Just Jim

— Jim Balon | 25 | Psychiatric —

[just-jim-balon]

ticxtoc-ontheclock‌:

“Whoa whoa, darlin,” he said, catching the body that rushed by him with a single arm, “Where’s the fire, sugar?”

It went without saying, that Jim was approaching obscenely tall. At 6′4, it didn’t take much to make his movements seem quick, almost rushed—because with legs his length, he could go barrelling down a hall with little to no effort, and not even notice it. 

And he hadn’t particularly been hurrying, not on purpose anyway—but then again, he had just left a therapist’s office extremely frustrated and tired of reiterating how much he did not want to talk about his brother, so he’d likely been moving quickly by sheer... irritable reflex alone. 

A hand caught his arm as he nearly shoulder checked someone in the hall, and a soft, lilted voice accosted him with pet names and cliches and Jim halted in his tracks, gaze on that hand touching him, hard and cautionary. 

A long pause, where one might here a pin drop. His gaze cut up again and met the face of a young man with a warmth in his eyes that Jim’s would likely never mirror. “Did I say you could touch me, sugar,?” he echoed, barbing and vaguely threatening. 

[whatsup-doc-blog1]

Weekly check up

[just-jim-balon]

whatsup-doc‌: 

Sebastian accepted the arm offered and let his hands run on autopilot : unroll the sleeve, put it on the guy and watch it puff out, then write down the numbers visible on the screen.

Meanwhile he was intently listening to his patient, looking up and making sure Jim knew he was being listened to. The doctor was many times amused by the tv shows or movies portrayal of therapists: you don’t need to make a noise to let other know you are listening. Somehow he had no doubt that his patient would throw a fit is he started saying those stupid lines like Ohh I see; And how does that make you feel? 

That thought made him snort - an inelegant,almost rude sound, but the doctor thought that his patient might appreciate the thought “If it was one of those ridiculous tv shows or movies I should probably say shit like And how does that make you feel? or Thank you for sharing this with me and it just made my skin crawl. “ he explained and wrote down the numbers in the file “ Also, you’re right butter cup - your blood pressure is fine.” after putting away his toys Sebastian turned to face Jim one more time, looking at they guy “So your parents were not, in fact, completely useless. They might have it backwards when it comes to parenting, but at least they got ya’ some good genes.” he nodded.

“I might not be a shrink - don’t wish that profession on anyone - but ya’ seem like an interesting guy so if ya’ ever need to vent or whatever that was “ he waved his hand between them “ ask for me. I might suck at them mind tricks, but I can listen and maybe provide  a sarcastic comment here and there.”

A part of him wanted to recoil at the offer. A part of him did. 

A part of him, trudged up bile and acid, deep from his belly into his throat, burning and toxic, at the notion that the doctor was suggesting Jim had opened up like one more foolish, more emotional than he, might to a shrink. A head doctor. Or, as Jim liked to call them, a dick who should mind his own fucking business. 

And a part of him felt defensive, by the implication that maybe he’d been comfortable enough to invite the doctor to make such an offer. If he had, it’d been unintentional. He’d never wanted to be appear comfortable with anything. The last thing he wanted to do was invite kindness and generosity into his life, from the very people who needed to hate. On sheer principle. On desperation. If they were his enemy, he could go on treating Brielle like it was nothing more than a sick joke. But playing nice with the staff? Dangerous territory. 

So at first, he stiffened, said nothing. Glowered, and there was a flash of discomfort, concern behind the meat of his glare. His tongue felt dry, and it took him a few moments to find his words. 

“It doesn’t make me feel shit. I told you about my family’s medical history. That’s it. Nothing you couldn’t have found in my file. Just delivered more... colourfully,” he drawled. And then the offer—to ask for him, should Jim need anything. And Jim was quiet a long, tense moment. Too long, perhaps, but he was fighting with conflicting responses.... to snarl at the kindness in warning—as if to remind that Jim is not vulnerable, not to be trusted even, for he has not let his guard down—or to look to the gesture with a nod of appreciation. Someone tolerable offering to be a friend in the middle of a place where Jim was sure to make a lot of enemies. There was at least some logic in that, and it was no doubt that element that made it tempting. But Jim warred with which impulse to respond with, feeling like a spooked deer in the headlights, minus the wide-eyed look. 

“Right,” he started, careful to keep his tone even, emotionless—leaning more towards sarcastic than anything else, because it was safer than earnestness. “If I need non-head-shrink Doc to listen to me complain, you’re the man. Got it.” 

He stood up, eager to leave this room and space in which he’d almost mistaken himself, or been mistaken, as vulnerable. “Can I go now? Or do you have to check my urine too? 

[just-jim-balon]

olivermeyer‌:

just-jim-balon‌:

“Yup. Crazy runs in the family, apparently.” And he had little to hold over his little brother that was proof he wasn’t the sunshine prodigy everyone seemed to think—but this was at least one of those things. That Jacob was here, same as Jim. Locked up, just like his fucked up, disappointment of an older brother. So if that was the one thing they had in common, Jim would take it. 

Clearly, Oliver was dealing with his own shit. This conversation was apparently, somewhat one sided on both their parts. He was harbouring his own bullshit, moody and broody and speaking through clenched teeth, and Oliver was doing the same. Asking questions that were more reflections on whatever was bothering him about his own shit, as opposed to being genuinely interested in Jim’s. Not that Jim cared. He was no different. 

