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ellseas · 2 months ago

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ELLIOT:

They couldn’t always be together. There were still gaps, alone time, the two, hour-long blocks they were confined to their cells and searched (they never found his contraband. He wished they’d make it more of a challenge). And Tre was in a a different cellblock and a different wing, always bypassing his own common area to meet Elliot in his.

He eventually learned why.

There was once. One morning where he hadn’t seen Tre’s face at his cell door, dragging his knuckles across the bars in greeting. Where he hadn’t immediately asked what’s for breakfast? with his somehow still cheerful voice before going for the Pop-Tarts like he did every day.

Elliot had to admit - despite himself, despite all his self-preservations instincts, he was worried. So he went to check.

A crowd had gathered outside of a cell, never a good sight around here. Elliot pushed his way to the front of the crowd to find Tre huddled into a tight ball on the floor of his cell.

When he moved to his side, he feebly tried to fight Elliot off with one hand; it was easy to catch his wrist, hold him still. Hey. It’s me.

Tre relaxed, letting Elliot guide him into a sitting position, back against the wall. He kept his right arm tucked against his chest, forearm bent at a slight but unnatural angle. Bruises started to form over the bridge of his nose, between his eyes, along his cheeks. Blood dried to his face.

He’d been like this for a while.

The fuck’s the matter with you? Elliot addressed the crowd, looking and gawking as if they were on display. Ignored the prickle on his skin. A lot of eyes. Too many eyes. Go get a goddamn CO.

The crowd thinned. Better. Better. Tre whimpered out a protest, shaking his head.

No. Don’t do that. Don’t pretend to be tough. You’re hurt, you’re in pain and you’re allowed to be. Understand me?

Tre didn’t say anything, just stared forward; his eyes were red but dry, almost strained from the effort needed to not cry. It struck then, how young he was. Not only in age (though, definitely that, too) but in his life. How he’d lived it. How he expressed it. Upbeat, despite his situation. Tried to make friends, even with the people who spent months pushing him away (Elliot). Had a dozen photos gently taped to the wall above his desk, all of the same woman and the same little boy, clearly his mom and brother. And here he was, holding himself together and clearly trying to act the way he thought that he was supposed to.

Don’t react. Don’t show fear. Don’t show weakness. Don’t ever let anyone have any power over you.

There was no good reason for a judge to send a kid like him to Sing Sing. It had destroyed the last bits of Elliot’s life, whatever was left of it after the vultures of his parents’ abuse, his uncle’s indifference and his son’s death had picked it clean. The only thing left for him now was death - and the fear of what would happen if he lived through it. And it would destroy Tre, too, without a second thought. No matter what he’d done or the good reasons he’d done it for, Sing Sing didn’t care. It would tear him apart and leave him with nothing but survival instinct and a hardened soul.

Elliot refused to let that happen. If it was the last thing he ever did, he would send this kid back to his mom in one piece. Whole. The same little boy she’d raised to be selfless and tender-hearted. There weren’t enough good people, kind people, and Elliot would be damned before he let the world lose this one.

Once everything was taken care of, Elliot approached one of the few people still lingering in the crowd. Point me in the direction of who did this. Tense, like a coil ready to snap. For the last time, he was going to make his message really sink in.

The four weeks spent in solitary were well worth it.

36 months.

You know, you never told me why you were in here.

A little knowledge was a dangerous thing. So what did a lot of knowledge make?

Tre wanted to know everything. All the time. Always. Asked questions constantly. What are you doing? What is this? Why do you have that?

It grated. But it was also kind of endearing.

Because he was a kid. Had only just graduated high school. Barely had a chance to live before being tossed in with the sharks.

What kind of a life was it, really?

He’d done what he thought was best for his family. To help his mother. Protect his little brother.

He’d shared a lot. Much more than Elliot wanted.

No. I haven’t.

Tax fraud. What? Yeah, definitely tax fraud. That’s what all old white guys go to jail for.

Old? Old? Elliot was barely 30. Wrist in his last box of Pop-Tarts, Tre didn’t notice Elliot’s deep grimace. You think they send people who commit tax fraud to Sing Sing?

Well…do they?

Elliot wished he’d committed tax evasion. There had been a reason federal prisons were referred to as club fed in his circles. No, they don’t. I did not commit tax fraud.

Hmmm. Tre fished the last foil packet out of the box. Yeah, I don’t believe you.

Elliot snatched it back. Take my Pop-Tart and you’re gonna lose that fuckin’ hand.

1,097 days.

Released early on parole, Tre Fuller made it through two years in Sing Sing unscathed. Relatively speaking. Didn’t look the way Elliot’s reflection had in the mirror, weary and weathered and worn-down. He still seemed bright. Still had that curious spark behind his eyes. Actually smiled.

Good. Elliot was glad for that at least.

Before he headed for the gates, Tre stopped in front of his cell, the door locked tight. Elliot reached his arm out between the bars; Tre grabbed it.

Good luck, kid. Hands squeezed. And if I see your scrawny ass back in here, I’m going to be your worst fucking enemy.

2 years.

I heard you’re looking to fence an mp3 player. I’d like it.

Elliot had forgotten how long the days were. How much empty time stretched in front of him. After the third or fourth read of his books, they wouldn’t tether him as much as they used to. Easy to wander and get lost when he knew the story by heart and he didn’t do very well when his hands were unoccupied and his mind was racing.

Sure, he’d possess contraband, but when had that ever stopped him?

The guy laughed at him as if it were the funniest joke ever told. What do you have to offer me? Elliot’s mouth split into a rather insane, borderline feral smile. The chance to keep your fucking teeth inside your mouth. How’s that?

The music wasn’t very good, but it didn’t much matter.

He would learn to become pretty good at getting what he wanted out of a trade for little in return. It was almost as if people were afraid of him, for some reason. All he’d have to do was make a fist or say the right thing and he’d pretty much get all the concessions he wanted.

It was, arguably, more fun than a physical fight.

24 months.

Tre liked to send him letters. Often short and sweet, mostly to let him know he was staying out of trouble. Occasional updates on his mom. How excited he was that his little brother had started fifth grade. He’d started guitar lessons. Started two classes a community college.

The kid had godawful handwriting, but Elliot didn’t mind. It was hard, sometimes, to grasp that life existed beyond the barbed wire and the guard towers. That the whole world didn’t stop at the river, wide and endless into the nothing.

It was nice to be reminded that it did.

He visited, too. A lot more than Elliot expected; he figured Tre had enough of this place to last him a lifetime. But he kept coming back, a new book in hand every time, armed with more stories than he knew what to do with, clearly.

I noticed you never had anybody come on visitation days. It didn’t seem right.

Pity from anybody else would’ve set his temper into overdrive and there wouldn’t be enough plexiglass in the world to contain it. From Tre, overflowing with sincerity and always smiling…he didn’t mind.

732 days.

50 Shades of Grey was porn. He hadn’t known that when he’d traded, the handcuffs on one of the covers leading him to believe it had something to do with the police. Crime. Prison. What the fuck else were handcuffs used for?

He figured that out pretty quick.

The books were terrible. Awful. He read all three of them cover to cover.

When the sun went down, and he fantasized about how the weight of his handcuffs would feel in a different context, he’d rest the closed book against his chest and slide his hand down, under the waistband of his sweatpants.

And he would feel something.

It’d been a while since he’d seen himself as a whole, complete being, let alone a sexual one (eight months spent naked in a room full of windows would probably do that to a guy). He still couldn’t properly look at his body. Showered with his briefs on any time he could get away with it (not often) and with his eyes closed every other time (very often). Had to hang his sheets over the bars of his cell when he changed to give him any feeling of privacy. It was terrifying and never-ending.

And yet…

It’d been even longer since he’d felt stimulated by anything. I mean, it’s weird, right? To go from feeling like a stranger in his own body to regularly horny in the span of one terrible, trashy book? Maybe he was desperate. Maybe a little out of his mind. Maybe both.

He missed it. Not even necessarily the actual act or the orgasm, but the thought of being so close to someone. Sharing everything, the act of intimacy. Admitting it would probably get him killed around here, and he barely wanted to admit it to himself, but he was lonely. He’d never had much of a family to begin with, sure, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want one. That he didn’t want a place that felt like home.

All that to say…he felt good.

Eh…decent.

None of the books were particularly well-written, it was no Edgar Allan Poe, but he couldn’t afford to be too picky. He had enough of an imagination of his own and the words on the page were nothing more than an outline for him to build from. He’d immediately discarded and forgotten the book’s written description of Ana and instead replaced her in his mind with someone else. Long dark hair. Green eyes that looked like they held all the power in the world. Dimples that graced her cheeks when she got what she wanted.

Only she wasn’t Ana and he wasn’t Christian.

More than he expected, he’d pictured himself in Ana’s place (he wasn’t a woman, he didn’t know why he was doing that)(there was literally a character named Elliot, for god’s sake) and not only during the inner monologues where she questioned, doubted herself.

But during the sex scenes, too.

He had no frame of reference for a lot of the sex acts, had very little experience with sex in general, but he was lucky that the book went into excruciating detail about everything, giving him the building blocks that he’d needed.

He was supposed to kneel. Head down. knees spread, hands behind his back. Wait for her instruction, for her command. His mind-Ana liked to make him wait. And wait. And wait. See how far she could push it, how long he could hold himself completely still before he broke. Before he needed to be punished.

It would be soft, at first. The leather of a riding crop sliding down his neck, his chest. Soft, until it wasn’t, the sting of a slap against his stomach, the burning sensation radiating down between his legs (he had no idea what it felt like; he’d started to snap his wrist with a rubber band to simulate it). Soft, then hard. Repeat until his breathing came shallow enough to hurt and his skin was bright red and burning. Just the way I like you, she would say. Good. That was the way he liked him, too.

Despite her softness, despite the genuine care in her eyes, in this room, mind-Ana was anything but. No gentleness, only raw power when she said get up, bend over the bed. And he could nothing to deny her, never wanted to deny her. Arms above his head, she’d restrain them tight to a metal headboard. No give, no escape. She’d spread his legs apart as far as they would go, completely opening him up to her. This time, the crop would make a path achingly slow down his spine, until it finally settled on his ass with a hard smack. Don’t come until I tell you.

But in the real world, he had no such restrictions and certainly no such self-control, and when he came he had to clap his hand hard over his mouth so wouldn’t alert a guard and half the cellblock.

And when he calmed down and could think straight again, he wondered what the fuck was wrong with him.

Yet he kept doing it.

You’re generating an awful lot of laundry lately.

How astutely observational of him. Elliot so did love when the guards paid enough attention to him to track his laundry habits. Made him feel special. You see, when a man and his right hand find something very exciting -

The guard was quick to cut him off. I liked you better when you didn’t talk, Holt.

1 year.

He had to start clearing out his cell. It was an odd, bizarre feeling, and he didn’t even know what to do. He didn’t have a lot of stuff, sure, but more than he could carry and no place to take it. It took him almost two weeks to separate “books he was willing to give away’ from ‘books he couldn’t live without’.

He almost kept 50 Shades of Grey, but decided against it at the last second. In the end, he only kept his Poe poems and a book Tre had given him, one he had raved about for a minute straight before he could hand it over. Elliot didn’t get the same experience from it, but the kid had been so excited and animated that it felt wrong to get rid of. The snacks he could (and would) eat long before he would ever see outside a prison cell.

And this journal, I guess.

Part of him debated whether he actually wanted to keep it once this was all over. It provided a token amount of comfort and an outlet when he felt like he would explode from his bottled up emotions, but… did he really want the reminder? Did he need more physical proof beyond the battered state of his actual body?

He flipped back to the first page. The date (September 4, 2007) was written at the top of the page, handwriting slanted and disorganized. The words below it were an incoherent jumble, the thoughts of someone completely out of his mind.

The next few pages were much of the same - disjointed thoughts and random words strung together in a way that probably made sense to ten-years-ago-Elliot but were indecipherable now. One was ripped out. He couldn’t remember what he’d written that had been so awful he needed to get rid of all evidence of it. He had a few guesses, though.

He’d keep it, for now.

12 months.

Tre came to visit him on one of the last visiting days he had left. Practically bounced out of his skin from the other side of the glass, more excited for Elliot than on his own release day.

It must feel great, yeah? Finally going home.

Home. It’d feel great if he had one of those. He shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck. Yeah, I guess. He had never thought about it, when his release day felt so fucking far off, but shit, where was he going to go? There was nothing, nowhere for him now. Lucy would clearly rather die before she ever saw him, his aunt and uncle had at least given him something, but they hadn’t ever talked to him. It was hard to be excited when it didn’t feel like he was even leaving.

Tre’s smile fell. He looked different. Older, more mature. More serious, under the surface. It wasn’t a bad difference; he’d lost that slightly naive undertone to his voice, his questions. Knew the gravity of things while staying hopeful.

The raven was gone. Elliot hadn’t noticed before now. A large, red phoenix took its place; it looked prouder, more vibrant than the raven ever had. Born from the ashes. It seemed fitting. Nobody deserved to be reborn more than Tre.

You’ll figure something out. He tapped his knuckles against the plexiglass (a CO told him off, told him to keep his hands to himself). And you can stay with me! I’ve got my own apartment now! It’s not much, but…if you need to, you’re always welcome.

Elliot shook his head, the ghost of a smile on his face. Thanks, kid. I appreciate that.

365 days.

It had been ten years.

Why did it still feel so sudden?

There were counselors, the last few months, trying to prepare him for release. Ease the shock of returning to the world after a decade cut off and locked away. And they all had great advice: find a routine as soon as possible. Get a job. Maybe get a pet. Try and reconnect with his loved ones (Elliot audibly scoffed at that one).

There was no rigid structure, out in the real world. His days were his own. His actions were his own. Had to make his own way or risk self-destructing.

It was a lot to take in. The final months were a flurry of conversations and advice, paperwork, and trying to wrap his head around the fact he would be free. He would have a life. Not much of one, granted, but at least it would be his. He could do whatever he wanted. He only wished he knew what that was.

And when he flipped the little calendar on his desk to July, drew a heavy black X on the first day, he couldn’t believe he only had three more weeks.

July 25, 2017.

Three weeks was nothing compared to 522 of them. The days blurred by, some faster than others but all equally over, and suddenly he was on his cot in jeans and a t-shirt for what felt like the first time, his entire life in a plastic bag next to him.

At discharge, the officer behind the desk handed him a bag with everything they’d confiscated from him at intake. His old wallet. His son’s old, broken dog pendant. His wedding ring.

The guards escorted him as far as the gates, which seemed to open in slow motion. Anxiety and dread took over as he waited, feeling like he was doing something wrong, something immoral. Fuck, was he ready for this? What the hell was he supposed to do?

The gates didn’t have any answers for him, but opened with the groan of metal on concrete. Here went nothing. He slung his plastic bag over his shoulder and took some tentative steps forward. One after the other. 15 steps until he cleared the other side of the fence and it started to close behind him.

Holy shit.

For a long while, he stood in an empty parking space, staring at the river. He’d been outside before, they had plenty of yard time; it was different, now. Something in the air felt fresher. Less like he was breathing in through a wet blanket. No longer felt like the Hudson would consume him if he looked at it for too long.

A cab waited for him at the edge of the parking lot, prepared to take him to…to where? What was he even doing here? Part of him wanted to turn right back around. Behind the gates, at least he knew what to expect every day. Outside of them, well…it was a lot to think about. Too much. Too much space, too much choice. He had to relearn how to live and he truly didn’t know if he could. He climbed into the backseat of the cab anyway. Can you take me to LaGuardia? His hands trembled, so he clenched them into fists.

Walking into a crowded airport set his teeth so far on edge he had to grind them together to prevent a full-blown panic attack. Why did it feel like everybody was staring at him? Like they knew he didn’t belong. Like he was an outsider to this world, and not just because he’d never flown before. The lady at the desk had to call him forward twice before he heard her. Be natural, Elliot. Talk to people like you’re a normal fucking human being.

When’s the next flight out?

A flight to Wilmington leaves in about an hour and a half.

Wilmington. He had no fucking clue where that was. That’s fine. He dug through his plastic bag for money, for a little white envelope with everything left from his commissary account. He separated a handful of bills from the rest and handed them over. Is that enough?

The desk clerk looked at him like he had two heads; she definitely thought he was a drug dealer. She seemed to consider whether she wanted to press her little red button on him, but accepted the money anyway. Counted it, thoroughly inspected every bill to make sure they weren’t fake (he’d been out of prison for a grand total of an hour, he’d burst into real tears if they gave him counterfeit bills). Nobody came to arrest him, the clerk handed him a ticket and a few dollars in change, so he was probably clear. Good. He had no doubts.

Any checked luggage?

Elliot tried to suppress a laugh and ended up coughing, choking on it. Slid the envelope back into his bag. Thanks for the reminder, lady. He’d almost forgotten he had all of a couple pairs of underwear to his name. Shit, he didn’t even have any clothes other than the ones literally on his back. Oh, he was so fucked. No. Just this.

Rebuilding his whole world from rock bottom was a horrifying thought. A small, very deep part of him couldn’t help but wonder if he wouldn’t be better off not trying. Why bother trying to rebuild a life you don’t have? Why bother starting from zero when there’s nothing left in front of you? There weren’t any deterrents, now. No tiny, windowed room to lock him in. No eyes to stare at him. He could disappear tomorrow and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

He shook his head in a vain attempt to clear that thought. Maybe he did need to get a pet.

It was nice to know that after all this time, he could still discover new fears: like flying. The two hour flight felt more like twenty, with him desperately clutching armrest the whole time and person sitting next to him staring at him. He felt like a freak. Kind of like he didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong anywhere.

Wilmington was in North Carolina, apparently. He hadn’t known anyone actually lived in North Carolina. And yet, here he was, surrounded by so many people and at the very end of his ability to fake comfort. This was great. This was fine. He guessed he lived in fucking North Carolina now.

Live. Fuck, he had to find a place to live, didn’t he? He supposed he looked terrified and confused enough that a cab driver waiting along the sidewalk had to ask if him if he was alright. Hah. Alright. Relative to fucking what? Elliot leaned his arms in the open passenger window, getting down to eye level with the driver. Do you know where the nearest hotel is? The driver nodded. Great. Could you take me there?

Wilmington was bigger than he’d expected from a town in North Carolina. He wasn’t great at geography, admittedly, but he’d expected more farm and less beach. Less ocean. It was pretty, here. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

At the front desk, he split his envelope of money in half and slapped it down on the counter and asked how many nights will that get me?

Two nights. The answer was two whole nights.

And it was a nice place, to be sure, less of a hotel and more of a tiny apartment, but he had two days. He wouldn’t be able to find his way around town in two days, much less get his life back on track. Part of him wondered if hadn’t made a mistake, leaving New York; the other part of him was so relieved to be gone it felt like a weight lifted off his chest. He wandered slowly around the room, inspecting everything like a caveman who had never seen modern technology before. What century was this, why was he so shocked by a television?

He pressed his hands into the mattress, testing it; tentatively sat on the edge, awkward and uncomfortable. He didn’t belong here. Kind of didn’t belong anywhere.

April 23, 1999.

He spent a lot of time outside his home. Actually, he couldn’t even call it that, a home; it was the place where he slept and got yelled at for wasting his potential and nothing more.

Now that he was the only kid left in the house, there was nowhere else for his uncle to direct his ire; his cousins screwed up occasionally (not nearly as much as Elliot, though, his uncle always made sure to mention), but now they were off screwing up where their parents couldn’t see them.

Somehow, it never worked that way for him. Even when he did all of his screwing up in the presence of his friends, it always got back to his uncle. Elliot figured it was Rob’s mom. She was a nice lady, fine, but holy shit was she a nark.

You should leave before my mom gets home. Maybe not so nice. She’d freak if she saw you here.

It was hard to keep friends. Sometimes it was his fault - people didn’t like when he’d beat them up for minor slights, who knew - and sometimes it was the parents forcing him out. Something about being a bad influence.

A shame, because he actually liked Rob. Liked hanging out with him for more than just the free pot; he’d felt relatively comfortable in his house, brief moments where he wasn’t a burden or an inconvenience.

And then his mom had caught them smoking. More than once. More than twice, even.

A bad influence Elliot might’ve been, sure, but he wasn’t the one who bought the weed.

You should probably stop hanging out with me, Elliot says bitterly, sarcastically, taking a drag from the joint before passing it over. You might fall in with the wrong crowd.

Yeah. That would be a shame.

They were already the wrong crowd. Neither of them really fit in anywhere: Elliot in his house, the kid forced upon people who didn’t really want him and Rob at school, a little strange and awkward, the worst thing a teenager in high school could be. Maybe it was why Elliot liked him so much. They finished the joint, debated whether or not they had time to roll another before Rob’s mom got home from work (Elliot thought they should and Rob was more cautious).

Want me to drive you home?

Nah. I’ll walk. Thanks, though.

It wasn’t a short walk, but it gave him some time to sober up and mentally prepare himself for whatever grievance his uncle had for him today. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong this time (aside from the pot, but…well). His grades were as good as they ever were; hell, he’d even improved his math grade, not that his uncle even noticed or cared if he had. Hell, Elliot hadn’t even told them he’d applied to Columbia, a suggestion from his school counselor, who had somehow managed to convince him he was a “smart kid” with a “real chance at success”, neither of which were true but were nice lies to hear. He knew he didn’t have a chance; he didn’t want his uncle to tell him that, too.

The sun had started to set by the time he got home, the canvas of his sneakers soaked through from the rain and a sufficient chill in his bones. Kicked his wet sneakers off by the door so his aunt and uncle would at least know he was back and tried to sneak undetected up to his room - he forgot to skip over that squeaky step.

Elliot, come here.

Well, fuck. Look, I’m home before curfew. I got a B on that math test. Can I just go to my room?He was tired and he was high - was it too much to ask to just hide in his room and crash?

Come here, please.

He…god, he was so tired of fighting. Maybe it was the drug’s mellowing effect or maybe he was exhausted after half a decade of criticism, but he just didn’t want to fight with his uncle anymore. Because it wasn’t always bad! He never got along with his uncle as well as he did when he’d shown interest in mechanics. They never fought, never argued, his uncle would never nitpick or get upset even if he made a mistake. They would just hang out. Talk. Crack jokes. His uncle would explain everything he did and Elliot would absorb it all like a sponge - and his uncle actually seemed impressed at what he would remember. And sometimes they wouldn’t talk, just work side-by-side and it was genuinely the only time the storm in his head would calm down.

It was nice. Elliot wished it was always like that.

But it wasn’t. It could never be. Because no matter how much good will Elliot built under the hood of a car, he would get into a physical fight at school or get caught trying to buy alcohol with a fake ID and they’d be right back where they started. Elliot, the kid with no future going absolutely nowhere. He didn’t want to be a disappointment, he didn’t want to fight. He wanted to be a good kid. Wanted them to be proud of him. But he had so much anger inside of him and he didn’t know what to do with it. So he let it out.

He sighed, loudly, to make his displeasure obvious, threw up the hood of his sweater low enough to cover his eyes and went into the living room. His uncle was in his usual armchair by the window. His aunt was nowhere to be found. That sucked. Tony always went easier on him when she was in the same room - she didn’t like the fighting anymore than he did. Yeah, what?

Where were you?

You know, why don’t you put a lojack on my ass? That way you won’t have to bother talking to me and you can know where I am every second.

Don’t get like that - I just want to know where you were.

He never interrogated Farris. He never interrogated Jamie. But Elliot was the piece of shit kid who had to have his every movement monitored so he didn’t make even more a fool out of himself. He didn’t know why his uncle bothered - it clearly didn’t matter if he self-destructed, so why make a big deal out of it? If they let it happen, they wouldn’t have to deal with him anymore and everybody would win. Rob’s. I was at Rob’s. Happy?

I thought his mom didn’t want you over there anymore.

Yeah, well, I’m not a very good listener. Right, wasn’t that one of his uncle’s problems? Elliot never listened, they got into the same arguments over and over and nothing ever changed. Is that everything, can I go?

Without waiting for the reply, he turned to go upstairs, because this conversation could’ve been a lot worse and he wanted to get out while he was ahead and before the pot smell that stuck to his clothes became too obvious; his uncle caught one of the straps on his backpack and tugged lightly on it, stopping him. Stood up from his chair so that he could pull Elliot’s hood down.

Dammit. It had been going so well. The smell he could probably explain away; his bloodshot eyes, not so much.

Are you high?

He refused to make eye contact, instead staring down at his socks. Yeah, I am. Honesty, as if that would earn him any brownie points. Maybe he’d only be grounded for a month instead of the rest of his life. So what. It’s not a school night.

That’s not the point, Elliot. Come on, we’ve talked about this, you can’t –

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m a fuck-up. Spare me, I’ve already heard this lecture.

Then I don’t know why you refuse to listen to me.

Well, that was just it. He did listen. He listened to everything. Heard everything. Even the things his aunt and uncle talked about when the sun went down, when they locked their bedroom door and thought he was asleep. He never was. He’d sit outside their door and listen, knees pulled up to his chest, because he wanted to hear what they said when they thought he couldn’t hear them. Listened to everything his uncle called him to his face: a failure, a burden, a disappointment. Even if he never used those exact words, Elliot knew it’s what he meant. The resentment of being stuck with his sister-in-law’s charity case kid always right under the surface. The resentment for ruining this perfect life with Elliot’s unchecked temper and bad behavior.

Of course he listened. And of course he didn’t. Why would he bother changing now? Nobody would believe him if he tried. No one would care if he tried.

Those were the words he wanted to say. What came out instead was: Because you’re not my fucking father, that’s why.

If I were your father maybe you wouldn’t be such a shitty kid.

Oh. Elliot stumbled backward a couple of steps like he’d been shot, all the fight and anger instantly draining out of him. His uncle, to his credit, at least looked surprised and relatively ashamed of what he’d just said, but it was kind of too late. Elliot already knew he felt that way, he’d said it without saying it many times before, hearing it so plainly shouldn’t have surprised him. Yet here he was, back to the wall, desperately trying to hold back tears. He couldn’t cry. Wasn’t he supposed to be a man by now? Grown men didn’t cry.

Why? Because you would’ve kicked me out by now? You would’ve hit me?

Elliot, I’m –

No, I get it. Thank you, at least you’re finally honest with me.

This time he didn’t wait, didn’t stay back, and instead took the stairs two at a time up to his bedroom. Slammed the door hard enough to rattle the walls. Hard enough that he could almost feel it in his bones. Right, well, that was pretty much it, huh? His uncle had admitted what he’d probably wanted to say all of Elliot’s life, so what else was left for them to say to each other? All their stupid fucking fights, all the passive-aggressive jabs, it all really boiled down to being a shitty kid.

As if he didn’t already know.

It drove everything he did. Of course he got into fights - he was the aggressive kid with a violent father. Boys will be boys, right? Boys will get into a fight with their friend so severe that it fractured three of the fingers in his right hand and got him expelled from school. Boys will skip class to smoke pot alone in the school parking lot, only to lose all driving privileges when he crashed his uncle’s car into a tree. Boys will try to steal a gun from a friend’s dad, spend weeks at his house typing numbers into a combination safe, so he could find a nice, empty field to —

Okay, to be fair, that one hadn’t gone over so well with anybody. It was the first time his uncle had verbally threatened to kick him out. Maybe he’d thought Elliot had planned on using the weapon on anybody other than himself.

He tossed his backpack onto his bed and started to pull through his dresser. Carelessly tossed clothes over his shoulder until he reached the bottom of the drawer, then pulled that out and onto the floor, too. Repeated the action with the second drawer. With the third. With the fourth, his dresser gutted and nearly everything he owned scattered across his tiny bedroom. Stared down at the chaos for a long moment, took a sort of comfort from the madness. It matched the storm inside his head, overwhelmed by the urge to flee. So he started to pick clothes off the floor at random and haphazardly shoved them into his backpack. He had nowhere else to go, but did that really matter? All he knew was that he couldn’t stay here. He was almost 18, anyway, he was just doing them the favor a year early.

Raised voices came from downstairs, likely his aunt asking what all the shouting and door-slamming was about. Elliot was sure his uncle was blaming him for the whole thing - for being snarky, for being rude, for being high, for being fundamentally terrible and unlovable. And he hated that his uncle was right. If he were a better kid, better behaved, didn’t get into fights or do drugs or get kicked out of school, this wouldn’t have happened. His uncle would have no reason to get mad at him or yell at him if he wasn’t like this. God, why was he like this? No matter how many fights he started, no matter how much pain he caused himself, it was never enough. He was always angry. And he didn’t know why.

Unwelcome tears pooled in his eyes, fell down his cheeks; he angrily wiped them away and resumed packing. No. He wasn’t going to cry. He couldn’t be a grown adult, a grown man, if he cried.

A knock came at his door. He ignored it, singularly focused on the task in front of him. Pick something off the floor. Shove it into his bag. Repeat. Repeat. Like a broken robot. Pick something off the floor. Shove it into his bag. He didn’t want to think about who was on the other side of the door. His aunt, maybe, trying to apologize and understand what happened. She was usually reasonable. Nothing ever changed, of course, but sometimes she would try to get his uncle to ease up on him. She probably also saw him as an extension of her fucked-up sister, a product born out of negativity. He was. He was. Pick something off the floor. Shove it into his bag. Maybe he should’ve stayed with his parents. At least they never pretended they cared about him. They hated him, but they were honest about it.

Another knock, but this time the knocker didn’t wait for a response. His door opened; he didn’t pay it any attention, and instead picked something off his floor and shoved it into his bag.

Honey, what’s going on?

His aunt. Of course. Of course it wasn’t his uncle. Elliot knew he wasn’t going to apologize. What was he expecting? What was wrong with him? Stupid. Stupid of him to hope for anything. He stayed silent, all his self-control and willpower being channeled toward not having a complete breakdown. Nothing else could fit in his bag. That was fine - he had more than he needed. He hadn’t planned on being out for very long, anyway.

Elliot, sweetheart, talk to me.

Why? What was the point? Nobody listened to him when he tried.

He’d tried to explain why he’d gotten into that fight with a friend. He hadn’t been a friend, not really. Always lonely, Elliot gravitated toward the people who might offer him the least resistance. Other loners. Other stoners. Anyone who might talk to him for ten minutes so he could feel like a whole person again. Daniel certainly wasn’t nice to anyone, wasn’t friendly or welcoming, but Elliot was used to that. It didn’t seem so bad.

Then he’d gone after Rob.

Elliot hadn’t known him well at the time, they’d never hung out, never really spoken to each other beyond doing assignments together in English class. But Rob was always kind to everyone, even when they weren’t kind to him in turn.

He’d tried to explain why he’d regularly skipped that class to get high. Elliot, quiet and awkward with his hood pulled up at the back of the classroom, made an easy target. That teacher had singled him out at the start of the year, sensing his weakness. Would read his essays to the class, making fun of the occasional clunky sentence structure or misspelled word, claiming he never put any effort in (he did, always. Would always spend hours in the library, history books spread open so that he’d never get anything wrong. He was proud of his essays, at least for a minute or two). Always called on him to read out loud, mocking him when he had to get his face close to the book to see the words properly. He hadn’t meant to get that high, hadn’t meant to crash the car. But it had been a bad day (more than usual) and the thought of sitting in that classroom for 45 minutes had made him physically ill.

He’d tried to explain, when his aunt and uncle had picked him up from the hospital, bruised and broken but in better shape than the car. But he couldn’t put it into words. Couldn’t explain how humiliating it felt to be asked to read from the board, only to be asked if he even knew how to read when the words were too blurry to see. In the end it had sounded like he was whining about a mean teacher. His uncle told him he needed to learn how to better handle the real world.

And he’d really, really tried to explain why he’d taken the gun. When his friend’s dad had called his uncle and had all but dragged him out of the house by the back of his shirt, Elliot had really, genuinely thought that his uncle was going to beat him within an inch of his life. Not even his father had looked at him with that much hatred before. Like he’d escalated from petty fights and stealing to homicide. I wasn’t going to hurt anyone, he’d try to say, over and over, only to be cut off and interrupted every time. He wasn’t. Part of his plan had been intentional, sure, spending dozens of sleepovers in that dad’s office long after everyone went to bed. And maybe he deserved to be punished for that. But the other part was desperation. Deeply unhappy and filled with a void of self-hatred that he’d thought maybe, maybe he could make stop for once. He’d just wanted it to stop.

He’d only made it worse.

For months, his uncle could barely look at him. Barely spoke to him. Because he wasn’t just a bad kid, anymore - no, now he was evil. Dangerous. And the longer it went on, the more he believed it, too. That was something his father would’ve done, right? Steal a gun and try to hurt someone, no matter who it was? That made sense. Elliot was irredeemable. As bad as his father. Even worse than his father.

When he finally started talking to him again, the first thing his uncle asked was if it had been worth it. Elliot, numb, had said: no, it wasn’t.

A hand on his shoulder shocked him out of it. He flinched, hard, away from the touch. Going through the motions, he zipped his backpack closed.

I’m leaving. That’s what you want, right? Save you the trouble of doing it next year. His voice sounded detached, hollow. Like the CDs they played through the speakers in Rob’s car, grainy and faraway. Rob. He would actually miss Rob. He’d been the only person Elliot could ever really call a friend. Absently, he retrieved his Walkman from its spot under his pillow and shoved it into his jacket pocket.

Nobody wants you to leave, honey.

Nobody wants you to leave wasn’t the same as we want you to stay. His brain twisted his aunt’s words, reshaping their meaning until it hurt enough to feel good. Tony hates me. Thinks I’m a piece of shit.

His aunt kicked aside some clothes to make a space for herself. She reached out toward him, and he flinched again, scared, but she only took his face in her hands. Held his cheeks, gentle, and waited for him to look at her. He shouldn’t have said that to you. But he does not hate you, honey. He loves you. Elliot cast his eyes back down the ground. Nice try. For a second there, he’d almost believed her. But if it were true, his uncle would be the one up here himself, saying it to his face. Elliot didn’t even rate that, huh? Didn’t even deserve to be told I love you without a middleman to deliver the message.

Despite his best efforts, the tears came back. He couldn’t help it; no matter what he did to harden himself, to toughen up, all of it disappeared when his aunt looked at him like that. Like she cared about him. Like maybe, just maybe, she actually loved him. His shoulders slumped, finally defeated. The weight of reality weighed down on him, heavy enough to make his bones feel tired, and didn’t notice when he’d started to freely cry. His aunt thumbed the tears away but didn’t chastise him for them.

I’m not a bad kid. I - I - I’m trying not to be. I promise, I - I’m trying. I know - I know you don’t think so, I know you think I’m a - a disappointment, but I swear I’m - I applied to Columbia. He hadn’t meant to say it, meant to keep that to himself so he wouldn’t look like even more of a failure when the inevitable rejection letter rolled in. But he was so desperate for their approval. So they would look at him, for once, like he wasn’t a total disappointment. A mistake. A shitty kid. The words rang in his head like a bell. I want to be better. I swear - I promise, I - I’m going to be better. I’ll - I -

Fully rambling now, his aunt shushed him, soft, in an attempt to calm him down. He choked on a sob, ashamed and embarrassed by his reaction. God, what would they think of him now, tripping over himself and his words like an incoherent toddler.

I do not think you’re a failure, sweetheart. I do not think you’re a disappointment. He kept silent, trying and failing to stop his tears. Felt like an idiot - for crying, for being weak, for believing what his aunt was telling him in the first place. He couldn’t help it; desperate for affection, he took anything that they offered him and ran with it. He reached up to wrap his fingers around his aunt’s wrists, holding her to him. Maybe they did care about him. Maybe they didn’t want him to leave. Maybe. Maybe. I’m just worried about you. I know you’re lost and upset and I wish I knew what to do to help you. Elliot didn’t know what she could do, either. His anger was all encompassing and overwhelming, and it felt like everything he tried to do to improve it only made it worse. Only made him worse. Alcohol only made him angrier and more aggressive and the pot helped, sometimes, but he always felt like shit after the high wore off. You have nothing to prove to me. You are not a bad kid. I love you and I’m always going to be proud of you. Columbia or not.

