3 little ficlets
Ted/Debbie lonely
The sound of the door to the rehab clinic slamming behind him was so final. It was louder and heavier and scarier than any sound he could recall hearing. The bag of clothing weighted more than he recalled as he hefted it up onto his shoulder and started down the street. Every step he took from the clinic was even more terrifying than the one before it.
He avoided Liberty and all the back alleys he knew he could score a hit. Taking the long route to his apartment added half a mile to his walk, but he didn't trust himself to skip a quick visit to Anita or one of Dr. C's goons.
Keying his apartment's lock open, he was assaulted by half-forgotten memories. Snatches of terrible thoughts and deeds he'd heaped upon his best friend turned lover turned...whatever the fuck they were now.
He set his bag down on his bed and just walked around his apartment, stopping in the kitchen to finger the fine line of dust on the counter top. As his eyes traveled from surface to surface, he couldn't help but notice the total lack of Emmett's things. Not that he was surprised; after the way he'd treated Em, he'd be surprised if his best friend would ever forgive him.
A shaking hand came to rest on the junk drawer in his kitchen. Tugging gently on the handle, his eyes came to rest on the small, metal tin that housed his pipe. His heartbeat increased ten fold as he snapped the drawer shut with enough force to send the salt and pepper shakers careening off the counter top.
The gang responded pretty much how he expected--tight smiles and a quick exits. All that is except Brian who turned it into some sort of fucked up Dr. Seuss book.
They'd discussed this in rehab; the people you burned avoiding you, keeping you at a distance because they were afraid you'd fail again. After all this shit he'd done, Ted couldn't blame them, but it still hurt.
He wondered if this was what it felt like to be Brian Kinney--the man people expected to hurt them. The man they claimed to forgive, but never really forgot what he'd done.
An hour after they'd all left, Ted sat at the counter in the same seat Brian had occupied before. Debbie appeared with his lunch, a cup of coffee, and, as usual, advice.
"I know it seems bad now. Like you haven't got a fuckin' friend in the world, but it will get better if you keep your nose out of trouble."
And just like that, she was gone.
Ted thought of Blake's number burning a hole in his pocket. Maybe he hadn't been abandoned by everyone.
Gus/JR rivalry
Gus knew his father didn't cover every spare spec of space in his home with framed pictures of his kid nor did he save every single crayon squiggle Gus put onto paper. Brian didn't bring an extra suitcase filled with brand new toys and clothing for his kid when he came, he didn't visit on every holiday, and he sure as fuck didn't call long distance to Canada every weekend the way that JR's daddy did.
As soon as JR was old enough talk and understand these things, she was quick to point them out to older brother. Gus was 12 when she started all of this 'my dad loves me more' shit.
Who would have thought that the children of two best friends would hate each other so completely?
Gus would just shrug his shoulders and ignore the little twat because he knew the score.
His father didn't frame every picture he drew or took. He didn't hang them on every available surface, but, when he did set a new sketch on his bookcase or desk at his office or home, it meant more.
Michael might love JR in an open all consuming 'hey look at what my genius kid just did' kind of way, but Michael always knew what it was like to be loved. Always had a bright, loud, brassy mom to dote on him.
Brian didn't have any of those things. To his parents, he was a punching bag, and, as a result, Brian's love for Gus was quiet and close to the vest.
As Gus grew, he'd send picture after picture of places and people and animals in Toronto. Occasionally, he'd send crayloa'd images of carefully labeled stick people--one of himself, Brian, and sometimes Justin. These were the ones Brian cherished the most. The ones that caused a lump in his throat and forced him to dial long distance to Toronto demanding to talk to his kid.
These were the ones he'd squirrel away in carefully labeled boxes.
Every summer when Gus visited his father, he'd quietly inspect the loft and his father's office. Every time he'd spot something recent in a frame, he'd look up at his father's shy smile and a silent conversation was held where loud interactions would take place between JR and Michael.
His father's eyes and expression told him more than words ever could--his father loved him and was proud of him.
JR and Michael might not 'get' the way Brian Kinney loved his son, but they didn't have to.
fanfic100: 60/100 [.041 Shapes]
Brian/Justin sore
If ever there was a time when Brian believed that words were bullshit, it was when his surgeon used the words 'slightly sore' to describe how phenomenally shitty he'd feel post-operative.
First, there was the incision site. It itched and burned and every time he moved a fucking inch, he could feel the stitches stretching across the skin. He was terrified that one of them would pop.
Then, there was the nausea. No, not the 'I drank way more than I should have' nausea. This was acid back-wash, gut trembling, don't move to fast our you'll be dry heaving in under ten seconds nausea. It wasn't just the anaesthesia they've given him either. Every time he allowed himself to think about it, there'd be that fucking terror gnawing in his subconscious. What if he hadn't made that bet with Justin? What if they hadn't caught IT in enough time? And then there was that fucking word. Cancer. He couldn't bring himself to utter it aloud for fear of making it real.
He blinked slowly, the drugs that the gave him making his mind groggy.
The walls here were beige and sterile. The too bright lights burned above him.
As he floated on a morphine drip, he thought of the long hours Justin had spent in this exact position--terrified that he wouldn't get better, scared that his partner wouldn't love him or take him back, frightened he'd never be everything that he was before all this shit went down.
And then he considered how things would be different if he'd fucking told Justin the truth rather than feeding him some ridiculous line about going to Ibiza. The drugs helped pull up a near hallucination-esque version of Justin--pale, drawn, deep circles under his worried eyes as he sat in that fucking uncomfortable chair near Brian's bed.
A shiver passed down his spine. That was exactly how he'd looked when he sat at the kid's beside four years before. He remembers that feeling--being too worried to sleep, eat, or think about anything but the too pale, too sick, unmoving body in a bed. He also recalls how it felt to be unable to do anything to help make Justin better.
The morphine they'd pumped into his system kicked in full force and Brian slowly gave into sleep, his resolve to suffer in silence even more crystallized than it had been before.
Three ficlets based on missyerable's prompts.