He watched with blank, blinking eyes as Oliver slid down the wall, crumbled to the ground looking pained. Like he was about to have to get his appendix removed. And Jim said nothing. Just stared uncomfortably, sucking on his own cigarette because he was not one to comfort, or to know how to go out of his way to connect. He wasn’t exactly empathetic, either. Or good with people. 

After a beat, and looking at the blond skeptically, he broke the ice. “What is that—German?”

While sitting down and leaning against the wall Oliver took a moment in order try to take back control over his body and emotions. He had gone way beyond the limits and in most such cases he would get a cataplexy attack as he did now. Who was he fooling? He could not control anything, everything was just getting worse and no therapy seemed to be helping. He liked to try and be positive for other people as he tried for Garnet, but truth was he was just as lost, perhaps even more than all of them put together. His condition was deteriorating and he could not care less about it. 

At this point he even forgot about the guy standing there and looking at him. Luckily he was not trying to comfort him or anything like that. He figured he just did not really care to do so, but in this case this was the better option. He despised having to explain himself. He could not understand what was happening himself and what is left trying to clear up the situation to other people. It seemed like they were both on the same level in terms of caring, which was the best case scenario.

After few moments of complete silence, Oliver glanced at the guy. He did not even realise he had just said something in german. Sometimes in such moments, he would automatically speak in german as that was his first instinct. “Oh uh yeah, I am german, moved to the US few years ago” he nodded, taking another drag from his cigarette while still sitting on the ground. His body still felt quite weak to get up.

He had no idea what this guys’ issue was, exactly, but to be frank, he didn’t care. And from the looks of it, Oliver seemed somewhat relieved that Jim hadn’t showered him in concern, or cautious, coddling hands. There was a smoky awkwardness in the air between them, one that seemed to need to be purged from their lungs, and the blond did so with something of a stuff glance and a clearing of his throat as he answered the question. 

And this was the point where Jim wasn’t sure how to respond. Mostly because he hated chit-chat. He knew what, structurally, came next. What was expected of him to ask. Something about living in Germany, or moving here, or anything of the like. Something to show his interest in the other. To engage in an exchange. A getting-to-know-one-another. 

But Jim wasn’t much for olive branches. 

Still, the silence was less pleasant than it could have been, considering the other was still curled up on the ground against the wall, sucking on a cigarette and recovering from.... whatever that was. So with a muscle twitching in Jim’s jaw, his tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth and a considerable amount of effort, he surrendered to the predictable. “Right. So what on earth possessed you to do that? America isn’t exactly a prime destination these days, what with it making a colossal fool of itself every mother fucking day—Not here strictly for Brielle, I hope?”

[just-jim-balon]

charlieswann‌:

The many times he had played this song. It was unimaginable. No, it wasn’t his favorite song or anything. But he did like the sound the piece fabricated. He played it a lot when he started playing. It was one of the first complex pieces he knew. A piece his tutor made him play over and over. And to be honest he didn’t mind. His dad did sometimes, yelling through the house to play something a little happier. So he did when asked. 

Playing it was child’s play. But looking at the other’s hand whilst trying to keep up, not because he needed to watch to know when to play. No, just to see the agile fingers that presumably hadn’t played in so long. To watch those fingers play. To see them magically produce the sound that came out of the old piano. The ivory keys taking every command given by fingers. 

The question took him by surprise, like a small breeze on a summer day. So suddenly, so softly you barely recognized it. “Many reasons to be honest. Primarily insomnia and night terrors.” In combination with his big black monster of a depression and his Sensory Processing Sensitivity it was one big party here in Brielle. At least the roommate he got assigned wasn’t around longer then a week…! “But also the fact I don’t want to move on but really really should…” He whispered softly. 

It was strange the way pieces of music behaved like muscle memory, innate around his very bones when keys were under his hands. Like a jingle from an old tv commercial you didn’t know was still there, taking up space in your brain, until someone hummed it and your childhood came flooding back to you. Lyrics and all. And this piece was one of any his hands still knew the path of. And his resentment of it came mostly from the fact that he didn’t hate it. The fact that he kind of liked it, in fact, but it hadn’t been his choice. It hadn’t been about him, but rather about someone else. About his parents, about their reputation. About image and class and bullshit he didn’t give a damn about. Bullshit no 10 year old should have to give a damn about. 

“You don’t want to move on?” He frowned, giving the younger boy his gaze for a longer moment. “What do you mean?” Who doesn’t want to move on? He thought. Who in their right mind would want to linger in a place like this? Continue feeling like a prisoner, like a fuck up with a psychological crutch? “Have they told you you’re ready to leave?” Had they done all the ‘curing’ they could, had the boy grown and matured and ‘progressed’ enough for doctors in white coats to pat themselves on the back and say they’d done all they could and take all the credit for his release as a ‘new man’? Jim can only imagine the scenario. 

[just-jim-balon]

demixrivers‌:

Every assumption that the male made about Demetria Rivers was correct – she was incredibly AWARE of her own being and had grown into a professional at portrayal. There were many masks to the brunette; a BURLESQUE danced in the dead of night with a spotlight on her, capable of controlling a dozen eyes with every curvature and movement she gave – captivating her audience and seducing them… Though she was picky on the people she wore that mask for. The most common one? Her S E R P E N T stare. Demetria was the human equivalent to a black mamba; not the most deadly of snakes, but enough neurotoxic venom ready and waiting on the tip of her tongue to inject into those who threatened her – maliciously watching them squirm under her bite, shrivel up and eventually die. That was the part to her that was INHUMANE; she wasn’t a psychopath in the eyes of psychologists but she could be fucking deadly, if somebody asked for it. Being a BITCH had its perks… You usually didn’t get on the wrong side of girls like Demi – there was a reason they named STORMS after girls like her. Jimmy was very much somebody who wouldn’t hesitate to challenge her though and whilst she was sure that she may not have been able to take him on, she wouldn’t have gone down without a fight– just like any other being who was so positively sure of themselves.  