Oh. Why did that kind of make him feel worse? Make him feel bad and terrible for automatically giving them the worst intentions. And it only made him cry harder and feel even fucking worse. God, he didn’t deserve this. Didn’t deserve to have anyone support him or care about him when this was the way he behaved. He wrapped his arms around his aunt in a hug and buried his face into her shoulder, completely sobbing now. He didn’t want to think about how pathetic it made him, how embarrassing this reaction was from someone who was nearly an adult. He just wanted his aunt to hug him.

And she let him. Didn’t tell him to get over it or to act his age. She held him, one of her hands gently combing through his hair. Something she used to do when he was a child, when he woke up scared and crying in the middle of the night. Nothing ever really changed, did it? He was still a sad, sad child, only a little bit taller now. Still crying over things that didn’t matter, still making everyone’s life worse.

After a few long moments, his aunt pulled back so that she could look at his face, wipe her hands against his wet cheeks. Take a minute to unpack your bag, okay? Then come down and I’ll make you something to eat. He nodded, a little numb and barely listening, his eyes staring down at the floor. Left him in his disaster of a bedroom - she didn’t demand he clean it up, he noticed. His uncle would’ve. With distance between them now, and nothing but his own mind to keep him company, he quickly talked himself out of her words. No, she wasn’t telling him the truth. If she was, why would it take her this long to say it? Why would she wait until he was on his way out to tell him that she cared about him? They only wanted him to stay for whatever tax break they’d received for adopting him, for taking in the charity case.

Yeah. Yeah, that made more sense. Felt more reasonable. If anybody here really loved him, he never would’ve been called a shitty kid in the first place. So he tossed his backpack over his shoulders and arranged some blankets and pillows on his bed so that it looked vaguely like the shape of a human under his comforter. It was the oldest trick in the book and wouldn’t work for very long, but by the time anyone noticed, it wouldn’t matter. He wrote a message on a sticky note and pressed it against the surface of his Walkman. He trusted Rob. He would take good care of it. Slid on his spare pair of sneakers, a little tight and small, but they would get the job done.

Elliot pulled up the glass of his window, careful to make sure that it didn’t squeak too loudly. Pushed it until it reached the top of the frame and he could fully climb through it onto the roof. There was just enough room for him to crouch down on it and slide his window closed from the outside. Dangled his legs over the edge of the roof and pushed himself off - he misjudged his trajectory and instead of landing on his feet, he crashed down onto the grass. Great job, Holt. he couldn’t even fucking sneak out of the house without fucking it up. Once he cleared the fence in backyard, there was nothing to stop him. Nothing but miles of sidewalk ahead of him - so he started walking. He didn’t know how far he could get on foot in one night, but he didn’t matter. All he knew was that he had to go. Had to get as far away as his legs could carry him.

His path lead him to Rob’s house, and he found himself on the covered porch, dripping rainwater and staring at door. Part of him wanted to knock, to beg Rob’s mom to let him stay for the night. She may not like him, she may also think he was a terrible kid, but maybe she had some motherly affection for this pathetic, wet teenager on her doorstep. He took a step forward, raised his hand to pound it against the door. Stopped himself halfway, nervous and terrified of being rejected again. Terrified for his mom to tell him to go home, you’re not welcome here. But he couldn’t go home - he didn’t have one. So he dropped his hand, mentally said goodbye to Rob and dropped his Walkman into their mailbox. He’d always talked about wanting one, jealous every time Elliot would pull it out on their sleepovers. At least now he’d be able to give something positive to someone. He left as quick as he arrived, before anyone had the chance to catch him out there

He kept walking, completely straight, long after the houses and scenery stopped feeling familiar. Long after the rain had stopped and he was stuck slogging through mud and puddles in his freezing cold shoes. Long after he’d abandoned his soaked hoodie in a sidewalk garbage can and switched it out for another in his backpack. He stopped off in a tiny convenience store, the only building for miles with the lights on, to dry off and get warm. If he had to die, it certainly wasn’t going to be because of fucking hypothermia. How embarrassing would that be?

A bell rang above the door as he opened it, catching the attention of the clerk behind the desk and causing him to jump. Awfully late for you to be out, kid, isn’t it?

What time is it? He asked, ignoring the clearly pointed question.

Nearly one in the morning.

Damn. Had it really been that long? Had he been walking for nearly five hours? He didn’t feel tired, just determined. It wasn’t enough. He hadn’t gone far enough to get rid of the sensation that he needed to crawl out of his skin. Well, I won’t be long. I just need to use the bathroom. It was a lie, but he couldn’t very well tell this guy the truth, could he. He pointed in the direction of the bathroom and turned back to a magazine spread on the counter. Elliot started in that direction, long enough to make sure the clerk wasn’t paying him any attention, then made a beeline toward the shelves of liquor. He didn’t have his wallet, any of his money or his fake ids (he kept trying them, despite the fact that they never worked), So he would just have to improvise. Tried to quietly slid his backpack off his shoulders, the zipper sounding harsh and way too loud in the silent store. When the clerk didn’t rush over to kick him out, he stuffed two bottles of vodka under all his clothes and got the hell out of there before anyone could stop him.

The rain had started, again, once he was outside. Like even the sky was trying to mock him. He pulled his hood up, but it didn’t do anything against the chill that was already on his skin. Didn’t help his already soaked hair, dripping down under his shirt to soak into the waistband of his underwear. The cold and rain and his long walk started to take its toll, suddenly feeling worn down and tired. His steps slowed, his shoes heavy, like they were filled with lead. Completely lost in unfamiliar territory, there wasn’t much left for him to do other than plop his ass down on the wet cement and have a breakdown.

Water rushed around his ankles as he curled his knees up to his chest, back against the guardrail of a bridge somewhere. Wasn’t sure if he were still in New York, or even still in America. He supposed it didn’t matter - the farther away, the better. Where nobody would would recognize him, where nobody could tell his aunt and uncle what happened to him. A twisted, sick part of him took some sort of joy in it. Let them worry. Let them wonder. Maybe, for once, they would actually care about him. Too little, too late, but maybe.

He retrieved one of the stolen bottles from the bottom of his backpack and when his slick hands couldn’t twist open the cap, he resorted to smashing it against the edge of the sidewalk. A little messy, and he ended up wasting some of the alcohol, but it did the trick. Swallowed as much as he could in one go before the burn in his throat demanded he stop and breathe. Paused for a few moments, his face turned up to the rain; he wiped his cheeks with the inside of his wrist, unable to differentiate between the weather and the tears burning his eyes. Did it even matter? Nothing did, as far as he was concerned. Crying didn’t matter anymore - he wasn’t a man, he wasn’t an adult. It didn’t matter. He was never going to be the kid, the person, his aunt and uncle wanted. He was never going to be the well-behaved, straight-A, college graduate that they expected from their children. He was never going to be anything more than a burnout drunk, probably, the loser taking out his anger on anyone smaller, weaker than him. Like your father, said a loud, ringing voice in his head that sounded a lot like his uncle’s.

Brought the bottle back up to his mouth, not registering a sharp, jagged edge of glass had cut his lip until he noticed the red, quickly washed away with the rain. Until he tasted copper at the back of his mouth, bitter enough to force him to spit it out. His stomach churned, nauseous; lack of food, the lingering high and the heavy alcohol combining dangerously in his system. It was okay. It was okay. It wouldn’t last.

The weather prevented him from writing a real note (his notebook was probably destroyed in his backpack, anyway) so he tried to sketch out a mental one. But too many mind-altering substances scrambled his thoughts - and he didn’t know what he would even say to them. If he were able to speak freely, say whatever he wanted to his uncle’s face, he had no idea what it would even be. Even at the end of the line, would Tony listen to him? Would Tony even fucking care? Did his life matter at all to them, while he still had it, when it was over? Especially when it was over?

No. Elliot really didn’t think it would.

Now sufficiently drunk, with his mind made up, he clambered onto his feet, draped himself over the railing and let the empty bottle slip from his fingers. Counted the seconds until he could hear it smash against the pavement below. Sharp, loud, even from a distance. Yeah. He was sure that would be enough.

He had to be sure.

He couldn’t do this again. Couldn’t be here again, couldn’t be there again, couldn’t stand to have everyone look at him like that again. Couldn’t stand to give his uncle a way to twist this against him, turn him into some kind of monster. And maybe he was. Maybe that was all he would ever be. He didn’t want to be. He didn’t want to be bad, he didn’t want to be evil, he wanted to be gone. Make a home in whatever darkness sat below him, where he couldn’t be a problem to anybody any longer.

There was just enough of a ledge on the other side of the railing for his feet catch, balance on. It didn’t feel very sturdy and the combination of the rain and his inebriation made him unsteady, a heavy sense of vertigo in his head. He toed his shoes off, over the edge. Left first. Then the right. Watched them disappear, strained to hear if they hit the ground. But either he was too far away or the ambient sound was too loud, and he never heard them make contact. Instead, they tumbled soundlessly into nothing, forever. Forever. It was almost…calming? Peaceful? Maybe that’s all it was at the end. Peaceful, falling forever, surrounded by darkness. It sounded…almost nice. Better than right now, but then again, anything would be.

A car rolled to a stop behind him, slick sound of tires on pavement distracting him from the pleasant daydream. His fingers tightened around the metal bars behind him, prepared for a fight. He should’ve let go. He didn’t know why he didn’t. A beam of light passed over his shoulder and instinctively he looked down at it. Caught a glimpse of the flashlight and the person behind it enough to register the police uniform. Great. That was exactly what he needed. What crime had he committed this time? Was it the drinking or unnecessary littering? Was he trespassing on some sacred bridge? Did his aunt and uncle actually call the cops to look for him?

No. It definitely wasn’t that one.

It’s late for you to be out here on your own, son.

That’s what that convenience store clerk had said. Maybe he’d called the cops for his missing bottles of vodka. Yeah. That made sense. Elliot gestured to his backpack, open and alone in the middle of the sidewalk. The vodka’s in my bag. You can take it back. As if that was the only thing a cop could possibly be concerned about in this situation.

I don’t care about the alcohol. I care about you

Funny. That didn’t sound more believable coming from a stranger than it did his aunt. Why? The alcohol is worth more. Hadn’t that what he’d been convinced of all his life? Told, in so many words? He wasn’t worth anything the way he was and he had to change, fix himself, so he could actually earn all the chances his uncle keep giving him. He didn’t deserve any more chances; not from his family, not from his friends, and certainly not from a random cop.

I don’t believe that. Your life is important.

Elliot actually laughed, shaking his head. This didn’t make him feel any better - in fact, it kind of made him feel worse. Why was he taking up this cop’s time? Why was he keeping him from doing something that was actually important? Just - just leave me alone, okay? Please? Don’t waste your time on me.

I’ve got all the time in the world. It’s not a waste to help someone who needs it. Elliot didn’t need help. He knew exactly what he was doing and wanted to be alone to do it. God, he wanted to be alone. Tell me your name, son.

Why? It doesn’t matter.

The rain had finally stopped, the cop no longer shouting to be heard over the crash of water. Yet the deafening roar in his ears persisted, a sound harsh enough for his brain to beg him to make it stop. He had to make it stop. It would be so easy. All he had to do was loosen his grip and he could become part of that welcoming darkness forever.

It does matter. My name is Michael.

He exhaled hard, distracted. Yeah, he saw what the cop was doing. To his surprise, it was kind of working. God, was he this desperate? For conversation, for someone to listen to him? Pathetic. Completely pathetic. Elliot. I - I’m Elliot.

How old are you, Elliot?

17.

Oh, kid. Said softly, like even he was surprised that Elliot was so young. It didn’t sound like a condemnation or disappointment, but more like genuine sympathy. Like it was tragic that the two of them were here, in this situation. Elliot didn’t find it so tragic. It was merely the inevitable conclusion of his life. There was only ever one way this would end. If he’d earned anything, deserved anything, it was this. I’m sure there’s someone at home who’s worried sick about where you are.

Yeah. He would assume, huh? That would be fucking nice. If anyone cared, none of this would be happening in the first place. So was he sure? Because Elliot was not. It’d probably take them weeks to notice he was gone, if they ever did. He hoped they never did. Hoped the mark he left on this world was nothing, just a vague, far-away memory that they couldn’t quite grasp. Easily forgotten and discarded. Maybe that was the best he could hope for, for all of his mistakes to fade into dust and blow away with the wind. Yeah. Yeah. Put like that, it didn’t sound so bad. It sounded almost nice.

Why don’t you let me take you back home? We can talk on the way.

Talking. Talking. Everybody always wanted to talk. None of them wanted to listen. Where had talking ever got him, anyway, other than dangling over the edge of a bridge and contemplating the various outcomes of death. What fucking good had it ever done for him, huh?

I - I won’t go back. I can’t go back. They don’t want me there.

For once, his complaints weren’t met with an exasperated sigh, an irritated voice telling him that’s life or sometimes we don’t get what we want. The cop just seemed to listen, silent in the space behind him. Probably wanted to know what problems a young white boy could possibly have that would lead him here. Relative to someone else, anyone else, he probably had it great. He had a roof over his head, foot to eat, clean water and clothes and a bed. No matter how much he might’ve wanted to, his uncle never forced him onto the street, never denied him any of his basic needs. Never fucking hit him. And he did make an effort, try to connect and bond when Elliot was acting like a reasonable, mature human being and not a scrambled collection of rage and hormones guided by a half-developed brain. He actually had it really fucking good and the thought only made that heavy rock sink deeper in his chest. He had everything a human person could ever ask for and he was selfish for looking for anything more.

Why do you think they don’t want you?

That wasn’t the question he’d expected. Wasn’t the response he’d expected. Hadn’t thought he’d be greeted with genuine concern, a genuine attempt to understand him. Listen to him. A strange cop in a strange town miles away from home cared for him more than his guardians. Or at least pretended to well enough to fool him for a couple of minutes. Yeah. His grip loosened on the bars behind him, the darkness at his feet beckoning him forward.

My uncle hates me. And he - he should, I - I’ve given him every reason to. Hell, I hate me. I - I’ve - I’m a shitty kid. But I don’t - I’m trying - I’m -

Hey. The cop took another step forward, closer. Tentative. Doing whatever he could not to spook him into going over the edge. In all of his babbling and incoherent thoughts, Elliot hardly noticed. It’s okay. Do you have anywhere else to go? Any other family?

No. No. I - I don’t have anyone.

A friend?

I - I guess. One. But his mom would never let me stay. She’d kick me out, too.

I’ll make sure she doesn’t. Another step closer and then another. Another, until they were standing side-by-side. Until Elliot could see him out of his peripheral vision, a face to the voice. Give me your hand, son. I’ll take you home.

Despite everything in him begging against it, despite the voice telling him to let go and greet whatever waited for him at the bottom of the abyss, he did. Took the offered hand and allowed the cop to wrap his arm around his back and guide him, slightly unsteady, back on solid ground. The cop offered Elliot his jacket, wet but warmer than the pathetic fabric he currently called clothing; when he didn’t make a move to accept it, the officer dropped it around his shoulders, anyway. Took him and the sad remains of his backpack and let him get settled in the backseat of the cruiser.

After a very long weekend with Rob’s rather unhappy mother and one skipped day of school spent idly playing basketball by himself in a local park, he went back to his aunt and uncle. It wasn’t really what he’d wanted, but he had nowhere else to go. Sometimes being an adult means doing something even when you don’t want to. It was some actually good advice his uncle had given him - Elliot was determined to be an adult, get through the rest of high school as painlessly as possible and maybe (but probably not) go to college.

His aunt was on him the second the door clicked shut, her arms tight enough around his chest that he could almost feel his ribs crack inside his chest. Oh. That had not at all been what he was expecting. He stood in place, neither returning the gesture nor pushing her away and regardless of his reaction, she didn’t let go. Hugged him like he’d been gone for three years instead of three days. And when he felt sufficiently uncomfortable and wanted to crawl out of his skin, she switched from one display of affection to another and took his face in her hands, like she was checking him for injuries.

I thought you were dead.

God, wouldn’t that be nice. Nope, he was still here, awkward and self-conscious barely a foot into the house, still shoeless in his dirty runaway clothes, damaged backpack hanging off one shoulder. Fuck, he might as well be dead - he felt like he was, anyway. He tried to force a smile in response, and it must’ve looked even more pathetic than he’d expected, because her own expression changed, looking genuinely concerned. Yeah. That would’ve been nice five years ago. It meant nothing to him now.

His uncle had stood a safe distance away, watching them like she’d been interacting with a wild animal. A tiger let out of its cage, liable to pounce at any second. Yeah, that’s all he was, wasn’t it? A dangerous animal. Elliot stared down at the floor, arms crossed over his chest.

Where are your shoes?

Of course that was the first thing he asked. Why did Elliot ever expect anything else? Hadn’t he learned by now? I left them at Rob’s. The lie slipped out easily, too easily almost, all of the underlying guilt he usually had gone now. What did the truth matter anymore?

Instead of the lecture he’d expected and probably deserved (he could hear it now: who did he think he was, leaving the house without any warning, without telling them what he was doing) his uncle actually hugged him. Huh. He didn’t like that at all. Gritted his teeth through the obligation until it was over and he could have his personal space back. And when his uncle told him you know I love you, right, Elliot laughed bitterly, rolling his eyes. If he wanted that to sound more believable, he probably shouldn’t have been more worried about his stupid fucking shoes.

No, you don’t. I - I mean, it’s fine. I get it. You don’t have to - to do that.. And, uh, even if I don’t get in, I’ll be gone for college. Then you’ll never have to deal with me again. I promise.

July 25, 2017.

Trying to ignore that incessant voice in his head (he did not need to be a teenager again, thank you very much), he dumped out his bag across the bed to take inventory of all his earthly possessions. This was fucking sad. He’d never been a person that wanted things, had always packed and travelled light, but this was fucking pathetic. He had two books, a handful of underwear, and a wallet that was over a decade old and looked it. His most sentimental items came from a kid probably half his age that he’d met while in prison. He’d have to send Tre a letter once he got settled - the kid deserved at least that much. If nothing else, he owed Tre a goodbye and a thank you for everything he’d done for him.

His son’s pendant, meant for a small child, didn’t fit around his own neck; he wrapped the thin chain twice around his wrist, the dog charm resting lightly against the pulse there. Stared back at him with its beady little eyes, as black and unfeeling as Elliot’s own. Hollow. Empty.

He’d spent a decade trying to force his son out of his memory, pretend he’d never been born. Never died. Because if Alex wasn’t real, neither was the gaping hole in his chest. Neither was the sense of loss and grief, haunting him like a ghost. If he wasn’t real, neither was the last ten years in prison; neither was buying a tiny coffin for a three-year-old, burying him with his favorite stuffed animal; neither was going to the police station a dozen times, seeing bodies of children he never knew, over and over, despair and hope on repeat, until the tiniest bits of hope had been crushed and the world stopped spinning. You don’t want to see your son like that. Six months and all the police were willing to show him was the blanket his body was wrapped in, torn remains of clothes that were too big to have ever been his, and this fucking dog. With it’s stupid blank stare and broken wing, so poorly taken care of by a toddler that hadn’t known any better. Without it, he never would’ve known. You don’t want to see your son like that. It was the first time they hadn’t shown him a body. Six months and the only thing left of his son was this stupid fucking dog. They’d passed by it in the store and Elliot remembered him, so small and innocent in his little stroller, pointing and crying for the doggy until they circled back and it bought it for him. It never came off.

It spent four months buried with him, slowly rusting and falling apart under the dirt; then ten years locked away in a prison safe, just like Elliot.

He yanked on the charm, the chain easily breaking, and shoved it into his pocket. He couldn’t stand to have it stare at him. His son had loved it, but now it was only a reminder of how fucking cruel the world was.

Alex had been dead for eleven years. Almost four times as long as he’d even been alive.

Elliot should’ve died twice. Should’ve bled out in Sing Sing’s showers, the consequence of his untethered rage targeting the wrong person. Should’ve overdosed on painkillers in a six foot cell, forgotten until it was too late.

And yet, he didn’t. Both times guards had found him, passed out but alive. Woke up once in a real hospital and once in the prison infirmary, twice handcuffed the bed. Dangerous. Violent, but he’d only ever wanted to kill one person other than himself. And once he had, he was the only person left to direct all of his rage at.

Once was a fluke. Good luck (or not) being found in time and taken to the hospital. Twice was a pattern. Some higher power refusing to let him die for sins. Better he should suffer with his memories than have the mercy of death.

His 15th birthday had been a few months ago. 15. Instead of teaching him how to drive and watching him go on his first date and praying that he would never turn into Elliot, his son had been dead for eleven fucking years.

#044 #unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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February 18, 2006. July 24, 2007.

One year, five months. And six days if he wanted to get technical about it (and Elliot always did).

521 days passed since the police pulled his three-year-old son out of the shallow grave he’d been buried in, stripped of his identity and his dignity, of everything that had made him human. Nothing but a tiny body wrapped in a blanket and dumped haphazardly into the dirt as if he’d never mattered. The police estimated that he’d been dead for at least four months - he’d been missing for six.

Two days later, they’d buried him again, a final betrayal at the end of his life. They were supposed to keep him safe, and here they were putting him back in the ground like they were no better than the person who killed him. Lucy had tried to tell him it was different - they were laying him to rest, not throwing him away. Elliot couldn’t see the difference.

He couldn’t or wouldn’t, even as Lucy cried, handing over his favorite stuffed animal to be tucked into the casket with him. A tiny spotted dog that had long lost one of its little beaded eyes. Elliot hadn’t cried. It hadn’t felt real. He didn’t feel real. He wasn’t even sure if he was alive or not.

Patches will keep Alex safe. Lucy tried to explain to him once they were alone. He’ll always watch out for him, and he’ll never be alone again. Elliot hadn’t heard her; everything turned to static the second she’d said his son’s name.

His name was hard for Elliot. The numbers were easy. More abstract, less tangible. Less painful. They didn’t carve into that weird, empty spot in his chest that felt like it was drowning him; they didn’t slip into his mind to taint every memory he’d had of his son until there were no good ones left, only the bad, the evil, and the end. He couldn’t remember his son anymore. All the memories, all the milestones, were overtaken by the moment he died. Nothing was left of the little boy that had finally made his life feel worth something.

The next day he’d started drinking. He didn’t know what else to do. He needed to quiet all the noise and sounds and thoughts in his head.

It didn’t work. He never stopped thinking. Even when the drinks, the bottles, and the days were too numerous for him to count, it never stopped. When one voice died, another took its place. Ten more took their place. A hundred more took their place. Every one louder than the last. Every one worse than the last. He’d never be able to fathom the fear his son had gone through. The awful things he saw, heard, and suffered through. He probably hadn’t been able to comprehend what was happening to him and around him. Probably desperately crying for mommy and daddy to make everything better again.

He was three-years-old.

He’d been 45 days away from his fourth birthday.

And when Elliot started to dream about ending his own life, he knew that the alcohol alone wasn’t going to be enough. It’d been a long time since he’d thought about it. Since he was a teenager: lost, alone, and utterly unwanted. But this was worse. Even magnified by puberty, nothing his uncle had ever said to him came close to this. This overwhelming cascade of emotions - too many to count, too many to name. He felt everything. And he felt nothing.

Six months. To the day, in fact. It was almost poetic.

Killing the man responsible should’ve fixed it. Should’ve ended it. Should’ve stopped the thoughts and the dreams and given him his son back. Given him back control of his life. And when it didn’t, and it was over, all he had left was metaphorical blood on his hands and a frantic rage burning inside him. He hadn’t been this angry since before his son was born. But he was gone now, and so was Elliot, possessed by the need to burn down everything in his path before that fire consumed him, too.

One month. That was all it took to set fire to his entire life: his marriage, his family, his job. Like his uncle had always said, he’d looked too much like his father. Acted too much like him. Picking fights, causing trouble, and destroying the lives of anyone unfortunate enough to get near him. And now he lived like him, too, in a tiny cell on the bank of the Hudson River.

July 24, 2007.

He could see the water outside his window and spent his time daydreaming about letting the river wash him up onto whichever deserted shore it thought he deserved. He deserved to be found nameless and faceless. Deserved it more than his son ever did.

Ten years.

You’re only 25, the judge said, you’ll still have plenty of life ahead of you.

Elliot didn’t believe that.

120 months.

At intake, he, too, had his identity entirely stripped away. He was no longer Elliot Holt but now inmate 74G0171, nobody that mattered to anyone. One of millions of people ground up and forgotten by the system. For the first time in those 521 days, he’d felt good. He was finally able to feel a fraction of the isolation, fear, and inhumanity he was sure his son had felt.

3,654 days.

He was quick to make enemies.

Keep your head down and stay out of trouble. Something one of the officers had told him at intake, maybe trying to be helpful, but more likely trying to intimidate him.

He didn’t listen. He didn’t intimidate easily. Nothing in prison could be worse than lowering his son’s coffin into the ground.

The fearlessness that came from not caring about what happened to his own life and the raw anger that stemmed from years (and years and years and…) of trauma had turned him into a force to be reckoned with.

He refused to be a target. So he became the archer.

9 years.

He was his father. Had always been destined to be violent and aggressive. But he’d already proved that, hadn’t he? He wore the charge of first-degree manslaughter to show for it.

And if he was going to be his father, he was going to embrace it. Welcome it.

Be utterly and entirely consumed by it.

108 months.

He hated it.

Hated the way his bruised knuckles felt every time he’d clench his fists. Hated trying to stem and bandage his cuts, burns, and bloody noses with his dirty laundry. He hated the way his body felt once the adrenaline had faded - worn out, exhausted, and empty.

Deep at night, when he couldn’t sleep, plagued by ghosts and demons and his burgeoning claustrophobia, he stared into the endless darkness around him, felt suffocated and smothered, and hated himself.

This wasn’t what he’d wanted.

And he was fucking terrified.

3,288 days.

It had only been 732 days. He felt like he was going crazy. Saw things in the dark, shapes that looked vaguely human, a voice that sounded vaguely like his own. Mocked him for his inaction, blamed him for failing. He’d spent more than half of those 732 days confined to solitary, already having earned himself the gold star of problem inmate for all the guards. Fighting out his unspoken emotions had been the only thing ever to give him a semblance of control. And fuck him if he didn’t have a lot of emotions to find control for.

His son would’ve been six-years-old.

He wasn’t sure that he could do three thousand more days of this.

8 years.

His luck was bound to run out at some point.

Or maybe he’d finally gotten lucky.

For all his faults, he would at least fight fair. He never entered a fight with anything more than his fists and his strength, and so far, everyone met him on his level.

Until someone didn’t. He’d never seen the person’s face before and hadn’t punched it in at any point, but other inmates hadn’t made the same mistakes he had; instead, they’d made friends.

He’d made the fatal mistake of running afoul of one of Sing Sing’s tight-knit gangs, one seeking revenge for someone who got caught in the crosshairs of his self-destruction. A man stronger than him had his arms held tight behind his back, and a jagged piece of broken mirror sank into and out of his stomach faster than he’d had time to fight back.

They finished as soon as they started, dumping his limp body into one of the shower stalls and disappearing before anyone caught them.

Blood soaked through the thin fabric of his t-shirt and made his fingers sticky as he half-heartedly pressed down on the wound. They’d left their weapon of choice on the ground next to him; he reached for it with his left hand. His reflection greeted him through the slick, red surface. He looked much older than 27, the days and weeks and years inside taking their toll through the dark circles under his eyes and the lines etched into his forehead.

With a herculean effort, he threw the mirror across the room and watched it fracture into pieces as it hit the floor in front of him.

Then he leaned his head back against the wall and smiled.

96 months.

He woke up to blinding white lights and the bitter smell of antiseptics in the air around him. A heavy bandage stuck to his stomach, where the skin burned and pulled on every inhale. A handcuff kept his left wrist locked onto the side railing of the hospital bed. He stared at it, his eyes unfocused and blurred at the edges.

Disappointment set in faster than his vision could clear. Heaven (hell, more likely, he would definitely go to hell) didn’t look like the inside of Mount Vernon Hospital, he hoped. The cold metal against his skin seemed real enough. The impossible pain spreading into his chest seemed real enough. And the morphine seemed beautifully real as the IV sent him back into blissful unconsciousness.

You’re lucky, a doctor said a few days later. The damage to your intestines could’ve been a lot worse.

Lucky. There was that word again.

Elliot didn’t say anything, didn’t look at the doctor, just shook his arm hard enough to make the metal restraint rattle against the bedframe.

Lucky.

Yeah. If he had any luck, if there was any actual justice in this world, he would be fucking dead.

2,293 days.

The hospital had started to become comfortable. Routine, yes, but the only thing about prison that hadn’t bothered him was the routine. The same thing, day in and day out. Mind-numbing, sometimes, but miles better than the disaster and chaos of his life that had led him here in the first place.

Sure, it wasn’t all good. The handcuff had rubbed his wrist red and raw enough that a nurse needed to wrap a bandage around it to prevent it from getting any worse. He had a rotating stable of corrections officers posted in his room - some nice, some less so - all armed, all ready to shoot him if he got too many ideas (which had been tempting. So fucking tempting). He had torn two stitches by fucking sleeping too hard, he guessed, which led to another series of tests and x-rays. Which had him back on an operating table to remove and reattach a section of his small intestine that hadn’t stopped bleeding.

For a convict, you’re one of the better patients I’ve had. Convict. It stung a little. That’s all he was now - a convict, a felon, a criminal, one of thousands of people deemed too terrible to live in polite society. That’s all he would ever be, even after he got out - if he ever got out.

As two officers got him ready for transport back to Sing Sing, locked arms pulling painfully at the stitches on his stomach, he said the only thing he had in five weeks.

Thank you. But I wish you hadn’t helped me.

7 years.

The pain stayed for a long time.

So did the stitches. The damage had been extensive, if contained, and the doctor warned it would be a slow process. Advised him to take things easy. Not push himself too hard. Avoid another fight.

He wasn’t going to do that.

So when someone touched him on the shoulder in the mess hall, maybe to move him out of the way, or maybe accidentally, Elliot did what he did best - whirled around to hit the guy in the face.

Naturally, the guy fought back.

And dropped him like a fucking stone with the first punch. He knew exactly where to aim. Elliot caught the man’s face before the pain faded his vision to white.

We’ve got to stop meeting like this. The nurse in the infirmary had kind eyes and a sense of humor. Treated him like a human person and not the felony permanently attached to him. He would’ve liked her if he felt anything at all. She offered him one of his painkillers in a little paper cup. He knocked it away with the back of his hand, even as he ground his teeth together from the effort.

Yeah, you all act very tough.

In here, what other choice did he have? Adapt or die.

The cup sat on the side table. So did the rest of the bottle.

It was never supposed to leave her sight, and neither was he. But with her back turned, he could tuck the bottle into the knot of the shirt tied around his waist, take the single pill, and leave before he got caught.

84 months.

He kept it for a while. He’d had a dozen or so pills left - probably enough, but he had to be sure.

He had to be sure.

The first few times he’d tried pretending to take a pill, he’d gotten caught, chastised, and forced to swallow it. It took some time and some effort, but he became adept at hiding one between his fingers and getting his hands into his pockets before they checked them.

They were on his person at all times, in a plastic bag tucked deep into his sock. Biding his time. Waiting until he couldn’t wait any longer. I’m so sorry, Alexander. Please forgive me. I hope I see you on the other side.

It was only a matter of when he would be thrown into solitary; he expedited the process by swinging at a guard. It never failed. It was almost boring in how predictable it was.

And when his breathing became shallow enough to hurt and the walls were closing in on him, the heavy fog in his head told him it would be alright.

2,558 days.

Two of the four walls in his brand new cell were all windows. He felt like an exhibit in a zoo, always watched. Always monitored. A hundred eyes pressed to the glass with nowhere for him to hide.

(It was only ever one person at a time.)

There was a single mattress thrown into the corner. No sheets, no pillows. He never thought he would miss the cot in his cell, but at least there were more than a few inches between him and the frozen concrete floor.

They stripped him down to his briefs, no longer offered the luxury of his lethal clothing. It only took a few weeks for him to learn to hate his body. The way it looked under the fluorescent lights, worn and scarred. The way it felt when he curled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. The way it moved as he paced the length of the floor, counting every step, while his mind raced out of his reach.

(28 steps from wall to wall.)

He was on suicide watch for three months. He never could do anything right.

6 years.

When he was allowed to return to his cell, it took him all of fifteen minutes to get caught tying his bedsheets into a suitable noose and sent right back.

This time, he didn’t get to keep his underwear.

72 months.

A lot of the year passed as a blur.

He developed fears he didn’t know he could have. Tall windows. Wide spaces with open floors. The heavy gaze of a pair of eyes on him that never wavered. Himself.

Especially himself.

It was an effective deterrent; he feared this room too much to ever try again.

2,193 days.

It changed him. Made him nervous, withdrawn, and jumpy in a different way. He rarely left his cell, huddled on his bed with a blanket wrapped around him, unfeeling and unmoving. Terrified.

The inmate two cells down was infamous for his pruno - and fearless, too, considering how hard the officers came down on him. Elliot had never bothered because he’d had standards for his alcohol. Wouldn’t lower himself to drink booze fermented literally in a toilet.

Those didn’t matter anymore. If he couldn’t fucking die, if he had to live with this, he was going to do it drunk and unfeeling.

Every time it cost him a week’s worth of his Lucky Charms, always tasted like battery acid and left him violently ill more than once.

But after five years, he could finally sleep through the night.

5 years.

Lucy sent him divorce papers. He knew it was coming. Expected it. The only surprise was how long it took. Maybe she knew to wait when it would hurt him most. He didn’t know why it bothered him, why he even cared; their marriage had been over even before their son died. He signed them without hesitation, wondering if they would still be valid after he was fucking dead.

His head hurt. He gave up more of his Lucky Charms and kept drinking.

He intentionally spent his birthday in solitary. He had to keep both of his hands pressed against the wall so that it wouldn’t crush him, but at least here nobody could see him.

He turned 30. Great. Wonderful. He was so glad he’d made it this far.

His head hurt. He gave up more of his Lucky Charms and kept drinking.

Right around the corner was Alex his son’s birthday. He woke up on the concrete under his cot, a bruise forming on his shoulder where he’d been sleeping on it. The alcohol from last night had started to fade, but the taste of sugar (too sweet, far too sweet, even for him) lingered on the roof of his mouth. As all good birthdays should go, he spent the morning on his hands and knees in front of his toilet, retching up everything left of that vile alcohol concoction.

He dragged the sheet off his bed and began to twist it in his hands.

Over.

And over.

When he’d come back to himself and realized what he was doing, he frantically untied his knots, balled up the sheet, and shoved it through the bars of his cell.

I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I can’t go back.

His son should’ve been ten-years-old.

His head really hurt. He’d run out of Lucky Charms and, in his desperation, handed over all of his Oreos so he could keep drinking.

60 months.

Nobody had visited him, not once in 60 months. Nobody saw him, nobody cared for him, and nobody worried about him. His family probably forgot he existed entirely. That awful, terrible kid they’d been stuck with was gone, and everybody was the better for it.

Hadn’t this been what he’d always wanted? To disappear completely, to fade away? Turned out, it didn’t feel all that good after all.

Another inmate on job rotation stuck his arm through the bars of his cell door, an open package in his hand. Elliot was off his bed in a flash, shoving him away as hard as the barrier would allow.

I ain’t messing with you, man. It’s your mail. Elliot shook his head. He didn’t get mail. You’re Holt, right? He shrugged. You’re inmate 74G0171, his brain spit out at him. Listen, man, just take it. I have to hand these out before the hour’s over. Sort it out with the desk if it ain’t yours.

He stared for a few seconds, then held his hand out. The guy placed it in his palm and hauled ass out of there. Huh. It was almost as if he was afraid of something.

With his eyebrows furrowed, he inspected the package, which a guard had ripped open and lazily taped back together. The sender announced itself as Anthony Holt, in handwriting that had never been his uncle’s, and his brows creased further at the address of his childhood home. He separated the package along the previous seams to reveal a set of paperback books: The Complete Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe and To Kill a Mockingbird.

Huh.

Not expecting anything, he sent two words in reply: thank you.

