Author's Note: There is an engulfing multitude of things I should be doing right now and this is not one of them. I should be doing so many things that aren't this. Why am I doing this? I'm beyond useless. I don't have time for this, what the fuck. Bah. I will blame it on a surplus of black tea servings and my intrinsic nature to be as counterproductive as I can possibly be. Well. Anyhow. I'm already halfway there whether that's what I should be doing or not, so.
The following content is just hideous, grotesque, disjointed, wangsty, ugly, tacky, broken crap. Mediocre, unappealing, disjointed, wayward, unsightly, bloody diarrhea kind of crap. It is devoid of taste and even passable content. It's just there and disjointed and useless like the rest of me. What is structure, even? Do I comprehend it? Unlikely.
Warning for the things I tend to warn for, alcoholism, implied violence, vomit, and wangst up the butt. There were almost aliens in this but they decided that might've been overkill of the overkill and opted out. Is this slash? Up to you. I'm not feeling it this time, but hey, it could be. What do I know? The slash is your oyster.
Castiel's liver brakes before it can break after hours he's lost track of and he throws himself before the latrine as his body revolts. His knees crash against the tile, rattling with pain he probably feels somewhere, sometime, tomorrow (?). His body's purging the poison that paints everything so much better in gaussian giddiness as it blindfolds the regret tonight, tenfolds it for morning.
Vomit scorches his throat as it spurts free, pours into the toilet water with this nasty splash. Once. Twice. Three times, his hands tremble desperately cupped to the ceramic bowl.
Lysander tenderly pulls his hair back. Castiel stiffens initially, a bit taken aback by the unseen touch. He hadn't even realized Lysander followed him. His attempt to groan his agony just urges up another liquor and bile gruel. He miserably hacks out the taste and Lysander sighs disapprovingly.
"I know you're upset," he murmurs. "But this isn't the way to handle it."
Castiel doesn't reply. He spits into the reeking soup of today's arbitrarily poor choices and stubbornly clutches the bowl even tighter. He's nearly on top of it. The rim digs uncomfortably into ribs.
"Are you alright?" Lysander asks. He adjusts his grip and for a fleeting moment, his fingertips brush the nape of Castiel's neck. It's a sublime moment in the duration of this shitty ass night, so carelessly gentle, Lysander's touch as soft and warm as dandelion clocks in the sun.
"I had too much," Castiel admits.
"You certainly did." Lysander reaches over and flushes for him. "No more, okay?"
"Not tonight," Castiel specifies.
Lysander neither confirms nor denies that he's in agreement with the present being the only timeframe to abstain. He helps Castiel up just to sit him down on the edge of the bathtub. Mismatched eyes narrowed, he takes Castiel's hand and frowns.
"It's bleeding again."
"It doesn't hurt."
Lysander charily fans his fingers and examines his knuckles with severe scrutiny. Castiel doesn't think he'd care even if he was sober but he does have to admit they look pretty bad. Fresh red leaks from the purpled flesh, bordered with crusted and flaking copper. His index finger and his pinky have separate wounds, but there's an ugly mouth that grins wet pink in the juncture of his middle and ring fingers. He's pretty sure it's mocking him.
It reminds him of Nathaniel, kind of. His first instinct is to punch it and that's so, so stupid. Even stupider than it is brazenly senseless. Punching your own hand, what the fuck kind of thought is that? Well, a wasted one. But still.
"That is significant swelling," Lysander remarks uneasily. "Are you sure your hand isn't broken? How well can you bend your fingers?"
"Well enough," says Castiel.
"You should at least have stitches," chides Lysander. "This is the third time it's reopened."
Castiel shrugs. Normally he's irritated when Lysander goes overboard and mothers him, but at the moment he's actually grateful for his company. He doesn't even mind when Lysander wets a towel and dabs his knuckles as carefully as he can, lips worrying the corner of his mouth.
"If it hurts too much, let me know."
Castiel quickly shakes his head. It's not a good idea. The room spins and tilts inward from all directions. The bathroom light is suddenly so florescent it's blinding white and Lysander's image briefly blurs. He feels as though he might puke again so he scrunches his eyes shut.
