REALLY IMPORTANT: Check bottom of chapter for content warnings (because it's kind of a spoiler.)
Author's Note: Basically Chance being an adorable, caring, and nosy nerd. Another long chapter. (3600 words. Jesus, this is what my life has come to.) I hope you like it!
Chapter 12: In Which Chance Has 83 Protons
"It is invariably saddening to look through new eyes at things upon which you have expended your own powers of adjustment."
- F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
Chance
Prozac.
The small word sailed through my mind as I sat, stunned.
I gaped at Callaway for an instant from my spot on the couch. The shorter boy continued to work, oblivious to my internal distress.
The bottle had been lying plainly by the sink, free for anyone to see. Though, when I had made my trip to the restroom, I had still felt like an intruder.
I wasn't supposed to see that.
I wasn't supposed to know what that small bottle of pills meant; what it insinuated.
But I did and I didn't know what to do.
I had spent a good minute or more than usual in the washroom, in an attempt to gather my thoughts and refrain from jumping to conclusions.
Maybe it's his dad's or mom's.
Maybe it's his brothers.
Maybe it's not for what I think it is.
Nevertheless, all the explanations my brain had created were thrown away when I looked at the bottle more closely. There was a sticky note adhered to the side of the bottle, filled with a messy, scrawled message.
Cal,
Remember to carefully follow the instructions inscribed on the bottle and to remember to come to our sessions for Mondays and Thursdays. And please don't refrain from calling if you're ever in need of immediate help.
- Dr. Thompson
Then everything fell into place:
Callaway was depressed.
Callaway was depressed.
I looked back at Callaway, trying to imagine the small curly haired boy next to me taking pills and going to a therapist twice a week. That realization made me gape at him, fear dressing my features.
I didn't know much about mental illness, but I assumed that if he was obligated to meet his doctor bi-weekly, his condition was probably pretty severe.
As I continued to ogle him, Callaway's eyes darted up to mine. I awkwardly snapped my head towards my work, trying my best to remain calm and nonchalant. He looked at me oddly for a moment, surely having seen my previous expression. I refrained from looking at Callaway then, to prevent conflict.
I stared at my, mostly abandoned, work. I had only taken down one note.
- Elevator sex
Which really made no sense. Though I may have recalled an elevator scene in the novel, I was certain there was no "elevator sex".
I forgave myself for my mental absence considering that my thoughts are focused on something of more significance.
I debated asking Callaway, blunt and specific as to not have any confusion.
"So hey, I know we've only known each other for like, a week, and that I already forced you to come out to me, but do you want to kill yourself on a regular basis?"
I quickly dismissed that idea, knowing that Callaway would probably punch me in the face (again).
I needed to do something; I couldn't stand the heavy silence.
So I did something stupid.
"What are your thoughts on depression?"
Callaway glared at me with confusion.
"Or, you know, mental illness as a whole?"
I aimed for easygoing, but my words seemed forced.
Callaway developed a tight expression, "Why?"
My mind was screaming at me to stop, but I ignored it.
"Do you think it would be a better topic for our project?" I cringed at myself, knowing that what I was saying was completely idiotic.
Callaway got up from his reclined position, seething. "You said you weren't homophobic."
I watched as green eyes shot at me, filled with fury. My mind raced as I tried to find ways to sort out the situation.
"I wasn't lying, I just have nothing." I showed Callaway my notes to accentuate the point. "I just wanted to know if mental illness was a topic we could use."
Callaway had calmed a bit from my words of reassurance, but was still frowning.
"I comprehend what you're implying, because - arguably - an extended amount of people in 'The Great Gatsby' could have some breed of emotional disorder. But I have already done research in regards of this topic, and I refuse to alter it," Callaway argued, crossing his arms.
"Why are you against doing it on mental illness? Like you said, there could be lots of examples of it that could be easily justified," I retorted.
"I don't want to," Callaway asserted.
"Why?"
"Why didn't you want to do it on homosexuality?"
"It's complicated."
"It's complicated for me as well," Callaway exasperated.
I refrained from arguing, knowing that I had an unfair advantage due to my extended knowledge on Callaway's mental health.
As our argument dissipated, Callaway and I just both looked at each other, defeated. Neither of us wanted to voice our secrets.
I glanced at the boy beside me, sighing. Callaway was my friend now - possibly my only friend - and I needed to respect him and his boundaries. What I had seen in the bathroom was supposed to remain private and I had violated that confidentiality. I couldn't impose my discoveries on Callaway if it was going to make him feel vulnerable.
I already owed him for practically commanding him to come out to me. What I was doing was wholly unfair.
