The morning after
Have some angst, since this seems to be the MO of this fandom.
Chargestep, set after the Ortega playtest, uses my Sidestep, Chris Basri (they/them).
TW: for suicidal thoughts and mentions of self harm and past non con
You wonder if the fall would be big enough to kill you this time.
You know it wouldn’t be, if you were at your place, but you are now on Ortega’s balcony and he has enough money to live on a high floor. You take a drag from your cigarette and watch the street bellow. You are on your forth one and you don’t think you are stopping any time soon. You are suddenly worried your pack won’t be enough for you.
So you smoke you cigarette until it nearly burns your fingers and you put it out on your arm. Slow. Taking in the pain. It will hold you together for a little while longer.
You take another cigarette out and light it.
You don’t regret it. You don’t. You really really don’t. Except why would you keep repeating that if it was really true? Aren’t you just trying to convince yourself? It felt good. So much better than you ever thought it could feel. It didn’t hurt like it used to. It didn’t make you feel dirty and gross like it used to.
So you are trying. You are trying so fucking hard not to regret it. Not to remember the last time you did something like this. Not to remember hands around your throat, not to remember making him keep squeezing, making him think he had to kill you, not to remember the frustration when the guards burst in the door not to remember- You watch your hand shake as it holds the cigarette.
You watch the ash you flicker off your cigarette flitter down off the balcony and you try to run the math. Though, if you jumped here, Ortega would have to deal with the mess. He’d know why you asked him to keep your clothes on. You shudder and take another drag against the feeling. If nothing else, then at least the smoking will kill you eventually.
Too long, your brain chimes in.
You start thinking of the pills you have hidden in the back of your cabinet. Of the razor you keep in your bathroom. Of the the gun you bought for Eden. Feel once again the taste of metal that won’t leave your memories. Pull the trigger. Destroy the brain. That was all anyone was ever interested in anyway.
You suddenly remember what the therapist said. ‘Being a perfectionist is hard work.’
No. It wasn’t a mistake. You don’t regret it. You don’t. It-
-Chris?
You turn your head at the sound and there he is. Ortega. It couldn’t be anyone else, but you are still somehow surprised to see him. He must have been just gotten up. He had been sleeping when you got up from the bed and he has that fresh out of bed look. Sleepy eyes, messy hair. You can’t help but want to run your hands through it. You also feel like that is something you can’t do anymore. Why? Just a few hours ago you had sex with this man, why do you feel like there is a gaping hole between you now?
-Everything ok? – He tries again when you don’t answer. You can see it in his eyes that he knows the answer. His voice makes it sounds more like a plea than a question. You flicker your cigarette over the railing again. You want to run your hands through his hair. You want to kiss him softly. You care for him. You care for this man so fucking much. Why isn’t that tnough?
-Yeah, I’m fine – you tell him, because what else could you say? That your skin is tingling? That he is just a few steps away from you but that crossing that distance feels impossible right now? You will your muscles to form a smile. It doesn’t quite work. You take another drag to hide it.
-Are you coming back to bed? – He asks and it sounds too much like begging. You suddenly remember what he said before. I love you. Fuck. He doesn’t love you. He loves Chris Basri. The person you created when you back when you were naïve enough to believe that if you lied enough some day the mask would stick.
His eyes are soft and worried. He looks so fucking vulnerable, looking at you from the door to the balcony, feet bare on the floor, the scars on his chest plain in sight. There are marks there and you know that you were the one to put them there. You can’t help but look away.
Looking at him like that only reminds you of how much you want to protect him. How much you want to keep him safe from everything that will ever hurt him. But you know that all those things will also be your fault. Your eyes fall to the asphalt down bellow again. You think of gravity, of the pills, of the razor, of the gun.
-Chris. Look at me. –You turn to look at him. Oh. You hadn’t answered him, had you? He has a hard look on his face. Is that the face he made when he talked to Chen during heartbreak? – You don’t have to come back to bed if you don’t want to, – he looks so serious. So worried. Then I guess I fell for this new you all over again. You are going to destroy this man – You don’t have to stay the night if you don’t want to. Just please – his voice cracks and you shiver. You care for him. You want to protect him. You hurt him. You lo- – Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.
You can’t help it. You laugh. Helplessly and probably more than a little manic. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.” Like you had made any smart decisions ever since you met him again in that stupid fucking dinner.