tw: angst and vague implication of self-harm :((

pls do not read the end of the chapter if u don't feel comfortable ! i can always summarize for u <3

***

Ringing pierces through the air.

Ring.

I let out a groan.

Ring.

My eyes squeeze shut.

Ring.

Pushing myself off of my bed, my eyes try to find the source of the noise. I blink nothing short of a million times, a hand running over my eyes. When my vision clears, my eyes knit together to find Angie standing at the doorway.

She raises both eyebrows, oversized pajamas hanging from her body. Bunny slippers tap on the ground beneath her.

In her hands is a vibrating object. My phone. Angie meets my eyes. "I found it on the counter," she says, concern lacing her voice.

I'm confused for a few seconds, my mind slowly processing everything when reality attacks me in a barrage. My eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. My phone. I run another hand through my hair, grabbing the phone from her hands, my hands shaking as I raise it to my face.

It only takes one glance at the home screen to know I've fucked up beyond a point of redemption.

thegayagenda: jason ??

thegayagenda: it's still early, you have time

thegayagenda: it's all good

This was three hours before Iridescence.

brown bicon: you're not at the foyer??

tall ass fucker: we're gonna go in, alright

dani!!: we're heading inside, see u in there :')

The messages after become more desperate. I suck in a breath, rocking back and forth, trying to seek comfort that falls through my fingers like granules of sand.

screwTERFS: jason?? 

peterthehyun: just to let u know, we're inside. dw, not much people have arrived yet

One hour before Iridescence. On my bed, I keep rocking. Back and forth, back and forth.

There are five missed calls from Lucas, three from Amir, and four from both Dani and Riya.

thegayagenda: people are arriving

thegayagenda: you're running a bit late for check-in time. just let me know if things are okay

Thirty minutes later.

thegayagenda: you should be here by now

thegayagenda: jason

Fifteen minutes later.

thegayagenda: avery might do intros just bc you're running a bit late

thegayagenda: you're really cutting this one close

Fifteen minutes into the event.

thegayagenda: jason what the hell

An hour into the event.

thegayagenda: please, jason

I wince at the desperation I can practically hear through the text. Lucas' messages come to an abrupt end after that. I keep rocking, hands shaking.

The last message was seventeen hours ago. After that? Nothing.

Trembling, I try to find Lucas' contact. In seconds, my clumsy fingers click the call button. I hold my phone to my ears, Angie watching me with slight worry. The phone rings. Rings and rings again. 

He's not fucking answering.

"Fuck," My voice is dripping in pain. Everything hurts. "Fuck, I fucked up." I seem to repeat the phrase time and time again, chest heaving as if trying to come to terms with the fact that this is really happening, that it's not just a bad dream.

The bed dips beside me, and my twin blinks back at me, her eyes trying to find mine. "What happened?"

"I just." My voice is shaking as I start. But with a low exhale, everything falls out. Iridescence, the GSA, my promise to be there, the event that was supposed to save my ass. Ms. Willis keeping me at home to finish cleaning, everything going black.

I'm so fucking fucked.

"Talk to Lucas," She says, leaning forward, one bunny slipper slipping off her feet as she swings the leg that's off my bed back and forth.

"He's going to be so pissed at me." I say, sounding weak. But knowing Lucas Garcia, he might be more hurt than pissed and that'll fucking tear me apart even more.

"H-he's not picking up." Stop fucking stuttering, you haven't done that since you were ten. 

Angie raises both eyebrows. "Well, what're you waiting for?"

"What?" I ask.

She tilts her head to the side, black strands of hair falling just past her shoulders. "Go tell him in person."

"Right now?" I ask, because it seems like my mind is working like un-oiled gears, turning slowly and painfully.

"Yeah, lazy ass." Angie grins, but there's still a sense of softness behind her expression. Her voice is light, but there's a certain concern that's present in her features. I want to tell her that I'm fine. But in reality, I feel like I'm anything but fine.

And Angie—being the other piece of me, essentially— won't buy into that bullshit for a second.

So, with that, I send her a nod, flying through the doorway and stumbling down the stairs, nearly tripping over steps, my hands hovering over the railing as I make my way down. The grand living room greets me once I arrive, light snores coming over from the center of the room.

