#davey feeling lonely and stressed and scared because for the first time he's really on his own and struggling to hit his own standards

[loving-jack-kelly]

jack in third grade with a crush on davey teasing him on the playground bc he doesn't know what else to do with the weird emotion.

jack in middle school realizing that it's a crush and not knowing what to do with the weird and now terrifying emotions so he stops talking to davey altogether.

jack in high school feeling like shit for ghosting somebody he used to be close with but not knowing what to do about it now that it's been four years and they're about to graduate and also he still gets weirdly sentimental and also butterflies when he hears davey laugh from across the room.

jack in college texting davey happy birthday because he can't think of a better way to restart a relationship that pretty much ended eight years ago and he misses home and misses familiarity and has never forgotten davey's birthday since the first time he learned it in elementary school.

[forestwater87]

Sometimes, Ch. 4

Read the first three chapters here

Safety Net

David doesn’t mean to worry anyone. He never does.

He always tries to be the most helpful he possibly can; he tries even when the campers or his coworkers don’t always want it. He can’t help it, though -- his mother always taught him to lend a hand, because everyone has struggles and he has a gift for seeing the bright side, and he’s always worn that as a badge of honor but sometimes it feels a bit more like a burden, when no one around him will try to see the bright side and he’s forced to hold the silver lining onto every dark cloud when the glue’s coming loose and no one seems to see it anyway and he’s --

He’s just tired, sometimes.

But while people never seem to notice his attempts to stay positive, they sure can tell when he stops, even for just a second.

“David?”

“Mr. David, where are you?”

“The fuck’s up with camp man?”

He takes a deep breath and draws his legs up to his chest, resting his forehead on his knees and blocking out the distant babble of voices.

They’ll be fine.

He’s allowed to need a minute.

Suddenly there’s a knock on the door to the shower stall, making him jump. “I, uh, know this isn’t appropriate, but you aren’t like . . . jerking off in there, are you?”

David sighs, lifting his head and tilting it back against the water-softened wood. “No, Gwen. I’m not.”

“Okay.” He hears the scuff of her boots on the dusty floor, and the corners of his mouth twitch because he can picture her perfectly. “I’ll just, um, go get Jasper for you.”

He wants to tell her not to bother, but he knows better. Knows that telling Gwen to do anything is an exercise in futility, and knows that it’s impossible to keep Jasper away if he has even the tiniest inkling that something might be wrong, and knows that he can’t spend the rest of the day in the showers anyway, because he has a job to do and people depending on him.

He hears the door to the bathrooms open, the unintelligible murmur of Gwen’s voice. Then there’s a gentle knock, and a pair of pristine white sneakers with neon shoelaces appear under the stall door. “Hey, Davey? Having a shower party with the spiders?”

(He also knows that Jasper’s voice is a cup of tea, warm and comforting, and just a few words have the knotted muscles in his shoulders unwinding. He knows better -- knows that Gwen knows him well enough to realize his boyfriend is exactly what he needs.)

David reaches up and unlatches the door, his arm dropping to his side like a rock into the lake. Everything feels heavy, even his tongue, but he doesn’t have to say anything as Jasper slips into the narrow stall -- too small for two people to fit in comfortably; they’ve tried -- and plops down onto the grungy tile next to him. “My butt is gonna be soaked,” he says, no real complaint in his voice as David turns his face into the warm, sweet-smelling dip where Jasper’s shoulder meets his neck. He wraps an arm around him, tugging him closer, and they’ve snuggled like this a hundred thousand times and David is always a little awed by how well they fit together, like the crook of Jasper’s neck was made specifically to accommodate his bony face.

Ever since they were kids, when Jasper was still the camp darling and Davey was the resentful brat who too frequently stained homesick angry tears into the shoulder of his tentmate’s pajama shirt by night and refused to acknowledge him by day -- before they were even friends, they slotted together neatly like this.

He’s not sure their relationship makes sense, but he’ll never stop being grateful for his constant, perfect Jasper.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Jasper asks, rubbing soothing circles between his shoulder blades. “Or about something else?”

He shakes his head, not sure to which part of that question. “The Millers called,” he said, sniffling. “Th-there’s a lot of paperwork to . . .” His throat closed, a painful golf ball lodged behind his adam’s apple, and he took a raw breath that scraped past the lump, just enough space to force the words out. “Transferring Mr. Campbell’s . . . everything. To me. I have -- have to go into the ci-hhity t- !”

