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rainbowfic2016-08-15 11:22 pm
starphotographs) wrote in rainbowfic2016-08-15 11:22 pm
Meme Party 9, Olympic Gold 9
Name: starphotographs
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Shooting/Boxing/Fencing)
Characters: Spenser (POV), Hal
Colors: Meme party 9 (Deal With It), Olympic Gold 9 (event)
Word Count: 1,800ish
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser asks a friend for help
Note: UGHHH I totally flaked out on the last event, I know, but Sprinting ended up falling on a really busy weekend for me. But, at least I managed to get this one in on time. :P
One More Favor
You can’t do this.
I think he might be the only person I know anymore.
You haven’t seen him in months.
Haven’t seen anyone else, either.
Last time you saw him, he punched you in the face.
Because I asked for that shit. He’s, like, totally fuckin’ spineless. He’ll do this, too.
Okay, last time you saw him, you asked him to punch you in the face. You still didn’t exactly part on good terms.
Look, I’m dying. I’m all out of ideas.
Yeah, no shit, fuckhead.
*****
I don’t even remember why I did it.
I guess I did it because I couldn’t get my head together and assumed, at very least, that it couldn’t make things worse. But, like I said, I don’t really remember. That, too, is because I couldn’t get my head together. Because that’s the way it always goes. I’m used to it by now. It’s not until I get bored enough to start trying to put my actions in context that I realize something isn’t right, something really fucking isn’t right. But I don’t know what it is, or how to even begin to fix it, so I just end up doing things like, I don’t know, begging my friends to punch me in the face.
Tyler usually obliges me, but he holds back, so it’s no fun. Adam is still afraid of hurting me after he nearly snapped me in half that one time. Craig used to tell me to go fuck myself, because he was too lazy.
I never expected Hal to agree. And I really never expected him to practically knock my fucking block off.
I mean, he didn’t agree at first. I had to pester him for a good, long time. And somewhere along the line, I think I switched tactics, from just demanding over and over again until I started getting belligerent, to acting as belligerent as possible on purpose, hoping I could be so obnoxious that he’d maybe just haul off on me of his own free will. There was probably a moment of self-awareness, seeing how badly I was winding myself up and deciding that I’m fucking well dragging him up with me.
(I tucked my glasses into my pocket.)
Anyway, I don’t know why I was begging for it, and I don’t know why he decided to do it, but, eventually, it happened: faster than I could process, faster than I could properly fucking appreciate, Hal’s squishy little fist went flying toward my jabbering head. I destabilized and hit the dusty floor.
This wasn’t what I was expecting, but honestly, my expectations are another thing I’m usually unsure of. All I know is that, in this case, they sure as shit didn’t match what happened. Hal sits beside a desk all day; always looks like he’s starting to melt into his wobbly office chair. He lets his two gigantic dogs shit all over the junkyard because he can’t handle the leash. A million years ago, I used to have to go over there on sticky file cabinet calls because he kept losing fights against squeaky drawers.
But bone is bone, and all human beings are stronger than they look. Adrenaline lifts cars off your family. Extreme annoyance takes the annoying thing and breaks his fucking face. It’s always impressed me, all the things we can do when our brains aren’t watching. (I hope he remembers it; what he can do.) But, in that moment, I wasn’t impressed. I wasn’t anything, couldn’t be anything. My existence didn’t leak outside its new boundaries: between my numb cheek and the ringing in my ears. The spreading pain, rushing to the scene as quickly as it could. I’d been left behind somewhere in all of this, and it was the greatest fucking feeling in the world. Until it wasn’t.
Until I hauled myself up to kneel on the floor, rubbing my aching jaw, clicking the joint, running my tongue over my shredded cheek. I’d come back from wherever that punch had knocked me to, and was, without a doubt, right there. In this body. In that room.
That, too, is the greatest fucking feeling in the world.
I pulled my hand away, and realized my mouth had been leaking blood all over it. Hal was cradling his right hand and staring down at me from his desk, looking as mortified as I’d ever seen him, which is really saying something. From where I was, him and his desk towered over me, like one of those cartoon daydream judges who put you on trial for something you made up in your own head. Except, he looked like someone was putting him on trial. I found this hilarious, and my brain was still pretty scrambled, so I started laughing. I sprayed blood down my shirt. Hal said nothing. Maybe his hand was broken.