1,827 days.

He never got a letter back, but he kept getting books - two at a time, three at a time, one at a time - until he had a healthy stack underneath his bed and one always tucked under his pillow.

They added money to his commissary account every month. He bought more Lucky Charms. More Oreos. A pair of glasses so he could actually read his fucking books.

For the first time in years, he felt some kind of calm. Not relaxed, never, but calm. The books kept his mind occupied, sent it somewhere outside his cell. They kept his hands occupied, always holding something. They filled the time until the lights were out, and the moon didn’t provide enough of it for him to see the page.

On Christmas, he’d sent a card. Merry Christmas. And thank you.

It wasn’t much, but he didn’t have much. And a foolish part of him still wanted to make an effort. He wanted them to care. He wanted them to love him.

Wanted beyond all measure just to talk to them.

4 years.

Intake day had become a spectacle, a performance of sorts. Lifers would pick a fish that looked weaker and less threatening and make an example of them.

Elliot found it distasteful.

Yet he watched, his arms crossed and his body leaning against the wall in the open doorway of his cell. It’d been a while since he started a fight (a year or more? No. The day before his 30th birthday). To his surprise, he had no desire to change that.

But Martinez… man, there was always something wrong with him. Far be it for Elliot to judge anyone; he’d long lost that right, but Martinez was all reputation, and he’d earned it as much as Elliot had. While he’d always picked on someone his own size, the schoolyard bully targeted the fish out of their depth, anyone who looked like they wouldn’t put up a fight. Martinez had a decade and a half on Elliot - both in age and sentence - and had used it to terrorize half their cellblock. He was sure half of his fights came from kids Martinez had chewed up long before Elliot made home here.

And, fuck, Elliot didn’t know what came over him. He wasn’t a stranger to this process, even if he never participated, and he’d never much cared about the aftermath. But it was something. The kid was small and scrawny; his jumpsuit, far too big for his frame, hung off his arms like a shield as he tried to protect himself. Maybe it was how genuinely terrified the kid looked, flat on his ass and trying to disengage, only for the crowd to kick him back. Maybe it was how he was a kid - if he were a day over 19, Elliot would be shocked.

He intervened. He planted himself between them, grabbed Martinez by the shirt, and swung hard enough to hear a crack. The adrenaline rush spiked and he had to fight against his base instinct to keep hitting until he saw blood. No. No. His only resolution for 2013 was to stay out of solitary. So when Martinez inevitably fought back, Elliot played dead - in a manner of speaking. Fell to the floor and let himself get hit once, twice, three times until guards finally intervened to pull them apart.

No, wait, the kid said, scrambling to get to his feet. He was protecting me; it wasn’t his fault.

The guards released him with a firm shove. He spit the blood out of his mouth and gave Martinez a salute. Pleasure doing business with you, dick.

The kid tried to follow him.

Thank you. Thank you. My name is Tre, he started to say. Elliot slammed his cell bars hard enough to make the whole cellblock rattle. Stared pointedly at the kid until he got the message.

The fish never learned.

48 months.

He’d done the first halfway decent thing he’d done, probably his entire life. Now he couldn’t get rid of the goddamn kid.

Sure, he seemed fine. Nice enough. The kind of kid he could’ve seen himself being friends with as a teenager. He was very young and so far out of his depth that he wasn’t in the same pool. The kind of kid who would get eaten alive if left to his own device

Elliot almost felt bad for him, but he couldn’t get involved more than he already had. It had taken him most of his sentence to find some solid ground. The slightest breeze could easily knock him off this fragile balance. Could spiral him right back to rock bottom - and he still remembered how to tie his sheets just right so they wouldn’t unravel.

I can’t go back. I can’t go back. I can’t go back.

Cell doors kept him away a lot of the time. An unspoken but fervently defended rule: never enter anybody else’s space. The first rule Elliot had learned and the first one the fish had, too. But whenever he entered common spaces, there the kid was, stuck a foot behind him like his fucking shadow.

Why the fuck are you following me? The kid seemed as surprised as Elliot felt. The first time he’d engaged with anyone in a meaningful way (namely, speaking real words to them), and it was to curse out an almost literal child.

Oh! You do talk!

Swell. It only encouraged him.

Stop fucking following me or I’ll be the next person beating the shit out of you. He didn’t mean it. He hoped he didn’t mean it.

The kid laughed. Not a malicious or mean-spirited laugh, meant to mock him for being so fucking stupid. But genuine, as if Elliot told him an actual joke. If you were going to do that, you would’ve let Martinez finish what he started.

That…was a fair point.

What the fuck d'you want? Elliot exhaled heavily, defeated.

Help. I saw how you parted that crowd like Moses. Elliot cocked an eyebrow. Moses? Parting the Red Sea? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Look, they’re gonna tear me apart in here. I want to know how you do it. How you scare everyone off.

He shook his head. No, kid. You don’t. God. Elliot would hate to see anyone else turn into him.

1,462 days.

Nevertheless, he persisted. Wasn’t deterred by Elliot’s complete apathy or dismissal and not even threats of violence phased him. The kid was scared out of his wits by everything and everyone else around him, but every time Elliot tried to threaten him into backing off, at worst he seemed mildly amused. To everyone else, Elliot was the fire-starter who had yet to meet a fight he couldn’t win - even while bleeding out like a stuck pig in the shower block. To the fish, Elliot was the guy who stood up for him while everyone else turned the other way.

And the fish used that to his own advantage. Would sit at Elliot’s lonely little table for one in the mess hall, occasionally attempt to start a conversation but often just sat in silence. Would try to share some of his food whenever he noticed Elliot just absently pushing everything around his tray.

You should eat more!

You should mind your own fucking business, how about that?

Nevertheless… Elliot was his shield, an impenetrable barrier between him and the worst of what prison had to offer. Because nobody who knew any better messed with Elliot - and that meant nobody messed with him, either.

All of Elliot’s self-preservation instincts told him to stop humoring the kid. Stop letting him get away with the free protection. Stop aligning himself with someone that everyone else saw as an easy target. Stop letting yourself get attached to the damn kid.If you have something, you have something to lose, and Elliot would never let himself lose anything again.

He should’ve forced the kid to back off. Showed him exactly why everyone was afraid of him in the first place. Made him regret that they ever crossed paths.

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

One afternoon, the kid’s passive attempts at communication turned active, standing at the open doorway of Elliot’s cell - not inside, but enough.

Not in the mood. Get out of my way. The kid didn’t budge, even as Elliot got closer. Get out of my way, he said a little more forceful. Once they were close enough, the kid grabbed his wrist and pressed a small metal tube into his hand.

He could tolerate the shadowing, the presence he’d started to feel even after lights out, even when he was alone. He could tolerate the rambling, the talking, the questions that were never answered but always asked. But the touching…god, the touching. He couldn’t be touched. Couldn’t stand to be reminded of his own body, of the skin he didn’t quite fit right inside of (and he’d only just been able to kill the invasive thought of peeling all of it off with a shard of mirror and starting over).

He should’ve done something about it. If Elliot had been anyone else, this kid would be half dead and on his way to Mount Vernon by now. But he wasn’t, and he didn’t. Instead, he stared at the thing in his hand, and desperately tried to ignore the crawling sensation under his skin that was threatening to overwhelm his better judgement. What is this?

I heard you like to read. It’s a flashlight. So you can read after lights out.

Contraband. The kid had either bartered something valuable, stolen it, or had someone smuggle it in from outside. For him. In any scenario, an incredible amount of effort to go through for a stranger, one who never gave the same effort or concern in return.

One who sure as hell didn’t deserve it.

He closed his fingers around the thing, hard enough to turn his knuckles white. He wanted to give it back, tell the kid to stop wasting his time and focus on himself. Tell him to get better instincts and learn not to trust somebody who would stab him in the back at the first opportunity.

But fuck him, he didn’t.

Why are you doing this, kid?

Why did you intervene to help me?

Elliot responded instantly, in spite of himself: Kids should be off-limits. It always came back to his son - he was the only thing Elliot ever thought about, despite how hard he tried not to. What if someone had been there for his son? Some older kid, savvy enough to know the horrors of their situation and how to get them out of it. Somebody who couldn’t stand by and let the cycle of violence keep churning out more tragedy.

The fish wasn’t literally a child, but he was young enough. Too young for all of this. Too young for Elliot to be able to walk away with a clear conscience. So he’d done what he wished somebody had done for his son, what he wished somebody had done for him: saved them.

Maybe if they had, none of them would be here.

Thank you. For the flashlight. But don’t ever fucking touch me again.

3 years.

My mom was sick. Really sick for a long time. And there was never enough time or money for everything, you know? She prioritized us over herself, even when it almost killed her. Like, see, my dad left when my brother was a baby, and the system didn’t care about a black single mother, so when I turned 18 and a friend told me there was a way I could get quick cash…I didn’t hesitate. I would’ve done anything for my mom.

Tre was open. Honest. Trusting. Great qualities to have in a young man (more than once, an unpleasant thought popped into Elliot’s head: I hope my son would’ve turned out like you). Terrible qualities to have in an incarcerated inmate.

He was a target because of that trust. Because he was too young and naïve to know when someone had taken advantage of him. And it had started long before prison, if his story were any clue. Some bad actor preyed on a vulnerable teenager in a terrible situation and that vulnerable teenager, desperate to help someone he loved, didn’t have the life experience to know the offer was too good to be true.

Kids should be off-limits. And Tre was a kid, as far as Elliot was concerned. Being over 18 may have made him an adult in the eyes of the legal system (and whatever dumbass judge thought it was a good idea to send him to a maximum security prison) but it didn’t make him an adult.

I kind of got arrested by accident. Elliot exhaled, sharp, a sound that could almost be considered a laugh. Leave it to Tre to describe getting sent to prison as an accident. When the cops showed up, we weren’t actually doing anything. No dealing, nothing suspicious, just loitering, really. But we had stuff that we weren’t supposed to and the two guys I was with bailed on me. Let me take the fall for the drugs and stuff we’d stolen - and I had a gun. Tre poked through a bag of mini pretzels as if he were looking for something specific inside of it. Maybe for an answer to his problems, or an explanation for how things had gone so wrong (if he found it, Elliot hoped he would share). Stretched out across Elliot’s cot, wearing his slippers, surrounded by a half dozen other bags of pretzels he’d opened and promptly abandoned; Elliot didn’t know what he was looking for but didn’t question him. Elliot sat with his feet up on his desk, studiously separating marshmallow from cereal.

He clicked his tongue in acknowledgement. Guns added an automatic two years to a sentence. That seemed ridiculous now. Kid didn’t look like he even knew how to hold one. The law had made so much sense to him in a classroom, when it was all theory and speculation. In practice, in reality? It didn’t make much sense anymore.

He turned his attention to Tre, just watching him, and he made a point of not returning his gaze. Hm. He had a black raven tattooed on the inside of his left forearm, right below the crook his elbow. It seemed to hold Elliot’s gaze, red eyes staring back, almost judging him. Got wrapped up with the Cuervo’s?

Elliot hadn’t gotten very far into his career before his life went off the rails, but he’d read enough paperwork during his endless years clerking to recognize the gang signs when they were so obvious. Without making eye contact, Tre pulled his sleeve down to his wrist. Yeah. I believed what they were selling me at first. Stupid, right?

No, kid. Not at all.

Tre was open, honest, trusting; because he had Elliot, he was allowed to be. But they couldn’t always be together. Such was the life of an inmate, bound to a strict schedule of when and where.

#044 #unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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ELLIOT:

Normally, he loved the quiet. It meant no shouting, no arguing, no aggression. It meant peace and calm and one solid, single moment that felt like it belonged to him and him alone.

Now he felt almost overwhelmed by it, in the chill and the dark of his bedroom, still fully dressed and flat on his back on his bed. Staring straight up, at the faint light from the glow-in-the-dark stars he’d begged Christian to stick to his ceiling when he was six (or the ones that hadn’t yet fallen off, anyway), his mind racing and thoughts dominated by Chelsea.

Chelsea. So kind and patient with him, not even angry or upset when he’d showed up late to their date (date? Was it a date? She kissed me, it had to be a date). Not mad at him. Not mad at him, but almost…worried? Concerned? The look in her eyes when she saw him, something like relief. There’s nothing you could do or say to make me hate you, she’d said, so matter of fact, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like she’d really believed it. It was nice to hear, even if it might not be entirely true (everyone hated him, no matter his best efforts. She would hate him. She had to hate him).

Chelsea, well within her rights to smack him across the face when he kissed her, but she hadn’t. Or when he kissed her again. And again. And again. Who kissed him. Who kept kissing him.

Chelsea, so sweet and caring, who watched him walk up the steps to a total stranger’s house, clearly waiting for him to get inside safe and sound. He’d had to stall at the doorstep as he pretended to look for his keys and prayed that the owners wouldn’t come out and blow his cover, until Chelsea seemed satisfied and drove off. Only then could he get his ass off someone else’s lawn, take the two blocks back to his actual house, climb back up his trellis and flop himself down in the same position he’d been in for a solid hour.

God, Chelsea. He’d been right, before. There was no one like her. Nobody would ever come close. How had he made it through the last couple of years without her? How would he make it through anything else without her? She was everything.

Okay. Sleep. The glow on his new alarm clock told him the minutes were ticking ever closer to one am, and he did have to go to school tomorrow (fuck, homework. He hadn’t done his homework. He would do it during first period, it was fine). He’d be able to think about Chelsea some more at school, if she didn’t spend all night in his dreams. Rolled off the edge of his bed and kicked his shoes off, slowly changed into his pajamas, all his movements feeling sluggish and awkward. Elliot only had so much space in his brain to accomplish tasks and all of it was currently occupied by Chelsea. Her smile, her laugh, the dimples in her cheeks. The way her bangs fell down over her eyes after he kissed her, shyly looking up at him in surprise. Her lips. Soft. So soft, tasting faintly of Chapstick.

When he pulled his fish out of his box, never ready to sleep without Troy, he remembered that strange, unmarked envelope. Sitting among the cassettes, so simple and unassuming. He pulled both of them out and sat back on his bed, huddled close to his lamp. Tore open the envelope to reveal a lined piece of paper folded in half once, shadows of the words bleeding to the other side of the page.

I don’t know if you’re getting these. Maybe dad throws them away. Maybe you moved. Maybe you’re ignoring me. But I’ll keep trying until I hear something from you. Until I know you’re okay. You don’t have to see me, but I just need to know you’re okay. I miss you. I love you.

Christian’s name was scrawled across the bottom of note, next to an address written with a precise care. The kind only his brother had. No fucking way. He held the page closer to his face, like his poor eyesight was changing the words written, lying to him. The address was in Wilmington. In Wilmington. Christian was still here? And fucking close, apparently - he recognized the name of the apartment building, one he passed every day on his way to school. They had a big, obvious sign on the side of the street, a monument he used to mark when he was halfway to or from school.

He could’ve ignored it entirely. Wrote it off as some kind of sick prank from someone at school. It sounded like something members of the football team would’ve done to him: look up his family, find his brother’s name, write a fake little note leading him to an empty room where they were waiting to beat the shit out of him.

But. But what if it wasn’t? What would be worse: temporary humiliation from football players he already experienced daily humiliation from? Or missing out on the chance to look his brother in the eye one more time? So he clambered out of bed again, shoved his shoes back on and hauled his ass right back out the window.

It was the middle of the night, cold as hell, and he was wandering down the street in a set of flannel pajamas (too big for him, fucking of course), clutching Troy in his fist like a protective weapon. As if a ten-inch long piece of cotton and stuffing would scare anyone off. But he had to know. Either way it went, he needed an answer and he was going to get it right fucking now, while he was riding the high of confidence Chelsea had given him. If this turned out well, it was because of her. And if not, at least he could say he had the courage to try.

The main door into the building wasn’t locked or guarded, allowing him to slip in and up the stairwell, counting out the doors until he found the one indicated in the letter. Elliot took a deep breath, steeling himself for any possible outcome, and knocked the side of his fist against the door.

He stood there for a decent few minutes, knocking on the door with no response. Like some kind of crazy person, a homeless kid with a fish banging on a door that may or may not belong to his brother. Just when he was about to lose his nerve and give up, he heard heavy footsteps behind the door, the sound of a lock being pulled and disengaged. The door opened as far as the length of a security chain.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, do you know what time it - ”

The voice stopped immediately once they both locked eyes through the open space between them.

The door clicked closed, the chain slid off its track and the door opened fully in the time it took Elliot to blink, to think, to process situation in front of him. Christian pulled him into a tight hug, arms crushed around his shoulders. Elliot was as tall as his brother, now, almost head to head the same height; he didn’t have to stand on his tiptoes anymore. Suddenly, Christian didn’t seem so big, so otherworldly - he just seemed like a person.

This had been a possible outcome, one he was anticipating, one he was hoping for. The reality of it still hit Elliot hard, awkward, and he stood statue still, his arms hanging uselessly at his sides. He wanted to push Christian away, because he had his answer now: Christian was alive, he was fine, and it turned out that he had abandoned Elliot after all. What more was there to do after that?

Instead of all that, in spite of the angry, upset voice in his head, he hugged Christian back. Tightened his fingers in the fabric of his shirt, tucked his head against his brother’s shoulder and fucking cried. Sobbed, even. And he was eleven-years-old again, not fully understanding his big, overwhelming emotions but knowing that Christian was there, that he understood, and that everything would end up okay. Maybe not today, or even tomorrow, but it would be. It had to be.

And now they were both crazy, standing in the open doorway of an old, slightly worn-down apartment building, well past one in the morning. Elliot was surprised he hadn’t drawn more of an audience with the all the noise he made, but there they stood in silence, uninterrupted.

For a minute. Maybe two. Maybe five. Maybe an hour. It didn’t matter, because it didn’t feel long enough, anyway. It felt like there wasn’t enough time left to make up for what they had already lost. To make up for everything that had happened because of it. And too soon, too soon, Christian let him go, holding him by the shoulders at an arm’s length. Inspecting him. Wondering if he were real, probably. Seemed only fair, as Elliot was doing the same thing. What’s the catch, the nagging little voice in his head chimed in. Things don’t ever go this well for you.

No. They didn’t.

“Look at you.” Christian was the one to break the silence, as he usually had been. He’d never liked to let an awkward moment linger too long - it had been the cause of a lot of fights, Elliot remembered, with his father demanding peace and quiet for once every time they dared to try and speak to each other (I’m trying to help Elliot with his homework was never an acceptable response). “My little brother isn’t so little anymore.” I’m almost an adult. That’s what happens after six years. He shrugged a shoulder, eyes trained at a spot on the floor. Not so brave and confident now, are you?

“What’s wrong with you, do you know what time it is?” He repeated, this time without the frustrated edge in his voice. Not like a man roused from sleep by an insane person, but as an older sibling teasing a younger one.

“I’m sorry, I - I - ” Elliot reached into his pocket to pull out the now crumpled letter, crushed it further in his fist out of anxiousness. Showed it as a way of explanation, an excuse, an apology. “I’m sorry. I - I had to know if it was true.” I had to know if I was crazy for even hoping.

Christian let him go fully, instead pointedly wrapping his arms over his chest, holding himself at an unnatural angle to cover his left arm with his right. Like he was attempting to hide something. Elliot flicked his eyes to his face, waiting for him to say something about it. He knew better than that. Knew better than to expect explanations from someone with a not-so-inconspicuous secret. Was this what he looked like to Chelsea? Hiding his face, scared to let her roll up his sleeves? Man. How had she not caught him out? Christian nodded into the dark backdrop of his apartment. “Come on, bud. Let’s get out of the hall.”

Elliot hesitated a few beats too long, long enough for Christian to notice and soften his posture, put his arm back on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You can come in. I’ll get you a drink. Water,” he clarified. Overexplained.

“I’m sorry, it’s - I know - I know it’s late.” Also overexplained, almost as if the two of them had been raised in the same household or something. “I’m - I’m so sorry - I don’t mean to bother you and your - ”

“There’s nobody else here, Ell. It’s just me.”

“I’m still so-”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

Yeah. That’s where they had a difference of opinion. He didn’t have anything else to say other than I’m sorry, over and over and over, because the two of them were well and truly strangers now. And strangers didn’t get to show up unannounced to the other’s house in the middle of the goddamn night.

“It’s the middle of the night.” Dark and quiet, the way he normally liked it. There was a small light plugged into the base of the wall near his feet, the glow from a streetlamp leaking in through a thin curtain on the other side of the room, just enough light to make out silhouettes of furniture around him, but not much else. It felt empty, even without being able to see it. Smelled the way Christian’s old room back at their house did: a little dusty, like nobody actually lived there.

“Well, yeah - I’d prefer we don’t make a habit out of this,” he could hear Christian’s voice, couldn’t see him behind the vague shape of what was probably a fridge. “I’m not mad at you, though.”

Make it a habit, he’d said, as if it were just a given they’d do this again. Like it were the most obvious thing in the world. Like Elliot wasn’t currently trying to map out his escape route. “You haven’t changed at all, have you,” Elliot said, deadpan. Jealous. They might’ve been raised in the same household (or something) but it just didn’t feel the same for Christian. Not like Elliot, hoping that the shadows would completely swallow him if he stood still long enough.

“Hm. How do you figure?”

Elliot could kind of see him now, a few feet away. Arms crossed again, probably giving him the same expression he did when he’d ask Elliot to explain his work when he got questions wrong on his homework. Fitting, because he sure as hell was eight-years-old again, not understanding how three times three equaled nine, only knowing that it did. Now this felt like an interrogation.

“Confident.” Well, he probably wanted the truth, right? For some reason, Elliot didn’t find the truth so difficult right now. “Sure of yourself. Like if you say something, it’s going to happen because you said it would.”

“Huh, cool. I guess you can be anything you want when you’re faking it.”

Oh. What? Now that didn’t sound like his brother. Not even tired, but totally exhausted, and not because of the late hour. Oh, his childhood hero worship of his older brother didn’t like that at all. As an adult (okay, almost one), realistically he knew the deified version of his brother that he’d constructed in his head was false - they had grown up in the same household. A lot of the fights he had now with their father were fights he’d grown up hearing Christian have with their father: missed chores, bad grades, taking up too much space as human beings. Existing, breathing, being. The excuses didn’t matter, so their father used them over and over.

But there was a key difference, and the reason Elliot venerated his brother so goddamn much: he didn’t have to protect anyone. He never saw a version of Christian other than the one that stood up to their father, stood up for him. How was a child supposed to see the person that kept the monsters away as anything other than a hero? As some kind of knight in a fairytale, slaying the dragon and saving the day? Christian would always make up stories to tell him at night and in every single one of them, Christian was the brave, mythical prince that Elliot pictured. Of course he was.

They were both older now. Elliot, well into 17, filling out college applications in the vain hope he’d ever be able to get out of that house; Christian was - shit, he was 24. Actually an adult. The kind of an adult that paid taxes and had a job and partner that probably wouldn’t like some weirdo child breaking into his house out of nowhere.

Christian clicked on a table lamp and crashed down on the couch next to it. Offered Elliot a water bottle and the seat next to him, patting down the cushion in an invitation to sit. He didn’t, instead inspecting the room now that he could see his surroundings (mostly). It looked exactly like he’d expected, exactly like both of their childhood bedrooms. Empty. Cold. Devoid of anything personal or sentimental, because it wasn’t worth getting attached to something that could disappear in an instant.

“Yeah. I still keep everything in a locked box under my bed. Can’t seem to break that habit.” Christian must have noticed him staring. Shit, was he that obvious? He didn’t want to be that obvious. He cast his eyes down at nothing, instead, arms clasped behind his back. Holding Troy in a death grip, squeezed like a stress ball. “Sit down, bud. You’re making me anxious.”

That makes two of us.

So, like the very good little eight-year-old he was, he ate his vegetables and did his homework and listened to his brother. The couch was shockingly uncomfortable and probably older than both of them combined, but Elliot wasn’t about to say that out loud.

“Holy shit, you still have that fish?” Huh? Elliot looked down at his hands - right. Duh. The fish. Christian sounded both surprised and delighted, and of course. The fact that it had lasted this long was a small miracle. Elliot might forget to take the trash out sometimes, but he never forgot to hide Troy when he wasn’t home. Christian traded fish for water, which seemed kind of backwards, somehow, to turn it over in his hands. Inspecting it. Yeah. That fish was the only thing Elliot took meticulous care of. “You still have this thing,” he said it again, this time in…disbelief? Like he was shocked Elliot kept something that meant the world to him. Like he’d expected Elliot to forget about the only person who’d ever cared about him, or something. Too bad he didn’t care about you enough. “Do you remember that? When we got this? You had to try and fish out a duck with a magnet on a string. I sucked at it. Spent all the money I had playing this stupid game. I think the guy running the game took pity on me and - ”

“You left me.” Elliot hadn’t meant to interrupt, felt rude and weird doing it; once again, his mouth and brain were operating independent of one another. Yeah. He remembered that day - kids aren’t stupid and neither am I. He remembered seeing another kid around Christian’s age, winning a massive stuffed toy for a kid around Elliot’s age - probably also two brothers. And little tiny Elliot, actually having fun and spending time with his brother that didn’t feel messy and tragic, had tugged on Christian’s shirt and asked can you win me a toy? Christian was right - he had fucking sucked at all the games he played. But he never stopped, never told Elliot sorry, I can’t get you a toy, just kept trying and kept trying until Elliot was able to walk home cuddling his new best friend.

So, yeah. He remembered that. He also remembered that Christian was gone less than two years later.

“Elliot, I - ”

“No. No. I’m going to say what I have to say and you’re going to shut up and listen to me.” He didn’t like feeling angry. Didn’t like the terrible ache it left in his chest or the loud voice in his head telling him that that was exactly something his father would’ve said. Maybe Christian realized it too, saw the similarities, because he didn’t try to say anything else. Nodded at him to continue. And Elliot almost lost all of his fucking nerve, because no matter how mad at Christian he was, he was angrier at himself for feeling like their father.

“You want to reminisce? Did you know that dad tore the goddamn house apart the day you left? No, he - he tore my room apart. Kept screaming at me, wanting me to tell him where you were. And I just kept saying, I don’t know, I don’t know - because I fucking didn’t. Did you know that the day you left was the first time that dad hit me? He, uh - he pushed me down the stairs, uh - because I wouldn’t tell him where you were. I don’t know, I don’t know. That wasn’t good enough. He - he gave up eventually, he couldn’t beat information out of me that I didn’t have.”

Yeah. Elliot remembered how grateful he’d been for Christian as child. But he remembered everything after he was gone a whole lot more. He remembered today, and yesterday. The days and weeks and years before that. He remembered every inconvenience or issue or annoyance that their father took out on him, even when he wasn’t the cause of them. Remembered every night he spent curled in that same spot in his closet, trying to convince himself that Christian was going to come back and, when he did, that this would be the first place he’d look.

“You left. I know why. I - I know why. But you left me. You left me there. You were gone and you left me and you - you knew what would happen. You knew he would hurt me and you left me. Did you - was it because I deserved it? Did I have to pay my dues, too, so I could know what it felt like? Did I have to - to be stronger? Was I - was I not enough of a man?”

Christian may have been the one at the end of anything physical for a long time, but Elliot had still been there. Heard everything their father said to him, everything their father did to him, because there was no place in that house that was truly safe. Any time Elliot would make a mistake, do something wrong, break a plate or glass, either accidentally or on purpose (because he was a child desperate for attention), Christian would always take the blame. Never hesitated to put himself in danger to keep Elliot out of it. Had he resented that?

Elliot never asked him to, never wanted him to. If he could go back and tell Christian to let him take responsibility for his own actions, he would. If being the punching bag a time or two instead would’ve made Christian take him when he left, he would’ve done it.

“I’m sorry - whatever I did, whatever I didn’t do, that made you want to leave me there, I’m sorry. If there was something I could’ve done that made you want to come back, I - ”

“I was in jail, Ell.”

“You - what?”

“Did you say everything you wanted to?”

Honestly…they were kind of past that, now. His anger had deflated almost immediately, because he wasn’t even really angry; Elliot was just fucking sad and sorry. Blamed himself for everything their father had done to Christian after he was born, blamed himself for everything their father had done once Christian left. Blamed himself for his brother leaving in the first place. Blamed himself for this whole stupid situation they were in right now. “Yeah. I - I’m done.”

“Let me make something very clear, Elliot: you did not deserve any of this. I wish like hell you never had to know what it felt like. You are not weak and you were ten - you’re not supposed to be a man.

"I was going to. I was going to take you. But I talked myself out of it because - because I was scared. Of dad calling the police and them just giving you right back to him. Of spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I was just scared.”

Scared. That was the last word Elliot would ever use to describe his brother. Christian was fearless; Elliot was the one who was constantly terrified. Terrified of the sound of a door slamming, of a car engine in the driveway. Footsteps on the stairs and the branches on the tree outside his window every time they’d blow into the glass. The world that extended past him was terrifying and all-consuming. Every sound seemed to be the harbinger of punishment that was his father. It was hard to imagine his brother dreading the same things he did, the same sounds, the same days.

“You slept with a bat under your bed.”

“Hm?”

Stay with me, Chris. It made sense to the stream of consciousness inside of his head. He had to recontextualize a lot of the memories he had from his childhood, and maybe take his brother off the impossibly high pedestal Elliot had put him on. “When I came into your room in middle of the night, you’d grab it. In case I was dad, right?”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s exactly why. Probably wouldn’t have done me much good, though - I sucked at sports. I would’ve missed if I had to swing it.”

“Are you making jokes to stall so you don’t have to tell me the story?”

“Yes, I am. You’re not supposed to notice.”

“You’re bad at it.” Christian gasped, all dramatic and mock-offended, hand to his chest and everything. Yeah, he was still doing it. Seemed so obvious when he knew what he was looking for. “How’d you end up in jail, Chris?”

—————–

“If you want to do some shitty storytelling - I remember when you were born. It stuck with me because it was the last time mom felt like…a mom. She would let me listen to her belly when you got big enough to move around in there. And because that was when dad was starting to get like dad. I remember the first time he hit me, too, you know.

I don’t even think you were a year old at that point. Still in a crib, still in diapers, all that. It was late and you were crying and I was standing next to the crib, shaking this teddy bear rattle thing to calm you down. But you kept crying and crying - I don’t know, you were a baby. I was - I was standing on one of the dining room chairs so I could see over the crib, you know, and dad comes storming out of his room, hits me hard enough to knock me off of it, and tells me to stop making so much fucking noise. Then he tells me if I didn’t shut you up, he would do it himself. And I didn’t know what that meant, but he was pretty fucking mad. So I dragged you out of the crib and made you a blanket nest on the floor in my room. You calmed down, after that. I don’t think you liked being alone out in the living room.”

“I’m sorry I got you into trouble.”

Christian sighed, maybe a little exasperated that that was what Elliot took away from his story. It was probably deserved. “Elliot, bud. You were literally a baby. Babies cry.”

——————

I saw a dozen lawyers, every single one of whom might as well have just laughed in my face.“

——————

"I’ve tried to be like you my whole life.” Strong. Unafraid. The person who could face down monsters without flinching. The person who could make him feel safe even when they were in hell.

“You should try being like yourself, instead.”

“I like you more than I like me.”

“Elliot, I - I hate myself a whole hell of a lot, too. I don’t want you to be like me.”

——————

“You’re right. I did know. I thought if I did things the right way, the way I was supposed to, I could get you out and maybe after a while you wouldn’t remember any of it. What the fuck did I know? I was your age, I hadn’t graduated high school yet, I was sleeping on David’s mom’s couch - somehow I thought that wouldn’t matter to some judge. You were my brother, what else did they need to know?”

“I remember David. He gave me these massive chocolate bars every time I saw him.” Friends didn’t come around very often (or never), but…again, Christian had always been braver. More defiant. And those last two years he’d stopped holding back completely; in hindsight, it was probably because he knew he was going to be gone soon and wanted to piss their dad off as much as possible. Sure, David had probably been a little bit more than a friend, and single digit-aged Elliot had probably crashed a dozen dates without really knowing, but they always welcomed him. “I liked him.”

“So did I. But his mom didn’t like me and spent the entire time I stayed there making me feel as unwelcome as possible.”

#high school au 002 #unfinished

0 notes

ellseas · 2 months ago

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1:15PM, SATURDAY. NOVEMBER 7TH, 2020.

Weekends were her favourite. Unoriginal but true. Getting to see Elliot during the daytime, with the California sun shining? Unparalleled. Days spent together could never be topped, and getting two of them in a row? Saturday and Sunday? It made Chelsea happy. The time spent was only interrupted by their very many small children, her Mom - who was always around to help out, thank God - and the tasks and chores they tried to get done with the extra assistance. Insurance. Donna and Elliot got the kids sorted with lunch while she gave Luca a feed upstairs. Once he was done, Chelsea put him down for a nap. Skipped downstairs to find the kids busy and amused with Grandma: Vanessa snuggled into Donna on the couch, fixated on Blues Clues on the TV; Jack drawing in a colouring book on the floor; Isaac playing in his toy kitchen, making play food for his restaurant. Good! Her grin grew.

She found Elliot in her studio, Charlie asleep across his lap. Attending to his task of clearing out the garage before she got the chance to. Chelsea leaned against the doorpost between the studio and the laundry room, pinching her smile between her teeth. "Hi, baby." Charlie twitched in his sleep at the sound of her voice. She giggled. "Thank you for doing this for me." She said, soft. An extra flutter to her eyelashes. "Love you." Slightly teasing. Always true. She always had to say it - and she was always going to mean it.

She swiped an empty wicker clothes basket from the bench and held it against her hip. Blew Elliot a kiss goodbye. She didn't want to distract him any further, and she couldn't have him distracting her when she had mountains of laundry to get through. A mental list she recited in her head to remember: take the clothes off the line, hang the wet clothes from the washer, put another load on.

Another distraction got her out of her head: Jack standing in the kitchen waiting for her, crayons and blank piece of paper in hand.

"Hey, little man." Chelsea ruffled his hair, so obviously strawberry blonde and bright with the sun streaming in through the windows in the breakfast nook. Jack cupped his tiny hand over her growing stomach. Glanced up at her with a toothy grin. "Are you saying hello to your little sister?" Chelsea involuntarily pouted. He was so fucking cute. Her biggest boy, her biggest baby. How was he almost three-and-a-half years old already?

"Yes!" He bopped her belly with the tip of his nose. "Hello, baby!" He greeted her with loud, complete enthusiasm. Rubbed a spot back and forth on her bump to see if he could get a reaction.

"We can't feel her yet, bub. She's gotta grow for a few more weeks, then she'll be able to say hello back." Chelsea joined him, stroking her stomach with her spare hand. "I know she can't wait to meet you, though."

Jack seemed happy enough with that answer, hugging her completely. Paper and crayons digging into her back as he wrapped both arms around her midsection. She dropped the basket to meet his embrace, leaning down to cuddle him back. "She loves you already! And so do I, JJ." Chelsea said into his hair, voice shaking at the sign of oncoming tears. Hormones. Happiness. Whatever. She cleared her throat. Only pulled back when he did.

"I love you, too." Jack grinned, eyes darting toward the laundry basket, attention quickly shifting. "Can I carry it? Please?"

Chelsea snorted, surprised. "If you want to, buddy." Jack handed her his drawing materials without another word and lifted the empty basket up.

"Ready!" He announced, a little unsteady on his feet. It was clearly too big for his body, but he held it anyway.

"You're exactly like your Daddy, y'know that?" Chelsea shook her head with a smile, all affection. He'd clearly copied this from Elliot: always touching her pregnant stomach, always helping her out around the house. Jack giggled in response, happy with this answer, too. He followed her outside, waddling with the wicker basket in his arms. Salem ran for the sliding door as soon as it was open, slinking inside the house with an exaggerated meow. "Hello to you, too." Chelsea huffed, waving the cat off with Jack's piece of paper in hand.