"I'm drunk."
"I know." Lysander squirts his cuts with saline solution. The cool of it is far more soothing than Castiel expected.
He swallows and opens his eyes, blearily watching Lysander work. Lysander tapes a gauze pad over his knuckles and swathes his hand in soft batting, slowly and attentively wrapping it around until he's satisfied the pressure is right and the support is proper. He secures it with another small piece of tape.
"There. I still think you should get stitches but hopefully that will be sufficient until the morning." Lysander wipes his hands with the towel and begins to put the first aid kit back together.
"Lysander..."
"Yes?" He spares a quick glance.
"Don't go," Castiel pleads in a whisper that sweeps through his teeth with an undercurrent like vinegar. "My parents left. Debrah left. You can't leave too..."
Lysander closes the kit and turns to him. He glides into Castiel's space and warmly kisses his cheek, lips as smooth as ripe nectarines. He hums a note against his skin before he draws back, curling understanding fingers around his wrists. "I'm not going anywhere. I would never leave you when you're like this."
Castiel is so relieved if he weren't utterly exhausted he could cry. He bows forward into Lysander's collarbone and drinks in a deep breath of his scent far more potent than the alcohol. It tickles his nose like pepper and tastes like lyrics dripping off yellowed pages.
"Do you want to lie down?" Lysander asks, really nailing his role as the sensible one tonight.
Castiel supposes someone has to be and he's not usually up for that responsibility, not when he has so many other ones fighting for priority and heaping in a haphazard haystack of needles under the dome of his skill.
"Not yet..."
"I could get you the trash can if you think you might be sick again."
Castiel leans back to look at Lysander, beam at him because sometimes he's perfect even when he's so flawed that he forgets the simplest things like notebooks, directions, birthdays, looking both ways. Next thing he knows he's tipping backward into the bathtub. Lysander swoops to grab his shoulders before he can crack the soap dish with his head. With an enduring sigh and patient gaze, Lysander rights him up again.
They talk awhile. There's this new reality show that just premiered about extreme gardening. Castiel hasn't even watched it but the commercials are excessive and its existence annoys him. Lysander is baffled by the existence of over half of what qualifies as reality television in the first place.
There might be a hiatus before Lysander writes another song. He's been infected by an unfortunate writer's block. Castiel tells him that's okay, of course. It's not like he rushes him in the first place and they don't have any deadlines.
Apparently pygmy hippos exist. Castiel's mother had sent him some pictures. If he wasn't avoiding his phone, he'd show them to Lysander. The pictures appear to be taken up close which means she probably boldly, idiotically approached them. Common hippos are reputed to be incredibly dangerous. He hopes for his mother's sake that pygmy hippos aren't.
Lysander thinks he should stop skipping school. He doesn't tell him to stop skipping because he knows how pointless that it would be. He doesn't wildly rave about how much trouble he's going to be in like Lynn does. He simply advises returning with a brief pat on the shoulder.
Castiel knows he's right but he's just not ready. Lysander is compassionate, he doesn't push.
He simply picks him up and helps him stumble to bed.
δ
Castiel wakes up in the bathtub, glaciers colliding between his temples. A groan tumbles off his tongue and he blinks heavily, flinching at the light pouring in through the shades. He should've closed them last night. He assesses himself, vaguely wondering when and how he got back here. He doesn't remember, but it must've been awhile ago because his legs bent over the tub's side are prickling with pins and his back is stiff and sore.
He clambers up and regrets the motion instantly, his stomach sloshing uneasily. He hunches back over the toilet and this time nothing comes up, but he pieces together how he must've made it back here last when he finds himself looking into a soup of sloppy chunks. He gags again out of sheer disgust rather than the hangover and rapidly flushes.
Shuffling into the hall, Castiel peeks around for Lysander. Demon's the only one in his unmade bed and the couch is currently uninhabitable, the cushions strewn across the carpet among the remnants of the knickknacks he'd swept off the mantle or thrown across the room. They weren't his to throw and his parents aren't going to be happy with him. He's not sure how much he actually cares. They're never here, if they cared so much about the damn snow globes and ceramic animals, they should've taken them.
