Fic: Grace - Chapter 13
Title: Grace - Chapter 13 (part 2/2)
Rating: M
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
The female species is the most diverse of the three. Maybe. Maybe definitely.
Loretta, she’s on one end of a bitterly large spectrum and Audrey, she’s on the other. Audrey, with her hair extensions and her nose rings and that resounding innocence that she doesn’t even know she has. That naivety that drips out of her eyes and her lips like tears and vomit, even when she’s being a slut.
She’s not a lot like Loretta, not really, not at all. As embryos they wandered over to the womb-GP, that pharmacy of the body, were prescribed one set of female-reproductive organs, two-tits, two brown eyes and 300 milligrams of bitchiness. The rest, they got it somewhere else.
Loretta says university has an influence.
She says having a brain does too.
But tonight, when I’m heavy and exhausted and weighted down by the glaring suitcases of a thousand people, tonight Audrey is just what I need.
She’s at one of William’s parties.
“Audrey,” I say, “Audrey.”
“In a minute, Bren.” And she’s looking small tonight, but so, so much bigger than Catherine. She’s decked out in a black skirt that hugs her hips like cling-wrap, a low cut top that might emphasise her flat chest more than she wants it too. Her hair, it’s blonde tonight, with tinges of black, pink and orange. She’s wearing her heart on the bangles around her wrist; she doesn’t notice it dripping blood all over the floor, all over her bare thighs.
My teeth latch onto her neck, and she giggles like no one else. Giggles enough, loudly enough, drunkenly enough that where I am, what I’m doing, it’s a slap in the face.
What am I doing?
Audrey turns around in my arms, her body pressed tight against me, eyes smiling, alcohol dripping off her tongue, her breath. “Horny bastard.”
“I try.”
“Come on then,” she says, wraps one arm, the one with the bangles, the one with her heart on it, she wraps it around my neck. My face might screw up when the blood dripdripdrips its way down my shirt.
We stumble upstairs into one of the bedrooms and I collapse onto the bed before I can stop myself.
“Blow me?”
“Ngh,” she says, and she staggers over, crumples on top of me like a wavering pillar of forgotten strength. “Not now, I just wanna…let’s make out of something. I dunno.”
“Audrey,” I say, “Audrey, I need it.”
She reaches a hand down to the front of my jeans, gropes a little too hard. Her fake nails dig into the top of my thighs. “You’re not even hard.”
Aren’t I?
She shifts on top of me, grinds into me, and no, I’m not. Not even remotely aroused, and Jesus Christ, why the fuck not?
“Make me, then.”
She’s staring at me, as if she’s catching onto something that I can’t see, can’t hear or taste or touch, but she leans down anyway, pulls up my shirt and kisses my chest, the skin that stretches across my ribs, my lungs, my stomach. She unzips my fly like a three-dollar illiterate Mexican whore. Kisses my crotch through my underwear, my thighs, my hip bones and it’s just, okay, I’m not…nothing’s happening.
“Right,” she says, and her voice is maybe a little shakier than she intends. She leans up, collapses back over my chest, “so who is she?”
“What?”
“Well,” she says, and she doesn’t even notice the way she’s suddenly clutching her heart in both hands, the way her nails dig in a little more desperately, the way the blood trickles over her pale fingers. “Either I’m losing my touch or you’re in love, and I know it isn’t the former.”
“There isn’t anyone, Audrey.” And I shove her off, push my shirt down and do up my fly. I can’t meet her eyes, and I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about.
“The latter then.” Her eyes are glassy, they waver and shiver, and she’s holding her heart together, trying to hide the cracks from me, but she never, we…we were never together, so why is this hurting so much?
“No, there’s not…” I start, but my body feels too resigned, too exhausted, because I’m gonna go home tonight to Catherine asleep on my sofa, Jon watching TV and no one to fucking talk to. No one to vent it all out on.
“A couple of months ago there were pictures in like, every magazine,” she starts, and she’s choosing her words very carefully for someone so utterly trashed. “You and this guy…”
“Wh-Ryan?” I ask, and my disbelief must be evident on my face, but that, that should be all she sees. She can’t see my heart like I see hers, she can’t see it tighten and constrict and maybe start beating a mile a minute, can’t see it get caught across my ribcage, can’t see it shake and quiver and tangle in my lungs.
