The Last Day - Chapter 08
Title: The Last Day
Author: Viv
Genre: drama, angst, fluff, humor
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Simple Plan [music - band]
Pairing: David/Sebastien
Disclaimer: ... I do release them occasionally.
Summary: It’s been seven years to this date. [multi-chaptered: (01)(02)(03)(04)(05)(06)(07)]
It was evening when I came back to the house. I had went to buy some groceries - it was my turn to cook supper and we were also starting to run low on milk, eggs, bread, apple juice and coffee - before returning home. Subsequently, that gave me time to think on how to talk to my - I still hoped he was - best friend.
I really did not know what to expect. I knew, with some relief, that there would be no disgust. But would he still accept me? Or would gently push me away, preferring to keep what we already had and remain there.
And what would Pierre and Patrick say, if they were to find out? Push me away? Or support me like Chuck and Jeff did - after recovering from the initial shock, that is.
When I got home what I did not expect, however, was for Sébastien to break my heart a second time.
The house was quiet and empty when I entered it that evening. I went on my way to put some of the groceries away before preparing and cooking supper for everyone by myself, as I had been doing in the last two and a half months whenever it was my turn.
After that was done, I tidied up the kitchen a bit before turning off the stove and left the kitchen to clean myself up and change before the other guys got home.
When I was out of my shower, some ten minutes later, I could hear Pierre and Charles arguing loudly downstairs and rolled my eyes. I quickly dried myself and dressed before going downstairs to find Jeff watching television while Pie and Chuck were still debating about whether a crocodile and an alligator were the same thing or not (if you really want to know, Charles was the one who was right - a crocodile and an alligator is not the same thing, despite what Pierre believes).
I then found Patrick in the kitchen, peering into the still warm pots on the stove before picking up a spoon that I had left on the dining table. Holding up the cover of one of the pots, he started prodding its content with the spoon before grinning and taking one scoop. I quickly strode up behind him and gave him a good smacking behind his head, to which he responded by dropping the spoon in the pot and whining about starving.
“Get the others.”
“But Dav-”
“Get the others si tu veux manger maintenant!” [… if you want to eat now!]
“Alright, alright.”
Patrick grumbled as he turned away while I fished out the spoon from the pot of spaghetti meat-and-zucchini sauce - one of my mom’s special recipes.
“JEFFOPIERROCHUCKOSUPPERNOW!”
And promptly dropped the blasted spoon back into the sauce.
“… Idiot. I said get them, now scream at them. Get Seb too.”
“Same difference. And Sebby’s not home. Was already gone when we got back.”
I frowned but remained quiet, feeling guilty for having left Seb to think that I hated him. Heck, he was probably mad at me.
We ate supper that evening, as noisily as we always had. I think Charles and Jean-François seemed somewhat relieved that I had regained some of my former energy and sense of humor because they were more animated and paid me more attention than before.
Pierre took his turn to clean the table while Jeff was in charge of doing the dishes that night as our singer would then also dry and put everything away.
We spent the rest of the night debating over whether or not to add a verse to one of our songs before eventually all going off to bed - well, in my case at least, since the rest of the guys still had to shower and all that shit.
None of us saw Sebastien come back that night.
When I got up the next day and sleepily wandered into the kitchen after my morning ritual (you know, like brushing your teeth?), I took a seat at the table while Chuck, the ever early-riser among us, was flipping pancakes over the stove.
“Bon matin.” [Good morning.]
I yawned at him. He chuckled, unbothered by my reply.
“Déjeuner? Crêpes? Oeufs?” [Breakfast? Pancakes? Eggs?]
“… Oeufs.” [Eggs.] I croaked out, my voice nothing close to the one recorded on our computer. I sounded more like a scratched record than David-singing-on-a-to-be-Simple-Plan-album.
“Comment? Pain?” [How? Bread?]
I threw a quick glance towards the counter, looking over the ingredients laid out before Chuck, before answering again, my voice this time coming out more decent.
“Deux. Brouillés avec fromage. Croissant.” [Two. Scrambled with cheese. Croissant.]
“Coming right up!” he then nodded in the direction of the coffeepot, hot steam rising above the almost black liquid while he took a buttered croissant out of a plastic bag and putting it in the toaster-oven.
When I had returned to my seat, a mug full of warm French Vanilla coffee, half of it being milk - what? - and five spoonfuls of sugar (yeah, so I like my coffee sweet) in hand and a much more awake expression on my face, my hot and slightly toasted croissant instantly greeted me on a small plate while my scrambled eggs followed shortly after. I thanked Chuck as he sat down in front of me with his stack of pancakes.
It was about half an hour later, while I was doing the dishes - Charles did cook for me - that I knew something was wrong.