A thousand words build up behind the golf ball, things about setting up a low-key camp for his CBFLs to run while he’s gone and how he needs two separate forms of identification and whether the campmobile will survive the trip to Camp Corp. (who are generously supplying a meeting place in order to facilitate the relinquishing of Camp Campbell as quickly and smoothly as possible), and how they have to scrape together enough money for an overnight stay if it goes too long because his eyes aren’t very good in the dark anymore from staring at too many campfires and how lonely he’ll be without them, how he hasn’t had to fall asleep without the weight of Jasper’s arm across his chest or over his side and he’s wanted the camp back but it’s too much -- too big and too scary and too much, and this is what Gwen and Jasper are good at and so he just wants to leave them to it so that he can play in the dirt and teach the campers about the forest and sleep --

He . . . hasn’t been sleeping well, the last few nights.

“Oh, Davey.” Jasper sighs, turning his head to press a stubble-scratchy kiss to his forehead (David feels a pang of guilt; he must’ve been getting ready when Gwen found him).

Heat prickles at his eyes, and he squeezes them shut, taking a shaky breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be bogus.” He snorts softly, his hair bouncing against David’s temples as he shakes his head and mutters, “Nah, I can’t pull that off.”

“Sure you can,” he replies automatically, because his boyfriend can do anything he puts his mind to.

Jasper kisses the top of his head again, and David can feel the way his mouth is curved into a smile. “Radical, dude.”

There’s a knock at the door and they both jump, causing the wobbly shower head to jolt and cascade a handful of cold droplets onto their heads. “You guys okay in there?”

David starts to wriggle out of Jasper’s arms, opening his mouth to tell her they’re fine and will be out in a minute, but Jasp tightens his embrace and says, “Get in here, Boss Santos. It’s an emergency.”

“Oh, that’s not nece --”

“It’s very necessary,” Jasper says, louder. “Ignore him.”

If Gwen’s surprised to see them sitting in a small puddle of water on the floor, she doesn’t show it. Jasper graciously -- if clumsily -- tugs off his dark blue hoodie and drops it onto the ground for her to sit on, waggling his eyebrows.

“M’lady.”

She rolls her eyes and slides down to sit across from them, her back against the shower wall opposite and her feet awkwardly splaying to fit between their bodies. (This shower is even less suited to three people than it was two.)

There’s a moment of silence, where David tries to avoid Gwen’s piercingly curious gaze. Jasper, of course, breaks it after only a few seconds.

“So . . . this is nice!” He sounds a little bit like David when he puts on that falsely chipper voice, though he insists he’s not doing it on purpose. “When’s the last time the three of us hung out in a cramped, unhygienic space like this?”

“Literally every day, Jasp.”

“Sure, but there’s usually fifteen screaming kids as well. If we tried that here it’d be a regular phone booth challenge. Speaking of which . . .”

“I’m using my daily veto on that.”

Jasper grins at her, a smile that never fails to make David’s stomach flutter. “You sure about that? Breakfast isn’t even over yet. I could have a lot more bad ideas you’ll wanna shoot down.”

“I’ll take the risk.”

David snuggles into Jasper’s shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed. For the first time in what feels like weeks, he’s actually sleepy. Warm and surrounded on all sides and soaking up the voices of his two favorite people in the entire world, he suddenly wants nothing more than to block out everything else.

He’s almost dozed off when he hears a change in Gwen’s tone, softer and more serious. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah.” Jasper’s fingers comb through his hair, and David tilts his head into the touch. He’s too tired to open his eyes, but that’s okay. “Just stressed about the whole camp thing. And going into the city tomorrow is freaking him out.”

She snorts -- louder than she intended, he can tell, because her next words are almost a whisper. “That’s fucking stupid. Why is he going alone?”

Jasper shrugs, the movement almost jolting David out of his drowsy half-aware state. (He shifts, tucking into the crook of Jasper’s neck so he won’t be jostled as much.) “You know what he’s like.”

“Fucking stupid,” she says again, and David wonders if he’s just imagining the warmth in her voice.

They’re quiet again, the soft drip of the shower and the distant shouts of the campers the only sounds in the muggy air. It wraps like a damp blanket around them, heavy and cozy.

“Why don’t you go with him?”

“To the city?” He hums thoughtfully, and David knows that if he was still wearing his hoodie he’d be playing with the drawstrings on it. “What about you?”

“Please. I’ve been running this camp before you started here,” she says, the disdain in her voice making David smile even in his barely-awake state. “If I have to, I’ll get QM to scare the shit out of ‘em. They’ll be good.”

“They’ve never been good.”

She sighs, long and heavy, like she’s just barely holding back her irritation. “We’ll be fine.”

“If you say so. Just let me ask him.” Jasper lightly shakes David’s shoulder. “Hey, Davey? I’m gonna come to the meeting with you tomorrow. If that’s okay with you, just keep sleeping.”

He should say something; it isn’t really fair to leave Gwen with the campers all day by herself. But opening his eyes feels like too much work, and so does the thought of pretending he doesn’t want Jasper there.

