fake!tag
So, y'know, don't bother unless you're in the RPG. Hell, even if you're in the RPG you may wanna skip it, it's incredibly emo/pointless. Kyle is in denial. Kyle gets trashed. The end. There, now you don't hafta read it.
I just had to get it out of my head, pretty much.
“You’re depressed,” Inge says. “You need to see a therapist.”
Kyle feels like hyperventilating. He’s hemmed in. Inge only thinks he’s depressed because of the stupid whiny shit he tells him and so the obvious way to fix this is to not tell him stupid whiny shit anymore. The problem, though, is twofold. For one thing, the shit, while stupid and whiny, is stuff that needs to be told for some reason, needs to be got out of him, and telling it to Ty just doesn’t cut it some days. And for another thing, he’s already told Inge a lot of stupidity and a lot of whining, and he can cut it out for the future but he can’t erase what he’s said in the past no matter how much he wants to.
He’s not depressed. He’s not. It’s just a rough patch, is all, people are allowed to have rough patches, aren’t they? They are. He’s pretty sure. He’s not pitching so well, the team isn’t doing so well, and he gave up an awful lot to sign with this team because he wanted to win, WANTS to win, so badly, and this seemed like the best place to do it. And it’s looking like that was possibly the worst decision of his life and he could have had EVERYTHING if he’d signed with Detroit, friends, Bondo, winning, so he’s just a little UPSET about the whole thing, since it looks fucking AWFUL now on the face of it.
And he feels kinda bad about that, you know, kind of coloring his thinking.
And his back, it’s a mess of pain, a rough tangle of barbed wire coiled at the base of his spine. He’s pitched through it before and he’ll pitch through it again, but it burns burns burns all the time, a lowgrade throb of agony cranking up into sharp spikes of pain that make his eyes water if he moves too quickly. And that doesn’t exactly make him want to be a ray of fucking sunshine either.
And it’s not like he’s getting laid, here in New York with Bonderman sitting pretty in Detroit.
That doesn’t mean he’s DEPRESSED, that means he’s just dealing with all that shit, on top of the varied other levels of shit that arise when you’re Kyle fucking Farnsworth and the person you’re fucking on a regular basis doesn’t even really want to fuck you.
He told Inge all that because he needed to get it out of him before it drove him fucking crazy, and also because he had hoped for, oh, he hardly knew. Understanding, maybe. Or something.
Not this fucking ATTACK though, this fucking ACCUSATION of fucking mental illness.
No, he’s having all these Issues, all these stupid pathetic fucking problems, and the problem is that he can’t deal with them like he normally would. He can’t go out and shoot something because he’s living in the middle of the suburbs and working in the city, and he isn’t licensed to hunt in Connecticut or New York anyways. He can’t go crazy and start a fight and bust some shit up, because he’s behaving for the media here. He can’t go out and fuck his way through a club, because, well, Bonderman.
Kyle gets up and goes to the fridge. He’s not depressed. He’s not. The very thought of it is suffocating him, he can barely breathe. He can’t believe that Inge would turn all the stuff he told him into something like that. It’s so cruel and unexpected and he’d thought he was done with all that, thought he could trust someone again. Thought he could trust someone with his fucking FEELINGS without them taking everything he said and twisting it around.
Which was stupid, now that he thinks about it, when he knows deep down that he can’t trust anyone anyways. Not with anything like that.
He rummages through cans of beer, frowning. Too light. His fingers trip up against a bottle of vodka and that seems better. He grabs a carton of orange juice from the next shelf and kicks the door closed.
Frowning, he tries to think if there’s some ratio for making screwdrivers, this much alcohol to this much juice. He can’t remember if there is, let alone what it might be if such a rule existed. Shrugging to himself he pours half a glass of juice and fills up the rest with the alcohol. It’s way more than a shot and he knows it’s way too much, but he’s a big guy and he’s not a fucking kid. It doesn’t fucking matter anyhow.
He drinks it fast, grimacing a little at the vodka burn, and pours another. He spies his cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter and spins it lightly to watch it twirl. He picks it up and flips it open and closed, open and closed. Click click click. The idea of calling Bonderman up for phone sex seems awfully tempting for a minute before he remembers that Bonderman won’t be interested in that anyhow. Of course.
Can’t even get phone sex. It really does feel like living as a monk, when he’s not with Bonderman, and he spends most of the season now not with Bonderman. He can’t HAVE sex, he can’t TALK about sex, he can’t ANYTHING. If only the old Chicago groupies could see him now, he thinks, they’d hardly recognize Kyle Farnsworth.
They’d think it a waste, he decides, finishing off his screwdriver. All that hotness, all that skill in bed, and it’s not even fucking appreciated. He shakes the orange juice carton and listens to the sound of a few stray drops rattling around the bottom. Oh well. He grabs the bottle of vodka and takes a swig directly from the mouth of it. Why the fuck not, right?