Pierre came barrelling down the stairs and into the kitchen, hyperventilating and frantically waving his arms around. Jeff - still in a sleepwear, a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of black boxers - had followed him closely behind and was attempting to calm him down while Patrick, probably awoken by the commotion, appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, hair dishevelled and rubbing an eye.
Eventually Charles stood up from his chair, walked over to a still yelling Pierre and promptly and solidly punched him. Our taller brunette staggered back a bit before suddenly calming down and blinking a few times at Chuck, as if finally seeing him for the first time that morning while the rest of us stared at our drummer in shock.
“It’s the only way to snack him out of it. Really.” He cracked his knuckles, frowning down at them before pointedly looking back up at Pierre.
Pierre finally shook his head a few times before raising a hand to rub his reddening cheek.
“Yeah, but did you really need to hit me that hard though?”
“Pierre, I have to hit according to how much you freak out. The more you seem out of it, the harder I have to hit you. You should know that by now.”
“… je suppose.” [I guess.]
The rest of us kept watching on in complete bewilderment before Jeff cleared his throat, effectively breaking the moment. “So Pierre, now that you back to being sane again - or as what we consider you to be sane, actually - can you tell us what got you so freaked out?”
“I went into Seb’s room this morning, you know, to get him out of bed, and, well, he wasn’t there. His bed was untouched.”
Patrick was suddenly fully awake and alarmed. “What? You mean he never came home last night?”
“I thought that was weird so I checked his drawers and closet… and they were practically empty!”
“QUOI?!” [WHAT?!] I shrieked, eyes wide and suddenly fearing the worst.
“I mean, all of his stuff is still there except for more than three quarters of his clothes gone.”
“You-you mean…” My voice cracked.
“He just fucking left!”
I dropped the wet plate I was holding, completely oblivious to how it crashed and broke at my feet and to the droplets of water dripping from my clenched hands. I could barely hear myself whispering as I started shaking.
“Il est parti… comme ça? Sans rien dire?” [He left… like that? Without saying anything?]
I couldn’t remember much of what happened after that. I just knew that I had slowly made my way out of the kitchen, pass the living room and up the stairs before stepping into Seb’s bedroom. I stood there for a while, my gaze completely unfocused, my thoughts in disarray, before I finally collapsed on my knees to the floor, my head buried in my arms resting on his bed, fisting its cover between my trembling fingers.
Jean-François would later come in and sit down beside me on the floor, his back to the bed. He then told me that Sebastien was alright, that Patrick had managed to contact Seb’s mother who had quickly reassured my panicked friend.
“He also talked to Seb… Seb, he said that he’d be away for a while. Said he needed to clear a few things up first, clear his mind, before coming back.”
I did not reply. Jeff continued, his voice gentle.
“Il… il sais pas encore quand il va revenir. Il nous a dit de pas l’appeler pour l’instant.” [He… he doesn’t know yet when he’s gonna come back. He told us not to call him for now.]
I gripped the sheets tighter and buried my head deeper between my arms. Jeff lightly ruffled my already messy hair, his older-brother side showing up as it did often.
“We need to respect his decision, David. Il va revenir, don’t worry.” [He’ll come back]
I nodded, though my face was still hidden.
We didn’t hear anything from Seb for three weeks.
Not a single call, not a single letter, not a single e-mail.
Nothing.
Eventually, after a few days, the house became noisy again as Patrick, Charles, Jeff and Pierre did their best to keep life as normal as possible. I, on the other hand, left the house only occasionally, and even then, it was only to take a stroll in the park.
I saw my lovely Rosie each time, but did not always get the chance to talk to her. Usually by the time I got there, she would be leaving. Each time, though, she made sure to run up to me and hug me, smiling her bright childish smile and giggling, her bright blue eyes sparkling beneath the sun at me.
Those were the rare moments when I was truly - but briefly - happy at that time.
“I love you David!”
I remember the first time she told me that, taking me back by surprise. After we had met a second time and spent almost an hour talking, she had left me with those words. They spread warmth through me each time. And she would repeat them after each meeting that followed.
“Je t’aime aussi, Rosie Cotton.”
She would then beam back at me, once I had told her what it meant, and each time give me a small peck on the cheek before leaving.
And then the pain would abruptly return, unwelcome. The image of Sébastien, the final expression I had seen on his face - Nervousness? Fear? - and the tone of his voice as I had turned away - despair - came back to me each night, taunting me, telling me it was my fault that he left.
My fault.
I could not hate myself more at that time. I also couldn’t bring myself at hating him too for taking my heart away and making it shatter to pieces.
And just when I thought my what-is-called-life could not get any worst, everything went from screwed-up to completely fucked-up during the third week after Seb had walked out of my life.
