#I remember asking the driver to pull over so I could try chundering I remember feeling so embarrassed abt that

[carrotpiss]

Wall of text time wall of text time (hello tumblr I use u like a diary time) just gotta get some words down innit

[sheepsandcattle]

Chapter 18

Sitting in a cab with Brandon, heading for his dad’s house from the bus station, was probably about the longest Curly’s held a piss in – to this day. Every bump in the road had him cringing and Brandon gagging. He supposes he’d rather be on the edge of pissing than on the edge of yoshing over the back of the driver’s seat.

“Curly,” Brandon had whispered, waiting for his mate to look his way before he’d said, “I’m gonna—“

“I know,” he cut him off, trying not to laugh (because he would literally have pissed himself) as he reached across the middle seat to pat his friend’s thigh. He raised his voice to ask, “mate, can we open a window?”

The driver said no but they did anyway, and spent the rest of the journey in silence until they reached his dad’s house and had to beg the driver to accept the only fiver to Curly’s name, despite it being half the amount the journey was meant to be.

He’d shushed Brandon as he chundered loudly into the bushes that lined the green on the street corner, as Curly himself pissed against a tree that still read ‘CURLY BRANDON WILL SUCK DICK FOR £££’ with his phone number hazardously scratched out beneath it.

“Fuck sake,” Brandon grumbled, and Curly turned just in time to witness him topple into the overgrowth.

“Dickhead,” he snorted, doing his fly as he passed his mate, who grumbled as he struggled out of the bush and caught up to him back on the pavement. “We’ve got t’be quiet,” Curls went back to whispering as they passed his dad’s neighbour’s front yard. “Gee’s sleeping. Jus’ don’t yosh in the upstairs bathroom.”

“I’ve just fell on my-“

“I know.”

“I’ve got sick all over—“

“Shh,” Curly swallowed a laugh; held his breath until the giggle evaporated somewhere in his belly. “I know, mate.”

Why did they decide to share that spliff whilst they waited for the cab? As if they weren’t shitfaced enough already.

His keys were still somewhere in Leeds, but he managed to pull the spare one from beneath the plant pot outside without it toppling and spilling all over the path. He unlocked the door and the two of them tiptoed inside in perfect silence, despite tripping over the rug in the hall. Even Mary didn’t bark, by some miracle - probably too old by then to be arse with his bollocks.

It wasn’t until he had his head over the sink, drinking from the tap when his sister peered into the kitchen. She wore pyjamas covered in a cartoon he’d never seen before and her hair was so mad that he choked on the water still in his mouth as he giggled.

“El?”

“Hiya, Gee.”

Brandon had cheered, “it’s Genie Clarke!”

“Shh! For fuck’s sake, Brandon.”

“Have you had some drinks?” Genie stepped away from the door and into the kitchen. “What’s that smell?”

Brandon and Curly’s replies mashed up into a mess of, “sick,” and, “wee,” and, “you can’t talk about weed to a kid,” and, “I said wee, bell-end,” and, “stop bloody swearing!”

“Dad!”

“No,” Curly hissed, arms waving frantically. “No, Gee. Go back to bed, yeah? We’re jus’ going to sleep.”

“Just getting a glass of water,” Brandon supplied and snatched a mug from the draining board and held it under the still-running water. “Mmm, yum. I’m parched. Are you parched, Curls? Spitting feathers, I am.”

“Mate, actually shut your mouth.” He reached over to smack the back of Brandon’s head.

“Shut your mouth!” Curls got a solid a shove back, sending him stumbling a bit before he pushed himself away from the kitchen counter, trying not to smile (because it was not fucking funny!) as he gives him another nudge.

“Shut—“

“Elliot, what the hell are you doing?” Their heads whipped back around to the door, where his dad stood in his boxers behind Genie, squinting as he placed a hand on the top of her head. “You’re meant to be in Leeds.”

“Yeah, it…”

“Cancelled,” Brandon chimed.

Mr Clarke’s frown only deepened. “Leeds festival was cancelled.”

The two boys shared a look and Curly had scoffed when Brandon winked.

“Your eyes look sore,” Gee say.

“No, Gee—“ Curls did a slow blink, breathing deeply as he clung to what was left of his sobriety. “—they do not.”

“You’re off your face.”

“No dad, we are not.” He blinked again.

“I think you better go to bed, lads.”

***

Genie calls him about a week after Brandon leaves. It’s nice; they’re all in Cornwall and she’s buzzing about the new house they’re staying in because the old lady next door has a black and white dog that looks like one their dad used to have. He’d only done a line when they rang and he’s glad he’s only a bit high because he’d be kicking himself if he wasn’t present for a call with his sister.

He’s also glad that he discovered how effective it is to do coke in order to forget how much he wants to do heroin instead. All he really needs to worry about these days is if he wants a nice pick-me-up or an easy come-down.

“I’m surprised you can remember Mary before she went grey,” Curly smiles into the phone as his sister goes on.

“I can’t, but that’s what mum said. The view in my room is dead nice,” she digresses. “I’ve taken some photos so dad can send them to you.”

He can hear wind around Genie’s voice and she’s out of breath as she walks. He hears her mum in the background talking about what to eat for lunch, then hears his dad say, “don’t forget I want to talk to him.”

“Cheers Gee, that’d be nice,” he says just to humour her. He ignores his dad’s voice for now as he puts the phone on loudspeaker whilst he rolls a joint. “Are you on a walk?”

“Yeah, we’re just climbing this hill so we can see Land’s End,” she announces and then, in a whisper, “I don’t know what that means.”

