Hello! Alternate story-line going up soon, watch out for it!
God, why are there so many of you?
Qwertweirdo: Thank you very much, I think I'm very lucky to have the fans I already have.
Guest: vAPorOo
Guest: I don't speak Spanish so I try my best to use multiple sources when writing in it. Obviously, Google translate to Spanish was updatd recently and is actually pretty decent, but I use wordreference too. Thanks for letting me know, I'll do my best to double check translations now. Thank you very much! You could be much harsher and I still wouldn't be insulted!
elliac: I'm honestly just writing this as it comes to me, there's no elaborate plan anywhere, just me never being able to think of anything else. I'm glad you've enjoyed it and I hope you can put up with my dreadfully sporadic updates.
Anonymous: That's the aim, pal. It's better today! Honestly I didn't give a shit about whether it was good or not before and my French has improved so much in this past year that, honestly, I'm embarrassed reading old updates. The French in this one is pretty good, I think.
Anonymous: Well, when I write about him hearing voices, I mean the voice(s) of his depression/ anxiety telling him things. If I'm not wrong, schizophrenic voices are often unrelated to a person's personality and can be multiple genders and moods at the same time. Alex's are more just different parts of his brain telling him things. Eg., that he's not good enough.
Procrastinatingmushroomfangirl: I'm going in October! It's awful, really, I'm so sorry. When I publish my alternative story-line about Mr. Elliot, it'll be far more regular as that's already written.
ShipperInParadise: Mhhhm.
Smol9247: Ikr.
shy kid: yh no srry.
Kitty: Yeah me too bruh
Nope: I fuckin' wish
Trigger warnings: Past abuse, past unhealthy relationship, drugs (marijuana), suicide recovery, panic attacks, PSTD (sorta).
John hadn't seen his dad in four days now. They weren't on good terms, and though this was nothing out of the usual with his father, he had hoped moving back in would fix at least some of the problems they always found their relationship in.
But doing that was like turning your phone off and on again. It never worked for the big problems.
But John had fallen into the habit of getting up every morning at a quarter past six and slipping out of the house before his father had even managed to stumble to the bathroom in his usual bleary, hungover state. Of course, his father avoided John as much as John avoided him. In the evenings, when John had locked himself in his bedroom, blasting music through his earphones and drawing, he'd send Martha up to ask him if he wanted dinner.
John always said no, ate a pot-noodle before bed, long after his father had settled into the living room with a six pack of beers or a bottle of Buchanan's and a crystal tumbler.
One thing was on his mind above all else, however. Tomorrow was Alex's first day back at school in weeks, and when they'd last spoken earlier that day, he'd sounded as though he was trying his best to convince John he was nonchalant about it all, that it wasn't keeping him up at night or raising his already elevated anxiety past its usual levels.
They'd hung out earlier, Lafayette had made lunch and he and Hercules had eaten it in front to the TV, while John and Alex had eaten it quickly and went upstairs to his room.
Alex tapped his pencil on the sheet of paper he was drawing on, furrowed his brow, "look. I don't think most people know about... about all this, so if I can dodge awkward questions for just a few days, the high school twenty-four hour news cycle will move on, right?"
John picked up an eraser and rubbed out the line Alex had just drawn, tapped it with his pencil critically.
"Unless you want his arm to look like an eggplant, you've gotta follow the reference properly. Since when did a forearm have a joint middle of it, Alex?"
They'd been bored, had watched an entire five episodes of queer-eye and needed a break from Netflix. John had found some paper and pencils, thought it might be fun to help Alex draw something.
"This is hopeless," he sighed, "drawing's not my thing. I'm cool with that. Besides, what if I was the next Michelangelo? You'd have majorly fucked yourself over by helping me discover that, right?"
John laughed, began to shade his own sketch, which was admittedly far, far better than Alex's.
"True. The only teacher in school who likes me is Mr. Sima, and if you came along all witty and smart and good at drawing, I'd have to move out as resident art hoe."
Alex grinned, pressed his face into John's shoulder and put down his pencil.
"Everything's going to be okay tomorrow, you think?"
John wasn't so sure. He knew things would be okay in a few weeks, maybe a month, but he didn't know whether things would be normal instantly.
"I think so. Just stick with us, ignore anyone who asks anything that isn't... well... polite and well-meaning."
Alex nodded and stood up from his desk chair, stretched and groaned, leant against the cupboard by his window.
"I didn't sleep last night. Laf and I stayed up watching TV."
John rolled his eyes, walked over to Alex and pushed his chin up to examine his under-eye circles.
