Vance Hopper's sexuality crisis

07

TW: suicidal thoughts

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Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Vance fucked up again. He hadn't meant to. This is what he always did. He hated himself for it. He hated himself in general. He always pretended like he was better than everyone, as if everyone needed another reason to hate his guts.

He stared at Bruce's back silently, watching as he got farther and farther away. Yet another person important to him was walking out on him. It was almost funny how pathetic he felt.

(A/n this is actively being written in google docs, but I think a malevolent spirit just took over my body. So maybe expect cute stuff. Update from a few days later: I lied.)

Vance didn't know how long he stood staring at where Bruce once stood, but he couldn't bring himself to move an inch. He could barely bring himself to breathe. What's the point in intaking oxygen if it's just gonna extend the shitty cycle of his life. What's the point in breathing when the single important person in his life just walked away? Like his dad. And he couldn't even blame him.

Everything was aching. His hands hurt, his legs were stiff, and he felt dazed. He was dazed. His vision was blurry and his mind was foggy. All he could hear were his own thoughts racing. Screaming at him for fucking up his, probably last chance, with Bruce. If he even had a chance to begin with.

He had lied to Bruce. He knew exactly what he was feeling. He was in love with him. Funny isn't it? 'Pinball' Vance Hopper had a thing for the golden boy of the town. God he was a fucking loser. A freak. A faggot. Just like his dad had shouted countless times before he left.

Vance had finally broken out of his trance, sort of at least. He blinked aggressively and thrashed his head around. There was no one except him in the dark, empty park. He shivered, finally feeling the harsh wind blowing against his skin through the thin sweater he'd put on.

He stumbled forward and out of the park gates, walking mindlessly along the sidewalks. It wasn't an uncommon occurrence for Vance to lurk around at night, so he knew his way around the town well enough to wander like a zombie.

When he snapped back out of his daze he was sitting on the curb of the grab n' go. It was so different at night, cold and desolate. Far from the lively place it was during the daytime. He couldn't expect anything less from it though, even in this state it comforted him.

Well it would usually, but he didn't usually have a weird boy crush bothering him. He picked at his nails, trying to figure out what to do. He didn't have many options, well, he didn't have any options at all.

He severely doubted Bruce wanted to even glance in his direction at the moment, much less speak to him. He could try to wait it out, wait til Bruce's hatred for him faded (if it ever did), but Vance didn't know if he was 'stable' enough for that. He didn't know if he could bear it.

He could always..end it. His mom used to go on and on about how that was the coward's way out, but maybe he was a coward. Maybe he deserved to be known as nothing more than the boy who 'couldn't take it'. Maybe he really couldn't take it, couldn't bear to be known as a heartless monster. Just like his parents.

Maybe he was just a kid. Maybe he never wanted to hurt anyone at first, but it's all he knew. It's all he'd ever been taught. Get angry, then hit. He was too far gone anyway. His death wouldn't harm anyone but himself. He didn't have any actual friends. No meaningful relationships. The closest thing he'd ever had crashed and burned earlier that night. Maybe he was so desperate for the long nights of pressing his palms against his eyes so hard it burned and trying to take quiet, organized breaths. The hours of staring at the ceiling, wondering if he was born into a different family if things would be different.

He didn't know when he stood up again, he'd been too distracted that his body had gone on autopilot again. But suddenly his fist was connecting with the brick wall of the grab n' go. Hard. That surely brought him back.

He whipped his hand away, holding it to his chest as blood pooled to the surface of the new gash on his knuckle. It looked as if that wasn't the first punch to the wall, his hand was in shambles. More than it was before. Why couldn't he control himself? It's like all he could do is stand back and watch as his body destroys itself. Maybe that was a sign.

He dug his hands into his hair, ignoring the searing pain in his fist. He tugged onto the strands, trying to ground himself permanently, there was no telling what he would do if he mentally clocked out again. It worked well enough for him to drag himself home, although when he had removed his hands there were some thick strands of hair that came with. Whatever, he didn't care.

He walked to the side of his house, sliding his window open and crawling inside. It was barely any different inside then outside. Freezing and dead silent. Just like it always was.

He didn't bother to do anything about his fist, even if he wanted to he doubted they had any supplies. He had emptied his stash a week or so ago and he didn't think his mom would go out of her way to make sure her 'beloved' son didn't get some sort of infection. He didn't care, she didn't care, no one cared.

With his established love for another boy and intense self hatred he climbed into bed, most likely heading into a night of dreamless sleep. Vance hated his life.

When Vance woke up everything hurt. His legs were tired, his shoulders were stiff, and his knuckles were still throbbing. As well as his head.

It took every atom inside him to get up and not just go back to sleep. He told himself that slinking around the school wasn't that bad in comparison to getting yelled at for hours if his mom got a call from the school, even if she had absolutely no intention to answer it. He'd probably end up in some sort of detention anyways.

He doesn't bother to change his clothes when all his outfits only change very slightly anyways. It's not like anyone would mention it, no one would dare to. Especially not after yesterday's incident.

He had unsurprisingly woken up late so unless he wanted an earful before school even started, he would have to be quick to get out of the house.

So he was. Not like he had anything to do anyways. He slid on some socks he found on the floor and speed walked towards the living room, crossing his fingers, praying his mom had passed out in her room today.

His prayers were surprisingly answered for once, and the living room was barren and silent. His frown lessened ever so slightly as he put on his shoes and left the house.

The cold air was less awful when he was wearing more than a thin beater and his signature vest. Although the climate never did much to affect him. Nothing really affected him. And when it did, he didn't let anyone know it.

Of course today had to be the exception. His hair was snarled, he had eyes bags, and his fists were a nurse's worst nightmare. He almost turned around to abandon his trek, not wanting to even show his face in the school.

His teachers would probably use the fight as an excuse to get on him about not doing any work or even showing up in the first place. That wouldn't do much, other than piss him off. Nothing ever made it back to his mom. Not reports, grades, phone calls. The only thing she wasn't too drunk to ignore were social workers at her door doing 'wellness checks'.

God, last time that happened was a shitshow. Vance shuddered internally, remembering the screaming and the hitting. She was one of the only people who could actually manage to land hits on him. He hated how he could dodge everyone's punches but his mom's.

Vance swallowed the lump in his throat as he walked up the bumpy road to the highschool. Taking in the miserable sight of students slumping into the building, one after another. He fucking hated school.