There was always the mask that was yet to be unveiled… A friendlier side, though that only came out in moments of weakness OR if it benefited her to some extent. At this moment in time, she had no reason to be a SPITEFUL brat to the Balon and so, she tried to seek a cure to her very own boredom. 

“Where are you even managing to get them? You’re not just finding them around, are you? Gross… You do realise that’s how illnesses are CONTRACTED, right? You could totally bribe the staff members into bringing fresh packets in for you. I heard Lola is a bit of a wildcard.”

Quite often in his life he wondered if people thought before they spoke. Perhaps because he thought before he spoke too much, and for too long. He’d spend days ruminating a thought, at times, before ever speaking it aloud. But frankly, more people should do that more often, if they were going to pipe up and say stupid shit. Ask stupid questions. 

Because did she really think he’d been picking smokes up off the ground? Or was it just something to say? A comment to make that wasn’t worth saying, but it gave her something to do with those honeycombed lips. A weakness in her, a need to feel the silence with her own voice. A need to talk, for fear of being missed or forgotten or ignored. 

Talk, talk, talk. That’s all Jacob had been too. Talk. 

He threw her a waning look. Derisive but steady. “Do I look homeless to you or something?” he rumbled. “Of course I didn’t just find them. On the ground or in the trash or butt cans or anything of the like.” A pause. “But thank you for the biology lesson.” Mostly sarcastic. “I’m getting them off randoms, pretty much. Bum one from a visitor smoking out on the stoop, or from one of the cooks, or a haggard looking nurse. I bum them and pocket them. Use them when I need them most. It’s no luxury, obviously.” 

She mentioned someone named Lola, and he perked up. “Really? And who might this wildcard be? A receptionist, nurse, what?” He needed to know where to find her, was the point. And how to get to her. Because he could not keep doing it this way forever. 

[just-jim-balon]

brielletutor‌:

             Yep, defiance. This was the only clear reason the tutor could see for the males blatant disregard for his a) stature and b) advice. “The problem,” Jared began, taking a few cautionary steps forward as he slid his cellphone within the pocket of his leather jacket. “Is that you’re not supposed to have them. Rules are rules, bud.” He wasn’t attempting to condescend the mystery male with his wording - but that was absolutely how the phrasing came out thanks to the tutors awkward stature.

             This male, on the other hand, seemed entirely comfortable in his setting, despite his slightly hunched shoulders, the position no doubt a result of the cool October air lapping at the bare base of his neck. It wouldn’t surprise the tutor one bit if he’d been in an altercation before, one or twenty - it simply seemed his character and this meant a lot coming from the guy who had a hell of a time reading people in general. “You gotta hand them over, if not to me then to security inside - otherwise you’re looking at three weeks in solitary for contraband.” Despite the authoritative nature of the tutors words his facial features still read sympathetic, quite the oxymoron honestly. Considering all the rules Jared had broken it was a wonder he wasn’t willing to simply turn the other way, ignore what he’d seen and allow the male to go right on ahead with his nasty habit. But it just part of his job - and damned if Jared didn’t feel the need to fulfil his duties one hundred percent.

Rules are rules, bud.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Jim could have gagged. Very nearly did, in fact, as he rolled his eyes so hard that he thought he might lose them to the back of his head and never get them back. His lips pulled into a taught, slanted line, and he turned the man a skeptical, judgemental look. “ ‘Rules are rules’ bud’?” he echoed. “Are you fucking serious right now?” A beat, another brief roll of his eyes and he took a drag. “You know that attitude is utterly counter productive to getting people to respect you, right? Or to adhere to rules at all? With no reason, no public purpose that makes your rules valid and worthwhile, subjecting a bunch of people to them collectively is barbaric. And also how dictatorships start. At the very least, you’d think whoever’s in charge here would want to at least look like there’s an important motivation to everything they do.” 

“Also—three weeks for contraband? Jesus, one call and civil rights activists would be so up your collective asses.” 

[just-jim-balon]

zoe-bridgette‌:

just-jim-balon‌:

So, her argumentativeness was… annoying. Yeah. He felt like at any moment she might wrap him up against his will in an argument about feminism or something. 

But, by the same token, the fact that she wasn’t a completely mindless pushover earned her at least a modicum of his respect. It was almost amusing, actually, watching her get all bent out of shape, presenting her debate proudly, like she’d been preparing for her rebuttal all night, practicing all first period and muttering to herself in the cafeteria line up. 

And that’s sort of what she felt like to him. Sweet, naive, and straight out of high school. Despite her surprising ability to see things with perspective. To almost foolishly go head to head with someone like Jim. 

He chuckled a bit, ironic and dry, as she spouted off her miniature tantrum about politics and… Candy Crush. 

When she finished, he took a moment, cleared his throat. Levelled her with a look. “You done?” he asked. A beat, before he continued. “Okay, while I appreciate your attempt to prove a point by making assumptions about me the same way you think I’m making assumptions about them…” A lazy flick of his wrists in the nurse’s direction. “No, I wasn’t the paragon of professionalism. But I did know there was a time and place for everything. I worked hard, while I was at work. Because I have some fucking pride.” 

