Whispering Pines
By QuietViolence
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Warnings: Slash, Mature Themes, Mature Language
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When I walked into my house that morning, my mother was sitting on our family room sofa - the one that really needs new upholstery - talking to some tall, thin woman in a navy business suit that was most likely from Neimans, but it could have been Saks too. Either way, I knew she wasn't short on money. So Miss Expensive-Navy-Suit was sitting there, talking about something with my mom. They stopped talking when I walked in, and my mom had red around her eyes, so I could assume only one thing - they were discussing me, and what to do about my little "issue."
"I really think you should look at this brochure. Whispering Pines is just wonderful, haven't heard a bad thing about it in quite a while," she told my mother, holding up a colorful tri-fold brochure. She glanced up at me and her eyes scanned my pink streaked blonde hair, shiny silver tank and rock star tight jeans before she said in a whisper, "They're more excepting of the, well, different types."
I laughed out loud when I heard this. She couldn't even say the word. I knew more than anything that this woman would hate to hear herself being made a fool. "The word is homosexual, miss," I said over my shoulder as I walked up the stairs.
From my room I could hear the ending of their conversation, followed by brisk steps out the door from black high-heeled shoes.
"Jayce, can I have a talk with you?" came my mothers voice soon after. I sighed, knowing what was coming. I strode downstairs, trying to hold back the smile from pissing that woman off earlier. Homophobic people amused me, I'd moved past the stage when I felt insulted by them. "I know that you're extremely comfortable with your sexuality," she stated nervously. I never understood why it made her nervous, it wasn't as if we didn't have this discussion every day.
"But that doesn't mean you have to mention it to agitate people," I finished for her. "You know, I figured you'd understand me better than you do. It's like if you were talking to an Anti-Semite, would you just let them diss you and then leave?"
"Well," my mom said, drawing in a sharp breath. Saw this one coming. "You do broadcast it in a, well, interesting way."
She really didn't realize that this was just what I wanted, right? To attract attention to my sexuality, to prove that I didn't have a problem with it, that it wasn't wrong? A grin broke out onto my face as I spoke, "That's nice and all, mom, but my makeup is rubbing off from the heat, and I figure I might as well reapply it."
Without another word, my mother turned around and stormed off, the brochure from earlier still in her hand. It was when I saw the words "Whispering Pines Rehabilitation Center" on it that I realized I should have been kinder to my mom. Regular meetings with a councilor was bad enough, I couldn't live with it.
Sure enough she walked back in the room later, saying, "I just got off the phone with the owner of Whispering Pines, you're leaving Sunday. Start packing."
Talk about harsh. Imagine if your mom just came into your room and told you that in two days you were being sent to New Jersey - which is halfway across the country I might add - for drug rehab.
That night I grimly packed up my things. My stuff took up nearly four bags, and bedding and towels were provided at the facility. I had to have my clothes: multiple tight and bright shirts, about seven different pairs of designer jeans, platform shoes, etc; my jewelry, which meant my seventeen different earrings for my thrice pierced ear as well as all my bracelets and necklaces; my hair dye, all six colors; and my tackle box sized makeup container. Such is the closet of a gay man.
Of course, my closet used to contain something much more important than my purses. My Ecstasy. That's right, drugs. Oh, come to think of it, my pot was in my closet too. The alcohol went in the mini-fridge under the bed, and if I ever got anything else it was in the second drawer up on my dresser on the far left. And that's why my parents are sending me to rehab. To help me get over this little "problem."
Either way, I was packed and ready to go come six-thirty Sunday morning. My plane left at eight, so I'd been up since five getting ready. When it was time for me to leave so that I'd make the plane (though, come to think of it, I would have rather I missed it), I sauntered downstairs, wrote a quick goodbye note to my parents (who were sleeping rather than seeing me off like most parents would have), and hopped in my car.
The drive wasn't that bad, no one is ever on the road that early on weekend mornings and definitely no one is traveling. So I ended up at the airport at seven-oh-five exactly, giving me over a half hour to spend. I ran to the Starbucks, ordering a frappocino from the guy behind the counter.
He looked up with interest after he took my order. "Heading off to Whispering Pines?" he asked.
"What's it to you?" I retorted. I didn't exactly like to publicize my drug problems as much as I did my sexual preference.
"Calm down, boy, you aren't the only one headed there this morning. I, for one, am going up there as soon as my shift ends." He finished adding the whipped cream to the top of the frozen drink. "Which is right about. now." He pulled off the apron and hopped over the counter, handing me my drink.
I relaxed, knowing that at least a cool person was going to be there. "So how'd you figure it?" I asked.
"Why else would a seventeen year old boy be in an airport at seven on a Sunday morning?"
"Ah, I see." I surveyed the guy. He was wearing ripped and baggy jeans, a t- shirt that said "The Clash," and a black bandana was tied around his head. He had dirty-blonde hair that covered his eyes. "And your name would be?"
"Kelly, Jack Kelly. Well, that's what I'm known as anyway. And you?"