Jack dumped the basket as soon as he hit the decking. Ran for his dinosaur trike and got riding. Huh. A clear ulterior motive behind his wanting to help - funnily enough, it was still exactly like Elliot, honestly. "Be careful, buddy. Where's your helmet?" It didn't matter that they were only in the backyard and that he was only going to be riding around on the decking or soft grass. They were a cautious household! They visited hospital enough, thank you! Safety first, always. Chelsea set his blank piece of paper down on the little picnic table on the decking, and weighted it in place with his crayons. With her hands free, she could help him with his helmet. It matched his tricycle in theme, covered in dinosaurs he knew how to say the names of. Tyrannosaurus rex, Stegosaurus, Apatosaurus. He was so smart. He got that from Elliot, too. Honestly. Chelsea adjusted the strap on his helmet and clicked it in tight. "Okay, go have fun, honey." She popped a kiss to his cheek and let him go on his way. Time to get back to the laundry.

Every row of the clothesline was full. Coloured pegs kept everything from blowing away, and she decided to keep them on the line for the next load while she yanked a pair of Vanessa's socks off. She tucked them into each other and tossed them inside the basket. God. It never ended. So many clothes for so many children. Usually, she liked to hang the smaller stuff, socks and underwear, on a drying rack inside so she didn't waste room on the line for bigger items of clothing. A few more of Vanessa's socks slipped through, then a couple pairs of Elliot's briefs that she folded into the basket with a grin dimpling her cheeks. They probably counted as big articles of clothing though, huh? Stupid things she thought about to amuse herself, to get through menial chores. Laundry was never-ending, and thinking about her husband was never gonna get boring. She thought about later, when her mom was gone and all the babies were asleep, and they'd finally have proper alone time together. That made doing all of these chores separately now worth it. For the promise of later.

She was folding a pair of her maternity jeans when Jack abandoned his trike to do some drawing. Instead of sitting at the picnic table, he laid on his tummy on the deck, feet joyfully kicking through the air while he coloured. Chelsea smiled at him from across the way. He still had his helmet on, strapped under his chin. He pushed it off his forehead slightly so he could see his artwork better. He was getting really good at colouring between the lines. He could count up to twenty. He talked a lot. He must've gotten that from her, huh? Smarts from Elliot, and everything else from Chelsea. "Good job, baby!" She called out, placing more folded clothes into the basket.

Chelsea was taking it slow, watching Jack out of her periphery as she unpegged and folded about half of the clothesline. The squeak of the glass doors sliding open got her to turn her head toward the house. "Daddy!" Jack exclaimed, vocally expressing the excitement Chelsea felt in her heart. He used his hands to push himself up into a sitting position, and Elliot crouched down to meet him at his level. Chelsea couldn't hear them from across the yard, but she kept an eye on them, anyway. It was always a sight to see. Jack flailed his piece of paper, his artwork, around in front of Elliot's face, gifting it to him. Elliot took it in his hand and seemed to look it over, matching Jack's enthusiasm. Pointing at different parts of the drawing and heaping him with praise, she was sure.

She stopped folding for a moment to caress her baby bump. "You're a lucky one, baby girl." Chelsea hummed, eyes fixed on Elliot and Jack on the decking. Jack threw his arms around Elliot's neck, knocking his face a little with his huge helmet. Elliot didn't seem to mind, hugging him closer. Chelsea glanced down at her stomach, thumb brushing back and forth over her shirt. "You have such a great dad. The best. You'll see." Looking down made it easier to blink past the tears that welled up in her eyes. Pregnant or not, she could never seem to make it a single day without crying. Try as she might!

She folded a skirt and added it neatly to the pile in her basket. Another row clear! She threw another glance over her shoulder to see Elliot trying to unclip Jack's helmet, and Jack shaking his head in refusal. Tapping his little fists against the hard material. Chelsea laughed under her breath. That was Elliot's tantrum to deal with, not her! But the next time she looked up, they were walking over to her; helmet still secure on Jack's head, Elliot holding him up with a strong, single arm. And Chelsea felt like being the one to throw the tantrum. How? How did Elliot hold their almost three-and-a-half year old son with ease? With one very muscly, very on-display bicep? Arms completely bulky and exposed wearing a plain, loose tank top. Talk about artwork. Chelsea blew a raspberry, lips trilling to release some of her (sexual) frustration, and tried her best to stay composed as they got closer.

"My boys." Chelsea said to them with a grin, folding another pair of jeans down to keep up appearances. To make it seem like she was entirely casual and unaffected. She made a point of continuing her chores, even as Elliot stopped right behind her. She couldn't let him win! His breath close to her ear pulled goosebumps up on her skin; made her shiver and shift in place.

"I have a present for you." Elliot whispered; sexy, seductive. Playful.

"Oh yeah?" She replied, matching his tone. Chelsea's eyes fluttered shut, expecting a kiss. A kiss on the cheek, at least. But then his body heat was gone, and he was retreating back to the house with Jack in tow, and there was a book sitting in her laundry basket. Chelsea's forehead creased. She pouted toward the sliding doors, even if he couldn't see it. She wanted a kiss! Unfair! She tossed one of his shirts back over the line to get it out of her hands, and reached down to retrieve his present from the basket.

She wasn't exactly sure what she was looking at. A notebook? Elliot's? His journal on his bedside didn't look like this. Maybe some of her workbooks from school or college that he found in one of garage boxes? Chelsea turned the book over in her hands. It was a composition notebook, like the kind she'd used back in school. The pages were slightly yellowed and turned up at the edges. Scuffed. Weathered. No name on the front, only a combination of numbers and letters in Elliot's handwriting. 74G0171. She didn't know what that meant. Traced her fingertip over the imprints the pen had made into the hard cover. What was this?

September 4, 2007 date-marked the top of the first page in a scrawl. Oh. Okay. Chelsea closed it, a lump stuck in her throat that made it hard to swallow. Made it hard to breathe. She hadn't realised, hadn't known that Elliot had written in a journal before this year. But it made sense, didn't it? Going back to that routine and comfort after the trauma of Luca's birth because he'd done it before? During his prison sentence? "Shit." Chelsea muttered, stumbling toward the pole of the clothesline to steady herself. Stay upright. Felt like she'd had the wind knocked out of her. This was... a lot. Not for her, not really - but for Elliot. And he just strolled out, all sexy and cool, and metaphorically dropped it in her lap? Called it a present, because he wanted her to have it. He wanted her to read it? He wanted her to know it all?

---

They had their nighttime routine down pat. Baths for all the kids after the mess of dinner, every night like clockwork. Divide and conquer: the twins in one bathtub, Jack and Luca in the other one across the hall. They switched who bathed who every few days, trying to keep it even. Fair and equal. The kids were obvious with their favourites though, and that always seemed to carry over to bedtime - Elliot with Jack and Vanessa, Chelsea with Isaac and Luca. Stories, and their sippy cups filled with water. The Bear and Bonty, and Vanessa's unnamed plush toy octopus. Luca getting milk drunk into sleep and submission. Isaac, always consistent, always the hardest to put down for the night.

Isaac didn't like sleeping in his crib, only ever in someone else's arms. Didn't like sleeping in his room all alone. He'd been separated from Vanessa ever since moving houses in May, and he still fought it tooth and nail every time. Every night like clockwork. They hadn't been able to transition him out of a crib and into a toddler bed yet like they had for Nessa. They'd be back together soon enough. Elliot and Chelsea had to, eventually, make room for their little Sunflower, and putting the twins back in the same room made the most sense. The sooner the better, at this point. 18 and a half weeks pregnant meant she was almost halfway through - or over halfway, if they were going by Luca-math. Yeah... That was a scary thought she tried not to dwell on! Isaac would feel better when he was back bunking with Vanessa. Chelsea was sure she'd feel better, too.

Things got a whole lot easier once all the kids were finally asleep, and Chelsea got to meet Elliot in the peace and quiet of their room downstairs. Their personal bedtime routine almost always involved sex. No matter how tired they were, no matter how many tantrums were thrown by a kid in the minutes or hours beforehand, they just couldn't seem to stop themselves. Sometimes it'd happen mid-episode of a TV show, or mid-sketch or crochet, or Elliot halfway through a book or a casefile with his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, and Chelsea knocking her laptop off the bed to give them room to properly work. Sometimes, though, it was purposeful. Planned; sharing a look over the dinner table or smacking the others ass when they passed in the hallway. Sneaking a kiss or a tease or a proposition between coaxing a baby to sleep.

They couldn't be helped. They had nobody else to blame for their Brady Bunch of kids but themselves! And they had another one on the way, for crying out loud! They were relentless. Had almost been together three years now (which didn't make much mathematical sense to Chelsea at all given how many kids they actually had) and they still had sex like rabbits. Like rabid, horny teenagers. The honeymoon phase of a relationship or marriage was a myth for them. A downright lie. They never stopped, and she'd be surprised if they ever did. Chelsea sure as hell never wanted to.

Tonight was simple: no TV on in the background, nothing else to distract them from each other. No toys or restraints, just good ol' fashioned sex.

They somehow managed to time it perfectly and met at the top of the stairs. So perfectly in sync that Chelsea slung her arms around Elliot's neck at the exact moment that he reached forward to hold her hips in his hands. She tilted her forehead to his. "God, I've been wanting to fuck you all day." She whispered, wary that they were still upstairs and in the vicinity of tiny, noise-sensitive ears. Having their bedroom on a whole different level of the house had been one of the many selling points when they moved. And boy, they took advantage of it.

Chelsea trailed Elliot down the stairs by hand, and when they reached the landing he lifted her up into his arms the split-second before she had the chance to jump him. She buried her bright, giddy laughter into the crook of his neck. Elliot walked them to their bedroom blind, locked into a kiss. They were professionals, at this point. They could navigate the house the same way they navigated having four - almost five! - kids under the age of four. Plus a teenager! It was chaotic and crazy, but it was perfect. It was the perfect life. It was everything.

They saved stripping off their clothes until they got to the bedroom. Were that disciplined, at least. Her mom liked to visit early morning and help with the kids - they'd made the mistake before of leaving their clothes all over the living room floor and opening the door the next day to them neat and folded on the coffee table. An unspoken but very pointed message from Donna. But even her mother knew that they were depraved. Everyone, from his family to hers, knew that they couldn't keep their hands off of each other. Couldn't even if they tried. And even when they did try, they always hopelessly failed.

Right now was not one of those times. They barely even broke away to undress each other. Elliot sat them down on the edge of the mattress and Chelsea gently nudged him onto his back. Got him to lie down so they could make-out good and proper. The only space or air between them was because of her baby bump, and when had that ever stopped them before? It gave Chelsea enough room to reach down between their bodies and guide him inside of her. They muted the noises they both made in each other's mouths, tongues sliding together. Hips meeting, over and over. Chelsea's fingers strained in his hair, and his nails bit into her waist, spurring her along.

Eventually kissing was no longer feasible, and Chelsea had to sit up and straddle him for better momentum. To get some air back into her lungs. Breathless, she covered his fingers against her hip. Wanted desperately to hold his hand, always. Especially if they physically couldn't keep kissing! Elliot knew what she wanted, without words, and intertwined their fingers. Chelsea's smile was all in her eyes; mouth hanging open in a drawn-out, throaty moan. Elliot's other hand caressed her pregnant stomach for a few moments while she grinded down into him, and then he took the well-worn path up to her breast. He teased her nipple between the tips of two fingers. Drew his knees up for leverage and thrust up into her. Groaned with the bed frame as she rode him to the end of the line.

Routine was them finishing together. Chelsea liked numbers, percentages, probability. It had to be a good 90% of the time that they did - and tonight was no exception. They gave themselves some time to settle into their afterglow, and then their nighttime routine continued: a shared shower, getting dressed in patterned pyjama pants (Elliot) and button-downs (Chelsea), brushing their teeth together, cuddling and talking about their days and tomorrows in bed before finally falling asleep in each other's embrace. Elliot was the big spoon this time around, his arms lazily draped over her body. Palming her belly over her shirt. She had definitely stolen his affinity for fun and colourful pyjamas, wearing a matching set of navy blue winter PJs covered in Cocker Poodle dogs. Just like her mom's dog, Buster! The very reason she'd even bought them in the first place.

Elliot had rubbed off on her (with the PJs, with his potty mouth, with the way he always got her smiling), so she rubbed herself up against him. Snuggled back into the warmth of his body. He was always so thematically appropriate with his choice of pants: a lighter blue colour than her pair, covered in otters. It had become one of their things. Started with a coffee mug he'd gotten her on her birthday last year; two otters holding hands - because that was something otters did when they slept, and so did Elliot and Chelsea! - with a love heart printed above them. He'd bought it on the sly after seeing her coo and fuss over it one day when they were at the store, because he was so fucking sweet and paid attention to her and actually took note of the things she said and did and liked! Her words mattered to him. After that, how could she not buy the otter pyjama pants when she randomly happened across them? They were made for Elliot. And he was made for her.

"Hold my hand so we don't drift apart." He said, voice thick with sleep.

As if Chelsea needed any sort of encouragement.

She linked their fingers together, holding his hands flush to the swell of her stomach. Thumbed over his knuckles, his wedding ring. "I'll never let go of you, baby. I promise." A reference to Titanic, almost word for word, whispered in the small space between them. "We're the otters." She grinned in the dark - their very own makeshift reference to The Notebook. He pressed a smile and a kiss into her shoulder, nuzzling into her skin. Chelsea made a happy noise at the back of her throat. Happy and sleepy. "I love you, gorgeous."

"I love you too, baby."

Even when they separated or moved around in their sleep, they never stopped holding hands. They were both on their backs, fingers tangled together, when the baby monitor lit up their bedroom, and the sound of Isaac crying filtered through. This was practically part of the nighttime routine, too, at this point. He was their small, sensitive baby boy. Chelsea shifted against Elliot, lifting her head from his chest. She'd been using him as her pillow. Had to use the heel of her hand to dig the sleep out of her eyes. The clock on Elliot's bedside table, the only other light in the room, told her that they'd only been asleep for, what? A little over an hour? Elliot's blinking was heavy and spaced out. Chelsea giggled at him, releasing his hand only to trail her fingers down the side of his face. "Go back to sleep, you. I've got him." Pecked the corner of his mouth.

Elliot stretched, making an adorable and exaggerated sound. Chelsea chuckled again. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, baby. I'm sure." Laughter in her voice. She tapped one of the lines besides his smile. Pushed his bedhair off his forehead to brush a kiss over the tiny freckle he had hidden there. "I have carefully crafted your sleep schedule, mister! You getting sleep is more important. I've got him." How could he argue with that, huh? He didn't, in the end. Either because he was still half-asleep or because she was right, like she always was, or she was just that powerful, she didn't know. The reason didn't matter. Love was willingly losing sleep for someone else. Chelsea muted the monitor and kissed him again before getting out of bed.

Isaac was red-faced by the time she made it upstairs, even with Chelsea taking the steps two at a time. He was sat up in his crib with his blankets all scrunched up at his feet. Had taught himself how to self-soothe with his favourite plushie - a green frog adeptly named Froggie. He choked Froggie in an embrace, crying into its fur and staining it darker. Chelsea used Isaac's nightlight as her guide around the obstacle course of his room, toys strewn all over the floor. She didn't want to turn the main light on; wanting to lull him back to sleep once he'd calmed down. It was bright enough for Chelsea to see the fully-fledged tears that travelled down her son's face. "Oh, honey," Chelsea frowned, swiftly scooping him up into her arms. Froggie came with him. "What happened, baby? Mommy's here now, it's okay. You're okay, you're okay."

"Mommy." He cried, arms coming around her shoulders.

She rubbed his back in circles, hoping to soothe him. He eased up, even just a little, now that he was being tended to. Used a tiny hand to brush the unruly hair out of his face. He had Elliot's hair. Always wanted his hair cut just like Daddy's. Chelsea placed soft kisses all over his head and rocked him back and forth in front of his crib. "I'm here, I'm here. I love you, sweet boy. I love you." She murmured, letting him cry on her shoulder.

When his tears started to dry up, he told her what was wrong. Hiccuped. "Scary dream." Isaac whined, his fists scrubbing at his eyes. They were words that shouldn't already be in his vocabulary, but somehow they were. He had a lot of nightmares, especially for a two-year-old. He was only 27-months-old and he was already having all of these problems. Such terrible anxiety. Had they given him abandonment issues, separating him from his twin sister? Some people were just born more sensitive, right? Even so, it wasn't any wonder why he was the way he was, given who his parents were. Elliot and Chelsea were both highly strung and overly emotional. Isaac seemed to inherit that from the both of them. Vanessa, on the other hand, didn't seem to get any of it. Their poor baby boy. He'd definitely gotten the short end of the stick, there.

They'd both read up on it a bit, trying to see if the frequency of Isaac's nightmares were considerably normal or not. The research told them not to worry, that he probably just had a vivid imagination, or was processing complex life changes through his dreams. Like moving house (oops) (even if a good six months had passed since) or having a new sibling (or two) (oops, again). And the nightmares had definitely gotten worse since Luca was born, and Chelsea had to spend so much time in the hospital and away from him and home. That wasn't just traumatic for her, or Elliot, or Luca, but everyone. All of their kids and family. It had to, right? And then picking up and moving across town so soon after, keeping him apart from Vanessa... Chelsea sighed, creases in her forehead, and walked him over to the rocking chair set up in the corner of his room. The exhaustion made tears spring to her eyes. Yeah. Just exhaustion.

"The scary dream can't get you anymore, baby boy. I'm right here. Shh, I'm right here. I won't let anything bad ever happen to you, I promise. I love you." Chelsea wrapped her arms around him, tight as ever. He leaned his head on her chest and patted her baby bump. That seemed to calm him down; he got a rhythm going and it distracted him. Eventually, Isaac sniffled. The tears had finally stopped but his nose was still running. Chelsea swiped it clean with the long sleeve of her pyjama top. Froggie dropped down the side of the chair, so she retrieved it for him. Waved the toy in front of his face. "Froggie won't ever let anything happen to you, either. Did you know that? He's on my payroll, baby boy. He's always here to protect you! And so am I, and so is Daddy." Chelsea promised, tapping his cheek in time to her reciting the list of his fierce protectors. "And Grandma Donna, and Jenny and Nessa and Jack and Luca. Even Charlie." He had Elliot's smile, with the faintest hints of lines on the skin around his mouth. And speaking of Isaac's daddy...

"Mommy?" Isaac quietly whimpered; voice high at the end like he was asking her a question. Asking her a question without actually asking. Almost like he was afraid to. That broke her fucking heart. Chelsea squeezed him closer into a cuddle.

"Yes, baby?" She looked into his eyes, bright and red-ringed, so he knew that he had her full attention. He could have whatever he wanted, looking like that. So small and sad. Chelsea encouraged him with a gentle smile. With her fingers combing through his hair.

"I wan' sleep wit' Daddy and you." A little unintelligible, but it didn't matter. She spoke his language. Could always piece together whatever it was he was trying to say, no matter what. And it's like he lost his confidence to talk or put together proper sentences when he was this scared and upset. He was still so little. She forgot, sometimes, just how much.

How could she, or why would she, ever say no to that? Something something about forming unhealthy habits, but Chelsea didn't care. This was her son, her baby boy, and he needed her. His daddy always made her feel better - he was sure to do the same for Isaac. "Yeah, sweet boy. You can come sleep with me and Daddy and the baby, huh?" Isaac poked her stomach. He was smart, he knew. "Let's go, honey."

She checked his diaper first, just in case. He needed a change, and that probably hadn't helped with how heightened his emotions had been. Once he was all fresh and clean, she zipped him back up into his onesie. It had bunnies and lions and bears on it. It was so cute! He was so cute. Her precious boy. Chelsea pointed all the animals out to him, hoping to keep him occupied. He noticeably eased up when he was back in her arms. Tucked his head against her shoulder as she shut off his nightlight and they ventured downstairs together to see Elliot.

"I think Daddy is sleeping. We try and be quiet so we don't wake him?" Chelsea suggested, lifting him higher up her torso as they crossed through the living room. God, he was getting heavy. Chelsea's body, so many babies later and with one currently swirling around inside of her stomach, wasn't built for this anymore. Isaac held his finger up to his mouth and made a shushing sound. See, he was so smart! He knew what was up. Chelsea hid her giggle in his hair and copied his gesture. "Yes, baby. Shh."

She was slow to open the door to the bedroom. Elliot had his arms wrapped around her pillow, and his chest was rising and falling in an even rhythm. Chelsea tiptoed over to the bed and set Isaac down first. By the time she slipped under the covers, Elliot had stirred awake. Probably noticed the difference in weight on the mattress. Isaac rolled over onto his side to greet him, wedged between the warmth of their bodies. "Sorry, baby." Chelsea apologised, following Isaac's lead and resting on her side so she could face Elliot. "Isaac's here. Go back to sleep, honey."

"Hi, Daddy." Isaac loudly whispered, hands cupped around his mouth in an attempt to be quiet about it. It had the opposite effect. Oh well, Elliot was awake, anyway! Or at least only half-asleep. Chelsea shook her head, but couldn't shake the smile off her face. Elliot was smiling, too, his eyes squinting through his sleepiness.

"Hi, baby!" He said, enthusiastic despite how rough and tired his voice sounded. "Are we having a sleepover?"

A sleepover! Isaac's mouth dropped open. He gasped. "Yes!" When he put it like that, sleep had to sound pretty appealing, huh? See, Elliot always knew how to make all of them feel better. He was the light in the dark, every time.

And he was the spitting image of Isaac only a few moments earlier, pressing his finger to his lips and making a shushing sound. "If we're having a sleepover we have to be real quiet and sleep, okay?" Isaac nodded with wide eyes, enamoured. God, he wasn't the only one. He mimicked his daddy and did the shushing thing, too. Chelsea kissed the back of Isaac's head to hide the way she was about to cry. She loved them. She loved them both so much.

Elliot tossed her smushed-up pillow back to her side of the bed and fluffed it up for her and Isaac. "Thank you," she mouthed over to him in the dark. Not just for the pillow, or for being so fucking good with Isaac, but for every single thing he had ever given her. For this beautiful life she wouldn't have without him. She wouldn't want it with anyone else.

Chelsea laid there for the longest time, just watching them. Both resting on their stomachs with their arms cuddling their respective pillows, complete carbon copies of each other. And since Isaac had to do everything that Daddy did, of course, he followed him into a deep sleep. Elliot had gotten there first - which was a surprise all on its own given that his sleep was usually worse than his son's. Normally. It hadn't been like that at all though lately. Chelsea had spent almost three years trying to help him with his sleep hygiene, and it felt like they'd made huge strides toward something routine and healthy. Normal. As much was possible with so many young children, at least. Elliot didn't even need his sleeping pills anymore. He'd weaned off them completely. He'd come that far. Chelsea bit down on her bottom lip, willing her tears away. She had to stay quiet, those were the sleepover rules! She couldn't wake them up. And they looked so peaceful - Isaac curled up against the curve of Elliot's ribcage. She loved them. She was so proud of both of them.

Now Chelsea was the one who couldn't get to sleep. Her mind was racing, thinking about Isaac's nightmares and what they were going to do to fix it, wondering if she'd just irrevocably messed him up - yeah, just like she had with Luca, huh? Her thoughts jumped to that next, and then bounced back to Isaac, and then to trying to problem solve the rooming situation. It was the weekend, they could get him set back up with Vanessa tomorrow, right? That'd be a smart idea? They had nothing else planned, did they? Could they move Peanut out of his nursery - the biggest room upstairs, right off the landing - and swap it all around? Or would the change of environment damage Luca, too? Even more than he probably already was? He'd already been through so, so much... Fuck. She was spiralling. Tried to rationalise it by saying that she was tired and she was pregnant and she was allowed, but... It wasn't helpful. Getting worked up like this wasn't helpful. And if her anxiety was loud enough to wake either Isaac or Elliot up, or both of them, she would scream. Scream until the whole house, the whole street was awake, too.

She fed the anxiety again, just one more time, by picking up the baby monitor from her side table and scanning through it. Looked at each individual room view to see if her other babies were okay and sleeping soundly. No reason to fret; everyone seemed good. Fast asleep. Chelsea's exhale was shaky. She set the monitor back down and smoothed a sweaty, trembling hand over her pregnant belly. She hadn't gotten to the point in the pregnancy where she could feel movement yet, but they were probably only a few weeks off from that. And until then, she had no other indicators to know if her Sunflower was doing alright. She wasn't bleeding, she wasn't in any pain beyond the usual pregnancy symptoms. Everything was okay. Everything was good.

Chelsea straightened the monitor on her nightstand, a little OCD and fidgety when she felt so Goddamn anxious. The journal Elliot had given her earlier in the day was sitting there, so far untouched. She'd initially looked at the date on the first page and left it for later. September 4, 2007. Now felt a lot like later. It wasn't like she was going to fall asleep anytime soon anyway. She slowly shuffled up the bed into a sitting position. Watched the boys out of her periphery to make sure she wasn't being too disruptive. Neither of them budged. Phew. The lamp on her bedside was dim enough so as not to disturb them, but light enough for her to still be able to read.

For a moment, Chelsea held the journal to her chest. Elliot was sleeping with a smile on his face. Her eyebrows dipped down, tears shimmering in her eyes again just at the sight of him. She was holding a huge chunk of his past in her hands. Raw emotion and unfiltered thoughts written during the darkest moments of his life. Written under the assumption that nobody else would ever read it.

This took a lot of trust. A lot of vulnerability and openness on his part. Actions speak louder than words, and this spoke volumes. The gesture of it all. Letting her have this privilege of getting to know him even better, even when it was dark and scary and hard to swallow. He felt safe with her. Safe enough to be able to share it all with her. And sharing this with her was one of the most beautiful things anyone had ever done for her before - if not the most. His middle name should've been Grace, not hers. He taught her the meaning of the word, every single day. But especially so today. Especially giving her this gift.

Fuck. Love wasn't a big enough word to describe how she felt about him.

There was a tattered envelope tucked inside the cover, stuffed to the seams with handwritten letters. Tre Fuller and a New York address scribbled on the outside. Who was that? It felt too personal and intrusive to find out, even given the circumstances. Chelsea tossed it onto her nightstand for safe keeping, and started to read.

She thought she'd be prepared for this. Had let the idea of it sit in the back of her mind all afternoon. And she had first-hand experience of Elliot's suicidal ideation. The sometimes moments that happened more than sometimes. All of their New York trip last summer. Elliot making jokes about killing himself but meaning it. The sleep deprivation that landed him in hospital. The constant vomiting, the restricting. Telling her outright I want to kill myself bent over their toilet at two in the morning. And she'd heard about prison before. Two and a half weeks into their relationship, sitting together on the couch in her Wilmington beach house. Sitting on a plastic chair inside an exam room in Pasadena, listening to him tell the doctor his mental health history. Getting shived, trying to overdose on pills. How his ten years inside was spent fending off other prisoners, while also trying to fend off himself. He'd survived so much. He'd survived so much, including himself. Including the voice that told him it should've been him that died instead of his son.

Chelsea knew all this. It didn't make it hurt any less. Didn't make it not absolutely break her soul in two every single time that she heard it. For all the power she had in their relationship, she was powerless when it came to this. She couldn't outtalk or overpower that voice in his head. She couldn't get him to promise her that he wouldn't act on it and end his life. Elliot always kept his promises, and that's why he refused to make this one: he was afraid he wouldn't be able to keep his word. And it was Chelsea's biggest fear. Losing him. Him killing himself and leaving her and their family forever.

He'd been better, lately. She couldn't think of the last time she'd heard him so heightened, so desperate for it all to be over. He was doing all the right things: therapy, AA, sleeping and eating and exercising. Had put all the weight back on that he'd lost when he was so sick and miserable at the start of the year. Gained more muscle. Actually slept, now. He had come so far. Since she'd known him and since this journal. She didn't even need to read any of it to know it. She knew him, and she saw his progress on the daily. Recovery wasn't linear, she knew that, too, but it felt like he was on the up and up. And Chelsea prayed with everything that she had that it stayed that way. She couldn't lose him. Wouldn't. On her life, she wouldn't.

He made her strong. He made her brave. Brave enough to do this, no matter how much it broke her heart. She'd wanted to know everything about him the very first day she met him. Wanted to know every part of him. Every inch of his soul. And she did: they talked without words, knew each other inside and out, could always notice or tell when something was off. Could practically read each other's minds. She knew him by heart. He was her soulmate. This was really the only thing she couldn't speak to. Not the ins and outs, not the details. It made it easy for her to be ignorant. For her to forget, sometimes, just how much he had endured.

The first page, and Elliot's old handwriting was already smudging under the weight of her fallen tears. Shit. Chelsea held the book away from her face, like it'd have less of an impact on her if it were further away. At least she wouldn't ruin it that way. She used her long sleeves to wipe at her cheeks, but it wasn't of much use. Her vision stayed wet and blurry. His words were making her heart lurch. She had to blink past the tears, past the pit that formed in her stomach, and keep going. Elliot did. He kept going, despite it all. Despite how much he hated himself. And he talked about that a lot: how he hated fighting, how he hated his body, how he hated being alive.

He compared himself to his biological father so many times. Called himself violent and aggressive. Called it his destiny. Chelsea rapidly shook her head, eyebrows pinched together, warm tears wetting the cold of her cheeks. She set the journal down in her lap and shook her head at Elliot's sleeping body, like he was listening. Like he could see what she was doing. She couldn't tell him thirteen years ago, so she was telling him now. "You're not. You're not him. You're not." Her crying more audible than her words. He wasn't violent or aggressive or abusive. He was the softest person she'd ever met before. Soft, in spite of everything. Becoming his father wasn't his destiny. This was, in bed comforting his scared son. Loving him and protecting him, not hurting him. Never hurting him. He would - he almost fucking did - die for his children. He was not William. He was not his father. He wasn't even a Pearson. He was hers, and he was kind, and he was her destiny. Chelsea kept shaking her head at him. Reached over the top of Isaac to feel him under her skin. Thumbed the cleft in his chin, visible even with his face half-hidden in his pillow. Brushed some of his bedhair back off his forehead. "You're not, baby. You're not."

He'd brought it up a lot. Always worried he was turning into his father, without a single shred of evidence to support it. Always asking her if she thought he was a good father. It wasn't any wonder why, either - he mentioned his uncle in one of the entries. How his uncle was right about him, right about Elliot being like his father. No. Fuck that. Chelsea was right. His uncle didn't know shit. It took less than a day in New York for her to figure that one out. She grit her teeth. Forcefully sniffled. Her head was starting to hurt from how much she was shaking it in desperate disagreement.

Chelsea didn't have many regrets in her life, but if she had to go back and do something over it would be New York. From start to finish, it all would've been different. She hated herself for it, she hated herself so much, even over a year later. She couldn't believe how many times she'd fucked up, over and over, and how they'd still made it here. How she was lucky enough to still have Elliot right here beside her, with another baby on the way.

The list went like this: she should've told him about being pregnant with Peanut the moment she found out, she should've said something at that dinner table, she should've walked out after him instead of his jackass cousin, she should've stayed with him instead of going to that museum, she should've made them go home after that first traumatic, terrible day. But she didn't. She stood by and did nothing while he drank himself sick for days. She ruined her grand gesture buying back his old car. She completely lost it when Elliot said he wished he was dead. Shouted at him, grabbed the collar of his shirt in a distressed attempt to cling to him. Scared him. Hurt him. She suggested that they shouldn't go through with the pregnancy and have Luca. Yeah, that one definitely came back to bite her in the ass, didn't it? And she deserved it! Don't know how she deserved Elliot after her behaviour on that trip.

She wished she could take it all back. Wished they hadn't gone there in the first place. Wished she could say something to his aunt and uncle now. Especially his uncle. Especially reading Elliot's journal, and hearing him constantly question his worth as a father, as a person. And it was because of Tony. It was because of his fucking uncle. Who in their right mind would bring an abused five-year-old into their home, raise him and then take his obvious displays of trauma as evidence that he was the same as his abuser? Who would do that to any child, let alone their nephew? Let alone the kid they'd brought up as one of their own? Chelsea was fisting the page of the journal, and didn't notice until the paper tore under her hand. Isaac shifted in his sleep at the sound. She stilled, eyes darting over to his little body. He didn't move again. Didn't wake up. Chelsea's breathing became hard and fast. Angry.

She wanted to give Tony a piece of her mind. Needed to more than anything. Elliot had told her a story, once. Skateboarding at seventeen with a friend from high school who laughed and made fun of him when he, drunk off his ass, fell and hurt himself. And he'd retaliated (rightly, in her eyes!) by hitting his friend with the board. Yeah, fuck that kid. And fuck Tony, who told Elliot when he confided in him about it afterwards that it reminded him of his father. That's always stuck with me, Elliot had said. And it was stuck in the pages of his journal, too. This was part of his trauma. Most of who I am is because of my uncle. I looked up to him like crazy. It wasn't fair. It wasn't right for his uncle to do that to him. To treat him the way he had. The things he said to Elliot had an impact. Had weight to them. He looked up to him! Elliot had said it himself! They'd talked about it at another point, too. Another conversation that had started out with Elliot saying I'm not a very good father, am I?

My aunt and uncle weren't bad people, Elliot had said in their defence. I know they loved me, but I don’t think they knew how to handle me. It wasn't good enough. The way Elliot had been treated his entire life wasn't good enough. His aunt and uncle might not've been bad people, but that didn't mean that they weren't bad parents. His uncle, at least, made Elliot feel like a bad person. Like he was the same as an abuser! His very own abuser. Had Elliot questioning himself so much in the years that followed. Had him questioning it even now, when every single one of their children absolutely adored him. Case and point: Isaac cuddled into the space at Elliot's side, calm and happy and resting. It wasn't fair.

Maybe his aunt and uncle did love Elliot, maybe they didn't. She couldn't say either way. But this wasn't what loving Elliot looked like to Chelsea. The constant invalidation, the way they completely abandoned him when he went to prison... Fuck, she wasn't even there yet. Hadn't even flipped a single page of the journal yet. Jesus Christ. Chelsea had to set it down for a moment. Scrubbed her palms down her face in an attempt to pull herself together. Hid in her hands for a bit. Her breath was shallow, staggered.

Elliot felt like he owed them something, she knew that. Like they'd done him such a favour. Because not leaving a battered five-year-old family member on his own or in the foster system was such a feat. Such a heroic act. Cry me a river. Elliot felt indebted to them, regardless of whatever followed, simply because they took him in when they didn't have to. Because they could've just left him alone to fend for himself, but they didn't. They didn't until they did, cutting all ties as soon as he was behind bars. When he fucking needed them most.

Chelsea hated them, actually.

She kept reading. Somehow managed to turn the pages. And it was page after page of Elliot wishing he was dead, Elliot wanting to kill himself, Elliot wholeheartedly hating himself. It was a dagger to her heart every single time. No matter how many entries, no matter how many pages, the words hurt all the same. It never lost meaning or seriousness or severity. And then Elliot started seeing things. Started feeling like he was going crazy. Chelsea took to twisting her fingers through his hair in a repetitive motion, the rhythm of it all keeping her calm. Anchored. He was right here beside her. He was right here beside her breathing easy. He was okay. He was alive, and right now that was enough. That would always be enough for her. Elliot would always be enough, no matter what he wrote or thought or felt. He was everything to her, and he always would be.

People were scared of him in prison. He won a lot of fights, but it didn't keep him from fighting himself. For hating himself for it. Who he was, at the core of it all, and what he had to do in order to survive were not the same thing. And how could he not constantly be in fight or flight mode? It never stopped, in or out of his cell. And it didn't make him a bad person. He wasn't. She'd known that the moment she met him. Jack, only four-months-old at the time, had known it, too. He was a survivor. He was doing what he had to do to survive. He'd been doing it all his life, too. Traumatised at every turn. He never got a break from it, he never had a reprieve. Fuck, she hoped he did now. He had suffered enough, so much - she just wanted him to finally have some peace. He had enough bad for multiple lifetimes. No more, please. She'd do everything in her power to keep anybody or anything from hurting him ever again. Chelsea trailed her hand down the side of his face, drawing over the mouth lines besides his smile. This is how she wanted him, always: smiling in his sleep, resting, being at peace. Nobody deserved it more than Elliot did.