I needed to repay him for disclosing important information about himself by giving him important information about myself. Maybe then he would come clean about his mental state without any violent coercion.
I exhaled, "Listen, I'm sorry for pestering. It's just that I've had bad past experiences about homosexuality because - " I ran a nervous hand through my hair. "Because of very specific reasons..." I trailed off, unsure of what I was doing.
Callaway's gaze lit up. "Is Zander a homosexual? And his direct harassment is some inane form of coping mechanism?"
I giggled, "No." I stopped, throwing a sly smile at the dark haired boy. "But I'm willing to admit to these specific reasons under two conditions."
Callaway snickered at me, "Alright, I'll consider it. Elucidate your conditions."
"First, you have to be nice to me for the whole time I'm here. We're supposed to be friends okay." Callaway groaned at my words. "And don't think I'm implying just being not mean. I want you to be nice to me; no insults and at least three compliments!"
Callaway looked at me with a subdued horror before muttering, "And the second condition?"
My eyes lit up as I explained, "I want you to answer a question."
The face in front of me just nodded. "Fine, I assent to your conditions. Now specify these 'specific reasons' of yours."
"Hey, not so fast. I'll tell you before I leave - if you're successful," I warned.
Callaway scoffed, "'If I'm successful' as if being kind is a perilous task."
As he was speaking, Callaway stood from his spot next to me. He started shuffling towards a hallway to the left (not the one leading to the washroom.) I was a breath away from asking what he was doing, but he was gone before I could open my mouth.
I stared at the - now vacant - spot on the couch, awaiting for his return. The few minutes he spent - wherever he was, allowed me to contemplate what question I was going to ask him.
I thought about risking the chance of questioning him again about depression.
I was really...concerned.
I wanted to be certain of my assumptions so I could try to help or support Callaway. I had never dealt with mental illness before, but it didn't mean I couldn't learn to. Though, I doubted Callaway would even let me; he didn't seem like one to take kindly to help.
So that idea was rapidly discarded. Which left me with no ideas.
I was still deep in thought when Callaway returned with what looked like a large tub of ice cream and two spoons.
He handed one to me, muttering, " I hope you like strawberry."
I laughed as I nodded.
"What?" Callaway scowled. "If I'm going to hold myself in a commendable manner, some type of material comfort is strictly necessary."
Callaway poked at the ice cream silently for an instant, before glancing at me expectantly.
"Oh right," I realized that I still needed to ask my question.
I racked my mind for a long moment, contemplating all the things I could ask. All my ideas were equally irrelevant, so I decided upon the most ridiculous one.
"Why do you talk like a pretentious English professor who inspires the protagonist of some crap indie movie?"
____________
Callaway
I descried Chance as I brought the frigid metal of the spoon to my lips. I ignored the flavor of strawberry on my tongue, in favor of genuinely giggling at Chance's inquiry.
My laughter dissolved as I spoke, " That is your question? And you desire an honest response?"
Chance nodded, abashed as he dug his spoon into the tub situated between us.
I sighed, " The reason for which I talk in this, what I do agree is an annoyingly pretentious manner, is to annoy my parents as well as my teachers."
Chance put pulled the spoon away from his lips, frowning, "That's it?"
I shrugged, "Yes. I spent all of freshman year developing and practicing my articulation and vocabulary. I had envisioned that it would give me a sense of predominance." I smirked, "I had been right."
"That takes dedication, man. And hard work. Kudos to you," Chance lifted his hand in my direction, in what I believed was a high five position.
I stared at his palm skeptically for a moment before raising my own to meet his. His palm was warm and supple against my own. Where my fingers were callous-ridden, the pads of Chance's fingers were soft as I tapped them with little force.
"I like your hair," I breathed at him as I pulled my hand back from his palm.
Chance glanced at me with utter confusion.
"Compliments," I scowled. "I've now completed 33% of the ones I owe you."
"But they have to be sincere," Chance argued.
"I was being sincere," I huffed at him. " I like your hair. Don't obligate me to repeat it."
Chance gleamed, "Thanks. I like your hair too."
To accentuate his point, he grasped at one of my curls, pulling deftly. I gaped at him in horror, as I perceived the sharp tug on my scalp.
"Don't touch my hair," I hissed, swatting at his hand.
"What did I say about being nice?" Chance chastised me, though still acceded to my demand. "So I take it you don't like your parents very much?"
"I hadn't been notified that this was an interrogation. When I previously checked you were allowed merely one question," I jeered.
"You don't have to answer, I was just curious," Chance assured.