---
August 24, 2005
Author: Viv
Genre: drama, angst, fluff, humor
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Simple Plan [music - band]
Pairing: David/Sebastien
Disclaimer: ... I do release them occasionally.
Summary: It’s been seven years to this date. [multi-chaptered: (01)(02)(03)(04)(05)(06)(07)]
It was evening when I came back to the house. I had went to buy some groceries - it was my turn to cook supper and we were also starting to run low on milk, eggs, bread, apple juice and coffee - before returning home. Subsequently, that gave me time to think on how to talk to my - I still hoped he was - best friend.
I really did not know what to expect. I knew, with some relief, that there would be no disgust. But would he still accept me? Or would gently push me away, preferring to keep what we already had and remain there.
And what would Pierre and Patrick say, if they were to find out? Push me away? Or support me like Chuck and Jeff did - after recovering from the initial shock, that is.
When I got home what I did not expect, however, was for Sébastien to break my heart a second time.
The house was quiet and empty when I entered it that evening. I went on my way to put some of the groceries away before preparing and cooking supper for everyone by myself, as I had been doing in the last two and a half months whenever it was my turn.
After that was done, I tidied up the kitchen a bit before turning off the stove and left the kitchen to clean myself up and change before the other guys got home.
When I was out of my shower, some ten minutes later, I could hear Pierre and Charles arguing loudly downstairs and rolled my eyes. I quickly dried myself and dressed before going downstairs to find Jeff watching television while Pie and Chuck were still debating about whether a crocodile and an alligator were the same thing or not (if you really want to know, Charles was the one who was right - a crocodile and an alligator is not the same thing, despite what Pierre believes).
I then found Patrick in the kitchen, peering into the still warm pots on the stove before picking up a spoon that I had left on the dining table. Holding up the cover of one of the pots, he started prodding its content with the spoon before grinning and taking one scoop. I quickly strode up behind him and gave him a good smacking behind his head, to which he responded by dropping the spoon in the pot and whining about starving.
“Get the others.”
“But Dav-”
“Get the others si tu veux manger maintenant!” [… if you want to eat now!]
“Alright, alright.”
Patrick grumbled as he turned away while I fished out the spoon from the pot of spaghetti meat-and-zucchini sauce - one of my mom’s special recipes.
“JEFFOPIERROCHUCKOSUPPERNOW!”
And promptly dropped the blasted spoon back into the sauce.
“… Idiot. I said get them, now scream at them. Get Seb too.”
“Same difference. And Sebby’s not home. Was already gone when we got back.”
I frowned but remained quiet, feeling guilty for having left Seb to think that I hated him. Heck, he was probably mad at me.
We ate supper that evening, as noisily as we always had. I think Charles and Jean-François seemed somewhat relieved that I had regained some of my former energy and sense of humor because they were more animated and paid me more attention than before.
Pierre took his turn to clean the table while Jeff was in charge of doing the dishes that night as our singer would then also dry and put everything away.
We spent the rest of the night debating over whether or not to add a verse to one of our songs before eventually all going off to bed - well, in my case at least, since the rest of the guys still had to shower and all that shit.
None of us saw Sebastien come back that night.
When I got up the next day and sleepily wandered into the kitchen after my morning ritual (you know, like brushing your teeth?), I took a seat at the table while Chuck, the ever early-riser among us, was flipping pancakes over the stove.
“Bon matin.” [Good morning.]
I yawned at him. He chuckled, unbothered by my reply.
“Déjeuner? Crêpes? Oeufs?” [Breakfast? Pancakes? Eggs?]
“… Oeufs.” [Eggs.] I croaked out, my voice nothing close to the one recorded on our computer. I sounded more like a scratched record than David-singing-on-a-to-be-Simple-Plan-album.
“Comment? Pain?” [How? Bread?]
I threw a quick glance towards the counter, looking over the ingredients laid out before Chuck, before answering again, my voice this time coming out more decent.
“Deux. Brouillés avec fromage. Croissant.” [Two. Scrambled with cheese. Croissant.]
“Coming right up!” he then nodded in the direction of the coffeepot, hot steam rising above the almost black liquid while he took a buttered croissant out of a plastic bag and putting it in the toaster-oven.
When I had returned to my seat, a mug full of warm French Vanilla coffee, half of it being milk - what? - and five spoonfuls of sugar (yeah, so I like my coffee sweet) in hand and a much more awake expression on my face, my hot and slightly toasted croissant instantly greeted me on a small plate while my scrambled eggs followed shortly after. I thanked Chuck as he sat down in front of me with his stack of pancakes.
It was about half an hour later, while I was doing the dishes - Charles did cook for me - that I knew something was wrong.