Castiel checks his phone despite his better judgement and figures out Lysander's absence in the process. It's a quarter after noon, he went to school. And didn't bother to wake Castiel up and prod him to go too. Good, he's heard enough of that. Especially from Lynn. They kissed once and now she's acting like his nagging girlfriend and doesn't know when to give him space. He's missed seventeen calls from her and twenty-eight texts.
He knows she means well but he just can't deal with her right now and she won't back off.
He's also missed two calls from Iris, five from the administration office, and a text from...Armin? Okay then.
Whatever. Castiel doesn't feel like talking to anyone, not yet, not when his head aches with a force like an aftershock and he doesn't have the energy to deal with anything anybody has to say to him. He barely even has the energy to put the phone down and drag himself to the kitchen.
He'd like to sleep again so coffee is a no for breakfast. Solid food sounds even less appealing. Somewhere Castiel figures booze is not a conventional way to go, but that off-brand green apple stuff is on the table, already open, and will save him phase two of digging around to find some painkillers in this mess. Cleaning is something he has absolutely no motivation to attempt today.
He takes the bottle, kicks some back, bonds with the burn that's been all the company he's cared for as of late. Other than Lysander, that is. He needs Lysander like he needs air. Lysander's the only one that makes any damn sense, the only one who knows when to stop pushing and pulling him, the only one that can see him at his ugliest and accept it with support and and a suggestion that never turns into some choked up order. Lysander can handle it when he yells and give him room when he cries, and doesn't try to swamp him with endless talking that always seems to lose its reasonability in a mire of contradiction.
But Lysander's at school right now and that's fine because Castiel might need solitary solace right now. He takes another swig and notices Demon's bowls are empty. He knocks some of the dishes in the sink over to make room to get to the faucet, wincing sensitively as the clash and clink of them grates on his ears. As he picks up the bowl, he notices the dressing around his hand is gone. Must've came off in the night.
Castiel doesn't feel like bandaging it up himself and he figures the air is probably good for it anyway. Today it hurts, but it doesn't hurt nearly as bad as other things do. Other things hurt bad enough that it's like the pain possesses his core, pumping his blood with its leaden poison and attaching itself to every other feeling like some parasite, some bottomless parasite that could never ever, ever take enough.
His knuckles? They're just throbbing, that's all. Twinges in his bones, stinging skin when that little pink mouth stretches to grin. But flesh heals. Some of it is already scabbing over. Bones heal too and he still doesn't think they're broken. Bruised. Bruised badly, maybe.
He refills Demon's bowl with fresh water and then pours kibble into his food bowl, whistling for him.
The big canine comes bounding, his massive paws thundering through the floor. He bustles into the kitchen and starts chowing down, minimizing the room even more than usual in all its clutter.
He should vacuum up the knickknack remnants for Demon's sake. Even if he doesn't feel like it, he wouldn't forgive himself if Demon got hurt treading on the shards.
He doesn't remember when he picked up the bottle, but when he goes to get it from the table he belatedly realizes it's already in his hand. He downs a long gulp, sets it back down, and goes to get the vacuum out of the pantry.
Before Castiel can start it up, he does what he was afraid of Demon doing and steps on one of the shards. It tears past his sock and embeds itself deep enough in the pad of his foot to be bothersome. He spits a curse and awkwardly hobbles to the bathroom. The fact that he has to clean just flashes him a reminder as blatant as a neon sign when he takes the first aid kit out from under the sink. There's already a coating of dust on it, even though Lysander just took it out last night.
He's been neglecting his chores for way too long, he knows. The cabinet under the sink must be a burrow of dust bunnies if it's this bad. Castiel sighs and sags all the wearier with yet another responsibility he's not up to taking on right now. He sits on the edge of the sink and tugs his mildly bloodied sock off, making a face at the jut of shattered snow globe sticking out of his flesh. It's too thin to get a decent grip on with his fingers.
He pops open the kit and takes the tweezers, pinching the infuriating little chip of glass. He extracts it less than gently and watches a small rush of blood spurt free. He could be gingerly meticulous about this like Lysander was last night. He has the know-how. When he was a good deal smaller and closer to his mother they took a class.
