Work Text:
It was funny, really.
Tim couldn't stop thinking about how funny the situation was, as he waited for his parents to take him home from school, as he walked across the crowdy hallways of the building because of the open day.
He just wanted to go away from there, but at the same time he was scared to meet his parents; his coat still smelled of vomit and they couldn't notice, they couldn't.
But still, that was funny.
If he thought about it, it was so fucking funny.
He was dressed in a white shirt that Kon lent him and black trousers, he felt confident in them, but his mind couldn't stop going back to the previous day, the previous evening, the day he had ruined one of his friend's eighteenth birthday just because he was reckless enough to mix smoke and alchool as he wished; the shame, the shame lingered on him, he felt like he was trying to hide his true self wearing a costume, but it was broken and shredded, so if anyone watched closely they would see the rotten in him.
But again, it was funny.
Funny how his art professor thanked him for his disponibility to expose his drawings, how another one congratulated to him for the way he exposed his class's project; funny how his English teacher searched for him to ask him to do an exam, how she praised him in front of her collegues, and how his science teacher exposed his ideas and plans like he could count on him.
It was funny, because in those minutes he really felt proud of himself, he felt appreciated but whenever he got near his coat he remembered, he remembered that disgusting moment and his breath hitched for a second before his glare dropped in fatigue like an enormous weight had just been set on his shoulders.
How couldn't they see?
How couldn't they know?
There were so many people at the celebration, had someone told?
Couldn't they see what a mess he was?
He kept waiting in shame, as he tried to ignore the memories of his own self drinking wine from his glass, and filling it again and again under his boyfriend's gaze, wondering if he knew that he wanted to get a bit drunk to feel at more ease; he tried to not remember when he asked him to go out to smoke some sigarettes, tried to not make the sensation of sureness that he felt in those moments creep back to him.
Tim really didn't want to think about the sense of dread that had settled on him when he got back to his table, the sensation of dizziness that made him feel like he couldn't move, like he would fucking faint and ruin everything if he raised his head, that scary moment when he understood that if he closed his eyes he would either fall asleep or lose his strength.
He should have known, it had happened before. He had puked before after getting drunk and smoking, and that had been horrible: he would never forget the embarassment, as his friends around him tried to soothe his tremors, telling him there was no need to apologize, but how couldn't he apologize for being so fucking disgusting?
And it had happened again.
A genius, Tim.
A fucking genius.
And the previous night everything had gone wrong, again. Because he couldn't walk straight, he felt like shit and like he couldn't change that, but at the same time he could feel himself smiling and finding his own words and other's funny, as Kon stared at him like he was envious; and maybe he was, and even though he wasn't on his right mind he still knew that he was being selfish, wasting himself out and leaving alone his boyfriend that was trying not to pass over that line.
But he had been so sad, and awkward, he didn't care.
He hadn't cared of the conseguences when he had seen the bottle of wine on the table and immediately thought "if I can't find some weed then I guess alchool can do just fine."
And it did, for a while.
Until people around him noticed that he was as pale as a sheet and unresponding to their calls,because his head felt so full, but not a "full of thoughts" kind, actually, he wasn't thinking anything: it was a "my sight is swimming and my body is aching and my stomach feels constricted and I don't understand or know what I should do about it" kind of full.
If he better thought, it had been terrifying.
People around him, friends around him were asking him and his boyfriend if he was fine, and he really had wanted to tell them that he was, but the struggle to mantain a "I'm good" facade had made him unable to speak; at some point he remembered shaking his head, and his love's hands on his shoulders as he told him to get up to go the bathroom, but all his body felt numb and he just couldn't.
So he had refused, he had shaked his head, and it was then that he tasted vomit in his mouth; he had put his hand on his mouth and swallowed it back in panic, because he couldn't let it out in front of everyone, he couldn't he couldn't.
But then it came up a second time, and others didn't notice early enough: this one was so much stronger, he didn't even notice that he was puking, only when he had stopped; then he saw that it had gotten to the floor, to the damn floor and he had dirtied his own coat and clothes, it was fucking nauseous.
Fortunately he didn't have the time to reflect too much about it because the urge to vomit came back, but this time his friends had been provident and let him do it in the bucket where the wine was kept; he watched as it got full of this dark substance, as it came out of him, and his first doubt was how had it gotten so brown?
He barely noticed someone taking his hair back from his forehead, and one of the waiters getting closer to know what had happened.
When he finally stopped, his mind was clearer: he could breathe properly and he got more alert of his surroundings, but in that moment it didn't matter anymore. He had stared at his filthy hand, and he remembered answering his question about the colour of his vomit, dark because he had drunk red wine.
Only after a while he got up, escorted by Kon and the group of worried friends to the nearest bathroom, and the dark haired boy had simply limped there keeping his head down, to not see all the guests staring at his wrecked figure; the moment they locked themselves inside, Tim let himself fall on the floor near the toilet, leaning his face over it in case he felt the need to retch again. Even if actually he knew he was done, it was better staring at the water under him than at the others' faces; it was only him, his boyfriend and another girl who's name he always forgot, but he did remember that she had helped and comforted him the first time he got like this too.
She surely thought he was troublesome.
He was.
Disgusting, stupid, reckless and a weight in everyone's lives.
He didn't even know how Kon was still with him, right then he had been so scared to turn around and look at him, who was chuckling a bit, admitting that he felt a bit out of it too after drinking only two glasses of wine; he wondered if he was saying the truth or if he wad faking it to make him feel better.
At some point Tim noticed that he was slowly regaining his limbs' sensibility, and, unfortunately, he got sober enough to understand what had happened in the meanwhile; a mixture of a hiss and a sob escaped his lips, as he thought of the poor girl that was celebrating right a room away from there, he thought about the waiters and the guests who were surely talking about him, he thought about his fucking coat and dress that was dirty of his own fucking vomit.
"Please, kill me now..." he remembered saying.
And he really wanted right then. And he had whispered it so low that when he got no response he wondered if it was because they hadn't heard or because they didn't know what to say.
Disgusting.
In the end he was able to get back on his feet and he was driven back at Kon's house by his father, who seemed to not knowledge the stink on him.
But he could still smell it, and again, disgusting.
Disgusting.
Filthy.
And then, the following morning, here he was going around the building that had ruined his soul and dreams, smiling at the teenagers that looked around in awe or in boredom, wondering if they were going to attend that high school: hilarious, wasn't it?
How he could sniff the evidence of the failure he had been, a failure of a friend, of a boyfriend, of a person, in general.
He could taste the fake happiness on his lips and tongue, and see the idea that the adults had of him that was totally wrong, how they saw a different person when they looked at him.
Disgusting, and fake.
So when his parents finally arrived he walked to the car with nervousness pumping in his veins, hoping they wouldn't notice the strange smell on him that he had tried to cover with some deodorant.
And as he started talking to avoid questions about the day before he wondered if he could live with that embarassment, with that memory.
He wondered if after that experience he could finally find the courage to end all his misery.