It was how he was raised, actually—he’d been taught from the ripe age of six, that nothing short of 110 percent would be enough for his parents. Nothing short of perfection would have made them proud. And back then, he’d cared. He’d cared a lot. “I took pride in the responsibility that was given to me. These people have the lives of… dozens of people in their hands, if not more. Including yours. And they’re wasting time and dividing their focus to tend to their personal bullshit? How easy would it be to fuck up someone’s meds? To accidentally miss an allergy? I get that you’re little Miss Pollyanna, and everything is… sleeping beauty, snow white, whatever princess romantic fantasy you’re pining over in your head. But these people are at work. They should be working. You’re not at work. Because they took your right to work away from you. So it’s different. You can do whatever the fuck you want.

“As for the government suit—I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it sounds to me like you’re making some kind of sexist argument here. These nurses happen to be female. I happen to have called them vapid. But I’d have done the same if they were guys. I know a lot of vapid twinks and meat heads too, trust me. So that hypothetical suit you’re talking about, playing Candy Crush in his office? He’s also a flagrant fuckwit. So don’t turn my comment into something it wasn’t. Because you want a fight, Bambi, I’ll give it to you. Alternatively, you could stop wasting your breath by defending people who don’t give a shit about you, or the fact that you’re trapped here for fuck knows how long,  and realize I was on your fucking side.” 

Christ. He’s exhausted. And though his confident and stoic drawl likely didn’t give too much of that away, his patience felt paper thin—nearly translucent in the centre. This chick was… a lot. 

Bambi. Sleeping Beauty. Little Miss Pollyanna. Zoe wondered where he was getting all that from; was that really how people saw her? She didn’t feel like a cute little Disney princess, although she had to wonder how much of that she was basing off her boyfriend, who she knew formed a large part of her self-identity. If she took all the facts: motorcycle riding boyfriend, asymmetric red hair, the occasional flouting of rules, the leather jacket that hung in her wardrobe alongside Metallica and Led Zep tshirts, she didn’t think she was such a saccharine figure.

But maybe, when you’re five foot zero and have a voice that borders on lisping, it’s difficult to be taken seriously.

She wasn’t too concerned, anyway. Jim was, as far as she could tell, completely unimpressed by everyone and everything. She’d be a fool to get caught up in his opinion of her - which is quite freeing, actually. There wasn’t a pressing need to be right or wrong, there was nothing upsetting in his irritable response. And, if she was really annoying him, Zoe was fairly sure he’d just take his leave. It wasn’t as though Jim was overly worried about causing offence.

“It wasn’t a sexist thing,” she said, shaking her head. “More of a class thing, if anything. I guess I should have said - the CEO of indeterminate gender can sit on their ass fucking around and it’s fine, but the nurses and people on the bottom of the pecking order aren’t allowed that. Fair point about them having lives in their hands, though. I’ve heard about two deaths here pretty recently, which seems like two more than there should be.”

He almost laughed at the ‘indeterminate gender’ comment. As it stood, he let out a bit of a scoff, that ended with a breathy chuckle. He shook his head, tucking his smirk away, not especially keen on coming off as too charmed by her. Because he wasn’t and the misunderstanding would do no one any favours. 

Still though, the tension between them simmered into something palpable, casual, and though Jim rolled his eyes, it was more in good humour than distaste. Marginally, anyway. 

Honestly, he was happy to leave the topic be there, not interested in wasting anymore energy arguing about, so he was relieved when she took a sort of... agree to disagree stance—but distracted when she continued onto another topic. The words had him frowning, had his gaze sharpening into one of more focus. 

“Two deaths? Here?” A pause. “What, you mean someone in the medical ward? Cancer kid?” 

[just-jim-balon]

[just-jim-balon]

brielletutor‌:

With another tutoring session behind him Jared Jones happily strode through the halls of Brielle. With his satchel bag nestled in the groove of his shoulder - a weight that was nearly second nature, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone, beaming as his cerulean pools observed a text message from Demetria Rivers. While it was true patients weren’t supposed to have cell phones the tutor wasn’t about to question it - it worked in his benefit after all, allowing him to speak with the woman he was so infatuated with when she was not around.

Look over sonnet 18 tonight Shall I compare thee to a summers day The class is analyzing it tomorrow

Followed very shortly by another text;

I miss you

Neither the tutor nor his charge were stupid enough to have each others name saved to the contact list, it was something androgynous of course. Jared had saved her name under Rose, and while it was true that was Demi’s middle name there was no hard proof it was her, perhaps he was asking a love interest to assist him with his classwork - who knew what the private life of the tutor held.

It was as Jared hit the send button on the last message, simultaneously pushing open the doors allowing him to take in the crisp October air, he noticed something. A scent that wasn’t generally mixed within the beauty of the garden, cigarette smoke. While it was entirely possible it was one of the guards, as people had many vices, the tutor still found himself approaching the source of the smoke, feet moving like clockwork beneath him, boots giving off a subtle clack against the pavement path.

Despite his awkward nature Jared was some what of a social butterfly and as it stood he had met all of the resident staff members of the Institute - to wit this male, who had been supplying the subtle scent of tobacco laden autumnal air, was NOT. He sighed slightly, still gripping the cell phone within his left had, readjusting the strap of his satchel so it sat more comfortable against the leather of his onyx jacket. “Hey man,” the tutor began “I don’t wanna be a narc but -“ he gestured with his cell phone laden hand toward the stick of cancer dangling between the strangers digits. “Patients aren’t supposed to have cigarettes.”