But the effort just isn't in him, right now. It's unattainable for him to scrounge up something stronger inside himself to allow for anything more than slapping a bandaid on the blood-slick skin. He's beyond burnt out and he realized that earlier, yesterday, a week ago even. Right now he's really wilting in it, sitting here on the edge of the sink without the faintest inkling to step down and fucking vacuum before his best buddy hurts himself.
Castiel feels brittle and doughy at the same time somehow. He's so fragile that breathing hurts and he's so boneless he just wants to slump back into the mirror and sleep right here for the rest of the day, for tomorrow too, probably. He doesn't remember the last thing he ingested that wasn't alcoholic and he's not hungry at all.
Maybe it's better he's not taking care of himself the way he should. Maybe this way Lysander will come over like he did last night and take care of him instead, take care of him the way he wants him to without taking charge of him the way everybody else wants to like they can't tell what the difference is at all.
δ
Someone comes over later and it's not Lysander.
Lysander doesn't knock like that, frenzied, rapidly, over and over with an urgency like his pants are on fire. Lysander knocks like a gentleman. Castiel hops down from the kitchen counter he'd migrated to after failing to vacuum (luckily Demon went outside and has been happily barking at squirrels and digging holes for awhile now, hours Castiel thinks, and he's checked on him multiple times).
He doesn't want to answer the door but not answering the door means the knocking will never stop. It feels like that's been going on for hours too. He readies a tired scowl for his unwelcome visitor and turns the knob, jerking the door open begrudgingly.
Lynn gasps, her hand raised in mid-knock. She lowers it to her side as her eyes dart to him. Her tongue nervously swipes over her lips and her lashes flutter.
"Castiel, hi," she blurts.
"Lynn..."
She leans a little closer, peering at him anxiously. Their proximity is uncomfortable and it makes his insides restless.
"I'm so happy you answered the door," she declares quickly even though she doesn't look happy at all. She looks like a rabbit on the border of a busy highway. "I'm worried about you, okay? I wanna ta—"
"I don't want to talk!" He snaps to cut her off, familiar distress set alight. "Let it go, Lynn! Why do you think I've been ignoring you? I don't want to talk, I don't even want to see you right now."
Lynn holds her ground. She bites her lip and drums her fingers against the brick under the doorbell.
"Castiel, I know things have been hard for you the past few weeks, but you can't do this. You're going to get expelled if you don't come back to school." She presses even closer to him, which is the exact opposite of what he needs her to do, and continues on in a shaky voice. "You can't just shut everything out and explode all by yourself. You're going through a lot, I get it, but—"
"You don't get it!" He snarls at her immediately. "If you really understood me, you'd leave me alone! You're crowding me right now and you still don't even see that!" He bites back a harsher word and sighs heavily, simmering. "You don't get it so don't act like you do. The only one who gets me anymore is Lysander and—"
"Lysander!?" She shrieks abruptly.
"He's the only one who isn't on my back, trying to tell me how I feel or what I have to do," Castiel fumes. "What do you know, huh, the exact opposite of what you're doing!"
"Wait," Lynn demands as her brows furrow together. "What do you mean by that?"
"I meant exactly what I said," he mutters, exasperated. "You're not helping me, Lynn. You're overwhelming me. But I am talking to Lys, so you don't have to freak out on me and think I've gone hermit or something."
"You've been talking to Lysander," she repeats slowly, syllable by syllable like she can't fathom the concept.
Of course she can't. She always thinks it's up to her to tackle everyone else's problems and make them all better, she must be freaking mind blown that there are people other than her to turn to. Since she's so worried about him, Castiel finds it a little odd Lysander hadn't pacified her worries himself. But of course, his friend respects his privacy and it's not out of the realm for that to include protecting it as well.
Castiel's grateful for that but it seems he can't pacify Lynn himself and he just wants her to go away. He can't handle her right now, not her or anybody who wants to put pressure on him. That is the last thing he needs, he already sweats under the threat of more weight.
"Do us both a favor and go home," he growls conclusively, shoving the door closed.
