#that and id look even more like my dad and that makes me somewhat suicidal again

[super-done-dead]

love seeing users who are friends interact on posts. would like to interact with a user whos a friend one day, on a post

[lostincalum]

Nothing Flashed Before My Eyes- Michael Clifford AU

AN: It’s here, without being queer (I’m sorry I had to) after months i have finally finished this monstrosity, idk what to say tbh. But if you do read I hope you enjoy and leave a coment if you enjoyed. 

TW: schizofrenia, attempted suicide, self harm, alcoholism (i promise i have tried to describe them as neutral as I could)

Word count: 8k (issa long boi from me)

“Nothing flashed before my eyes.”

I spoke softly as I stared up at the sterile white of the roof.

“What do you mean?”

He asked carefully, as though I would shatter and the world would collapse if he spoke any louder.

“When I took the pills…”

Suddenly the words were harder to speak, my throat clogging up. I looked at him, straight  into his eyes. His cold, emerald- eyes. It seems like he has lost all hope for me. 

“… everything kind of just stopped for a minute. And then I went to bed, hoping to never wake up. But there was no pretty angels, and no bright light, just nothing”

He looked at me, as if I had just told him God and heaven didn’t exist. I suppose I had. Then he walked out the door. Not looking back once. 

----

Walking through the doors to the psych ward is scary. I’ve been to a couple before, but this place feels different, and I don’t get why I’m here. It looks too stupid expensive. With the soft white walls and view over the city. With the stupid billowing curtains and stupid leather couches. It looks like a normal house, except really big and spacious. I hate it already. 

When my mum puts her hand on my shoulder, it feels like the weight of the world is dropped there. And while I know it is meant to be a comforting gesture, I can’t help but think that I don’t want anyone else to touch me today. I feel suffocated in the openness of the building, that I know my step-dad paid his way into.

“Hi and welcome to Hollywood Heights treatment centre.”- 

I turn at the sound of a female voice that is way too happy for this place, and I’m met with the blue eyes of a petite lady. The only way for me to spot that she is in fact not a patient is her ID card that is fastened at her belt hoop. Her brown hair is short and spiky. 

Mum rushes forward, taking her hand off of my shoulder, but leaving the weight, to shake the hand of the lady. 

“Hey, I’m Mary, thank you so much for taking in my daughter. We appreciate it so much.” 

I give her a tight lipped smile. 

“Oh, there are no worries Mary! and you must be Riley?” 

She directs the question at me, and I nod quietly, letting my eyes flicker over the flowers that are spread across the different surfaces in the entrance and reception area. 

“Well, let’s just get you officially admitted, and we can begin the little tour.” 

I have a sinking feeling this is gonna be anything but a “little” tour. 

----

After thirty minutes of walking around the house and being shown every possible nook and cranny as well as its function, I have some time in my room. 

Mum left a couple of minutes ago after she got a call from work, that she was needed. Immediately of course. 

I start unpacking my bag, it isn’t a lot, mostly sweatpants and long sleeves. But I also brought my laptop and a few different chargers. I sit down on the not too hard mattress of the bed and stare at the annoyingly soft, white colour of the wall, until it isn’t white anymore. 

The wall isn’t white, it’s red. Trails of red teardrops slither down the wall in front of me. I watch as it reaches the floor and starts sliding towards my bed, the bed where I’m sitting, as if the floor is tilted. 

This isn’t gonna end well for you, dear. 

Slowly I find the pattern and as my heart skips a beat, my converse clad feet jump around the floor as I try to reach the door. When I finally do, and twist the door handle, I slam it shut behind me. Leaning against the door, it feels like my knees are about to give out underneath me and my eyes are way to warm and stingy. 

“You alright?” 

I whip my head around and suddenly my eyes are met with a pair of green ones. I can’t quite make them out ‘cause of the fringe covering one of his eyes, and the dark pupil of his other eye. But I’m positive that his eyes are green. I quickly look behind me as I turn around, pulling the sleeves of my loose henley down my arms, and start walking away. 

“I’m fine,” my voice comes out somewhat smothered, but I don’t hear any footsteps following me. I just hear the thud of something dropping to the ground. I don’t turn around. I don’t want to turn around. But I do. And I find his head cocked ever so slightly to the side, but still attached to his neck. 

Got you, hahaha 

“Fuck you,” I mumble to myself, turning around for the second time and continuing to walk god knows where. 

-------

I find myself in the music room. Out of all the things I hate here, I really hate this place the most. I love music so much, but they’ve managed to make this even this room feel strange. It’s not that they’ve not put any effort into it. They’ve overdone it. A lot of the places I’ve been to before have had instruments and music rooms, but this is too over the top. Brand new drum kits, never used guitars, both acoustic and electric, and a selection of basses that have never been touched. The ivory keys of the grand piano have barely been played. That’s the moment I know that’s where I’ll be spending most of my time. Wearing in all the instruments. 

Coincidentally that is also where I am disturbed first. I jump a little when I hear crackling coming from the corner of the room. The voice belongs to Linda, the lady who showed me around when I arrived. 

“If all patients would come to the kitchen, dinner is about to be served.” 

I sigh and walk out of the room, headed for the kitchen area. When I’m in the stairs I pass by a tall blonde with curly hair and a bright smile. However, it is bright in a different way than what Linda had. More like friendly, which I find hard to believe in, considering where I’m at. 

“Hey, you must be Riley, right?” 

She puts forward a hand, expecting me to shake it. I just nod, but it doesn’t seem to affect her, as she puts her hand back into the pocket of her jeans, but continues to talk.

“I’m Lucy, I’ll be your psychiatrist while you stay here, I have to go right now, but enjoy your dinner, and I’ll see that you get a message tomorrow for our first official session.” 

I nod again, and as I start to walk down the stairs, she doesn’t call after me, doesn’t stop me, she just lets me go. And I appreciate that. 

When I get to the kitchen, it is bustling with something that looks like life. I find it a little bit funny, that something that is so depressing in the media, is so lively in real life. A couple of girls are chatting beside each other and a boy and a girl look like they are sitting a little too close to each other, because not a second later Linda is pulling the girl away from the boy. 

I stand in the entrance and watch as a man puts two pots containing some sort of stew in it on the table, it doesn’t smell bad. 

The only spot left by the table is in front of a guy in a black hoodie, that he has pulled over his head, but I swear I can see his blonde fringe from here. I step further into the room and a round, tall man introduces himself to me as Johnny.

Maybe we should cut his head open and put a mixer in his brain.

“Or maybe not,” all I do is hope that no one hears me whispering as I walk to the open spot.  

Carefully I sit down in front of the boy in the black hoodie, and start fiddling with the fork. He looks up from his phone when he hears me picking up the fork. To be honest I expect him to look at me with sort of an insulted look, but he doesn’t. His eyes, albeit a bit sad, are filled with curiosity. 

“Hey, I’m Michael,” he smiles as he reaches out his right hand. 

“Riley’s the name,” I look at him, shaking his hand briefly but firmly and go back to playing with the fork. 

“You want a little tip for staying here?” Michael says as his eyes dance over my appearance. He continues to do so, until he notices my eyes, and pulls the hood of his sweater down. 

“Sure,” the fact that I’m constantly avoiding his eyes; must be annoying for him. I must seem like the most arrogant person he has ever met. Yet he continues to talk to me. 

“Keep something to yourself, not something big or scary. But something, a dream, a hope, a fantasy, just for yourself. That way you can keep a part of you.”

He looks at me with these deep green eyes, and for the first time in a while, green doesn’t make me feel sick and empty. It doesn’t make me feel as excited as before, more on the safe side. 

You still don’t get it? nowhere is safe for you, I will ruin anything and everything for you.

I roll my eyes as he whispers in you ear, his hands on my shoulders pressing down harder. To get rid of the feeling I roll my shoulders and try to focus on the conversation as well as my surroundings. 

“Why? aren’t we supposed to do as they say and answer every question?”

 It feels like a stupid question, because what he is saying makes sense, to me at least. A small, but tired smile makes it way onto his lips. 

“Common misconception, but no. If you do that, they have the knowledge to persuade, control, almost own you. Not everyone knows all of themselves, but you seem like you do.” 

The cheeky wink he sends me doesn’t go unnoticed, but as a bowl of pasta is set down in front of us, he engages in a conversation on his left side. 

“How you doing Sandra, everything go well in your session today?”

To be honest, Michael seemed like the person that took care amongst the patients. Like he wanted to make sure that everyone was alright. As he talked to Sandra, I could tell that he genuinely cared about what she had to say. 

“Okay, everyone, get ready for grace.” 

Johnny announces as he sits down at the head of the table, opposite to the side where me and Michael are sitting. Everyone reaches their hands out and as the girl to my right reaches out a hand I hold it carefully, not really wanting to be touched more than necessary. Michael reaches out a hand, and I think he gets it, cause he holds me gingerly, but without fear. Like he isn’t scared that I’ll break any second. 

After we finish grace, Johnny stands up and looks at me, with a kind smile. 

“So everyone, we have a new patient here today, her name is Riley. Give her a warm welcome, and take care of eachother.”

I pull my hands into my sweater sleeves and give them all a nod as they all look at me. Some of them nodding back. The girl Michael was talking to even let out a little “hi”.  

---------

Being social has always been difficult for me, and as I sit here in my bedroom, I have no idea of what to do with myself. I’m sat in the only chair in the room. It’s hard plastic and I can tell it is going to annoy me for a while. I don’t wanna look at the wall anymore so I pick up my phone and start scrolling through different media. 

On all of them, he is there, looking so fucking innocent, too fucking innocent. Like he has moved on from what I did to myself, what I did to us. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he is ignoring it like this, so easy. 

There are two sharp raps on the door, and it opens, invading my space and making me jump slightly. Linda is standing in the doorway, with her bright fake smile on her lips. 

“Hi, Riley group therapy starts in three minutes, you should come-” she smiles at me.

“It is mandatory, but if you don’t feel like going your first day that’s alright too.” It feels like she is trying to force me to go with her eyes. 

“Nah, I think I’ll go next time.” 

At last you get something right 

“Okay, please let us know if there is something we can do for you.” Linda says before she closes the door behind her, leaving me alone with my own head. 

----

I go to sleep shortly after getting my medicine handed to me from Johnny. Here, like all other institutions we aren’t allowed to have our own medicine at our own disposal. And I think that might be a good thing.

------

I wake up still rattled from a nightmare. My alarm is still blaring beside me and I turn to shut it off, just as there is a knock on my door. Linda walks in not a second later. 

“Breakfast is in five minutes, you’ve slept in for long enough now.” 

The fake smile, everything about her ticks me off, especially her condescending tone of voice. I just nod and start getting out of bed, she stares at my thighs and I know she has seen the scars that litter the top of them. I’m just glad I still have my long sleeve covering my arms. 

“I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.” 

Linda walks out of my room, but still throws a last glance at my thighs. Looking as if they suddenly might attack her or come alive. As the door shuts behind her I look down at my legs, feeling ashamed.

You deserve these, after all you did it to yourself. 

“No, you made me do this, you said-”

And you listened. Honestly, one would think you to be stronger. 

“Yeah? Fuck you”.

I go about my routine, which is basically changing my top and putting on deodorant. I also put on a pair of sweatpants and socks before going out the door and to the kitchen on the first floor. 

When I exit I also see another person closing her door. I recognize her as Sandra. The girl Michael was talking to at dinner yesterday. She looks at me and smiles, and starts heading for me. 

“Hi, are you ready for breakfast?” 

She smiles at me. Her body is covered in a big knit sweater and baggy jeans, like she is trying to hide herself from the world.  

You could just grab a kitchen knife and stab her between her ribs.

I close my eyes for less than a second and look at her, seeing her tired eyes and messy hair. In that second I can’t help but think that her and I will be good friends. 

“Yeah, I think so. You?”

We start walking towards the kitchen and I feel the weight on my shoulders pressing me down. 

“Not really, but I can’t give up now.” 

Sandra looks down at her feet, which causes me to ask her a question out of curiosity. 

“What do you mean?” 

She looks at me nervously, before she starts talking again. 

“Well, I’m not that good at eating? I suppose.” 

I nod trying to come across as understanding, as she looks at me like she expects me to come up with some big ol’ scream, instead I decide to “become even”. 

“It’s quite alright, I’m not that good at living.” 

And I think this was one of the best things I could have said, cause she smiles at me and lets out a little giggle, as we enter the kitchen. Everyone else seems to be there, at least the people from yesterday, I still haven’t talked to anyone else though. 

Sandra and I sit down at the same places as we sat yesterday at dinner. She is immediately engaged in a conversation with the same guy from yesterday, the one she was pulled away from. He leans in for a hug and her frame is engulfed by his rather muscular one. With red tinted cheeks she turns to look at me. 

“Chris, this is Riley.”

Chris leans back in his seat, with an arm thrown around the back of Sandra’s chair. He looks at me kind of judgey before giving me a nod of approval, at least that’s what it looks like. I give him a nod back, but before he can say anything our attention is pulled towards two girls entering the kitchen. One of them looks like she has been crying and the other holds a comforting hand on her back as they sit down beside me. 

They’re here to kill you 

Yeah right, and I’m here to listen to you….

-----

After breakfast, as I’m headed up the stairs, I hear soft chords coming from the music room. Someone is strumming a guitar and it’s like I’m hearing music for the first time. Not only music but one of the prettiest voices I have ever heard is singing along to the song. 

I have a vague feeling in the pit of my stomach that I know who is playing. I walk closer to the open doors, and as I see Michael sitting on the floor playing the guitar that previously hung on the wall, I kind of melt a little. His fringe and the little crease between his brows, it’s all very enamoring. 

“I’m alright, I’m Okay, I’m alright I’m okay, I’m not a monster just a human and I’ve made a few mistakes.”

Not gonna happen for you though. 

We’ll see about that, I think to myself. 

He sings the words so carefully like he doesn’t quite believe them. He finishes the song and looks up, seeing me in the doorway. Immediately the frown is back, but not as enamouring, more suspicious. It almost hides the blush that is lightly covering his cheeks. 

“Sorry, I can come back later.” 

I say as he puts the guitar down and gets up. 

“No no, do you play?” he inquires, seemingly having gathered himself. 

