as well join them, even if just to sit somewhere.

“Excellent, I thought you had left.” Edward said with a bright grin and Étienne thought that maybe this wasn’t Edward’s first drink, judging by the pink of his cheeks.

“Nah, you’re my ride home, or did you forget?” He joked. Honestly, the rides home and to school were a life saver. He needed to get Edward a proper Christmas thank you gift just for that. And also because Edward had offered him friendship when it seemed as though he would be alone in this new school and drown in his own feelings.

They exchanged a few anecdotes from the night, until one of the gym teachers showed up with a special bottle of whiskey and a stack of mismatched teacups.

“Looks like things are going to get interesting!” Edward grinned at him. Étienne could only nod as he was handed a cup.

The janitor came by to kick them out around eleven, when he had to arm the school. They didn’t mind, really, since they did want to head home and they did have to show up to school the following day, even if the idea of calling in sick and sleeping in seemed oh so alluring.

Étienne’s head was spinning a little and he wasn’t sure if it had to do with the extra cup of whiskey or the fact that Edward had been pressed close to his side, all evening long, with their legs touching and shoulders bumping into each other. However, for once in his life, he was happy to have the cold November air blast him in the face when they stepped out.

If anything, it had been an excellent way to end the evening and he had connected with a few other teachers. Especially Edward. Edward was fast turning into a potentially Real Friend. Friend he could meet up with outside of school type.

“You ready to head home?” Edward asked, bundling up in his scarf and coat. Étienne liked the rosy tinge to his cheeks and wondered if it was the cold, the booze, or a blush. For half a second Étienne had a vision of going to home to someone – of going back home with Edward and he mourned the fact that he wasn’t – that there was no one home waiting for him and to kiss him goodnight.

“Yeah; I’m beat. You?”

“I’m okay. I guess I’ll pick you up tomorrow? Around 7h30?” At least he could sleep in an extra thirty minutes.

“Sure looks like it. Wanna grab lunch during break?” He threw out, feeling bold. They’d never done lunch before. They kept it at the lifts, which were already nice, even if sometimes they were quiet. Edward seemed surprised, but recovered quickly. His cheeks taking on an interesting shade of pink that Étienne wasn’t sure if it had to do with the cold, the booze, or something else.

“Sounds like a plan.” He finally said and nodded to himself.

Étienne grinned feeling light-headed and giddy.

FIN

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #edward murphy #étienne maisonneuve #au #ficlet #teacher au

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randomoranges · 6 years ago

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sometimes you come up with some dumb idea and youre like ahaha lol.

and then you lowkey think of it but just Like That.

and then it’s the day after and you’re lying in a patch of sun and it writes itself in your head.

and then you just gotta. even if you don’t know where this is going.

warnings for homophobia, homophobic language, toxic masculinity and mentions of other such not so great things.

another “it eventually will get better for them lamao” fics ?

rehab au literally absolutely no one asked for.

Edward cursed as he tried to flick the lighter to life. It figured it would give out on him now when he was stuck in this godforsaken place and he couldn’t just – go out and buy one. He was about to stomp back inside, make a scene if he had to, until he could smoke his goddamned cigarette in peace, when he heard the door behind him open. He turned quickly to see who it was and his mood didn’t improve when he noticed it was that insufferable volunteer.

“I swear to God, if you’re here to tell me that I can’t fucking smoke on the fucking balcony, I’m going to burn this fucking building down with everyone in it,” He spat out and he meant every word of it. This was prison. This was hell. This was worse than hell and there wasn’t a moment when he didn’t think of escaping, but so far, all his plans had badly failed him. He had to be here, apparently. It was for his own good, apparently. Well – they could go fuck themselves, apparently, but that didn’t seem to be in anyone’s plans.

He heard the volunteer chuckle and then laugh as he made his way to the railing and peered down. Edward had thought of jumping down and running. He still thought of it. Every time he came out on this godforsaken balcony. The problem was they were too far up and there was nothing for him to climb down. That and he’d tried already since he’d arrived in this godforsaken rehab centre some three weeks ago. (Three weeks, two days, six hours, thirty-seven minutes – too goddamned long, if anyone asked him.)