“Ryan,” she says, and she’s pushed her own heart so close to her chest, is holding it there so tight that the blood smears across her shirt. “Ryan,” she says again, and that sky that hides behind her irises, it clouds over and just starts, well, she’s crying.
“I’m just…” I say, and I clutch onto my own arms so hard that it bruises; my fingerprints will be there for days, where I try to grab at my skeleton.
I can’t say anything else, so I get up and leave.
I don’t get women.
*
Ryan’s apartment complex is still a shithole. It still reeks of soggy carpet and mouldy walls and maybe there is a distinct smell of death, of corpses, of the dead rat that my dad found underneath my sister’s bed when I was eight.
On the door to his apartment the half-number-four is still the centrepiece; the entrance is a glaring off-white, off-coloured.
I don’t think I have ever felt more out of place in my life.
My fingers are too quiet as they rap on the door, but Ryan, he must hear anyway, coz there’s a muffled “coming” from inside.
The door creaks open, and before I can even react, my back is flat on the floor, blood is oozing from my nose and my face is throbbing with the weight of a thousand everything’s.
“Maybe I deserved that?”
I glance up quick enough to see that the fist, it wasn’t Ryan’s, it was this other guy’s; this tall, narrow thing with a face that hasn’t successfully lost its puppy fat. This, I think, this must be Spencer.
“I don’t really think there were any maybes involved,” he says, runs stiff fingers through his hair and sighs so deep that I think he might be about to take off, fly through the roof. He doesn’t though, he just holds a hand out to help me back up.
“Thanks,” I say, and my fingers pinch the bridge of my nose too tightly, I tilt my head back to try and prevent drowning in the blood because even Moses couldn’t part this shit. It’s too thick, and maybe I can’t breathe properly.
“Jesus,” Spencer says, runs fingers over his eyes, apparently deep in thought, because the next minute he’s standing close, has put his fingers on my nose and is gesturing to the seat in the hall. The one that probably has herpes all over it.
“Nghf.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I’d apologise if you weren’t such an asshole.”
Spencer, he pulls a wad of what I pray are clean tissues from his pocket, proceeds to attempt to mop up the blood. “It’s your own fault.”
“Ryan?” I mumble, rest my head on the wall behind me.
“Ryan’s not here right now,” he replies, tears off a piece of the tissue, rolls it around in the perfect imitation of rolling a cigarette and proceeds to shove it up one of my nostrils. I could take a drag. “And we need to talk anyway.”
“About what?”
“When a person is under attack, Brendon,” Spencer starts, and his eyes are really fucking blue, an ocean maybe, and I’m already a little seasick. “Physically or emotionally, our human nature automatically calls us to defend ourselves, to fight back. Ryan just…he can’t. Doesn’t. It’s always been a problem, since we were kids, when someone would hurt him, he could never, would never hurt back.”
“Okay,” I say, and Christ my voice is nasally, throat is almost raw, I can taste blood in my mouth like a hooker can feel the semen caught in her throat. It’s metallic, I’m swallowing coins.
“Not okay,” Spencer says, “very not okay.”
“Where is he?” I say, and I know I must look pathetic, face covered in quick-dry blood, eyes wide and mouth fucking open, gaping.
“Ryan moved out two days ago.”
“Where?” And even I can hear the desperation in my voice. Spencer closes his eyes too tightly, he doesn’t want to see me like this. I think he liked the asshole more.
“I’m not gonna tell you that.”
And that really fucking hurts. It’s a knife to the gut and my heart might be retarding itself a little, but I can’t say anything, coz I understand. I wouldn’t tell me either.
“Look,” Spencer says, and he tucks hair behind his ear, rolls his eyes and maybe is thinking too hard. He digs a hand into his pocket, pulls out a folded yellow post-it note. “He left this for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grasp it too tightly in my fingertips and pull it open before I can stop myself.
The words, they burn themselves into the back of my eyelids, ignite themselves in that space underneath my sinus until my whole head is on fire, the blood, it’s a fuel. My face will be burnt tomorrow morning, and so will my chest and my lungs and my stomach and my heart, coz this hurts so much more than it was supposed to. This, it wasn’t supposed to hurt at all, but Catherine and Audrey and now this, it just, it builds up too hard and too fast and now my head and my chest are wasting away on the wind, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
It was just a passing feeling.
