misfits fic: 'if you wanna link up'
Jun. 18th, 2017 12:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
merrymelodyA03
'Hey, man, fuck off! I need a place to hide.'
Simon, nursing a bottle and fuming, looks up at the sudden interruption; as a curly haired boy shoves his way into the disabled toilet at the club, past the ineffectual lock.
Simon would normally back off from conflict, but he's drunk, for the first time.
He always pictured getting drunk for the first time with a group of friends, girls, maybe at a party, not angrily gulping burning cheap vodka in the loo, trying to think about anything but what just happened back there.
He feels like he's going to explode, to do something, anything, and while it doesn't feel like something that will lead anywhere good, he's so tired of feeling like himself, afraid of everything; that as long as it's something he's never done before, he really doesn't care.
In the back of his head he's been toying over the ideas he used to fixate on at school, hitting Matt and his stupid friends, smashing up his car, setting fire to his Xbox.
He also thinks about getting laid, of touching a girl, or for fuck's sake, even kissing one.
There are beautiful people out tonight, out every night, and Simon, awkward in his own skin, bitterly aware of his own flaws, the marble like stare of his eyes, his short stature, bulging jaw; has always been particularly helpless before them, pinned like one of his butterflies.
It's the reason he put up with Matt's shit so long, he thinks, curling with self-loathing, creeping back like a kicked dog.
It's also the reason he gets so angry, resentment curdling.
Sometimes he sees a lovely girl, a beautiful boy, the flash of curls, the curve of breasts, a long throat working, or the clean lines of a straight back; and instead of the usual shameful arousal, has to bite back on an odd sort of disgust, a resentment for making him feel this way, for acting as if he's invisible, for the vanity it must take to be so unaware of anything outside their own loveliness.
This boy is handsome, even bent over and panting, wearing a stained jumper and cheap plastic looking bowling shoes.
It angers Simon further. Here he is, locked away, hiding in a stinking toilet, trying to work up the nerve to, if not act like a passably normal human being, than at least to not leave like a pathetic freak, to have some small amount of pride.
And even here, the Matts of the world can't leave him alone, let him have even this small space.
Simon's never fought someone. Matt has a lot of friends and he's aware that he already comes off intense, coming to blows would only make him look more unhinged, create more rumours.
But tonight, gulping vodka, he feels like he could throw a punch.
The boy starts in again: 'You deaf? The police are probably on their way, prick, unless you're taking a shit you need to fuck off!'
'You fuck off', he retorts, the words awkward in his throat, tongue thick, unused to language. 'I was here first.'
The boy leans toward him and Simon thinks he's going to hit first, curses himself for his own inaction yet again, but instead the boy grabs the vodka bottle and takes a long slug, without even wiping off the neck first.
'What are you - get off!'
'Hey, I'm just stopping you being a tragic statistic, a night in the disabled toilets alone with a bottle? What's the chaser, fifty paracetamol and a razor blade?'
'Because bowling alone is a much better way to spend Saturday night', Simon manages.
It probably doesn't cut the boy to the quick, to be honest, but it's more than he said to Matt, which is enough for his stomach to feel warm with a tiny amount of pride.
'I was with my mates. You know, people you hang out with? You probably call yours a paedo ring.'
Simon scowls. 'Then where are they?'
'I got pulled over by the rentacops at the alley, had to leg it.'
'And they left you to it?'
'We were only two frames in. Besides, they'd probably have slowed me down, I'm pretty fit.'
Simon's not convinced, but he's hardly the expert on popularity, so he doesn't feel the need to point fingers on that topic, instead changing the subject.
'Why did security want to arrest you?'
'For taking some pic n mix!' The boy’s Irish accent raises in outrage to a squeak.
Maybe because he's drunk, or maybe it's the whole situation, but Simon can't help but laugh.
'And I thought my evening was shit.'
'Why the fuck are you in here anywhere? Having a wank? Taking the disabled's wrong, man, that's for couples, it's just the right thing to do. If you can't finish in a cubicle, you're doing it wrong.'
