Applebee's
contents: addiction, past trauma, alcohol cravings, encountering a trigger, whumpee in recovery
Jian has new friends <3 and support from some old ones <3
June 2023
Taglist!! @yet-another-heathen @much-ado-about-whumping @minerscanary @softmutt444
🍰🍰🍰
It would just be one drink. Normal people could have a drink every now and then. It wasn't a problem. It wasn't dangerous.
Jian tapped his fingertips against his Pepsi, antsy. He tried to focus on the frigid condensation collecting on his skin. Think about anything else.
And. He had a very good support system. They wouldn't let him take it too far. One silly cocktail at a fucking Applebee's wouldn't wreck his life. He wouldn't even feel it.
With a cold, wet fingernail, Jian zeroed in on a ridge in the glass, obsessively rubbing at it with small, quick movements, staring at nothing as he tried to suffocate the most reasonable-sounding voice in his head so far.
He wasn't some out of control maniac. He was perfectly capable of having just one drink with his friends. And it wouldn't kill him. It literally wouldn't even harm him. It wasn't the deadly poison he was trying to convince himself it was.
"—Jian. Hey. Jian." Chela poked his left bicep, almost-gently prodding him from his trance. She kept her voice graciously low-key, but damn, the girl jabbed him hard enough to bruise. "You good? What's goin' on up there?"
"Ow. Bitch," Jian spat with no venom, rubbing his arm with an icy hand. He'd fallen out of loop with the table conversation, Wes and Trish recounting a college tale with players he'd never heard of. He must have zoned out for a minute. "I'm fine, there's nothing—" he vaguely gestured to his skull, "—uh, nothing going on up there."
"You sure?"
"For sure." Neither of them were fooled for a second. Chela squeezed his hand beneath the table.
"Okay. But if you do need anything—" Chela raised her eyebrows and let the offer hang in the air before patting his thigh and turning back to the conversation. Jian felt a bit lighter, almost forgetting what had been bringing him down in the first place, until his gaze landed again on the little laminated cocktail menu at the center of the table.
Hm. Right.
He wasn't usually like this. He could do restaurants, he could even do bars, it was no big deal. He found it remarkably easy to be around drunk people without feeling the pull.
But this time he felt cornered, like something was prodding at him, nudging between his shoulder blades, making him fidgety and anxious, making his palms sweat and his heart race.
"Hey, um, actually," Jian caught Chela's attention, much more gently than she'd gotten his. She didn't look surprised to turn back around so soon. "I'm gonna go outside for a sec."
"Want me to come with?"
"Could you?"
Chela nodded, and they excused themselves from the table with next to no fuss, waving off mildly concerned comments. Jian let go of a tense breath when his, "It's fine, I'll be back," really was all it took to pacify the group that was never going to be hostile to him in the first place. It was still a trip getting used to being trusted with his own head.
Wading through the modest weekend crowd toward the exit, the repetitive chorus of Rihanna's "We Found Love" danced over the muddy noise of several tables' overlapping conversations, stronger and fainter and stronger again as Jian and Chela passed between speakers on their way out. Jian couldn't sift through the rushing noise of his own brain enough to pin down what he was actually feeling, but he could tell that song was at the center of it.
The music still carried on the cool wind when they opened the door, even more speakers piping the restaurant radio onto the empty patio for any customers who may have been waiting outside. The failed escape from the noise lit a spark of nervousness and irritation in Jian's chest, but at least out here he could remind himself to breathe, and there would be no one watching him while he made the effort.
The darkening sky was clear and the air was still and warm. Jian sat at a black iron bench and Chela joined him, leaning back and crossing her legs at the ankles.
"So, whatchya got?" Chela asked. Ever impatient, even in her most helpful moods. Jian leaned forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands, and tried not to snap at her for it.
"Gimme a minute." Getting his voice to land on a neutral tone was an accomplishment. His throat strained with the effort.
"Do what you gotta do, my dude."
What he had to do, apparently, was turn off his brain and let the song play out. He spent the final forty seconds of it with his eyes shut against his palms. Beside him, Chela's restless energy was growing with every passing moment, though her charmingly dykeish chivalry kept her from pushing.
"I haven't heard that song in ages," Jian said when it finally faded out and the restaurant's 2000s pop mix rolled onward, "Paparazzi" by Lady Gaga up next. "They used to play that one a lot when I was on the scene, you remember that?" He wiped his hands down his face, forgetting the smear of glitter he'd applied for their night out, until he saw some of it on his palms. "Shit."
Chela laughed, then checked his cheeks and waved him off. "Still looks good, babe. You wanna talk? Is it sober stuff?"
"Yeah. God, this shit is embarrassing."
"Jian. I literally caught your leg when it fell off the ride at Six Flags."
"That was funny-cute embarrassing. This is sad embarrassing."
"We both know I've been around for plenty of that, too," she said, the humor dropping from her voice for a moment, like his leg had done from that damn ride. "And I love you anyway, remember? So, come on. Spill." Her voice skipped easily back towards levity, a cheesy TV detective creeping into her tone.
She never really meant to do that. Normally Jian would laugh with her about it, but tonight he just sighed, rubbing sweat and glitter onto his jeans. Even just that familiar duo of substances was making more bright flickers of vague, unwanted memories pop into his head like flashbulbs. Papa-paparazzi.
He remembered the grit of it, glitter scraping his skin raw as he melted into the heat and violence of the crowds, like he could dissolve away into the strobe lights. He could still feel the sugary grime clinging to his fingers, after all these years.
He remembered loving it. He remembered the ease of it, of genuinely not giving a shit about where any given night took him. He remembered the catch and release.