And that was when he’d met Étienne the Volunteer. Étienne the Fucking Cocksucker Volunteer Who Was Always So Happy and Cheerful and Patient and Kind with the Really Pretty Hair and Nice Eyes. Not that the hair or the eyes mattered. They didn’t – but Edward hated the fact that he’d thought that upon seeing Étienne for the first time. And maybe, if Étienne hadn’t been some kindred spirit sent on his way to Help Him, Edward would have taken a liking to him – if they were the same – if they were both fucked up. But no, Étienne was a Nice Guy Now.

Edward hated him. Not because Étienne had done anything bad, per se, but because Étienne was there. Étienne was some sort of feel good success story the rehab centre seemed to want to brandish in front of all the other miserable sad sacks and losers like him. To let them know there was Hope and that with some Hard Work they too could Make It and Get Better.

Edward wanted to punch that pretty smile off Étienne’s face and set everything on fire.

It wasn’t even Étienne’s fault. At least, not for how fucked up Edward was and not for how utterly angry he felt. That was on him. But it seemed Étienne was always there when Edward wanted to punch a hole in a wall and that certainly didn’t help his mood. Plus nothing seemed to phase Étienne. He’d seen it all and done it all and now he was better! And it was great! And he should feel empathy and joy for him! For how great it could be!

Edward wanted to throw up on the whole idea.

Étienne leaned all casual like against the railing and took out a cigarette from his own pack, taking Edward by surprise. So the poster child wasn’t so fucking perfect after all. Huh. Edward remained silent and watched as Étienne took out a lighter from his pocket, lit up his cigarette in one fluid click and then took a long drag from it, his long fingers curled around the cigarette, full lips placed in a perfect “o” to suck the nicotine in and Edward’s eyes lingered. His fingers itched. His mind raced. And he wondered. Illicit thoughts. About long fingers and pretty green eyes and curly brown hair and full lips. And he hated himself all over again.

“D’you want me to light you up?” Étienne offered and Edward seethed.

“What the hell is your problem?! D’you think I’m some fucking fag?! Is this what you do?! Proposition yourself to others in the centre?! Is that why they keep you here? I thought you were supposed to be out of that!” He spat out, disgusted. He knew the story. It wasn’t even a secret. Étienne liked to share his struggle with the others. To help them, or some other bullshit excuse. But Edward wasn’t fooled. He wouldn’t be surprised, really. How well did rehab really work? He found it incredibly hard to believe that people could just... stop and resist the temptation and craving – that with time they could “get better” and go back to a “normal life” – maybe for some – maybe for those who weren’t damned and fucked like he was, because there was no “cure” for the likes of him – there was no “magical therapy” for him and that was the whole damned problem.

Edward was brought up in what he thought was a good, loving family. His parents never yelled in front of him and his sister, they never hit him and his sister, they encouraged him and his sister when they wanted to take up after school activities and play sports, and he had never gone hungry or cold. He’d gone to a good school, had pocket money for his leisure activities and overall, his childhood had been pretty regular and nice. His first distinct memory of his parents being “different” came from one summer, after he’d turned eight, when they’d gone for a family picnic. He had been playing with his sister, kicking around a soccer ball, when the ball had rolled away to two older boys who had been sitting together.

Edward had thought little of it – had run up to them to get the ball back, but when he’d returned, his father had given him a stern warning to stay away from “people like that” and that if ever he even dared approach “fags” on his own accord, there would be “consequences”. Edward had nodded to all of that, had been afraid to disappoint his father, even though he had no idea what the word meant and why those two men were considered “bad people”.