"Jayce Taylor. Most people call me Dutchy though," I added, almost as an afterthought.
He grinned a little, making his lip piercing more noticeable than before. With piercing in mind I noticed he had his eyebrow done as well. "I take it you're Dutch then?"
"Nope, from the Ukraine actually. It's a sad, sad story beginning early in my childhood," I joked, grinning. "Nah, actually it's from seventh grade, when we were drawing flags. I tried to draw the French flag, and ended up doing it upside down, which is of course the Dutch flag. And you know Jr. High, they found that hysterical. And I've been known as Dutchy for nearly five years since."
"Man, that's gay." He paused a second later and looked at me. "I mean, stupid. Sorry 'bout that."
I felt myself smile. "Trust me, the only thing about your opinions on homosexuality that upset me is that you aren't gay. You're damn sexy."
"You better not be in my room, Dutch boy," he responded, not at all caught off guard by my comment. "Ever been here before?" I shook my head. "No? This'll be my.." He counted on his fingers quickly. "second year and seventh visit here. I only have to come back every once in a while to check up on me, but they busted me again."
I laughed. "What you in for, anyway?"
"Definitely have a bit of an alcohol problem, that's all. C'mon, let's head to the gate," he said, leading me towards A24. "And you?"
"Drugs. Ecstasy, pot, heroin, crack.. You name it, I've probably done it. Never had an overdose, and my main vice - the ecstasy - isn't even addictive. But apparently my parents are doing this 'for my own safety' and I'll 'thank them some day,' and all that other bullshit."
"Ah, of course. Overprotective parents. It's actually my older sister who checked me in, my dad was too messed up all the time to notice. Either way, it's hell here, that it is."
"Now boarding rows fifteen through ten," the loudspeaker announced. I glanced at my ticket. 11A. "Guess I'll see you when we get there," I told him, grabbing my messenger bag. I sat myself down in the plane, grabbing my headphones. Jane's Addiction flooded through my ears as I pushed the play button.
A smile made its way across my face when I realized that I'd already made someone who might possibly be considered a friend.
Then I remembered where I was headed.
If only I'd known.
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A/N: All right, a number of comments: This is my first attempt at a modern-day fic. Bear with me while I get my grips on it. This is my first attempt at a slash fic. Bear with me. My drug, eating disorder, suicide, etc. information should be correct, but if it's not feel free to correct me.
CC: Open CC, but I'll only add your character if I like it. I reserve the right to change your character to fit plot lines better. Tell me: Name Nickname & Story Age Appearance Personality Reason(s) to be in Whispering Pines Anything else you want me to know.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Warnings: Slash, Mature Themes, Mature Language
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When I walked into my house that morning, my mother was sitting on our family room sofa - the one that really needs new upholstery - talking to some tall, thin woman in a navy business suit that was most likely from Neimans, but it could have been Saks too. Either way, I knew she wasn't short on money. So Miss Expensive-Navy-Suit was sitting there, talking about something with my mom. They stopped talking when I walked in, and my mom had red around her eyes, so I could assume only one thing - they were discussing me, and what to do about my little "issue."
"I really think you should look at this brochure. Whispering Pines is just wonderful, haven't heard a bad thing about it in quite a while," she told my mother, holding up a colorful tri-fold brochure. She glanced up at me and her eyes scanned my pink streaked blonde hair, shiny silver tank and rock star tight jeans before she said in a whisper, "They're more excepting of the, well, different types."
I laughed out loud when I heard this. She couldn't even say the word. I knew more than anything that this woman would hate to hear herself being made a fool. "The word is homosexual, miss," I said over my shoulder as I walked up the stairs.
From my room I could hear the ending of their conversation, followed by brisk steps out the door from black high-heeled shoes.
"Jayce, can I have a talk with you?" came my mothers voice soon after. I sighed, knowing what was coming. I strode downstairs, trying to hold back the smile from pissing that woman off earlier. Homophobic people amused me, I'd moved past the stage when I felt insulted by them. "I know that you're extremely comfortable with your sexuality," she stated nervously. I never understood why it made her nervous, it wasn't as if we didn't have this discussion every day.
"But that doesn't mean you have to mention it to agitate people," I finished for her. "You know, I figured you'd understand me better than you do. It's like if you were talking to an Anti-Semite, would you just let them diss you and then leave?"
"Well," my mom said, drawing in a sharp breath. Saw this one coming. "You do broadcast it in a, well, interesting way."
She really didn't realize that this was just what I wanted, right? To attract attention to my sexuality, to prove that I didn't have a problem with it, that it wasn't wrong? A grin broke out onto my face as I spoke, "That's nice and all, mom, but my makeup is rubbing off from the heat, and I figure I might as well reapply it."
Without another word, my mother turned around and stormed off, the brochure from earlier still in her hand. It was when I saw the words "Whispering Pines Rehabilitation Center" on it that I realized I should have been kinder to my mom. Regular meetings with a councilor was bad enough, I couldn't live with it.
Sure enough she walked back in the room later, saying, "I just got off the phone with the owner of Whispering Pines, you're leaving Sunday. Start packing."
