fic: Tired of Being Tired
i feel like i spent a lot of this week not being able to sleep - either i couldn't fall asleep, or i couldn't stay asleep. i wrote this wednesday in my sleep-deprived frustration and just... didn't feel like posting it until now. but i want to post it before i collapse into bed, so.
It's a night, because it's been a day, because it's been a week, and Quince is awake when he would rather not be. Not wide awake, but can't-fall-asleep-and-stay-asleep awake. He's tired of it. He's tired of insomnia and he's tired of being tired and he hates all his options and he's tired of that too.
He has a headache and he's pretty sure he's coming down with something and he's sitting on the couch making a list - an actual hand-written list using an actual pen and an actual piece of paper - of the things he could be doing to put himself to sleep. He crosses things off almost as soon as he writes them down. Sex is out. The Staten Island Ferry is out. Everything is out if it involves waking Jack up. It's raining, so a walk is probably out. He wishes there was an all-night art-house movie theater he could go to, so he could watch something subtitled and obscure and guaranteed to bore him to sleep.
But just imagine all the crazy people that an all-night movie theater would attract. And not all the fun kind of crazy, either.
He stares at his list, tears it up, and drops the shredded paper on the coffee table. He hates his brain. He hates his life. For a minute he even hates Jack, because Jack, whose default setting is "asthmatic" with a side of "wheezy", is fast asleep. He's so asleep he's not even snoring. Quince almost wants to wake him up out of spite.
But no, that would be mean. And Quince might be a lot of things, but "deliberately mean to his best friend" is not one of them. Even sleep-deprived. Even coming down with something that Jack probably gave him. He thinks about his ripped-up list of options instead.
There's exactly one thing on that list that is guaranteed to put him out, one thing that works every time. One thing he promised Jack he'd try not to do. But fuck it. It's late and he's awake and he's tired of both those things and his tiredness is making him desperate.
He is also, this one time, supremely lucky, because the bodega a block and a half over is open. And he's willing to risk getting wet if it means a nice cold six-pack. Jack has an umbrella, anyway. Quince just hopes a six-pack is enough.
He really hasn't been sleeping.
He pops the umbrella open as soon as he gets outside, jogs down to the bodega, acquires a six-pack of Miller, jogs back, shakes out the umbrella in the stairwell. He settles himself on the couch, opens his laptop, and starts scrolling through Jack's tumblr dash. It's an endless parade of pictures interspersed with the occasional thing about science or food. Quince can look at it and not have to think. It's soothing.
He drinks his beers steadily, one right after the other, waiting until he feels like he's about to pass out and hoping that happens sooner rather than later. Jack will be pissed. Quince can't bring himself to care.
He gets bored with tumblr and switches to Netflix. There has to be something streaming that he can stare at. Between beers three and four it occurs to him that he should be drinking water too, so he gets up to go into the kitchen, stands too fast and gets a headrush. Excellent. His headache is fading too. He'll probably feel like shit whenever he wakes up, but he can't bring himself to care about that either.
He finishes the last beer, puts the empty can on the coffee table with the others, and blinks slowly at his laptop screen. He tries to string two thoughts together and fails. His brain feels like sludge. He should go to bed. Thank god and Mr Miller.
He gets up and walks very slowly and carefully and quietly into the bedroom, pulls off his t-shirt, pushes off his jeans, and climbs into bed in his boxer briefs. He had water, didn't he? Does he have to pee? Who cares. He lets himself - finally, blissfully - pass out. He doesn't dream.
He doesn't know what time it is when he finally wakes up, only that he has a splitting headache and has to pee before he explodes. He takes a couple of aspirin while he's up, then crawls right back into bed. He doesn't even know if Jack is awake or not.
The second time he wakes up, he still has a splitting headache and knows for sure that he's coming down with something, but more importantly, he knows he slept. Jack is sitting cross-legged on the bed, drawing on his tablet, and he must sense that Quince is awake because he looks up and looks over and brushes his hand across Quince's forehead and through his hair and calls him an idiot. His tone is affectionate but his face is sad, and Quince really is an idiot, and he knows.
