pound my knuckles hard against the wall
I'm doing that thing where I go through WsIP and poke at them randomly. I always wanted to write another part to The Things We Do, to take the time to figure out how Pete and Joe work through their situation, but I've never been able to figure out all the details. Except for a lot of scribbled notes and scattered ideas, it's just never taken off fully, but this was a small section from somewhere in the middle of the story, when things are hardest --
Joe feels dizzy, skin flushing bright and hot, the ground seemingly uneven under his feet. He slumps against the side of the bus. He lets the smooth finish of it guide him down to the ground, and he reminds himself that no one has ever died from too much marijuana. People have died from alcohol poisoning, but Joe's pretty sure that he didn't actually have quite that much to drink. Something about his choice of combination tonight, though, isn't working, and he had taken some ibuprofen earlier -- who knows how those things all mix together. Then again, maybe they aren't the problem at all, Joe doesn't know, but right now he's feeling overwhelmed and weighed down by nothing, and he sort of wishes he had the urge to throw up. Hacking up his insides is never fun, but at least most people feel better after wretching on the sidewalk or something. He doesn't know what's wrong because his stomach feels fine, but he might -- maybe he's going to pass out.
Of course that's how Pete finds him. He calls, "Joe?" as he walks closer, and Pete's the last guy Joe should be around right now but the only person he wants to see. Pete bends over Joe, expression mild as he appraises Joe, kneading his shoulder and touching his hand to Joe's neck. "Dude, are you okay?"
"When I faint -- in like ten seconds -- don't let me hit my head," Joe says, and he's trying to be funny, except his body does sag to the side. Pete catches him, stops him from sinking too far right, and he helps Joe get up and into the bus instead of wasting outside of it.
"You're fucking gone," Pete says, and he doesn't sound angry about it. Instead, he's got his lips pressed together like he'd just needed to confirm how in charge he needed to be, encouraging Joe to stand and droop against Pete's own shoulder as they make it past the couch in the front lounge and all the way back to Pete's bed.
Joe's going to pass out. His face burns, feels too heated despite the coolness of his own skin when he throws his arm over his forehead as Pete lies him down.
"This is -- "Joe starts, but he loses the thread of the thought as quickly as it's come.
Pete pats Joe's thighs, looking down with narrowed eyes, breathing in huffs from practically carrying Joe the short distance. His hair's a little messed up, and that's probably Joe's fault too somehow. He's not sure, but it seems fitting, stomach coiling in him as Pete reaches to undo Joe's belt.
"Hey," Pete says. "Hey, Joe, are you still with me?"
"Wait," Joe says, because this is the whole fucking problem. This, them: Pete being able to get Joe wound tight and nervous -- anxious.
Pete's whisper-yelling even though Joe's more or less certain that it's just them on the bus. He hadn't noticed anyone else during the trip back here. Pete says, "You can sleep here. I'm just -- you know. So you won't be uncomfortable."
Joe can deal with that. He lets Pete get his pants off, tugging them down and trying to push away the urge to get Pete to go for more. He says, "I'm fine," but he reaches for Pete's arm once his pants are gone anyway. He lifts up, and tugs Pete down despite his own soft protests, and Joe knows this is probably pathetic. This, he thinks, must be what it feels like to mess yourself up for someone. He's never fucked himself up for anyone, but he's half-certain that's what he must be doing now, just because he doesn't really have any better ideas.
"Hey," Pete says. He sounds sadder suddenly, voice dancing on the edge of nerves, and Joe shakes his head, asking Pete to hold on. Hold on, he just wants to make sure he's not about to faint.
"Just give me a second," Joe says, but he tightens his hand on Pete's wrist, preparing to take more time despite his words.
"Are you okay?" Pete asks for the second time in too few minutes. Joe thinks about telling him the truth, but instead he keeps a grip on Pete as if trying to keep him there, and he doesn't realize until a minute or two later that Pete isn't actually trying to get away.
It was going get lighter though! I know that much.
Joe feels dizzy, skin flushing bright and hot, the ground seemingly uneven under his feet. He slumps against the side of the bus. He lets the smooth finish of it guide him down to the ground, and he reminds himself that no one has ever died from too much marijuana. People have died from alcohol poisoning, but Joe's pretty sure that he didn't actually have quite that much to drink. Something about his choice of combination tonight, though, isn't working, and he had taken some ibuprofen earlier -- who knows how those things all mix together. Then again, maybe they aren't the problem at all, Joe doesn't know, but right now he's feeling overwhelmed and weighed down by nothing, and he sort of wishes he had the urge to throw up. Hacking up his insides is never fun, but at least most people feel better after wretching on the sidewalk or something. He doesn't know what's wrong because his stomach feels fine, but he might -- maybe he's going to pass out.
Of course that's how Pete finds him. He calls, "Joe?" as he walks closer, and Pete's the last guy Joe should be around right now but the only person he wants to see. Pete bends over Joe, expression mild as he appraises Joe, kneading his shoulder and touching his hand to Joe's neck. "Dude, are you okay?"
"When I faint -- in like ten seconds -- don't let me hit my head," Joe says, and he's trying to be funny, except his body does sag to the side. Pete catches him, stops him from sinking too far right, and he helps Joe get up and into the bus instead of wasting outside of it.
"You're fucking gone," Pete says, and he doesn't sound angry about it. Instead, he's got his lips pressed together like he'd just needed to confirm how in charge he needed to be, encouraging Joe to stand and droop against Pete's own shoulder as they make it past the couch in the front lounge and all the way back to Pete's bed.
Joe's going to pass out. His face burns, feels too heated despite the coolness of his own skin when he throws his arm over his forehead as Pete lies him down.
"This is -- "Joe starts, but he loses the thread of the thought as quickly as it's come.
Pete pats Joe's thighs, looking down with narrowed eyes, breathing in huffs from practically carrying Joe the short distance. His hair's a little messed up, and that's probably Joe's fault too somehow. He's not sure, but it seems fitting, stomach coiling in him as Pete reaches to undo Joe's belt.
"Hey," Pete says. "Hey, Joe, are you still with me?"
"Wait," Joe says, because this is the whole fucking problem. This, them: Pete being able to get Joe wound tight and nervous -- anxious.
Pete's whisper-yelling even though Joe's more or less certain that it's just them on the bus. He hadn't noticed anyone else during the trip back here. Pete says, "You can sleep here. I'm just -- you know. So you won't be uncomfortable."
Joe can deal with that. He lets Pete get his pants off, tugging them down and trying to push away the urge to get Pete to go for more. He says, "I'm fine," but he reaches for Pete's arm once his pants are gone anyway. He lifts up, and tugs Pete down despite his own soft protests, and Joe knows this is probably pathetic. This, he thinks, must be what it feels like to mess yourself up for someone. He's never fucked himself up for anyone, but he's half-certain that's what he must be doing now, just because he doesn't really have any better ideas.
"Hey," Pete says. He sounds sadder suddenly, voice dancing on the edge of nerves, and Joe shakes his head, asking Pete to hold on. Hold on, he just wants to make sure he's not about to faint.
"Just give me a second," Joe says, but he tightens his hand on Pete's wrist, preparing to take more time despite his words.
"Are you okay?" Pete asks for the second time in too few minutes. Joe thinks about telling him the truth, but instead he keeps a grip on Pete as if trying to keep him there, and he doesn't realize until a minute or two later that Pete isn't actually trying to get away.
It was going get lighter though! I know that much.