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 Posted: Sun Apr 08, 2012 2:10 pm
Chris was puppeted in all of these with Guine's permission. <3 Word Count: 524
The first time Paris woke up, it was only eight o’clock at night.
He couldn’t really remember anything, just vague flashes of Chris coming in the door to the sound of his humorless laughter, then golden eyes and too much alcohol and a voice—his own?—muttering things he assumed didn’t make any sense, because he’d been too far gone at that point for the memory to stick.
His eyes cracked open to stare at the clock on the bedside table, the numbers glowing red in the darkness and moonlight. He was aware enough of his surroundings to realize that he was in Chris’s bed, on the side Chris usually slept on, but he didn’t know how he’d gotten there. Had Chris carried him? Had he stumbled up on his own?
Paris tried to think back but the haze over his mind wouldn’t let him.
Then he realized, with a noise that was half a groan and half a whimper, that his head hurt and his stomach was doing uncomfortable flip flops in his gut.
That was when he registered the sound of someone throwing up in the bathroom.
He didn’t have to reach behind him and feel the empty side of the mattress to know who it was. He tried to sit up, tried to roll out of bed and climb to his feet, but his head spun and his stomach gave a sick flutter when his ears brought Chris’s hacking and heaving into sharp focus. Even after all the parties and bars and clubs, Paris was ashamed to admit that he’d never had a strong stomach. He’d built up a tolerance over time, he’d learned what his limits were, and he knew if he passed them he’d pay for it later, either hunched over the toilet or supporting himself above the sink.
The toilet was already in use. He didn’t think he’d be able to make it to the sink.
As a substitute, Paris grabbed the small trash can by the side of the bed and ducked his head over top of it just in time for his stomach to make another upsetting turn and send its contents back up the way they’d come.
It wasn’t much—no more than liquid. He’d only eaten breakfast that morning and had skipped lunch and dinner entirely. He muttered a few curses to himself for being stupid, hovering over the trashcan until the queasy feeling had mostly subsided and he thought he could tolerate moving without it returning. It was an effort, but he managed to set the can aside and rolled out of bed, crouching on the floor on his hands and knees until he felt steady enough to push himself to his feet.
He stumbled to the bathroom, with bleary eyes and a spinning head. Chris’s heaving had stopped, but Paris found his boyfriend at the toilet still, forehead pressed against the cool rim.
Paris came up behind him and settled down against Chris’s back, slipping his arms around him to hold Chris steady.
“Sorry,” he whispered into Chris’s shoulder.
He wished he could feel guilty. Instead, he didn’t feel anything at all.
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Posted: Sun Apr 08, 2012 2:12 pm
Word Count: 625
The second time Paris returned to consciousness, he was on the side of the bed he usually slept on and couldn’t see the clock, but it was still dark out and the moon was high in the sky out the window, so he knew it had to be late.
At first he didn’t know what had woken him. His head still ached and his body felt sore and weak, so he moaned in quiet discomfort. He closed his eyes again to sink back into the mattress with its warm, warm sheets.
Then he heard a voice, deep and hoarse like whoever was speaking had just woken up, too.
“Paris,” it said. It was joined by a hand on his shoulder that shook him gently. “Baby…”
His eyes popped open and he gave a jolt of alarm, glancing over his shoulder to see Chris at his back, offering his phone to him. The screen glowed brightly in the darkness. Even though it was set to vibrate, it sounded loud in his over-sensitive ears.
“Sorry,” Chris said, pressing the phone into his hand. “It’s your mom.”
At any other time Paris might have argued, but he didn’t have the strength for it, so he answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Mom…” he said.
“Baby…” she replied. She sounded panicky and concerned, but took a breath to settle herself down. “Where are you? I’ve been calling and texting but you haven’t been answering.”
“I’m with Chris,” he told her, and then returned the question before she could start smothering him over the line. “Where are you?”
“I’m at home, Baby.”
“In New York?”
“No, of course not. I’m at the house,” she said. There was an uncomfortable pause before she could correct herself. “Your father’s house.”
“Oh…”
“Baby, you should come home.”
“What time is it?” he asked.
“Almost midnight. I’ve been calling you for hours.”
Paris didn’t move. He knew he should probably get up. He thought of trying but eventually decided he didn’t want to. Not right now. It would take too much effort when all he wanted to do was sleep.
“I’m gonna stay with Chris,” he said.
“Baby…” she tried.
Paris didn’t like hearing the affectionate name from her as much as when Chris said it.
“Please, Mom,” he cut her off. If he’d been feeling any better he would have been appalled to hear himself begging her. “I’m so tired.”
She didn’t say anything for a while, but if Paris listened closely he could still hear her breathing on the other end. It sounded uneven and occasionally too deep, like she was having trouble managing the simple effort and was doing her best to control it. He wondered if she was upset. He knew she must be worried—he’d called her down from New York and then hadn’t bothered to see her—but he couldn’t imagine how she must be feeling beyond that.
Her ex-husband had just died. Even though she’d left, Paris knew it hadn’t been because of any feelings of hatred, just disappointment and a longing for more. She had to feel something, he thought. She couldn’t be completely unaffected.
“Okay,” she finally said. Her voice still sounded unsteady. “Okay, Baby, but call me in the morning.”
