Story 04: Maybe Tomorrow

Summary: Sometimes an offer of reassurance is not nearly enough.

Word Count: 1128

Disclaimer: Fright Night and all characters therein © Tom Holland/Craig Gillespie

Warnings/Rating: PG-13 for language, depressing amounts of angst, and mild adult content

Author's Note: Written for the Three Days Only Challenge at 5_prompts, using Table 07, prompt 04: Maybe Tomorrow

Peter took another long draught of his midori, staring out the window at the nighttime neon glow of the city. Charley wished his friend wouldn't make it so difficult just to talk to him.

He cleared his throat, shuffling in discomfort. "Hey, um… d'you maybe want to go out and catch a movie or something?"

Peter sighed and put a hand over his eyes. He looked worn and tired, and Charley knew what he was going to say before he'd even opened his mouth. "I don't really feel like it tonight, Charley," he mumbled.

Charley bit back a sigh of his own, the awkward tension between them making his spine go rigid. A sick sort of feeling filled his belly, and he tried not to squirm. He didn't want to seem demanding when he knew his friend was clearly feeling depressed, but he couldn't help it. He simply didn't have the patience it took to deal with a moping Peter - it made him uncomfortable because he didn't know how to help, and he hated feeling useless. "Come on Peter, you can't just sit around here all night."

"And why can't I?" Peter asked. He rattled the ice around in his glass, dull eyes resting on the nearly empty tumbler, and Charley just knew he was debating whether or not he had the energy to get up and move over to the bar for a refill.

Agitated by concern and a pervading sense of not being wanted there, he went on impulse and let some of his anger show. "Because you brooding isn't going to fix anything, dammit!"

Peter snorted, casting a moody glance that was almost a sneer over at Charley. "Shows how much you know," he said in a low voice.

Charley chewed his lip and wished he knew what to say that would bring Peter out of his mood. "Come on, man, it can't be as bad as all that."

That made Peter move, the magician shifting in his chair to glare at Charley. "And what the fuck do you know about it, you little punk?"

Charley shrank back in shame, but at the same time, a part of him felt rather relieved to have some sort of response, even if it was in anger. "Peter, I'm not trying to be rude here, I just…" he waved his hands in a vague gesture before finishing awkwardly. "I just want to help."

Peter scoffed and dropped back into his chair, a black aura of seething pain enveloping him like rusting armor. "Fuck you, Charley."

Charley's temper flared again, but he fought it back. He needed to be understanding here. He didn't want to fight with Peter. He just wanted his friend to let go of his bad mood.

"Peter, I'm sorry," he said, and he sincerely meant it, but Peter didn't even twitch. Charley waited for a long moment, his irritation rising again the longer Peter ignored him.

"'m sorry too," Peter mumbled, the whisper so quiet Charley nearly missed it. He shifted in his chair again, setting the glass down on the floor next to the foot. He drew his long legs up so his knees were tucked against his chest, his toes clinging to the edge of the seat cushion. "Just leave me alone for a while, alright? Let me brood alone for a while, I'll be in a better mood tomorrow. Maybe we'll go catch a film tomorrow, alright? Go on home."

Charley hesitated only a moment. "No," he decided, and moved to curl up in front of Peter's chair, feeling the older man's cold toes squirming against his back a little. "No, I'll stay."

He did stay, all that night. Peter didn't say much, but he didn't throw Charley out either. He let Charley fill the silence with his raspy voice, babbling about anything he could think of. He wasn't sure that Peter was even listening, but he talked anyways. Peter pulled out a pack of cigarettes after a while and smoked about half the pack, one after another. Charley watched Peter's reflection in the window as he talked, watched the thin trail of smoke curl up past his face and drift away to the ceiling. He watched Peter's eyes, staring off into the distance at the city. At one point, he asked what Peter was looking at out there, but the magician either ignored him or didn't even hear.

Eventually, Charley pulled himself to his feet, stretching his arms over his head and bouncing on the balls of his feet as he tried to ease the cramping in his muscled. Peter stubbed out his last cigarette and looked directly at him for the first time in hours. "You going home, then?" he asked, his voice rough from the smoke.

Charley shook his head. "Nah. I said I was going to stay, didn't I?"

Peter just shrugged, getting up himself. He was wobbly on his feet, but he waved Charley off when the teen made to help support him. "Fuck off, Charley, I don't need help walking." He staggered off to his bedroom.

Charley hesitated for a moment until he heard muffled curse on the other side of the partition, then followed. Peter was laid out on top of the bedcovers when he came in, not having bothered to remove his robe. Charley kicked off his shoes and laid down next to Peter.

The rich showman had a really nice bed, the pillows and bedclothes all softer than anything Charley had slept on before in his life, and he couldn't help letting out a little contented sigh as he nestled into the pillow.

He opened his eyes to find Peter gazing at him. His friend's eyes were still dark, but a flicker of awareness was coming back to them as the alcohol started to wear off. He reached out without thinking and stroked the side of Peter's face, smoothing out some of the frown lines. "Everything'll turn out okay," he said softly.

Peter's eyes dimmed again, and he didn't move. "If you say so, Charley," he murmured in a monotone.

Charley's face fell a little. "Wish you'd believe me," he whispered.

Peter didn't answer, but he suddenly looked more sad than apathetic, and aside from the earlier anger, it was the most expression Charley had seen from him all night. Peter moved suddenly, reaching over and pulling Charley close until the younger man was tucked up against his chest, Peter's arms around him, warm and loose and exhausted. Peter pressed his face against Charley's hair, breathing in deep, and he could feel the man trying not to shudder.

"I wish I could too," Peter said, nearly silent so that Charley had to strain to hear him. "Not tonight. Maybe someday. Maybe tomorrow."

End

In school, I was the person that a lot of my friends would come to when they needed advice or a shoulder to cry on. I never felt so uncertain and useless as those times, because really, what do I know about anything? I wanted to try and capture a little of that helplessness for Charley in this - wanting to help, but not knowing how; not wanting to leave them alone, and wanting to run far far away at the same time; wanting to be a good and supportive friend, but wishing you didn't have to be the responsible one. One of those moments when you struggle to feel hopeful, and ultimately fail, if only for a while. Because sometimes, friendship isn't enough to comfort you.