"Wait!" Lynn yelps on the other side. She frantically beats on the wood. "Castiel, wait a second!"
He shudders and turns, leaning back against the door almost like his mass is necessary to keep her out. He lets himself slide down as she keeps pounding and yelling. His spine hums with the vibration of her hits.
She sounds thoroughly alarmed. He understands that Lynn's intentions are good. She's only so panic-stricken because she cares about him, it's not like he can't see that. But her approach is overbearing and exacerbating. After he's repeatedly told her to stop doing this, she's still in the wrong no matter how much she cares. Castiel couldn't have made himself more clear and her level of dramatics is just making him nervous. It's an uncomfortable overreaction. Him avoiding classes isn't the harbinger of the damn apocalypse.
Lynn keeps pitifully bleating on the other side of the door like a constipated sheep. She's persistent as hell, banging against the door in a desperate flurry that must bruise her own small fists. Castiel envies her energy and her drive.
She's ruthlessly determined to talk to him and tell him what, exactly? That promising bit about how she understands his pain again? The part where he should care about the school that he can't recall ever teaching him anything? All about how he needs comfort right now and she's got the fuzzy blankets and warm hugs all ready to smother him with? That fabulous idea about going out and socializing with even more people who are going to vomit up even more nonsense to force feed him?
He doesn't need that shit. Why is everyone so bent on decorating his wounds with salt?
It's at least forty minutes before she leaves. He doesn't feel as relieved as he thought he would, he only feels rubbery and possibly painfully awake.
δ
Demon scratches on the back door and Castiel ducks that way to let him in. He opens another bottle while he's in the kitchen and lumbers back to the living room, stopping dead at the threshold when he sees Rosalya lightly kicking the front door behind her.
"Wow," she remarks. "This place is a dump."
"What the fuck," he states, anger delayed by this flavorless surprise.
"Don't say I broke in," Rosalya says with a cluck of the tongue. She looks to him plainly. "You can't call it breaking in when you forget to lock the door."
"Get out," he grunts irritably. "I don't want to talk to you either."
"Okay. I admit it, Lynn asked me to come over." Rosalya rubs her hands together. "But believe me. I'm here for me just as much as I am for her. I'm tired, Castiel. I'm tired and I need a break. I know we butt heads sometimes, but can't you let me hide with you here for a little while? An hour?"
Castiel scowls and narrows his eyes, sizing her up. She has her hair back in a braid that's falling lose lock by lock and no amount of concealer and eye makeup can hide the dark bags that sag under her bottom lashes. She doesn't seem out of place in his sporadic heap of mess at all, not even in that chic silver-patterned sundress.
"An hour," he permits generously. "As long as you don't try to tell me what to do."
"Not here to do that," Rosalya declares. "I have enough to deal with without trying to be the boss of you. I want a sip of that, though."
Castiel passes her the bottle. He doesn't care much for her demanding nature but he knows he's the same way, and at any rate this isn't the time to be greedy and petty. Rosalya takes it and chugs more than he expected her too, wiping her mouth off on her hand with her features twisted up in distaste.
"Blegh. This stuff tastes as bad as your hand looks. Which is super bad, by the way. Is that infected?" She plops back onto his cushion-less couch without giving the bottle back and crosses her legs at the knees.
"Impossible. Lysander just cleaned it up for me last night." He leans over and plucks the bottle from her hand, taking a slower swig.
Rosalya leans her head back, blinking once and looking twice as drained in that minute passage of milliseconds. "You saw Lysander last night?"
"He came over around six or something." Castiel shrugs.
"Oookay," Rosalya drawls out. "Lynn was not exaggerating." She sits forward more and alternates her legs.
"Exaggerating about what?"
"Can we talk about that?" She stares at him levelly. "Or will you hit me?"
"Hit you?" Castiel gawks, lost and bristling. "I don't hit girls. What the fuck are you even talking about?"
"You and I don't get along sometimes," she blows out in a coarse breath. "I think you have a shitty attitude. I think you're too gruff with Lynn even though she has gotten better at bouncing off of you. I think you're a pretty good guitarist but your taste in music sucks—"
"I think you'd better stop insulting me if you don't want me to kick you out of my house," Castiel snorts pointedly.