Rating: M
Fandom: P!atd (Brendon/Ryan)
The female species is the most diverse of the three. Maybe. Maybe definitely.
Loretta, she’s on one end of a bitterly large spectrum and Audrey, she’s on the other. Audrey, with her hair extensions and her nose rings and that resounding innocence that she doesn’t even know she has. That naivety that drips out of her eyes and her lips like tears and vomit, even when she’s being a slut.
She’s not a lot like Loretta, not really, not at all. As embryos they wandered over to the womb-GP, that pharmacy of the body, were prescribed one set of female-reproductive organs, two-tits, two brown eyes and 300 milligrams of bitchiness. The rest, they got it somewhere else.
Loretta says university has an influence.
She says having a brain does too.
But tonight, when I’m heavy and exhausted and weighted down by the glaring suitcases of a thousand people, tonight Audrey is just what I need.
She’s at one of William’s parties.
“Audrey,” I say, “Audrey.”
“In a minute, Bren.” And she’s looking small tonight, but so, so much bigger than Catherine. She’s decked out in a black skirt that hugs her hips like cling-wrap, a low cut top that might emphasise her flat chest more than she wants it too. Her hair, it’s blonde tonight, with tinges of black, pink and orange. She’s wearing her heart on the bangles around her wrist; she doesn’t notice it dripping blood all over the floor, all over her bare thighs.
My teeth latch onto her neck, and she giggles like no one else. Giggles enough, loudly enough, drunkenly enough that where I am, what I’m doing, it’s a slap in the face.
What am I doing?
Audrey turns around in my arms, her body pressed tight against me, eyes smiling, alcohol dripping off her tongue, her breath. “Horny bastard.”
“I try.”
“Come on then,” she says, wraps one arm, the one with the bangles, the one with her heart on it, she wraps it around my neck. My face might screw up when the blood dripdripdrips its way down my shirt.
We stumble upstairs into one of the bedrooms and I collapse onto the bed before I can stop myself.
“Blow me?”
“Ngh,” she says, and she staggers over, crumples on top of me like a wavering pillar of forgotten strength. “Not now, I just wanna…let’s make out of something. I dunno.”
“Audrey,” I say, “Audrey, I need it.”
She reaches a hand down to the front of my jeans, gropes a little too hard. Her fake nails dig into the top of my thighs. “You’re not even hard.”
Aren’t I?
She shifts on top of me, grinds into me, and no, I’m not. Not even remotely aroused, and Jesus Christ, why the fuck not?
“Make me, then.”
She’s staring at me, as if she’s catching onto something that I can’t see, can’t hear or taste or touch, but she leans down anyway, pulls up my shirt and kisses my chest, the skin that stretches across my ribs, my lungs, my stomach. She unzips my fly like a three-dollar illiterate Mexican whore. Kisses my crotch through my underwear, my thighs, my hip bones and it’s just, okay, I’m not…nothing’s happening.
“Right,” she says, and her voice is maybe a little shakier than she intends. She leans up, collapses back over my chest, “so who is she?”
“What?”
“Well,” she says, and she doesn’t even notice the way she’s suddenly clutching her heart in both hands, the way her nails dig in a little more desperately, the way the blood trickles over her pale fingers. “Either I’m losing my touch or you’re in love, and I know it isn’t the former.”
“There isn’t anyone, Audrey.” And I shove her off, push my shirt down and do up my fly. I can’t meet her eyes, and I have no fucking idea what she’s talking about.
“The latter then.” Her eyes are glassy, they waver and shiver, and she’s holding her heart together, trying to hide the cracks from me, but she never, we…we were never together, so why is this hurting so much?
“No, there’s not…” I start, but my body feels too resigned, too exhausted, because I’m gonna go home tonight to Catherine asleep on my sofa, Jon watching TV and no one to fucking talk to. No one to vent it all out on.
“A couple of months ago there were pictures in like, every magazine,” she starts, and she’s choosing her words very carefully for someone so utterly trashed. “You and this guy…”
“Wh-Ryan?” I ask, and my disbelief must be evident on my face, but that, that should be all she sees. She can’t see my heart like I see hers, she can’t see it tighten and constrict and maybe start beating a mile a minute, can’t see it get caught across my ribcage, can’t see it shake and quiver and tangle in my lungs.