Eventually, she got to the part she'd been dreading the most. Knew it was coming, had been bracing herself for it all day, but it didn't stop her from having to clamp a hand over her mouth to quieten her sobs. Held the page of the journal with trembling fingers, her skin feeling like static. Buzzing with adrenaline and anxiety again. Another inmate had attacked him. Gutted him with a shard of broken-off mirror and left him for dead in the shower block. The origin of the scar on the right side of his torso. Elliot was shirtless in bed, now, but wrapped up in the blankets with Isaac. She couldn't touch it for comfort like she usually did, so Chelsea rubbed his side over the covers instead. Wanted to feel him, make sure he was still here. Make sure he was still okay.

What had she said before? Elliot was a survivor. He survived the attempt on his life, even if he didn't want to. Even though he wished he hadn't. And it was the catalyst for so many things. Being handcuffed to a gurney in the hospital after that, talking about how he'd been so tempted to provoke the guards with guns so he could finally end it all. Talking about how he wished the hospital staff hadn't helped him. About how he'd only ever be a convict, a criminal, nothing more, even if he managed to make it through his sentence and get released. Chelsea was back to shaking her head at him, disagreeing while stroking his hipbone over the blanket. Where would she even be right now if that had happened? Where would she be without him? Thank God she'd never have to find out. Thank God he didn't go through with it. Thank God it failed when he eventually did try to end his life.

The next part was worse. She knew that, too. Had to stop for a moment to clear the tears and the sweat and the snot from her face. It was miraculous she hadn't woken either of her boys up yet with all her crying and shaking. She wasn't exactly quiet. She was a wreck. A migraine was starting to concentrate above her eyebrow. Felt like her head was splitting open. Her heart was surely splitting in two.

Stitches, surgery and a three-week stint in hospital didn't stop Elliot from getting into a fight upon his return to Sing Sing. Landed him in the infirmary, where the nurse was stupid enough to leave a bottle of painkillers by his bedside. Didn't notice when Elliot swiped them. And his journal entries about wanting to die turned into an actual plan. Intent. His writing became less emotional, more methodical. Like he'd accepted it. Like he had finally reached some sort of peace, figuring out how he was going to end his life. He asked himself, in his writing, if the pills left in the bottle he'd stolen would be enough to kill himself. Said he had to be sure. Said he only had one chance at this.

He started stockpiling the daily painkillers they gave him. Got caught a few times, and it made Chelsea think about the times she had to dole out his medications for him. The way he'd stick his tongue out, then touch the tip of it to the roof of his mouth so he could show her that he'd swallowed it. Show her that it wasn't hidden. He'd called it a force of habit. And Chelsea remembered being at the hospital and meekly asking the pharmacist if it were possible to overdose on the sleeping pills when she filled Elliot's prescription for him. Remembered that being her biggest anxiety, at one time in her life. The way she played hide-and-seek with the pill bottles, all in different places so even if he did go looking, he wouldn't be able to do much damage with them. Had hidden their family stash of painkillers in other places, too. Aspirin, baby Tylenol. She didn't want to ever risk it. Knew she would never forgive herself, or survive it herself, if anything had ever happened to him.

Luckily, he never went looking. At least not that she was ever aware of, anyway. And now he wasn't on any medication at all! No more anti-nausea meds, no more sleeping pills. She had to hold onto that, reading his next journal entry. The part of his plan that involved him punching out a guard so he'd be sent straight to solitary, where he could swallow his bottle of pills and die alone like he thought he deserved to. Chelsea's teeth bit into her bottom lip, forcefully trapping the sob inside her mouth. There was a goodbye here, at the end of the page. A sort of suicide note. Only a sentence or two, something informal. An apology. I'm so sorry, Alexander. Please forgive me. I hope I see you on the other side.

Chelsea started coughing, she was crying so hard. Choked around her breathing. Elliot and Isaac each rolled around, shifted in their sleep, but still didn't rouse. Her head felt like it was going to explode, her migraine intensifying. Spotting her already blurry vision. She shoved the blanket off her body, hot in her distress, and swung her legs to sit on the edge of the bed. Put her back to her boys and set the journal down on her nightstand. Dehydration made the inside of her mouth taste funny. She rummaged through the drawer of her side table, finding some painkillers for her headache. The irony wasn't lost on her. She held the full sheet of medication between her fingers, turning it over in her hand. She had never felt that far gone before. Had never had the thought of what if I just took all of these? When her postpartum depression was at its worse, she still hadn't gotten to the point where she formulated a plan. The feeling of wanting to disappear had been overwhelming, like the world would be better off without her in it, but never like that. Hopelessness and helplessness, maybe, but never... never this.

She wondered what Elliot's first thoughts were when he looked at a full box or bottle of medication. She didn't want to know, but she had to. Had to start dispersing everything throughout the house again in the morning, she thought. It didn't matter how much better he was doing now - Chelsea was scared. She was fucking terrified. Tried not to think about Elliot sitting in a cold, dark cell by himself, pouring pills into his mouth until there was nothing left, while she popped the appropriate amount of painkillers for her migraine. She had a huge drink of water to wash it down. To try and keep hydrated from the amount of crying she'd done so far. Once her water bottle was empty, she pressed her hands against her knees, keeping herself upright and perched on the edge of the bed. Hung her head in an attempt to rid herself of the sick feeling in her body, in her throat. In her fucking soul.

And she'd thought this part of the journal was the worst of what she was going to have to read. Boy, was she fucking wrong! She eventually regained her composure and picked the book up again. Stayed with her feet dangling off the side of the bed, her back to Elliot and Isaac to reduce the chance of waking them up. The date jump that followed Elliot's goodbye frightened her. Eleven months?! Eleven months between entries?! Chelsea quickly glanced over her shoulder, making sure Elliot was still there. Making sure he was actually real and alive and okay. She twisted her body around and crawled closer to him. Hugged him around his waist—awkwardly in this position with Isaac in her way, but she didn't care. She needed to be close to him.

She wished she hadn't kept reading.

His attempted overdose, his attempt to end his life, landed him in a suicide watch cell. His description of it was brief: a mattress on the floor, no blankets or pillows or anything else but a windowed view into his cell. They'd taken his clothes, too. Leaving him in only his briefs for months, even during winter in New York. Three fucking months. Chelsea clasped a hand over her mouth, feeling sick to her stomach. Couldn't stop her eyes from moving, from frantically reading through the rest of the entry. He got caught tying his sheets into a noose when he was released to his cell block and then sent right back to suicide watch. Sent back for eight months, this go around. Sent back without his underwear, this time.

Yeah, she was going to be fucking sick. Adrenaline completely controlled her body - got her to her feet quick enough, and she dropped the journal on the floor in her haste, rushing toward the bathroom. The last time she had morning sickness was weeks and weeks ago during her first trimester of pregnancy; and even then, she never actually vomited, just always felt that nausea in her throat, in her chest, rolling around in her stomach. This wasn't pregnancy sick, though. Maybe made it easier to achieve, with all those body changes, but this was... This was her vision black, bent and purging over the toilet bowl. Trying to expel this brand new information from her mind and body. It was... It was sexual abuse. That - that was... She retched until everything was gone. The image of Elliot, cold and naked and humiliated, got stuck in every aura spot behind her eyes. That stayed. She couldn't get rid of it. Guarded behind the bathroom door, at least, she could cry freely. Loudly. Sobbed with her entire body, her vomit runny and watery now that she had nothing left to give.

Throwing up was the least of her worries. She wanted to crawl outside of her own skin. Elliot still allowed her to touch him? Love him? Even after that? Trusted her that much, even so early on? They'd only known each other for a week, had only seen each other for the third time, and he let her undress him. He let her love him. They left him in isolation, they made him take off his clothes, they made him stay like that for eight months. Bare in a way that couldn't even be described. Chelsea didn't have the words. Didn't have any sort of hope left in the world. In the universe. She heard him in her head, instead. An argument from forever ago. I wish I saw the world the way you do, Chelsea. I wish I saw everyone as good and fucking perfect. But when you go through hell, there is nothing good on the other side! You have never been here. It must be so easy for you to stand there and tell me that people can accept and understand, but you’ve never…

She didn't have any air left in her lungs - her fingers tingling and curling in on themselves. She lifted her head from the toilet seat, head violently thrumming, muscles sore from all her retching. And now she had to ward off a panic attack. But it was nothing, not really, because Elliot... Elliot had to... He had been right. What he said, so long ago, he was right. What good was there on the other side of that? Of eight months with nothing but concrete and a thin mattress, overexposed and degraded and abused? How did he have faith in humanity after that? Chelsea didn't.

But she had faith in him. In the fact that, despite it all, he still had the strength and the grace to let her into his life. He let down his walls for her. He let her see him, let her see this and all the painful parts of his past. He let her see it, and he had survived it all. Elliot truly didn't know his own strength. How fucking brave he was. How loved he was, no matter what.

Anguish paved way for anger. The justice system had sorely failed him, so it was any wonder why she was surprised by the state of the prison system. That's what that one argument had been about, right? Her unwavering optimism. The way she saw the world. Now she just wanted to burn it all down. Sing Sing, any godforsaken person that had ever hurt him, the whole goddamn planet. How could they get away with that?! The man who had murdered Elliot's son got more dignity than he did in prison. How was that fair? How could they do that to people? Leave them naked in a cell for months on end under the guise of suicide watch. Fuck, if he hadn't been suicidal before, he would've been after that. It was counterproductive. It was inhumane. If she had anything else but her insides to cough up, she'd be sick again.

Elliot was the lawyer, sure, but Chelsea wanted to sue the hell out of Sing Sing. The nurse who had been careless enough to leave the pill bottle out, the fucking warden who signed off on those conditions for suicide watch, the piece of shit human who had shived him in the shower block to begin with. Wanted to take it back further than that - sue the daycare who failed in their duty of care on the playground with Alex, and wipe that institution off the face of the earth, too. Even further - wanted to sue his biological parents for damages, wanted to see them dead and buried or behind bars for the rest of their miserable fucking lives. Wanted them buried next to the pedophile that had ruined Elliot's life forever, so she could spit on his grave and dance on theirs simultaneously. She wanted to see every single one of these people suffer for everything they'd ever done to him.

Something had to change, something had to shift. She needed retribution for him. Needed some fucking accountability. Elliot had done the world a favour, a world that didn't even deserve him in the first place, and he was the only one who had ever taken accountability for that. Not his parents, not his aunt and uncle, not the man he had killed. Not any of these systems and institutions and places that had fundamentally failed him. That had absolutely destroyed him.

It was a line she'd said once after sex. I would go to war for you. And it had become one of their things, one of the phrases they always repeated to each other. Another way to say I love you. Chelsea fucking meant it. She would go to war for him. She would fight everything she had to, even if it was the last thing she ever did. She didn't care. She'd go to law school herself, she'd become an investigative journalist, she'd become an arsonist, she didn't care. She needed justice. She needed people to be held accountable for the first time in their fucking lives. And she was so angry that she didn't care if she died trying. She didn't care.

The anger brought the colour back to her cheeks. Got her to wipe her mouth clean with the collar of her pyjama top. Her hands climbed the wall for support as she staggered to her feet. She flushed the toilet, bent over the basin of the sink and splashed her face with cold water. It was frigid enough to kickstart her diving reflex; ease out her breathing, get that prickling feeling away from her skin. When she felt like herself again, or close enough to that as possible, she got her toothbrush out. Her arm was weak. So, so heavy to hold up. She tried to scrub her teeth hard, get that acidic vomit taste out of her mouth, but it wasn't much use. The fatigue was set into her body, nothing left inside her besides a baby that only added to the physical exhaustion. She spat the spearmint of her toothpaste out into the sink. Ducked her head to try and rehydrate by drinking the water under the faucet.

Her shirt smelled like barf. Stuck to her skin, wet and sticky with sweat. She lifted it over her head and left it in the sink to soak for the rest of the night. That, like so many other things, was tomorrow's problem. From the bathroom, she crossed to Elliot's walk-in-closet. Grabbed one of his shirts for comfort. Cuddled it, for a few moments, before slipping it on over her body. The tight fabric clung to her pregnant stomach, making her bump more pronounced and obvious. She palmed over it, saying hello to their little Sunflower. Apologising. Hoped she was okay down there with all the vomiting and heavy, heavy emotions. The migraine that was still pulsating above her brow bone. Sure, the pregnancy could be partly to blame for her storm of hormones and the exacerbation of her emotional state, but that had consequences! Chelsea had found that out the hard way with Luca. She needed to be held accountable to that. Needed to calm down, keep herself contained.

Chelsea tiptoed back into the bedroom. Isaac stretched his arms out, drifting between being awake and still half-asleep, and knocked Elliot's side with a tiny fist. He, at least, hadn't woken up yet. Even with the hit. Chelsea tucked her empty water bottle under the crook of her arm and reached down to lift Isaac up. He made a happy noise, burying his face into her shoulder. "Mommy." He hummed.

"Hi, baby boy. Go back to sleep, shhh. I've got you." She whispered, carding her fingers through his hair. Walked him out of the room. She felt bad and guilty about abruptly ending his sleepover, but he'd sleep better this way. Chelsea set her empty bottle on the stair landing and somehow made it up to the second floor, head pulsing and body ready to fold in on itself. Instead of taking him back to his own room, she went to Vanessa's bedroom. Her little girl was spread out across her Montessori bed, light snores falling out of an open mouth. Shit, this was going to take more manoeuvering than she'd initially thought. She didn't have the strength for this, emotionally or physically, right now! And the bed was small - a single mattress. They came in bigger sizes, she'd seen them before. Maybe that's what they'd have to do. Upgrade to a queen so the twins could sleep together.

It was fine. Chelsea could make it work. Even with the bed so low to the ground. She struggled down onto her knees, Isaac still asleep on her shoulder, and slowly rolled Vanessa over onto her side. God, that girl slept like a rock. It took some coaxing, but she got her there. Made enough room to set Isaac down under the covers beside her. Somehow managed to catch Vanessa's arm from flopping down and smacking Isaac square in the face. Chelsea had already cried enough for the whole house tonight, okay? Vanessa squirmed awake trying to get onto her back again. Shit, shit, shit. Her little eyebrows scrunched together, both confused and annoyed about being woken up. "Hi, Tadpole. I'm so sorry. Go back to sleep, baby girl. Isaac wanted to have a sleepover. Is that okay?" Hey, it'd worked when Elliot said it!

Vanessa glanced at her brother with heavy eyes. Blinked, a few times. "'Kay." She agreed, throwing her plush toy octopus to the end of the bed and cuddling Isaac in her arms instead. Chelsea put her head in her hands, trying with everything she had - or everything she had left - not to cry again.

"I love you, Nessa." Chelsea croaked, tearing up anyway.

"I love you. Night night." Vanessa replied, completely unbothered. Snuggled in closer to Isaac with her eyes closed. That was her girl. Slept everybody else under the table. And like Daddy, it was Isaac's turn to sleep with a smile on his face.

Chelsea was very slow going down the stairs. Held on tight to the railing and breathed out a harsh sigh of relief when she hit the landing. She filled her water up in the kitchen, sipped it 'til it was almost empty, and then filled it up again. Charlie padded on over to her, tail sweeping through the air and cutting through the silence of the house past midnight. "Hey, buddy." She sunk her fingers into his fur, giving him a good scratch behind the ears and a pat before moving to get him some fresh water in his bowl, too. Charlie happily panted. "Did I ever say thank you to you? For looking after Elliot all that time before I came along?" Chelsea asked, using the edge of her wrist to wipe her nose. Charlie wagged his tail in reply. "I can't remember. I hope I did. Thank you. Thank you, bud. You're the best." His tongue dangled out of his mouth, almost like he was smiling. Chelsea grinned, tension leaving her jaw for the first time in hours. She blew him a kiss and gave him a final tap on the head. "Goodnight, buddy."

Elliot was a sight for sore eyes. He was still fast asleep on his tummy, arms wrapped around and cuddling his pillow. Holding onto something without her there in bed right beside him. Chelsea set her water bottle on the nightstand and reached down to grab the journal from the floor. It was open, face down and flat on the ground. When she retrieved it, an old 4x6 photo slipped out between the pages. Oh. It was a picture of Alex on his second birthday. Two candles on his cake, a party hat sitting crooked on top of his head. When was the last time Elliot had seen this photo? Chelsea looked over at him, fresh tears pooling in her eyes. Felt a sharp pang in her chest. She gently placed it on her side table with his envelope of old, frayed letters. She would give him everything she'd found in the morning.

Jesus Christ. Chelsea wanted to pass out, but she also needed to keep reading.

With Isaac back upstairs, it gave her the opportunity to get closer to Elliot. Leave no space between their bodies. Chelsea tucked herself under the blankets and faced him. Tangled their legs together for warmth and comfort. She curled a strand of his messy hair around her finger. He didn't stir, just nuzzled deeper into his pillow. Like even in his sleep, he enjoyed having his hair played with. "I love you." Chelsea murmured, journal pressed to her chest - to the aching, all-consuming feeling in her heart, and brushed a soft kiss to his bare shoulder blade.

Okay. Okay, she had to soldier on. Keep going. Elliot had for over ten years. He wrote about how he felt changed after suicide watch. How no matter how much he wanted to die, he'd never risk another attempt. He never wanted to go back there. And he hated himself, hated himself even more than before. Hated his body after only having that and cinderblock to stare at for eight months on end.

It was... funny? Weird? Yeah, strange how that worked. How Chelsea had her own insecurities about her body, like the weight gain that came with pregnancy, but Elliot loved it. Strange how Elliot could hate how he looked because of the trauma he endured, but it only made Chelsea love him and his body even more. He'd had her weak at the knees the very first day that she met him, and the attraction had only grown since then. Every part of him was perfect to her. Beautiful. He was a sight for sore eyes. And his body had carried him through a lot. It deserved to be appreciated. Worshipped. She told him plenty how hot and sexy he was. Recently, she'd gotten him to say thank you instead of refuting it or disagreeing when she called him beautiful. He was healing. He was strong and beautiful and healing. The words in these pages couldn't hurt him anymore. Chelsea wouldn't let them.

The drinking started once he was back in his usual cell. And it made sense. It made so much sense. He was using the only outlet he had available to him to try and cope with it all. Alex. Murder. Prison. Isolation. Suicide. Abuse. Alcoholism was an addiction; addiction was a mental health issue. It happened without reason sometimes, and that was perfectly valid if it did - but that wasn't the case here, was it? Elliot had plenty of fucking reasons. How could anybody blame him for any of this? How could anyone else say they'd have done it any different? The prison booze - Pruno, he called it - let him finally get to sleep at night. Chelsea was glad he had that. Had seen him sleepless, had seen him sleep deprived. If it helped him survive, if it helped make things even the tiniest bit easier, Chelsea was glad. He had no reason to be ashamed. Not with her, or with anybody that had a single ounce of decency or empathy.

Hah. And speaking of...

Lucy.

The divorce papers.

Chelsea shot up in bed, eyes furrowed. Did the math quickly in her head. The journal entry was dated 2012. Five years... five fucking years?! It took Lucy five entire years to send Elliot divorce papers?! "No. No, no, no." Chelsea grumbled aloud despite herself. Bared her teeth. Was this some kind of sick fucking joke?! Five years. Five years.

Chelsea hadn't even known Elliot for five years yet. That's... That was how long a time five years was. It was halfway through his sentence. She waited that fucking long to end it. Had left him with that hope, with the possibility of something, for five whole years. Chelsea was trembling, the anger quick to rise up again. Burning her chest and stinging her eyes with hot tears.

How do you go from in sickness and health to this?

How the fuck could she do this to him?!

Maybe this hit her harder because Chelsea was his wife now. Because she had to share that word and that title with Lucy. She would never... Chelsea would rather die than treat Elliot the way his ex-wife had. Holy fucking shit. Maybe this hit her even harder because it brought up a lot. A lot she tried not to think about, or ever speak on, because Lucy was Jenny's mom. She was Elliot's first wife. His first love.

Lucy was a doctor that "specialised in pediatric medicine" - something she hadn't shut the fuck up about the first time Chelsea had (accidentally) met her. Like that fact alone made her a good person. Chelsea had met some terrible doctors and clinicians in her time (Christmas Eve last year when pregnant with Luca?! The nurse who left the pill bottle out for Elliot?! The first specialist she'd seen when she wanted to start IVF?!). It was a noble career, sure, but it didn't make someone a good person. And after all this, Lucy was not a good person in her eyes. She sure as hell wasn't a good wife. She'd lectured Chelsea about being a stay-at-home mother the first time they'd met, too. Condescending as all fuck. Had Chelsea ever told Elliot about that before? Maybe the woman who didn't even tell her husband - who it took her five whole fucking years to divorce, mind you! - about their daughter's existence until ten years after the fact shouldn't've been giving out parenting and lifestyle advice, huh? Bitch.

Chelsea had kept her pregnancy with Luca a secret for a week and felt like a terrible person for it. Seven whole days, and she beat herself up about it - then and now. Chelsea let out a scoff; an exasperated, forceful exhale. Almost laughed. She'd been really hard on herself for no reason, huh? Sometimes she felt like she wasn't good enough for Elliot. That she didn't deserve him. Especially at the beginning of their relationship, especially next to Lucy. Yeah, fuck that. She did. She did. She treated him better than Lucy, than his aunt and uncle, than any of these other people who had straight up abandoned him and let him down. Who didn't even give a shit when he was alone and suicidal and abused. None of them deserved him. Chelsea did.

And then there was the other argument: that Elliot didn't deserve her. He always said it. That he didn't deserve her or her love. That he was unworthy. That he was lucky to be with her. Well, was it any fucking wonder he thought that?! Someone actually caring about him and staying and fighting for him was a completely foreign and unfamiliar concept for Elliot! He had been mistreated his entire life! His entire life. No more. Never again. Fuck that. He deserved more of Chelsea to make up for all that he'd never had until now.

She bet Elliot had felt lucky being with Lucy, too. Like he didn't deserve her, either. What a joke.

Elliot had told her before - a few times, actually - that he didn't want her to be Lucy. He just wanted her to be herself. Now Chelsea could see why.

Five years. Chelsea was stuck on the number. The weight of it. The weight Lucy had left on Elliot. It was mindboggling. The amount of things that woman had done wrong and/or poorly and Elliot took the blame for it all!? It wasn't fair. She hadn't given him any sort of dignity or grace. Had acted like it wasn't his child who had died, too. As far as Chelsea knew, and as far as she'd read in the journal, the divorce papers were the first point of contact since Elliot's arrest. Five years of absolute silence. Of nothing, when they had been married. She couldn't even give Elliot the hope of knowing he had a daughter. Refused to give him something to live for outside of prison. Something to hold on to. Not their marriage, not the fact that he had another child out there. It was sick. Chelsea didn't care about her motivations, didn't care what her reasons were - nothing was good enough to explain that. She was, and never had been, good enough for Elliot.

Why did it take her five years to push the papers through? Why divorce Elliot in the first place? Did the Hippocratic Oath mean more to Lucy than her marriage vows? Do no harm? What, because Elliot had killed the pedophile that had captured and... and murdered their three-year-old son? She ended their marriage or fell out of love with him because of that? Whatever. Lucy didn't just break her vows, she'd broken her doctor's oath, too. She'd done plenty of harm to Elliot. She was selfish. Didn't think about him for a second, Chelsea was sure. Probably took her five years to get the divorce drafted because she could only ever think about herself. She didn't take Elliot's feelings into account, ever, even after years of marriage. Couldn't even give him that courtesy. Couldn't even tell him that she was pregnant or that he had a daughter. Even though he was the one rotting in prison. Even though he was the one who didn't have the proper time or space to grieve the loss of their child. She got that. Elliot never did. He had to sit in a cell and fight for his life every single day, while she lied and kept him from the truth for years. That was her burden. That was all her fault. She'd robbed Elliot of years with Jenny, she'd robbed him of any sort of hope or chance, and fuck, Chelsea hated her for it. She hated her so much.

She had the journal in her lap and her phone in her hand before she even got a chance to think about it. Fingers furiously tapped out a message in her chat with Lucy.

Why the fuck did you take FIVE YEARS to send Elliot divorce papers? HUH??!! And why the fuck didn't you tell him about Jenny?!?! What the FUCK is the matter with you? You're pathetic!!! You have NO IDEA what Elliot had to go through, and you have NO IDEA how much happened BECAUSE OF YOU. He deserves SO MUCH MORE than how you treated him. You OWE HIM a fuckin APOLOGY. You OWE HIM full custody of Jenny, because he will NEVER get the time back that you STOLE from him!!!! Neither will YOUR DAUGHTER!!!!! And Elliot will NEVER get the time back that he had to spend WITH YOU thinking he wasn't good enough!!!! He never should've been with you in the first place!!!! You're a disgrace!!! You NEVER deserved him!!!! FUCK YOU!!!!

Her thumb hovered over the send button, heart pounding in her ears. Breathing heavy with her whole body.

Lucy might've been selfish, but Chelsea wasn't. She always put Elliot first. Always factored him into her decisions. It was the only reason she backspaced the message. The only reason she locked her phone and put it back down on her side table. She was fucking angry, but she would never do anything to jeopardise Elliot's relationship with his daughter. She wasn't Lucy! She wouldn't do that. Didn't want to jeopardise her own relationship with Jenny, either. She wasn't just her step-daughter. She was her family. Chelsea loved that girl like she was her own - because she was. Watching her grow these past few years was an honour and a privilege! Playing even a small part in that meant the absolute world to Chelsea. She couldn't risk it. She couldn't risk it and cuss out Lucy, no matter how much she wanted to. And God, she wanted to.

Elliot was so smart. Ahead of his time, writing in a journal. Getting the words out helped, even if she deleted them right after. Chelsea had a diary as a kid, as a pre-teen; maybe she needed to start one up again. Have an outlet for all of these crazy, hormonal thoughts and feelings. It was stifling, actually - the amount of hate she had in her heart for these people. Lucy, his aunt and uncle, his biological parents. People she didn't even really know - but who she knew well enough. Their impact was felt. She could see it in the way Elliot thought, in the way he acted, in the way he felt things. He'd been scared of Chelsea hating him when he first told her about prison. You’re probably going to hate me at the end of the day and trust me, I'll understand if you do... Scared she was going to hate him, feeling suicidal and sleep-deprived after the trauma of Luca's birth at the start of the year, saying, I don't want you to hate me. Chelsea could never hate him. There was nothing that he could ever say or do that would make her hate him. But she fucking hated all of them. Lucy, his aunt and uncle, his biological parents. All of them. If reading his journal had made anything clearer to her, it was that.

And she didn't feel insecure anymore. Had been feeling inadequate next to Lucy for the past three years, but not anymore! Nope! Not after this! It had been the thing that fuelled her and Elliot's first ever fight. Why are you even with me? Is this you trying to like... Punish yourself? Settle for me because you think that's what you deserve? I'm not Lucy, and I'm never gonna be Lucy. I'm nothing like her... I don't understand why you're even with me. How you can go from someone like her to me. It had been something her bitch of a cousin (yeah, somebody else she hated!) had pointed out to her the last time Chelsea saw her. What's it like raising some other woman's kid? She's like… some super successful doctor, right? Jeez, that must kill you. Not anymore! She didn't think Elliot settled for her, or that being his second wife meant that she was second, or second best. Not now. Elliot believed in her. He made her a Goddamn home photography studio with his bare hands, that's how much he believed in her. Had worked on it for months, he believed in her so much. Chelsea deserved him, and she was never going to doubt that ever again. She was never going to feel inferior to Lucy again, either. Fuck her.

They'd been young when they got married. Elliot had told her about it before. The threat from Lucy's parents: if you don't marry our pregnant daughter, I'll kill you. A marriage that only happened because she'd fallen pregnant. Elliot was, what? Twenty-years-old at the time? He didn't have much of a choice. Chelsea had been the one to propose to him twenty-five weeks into her pregnancy with the twins. Not out of necessity or religion or whatever, but because she wanted to. Because in that moment, sitting in the car with him, she just wanted to be his wife. She didn't want to compare - not anymore! - but it was hard not to. The slight similarities. Here was the huge difference: Lucy broke her marriage vows. She didn't deserve to be counted as his wife, ex or not. And as far as Chelsea was concerned, she never had been. It was null and void, now. Chelsea was and always had been Elliot's wife, actually. She was, and always would be, the love of his life. That's all there was to it. Plain and simple.

She didn't deserve to take up any more of Chelsea's headspace. Didn't deserve to waste any more of her time or energy, or Elliot's for that matter. Chelsea gently kissed his forehead. Let her lips linger.

Elliot rolled over in his sleep. Chelsea's eyes widened, scared she'd finally woken him up. Nope. He was still asleep, he was still smiling. Lying flat on his back now. Chelsea sunk down into the mattress and curled up against his side, sneaking under his arm and resting her head on his chest. Even unconscious, he held her back. Tightened his arm around her shoulder.

She'd keep reading like this, close to him as ever.

His thirtieth birthday was purposefully spent in solitary. Punishing himself, wanting to be alone for a milestone he didn't think he deserved to have in the first place. With or without the padded cell, either way, he was alone. In that moment, in that time, he had nobody. No visitors, no family. Divorce papers signed and filed. That wasn't how he celebrated thirty-six, or thirty-seven, or thirty-eight - not on Chelsea's watch. Never again. Even when he didn't want to celebrate, Chelsea always got her way with it. And after reading these entries, these ten years of birthdays spent cold and alone? Thirty-nine, eighty-nine, every single March 15th from now on was going to be celebrated. Every March 15th of every year for the rest of their lives was going to be a milestone. Because it was. He survived. He was here. He was everything to her, he was the best gift she'd ever gotten - he deserved it. Chelsea was going to make up for all the love he never got, and for all the birthdays that went and passed unnoticed or uncelebrated. In prison, in the times before that with his parents or his aunt or uncle. Never again would he be alone or unloved on his birthday. On any day, for the rest of his life. Not if Chelsea ever had anything to say about it.

Alex's birthday was only a few weeks after Elliot's. He was meant to turn ten-years-old. April 4th, 2012. Chelsea didn't believe in God - couldn't, after all this, but she glanced up at the ceiling, anyway. Silently said a little prayer for him. April was hard for Elliot, but then again, it was all hard. The baby's due date was in April. Was meant to only be a few days after Alex's birthday, if Chelsea could last that long this time around. She'd have to remember that. Specifically request, if she went to term, not to have the c-section booked for that date. He deserved to have that day all his own, and so did Elliot. So did Lucy, even if Chelsea fucking hated her guts. And it was easier to think about that; technicalities and things she had some semblance of control over, than Elliot's journal entry. I can't go back written over and over like forced lines in detention. Like a mantra. Like if he said it enough, he wouldn't do it. He wanted to kill himself, but he couldn't go back to suicide watch. Because those conditions were worse than death or nothingness - and Chelsea believed it. Believed in that, not God. There were worse things in this world than dying. The abuse... the torture he had to endure...

Chelsea hid her wet face against Elliot's chest, breathing him in. Had to remind herself that good people existed, that good things were possible. He was good, he was here, he was alive. He made it. In spite of it all, he made it. He was the best thing that had ever happened to her. He was the best. Good, so good, despite everything that had ever happened to him. And he was everything to her. She shifted to put her ear to his chest, to time her breathing to his heartbeat. Had to stop another anxiety attack before it started. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks and onto his skin, but Elliot still didn't stir. Was used to this, to Chelsea drooling all over him or his pillow in the middle of the night. He was good like that. He was so good. Breathing, heart beating, alive. Asleep and okay.

Eventually, she could breathe easy again. Eventually, cuddled into his side, she kept reading.

His uncle sent him a package. Finally. Finally after five fucking years. Took him longer than Lucy. She wasn't sure which one made her angrier. Her teeth grinding together was making her migraine worse. Made her want to vomit again. Tony had sent him a set of books. No note, no letter, nothing. Elliot with his good manners sent a thank you back, but never got a response. More books, eventually, and money in his commissary account, but never a response. Never a phone call, or a visit to Sing Sing. His aunt and uncle only lived, what? Two hours away? It was fucking pathetic. It wasn't good enough. Like books or money absolved them of any sort of parental responsibility. Probably assuaged their fucking guilt. She hoped they felt guilty. And if they didn't feel guilty back then, Chelsea was sure as hell going to make it her mission that they did now. This was not enough! Books, money. How hard was it to send a fucking letter? Check in? Show they fucking cared? It was reprehensible. As a parent, it made her sick. His aunt and uncle made her fucking sick.

Elliot wrote about sending them a Christmas card that year. Again, to no reply. And there was that dark, possessive part of her that took great offense to that fact. Christmas was their time. Their favourite holiday. Elliot sent them a Merry Christmas and they couldn't take a single second out of their precious time to send him one back?! He gave them chance after chance after chance, and they kept proving their lack of worth, not Elliot's. He would never do that to their children. Never. Elliot would never do that to anybody, not even a stranger, let alone his own Goddamn child! How hard was it to fill out a card? Mail it? How hard was it to do that for the person you raised for fifteen years? Chelsea was never sending those assholes a Christmas card again, that was for sure. They didn't deserve Christmas. It was hers. It was her holiday. They didn't deserve Elliot, either. He was hers, too. Her family, not theirs. They'd lost that privilege a long fucking time ago. And they'd never get it back. Nope. She hoped Tony and Theresa's holiday seasons were cold and cruel and dark and lonely, like Elliot's had been for most of his life. Yeah, no fucking thanks to them, either. God.

God, she was angry. Jaw permanently clenched, head violently throbbing, her blood boiling. Chelsea rolled over onto her other side, away from Elliot, to reach for her phone on the nightstand again. Did she even have Tony or Theresa's number? She just wanted to check. That's all. There was no harm in checking! Chelsea had to bite her tongue and be nice to Lucy for Jenny and Elliot's sake, but she didn't owe his aunt or uncle jack shit. So there was no harm in having a quick look through her contact list!

They weren't under 'H' for Holt, but Lucy wasn't listed in her phone as Hewitt, either. Even before reading the journal, Chelsea wanted them nowhere near Elliot. Not even in an arbitrary, unimportant list on her iPhone. Funny that. Chelsea wondered how Elliot felt about that. About his last name being Holt, after everything they'd done to him. He didn't see it that way, he didn't see them as bad, Chelsea knew that, but still... She'd have to ask him, at some point. How that felt. He wasn't a Pearson, but was he a Holt? Was he proud to be one? Was he okay with being one? Did it even matter, in the grand scheme of things? He could reclaim it. They could reclaim it, and their children could, and their children could. Maybe it didn't matter. Maybe she was overthinking it. Maybe he should've taken her last name, instead. Untraditional, sure, but that's how their entire relationship had been, huh? Unconventional and crazy. It was probably too late to change it now... but was it? Elliot was proof that it was never too late. Never too late to change their names, or to change the meaning behind the one he already had. The one she and their babies had, too. Yeah. She'd have to ask him about that.

She found Tony under 'U' for Uncle Tony. No last name. Yeah, that was disgusting. That felt gross. He didn't really deserve that qualifier. Not after what she'd read, not after what she'd seen. Chelsea found some comfort, at least, in knowing she had his phone number. That she had that option to call him and cuss him out later if she still wanted to.

Satisfied for now, Chelsea set her phone down and got the journal back in her hands. Elliot's arm was draped over her chest; holding her in his sleep, even in her new position, her back pressed against the curve of his body. She kissed the inside of his elbow, over his snail tattoo. Held the journal single-handedly so she could trail her touch down his arm, down to his wrist, down past his knuckles so she could play with his fingers. Hold him back, just a little.

He wrote about intake day, about the fish swimming in. Chelsea knew the prison slang - knew about this part of the journal, too. It was something Elliot had told her about after waking up in the hospital with Luca, post-birth and general anaesthetic. The story was a little foggy, but still familiar. Elliot jumping in to save a fish, a kid, from getting the shit kicked out of him. The kid sticking to his side, after that. Constantly trying to talk to him, constantly visiting his cell, constantly sitting with him in the mess hall. Elliot was resistant about it, about him, even in his writing. Didn't want to let anybody in. Didn't want to talk to anybody. Chelsea couldn't blame him for that. He was protecting himself emotionally as much as he was protecting this kid physically. It made sense. At least, it did to her. Elliot throwing himself into the line of fire to help somebody else, even a stranger, also made complete sense to her. That was her baby. My hero. She squeezed his hand, almost absent-minded, and thumbed to the next page.

