Warnings: Yes, this story includes rape. The authors of this story want it to be known that it is just that: a story, nothing but pure fiction. We also want it to be known that rape is definitely NOT okay, nor is it condoned or even remotely tolerable. If you can't stomach that, then don't read this. It should also be said that this will undoubtedly be a Hank/Evan slash fic. So, if you have issues with homosexuality or incest, than this story just isn't for you, love.
Disclaimer: The authors of this story are in no way, shape, or form, receiving any profit off of it. It is purely for the entertainment, enjoyment, and pleasure of the readers.
Evan is not all that positive on what wakes him up...at least, not exactly. It could be a multitude of things; the ache that seemed to reverberate throughout his body in sync with his heart beat; his bladder screaming to be drained; the alcohol-based bile curving up the track of his esophagus; the blinding mid-day light, that just couldn't be kept back by blinds; or even the whisper that felt more like a scream, caught just at the back of his throat before escaping.
He wants to put money on the light, but the horrendous taste just budding at the back of his tongue is saying otherwise. Even rips the blanket away from his face, now slick with the beginning of a clammy, cold sweat. Ice blue eyes going frantic with the feel of saliva filling his mouth, he searches for a trash bin or a bag – anything!
When Evan spots the bucket laying on the ground, just next to the night stand near his bed, he feels like crying and smiling and laughing and screaming and dieing, all in one go, but he can't, because as soon as the bucket is spotted, he is grabbing at it, and before he knows it, spewing into it. They're harsh, violent spasms that force Evan to expel his stomach's contents, making his abdominal muscles ache after the first push. It's the kind of vomit that one achieves only after a long night partying – all liquids, and no food. Evan's glad he didn't eat before going out – doesn't have to experience the lumps pumping up his throat...and that thought makes his stomach contract even more.
When his gut has stopped collapsing in on itself, and Evan is left half way off the bed, propped on trembling arms, and gasping for all the air his lungs can get, he actually does feel like dieing. Evan's never been one to vomit, especially after a night drinking. Whether it be the flu or too much of one thing, Evan has always tried his damnedest to keep his stomach contents where they should be: his stomach. And it is for this reason exactly. He doesn't like throwing up – who does? It's the combination of the cold sweat beforehand, that makes him feel like a corpse left in the muggy nights of Summer, the muscle spasms that take hold and control his body, and the lack of oxygen. Vomiting, to put it into words, makes Evan feel like he's been tied up and left to drown.
"Shit," he gasps to the empty room, pushing the bucket as far away from his face as possible. A knock sounds at his door, just as he's settling himself back onto the bed.
"Evan?" Hank's voice seeps through the wood work, soft and small with worry and apprehension. "Can' I come in?"
He re-wraps the blanket tightly around himself before grunting out a barely decipherable, "S'okay," shifting and squirming until he is bent to face the doorway.
"You alright?" His older brother asks, making his way through Evan's bedroom until he is sitting at the foot of the bed. "I could hear you from down stairs."
Evan grins, and he's pretty sure it carries out into his voice. "My, what ears you have."
"It's a big brother thing," Hank chuckles, softly.
He leans in until he can see Evan fully. "Seriously, though, Ev – are you okay?" And Hank is serious, eyes not failing to take in his baby brother's still wrapped form.
Evan pauses, allowing a silence to fill the room for far too long for Hank's liking, in which he contemplates possibly telling...well, not the whole truth, but at least something that doesn't involve lying through his teeth. It only lasts a few moments, though.
"Yeah. Y'know, just kind of hung over – sleepy," Evan mumbles, biting down on his lower lip.
Hank blinks and pulls back. What a little liar.
"Exactly how much did you have to drink last night? You're not one to puke."
And this is a good question, really, it is, because Hank's right: Evan definitely isn't one to puke from drinking too much. Maybe it's a tolerance his body has built, or maybe it just has something to do with him avoiding all situations that involved vomiting. Regardless, Evan just doesn't get sick like that.
"I don't know," Evan answers honestly, his brow all scrunched into thought. "I don't think it's that I had too much, but more that I had too little."
"What?" Because, well, just what the hell is Evan talking about? As well as blowing chunks, Evan definitely isn't one to be vague. Hank was more than just a tad bit worried.
Evan shifts on the bed, allowing his legs to stretch out, and his feet to just barely touch Hank through the blanket.
"Well, we were really busy yesterday –
"Evan.."
" – and, y'know, I had all those spread sheets to finish and –
"Did...?"
" – You know me, Hank. Once I get started on the paper work, I can't stop, or else I can't remember any of it, a – "
"Evan!"
"What, Henry? What?"
Hank pauses, staring his little brother's wide-eyed blues down. Evan just knows where this is going.
"You decided to get 'very drunk' without eating anything beforehand?" And it's not really a question, at least to Evan it's not. No, it's more of a clear-cut statement of Hank's mother-bear concern and disbelief shining through.
"Well... when you put it like that," Evan just trails off, because he knows there's no point in discussing this with his brother. When Hank went on a "worry" tirade, there was just no stopping him.
"Like what?" Hank barks. His brother should know better than this. Christ, even teenagers drank more responsibly than Evan did. "The truth? Evan, you are not an idiot, so I just can't seem to see why you would do something so stupid." He scrubs his hands over his face before tucking them against his chest, and begins to list off all of the things that could have happened to him. "Alcohol poisoning – does that sound like fun? Or maybe blacking out? What if..."
Evan's sitting silently, somewhat zoning out. It's like only one-third of his brain is actually listening to Hank's ramblings, searching for the key lines, phrases, or even possibly words, that could bring up the occurrence. Theoretically speaking, it seems like it'd be an easier discussion to have if Hank brought it up first.