Talk about harsh. Imagine if your mom just came into your room and told you that in two days you were being sent to New Jersey - which is halfway across the country I might add - for drug rehab.
That night I grimly packed up my things. My stuff took up nearly four bags, and bedding and towels were provided at the facility. I had to have my clothes: multiple tight and bright shirts, about seven different pairs of designer jeans, platform shoes, etc; my jewelry, which meant my seventeen different earrings for my thrice pierced ear as well as all my bracelets and necklaces; my hair dye, all six colors; and my tackle box sized makeup container. Such is the closet of a gay man.
Of course, my closet used to contain something much more important than my purses. My Ecstasy. That's right, drugs. Oh, come to think of it, my pot was in my closet too. The alcohol went in the mini-fridge under the bed, and if I ever got anything else it was in the second drawer up on my dresser on the far left. And that's why my parents are sending me to rehab. To help me get over this little "problem."
Either way, I was packed and ready to go come six-thirty Sunday morning. My plane left at eight, so I'd been up since five getting ready. When it was time for me to leave so that I'd make the plane (though, come to think of it, I would have rather I missed it), I sauntered downstairs, wrote a quick goodbye note to my parents (who were sleeping rather than seeing me off like most parents would have), and hopped in my car.
The drive wasn't that bad, no one is ever on the road that early on weekend mornings and definitely no one is traveling. So I ended up at the airport at seven-oh-five exactly, giving me over a half hour to spend. I ran to the Starbucks, ordering a frappocino from the guy behind the counter.
He looked up with interest after he took my order. "Heading off to Whispering Pines?" he asked.
"What's it to you?" I retorted. I didn't exactly like to publicize my drug problems as much as I did my sexual preference.
"Calm down, boy, you aren't the only one headed there this morning. I, for one, am going up there as soon as my shift ends." He finished adding the whipped cream to the top of the frozen drink. "Which is right about. now." He pulled off the apron and hopped over the counter, handing me my drink.
I relaxed, knowing that at least a cool person was going to be there. "So how'd you figure it?" I asked.
"Why else would a seventeen year old boy be in an airport at seven on a Sunday morning?"
"Ah, I see." I surveyed the guy. He was wearing ripped and baggy jeans, a t- shirt that said "The Clash," and a black bandana was tied around his head. He had dirty-blonde hair that covered his eyes. "And your name would be?"
"Kelly, Jack Kelly. Well, that's what I'm known as anyway. And you?"
"Jayce Taylor. Most people call me Dutchy though," I added, almost as an afterthought.
He grinned a little, making his lip piercing more noticeable than before. With piercing in mind I noticed he had his eyebrow done as well. "I take it you're Dutch then?"
"Nope, from the Ukraine actually. It's a sad, sad story beginning early in my childhood," I joked, grinning. "Nah, actually it's from seventh grade, when we were drawing flags. I tried to draw the French flag, and ended up doing it upside down, which is of course the Dutch flag. And you know Jr. High, they found that hysterical. And I've been known as Dutchy for nearly five years since."
"Man, that's gay." He paused a second later and looked at me. "I mean, stupid. Sorry 'bout that."
I felt myself smile. "Trust me, the only thing about your opinions on homosexuality that upset me is that you aren't gay. You're damn sexy."
"You better not be in my room, Dutch boy," he responded, not at all caught off guard by my comment. "Ever been here before?" I shook my head. "No? This'll be my.." He counted on his fingers quickly. "second year and seventh visit here. I only have to come back every once in a while to check up on me, but they busted me again."
I laughed. "What you in for, anyway?"
"Definitely have a bit of an alcohol problem, that's all. C'mon, let's head to the gate," he said, leading me towards A24. "And you?"
"Drugs. Ecstasy, pot, heroin, crack.. You name it, I've probably done it. Never had an overdose, and my main vice - the ecstasy - isn't even addictive. But apparently my parents are doing this 'for my own safety' and I'll 'thank them some day,' and all that other bullshit."
"Ah, of course. Overprotective parents. It's actually my older sister who checked me in, my dad was too messed up all the time to notice. Either way, it's hell here, that it is."
"Now boarding rows fifteen through ten," the loudspeaker announced. I glanced at my ticket. 11A. "Guess I'll see you when we get there," I told him, grabbing my messenger bag. I sat myself down in the plane, grabbing my headphones. Jane's Addiction flooded through my ears as I pushed the play button.
A smile made its way across my face when I realized that I'd already made someone who might possibly be considered a friend.
Then I remembered where I was headed.
If only I'd known.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
A/N: All right, a number of comments: This is my first attempt at a modern-day fic. Bear with me while I get my grips on it. This is my first attempt at a slash fic. Bear with me. My drug, eating disorder, suicide, etc. information should be correct, but if it's not feel free to correct me.
CC: Open CC, but I'll only add your character if I like it. I reserve the right to change your character to fit plot lines better. Tell me: Name Nickname & Story Age Appearance Personality Reason(s) to be in Whispering Pines Anything else you want me to know.