A/N: Here's the Chase-centric thing I promised a couple weeks ago. And then I'm going to write something for Princess Protection Program since I actually loved it, and this may be the fandom that I'll get involved in since it's fairly new. So, I can practice my characterization of the characters. But for now, it's Zoey 101. Unfortunately. Oh, and this is AU meaning Gretchen was never introduced and such but I'm treating it like S4 never happened and the show ultimately ended like this – I'm just changing it around a little for maximum angst potential.
Disclaimer: Nope. Not mine.
The Monday after he stares at his phone (ohfuckfuck), and hears that dial tone goes like this:
There's a whole lot of sympathy Chase doesn't really want because he's a big boy and he can handle it – the stiff tone in her tone masking hurt and one-worded answers, the tear going down her cheek and the guilt that is eating through him. For the first time since his grandmother's death, he seriously not sleeping and staring at the bars that hold Logan's bed. Maybe they should kinda fall and squish him. Green eyes are bloodshot and he's seriously going crazy. Or at least it feels that way.
He finally wakes up and opens his eyes, the sunlight is stabbing at his bloodshot eyes.
(And it's his own personal hell.)
Tuesdays aren't any better either (where's the gun he forgets to shoot himself with?):
"Man, this isn't healthy for you," Michael says, and Chase doesn't say anything but just blinks at him. Best friends come with being super telepathic anyway, and he really doesn't want to say anything.
"Dude, leave me alone," Chase says quietly, rolling over and pulling the covers over himself and his phone buzzes, and buzzes (goddamnyouZoeycallmeplease) because it's on vibrate. Chase isn't sure whether to change the ringtone for her – You & Me, by the Plain White T's.
Chase hears that deep sigh in his best friend's voice.
"Okay, fine," Michael resolves, and he's so adamant. "But just because Zoey's really made up her mind to permanently stay in England, that doesn't mean I'm going to watch you get all depressed. None of us are going to watch you go down like that."
"I'm touched," he mutters loud enough and pulls the covers down. "I'm just tired, Michael. I don't need to be fixed. I'm just really tired."
"Who are you trying to fool? Me," Michael's voice reaches an exasperated tone. " – or yourself?"
(Himself. It's easier, and there's no claustrophobic, giraffe-ripping intervention.)
It's a huge downpour on campus on this Wednesday, and Chase is putting everything into writing this really important Creative Writing Assignment. He's not paying attention to the acidic sound the rain makes against his window pane, the rain streaking it downward from the outside. He doesn't pay attention to rain because it reminds him of surprise birthday parties with dead grandmothers.
The rain reminds Chase of a blond girl who gets soaked to the bone, complete with drenched nightwear. The rain reminds Chase of warm embraces beneath cold, torrential surfaces with silent comfort because it's the best kind.
(Because she just knows. Zoey fucking knows him inside and out and sometimes it's scary.)
"Chase?"
He's almost forgets what sleep is. (Yes, he's dubbed it Sleepless Thursday – all the cool kids do it.)
"Oh," he yawns lightly, rubbing his eyes. The coffee tastes like sandpaper but it's also bitter, so normalcy isn't a total loss. There's Quinn in her quirky glory. She's smiling down at him and acknowledges her with a curt nod. "Hey Quinn. What's up?"
She sits at the table across from him and her smile is kind of sad looking but not for him. The brunette pushes her bridge of her black glasses up to her nose, securing them. "I'm okay, I guess. But I could ask you the same thing. You're unraveling, you know."
"No. I'm not, Quinn," he says, with a reassuring smile that doesn't reach his eyes.
"Okay," her lips twisted into a frown. Her voice isn't soft that actually stern. "Fine, I won't dance around this anymore. You're not sleeping, showing signs of restlessness and irritability."
He's sleeping like a baby.
(Correction: Chase sleeps like a baby with extreme colic. But typical Quinn – she analyzes.)
He glances to the side before combing a hand through his bushy hair.
"Well," he gestures to the mug of now semi-warm coffee. "Who wouldn't be irritated? My coffee's not that fresh anymore, so yeah, I guess I would be irritated."
Her dark hair goes behind her ear and she's glaring at him as if she wants her answer.
"What do you want me to say then? You're smart," he shrugs, loosely. "What do you want me to say?"
She stands up, slinging her purple bag over her shoulder, "I can't dictate that for you. But you're not the only one hurting over Zoey's departure. It's affected all of us, and here you are silently brooding and self-medicating on caffeine," she's gesturing to his coffee mug. Her voice lowers to a softer tone and he blinks. "It's affecting all of us, and you just need to learn how to deal with it and then," Quinn smiles that sad hopeful smile again and her eyes sparkle from tears waiting to be shed. Maybe it's from rooming with Stacy. " – the six of us could deal with Zoey never coming back together because remember," Quinn pauses. "Dustin did lose his sister. He seems to take it well, but still."
His coffee is totally bitter and cold and he's just so damn tired.
(Hear that squishy sound in his head? His brain actually melts this time.)
Chase doesn't know how he feels on this Friday.