Shitshitshit, I should probably apologize!
I didn’t. I staggered to my feet, congratulated him on the outstanding fucking punch, mumbled that I’d see him later, and bolted out the door, freshly bruised and ready to party.
My jaw was purple for days and green for a week and a half.
I never saw him later.
*****
I can see him now. I can say I’m sorry if his hand got hurt.
He thinks you’re crazy.
He knows I’m crazy. That’s hardly news.
I don’t think he’s going to feel like accepting an apology from something like you. You’re covered in blood. That noise your breath is making is fucking disgusting. You’ve been crawling along the side of the highway all night.
Well, then fuck him. I don’t have any other options.
You don’t have any options.
Well, be that as it may…
*****
I didn’t know what else to do. Well, I mean, I guess I could just say “fuck it,” curl up in this ditch, and let it take me. But I’d been scared enough of sleeping, and the thought of never waking up again was enough to make my dried-out heart start slamming against my ribs, some frightened little guy trying to shatter a window and leap out of a crumbling building. I dwelled on the idea for a while, just to give myself a little kick in the ass. An extra few minutes to plead my case. Blood was rushing to my head again. I tried to ignore that it was also rushing out of the hole in my side. Into my lungs. Rising in my throat, choking me out.
I take my phone out of my pocket. The house where she stabbed me and made her escape is still marked on the map. The battery is bottomed-out, glowing red. You and me both.
My hands are shaking, and I’m leaving dark, sticky prints all over the screen. But I manage to find his name.
*****
You’re going to have to admit you fucked up.
I know.
He won’t be happy.
That makes two of us.
You’re only proving him right.
I’ll prove him wrong later.
If there is a later.
Well, fuck, it’s not like I’m calling him for shits ’n’ laughs right now. I’m securing myself a “later.” I’ll rub it in his face when it comes. Satisfied yet?
Never.
Fuck you.
*****
I call Hal. I manage to get something out, then immediately forget what exactly it was. All I remembered was hearing my voice break, shit, I’m really hurt, you need to, the squinting to make out the name of the road and the number of the exit.
Hearing him pressing for details I don’t have the breath to give, then finally giving up. Me gurgling into the mic at him.
“I’ll be there. Hang right, okay?”
He was so flustered he forgot how to say “hang tight.” I was too woozy to point it out and make fun of him. Neither of us was doing so hot. But, either way, that wouldn’t matter soon. It wasn’t my problem anymore.
He’ll be here.
I let my eyes roll back and close.
*****
He’ll be here, and he’ll collect me, alive or dead. If he makes it here in time, I’ll live. If he’s late, I’ll at least I’ll die in his van instead of on the road. If he’s a little later, at least someone will know I’m dead. I won’t rot here. I won’t be laid out on a metal table while people who don’t even know my name poke at my teeth and open my skull. No mingled ashes or unmarked graves.
From here on, I can only be alive or dead. I won’t be an unperson.
I can let go.
*****
Someone is shaking me by the shoulders, chattering a mile a minute, and shit, I guess I know why I annoy people so goddamn much.
I know it’s Hal, and I start remembering what the hell he’s doing there, but I still can’t make out what he’s saying. The only thing I can manage by way of response is “...fuck.” Which, in the context of every other time I’d ever opened my mouth, is pretty hilarious. I started to laugh, but my lungs are flooded up to the back of my throat, so I end up coughing in his face.
There’s no time for your shit, Hal. Just get me into the car.
He turns his head, clenches his teeth, wipes his face on his sleeve.
Get me into the fucking car.
Now he’s saying more things, and he sounds like he’s about to lose his shit entirely, but it’s all kind of wasted on me right now. I want to reach up and slap him.
I’m dying. Get me into the car.
I watch Hal get his shit together, then feel him rolling me onto my side. Clots slide out of my mouth. My breath smells like a machine shop.
Just take me to the fucking car.
Now he’s panicking. He’s useless. He betrayed me after all.
“Spenser… Oh my god… Can you… Oh, shit, of course you can’t. Just… How do I…?”
I gurgle something unintelligable. It was supposed to come out as something encouraging:
If you almost busted my face, I’m sure you can lift me.
But I’m drifting in and out of reality and leaking inside myself, so it didn’t really come out right.