Simon ignores that. 'There's this boy at the bar. From school. Matt.'
'Who's Matt? Your ex?' The boy interrupts in a camp voice.
Simon glares. 'I'm not gay. I'm not...like that. He's a boy I went to school with. He used to...'
He pauses, not sure he wants to share anything further with a boy who's nicked his drink, called him a paedophile and told him to fuck off in the space of a minute, but even worse than being taken the piss out of is ignoring it again, shoving it inside, where the only person who notices is him.
Besides, this boy is hardly Mr Cool and Popular, he's probably the only person in Thamesmead with less to do than Simon, judging by his goofy attitude and unimpressive brush with the law.
'He used to bully me. He lives in the house next door to me. I was going to go round there, while they're still out. Burn it.'
He almost swallows the last bit, unable to quite believe he even said that out loud, let alone in front of another person.
The boy, far from scared or worse, amused at Simon's craziness, looks bizarrely underwhelmed, though.
'Nah, man, just twat the fucker. All that stuff's on insurance anyway, you'll just end up with a record, and believe me, you and your baby blues would definitely get gang raped in the nick. You should shit on his doorstep or...fuck his mum, I dunno.'
Simon can't help but snicker, a little hysterically, at the idea of fucking June, who always wears an apron in the house, and smells of lavender; and Matt's reaction if he did.
The boy looks pleased, grabbing back the bottle from Simon's loosely curled fingers for another swig.
This time he doesn't bother to protest, even at the germ risk.
'Gotta be careful round this place, anyway, it's crawling with fuzz.' He puts on another silly voice, this one a pretty ropy attempt at an American accent. 'Not surprised, though, it’s a total shithole, literally - the car park downstairs? I swear, I walked past a bloke curling one out, right on the floor.'
Simon grimaces in disgust.
'You'd think the coppers could sort out cunts like that instead of hassling people for taking a fucking Haribo.'
'I haven't seen any police here'. Simon offers. The mood he's been in, he would definitely have noticed.
'D'ja see a black bloke, bald, in a leather jacket? Too old to be in here?'
Simon shrugs, he doesn't recall anyone like that, but it feels dismissive to insist.
The boy doesn't wait for an answer anyway, rambling on excitedly. 'Fucker's a detective, my mate Chewie says he's proper hardcore, takes people in over a wrap.'
Simon doesn't even know what a wrap is, but he's not about to ask in front of this boy. 'Do you have any drugs, then?'
'No! ...Well,' he considers. 'Just a couple of pills and my baccie. Quick, it's your lucky night.'
The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of fluff, and among it, on his palm, two small white pills. He pops one, swigging at the vodka.
'I don't take -'
'Hey, these cost a bomb, I don't have to share!'
Simon's still reluctant, but he can't remember anyone offering to share anything with him since he and Matt were friends.
And besides, he wanted something to happen, this can’t be worse than the other ideas he had.
He screws up his courage, taking the pill. ‘What's it going to do?’
‘You’ll be horny for a few hours. Probably give the booze a break now, though, unless you want to pass out. My mate Paul, right, he took five, washed him down with half a bottle of tequila, and tried to fuck a chair, but –’
The boy’s about to begin another probably made-up story, when the door handle starts rattling.
‘Aw, shit, he's coming!’
The rattles turn to thumps in seconds, and just as the door is shoved open again; the boy grabs Simon suddenly, and shoves his tongue down his throat.
Simon chokes, recoiling backwards against the filthy sink, but the bloke in the coat swiftly sizes up what he thinks is the situation and exits, with an awkward nod.
‘...Cheers’ the boy offers, awkwardly, after a few silent seconds as they both wait to see if the detective returns.
‘I really didn’t want to get dragged in for a joint and sweet theft, it’d be embarrassing. I want my first arrest to be special, you know, like a great train robbery plus, I dunno, exceeding fire regulations with the amount of partners in my bedroom.’ He waves a hand in illustration.
