Post by Deleted on Sept 26, 2019 18:37:42 GMT -5
happy.
He doesn’t want to do this anymore.
Mike was laying in the grass in the backyard. One arm was slung at an awkward sort of angle over their forehead. The other had a cigarette smoldering in it, perhaps perilously close to catching the yard on fire but, by some miracle, not. They stared blankly skyward, a few clouds drifting by. It was an impossibly cheerful sort of day, warm, as if Mother Nature hadn’t gotten the memo that it wasn’t summer anymore.
Maybe he never did really want this. Maybe it was fun for a while but now he’s just sticking it out for your sake so you don’t throw another temper tantrum and then get perma-shitfaced like last time.
Correct interpretation was key. They always knew they were going to mutually stop one day, but it seemed that Mike’s partner would be perfectly happy if that day was right now, if they just flung the Chimeras at Fantanasy, deserving or not, and fucked off into the sunset. Mike’s drive was still there. Maybe losing Harley had galvanized them a bit, made them want to carry on their trainer’s legacy for a bit longer, make sure it really got cemented in. But did John want that?
‘I’ve come to the realization that any happiness derived from a place like this is an anomaly.’
He’s not happy, you fucker. But you had to be a fuckin’ Veruca Salt level brat and ignore that fact because you have some sort of fucking complex. If it were up to you, you’d be Terry Funk levels of not knowing when to hang it up.
The cigarette was drawn to their lips. Inhale. Exhale a plume of menthol-tinged smoke.
You knew that. That’s probably why he wanted to quit in the first place. But you’re not thinking of that, you selfish cunt. He doesn’t deserve you. No wonder he doesn’t tell you he loves you. Who in their right fuckin’ mind would?
Mike didn’t reply, not even mentally. They just kept staring at the sky, eyes like flat green rocks.
You’re shit, McGuire. Human fucking excrement. So fucking damaged you can’t even relate to people properly, even when you’re given a fuckin’ gift from goddamn Heaven. You try to be all fuckin’ noble but you’re no different than any other fecal-faced fuck he’s ever had the misfortune of coming across. In fact, you’re probably worse because he actually believes in you. Poor guy, did he ever back the wrong horse.
Their fingers twiddled a bit, ash scattering as the two-thirds burnt cigarette wobbled back and forth. They shakily drew in a breath, and took another puff. It was hard to argue with yourself, even when you knew you were full of shit.
You never should’ve woke up. Steve should’ve fucking killed you and you know it, and the whole world would’ve been better off, you selfish, vulgar, gender-confused cunt. You lived and you weren’t supposed to and now you’re just vomit on the earth that doesn’t have a place here. Mucking up the life of the most kindhearted guy in the whole fucking world. You don’t even have the excuse of not understanding him. You do. You just don’t give a shit.
“Shut up…”
You know what you oughta fucking do? Kill yourself.
Mike inhaled sharply. Wasn’t the first time that had popped up, but it’d been a very long time since it was that vivid, that to-the-point.
Fucking kill yourself, you worthless cunt. Eat a bullet, slit your wrists, drink bleach. Just get off this mortal coil right fucking now. KILL YOURSE--
The invasive train of thought was cut off by a sharp, searing pain and a slight whiff of burnt flesh. The remnants of the cig extinguished itself against Mike’s arm, involuntary tears pricking at their screwed-shut eyes as their breath hissed sharply through their teeth. Their thoughts went quiet, stifled by the external stimulus that…
“...shit.”
...that they were going to have a devil of a time explaining to their partner. Way to go, Mike. The Jets buttfumble again.
Brushing the ash off their arm, they examined the burn, trying to figure out if it was that conspicuous. He’d notice, though. Mike knew that much. John was sharp- he always noticed when something was wrong. And if he noticed, and if he asked, they couldn’t lie. They’d learned the consequences of lying to him long ago, even to spare feelings.
Wincing, they ran a thumb over the angry circular mark. Better get it cleaned and put some burn spray on it. They’d figure out how to tell John when they got to that particular bridge.