“Ehh, a little bit of everything.” I answer as he looks at me. 

Not as well as you like to think.  

I roll my eyes as I look down on the floor, hoping he doesn’t see. 

“A little bit of everything eh?” Michael says. 

“Yeah, I was taught the piano from a young age, and a bit of bass and guitar. Drums aren’t the worst, but anything that makes me use my mouth to make it work isn't for me to play, how about you though?”  I say as he stares at me quizzically. 

“Well I’m self taught at guitar so I can’t really write or read music, but I still like to think I know how to.” 

He stares down at his feet a little bashfully. 

“Well, you have a good voice, it’s strong and vulnerable at the same time. I really like the song you were playing as well.” 

“You do? I haven’t actually written it myself it’s called ‘It’s alright’ by-” 

“Mother Mother, I know. I really like it.” 

We stare at each other for  a second before we both burst out in giggles. It’s been a while since I have smiled like this.  

You know this won’t last.

---------

Group therapy is the first thing that happens that week. It’s always between breakfast and lunch. And I walk from the music room with Michael right after the call comes on the radio thing that crackles in the corner of the room. We walk side by side until we come to the hallway with all the bedrooms in it. He stops by the door that is closest to the stairs, three doors down from me. 

“You aren’t going to group therapy?” 

I ask, and hope the disappointment isn’t as obvious in my voice as it feels. 

“Nah, I don’t do group.” 

Michael says with a secretive, yet tired smile, and I decide not to press the matter, even though it felt like a weird  thing to come from him, considering how caring of the others he seems to be. 

“Well, I’ll see you at dinner then.” 

He nods as he opens the door and I take that as my cue to leave. 

-----

“Hello and welcome back to group therapy. For some of us, this is the first time we’re here, others have been here before.” 

Lucy starts off the session with everyone I’ve seen sitting in a circle and it looks more like an AA meeting than anything else. 

“Since we have a new patient here today I think we should all take turns and say what’s on our minds.” 

She smiles at us, and it doesn’t seem as fake as it could have been. 

“Why don’t you start Riley?” 

With the friendly smile she gives me, I should have been able to meet her gaze, but a big, looming, black figure is standing behind her, so I opt to look at my feet instead. 

“Well, hi, my name is Riley and today I don’t feel much like living, like most days.” 

My voice comes out tired and drawn out, and I can see Lucy crossing her legs and readying her notepad in anticipation.

------

The days go like this, we do group therapy as well as one on one, and I discover that Lucy isn’t like most other psychiatrists. She listens when I talk, and helps me figure out different kinds of things. It is probably in my journal, but she hasn’t asked about the voices yet. And I prefer it like that. 

I have also started to connect more with Michael. We both sit in the music room and wear in all the instruments, although the most frequently used ones are the piano and guitars. He has the sweetest voice when he sings: vulnerable, but still confident.

A few days ago he let me follow his instagram, and ever since I have been staring, wondering how to read him. He seems so different from the person he is here. Always surrounded by friends and always laughing it seems. Yet there is something that still bothers me. He always seems to be at a party. The glassed over look in his eyes, and the red cup in his hand. The photos seem to be posted in a small time frame, almost like he’s partying every other day. And suddenly I get what has been right in front of me since I first saw his instagram. At least I think I do. 

One day we are sitting in the music room and it’s right before dinner. That’s when I decide to address my own thoughts. 

“Michael, can I ask you something?” 

He looks at me, like he always does, with these understanding, green eyes of his. So patient and calm. Like the green water that comes from glacier ice. We’re sat beside each other on the piano stool after playing around on the grand piano. 

“You know you can ask me anything, right Riles?” 

Michael bumps my knee with his, as he gives me one of his most reassuring smiles. And I feel the lump in my chest grow. 

“Well, I was just wondering-”

I hate this, I should back down, but I can’t stop now and before I can really think it through the words tumble out of my mouth. 

“Do you have an alcohol problem?” 

And the shift is immediate. His body goes rigid, he stops fiddling with the keys on the piano and his brows furrow. 

“Not that question though, that is none of your business.”

I can see him shutting me out. He gets up just as Linda’s voice crackles through the room, calling us to dinner. Before I know it he has slammed the door to the music room shut, making me jump. 

How did you really think this would go? That he would open up to you and cry on your shoulder? You really are more stupid than we thought. 

The weight that had been lightening on my shoulder immediately goes back to crushing me, and regret is all I feel. What if I have ruined our friendship?

Probably. 

When I enter the kitchen everyone is already seated and saying grace. I decide not to intrude as they complete. Opting to watch everyone else holding hands and in varying degrees keeping up with Linda who is leading grace. 

They finish and once I get to the table and sit down on my usual spot, Linda scowls at me. I don’t really care for it. Just the fact that Michael doesn’t even look up when my chair scrapes across the floor, I hate it. I hate it so much. 

Sandra looks at me quizzically. Usually me and Michael come down together from the music room, or we talk about music or books or anything that crosses our minds. The fact that he won’t even look at me is unusual to say the least. Which causes the entire dinner to be awkward. It’s like we have thrown the entire house off. Or I. I guess I did this. 

Of course you did, who else?

----

Michael is the first to leave dinner, and I follow shortly after. I go straight to my room to get dressed. There is a little swing in the garden which overlooks the entire city, and I feel like the walls are closing in on me. I need some fresh air. 

I just throw on a hoodie and grab my ear buds, putting them in my ears as I walk down the stairs and out the door.

I sit down on the porch swing in the garden and find a good loud song to shut out all my thoughts. I must have been sitting here for a few minutes when Sandra sits down beside me, making me jump a little. 

“How are you?” 

She asks this so softly, and I pull out my ear buds. 

“Not too good to be honest.”

Her hands fiddle with the ends of her scarf as she looks at me.

“I figured, wanna talk about it?” 

I can feel myself wanting to let it all out. I feel lonely already without the tiny touches from Michael. Fuck. 

“I just, I don’t know, I think I might have made a big mistake.”

Sandra looks at me, gives me one of those looks, that says she already knows what this is about, but she has the decency to ask me anyway. 

“What’s going on?” 

Sighing feels like the only thing I can do. 

“I, well it isn’t my place to tell, but I asked Michael something that I shouldn’t have asked about, and now he is mad at me. And I mean, he has every right to be angry, but it hurts.” 

This time it is Sandra’s turn to sigh. 

“You asked him why he’s here?”

“Something along those lines.” 

“You should know Riley, that he has been here longer than most of us, and the walls he has built are so tall. When Chris first came here, he didn’t really understand why Michael was here. So he lashed out, and kept yelling about how Michael didn’t deserve to be here, and how he was more of an employee here than a patient. It definitely took a toll on him, even though Chris has apologized.”

“Do you know why he is here?” 

I can’t stop myself from asking. I know I shouldn’t, but the words already slipped out of my mouth. 

“No, I figured we all have our reasons and he doesn’t have to share them if he doesn’t feel like it, we owe him at least that.” 

The sun is setting now, and the light reflects on us making warm hues glimmer across the city beneath us, as well as Sandra’s cheeks. Her hair looks like a black halo with golden edges. 

“Yeah, maybe I should go apologize?” 

“No-” she turns to look at me. 

“You shouldn’t apologize, he needs to be asked this sort of questions  if he ever wants to learn to live with whatever he is dealing with.” 

I can’t help but agree with what she is saying.  

-----

Lucy has one of the few nice rooms in the building, her office is more welcoming than I ever thought a psychiatric office could be. There is a good, comfortable two seat sofa in one corner of the room. Her desk is neat, but looks lived in for some reason. It’s like she has been here for a good part of her life. With a pair of running shoes, a couple of jackets hanging on the hooks by the door. But my most favourite thing about her office is the window though, which has a good look over the wild side behind the house. 

That is where I’m looking when Lucy says my name, probably for the second time.

“Riley, how are you? You seem very distracted today.”

I look down at my hands, wondering how I’m gonna phrase this. 

“I am.” 

She cocks her head to the side, indicating for me to continue. I can’t though, it always has been easier for me to answer questions than to just tell someone what’s wrong.

“I noticed you and Michael haven’t been hanging out? it seemed like the two of you got a really good connection, what’s happened?” 

“We can talk about anything else, just not that, not right now.” 

And in this moment I swear I think she really cares. 

But why would she care about you?

“Your suicide attempt then? The nurses wrote that you had a visitor when you woke up?” 

Of course, it had to come eventually, I’m just surprised it took her this long.

“Yeah, there was.” 

“Who was he?” 

“Well since you know it’s a boy, you probably also know who he was to me.” 

She looks at me with these really sad eyes. It’s pity, I know it’s pity, and I feel nauseous. 

“I do, he’s mentioned in your papers a lot.” 

“God, I know, I was so stupid back then.” 

I sigh, trying to avoid the lump in the back of my throat. 

“You weren’t stupid.” 

“No, I was in love, and I hated it and it’s not gonna- it can’t happen again.” 

I can hear myself, how pathetic I sound, and I can’t stop the tears from streaming out of my eyes, and down my cheeks.

“Riley, you are never stupid for having feelings.” 

She sounds so stupid, so naive when she says that. She probably married her first love. I can see the ring on her finger, just taunting me by showing me what I can’t ever have. 

Now you’re starting to get it. 

“I am though, ‘cause it’s always the wrong feeling, or too much of it, too little, whatever it is, it’s never right.” 

Lucy crosses and uncrosses her legs before speaking up again. 

“So you’ve decided to not feel?” 

Her saying this, it feels a bit like an insult, cause here I am, crying trying to bare my soul to her. And she accuses me of trying to not feel?

“Oh I feel, I’m heartbroken, and sad and scared, I’m frustrated and desperate.” 

---

After my session with Lucy I’m tired, so when the screaming from my room increases I’m not really surprised. What surprises me is that they are screaming for mercy now. I don’t know what to do, but I can hear the most graphic noises coming from behind my door. The cries for help increase, as does the laughter. And just like that, I’m in tears for the second time today. 

This time however, it’s different. I’m alone and the voices I know are just in my head, sound too real to be fantasy. I slide down the wall, not wanting to go inside my room, in fear of what I’ll meet. A mantra begins to escape my lips and I close my eyes while patting all my pockets for my earbuds. 

“Please just stop, please just stop, please just stop,” escapes me over and over. 

Suddenly, like lightning from clear sky I feel a presence sitting down beside me. His voice is calm as he says, “I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.” 

Michael is sitting beside me, I know him by his rough voice and the scent of him, laundry detergent, encompasses me entirely. My room goes quieter, and I start to get my bearings again. Wiping my eyes, I stand up and look at Michael. His eyes are red rimmed and he looks tired, but there is something familiar about it. His drooping, squinty eyes, for some reason he looks hungover. He can’t possibly be. 

“I should probably, I mean, I’ll see you around.”

I stutter out, before I say something I shouldn’t. And before he has the time to respond I open the door and slip in. Not without missing the soft “fuck” he lets out, which makes me wonder if i have made a mistake. 

When don’t you make mistakes?

I lean my back against the door, and sigh looking towards the bathroom, feeling the need for release really fast. 

---

I get a snap from Sandra, whilst I’m sitting on the bathroom floor. It’s a picture of the living room, and if I squint I can see Johnny in the background of the screen. I put the camera of the phone down on my jeans and take a black picture. With shaking hands I type:

“Can you ask Johnny to come to my room?”

A few seconds later I get back a picture of Johnny exiting the living room with the text: “On his way, you alright?” 

Before I have the time to respond there is a nock on my door, before it opens. 

“Where are you Riley?” 

His calm and steady voice made me feel worse. How the fuck am I supposed to explain this. 

“Bathroom, you can come in.” 

I feel the tears burning behind my eyes again, and the short relief I felt is gone, replaced with regret. Johnny stands in the doorway looking at me before taking another step closer and turning my wrist up to assess the damage I have done to myself. 

“Okay, I’ll get you stitched up and then we can talk about what has happened?” 

All I can do is nod my head as he helps me stand up. He folds a towel over my arms, tells me to cross them and then we head for the medical room. It is just down the hall, and I suspect that it’s no coincidence that it’s placed so close to the patient rooms. 

Luckily we don’t pass anyone in the hallway, and I think I’m in the clear. 

I lay on the medical chair as Johnny administrates the local anesthesia. It feels like something is stinging underneath my skin, until it all goes numb. 

“I didn’t know you were allowed to stitch people up here?” 

Conversation is a desperate attempt at distraction for me, but I’m grateful that he goes along with it anyway. 

“Yeah, it’s just me and a few others who have the training though.” 

He says as he methodically works his way through the routine I have witnessed too many times. 

“How did you get the training, was it hard?” 

Johnny is one of the very few who don’t use the rolling chair as he preps everything, but he has left it by the side of my reclined seat. 

“Well, the military is pretty hard most would say, but as I learned things got easier, and when it’s all about saving a brother in arms, I suddenly just knew how to apply the things we had learned as recruits.” 

This I kind of saw coming, but not the medic part. His burly build and calm exterior always reminded me of my father, who was a tank driver. 

“My dad was in the armed forces, he died there too.” 

Johnny turns around and rolls the tray with the needle and thread over. He then sits down on the chair and threads the needle as he talks. 

“I’m sorry to hear, when did this happen?” 

The weird thing is that this conversation doesn’t feel forced, even though this is something I hate talking about. 

“I was like ten I think? So about ten years ago.” 

Johnny nods, and it feels like he knows what he knows what I’m talking about. I realise that he has probably read it in my file, but it doesn’t bother me as much as it should, after all he knows how it is. 

We continue to talk about all of this while he stitches me up. When he finishes up he suggests to me to take a nap to which I agree. Johnny puts on some huge medical bandages and follows me back to my room, which has been cleaned. I suspect Johnny sent a message to someone. 

———

I’m woken up by aching in my arm and a cursed knocking on my door. Linda walks in before i can even say “come in”. I couldn’t have even if I wanted to. My throat feels dry as Linda sits down beside me. 

“Come on, get up! it’s time for breakfast.” 

And it’s so typical her, to not ask me how I’m doing, no sympathy. And for the first time in a while I don’t feel so choked. Perhaps for the wrong reasons, but the feeling of being treated like a normal person, no matter what I did yesterday.. it sort of feels good actually.