‘We should probably get out of here’, Simon suggests. ‘The alley’s not far from here, security can radio the police if they’re on the same wavelength range.’
The boy smirks a little at Simon’s precise phrasing, but the drugs must be kicking in, because he just smiles back.
‘That, and we’ll start rolling soon, probably don’t wanna spend your first trip in this place, someone puked on the stairs on the way up, and that was half an hour ago, by now it’s probably carnage.
I’m heading back to mine, got water, some bacon and eggs for the morning, and this rug in my room, I dunno if it’s bear skin or sheep or what’ – Simon has his own smirk at that – ‘but fucking stroke it when the molly kicks in, you’ll come in your pants.
When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was riding a horse and kinda rock on it, you know’, he demonstrates, gyrating his hips pornographically, ‘but my mum said she’d throw it out if I didn’t at least keep my trousers on, so.’ He shrugs.
Simon pauses, awkwardly, not sure whether that was an invitation or not – or whether he even wanted it to be, frankly; these stories are getting weirder by the minute.
‘You coming, then? Unless you’re off to fuck your neighbour’s mum, of course.’
Simon shakes his head. ‘She’s 60, not really my type. Won’t your mum mind?’
‘She’s in Spain with her new fella,’ the boy scowls, doing air quotes on the last word.
‘You can have guests?’
‘My mum was on her last warning three warnings ago; as long as the house is still standing and I don't puke on the carpet again, I doubt she’ll notice. Come on!’ He yanks Simon by the wrist.
Simon's still a little nervous: of the drugs; of what his parents will say when he doesn't come back; what Matt will say behind his back about tonight.
But this night is still looking better than anything he could have imagined after the scene earlier, and he'd rather be pushing down a little anxiety than the thick, stomach churning self-loathing he usually feels after failed interactions with people.
Maybe going home with a half-crazy stranger who's kissed him and insulted him in the last minute is a pretty ironic fuck you to the rest of his life, but it's about time he took a risk, he thinks.
'Hey, man, fuck off! I need a place to hide.'
Simon, nursing a bottle and fuming, looks up at the sudden interruption; as a curly haired boy shoves his way into the disabled toilet at the club, past the ineffectual lock.
Simon would normally back off from conflict, but he's drunk, for the first time.
He always pictured getting drunk for the first time with a group of friends, girls, maybe at a party, not angrily gulping burning cheap vodka in the loo, trying to think about anything but what just happened back there.
He feels like he's going to explode, to do something, anything, and while it doesn't feel like something that will lead anywhere good, he's so tired of feeling like himself, afraid of everything; that as long as it's something he's never done before, he really doesn't care.
In the back of his head he's been toying over the ideas he used to fixate on at school, hitting Matt and his stupid friends, smashing up his car, setting fire to his Xbox.
He also thinks about getting laid, of touching a girl, or for fuck's sake, even kissing one.
There are beautiful people out tonight, out every night, and Simon, awkward in his own skin, bitterly aware of his own flaws, the marble like stare of his eyes, his short stature, bulging jaw; has always been particularly helpless before them, pinned like one of his butterflies.
It's the reason he put up with Matt's shit so long, he thinks, curling with self-loathing, creeping back like a kicked dog.
It's also the reason he gets so angry, resentment curdling.
Sometimes he sees a lovely girl, a beautiful boy, the flash of curls, the curve of breasts, a long throat working, or the clean lines of a straight back; and instead of the usual shameful arousal, has to bite back on an odd sort of disgust, a resentment for making him feel this way, for acting as if he's invisible, for the vanity it must take to be so unaware of anything outside their own loveliness.
This boy is handsome, even bent over and panting, wearing a stained jumper and cheap plastic looking bowling shoes.
It angers Simon further. Here he is, locked away, hiding in a stinking toilet, trying to work up the nerve to, if not act like a passably normal human being, than at least to not leave like a pathetic freak, to have some small amount of pride.
