Author: mollyzors PM
Riley has no intention to change, and all Jay wants is to get in his pants. Prequel to a roleplay, no prior knowledge needed. Male slash, rating for later chapters. Working title and summary.Rated: Fiction T - English - Angst - Chapters: 4 - Words: 8,772 - Reviews: 7 - Favs: 4 - Follows: 8 - Updated: 08-17-08 - Published: 07-08-08 - id: 2542649
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Point of View: Riley
So far I've managed to get high with, tease the crap out of, and then piss of my new roommate. We're certainly moving fast. We haven't even had sex and he's already not speaking to me. I don't know if that's a good thing or not.
My casual greeting of "Morning" has no effect. He pretends not to hear me, and I can understand that. Who knew anorexia was such a touchy subject, what with the way he'd been flaunting it. Oh well. I'll admit some fault, but I'm not about to apologize or anything. As long as he's not in my way or anything, I don't care. It doesn't matter. He's just a fucking drama queen, is all.
He leaves when I do, for one reason or another, still mute. I have no idea what he's thinking, which is pretty annoying, since I'd like to think that I can usually read people pretty well. This whole roommate deal is just weird. And it's only been a day, basically—Christ, I'm screwed. Breakfast offers another chance to get away, and we split up once downstairs. I find a quiet corner, again, and tide myself over with the shittier stuff in my stash, which I can only stand in the morning when my taste buds aren't awake.
I've been here long enough that no one really bothers me anymore. I sit scattered with my fellow not morning people and no one talks much. So, naturally, it's impossible to ignore the dark eyed stare that invades my usual morning solace. Jay, sitting a few tables down with his eyes locked on me, while he eats in very deliberate movements. The fuck? I'm not awake yet, and I'm working on not sober enou— or…, well, not sure if I process better drunk or sober, but still. What the hell is he trying to prove? Maybe nothing. Maybe he just hates me and he's actually bulimic. Or… something. Whatever. Doesn't matter. It's just fucking invasive, that's all.
I slump in my seat and finish breakfast as soon as possible, just to get away from that stare. Luckily, my first class is all about the wonders of sobriety (which is why I drink before it), so I'm safe from Jay's eyes. The kid's probably a nutjob or something. I would get stuck with a psycho. At least being safe from him makes this class seem more like a godsend. Eventually the droning of my sincere but obnoxious professor makes the creepy I'm-being-watched feeling fade from my skin, and I stop thinking about Jay's problem so much. It's nice, and the peace lasts through my This-Is-How-Alcohol-Will-Mutilate-And-Kill-You-Painfully class. It's got a different tune from the Sobriety-Is-Fun! class, but it's just as amusing if I'm in the right mood.
My "family" doesn't (didn't, whatever) know the specifics of my coke habit and lax experimentation, but they've stuck me in a general Tsk-You're-On-Something class anyway. Jay's in it. Luckily, he sits in front of me, so the death stare isn't possible. I'm too busy looking forward to my lunch and subsequent little high to tide me over, anyway. And even Jay can't ruin that. I have to go back to my—our—room to get it. I don't risk carrying around anything harder than beer, and cocaine, should I want it, isn't something I can use in the cafeteria, regardless of which corner I nestle in to.
When the bell rings, I take my time. As much as I want to run all the way upstairs, I know how suspicious that looks. Call me paranoid, but there much be someone in this place who knows enough to notice a kid who clearly isn't sprinting for a good spot in the lunch line. If I control my walk up, I'm more likely to be able to control my consumption, and that is of the essence. I wish my kind of high was easy enough to hide with a drop or two of Visine. Fucking potheads have all the luck.
I think I picked the wrong addiction. I want nothing more than control, and all I get is chaos. That's how things always seem to end up for me. "The life of Riley?" Whoever the fuck came up with that phrase never met me, or else I was given the wrong name.
Casual steps, lunch is an hour so I have no reason to be rushing anywhere. When I reach the door, it's hard to stay slow still and I fumble with the key, glad no one's around cuz I look like an idiot. It doesn't help that the door was already unlocked. Great. I probably left it open this morning trying to get away from that awkward first greeting. Not smart. I can't lock it behind me either, because that looks shady too.
After managing to close the door, I half jog across the room, hopping to the back, past the bathroom door, which is ajar, and start digging.
I root a bottle out from my bed frame (such a useful thing, that is) and, in my moment of victory, I realize that my observational skills are quite lacking. Stop. There's a hacking cough and a moment of silence. Pause.
It's muffed, kind of like my dumbass "Huh?"
I scramble to my feet about the time I hear a struggle in the bathroom, and the next pause finds me hanging off the doorframe, startled with a bottle clutched in my hand. Jay is pawing at the toilet in a failing attempt to flush it, standing unsteadily and wiping his mouth against his forearm. Despite his attempts, it is exponentially clear what he was just doing.
I'm not usually speechless, not like this.
Point of View: Jay
I stare into green eyes the size of Frisbees for a moment before my flight response kicks in. And, before either of our brains has even started to function again, my arm jerks out and I slam the door in his face.
That jolts me out of my deer-in-headlights impression, and I throw the lock on the door before leaning my forehead against the wood and exhale heavily. Fuck. This is the last thing I need right now. I was irritated before at Riley for that stupid name. That festered and I was pissed. I want to be livid now, but I feel so shitty. I was going to get my fix after taking care of breakfast. Now I'm thinking I should have started off getting high.
The faucet's still running, I realize belatedly after turning so my back is against the door now. Deep breaths. In a moment I move calmly to kneel again in front of the toilet (which I failed to flush), where I was before being rudely interrupted, and close my eyes as practiced fingers find the back of my throat again and the rest of my attempted statement from this morning leaves my body. Little more than stomach acid joins what I've already purged, but just the gagging makes me feel better, like I'm in control again.
This time I flush successfully. I take my time washing my hands, brushing my teeth, before my reflection is too distracting and I have to pull away from the sink before I spend hours in here stroking the concavity of my now emptied stomach, looking to touch my spine from the front. Unfortunately, my alone time has been shattered. I hate roommates.
Riley has to be dealt with, somehow. I have to fix a situation that's been steadily deteriorating since I got here. A good shrink would probably tell me to share my feelings. But while the impulse to scream in my stupid hot blonde of a roommate's face, I don't need to make any more of a scene than I already have.
When I unlatch and open the door, casually, as if I could care less, I find Riley seated on his bed, nursing a bottle that sure as hell ain't full of apple juice. Apparently I'm not the only one with lunch break secrets.
I'm going to pretend like the last five minutes didn't happen. I grab a few tissues on y way out and lave the bathroom door open behind me, like I had nothing to hide. Walking past him without another glance, I make a beeline for my half unpacked bag and go through it calmly, although really my hands are shaking and I'm desperate for a change of pace. I root a tiny little baggy from the lining of the bag, thankful that it seems to have remained intact despite the abuse it's gone through while hidden.
Riley's still drinking steadily, I can hear the liquid in the bottle slosh around each time he takes a swig. He doesn't seem to be staring, though, thank God. I move to the side of my own bed and start parachutes on the table. This time, I'm not sharing.
Author's Note: This is short, but I needed to have an idea of where I'm going with the next chapter. Jay is getting harder to write.