However, I’m not gonna let her know that so I just silently nod while sitting up in the bed. 

When I come down to the kitchen everybody is already there, except for one person. Judging by the chair that pushed back from the table, Michael has already left. 

As people sit and chat I go over to the counter and start making myself a cup of tea. Tea making and drinking is a part of being inpatient no one told me about, although I suppose it’s different for everyone. It has just become a thing I do everyday several times. 

With my sweater pawed hands holding the tea cup, I’m sitting here listening to the other patients talk, smiling at the appropriate moments and sometimes laughing a bit. And in contrast to the last couple of weeks, it doesn’t feel entirely forced. 

———

It’s late in the evening, I have walked past the porch and over to the edge of the garden, behind a tree. It shields from the view of the windows of the house and I’ve never actually been here. But it looks peaceful so I sit down at the base of the tree and overlook the city. I still can’t believe I agreed to this. Being so far away from all that I knew physically hasn’t changed me mentally, no matter how much mum wishes it did. She calls sometimes, but I feel like I would have to lie to her every time so i don’t answer at all. I know she still gets weekly reports when she calls the office lady, even though I never quite figured out where she has her office. 

“Hey there.” 

I look up and I’m met with emerald green eyes, hidden behind a pair of glasses I’ve never seen Michael wear. He doesn’t ask permission or anything before he sits down. I suppose he doesn’t have too either. 

“Hey, I can leave if you want some time alone or something.” 

The words fall out of my mouth before I have the time or sense to think them through, and sooner than I expected I’m standing up. Until I’m not anymore. My hands are firmly planted in the ground behind my back, upper body bent and ready to get up, when I feel his calloused palm holding onto my wrist. It’s too close, I know it is. And again, I act too quickly. This time by pulling my hand towards myself, thereby sitting back down. 

“Please stay. Unless you don’t want to of course.” 

And it hurts. God it hurts to just hear the hurt and resignation in his voice. 

“No no, I’ll stay.”

For the first time that evening I really, really take a good look at him. He looks tired, more so that usual. With a beanie covering his messy hair, dark circles under his eyes, and a beard that hasn’t been shaved in a couple of days. 

“I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about.” 

Michael sighs, and I know he dreads the conversation by the way his fingers immediately go to the strings of his hoodie, fiddling with them incessantly, when I tell him. 

“Yeah, I suppose I owe you an explanation.” 

He is still looking at his hands, as if searching for answers. 

“You don’t owe me anything Michael, but I will take an explanation if you want to tell me?” 

Again he sighs, probably debating how much he should tell me.

“Well, this is gonna be messy, but I just want to try to explain this so you can better understand why I act  the way I do.” 

Michael pulls his legs up to his chest and puts his hand on his knee. For the first time in a long long while I seek contact first. I put my hand on his and give it what I hope is an encouraging squeeze. Before I wrap my arms around myself again. 

“You know as well as I do that treatment at this place isn’t for the poor, or even the middle class, it is kind of  stupid really, how they leave treatment for those well off, fucking ridiculous.” 

Carefully I speak his name and he looks at me. 

“Right, sorry. My dad is a really successful businessman, and we were always well off, but I think it came with its consequences. As I grew up, I was surrounded by all these rich bastards who were always looking for a deal, and I was a part of the picture perfect family. Except we weren’t.”

He looks away from his hands and up at the sky, I follow his gaze and see a few tiny little stars. A shadow flickers in the corner of my eyes, and I know it’s not real, and it gives me a little sting of fear anyways. 

“I mean, sure we had everything we could ever ask for, except maye love. My mum and dad were constantly fighting behind closed doors and I grew up listening to them. She started doing more business meetings further away from me and my father, and I was so angry with my father for driving her away. So I started distancing myself, I can’t have been older than eighteen.”

I shuffle a little closer to Michael, feeling his warmth through his hoodie. Hoping it comforts him, but also that the shadow won’t see me. 

“When you started…” 

I’m not sure how much I can say to Michael without him getting angry, so I let the ending of the sentence hang in the air for a while. 

“When I started drinking. It didn’t really start as an issue where I consciously went looking for solace in alcohol, but as I partied more and more, and found some sort of relief in it, i actively sought it out. I don’t remember a lot of the last couple of years, except for headaches and bottles. I also had shitty friends who kept pushing me to drink more.” 

My heart truly aches for him. But at the same time, I know I couldn’t have helped him anyway. Maybe I can’t help him now either, but I can be here for him. And I intend to do so. 

“It ended when I came home one night and my dad was home for once.  A magazine was spread out on the kitchen table with me on the front page. It wasn’t pretty. He was so ashamed of me, said some pretty ugly stuff. As did I, cause what he said really hurt. I came here to be a forced inpatient. But after a few weeks, after horrible abstinences, and a solid few rounds around my own head, I accepted where I was and decided to be better, by doing better.” 

Just as I’m about to say something the grip on my shoulder tightens, and I flinch a little. He doesn’t seem to notice though. 

“That’s why, when you so easily saw through me, I was scared you too would be angry and ashamed, so I found it better to just shut you out. I made a really big mistake, some of my old friends stopped by with a bottle of something awful. I mean after shutting you out, nothing felt right and for a second I thought drinking would help, it didn’t. And the day after, when I found you in the hallway. I regretted it so badly, and I just want you to know, that nothing of this is your fault. I hope you can see that. ” 

Finally he looks at me, and I can see his eyes, searching mine for an answer. 

“I’m not angry or ashamed, I’m proud actually. For as much as it counts for, I’m proud of you for being able to push through this and for having the guts to talk to me about it.” 

He takes a hold of my hand and intertwine our fingers. I don’t notice at first, and when I do it is too late. My sleeve has slid down on my arm and exposed the bandage covering it. 

“Riley, you didn’t have this a couple of days ago..”

Michael lets the sentence hang in the air as I try to find the right words. He looks so sad. 

“You do not owe me an explanation. Just so we’re clear on that, but know that I’m here for you.” 

I nod and squeeze his hand, before pulling to me to study the bandage. It should be changed soon. 

“You know, you reminded me of my ex-” 

His expression says it all, he really doesn’t like where this is going.

“when i first came here. You have the same eyes, almost at least. Yours are a lot warmer, kinder. And you easily read people, respect their limits. David didn’t. He was always pushing for me to be perfect and well, it sounds a lot like your parents. In the end, when my schizofrenia got too much and I attempted suicide, I didn’t fit into his world anymore, and he left me alone in the hospital. Mum came by after a couple of days later, after her trip to wherever with her new husband. He works as a contractor or some shit, so he is paying for this.”

The frustration I feel as I explain this, I don’t know how to put it into words. However, Michael seems to understand. 

“I harm myself because the voices tell me to. And it gives me some sort of twisted peace. I don’t know how to explain it.”

Michael shuffles closer to me, so we sit arm to arm, and I lean my head on his shoulder. For the first time in a long while I really like the world is a little safer. 

“Wanna make a deal?” 

I ask as I sit there. Hoping he will agree. 

“Depends on the deal.” 

“Well, I was just thinking, maybe if we promise to each other that we won’t hurt ourselves if the other person promises to do the same, that we can come to each other when we need to be distracted. This doesn’t mean like it’s our responsibility bu-” 

Before I can finish my sentence Michael cuts me off. 

“Yeah, I’d like that a lot.” 

As cheesy as it sounds, I swear, I can hear a smile in his voice. 

 “Also, another thing. Wanna join group tomorrow? It’s a great way to be there for others, and maybe let them get to know you a little differently.”

TAGLIST: @burncrashbromance​  @moonchildsblack​  @5-secondsofcolor​  @harry-hallows-eve  @min-amani​ 

(i have probably spelt some of these wrong, so shoot me an ask and I will correct it:))

[zeravmeta]

Ok so, my thoughts on the VR ending and VR overall as the 6th entry.

Also because most of my thoughts aren't...complimentary im editing the names so they dont appear in the general tag. This also got LONG so readmore.

The Good:

- A//i's character still managed to be the one thing that saves VR as a show for me. Even with all the weird...contradictory plot issues, A//i still manages to be a compelling character who brings up the question of the right to live. I actually do like how he made it so itd be an ultimatum that he loses in either way, even if the ending kinda ruins the weight behind the action (which I will get to in a bit).

The meh:

-the ending was left somewhat open to interpretation which for a show as...empty as this was works out but honestly it was so vague as to A//is fate is that it may as well not exist.

The Bad:

-The main conflict behind the entire show is...simulations. No joke. Every conflict in the show can be traced back to someone doing a simulation and deciding to lose it. Even if they gave the (rather stupid) explanation that AI experience simulations like actual life (which btw the first villain wasnt an AI so this reason doesnt work), the fact that Yu//sa//ku took a bullet for one of A//is robot bodies that he literally has millions of is...just stupid and there solely for the "uwu drama".

-They actually killed A//i off but wait hes actually alive, so like the final duel literally had no purpose aside from...drama??? The episode is called Compromise and yet A//i had to lose just to keep Yu//sa///kus win streak and theres no compromise whatsoever. Yu//sa//ku litetally destroys the CompromA.I.se card so its just, no comrpomise in any way.

-This....wasn't a happy ending??? I have no idea why both the show and the fanbase frame this as a happy ending bc think about it in context: A//i pretty much loses everything, so does Yu//sa//ku who just isolated himself from everyone else for 3 months in order to comb the network for whatever remnants of A//i exist.

- So many of the supporting characters are just...there. Like, there is no side/supporting character who actually has a character arc in this show. Lets go through the list: Ao//i is pretty much the same character as when she started and goes through 2 unnecessary costume changes for a character growth that isnt there because she has literally ONE victory against an opponent that was stated multiple times to be weak and faulty and have her lose and tortured multiple times for no reason whatsoever, G//o had this weird deterioration that may have lead to something but ultimately didn't, Ak//ira is pretty much the same, J//in has ALL HIS TRAUMA ERASED SO THERES THAT, literally the only side characters who have some sembalnce of an arc are Sho//ichi (the best one anyways) from his "betrayal" in S2, and E//ma with her reconciliation with her brother. Outside of that, nothing. Yu//sa//ku, Re//volv//er and Ho//mu//ra are pretty much the only characters with an arc and even then they're not too solid? Which brings me to-

- Yu//sa//ku has been so wildly ooc since the end of S1. Ive seen so many say that his enphasis on bonds and friendship are character growth but actually looking at the sequence of events he suddenly just like. changes completely around his first duel with Ea//rth. Plus, the message of "revenge is good" was always so weird? Like, he got his revenge so all his trauma is ok now and never brought up or explored again aside from within the first 20 episodes. Theres nothing about it after that and its never built upon. The whole point of a revenge arc is to show that its BAD and yet he starts preaching that revenge is wrong AFTER he successfully gets revenge??? And even then its not exactly a revenge as it is more lashing out since it was Ko//ga//mi who was behind it all. Yu//sa/ku was definitely at his strongest characterization in S1 where we see how badly the Lo//st Incid//ent hurt him but S1 had its own share of problems that led into S2 and so many random plot threads that never went anywhere (such as the Anot//her Incid//ents, the Cy//berse deck being irl despite that A//i didnt have a physical body before then, The Bl//ue Mai//den meetup that was repeated by Nao//ki like 10 times in S2 which seemed to be leading up to something but never did, and the fact that theres 4 recap episodes in S1 already spelled some early problems). So much of the supporting cast function to just say "he turned this whole situation around...with ONE card..." i kid you not watch back every Yu//sa//ku duel I GUARANTEE you'll see someone saying hes a great duelist and serve only that purpose. ALSO THE END OF THE SHOW IS JUST MORE DRAMA?? They make him suffer for no reason other than that they can??? What purpose does his suffering at the end serve aside from just "uwu...poor baby..."???

-Re//volv//er is not a good rival. At all. He's so incredibly bland because much like Yu//sa//ku he was at his strongest characterization in S1 where he actually had some solid motivation in continuing his fathers work and being unable to accept that his dad was evil, yet most of that just flies out the window with all the collateral he's willing to inflict with the K//O//H?? All his character amounts too post S1 is "yeah i told you robots are evil and YOU didnt believe me". The most we got of him growing out of this mindset was calling A//i by his name exactly one time and nothing ever again. Also the fact that in the end we see him and his crew working for S//O//L despite the fact that they were gonna turn themselves in for their crimes just. leaves a rotten taste in my mouth. hes not a good rival at all. All he proves to me is that a good design can get anyone to like a character.

- Ho//mu//ra is...there. I literally cant say anything about him because he absolutely has the strongest motivations of the three but then the show jumps through hoops to push him to the back of the other two. He also has a bunch of early victories I do feel are undeserved (ESPECIALLY the A//oi duel that one pissed me off so much). Also the fact that the show just made him Yu//sa//kus friend immediately whereas it took Sho//ichi several months to get Yu//sa//ku to warm up to him just had me :/.

-The speed duels were a cool concept but they just became these huge cheat fests? Seriously Play//Maker uses StAccess literally every speed duel to pull out a new monster from whatever plot holes the writers need to patch up. I am not kidding. You can go back to every single speed duel Yu//sa//ku was in and youll see this. Skills just werent a good mechanic because when a protag pulls a new card its supposed to be representative of some growth/characterization but he stays the same pretty much throughout the entire show up until S2 where he wildly just switches personality. Plus the fact that Que//en could literally use a skill whenever just shows that it was cheating???

- The villains were overall lackluster. Boh//man was the best because Re//volv//er is just flat whereas A//i struck me more as an anti hero. And again: simulations are the enemy. Light//ning ran one and decided to go ham. Kog//ami ran one and decided to go ham. A//i ran one and decided to go ham. The conflicts are all the same and it just makes things happen rather than following a consistent plot thread? I will say that Boh//mans characterization of a hive mind to become perfect does strike my tastes but thats more my personal preference in villains rather than any merit he has.

