Chaos and Calamity (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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rainbowfic2015-11-07 06:28 pm
rootsofthestories) wrote in rainbowfic2015-11-07 06:28 pm
Spring Green, Under The Bed Black
Name: Sebastian
Title: whether alone or just lonely
Story: Despite The Abundance
Colors:Under The Bed Black: 4. Dark corner
Spring green: 20. you rise and meet the day
Supplies/Styles: None
Word Count: ~m 1,450
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Alcohol used as a coping mechanism for depression, hinted at self harm
Notes: I really, really need to write properly happy things.
When he was young, Timothy told himself that there were people in the walls. He believed that they saw everything and were the silent record keepers of his family and that one day, when the time was right, they would come for him. They'd pull him into the walls and he would be happy there, safe and with people who wanted him just the way he was.
It was a child's dream but one he longed o be true all the same.
(If he's honest with himself, he still wants it some days. Wants the escape, the rescuing. He's older now though and he thinks they probably wouldn't want him like this.)
He tosses and turns now, sleep far from his reach. Stray thoughts wander through his mind like cats looking for somewhere comfortable to settle. It's hard to focus on any one thing when so many exist within his mind and he wonders if maybe he should have one more drink.
One more, he says to himself. One more to make everything fall into place.
But the quiet, self-aware part of him knows full well that he's lying to himself, knows that he'll try his damnedest to drown his thoughts in whatever cheap, strong booze he has laying around
At least nothing's tripping down the paths of the past yet, the thoughts are annoying but not dangerous or disturbing.
No one is in the apartment, his roommate is off doing whatever he does for work and while Timothy should not let that sway what he's doing tonight, he can feel his skin crawling, feel the desire rising in him for sleep, for peace, for anything but the awkward state his brain is in.
Getting to his feet, he moves towards his door, peering out into the hall like a child trying to sneak out and checking to make sure his parents are still busy.
No noise or light reaches out to him so he keeps moving, bare feet quiet against the tile. He's a little cold but he doesn't grab a sweater. Instead he lets the cold wash over him as he enters the kitchen, reaching up tot the top shelf of the cabinet and pulling down the shitty vodka he'd acquired earlier that day.
Watching it as if it might have plans to react to him, he sets it down, grabbing a glass and some ice before pouring himself a glass. He feels sick, like a failure, an idiot, a weak person who just isn't worth more than the cheap shit he's about to drink.
But he rinks it anyway.
And he knows he's fucking up, can hear his parents in his mind, can remember the numerous tabs he's racked up when he'd go out drinking rather than just buying bottles and bringing them home. He sees a thousand bad ideas that he's acted on and sees a thousand more he hasn't gotten the chance to commit.
Timothy looks down at his arms, faint scars from too sharp objects meting his skin and he wonders if that wouldn't have been the better option. Maybe if he just bled a little, somehow release his thoughts through blood, he could get some sleep.
He pours himself another drink. Then one more. You know, for good measure.
His brain is trying to turn against him, trying to remind him of all the things that are wrong with him, all the things he's fucked up and ruined. The alcohol isn't helping the thoughts but as he keeps drinking, he grows numb to the idea of guilt.
There's no going back, there's no changing the past, he may as well exist in the present, have another drink and wait for the future to collide and see what happens then.
He wonders what happens if he just closes his eyes, lets himself fall away from is body and into the floor. He imagines that he could do that, just be the floor instead of existing here.
No, it wouldn't be the floor, he'd go for the walls.
He wouldn't be lonely in the walls, he'd have friends who've known him all his life, never left him despite everything he is now. He knows they may not want him now that he's grown up and stupid but at least he wouldn't be alone.
Timothy always hated being alone.
Another drink poured down his throat and he's grasping the bottle, moving towards the wall and letting his body hit it with a soft thud. Of course he knows it's useless, knows he won't be pulled into the waiting arms of the people who lived between the wood and plaster. He likes to pretend though, likes to think that within the dark corners there lies someone waiting just for him, someone to keep him company when his thoughts go bleak.
Slumping against the wall leads to sliding to the ground and he finds himself settled into one of those quiet, dark corners after a time. With his body pressed into the nook, he can pretend that the apartment itself is there comforting him, telling him that he's safe within it's walls. He's drunk enough that he pretty much believes it too.
Another drink leads him to close his eyes, a drunken haze settling comfortably around him, wrapping him up in almost listlessness as he feels his mind become more and more sluggish.
He might just stop moving in that spot, let himself fall asleep and have Nathan find him there. It's not like it would matter. Either his roommate wouldn't give a damn and leave him alone or he would have question at some point. If he was honest, he'd like it to be the latter. It would be an excuse to talk to him.