It had taken him until the start of the school year to hear the word again, when one of the older kids on the playground had shouted the word to another kid and Edward wasn’t sure if it was meant as an insult or not – on the one hand, many of the other kids were laughing, but the boy who had received the word hadn’t seemed so pleased. He’d asked his teacher, the lovely Ms. Karen, after recess, and she had taken him apart to gently, if firmly, explain why it was a bad word and why it shouldn’t be used towards others and what it was supposed to really mean.

Edward had decided right then and there that he would never be a fag – no matter what – because they were bad, because his father had said so – and because he didn’t want to face consequences.

With time, the word festered in his mind, and as he grew older, his parents became more vocal on certain issues, telling him and his sister what was right, what was wrong, what they thought of “certain people” and certain “political ideas”. And Edward, wanting to be a model son, shaped his views to match those of his parents, and it worked – to a point.

For the longest period of time, Edward had never thought of himself as “different” from all the other “normal boys” in his school. He liked sports just fine, liked to roughhouse with his friends, given the right circumstance, he thought girls had cooties, and he watched the same shows and read the same books his friends did. The first time he realised there might be something off about him was during one terrible English class in seventh grade, when they had been watching a movie in class. He couldn’t remember what the movie was, but Edward remembered watching the movie, half bored out of his mind, until the main character’s best friend had showed up on screen and Edward, half out of it, had found himself thinking that the actor was cute – had felt drawn to the masculine charms of the actor – of the sound of his voice and the dimple in his cheeks – of the way he looked and carried himself – of how good he looked without a shirt on.

It had taken him a full minute to realise what he had just thought and when he’d realised it, he had nearly been ill to his stomach. He was not like that! He could not be like that! And Edward had done his best to calm his erratic beating heart, but later on he had to excuse himself from class, saying he wasn’t feeling well, and he had spent the remainder of the period in the washroom, splashing cool water on his face.

As his friends started talking about girls and their bodies – of their growing interests for them and of the pursuit of romantically inclined relationships with them, Edward realised that he had absolutely no interest in dating them and he quickly realised with abject horror that his gaze always lingered a second too long on some of his favourite male actors and singers – that some of his favourite male sports heroes weren’t his favourite because of their athletic skills, but maybe because of the way they looked; that when he watched sports interviews it wasn’t for the content, but for the way the player’s hair swooshed back from being wet, that there was something beautiful about the build of their bodies and by the time he was fifteen, Edward came to the conclusion that there was something wrong with him, but that he could never ever let anyone ever know, and that he could absolutely fix this himself, because he was not going to be some fucking fairy faggot.

So Edward did the only logical thing a person in his situation could do. He copied his parents in their ideologies. He copied his friends in how to be a “real boy” and he pretended his way through, keeping his shame a secret, keeping his secret a shame. He dated some of the girls in his class, took them on all the appropriate dates, and did all the appropriate date related things a boy his age should do and for the most part it worked. It worked when he asked his girlfriend out to prom, it worked when he went camping with his friends and he drank beer and talked about girls, and it worked when his conservative and closed-minded family asked him if he was seeing any nice young girl when he started university.

His uncles and father called him a real ladies man, they ruffled his hair when they found out he was seeing another girl, applauded him for “going out there” and “exploring his options” and were impressed when he bought himself a motorcycle and the gear that went with it. Now there was a real man in the making – a real tough guy who would marry the sweetest little thing and who would raise more real men. Edward hung to those words as though his life depended on it, but inside of him the storm only grew and the words drowned him out.

As best as he tried to fit in and be a “real man”, as much as he failed. He knew no real man wished he was making out with “that cute guy from the bus stop” when he was kissing his girlfriend. He knew no real man yearned to feel well-sculpted male abs under his calloused fingers when he undressed his girlfriend. He knew no real man wondered what it would feel like to be fucked senseless by some well-hung guy when he asked his girlfriend to get on her knees so that he wouldn’t have to see her from the front.

He knew all that.

He knew.

