Title: Fifteen
Feedback Sent To: [email protected]
Status: Complete
Category: Pre-series, POV
Notes: A huge thank you to Polly for your swift and extremely well-done beta-reading. Your suggestions really helped to polish up all the rough edges. Domo arigatou gozaimasu. (^_^)
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Fifteen
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Beneath your smiling face
Only unbelievable words are baring their fangs
You are looking for love in those fragments
- "For Real"
by Tokuyama Hidenori
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
You are fifteen and you hate everything and everybody.
You hate Pittsburgh and its dirty streets and its lack of *anything* that could ever be considered remotely exciting, its lack of anything new or good. It has nothing - it's a second-rate, second-class burb in every way conceivable to the human mind. It's a tiny little pond where all the good little fishies swim happily together in crowds. In your mind, you're determined to move to New York as soon as you can, as quickly as you can amass enough money. Yeah. Get a flashy penthouse with cool blue lights that you turn on when you bring a different trick back every night to fuck. Then you'd be Brian Kinney, King of the World. Instead of Brian Kinney Stuck-In-Boring-Old-Pittsburgh.
You hate school and all the useless classes and useless teachers and the even more useless students. Everybody just goes on with their boring, dreary little lives, turning round and round in their tiny little worlds, circling the edges of the tiny fishpond. You hate them all. You're never going to see any one of them again after you graduate anyway, so you don't see the point of getting to know them in the first place. You hate your boring lessons. As if you're ever going to need to know how to calculate the angles of a triangle later in life anyway.
You hate your old man. Jack Kinney is a bastard - a good for nothing son of a bitch. You don't care about him. You don't care about anything he says or does, because he's a washed up loser. All he does is drink and scream and curse and hit. At Joan. At Claire. At you. It's all he can do. And all you know is that you never want to end up like your old man.
You hate Joan. Fuckin Ice Queen. She's a bitch. Fuck "Honor thy mother". And you don't care if you're going to hell for thinking that, because you don't believe in God. Or hell. Who cares? Besides, going to hell might even be better than staying here in Pittsburgh for the rest of your life. She's a lush just like the old man. Only ... more careful. She doesn't get into little raging fits like him. She just drinks until those ice blue eyes are glazed over and she doesn't see anyone or anything. She doesn't seem to hear when you ask her what's for dinner. By now you've learnt not to ask her for anything again. She's going to church now. You wouldn't care except that she drags the rest of you along with her. Her eyes are glazed in church as well. Except it's not from alcohol. It's from religion. And you hate Church. And you hate a God who hates fags. Because if God doesn't want you, then you don't give a fuck about Him either.
You hate Claire. Only seventeen and already a blackmailer. Guess being a heartless little shit runs in the family. You hate her mousy hair and snivelly face and ever-ready-to-tremble lips. She has only two expressions - that ugly scrunched up face that she makes before she cries, and that smug, petty smirk twisting her lips when she blackmails you for thirty fuckin' dollars. You hate her for being your sister. For making you feel sorry for her sometimes. For acting as if the old man will magically wake up from his drunken stupor someday and change into the perfect father.
You hate yourself for also believing, sometimes, in a tiny corner of your mind, that he will as well.
You hate Debbie Novotny. You hate that occasional look of pity in her eyes when she looks at you. As if she feels sorry for you. As if you're a pathetic little boy who just needs a good cuddle and then everything will be alright. You hate that hot, clenching feeling in your chest. You have to take a deep breath and try not to blink, when she tells you that you're trouble, but you're still a good kid and that she has some extra lemon bars in the fridge so take a few, you're getting' too skinny, you look like a scarecrow the way your scrawny body's been shooting up these days ...
You hate Vic. You hate him for getting a fucking disease, for promising to be there for you and Mikey and then breaking his word like everybody else in the world. You hate his withered cheeks and the sunken expression in his face sometimes when he looks as if he wants to give up the fight to live. You hate it when he looks at you sometimes with those soft eyes that seem to run in the Grassi family, as if he understands everything you're going through. You know he doesn't, that he can't, so you want to tell him to stop. But you don't. And you hate yourself for being so weak that you want to feel as if someone understands you, even when you know that they don't.