- This is a bit of a personal pet peeve but I've seen some of the praise to this show about being the "darkest Y//G//O to date so therefore its good" and im just...no? Edge does not make a good show and just because they lightly focused on the tragedy in Yu//sa//kus life (and it IS lightly because its barely touched upon after mid S1) most of the stuff that happens in this show is pretty tame in comparison? The most that happened here was an attempted global hack of everyones minds from S2 and destroying the internet in S1, with a few references to the torture that happened during the Lo//st incid//ent. To compare: the previous series had this huge interdimensional war that, even if they could reverse the carding of people (which makes Den//nis' attempted suicide even more tragic), ended with an entire dimensions full of brainwashed soldier children, a dimension with huge class inequality that was still being heavily worked upon since there were canonically slaves, and a dimension that was savaged by a genocide and total global destruction. Hell, the series before that had a huge war where the arc actually did focus on the tragedys the characters faced and held consequence (even if they pulled a dbz revive everyone at the end). And as far back into the very first series there were even more graphic depictions of war and death? Idk i feel like people are overplaying the edge here just to find a way to complement this show.

Overall:

I'm...genuinely dissappointed. VR really had so many strong starting points but it all just fell apart at execution. Really the only reason I even bothered to watch it as kong as I did was because Im a longtime fan of the series and wanted to give it a chance rather than jump on whatever love/hate train the show has. Its been rated poorly on the JP side and most of the approval is a vocal minority. Just to be clear: this isnt me bashing the show, my opinions are mine and you can agree or disagree to any capacity, and even if a show isnt well written you can still find a reason to enjoy it despite the flaws.

But if Im being perfectly honest? I do not like this show. It's rushed, choppy, has no consistent or clear plot threads, most of the genuinely interesting characters are wasted for the protagonist to look better and he never really does because he ALSO has an interesting idea behind him but it never goes anywhere. It started strong but ended so poorly. Id be angry but im more dissappointed because Ive watched this show from day 1 and wanted to see the good things it has rather than focus on the negatibes but. yeah. This show really had potential and yet it just fell flat.

[txnysheart]

let’s get on with living (while we can) [8]

chapter 8: thoughts are scattered and they’re cloudy

word count: 5977

warnings: chemo side effects, vomiting, anxiety, pretty heavy emotional angst, referenced suicide

summary: clint comes for a visit, and the harsh reality of the situation isn’t lost on anyone

read on ao3: x 

playlist: x

chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 - chapter 4 - chapter 5 - chapter 6 - chapter 7 - chapter 8 - chapter 9

series masterlist | masterlist

━━━━━━━━

“Is that mine or yours?” Tony mumbled, not even opening his eyes. He and Steve were still in bed, as was Peter in his own bedroom, and they’d been woken up by a phone ringing. Steve grunted, leaning over to the headboard on his side of the bed where they’d both left their phones.

“Yours,” he yawned, picking the phone up and placing it in Tony’s outstretched hand, then slumped back down on his pillow. He didn’t know what time it was, but it was too early.

Without looking at the caller ID, Tony answered the phone. “Hello?”

“The hell’s going on, Tony?” He recognized it was Clint’s voice, and if he’d been more alert, he would definitely have caught onto the fact that Clint had called him by his first name instead of the usual ‘Stark’.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,” Tony said in an overdone Irish accent, and wasn’t surprised when Steve lazily slapped his shoulder. “Is that you, Barton?”

“Yeah. It’s me.” He sounded agitated. Impatient.

“What’s so urgent that you had to call me at,” he forced one eye open to check the time, “five thirty in the morning? Damn, that’s four thirty for you.”

“Was hoping you could tell me, actually.”

“Oh?”

“Just got off the phone with Nat. The press conference.”

“Oh,” Tony breathed out, realization jolting him awake. Clint didn’t know. “What’d she tell you?”

“That it was about Peter, and I’d have to call you. She wouldn’t say anything more than that.”

“I’m putting you on speaker. It’s just me and Steve.”

“Sure. Just tell me what’s going on, she sounded strange.”

“You should, uh… Are you sitting? You should be sitting down.”

“What- Just get to it before I lose my damn mind!”

“Hey! I’m serious, Barton. It- It’s bad. Really bad.”

“I don’t- Sure. Yeah, okay, I’m sitting down.”

“Okay. Uh… It’s Peter. He, uh… Ah, shit, Steve, how do I say this? Fuck.”

Steve held his hand up to stop Tony before he could spiral. “I’ve got it, honey,” he assured Tony, sitting up in bed. “Want me to tell him?” Tony nodded, hiding his face in his hands. “Okay. Okay, you still there, Clint?”

“Yeah.” He was wary, and he was right to be.

“Peter is… He’s really sick. He’s got cancer.”

It took a couple of seconds for it to register in Clint’s brain before he spoke. “What?”

“It’s… It’s lung cancer. Stage four, spread to his liver and his brain.” Steve’s voice faltered slightly as he delivered the news; the words felt so wrong in his mouth. Tony had sat up, feet on the floor, and his back facing Steve.

“No, that… That can’t be right. Right? Not him. Not- Not Peter. He’s…”

“I know, I- I’m sorry we didn’t tell you before. Everything just…” Steve gestured with his hands even though Clint couldn’t see him.

“No, no, I get it.” Having kids himself, he understood. He wouldn’t have been able to focus right, either. So he got it. “Stage four? That’s… God, that’s bad, isn’t it?”

“It’s really bad.”

“Is he gonna- Can I come visit?”

“‘Course you can. Peter loves you, you know that. We’re at the Compound.”

“Okay. Yeah, okay, I can be there by tonight, the drive’s like 15 hours.” Clint was already throwing clothes into a suitcase, Laura still in bed, slightly confused, but mostly concerned.

“No, I’ll send a jet,” Tony decided, straightening his back.

Clint stopped his frantic packing. “What?”

“I’ll send you a jet, Legolas. Don’t worry about it. It’ll be there in three hours.” Steve cringed at Tony’s forced casual tone.

“Oh. Thanks. See you soon, then.” Clint was surprised, and it was audible even through the phone.

“See you soon, Barton,” Steve said, hanging up. “That was really nice of you,” he smiled at Tony, reaching out a hand to put on his shoulder. Tony let his head drop to the side, rubbing his cheek on Steve’s hand.

“FRI, make sure a jet gets sent to pick up Barton,” Tony told the AI.

“On it, Sir.”

He turned around to face Steve who was sitting cross legged on the bed with a sad, concerned look on his face. He mustered a smile for Tony. And Tony did the same for Steve. Both faltered.

“It hurts to say out loud,” Tony spoke into the silent room.

“So much.”

────────

The early November air was cold. The wind was hitting Steve’s face like thousands of small needles piercing his skin, but he stood steadily as he watched Clint making his way towards him from the jet with a bag slung over his shoulder.

“Good to see you, Cap,” he smiled, half-genuine, when he was stood in front of the taller man.

“You too, Barton.” Steve pulled him in for a short, friendly hug before leading the way inside. Clint had obviously been at the Compound before, but Steve thought it’d be polite to greet him outside. And it’d give him a little more time to brief him about Peter’s condition.

“Have a nice flight?”

Clint just sent him a look that clearly meant cut the bullshit.

“Fair enough,” he chuckled. “Peter’s awake, but he’s pretty tired - worn out, really. And he… He probably looks sicker than what you’re expecting him to. He might just fall asleep, he might throw up, he might be in pain, and he might get a migraine,” Steve warned. “Just don’t get your hopes up.” That makes it even more painful.

Clint didn’t really know how to answer that. “I… This is so fucked up, I can’t even wrap my mind around it.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed out, and neither of them said anything more until they were in the living room where Peter and Tony were. At least that’s where they’d been when Steve left them.

“Captain, Boss asks if you could come to Peter’s bedroom,” FRIDAY announced.

“Sure,” Steve confirmed, and then addressed Clint. “Uh, you know where your space is. Go ahead and leave your bag there, and then just come back here.”

With a nod, Clint turned around, starting on the familiar walk, while Steve headed for Peter’s bedroom, his steps somewhat rushed.

“Hey, you alright?” he asked upon entering the room, and closed the door behind him. Tony was keeping Peter steady as the boy pulled a pair of sweatpants on.

“I’m good,” the boy said, prompting Steve to look at his husband for more details.

“Had a little accident. Got some vomit on his clothes,” he explained, holding out a beanie for Peter when he’d tied the string on his pants who took it, immediately pulling it on. Tony had wanted to place a kiss on the top of his kid’s head and couldn’t help but look a little defeated when he wasn’t quick enough. He settled for a forehead kiss instead, forgetting his disappointment the second Peter leaned into the touch.

“You feelin’ up to seeing Clint?” Steve asked, wary of the pale, tired look on Peter’s face.

“Mhm,” he answered with a smile, blinking rather slowly.

“Maybe tomorrow we could invite everyone over for dinner,” Tony suggested.

“Sounds good. Would be nice for Pepper,” Steve commented.

“Pepper?” asked the boy, confused as to why it would nice for Pepper specifically.

“Yeah, she has to go back to the city for a while. She’s got a company to run,” Tony explained apologetically.

“Oh.” Peter sounded disappointed. He wasn’t, really, but it just reminded him that the world hadn’t stopped turning just because his life had been put on pause. And he didn’t want her to leave.

“We meant to tell you last night, but I guess we just forgot. Sorry, sweetheart.”

“No, it’s okay,” he assured his dad with a close-mouthed, genuine smile.

“C’mon, I’m sure Clint is excited to see you,” Steve said, walking the few remaining feet to wrap an arm around Peter. He didn’t know how much he’d thrown up, but he knew he usually became a little wobbly after it either way. “Want breakfast?” Steve mumbled on the way.

“Not really,” Peter declined, pretty sure that anything he ate would come right back up again.

“Not even a smoothie?” Tony asked, wringing his hands tensely.

“I could try,” he shrugged, having learned a long time ago how to lessen his dad’s worries.

“I’ll make it, Tony” Steve offered. “You go with him, Barton’s in the living room.”

With a hum of agreement, Tony wrapped an arm around Peter’s frail body. Because he knew exactly how much Peter had thrown up. It’d been a lot. But he happily supported some of his weight, and they made it to the living room in less than a minute.

Despite Steve having warned him, Clint still had to fight against the horrified expression that almost showed on his face. How could he not? Peter looked so sick. So thin. His face was gaunt and nearly gray, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that under that beanie, there was no hair. And the way he was leaning heavily into Tony, as if standing up was too tiring. The change was… jarring.

He smiled at Peter.

“Hey, bud,” he chuckled, walking over to them.

“Hi, Uncle Clint,” the boy beamed, letting go of the back of Tony’s shirt, and reached both arms out for a hug. Clint caught on right away, strategically wrapping his arms around Peter’s middle - he didn’t know how steady Peter was, and this way he could lift him up if he needed to.

He didn’t need to, but he did it anyway. Just to feel how light he’d gotten. Peter laughed when Clint pretended to groan as he lifted him a couple inches above the ground, thinking nothing of it, because Clint often did that to mess with him. Clint, on the other hand, met Tony’s eyes over Peter’s shoulder, nearly disturbed at how little the sixteen year old boy in his arms weighed. He was only met with a look on Tony’s face he couldn’t completely understand, but it wasn’t hard to tell that the man was both heartbroken and exhausted in a way he knew couldn’t compare to anything he’d ever felt himself.

Putting Peter back down again, he wiped the distressed look off of his face, replacing it with the smile from earlier. He let one arm stay wrapped around the boy as he pulled away, mirroring the way Tony had been steadying him.

“Wanna sit down on the couch?” he asked, and Peter nodded, feeling a little embarrassed as Clint helped him over to the couch, but pretty much forgot about it when he’d sat down, relief then taking over.

Well, as much relief as he could ask for, that was. The familiar aching in his bones was back, making it near impossible to completely relax. But he kept it together as well as he could for Clint. He might only be a kid, but he’d seen the look on the archer’s face, and he was well aware of how sick he looked. Biting the inside of his cheek, he refrained from shifting too much or squeezing his hands for some sort of relief.

“Quit it,” Tony whispered subtly to Peter when he’d sat down next to him, casually grabbing one of his hands to massage it. It felt so nice that Peter forgot himself for a second - by extension listening to what his dad had told him - and stretched his legs out, repositioning himself.

“Here you go, sweetie,” Steve said, approaching the couch, handing the freshly made smoothie to Peter before sitting down next to Tony. One glance down on Tony massaging Peter’s hand, and his smile faltered a tiny bit. Seeing Peter in pain would eventually drive him crazy, he was sure of it. There was something about seeing discomfort on that young face he knew so well that went against every instinct in him.

Clint’s mind was working on overdrive, trying to come up with something to say. The room was abnormally quiet; he was used to Tony’s quips and Peter’s rambling. But they were both occupied - Tony with massaging his son’s hand and watching his face, and Peter with trying to stay awake and drink some of his smoothie. “How are those two friends of yours doing?” he finally asked.

“Ned and MJ?” Peter perked up at the mention of them.

“Yeah, that’s it,” Clint encouraged, eager to hear him talk.

“They were here a couple of weeks ago. Was really nice.” He smiled tiredly, sinking further into the couch. Clint noticed, and changed his goal from getting Peter to talk to getting Peter to rest.

“Tell me about it later. I’m feeling up for a movie right now,” Clint decided. He was a dad, so of course he had a few tricks up his sleeve when it came to getting kids to go to sleep.

“Sure! What do you wanna watch?”

“You choose, buddy.”

“Alright. What about… Back to the Future?”

“Good choice, Pete,” Tony chimed in. “FRI, you heard the kid.” The AI only started playing the movie on the TV in front of them, dimming the lights. Peter managed to pay attention for about ten minutes. That was not-so-coincidentally just when Tony caught Clint’s gaze, flicking his eyes down to Peter’s hand in his. More prompting than that wasn’t necessary - Clint took hold of Peter’s other hand, copying what Tony was doing.

Anxiety boiled in Tony’s stomach as he waited for Peter to fall asleep. Just the thought of another bout of insomnia hitting his kid or him simply being uncomfortable to the point where it stole away his sleep was enough to make him feel off - to make his breathing pick up enough for Steve to notice. “He’s okay,” Steve murmured, pressing a kiss to his husband’s temple. Tony knew what Steve meant, but he still almost snapped that Peter was most definitely not okay.

All three men focused on Peter. Steve and Tony were able to pinpoint the moment he fell asleep, and Clint caught on a couple minutes later. “Is he asleep?” he whispered, looking at Tony.