"So, now what?" Lola asks on one of those nights where it's chilly for a California night like this. It's a night of signature PCA sweaters, and friends sitting on the rim of the fountain. (Holy crap, it's just too freaking real for him.) The rim of the cold stone adapts to him by now because he's been sitting there a lot more now. He's not depressed. He just likes following the movement of the water. That's all.
Lola's head is resting on Michael's head because they're close like that with a deep sibling-like friendship between them, and he doesn't seem to match.
"Well," Logan shrugs, after a swig of his Blix. "Let's hope that Chase gets his balls back."
And Quinn thwacks him in the forehead since she's closest to him, and they argue. (Oh, normalcy.)
"Dude," Michael cries while Lola glares. "Inappropriate!"
"While we've established that Logan is a moron," Lola says, while Logan narrows his eyes at her. But the petite Latina says, wind whipping wisps of it in all directions. "But what happens now?"
And then silence.
There are looks directed all around. (No one knows and nobody's really psychic.)
"Who really knows?" Quinn replies, and she's fiddling because her not knowing is very unusual. She knows everything. She's supposed to know. Oh, God. Quinn's supposed to know. Quinn deflates, and glances over at her best friend and roommate. And they look like they've been crying more than Chase has been sleeping. "I don't."
And suddenly, his brain goes into a blending phase and Chase really needs to think.
(Wow. Perhaps his brain will start leaking out of his ears.)
He's getting off the fountain because he's convinced if he sits any longer, the stone will actually crease and get a curve to perfectly fit his butt like a jigsaw puzzle.
"I'm going to just take a shower and chill out," he says. Michael slaps his palm with a take it easy, man. Lola hugs him while on that fountain and Quinn follows her lead, and for a small while he feels warm.
"Dude," Logan says, jerking a head in his direction. "I'm not good with encouragement but just chill out and don't try to drown yourself or something."
"Honestly," Quinn says, looking at him. "Do you just talk because you get some sick pleasure from hearing yourself talk?"
He smirks sarcastically, "Relax, Pensky."
And Chase leaves, sticking his hands deeper in the pocket of his jeans.
(He swears he feels his phone vibrating and the beginnings of that Plain White T's song, but nah. It can't be. It isn't.)
Saturday morning, Chase wakes up and his phone screen glare at him with 5 Missed Calls. Out of force of habit, he's staring at the phone and his fingers dancing over the SEND button. Stupid semi-neurotic force of habit.
It's raining again as Logan's arm lazily hangs over the bar of the top bunk and Michael's gentle snoring which he's immune to now.
(He swears he sees a rainbow. Chase wants to believe that there's a rainbow.)
A/N: Ack, I hated that. But whatever. Review. I really don't care about this section anymore. Refer to the rant below which was taken from my LJ. I was annoyed down to my last nerve and I still am.
"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL is going on with the Zoey 101 section over at ?! Seriously. What the hell? Some days, I come on there and I want to shut down my FF account, delete my stuff and just get the hell out of there! Like I really can't understand it. To the authours who actually make a fucking effort to string a bunch of words together with a decent plot, thanks. Thanks for keeping it real and being dedicated and making something worthwhile out of it. It's really not that easy to actually sit and plan something, and then put love and effort into your stories/oneshots. I commend you. I respect you immensely. And then there are the other ones. YES! YOU! You know who the hell you are. If you're writing parodies that's normal. That's okay because it's just for fun and you're actually aware that it's not meant to be taken seriously. But it's tragic. NO! NO! NO-EFFING-WAY! Damn, I'm three away from hitting 100, and put three years of my life into this section. Why is this section going down to hell with shit summaries. "Ohh, this is my first story. Go easy on me. Not good with summaries!!" And even more crappier writing! Jesus Christ! No, I'm done being nice. I'm done being passive! I'm going to be completely totally bitchy and outwright flame and report you if your writing is even worse.
You went to school to learn grammar and punctuation. And spelling as well. But NOOO! You effing disregard that and make other cry with your horrendous spelling. If you improve over time, then great. But if there's no improvement, then that's just sad! Not 'shoulder-to-cry-on' sad. More of 'OMG-you-just-shit-on-Webster' sad! If you're gonna write and disregard the English language, and why don't you just go to Webster's grave and take a giant, heavy, diarrhea-like, runny CRAP on it?! Because it's the same goddamn thing! I honestly want to choke the retards that come on the section and write shitty stories that don't make sense. Almost as much as I want to beat down the fanatic JB lover who spew real life crap on the HANNAH MONTANA/WOWP section. I have a whole other rant so I'll address that later. I've been writing since the age of six so shit like this cuts me deep. I think writing seriously. I'm in total fic flame mode. Deal with it. Have an issue? Feel free to address me and we'll do two things - maturely discuss it or throw down. My sarcasm and a keyboard are deadly so if you want to do the second option, uh, BRING IT ON!"
I don't think I'm hot shit or something. But seriously, this section's atrocious. Honest to God, truth.
Uh, yeah. Wanna PM me then yeah, I'm down with that. Or just leave a comment on my LJ.
Yeah. Review.
-Erika