a/n // so for some reason all my petericks get so many reads??????? thx but like?? this book may as well be peterick oneshots tbh there's barely any non peterick ones??? also pls read the previous oneshot i actually really adored that one ok f ight m e
this au is inspired by the blue neighborhood album by troye sivan. it's so good srsly
big warning for suicidal thoughts + an almost attempt later on!! nothing is graphic buuut if it triggers you then please read with caution!!
fun fact - the working title for this was "the heart rate of your mom's dick" cause throam amirite
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April 22nd, 2012
There is rain.
I rake my bangs back from my forehead; the water fogs up my glasses, and makes my hair stick to my face and neck, and I hope to God the bleach isn't starting to run. Does bleach run in water? He said hair dye does. Fuck what He says, though. He also said He liked you. He is a fucking liar.
My lips purse around the cigarette my shaky hands force out of my back pocket; do cigarettes contribute to weight gain? Can you get fatter if you smoke? I reminded myself to Google it later; my hands are desperate for nicotine, for something bittersweet in my lungs. I nearly burn my thumbs flicking on my lighter, because the cold and the rain and the fucking nerves are making my hands shake. It's His fault. He bumps into my life and changes everything, makes me into someone I'm not, and then leaves because He's found someone prettier, younger and a lot better off both through emotions and riches - He leaves unscathed, whereas I get left with more than a few bad habits and a lot of hate churning in my gut, too many words left unsaid when they should've been screamed.
Kids like Him should be burning in Hell.
My cheeks hollow as I inhale the smoke, before exhaling it lazily, watching as it dances in the sky or some shit - I'm not a fucking poet. He was a sucker for poetry; after sex, He'd lay with his head on my shoulder and trace patterns on my thighs, whispering how beautiful I was, waxing on about my 'unprecedented beauty', crooning about freckled galaxies and oceans of aquamarine and opal, just like my eyes. Bull fucking shit. I snort at the thought of Him waxing on about the same shit, just to a new person; for someone with such a pretty brain, He was fucking stupid when it came to originality. Good fucking riddance. Maybe the new one will realize before He fucks them over, too.
I huddle behind the bus stop shelter and feel my cellphone buzz calmly in my back pocket. Three buzzes. Three buzzes. Three buzzes. The stability soothes my soul as my left hand (the one unoccupied by my cigarette) reaches unconsciously for my back pocket.
It's Him.
He is calling me again, begging to hear my honey words, to get into my head, to fuck me up and then leave.
Should've thought about your girlfriend before dating me, asswipe.
I hang up.
I've already hung up the skeletons in the closet of my head; He is just a footnote. A memory. A modern Shakespeare tragedy.
I suck in and exhale the cancerous smoke as the rain subsides to a calm drizzle. I snuff out the cigarette, stepping on the snub with my heel. I walk across the side walk, following the stairway to not-quite heaven, but the top of a bridge.
I stare off it, into the squirming snake of a city below it. I think about taunting myself with the thought of doing it, jumping and tainting the highway with the ruby of my blood.
But I don't.
Instead, I keep walking, my boots splashing into puddles in a staccato rhythm, and it feels like the city is a living animal, and I am retracting and re-enacting it's heartbeat as the thuds of my shoes echo against the pavement skin of the inter-city.
I get home later than usual.
I curl up in my bed.
My shoes make the sheets muddy.
I sob, because I can't handle anything else.
-
April 23rd, 2012
I wake up and proceed to vomit in the bathroom sink.
My eyelids fluttering, I wipe my mouth with the back of my sweater and rest my arms against either side of the cracked mirror, panting heavily. I refuse to look at the chunky greyish green mixture filtering down the sink, and cough a little. My new meds aren't treating me nicely at all. I hate them.
Still, I get ready for work, movements as monotonous as a robot. Undress. Shower for as long as the water lets you before it turns to freezing cold ice daggers. Stare at your body until you hate it. Get dressed into work clothes. Walk.
I do everything in succession; the vomit doesn't quite filter down the sink, but I just give it a forlorn look as I turn and leave.
Work is boring.
My boss is an asshole.
I look outside. We're in a meeting on the top floor. I could jump.
It's not until my name is yelled that I realize I've gotten up and walked over to the open window. Ready to jump. Prepared to die.
I bus home early.
A toothless homeless man offers me his dog for $20. I'm tempted, but I don't accept his offer.
I walk home.
I don't smoke this time; my phone still buzzes.
Him again.
I roll my eyes, stuffing it back into my pocket.
Asshole.
-
April 24th, 2012
I repeat my monotone morning routine; one, two, three, four, five.
I don't vomit this time; the outline of the vomit's impact hasn't quite washed away yet, and it sticks out like a gruesome reminder.
I'm early to work today; my boss calls me in. Sits me down, pats my shoulders. Calls me son, even though she's probably barely ten years older.
I'm laid off on mental health charges; apparently, they're so very concerned about my current mental health state, after I tried to jump out a window yesterday. Well, no, I didn't try; I nearly did. So I can't work for them anymore. No use having a sickheaded queer freak show around. Nobody wants that.
I walk home instead of grabbing the bus; it's raining, and my boots make an uneven sound against the pavement, waterlogged thanks to the northern downpour in my shoes.
I make my faithful tread up the steps, counting the rise and fall of my feet with every step. My breath exhales from my nose in a stormy grey cloud as I just stand by the bridge, watching, waiting. I stare at the mass of cars.
I will do it.
I could do it.
I call Him.
He answers with a broken smile, audible even through crappy cellphone speakers. He starts to cry when he hears my panic attack breaths, as I feel myself begin to break down. I sob into the receiver, letting out a broken, "Talk me down."
I hear Him panting into the cellphone as he sprints; His feet thump against the pavement, begging me to be okay. Telling me... He loves me.
I'm still contemplating when I see Him; He pulls me close, breathing me in like smoke in the concrete jungle light. He just holds me tight, telling me things are gonna be okay. His whiskey eyes meet mine and I kiss Him, my eyelids closing, pulling Him closer. He complies, smiling gently into the lip-lock, one hand in my hair, the other on my hip.
I pull away gently for oxygen; my forehead rests against His and although my cheeks are still wet, I smile gently.
"I meant what I said." He stares at me through His eyelashes, "I love you."
"Then why'd you leave me?" My voice cracks and His hand traces down my cheek, wiping a tear.
"I'm a fucking idiot." He laughed sheepishly as I rolled my eyes in agreement. "But, I've become better. I've changed. And, if you'll take me..."
"You..want to be back together?" I raise my eyebrows, and he shyly nods. Grinning, I kiss him again.
Yeah, I mean it this time.