He’ll just have to figure it out for himself.
Story: Corwin and Friends
Supplies and Styles: Graffiti (Shooting/Boxing/Fencing)
Characters: Spenser (POV), Hal
Colors: Meme party 9 (Deal With It), Olympic Gold 9 (event)
Word Count: 1,800ish
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Choose not to warn.
Summary: Spenser asks a friend for help
Note: UGHHH I totally flaked out on the last event, I know, but Sprinting ended up falling on a really busy weekend for me. But, at least I managed to get this one in on time. :P
You can’t do this.
I think he might be the only person I know anymore.
You haven’t seen him in months.
Haven’t seen anyone else, either.
Last time you saw him, he punched you in the face.
Because I asked for that shit. He’s, like, totally fuckin’ spineless. He’ll do this, too.
Okay, last time you saw him, you asked him to punch you in the face. You still didn’t exactly part on good terms.
Look, I’m dying. I’m all out of ideas.
Yeah, no shit, fuckhead.
I don’t even remember why I did it.
I guess I did it because I couldn’t get my head together and assumed, at very least, that it couldn’t make things worse. But, like I said, I don’t really remember. That, too, is because I couldn’t get my head together. Because that’s the way it always goes. I’m used to it by now. It’s not until I get bored enough to start trying to put my actions in context that I realize something isn’t right, something really fucking isn’t right. But I don’t know what it is, or how to even begin to fix it, so I just end up doing things like, I don’t know, begging my friends to punch me in the face.
Tyler usually obliges me, but he holds back, so it’s no fun. Adam is still afraid of hurting me after he nearly snapped me in half that one time. Craig used to tell me to go fuck myself, because he was too lazy.
I never expected Hal to agree. And I really never expected him to practically knock my fucking block off.
I mean, he didn’t agree at first. I had to pester him for a good, long time. And somewhere along the line, I think I switched tactics, from just demanding over and over again until I started getting belligerent, to acting as belligerent as possible on purpose, hoping I could be so obnoxious that he’d maybe just haul off on me of his own free will. There was probably a moment of self-awareness, seeing how badly I was winding myself up and deciding that I’m fucking well dragging him up with me.
(I tucked my glasses into my pocket.)
Anyway, I don’t know why I was begging for it, and I don’t know why he decided to do it, but, eventually, it happened: faster than I could process, faster than I could properly fucking appreciate, Hal’s squishy little fist went flying toward my jabbering head. I destabilized and hit the dusty floor.
This wasn’t what I was expecting, but honestly, my expectations are another thing I’m usually unsure of. All I know is that, in this case, they sure as shit didn’t match what happened. Hal sits beside a desk all day; always looks like he’s starting to melt into his wobbly office chair. He lets his two gigantic dogs shit all over the junkyard because he can’t handle the leash. A million years ago, I used to have to go over there on sticky file cabinet calls because he kept losing fights against squeaky drawers.
But bone is bone, and all human beings are stronger than they look. Adrenaline lifts cars off your family. Extreme annoyance takes the annoying thing and breaks his fucking face. It’s always impressed me, all the things we can do when our brains aren’t watching. (I hope he remembers it; what he can do.) But, in that moment, I wasn’t impressed. I wasn’t anything, couldn’t be anything. My existence didn’t leak outside its new boundaries: between my numb cheek and the ringing in my ears. The spreading pain, rushing to the scene as quickly as it could. I’d been left behind somewhere in all of this, and it was the greatest fucking feeling in the world. Until it wasn’t.
Until I hauled myself up to kneel on the floor, rubbing my aching jaw, clicking the joint, running my tongue over my shredded cheek. I’d come back from wherever that punch had knocked me to, and was, without a doubt, right there. In this body. In that room.
That, too, is the greatest fucking feeling in the world.
I pulled my hand away, and realized my mouth had been leaking blood all over it. Hal was cradling his right hand and staring down at me from his desk, looking as mortified as I’d ever seen him, which is really saying something. From where I was, him and his desk towered over me, like one of those cartoon daydream judges who put you on trial for something you made up in your own head. Except, he looked like someone was putting him on trial. I found this hilarious, and my brain was still pretty scrambled, so I started laughing. I sprayed blood down my shirt. Hal said nothing. Maybe his hand was broken.