 He came to a stop a few feet away, allowing the male a bit of a birth should he end up violent like some of the other patients Jared had the unfortunate displeasure of meeting. There was sympathy laced within his features, a look that said ‘I’ve never been where you are, but addiction is a hell of a mistress’ It wasn’t as if Jared couldn’t understand why the stranger would have come out here to curb his craving, smoke was, as the tutor understood it, an incredibly difficult habit to kick - but not impossible. Brielle offered nicotine gum as well as patches, there was no reason for this patient to be in possession of a physical cigarette, bar the obvious - defiance.

Hey man. 

Like he was trying to relate. Like he was trying to fool Jim into mistaking him for someone Jim could trust. Into someone who was ‘more than just a doctor’ (or whatever the fuck he was), and ‘not your average doc but a cool doc’. As though Jim would ever fall for that bullshit. Met one doctor, you’ve met them all. Or, in this case—met one Brielle staff, you’ve met them all. 

At least, that was his current stance was. Because he was stubborn, cynical, and hadn’t been here long enough to have been proven any differently. Plus, he had nothing to gain by trusting anyone here. And he had everything to lose. 

He looked over at the man briefly—a man who looked a little too awkward for the spectacular precision of his features. As though he were gifted with a symmetry he didn’t know how to embody. It was almost strange to witness. Jim looked at him a moment, before looking away. 

“And what’s it to you?” A pause. “I’m over eighteen and I’m not here for lung cancer. So that in mind, I really don’t see the fucking problem.” 

[just-jim-balon]

olivermeyer‌:

just-jim-balon‌:

The passion with which Oliver spoke gave him away. He did care—he cared very much, in fact. Perhaps not in the way your average son might, perhaps not in the way he was referring to. But he cared enough to quake when he spoke about his hatred. Anger was not born from apathy. It was born from love. There is no pain without it. Jim knew this, and resented his heart because of it. Resented loving his brother, his family. Resented ever wanting to be something to them, to be seen. Could he cut out his heart and unfeel the world, he would. 

He watched the angry words fight themselves passed the blond’s tightly pressed mouth. Nodded at their passion, said nothing, for there was nothing to be said. He took another drag of his smoke, relieved to have that, at least. 

The question unsettled him a little. It was an attempt to turn the attention off himself, Jim could tell, and it was not that that bothered him. But it was the hypothetical fantasizing that did. What would he do? Quite possibly a lot of things. Did he enjoy dreaming about pulverizing his brother into the ground. Did he desire hurting that face so that it might never smile again? Did he feel strengthened by his hatred, by how dramatically his brother broke his control? 

No. Not exactly. He felt few things in life now, but about this, he felt shame. Not for his own cruelty, not for his actions towards his brother, but for how his brother had found yet another way to control him. How Jacob had found yet another way to best Jim, to manipulate him into being everything he said he was; a disappointment, a mistake. 

“Let’s not do that,” he said finally. “Breed hypotheticals like they’ll change a God damn thing.” A beat. He exhaled. Flicked ashes off the cigarette and watched them fall. “Besides. My brother is here.”

“I guess you’re right, I was just curious” he shrugged. “He is?” Oliver frowned in confusion.

This whole topic made Oliver feeling very on edge. Of course he cared, even if he pretended not to. He was full of anger and hatred. If he was indifferent to the matter and really did not care, he would not be here. He would not have beaten up that boy almost to death. He would now be walking free and living his life without a single care. But that was not the case. Oliver was so fucked up that it had started to feel unthinkable that he was ever going to actually get better.  Narcolepsy was the least of his problems.

His attempts to control his emotions were getting weaker and weaker. The image of his mother beating him with the leather belt and yelling at him how the world would be better off without him began to float in his mind.  He could feel his body slowly giving up on him. Fuck. It was going to happen again. Oliver covered his face with his hands, the cigarette pressed between his lips. His knees were buckling and his muscles felt weaker after every second that had passed. “Verdammte Scheiße!” he swore and began sliding down to the ground. After few seconds of sitting down with closed eyes, he slowly took back control after hard effort to do so. He took another drag of the cigarette, flicked the ash off on the ground next to him and placed his hand on his knee whereas his head he rested on his other arm. He needed a moment before he was able to speak, so he just sat there in that same position.

"Yup. Crazy runs in the family, apparently.” And he had little to hold over his little brother that was proof he wasn’t the sunshine prodigy everyone seemed to think—but this was at least one of those things. That Jacob was here, same as Jim. Locked up, just like his fucked up, disappointment of an older brother. So if that was the one thing they had in common, Jim would take it. 

Clearly, Oliver was dealing with his own shit. This conversation was apparently, somewhat one sided on both their parts. He was harbouring his own bullshit, moody and broody and speaking through clenched teeth, and Oliver was doing the same. Asking questions that were more reflections on whatever was bothering him about his own shit, as opposed to being genuinely interested in Jim’s. Not that Jim cared. He was no different. 

He watched with blank, blinking eyes as Oliver slid down the wall, crumbled to the ground looking pained. Like he was about to have to get his appendix removed. And Jim said nothing. Just stared uncomfortably, sucking on his own cigarette because he was not one to comfort, or to know how to go out of his way to connect. He wasn’t exactly empathetic, either. Or good with people. 

After a beat, and looking at the blond skeptically, he broke the ice. “What is that—German?”

