closed starter — @myplutoisms.
song — your graduation by modern baseball.
— " bullshit. you fucking miss me. " completely and utterly shit-faced, as an extreme of a description as that is, is an understatement to the place benji is at right now; the exact mix of substances he's on? who knows. sincerely, who knows. not him. he remembers drinking, sure, remembers starting around 4pm and now it's 4am. remembers finding some pills in the bathroom, remembers snagging those. molly earlier in the night, but that's worn off. now he's standing on a curbside and he was going to ignore his ex — the ex of his life — as he walked past him out of this party, but benji's mouth opens in a betrayal against his better judgment. they haven't been together in three years. there's been check ins, sure. the obligatory are you doing okay? texts. his least favorite question in the fucking world, and everyone's favoooorite to ask him, even though he's fucking fine. he's never always fine. he'd decided not to approach when he heard him inside ( glared at him though, before ducking into the bathroom to swipe those pills ), talking about someone not him, not being sure if they're the one — bullshit. it's all fucking bullshit. of course they're not the one. that was him. it was always, always him.
he sways where he stands, eyes tracking his movement as he comes to stand in front of benji. his throat's constricted, tight with some effort to not cry. his knuckles whiten at his side, but his face is relaxed, or limp. whichever you wanna call it. " there. i said it. guess we'll talk in a few months. hm? " there's a sudden movement, a swift kick to the car tire nearest to his foot beside them, and then the upset rolls in — he's like a tidal wave, you know? like the ocean. calm when it's calm ( sedated, more like ). roaring when it isn't. destructive. " you know... " he's slurring as he's hopping back into the grass, trying to find his footing, hissing through his teeth. he's slurring and he's talking more, and he's thinking, stop. don't do it, but the words are coming anyway. " it's been three fucking years. three years of thinking of you. every day. sometimes for hours, sometimes, passing." there's a shrug over passing, like it's nonchalant, even though it isn't. he's talking with his hands now, gesturing, both hands palms up and fingers curled in frustration. "i never — never! never, thought i'd see the day where i just... let you walk away, you know that?" yelling, now. he's yelling. shaking. "for so many months, i wished — wished you'd stop pretending! but you never did. do you remember me telling you i loved you? do you remember me telling you not to forget it, ever?"
he's not letting him get a word in. he knows. it's not fair. he knows. but neither has anything else, been. hasn't been fair to him, hasn't been fair to benji. and that's not all about him, not all about this, but nothing has ever felt fair, and it's like the anguish of that is bubbling out of him all at once in the melt-down of a century. "oh, just..." the breaths are coming slower now, and he really does feel his upper half constricting, like maybe he isn't breathing right. ( his body is trying to cry. the tears are flowing, funnily; he isn't noticing it, he isn't sobbing, but he's crying ). "just forget it. go ahead, walk away. i don't care."
they both know he's lying. he's lied about a lot, but i don't care has to be among the least convincing of 'em ever told.