Shitshitshit, I should probably apologize!
I didn’t. I staggered to my feet, congratulated him on the outstanding fucking punch, mumbled that I’d see him later, and bolted out the door, freshly bruised and ready to party.
My jaw was purple for days and green for a week and a half.
I never saw him later.
I can see him now. I can say I’m sorry if his hand got hurt.
He thinks you’re crazy.
He knows I’m crazy. That’s hardly news.
I don’t think he’s going to feel like accepting an apology from something like you. You’re covered in blood. That noise your breath is making is fucking disgusting. You’ve been crawling along the side of the highway all night.
Well, then fuck him. I don’t have any other options.
You don’t have any options.
Well, be that as it may…
I didn’t know what else to do. Well, I mean, I guess I could just say “fuck it,” curl up in this ditch, and let it take me. But I’d been scared enough of sleeping, and the thought of never waking up again was enough to make my dried-out heart start slamming against my ribs, some frightened little guy trying to shatter a window and leap out of a crumbling building. I dwelled on the idea for a while, just to give myself a little kick in the ass. An extra few minutes to plead my case. Blood was rushing to my head again. I tried to ignore that it was also rushing out of the hole in my side. Into my lungs. Rising in my throat, choking me out.
I take my phone out of my pocket. The house where she stabbed me and made her escape is still marked on the map. The battery is bottomed-out, glowing red. You and me both.
My hands are shaking, and I’m leaving dark, sticky prints all over the screen. But I manage to find his name.
You’re going to have to admit you fucked up.
I know.
He won’t be happy.
That makes two of us.
You’re only proving him right.
I’ll prove him wrong later.
If there is a later.
Well, fuck, it’s not like I’m calling him for shits ’n’ laughs right now. I’m securing myself a “later.” I’ll rub it in his face when it comes. Satisfied yet?
Never.
Fuck you.
I call Hal. I manage to get something out, then immediately forget what exactly it was. All I remembered was hearing my voice break, shit, I’m really hurt, you need to, the squinting to make out the name of the road and the number of the exit.
Hearing him pressing for details I don’t have the breath to give, then finally giving up. Me gurgling into the mic at him.
“I’ll be there. Hang right, okay?”
He was so flustered he forgot how to say “hang tight.” I was too woozy to point it out and make fun of him. Neither of us was doing so hot. But, either way, that wouldn’t matter soon. It wasn’t my problem anymore.
He’ll be here.
I let my eyes roll back and close.
He’ll be here, and he’ll collect me, alive or dead. If he makes it here in time, I’ll live. If he’s late, I’ll at least I’ll die in his van instead of on the road. If he’s a little later, at least someone will know I’m dead. I won’t rot here. I won’t be laid out on a metal table while people who don’t even know my name poke at my teeth and open my skull. No mingled ashes or unmarked graves.
From here on, I can only be alive or dead. I won’t be an unperson.
I can let go.
Someone is shaking me by the shoulders, chattering a mile a minute, and shit, I guess I know why I annoy people so goddamn much.
I know it’s Hal, and I start remembering what the hell he’s doing there, but I still can’t make out what he’s saying. The only thing I can manage by way of response is “...fuck.” Which, in the context of every other time I’d ever opened my mouth, is pretty hilarious. I started to laugh, but my lungs are flooded up to the back of my throat, so I end up coughing in his face.
There’s no time for your shit, Hal. Just get me into the car.
He turns his head, clenches his teeth, wipes his face on his sleeve.
Get me into the fucking car.
Now he’s saying more things, and he sounds like he’s about to lose his shit entirely, but it’s all kind of wasted on me right now. I want to reach up and slap him.
I’m dying. Get me into the car.
I watch Hal get his shit together, then feel him rolling me onto my side. Clots slide out of my mouth. My breath smells like a machine shop.
Just take me to the fucking car.
Now he’s panicking. He’s useless. He betrayed me after all.
“Spenser… Oh my god… Can you… Oh, shit, of course you can’t. Just… How do I…?”
I gurgle something unintelligable. It was supposed to come out as something encouraging:
If you almost busted my face, I’m sure you can lift me.
But I’m drifting in and out of reality and leaking inside myself, so it didn’t really come out right.
He’ll just have to figure it out for himself.
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