[just-jim-balon]

taraxclarke‌:

“Not at all. It doesn’t make me feel sexy, and neither does a pair of gross male eyes trying to consume me when I have absolutely no interest, and I know their thoughts are less than nice, but I can tell you’re stubborn as shit in the worst way so I’m not going to bother continuing to engage with that any longer. It’s a waste of time, I can see you’ve got some serious issues going on.” Tara probably should be more held back but she just didn’t have it in her right now. She was frustrated and she just wanted to sit by herself and have an hour - just one fucking hour - alone to enjoy not having, well, this. “And you can say I’m lying or whatever you like, it doesn’t really affect me.” Tara lifted her mug to finish her coffee, intent on salvaging whatever was left of her lunch. “I suggest you go and find something else to do before you get yourself into any kind of trouble you don’t want to be in.”

He hadn’t necessarily realized he’d been goading her. That he’d been looking for a fight. Because he hadn’t necessarily set out to anger her with his comment. Jim didn’t care enough about other people one way or another to bother with the effort. But at some point in the conversation, he’d begun hoping to hurt. Hoping to see her flinch. To rattle her enough to redden those pretty eyes. 

And maybe it was sick. But maybe so was he, and boredom was the worst kind of sickness in a place like this. 

Can see you’ve got some serious issues going on. 

He shifted a dark look her way, muscles in his jaw twitching. And when it became obvious she wasn’t going to take the bait, he realized leaving was probably in his own best interest too. But not before he set a few things straight.

Standing, he stepped closer to where she sat, towering over her and leaning closer to her face so he could speak low, and sharp. “News flash, princess. I am the trouble you don’t want to be in.” The flash of a snarling smirk, before he was stepping back and away. “I’d suggest sleeping with one eye open, sweetheart.” With a final glare, he walked away. 

[just-jim-balon]

jonassavage‌:

His eyes lingered on the other’s clenched fist for a moment, a dangerous sign that screamed for Jonas to stop, told him to stop while he was ahead, to turn around and leave. Instead of causing a healthy amount of fear, it filled the man with an intoxicating excitement, one that he could drink from forever. He was playing with fire, not only that, but he was throwing gasoline on the flames, seeing how big they could get before he was burned. If they even could burn him, because as far as he concerned, he could be completely consumed and he would still come out the other end relatively unscathed. He always had, and that wasn’t about to change now, especially not with someone who just a moment ago had been drawing away from him. 

If the obvious signs before did nothing to stop him, the glare he received had no hopes of deterring him. It only fueled his own high more, the urge to push and push the other growing stronger. This was the kind of situation, that while he had been in before, he never got enough of. Jonas generally flirted, used sex as a means control, of proving his superiority. Getting people wrapped around his finger was something he lived for, but it had nearly become commonplace for him. But this, it was a different kind of thrill, a different kind of control. Even as the other grew angry with him, he got satisfaction from the fact that he was getting the exact reaction he wanted.

A look recognition came into the other’s eyes, and for a moment he thought he was going to back down. Instead, he grew even more hostile, something that was irritating beyond belief. Jonas was fine with hostility from the other, as long as they were on his terms.  The way the other threatened him so blatantly was more than a physical challenge. It was a challenge of his control, of him as a person, thinking he would back down just because some fucking mental patient told him to. 

He laughs, the sound was edged with an intensity as it filled the room, mixing with the tension between the two of them. “Did you actually just say that? A live show of the nightmare? Do you respond that way every time someone is just asking you a question? It makes you sound crazy, hell, maybe I was wrong, maybe you do belong in this hellhole. Especially if you’re saying you’re a nightmare, as opposed to a beanpole who cowers at the slightest question,” he says, taking the final step forwards him, a fire ignited in his eyes. 

Words triggered him. The laugh, pitchy and obnoxious, triggered him more. Heat filled his chest like the lapping, brutal blue-hot flames of the fire where his heart should have been, and for a split second, he saw black. 

Just... black. Emptiness. Despair. Agony. To see red, to see in colour, would be a blessing for Jim Balon. The truth was he hadn’t seen in colour in years. 

He wasn’t sure what made him more furious—that this idiot was mocking him, or that he was misinterpreting his words and calling him stupid in the process. Or the word cower. 

Oh, the cowering got to him, because the last thing he was doing was c o w e r i n g.

“I suggest you look up the word cower in the dictionary, you moronic piece of shit, because what you’re seeing isn’t that.” He stepped closer to him, so quickly it was almost a lunge—and at 6 foot 4, he towered over the other, glare dark, fists white-knuckled. 

“And I was calling this place a nightmare, absolute fuckwit,” he growled. “What, you have dick for brains? Good thing you rely so whole-heartedly on your looks, because you have shit going on upstairs.” 

Breathing down into the other’s face in a huff, like a pitbull on a leash, he rose a brow, his neck taught and tense. “So you want to say that to me again? Or would you rather avoid being beat within an inch of your pathetic life?” 

[just-jim-balon]

dante-sweeney‌:

Dante didn’t claim to know Jim well - could anyone? But it struck him that an invitation from Jim Balon was unlikely to be a simple invitation. There always seemed to be some subtext or subterfuge beneath the thorned stem of his words, and the inscrutability of it was what kept Dante hanging onto each syllable. Jim was a challenge, a distraction, a person of great interest - much as Dante loved to be challenged, he hadn’t met anyone that challenged him quite like Jim.

Or, maybe a cigarette is just a cigarette.

It just seemed unlikely, because Jim was so patently a loner, and yet there he stood inviting Dante to join him. In a manner of speaking - ‘you coming?’ wasn’t a tacit invitation as much as it was permission. Which, for now, Dante was willing to take, doubtful as he was of Jim’s intentions.They’d already established that Jim was wont to be both threatening and seductive in the same breath, and he had to wonder what that meant with regards to cigarette breaks.