So a few seconds later when Jasp murmurs, “There, all settled,” David allows himself to let go of his guilt, just this one time.

It’s okay if he’s not ready to run things alone, because he’s not alone.

He has a safety net.

[letsprayitwritesitself]

groundhog dave part 5 - morning four

Cautious optimism characterised Davey’s fourth February 2nd. It was a damn shame that he had woken up in the suffocating perfumed hotel room, drowning in an overstuffed floral duvet, to the sounds of an aggressively beeping alarm clock, considering how the night before he had fallen asleep in Spot’s arms, face nuzzled into neck, spaced out and high - but it signalled something. It meant that he was right, and that everything else was wrong.

He stared at the ceiling and tried to debate his next steps. He had to think of this logically, particularly if he was going to try and make real sense of this... situation. 

First things first. Test the waters. Get some coffee.

He sat up and pushed the duvet aside, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His room, chilly during the day thanks to the antiquated windows allowing breeze to sliver in, somehow turned into a microwave in the mornings, radiators blasting through and cranking his body heat up to eleven. He had kicked off his lounge pants in the night and they sat in a sad pile at the foot of the bed. He sat in a t-shirt and briefs, staring down at the carpet. 

Heads turned in the dining room when Davey entered wearing just that.

They turned, however in that very understated and totally silent way that meant that while nothing would be said when he was in the room, as soon as he left the conversation would explode in a muted murmur over why on earth that producer fellow thought it was appropriate to show up without getting dressed. Nerves twisted tight in Davey’s stomach as he walked in, nodded good morning at Mrs. Bloom, and headed over to the coffee station. It was painfully awkward, almost crippling, and he fought hard against the impulse to a) run away and b) apologise, instead standing tall, pouring himself a big cup of filter coffee and picking up two croissants. He held one between his teeth and carried the other with the cup of coffee, back up to his room. Mrs. Bloom, eyes trained on the pale expanse of thigh suddenly presented to her, cleared her throat and started to speak.

‘Mr. Jacobs, I don’t know how you do it in the city -’

He breezed past her, wincing to himself at the rudeness. That didn’t feel good, he noted to himself. Whatever he did today, he couldn’t be an asshole for no reason. 

Back in his room he sat at the diminutive desk and pulled out his laptop. One five minute dither over how to title the document (”Plans For Weird Repetitive Day” “Day of No Consequences Plans” “What the Fuck is Fucking Happening”) later and he started to consider what he could do now he was faced with that lack of consequences. 

Smoke freely. It was a stupid thing he had picked up in college - when term papers and reading had stacked up alongside his shift work and grad job applications, he had found that the only respite was those snatches of five or so minutes where he was forced outside. You could eat, drink, socialise, whatever, while studying in the library, but you couldn’t smoke, and he’d found that doing it was the one way he got real breaks. It was a shocking habit, he knew, and dumb as hell, which was why he had tried his best to stop since graduation, but if he ever found himself stressed, or scared, or sad (or frustrated, or drunk, or around other smokers) then it was one he dipped back into, often with a low surge of worry in his stomach that he ignored. Now, however? His reliable lack of hangover suggested that he could put whatever he wanted into his body and the next day it would be gone.

On to the next thing. Eat whatever I want. Again, his life as a producer in Philly wasn’t exactly conducive to a healthy lifestyle, but he tried. Tried to grab vegetables with his bags of pasta and pizza rolls, and tried to drink water instead of just coffee. But now he didn’t have to worry. If this was going how he thought it was he wouldn’t get fat, or diabetes, or have all his teeth fall out.

Treat yo self. A tight budget meant that he had to know where every last penny in his bank went or was going, but surely if he spent it it would come back, would reset in a way? It was the beginning of the month, that sweet spot between pay day and rent day, when he could pretend the money in his account was all for him - he could blow it all. And yeah, the day would start again and anything he bought would be gone, but maybe even the sensation of buying stuff, being so recklessly generous with himself, would be enough.

He stared at the word doc, quizzical. His list so far was just stuff he did anyway, but stuff he wanted to be able to do without the guilt. He needed to step it up. What was he actually afraid to do?

Flirt with people. He felt dumb even typing that, god, it looked adolescent and reductive blinking in front of him, but it needed to be stated. Twenty-six, moderately successful (if that wasn’t too generous a term), lonely as hell. He should be flirting with everyone he met. But putting himself out there was scary. Was scary. 

Tell people the truth. Each word appeared on his monitor painstakingly. He didn’t need to be an asshole, but what if he didn’t hide how he felt? Like if something seriously made him unhappy or uncomfortable - instead of just taking it, say. Or even in a positive light - usually he wouldn’t like to give someone like Jack the satisfaction of a compliment, but, hell. Honesty for everyone. Even if it did get erased overnight, at least it would show him the short term consequences of speaking up.

