[fic] because read more cuts don't work for me on tumblr
Who am I? Dan Smith. Daniel Tristan Smith. I am twenty-two years old. Who was I?
Danny Smith. Walleye. Wearing a scaly green shirt and black shorts. A domino mask. Thrusting my fist into the air and shouting some halfway witty one-liner.
That’s a lifetime ago. Who am I? The Walrus? Goo-goo-g’joob.
I drink again. Who am I? There’s a mirror behind the bottles at the bar and I can see myself. Teal eyes. Black hair. Pale skin. Who am I?
Fin. A vigilante who wears black leather. Beats criminals until they’re nearly unconscious and leaves them at the police station. Am I Dan? Fin? Walleye?
I do know that I’m drunk. Getting there, at least. When I was little, I would inform kids in my best superhero voice to stay away from drugs and alcohol. What would those kids say now if they saw me? Sitting in a bar with my best friend, Jack Daniels. What would those kids say if they saw me snort white powder up my nose at regular intervals? They probably wouldn’t say much. Those kids are dead. Along with the rest of Troutsville. Along with Buck.
Bottoms up.
There are purple dents under my eyes and blue veins that stand out at the corners of my mouth. I’m always hungry and always thirsty but nothing fills me. When I fight now, when I fight those criminals, it’s like I rely on muscle memory. What Buck taught me. I want to start working out again. Feel endorphins. Feel strong. Maybe start swimming. I used to be good at that. Dad used to call me a dolphin. A merman. More fish than boy. Even after their accident, after my parents died and Buck took me in, I kept swimming.
There’s no ocean to swim in New York. The East River would kill you. Swimming pools remind me too much of him, sad as that sounds. Buck. I don’t think he’s dead but I don’t have much hope that he’s alive either.
Another round of my boy, Jack. I should go back to my crappy apartment rather than sit here, getting shit-faced. Because what does this accomplish? Drinking doesn’t help me forget. Only helps me remember. Only blow can blank out my mind. Make me giddy and like flashbulbs are going off in my head. Forget my troubles.
“You look like shit.”
The boy who says this speaks with no malice. There’s a jovial lilt on the edge of his words. I turn my head slightly and look at him. At this point, I’m gone enough to see two of him but they’re both very attractive. He has this thick, jet black hair and big brown eyes that are dancing with mirth. Or maybe I’m just so drunk that they seem to be sparkling. He has some tattoos, faded and homemade, on his knuckles and on the inside of his forearms but I can’t see them well enough to read what they say.
“And you look like a prick,” I say back, very intelligently.
Can’t he see that I’m sitting here, getting wasted and having an existential crisis? I don’t know who I am. Walleye, Danny, Dan, Fin…some drunken drug addict, probably.
“I’m actually not,” he replies. “I’m Titus-er-Tito. I think Titus sounds a bit pretentious, yeah?”
“Dan,” I garble at him. “Dan Smith. Danny. Walleye. Fin.”
“That’s…a lot of names,” he says with a laugh. “Which is it then?”
“Dan.”
“Well, Dan Smith. I’m Tito Castillo. Yes, it vaguely rhymes. Yes, shut the fuck up.”
He says it in a loose, genial way. I find it incredibly sexy. I decide right then that I’m going home with Tito Castillo.
“By the way, you aren’t coming home with me,” he says as though reading my mind. “I’m not the kind of guy who takes advantage of guys who are clearly wasted.”
I feel a bit angry, then. If he’s not going to take me home then can’t he leave me to stew? About being Falleye or Win…or…whatever.
“I can take you home, though.”
I look at him blearily and I guess I look confused. My face is so numb, I can’t feel it contorting into different expressions.
“I’m studying to be a social worker,” he explains. “I have this prenatural compulsion to help people.”
I mumble my address to him and Tito takes me home. I guess somewhere along the line, I told him to sleep on the couch so I don’t choke on my own vomit alone. When I wake up, he’s still asleep on the couch with my old ratty afghan thrown over his body. I drink coffee while nursing a hangover and get back to thinking.
Who am I?
Am I Dan Smith, drunken idiot who lives in a broken down apartment-currently holding a very sexy man who is sleeping on my couch-who snorts coke and drinks himself half-blind? Am I Danny Smith, pre-teen hero? Was I ever Danny Smith? Was he just a small stopping point? A mask? Like the one I used to wear and the one I wear now. Am I Fin? Angry protector of the night. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t know who I am. Or if I ever will. Any indication of that died when that tidal wave took out Troutsville.
I sit on one of my rickety kitchen chairs with my mug of coffee and idly look over at Tito sleeping on the couch. I wonder if he knows who he is. If anyone does. If I’m at all unique being a fucking adult and not having the answer to any of these questions.