"In my defence, I wanted to go to bed at eleven, but he insisted I stay with him. He has a funny thing about letting me out of his sight these days. I was taking a shower yesterday and he stood outside the door talking to me the whole time."
John fought the urge to laugh. This was simultaneously so in character for their friend and a little worrying. Of course, he'd been distant since finding Alex a few weeks ago, but John had been sure that Lafayette would see the recovery Alex was making and, alongside him, recover too.
"That's... A little too in character for him. I mean, I love him, and he can be overbearing, but this... seems a little far."
Alex shrugged, "I just feel weird coming out of the bathroom naked save a towel and told, loudly, that my underwear's clean and downstairs for me to bring up."
John burst out laughing and Alex whacked him on the arm.
"Seriously, this is a real problem that I am trying to deal with! He has no sense of personal space!"
John laughed and backed him up against the wall, pressed a hand against his chest.
"I don't really have much of that either, not when it comes to you."
Alex raised an eyebrow, "see the difference is, when I'm this close to you, I can-"
He cut himself off, kissed John on the lips, still grinning. The taller teenager laughed into his mouth and wrapped his arms around Alex's waist, stepped even closer.
They kissed for a little while longer. This was one of their balanced kisses, John thought. Where they weren't so lost in their own passion that they were clashing teeth, stumbling against walls, but not exactly chaste or innocent either. John liked both sorts, he liked Alex pressing little kisses to the side of his mouth whenever he said something sweet, or the way Alex tried to control his frantic, hurried breaths when they made out, but always gave up in the end.
They joined Hercules and Lafayette downstairs later, watched some TV with them and talked about school the following day.
"If anyone gives you shit, and by that I mean Charles Lee," John told him, "I will personally beat their ass."
Hercules laughed and leaned towards Alex, covered John's grinning mouth with his hand.
"Don't even let Lee be like that, just walk away, seriously, he's not said much to us this week, I think he's stopped caring."
Alex shrugged, "I like John's plan too, maybe as a backup."
Lafayette wrapped an arm around Hercules fondly, "the single time I've ever seen him fight was when Lee and King where- you guys say wailing right- well, wailing on you."
Hercules shrugged, "Alex doesn't need a personal bodyguard, he's got his boyfriend to watch his back."
Alex rolled his eyes and Lafayette's face lights up in a grin, "yeah, Alex, how does it feel to be dating an older man?"
John shoved Lafayette playfully and wrapped an arm around Alex, raised his eyebrows at him, "yeah, Alex, what's it like?"
But Alex looked a little uncomfortable. Maybe it was the 'older man' joke, maybe it was just that he and John still hadn't used the word 'boyfriend'.
"I- I dunno. I turn sixteen soon anyway so-"
Lafayette laughed, "so you don't usually go for older guys," he teased, watching Alex amusedly. The teenager hesitated and shrugged slightly, stopped meeting his foster brother's eyes. Hercules seemed to sense something about the topic was making Alex uncomfortable, so he patted Alex's arm and grinned.
"Whatever happens, John is always ready to beat some ass and Laf and I can watch happily on."
Lafayette scowled and cracked his knuckles, "no, count me up, I'm ready to crush some skulls."
John grins, "it's 'count me in' or 'sign me up', but you can't mix the two, Laf."
The French teenager shrugged, "I will not need words when I'm face to face with Lee..."
Alex was, at least, slightly mollified by this. All he had to do was keep his head high and ignore any idiots that tried to ask dumb questions, or say horrible things. He was looking forward to getting back to school, anyway, he felt behind already. Lafayette had brought him a lot of their homework since he woke up, but some days he'd just felt too awful to do any of it. The thought of falling behind even further, giving everyone one more thing to hold over him, made him feel ill.
John's phone buzzed and Alex looked down at it absently. A text, from-
John picked up his phone before Alex could read the name, his hand darted out quickly and he read the text with a slightly hopeful expression, or at least an expectant one.
"Who's texting?" Alex asked, casually, only a little curious.
"Just a friend, asking about homework, it's nothing," he replied airily, but his cheeks were tinted pink.
An hour or so later, Hercules was picked up by his dad to go grocery shopping and John left to catch a bus to another friend's house, they'd agreed to share work on a project.
So Alex and Lafayette were home alone, George working overtime at the office and Martha visiting a friend.
Alex walked to the study where he'd left his book open on the couch. Alex, the cat, was lying directly beside it, his soft belly exposed as though he was waiting for someone to tickle it.
Alex sighed and walked over, picked up his book and sat down in the opposite corner of the couch as his feline counterpart. The cat, however, shifted closer. Alexander didn't have a problem with cats. There were plenty roaming around the village he grew up in that they'd feed occasionally by the back door, and foster families had had all sorts of pets, but it was the naming of this particular cat that he wasn't fond of.