Elliot hadn't mentioned the kid's name yet in his entries. And when he finally did, it all started to piece together. Tre gave him a flashlight. Tre. Tre Fuller. Chelsea glanced over to her nightstand, where she'd left the stuffed envelope from the inside of the journal. He'd sent him letters when he got out of prison. He'd smuggled in a flashlight, and started eating all of Elliot's Pop-Tarts and wearing his slippers and being his friend while they were both inside. And it was the first time in hours, reading this journal, that Chelsea felt good. That she had a swell in her chest, because finally Elliot was being cared for and appreciated and treated the way he deserved to be! Finally someone in his life wasn't a complete fucking asshole - even in prison! And his name was Tre. Elliot had a friend, and his name was Tre.

Of course, her happiness was short-lived. Another date skip had her holding her breath. Elliot found Tre surrounded by a sea of people in his cell, arm broken, face bloody and bruised. Scared and hurt. The four weeks spent in solitary were well worth it, Elliot wrote. He got his revenge. Found and attacked the guy that had attacked Tre. Protected him, even after the fact. Even if he got in trouble for it. Four weeks alone again. The padded cell had to be better than the windows, the concrete, the starkness. Being bare. Right? Chelsea had to take comfort in that. In who Elliot was, down at the heart of it all. The kind of person who helped others, no matter the personal consequences. The type of person who let Tre in, who let her in, despite everything he had endured. His strength could not be understated.

That made her feel happy again. Got her glancing over at him and smiling again, fresh tears flowing down the dimples in her cheeks. It wasn't a lie, or a line, when she called him her muse. Her hero. He was inspiring. She had drawn from his strength and his grace so many times before. Every breakdown, every anxiety. All the health and hospital stuff that had come up the past two years. Chelsea was strong because he was. She could only be brave because he was. He had given her that, and he had given that to their children, too: Jenny, so fiercely outspoken; Vanessa, completely fearless; Luca, a survivor, just like his Daddy was.

Speak of the devil. The baby monitor crackled to life, showing Luca squirming around in his crib and crying. Elliot stirred, almost synchronised with his son. Chelsea untangled herself from his embrace to reach over and shut the monitor off. "Sleep, baby. Sleep." Fuck, she hoped he couldn't hear how rough her voice sounded. She turned away from him quick, so he couldn't see the state of her. Got out of their room before he could offer himself up, or ask any questions. Hoped he'd immediately fall back asleep without struggle.

Chelsea took the journal with her, at least. Scooped Luca up into her arms with the notebook tucked between her legs, and hobbled over with him to the feeding chair in the corner, similar to the one in Isaac's room. They had so many rocking chairs and cribs and baby furniture because they had so many Goddamn kids. It was ridiculous.

"You want your midnight snack, huh, buddy?" Chelsea teased, kissing a tear from the apple of his cheek. It was well past midnight, at this point, but still... "Shh, Peanut. I got you, I got you. Mommy's here." She hushed him, lifting her (Elliot's) shirt up on one side to accommodate him, cradling him to her skin. He instantly stopped crying to feed. One-handed, Chelsea pulled the journal out from between her thighs to keep reading. Set her feet up on the leather pouffe to get comfortable. She flicked the lamp on, too, because with Luca's head buried against her chest he couldn't care less about the light. Didn't care about the slightly awkward position as long as he had his nighttime feed.

Tre thought Elliot was in prison for tax fraud. Not only did he think so, but he didn't believe it when Elliot told him otherwise. That's what all old white guys to jail for. Chelsea laughed. Ahh, she remembered this part, too. Had remembered Elliot's little chuckle after recounting the story, snuggled together in her hospital bed after Luca was born. His laughter was medicinal. Healing. Distracting. A comfort in her time of need. I liked that story. I like it when you talk to me. We should commit tax fraud, baby. She'd said, wanting to hear him laugh again. Would do or say anything to hear it, or to see him smile. And it'd been like that since the very first minute she met him.

Chelsea sighed, content. "You like it when Daddy laughs too, don't you, Luke?" She beamed down at him. He paid her no mind. He was busy! But he was the type of baby that giggled at faces, that liked to match expressions. Especially lately, after being fitted for his little toddler glasses. He was always giggling at Elliot; laughing along with him. Chelsea brushed a kiss to his hair and continued down the page.

She liked Tre. Even if he thought early thirties was old. Would he even be thirty himself by now? Chelsea couldn't do the math, adjusting Luca and her shirt to the other side so he could keep feeding. The exhaustion was truly starting to set into her body, rocking back and forth on the chair. Her migraine was still pulsing, casting auras in her vision. She blinked long, and longer, but she had to keep going. Persevere. Elliot had been going for almost eight years. She didn't have much left of the journal, and Elliot didn't have much left of his sentence. Well. Considering. In context. The bigger picture.

But then Tre's sentence was over, and he was gone. Released early on parole. And Elliot was alone again. Chelsea's nose twitched. That wasn't fair. It was, but it wasn't. Did it make her selfish to think that? To want him to stay in Sing Sing so Elliot had someone? Chelsea flicked back through the journal, trying to find the entry where Elliot mentioned Tre's crime. Possession with a gun. And guns added an automatic two years to a sentence, Elliot wrote. Just knew that off the top of his head, because he was smart. Because he was a lawyer, then and now.

Fuck, two years was a long time. Look at what they'd done in two years - met, moved across the country together, had the twins, got pregnant again with Luca. Two years was a whole lifetime. It had been for her. And Chelsea liked Tre. She really did. He was the only person in the journal, besides Elliot, of course, that she didn't want to violently murder...

Too soon?

Tre should've been let out sooner. He shouldn't've been in prison at all. Same with Elliot.

Chelsea wondered where Tre was now. Wondered what had become of him. If he was happy. Safe. She only wanted the best for him for how he treated Elliot in Sing Sing. She wanted to thank him for being his friend. It was the same sort of deep desire she had in wanting to call up and verbally abuse Tony and Lucy on the phone. Emotionally driven. Born out of her love for Elliot. It was a heavy, hot feeling in her chest. Motivating. Churning. She'd have to see if she could find Tre online somewhere. She'd found Macy on Facebook, back in the day. Less than two years ago. Damn. Chelsea would have to see if she could reach out to Tre and thank him.

Luca fell back asleep at her breast. Drunk on milk and smiling with an open mouth. Chelsea set the journal aside and gently laid him down in his crib. Patted his cute little tummy over his sleep suit. "Goodnight, baby. Sweet dreams." She said, barely audible. Not wanting to disturb him. "I love you." She blew him a kiss and retrieved the notebook from the rocking chair. Switched the lamp off and navigated her way out of his room through the dark.

Thankfully, Elliot was asleep again by the time she made it back to bed. It read 3:42am on his alarm clock, red and glaring on his side table. Shit, was it really that late already? Her body and mental state was going to severely regret it come sunrise; having to get out of bed to a house full of children without any sleep, but she had to keep going. She was almost done! Like Elliot, she was almost out on the other side of it.

She snuggled up next to him under the covers again. Craved the warmth and feeling of his body beside her. He was safe. She felt safe, being next to him. Being in his vicinity. Chelsea lightly pressed her mouth to his chin in a kiss, and turned the pages of his journal to find her place.

Even with Tre gone, he wasn't really gone. Thank God. He sent Elliot letters. He came back and visited him. And it was the first visitor Elliot had in eight fucking years. Not his aunt and uncle, not his disgrace of an ex-wife, but a friend he'd made inside prison. A close enough friendship that it made Tre come back to Sing Sing, despite his own trauma, just to see him. Just to keep the connection. Just so Elliot wasn't alone. Thank fuck. Chelsea definitely had to thank him for that. Definitely felt better about it, knowing that even though Tre was released, he wasn't gone completely from Elliot's life. And Elliot sounded better for it in his writing! Hadn't had a sometimes feeling in quite a while, from what she could tell. He was lighter. Happier. For as much as he could be, being locked up. But it was a nice turn! It felt less like her chest was ready to cave in, reading his entries. Her tears had dried up. Elliot was doing better, and that made her feel better.

And Tre brought Elliot presents! He was her new favourite, actually. She loved this kid. This was her type of person! This was the type of person Elliot deserved to have in his life: caring, giving, affectionate. She couldn't get thank you out of her head. Wanted to say it, needed to say it. Needed to tell him. Needed him back in Elliot's life, because her baby deserved all the love in the world. He deserved so much for all he had been without for the majority of his life. There was so much to make up for. So much love and friendship and good things. Only good things from now on! Chelsea was going to make sure of it. And she was going to make sure she tracked Tre down and got them back in contact. She was going to make sure she bought him a present for being so beautiful and kind to her husband.

Later, though. She kept reading.

Elliot had read Fifty Shades of Grey. He'd told her about this before! Their wedding anniversary celebrations earlier in the year, watching the first movie half-naked on the couch, eating takeout Chinese food for dinner. He'd told her, then, that the books were terrible and trashy, but kind of fun. Understating it completely, according to his journal entries. He'd read all three books in the series in quick succession, sitting by himself in his prison cell. He'd started getting himself off for the first time in years because of them. It helped him.

Chelsea felt kinda bad about falling asleep during the movie on their anniversary, now. It deserved more credit than that! Even if the series was terrible and trashy, it helped Elliot, and that's all that mattered to her. She'd have to give it another chance. The movies and the books. Maybe it could teach her a thing or two, huh? Probably not - she had the whole dom thing down pat, by this point - but maybe!

It made her heart happy. Not for any sort of selfish, sexual reason; but it made her happy to know that he could give himself that. Even in prison, even after the sexual abuse and torture he'd suffered in Sing Sing. Even after how much he'd talked about hating himself and his body. Chelsea was glad he could do that for himself back then. Pleasure himself, love himself. To have that sort of release. He was heading toward healing - even back then! - and he still had over a year of his sentence left to serve.

He got there. Of course he did. And Chelsea felt so much relief, like the weight of the world was no longer pressing down on her shoulders. Suffocating her. Even with Elliot sleeping safe and soundly beside her, years after the fact.

Tre visited him one more time. Offered Elliot a place to stay at his apartment in Brooklyn, if he needed to. Because he had his own apartment now. Wow. She loved this kid. Wondered why Elliot didn't take him up on that offer. What would've become of them and their life together if he had. But she didn't need to worry about that. Didn't need to ask what if, with him right beside her. Not when she was gonna make it her mission to get Tre back in his life, anyway. He could have the best of both worlds here! After almost ten years of journal entries written in a maximum security prison, he could have that. He could have anything. Chelsea would do anything for him. Always, but especially now. Especially nearing the back cover of the notebook. Of ten years of his life and his writing in her hands. Elliot had given her that - and she was still so blown away by the gesture of it, by the grace in that action - and he had given her such a beautiful life. She would give him anything and everything in return.

He deserved love, he deserved to be celebrated. He deserved everything he never got as a child, or a teenager, or the kid that got locked up in prison and left behind. Chelsea was going to give it to him. Anything, everything. All of it. All of her.

She sounded manic. God, she felt a little bit manic. She was crying again. Big surprise there! The date of his release jumped out at her. July 25, 2017. "Oh my God." Chelsea whimpered aloud, dropping the journal into her lap and covering her face with hands. Crying into her palms. That was Jack's birthday. It was the day that Jack was born. She'd never realised that before. Didn't know that her son - their son - had entered the world at the same time as Elliot had re-entered it. Jack was born, and Elliot was free. What were the odds of that?

If this was a court of law, the evidence would be indisputable.

They were soulmates.

They were meant to be.

Chelsea had to scramble through the last few pages of the journal with bleary eyes. She couldn't concentrate anymore. Couldn't absorb anymore after all that. From Sing Sing, Elliot went to LaGuardia to Wilmington. The next flight out at the airport, and it happened to be where she was. The only home she'd ever known before she met him. The place she'd grown up in, the place where they fell in love. What were the odds of that? Of all the flights, of all the locations around the country... the next flight out was Wilmington, and Elliot took it. Flew right toward her. Crashed right into her, literally, on Wrightsville Beach only a few months later. Wasn't that insane? Didn't that have to be written in the stars, or something? Fate or destiny. It was. It was, because now they were here. He was here.

She didn't even read the last page of the journal. She didn't need to. She knew exactly how it ended.

Chelsea crawled on top of him under the covers, knocking the notebook off the bed in the process. Hugged her arms tight around his neck and hid her wet face against his skin. "Baby. Baby, wake up. Please wake up." She nuzzled into his throat, putting all of her weight on him. Holding him as close as humanly possible. "I need - I need to... I need to love you." She rubbed their ankles together. He shifted awake against her, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. Ran a hand down his face, tired and thrown, before he gripped her hips. Held her back. "I love you. I love you!" Chelsea exclaimed, shoulders shaking with her crying. "And I hate them. I hate her, and I hate him, and I hate all of them! So, so fucking much... I - I need you to know that." She lifted her head so she could sniffle. Used the side of her wrist to wipe her nose clean. It felt stuffy and full, and the tears just wouldn't stop. Her head wouldn't stop violently pulsing from her migraine, either. Elliot thumbed her cheek, thumbed fresh tears away. His eyebrows were knitted together, clearly confused. Concerned.

"And I need you to know how much I love you." Her fingers climbed up his neck to cup his face in her hands. "Because I do! I do. I love you, Elliot. I love you! I love you." Chelsea rambled, glassy eyes searching his. "More than anything." She leaned down to plant a kiss against the curve of his jaw. "I want you." She mumbled, lips trailing up to his cheekbone. "I need you." Another kiss. "I love you." And another. "Always." Kissed the creases in his forehead. "For forever." The line between his furrowed eyebrows. "I love you, baby." The tip of his nose. "I love you so much." The dimple in his chin. Once she had finished peppering his face with soft, sloppy kisses, she parted her mouth against his properly. Kissed him long and deep until her lungs burned, and she was breathless, and she could taste the salt from her own tears on their tongues.

She pulled away from him to wipe her nose once more. Sniffled hard before holding his face, fingers caressing his cheeks again. "They were all so wrong about you. They were all so wrong." Chelsea shook her head in time to her words. Shook his face a little too, by proxy. She tried to keep her voice even and her message clear: "Your uncle, your aunt, Lucy. Everyone! They were all so terribly wrong about you! About who you are. And I love who you are. So fucking much, Elliot." Chelsea dropped her forehead to his, scared to face his reaction. Scared he was going to argue against her and her words. After everything she'd just read, she didn't want to hear it! She couldn't.

She breathed him in, her snotty nose brushing against his, their legs tangling together under the blanket. Her exhale was short and stuffy. She sat up, a little, to meet his eyes. To look at him properly, no matter what happened next. "Thank you. I... I read it. I read the journal and - and thank you. Thank you for being so vulnerable and... and - and beautiful with me. You literally have been from the very first day that we met." She cracked a wet smile at that. Squeezed her eyes shut to force more tears to freefall. "Giving me this... you have just... just given me so much. So much. Thank you. Thank you for giving me that... that privilege! Letting me see you, and your heart, and..." It kind of hurt to breathe. She was so worked up, and tired, and had cried so much that she hiccuped on her next breath. Her chest and shoulders jumping up with a sob.

Chelsea let go of Elliot's cheek with one hand to drag a palm down her face. A poor attempt at pulling herself together. Her skin was buzzing, trembling with anxiety. And it was hard to see his face through the tears and migraine spots in her vision. Her breath stuttered again, but she smiled in spite of it. "I am so proud of you." He immediately shook his head in firm disagreement. Chelsea's expression crumbled. A sob tore through her body. She took his face in her hands so they could lock eyes when she spoke again. "No, I need you to hear me. I need you to hear this! I need you to hear the words that I'm saying, baby. And I need you to believe them. Believe me. Please." She pleaded, fierce and passionate and desperate.

She was the one shaking her head now. "I'm proud of you, and I love you, and we're meant to be together! We're meant to be. And you're meant to be happy, and safe, and - and loved. You haven't been for so long, for so much of your life, and it's not fair, and I - I can't... I can't have that! I won't! I won't. You're never gonna be alone again! Never, ever again. I need you adored and respected and heard and loved. So loved. I love you. So much. Do you understand? I love you so much. And we... we were made for each other. You deserve me! And I deserve you. I do. I... you think you're not enough for me, or for anybody, but you are! You are! You're everything. You're everything! My everything. Please... You're everything, you're..." Rambling turned to full-blown blubbering. Chelsea ducked her head down, burying her face in the crook of his neck. Collapsing into him and letting the past few hours of sadness and sickness and exhaustion completely take over. Even if he didn't agree with her, she was still going to hold him. Even if he did agree with her, she was still going to cry. At this rate, she couldn't stop. She probably never would.

"I have so much to say." Yeah. She always did. "I have so many questions, I - " Her voice cracked. There was so many things she hadn't known about before. Five years for the divorce papers. The surgery to repair his small intestine. What suicide watch really meant. "My head hurts. My heart hurts." Even with her eyes closed, with her lashes wetting the skin at his neck, the aura spots invaded the black of her vision. Her fingers were tingling and curling in on themselves. "I need to... I need to calm down, but I... I can't. I - I love you." She didn't want to overwhelm him, but she was overwhelmed. Running on no sleep, on being physically and emotionally distressed; sick in the head and her stomach and her heart. If she stayed hidden, if she stayed holding him tight to her body, nothing else bad could happen, right? That's how it worked? He could stay safe and he could stay here. Right?

#044 #unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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She'd always been a numbers girl. Math was reliable. Unchanging, unfeeling. Sums were the same, no matter what—everything always added up the way it was supposed to. Labour was less predictable, less concrete. There was a plan, there were preferences; but it was all unknown. Uncharted territory. And Chelsea didn't fit with the regular equation to begin with. There was no partner in the room with her, no ring on her finger, no father to this baby. No sex equals pregnancy. This was science. This was all hers. A labour of love she built all on her own. She was the architect of her own future, and this had always been what she wanted. What she wished for.

She couldn't even tell you the last time she'd actually had sex. The positions seemed to be the same, at least—down on her hands and knees in the hospital bathroom, hot water spraying out from the plastic showerhead and hitting her in the back. Her mom was directing the flow of water, crouching half-soaked beside her. She'd been the one to come with her to all the birthing classes, all of her appointments. She was her partner in all this. Everyone else had relationships or marriages, and Chelsea had her mom. Even if she had done this pregnancy on her own, she wasn't alone. Her mother never let her be alone.

Donna stayed with her, even after 22 hours of labour. Counting stopped feeling helpful, or a comfort, after that big a number. A number made up of painful minutes, seconds, moments. And Chelsea was post dates. 41 weeks plus two days. That, at least, was normal. Typical for first time moms, they told her. Same with the long labour. Her body didn't quite know what to do the first time around, and neither did she. Was getting to the point where she started to question why she had ever wanted to do this in the first place. Questioned if she was even really here, or human. It felt animalistic, almost. The primal noises she didn't realise she was ever even capable of making. And the pain... The pain was everywhere: in her abdomen with the contractions constantly surging, in her lower back pulling apart purple, in the pressure in her bum. It was getting to be too much. She couldn't take much more of this.

She was a crier, and right now she couldn't even do that. Cried out, instead. Sweated excessively. But no tears. All her energy was spent trying to breathe through the next contraction, and then the next, and the next. It didn't end. It would never end. The rest between them didn't feel like enough. Didn't feel spaced out properly. Her mom had to call the midwife into the room to help her up from the bathroom floor. "I want that epidural now." No please, no manners. An uncharacteristic edge to her voice. Donna let her dig her nails into the skin at the back of her hand. Led her, with the midwife, toward the hospital bed back out into the birthing room.

"I think it might be a little late for that now, Chelsea!" The midwife gave her an empathetic smile.

No. "No. Please." Manners back, only because she was begging. Chelsea couldn't even remember the woman's name. Couldn't remember that her plan had specifically involved not having an epidural, or any sort of pharmacological pain relief. Not that there was anything wrong with that, of course, but that had been her preference. Had tried everything in her power to make this as normal as possible, given the circumstances. Given the rounds of IVF, and how medical and sterile it had felt at first. Just so... clinical. The medications, the injections. And given that her own mother had given birth to her without anything, and countless other women before her had... Chelsea tried to make it a calm and easy birth environment. They had string lights, and a diffuser with essential oils, and a playlist of Mumford and Sons playing over a portable speaker. She'd spent the majority of the labour bouncing on a birthing ball, or pacing around, or under the water in the shower. Upright. Gravity, and all that.

Now? Fuck that. She couldn't do this anymore.

"Is it okay if I do another internal exam to see how dilated you are, Chelsea? See how close we are to meeting your baby?"

Donna ushered her to sit down on the edge of the bed. Chelsea gripped the railing, trying to force all the pain and feeling from her body out of her hands. "But I want an epidural." She whimpered. Half-hearted, exhausted. Her mom combed a hand back through her hair.

"Let's see how dilated you are, and then we can see if we have time to get you that epidural. How does that sound?"

Chelsea whined, but conceded. Moved back onto the bed in time for the next contraction to hit her at full force. "I can't do this." She said, breathless and through gritted teeth once it started to peter out.

"You're doing it, honey." Donna replied, still playing with her hair, pushing it out of her face.

She didn't even have the energy to respond. Consented and spread her legs wide when the midwife asked, gloves pulled up to her elbows. She rummaged around inside her, doing her assessment. Chelsea pressed her head back into the pillow. Hated being in this position. She kept her fingers strained and aching around the side railing. The midwife was practically in and out, at least. Over and done with before another contraction knocked the wind out of her. The woman thumbed Chelsea's leg for comfort, soothing her through it. And once it was done, she told Chelsea her findings.

"You're fully dilated, my dear. It's almost time to have this baby!"

Chelsea didn't even have it in her to be relieved. It still felt so endless, and the exhaustion was starting to set into her bones. She felt so weak. So tired. Donna teared up beside her, giving her hand a gentle squeeze over the bed railing.

Fully dilated meant no chance in hell of getting an epidural. But that was fine. Everything was perfectly fine! Chelsea didn't want to be bedbound, anyway. It had never been part of the plan. Her mom helped her get back on her feet. Chelsea leaned all of her weight into Donna's body, and her mom enveloped her in her arms. They swayed together on the spot. "You're doing such a good job, Chicky. You're doing so good." Donna whispered, mouthing over her hair. Rubbed her back through another contraction. Chelsea violently shook through a tidal wave of pain. "Hey, hey, why don't you give the gas a try, honey? See if that helps?" Her mom quietely suggested. Chelsea nodded, a little frantic.

The midwife raised the bed up for her, so Chelsea could lean over real easy and dig her elbows into the mattress. Approached her, the doppler and ultrasound gel bottle in hand. Chelsea broke away from her mom's embrace to give the woman some wiggle room. Caught sight of her name tag when she bent down to walk her hands over Chelsea's pregnant stomach. Jordan. Yeah, that was her name. Had come in on the 7am shift and replaced the overnight midwife, Matilda. This was, what? The fifth midwife she'd seen in the past 24 hours? And Chelsea had been fully naked for forever, at this point. Had been in too much pain to even care or feel self-conscious about it. They were going to see it all and more soon enough, anyway. It didn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. Any sort of dignity she had left had long left the room.

The baby's heartbeat was like a horse trot. The stacatto rhythm was making her feel sick. Queasy. She glanced up at her mom. "Gas?" She said, barely audible. Was scared that if she talked properly that she'd throw up.

Her mom spoke up for her. "Is it okay if Chelsea tries the gas, Jordan?"

"Yeah, of course!" She said, enthusiasm setting Chelsea's teeth on edge. Jordan shut off the doppler and wiped the leftover gel from her belly with a paper towel. "Baby's heart rate is looking great! Let's get you set up on the gas and then we can start pushing, hey?"

Chelsea nodded again, slightly drawing in on herself. Wanted the talking to stop. Needed everybody to shut up already. She tried to focus on the music. Tried to swallow down the acidic taste burning at the back of her throat. Jordan pulled the tubing of the nitrous oxide gas over to Chelsea's side of the bed and instructed her on how to use it. Continously breathe it in and out through the mouthpiece. Chelsea nodded quick, annoyed, hoping to hurry her along before another contraction started. She just needed to take the edge off.

Perfect timing. Chelsea bit down, hard, on the mouthpiece; moaning around it as a contraction tightened across her abdomen. Was practically shrieking through every inhale and exhale until the medication finally started to take effect. Started to make her head feel fuzzy. The pain was still there, was still intense, but just... further away. Foggy. Air rattled around inside the tubing, and the sound pricked at her ears. Even once the ache of the contraction was gone, she kept breathing the gas in and out. Blinked slow, and slow, and slower.

There was a man in the room. Behind her eyes. Was it a doctor? An obstetrician? Was she just seeing things? She felt like she was floating. Maybe it was her dad, coming to say hello. Maybe it was her son that she was surely—surely!?—soon to meet. Whoever he was, whatever he was... He grinned at her, bright white teeth poking out of his smile. Chelsea sucked in more medicated air. There were creases around his eyes that rippled out toward his cheeks. Rippled because his eyes were so blue—bluer and brighter than anything she'd ever seen before. Bluer than the hospital gown they'd originally tried to stick her into, or the clear summer sky warming up the room through the birth suite window behind him. Bluer than the Goddamn gas tubing. And her head was swimming. She was drowning in them. In him.

Her mom frantically tapped her on the cheek, eyebrows furrowed in concern. "That's enough, honey." Gently coaxed the mouthpiece from her lips so she'd stop breathing in any more of it.

Chelsea grunted in response; fists screwed up in the bed sheets, head bowed like she was praying.

She was.

The fantasy dissipated as fresh, unmedicated air filtered into her lungs. Chelsea half-smiled toward the window, where she thought she'd seen the man through her haze. "I'm okay." She replied, throaty. "I'm feeling okay now." Everything was going to be okay! She could do this! "I'm feeling good—"

Oh. Oh no. Chelsea gagged with her entire body. Held onto the edge of the mattress so she wouldn't keel over, scared the straining was going to send her flying or falling. "Sick bag!" Donna called, urgency in her voice. The midwife was already on it, holding a disposable vomit bag under Chelsea's chin. She retched inside it, emptying her stomach and filling the bag to the brim. The acidity made tears finally spring to her eyes. Jordan was fast—replaced the sick bag with another one in record time, before Chelsea heaved again with her whole body and puked into it.

So much for fresh air. Her throat felt raw, stripped and searing all the way down her oesophagus. Her tummy muscles, even without any contractions, felt tight from the full-body gagging. Chelsea tried to stop swaying on her feet, palms pressed flat against the hospital bed. Violently burped with shaking shoulders. She had nothing left to give, and yet still so much—she still had to birth her son. Vomiting wouldn't even be the worst of it.

Donna was just as quick as the midwife; had wet a washcloth from the sink and cleaned her face up with it. "I'm... I'm okay." Chelsea repeated, hardly even sounding human. It was a side effect of the nitrous oxide. Dizziness, drowsiness, detachment, light-headness, nausea, vomiting. "No more. No more gas." No more of any of this, please. She saw Jordan eye off the amount of sick in each bag and then throw it into the waste. The bags were blue. Chelsea tried to hold onto that. Blue. Ocean blue eyes. A perfect smile. What was waiting for her on the other side of all this.

She didn't throw up again, thank God, but when the next few contractions spread across her abdomen in great intensity, she felt desperate to go to the bathroom. Felt that urge and pressure in her bottom. More of her waters trickled down her legs and dripped onto the vinyl flooring of the birth suite. Jordan mopped it up with a towel under her shoe. Grabbed a thick mat from one of the cupboards and laid it down at Chelsea's feet. "Here you go, sweetie." She said during a break between contractions. "I'll put another towel down, too." Jordan smiled, an excited twinkle to her eyes. Donna was rubbing her back in circles, staying by her side. Stood on the mat, too. By the time Chelsea was vocalising through another contraction, Jordan had positioned herself down on the floor with the doppler back in hand, kneeling and looking up between Chelsea's legs. "Yes, Chelsea! Yes! Yes, just like that! You're doing amazing!" She cheered her on, barely audible beneath Chelsea's moaning.

"Take a breath, have a rest. You're doing so, so well, sweetie." Jordan encouraged once the latest contraction wore off. Sweat stuck hair to Chelsea's forehead. She blew some raspberries, lips tingling and trilling, trying to stabilise her breathing before it started all over again. The pain and the crying and the pushing.

"Oh, I can see some hair!" Jordan exclaimed, grinning up at her from the mat. Hair? Her little boy already had hair? Chelsea shouted through the ghost of a smile. Tears were freely falling down her face, now. He had hair. It made it all the more real. This was really happening? It was so hard to fathom that it was... That this person she had wanted to meet her entire life was almost here. It made her pushing more determined, more voluntary. She wanted to meet him. She wanted it so bad. Her mom covered her fist in the sheets with her own hand. Chelsea took hold of it, squeezing and straining with all her might until the contraction was gone and she had to force herself to relax. Recover. Be patient.

Another midwife came into the room. "How are we going in here?"

"Head's almost around the bend." Jordan replied, giddy. "Chelsea here is doing so incredible!" She handed the doppler over to the other midwife and shuffled on her knees to retrieve a bowl filled with warm water and cloth compresses. The new midwife—the midwife-in-charge, in fact—introduced herself to Chelsea; explained she was going to be here for this end part, praised her for her good work so far. Chelsea nodded, mouth fixed open to try to pull the air back into her lungs. Donna used her free hand to push sweat-soaked hair off her face again. Wiped her tears away.

Chelsea whimpered to her mom. "He has hair."

"Do you want to see, Chelsea?" Jordan asked. Chelsea's response came in the form of a deep whine in the back of her throat. Another contraction had her leaning over the hospital bed, tensing her entire body in pain. Her eyes were tightly screwed shut. Held her breath, like she was supposed to, while she pushed with all her might. "Look, Chelsea! Look down!" A mirror, a small rectangular slab with bevelled edges, was angled up at her from the mat on the floor. Chelsea blinked away her tears quick enough to see a tiny head retreat back into her body with the end of her contraction.

A sob tore through her chest. Donna was crying, too, but held up a bottle of water to her mouth. Stuck the straw between her teeth and encouraged her to drink. Stay hydrated. The other midwife was using the doppler on her lower abdomen, further down on her skin than it had been up to this point. He was sitting low in her pelvis. He was almost here. And Chelsea's heartrate surely had to match her baby's by now—fast paced and echoing throughout the room for everyone to hear. 130 beats per minute. She kept her eyes on the mirror, willing him to come back into view. Willing him to be here.

Bearing down on the next contraction, Chelsea practically squatted as she pushed, pushed, pushed. Jordan held the warm compress to the skin of her perineum, verbally encouraging and cheering her on from the ground. Donna and the other midwife tuned in, too. She tried with all her might to keep her eyes open, to see her son in the reflection.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" Chelsea's primal sort of moaning devolved into repeated swearing. Yeah, she was gonna have to stop doing that once he was here. Be a good influence on her son and not cuss ever again. But fuck that, not yet! For now his tiny innocent ears were still covered—the crown of his head sitting between her legs. His little head of fair hair visible. He didn't pull back this time when the contraction waned. And it was a stretch she couldn't even begin to describe. The ring of fire. It was searing her skin, even under the warmth and safety of the cloth compress Jordan pressed tight between her openings. It burned so much that she saw white behind her eyes every time she blinked. Dots in her vision, an urgency to her screaming and swearing. The midwives told her to stop pushing, no matter how much she wanted to. Let her body slowly do the rest of the work on the next contraction. They didn't want her to tear, even if it sure as fuck felt like she already had. Was, with the way the baby was stretching her open. Jordan told her to breathe, because her heartrate was getting a little too high. Was it any fucking wonder!?

"Chelsea, Chelsea, reach down. Feel your baby!" Jordan gushed, placing a gentle palm on the back of her naked thigh. A much better suggestion. Wait, when had she put gloves on? One of Jordan's latex-covered hands supported the crown of the baby's head while it rested there. Chelsea untangled her aching fingers from the hospital bed sheets and extended her arm down to feel. Used the angled mirror's reflection to find him with her fingers. Her son had short, sticky strands of hair at the top of his head. He was real. Like, actually real. He was right there.

Chelsea's shoulders trembled from all her crying. Her mom stroked her back before intertwining their hands again. She was blubbering, too. "Another contraction's coming." Chelsea urged. Removed her hand from her son's head on instinct to grip onto the bed again.

"That's okay, that's okay. Just let your body do all the work. Try not to push! We're going to take this nice and slow. Just breathe, breathe. Breathe like you're blowing out a birthday candle! Yes, yes—just like that, Chelsea! Yes, amazing!" Jordan coached her, sitting up on her knees on the mat. Her hands were on the apex of the baby's head to control how fast he came out. Chelsea couldn't look in the mirror this time. The pain burned and ripped through her entire body. She grunted and groaned and squeezed her mom's hand so hard and strained that she could feel her pulse; feel the finger bones under her skin.

"Head's born!" Jordan called out. Took a cursory glance over to the clock on the wall in the corner of the room. "10:04." The midwife-in-charge scribbled it down in her file notes. "Look, Chelsea! You're so close! Next contraction and you get to meet your baby!"

Chelsea scrunched her face up, tears blinding the view of her baby's head poking out between her legs. He was just hanging from her body. Upside down and waiting. So close. So painful, but so close. She brushed her fingers over his sticky hair again, laughter breaking through her crying and heavy breathing and painful moaning. "Hi. Hi, baby." She managed to squeak out, thumbing his little forehead. One more contraction. Just one more. And Chelsea could feel it building. Smiled, in spite of it all.

Cold is the water It freezes your already cold mind Already cold, cold mind

And death is at your doorstep And it will steal your innocence But it will not steal your substance

But you are not alone in this And you are not alone in this As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand Hold your hand

And you are the mother The mother of your baby child The one to whom you gave life

And you have your choices And these are what make man great His ladder to the stars

10:06AM, TUESDAY. JULY 25TH, 2017.

He cried when he was born. A tiny but piercing scream, flailing his little limbs out. Was handed up to her between her legs. She was moving on autopilot, driven by an entire cocktail of hormones and intense emotions, and held him tight to her chest without a thought. Like it was natural, like she knew exactly what she was doing. Because she did. She'd waited her entire life for this. She was born to do this—was born to be a mother. To be his mother.

"Jack." She wept, her voice broken. "Hi, Jack." For the first time in a really long time, it didn't hurt to say her father's name. It wasn't just his anymore. It was her son's. And he was here, flush against her naked chest. He was here and he was hers, wrinkling his fair-haired eyebrows as he cried and his skin pinked up. With the weight of him against her, her heart felt full. Was this what true love felt like? Was this what people meant when they said they'd fallen in love at first sight? She had never felt so happy before. So euphoric and complete and whole, irregardless of her body's pain and protesting. She peppered his forehead with kisses, covered in vernix and blood and all manner of fluids. Chelsea didn't care. This was her son. "I love you. I love you so much. I love you, I love you." She pressed into his skin, so soft despite everything.

Donna had an arm wrapped around Chelsea's waist, keeping her upright and on her feet. Tilted her head against her shoulder and watched her grandson with bleary eyes. The midwives both started to pat Jack down dry with fresh, heated towels. Jordan assisted Chelsea in slowly turning around and sitting down on the bed. They had to measure blood loss, get her placenta out. Chelsea let them do whatever they wanted, let them move her however they so pleased—she was off in her own little world, one where she could only hear Jack's shallow breathing, could only see the obvious rise and fall of his chest against hers. Where everything else happened around her in a blur. She didn't notice the clamp closed around the cord, or Jordan verbally guiding her mom on how to cut it. Didn't notice the other midwife jabbing the shot of synthetic oxytocin into her thigh, or the separation bleed that followed, or Jordan drawing the placenta out of her body by the cord—not until the fullness in her vagina and the ache of more contractions snapped her out of her happy place.