Quince wants to apologize without even having anything to apologize for. He wants to ask why Jack is even home, why isn't he at work. His voice is dry in his throat. Jack tells him to go back to sleep. So he does.
It's a night, because it's been a day, because it's been a week, and Quince is awake when he would rather not be. Not wide awake, but can't-fall-asleep-and-stay-asleep awake. He's tired of it. He's tired of insomnia and he's tired of being tired and he hates all his options and he's tired of that too.
He has a headache and he's pretty sure he's coming down with something and he's sitting on the couch making a list - an actual hand-written list using an actual pen and an actual piece of paper - of the things he could be doing to put himself to sleep. He crosses things off almost as soon as he writes them down. Sex is out. The Staten Island Ferry is out. Everything is out if it involves waking Jack up. It's raining, so a walk is probably out. He wishes there was an all-night art-house movie theater he could go to, so he could watch something subtitled and obscure and guaranteed to bore him to sleep.
But just imagine all the crazy people that an all-night movie theater would attract. And not all the fun kind of crazy, either.
He stares at his list, tears it up, and drops the shredded paper on the coffee table. He hates his brain. He hates his life. For a minute he even hates Jack, because Jack, whose default setting is "asthmatic" with a side of "wheezy", is fast asleep. He's so asleep he's not even snoring. Quince almost wants to wake him up out of spite.
But no, that would be mean. And Quince might be a lot of things, but "deliberately mean to his best friend" is not one of them. Even sleep-deprived. Even coming down with something that Jack probably gave him. He thinks about his ripped-up list of options instead.
There's exactly one thing on that list that is guaranteed to put him out, one thing that works every time. One thing he promised Jack he'd try not to do. But fuck it. It's late and he's awake and he's tired of both those things and his tiredness is making him desperate.
He is also, this one time, supremely lucky, because the bodega a block and a half over is open. And he's willing to risk getting wet if it means a nice cold six-pack. Jack has an umbrella, anyway. Quince just hopes a six-pack is enough.
He really hasn't been sleeping.
He pops the umbrella open as soon as he gets outside, jogs down to the bodega, acquires a six-pack of Miller, jogs back, shakes out the umbrella in the stairwell. He settles himself on the couch, opens his laptop, and starts scrolling through Jack's tumblr dash. It's an endless parade of pictures interspersed with the occasional thing about science or food. Quince can look at it and not have to think. It's soothing.
He drinks his beers steadily, one right after the other, waiting until he feels like he's about to pass out and hoping that happens sooner rather than later. Jack will be pissed. Quince can't bring himself to care.
He gets bored with tumblr and switches to Netflix. There has to be something streaming that he can stare at. Between beers three and four it occurs to him that he should be drinking water too, so he gets up to go into the kitchen, stands too fast and gets a headrush. Excellent. His headache is fading too. He'll probably feel like shit whenever he wakes up, but he can't bring himself to care about that either.
He finishes the last beer, puts the empty can on the coffee table with the others, and blinks slowly at his laptop screen. He tries to string two thoughts together and fails. His brain feels like sludge. He should go to bed. Thank god and Mr Miller.
He gets up and walks very slowly and carefully and quietly into the bedroom, pulls off his t-shirt, pushes off his jeans, and climbs into bed in his boxer briefs. He had water, didn't he? Does he have to pee? Who cares. He lets himself - finally, blissfully - pass out. He doesn't dream.
He doesn't know what time it is when he finally wakes up, only that he has a splitting headache and has to pee before he explodes. He takes a couple of aspirin while he's up, then crawls right back into bed. He doesn't even know if Jack is awake or not.
The second time he wakes up, he still has a splitting headache and knows for sure that he's coming down with something, but more importantly, he knows he slept. Jack is sitting cross-legged on the bed, drawing on his tablet, and he must sense that Quince is awake because he looks up and looks over and brushes his hand across Quince's forehead and through his hair and calls him an idiot. His tone is affectionate but his face is sad, and Quince really is an idiot, and he knows.
Quince wants to apologize without even having anything to apologize for. He wants to ask why Jack is even home, why isn't he at work. His voice is dry in his throat. Jack tells him to go back to sleep. So he does.