And yet those thoughts plagued him. And yet those thoughts kept him awake at night. And so he did what anyone else would probably do short of offering himself to the River Valley and calling it a day. He started drinking. To forget. To quench his thirst. To think of something else. To escape. But he only thirsted more, yearned more, wanted more and couldn’t stop thinking of what it could be like – feel like – to be with a man, but no one could ever know. He had heard from his parents what normal, good people, did to those miscreants – to those deviants. And he wasn’t like that. He was a real man. And he hated himself for it.

He wasn’t sure how he had come up with his Great Plan, but he remembered being very eager when he’d put it into action. He knew of places in the city where the fags went – clubs and bars – places where they met up for their crazy sex filled orgies (or so he heard on that part) and he decided, one night, after having one too many, that he’d prove to himself that he was not like that. He would go to one of these places. He would sit at their bar. He would mingle with them. And nothing else would happen. Because he was a real man. A normal man.

Edward had gone out, had found the first of such places and he’d strolled in as though he was the king of the place – higher and worthier than all these disease riddled vermin. Edward was pleased when he noticed the looks on him – pleased and disgusted. They could lust after him all they wanted, but he was here to prove a point, he wasn’t going to sink to their level, but the temptation grew. It felt like a fever dream – like his worst nightmares (his better wet dreams?) come to life – and Edward was only human.

He succumbed to the temptation, let anonymous hands roam his body and touch in all the places he had always wanted to be touched. He fisted his hands in short hair and praised the willing mouth around his cock and all the while he told himself that it wasn’t as though he was really doing anything – he wasn’t giving anything and simply being a kindred, benevolent man, letting this stranger enjoy his body. He was being generous. He was looking out for his fellow man. He should be applauded.

The problem with his brilliant plan was that he returned. He went back. He sought more. And with each visit he created new rules. It was fine as long as he didn’t engage first. It was fine as long as he was the one deciding what happened next. It was fine as long as he wasn’t the one on his knees performing. It was fine until he didn’t ejaculate first. It was fine as long as he was the one fucking the other man senseless. It was fine as long as he was allowing the other man the pleasure of fucking him senseless. It was fine as long as... as long as...

He took pleasure in it. He loved the sound of skin hitting skin. He loved the sound of the grunt of satisfaction of a good fuck. He loved the feeling of being completely dominated by another man. He loved looking at the sight of his own cum leaking out of another man’s ass (and he loved the feeling of being filled with another man’s semen – because if he was doing this, he was going to be reckless about it – he was a real man and thus the rules of the game didn’t apply to him – he had his own rulebook.)

No one knew of his nightly escapades. He wasn’t stupid. He played his cards right. He did what he had to do. And every time he went to that place he always left telling himself he hadn’t enjoyed it. That he was still proving a point. Because he couldn’t be a fucking homo. But the problem was, if he was being honest with himself, the highlight of his week was when he could give himself up to some anonymous man who would rock his body against his – when he could touch and lick and feel and smell another man’s body – and he fucking hated himself for it.

He tried to hide his shame in his girlfriend’s presence – tried to keep up the game – but as time went on, it got harder, the drinking got harder, and so he turned to drugs. To escape. To elate. To pretend a little longer. And with every time he fucked a new man, there would be that small parcel of complete satisfaction that would overcome him, before he would be crushed and washed over with guilt and disgust. He would hate himself even more for the monster that he was, would reach for another bottle, another sniff, and dig another foot in his grave.

There were those who burnt quickly from both ends and then there was him, the reckless deviant who played the devil’s game and wished his girlfriend was a boyfriend, who wished the man he was fucking was his girlfriend, who wished he wasn’t so completely fucked over. And the problem was he didn’t know how to stop – didn’t want to stop – was afraid of stopping. What would he do if he stopped? What would happen to him? How could he go back to his normal life and how could he keep pretending? He kept up the game, dodged the inquiring questions, the worried looks, and kept being just another one of the guys who fucked his girlfriend on the regular, liked his liquor the way he liked his cocaine, and tried to escape from this hell by seeking the men who would give him the time of day.