“Mhm, let’s lie him down, and we can go sit in the kitchen,” Tony confirmed, letting go of Peter’s hand. Clint did the same, and stood up slowly. Cupping the back of Peter’s neck, Tony gingerly maneuvered Peter until he was lying down. Normally, he’d pull his beanie off, but with Clint there, he refrained from it. Then the boy was covered by a blanket, and they left him alone to rest.

Between the living room and the kitchen was the dining room, and a pair of sliding doors separated the living and dining room, allowing them to talk without disturbing Peter.

“You hungry, Barton? I think we have some leftover pizza from yesterday,” Steve offered, pulling a box out of the fridge.

“I could eat,” Clint said. “Thanks.” Steve put the box down in front of him, and grabbed glasses for each of them.

“Any requests, honey?” Steve asked Tony. “And don’t say coffee,” he smirked when the man opened his mouth, looking a bit too excited. For a while, Steve had tried helping him cut back on the amounts of caffeine he consumed in a day and they were actually making a little progress.

“Fine,” Tony snickered. “Iced tea? Do we have that?”

“I think so…” He rummaged around in the fridge. “Yeah, here we go. What about you, Clint?”

“Iced tea sounds good,” the archer said, picking up a slice of pizza, looking a little lost in thought.

“You good?” Steve asked him as he filled his glass.

“Hm? Yeah, just… Peter,” he sighed.

“Yeah,” Tony agreed.

“What’s with his hands?” Clint asked.

Tony looked at Steve with exhaustion clear on his face, so Steve decided to carry the burden of the conversation. “It’s not just his hands. His whole body hurts. Sometimes his hands get especially bad.”

A beat of silence. “Why?”

“Chemo side effect. One of many.” Steve sent him a sad smile, taking a sip of his drink.

Leaning his head back, Clint looked for words. “Not all the time, right?”

“No. Just sometimes.”

“I- He’s not even my kid, but seeing him in pain… All I wanna do is to fix it.”

“He’s okay now. He’s sleeping,” Steve assured him. Tony flinched. There it was again. “You alright, Tony?”

“Yep. All good.” His response was clipped, and his focus stayed glued to his apparently very interesting fingernails. It made Steve frown, but he decided to ignore it for now, instead opting to further explain Peter’s condition to Clint.

“Sleep usually helps. Hopefully he feels a little better tomorrow. But we can’t know for sure. The days after chemo are bad.”

“When was chemo?”

“Monday through Wednesday.”

“Jeez, that’s rough.”

“Yeah, it’s a… It’s a harsh treatment. It takes a toll on him.”

“He’s down to 110 pounds,” Tony blurted out, and then followed a sharp, humorless laugh. “But that was four days ago, probably even less now. He’s not okay. He’s not.”

“Tony-”

“I’m going to bed.”

“Honey, it’s noon,” Steve attempted.

“And I’m tired.” His voice was much softer, much more vulnerable than it had just been a mere second earlier. That, combined with how completely worn out he looked had Steve let out a somber sigh, concern filling his chest. It was a common sensation these days.

“Okay,” Steve said, too many feelings packed into such a short word.

“He good?” Clint asked when Tony was gone.

“He’s… We’re tired.”

────────

Per Tony’s request, FRIDAY alerted him when Peter began showing signs of waking up. Still groggy from an unexpectedly good nap, he sat up in bed, running his fingers through his hair once. He tugged lightly on it to wake himself up, then headed to the living room. Passing the kitchen, he saw Steve cooking while chatting with Clint.

On the couch he found Peter stirring, just beginning to open his eyes up. “Hey, Peter Pan,” he whispered, kneeling next to the couch despite his knees protesting. He tuned it out, instead fixating on gently rousing his son out of his sleepy state.

“Mmm, Dad?” Peter mumbled, stretching his arms over his head as he yawned.

“That’s me,” Tony confirmed playfully.

“Time is it?” The boy searched for his father’s hand, happily leaning into the touch when he felt it cup his cheek.

“Didn’t check, but it looked like Pops was cooking dinner. Feeling rested? You got a few good hours of sleep in.” He let his fingers gently caress Peter’s cheek even though it looked like all it was doing was coaxing him back to sleep.

“Yeah, it- Oh, no.” Peter tensed, sitting up abruptly with a hand in front of his mouth.

“There’s a- Shit, it’s in your bedroom. Sit tight, just a sec.” Tony bolted to the kitchen to get a trash can after realizing the bucket they’d had next to the couch for instances like this had been moved.

Crashing into Steve, he only yelled out a hurried apology as he pushed him out of the way, grabbing the nearest trash can. Steve closed his mouth that had been open to ask Tony what on earth he was doing - it was rather obvious. Especially when he could hear Peter puking into said trash can just about three seconds later.

“I trust you’re able to look out for the pasta?” Steve asked, pulling his apron off, and abandoned his nearly finished homemade pesto.

“Go ahead. Let me know if you need any help,” Clint told him, and Steve sent him a nod in thanks before going to be with his son.

It was common occurrence by now to see Peter emptying his stomach in a rather miserable way, but that didn’t mean he’d ever get used to it. Peter was sitting on the edge of the couch, clutching the trash can, Tony kneeling on the floor next to him, one hand on the trash can and one on Peter’s back. Steve sat down on the other side of Peter.

There really wasn’t anything else to do than gently encouraging him through it, telling him that it’d be over soon and how brave he was. It made both dads feel powerless. There was nothing to do. They just had to witness it, with no opportunity to make it any better no matter how hard they wished, hoped, wanted, prayed, whatever.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Tony said optimistically when Peter was done, even though they all knew it was only because there wasn’t much in his stomach to begin with.

“What do you want for dinner?” Steve asked, anxious to make sure Peter got a little substance in him. “Anything you want, just as long as it’s something.”

Peter grimaced. “At least let me brush my teeth before you start talking about food.”

“Okay, fair point,” Steve smiled. “You good to stand?”

The sudden flush on Peter’s face told Steve everything he needed to know. “It’s just us, don’t worry about it,” he assured him, wrapping a secure arm around his middle and pulled him up. He supported some of his weight, but Peter was relatively steady as they walked out of the living room to brush his teeth.

Tony couldn’t help but be a little stunned. There was nothing special about what he’d just witnessed, and it was far from the worst thing he’d seen the past few weeks. Still, it stung deep in his chest, a helplessness so all-consuming that he had no idea how to handle it.

Clenching his fists so hard that his nails nearly broke through the skin on his palms, he felt his chest tighten and throat close up. He sat down. His eyes were wide, searching the room as he tried to fill his lungs. “TV, trash can, paintings, chairs, phone,” he whispered to himself, voice shaky and mouth dry.

“Sofa, pants, pillow,” he reached his hand out, “table.”

“Clint in the kitchen, footsteps. Peter laughing.” He calmed down considerably at that one, especially when his husband let out a laugh as well, the noise getting closer to him. Honing in on it, he let himself forgo the rest of his familiar grounding technique.

“There we go, let’s sit you down next to Dad, and I’ll go rescue Clint in the kitchen,” Steve said, sending a smile Tony’s way, a little put off by the look in his eyes he’d seen too many times before, if it were up to him to judge.

“Oh, no, you left Clint in the kitchen by himself?” Peter joked as Steve helped him sit down, still a bit unsteady.

“I know, it’s a miracle if any of the food is salvageable,” Steve jested right back. “Gotta go get rid of this first, though,” he said, picking up the trash can next to Tony. Eyebrows furrowed subtlety in concern, he caught his husbands gaze who nodded reassuringly in response.

“You still haven’t told me what you want, Petey,” he said, holding the trash can in one hand, halfway turned to leave the room to dispose of the bag, and make sure it’s clean.

“I know it’s not a dinner food, but scrambled eggs, please?” Peter requested hopefully.

“Sure, sweetie, I did say anything you want. As long as you’re eating.” With a final smile, he walked off, leaving Tony and Peter alone. The man’s breathing was pretty much under control by now, and there were no tangible traces of him panicking just a couple minutes earlier.

“Feeling better?” Tony asked, hand gently taking hold of the back of Peter’s neck, drawing circles on the smooth skin with his thumb. It was just as much to comfort Peter as it was to help himself get completely grounded.

“Much,” Peter sighed, and leaned into the touch, ever the tactile one.

“Stay awake until you’ve eaten something, okay?” Tony told him when he saw his eyes starting to droop a little.

“Okay,” he agreed, shifting to lean into Tony’s side. Ever since he was little, it’d been his favorite place to be, and it always fit him perfectly, as if it grew with him. With Dad’s arm around him and head resting on his chest, he felt just as secure as ever.

Sometimes, the childish side of him missed the arc reactor. He was always fascinated and soothed by the blue light it emitted. After Afghanistan, the boy had been plagued with nightmares of Tony disappearing again. All the times he’d timidly made his way to his father’s room because he was scared and couldn’t sleep, the blue light never failed to steal his focus away from the bad as he traced over it with his fingers. Whenever anyone else, including Rhodey, and sometimes even Steve, got close to touching the reactor - be it by accident or not - he couldn’t help but flinch away.

But, oh, Peter; he could touch it as much as he wanted because Tony knew how gentle he was, fingers barely there as he studied it as if every time were his first time seeing it. Though, above all, it was because Peter was his kid, and he’d do anything to make him feel better. He grew to be quite fond of it, marveled at how the piece of metal in his chest not only kept him alive, but was important to Peter as well.

The sensible side of Peter, however, knew to be relieved that Tony didn’t need the arc reactor anymore. There were no pieces of shrapnel threatening to stop his heart, and Peter was eternally grateful.

One thing the boy didn’t seem to notice was the way his fingers would sometimes move on their own accord in the same way they did back when the arc reactor was still in place, drawing small, light figures on his father’s chest even though there was nothing there.

Tony had noticed and it was something that never failed to make his heart swell with contentedness. He looked down to watch Peter’s fingers move around as if tracing the design of the arc reactor, patterns stored somewhere deep in the boy’s mind.

“Hey, no sleeping, squirt,” Tony reminded him, squeezing his shoulder to wake him up a little.

“I know. Just closing my eyes for a minute,” Peter mumbled, not sounding very convincing. Tony could only laugh lightly at him, holding him a little tighter as they waited for dinner to be ready. It couldn’t be much longer; he could hear either Steve or Clint getting plates and utensils ready to set the table.

His suspicions were confirmed when Steve stuck his head into the room. “Dinner in five,” he spoke softly.

“Are his eggs ready?” Tony asked, Steve giving a confirming hum. “Maybe give it here? I’ll make sure he eats some, but he’s so tired. I don’t want him to have to get up. I’ll join you guys as soon as he’s asleep, okay?”

While Steve knew Clint wanted to spend time with the boy, it wasn’t hard to give in, especially when he watched Peter bury his face in Tony’s chest.

“Alright,” Steve smiled, and went to get Peter’s food and a bottle of water.

“Chow time,” Tony announced moving his hand to Peter’s ribs, tickling him.

“Dad, stop,” Peter laughed, trying to squirm away from him.

“What? I’m not doing anything.” Tony feigned innocence, barely able to hold back his grin.

“Yes, you are!” With a huge smile on his face, Peter grabbed Tony’s hand and pulled it away from his side.

“Oof, busted,” Tony chuckled, and wasn’t surprised at Peter settling close to him again, despite his tickling attack.

Steve came back with food and water for Peter. “Eat up, and then have a nice nap, okay?” he said when he’d put it down in front of him, and leaned down to press a kiss to the boy’s forehead.

“Thanks, Pops.”

────────

“How old is he again? Two?” Steve asked after Clint told them about how Nathaniel had managed to lock Laura in the bathroom and that’s why keys are now banned in their house.

They’d finished dinner about an hour ago and had just cleaned the table, but stayed in the dining room to let Peter sleep.

“Yeah, just turned two, the little jackass,” Clint confirmed with a chuckle.

“Well, I wouldn’t call him a jackass; kid managed to lock a door all by himself. I’d say he’s bordering on child protegee,” Tony quipped with a deliberate straight face, but amusement was glinting in his eyes.

“Hm, you might reconsider when I tell you about how he tried to eat a pine cone five minutes later because ‘chocolate’s the same color.’ Swear to god, I’ve got three kids and they just keep getting weirder,” Clint laughed fondly, managing to get Tony and Steve to laugh pretty hard as well.

Hearing about Clint’s kids made something in Tony ache to check on Peter, so he asked his AI. “Hey, FRI, how’s Peter doing? Sleeping beauty still going strong?”

“He’s still deeply sleeping and seems to be comfortable,” she assured him.

“Honey, he’s just sleeping in the other room. FRIDAY would’ve told us if something was wrong. He’s okay,” Steve said, aiming to reduce some of Tony’s worries. Had he avoided those two final words, he might’ve succeeded, but it just backfired.

In bone-deep frustration, Tony slammed his fist down on the dining table. “Jesus, Steve, he’s not okay. Why do you keep saying that when he’s anything but?” he snapped, staring into Steve’s eyes.

“You know what I mean by it,” Steve sighed, his eyes softening while Tony’s stayed harsh, unrelenting, but the quiver of his lips didn’t escape Steve’s attention.

“Of course I do, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s miles away from okay. He’ll never be okay.”

Clint awkwardly excused himself, feeling very much like he was intruding, none of the other two men looking his way when he left the room.

“What do you want me to say then, Tony? That he’s not? That he’s dying?”

“It kills me when you say it because you look like you believe it.”

“I do that for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“I know that! Don’t you think this is fucking killing me? You think I’m walking around here waiting for it to get better? You’re my husband, I’m just trying to carry as much as I can.”

“Carry as much as you want, it doesn’t change the fact that this time next year, he’ll be dead!” His voice was raised, echoing the turmoil inside of him.

Steve physically took a step back upon hearing him say those words with such bluntness. “Tony-”

“That’s how this is gonna go, I don’t know what else to tell you.” Tony was biting back tears, but couldn’t help the shakiness in his voice.

“Tony, don’t,” Steve whispered.

“In a year, we’ll have nothing. We won’t be parents anymore. Our son’s gonna be gone.” He gave up, letting the tears fall down his cheeks, but he ignored them.

“I know.” Clenching his jaw, Steve tried to stay calm despite how much everything hurt, because he knew. He knew Tony was in just as much pain as him.

“I know that you know. You know what’s gonna happen to him and you know what’s gonna happen to me.”