And it's so easy to sit there, to let the walls envelope him and keep him upright. He could be here for a good while, for the rest of his life even, and he could be okay with that. At least right now, when his mind is slow and numb and crawling from thought to thought.
Other things try and come to mind, thoughts that tell him eh should be on his feet, should be cleaning up and getting ready to sleep in hi sown bed, even though he's not sure he could make it to his bedroom again without falling over. It's kind of a nasty through when he thinks about it but it doesn't make it any less honest.
So, even though his mind is telling him otherwise, Timothy stays, letting his eyes fall shut and the world fall away. He takes one last drink, a sip this time rather than a gulp, and sets the bottle down feeling that last burn down his throat and knowing he would be'd probably not remember this in the morning.
~
He wakes up with a splitting headache and his neck (and the rest of his body) rebelling against him. Unfolding himself from the corner, he looks to the window, nothing the sun streaming though the blinds, and then down at himself. Fuck.
He scrubs at his face and stumbles a little as he tries to make his way out of the corner. He gets all the way tot he bathroom before hearing noise somewhere else in the apartment.
"Nate?" His voice is off when he speaks but he dismisses it. He needs water, possibly food, then hell take stock of himself in other ways.
"He lives." say a voice from Nathan's bedroom. "I was having my doubts."
Timothy finishes up in the bathroom and goes to Nathan's door, leaning against the frame. "I'm fine," he says, voice quiet. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize to me. You didn't fuck anything up or anything."
"Okay."
Timothy is hesitant to leave, wanting the company, wanting to know there's someone out there who he can talk to, even for a few minutes, but he pushes away from the door and starts heading to his bedroom to acquire aspirin and a bed for a few ore hours sleep.
"Have you eaten anything?" Nathan sounds bored when he asks but he knows he isn't. Knows he's actually concerned with what Timothy eats. He's never had the best diet in the world but Nathan thought it was downright awful.
"Not really."
Nathan moves, putting aside his phone. "Go get a shower." he says, gesturing towards the bathroom. "Get cleaned up, for fuck's sake, and I'll actually make real food."
He doesn't know what to say and if he did, the words would be sticking in his throat right now. Instead of trying, he only nods, feeling a relief settle over him as he heads towards the shower.
Title: whether alone or just lonely
Story: Despite The Abundance
Colors:Under The Bed Black: 4. Dark corner
Spring green: 20. you rise and meet the day
Supplies/Styles: None
Word Count: ~m 1,450
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Alcohol used as a coping mechanism for depression, hinted at self harm
Notes: I really, really need to write properly happy things.
When he was young, Timothy told himself that there were people in the walls. He believed that they saw everything and were the silent record keepers of his family and that one day, when the time was right, they would come for him. They'd pull him into the walls and he would be happy there, safe and with people who wanted him just the way he was.
It was a child's dream but one he longed o be true all the same.
(If he's honest with himself, he still wants it some days. Wants the escape, the rescuing. He's older now though and he thinks they probably wouldn't want him like this.)
He tosses and turns now, sleep far from his reach. Stray thoughts wander through his mind like cats looking for somewhere comfortable to settle. It's hard to focus on any one thing when so many exist within his mind and he wonders if maybe he should have one more drink.
One more, he says to himself. One more to make everything fall into place.
But the quiet, self-aware part of him knows full well that he's lying to himself, knows that he'll try his damnedest to drown his thoughts in whatever cheap, strong booze he has laying around
At least nothing's tripping down the paths of the past yet, the thoughts are annoying but not dangerous or disturbing.
No one is in the apartment, his roommate is off doing whatever he does for work and while Timothy should not let that sway what he's doing tonight, he can feel his skin crawling, feel the desire rising in him for sleep, for peace, for anything but the awkward state his brain is in.
Getting to his feet, he moves towards his door, peering out into the hall like a child trying to sneak out and checking to make sure his parents are still busy.
No noise or light reaches out to him so he keeps moving, bare feet quiet against the tile. He's a little cold but he doesn't grab a sweater. Instead he lets the cold wash over him as he enters the kitchen, reaching up tot the top shelf of the cabinet and pulling down the shitty vodka he'd acquired earlier that day.
Watching it as if it might have plans to react to him, he sets it down, grabbing a glass and some ice before pouring himself a glass. He feels sick, like a failure, an idiot, a weak person who just isn't worth more than the cheap shit he's about to drink.
But he rinks it anyway.