He knew that he has dark hair much the same shade as the cat's, that he was a little skinny and jumpy too, but he wasn't an animal. He despised everything about the comparison. They didn't understand all the connotations he'd come to associate with that kind of terminology. Connotations like Mr. Elliot, calling him an alley cat, stroking him like he was a fucking pet. Peter, telling Mrs. Newson she had them all 'well trained', the Harveys, making him earn every morsel of food like they were training an unbroken dog, Mrs. Newson, who'd grab his face like he was an animal at an auction and she a potential buyer.
He'd been compared to a pet, a stray cat, a fucking animal too many times. Was it because he'd always been poor? Was it because he'd let himself be treated like a pet, had, at a point, lain back, grit his teeth as Mr. Elliot had touched him? Because he'd learned and then applied all the ways he could earn food from the Harveys?
It didn't matter, he only looked at the cat and felt uncomfortable, out of place in this huge, beautiful home.
But now, the cat was nuzzling Alex's hand and sticking his head over the pages of his book, making it impossible to read. Alex half-heartedly tried to push him away, put the cat persisted, obviously wanting to be pet. Eventually, he gave in. He rubbed under his chin for a little while, unable to hold back a smile at the tiny purring nose the cat made, the way his whiskers trembled along with his purrs.
"Ey, no eres tan malo, Gatito," he grinned, scratching behind the cat's ears. He wondered if it would be too confusing to call this cat another name, but he so vehemently hated that it was named after him.
Hey, you're not that bad, Kitten.
"You're Gatitio now, get it?" He bit his lip, feeling a little silly talking to a cat, "they're all gonna call you Alex, but that's a name you've gotta earn, buddy."
The cat didn't reply, rolled onto his back and stretched out his tiny limbs, yawned widely to show a rough pink tongue.
"Te voy a enseñar español, Gatito, ¿eh?"
I'm gonna teach you Spanish, Kitten, huh?
The cat's four paws closed around his hand, though his claws weren't extended, he was merely playing with Alex's fingers, batting them around gently. Alex laughed and flopped onto his stomach, rubbed the cat's belly and grinned, charmed by this tiny, playful thing named after him.
"Listen, we're gonna make an alliance, us two. ¿Sí? Push back against this naming bullshit. You'll be much happier as Gatito, won't you? Frankly, I don't think Alex even suits you, eres demasiado adorable."
Lafayette's voice entered the room, it was full of laughter.
"He's so cute, right? Scratches up the end of my bed, but still..."
Alex nodded, "he is. Where does he sleep?"
He remembers the stray his family had for a year or so, he'd jump all over Alex's bed at night, often waking him up at ungodly hours in the morning.
Lafayette shrugged, "anywhere. He likes my bed, but I found him in the towel cupboard yesterday."
Alex grinned, "¿Oyes eso, Gatito? Puedes dormir en mi recámara ahora."
Hear that? You can sleep in my room now.
Lafayette looked at him in amusement, "what was that you called him?"
Alex shrugged, "Gatito. It's unoriginal, Spanish for kitten, but I feel weird calling him my own name, so to me he's Gatito now."
Lafayette frowned, "it might become confusing."
"Whatever, he'll probably learn to go by both names."
Alex read a few chapters of his book then, with his foster brother playing with Gatito beside him. He was tired, but despite this, he had got an essay to finish writing.
So he put his book back on the shelf and left Lafayette to the cat, walked to his room where his unpacked duffel bag from the hospital had been thrown into the bottom of the cupboard.
He thought he left his pen in one of the pockets, but for the life of him he couldn't remember which one.
Alex rummaged through his duffel bag, head stuck into the bottom of his wardrobe, legs sprawled across the floor. He was sure it was in here, if he could just find the right pocket, maybe he'd-
"ALEX! Papa! Alex! Viens ici !"
It was Lafayette's voice, high pitched and frantic in a way Alex had hardly heard it before. He jumped and smacked his head against the wall of the cupboard, yelled in pain and scrambled back to his feet.
Then there were footsteps on the stairs, hurried and anxious, stopping dead in the hallway.
Alex, still clutching his head, walked out his bedroom door and into the hallway, utterly bewildered. Lafayette stood clutching the door jamb, his face ashen and his eyes wide. Behind him, George stood at the top of the stairs breathing heavily, his eyes wild.
"Alexander, are you alright? What's happened?"
Realisation hits him like a brick into his stomach and he freezes, looks from George to Lafayette and back.
