He concocts a hasty plan and executes it on Christmas Eve, because it's ironic – death and birth, family and whatever the fuck he's got. When his mother finds him, she'll understand, and she'll regret every sick thing she ever let that man do to her son.
Well. Daughter, to her.
He scowls. Even in death he'll never get what he wants from her, not even acknowledgement.
It doesn't matter, really, because he'll be dead as a fucking doornail when they stick him in a dress for the funeral. If she even bothers to give him one.
Thinking about it quickly becomes a moot point, and in the days leading up to the big event, everything is a silent buzz in his mind. A nothing. Empty anticipation faintly tightens in his gut where the hoarded pills will nestle.
There's no anger left, no anxiety even, no nothing, and it's driving him up a fucking wall.
Where did it all go? How did he get here?
Somebody else should have to pay for making him this way but at this point he can't even muster the will to be indignant.
And on Christmas Eve he sits inside the closet on the floor in a nest of blankets, chessboard tucked neatly beside him. His bedroom door is locked. No one is going to look for him, but if they do, they won't be able to reach him in time. And they won't look for him in here.
In the darkness he stares numbly down at the baggie of miscellaneous pills in his hands, wondering when he'll get up the courage and just do it.
The debate seems to go on for hours, and they each tick by agonizingly slowly. When the light beneath the door goes faint and then disappears altogether, leaving him in lonely darkness, he knows he has to do it now. He fumbles with the cap, fingers clumsy, suddenly nervous.
What will his teachers think? What will his classmates think?
What will that admissions officer from NYU who's been hounding him think?
His head thunks back on the wall and he has to take deep, gulping breaths, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Don't think, don't think –!
He must fall asleep that way, because in the next moment, there's a hand nudging him.
His eyes fly open and despair floods his stomach with heavy disappointment. No! They can't find him before he's done it, they can't stop him, he has to do it now, he can't go on like this –
"Hey. Hey. Kid."
The voice is familiar, almost, but too deep to be… No. He squints into the dark and tries to make out the face of his "savior", and blinks incredulously.
That's no savior. That's just him.
Oh, fuck, did he really go through with it? Am I dead?!
The moment of panic passes, though, when the white-clad figure wraps his arms around him and jerks him roughly into a hug. Almost without thinking he crushes him back, hardly daring to breathe. This is it… he's really dead, and now he's going to be escorted up to heaven…
Kind of surprising, all things considered, but he'll take it.
"Don't be so fucking reckless," murmurs a voice that only vaguely sounds like his own. It's deepened, and not entirely with age… The man holding him can barely be twenty five, but somehow, he's still more a man than he'd ever imagined himself. "That's my life you're playing with, buddy."
"Are you here to take me to hell?" he asks, because he's getting confused now. He can't really be awake – he must be dead. But he can't remember how he'd managed it… And now he's sitting here conversing with himself as if it's totally normal. "If so, I don't mind if you take your time. I'm plenty warm right here."
Older-Freddie gives him a deadpan look. "Smartass," he mutters, but he seems to be fighting off a reluctant smile. "I thought you'd be a little more anxious."
"I was." Shrugging, Freddie sits back and leans against the wall, feeling the hard edges of the chessboard beneath him as if it's really all that reassuring.
"You know, I'm not here to lead you anywhere. Except maybe back to your common sense." He wrinkles his nose and Older-Freddie gives him another look, this time as if he knows exactly what he's thinking. Maybe he does? "I would ask what the fuck you're thinking, but I know that already. I'm here to tell you to stop dicking around. Everything's going to be fine, so you'd better flush those things – I'm not leaving until I see you do it."
It sounds like it's supposed to be a threat. Freddie just blinks up at him, more confused than ever. He's utterly distracted by this man's chest, which is flat. Flat…
He can't be him, then. Unless –
His heart nearly stops as he considers it, excitement bubbling up everywhere – through is pores and up his throat and under his fingernails, bringing his whole body to life like it hasn't been in years now, since before his father had left, since before the first time he woke up and hadn't been able to get out of bed. "Who are you?" he demands.