“Not that- no, Tony, not that again. You can’t-”

“I can. There’ll be nothing.”

Steve didn’t bother holding back the sob that climbed up his throat. “Well, I can’t. I won’t let that happen.”

“It’s my choice. It’s not your business.”

“Not my business? You’re the love of my life, Tony, of course it’s my business!”

“This is about Peter. You know damn well that I love you, so don’t pull that card,” Tony seethed, so angry, but no amount of anger could make him forget how much he loved Steve.

“I’ll pull any card if it keeps you alive. I don’t care if it’s not fair, we’re well past that!”

“What the fuck do you expect me to do without Peter?” Tony exploded, raising his voice in a manner Steve hadn’t witnessed before.

Taking a shaky breath, Steve tried ignoring how that meant that even he wasn’t enough. “What do you expect me to do with both of you gone?” he yelled right back.

Tony was interrupted before he could even think of how to respond to that.

“I’m still here. You know that, right? I’m still here.” Peter was standing at the edge of the room, leaning on the doorframe for support, having opened the sliding doors with no one noticing. His eyes were wide and his cheeks were wet with tears, but his voice was steady; somehow both cold and vulnerable at the same time.

“Peter,” Tony breathed out, everything about him softening.

“Of course you are,” Steve said, realizing how defensive his body language had become, and relaxed his muscles.

“That’s not what it sounds like.”

“Peter, we’re sorry,” Tony nearly whispered, unable to find his voice.

“Next time you have a fight like that, make sure I’m out of earshot because I know-” he hesitated for a second before walking further into the room, unsteady on his feet, and inhaled deeply. “I know I’m gonna die. But I don’t need to hear you screaming about it. Because I’m still here. And I definitely don’t need to hear you screaming about what’s gonna happen after I’m gone.” His eyes met Tony’s, and the man felt ashamed.

“Sorry,” Steve echoed his husband, both adults stunned by the words that had just left their son’s mouth.

Hearing Peter say it hurt more than they could’ve imagined.

He rejected it in a heartbeat, but Tony couldn’t help but feel jealous of Peter because he’d never have to live in a world without Peter. He thought he knew guilt, but nothing could even come close to the shame washing over him in that second.

“If you wanna talk-” Steve attempted.

“I don’t. I’m getting my pills and I’m going to my room and I’ll see you tomorrow,” Peter decided, walking past his dads to get to the kitchen where his medicine was.

“Okay. But let us help you,” Steve said, going for a combination between firm and loving, but it only came across as desperate.

“You might be surprised to hear that that’s not what I want right now,” Peter snarked, sarcasm cutting through the air. Tony flinched, his son’s hostile front unfamiliar to him, and he didn’t like it at all. But he didn’t say anything. He knew that whatever clever thing he might come up with, it’d just make it worse.

“I’m fine,” Peter continued. Medicine and a water bottle gathered in his arms, he intended to storm off to his room, but the adrenaline that’d been pumping through his body ever since he realized what Tony would do once he’s gone was wearing off. Quickly. His knees buckled slightly, making him stumble towards his dads. Two choked gasps sounded, and four arms caught him. “I can walk by myself,” he protested, but there wasn’t much truth to that statement.

“We’re gonna help you, and then we’ll let you be alone for a while if that’s what you want.” Steve didn’t leave room for any arguments, and Tony wrapped an arm around the boy to steady him, feeling the tension in his body match the one in the room. Steve picked up the medicine and the water bottle, following them to Peter’s bedroom.

Once safely settled on his bed, Peter curled up into a ball, facing away from the door; away from his dads.

“FRIDAY’s gonna remind you to take your pills. Let us know if you need anything,” Steve told him.

“We love you,” the smaller man added.

“More than anything.”

Peter didn’t answer.

[basically-an-artist]

Part one of my #nanowrimo entry... Feedback welcome

I had to give myself a second to process what i thought i was seeing. Lamont, my brother, in my living room. His hair had grown alot longer since the last time id seen him. Though, i could tell by the way hed tied his locs that it was him. Messy but functional, and somehow always stylish. For him, though, as with everything, it came naturally.

  He looked magical, bathed in the blue light of the tv; as if there was such a look. He scanned one of the posters on the wall, apparently facinated with world war z.  I wondered how he was able to see them at all with only the pale light from the tvs reflection to distinguish them. In his black trench coat and kangol cap he was out of place amongst the empty beer cans, macbooks, assorted drug paraphernalia, and Harry Potter dvd box set scattered over the floor. It didnt help that he was drenched and dripping water over everything. A puddle collected slowly on the rug beneath him. It wasnt raining outside, though, so i could only guess how he'd been so thouroughly soaked.

Either way, he left a puddle under him as he stood, and by the size of it hed been here a while.

"You arent going to say hello to your brother?"

He didnt even turn around to speak, he kept looking at the pictures and posters lining the walls. I jumped slightly at the sound of him. I hadnt realized hed seen or even heard me;i couldnt even hear my own steps as i walked down the hall. It was a few seconds before i answered, roiling over his last visit before i said anything.

How did he get in? Were on the third floor.

"What are you even doing here dude, i told you i didnt want to see you." My voice fell off at the end. Im sure it gave away at least a peice of my inner monolouge.

Id actually kind of wished hed just show up like this, as he tended to do when he was unwelcomed. I hoped the prompt would give him a reason to apologize for our last meeting, or at least offer an explanation.

He completely ignored what id said.

"You know ive actually seen one of these before," he paused as he pointed at the tv, "What did they call them in the books... dementors?" He shuddered slightly before shaking his head. Now he spoke in a hush, like he was talking to himself, "Those things are not done justice by the movies." He looked away now, another shudder shaking his coattails. Water droplets flying.

"Why are you here? How did you get in?" Silence.

The questions hung in the air. My heartbeat rang in my ears for every second that passed

More silence.

The whole room seemed to breathe with my brother as he sighed. He finally turned to look at me and i froze. Half of me wanted to run to him, but the other half was screaming to jump out the window.

Has face bore the scar of a grotesque burn. As if hed peeked into the nozzle of a flamethrower as it turned on.

his eye underneath the scar looked normal enough. It didnt look misshapen or damaged in any way. But he no longer had an eyelid, top or bottom. His right eye almost cartoonish, exposed, and surrounded by the muddied burgundy of the charred skin in the pale blue light. He kept a straight face as he looked at me, but his eye gave his gaze a manic intensity.i had to stop myself from looking away.

I tried to keep my face as neutral as possible, failing apparantly as he chuckled at me in that way he did. The crooked grin on his face saying more than he'd said in any conversation between us. That smile always held secrets.

"I came back to give you something," he began," a souvenir from my travels." He went back to looking at the posters. Staring at them as if taking in some hidden meaning from their images. He did always seem to see some unseen message in everything. You can always learn more the second time around.

"Where have you been?" My voice gave way again. Again i was just the little brother of the infinitely talented Lamont Caldwell. asking questions i couldnt understand the answers to; trying to follow him on his oh-so mysterious adventures. Hed only been in front of me two minutes and hed sent me back 20 years. Again i was a scared and confused 4 year old.

"Dont worry about it. Everything will make sense soon. I told you a long time ago that i had to leave to really discover what it was i was meant to do. There was a purpose for me outside of what our parents had told us for so long." He crossed the room silently towards me, darkening the the floor in wet muddy footprints along the way. He kept eye contact the whole way, that orb of an eye boring into me."Theres a reason for all of this Marion, and i think ive finally found out what it is."

That eye paralyzed me. I was only aware of it because every muscle in my body wanted to back away, to run to my room and lock the door. It felt like minutes passed between each of his steps, like a dream carrying him to me in slow motion.

Stop stop stopstopstop.

He was inches from me now. Eyes still excavating my soul. As i looked into his, though, i could only see the boundlessness of his darkness. He was still an enigma to me; a shadows shadow. Of all the people id known in my life my brother had known me the best, and yet id never felt as if i truly understood him. Now, though, i felt as if i knew what he was thinking. If only for these few seconds.

Slowly, as if his body questioned his own actions, he wrapped his arms around me. His embrace reminded me of dads hugs. He was strong, but gentle. An embrace filled with the love of a long overdue apology. At least thats how i took it.

I accepted it and hugged him back. We stood that way for ten long heartbeats, the seconds passing lazily. I heard a sniffle and questioned for a second if it was him or me that had started crying, but couldnt turn over the thought before he said so low i almost questioned if hed spoken.

" Dont let our secrets burn you."

I felt my face contort in confusion before he ended the embrace. As i opened my mouth to speak the door to a room behind me opened, the noise startling me as it broke the tense silence.

I jumped and turned to see my roommate billie exiting her room in her hot pink bathrobe. Hair tousled, expression caught between annoyance and confusion. Shed just woken from a satifyingly deep sleep.

" dude. Have you seriously been out here watching harry potter this whole time? I know we said wed watch them all straight through but you had to realize that was a suicide run. Go the fuck to sleep. We both have work tomorrow." She shuffled past me to the kitchen turning on the light and then the faucet.

As she filled a cup with water i scanned the room for my brother. He was gone. His absence left a hole in the room, a void of energy where he should have been, but that could have been me projecting.

Of course.

Just like him to come raising a million questions and leave answering none of them.

How the hell did he get in?

I shook the thought out of my head, only then remembering what id come to the livingroom for in the first place. I began to pick up the room, the aftermath of an attempt at a pre-thanksgiving break movie marathon. It was supposed to be an all nighter. Unfortunately, the mixture of wine intoxication and primo bud had most of the participants passing out in their seats before the third movie started.

I picked up the candy wrappers and swept the loose tobacco into the trash. Only seeing the, clearly out of place, bound leather book when i cleared the pizza boxes from the table. This must have been that souvenir he was talking about.

It was dark brown, almost black, and encircled in thick metal bindings. An archaic iron-looking latch and lock protruded from the front. I wasnt sure how he expected me to open this book or if he expected me to.

I turned it over inspecting it more closely. Even in the dim light i could see the textblock was lined in silver. It glow eerily and reminded me somewhat of a bible.

On the back was a post it note:

Hold on to this. See you soon. -L

I rolled my eyes and tucked the book under my left arm. Its not like i hadnt seen my brother in almost 2 years, at least he gave me a completely useless gift too.

Billie crossed back into her den warning me to not make any loud noises on pain of death, which i obliged. I quickly finished straightening the room and headed back down the hall to my own bed. I tossed the book onto my dresser and collapsed under the weight of the night onto my pillow, not even bothering to cover myself with the comforter. The questions still swirling around my head settled in my skull as sleep took me.

As i drifted into the land of dreams a single thought peeked back through the veil before being silenced by the void of unconciousness.

How the hell did he get in?

[scadplaysdnd]

a reflection

aka “holy fuck mom its been a year”

just warning yall now this is about to get hugely personal and if you’d rather not see insight of the worse sides of me or what’s been going on behind the scenes then i fully understand not reading this. i wont be offended. this is kind of as much for myself as it is anyone else.

so there have been a couple times in my life where ive had to look at myself and go “if i dont reach out for help of some kind, something really bad is going to happen”. around this time last year was one of those times. i was three credits shy of getting my degree and the last thing i needed to do was an internship, which would have started around this time and finished up by the end of 2016. i would have finished my education and gotten my degree.

and then i would have died.

id known this fact for a couple months now but as we were reaching two months from the end of the year i had this thought--maybe i should like, not do that??? so i put the internship on hold. i took a semester off on medical leave. while all of this was going on, kelly and erik had come to me asking me if i wanted to play dnd. i said sure, though i was pretty wary. id only ever played dnd once beforehand and it ended really badly--basically my character died and the rest of the party kind of callously left her behind which hurt and sucked.

ANYWAY i came up with the basic concept for tami. i know i wanted to play an orc because it was always weird to me that orcs are like the stereotypical and defacto villains that most parties are pitted against from the very beginning--what must it be like to be one of those people? but i wanted her to also diverge from the typical orc playable character, in that she was going to be quiet, stealthy, dexterous, and “level headed” (in quotes because yknow her emotions are something she’s always struggling with).

basically tami naruto jumping through the trees was always a key character concept from the word go.

but character creation is easy for me. ive been doing it nonstop since i was 10 years old. i also joined a new roleplay group around this same time. creative endeavors are something i can still pursue rather easily even in the throes of the worst mental breakdowns. in fact, its probably the reason ive survived most of them.

and i had no idea how much dnd was going to be that.

by this point, things were getting really bad and we were basically deciding what to do with me. my support network as ill call them (basically my therapists and doctors) were thinking i needed to be admitted into some kind of program and i agreed with them. but they wanted me to go to an inpatient program--essentially either being hospitalized or cut off from everything while i was taught how to yknow. not die.

but i didnt want to be cut off from everything. i wanted to play dnd. it was pretty much the only thing i had going for me at the time, since i wasnt doing any work or school. not to mention most of my irl friends were still in school or just generally busy and it was pretty much the only social thing i had to look forward to.

of course, that wasnt the only thing. in general, i just really didnt like the idea that i wouldnt be able to have a phone or computer for xyz months, quite literally being cut off from everyone and everything, including all of my essential coping mechanisms that have been keeping me alive thus far. but really, i knew that if i left the campaign just as it was starting for what would probably be months, i wouldnt be able to come back. and i didnt want that.

so i put my foot down and we got me enrolled in a local outpatient program. every day for 5 hours, i had to go to group therapy and learn how to Not Die. i had to go completely sober. i had to get drug tests. it was......hard, to say the least. it was scary and frankly humiliating to get to that point where i had to be constantly monitored to make sure i wasnt a danger to myself or others--even more so that it was justified.

every day we’d have to check in, let them know what our level of suicidal ideation was among other things, and i remember for those first few months, it was never none for me. but as long as it was passive, it was alright. in response, we were supposed to take a step back and look for things to live for, and look forward to. every friday we had to write about what we were planning on doing for the weekend.

and every friday i wrote the same thing: dnd.

it was honestly everything i needed during this time. i was going through a pretty rough period of agoraphobia and social anxiety, but once a week every week i got to be social as someone who wasnt myself. my experience with dnd hadnt been much up until that point, but almost none of you guys had played before. i felt almost an obligation to make a character that was somewhat take charge and open, in an effort to coax you guys out for the same. its kind of hard to remember at this point considering where we all are now, but at the beginning there, i know it was rough for a lot of us. i felt like i had to take charge, which was so the opposite of how i was actually living my life at the time.