"God, I'm sorry, I- I was looking for something in my cupboard and Laf must have- I'm so sorry, please, I didn't mean-" Alex cut himself off before he could spiral further. His habit of apologising excessively, a remnant of years of expecting punishment for situations like this, had started to crop up again recently.
George then turned to Lafayette, who was still frozen in Alex's door way, and frowned.
"Now, really, Gil, there was no reason to-"
Lafayette burst into tears.
For a moment, no one seemed to know what to do. Alex merely watched, horrified and still clutching his head, like he was staring at an awful car wreck. George's hand was frozen midway to Lafayette's shoulder and, on the staircase, Martha stood stock still with a hand over her mouth.
Martha was the first to react. She pushed past George and wrapped an arm around Lafayette's shoulder, began to lead him towards the stairs as he wiped his eyes, took deep, shuddering breaths.
George guided Alex down, holding his elbow gently but reassuringly.
"Your head, Alex, how hard did you hit it?"
He shrugs, winces as a searing pain shoots through his skull, "it's not too bad, I'll just- just find some peas."
Martha sat Lafayette down on a chair in the kitchen. He'd stopped crying and now his face was blank and his eyes closed, fists clenching and unclenching on the table.
Alex took a pack of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapped them in a tea cloth and held them to the cut on his forehead, winced audibly and managed a weak smile at Martha. His primary concern right now was his foster brother, who he'd shocked into some sort of panic attack by stupidly recreating the exact position he must have found him in weeks ago.
"Laf, je suis bien, écoutes-moi, J'ai cherché pour un stylo, c'est tout. C'est tout. Je suis bien."
The French seemed to jolt Lafayette back to the present and he turned his head slightly to make eye-contact with Alex, nodded slowly.
"Yeah, ouais. T'es bien, I'm being silly."
George leant forward, clasped Lafayette's hand in his.
"No, Gilbert, you're not being silly. For a moment there, when you yelled for me, I thought something awful had happened. I thought it was that night again. But it's not, and Alex is okay."
Alex nodded, unable to look directly at his foster father. He'd not thought, when he'd woken up to find that he'd survived his attempt, that living would affect his foster family almost as much as dying might have.
Martha sat down beside Alex, pushed a glass of water towards Lafayette and set some antiseptic wipes down in front of Alex.
"Laf, do you wanna talk about this? Is this something that's been going on for a while?"
Alex didn't want to abandon his foster brother when he obviously needed to know he was okay, but this talk of his attempt, of how much it had hurt all the people around him, was just making the itch to hurt himself, to punish himself, grow more and more difficult not to scratch.
But nevertheless, he stayed. Martha began dabbing antiseptic at the small cut on his head and Lafayette began to talk, quietly at first.
"I- I just- the thought of it happening all again, or having to return to when it did happen- I couldn't bear with it. I panicked."
Alex's face burned, he stared down at the table and nodded along to what George was telling Lafayette about how they'd all had a tough time over the past few weeks, though he seemed to be faring worse than the rest of them and that-
"I think, maybe, you should talk to one of the counsellors at the hospital next time we go in with Alex."
Lafayette started sharply at this and gazed, wide-eyed up at George.
"Wait- no- but I'm okay, I just freaked a bit. I don't need-"
"Gil, listen, just talk to them once, only once. Get out your feelings. It doesn't need to become a thing, I only think maybe you'd benefit from it."
Alex nodded along with George's words, but inside, he was numb. He'd hurt Lafayette so badly that the teenager needed to see a psychiatrist. He'd done that. He was the cause of the tension in this house, the distress and disquiet.
He knew the Washingtons probably regretted taking him in, at least deep down. By now, he thought it was safe to say they weren't giving him up any time soon, but that was only because they pitied him. They were in too deep and before they kicked him out for good, he had to get better, so they felt less guilty.
So Alex fled to his room after that conversation and locked the door behind him, clambered into bed and closed his eyes. He was trying so hard to push himself out of this, to feel better, normal, happy. But he'd discovered before now that it was never that easy.
Just about a week ago, he'd tried to kill himself again. That had to be the opposite of him being okay. But John helped. John treating him like a normal teenager, not tying to be overly delicate or baby him, made him feel like he was allowed to get better, feel good about himself.
He heard a scratching at his door and groaned into his pillow, then got up and pulled open his bedroom door. No one stood there, but a second later there was something soft rubbing against his leg and the sound of a tiny body hitting his bed.
Gatitio had jumped onto his bed and sat behind him, on his pillow. He raised a paw to his mouth and licked it carefully, his tongue lapping noisily at his dark fur.
"Bien. Esta es tu habitación ahora."
Fine. This is your room, now.
The cat merely twisted his head around to clean his side.