He collapses on the couch, phone in one hand and bottle in the other. The phone, hey. He decides that as soon as someone calls, he’ll stop drinking for the night. That sounds fair. Very fair. Super fair. Just as soon as someone calls up to say hi, or I miss you, or whatever.
He toys with the phone a little, tossing it into the air and catching it up one-handed, spinning it in his palm, flipping it open and closed. Maybe Inge will call, apologizing for his awful accusations. Maybe Bonderman will call, missing him. Maybe McCann will call, asking for advice. Maybe Chipper will call, drunk and happy. Maybe one of his brothers or sisters will call, just to say hi. Maybe his mom or dad will call, just to check in.
No one calls.
Kyle is vaguely surprised to find that the bottle of vodka is empty. He stares into its depths and frowns. He turns around to look at the clock and see how much time has passed but the numbers are fuzzy and gray and give him a headache. He’s waiting for something, he thinks, waiting for something to happen, but he no longer can remember what it is.
The phone is wedged between the couch cushions, silent and forgotten.
He gets up and immediately stumbles right into a wall, like woah, hey, was that always there? Huh. He leans against it and sort of slides himself in the direction of the kitchen, feeling his way with one palm flat against the roughness of the paint and his head treading water.
The bottle gets tossed in the direction of the trash, missing and shattering on the tile floor behind it. Ty, spooked, comes shooting through the room from some other part of the house, but Kyle barely notices. He opens the fridge again and leans heavily against the door, peering muzzily inside. It’s hard to tell what’s what so eventually he just grabs the first thing near the front, which turns out to be a can of Budweiser.
It’s a struggle, getting the poptop open. He can’t quite get his fingers to work properly and eventually he has to just sit down on the floor of the kitchen and lean up against the cabinets, brace the can on his knees and carefully lever his finger through the ring to get it open. When he does he feels a great sense of accomplishment and leans his head back, downs the entire beer in one long gulping swallow, the smooth ease of one accomplished at the funnel from his younger days.
He crushes the can flat against the floor with one hand and throws it in the direction of the trash, missing again. The clatter sends Ty shooting back through the room in the opposite direction, in and out in a flash like a bad dream. His head swims. More beer, then.
Three beers later and he can’t work the pullring at all anymore. He digs precariously in a pocket until he comes up with his car key. It takes a few tries and a lot of squinting but he manages to stab a hole in the side of the can. He carefully tilts his head up and shotguns the beer, fast, a good quantity of it bubbling over around his mouth and soaking his shirt, puddling on the floor, but he manages to drink most of it all the same. It’s nice to know that he hasn’t forgotten the old basics, really.
In the fridge he finds another bottle of vodka, which is very exciting, what luck, what good foresight he had to buy two. It takes a bit to get the top off, but once he does, why, it’s easy. He can barely even feel the stuff going down his throat, which is wonderful, he can drink it like water, how cool.
He’s not… something. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be, anymore, but whatever it is, he’s not it. He’s not, he’s not anything. He’s just Kyle, and no one wants THAT. Ha ha. Don’t be dumb.
Wanna, he wants, he wants to talk to Bonderman. Right now. He’s not sure what he wants to say, but he gets the idea that he wants very much to just hear his voice, or even just hear him breathing, low and warm, over a phone line. He can’t find his phone though, and as he rises, swaying, to his knees a persistent little voice turns on in his brain and says that Bonderman wouldn’t pick up this late anyhow, and even if he did he wouldn’t want to hear what Kyle wants to say, because he never does, and why should now be any different?
He thinks about calling Inge, but the little voice says that he doesn’t want to talk to Inge right now, because… because something. Because Inge thinks he’s something that he’s not, or, uh, something. He can’t remember. It’s all so hard. He’s so, so tired.
Bed, should. But he can’t work out which direction it is and really, even ‘up’ seems like an awfully big struggle right now. He sinks back down onto the kitchen floor. It’s kinda hard down here, and pretty sticky. But he doesn’t mind. It feels pretty comfortable, in a way, he could totally get into that. Totally work with it.
His back doesn’t even hurt, when he’s this drunk, or if it hurts he doesn’t even notice it anymore. He thinks, fractured, that he should do this more often, but he kinda already does, but right now, man, right now he just wants to sleep, real bad.
Rapidly losing the fight with wakefulness he stretches out on the floor, the half-full bottle of vodka (did a pretty good job on it, hey, even on short notice) falling horizontal from his slack fingers and glugging out onto the floor, spreading under him, cold. He doesn’t even notice, though. Just so tired. So tired, and his eyes are heavy heavy heavy like thick velvet curtains at a theater and the play’s just about over.
Kyle’s not thinking anything in particular as he slides into unconsciousness, and that’s the best thing that’s happened to him all week.