"Wasn't finished," Rosalya snipes, unfazed. "I think we can both be really stubborn people. I think when we both have opposite viewpoints we can charge at each other and be really ugly about it."
"What are you getting at, Rosa?" He sets the bottle down on the overturned coffee table and crosses his arms, ready to be on the defensive.
"There's something I think we should talk about," Rosalya says softly, standing and reaching out to gently lay her hand on his forearm. "And we don't have to talk about it yet, but when we do I don't want it to get ugly. I promise I won't tell you what to do. I just think we should talk."
Castiel tenses, his insides squirming like a tangle of centipedes under a rock. Gravity rents her face and he knows it's serious, her touch so light and just a little unsteady on his arm.
"I promise I won't try to tell you what to do," she reiterates. "I'm not here to do that. And we have a little time before we have to talk, okay?"
Castiel swallows and reluctantly nods. She's only staying for an hour. He has a minute to compose before she dives right into whatever it is, and then she won't be here that much longer anyway.
"Good." Rosalya draws her hand back. "I'm gonna go use your bathroom."
"You remember where it's at?"
"Yep," she says and she shuffles right down the hall.
Castiel relaxes somewhat in her absence, however brief it knows it's going to be. He finishes off the bottle and runs his hands back through his hair. He still has a headache. It's not as bad as it was earlier but he's suddenly not so sure if it's just the hangover after all. There's something nagging there, like a bad taste stapled to his brain. He has a feeling he might know what Rosalya wants to talk about, has a feeling it might be something that doesn't make a whole lot of sense.
There's a flush, rush of water from the faucet. Demon trots his way down the hall and Castiel shoos him to the kitchen out of wariness. He still hasn't cleaned up the broken knickknacks. Demon's ears switch and his tail stops wagging, but he complies. He has a bed in the kitchen, a chewed up, slobbery thing under the table.
Rosalya returns, slipping her phone back into the purse around her shoulder and then dropping it on his dad's armchair. She trains her gaze on Castiel again, eyes shaded with concern.
"Hey, are you hurt somewhere? Other than your hand?"
"Uh...I stepped on glass earlier," he replies with an idle scratch at his temple. "Not a big deal."
"I'd ask if you fell in the shower but, no offense, it's fragrantly obvious you haven't used it awhile. There's this big splotch of blood on your soap dish." She brings her hands together and makes a circle with her fingers, winking one eye closed and peering through with the open one.
"Hair dye?" He suggests dryly, a tad uneasy.
"Honey, look at your reflection," Rosalya scoffs. "Have you seen your roots? They're scary. I bet they'd make Alexy cry."
"Alright, Beauty Queen, if you wanna talk about roots, you should remember I still have pictures from the night you let Iris do your hair."
Rosalya winces and flashes a grin pinched tight at the corners. "Haha. Moving on then, will you let me vacuum? I'm tired but I'm jittery too. I need to bustle around for a minute to clear my head."
"Go for it," Castiel says. It's been too difficult for him to muster up the will to do it anyway.
Rosalya plugs the vacuum in and right to it, picking up the largest pieces as she goes along. The halved face of a Halloween cat glares at him accusingly where she sets it back on the mantle. Castiel stares back and lights a cigarette. The smoke lovingly strangles his tongue, crackles its way down to warm the seasick pit of his worries.
Rosalya handles the vacuum like she's mad at it. She pushes it roughly and jerks it around the furniture without restraint. The little shards click the plastic column as they fitter around in the dust tornado inside. Rosalya parks the vacuum without turning it off, taking a moment to replace the cushions on the couch and put the table upright.
It's crooked. One of the legs leans out too far, twisted a bit at the wrong angle so the bottom of the peg doesn't completely touch the floor. That must've happened when Castiel kicked it. Still, it's better upright than upside down.
Rosalya takes the hose out and sucks along the seams of the armchair for good measure before she finally turns it off.
"Well," she huffs after, mildly winded from her violent technique. "What's your kitchen like?"
"Messy," Castiel admits. "There's stuff everywhere." He crushes his butt out against the tabletop.