Alex shut his door, walked back over to his bed and flopped down next to the cat. Gatito jumped and meowed plaintively at him, Alex scratched behind his ears lazily.
"Stupid cat. Should rename you Estúpido."
He grabbed a book of his dresser then, gave it about half his concentration for an hour or so, still thinking about his foster brother.
By the time he'd lost any interest he previously had in his book, George's voice was calling him down for dinner. Alex bookmarked his page, turned off his light and walked morosely down the stairs, dragging his arm along the bannister behind him, letting himself fall from step to step rather than bothering to walk.
George had made Mac 'n cheese. It was placed in the centre of the dinner table along with the salad Martha usually made in the mornings for her lunch, and used the leftovers of which as a side for dinner.
Lafayette was in his usual spot at the table, nearest the window, looking exhausted. His eyes were tinged with pink and his skin had that fresh, raw look to it that could only be associated with tears. He smiled weakly at Alex as he sat down and took a sip from his glass of water.
"Je suis désolé que je t'ai fait peur," Alex mumbles, digging the prongs of his fork into his sleeved arm.
I'm sorry I sacred you.
"Ne fais pas ça," Lafayette said quietly, watching Alex as he pressed the prongs harder.
Don't do that.
Alex dropped the fork, opened his mouth to speak, but then Martha was sitting down beside him and George was scooping a large portion of man 'n cheese onto his plate. These days, George and Martha were extremely strict about Alex's diet. In the few days Alex had been back, he'd discovered it was impossible to skip meals, or eat any less than what was given to him.
But there was bacon in this man 'n cheese. Pieces of bacon had been mixed in with the macaroni, Alex gagged as he turned the pasta over on his plate and began separating the pieces of meat from the macaroni. Eventually, he'd made to separate the piles of food. Slowly, he began to eat, piece by piece, swallowing as if the food were shards of glass rather than pasta.
"Take some salad, Alex," Martha encouraged, pushing the bowl carefully towards him. Alex, glad for an excuse to turn his attention from the pasta, took some and began to eat, chewing slowly.
Ten minutes later, everyone was more than halfway finished, Lafayette had helped himself to more mac 'n cheese and George had taken a second serving of salad. Alex's plate was still fairly full, he'd finished his salad and pushed all the bacon to the edge of his plate, and was doing his best to finish.
"I know you don't like bacon, Alex, but maybe try to eat just a little?" Martha suggested, eyeing the untouched pile of it on her foster son's plate.
Alex shrugged and swallowed another piece of pasta. He hated the very idea of it, the smell made him want to choke and the taste, he thought, would make him sick. When he lived with Katherine he hardly ever ate pork at all, as she kept Kosher and never bought any. His mom cooked mostly with seafood and chicken, so he'd never been the biggest lover of it anyway.
"You need some protein, eat some," George said, picking up his now clean plate and carrying it to the dishwasher. Lafayette watched Alex from across the table, he'd gotten most of the way through his second helping and was now sipping quietly at his drink.
Alex finished the pasta, ate the last slice of tomato on his plate and stared miserably at the bacon left there. Slowly, he picked up a piece on his fork and, holding his breath so he couldn't smell it, took a tiny bite. He swallowed quickly, wanting to taste the meat for as little time as possible, and let out a deep breath. It was as awful as he'd expected. The scar on his arm, underneath his sweater, seemed to burn and he could hear the sound of meat sizzling as though he was back in that kitchen.
He forced all this down and put the rest of the bacon on his fork into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed quickly, and gagged as it slid down his throat, as choking as the smell had been in Pace's kitchen that day. He covered his mouth with a napkin, sure for a second that he was about to be sick. But after a few deep breaths and a large gulp of water, he put down the napkin.
"Tu dois avoir une bonne raison de détester le bacon," Lafayette said, putting down his glass and watching Alex with concern.
You must have a good reason to hate bacon.
"Je peux pas faire ça, je vais vomir," Alex managed, shaking his head.
I can't do it, I'll get sick.
"Tu ne dois pas."
You don't have to.
"Ils seront énervés," muttered Alex, preparing to pick up another piece of bacon, determined to force it down if he had to. Then, there was a hand on his shoulder and the presence of somebody behind him.
They'll be mad.
"Alex, we're not going to be mad if you don't finish the bacon. You don't have to eat it something that's going to make you ill."
Alex set down his fork, breathed a sigh of relief and smiled sheepishly at his foster father. Lafayette picked up his plate and brought it to the sink, returned a moment later and sat down beside his foster brother.
"Y a-t-il une raison précise pourquoi tu n'aimes pas le bacon ?"
Do you have a specific reason why you hate bacon?