Ask people for the truth. Oh boy. Being real with people had to be a two way street, right? Sure, it wasn’t socially acceptable to assume that people were always telling white lies, and thus ask for the real truth, and most people probably wouldn’t want to be asked or answer - but he could press for answers if he knew that the day was going to disappear. Then he would know what people thought of him, he would have a kind of power, and he could start to do the day better. He could hack his life!

He tipped the last gulp of coffee down his throat and stood up. There was a glimmer of temptation to head down to the square as he was, underwear and t-shirt, but he wasn’t quite prepared to risk hypothermia, even if he would probably wake up fine the next day.

There was a tiny shred of doubt that he ignored as he stood in line at the diner on his way to the broadcast. He knew that the day had repeated over and over and over, but who was to say that it was going to happen again? What if today was today? And tomorrow came, and he had blown his pay check, said awkward stuff to people, smoked like a chimney and died of a sugar overdose? 

He tried to analyse his resistance to this doubt... Maybe he could (should?) do fun stuff despite the risk. Because the doubt made him want to do the day as he had the first time, moody, mellow, waiting for it to be over - but was that then just his life? How tragic was it, if that was his normal? Maybe he could do this stuff even knowing it might go wrong. Maybe that was why this was happening.

‘Morning... sunshine?’ Jack’s eyes widened as Davey appeared bearing a tray of takeout coffee and breakfast (three dollars each for coffee and five each for food, by no means an extortionate amount but still an expense he couldn’t ordinarily justify.)

‘Morning guys!’ He offered them the tray. ‘There’s donuts too, Crutchie, in the - there.’ He smiled back at Crutchie who nodded gratefully if slightly confusedly, and leaned forward to grasp the paper bag tucked under Davey’s arm.

‘Thanks Davey, what’s the occasion?’ Jack popped the top off his cup and inhaled the warm scent. 

‘You have to ask?’

‘Don’t tell me you’re celebrating Groundhog Day,’ He eyed Davey with a suspicion that was part light-hearted and part, well, earnest.

‘Why not?’ 

‘I just... Hey, I’m not complaining, of course, specially not if there’s food involved! But you seemed so... blech about it before, right?’

‘I’ve been infected with the spirit of the season!’ Still an expression of confusion stared back. Davey took a deep breath in. Tell people the truth. ‘Look. I know I was an asshole yesterday. I could have just sucked it up and had a positive attitude about this but I sulked like a little kid. So this is me saying, y’know... Well done for coming to Buttfuck PA, now let’s do a killer broadcast, alright?’ 

Jack stared at him for a few seconds, a look of reticent fondness appearing on his face, and Davey looked back, tense, nervous that Jack was going to shoot him down, or see through him. Eventually Jack’s expression broke into a grin and he lifted his cup in a mock toast. ‘Alright!’ 

It felt kind of good to be in as high spirits as Jack and Crutchie were, even if he was buoyed by a completely alien reason. The bandstand music was only slightly torturous, the ceremony only vaguely unbearable. Jack and Crutchie didn’t need to know that Davey was only happy because of the prospect of a day crammed with unapologetic hedonism - as far as they were concerned he was actually fine with being here. 

And maybe he was, just for this day. 

He’d smoked a couple of cigarettes on his way to the square from the diner and so had lingered outside before heading in (again, he wasn’t interested in being an asshole for no reason, and smoking in the middle of a crowd was a clear asshole move.) He had peered into the square, noting that through the masses of people, if he concentrated, he could pick out Jack and Crutchie waiting for him, chatting away, cheeks red, demeanours chirpy. Jack would say something, gesture in some way, and Crutchie would fall about laughing, under his spell, something Jack would watch and then join in with, eyes crinkling, teeth bared in a frankly dazzling smile. 

Who was this guy?

They had of course had those two nights at the bar, drinking and talking the way semi-new colleagues do, but he still didn’t really know Jack Kelly any deeper than the surface. They had only really talked about work, their degrees, and Philly, still too much strangers to each other to get into the good stuff. 

Ask people for the truth. 

Crutchie obviously adored him, along with everyone at the station (and apparently a handful of people in the square who Davey saw approach Jack to engage in what looked like flirting but of course could have just been innocent, flirtation apparently being Jack’s standard setting.) And Davey was resistant to his charms, but then, on a day with no consequences, he could actually let himself be taken in by Jack, knowing that if the weatherman did turn out to be vapid or shallow, he could revert to the previous day’s reserved disdain.

He was going to figure out Jack Kelly.

(part 6 afternoon four imminent)