Rosalya turns the vacuum on again and vacuums it up along with the ashes, leering at him with firefly disapproval. He smiles despite himself.
She shuts it off once more. "Do I have permission to tackle the kitchen next, then?"
"I guess." Castiel was having trouble managing the responsibility of that too and he figures the longer she keeps busy cleaning, the longer that conversation is staved off.
Somehow he thinks it's a conversation she doesn't really want to have, even if she said she did. Rosalya is like that, sometimes. They aren't the closest but he's known her long enough to pick up on some traits. One is that she believes communication is a necessity. Clear, no bullshit communication. She commits herself to the communication she asks of others even when it's painful for her.
Rosalya surveys his kitchen with a critical eye and is predictably revolted. She accepts the challenge and begins with the dishes.
"You gonna help at all?" She asks him, tart as an unripe grape.
Castiel mulls it over, shrugs a shoulder. "Fine. I'll dry."
"You have a clean towel?"
"Uh..." Castiel reaches past a cluster of empty bottles to pluck a rag off the otherwise empty fruit bowl. He sniffs it quizzically. It's not clean exactly, still carrying a trace of some kind of orange cheese, but it is passable. "This'll work."
Rosalya soaps the dishes up with the pink sponge and scrubs them with the green scratch pad, one at a time. They've been neglected for far too long. There is rotten food floating in the stagnant water at the bottom of the sink and grease that's clung to the ceramic so long it's formed a partly solidified film. She notices this, he sees it in the wrinkle of her nose and the pressed pinching of her mouth.
She says nothing to him, however. She just adjusts the drain to allow the gross water exit and continues to clean dish after dish. She hands them to him for the drying and he manages to accomplish that much at least.
Demon hangs out in the kitchen with them, the plastic toy he's currently dismembering giving a high-pitched squeak now and then. Castiel stacks the plates back in the cabinet one by one, dries the silverware until it even shines a little bit and packs it back in the drawer.
He doesn't break a single one and that is a pitiable feat to be proud of considering all the things he's broken lately. Nonetheless, by the time they're done, he feels worn out by the whole thing. It's not that such a simple thing was physically demanding at all, the concentration was just taxing in that way that's been kneading his belly.
However, it did get done. His kitchen is still a sty, but this was a start.
Rosalya tugs the ribbon out of her hair and lets her braid completely unravel.
"Let's talk," she says.
δ
They sit at opposite ends of the couch. Castiel lights another cigarette and looks at Rosalya expectantly. He tries not to let his fingers shake, all of a sudden he's awash with frost beneath the skin.
"So let's talk about Lysander," Rosalya sighs softly. "You told me earlier that he was here last night, right?"
"Yeah," Castiel mutters tersely.
"And you mean that?" She regards him carefully, her voice measured.
"I let him in, big whoop." Castiel brings the cigarette to his lips and inhales a smoldering lungful. "Like I told Lynn, he isn't putting pressure on me like everyone else."
"Castiel..." She hesitates.
He exhales harshly. "Well, what? Spit it out."
"Lys-baby died," she murmurs in a voice like clover crushed underfoot. "He got hit by a car. You and Lynn saw the accident."
"You're confused," Castiel tells her. This is not the first time this version of events has been proposed to him. Every time he writhes within, every cell of him rejecting it. He knows it's not true. Lysander was just here last night, after all. And the night before that. Probably the night before that, and he's certain to come back tonight.
Rosalya closes her eyes for a moment, breathing out. "I'm not confused. I went to his funeral, Castiel. Everybody went to his funeral except you. At first I was really pissed about that but now I see—"
"Rosalya! That isn't true, I just talked to him!" He croaks, coughing a bit on the smoke.
Rosalya shakes her head. "I know it's shitty, I loved him too but—"
"Loved him?" Castiel spits just to rile her up, to deter her away from the mistake she's trying to drill into him. "You broke his heart."
Rosalya stops with her mouth jutted open. She screws it shut and pins him with a warning glare. He glares right back, smashing the cigarette out against the table. Ashtrays are a distant concern.