Alex groaned, "c'est une affaire compliquée. Je sais pas si tu veux l'entendre"
It's a complicated affair. I don't know if you wanna hear it.
Lafayette said nothing, evidently this detail didn't matter to him.
Alex sighed, "Alors... uhh... Connais-tu la cicatrice sur mon bras? Mon père adoptif m'a brûlée avec une poêle qu'il a utilisé de cuisiner du bacon, donc je déteste l'odeur et le goût."
You know the scars on my arm? My foster father burned me there with a frying pan that he'd used to cook bacon, so I hate the smell and the taste.
Lafayette looked horrified, "Il l'as fait exprès ?"
He did it on purpose?
Alex laughed quietly, "il ne m'as pas retenu par accident."
He didn't hold me down by accident.
Lafayette stared at his foster brother for a moment, "T'as devenu aller a l'hôpital ?"
Did you have to go to hospital?
Alex shook his head, "J'aurais dû aller, mais mon ami m'aidé à le..." he paused, clicked his fingers, "tratar in Spanish... is it 'soigner' in French?"
I should have gone, but my friend helped me... treat it.
Lafayette nodded silently, his eyes were fixed on Alex's arm, the arm which, underneath his shirt, bore the scar of that burn. Alex, uncomfortable, stood up and brought his plate to the sink. He turned on tap, cupped his hands and splashed his face with water. Then, he drained his glass and leant against the counter.
He was forced to finally admit it to himself, he was scared about school tomorrow. It was hanging over him like a dark cloud, the thought of Lee and George, of the questions people would have, the comments from teachers about missed work, the fuss his friends might make. He just wanted everything to be normal again.
Louis' house was on the other side of town from Lafayette and Alex's place, so rather than walking, he crept back home to grab his bike. He wheeled it out of the garage silently, wincing when Martha's bike fell to the concrete floor noisily, terrified of drawing his father down. Fortunately, he managed to leave without the man noticing and cycled from there to where his friend lived, in a relatively large house a few streets away from Hercules.
Francis answered the door. He was only in a vest and jeans, despite it being practically November, and grinned at John.
"Hey, come in, Louis is in the living room."
John stepped into the hallway, took off his coat and hung it on one of the hooks on the wall. He hadn't been here in months, these days he only talked to Louis in school, they still sat next to each other in Biology.
Francis pulled him into a hug as he made to walk into the living room. John, caught off guard, relaxed hesitantly into it. Francis smelt the same, John couldn't put a finger on it, but it hadn't changed since he'd moved. It still made something bitter-sweet rise in his throat.
Louis was in the living room, lying on the sofa with a glass of water on a table by his head and a hand over his face, blocking the sunlight. John laughed, stepped a little closer and took in the faint smell of beer off his friend.
"Rough night?"
The teenager nodded and forced himself to sit up, blinking in the light and raising a groggy hand to John.
"Hey, buddy. Long time no see."
John shrugged and collapsed down on the couch, Francis sat on the rug, long legs stretched out in front of him.
"You two back together now? What happened with that other Latino guy?"
John tilted his head, "Alex?"
Louis rubbed his forehead, his eyes were bloodshot and his shoulders drooping.
"The druggie? Guy who hasn't been in for like three weeks cos he ODed on ket or something?"
John frowned "he's not a druggie and he doesn't do ket. Who said that?"
Louis laughed sheepishly "I never know where I hear things these days, I was at a party and pretty pissed."
Francis looked up at John with a smirk, raised an incredulous eyebrow, "I thought you said he wasn't a bad boy."
John groaned. This situation was becoming more and more difficult to diffuse. Alex was going back to school tomorrow, what if this rumour was spread past Louis' circle? What if everyone had heard it?
"He isn't, Fran. God, just leave him alone."
Louis held up his hands, "don't shoot the messenger, man, just repeating what I heard."
John let the subject drop. He fell silent and watched Louis pull himself to his feet, rifle through pockets for a moment before grinning widely.
"Yes! Still got them!"
He pulled out two joints, relatively thin ones rolled well (Louis had practice) that looked straight, weed and nothing else.
"You guys want some?"
John laughed and rolled his eyes, but Francis reached out and took one, opened his other hand for a lighter.
"I'll be okay," John said, an eyebrow raised as Francis flopped back onto the couch, cupping a hand around the joint in his mouth and lighting it carefully. Louis shrugged, sat down on the rug and brushed some hair from his eyes.
"More for me, I guess. Fran, weed's like a bit legal in New York, right?"
Francis nodded, "officially it's just for medicinal uses but almost no cop would care if you had under an ounce or so for personal use. In the city they don't even arrest you if you smoke it in public."