I let out a long breath before explaining, "No, it's alright. You assumed correctly." I took a minuscule bite of ice cream. "My parents are usually absent. They provide all the corporal necessities needed to sustain my life and comfort, but don't particularly care for me - emotionally, I mean."
As I witnessed Chance's clear anguish, I continued, "I don't mind. Not presently anyway. When I was child it was exceptionally difficult to cope with, but I like to believe that I have matured since then."
I wasn't lying, I did not care for my parents, but Chance didn't seem to comprehend the notion.
I smiled thinly, hoping to divert the growing tension furnishing the air. Silence filled the room as I turned back to my work, ignoring Chance's despairing expression.
"You're more intelligent than you give yourself credit for," I asserted, trying to break the strain that congested the air.
Chance turned to me with incredulity garnishing his features, "You can't be serious-"
I interjected, " If you wish for me to bestow you with guileless compliments than you must accept them."
Chance grumbled, defeated. He turned his focus onto the ice cream before him.
This went on for a few moments; Chance just scrutinizing me, consuming an ample portion of my ice cream as I worked on our assignment. I got irritated quickly.
"Aren't you going to help?" I growled at the blond.
Chance turned to me, gaze pointed.
"Please," I added, recalling the terms of our arrangement.
Chance grudgingly lay aside the container of ice cream that had miraculously found its way into the confinement of his lap. I inspected as he opened his novel, scribbling something down in his notebook.
"What did you just annotate?" I peered at Chance.
"I'm assuming you meant 'write', so here," Chance lips curled upwards as he handed me the striped journal, open to the page of notes.
I scanned the notes for a second:
The Great Gatsby:
- Elevator sex
- I'm writing something so Callaway thinks I'm doing work.
"Are you purposefully attempting to provoke me?" I spat at his smug air.
"Maybe," Chance shrugged at me, clutching at the notebook in my grasp.
Instead of voicing my thoughts impetuously, I snarled at him, tone opposing the meaning of my words, "You're a nice person."
At that, Chance roared, "You look like an angry goose." Laughter interlaced Chance's words. " That does not count as a compliment."
"Why not?"
"Because I assure you, that was not sincere," Chance snickered.
I disregarded his amusement, sulking. "I am kindly suggesting- no, asking that you refrain from getting engrossed in the fruitless consumption of ice cream and instead do your work."
Chance huffed but reluctantly opened back up his book while bitterly mumbling to himself.
"I've already completed about a fourth of the presentation and my faith in your ability to achieve anything productive is wavering." Chance frowned at that. "Thus, I'm going to be nice and allow you to work on the visual portion of the assignment."
"What does that even mean?" Chance grimaced.
"Just," I sighed, " do whatever you please. My only request is that it looks presentable. You may use my laptop of you deem it necessary."
I pointed vaguely to the desk in the corner of the room, where my laptop could be found.
Chance grinned, eyes glittering, "Don't need it, I've got something better planned."
He then proceeded to tear a page from his notebook, already commencing to scribble with his pen. I observed as he drew. Each time, he would stop to appraise it, biting his bottom in a thoughtful expression, before promptly scribbling it out, turning to a new part of the page.
I just hoped that the work he was doing was legitimate and did not solely consist of obscene stick figures.
As Chance demonstrated his craftsmanship and whatnot, I endured writing the first draft of the presentation.
A good while later, Chance stood up unanticipatedly from his seat opposite of me. I surveyed as he paced, his eyes peering around the room, searching.
"What are you doing?" I inquired.
Chance's eyes snapped to mine. He seemed alarmed, having forgotten my presence.
"I'm cold so I'm looking for a blanket," Chance continued his hunt as he spoke. "Surely you must have some fancy golden laced blankets in here somewhere."
I ogled Chance for a moment, murmuring, "I shall return in an instant."
I slid out of my seat, scampering towards the hall, leaving behind a perplexed Chance. My socks padded against the wooden floorboards softly as I made my way past some rooms and to the stairwell at the end of the hall. I tiptoed up the stairs, passing a few doorways before reaching my own bedroom.
As I stepped over to drawers by my bed, I could perceive a distant intonation, "Callaway? Are you getting violently murdered? Stay silent for yes and scream for no."
I ignored him as I pulled open a drawer, ruffling through before espying my target.
With object in hand, I shut the drawer. I had nearly departed the room as a voice startled me.
"Cool room," Chance smiled as he leapt onto the dark green of my bed.
Chance smirked, as he lay down further on the double bed, golden hair spilling against the contrasting green.
His gaze fluttered around the multitude of posters and photos adorning the walls. His eyes widened as he took in the view of the multiple guitars that had been propped against a far wall.
"Do you play?" He spoke casually.