“I will,” he said.
“Promise me.”
“I promise, Mom.”
“Okay,” she said again. “Okay. Good night, Baby.”
“‘Night, Mom.”
He hung up and dropped his phone onto the bedside table.
Chris was still behind him. He’d kept his distance while Paris was busy with the call, but as soon as it was over Paris felt the mattress shift as Chris inched closer. An arm slipped over his waist. Paris closed his eyes and leaned back, letting sleep claim him again.
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Posted: Sun Apr 08, 2012 2:15 pm
Word Count: 493
The sun was up the third time Paris awoke, and the sky out the window was the dull gray-blue of early morning.
He no longer felt an arm around him. In fact, he no longer felt another presence in the bed with him at all. Turning over, Paris saw that the numbers on the clock read 7:23 AM. He rubbed at his eyes and looked around for his missing boyfriend.
Chris came out of the bathroom, dressed down for once in a pair of sweatpants and the DCU hoodie Paris always stole whenever he was over and feeling chilly. Chris looked tired but alert, slightly pale with smudges under his eyes and an unshaven face. Anna darted around, making a quick path between Chris and the stairs, her tail wagging excitedly.
“Hey,” Chris said when he noticed Paris awake, sitting down on the edge of the bed to pull on a pair of rarely worn sneakers that looked brand new but were probably some months old—if not even older than that.
“Hi,” Paris responded. He didn’t sit up. He didn’t really do anything, numb, lethargic. He thought about trying, but it was too much and he didn’t want to bother. He just wanted to lay there, maybe forever.
“I’m going to take Anna for a walk,” Chris told him. He set his feet down once he was done with his shoes, and then turned slightly to reach out and run a hand through Paris’s hair. It was light and comforting—careful, like Chris was afraid of breaking him. “Stay in bed. Get some more sleep.”
“Okay…” Paris agreed.
Chris looked like he wanted to ask him something, but he kept his mouth shut. Paris figured his boyfriend had meant to ask if he was okay and thought it was a dumb question to voice, given the situation.
“How do you feel?” Paris asked instead, lifting a hand to place it along Chris’s arm.
“I just have a little headache. It’s nothing horrible,” Chris reassured him. He tried to smile and managed it well enough. “It probably helped that I puked last night.”
“Probably…”
“What about you?”
“Headache,” Paris said. “And I feel tired and sore.”
“Do you want anything?”
“No. I’m-”
He didn’t know what he meant to say—“fine” or “okay” or some other word that meant the same—but he couldn’t lie and he cut himself off before he even bothered to try.
Chris seemed to understand. He leaned down to kiss him gently. Paris smelled coffee on his breath—spearmint, too.
“I’ll be back in a bit,” Chris promised as he pulled away.
His boyfriend climbed to his feet and Paris let him go, watching him grab a pair of sunglasses before joining his dog at the stairs. Then he descended out of sight and was gone.
Paris sighed and closed his eyes again. He’d already slept for twelve hours.
He felt as if he could sleep twelve more.
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Posted: Sun Apr 08, 2012 2:18 pm
Word Count: 479
When he woke up the fourth time it was close to noon and Paris made himself roll out of bed. His head throbbed, but he couldn’t tell if it was because of the alcohol he’d drank yesterday or the fact that he’d overslept.
He looked around but didn’t see anyone else up in the loft, not Chris or the dog or his kitten he’d intended to leave there as long as his father was in the hospital. His phone was where he’d left it on the bedside table, and the trashcan he’d thrown up in the night before had been cleaned, the plastic bag that hung inside replaced with a new one. Everything else looked normal—the bed was a mess, a tangle of sheets and blankets, but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary after an evening of fooling around. He still didn’t remember it, but then he didn’t really need to.
He wondered if Chris remembered and then decided it didn’t really matter.
He could hear his boyfriend puttering around downstairs, probably trying to put something together for lunch. Paris didn’t really feel like eating, though he knew he should. He hadn’t eaten anything in over twenty-four hours. His brain knew this very well—he couldn’t remember anything about the previous afternoon, but yesterday morning stood out starkly in his mind—yet his body protested with a turn of the stomach and he was sure he wouldn’t be able to force down more than a few bites.
Instead, Paris made his way into the bathroom and stopped to stare at himself in the mirror. He looked as terrible as he felt. His hair was a mess, his skin was sickly pale, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot, with smudges underneath to match the ones on Chris’s face. He groaned when he saw the ugly hickeys that marred his neck. They stood out darkly against the pallor of his skin, hideous red and purple things he wouldn’t have allowed if he’d been in his right mind. He pushed his hair out of the way to assess the damage. He doubted they’d fade as quickly as he would prefer, and they’d likely be a pain to cover up.
He should have been annoyed, but beyond a perfunctory sense of irritation aimed mostly at himself, Paris didn’t feel anything except numb and tired.
The alcohol hadn’t helped. Whatever he’d done with Chris in his drunken stupor hadn’t helped.
He didn’t think anything would. The grief was still too new and too heavy.
Paris frowned and stopped fussing over his appearance and mourning his current situation before he could really even start. He looked in the medicine cabinet for a bottle of ibuprofen and swallowed three down with water from the sink, and then turned on the shower until the water was scalding.
He stepped in and hoped it’d wash everything away.
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