And he knows he's fucking up, can hear his parents in his mind, can remember the numerous tabs he's racked up when he'd go out drinking rather than just buying bottles and bringing them home. He sees a thousand bad ideas that he's acted on and sees a thousand more he hasn't gotten the chance to commit.
Timothy looks down at his arms, faint scars from too sharp objects meting his skin and he wonders if that wouldn't have been the better option. Maybe if he just bled a little, somehow release his thoughts through blood, he could get some sleep.
He pours himself another drink. Then one more. You know, for good measure.
His brain is trying to turn against him, trying to remind him of all the things that are wrong with him, all the things he's fucked up and ruined. The alcohol isn't helping the thoughts but as he keeps drinking, he grows numb to the idea of guilt.
There's no going back, there's no changing the past, he may as well exist in the present, have another drink and wait for the future to collide and see what happens then.
He wonders what happens if he just closes his eyes, lets himself fall away from is body and into the floor. He imagines that he could do that, just be the floor instead of existing here.
No, it wouldn't be the floor, he'd go for the walls.
He wouldn't be lonely in the walls, he'd have friends who've known him all his life, never left him despite everything he is now. He knows they may not want him now that he's grown up and stupid but at least he wouldn't be alone.
Timothy always hated being alone.
Another drink poured down his throat and he's grasping the bottle, moving towards the wall and letting his body hit it with a soft thud. Of course he knows it's useless, knows he won't be pulled into the waiting arms of the people who lived between the wood and plaster. He likes to pretend though, likes to think that within the dark corners there lies someone waiting just for him, someone to keep him company when his thoughts go bleak.
Slumping against the wall leads to sliding to the ground and he finds himself settled into one of those quiet, dark corners after a time. With his body pressed into the nook, he can pretend that the apartment itself is there comforting him, telling him that he's safe within it's walls. He's drunk enough that he pretty much believes it too.
Another drink leads him to close his eyes, a drunken haze settling comfortably around him, wrapping him up in almost listlessness as he feels his mind become more and more sluggish.
He might just stop moving in that spot, let himself fall asleep and have Nathan find him there. It's not like it would matter. Either his roommate wouldn't give a damn and leave him alone or he would have question at some point. If he was honest, he'd like it to be the latter. It would be an excuse to talk to him.
And it's so easy to sit there, to let the walls envelope him and keep him upright. He could be here for a good while, for the rest of his life even, and he could be okay with that. At least right now, when his mind is slow and numb and crawling from thought to thought.
Other things try and come to mind, thoughts that tell him eh should be on his feet, should be cleaning up and getting ready to sleep in hi sown bed, even though he's not sure he could make it to his bedroom again without falling over. It's kind of a nasty through when he thinks about it but it doesn't make it any less honest.
So, even though his mind is telling him otherwise, Timothy stays, letting his eyes fall shut and the world fall away. He takes one last drink, a sip this time rather than a gulp, and sets the bottle down feeling that last burn down his throat and knowing he would be'd probably not remember this in the morning.
~
He wakes up with a splitting headache and his neck (and the rest of his body) rebelling against him. Unfolding himself from the corner, he looks to the window, nothing the sun streaming though the blinds, and then down at himself. Fuck.
He scrubs at his face and stumbles a little as he tries to make his way out of the corner. He gets all the way tot he bathroom before hearing noise somewhere else in the apartment.
"Nate?" His voice is off when he speaks but he dismisses it. He needs water, possibly food, then hell take stock of himself in other ways.
"He lives." say a voice from Nathan's bedroom. "I was having my doubts."
Timothy finishes up in the bathroom and goes to Nathan's door, leaning against the frame. "I'm fine," he says, voice quiet. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize to me. You didn't fuck anything up or anything."
"Okay."
Timothy is hesitant to leave, wanting the company, wanting to know there's someone out there who he can talk to, even for a few minutes, but he pushes away from the door and starts heading to his bedroom to acquire aspirin and a bed for a few ore hours sleep.
"Have you eaten anything?" Nathan sounds bored when he asks but he knows he isn't. Knows he's actually concerned with what Timothy eats. He's never had the best diet in the world but Nathan thought it was downright awful.
"Not really."
Nathan moves, putting aside his phone. "Go get a shower." he says, gesturing towards the bathroom. "Get cleaned up, for fuck's sake, and I'll actually make real food."
He doesn't know what to say and if he did, the words would be sticking in his throat right now. Instead of trying, he only nods, feeling a relief settle over him as he heads towards the shower.
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purrbounce Thank you! I really enjoy writing for this boy, he's just no entirely functional that that is my favorite.
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Yeah, he is the most functional boy. I love him but oh, how he needs therapy