"They sat us right by the fucking bar," Jian said, his voice rising to a frustrated growl, the hot steam that had been covertly building in his chest since the beginning of the night finally finding a crack to hiss out of. He immediately tried to smother it again, pressing duct tape over the tiny break in his composure. He forced a deeper breath. When he spoke again, his tone was quiet but bitchy. "Plus, Wes and his endless supply of stories from fucking college. What am I supposed to do with that? He was taking Psych 101 while I was, you know, being the fucked up case study."
"Pssht, leave him alone. It's not about Wes. You like Wes."
"I don't. He's an—"
"You li-ike Wes." Chela drew it out this time, nudging Jian's shoulder and giving him a wink. "You want to be his fucked up little case study."
Jian rolled his eyes, then shot her a glare. "That's, like, actually not funny, Chela," he said, scowling to her playful smirk. "Swear to god, one of these days he's going to piss me off at a bad time and I'm going to punch him in the mouth."
"Yeah, okay, whatever," Chela said breezily. "So, you're being a cunt because Applebee's is pelting you with teen angst from all sides. That's rough. Wanna go somewhere else? You know we'd be down to find another spot if you asked."
Jian took a breath. Fine, maybe he was being a cunt, but Wes' unrelenting goodness and sunshine still made his fucking ears ring.
That wire of delicately suppressed bitchiness was still strung tight in Jian's chest, but he was trying to gently loosen it to something more suited to a casual night out with his new friends. It was hard enough to arrange a night where they were all free to meet up. He didn't want to spend it rotting beneath the cold, queasy shadow that followed him whenever his mind wandered more than a couple years backwards.
His body knew exactly what it was. His mind just didn't want to admit it, even to himself, so he was left with nothing but those painful echoes. If stuffing up that blind spot with drugs and alcohol wasn't an option anymore, he'd still rather redirect all that rage and heartbreak to the nearest innocent target than actually try to uncover it himself.
He remembered loving it. He remembered the freedom that came with disavowing fear.
He never had to face it before.
Chela squeezed Jian's arm when the silence became unbearable for her. When Jian looked up, he realized that tears had begun budding in his eyes. He hadn't even felt it happening.
"Babe, you know that, right?" Chela asked, still holding Jian's arm. He didn't mind the anchor. "No one's gonna be upset if you wanna go somewhere else. Honestly, Jian. We all support you."
"No, no, I know. It's okay. It's, um . . ." Jian swallowed. He felt like he was on the edge of a horrible betrayal, even just admitting how little progress he'd actually made in digging himself out of this particular hole. He couldn't even fucking face it. "I just needed a little break from things— the music, the bar, fucking Wes." He caught himself, a bit too late, and leaned back with an aggravated sigh. "Sorry, I'm being a cunt again."
"Yeah. Yeah, you are," Chela said, laughing at him. "But that's, like, okay, you know?" Her relative levity worked loose some of the painful hooks dragging Jian downward, and he took a couple more slow breaths of cool evening air.
He didn't have to face anything right now. He just wanted to have a night out with his new friends.
Something in him was still so resistant to even meeting new people that the constant struggle of reminding himself that he might actually be safe around this little group was exhausting him. He was out of practice, as far as trust went.
But these people were different than what he knew. This was nothing like North Carolina, nothing like the streets, nothing like the suburbs. Not everyone wanted him dead. Not everyone wanted him to suffer.
"I don't want to leave," Jian said into the silence. He didn't know exactly where the conviction was coming from, but it felt right.
"Okay."
"But . . . I don't know, I . . . You know," Jian floundered, shifting his weight on the bench. "I don't want to be a cunt for the rest of the night."
Chela blinked a couple times. "Do you wanna get a drink?" she asked.
"Um. Yeah, I do. That's, like, the problem?" Jian stuttered, successfully stupefied.
"No, I mean, like," Chela said, smacking Jian's thigh and laughing. "You could get that blue shark drink or something. I know you like those. Just get it virgin."
"What did you just call me?"
Chela smacked him again. He was going to end up with bruises by the end of the night if she kept this up.
"Shush, you fucking dweeb."
Jian cracked a smile, and quieted down.
"I know it's not gonna fix everything," Chela continued. "But you can still be part of the fun drinks club without drinking. You're not even the only sober one here today. I'll get one, too. What are you worried about, that we'll think you're lame? We already know you're lame."
"You're really good at pep talks, did you know that?"
"I do my best."
It was . . . an option. He couldn't deny that.
No, it wouldn't fix everything. It might not even work, might make him feel worse. But trying was probably better than sulking out here and getting picked on by mosquitoes while the rest of the group was happily chattering inside.
As Jian considered what havoc a Shirley Temple would unleash in his stomach, he noticed the sick weight inside of him had actually lifted some. It wasn't a lot, but it was something. It was an option.
It wasn't what his body was accustomed to demanding. He'd still feel the pain of that denial.
"I . . . I can't promise that I won't still be, like, kind of a bitch. When we go back in. I'll try, but . . . You know."
"Jian," Chela laughed, and more of the weight slipped away. "I'd only be worried if you ever stopped being a total bitch."
————
The sound of chattering diners bathed them in a different, busier kind of warmth than the stillness of early summer outside. Serenading their slightly awkward trek back to the table was "Super Bass" by Nicki Minaj. All of it together, the noise and busy energy of this place, sent Jian's skin tingling in a milder version of that existence-numbing buzz he'd spent his life seeking years ago. In his modern era, the tactile reminder made him feel more uneasy and pissy than untethered and free.
But he had options now.
The two of them were greeted with excitement when they returned to the table. No one asked where they'd been or what had taken them so long. Before Jian had even settled back into his spot at the end of the cushioned bench, Trish was championing for a retelling of the Six Flags story.