Hee, I haven't even spell-checked or anything. If you read that, you have only yourself to blame.
I just had to get it out of my head, pretty much.
“You’re depressed,” Inge says. “You need to see a therapist.”
Kyle feels like hyperventilating. He’s hemmed in. Inge only thinks he’s depressed because of the stupid whiny shit he tells him and so the obvious way to fix this is to not tell him stupid whiny shit anymore. The problem, though, is twofold. For one thing, the shit, while stupid and whiny, is stuff that needs to be told for some reason, needs to be got out of him, and telling it to Ty just doesn’t cut it some days. And for another thing, he’s already told Inge a lot of stupidity and a lot of whining, and he can cut it out for the future but he can’t erase what he’s said in the past no matter how much he wants to.
He’s not depressed. He’s not. It’s just a rough patch, is all, people are allowed to have rough patches, aren’t they? They are. He’s pretty sure. He’s not pitching so well, the team isn’t doing so well, and he gave up an awful lot to sign with this team because he wanted to win, WANTS to win, so badly, and this seemed like the best place to do it. And it’s looking like that was possibly the worst decision of his life and he could have had EVERYTHING if he’d signed with Detroit, friends, Bondo, winning, so he’s just a little UPSET about the whole thing, since it looks fucking AWFUL now on the face of it.
And he feels kinda bad about that, you know, kind of coloring his thinking.
And his back, it’s a mess of pain, a rough tangle of barbed wire coiled at the base of his spine. He’s pitched through it before and he’ll pitch through it again, but it burns burns burns all the time, a lowgrade throb of agony cranking up into sharp spikes of pain that make his eyes water if he moves too quickly. And that doesn’t exactly make him want to be a ray of fucking sunshine either.
And it’s not like he’s getting laid, here in New York with Bonderman sitting pretty in Detroit.
That doesn’t mean he’s DEPRESSED, that means he’s just dealing with all that shit, on top of the varied other levels of shit that arise when you’re Kyle fucking Farnsworth and the person you’re fucking on a regular basis doesn’t even really want to fuck you.
He told Inge all that because he needed to get it out of him before it drove him fucking crazy, and also because he had hoped for, oh, he hardly knew. Understanding, maybe. Or something.
Not this fucking ATTACK though, this fucking ACCUSATION of fucking mental illness.
No, he’s having all these Issues, all these stupid pathetic fucking problems, and the problem is that he can’t deal with them like he normally would. He can’t go out and shoot something because he’s living in the middle of the suburbs and working in the city, and he isn’t licensed to hunt in Connecticut or New York anyways. He can’t go crazy and start a fight and bust some shit up, because he’s behaving for the media here. He can’t go out and fuck his way through a club, because, well, Bonderman.
Kyle gets up and goes to the fridge. He’s not depressed. He’s not. The very thought of it is suffocating him, he can barely breathe. He can’t believe that Inge would turn all the stuff he told him into something like that. It’s so cruel and unexpected and he’d thought he was done with all that, thought he could trust someone again. Thought he could trust someone with his fucking FEELINGS without them taking everything he said and twisting it around.
Which was stupid, now that he thinks about it, when he knows deep down that he can’t trust anyone anyways. Not with anything like that.
He rummages through cans of beer, frowning. Too light. His fingers trip up against a bottle of vodka and that seems better. He grabs a carton of orange juice from the next shelf and kicks the door closed.
Frowning, he tries to think if there’s some ratio for making screwdrivers, this much alcohol to this much juice. He can’t remember if there is, let alone what it might be if such a rule existed. Shrugging to himself he pours half a glass of juice and fills up the rest with the alcohol. It’s way more than a shot and he knows it’s way too much, but he’s a big guy and he’s not a fucking kid. It doesn’t fucking matter anyhow.
He drinks it fast, grimacing a little at the vodka burn, and pours another. He spies his cell phone sitting on the kitchen counter and spins it lightly to watch it twirl. He picks it up and flips it open and closed, open and closed. Click click click. The idea of calling Bonderman up for phone sex seems awfully tempting for a minute before he remembers that Bonderman won’t be interested in that anyhow. Of course.
Can’t even get phone sex. It really does feel like living as a monk, when he’s not with Bonderman, and he spends most of the season now not with Bonderman. He can’t HAVE sex, he can’t TALK about sex, he can’t ANYTHING. If only the old Chicago groupies could see him now, he thinks, they’d hardly recognize Kyle Farnsworth.
They’d think it a waste, he decides, finishing off his screwdriver. All that hotness, all that skill in bed, and it’s not even fucking appreciated. He shakes the orange juice carton and listens to the sound of a few stray drops rattling around the bottom. Oh well. He grabs the bottle of vodka and takes a swig directly from the mouth of it. Why the fuck not, right?