Last night, it didn't seem like a bad idea; keeping anything and everything to himself. But this morning, after the aches and bruises have had time to set in, Evan's not so sure anymore. He wonders just how long those bite marks will last. How long will he need to wear sweaters and collared shirts to cover the one near his neck? And what about that test? Who the shit is he going to find to run them? If Evan goes to Divya, most likely, she'll end up telling Hank or somehow accidentally doing so. Going to Hamptons Heritage, despite it's walk-in-clinic and snappy tests, is just out of the question. Too many people go there...people who talk. He would go out of town for the nearest hospital, but, well, he sold his car to put some money back into HankMed about three weeks ago, and he doesn't feel like the cab fare is worth it.
What if – and this is a big 'what if' – those signs from the LifeTime movies start popping up? Evan doesn't think they will – doesn't think he's ever acted out that extremely due to something traumatic. But what if they do? Will Evan notice them before it's too late, or will someone else, most likely Hank, point them out?
And, really, if Evan's being completely honest with himself, he doesn't think this morning's vomit was due to too much alcohol in his system. Oh, no. He can just remember that gasping, muffled, choked scream sound that almost got away.
"And you're not listening to me," Hank mumbles to himself, lifting his flippantly in the air.
"Yep," he lies. "You talk enough for the both of us, though. I just couldn't get a word in edge wise."
"Which was?"
"You're right," and it sounds like there should be a question mark at the end. "It won't happen again."
"It better not," Hank sighs.
"And I will begin making it up to you by actually eating today," Evan says with some light, joke-like smug tone to his voice. "That is, if you're making those famous Henry Made Hungry Time waffles?"
Evan can see his older brother trying to stifle a smile at his deadpan expression. The fact that he could even say "Henry Made Hungry Time" without laughing is a feat in and of itself. "Please, bro – I'm starving. I mean, if you're not busy or anything..." he pouts, knowing Hank won't be able to deny him his brother's delicious breakfast confections.
Hank mumbles something under his breath, and closes his eyes, shaking his head just slightly. "Yeah, okay, fine."
Evan smiles, and it's all happy and tooth-filled, and just something near relaxed. "Yay!"
He watches his older brother rise from the bed, pretending to huff and moan about getting a medical degree for nothing, since he seems to cook for Evan all the time. Hank bends slightly, grabbing the vomit-filled bucket, and holding it far away from his body.
"Shower first," Hank calls over his shoulder, already on his way out. "Don't brush you teeth, Evan. It makes the acid stick in-between your teeth, and I don't think you want the enamel wearing away," he says this pointedly, making sure to reinforce the order through tone.
"Well, what do I do about the puke-taste in my mouth," Evan yells, because, really, if Hank expects him to eat Heaven-sent waffles with that gross as fuck taste, which will ultimately ruin his breakfast, than he expects too much of him.
"Mouthwash," is all Hank replies, already near the bottom of the stairs by the sound of it.
Evan continues to lay there for an undetermined amount of time. Not because he doesn't know for how long he doesn't move, but because it seems like time moves different now, somehow. In his mind's eye, Evan feels like he only went to sleep three seconds ago, and woke up due to one of those crazy, falling dreams that only last for five seconds. Physically, however, is a whole different story. His body feels alive and pumping, warm and sticky, twitchy and like it needs to move, despite it's soreness. Evan thinks that, perhaps it is the tiny, thumping, reminders of pain that makes his body feel so alert, attentive, and ready.
He feels like he could escape an attacker.
If I wasn't so wasted, I would have, Evan nods to himself, climbing out of bed and gathering the first-aid kit once more.
Evan walks into the kitchen with shaking, twitching, fawn-like trembles that wreak his legs, threatening to take him down with the slightest push. He is guided purely on the twisting in his gut demanding energy resources, and the unbelievably delicious smell of freshly cooked waffles and brewed coffee. In a way, it reminds Evan of mid-term time back at MIT, when all he could was function on auto-pilot; an odd mix of cafeteria bagels, crap coffee, and anything found in vending machines.
There's already a plate waiting for him at the island car, stacked with peanut butter and jelly covered waffles, bacon, and what could make for burnt toast. He notices that there is a very large glass of Sunny D, too, because Evan hates pulp, and Hank refuses to buy orange juice with no pulp.
Balancing on the tips of his toes, Evan reaches into a cupboard, and pulls out a decent-sized coffee mug. It's his favorite; all of it brown, except for the bold, white letters which clearly state 'CANCER SUCKS', and it's near bowl-like shape. If it weren't for the handle, Evan supposes he'd be eating soup out of it.
He swivels on the balls of his feet toward the coffee machine and, carefully – please, don't spill or drop – pours the ink colored liquid to the rim of the cup. Evan's hands shake, but he won't give up the coffee's warmth for anything. So, he stands, immobile except for the slightly visible tremors, just allowing the heat between his hands to soak into the rest of his body.
A/N:
So, there you go! The second installment of Bite Your Lip and Fake It.
Sorry if the ending seems like it just cut off- we definitely didn't mean for it, too. It seemed like a good place to end this chapter, which is sort of like a filler. It is important, though. There were some key phrases and lines that need to be remembered in order to understand where some of this story is going.
Anywho, THANK YOU, bunches, loves, to:
super ario for being our first non-anonymous reviewer!
Dance Alice Dance for reviewing.
Kits for reviewing
Synner23 for reviewing.
JLA24 for reviewing. and
LittleSnowPea for reviewing.
You guys are nifty in every sense of the word.
And, to all those who fav'ed and alerted, Thank YOU guys, as well.
Candy, Love, Lawli-pops, and Corpses,
ScottIsInBolivia