John hummed in thought, "I think they've decided to stop prosecuting people for personal use in Brooklyn because of how cops were disproportionately arresting black people and Latinos."
Francis shrugged, took a long drag on his cigarette, "don't ask me, no cop's ever gonna take me in for weed. Probably not here, either."
Louis laughed and John looked at the ground, his face hot.
"Here I'd get something on my record. Probably prosecuted. It's sort of different for me."
Louis nodded seriously but Francis rolled his eyes, tapping some ash onto an old newspaper on the table. John scowled.
"What?"
The teenager shrugged, "don't try and make me feel guilty for something I can't control."
Louis laughed, but his face was screwed up in incredulity, "come on, Fran, John's right, it's fucked up."
Francis seemed indifferent, "it is, but I can't do anything about it."
John watched him for a moment, silent, and Francis seemed to sense something in the atmosphere has shifted. He sighed.
"I'm tired. You're right, it's fucked up, I just don't think I should boycott weed because of it."
John tried a smile, "no one's going to ask you to."
Louis held out his joint to him, "you seem stressed, man, have some. Fran's here and everything."
John accepted it, held it between his lips and took a long drag. Every second he spent around Francis made his usually low levels of anxiety spike enormously. He tried so hard to impress him and simultaneously not to care what he thought, it was exhausting.
"That's more like you, John," Fran laughed, taking three short, consecutive puffs and holding the smoke in his throat for a few moments before exhaling. John stood up, the joint between his fingers, and threw open a window.
They passed the cigarettes around until they were smoked down to the roach. John lay on the couch, his feet brushing Francis' lap, staring at the ceiling.
He hadn't done this in a long time. Since he'd been in a really bad place about a year ago, unable to deal with how Francis made him feel, how his father made him feel, how utterly lost he felt. And this was supposed to help a little, so of course he'd tried it.
So, about five minutes later, when he started to feel his eyelids becoming heavy and his concentration shifting from one thing to the next every other second, he didn't freak out like he did when he'd done this fist. He stretched and sat up, crossed his legs and watched Francis, lying on the couch, smiling slightly.
"Where'd you get this stuff, Louis?" John asked, trying not to let laughter creep into his voice.
Louis took a few seconds to respond and John started to laugh to himself, pushing hair from his eyes, God, there was so much of it.
"A friend, I'll hook you up if you want."
Francis nudged John in the ribs playfully, "yeah, the kid needs to relax."
John shook his head, "I'm good, Louis."
They all fell silent then, John playing with his hair where it rested beside his cheek on the cushion, Francis watching him with a small smile.
"It's grown a lot- what are you laughing at?"
John's lips were sealed together tightly to hold back laughter and he shook his head, biting his lip.
"No- I- nothing," he grinned, rolling onto his side and watching Francis intently. He pictured his face a lot, at night when he couldn't sleep, almost every time he saw Louis or thought about Freshman year. They were close now, he and Francis. If John were to shift forward a little, their noses would touch.
"When was the last time you had any real fun, John?" Francis asked, pushing some of John's hair behind his ear, "when did you last get drunk, have a good time?"
John frowned, "getting drunk isn't always fun..." he hesitated, "you might get sick," he finished lamely.
"But you're so boring now," Francis sighed, Louis said all you do is hang out with Laf and Herc."
John opened his mouth to respond but paused, holding his forehead with wide eyes.
"What?" Francis laughed, watching him amusedly.
John shook his head, his eyes wide, "the entire room just spun, dude."
Louis burst into laughter beside them and John joined in, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the couch. He felt light-headed but his eyelids were heavy and his muscles relaxed and pleasantly drowsy.
Francis sat up and raised his hand to his mouth, as though to take another drag on the joint, only to remember it had been smoked.
"Ah, shit, Louis, you got any more?"
Louis patted his pockets down and frowned, "uh, maybe- maybe upstairs."
Francis raised an eyebrow and jerked his head at the stairs, then burst out laughing, falling heavily backwards onto John. His skin gleamed with a light sheen of sweat, giving the appearance of emanating light, rather than reflecting it. His profile was sharp against the window beside them and one strand of hair had fallen down over his forehead, unnoticed.
He was almost a complete contrast to Alex in looks. Where Alex was sharp and scruffy, Francis was long and graceful. Alex was all browns and black, eyes like freshly brewed coffee and hair that became indistinguishable against the sky after sundown. He was assembled with sharp elbows and knees, giving him an almost child-like, but definitely athletic appearance.
Francis had skin like the inside of a peach with pink palms and elbows. His eyes were silver and hard, only crinkling to warm grey when something was particularly amusing, and only in front of a rare few, so that anyone who received it felt graced by something normally given away so easily by others. It was a little trick of his, to withhold such basic things like hugs and laughter, only to make them seem more loaded and precious when he gave them.