Chelsea winced, throwing her head slightly back into the pillow from all the pressure and the pain. "Almost done, Chelsea! You're doing so well, my dear." Jordan assured her. "And done. Placenta born at 10:11." Had five minutes really already passed? The midwife-in-charge jotted down the time before coming back over to the bed with new linens. Warm blankets for both Chelsea and the baby. She covered them up and helped to adjust Jack higher up on Chelsea's chest, in line with her breasts in case he wanted to crawl and feed. Find it for himself.

He seemed happy where he was for now. His little arms were curled up against his chest, and his eyes were closed. Breathing even. Five minutes in a brand new world had to be tough. Tiring. "My sweet boy." Chelsea's crooned, hot tears rolling down her face. Down the dimples set beside her smile. The midwife-in-charge congratulated her and left the room. Jordan fixed a small-sized name tag around Jack's left ankle and another around his wrist. HESKETT, BABY OF CHELSEA GRACE. DOB: 07/25/2017. This was her son. This was her son.

Jack snuggled closer into her chest, readjusted himself to get comfy again. Jordan wrapped the blanket tighter over his bare body. Patted Chelsea's leg. "Is it okay if I give your tummy a good rub and see how much you're bleeding, sweetie?" Chelsea honest to God didn't care what they did or didn't do. Was so happy and exhausted and high on life that nothing else mattered. After giving her such a gift and caring for her so well, Jordan could do anything. Chelsea nodded anyway, giving her consent to proceed.

Rubbing her uterus hurt. Chelsea yelped. Squirmed. Well. She had said anything. Jack wriggled around, too, disturbed by her movement and noises. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'm almost done, I promise!" Jordan apologised with a sympathetic grimace. "Your uterus is firm and central, which is exactly what we like to see, Chelsea!" Whew. That was good. And it stayed all good until she had to check her for tears. Jordan prodded around inside her with a gauze swab. More pain, more squirming. "I'm just gonna go get one of the doctors to come have a look, is that alright, Chelsea?" She said after a minute or two, withdrawing her hand. What the hell did that mean? Chelsea furrowed her eyebrows, frowning, and nodded.

With Jordan out of the room, Donna leaned over the side of the bed and caressed Jack's cheek. Chelsea jumped, startled. Had completely forgotten her mom was even there in the room with them. "He's so beautiful, Chelsea." Donna sniffled. "I'm so proud of you." She paused, considering her words. "And your dad would be so, so proud of you. He is. I know he is."

Chelsea's expression crumbled. Snot and tears dribbled down her chin. Jack blinked an eye open, looking around for a moment or two at the commotion before settling. Dozing off again. Chelsea buried her face in his hair. Tried to compose herself before meeting Donna's gaze again. "I love you, Mom."

"I love you too, honey." Donna thumbed a fresh tear from her cheek. "You did it."

She'd done it.

Jordan came back into the room with a doctor in tow. He greeted her and explained that he wanted to check her for tears, too. He got the go-ahead, gloved up and dug around inside her. Chelsea kept herself distracted with Jack, finger lining over every wrinkle and crease in his perfect little face, his skin. Her mom was snapping photos on her phone but stopped when the doctor talked over his shoulder to Jordan. "I've got a bleeder here. See—right there. How has blood loss been so far?" Jordan moved around to get a better look between her legs. Under any other circumstances, if she hadn't been so loved up and happy, she would've felt like a zoo exhibit. She continued to worry over Jack instead. The little cupid's bow in his top lip. The short length of his eyelashes. She tuned everything else out. Nothing else mattered beyond that. Beyond her baby.

She ended up having a second degree tear in her vagina that the doctor had to stitch up. Local anaesthetic, gauze packs, sutures. A slight postpartum haemorrhage that they treated with another shot of medication into her thigh. The pain was constant. Never-ending. She guessed she'd just have to get used to it, huh? Her heart wasn't just hers, anymore. It existed outside of her body. She was holding it in her arms. Holding her son. He had her heart, now and forever. That made all the pain and waiting worth it.

Jack started to turn his head, searching. A hunger cue. Her mom helped her get him properly situated across her chest, showed her how to help Jack seek it out for himself. Brought her nipple to his nose so he'd open up his mouth and latch. He fussed, sucked for a while, fussed again. Her milk wasn't in yet, so Jordan expressed her other breast with her hand and scooped the colostrum up with a syringe for a top-up. Chelsea was grateful for the help. Grateful when her mom held her arm in place around Jack, keeping him safe and skin-to-skin while Chelsea fell asleep mid-feed. She didn't mean to. Couldn't keep her heavy, heavy eyes open.

By the time lunch was brought in for her on a tray, she was awake again. Not that she had actually really slept, just kind of rested her eyes. Drooled, a little. Jordan suggested they measure Jack and do his newborn assessment, so Chelsea could shower and get some proper rest. Chelsea didn't want to let him go. Did she have to? Her arms weighed her down trying to hand him over to the midwife, more physically exhausted than she ever had been before in her entire life. Despite this, she tried to move, tried to follow after them to the resuscitaire. Donna came to her aid, supporting her elbow while Chelsea got to her feet. She offered her the hospital gown to cover up. Slid it over her shoulders and tied it in the back for her. Chelsea thanked her mom and slowly padded over to her son.

He cried, shaky and cold even under the heat lamp of the cot. Chelsea's lips stuck out in a pout, running a hand down his chest. "It's okay, sweet boy. You're okay." She hushed him. Jordan went through the newborn examination, checking him from head to toe. Counted each of his fingers (1, 2, 3, 4, 5! 1, 2, 3, 4, 5!), listened to his heart and respiration rate, tested his reflexes. Talked it through in detail with Chelsea and Donna, who was still playing family photographer. While measuring the circumference of his head (13.5 inches!), Jack soiled the blanket on the cot. They all cooed over him, like it was the most adorable thing in the world. Donna retrieved the wipes, a diaper and a tiny onesie from Chelsea's overnight bag. "I got this, I got this." Chelsea insisted, waving her mom and Jordan off. She'd done enough babysitting as a teenager to know how to change a diaper, even if none of those kids had been quite so small or new to the world. Or hers. She gently cleaned up his bottom, lax with how many wipes she used, and they put him on the scales to weigh him.

7.5lb. Chelsea tried not to cry again. Jack did—definitely didn't like being away from her body heat, or the lamp on the resuscitaire. Her mom quickly took some photos of the weight flashing on the scales and they took him back to the warmth and light of the cot. Got his diaper on so he couldn't make more of a mess. Jordan trailed the measuring tape down the length of him next. 20 inches long. Chelsea tickled his tummy, beaming down at him. "That's my little man." Her little man who wasn't so little, but wasn't so big, either. He was so beautiful. Wiggled his fingers in the air like he was waving at her.

His shots were next. An injection in each thigh, and his scream was earsplitting. Chelsea's eyebrows pulled together, tears blurring her vision. A crocodile tear slid down Jack's face. Shit, she felt so guilty. Jordan parted his lips and stuck her gloved finger inside his mouth. His sucking reflex kicked in, and he eventually settled. No more tears, no more kicking out his feet in distress. Chelsea had been holding her breath. Blew out a sigh. It was okay, they were almost done. He'd be back in her arms soon!

She got him dressed for the first time in a grey stripey onesie. It was slightly too big and loose, but he seemed snug. Seemed happy when she cradled him against her chest again. Chelsea rapidly kissed his forehead, his tiny little fists. Donna held her arms out for a cuddle. Chelsea was hesitant again. Ugh, did she have to? She didn't want to share him. Didn't want to let him go again so soon. Jordan reminded her about taking a shower. Said she'd feel brand new afterwards.

It was the best shower she'd had in her life. Up to this point, at least. Jordan was a God-send. Blood that had dried up and caked to her skin was scrubbed off and swirled down the drain, and with it the stench of copper and hospital disappeared; overwhelmed by the coconut and shea butter of her body wash. Even with dead arms, Chelsea managed to run some shampoo through her hair, wash her face with some cleanser. Brushed her teeth. She felt like a human being again. She managed to dry off and get dressed on her own: summer pyjama shorts and a nursing top covered in polka dots. Slippers to avoid the tile and vinyl and germs of the hospital floor. Jordan must've mopped it clean in her absence, she realised, walking back into the room. Starkly white sheets and a new blanket were draped over the hospital bed. God bless that woman, truly.

And God bless her mom: set up in the chair in the corner, Jack asleep peacefully in her arms. "How you feelin', Chels?" Donna asked without looking up, her eyes glued to Jack. Chelsea wasn't even offended—she could relate! Understood completely, immediately pulled into his orbit from the other side of the room and tracing a finger over his cheek.

"I'm in love."

24 and a half hours of labour. And it had been so slow, from literal years of waiting, to sudden. Suddenly it had all been over and he was here. Suddenly he was here and it felt like he always had been. And the hours seemed to pass even faster after that; when she could no longer physically hold him anymore and so she had to, regretfully, set him down in the hospital bassinet. He didn't mind, already a good sleeper—his tiny arms stretched out above his head while she snapped a photo of him on her phone to send out to everybody. Her friends and family and a post on Instagram. Hi, I'm Jack in block letters on a custom sign she'd had made months before. Months. It had been months and years of a journey that had all culminated in this! In her perfect baby.

"Jack Kaiser Heskett," she hummed down at him when her mom left for the evening, and Chelsea only had late night TV to keep them company. The late night shopping advertisements she used to fall asleep to nestled in her father's arms. The flashing screen, mounted on the wall, lit up her expression. Cast shadows across Jack's tiny, sleeping face. "You're technically a Junior. Jack Kaiser Heskett Jr. Yeah. Yeah, that's right. Y'know, I never thought I'd be one of those people." She said, small so as not to disturb him. "Bit of a mouthful, huh?" She felt a little delirious. Completely exhausted. Rambly. She thumbed his chubby cheek. "I named you after him. My dad. I... I loved him so much, so so much, and I love you so much, so so so much, and I know... I know he would've loved you, too." She was too tired to cry again. To cry any more today. "He does. He's probably yelling at me right now, saying I should've picked out a better name, but..." Chelsea chuckled at the thought. "But you look like a Jack to me."

It had almost been 13 years since he passed. August 18, 2004. A date seared into her brain, even over a decade later.

There were only a few days left of summer break when it happened. He'd only been 38 years old. Had a heart attack completely out of nowhere. No symptoms, no signs, no chance to say goodbye. And Chelsea was meant to go off to Charlotte for college three and a half hours away from home. Bachelor of Arts in Architecture. She didn't want to go. Didn't want to have to do anything ever again, after he was gone. Didn't want to have to plan and build homes that he would never be a part of. Didn't want to have the big milestones without him there right there beside her. Graduation, buying her first house, getting married, having children. Experiencing her first heartbreak. Him dying had been that, instead.

It'd been the worst day of her life, hands down.

Today had to have been the best.

Her mom had gotten her through it, back then. Forced her to go to school instead of quitting or deferring for a year. Got her to stay distracted instead of being completely destroyed by her grief. And her mom had gotten her through this, too. It was one thing knowing she wouldn't literally be here without her parents, but another thing entirely knowing she wouldn't've made it through emotionally without them, either. And even if her dad wasn't technically here today, he still was.

She knew he was. He was in the room when her son was born. He had to be. He wasn't just there in name, or the engagement ring her mother still wore on her finger, gripping her hand half the time—but he was there in Jack's face. Only half her genetics, but he was all her dad. And he was all hers. It felt... healing. It felt right. How could her heart not be completely full and fixed and pieced back together when she was staring down at her child? Her healthy, beautiful baby? She had created so many houses and homes for other people before, and now she finally had her own. This was her son. This was what she wished for.

#044 #amanda: HAPPY FIRST DAY OF ELLSEAMAS SLUT :elmo:#unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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8:51PM, SATURDAY. OCTOBER 31ST, 2020.

Even with the Halloween candy sugar high, the kids went down for the night without a hitch. Overly tired from trick-or-treating, probably. It had taken hours of preparation - painting everyone's faces to match their The Wizard of Oz character. Orange with black freckles and whiskers for Vanessa, a lion who could be called anything but 'cowardly.' More black dots and whiskers for Jack, too, who insisted on being Toto and following Charlie on all-fours around the house. Isaac's version of the Wicked Witch of the West was just a frog, actually. "She's green like a frog, Mommy!" He'd cried when she'd put the movie on for them to watch together a few weeks ago. Chelsea covered his face with green paint, the closest shade she could find to pair with his frog costume. She fixed a pointy little hat over his frog ears - it was fine. On theme. They were all still matching!

Luca was the Tin Man, snug in his little silver ensemble. He took great issue with his headpiece the whole night, and it was eventually thrown into the street and abandoned. Chelsea was impressed he'd lasted so long, honestly. It was her Peanut's first Halloween! They took their ridiculous three-baby stroller with them on their adventure, and Luca fell asleep in his seat long before they made it back to the house. There's no place like home, huh? Elliot was the Scarecrow, with a sunflower pinned to his hat, and Chelsea was Dorothy - checkered white and blue gingham dress, ribbons tying off her braided pigtails. Any excuse for her to buy red, sparkly heels. Any excuse for her to wear bows in her hair, red or not.

Genevieve, so grown up, was celebrating Halloween with her friends this year. It was Luca's first Halloween ever, and it was Jenny's first Halloween ever going trick-or-treating without them. At least since Chelsea had known her. It was... bittersweet. All the kids were growing up so fast. Jenny was thirteen and embarrassed to trick-or-treat with her parents and baby siblings. Didn't buy into the whole matching family costume thing anymore. Thankfully, Chelsea got to help her get ready. Had spent the whole week after school stoning the letters on her shirt to match the sparkle of her shorts. They'd found the perfect hat to reference Taylor Swift's outfit from the 22 music video, too. Her music played over Jenny's speakers while Chelsea pinned her daughter's hair up and out of her face. They'd also managed to buy a reasonably priced blonde wig with bangs to pull the whole look together.

"Very gorgeous, Gen." Chelsea chirped, the song playing overhead. She knew the name because the song described Elliot and how she felt about him perfectly - especially when they first met. The song had come out around the same time. End of 2017. She remembered hearing it on the radio and thinking of him and feeling giddy about it. Three years later and she was still smiling the same. Still listening to the lyrics and ascribing them to her gorgeous, gorgeous husband. Jenny teased her about it while Chelsea drew cat eyes with liner over the edge of her eyelids. Let Jenny borrow some classic red lipstick for the occasion, and helped her apply it evenly.

She had to paint Elliot's face, too. And that took considerably longer than all of the toddlers and Jenny combined. It was meant to be a patch of solid brown over his nose, but being so close to him always got her so distracted. Her mom being around for the afternoon gave them some leeway to fool around. To get the first batch of paint rubbed off on the skin of her thighs, his head ending up buried between her legs. Eventually, she got the painting done, good and right. Eventually, they pulled themselves together and exited their bedroom fully dressed and ready to leave. They were notoriously late for everything, always.

Now that everyone else was asleep, and the family fun of Halloween was over, it was time to get undressed again. Chelsea, standing in the center of their bedroom and chugging back a packet of M&Ms, slowly untied her ribbons and undid her pigtails. Her hair became wildly curly from both of the braids. Elliot was in their bathroom and bent over the sink; his shirt gone with his scarecrow hat and half-mask. He was using her cleanser to scrub the face paint off his skin, costume pants tight against his body. Chelsea padded on over to him, lace-trim socks dragging on the carpet, then the tile. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, squeezing him into an embrace. Fingers drawing over the sharp lines of his body. His abs. She rested her head on his shoulder.

"It was a good day." She mused, punctuating her statement by pressing a kiss to the side of his neck. "It's a good life." Another kiss, tongue lapping over his throat this time. No! No., no hickeys, Chelsea! They'd have to dress up as vampires or something next Halloween, because she always had some sort of inclination to bite him. Mark him, in one way or another. She nibbled on her bottom lip instead, looking ahead and catching Elliot's gaze in the mirror. "I love you." She grinned, dimples deeply set into her cheeks. Elliot craned his neck to kiss her good and proper on the mouth. Chelsea sighed into it. Into him.

Before they could get too carried away, Chelsea drew back, fingers toying with the waistband of his pants. "You were the sexiest scarecrow I've ever seen, did you know that?" Elliot was facing her now, leaning back against the bathroom countertops, hands practically cupping her ass over her Dorothy dress. "What if I told you I have another costume to wear?" Costume, lingerie, same same. For them it didn't really make much of a difference - at least it didn't this year. The outfits they'd roleplayed in before his sisters' dress-up birthday party last month: maid/prince, a tutoring session in her plaid schoolgirl skirt, nurse/patient. This was going to be her version of his surprise cowboy outfit, thank you. She didn't have anything for him to wear in turn, but she was sure he wouldn't mind - Elliot was good at playing a part, no matter the circumstances. He was a good boy like that.

The inspiration for the outfit came earlier in the week, when Isaac had adorned her head with a cheap plastic tiara during play time. "I'm a princess." Chelsea told Elliot, posing cutely with her hands under her chin.

"You're my princess." He'd declared.

Damn right she was. His, and his only.

"And what if I told you it's for your eyes only?" Chelsea said now, teasing him further. She smiled into another kiss, fingers knotting in his hair for the first time in hours (curse that scarecrow hat!). She kept it brief, trying to stay on task. Whispered, "I'll be back, baby," only a breath away from his lips and retreated. She needed to find this plastic tiara in the mess of the kid's play room. She'd been keeping her eye on it and its location the entire week, but their children had so many toys and things that it was easy to quickly lose track of it. So many kids, so many toys. She should've just hidden it when she had the chance, because the kids certainly weren't getting it back in their possession after Chelsea was done with it tonight, but she hadn't wanted to raise any alarm bells! Hadn't wanted Elliot to somehow stumble upon it somewhere in their room, or in her closet. She hid the tiara up under her skirt when she walked back into their bedroom. Elliot had stripped down to his briefs, and was sitting waiting for her patiently at the foot of their bed.

"Good things come to those who wait!" Chelsea sang, an extra little flirty flutter to her eyelashes. Hoped to distract him from seeing her hand hidden up under her skirt.

#043 #unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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ELLIOT:

Holidays had never been his favorite thing - the shitty kid doesn’t get anything that would make celebrating worthwhile and eventually he learns to stop asking for anything. He could never feel disappointed if he had no expectations and that was just how things were.

But much like with Christmas, Chelsea had started to slowly (or not-so-slowly, depending on who was asked) sway and change his associations with other holidays - they were supposed to be fun, goddammit, and Elliot was trying internalize that having fun was a good thing. Not something to be afraid of or feel guilt over or hate himself for having.

And Chelsea had so many cute stories about trick-or-treating with her parents, or going out with her friends when she thought she was too cool for them (which Genevieve had decided herself this year. It was okay, Elliot was only moderately hurt that he was finally uncool in the eyes of his teenage daughter), or going to parties that were mostly excuses to dress sexy and get drunk. His stories were decidedly less cute, what with all the pretending he didn’t exist that various family members engaged in, and he had never needed an excuse to get out of the house and get wasted for a couple of hours. But Chelsea always made that face when he talked about his past, full of sympathy and heartbreak and maybe a little bit of pity, and he still didn’t quite know how to sit with that in a way that didn’t make him feel bad.

So he was going to learn to love (okay, like, he wasn’t going to get ahead of himself) Halloween. And now that the kids were getting older and more aware and could actually say ‘trick-or-treat’ (mostly), it felt more like something they were participating in rather than something their insane parents were dragging them through. They were old enough to participate enthusiastically but not yet old enough to roll their eyes and refuse to do a family costume. That’s lame, papa, Genevieve had told him when he brought it up, so casual and quick like it was the obvious answer, and he’d never been so insulted in all his life. It stung even more coming from a girl wearing heart-shaped sunglasses inside the house, with the sun steadily setting outside.

A handful of neighbors had called them cute when their little misfit Ozian’s had knocked on their door for candy, so Elliot got the last laugh in the end. They weren’t lame, they were cute.

Genevieve got home about twenty minutes after the rest the rest of them, a little ahead of the curfew they’d set for her, while they were still wrangling shoes and costume pieces off at the front door. She’d lost the sunglasses and blonde wig, all of her actual hair already escaping from where Chelsea had pinned it up. She held up the pillowcase she’d used as a bucket, like a hunter showing off their kill. Elliot rolled his eyes good-naturedly as he tried to wrangle Vanessa out of her sneakers, who was apparently still in character and needed to growl at him every time he tried to undo the velcro.

“Successful hunt, kid?”

“Hell yeah! Look.” She crouched down next to him, held open the pillowcase so he could peak inside.

“Language,” he said, a little half-hearted, because that probably didn’t carry much weight coming from him. Case and point: Genevieve just scoffed and nudged him with her elbow, like he’d said something ridiculous instead of trying to not turn his impressionable child into a potty-mouth. “Impressive. I’m very proud of your ability to swindle our neighbors out of their candy.”

“Oh my god, don’t say it like I’m some kind of chocolate burglar.”

Ah. Funny she should say that. While he had her distracted with defending her honor. he stuck his hand into her bag, grabbed the first thing he got his fingers around and pulled it out before she was able to get it away from him.

“I - ugh, papa!”

“That’s what you get for calling me lame earlier. Now go to your room, Taylor Swift.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Thank you, I know. Now, you…” Elliot turned back to Vanessa while Genevieve went up to her room, mumbling her grievances all the way up the stairs. His other daughter happily kicked her feet against the cupboard he’d set her on, oblivious to everything other than her very important sneakers, apparently. “My brave little lion, can I please take your shoes off?”

He’d found the magic words at last.

#043 #unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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ELLIOT:

Normally, he loved the quiet. It meant no shouting, no arguing, no aggression. It meant peace and calm and one solid, single moment that felt like it belonged to him and him alone.

Chelsea, well within her rights to smack him across the face when he kissed her, but she hadn’t. Or when he kissed her again. And again. And again. Who kissed him. Who kept kissing him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, do you know what time it - ”

The voice stopped immediately once they both locked eyes through the open space between them.

No. They didn’t.

“There’s nobody else here, Ell. It’s just me.”

“I’m still so-”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“Hm. How do you figure?”

“Huh, cool. I guess you can be anything you want when you’re faking it.”

That makes two of us.

“Holy shit, you still have that fish?” Huh? Elliot looked down at his hands - right. Duh. The fish. Christian sounded both surprised and delighted, and of course. The fact that it had lasted this long was a small miracle. Elliot might forget to take the trash out sometimes, but he never forgot to hide Troy when he wasn’t home. Christian traded fish for water, which seemed kind of backwards, somehow, to turn it over in his hands. Inspecting it. Yeah. That fish was the only thing Elliot took meticulous care of. “You still have this thing,” he said it again, this time in…disbelief? Like he was shocked Elliot kept something that meant the world to him. Like he’d expected Elliot to forget about the only person who’d ever cared about him, or something. Too bad he didn’t care about you enough. “Do you remember that day? When we got this? You had to try and fish out a duck with a magnet on a string. I sucked at it. Spent all the money I had playing this stupid game. I think the guy running the game took pity on me and - ”

“You left me.” Elliot hadn’t meant to interrupt, felt rude and weird doing it; once again, his mouth and brain were operating independent of one another. Yeah. He remembered that day - kids aren’t stupid and neither am I. He remembered seeing another kid around Christian’s age, winning a massive stuffed toy for a kid around Elliot’s age - probably also two brothers. And little tiny Elliot, actually having fun and feeling good and spending real, actual time with his brother, had tugged on Christian’s shirt and asked can you win me a toy? Christian was right - he had fucking sucked at all the games he played. But he never stopped, never told Elliot sorry, I can’t get you a toy, just kept trying and kept trying until Elliot was able to walk home cuddling his new best friend.

So, yeah. He remembered that. He also remembered that Christian was gone less than two years later.

“Elliot, I - ”

“I’m sorry - whatever I did, whatever I didn’t do, that made you want to leave me there, I’m sorry. If there was something I could’ve done that made you want to come back, I - ”

“I was in jail, Ell.”

“You - what?”

“Did you say everything you wanted to?”

Honestly…they were kind of past that, now. His anger had deflated almost immediately, because he wasn’t even really angry; he wanted to be, god, he wanted to be. But he wasn’t. Elliot was just fucking sad and sorry. Blamed himself for everything their father had done to Christian after he was born, blamed himself for everything their father had done once Christian left. Blamed himself for his brother leaving in the first place. Blamed himself for this whole stupid situation they were in right now. “Yeah. I - I’m done.”

"I was going to. I was going to take you. But I talked myself out of it because - because I was scared. Of dad calling the police and them just giving you right back to him, because he’s the parent. Of spending the rest of my life looking over my shoulder. I was just scared. I was so tired of feeling like that and I made the wrong decision. You have no idea how much I wish I could take it back.”

Scared. That was the last word Elliot would ever use to describe his brother. Christian was fearless; Elliot was the one who was constantly terrified. Terrified of the sound of a door slamming, of a car engine in the driveway. Footsteps on the stairs and the branches on the tree outside his window every time they’d blow into the glass. The world that extended past him was terrifying and all-consuming. It was hard to imagine his brother dreading the same things he did, the same sounds, the same days. He’d seen it, every day for the majority of his life, yet it was still hard to imagine his brother living the same life he did.

Yeah. Elliot was pretty fucking tired of being afraid, too. Outside of the fleeting moment he spent with Chelsea, it was the only thing he ever felt.

“You don’t have to explain yourself.” They were past that, and no matter how much Elliot understood why Christian had done the things he’d done, it didn’t change the mark it had left and it didn’t make him feel any better about it. Nothing ever could. “Just - just tell me what happened?” If this was the last day he was going to get with his brother, he at least wanted to fill in all the gaps in his memory.

“Since I’d decided against kidnapping you, I - I thought I could do things the right way. You know, talk to an adult you trust,” he said the words sarcastically, like he couldn’t fathom actually trusting anyone of authority. Couldn’t fathom actually trusting anyone at all. Yeah. “So I did. I talked to a lot of adults that I should’ve been able to trust. I spoke to a dozen cops who all acted like I was reporting a damn Bigfoot sighting or something. Tried a couple lawyers who didn’t even bother to return my calls. I don’t know if dad managed to convince everyone in town that I was some lying piece of shit or what, but…nobody was listening to me. I felt like I was going insane, my - David’s mom wanted me off her goddamn couch and was not being subtle about it and that’s when I decided that doing the right thing was pointless.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning that I showed up at the house with a gun, and told dad that he could either let me leave with you or I would kill him.”

Christian said it like he was ashamed, embarrassed by it, and maybe Elliot should’ve been, too. Sinking to their father’s level really should’ve been beneath them. But the first and only thought that jumped into his head was I really fucking wish you had.

“Would you have actually done it?”

“In that moment? Absolutely. I - you know, I was standing there, with this stupid piece of metal I didn’t actually know how to use, and I was scared shitless…and it was the first time I felt like I had power to do anything against dad. But it was a stupid piece of metal I didn’t know how to use; so he just laughed at me, told me I still had the safety on and grabbed it out of my hand like it was nothing. Then he radioed into his buddies to report an assault, told me he would show me how to use this properly and shot me in the stomach. In that order.”

Okay, sure, Elliot rarely had much to say on a good day. Didn’t like to talk, didn’t like to draw any attention to himself. But he always had something brewing inside his head: whether an answer to a question a teacher posed to the class, a conversation he wanted to start with someone (Chelsea) he admired, some (hopefully) snappy remark to whatever bullshit the football players spat at him in the locker room. He might never have the courage to say any of the things he wanted to, but they were always there.

But this. He thought he’d seen everything their father could do, didn’t think his opinion could sink any lower - but here they were. The bar was in hell and they somehow managed to go under even that. It was the second time he’d been at a loss for words today, and this one felt a lot worse. “Really?” Was the only thought his brain managed to form after a long while of just staring. What else could he say? I’m sorry dad actually did try to kill you, turns out my half-decade long fear wasn’t that unfounded after all!

“You think I’m making it up?” He said it light-heartedly, almost teasing him. But there was something else there, too. Neither the joke nor the smile plastered across his face quite reached his eyes and seemed…almost painful. Exhausted, behind some mask of forced fearlessness.

So he said to Christian what he’d wanted to say to Chelsea, back when she’d asked him to tell her something about himself: “Dad’s probably gonna try to kill me one of these days, too. So, no. I - I don’t think you’re making it up.”

“Ell - ”

“Just - just keep going.” He didn’t want Christian to slip back into doing what he always did: worrying about Elliot more than he worried about himself. He’d only told half a story, and Elliot still somehow had to go to school tomorrow. School. God. As if. “Dad tried to kill you. There’s no way he got out of that?”

“Dad has very loyal friends,” he said every word deliberately, forcefully, like he was trying to make a point. Maybe to himself. Maybe trying to make sense of it all. “It was Mesh who showed up, you know? Remember him? He had that little black dog that escaped his yard basically once a month. Gave me a really cute nickname when I had a conversation with his son at some boring cop thing. He took one look at the…situation and suddenly developed amnesia. They had no idea who I was. Some stranger, a crazy person coming out of nowhere with a gun. See, dad had to defend himself, he had to protect his family.” His attention seemed to drift, somewhat; his gaze never wavered, but Elliot got the distinct feeling Christian wasn’t looking at him anymore. “That’s what they came up with. Something about needing to protect his young son, like he ever actually gave a shit about that. Who knows, though. His other son was bleeding to death on the sidewalk while they had this conversation, so maybe he made the whole thing up. Maybe he’s just crazy. The blood loss can make you hallucinate, after all.”

Oh. This felt like something he really wasn’t supposed to hear. Too raw, too personal. Meant for somebody who would never hear it, and wouldn’t care if they did. “Chris?” He said, hesitant, scared to spook him or lose him entirely.

His focus snapped back. Sharp, steady again. “Sorry, I - sorry. Boring story short: nobody cared about my opinion of what happened and a judge pretended not to realize my last name was Pearson while he sentenced me to six years in Central Prison. Haven’t told you the best part, yet. The other inmates did notice my last name. Would you be shocked to learn somebody has a problem with our old man?”

“Nobody did anything? They all just let it happen?”

“I don’t know. I don’t care, honestly. Nobody tried hard enough, if they did, so it really doesn’t matter, does it?” That hard tone returned to his voice, the words ground out through gritted teeth. Maybe this whole thing had been a bad idea. Elliot was no closer to closure than he was a week ago, more convinced than ever the whole sorry situation had been his fault (he wouldn’t have been involved in this if it weren’t for me) and Christian looked like he was in actual, physical pain.

“I - I’m sorry. I should - ” He stood up, prepared to run, leave, start knocking on every door in town until he found the one that belonged to Chelsea. He sure as hell couldn’t go home, knowing everything. His dad always had his gun in the house, and it never occurred to him to be terrified of that before right now. It was always normal, being the kid of a cop, the constant presence of firearms in the house, both with his father and the various parade of police that would come and go throughout the day.

He didn’t know where he was going to go or what he was going to do, but being right here, right now, felt suffocating. Christian straightened up, grabbed his wrist to keep him from getting too far. “Hey, hey. Deep breaths. Talk to me.”

Elliot laughed - a strangled, manic thing that sounded too loud for the room they were in. Nothing ever really changed, did it? Because that was the same thing Christian would say to him as a kid, scared and crying and coming into his room in the middle of the night. Instantly calm and concerned, no matter what he might’ve been feeling before. It probably seemed embarrassing, coming from someone who was now nearly a legal adult. Kids got scared and needed comfort; adults dealt with their own feelings.

“I’m - I - this is my fault.”

“What?”

“This is my fault,” he said, more insistently, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. An undeniable truth. “You - this happened because of me. Because I - I - ”

“Stop,” was all Christian had to say to cut through the buzz inside his head. Elliot froze, his words dying in his throat, like a machine powered down with the press of a button. “This happened because our father is a piece of shit. Because cops care more about protecting themselves than a little boy who’s in danger. And because I was clearly delirious enough to think I could ever stand up to dad, let alone intimidate him. But what it’s not is your fault.”

“You - you were only in this bullshit because of me.”

“Not because of you. For you.”

“What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that you didn’t cause anything. Everything I did, I chose to do. Poor choices, sure, but they were mine. So if you’re blaming someone, blame me. I mean…you already do, yeah?”

It wasn’t an accusation. There was no bitterness or resentment in his words - just lakjfdlakjflakjdf.

An observation. Elliot didn’t blame Christian. But he also kind of did.

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t. It is my fault. I thought I could get you out of there and that with enough time…everything would just be a bad memory. For you and for me. What I did instead was ruin both of our lives.”

“You didn’t ruin my life.

—————–

"If you want to do some shitty storytelling - I remember when you were born. It stuck with me because it was the last time mom felt like…a mom. She would let me listen to her belly when you got big enough to move around in there. And that was when dad was starting to get like dad. I remember the first time he hit me, too, you know.

“I’m sorry I got you into trouble.”

Christian sighed, maybe a little exasperated that that was what Elliot took away from his story. It was probably deserved. “Elliot, bud. You were literally a baby.”

——————

“I’ve tried to be like you my whole life.” Strong. Unafraid. The person who could face down monsters without flinching.

“You should try being like yourself, instead.”

“I like you more than I like me.”

“Elliot, I - I hate myself a whole hell of a lot, too. I don’t want you to be like me.”

——————

#high school au 002 #unfinished

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ellseas · 2 months ago

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ELLIOT:

Seriously!? Chelsea said, all full of righteous fury and indignation. He stumbled over himself to try and explain, overexplain, desperate to retract the accusation. That’s not the truth, is it, rattled around in his head, the words cruel and heavy in his mother’s voice. He didn’t mean it, okay, it was all a misunderstanding. He never knew what he was talking about, he didn’t see things clearly, he was stupid and nosy and never knew when to leave well enough alone.

“I - I mean, I don’t know that. For sure. I don’t, I’m - it might not be true.” It could’ve been anyone. He hadn’t exactly spent the last three years making friends or being personable. Everybody had it out for him, in one way or another. Or maybe he did it to himself, like always. “I’m - I just assumed. I - I don’t know. I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry.” The last thing Elliot wanted to do was cause Chelsea problems with her family, especially when he might not even be right. You always have to make trouble, don’t you? He didn’t mean to. He didn’t want her to fight with or get in trouble with her parents or her cousin’s parents. Especially not over him, because of him. Nothing was worth as little as that. “I’m not - I’m not trying to make a scene.” Stupid of him to bring it up; mentioning the shit that happened to him instead of just taking it always seemed to make the problem worse.

I’m so sorry, Elliot. “It’s - it’s okay, It doesn’t - it’s really fine.” It wasn’t. They weren’t in the same zip code as fine. But what good would it do, trying to explain himself? He could barely talk to Chelsea in fully-formed sentences, forget trying to cover all his family bullshit. That’s a bad word that only bad people use. Christian never seemed to get upset by anything, really, always reacted to their father like nothing he said mattered. But that always rattled him. Even before Elliot knew what it meant and why, it felt more…visceral, more personal than anything else. Because Christian was stubborn, and hard-headed, and reckless, and combative - but he was all of those things on purpose. “You don’t have to - just - tell her she can call me anything she wants except for that. Okay? That’s all I ask.” He wasn’t stupid enough to ask or expect it to stop entirely, but maybe they’d give him one thing. That was reasonable, right? He was used to everything else; but this was eight hours of freedom away from his father, and staring directly at the worst reminders of him made it really fucking hard to remember that.

#high school au 001 #unfinished

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ellseas · 7 months ago

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Elliot was used to watching the clock during detention. Watching every second that ticked down, because it wasn't like he ever had anything better to do. About 70 percent of the time he was the only delinquent kid stuck in the detention classroom, anyway. Before, he watched it with a sinking feeling of dread, terrified of the minutes getting shorter and shorter. Now? He couldn't wait for it to be over.

Was he insane? He felt kind of insane. He wanted to see Chelsea so bad that spending any time inside his house seemed like an acceptable barrier to being able to see her.

You can count the hours you have known her on both hands. Shut the fuck up, brain. It didn't matter. He was going to spend the rest of his hours knowing her. He blamed those stupid puberty hormones and his desperate craving for her light and softness. She'd stood up for him, okay. Defended him when she had nothing to gain from it, when she didn't know he was around to hear it. He had no idea why she'd done it, but she had, regardless.