"Hardly," I admitted. "And I never awarded you permission to infiltrate my bedroom," I glared at Chances figure as he sprawled on my bed.
"What? I was only making sure you weren't being murdered," Chance grinned. "And besides, what are you doing here anyway? Am I that annoying?"
I scowled throwing the article in my grasp at him. Chance caught the grey sweater easily, confusion bedecking his expression.
"You were cold, hence the sweater now in your grasp," I drawled at him. "It's too large to fit my frame so I use it as pajamas. I assume it would fit you."
Chance shrugged, pulling his head through the grey material with ease. As he tugged the fabric across his chest, realization pooled in his eyes.
"You're letting me use your clothes? Clothes that you actually wear?" Chance asked, disbelieving.
"It's only sleepwear," I corrected him. "But yes. I thought it constituted being kind."
Chance sat up from his previous position, inspecting his new acquirement.
"It smells like oranges," Chance laughed. "Does that mean that you smell like oranges?"
I groaned, "No, that's what one calls 'laundry detergent'."
Chance seemed disappointed by the admittance.
"Now, I'm going to proceed working downstairs if you want to join me," I spoke, already exiting the bedroom.
Chance grinned, bouncing off the bed before pursuing my steps as we returned to the living room.
______________
It was verging on 8:00 p.m. when Chance announced that his father was going to retrieve him momentarily.
Our progress on the assignment was agreeable; I had already completed the majority of the first draft of the written portion, and Chance claimed to have completed the rough draft of his drawings. I couldn't be sure whether he was being sincere due to the fact that he consistently declined my request to see it. I just hoped that it was decent.
As we had worked, Chance had eaten the totality of the ice cream and had circulated around my house aimlessly. Four times.
When I had questioned his motives for the wandering, he had simply responded with "For science!"
Though as the evening dragged on, he had calmed down and had continued drawing. I watched him from my peripheral vision as he drew in the most peculiar positions I had ever witnessed. There was one occasion where I had been obligated to warn him of the danger of falling off the couch. Because he had been dangling upside down off the arm, with only one leg for support.
So yes, I was clueless as to the actuality on the progress of his art.
As we sat in the dimming light of the living room, I heard the petite chime of Chances phone, signifying he had received a text.
Chance grabbed his phone from his jeans, muttering, "My dad's waiting outside." Chance laughed abruptly. "He wants to know if you're nice and rich?"
Chance got up swiftly, easily making his way toward the door. It seemed that exploring the house had been somewhat beneficial.
"Well, I'm really rich," I assured as I followed him to the entrance. "Niceties are secondary to dominance in the financial world. "
Chance smiled, "That is way too long to type so I'm just going to say yes."
Chance taped at his phone as he stood in the large doorway. Once he ceased texting, he turned his gaze to me. I gazed back with anticipation.
"You still owe me one more compliment," He smirked.
"Fine," I groused. "Your height and general flawlessness are wholly intimidating."
Chance chuckled, "My height and general flawlessness? I'm shocked, but thank you."
I stared at him, waiting as he scratched at his neck anxiously.
Moments dawdled on as I watched Chance, his eyes flitting anywhere but my face.
I pondered as to what could make him so nervous. Chance, who always seemed to know what to say in any given situation, with enough confidence for the both of us, had lost the ability to articulate his thoughts. Chance was an habitually blasé person and the apparent seriousness behind his 'specific reasons' alarmed me.
I watched as the figure facing me tapped absently at his jeans before clearing his throat.
"Right, so my reasons," Chance muttered, tentative. "The reason I'm, as I've said, 'uncomfortable' with the topic of homosexuality isn't because I'm homophobic..." Chance's voice slowed.
His skittering eyes screamed 'fight or flight'. I watched as his hand grasped the doorknob, already preparing to flee.
For a moment, I anticipated the view of his hasty movements as he retreated my house, leaving me nonplussed.
But then finally, his blue eyes met my gaze, astonishing me with their intensity.
"It's because I'm bisexual," Chances words were filled with the same ferocity that was found within his piercing gaze.
I could only gape at the blond in front of me.
My lips fluttered open, bracing for an outburst, but before I could speak Chance ripped open the door jumping down the stairs, calling out to me, "Bye Callaway, see you around!"
I watched as the door slammed, my eyes being met with painted wood instead of the tall boy they searched for.
I yelled at the forthwith-barren space in front of me, wishing the blond was still here to witness my words;
"What the fuck?"
______________
Authors note 2.0: The element on the periodic table with 83 protons is Bismuth; Bi.
I like to think I'm funny.
Content warning: Unambiguous mentions of depression i.e. Pills, therapist and explicit mentions of suicide.