“Probably the end of the land, love,” he laughs, sealing his spliff. Head’s still banging. “Take some pictures up there n’all, yeah?”

“I will but the memory card’s nearly full and we still need ‘go to—“ She lets out a miserable groan, then huffs. “El, dad wants ‘speak to you. I’ve got ‘go.”

Curls chuckles, says, “alright, Gee. Love you,” as he puts the phone on speaker while he lights up.

She repeats the words back to him and, after a little scuffling on her end, his dad takes over the phone. He hears him tell Jenny and Gee to walk ahead before he says, “alright, El?”

Fuck sake.

It’s worth noting that he’s been missing his dads calls for a good few weeks now - ever since he rowed with his mum. They still speak sometimes -his parent- exclusively about him because he’s not always the best at communicating and he supposes it can take a team effort to get through to him sometimes.

“Alright, dad,” he returns, already scuffing his feet guiltily.

“Your mum’s worried,” he says simply, wasting no time, but it’s not particularly stern. Curly already knows this - and his dad knows that he knows, n’all. “I’ve been trying to phone you. Reckon you might need someone to talk to.”

He takes a long drag, taking his time to hold the smoke before breathing into the phone just to make the time it takes for him to think up an answer feel just a bit shorter - for himself, at least. “I’m fine,” he says. “You know what she’s like.”

“She said you could barely speak.”

Curly snorts. “I don’t remember that,” he says, but then decides it’s a poor choice of words. “It wasn’t as bad as she was making out, I bet.”

In high school his mum would catch him stumbling home pissed- had done more times than he can count. She never did like him getting up to that stuff, but his dad was so easy-going, would always say, “I’d rather know where you are and what you’re doing than have you sneaking around behind my back.”

Curly never really kept things from his dad back then - even told him about the pills he and Brandon took in Leeds, which he wasn’t too chuffed about, but admitted he’d done a similar thing in his youth.

“What did she find in your bag?“

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I told her that—“

“I don’t like the idea of that bloke digging about in your things—” his dad interrupts him, trying to stay on-side, it seems. “—but it was still there.”

“I said—“

“She doesn’t believe what you said,” he sighs. “I don’t either, El.”

He presses his forehead against the fridge door, feeling weird and jittery as he shakes his head against the cool plastic. “Please don’t—.” He cuts himself off because he doesn’t know how to finish.

“I saw Brandon the other day. Stubborn pain in the arse, isn’t he?” His dad forces a laugh, trying to sound neutral as he adds, “have you had a word with him about it?”

As if he’d tell Brandon. He loves the guy to pieces but he’s too bloody soft. He wouldn’t be able to wrap his head around it; if he didn’t underestimate how deep Curly was in this shit, he’d panic and… chain him to a tree until he was clean or some daft.

What did Brandon say?

“He doesn’t know,” he mumbles. That’s right: he doesn’t know. So he can’t have said anything.

“I think he does, El. If you won’t speak to me about it, talk to him. He clearly didn’t want to bloody tell me. I know it took you a bit to feel at home there, mate. If you’re still feeling isolated, or— or lonely—”

“I have to go.”

He hangs up before can dig himself any deeper.

Brandon doesn’t answer his calls. He’s not sure if he wants to have a go at him for saying whatever it is that he said to his dad, or if he wants to take his old man’s advice and just talk, but he doesn’t answer anyway.

Curly returns to his bedroom where he sorts blunts and baggies, ready for the weekend. Got nothing better to do. Parties never seem appealing anymore - not until he’s too fucked up to forget he doesn’t fancy being there. Might as well be prepared.

Am I lonely?

His shakes his head - which is still killing him, and his jitters are unreal, but he tests some of the new coke he’s been getting in, rubs it into his gums (just a few samples to be sure) and it turns out it’s just as good as the last batch – maybe better.

“Brandon,” he mumbles into the phone on his third attempted call, when he finally lets it go to voicemail. “… Fuck you. You don’t…” He rubs a shaky hand over his face. “What’ve you said? I— You aren’t fucking there for me when I need you, you’re just… You’ve made it all shit.” He’s sure he says more but he forgets half the shit that come out of his mouth by the time he’s hanging up and selecting ‘block number’ for shits and giggles.

Maybe he should call Jordan again too because, thanks to him, Curly’s gone from always up-to-something to having fuck-all to do - ever. Thanks to him, he can barely see Jeff and Dean because he’s sick off lying about what happened with Jordan and thanks to him, Curly can’t even remember how to have a good time on his own.

He forgets to call him.

By the time Jules gets home, he’s tried snorting a bit too, just to carry out a fair test and to get rid of this stupid fucking headache.

“Jules, love,” he calls as he wobbles out of his room at the first sound of the door. His roommate chucks his phone onto the couch before he flops down himself.

“Not now, Curly. I’m not in the mood for your—“

“I’ve got summet to tell you,” he announces as he points at the man. “It’s important.”

Jules groans, rolls his eyes. “What?”

“It’s about Jordan.”

Another groan, more obnoxious this time as Jules folds his arms over his chest. “I thought you stopped talking to him. The guy’s got issues.”

“I have. I did.”

“Okay, so?”

He tries to speak but his words catch in his throat as he falls onto the couch beside Jules as his lip begins to tremble. Suddenly he’s crying like a baby as he presses his face into his friend's shoulder. He sniffs as Jules sits rigidly under his weight.

“Curls, what the fuck?” He’s whispering like he doesn’t want them to get caught like this. Jules isn’t the type of mate whose shoulder you cry on, but Curly doesn’t have that type of mate around at the minute. “Why—“

“I’m so fucking lonely.”