“To be ravished, or assaulted?” Dante asked, as though the answer was likely to change his opinion. He was already heaving himself up from the sofa - pausing for the barest moment as his head spun, because he had managed to evade the nurse’s watchful eye that morning and pocketed his breakfast instead of eating it. Blinking away the clouded darkness that threatened his vision, Dante saw for the first time how damn tall Jim was.

He realized now that their two conversations had been seated, not allowing him to fully appreciate the magnitude of Jim’s height. Dante wasn’t used to feeling short, and yet he had to look up at Jim as he fell into step beside him. The only thing preventing him from commenting was the fact that when you’re as tall as Jim, you’ve no doubt heard every variation of ‘gee, you sure are tall’ that exists within the spectrum of human imagination.

It pleased him, the way Dante stood without hesitation. He was accepting quickly enough that Jim barely even had time to fear rejection. And oh, how he feared rejection on a regular basis. In fact, his fear and loathing for it is what enabled him to isolate himself the way he did. A man could be an island, if it meant he would remove himself from the possibility of hardship, pain. Of being stabbed in the back, then being left to bleed out and die. 

And so he so rarely made any effort to connect. Taking risks was for fools. Why make the jump for something as potentially mediocre as it was potentially disappointing, when the pit below was hardly worth either option? There was no pot of gold, no greener side. 

But he had his moments. His rare moments where others made it easy for him. Or rather, others made it hard for him to resist. Taking Dante with him just now was no more than a sidestep in a direction he was going anyway. Taking him with him in this instance was nearly, and irresistibly effortless. And Jim was a loner out of desperation, not out of desire. And so both unwilling to be vulnerable by his own authority and yet unable to turn away the attention when it was sliding so seductively into his lap, he would draw out this opportunity as long as he was able—and then watch it with a glare in its spine as it fled from him, which is surely would, in time. All things did. 

The quip was off Dante’s tongue before his small frame was even off the seat—and there was a subtle, fleeting pause; a strange moment Jim thought he noticed where Dante blinked a couple extra times, as though shaking away a thought—but it was a moment Jim quickly dismissed in his distraction with the smug look on the younger man’s face. That crooked lift of a brow, that impish line hanging off his cheek, this mouth curved just so, just there—

He didn’t like not knowing what it meant. On the one hand, he craved the appraisal it suggested. Wanted to trust it as a sign he had influence over Dante—that the wiry boy with a messy nest of onyx hair was in his tow, blind and reliable. But on the other hand, he worried. Worried that the moment he took that tone of voice, that lingering look, to mean what he thought it might, he would open himself up for treason. That at any moment, Dante would turn and point and laugh. Reveal that it’d all been an elaborate lie to expose Jim as weak, to prank him into thinking he could ever, ever have anything good. 

But those words: To be ravished or assaulted. In fact, the more Dante said, the more honeyed and playful his comments seemed to become—but Jim feared slipping in them. Falling atop them and cracking his head on the concrete below. 

He distracted himself by picking at the threads inside his pocket as Dante fell into step beside him—a few inches below Jim’s eye line, but not nearly as much as some. Jim was used to towering over others—so much so, that he hardly noticed anymore. But he did notice this time; noticed that Dante was more within reasonable distance from him. 

The question remained hung between them as they began to move from the room. And that Jm could feel the other’s eyes on him, made him more resolute to avoid meeting them—reluctant to reinforce that sensation of uncertainty about what was behind that dark-eyed gaze. 

To be ravished or assaulted? 

No more than four seconds must have passed, but it felt like longer. Much, much longer. 

“Depends,” he said finally, apathetic gaze still trained straight ahead. “Which would you prefer?” He looked over at Dante at the last possible moment. Made sure to make that look purposeful. Made sure to hold the look solidly, with confidence. He had managed, again, to make his reply sound simultaneously like a threat and a seduction—and it had taken him effort to do so. But the ambiguity of his enthusiasm for the conversation was the only way he could continue with it. The only way he could flirt with little risk. 

So is that what this was? Flirting? He hardly thought so. Hardly thought himself capable of anything so ordinary. But Dante was waving temptation under Jim’s nose with all his cheeky, coquettish comments—could Jim be blamed for being drawn to the scent? 

[just-jim-balon]

charlieswann‌:

The boy gave a small nod. Part of him understood. If he would stop playing just to calm his brain down. If he would start playing because he had to. He would start playing too long. 

“I think I understand that. Kind of..!” He said softly as the others fingers were gliding over the ivory keys. Not yet pressing them, almost like greeting an old friend. 

He could almost imagine playing the piano for the wrong reason. Losing his escape of the world. The piano had been therapeutic the moment he had walked into this room. The moment he sat down like Jim was doing right now. He had literally spent half a hour with his fingers just gliding over the ivory keys. Like meeting an old friend, like caressing a lover, finding that part of his heart he had put away the moment he had seen the dead body of his sister. He hadn’t played a single note for two years. The moment he started to actually play he didn’t stop for two hours straight. Everything flowing out of him. Tears streaming down his face as he was pouring all his hurt into the music. Hoping nobody would walk in or hear his sobs. The piano relieving a part of the pain. 

As he started to play, he could feel the first uncertainty before the old Jim took over and actually started to feel the music instead of playing it. A smile forming on his face. Of course he knew the piece. It had always grabbed him, the way it sound was so sad, so heavy, almost like a wet woolen blanket on your shoulders. With the words of the other reaching his ears his hand automatically hovered towards the ivory keys as he started playing with him. The bass line feeling as natural as the rest of the song. 