Older-Freddie looks briefly offended before realization seems to sink in and he smiles, a little more gently. "Yeah. You do get the surgery."
"Does it hurt?" He looks him over doubtfully, suddenly nervous. None of this matters. You're already dead. Or hallucinating. "Do you have any feeling left in your nipples?"
"There weren't any complications. The scars even faded after a while." Older-Freddie is looking at him with unbearable understanding now and he wants to throw something at him. Even if it's him, he fucking hates when adults look at him like that. With pity, with faux righteousness, as though they could really understand, or help. "You get the hormones, too."
It's too good to be true. Freddie grimaces. "You're having me on. Fuck off."
"No, really." Seeming to make a decision, Older-Freddie sits back and folds his arms. "But I didn't come here to talk about that. I'm here to make you think."
"Did we ever win the title?" Freddie cuts in, voice demanding and subtly eager. It's getting harder to restrain himself. If this is a hallucination, it's the best one he's ever had in his fucking life, and he never wants it to end. Visions of glory dance like hot sparks at his fingertips, just within reach.
"Of course. What do you take me for? Christ." Older-Freddie snorts, as if there was never a question. Obviously his ego has improved, or else he's just as good an actor in the future as he is now. Still, the doubt is soothed… "Is there anything else you want to know?"
He seems impatient, and still with that knowing glint in his eye, but Freddie doesn't care. His blood is pumping now. World champion. He's hardly even dared to dream of it in the past year, but it's the only thing he's ever really wanted. Independence, wealth, fame, but above all, proving to himself that he can do it. He can overcome it, everything. He's strong.
"Do they print our name in the paper?" He hardly even notices he's slipped into plural pronouns, scrambling to his feet. Older-Freddie follows suit with a short laugh, apparently pleased with this development.
"Sure. Frederick Trumper, five time world champion. Florence has the clipping pinned up on the –" He breaks off, contemplative, and eyes Freddie's shining face with satisfaction. "Well nevermind that. You look like you're good to go. Are you going to flush those?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever." Freddie stares at him in something between admiration and choked relief, sure that his eyes are shimmering. His voice is sure as hell wavering, and it's nowhere near as deep as his older self. It sounds pathetic but he doesn't care.
He wants to ask him everything. Who is Florence? Does he own a cat in the future? Does he have friends, do people like him, do people see him the way he wants them to?
Do I ever get to feel better?
It's starting to look like the answer is yes.
Older-Freddie is somber now, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "Get this cut," he says lowly, but the look he's giving the stands is nostalgic. "And keep your head up. It's hard, but it's worth it. You're going to meet people who love you someday and they're going to be worth living for."
"I can't wait for that," Freddie starts to protest, and to his alarm Older-Freddie seems to be fading away, right in front of him. He reaches to grab for his shirt but his hand passes through his chest. Tears well up without his permission, brimming anxiously. "Where are you going? I can't be alone anymore! I can't do it!"
"Then run away, kid." The more it fades, the more the voice sounds like his, and it's unnerving as much as it is comforting. "You're made of tougher shit than you realize. Don't just sit there and take it. Don't let people take advantage of you. You're only going to get to where I am by being a bigger asshole than them. At least for a while."
With that, the closet is dark again. Freddie wakes with a start, a cold sweat sticking his shirt uncomfortably to his back.
I have to go. I have to go.
The baggie is warm in his hands. Now that he knows what he has to do, these are useless. His heart aches so much he can't even tell if it's a good thing – but it is, it must be. He's alive. Freddie clenches his shaking fist and then releases it, casting the pills into the far corner, where he probably couldn't reach them if he tried.
He takes a deep breath and carefully opens the door, and with a creak, emerges into his room.
This will be the last Christmas he spends here.
He won't be fucking sorry.