Pierre came barrelling down the stairs and into the kitchen, hyperventilating and frantically waving his arms around. Jeff - still in a sleepwear, a white cotton t-shirt and a pair of black boxers - had followed him closely behind and was attempting to calm him down while Patrick, probably awoken by the commotion, appeared at the doorway of the kitchen, hair dishevelled and rubbing an eye.
Eventually Charles stood up from his chair, walked over to a still yelling Pierre and promptly and solidly punched him. Our taller brunette staggered back a bit before suddenly calming down and blinking a few times at Chuck, as if finally seeing him for the first time that morning while the rest of us stared at our drummer in shock.
“It’s the only way to snack him out of it. Really.” He cracked his knuckles, frowning down at them before pointedly looking back up at Pierre.
Pierre finally shook his head a few times before raising a hand to rub his reddening cheek.
“Yeah, but did you really need to hit me that hard though?”
“Pierre, I have to hit according to how much you freak out. The more you seem out of it, the harder I have to hit you. You should know that by now.”
“… je suppose.” [I guess.]
The rest of us kept watching on in complete bewilderment before Jeff cleared his throat, effectively breaking the moment. “So Pierre, now that you back to being sane again - or as what we consider you to be sane, actually - can you tell us what got you so freaked out?”
“I went into Seb’s room this morning, you know, to get him out of bed, and, well, he wasn’t there. His bed was untouched.”
Patrick was suddenly fully awake and alarmed. “What? You mean he never came home last night?”
“I thought that was weird so I checked his drawers and closet… and they were practically empty!”
“QUOI?!” [WHAT?!] I shrieked, eyes wide and suddenly fearing the worst.
“I mean, all of his stuff is still there except for more than three quarters of his clothes gone.”
“You-you mean…” My voice cracked.
“He just fucking left!”
I dropped the wet plate I was holding, completely oblivious to how it crashed and broke at my feet and to the droplets of water dripping from my clenched hands. I could barely hear myself whispering as I started shaking.
“Il est parti… comme ça? Sans rien dire?” [He left… like that? Without saying anything?]
I couldn’t remember much of what happened after that. I just knew that I had slowly made my way out of the kitchen, pass the living room and up the stairs before stepping into Seb’s bedroom. I stood there for a while, my gaze completely unfocused, my thoughts in disarray, before I finally collapsed on my knees to the floor, my head buried in my arms resting on his bed, fisting its cover between my trembling fingers.
Jean-François would later come in and sit down beside me on the floor, his back to the bed. He then told me that Sebastien was alright, that Patrick had managed to contact Seb’s mother who had quickly reassured my panicked friend.
“He also talked to Seb… Seb, he said that he’d be away for a while. Said he needed to clear a few things up first, clear his mind, before coming back.”
I did not reply. Jeff continued, his voice gentle.
“Il… il sais pas encore quand il va revenir. Il nous a dit de pas l’appeler pour l’instant.” [He… he doesn’t know yet when he’s gonna come back. He told us not to call him for now.]
I gripped the sheets tighter and buried my head deeper between my arms. Jeff lightly ruffled my already messy hair, his older-brother side showing up as it did often.
“We need to respect his decision, David. Il va revenir, don’t worry.” [He’ll come back]
I nodded, though my face was still hidden.
We didn’t hear anything from Seb for three weeks.
Not a single call, not a single letter, not a single e-mail.
Nothing.
Eventually, after a few days, the house became noisy again as Patrick, Charles, Jeff and Pierre did their best to keep life as normal as possible. I, on the other hand, left the house only occasionally, and even then, it was only to take a stroll in the park.
I saw my lovely Rosie each time, but did not always get the chance to talk to her. Usually by the time I got there, she would be leaving. Each time, though, she made sure to run up to me and hug me, smiling her bright childish smile and giggling, her bright blue eyes sparkling beneath the sun at me.
Those were the rare moments when I was truly - but briefly - happy at that time.
“I love you David!”
I remember the first time she told me that, taking me back by surprise. After we had met a second time and spent almost an hour talking, she had left me with those words. They spread warmth through me each time. And she would repeat them after each meeting that followed.
“Je t’aime aussi, Rosie Cotton.”
She would then beam back at me, once I had told her what it meant, and each time give me a small peck on the cheek before leaving.
And then the pain would abruptly return, unwelcome. The image of Sébastien, the final expression I had seen on his face - Nervousness? Fear? - and the tone of his voice as I had turned away - despair - came back to me each night, taunting me, telling me it was my fault that he left.
My fault.
I could not hate myself more at that time. I also couldn’t bring myself at hating him too for taking my heart away and making it shatter to pieces.
And just when I thought my what-is-called-life could not get any worst, everything went from screwed-up to completely fucked-up during the third week after Seb had walked out of my life.
---
August 24, 2005