He collapses on the couch, phone in one hand and bottle in the other. The phone, hey. He decides that as soon as someone calls, he’ll stop drinking for the night. That sounds fair. Very fair. Super fair. Just as soon as someone calls up to say hi, or I miss you, or whatever.
He toys with the phone a little, tossing it into the air and catching it up one-handed, spinning it in his palm, flipping it open and closed. Maybe Inge will call, apologizing for his awful accusations. Maybe Bonderman will call, missing him. Maybe McCann will call, asking for advice. Maybe Chipper will call, drunk and happy. Maybe one of his brothers or sisters will call, just to say hi. Maybe his mom or dad will call, just to check in.
No one calls.
Kyle is vaguely surprised to find that the bottle of vodka is empty. He stares into its depths and frowns. He turns around to look at the clock and see how much time has passed but the numbers are fuzzy and gray and give him a headache. He’s waiting for something, he thinks, waiting for something to happen, but he no longer can remember what it is.
The phone is wedged between the couch cushions, silent and forgotten.
He gets up and immediately stumbles right into a wall, like woah, hey, was that always there? Huh. He leans against it and sort of slides himself in the direction of the kitchen, feeling his way with one palm flat against the roughness of the paint and his head treading water.
The bottle gets tossed in the direction of the trash, missing and shattering on the tile floor behind it. Ty, spooked, comes shooting through the room from some other part of the house, but Kyle barely notices. He opens the fridge again and leans heavily against the door, peering muzzily inside. It’s hard to tell what’s what so eventually he just grabs the first thing near the front, which turns out to be a can of Budweiser.
It’s a struggle, getting the poptop open. He can’t quite get his fingers to work properly and eventually he has to just sit down on the floor of the kitchen and lean up against the cabinets, brace the can on his knees and carefully lever his finger through the ring to get it open. When he does he feels a great sense of accomplishment and leans his head back, downs the entire beer in one long gulping swallow, the smooth ease of one accomplished at the funnel from his younger days.
He crushes the can flat against the floor with one hand and throws it in the direction of the trash, missing again. The clatter sends Ty shooting back through the room in the opposite direction, in and out in a flash like a bad dream. His head swims. More beer, then.
Three beers later and he can’t work the pullring at all anymore. He digs precariously in a pocket until he comes up with his car key. It takes a few tries and a lot of squinting but he manages to stab a hole in the side of the can. He carefully tilts his head up and shotguns the beer, fast, a good quantity of it bubbling over around his mouth and soaking his shirt, puddling on the floor, but he manages to drink most of it all the same. It’s nice to know that he hasn’t forgotten the old basics, really.
In the fridge he finds another bottle of vodka, which is very exciting, what luck, what good foresight he had to buy two. It takes a bit to get the top off, but once he does, why, it’s easy. He can barely even feel the stuff going down his throat, which is wonderful, he can drink it like water, how cool.
He’s not… something. He’s not sure what he’s supposed to be, anymore, but whatever it is, he’s not it. He’s not, he’s not anything. He’s just Kyle, and no one wants THAT. Ha ha. Don’t be dumb.
Wanna, he wants, he wants to talk to Bonderman. Right now. He’s not sure what he wants to say, but he gets the idea that he wants very much to just hear his voice, or even just hear him breathing, low and warm, over a phone line. He can’t find his phone though, and as he rises, swaying, to his knees a persistent little voice turns on in his brain and says that Bonderman wouldn’t pick up this late anyhow, and even if he did he wouldn’t want to hear what Kyle wants to say, because he never does, and why should now be any different?
He thinks about calling Inge, but the little voice says that he doesn’t want to talk to Inge right now, because… because something. Because Inge thinks he’s something that he’s not, or, uh, something. He can’t remember. It’s all so hard. He’s so, so tired.
Bed, should. But he can’t work out which direction it is and really, even ‘up’ seems like an awfully big struggle right now. He sinks back down onto the kitchen floor. It’s kinda hard down here, and pretty sticky. But he doesn’t mind. It feels pretty comfortable, in a way, he could totally get into that. Totally work with it.
His back doesn’t even hurt, when he’s this drunk, or if it hurts he doesn’t even notice it anymore. He thinks, fractured, that he should do this more often, but he kinda already does, but right now, man, right now he just wants to sleep, real bad.
Rapidly losing the fight with wakefulness he stretches out on the floor, the half-full bottle of vodka (did a pretty good job on it, hey, even on short notice) falling horizontal from his slack fingers and glugging out onto the floor, spreading under him, cold. He doesn’t even notice, though. Just so tired. So tired, and his eyes are heavy heavy heavy like thick velvet curtains at a theater and the play’s just about over.
Kyle’s not thinking anything in particular as he slides into unconsciousness, and that’s the best thing that’s happened to him all week.
Hee, I haven't even spell-checked or anything. If you read that, you have only yourself to blame.