Charlie was probably everything Jim wasn’t. He was gentle and soft spoken where Jim was abrasive and heavy handed, pensive and earnest where Jim was broody and manipulative. But they had common ground in this, apparently, and while Jim lost himself in the muscle memory of the song, and the soothing and slow dark basses, he had a moment where he forgot where he was. What he was going here, and who he was doing it with. 

His heart rate slowed. His shoulders dropped. 

As did his left hand as Charlie joined in, letting the younger boy take over the bass line. It’d been a long time since he’d played with anyone else. A long time since he’d done anything in tandem with another person, in fact. The feeling of having to time yourself with an awareness of someone else, having to share, having someone meet you in the middle—it was unfamiliar. Years away from where Jim was now. But it reminded him of his childhood. Of being twelve when Jacob was eight. Of doing things with the younger, wide-eyed boy on his hip, looking at him like he hung the moon. 

But in a distant way, in a way Jim likely wouldn’t say alloud, it was kind of nice. And, in a distant way, Charlie reminded Jim a little bit of how Jacob used to be. How he might have been, had he not become something else entirely. 

“Why are you here?” he asked the boy, somewhat quietly, without look up from the keys. “At Brielle.” 

[billskarsgardpoliticsrus]

[just-jim-balon]

taraxclarke‌:

“Excuse me?”

Yeah, that was dancing on a bit of a line here. Tara was anything but amused as she looked steadily back at him. Trying to read him the way she knew how to read many others. “You’ll find that women do things like that for themselves.”

He rolled his eyes. Ah yes, the most stereotypical argument in the book. Also the thinnest. 

“Right. Because it makes them feel good, right? Confident, sexy, and all that shit, right?” He leaned forward. “But why does it make them feel good? Because they feel attractive, which by definition, is appealing to look at or alluring to others. So they feel good because they believe they are pleasing the senses of others. Feeling sexy makes them feel empowered, or whatever the fuck. But they feel empowered because of how it affects others. There’s no such fucking thing as making yourself attractive for purely your own pleasure. That doesn’t exist, plain and simple. Not psychologically or anthropologically possible. Sorry.”

A beat. “But whether you feel you do it for yourself or not—complaining about being looked at for being beautiful, complaining about being complimented. Sounds like the most passive aggressive fishing I’ve ever heard. You pretend you hate it. You don’t. No one does.” 

[just-jim-balon]

jonassavage‌:

Jonas would’ve had to be an idiot if he didn’t notice how Jim pulled away, even if the taller man stayed in place. His arms pulled into tighter around him, the tall frame slouching over. It was surprising, the other didn’t seem like the sort to cower at nothing. Not that he would consider himself nothing, hell he was the first to admit how intimidating he could be. Despite his short stature, he was larger than life, with all the energy of a hurricane and the effects that came with one as well. Still, he didn’t think this man would get swept up so easily in his storm, not that he entirely minded. Being able to intimidate people made him feel in control, which at times was even more satisfying than the attention they gave him. Control was everything to him, and felt frustrated when he didn’t have it. Intimidation was the easiest way to achieve control, next to sex at least. 

“Oh, come on, you can’t give a guy a hint at least,” he says, giving the other a small pout as he takes yet another step closer. Boundaries was a foreign idea to him, and even if he had noticed someone’s limits, he would push them regardless. Limits existed for him to push, to challenged at every step. The fact that people had them at all seemed ridiculous, why live life with limits on yourself? 

The actual words that came from Jim’s mouth hardly even registered, all he heard was the sharp, and warning tone underneath. It was irritating to stay the least, why the fuck was this guy warning him? Did he exactly expect to heed it, as if he considered the other a threat in the slightest? It seemed almost insulting, and he wouldn’t stand for it. “And what did they say they were locking you up for? I mean, obviously it’s bullshit, but I’m curious,” he asks, a slight edge to his voice now, though he still had the overbearing confidence as he prodded once more.

Jim was an extremely cagey person by nature, and he was extremely sensitive to feeling like he was being manipulated, toyed with. And that’s how he felt in the moment—that this guy was playing with him. There was mocking in his tone, something dark and sharpened like a blade, and it was strange, how the content of their conversation could be so seemingly harmless, so insignificant, and yet be driven by an undertone of everything unsaid. In there lied the threat. In there lied the reason Jim could feel his skin igniting with something volatile, his hands balling into fists, jaw setting into a tight clench. 

The other stepped closer, and Jim glared. And then a mocking pout, and another step, and Jim watched him like a caged, predatory animal. And what are they locking you up for? Obviously it’s bullshit, but I’m curious. What was bullshit, was the motivation behind the question. Jim had the sinking suspicion—in fact, he had no doubt in his mind—that this idiot didn’t think it was bullshit at all. That he was prying with the sole purpose of getting Jim to say exactly what they so-called professionals thought was wrong with him. Cornering Jim into admitting something, in order to make himself feel bigger, better, more powerful. 

Jim recognized this move with a nauseating familiarity.

This asshole was just like Jacob. 

Suddenly, he looked just like Jacob, too. And as far as Jim was concerned, he was Jacob, and Jim wouldn’t hesitate to treat him as such, either. 

“Tell you what, I’ll do better than a hint. Come one fucking step closer and I’ll give you a live show of this nightmare.” He stared the guy down, swallowing back a burn in his throat that felt like the acidic reach of bile. He was daring this idiot to push him. He could pulverize the prick in a second, and it would probably feel good. A release he hadn’t had in far too many days.