That played in his head his entire walk home and, for once, almost forgot he had a war waiting for him.

The good feeling didn't last long. But it was nice while it did. Out of habit, he checked the mailbox when he stepped onto the porch, surprised to find it still full. Huh. Odd. He cycled through them, past bills and magazines for his mother, when he found one addressed to him. He didn't know that anybody other than his parents even knew he existed (and them only reluctantly). Even odder. He held it close to his eyes, until the words were clear, just to make sure. Elliot Pearson. Yeah, last time he checked that was definitely him. There was no hint to where it came from, nothing but a standard white envelope, blank except for their home address scrawled across the front in an unfamiliar handwriting. What a strange fucking day. He peeked into the window, checked that the silhouettes behind the curtain weren't moving in his direction, and shoved the letter into the middle of his science textbook.

Okay. He would get through this, go see Chelsea, and then everything would be fine.

He put the rest of the mail on the table next to the front door, adjusting the pile the way his mom always organized it, trying to make it look like he hadn't touched it. If they suspected something was missing, that he took it, they'd tear his room apart until they found it. The glint of the keys to his father's truck caught his eye, sitting in a bowl at the edge of the table. He could take them. He didn't officially have his driver's license, or even a learner's permit, but he still knew how to operate a vehicle. Two driver's manuals borrowed from the library and carefully practicing with his mom's car when nobody was home had taught him the basics. Enough that he could maneuver his way to the mall and back without accidentally killing himself. Probably.

He was already going to sneak out, might as well add auto theft to his list of mortal sins. Sure, he'd be in for hell when he got back, but when wasn't he, really. What was the difference, at this point? He reached for the keys, about to slip them into his pocket, but his father's voice from the living room caused him to chicken out. Dammit. Okay, it would be fine, it wasn't that long of a walk.

"Come here, Elliot. Now."

Right. Another mortal sin: forgetting the garbage all of once. Wow, maybe he did deserve to get punched in the face. Some kids did drugs, some joined a gang, but Elliot forgot a single chore, so who really made the bad choices?

Jesus. What was wrong with him? Watch your mouth, Elliot, or you're not going to have one in a few minutes. All he had to do was ride it out. Eventually, it would be over. He pressed his load of books protectively to his chest, and slunk into his usual spot in the living room: in the corner at the back wall, as far away from his father's usual place as he could physically get himself.

"So. Looks like you forgot something, this morning. I ask you to do one thing, and you can't even manage that."

One thing, the man said, as if it were only ever one thing. Like if Elliot had put the bags out, he wouldn't have found some other excuse. Should've put them inside the bin. Put them too far out on the street. Didn't put them far enough on the street. Actually, he wasn't supposed to take out the garbage at all. Something, something. There was always another reason.

"I forgot. I was running late to school. I - I missed the bus, I had to walk."

"You forgot." His father's voice mocked him from across the room, like he'd said something truly stupid. Like it had been ridiculous of him to be worried about missing his tenth day of school in the first forty-six. He was over sixteen, so he didn't have to worry about a truant officer showing up at his door, but it was still suspicious. And he was sure that Daugherty was starting to suspect that something might be a little bit wrong in the Pearson household. Sorry I had to miss the first two entire weeks of the school year, it's hard to get around on a poorly healed broken ankle. Yeah. That probably wouldn't go over too well.

"I had to get to school," he repeated, like his father cared if he got an education or not. Like minors legally have to go to school meant anything to him. Beating your minor children was probably illegal, too, but here they were. Elliot cowered in a corner with his father staring him down from the opposite end of the room. He'd gotten out of his chair, closed some of the distance between them, and that's how Elliot knew he was really about to be in trouble. "I'll do it now."

"Why, thank you, for deigning to offer up some of your precious time." There was only a couple of feet between them, now. "Don't worry, I've done it for you. You can say thank you whenever you'd like."

"Yeah, because god forbid you have to do a single chore yourself," he said, the words tumbling out like his brain and his mouth were controlled by a separate person, or operating of their own free will entirely.

"What did you say to me?"

Yeah...that was a very good question. Shit, maybe Christian was dead, and Elliot had just been possessed by his spirit. Was that what the unmarked envelope was? Christian's last wish for Elliot to grow a fucking spine already? Thanks for the help, big brother, but what the fuck are you doing? I'm not you, I can't do this. "You heard me. You're the reason I was late in the first place." Oh. So he was going to keep going, huh. You picked a hell of a time, Chris.

To their father, it was all the same; it didn't matter which son talked back, the consequences were identical. Grab them by the front of the shirt and knock them back into the wall hard enough to dim their vision for a good few seconds. Everything in his arms crashed to the floor, and he feebly pushed back against the immovable wall in front of him with one arm, trying to cling to consciousness that was threatening to fade out. No. I can do this. You did it, I will too. Had to blink, hard, to fight it off, but steadily the black edges faded out, his eyesight returning to normal - or whatever passed as that, for him. With his strength back, he managed to pry his father's hands off him and push him back a step, surprisingly easy. He hadn't expected any resistance. Neither had Elliot.

"You and your brother are the same, you know that?" Said like it was a bad thing. Like Elliot hadn't spent his whole life trying to be exactly like Christian. "Never taking responsibility for yourselves, just blaming all your problems on me."

"Fuck you, you are all of my problems!"

"I didn't make you late for school."

"You broke my alarm clock!"

"If you want to keep talking, I'll break more than that." His father never made idle threats, and whether Elliot was the thing he'd break or just something else in his room, he couldn't stop. Couldn't shut his mouth fast enough to stem the tide, like a crack growing larger and larger in a dam. He was dizzy, and his ears were ringing, but he felt more human than he had in a long time. God. At this point, even Christian would probably tell him to take it down a notch. His skin was buzzing; that was probably the developing concussion.

If you want to keep talking. He didn't want to keep talking, honestly. But the words were going to come out, anyway, independent of what the rest of his body wanted. "What did you think was going to happen, huh? You destroyed something I needed because I made a mistake, and then I made more of them! Excuse me, I figured showing up at school was more important than your goddamn chore list. Or do you want the principal to send the cops here so I can tell them what you do to me?"

His father wore this ring on his index finger. Big, heavy. A class ring of some kind, probably, but Elliot never got a good enough look at it to tell. Could do some damage with enough violent force applied to a soft, breakable object. And his father had enough violent force to take down someone twice Elliot's size (he wouldn't. The fights got a lot less one-sided, less frequent, once Christian was the tallest person in the house). But he was rather scrawny for his age, especially as an athlete, and his nose was one glaring soft, breakable weakness on his face. He'd yet to learn how to take a punch without losing his balance, without crashing hard enough into the floor to hear something crack in his shoulder. Nothing was broken, he could tell that immediately, still able to use it to pull himself back a few feet.

"Alright, that's enough, the both of you." Yeah, thanks for your help, mother. Only intervening when it affected her and she had to worry about blood all over the floor. She never concerned herself with the arguments (if he could even call them that) and always acted like she couldn't hear them. And then he'd hit the floor, make a mess, and suddenly it became a problem. Both of you. Both of them. Like they had an equal power balance, like he wasn't the seventeen-year-old, half a foot shorter and forty pounds lighter. It was just like the epitome of in sickness and health, y'know, Chelsea had said to him at lunch, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. it had felt real, in that moment, sitting with her, talking to her. It didn't feel so real anymore. It was hard to believe in unconditional love when staring down two people who fucking hated him.

Fight back, don't fight back, stand up for himself or try to appease them: it really always was his fault, wasn't it?

"Go to your room. You're not to come out until I tell you to."

Elliot pressed his hand against his face and pushed himself back into an upright position. "Yes, sir," he said, bitter, sarcastic, his teeth clenched together hard enough to hurt. He'd regret his singular act of rebellion later, but for right now, with adrenaline rushing through his veins, for once he wasn't clumsy or weak or small. No. No, he felt almost powerful.

He collected his scattered books off the floor and ran upstairs before his father could change his mind. Once he'd securely stuck his desk chair underneath his doorknob (a handy trick Christian had taught him to make his room harder to get into at night), he was able to take stock of himself in the little mirror he kept in the corner of his room. Ugh. Reflective surfaces were never his friend. Surfaces, in general, weren't his friend. He'd already left a dozen sticky, red fingerprints all over his room and his school stuff; he wadded up a handful of tissues and held them under his nose while he tried to clean up the crime scene he left behind (it was really the least of his worries, but the easiest one to fix).

His face was going to be more of a problem. And wasn't it always. It was a good thing Chelsea had agreed to help with the makeup, teach him how to properly cover himself up, or he would not be going to school for a good couple of days. One black eye was easy to hide, or to get away with the poorly applied concealer. With two of them, it was easier to stay home and wait for the worst of it to fade.

His parents never noticed. They were both gone before he had to get up for school, he could delete the message left on the answering machine, then take a walk around the block and come in through the front door once they were home. (He probably didn't have to go through all the trouble if he never came out of his room. They'd never know the difference. He did it anyway, just in case.)

Why does it have to be like this? He talked to himself the way he wanted to talk to Christian, as if his brother could hear his thoughts from wherever he'd ended up. Like if he thought hard enough, he could get through to him. This isn't fucking fair. Christian had kept him out of the direct line of fire for so long that his only strategy for coping now was taking it. He didn't know how to do what Christian did, he didn't know how to stand up for himself. Didn't know how to be brave, be resilient, and he didn't even have anyone other than himself to take care of. Even with a bit of pushback, it was never enough. If I were strong enough, it would stop.

Fuck. He was really dizzy, could hear a heavy buzz in his ears, like a swarm of bees around his head. How hard did he have to connect with a solid surface before he could officially call it a concussion? Because he might be there. Part of him had wished he'd asked for Chelsea's address before they'd parted ways at the end of the day, so he could go directly to her instead of facing a crowd at the mall. Would that be too presumptuous? To show up on her doorstep only hours after he'd met her, looking like he'd lost a round or two of Street Fighter? Her parents would probably call the cops on him.

Okay, no, it was fine. He'd agreed to meet her about an hour after he'd got out of detention and he was probably already pushing that - and he still had to make himself look semi-presentable.

This is always the worst part. It was the same thing Christian had said to him one afternoon was he was nine, huddling on his older brother's bed with his fishie while he cleaned himself up. It was another piece of wisdom he'd bestowed on Elliot: you can reset a broken nose with one hand. It hurt like a bitch and doing it on his own probably caused more harm than not, but it worked superficially. As long as he looked okay, normal on the surface, everything else didn't matter. If he looked fine, he was fine. One bottle of water and a handful of soaked, red tissues later, and he was more or less back to usual. He would just slather as much concealer as possible over the remains and hope that Chelsea wouldn't notice.

He discarded his hoodie onto his bed and plunged through the depths of his dresser drawers to find the nicest shirt he owned; it was still a size too big and twice his age, but it wasn't his hoodie or one of his a hundred band t-shirts, so he called that an improvement. Pulled the sleeves all the way down and tightened the cuffs around his wrists so he at least felt a bit more secure. If he couldn't hide in his sweater (didn't want to) this would be the next best thing. He could only take so many risks in one day.

He'd hidden his lockbox beneath a pile of old blankets under his bed, his attempt to pass it off as just another mess in an expectedly messy bedroom. In truth, most of his mess was carefully planned. A pile of clothes here and there, some books and papers and pencils strewn over the floor. The more everything else looked natural, the less his hiding places stood out.

There wasn't much in the box: his fish, his Walkman, a dozen or so cassettes (most of which his brother left him, just like everything else he owned), the small stash of money he'd saved from doing yardwork for the older ladies around the block, and a handful of polaroids that Christian had taken of either Elliot alone or the two of them together. All labeled and dated at the bottom with the kind of precise care only his brother had. 1993 didn't even seem like the same decade - the last photo he had was dated two weeks before Christian's 18th birthday and the last time Elliot saw him. He didn't know why he kept them; more than once, he'd had an overwhelming urge to get rid of them, destroy everything and be done with it, but he never did. I hate you, I miss you, but neither of those things felt right anymore. He threw the mysterious envelope in with everything else, took out his wad of cash and ignored all those complicated feelings.

Tomorrow he would have a crisis over his brother. Today he would meet up with Chelsea and try to enjoy one fucking day of his life.

Since breaking his ankle, his previously well-loved skateboard had started to collect dust on the top shelf of his closet, hidden under another mess. He stood on his tiptoes, searching blindly until he could feel the concrete-worn wheels under his fingers. The grip tape scraped the wooden shelf on the way down and he froze, held his breath, nervous that the sound could be heard downstairs. A beat, then another, and he couldn't hear any heavy footsteps on the stairs. Okay. Okay. He brushed the deck clean with a palm, a little afraid of it now. It was his main mode of transportation for the last two years, and one that he actually got pretty decent at - he knew a fair amount of tricks and could land them almost every time. Now he was a little scared of it, nervous to lose his balance and fall and fuck up his ankle again. But it would get him from point a to point b quicker than his two feet and he hoped Chelsea would get a kick out of the deck design: a skull enjoying a nice, ripe banana. He'd always liked the design, related to it to an awkward degree, but never more than he did right now. Maybe Chelsea would like it. Maybe it could get another one of those big, genuine smiles out of her. The kind that lit up her whole face and a warm little fire in his chest.

Okay. It would be fine. He would be as careful as possible, watch the placement of his feet and keep all four wheels on the ground.

Sneaking out of his room was something he'd turned almost into an art; he'd done it often enough, either out of necessity or just to escape when it felt like the walls were closing in on him. His mother had set a plant trellis right outside his window - either not knowing he could use it as a makeshift ladder or just not caring enough - when she had been in a gardening phase when he was 14. Plants had long since died and nothing had taken their place, leaving an empty wooden stand with enough space for him to get his feet into so he could climb down to the ground. That one, at least, he'd learned how to do on his own - see, he could be resourceful when he put his mind to it, and nobody was any the wiser. Haul himself over the wooden fence at the edge of the property and he was free to go wherever he wanted. Most of the time, all he did was wander around town, wander aimlessly until the sun started to set. Now, though, he was a kid with a mission - and a kid that was incredibly late. Had to make a running start to get enough momentum with his board, the heavy crack of wheels on concrete giving him the right amount of an adrenaline rush to override the anxiety of riding again.

Wow. He'd kind of missed it. The sound of the trucks on the ground, the wind in his face, no matter how cold it was. It was nice to do something he actually enjoyed, who knew.

Speaking of enjoying things - once in the mall's parking lot, he hoped off his skateboard, let it roll a couple of feet ahead of him before it came to a natural stop before he bent down to pick it up. Weaved his way through parked and moving cars, mouthing apologies to drivers that had to stop to let him pass.

And then there was Chelsea. Standing with her back against a light pole, twirling the ends of her hair between her fingers. Wow. There she was. She was really there, waiting for him. That was...surprising? Confusing? Weird? Good? All of the above?

God, she was even prettier than he remembered. He watched her for a few moments, staring, taking her in before she noticed him, working up enough courage to approach her. It was different, outside of school. This felt more personal, more real. Now he had to actually be himself and he didn't know he if could do that anymore. Okay. This would be fine. They could do this.

He stepped up onto the sidewalk, cleared his throat to get her attention. "I - I'm sorry I'm late. I - I - " Oh, dammit, he really should've come up with an excuse. Save him the humiliation of uselessly stumbling over his words with no explanation. "I'm sorry. I thought I was being quick." Getting punched in the face takes more time than you might think. He kicked his shoe against the ground - his ears were still ringing, a little bit. It didn't feel as bad when he was around Chelsea. "I'm sorry, are you - do you hate me?" Another thing to exit his mouth without his permission; what the fuck was wrong with him today? Those thoughts were supposed to stay inside his head.

#high school au 002 #beth: SUP BITCH #amanda: chelsea wrote this whole reply herself actually #HAPPY END OF ELLSEAMAS 2024!!!!

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ellseas · 11 months ago

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His off-hand bad at math joke had her practically lighting up with excitement, offering to tutor him, and even though the thought of doing any more math than he needed to made him break out in hives...god, the look on her face. He would do anything she wanted if she smiled at him, looked at him, like that. "I - I'm really bad at math," he clarified, so she knew what she was in for. He was fairly certain neither of them would come out unscathed if she tried to teach him anything. Like cornering a wild tiger, nobody would win - neither hunter nor animal. Still, he couldn't bring himself to say no. Couldn't stand the thought of any kind of frown on Chelsea's face. Not because of him (well, not again, anyway).

"I - yeah, okay. If you want to." He couldn't promise that it would go well (in fact, he could almost guarantee that it wouldn't) but if he had to divide fractions, or whatever-the-fuck, just to spend a little bit more time with her, he could make that sacrifice. He'd make it, gladly, every time.

God. What was wrong with him? What was wrong with them? Why did it feel like he'd known for her years instead of a couple of minutes? Here she was, a girl that probably didn't even know his last name, promising him that he wouldn't have to worry about the other cheerleaders. That she would make sure of it, that she would take care of it. Fuck, okay, that was hot. As if he hadn't been attracted to her enough already. As if he didn't have enough reason to want to reach over this table and kiss her.

Oh. He wanted to kiss her. Wow, yeah, he really wanted to kiss her. It was a weird feeling, settled right in the middle of chest, one he'd never really felt before. Sure, he'd has crushes on girls before, he was a stupid teenager, full of stupid teenage hormones, and there was at least one other cute girl in this school. But none of them were Chelsea. None of them would've given him a second glance, if they even gave him a first one. None of them would've sat down with him for no reason other than they wanted to. None of them would've talked to him, listened to him, let him listen to them. He'd never actually kissed anyone before. He wanted it to be Chelsea. He never wanted to leave this table, this moment, or her.

Her cousin. Well. Yeah, he could see the resemblance - at least physically. The same hair, pulled up into that high cheerleader ponytail. The same shape to their eyes, wide and round. The same smile. But where he felt only malice in that smile from her cousin, only mockery...from Chelsea it was sincere. Real. Maybe they weren't that similar at all, actually. He loved the sound of Chelsea's laugh, desperately wanted to hear more of it. From her cousin, it felt like a bomb going off. "I think your cousin was the one who wrote faggot on my locker the other day," he said, offhand, hating the way the word felt in his mouth. Like chewing on glass. He didn't know why he was telling Chelsea this. God, he doubted that she wanted to hear it, wanted to hear him whine over something that happened a week ago. And it might not have even been her cousin, specifically. But it wasn't, well, she sure as hell found it hilarious.

Elliot didn't find it so hilarious. Thanks, dad. That was another word he had to learn at a young age, another word that electrified the walls of an already volatile home, especially after their father had caught Christian holding hands with another boy when he was an early teen. And it was the first (and only) time Christian had gotten angry with him, when he'd walked into his bedroom one day asking what does it mean and if he really was one. Christian was apologetic, afterwards, because Elliot had been all of probably nine at the time - with no idea what it meant and going to his big brother, who knew everything - but stressed into him that it was a bad word only bad people used. He didn't connect it to being gay or that Christian was until Elliot was a much older teenager himself.

It was the one time he felt compelled to get a teacher, to be a nark, tattle on those fuckers, whatever. People could say whatever they wanted to about him otherwise, but, god. He really didn't like that word. It was something he'd spent half his childhood hearing his father yell at his brother to get the upper hand in arguments, because it was the only time Christian seemed genuinely hurt by something he said. Hearing I will not have two sons like that, as if he even had any sons at all.

In the end, he'd done what he always did: stayed silent, took it, and used the sleeve of his sweater to wipe the at lipstick until it was an illegible red smudge. Then he'd hid himself in a bathroom until somebody found him, and he was the one who ended up in detention for defacing his locker.

Do you have any food allergies? Huh. He looked at Chelsea curiously, playing with the stem of the banana. Tempted to peel it (it had been a long time since he'd had a nice, ripe banana) but too nervous to do it. "I - I don't know. I don't think so?" He hadn't eaten anything that killed him, yet, though it wasn't like he tried a wide variety of food. I eat a lot of fucking peanut butter. He was so sick of peanut butter.

She tossed her donut on his tray, too, his protest only making her more insistent. He shook his head, tried to push back even more, but the words died in his throat. Like a dare, she raised her eyebrows at him and let the silence pass between them say everything it needed to. Wow. Okay. Sure, she could have whatever she wanted, he would do anything she wanted. If it made her happy, he would do it with no complaints. Maybe only a little bit of complaining. He peeled the banana, slow, expecting her to take it back or tell him she was only joking. Messing with him. She didn't and he waited another second, two, or three, before he took a bite. "Thank you." Polite manners overshadowed by talking with his mouth full. Nice. That was cute. Don’t say I never gave you anything. Oh, she had no idea how much she had already given him.

You’ve got the hands for it. He instinctively squeezed his hands together, crushing his little banana a bit in the process. Oops. What was he even going to do with this, with her, the endless compliments? They didn't feel like they fit quite right. Like they were meant for someone else. Something more deserving, more worthy. Fuck. He could hear his father's voice in his head, clear as if he were standing behind them. You really think that somebody like Chelsea could ever like you? No. He didn't. But he hoped. God, he hoped. She deserved more, but maybe she would settle for him, anyway. "It was - it's nothing special." He made a square shape with both of his hands, approximating the size. It was small, only enough to hold a table lamp (and anything tiny he could cram onto it) and probably not all that well-made, if he were honest. He didn't expect it to last much longer than a few years. At least it got him a B. "I - I'm taking it again, this semester. Shop, I mean. I could...make you something?" He asked, awkward and so deeply stupid. "I don't know. If you want. If you'd like that." Tried to put enough disclaimers on it so that she could tell him no, go fuck yourself if she wanted to. So she didn't feel obligated to say yes to him because turning him down would be uncomfortable.

Chelsea had already told him so much about her parents and Elliot was going out of his way to avoid acknowledging he even had those. Maybe she would assume he was an orphan, living in some kind of group home. It wasn't a bad alternative. He could work with that. She talked about her dad with a kind of reverence that he couldn't even begin to imagine. God, what that must be like. "Your dad sounds cool." Better than mine, although that was not a high bar to clear. His standards were in hell. He could fantasize well-enough - the kind of dad that had a garage filled with tools, gadgets, machinery, spare parts and piles of wood all over the floor. A dozen half-finished projects everywhere, because Elliot had more ideas than he had follow-through, and he had to do everything at once. He'd love to have the kind of dad he could build a deck with. Love to have a dad, full stop. "I'm sure I would like him." Whether or not her dad would like him was another story entirely. Maybe Elliot would be able to trick him into tolerating him long enough to teach him how to build a patio or a deck or maybe even a roof.

Getting a little bit ahead of yourself, aren't you? What makes you think she would even introduce you to her parents? Yeah, yeah, whatever. Shut up, brain. Let a kid dream.

I really like sketching. Yeah, he could picture it. Chelsea, bent over a sketchpad, her brows furrowed in concentration as she worked on something tricky. The same steady, serious expression she wore when she studied him. Maybe with her hair pulled back out of her face so that nothing broke her focus. Fingers covered in graphite or charcoal or whatever else she held in her hands. It was cute. She was cute (god, had he mentioned that yet?). "I - I'd like to see some of your sketches sometime. If you want to show them to me." Felt the need to qualify everything he said to her, so they didn't sound like demands, like she could never turn him down. He wanted to know everything, see everything. Get inside her, to her very heart, and learn everything.

Did he sound crazy enough yet? He felt it.

She actually engaged with him when he mentioned the bands he liked, surprising and a little terrifying. He wasn't used to discussing anything he liked, content enough to enjoy things by himself, in his own little bubble. He listened to his music, watched his occasional show and that had always been enough. Yet here she was, talking to him, and now he couldn't remember a goddamn thing about the Counting Crows. He owned both of their albums on cassette, had practically worn the tape down to nothing he replayed them so often, and had saved up for months to pre-order the third so he was guaranteed to have the day it released. And yet...with Chelsea here, across from him, talking about it, he couldn't remember what a single one of their songs sounded like. Not as sweet as the sound of her voice.

“Oh, yeah. I - I have heard it.” I've had that song basically on repeat for the past fifteen months. And no wonder why. Chelsea. All beautiful things were called Chelsea, apparently. "I, uh, I have that album, too.” Had to fight against himself, against his instinct to say you can come over and listen to it with me. If you want to. Because, wow, he guessed she really couldn’t. “If you don’t have it, I - you could borrow it. If you have a cassette player.” Was what came out instead, and he wanted to smack himself in the face. Of course she didn’t have a cassette player, she probably had a cd player. Ready for the new millennium, up to date; unlike him, still stuck in 1991. Like basically everything he owned, his Walkman was a hand-me-down from his brother - one Christian had let him borrow on bad nights (all of them) to try and drown out the noise, and then had given to him once he left home, in the same hiding spot under his bed that Elliot had, too. I really got everything from you, didn't I? "Or if - you can borrow my Walkman, too. It's - I mean, if you don't have one. It's one of the cassette ones." Yeah, fucking obviously, Elliot. She probably could've figured that out for herself, she wasn't stupid. He had cassettes, he had a cassette player.

He wanted a reason to see her again, and again, and again. Lend her his Walkman. Talk to her about it, learn her thoughts and opinions. Maybe share some of his other albums. Any excuse to see her, be around her. Any opportunity for him to listen to her talk. Hear everything she had rattling around in that brilliant head of hers.

"Oh, yeah. I - I don't think the owner found it so cool, though." He'd tried to blend into the crowd, be as inconspicuous as possible, but he could barely pass for seventeen now, at seventeen, let alone three years ago. The owner had asked for some kind of ID and with all of his thirteen-year-old authority had said: no, it's fine, they already checked it. Yeah. The guy was nice, but firm, and walked him to the door to make sure he left and didn't slip back into the sea of bodies. He'd considered sneaking back in, but hadn't wanted to push his luck. The aftermath probably would've been a lot worse if a police car had driven him back home. "I didn't know they closed down, it was a pretty neat place." Wild, loud. The smell of stale beer was stuck into every surface, but Elliot was used to that. Felt almost comforting, in a way, to know that the carpet in his living room wasn't the only thing that smelled of old, cheap liquor. If not comforting, at least familiar. "But, yeah, I mean - it was fun while it lasted. Though, I - I think I only got through three or four songs." And he didn't even get to hear Don't Fear the Reaper, which had been 90% of the reason he'd gone in the first place. "Oh, um - March. It's in March."

How long has it been? "Oh, I - he's not dead." Probably. Shit, he couldn't say that with any certainty. For all he knew, Christian could've been long dead at this point. Maybe he'd never left home, never left him, intentionally. Maybe he'd spent the last six years hating a dead man. Hah. Yeah. That felt great. He was glad he had that thought. He absolutely wouldn't put it past his father to kill one of them and then clear out and trash their room like they'd never existed in the first place. "It's okay, it's - I haven't seen him in a long time. That's all, I - I just miss him." That's all, he said, like that even scratched the fucking surface. But how could he possibly condense all his complicated thought into an easy to digest conversation? That was too much baggage to drop on Chelsea in an entire lifetime, forget a single lunch period. There would never be enough time to unpack all of...that.

Who needed to confront uncomfortable feelings when he could ignore them? That was a much better option. He preferred to listen rather than talk, anyway. Preferred to listen to her. Loved all the words, all the sounds that came out of her mouth. Yeah, that's because you want her to kiss you. Shut up, brain. I didn't ask your opinion.

"Good, I - I'm glad to hear that. I'm glad she's okay." God, Chelsea clearly loved her parents, talked about them in a way that made him feel a little bit weird. Not because of her, by any means, but because of the thought. The idea of saying anything remotely positive about either of his parents kind of made him nauseous. He was an outlier, he knew that (he hoped that) and the projection wasn't going to do him any favors, but he couldn't help it. Having parents that she loved, that loved her - he was grateful, on her behalf. And he was also incredibly jealous.

It was just like the epitome of in sickness and health, y'know? No, not even a little bit. His parents were perfect for each other, in the worst kind of way. He couldn't remember the last time he saw them kiss or hug or even tell each other I love you. Couldn't remember a time where they ever looked like they enjoyed the other's presence or didn't look disappointed every time the other came home from work, like they were hoping their respective buildings would've burnt down (Elliot was disappointed every time he saw his father's car in the driveway, too, but he didn't choose to involve himself in this fucking disaster). Shit, they barely even talked to each other. His father would sooner watch his mother bleed out than ever make a move to rush her to the hospital. "Yeah, that - that does sound scary. I'm sorry you had to go through that. It's never fun to see someone you love in pain." That much, at least, he could understand. "Your dad, though, he - both of your parents sound like good people. They're lucky to have each other." She was lucky to have them.

"What, uh - which hospital did your mom go to?" He asked, scratching the back of his neck. Did he sound too obvious? Since when have you cared about that? Alright, he got it, that was enough. Part of him wondered (worried) if there was a chance that his mom had been one of the nurses for Chelsea's mom. He hoped not. He shuddered to think what her bedside manner would be, especially in a situation like that.

She twisted the cap of her drink around, between her fingers, obviously a little bit embarrassed having said so much. He offered her a small smile, resisting the temptation to reach across the table and grab her hand. To hold her, to comfort her, to tell her everything was alright. That he was glad to hear everything she had to say, glad that she trusted him enough to share that information with him. He didn't know if he'd really earned it, but he was grateful for that nonetheless. "It's okay. I - I'm glad you told me. I like - I like knowing the real you." His stupid, preconceived judgements could have never predicted this. That he'd be sitting across from her, desperate to learn every inch of her soul, of her mind. Desperate to have her touch him, kiss him, something. Everything.

You've known her for less than a day. Less than an hour. He threaded his fingers through his hair and pulled on it, hard, before he let go. God. He couldn't get his brain to shut the fuck up already, to stop spitting out these invasive thoughts. He knew, alright? He fucking knew that he was insane and crazy and clinging so hard to her because she was the first person to give him a bit of kindness. I know I'm pathetic, alright? You don't need to keep reminding me. At this point, he really was his own worst enemy,

"I - I don't know what happened to my brother," he said, actually honest. Hey, she did say it was his turn. His turn to share, his turn to be as truthful as he possibly could. As he felt comfortable with. It wasn't much, but it was all that he could offer her right now. "He was there one day and the next he was gone and - I have - I don't know anything else. I haven't seen him, haven't heard from him...I don't know where he is or what he's doing." If he was even still breathing or buried in a shallow grave somewhere. He had the worst kind of sinking feeling in his chest that it was becoming more and more likely that's what actually happened. He couldn't imagine a situation otherwise where Christian would've left him. It didn't feel right that the brother who protected him at every other turn would disappear with no warning. "It just - it kind of feels like he's abandoned me." Fuck, Elliot really hoped he wasn't dead. He already felt guilty enough for his mixed-up emotions, he didn't need any additional on top of it.

"Don't worry. About this." He gestured to his face, still smoothing down his hair down in front of his eye, over and over in a compulsive gesture. "It looks worse than it is." Yeah, he caught that look on her face, the same one he got any time he walked out of the house uncovered. A frown deep enough to crease lines between her eyebrows and he could sense the embarrassing amount of pity behind her eyes. Maybe she'd assume he got into a fight with someone else at school. He'd immediately gone on the defensive when she sat down with him, tried to start a fight she wasn't looking for. It wasn't impossible. Boys will be boys, right? "You should, uh, you should see the other guy." He tried for a joke, but he could feel it die almost as soon as the words left his mouth. Cool, now he was actively trying to seem shady and suspicious. Like he had something to hide. Why did you draw attention to it? Live with the stares and don't say anything. That's when people start asking questions, that's when people insist on checking up at home, and that's when his dad would get rid of him and bury him under that big oak in the backyard like he was a deceased pet.

He'd gotten off lightly, anyway - he couldn't remember what he'd done wrong, but at this point the reason meant nothing, and an open palm was always better than a closed fist. Left less of a mark.

if I’m bright and warm right now, it’s because of you. Nah. He didn't believe that. Look at her. She probably lit up every room she walked into just by being there. How could she sell herself short like that? "I - I think you do that all on your own. God, look at you," he said, his inside thoughts turning into outside thoughts. He bit down on his tongue to prevent any more of those little fuckers from escaping. If he told her every thought going through his head, she'd think he was insane. "You've made me - I am - " Jesus. He could barely finish his sentences when it came to her, unable to pull the scramble of thoughts together in any coherent way. What did she make him feel?

Real. Whole. Tangible. No longer an incomprehensible amalgamation of blood and bones piloted by a force outside of his control, or the physical manifestation of the mistakes and failures of two deeply disturbed people. But a real, actual person. His own person.

You make me feel like Elliot. The Elliot that liked rock music and silly, colorful stuffed fishes and creating things with his hands. That liked board games and his brother's stupid coin tricks and the smell of rain outside his window. That wanted to see the world beyond his hometown and discover things nobody talked about and learn all that he could cram into his brain in whatever amount of time he had. It was nice to know that Elliot was still there, underneath everything else.

That introspection turned into - "You're kind of special, you know that?" - once his mouth decided to form real words again. "I've never met anyone like you. I - I don't think there is anyone else like you." If there was space in her time, in her mind, for someone like him, well...that really said everything, didn't it?

Noo, I don’t have a boyfriend! Oh. Okay. Great. Awesome. Rad. He was having a normal reaction to that information, with his heart in his throat, beating loud enough for probably half the school to hear. Normal. Yeah. They weren't even in the same zip code as normal at this point. "Good, I'm - I - I mean - cool." Yeah, good one. Now would be a perfectly fine time for lightning to strike or for the ground to swallow him whole. Anything so he didn't have to feel her eyes burn into him. God, he was fucking bad at this. No wonder he'd never had a date before. Then she turned the question back on him, which was fair, but, like, come on. He could barely talk to her. Did Chelsea really think this worked on anyone else? "I - do I look like I have a girlfriend?" Nothing about his giant, pulled up hoodie, empty table and complete lack of any social skills screamed: I definitely have a girlfriend. More like: surprise, I am actually in a cult. "No. No, I definitely don't."

She reached for his hands again, this time to pry the napkin from his fingers. He kept his grip tight around it, with far more than strictly required, in an effort to keep her touching him. The longer it took, the longer he could pretend she was actually holding his hand. So he had the feeling etched into his brain for when he inevitably spent all night thinking about her, and this, convinced it was all a very vivid hallucination. She can't be real. People like her don't really exist. Good for the sake of good. Kind for the sake of kindness. It felt too good to be true. A lesson learned from his mom, this time: everybody has an ulterior motive. Nothing in life came free, or easy, or without pain. Nobody like Chelsea, nothing like Chelsea, happened to somebody like him without strings attached.

"I - I know it's kinda gross," he said, suddenly self-conscious of something that had been an instinctive habit. Something to do with his hands, something to keep his mouth occupied so he didn't open his dumbass mouth. Where was that forward thinking five minutes ago, huh? "I - I've been trying to stop. So, yeah. I'll take all the help I can get." I'll take all the help I can get from you. Elliot didn't care if the solution was to dissolve all his skin until there was nothing left but bone. He'd do anything she told him. Damn the consequences, so long as he could be with her.

She pushed, a little bit, offering to stay with him, wait while he rode out his daily attendance. "No, no, it's - you - you really don't have to do that," he said, trying to fight back the rising panic in his voice. Okay, maybe don't damn all the consequences. For a couple of people who hardly noticed when he actually was home, they definitely noticed when he wasn't. Out of the house meant he was around people they couldn't control, in situations they couldn't manipulate to their advantage. Meant he was out of their control. If he started to think for himself, then he became more trouble than he was worth. And I'm not worth that much to begin with. "I have to - I should tell my parents I'm going out." I will absolutely never do that. "I don't - they would - I wouldn't want them worry." Yeah, that's what parents did, right? Worry about their child's safety? Wonder what they were doing, who they were doing it with? That sounded right. Nailed it.

"How about I meet you there? At the mall? Just so I can go home and get changed and...talk to my parents."

#high school au 001 #beth: i'm going to be sick tbh (nauseous.emoji)#amanda: ELLSEA IS LOVE ELLSEA IS LIFE #what's more of a trip bro this reply of ABSOLUTE FILTH or the fact that i'm finally posting this after almost a week of hospital & ketamine

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