Alex was similar to him in some ways. He gave smiles and laughter rarely, but didn't withhold them if the situation warranted it. It wasn't conscious, his seriousness, rather learned. He became himself when he was comfortable with the people around him, not when he knew it would make people like him or because he had learned to reveal himself in pieces to be mysterious, and therefore desirable. He affection was rare, like Francis', but he didn't half-ass it or hang it over people's heads as a reward.
And John had adored Francis. He remembered when Francis moved away, he'd gone to Lafayette's house for the first time in months and lain on his couch all afternoon, trying not to cry, then crying, and having Lafayette awkwardly trying to comfort him with tea, comedy shows and snacks.
Louis re-entered the room and John started. He was holding a bag and some rolling papers and tossed them at Francis.
"Roll them yourself."
An hour later, John felt like he was made of cement. His eyes were heavy and his concentration darted back and forth between ideas, unable to stay long enough of anything. His vision was warped and seemed disconnected from his body, as though his eyes were somewhere else in the room entirely.
He was vaguely aware that Francis' arm was around him, and later that his head was resting on something soft, a lap or a stomach.
"Fran, man, this is fucking-"
Louis started to laugh beside them, smacking the floor with his hand, "do you- do you know what you guys should- you should do a shotgun."
Francis joined in, holding his sides as though in pain and gasping in steadying breaths, unable to stop his laughter.
"What's a shotgun?" John asked, looking between them, bewildered.
Francis' mouth stretched back into a grin and it seemed to take him a huge effort not to burst out laughing again. He beckoned to Louis for the joint and motioned for John to come closer.
"Open your mouth," he told him, placing the joint between his lips and taking a long hit. He held the smoke in his mouth and then, as Louis watched, grinning, Francis grabbed the back of John's head, pressed his lips to his and breathed the smoke into John's mouth.
John pulled back sharply, coughing on the smoke and blinking in surprise, Francis started to laugh.
John merely sat there, his face burning. Francis had kissed him. Kissed him. Did it mean anything? Surely it did. Did it mean he'd missed John as much as John had missed him? He felt something hopeful and excited spark in his chest and he held out his hand for the joint.
"One sec," said Louis, taking a long drag with closed eyes. His eye-bags were red and his cheeks were flushed scarlet. The room was warm as they'd closed the window a little while ago out of fear of smoke being smelt on the street. Now, smoke swirled around them, settling into their clothes and hair. John would have to shower thoroughly later.
Then, Francis leaned towards their friend, winked at him, and pressed his mouth to his. Louis breathed out and Francis pulled away, exhaling the smoke a moment later.
John's shoulders sagged. So it hadn't meant anything. That was fine, that didn't bother him. He had Alex.
But God, he missed Francis sometimes. He missed sleeping with him, even though his boyfriend had been cold and unaffectionate. He missed how tall Francis felt when they kissed, when he'd slide his hands down past John's waist or up to touch his chest.
Louis laughed, his eyelids were drooping and the whites of his eyes were marred with red blood vessels.
"John's jealous, Fran."
Francis laughed and crooned pityingly, taking a hit and touching John's jaw with a gentle hand. John opened his mouth and Francis breathed the smoke past his lips.
They smoked the rest of Louis' weed over the next hour or so, which, considering the kind of person he was, was a lot. John was hardly able to do more than lie on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and watch strange shadows flit across his vision.
He thought he'd had too much. He'd been so intent on impressing Francis and shedding the anxiety that always threatened to overcome him around the teenager, he'd been sure getting as high as he could would help.
But now, when he sat up, the world swam and Louis and Francis' voices were distorted. When Francis breathed another hit into his mouth, he didn't even inhale, he was too lost in swirling smoke (or were they ghosts?) and warbling sounds that seemed to reach him through water.
He must have passed out after a while, because when he came around, a blanket thrown over him, it was dark out. He was aware of someone else pressed up beside him, trapping him against the couch. Francis' hair gleamed in the light of the streetlamp outside and fluttered gently when he breathed.
John groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead, his skull felt like it was going to split open. He couldn't go home like this, it was too late and he stank of weed, his father would realise the second he walked over the threshold.
So he dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone, wincing as it turned on to full brightness. It was ten minutes to ten, he should have been at home right now.
He texted his father, 'sleeping over at a friend's house; i'm safe', and promptly turned off his phone again, chucking it onto the empty arm chair beside them. Then he closed his eyes, wiggled further down beneath the blanket, sandwiched in by Francis and the leather couch, and fell asleep.