“Ryan,” she says, and she’s pushed her own heart so close to her chest, is holding it there so tight that the blood smears across her shirt. “Ryan,” she says again, and that sky that hides behind her irises, it clouds over and just starts, well, she’s crying.
“I’m just…” I say, and I clutch onto my own arms so hard that it bruises; my fingerprints will be there for days, where I try to grab at my skeleton.
I can’t say anything else, so I get up and leave.
I don’t get women.
*
Ryan’s apartment complex is still a shithole. It still reeks of soggy carpet and mouldy walls and maybe there is a distinct smell of death, of corpses, of the dead rat that my dad found underneath my sister’s bed when I was eight.
On the door to his apartment the half-number-four is still the centrepiece; the entrance is a glaring off-white, off-coloured.
I don’t think I have ever felt more out of place in my life.
My fingers are too quiet as they rap on the door, but Ryan, he must hear anyway, coz there’s a muffled “coming” from inside.
The door creaks open, and before I can even react, my back is flat on the floor, blood is oozing from my nose and my face is throbbing with the weight of a thousand everything’s.
“Maybe I deserved that?”
I glance up quick enough to see that the fist, it wasn’t Ryan’s, it was this other guy’s; this tall, narrow thing with a face that hasn’t successfully lost its puppy fat. This, I think, this must be Spencer.
“I don’t really think there were any maybes involved,” he says, runs stiff fingers through his hair and sighs so deep that I think he might be about to take off, fly through the roof. He doesn’t though, he just holds a hand out to help me back up.
“Thanks,” I say, and my fingers pinch the bridge of my nose too tightly, I tilt my head back to try and prevent drowning in the blood because even Moses couldn’t part this shit. It’s too thick, and maybe I can’t breathe properly.
“Jesus,” Spencer says, runs fingers over his eyes, apparently deep in thought, because the next minute he’s standing close, has put his fingers on my nose and is gesturing to the seat in the hall. The one that probably has herpes all over it.
“Nghf.”
“Yeah,” Spencer says, “I’d apologise if you weren’t such an asshole.”
Spencer, he pulls a wad of what I pray are clean tissues from his pocket, proceeds to attempt to mop up the blood. “It’s your own fault.”
“Ryan?” I mumble, rest my head on the wall behind me.
“Ryan’s not here right now,” he replies, tears off a piece of the tissue, rolls it around in the perfect imitation of rolling a cigarette and proceeds to shove it up one of my nostrils. I could take a drag. “And we need to talk anyway.”
“About what?”
“When a person is under attack, Brendon,” Spencer starts, and his eyes are really fucking blue, an ocean maybe, and I’m already a little seasick. “Physically or emotionally, our human nature automatically calls us to defend ourselves, to fight back. Ryan just…he can’t. Doesn’t. It’s always been a problem, since we were kids, when someone would hurt him, he could never, would never hurt back.”
“Okay,” I say, and Christ my voice is nasally, throat is almost raw, I can taste blood in my mouth like a hooker can feel the semen caught in her throat. It’s metallic, I’m swallowing coins.
“Not okay,” Spencer says, “very not okay.”
“Where is he?” I say, and I know I must look pathetic, face covered in quick-dry blood, eyes wide and mouth fucking open, gaping.
“Ryan moved out two days ago.”
“Where?” And even I can hear the desperation in my voice. Spencer closes his eyes too tightly, he doesn’t want to see me like this. I think he liked the asshole more.
“I’m not gonna tell you that.”
And that really fucking hurts. It’s a knife to the gut and my heart might be retarding itself a little, but I can’t say anything, coz I understand. I wouldn’t tell me either.
“Look,” Spencer says, and he tucks hair behind his ear, rolls his eyes and maybe is thinking too hard. He digs a hand into his pocket, pulls out a folded yellow post-it note. “He left this for you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grasp it too tightly in my fingertips and pull it open before I can stop myself.
The words, they burn themselves into the back of my eyelids, ignite themselves in that space underneath my sinus until my whole head is on fire, the blood, it’s a fuel. My face will be burnt tomorrow morning, and so will my chest and my lungs and my stomach and my heart, coz this hurts so much more than it was supposed to. This, it wasn’t supposed to hurt at all, but Catherine and Audrey and now this, it just, it builds up too hard and too fast and now my head and my chest are wasting away on the wind, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
It was just a passing feeling.