And even here, the Matts of the world can't leave him alone, let him have even this small space.
Simon's never fought someone. Matt has a lot of friends and he's aware that he already comes off intense, coming to blows would only make him look more unhinged, create more rumours.
But tonight, gulping vodka, he feels like he could throw a punch.
The boy starts in again: 'You deaf? The police are probably on their way, prick, unless you're taking a shit you need to fuck off!'
'You fuck off', he retorts, the words awkward in his throat, tongue thick, unused to language. 'I was here first.'
The boy leans toward him and Simon thinks he's going to hit first, curses himself for his own inaction yet again, but instead the boy grabs the vodka bottle and takes a long slug, without even wiping off the neck first.
'What are you - get off!'
'Hey, I'm just stopping you being a tragic statistic, a night in the disabled toilets alone with a bottle? What's the chaser, fifty paracetamol and a razor blade?'
'Because bowling alone is a much better way to spend Saturday night', Simon manages.
It probably doesn't cut the boy to the quick, to be honest, but it's more than he said to Matt, which is enough for his stomach to feel warm with a tiny amount of pride.
'I was with my mates. You know, people you hang out with? You probably call yours a paedo ring.'
Simon scowls. 'Then where are they?'
'I got pulled over by the rentacops at the alley, had to leg it.'
'And they left you to it?'
'We were only two frames in. Besides, they'd probably have slowed me down, I'm pretty fit.'
Simon's not convinced, but he's hardly the expert on popularity, so he doesn't feel the need to point fingers on that topic, instead changing the subject.
'Why did security want to arrest you?'
'For taking some pic n mix!' The boy’s Irish accent raises in outrage to a squeak.
Maybe because he's drunk, or maybe it's the whole situation, but Simon can't help but laugh.
'And I thought my evening was shit.'
'Why the fuck are you in here anywhere? Having a wank? Taking the disabled's wrong, man, that's for couples, it's just the right thing to do. If you can't finish in a cubicle, you're doing it wrong.'
Simon ignores that. 'There's this boy at the bar. From school. Matt.'
'Who's Matt? Your ex?' The boy interrupts in a camp voice.
Simon glares. 'I'm not gay. I'm not...like that. He's a boy I went to school with. He used to...'
He pauses, not sure he wants to share anything further with a boy who's nicked his drink, called him a paedophile and told him to fuck off in the space of a minute, but even worse than being taken the piss out of is ignoring it again, shoving it inside, where the only person who notices is him.
Besides, this boy is hardly Mr Cool and Popular, he's probably the only person in Thamesmead with less to do than Simon, judging by his goofy attitude and unimpressive brush with the law.
'He used to bully me. He lives in the house next door to me. I was going to go round there, while they're still out. Burn it.'
He almost swallows the last bit, unable to quite believe he even said that out loud, let alone in front of another person.
The boy, far from scared or worse, amused at Simon's craziness, looks bizarrely underwhelmed, though.
'Nah, man, just twat the fucker. All that stuff's on insurance anyway, you'll just end up with a record, and believe me, you and your baby blues would definitely get gang raped in the nick. You should shit on his doorstep or...fuck his mum, I dunno.'
Simon can't help but snicker, a little hysterically, at the idea of fucking June, who always wears an apron in the house, and smells of lavender; and Matt's reaction if he did.
The boy looks pleased, grabbing back the bottle from Simon's loosely curled fingers for another swig.
This time he doesn't bother to protest, even at the germ risk.
'Gotta be careful round this place, anyway, it's crawling with fuzz.' He puts on another silly voice, this one a pretty ropy attempt at an American accent. 'Not surprised, though, it’s a total shithole, literally - the car park downstairs? I swear, I walked past a bloke curling one out, right on the floor.'
Simon grimaces in disgust.
'You'd think the coppers could sort out cunts like that instead of hassling people for taking a fucking Haribo.'
'I haven't seen any police here'. Simon offers. The mood he's been in, he would definitely have noticed.