and it was...nice. tami is much more confident and forthright than i am, and i had to force myself out of a lot of comfort zones to put myself in that place. but as weeks went on, it became easier, both in and out of character. all yall nerds are busy now but back then we were hanging out practically every night and it gave me a chance to not be alone with everything i was going through. unlike with say, the roleplay group, i wasnt just my character--i also got be myself with you guys. i got to rediscover who i was and could be during a time where i really didn’t see myself as anything worthy, let alone anything at all. plus, my connections to others has always been a driving force of me Not Dying and being able to be a part of such a blossoming close group was essential while living at home with little contact to my other friends.

and this went on for months. in that time, through the program, i was able to learn some essential, new coping mechanisms. i discovered some trauma that was affecting me way more than id given it credit for and was able to start working through it in a way that i hadn’t for years. through helping and supporting the others in my group, i was able to do the same for myself.

while all this was going on, i was constantly doodling tami and others in the margins of my notes. i was singing the praises of the group and the campaign to my program, whose members also became somewhat invested in the story and started asking me every week what had happened. it became such a huge part of my identity and every day that soon members of the program began to identify me with the game itself. it played such a huge role in my recovery.

but by march, i had graduated the program. id started up my internship, and was on my way to getting my degree. i got a nepotism job at my dads company, and i was actually leaving my house on a fairly regular basis. i dont want to say that it was all sunshine and rainbows because it wasn’t. i still had some pretty dark periods, and there were times that if you asked for a check in, i wouldnt be able to honestly say that there was no suicidal ideation.

but i kept on. and the only consistent thing throughout all of this was dnd. i started my own campaign on top of all of that, which has been an adventure in and of itself. tami has been through a lot, both through what has happened and general character development. it would be impossible not to after a year, even if it hasn’t been nearly as long in game. 

i thought i had some sort of linear progression to all of this, and this would be the point where i wrap it up all neat and say that im all better and its all because of dnd but that.....isn’t true. its not true in life OR dnd, and i think thats why i like the game so much?? its narrative for sure, but there’s also so much uncertainty and surprise that you don’t get in general writing or roleplay. not everything works out plainly and neatly, with things being completely fucked just by a dice roll. it can be just as messy as life is. which is funny because thats exactly what i used to HATE about the game, and why i didnt want to play in the first place. i didnt want to not have control over the narrative. i didnt want to not have control over MY narrative

but i needed to give up that control if i was ever going to get help. i needed to put my safety, my mental health, my life into other peoples hands. i needed help and i needed connections--and thats kind of what dnd is all about. and in the end, it still might not matter. our characters can still die, the story can still go in a way that not even the dms are prepared for, we might not save the world.

BUT WE ALSO MIGHT!! we’re going to work together and try our best and do everything in our power to fulfill our own quests, help one another, and create a greater good for ourselves and the world around us!!! and its like yeah, im not fully recovered, i dont think full recovery is ever going to really be an option for me, but i can keep going, and i know im always going to have the support of yall and the people who care about me. that means more to me than you could ever know.

and not to be a downer but like...im still going to die, someday. maybe in the ways that i thought, or maybe not. and in the meantime i might not figure out my life plan or get an amazing job or even move out anytime soon. but for once, that thought isnt as paralyzing and world ending as it was this time last year. its okay for things to be uncertain. its okay that things might not work out neatly in the end. and i think dnd played a huge role in helping me come to terms with that.

so remember like four paragraphs ago when i said i was going to start wrapping this up?? lmao for anyone who made it this far, i salute you and thank you. this game has been really important to me but more so its YOU PEOPLE. you guys are just such a wonderful and awesome group of people and its been a privilege taking this journey with you for this last year--and for many more years to come! we’ve been at this for two months in game and who knows where we’ll all be this time next year or the year after or even more after that. i dont know!!!! and thats okay

love yall im gonna go order a pizza now peace  ✌ ✌ ✌ (i have had nothing to drink thanks)

[lupodefae-blog]

PART I.

So I'm writing this simply because yesterday I talked to someone I have a very serious interest in and after a few minutes into the conversation they said that I haven't really shared much about me. That they didn’t even know I'm from New York and not from here. So I'm writing this at 9:50 because I guess I don’t really reveal much to anyone about me. So what better way to reveal all then to just write??? I don’t know… well might as well start My name is Benigno Agosto III, ya I'm the third. My father and grandfather being the first and junior, but more on them later I suppose. I was born in Manhattan, New York but memories of it at my younger age are pretty fuzzy. My mother is Katie and I get everything from here xD minus the skin tone. My father is Benigno Agosto jr. i… honestly don’t know much about him what so ever. All I know and remember is he is a very abusive man and alcoholic. Which was kind of my reasoning to act certain ways when I was younger and how I cat now sort of. We left NY when I was very young but came by it every now and then just for the trips sake. I met my father one time in my life and called him twice. When I called him I was 8 and I simply said 'hi I am your son' to which he didn’t even remember me, saying I'm not his son. So that was great as one could imagine. I met him when I was 13 and he showed no excitement, no emotion toward a crying kid hugging his dad for the first time. So that was fun as well. Then I called him one last time when I was 20 to tell him how I was, he was doing okay and we chatted for a bit. It was okay I guess. But he wanted me to call him dad, which I refused and explained I couldn’t give a man that title who out right abandoned his son and never gave so much as a happy birthday for his whole life. I feel no resentment anymore, when I was younger that’s all I had but no longer. I have 2 sisters on that side of my family and they are both pretty nice, I see my mouth and attitude comes from that side as well, blessings and curses I suppose xD When I was in the beginning stages of school I guess when my creativity came up, I really liked to draw, I liked singing and pretend to be a knight (which I came dressed to school as when asked to come as what I wanted to be when I was older) I had one friend named Huy. Now Huy was what I wanted to be like because he was SUPER cool and drew REALLY WELL. Like he was drawing DBZ characters in 5 minutes when I was drawing weird trees and little animals in hours and they weren't even good. But he told me to keep trying and I did, my teacher Mrs.Cashmen was my teacher and fully supported me and my like of art and me wanting to be better at it. She saw me as sweet and kind, even though I was super quiet (those who know me now yeah, I was EXTEREMLY QUIET) but other then them it was like I was against everyone… like everyone had something against me so I got into a lot of fights that no one even knew about. Around 3-4 grade, cant remember too well because it was just so long ago I had a major crush on one girl named Sarah. I didn’t know what to do, but I thought a good way to get girls was to be what dad was (bad idea) so I stole her Gameboy thinking if I did I could help her look for it and get her to keep talking to me. Eventually I just felt really mean and shitty and just told her the truth. We stopped talking after that obviously which really sucked. Around this time I was still getting into fights, but I had more friends. I saw Mrs. Cashmen from time to time and she always made me feel better. Huy went to another school from what I recall. But like I said I had friends who talked to me. At this point I gave up on art from the amount of comments about how I sucked and how I wasn’t good, so did the thoughts of being a comedian, and actor, and anything involving art really. I got into more fights, but this time for friends instead of them on me. Because I wanted someone to be there for me, so I thought it would be the same for others. unfortunately a kid proved that somewhat wrong when he and His friends jumped me after school for… w.e. reason. From there I got even more distant and to myself. Around that time suicidal thoughts came into play. Wanted to take pills but I didn’t know what would do anything, I wanted to cut myself but I was too scared of having to feel myself bleed out, I wanted to shoot myself but had no way to a freakin gun. Eventually I attempted to jump off my schools balcony on a Wednesday, I was gonna jump but a my gym teacher came and stopped me, I wish I remembered his name because I really appreciate his words. He just told me about how sad everyone would be if I did do it, family and friends, my mom who lost her brother to suicide. So instead of jumping I got taken to the hospital and had an evaluation right after. I lied and said I was okay but I really I didn’t wanna go away somewhere without my mom, because in that time that’s all I really had. After the event I didn’t make big attempts on my life, instead I just drew, wrote and though about what I would do if I could. All the negative thoughts kind of put me in a weird circle of thinking of myself. That if I don’t hate myself everyone will and keep hurting me, if I didn’t hate myself I wouldn’t get anywhere. If I'm breathing I need a find a way to stop so everyone will just leave me alone… but those were inner thoughts. After around grade 5 or 6 I lost all fucks and just got into fights left and right, and fought back really hard. Suspensions and held back one time for the amount of damage I did to one kid, but never once did I start the fights. I met Cristopher and a few others from my early days. They showed me how to be really happy and helped me get back into art and expression and I got a bit better after that. Crushes became relationships, relationships broke down and I got super sad and hard on myself, then they came to help me get better. I guess those were the better years I guess. High school came!! Well fuck, honestly I didn’t think I would really get that far. Thought id be gone before that. But here I was. I saw a girl who was literally my biggest crush in life like I even took the theater class I was in at the time all because she was going to take it too. Very bad I know but that was my thought process at the time xD I was so bad at flirting and my looks weren't as good as they are now (truly was an ugly duckling) messed that one super bad because I just looked weird and stuff. Had a crush on a new girl who was there only for a few weeks and had to go back to Florida after, but we had a relationship for a bit. We did some stuff I never did before most in a sexual context but nothing crazy. I thought id lose her if I didn’t play to her interests, so I played along with the sexual things so I wouldn’t lose her, I lied about being an awesome graphic designer and got caught lying about that and tried to walk around it all and that kind of lead to a break up. Well earned on my end. But she's doing great which I'm very happy to hear. Lots of relationships from that time and lots of break ups, where I was at fault, they were at fault, it was both parties, and some times there weren't many reasons why it just ended. All around honestly it was fun when it was fun and sucked bad when it sucked. All around alright experience College came and I guess at that time is where I came to be the me a lot of you have met and enjoy the most, so I guess I can ramble about stuff in life between all of the times xD I wanted to be a knight, but no one is being kidnapped and taken to castles anymore and no dragons were around to fight so I scrapped that at a young age. I then wanted to be a comedian and actor and performer, then I was told I sucked and I wasn’t funny. But now I am funny as fuck so to those who told me I sucked can suck it now! Bitches!... Ahem, now then. I wanted to be a vet after that because I loved animals, but I hate school just as much as I love them sooooo that went out the window. Now I'm in school trying to get a degree in Law and Psychology, mostly because I want to be a councilor, because I wanna help people who didn’t get the people I did… because everyone really needs SOMEBODY there. I love dogs, I like comedy and horror movies, even though I scream and freak out I still love the rush of horror, I like sitting at home and just relaxing, I enjoy my friends and hanging outside and going out because I didn’t get to any of that till college really. I like sweets, love chocolate but it makes me break out (what a sad life I live) but I eat that shit anyway because fuck it. I like working out even though I'm not super big yet. I like acting and wanna be a voice actor for fun and maybe be in a game or two xD I hate cats because they are the bane of my existence and they hate me. If its kittens then we can have a nice middle ground. I hate dolls because of my Chucky and a few Spanish movies involving dolls, if you ever give me on I will kick the shit out of it and kick the shit out of you simply because you gave it to me. I hate spicy foods, I cant take the heat, but id try it if you truly wanted me to. I dislike seafood, the texture just feels off, but I can eat sushi!!! Mostly because of the other stuff with it. I hate people who abuse others and hate those who hit women, and if I catch that shit anywhere I have been known to jump in that shit and stop it… even though chances are I will get in a shit ton of trouble or get beat I will do it anyway. I right now wanna start a business but I don’t wanna tell anyone about it because I'm afraid someone will do it before me and I cant risk that, because this business plan is one of the only motivations I have right now. I am called a flirt when truly I just enjoy complimenting people and knowing they are happy and see something good in them, not to gain anything out of it. I have the outward appearance of someone who might model, write awesome stuff, take wild adventures and live a great life with woman and money But I am a nerd in a handsome body xD I play dungeons and dragons, video games, and honesty am super shy despite the mask I wear that shows me being so super out there and up in crowds. I play guitar and don’t think I'm too good at it, I write a lot of poetry and stories… but I hate what I wrote. I take selfies and pictures of things but I hate what I capture on cameras at times. I am a guy who shows so much confidence but really has very little views on himse

[vincejonesuniverse]

I was born in 1955. Way back then there were basically 3 types of “kids”: just the regular let’s play hide-an-seek, build a fort, throw rocks, ride bikes, ring doorbells and run, make random calls and ask if “Ben Dover” was home (caller ID ruined that), get muddy, mercurochromed bloody knees and elbows, be home by dinner time kind. Then there were the “weird” kids. Now, this class broke down into the “weird” in an eccentric kinda way which made you kinda cool and then there were the “stay away from little Johnny” kinda weird which wasn’t so good, and everybody had at least one friend who fit the former and knew one of the latter. Today the latter generally hold elective office or work at the DMV.

Finally, there were the “special” kids (special being the term used in polite company). Now, I know a lot about this class, for you see, I’m a member. As a child I struggled to “fit in,” be “just one of the kids” and I lived in terror (strong word but completely accurate) of the “short bus” which transported them to school and home again. My generation pretty much walked to and from school. The only time a parent picked up their child was if they were injured beyond the school nurse’s ability to patch them up or they were sick, projectile vomiting kinda sick or did something REALLY BAD, like invade Poland. So, every day when the short bus would pass me, twice, I would freeze up inside, deathly afraid of being found out. I was seven when I first began considering suicide.

I was adopted at six weeks of age and unbeknownst to my new parents, I was “special” as well as being a sickly child; my heart stopping more than once before I was 9. As a result, my father felt cheated out of the son he envisioned having, and though I supposed he tried, it was abundantly clear he would have traded me in for a different model if given the chance. Mom was Mom. I could have been on death row, guilty as sin, and she would have been there patting me on the arm saying, “its OK honey, the Governor will call since I know in my heart you are a good boy.” But I couldn’t talk her or anyone about what I was feeling and experiencing, hell, I couldn’t even put it into words for myself.

I didn’t know why I was different, but it was clear I was. I would watch the interactions of my playmates, confounded as to the ways they related and responded to each other, and they did it so effortlessly. I’d hang in the background, try to be a part of without really being noticed, especially for the wrong reasons. And I watched a lot of TV looking for clues.