It caught up to him. Obviously it did. It was a miracle it didn’t happen sooner. It was a miracle he didn’t die from it, really. But as much as people from these parts of town liked to say that they weren’t such a small city after all, the truth of the matter was that word still got around and the world could really be a small place. Therefore, his carefully constructed lie came tumbling down one day – one innocuous day – when he’d been out on the town, mentally distracted, wondering if he could sneak into some washroom for a hit of something or someone – walking the streets looking for his next stop, when a fine looking stranger came his way and Edward had looked him up and down, had walked up to him like he’d done mere moments ago with someone else, and had levelled him with a look and a phrase, asking him if he wanted to take this somewhere else, until the stranger gawked at him, took a step back and gave him the most disgusting of looks.

Edward realised his mistake seconds later – realised who it was he had approached when he recognised the cut of hair and the colour of the eyes and an apology and excuse were already forming in the back of his mind, ready to tell his girlfriend’s cousin that he had been merely playing a trick, but the damage was done, the illusion broken when the other spat on his feet, called him a fucking faggot and said that he’d always known that he was like that.

Edward had been frozen. Shocked solid. Unable to move. His heart racing. His mind reeling. “Wait until they find out,” He’d promised, sneer and malice written all over his face – and Edward had begged and pleaded, had offered anything and everything, but he was pushed back and kicked, left to gasp for air and for the shattered pieces of his carefully constructed lie and illusion.

He stayed there, half-lying half-sitting on cold pavement, convincing himself that this had been some dream – some nightmare – that he’d imagined it all – withdrawal from the drugs, but when his phone started ringing and he saw it was from his girlfriend, calling him at close to 2h30 in the morning, panic, bile and regret rose in his throat.

He ignored it. Ignored the next one. And ignored the onslaught of messages and calls from her and his parents alike until he threw his phone away as far as he could and he ran. Away. Afraid. Alone. He ran away without going very far. He ran away until he no longer knew where to go. He ran towards his next fix and his next hit. And he consumed. Flesh. Booze. Drugs. He tried to hide himself in it, now that his secret was out – now that everyone would know about his deviant ways.

He did it until his body gave up on him. Until his body said no more.

He was lucky he’d been found when he’d had, the doctor told him. Edward spat in his face as an answer.

That had been a little over three weeks ago. He’d been sent to this hell hole of a rehab center after he’d been “better” – but he would never be better. He craved. So much. He wanted. So much. He hated himself. So much.

The only saving grace was that he’d had no ID on him when they’d found him and he’d been able to convince the medics not to contact anyone. But instead of being freed, they’d locked him up in this jail for people like him and his problems only kept getting worse. Now he had therapy. Now he was meant to get better. Now he was meant to talk about his feelings. Deconstruct the toxic ideas he had been brought up with. Learn to forgive and love. Or some fucking bullshit like that and he wanted none of it. He wasn’t like the poster boy Étienne fucking Maisonneuve. He wasn’t here to hold hands and hear that “Everything would be okay” – he wanted out. From here. Permanently. And he would. The sooner the better.

“Chill man, I meant nothing by it,” Étienne didn’t even sound upset. He was level-headed and almost soft-spoken. Edward wondered what it would take to hear him scream. How he could break him. “I saw you struggling with your cigarette,” He added.

Edward bristled. He’d made a fool out of himself. Again. That was all he ever did. He felt embarrassed, “Forget it. I don’t want your fucking lighter anyways. I don’t associate with fags.” He wasn’t sure why he said it, but being out on this balcony with Étienne made him feel trapped. Again.

Edward turned on his heels, slammed the door behind him and returned to his room in this godforsaken hell hole. Far from kind eyes and gentle smiles, where he could hate himself in peace, like a real man would.

#pc: montreal #pc: edmonton #Edward Murphy #étienne maisonneuve #au #ficlet #rehab au #tw: homophobia #lime lemon citrus family #idk where this is going ish #im sorry #forgive me for breaking this child #he needs a hug

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