For never having the answer to any of these questions.
Danny Smith. Walleye. Wearing a scaly green shirt and black shorts. A domino mask. Thrusting my fist into the air and shouting some halfway witty one-liner.
That’s a lifetime ago. Who am I? The Walrus? Goo-goo-g’joob.
I drink again. Who am I? There’s a mirror behind the bottles at the bar and I can see myself. Teal eyes. Black hair. Pale skin. Who am I?
Fin. A vigilante who wears black leather. Beats criminals until they’re nearly unconscious and leaves them at the police station. Am I Dan? Fin? Walleye?
I do know that I’m drunk. Getting there, at least. When I was little, I would inform kids in my best superhero voice to stay away from drugs and alcohol. What would those kids say now if they saw me? Sitting in a bar with my best friend, Jack Daniels. What would those kids say if they saw me snort white powder up my nose at regular intervals? They probably wouldn’t say much. Those kids are dead. Along with the rest of Troutsville. Along with Buck.
Bottoms up.
There are purple dents under my eyes and blue veins that stand out at the corners of my mouth. I’m always hungry and always thirsty but nothing fills me. When I fight now, when I fight those criminals, it’s like I rely on muscle memory. What Buck taught me. I want to start working out again. Feel endorphins. Feel strong. Maybe start swimming. I used to be good at that. Dad used to call me a dolphin. A merman. More fish than boy. Even after their accident, after my parents died and Buck took me in, I kept swimming.
There’s no ocean to swim in New York. The East River would kill you. Swimming pools remind me too much of him, sad as that sounds. Buck. I don’t think he’s dead but I don’t have much hope that he’s alive either.
Another round of my boy, Jack. I should go back to my crappy apartment rather than sit here, getting shit-faced. Because what does this accomplish? Drinking doesn’t help me forget. Only helps me remember. Only blow can blank out my mind. Make me giddy and like flashbulbs are going off in my head. Forget my troubles.
“You look like shit.”
The boy who says this speaks with no malice. There’s a jovial lilt on the edge of his words. I turn my head slightly and look at him. At this point, I’m gone enough to see two of him but they’re both very attractive. He has this thick, jet black hair and big brown eyes that are dancing with mirth. Or maybe I’m just so drunk that they seem to be sparkling. He has some tattoos, faded and homemade, on his knuckles and on the inside of his forearms but I can’t see them well enough to read what they say.
“And you look like a prick,” I say back, very intelligently.
Can’t he see that I’m sitting here, getting wasted and having an existential crisis? I don’t know who I am. Walleye, Danny, Dan, Fin…some drunken drug addict, probably.
“I’m actually not,” he replies. “I’m Titus-er-Tito. I think Titus sounds a bit pretentious, yeah?”
“Dan,” I garble at him. “Dan Smith. Danny. Walleye. Fin.”
“That’s…a lot of names,” he says with a laugh. “Which is it then?”
“Dan.”
“Well, Dan Smith. I’m Tito Castillo. Yes, it vaguely rhymes. Yes, shut the fuck up.”
He says it in a loose, genial way. I find it incredibly sexy. I decide right then that I’m going home with Tito Castillo.
“By the way, you aren’t coming home with me,” he says as though reading my mind. “I’m not the kind of guy who takes advantage of guys who are clearly wasted.”
I feel a bit angry, then. If he’s not going to take me home then can’t he leave me to stew? About being Falleye or Win…or…whatever.
“I can take you home, though.”
I look at him blearily and I guess I look confused. My face is so numb, I can’t feel it contorting into different expressions.
“I’m studying to be a social worker,” he explains. “I have this prenatural compulsion to help people.”
I mumble my address to him and Tito takes me home. I guess somewhere along the line, I told him to sleep on the couch so I don’t choke on my own vomit alone. When I wake up, he’s still asleep on the couch with my old ratty afghan thrown over his body. I drink coffee while nursing a hangover and get back to thinking.
Who am I?
Am I Dan Smith, drunken idiot who lives in a broken down apartment-currently holding a very sexy man who is sleeping on my couch-who snorts coke and drinks himself half-blind? Am I Danny Smith, pre-teen hero? Was I ever Danny Smith? Was he just a small stopping point? A mask? Like the one I used to wear and the one I wear now. Am I Fin? Angry protector of the night. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I don’t know who I am. Or if I ever will. Any indication of that died when that tidal wave took out Troutsville.
I sit on one of my rickety kitchen chairs with my mug of coffee and idly look over at Tito sleeping on the couch. I wonder if he knows who he is. If anyone does. If I’m at all unique being a fucking adult and not having the answer to any of these questions.
For never having the answer to any of these questions.