I had a hard time making and keeping eye contact and would often look off to the side when talking to someone. I would say “inappropriate” things (not like bad language or such, well, OK, sometimes, my mind just makes connections which make perfect sense to me, others, not so much) and had no clue as to why they were inappropriate. I would get that hated scrunched up nose narrowed eyed “say what” look and know I had somehow messed up.

In the early 60’s IQ tests were the rage. When the sealed envelopes with the results were handed out in my class, everyone got a white envelope, well almost everyone, mine was manila in color. That day’s walk home was filled with thoughts of suicide and ways to do it because I knew this was it. I left the envelope on the kitchen table (the thought never crossed my mind to disappear it) and waited in my room resigned to my fate. When Mom opened it all it said was the school wanted them to make an appointment to come in for a conference. My Dad was pissed (yep, that is the word he used) because he would have to take off work and was sure I had done something I was covering up. I maintained ignorance, thankful for the reprieve, dreading what I thought I KNEW was coming. The day came and I attended the meeting with the Vice-Principal as well. They were told I was, wait for it, ABNORMALLY intelligent. I don’t know what else was said after that, for I had shut down and blanked out. It was in the car driving home when I came back around to my father saying, “that was a huge waste of time.” I waited for “the” talk I had been dreading, but it never materialized. I went to school the next day as if nothing had happened and it was never brought up again. I really don’t know why they had my parents come in, this was before GATE or programs for gifted students existed, I think they were just as perplexed at what to do with me as I was.

At a very early age I decided the best course of action was to try to “fit in,” so I dedicated myself to mimicry. I would surreptitiously watch you: your facial expressions, the tone of your voice, the words you chose, how others reacted to you and how you reciprocated. And I practiced and practiced. You know how people say they have done something a “thousand” times? From that point (around 7) through High School I spent thousands of hours in front of the bathroom mirror rehearsing the things that came so naturally to you, until it became second nature. I taught myself to “fit in,” to act as if, even though I didn’t understand the underlying why’s.

And life went on. I looked at what generally qualified as “normal” (not surprisingly a lot of that came from TV) and started checking off the boxes. In time my fear of being “found out” diminished, but I was still a little “weird” which was kinda OK in High School. I played sports, got a girlfriend (relationships took my acting to a whole new level, and I still sucked at them), had a small circle of friends and was bored out of my mind. I drove my teachers to distraction by rarely turning in homework but acing tests. My poor mother on numerous occasions had to fight with instructors to pass me. I wouldn’t have graduated High School if not for her. She was 5’1 & ¾" as she would often proudly state and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. One her favorite momisims was “dynamite and poison come in small packages,” she was a force to be reckoned with.

What really made High School tolerable though were the drugs and alcohol. See, if you were loaded or drunk you were expected to say and do inappropriate things. It would be forgiven with the blanket, “oh, he is just f#%ked up.” Talk about a get out of jail free card. As you can well imagine, drugs and alcohol became constant companions and close personal friends. Time passed and I kept checking off boxes: I got married (poor girl), bought a house, became a father and had the beginnings of a career in business management, because that is what “normal” life looked like, right? Things were good, at least I thought so, right up until they weren’t. My reliance on intoxicants turned on me and I ended up out of control, alone, broke, in dire straits physically and mentally. Then at 30 years of age I sought help and have been free of active addiction since 1985.

When I first I entered the community of recovery I was amazed. They talked about secrets and being “the actor,” of hidden feelings and motivations, lies and destructive behaviors. I felt like I was home at last and I let my guard down a little. Though I am still a part of this community, this feeling lasted only a couple of years until I had to face the truth, though I had much in common, I was still “special” and proceeded to work to “fit in” once again.

You see, I’m Autistic and all that implies. Hyper focus, given to routine, poor socialization skills, difficulty in forming and maintaining relationships, the whole eye contact thing (I have been practicing that for over 55 years and I still get it wrong) and so on. I am “high functioning” with (if you believe the tests) a high IQ. Sounds good, but to me it’s like being the car in the junkyard with the best paint job and good tires. I know, I know, just stop it. You must admit though it is a pretty good line. Shhh…just between you and me, the whole IQ testing thing, today I am pretty sure all it really denotes is someone who takes IQ tests well. Just sayin.

There used to be a thing called Asperger Syndrome, which pretty much described me. It is not a thing anymore though, which kinda sucks cause Asperger sounds like you’re having a burger made from snake and only real men eat snake burgers, I could see John Wayne or Errol Flynn eating a snake burger and liking it (remember, born in 55).

It wasn’t until President Kennedy came to office that the approach to mental health and how we address and work with children who are “special” began to change. In the ensuing decades a new world of resources and understanding has emerged, and had I been born a decade or so later, my life probably would have had a very different trajectory.

There are myriad of ways we can be defined, if we allow it. I am not DISabled; I am just other abled. I see the world through a prism of colors, sounds and textures different than you, not a good thing or a bad thing, it just is what it is. On the upside, having studied people’s expressions (micro and macro), vocal inflections, body language, etc. since I was a small child, I have an uncanny ability for “reading” people and predicting behavior, especially those who suffer from addiction.

Today, maybe it has to do with getting older, but I don’t care anymore about “fitting in,” I want to spend the rest of my days free of the fear-based restrictions I placed on myself and be honest. I met a young man recently who was Autistic, I asked him how he was coping with life and fitting in. You know what he said? “Screw’em. If they don’t like me for who I am, I don’t want them in my life.” I cried.

We all have gifts and talents, are part of the grand fabric of life, the tapestry of colors truly a wonder. All here to teach and be taught, no one without or lacking value. Today I see the world through a new pair of glasses and though the music in my mind is somewhat different from yours, it is all part of the great symphony, every note of value, even those off key for they provide the impetus for change and growth. The key is, and always has been, love, and from love acceptance and respect.

So, if we ever meet in the “real” world, whatever that is, I may say something a little off key or be a little too blunt, but don’t take it personally. Oh, and I am told I can be a little intense so there is that. It is just me, being me, no longer in hiding, and chances are excellent I will probably say something that will make you laugh and though I don’t own a 1949 Buick Roadmaster convertible I am an excellent driver.

[vincejonesuniverse]

I was born in 1955. Way back then there were basically 3 types of “kids”: just the regular let’s play hide-an-seek, build a fort, throw rocks, ride bikes, ring doorbells and run, make random calls and ask if “Ben Dover” was home (caller ID ruined that), get muddy, mercurochromed bloody knees and elbows, be home by dinner time kind. Then there were the “weird” kids. Now, this class broke down into the “weird” in an eccentric kinda way which made you kinda cool and then there were the “stay away from little Johnny” kinda weird which wasn’t so good, and everybody had at least one friend who fit the former and knew one of the latter. Today the latter generally hold elective office or work at the DMV.

Finally, there were the “special” kids (special being the term used in polite company). Now, I know a lot about this class, for you see, I’m a member. As a child I struggled to “fit in,” be “just one of the kids” and I lived in terror (strong word but completely accurate) of the “short bus” which transported them to school and home again. My generation pretty much walked to and from school. The only time a parent picked up their child was if they were injured beyond the school nurse’s ability to patch them up or they were sick, projectile vomiting kinda sick or did something REALLY BAD, like invade Poland. So, every day when the short bus would pass me, twice, I would freeze up inside, deathly afraid of being found out. I was seven when I first began considering suicide.

I was adopted at six weeks of age and unbeknownst to my new parents, I was “special” as well as being a sickly child; my heart stopping more than once before I was 9. As a result, my father felt cheated out of the son he envisioned having, and though I supposed he tried, it was abundantly clear he would have traded me in for a different model if given the chance. Mom was Mom. I could have been on death row, guilty as sin, and she would have been there patting me on the arm saying, “its OK honey, the Governor will call since I know in my heart you are a good boy.” But I couldn’t talk her or anyone about what I was feeling and experiencing, hell, I couldn’t even put it into words for myself.

I didn’t know why I was different, but it was clear I was. I would watch the interactions of my playmates, confounded as to the ways they related and responded to each other, and they did it so effortlessly. I’d hang in the background, try to be a part of without really being noticed, especially for the wrong reasons. And I watched a lot of TV looking for clues.

I had a hard time making and keeping eye contact and would often look off to the side when talking to someone. I would say “inappropriate” things (not like bad language or such, well, OK, sometimes, my mind just makes connections which make perfect sense to me, others, not so much) and had no clue as to why they were inappropriate. I would get that hated scrunched up nose narrowed eyed “say what” look and know I had somehow messed up.

In the early 60’s IQ tests were the rage. When the sealed envelopes with the results were handed out in my class, everyone got a white envelope, well almost everyone, mine was manila in color. That day’s walk home was filled with thoughts of suicide and ways to do it because I knew this was it. I left the envelope on the kitchen table (the thought never crossed my mind to disappear it) and waited in my room resigned to my fate. When Mom opened it all it said was the school wanted them to make an appointment to come in for a conference. My Dad was pissed (yep, that is the word he used) because he would have to take off work and was sure I had done something I was covering up. I maintained ignorance, thankful for the reprieve, dreading what I thought I KNEW was coming. The day came and I attended the meeting with the Vice-Principal as well. They were told I was, wait for it, ABNORMALLY intelligent. I don’t know what else was said after that, for I had shut down and blanked out. It was in the car driving home when I came back around to my father saying, “that was a huge waste of time.” I waited for “the” talk I had been dreading, but it never materialized. I went to school the next day as if nothing had happened and it was never brought up again. I really don’t know why they had my parents come in, this was before GATE or programs for gifted students existed, I think they were just as perplexed at what to do with me as I was.

At a very early age I decided the best course of action was to try to “fit in,” so I dedicated myself to mimicry. I would surreptitiously watch you: your facial expressions, the tone of your voice, the words you chose, how others reacted to you and how you reciprocated. And I practiced and practiced. You know how people say they have done something a “thousand” times? From that point (around 7) through High School I spent thousands of hours in front of the bathroom mirror rehearsing the things that came so naturally to you, until it became second nature. I taught myself to “fit in,” to act as if, even though I didn’t understand the underlying why’s.

And life went on. I looked at what generally qualified as “normal” (not surprisingly a lot of that came from TV) and started checking off the boxes. In time my fear of being “found out” diminished, but I was still a little “weird” which was kinda OK in High School. I played sports, got a girlfriend (relationships took my acting to a whole new level, and I still sucked at them), had a small circle of friends and was bored out of my mind. I drove my teachers to distraction by rarely turning in homework but acing tests. My poor mother on numerous occasions had to fight with instructors to pass me. I wouldn’t have graduated High School if not for her. She was 5’1 & ¾" as she would often proudly state and maybe 110 pounds soaking wet. One her favorite momisims was “dynamite and poison come in small packages,” she was a force to be reckoned with.

What really made High School tolerable though were the drugs and alcohol. See, if you were loaded or drunk you were expected to say and do inappropriate things. It would be forgiven with the blanket, “oh, he is just f#%ked up.” Talk about a get out of jail free card. As you can well imagine, drugs and alcohol became constant companions and close personal friends. Time passed and I kept checking off boxes: I got married (poor girl), bought a house, became a father and had the beginnings of a career in business management, because that is what “normal” life looked like, right? Things were good, at least I thought so, right up until they weren’t. My reliance on intoxicants turned on me and I ended up out of control, alone, broke, in dire straits physically and mentally. Then at 30 years of age I sought help and have been free of active addiction since 1985.

When I first I entered the community of recovery I was amazed. They talked about secrets and being “the actor,” of hidden feelings and motivations, lies and destructive behaviors. I felt like I was home at last and I let my guard down a little. Though I am still a part of this community, this feeling lasted only a couple of years until I had to face the truth, though I had much in common, I was still “special” and proceeded to work to “fit in” once again.

You see, I’m Autistic and all that implies. Hyper focus, given to routine, poor socialization skills, difficulty in forming and maintaining relationships, the whole eye contact thing (I have been practicing that for over 55 years and I still get it wrong) and so on. I am “high functioning” with (if you believe the tests) a high IQ. Sounds good, but to me it’s like being the car in the junkyard with the best paint job and good tires. I know, I know, just stop it. You must admit though it is a pretty good line. Shhh…just between you and me, the whole IQ testing thing, today I am pretty sure all it really denotes is someone who takes IQ tests well. Just sayin.

There used to be a thing called Asperger Syndrome, which pretty much described me. It is not a thing anymore though, which kinda sucks cause Asperger sounds like you’re having a burger made from snake and only real men eat snake burgers, I could see John Wayne or Errol Flynn eating a snake burger and liking it (remember, born in 55).

It wasn’t until President Kennedy came to office that the approach to mental health and how we address and work with children who are “special” began to change. In the ensuing decades a new world of resources and understanding has emerged, and had I been born a decade or so later, my life probably would have had a very different trajectory.

There are myriad of ways we can be defined, if we allow it. I am not DISabled; I am just other abled. I see the world through a prism of colors, sounds and textures different than you, not a good thing or a bad thing, it just is what it is. On the upside, having studied people’s expressions (micro and macro), vocal inflections, body language, etc. since I was a small child, I have an uncanny ability for “reading” people and predicting behavior, especially those who suffer from addiction.

Today, maybe it has to do with getting older, but I don’t care anymore about “fitting in,” I want to spend the rest of my days free of the fear-based restrictions I placed on myself and be honest. I met a young man recently who was Autistic, I asked him how he was coping with life and fitting in. You know what he said? “Screw’em. If they don’t like me for who I am, I don’t want them in my life.” I cried.

We all have gifts and talents, are part of the grand fabric of life, the tapestry of colors truly a wonder. All here to teach and be taught, no one without or lacking value. Today I see the world through a new pair of glasses and though the music in my mind is somewhat different from yours, it is all part of the great symphony, every note of value, even those off key for they provide the impetus for change and growth. The key is, and always has been, love, and from love acceptance and respect.

So, if we ever meet in the “real” world, whatever that is, I may say something a little off key or be a little too blunt, but don’t take it personally. Oh, and I am told I can be a little intense so there is that. It is just me, being me, no longer in hiding, and chances are excellent I will probably say something that will make you laugh and though I don’t own a 1949 Buick Roadmaster convertible I am an excellent driver.