On the living room, Ms. Willis is sleeping, knocked out. Her mouth's parted ungracefully, arms and legs sprawled over her seat, empty bottle of beer seated on the table next to her. Her chest rises up and down and she coughs.

Willis might be better off avoiding cigarettes.

I observe her for a couple of seconds before raising both middle fingers at her sleeping figure.

While I most definitely can't convey the absolute hate I have for her in this moment in time, something about it feels necessary. That being said, I don't have quite the sense of closure I would've liked to have.

So, I let my shoulders sag, making my way out of the house and slipping into the car, a dark beacon in the driveway. While in the car, I try to replay the directions to Lucas' house in my mind. With a somewhat clear idea in the back of my mind, I pass by familiar buildings and roads.

After a few minutes, I pull into the familiar house. A few cars line the driveway, one being the bright red car that Lucas Garcia drives. I almost smile at the sight. It's comforting for a few seconds, but my comfort slowly wisps away as I brace myself for a conversation that I don't want to have.

I make my way onto the driveway, feet shifting on the bienvenidos mat as I ring the doorbell. There's some shuffling from behind the door, some yelling in Spanish. Soon, a tall figure with a build to match opens the door.

Luis. 

He seems confused to see me, eyebrows raising. "Hey," he says, slowly. 

"Hey," I return before cutting to the chase, "do you know where Lucas is? I've gotta talk to him."

"Uh," He says slowly, eyebrows still raised. "Yeah, he's upstairs with a special friend." The faintest of smirks curves onto Luis' lips at the last part of the sentence, and I try to shove any emotion I feel about the statement deep down inside my chest.

"Right, thanks," I rush out. Luis nods and I rush up the stairs until I'm at the higher level. With that, I make a turn, right to where I vaguely remember Lucas' room to be. The door's only slightly ajar, and I inhale deeply before opening it further.

In his room, Lucas is seated on the edge of his bed, legs brought to his chest. Across from him, David Harris is seated, man-spreading over the other half of the bed.

They're talking in hushed voices. But the quiet conversation draws to an abrupt end when I open the door, staring back at the two of them.

I clear my throat.

Lucas looks up to see me. 

My shoulders almost sag in relief to see him, but soon stiffen again in apprehension. Harris glances between the two of us, seemingly bored. Lucas is positioned in such a way that the sunlight in his room catches his eyes, as it usually does.

"Jason." Lucas says this, dragging me out of my stupor. The word is one-syllabled and harsh, my eyes widening when I hear the coldness freezing from his voice.

Lucas rises to his feet in seconds, approaching me at the doorway and making a move to shut the door.

I push back at it, trying to ignore the sting from his expression when I do so. "Please," I say, voice broken. "Just please let me explain."

There's a pause. 

Lucas stares at me for a few minutes before letting out a frustrated breath, slipping outside of his room and shutting the door behind him.

He meets my eyes with an icy intensity that I'm not accustomed to. Not from him, at least.

An exhale, a softening of his eyes. "Okay, explain."

The two words should be easy to answer. After all, I'd explained it all to Angie this morning. But my lips fall at a loss for words.

"I..." I start, voice trailing off. I fumble for words, try to tell him everything, try to let words come out, sentences form. But they don't.

Lucas waits expectantly, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His voice is glacier-like when he asks, "why weren't you there?"

I don't reply. I can't reply.

Here I am with Lucas' full attention, but my mind isn't even operating well enough to give him one sentence. At least give him one sentence, a voice inside of me urges, he deserves that, at least.

There's a shaky, tearful laugh. "You know there was no introduction speech at the event, right?"

My chest hurts.

This event meant the world to him.

"Yeah," Lucas continues, "I was sure you'd come, and no one else was prepared for it." Lucas holds himself tighter. "You made a promise." A waver of his voice. "You made a promise and you broke it."

He waits, he waits again. 

But I go mute, as though I'm on pause, have no capability of talking to him anymore.

He continues to wait. Continues to wait until he shakes his head. His voice is soft, wavering. "I was completely wrong about you." There's a subtle strain behind his voice, his head shaking again and again, voice continuing to shake. "You don't give a shit about us."

And this is the moment where I should say: "Lucas, I'm not like that. Lucas, I really wanted to come, really tried to come. Lucas, this isn't my fault. None of that is true. Please, let me explain."

Instead, my explanation comes out as: "Yeah, well you don't know shit, Lucas."