"I didn't care about him the way he thought he wanted me to. That doesn't mean I didn't care at all and he got over it, so don't..." She just shakes her head and turns away to look at the mantle. "This is exactly what I was talking about earlier. I said I didn't want to get into it with you. But he's gone. His parents had him cremated and his mom took him back to their farm."
Castiel flinches. "That doesn't make any sense. He was just here and I talked to him, I touched him."
"Just because you didn't go to his funeral doesn't mean he didn't die," she tells him as she reaches out and touches the cheek that he knows his best friend kissed the night before. It felt too warm to be be anything other than real, the memory of it still feels realer than Rosalya's sweaty palm does now. "It still happened. If he's fine, then why don't you come back to school?"
"He has nothing to do with it." Castiel takes her wrist and moves her hand away, grip lax enough that she could easily pull away if she wanted. He is surprised when she doesn't. "When is it not normal for me to skip?"
"When it's for three weeks straight." Rosalya grimaces and slides her wrist down until it's their hands that are touching. She folds hers over his and he wants to recoil. "Lynn wants to call an ambulance to come pick you up because she's worried you're not okay."
"Lynn always overreacts," he argues. It comes out pithier than he'd like it to.
"Nathaniel wants to call your parents."
"Nat has it out for me, that's all." And this feels flimsy wobbling over his lips.
"I'm worried about you too. I have to try to even like you sometimes, but you're not doing too good."
"He can't be dead, Rosa." Castiel slides his hand out from under hers and slithers further back into his corner of the couch. "I remember he got hit, I admit it. But he didn't die, he just got a little banged up. I talked to him last night."
Rosalya chews her lip. "Try calling him right now."
"You know he lost his phone," Castiel counters irritably. "Besides, you said you weren't going to tell me what to do and your hour's almost up."
Rosalya pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. "Okay. You're right. I won't tell you to do anything. But why don't you come back to school tomorrow? Talk to the counselor? I'm not telling you, I'm just saying it'd be a good idea. If you don't do anything by yourself Lynn is going to call someone to make a decision for you. You should talk to her too, y'know. You both saw the same thing and she isn't okay either."
"Hour's up," Castiel declares, so relieved he could melt. He retreats from her and everything she just told him, shriveling into himself.
Rosalya checks her phone and then nods. "Alright. I'll go. Just think about what I said, okay?"
δ
Castiel relays the encounter to Lysander later when he stops in. Lysander purses his lips and delicately rubs up and down the rungs of his spine. It's a comfortingly solid touch.
"Is it true?" Castiel asks him fearfully, his belly swirling like blender blades as he anticipates an answer he doesn't want to swallow.
"Well," Lysander says. "Even if it isn't true, it might be better to go along with it for Rosalya. You know how she gets difficult when people don't listen to her."
"You want me to go back to school too," Castiel murmurs.
"Of course, if that's what you're ready for," Lysander tells him. "I don't like to prod you but if Lynn really is as distraught as Rosa said, enough so to call an ambulance, I'm inclined to suggest you return tomorrow. You should talk to her a bit, if only to calm her down. I wouldn't put it past her to follow through with drastic measures."
"What if it's true?" Castiel asks, the thought grinding on his brain like rabbits gnawing at carrots.
"Then we'll have had tonight," Lysander notes, putting a warm arm around his shoulders and pulling him closer. "You were fine before me. You could be fine after. If it's true at all."
"You said you wouldn't leave me."
"Well I won't do that, no matter what's true or isn't," promises Lysander. "You know where my notebook is, don't you? You're always better at keeping track of it."
"Still in the basement, I think."
"If it's true, then I want you to take it," Lysander declares so placidly in face of the possibility that coils Castiel in briars up to his eyes. "You can fill in the blanks I left. I told you I've been having trouble writing lately."
"I'm not as good at writing as you are," Castiel croaks, going slack and trusting Lysander with his weight instead.
"No," Lysander agrees with a teasing undertone. "Not yet. You're getting there though, and I think your approach compliments my style. I always have."
This is probably a fucking landfill of typos having typos. How embarrassing. I don't have any excuse. I'll get to them one day, probably. My schedule is unfortunately inelastic.