'D'ja see a black bloke, bald, in a leather jacket? Too old to be in here?'
Simon shrugs, he doesn't recall anyone like that, but it feels dismissive to insist.
The boy doesn't wait for an answer anyway, rambling on excitedly. 'Fucker's a detective, my mate Chewie says he's proper hardcore, takes people in over a wrap.'
Simon doesn't even know what a wrap is, but he's not about to ask in front of this boy. 'Do you have any drugs, then?'
'No! ...Well,' he considers. 'Just a couple of pills and my baccie. Quick, it's your lucky night.'
The boy reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handful of fluff, and among it, on his palm, two small white pills. He pops one, swigging at the vodka.
'I don't take -'
'Hey, these cost a bomb, I don't have to share!'
Simon's still reluctant, but he can't remember anyone offering to share anything with him since he and Matt were friends.
And besides, he wanted something to happen, this can’t be worse than the other ideas he had.
He screws up his courage, taking the pill. ‘What's it going to do?’
‘You’ll be horny for a few hours. Probably give the booze a break now, though, unless you want to pass out. My mate Paul, right, he took five, washed him down with half a bottle of tequila, and tried to fuck a chair, but –’
The boy’s about to begin another probably made-up story, when the door handle starts rattling.
‘Aw, shit, he's coming!’
The rattles turn to thumps in seconds, and just as the door is shoved open again; the boy grabs Simon suddenly, and shoves his tongue down his throat.
Simon chokes, recoiling backwards against the filthy sink, but the bloke in the coat swiftly sizes up what he thinks is the situation and exits, with an awkward nod.
‘...Cheers’ the boy offers, awkwardly, after a few silent seconds as they both wait to see if the detective returns.
‘I really didn’t want to get dragged in for a joint and sweet theft, it’d be embarrassing. I want my first arrest to be special, you know, like a great train robbery plus, I dunno, exceeding fire regulations with the amount of partners in my bedroom.’ He waves a hand in illustration.
‘We should probably get out of here’, Simon suggests. ‘The alley’s not far from here, security can radio the police if they’re on the same wavelength range.’
The boy smirks a little at Simon’s precise phrasing, but the drugs must be kicking in, because he just smiles back.
‘That, and we’ll start rolling soon, probably don’t wanna spend your first trip in this place, someone puked on the stairs on the way up, and that was half an hour ago, by now it’s probably carnage.
I’m heading back to mine, got water, some bacon and eggs for the morning, and this rug in my room, I dunno if it’s bear skin or sheep or what’ – Simon has his own smirk at that – ‘but fucking stroke it when the molly kicks in, you’ll come in your pants.
When I was a kid, I used to pretend I was riding a horse and kinda rock on it, you know’, he demonstrates, gyrating his hips pornographically, ‘but my mum said she’d throw it out if I didn’t at least keep my trousers on, so.’ He shrugs.
Simon pauses, awkwardly, not sure whether that was an invitation or not – or whether he even wanted it to be, frankly; these stories are getting weirder by the minute.
‘You coming, then? Unless you’re off to fuck your neighbour’s mum, of course.’
Simon shakes his head. ‘She’s 60, not really my type. Won’t your mum mind?’
‘She’s in Spain with her new fella,’ the boy scowls, doing air quotes on the last word.
‘You can have guests?’
‘My mum was on her last warning three warnings ago; as long as the house is still standing and I don't puke on the carpet again, I doubt she’ll notice. Come on!’ He yanks Simon by the wrist.
Simon's still a little nervous: of the drugs; of what his parents will say when he doesn't come back; what Matt will say behind his back about tonight.
But this night is still looking better than anything he could have imagined after the scene earlier, and he'd rather be pushing down a little anxiety than the thick, stomach churning self-loathing he usually feels after failed interactions with people.
Maybe going home with a half-crazy stranger who's kissed him and insulted him in the last minute is a pretty ironic fuck you to the rest of his life, but it's about time he took a risk, he thinks.