Because instead of improving, fixing things, I destroy everything that I touch, put up defenses if it gets too personal, lock everything and everyone out.

"So, you know what?" I ask, trying to erase the tremor from my voice. "Go back in there, hang out with Harris." I wave a hand, the tremor is still there as I plow on. "A guy that'll never fucking like you that way."

Lucas shakes his head slowly, disappointedly.

"Because, you're right." I say. "I'm an asshole." My voice hardens, sounding so unlike the inner turmoil that's sucking all the air from my lungs. "And I should've never joined your stupid fucking club in the first place."

Lucas' hands fall to his sides, fists clenching tightly. His face is dusted with a deep rose, and his eyes seem shaky, the hurt raw in them.

"Fuck you." He says, meeting my eyes, and I can hear the way his voice shakes.

"No, fuck you, Lucas," I shake my head again and again and again. Heat rises to my face, and I can't tell how much of it is anger and how much of it is signifying my waning minutes 'till I break down in totality.

I prefer anger any day.

With that, I storm out of the doorway, down the stairs, my anger being my only driving force, the only thing keeping me going.

Once in the kitchen, I lock eyes with Luis who has his phone to his ear, his eyes widening in surprise as I make my way through the doors, everything about me signifying that something went irreversibly wrong in that room.

As Luis stares at me from where he's leaning against the kitchen counter, he nods distractedly. A voice comes from the other end of the phone and Luis dives back into the conversation. "Yeah, I'm listening, princesa." He finds my eyes, saying into the phone, "just hold on for a moment."

With that, he uses a hand to cover his phone, eyebrows raised and slightly concerned as he finds my eyes. "Everything good?" He asks, as if my shaking torso and my pinkening face shows any sign of being okay.

"Everything's fucking dandy," I spit. The words are like venom that burn my tongue.

The expression Luis returns me shows that he can tell that everything is far from being fucking dandy. But with a sense of resignation, he lets his shoulders sag into a shrug. The voice from the other end returns and Luis dives back into his call.

"No, Sofia, te ves preciosa en todo. Okay?" His voice is smooth and easy, and I don't glimpse back at Lucas' brother as I push my way out of the house.

Shutting the door behind me, I slide into the car to drive home. My grip on the steering wheel is vice-like, and I let my head fall onto it for a few seconds before making the familiar trip back home.

My surroundings seem to melt into each other throughout the entire drive. Everything feels numb. He hates me. He fucking hates me.

There's a smaller voice in my head that pushes another thought to the surface. But not as much as you hate yourself.

It's a voice that I thought I said goodbye to a long time ago. I haven't, apparently. Because now, it's slinking beneath the surface, rising once more.

And just like my life, I have no fucking idea what to do with it.

Once I arrive at home, I don't waste any time to make my way into my room, falling onto my bed like the weight of the world is upon me.

My phone vibrates with a notification. An email from Ms. Anderson.

A brief glance shows me some comment from Ms. Anderson about my absence from the event, what that might mean for my school record, how the event was crucial for my growth and one of the main objectives of my collaborating with the GSA, contributing to the school. She asks for me to schedule a meeting with her at some point.

I'm barely done with the email when I hear Ms. Willis' yell from downstairs. "Pick your shit from the floor!"

It's too much. All of it is too much.

Iridescence, Lucas, David, Ms. Anderson, Ms. Willis. My hands knot into my hair. Everything is too fucking much. My breathing quickens, chest heaving at a faster rate than it should.

I can hear too many voices, too many problems, too much hurt overlapping and fucking everything up. My life. My eyes squeeze shut.

I can't fucking do this anymore.

I see Lucas' face, his hurt, his frustration, his disappointment. 

My shoulder shudders once, and then I break apart.

All of me comes undone.

Tears cloud my vision, everything blurs. My fingers pull at my hair, painfully. My voice is a sob. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry, Lucas."

I shudder, shudder again and again and again. My body seems to shake with sobs, feels weak underneath their weight.

I raise my wrists to my line of vision, the fading markings curving all over. My hands are still shaking.

Everything is too fucking much.

And in my usual toxic pattern of living— the one in which I always seem to tear myself and my world apart— my eyes catch onto a small, yet familiar blade on a counter top.

***

i hate writing angst. but things will turn up (soon). i promise <3