You hate Michael Charles Novotny. You hate the way he hangs around you like an eager little puppy, the way his sweet pathetic smiles spreads all the way up from his pretty mouth to the rest of his face, crinkling his nose and lighting up those big brown eyes which shine with bright hero worship when you tell him about your conquests. You hate the way he rambles on about his fuckin' worthless comics. Stupid fuckin' Captain Astro and Galaxy Lad. As if there are any real superheroes in this fucked up world you live in. As if any of the rest of his so-called friends would give a flying fuck if they knew he liked dick. As if anyone would rescue him if anything happened.
But Mikey believes it. You can tell. Sometimes he pretends not to be naive enough to believe in superheroes and happily ever after and all the rest of that hetero-romantic bullshit that the rest of the world tries to feed you. But he does. You can tell.
You hate the feeling of your stomach twisting in knots, as if an invisible hand had suddenly just reached in and squeezed your insides, when you see fuckin' Tommy Rickman smiling, carelessly leaning forward as he talks to Mikey. Doesn't Mikey notice how close he is to that asshole? Doesn't he know that he looks as if he *wants* to be closer to that prick?
But you calm down almost instantly because you know he doesn't, because Mikey never knows anything about anyone. Sometimes Mikey surprises you with the intuitive way he can tell how you're feeling, but most of the time, he probably wouldn't get a clue even if it bit him in the ass. In a way, that's good. Because Mikey *shouldn't* have to know anything about anyone else. Except you. He doesn't even have to understand himself. The only person that Mikey needs to understand? Is you.
You hate those disturbing little jolts of feeling that occur every now and again at the strangest moments - when his gawky teenage awkwardness abruptly vanishes and you find it almost impossible to swallow the dry lump that suddenly gets stuck in your throat at the oddly innocent look in those paradoxically sultry eyes. He's not beautiful, but Mikey is ... touchable. He makes you want to touch him. When he sprawls on the couch and stretches his arms, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to reveal an inviting patch of soft, creamy skin. When he wakes up from a nap and his hair is all messy, sticking out in all directions, and your fingers feel the need to comb through those unruly strands, brushing them away from those sleepy dark eyes that blink ridiculously like an owl's. And then there are moments when he's stomping away from you, and your eyes can't quite seem to tear their gaze away from the enticing ass being unknowingly flaunted in tight jeans.
Whenever something like that happens, you feel like you have an invisible itch that you can't scratch. It drives you nuts. HE drives you nuts. You hate his innocence. You hate his little whiny drama queen act when he thinks nobody's paying attention to his problems. You hate his cute 'lil begging-to-be-pinched baby cheeks that make him look younger even though he's actually older than you. You hate the snippy tone he gets when he's pissed with you. You hate the way he calls you on your shit sometimes while indulging you the next. It drives you crazy. *Mikey* drives you crazy. And you hate the fact that you can't quite figure out if you think that's a good or bad thing.
[You are fifteen and you hate everything and everybody.
But you're starting to think you hate Mikey most of all.]
"Hey Brian, wanna go to Buzzy's and check out the new Captain Astro comic?"
He is *so* pathetic. If he were *anybody* else, you would flay his skin with a single look or a word. Hell, you've done it a thousand times even when it's him. After all, casual cruelty is second nature to your Kinney personality. You stare at Mikey, arching an eyebrow, and his enthusiasm instantly deflates like a popped balloon, the disappointment transparent on his face as those full lips curve in a petulant pout. You know he is about to say "Forget it", when something uniquely Mikey happens - he arches one dark eyebrow back at you, crossing his arms as he glares stubbornly back at you with the patented Novotny Look that says "You owe me this teensy tiny favor after everything I've done for you, and besides, it's not even a chore, is it a freaking crime to ask your best friend in the whole world to actually spend some time together? Especially after I covered for your ass in Chem lab yesterday and I got into trouble with Ma after she found out about the detention, which, by the way, is ALSO your fault, and..."
You smile at his silent challenge and sling one arm comfortably around his shoulder.
"Sure, Mikey. Anything for you."
[Because when you're with him ... ]
You chuckle at the slightly startled look in his eyes and tip his chin up to softly press a light kiss to those hated lips.
[you don't hate yourself or the world quite so much anymore.]
=======================================================================
Feedback Sent To: [email protected]
Status: Complete
Category: Pre-series, POV
Notes: A huge thank you to Polly for your swift and extremely well-done beta-reading. Your suggestions really helped to polish up all the rough edges. Domo arigatou gozaimasu. (^_^)
======================================================================
Fifteen
======================================================================
Beneath your smiling face
Only unbelievable words are baring their fangs
You are looking for love in those fragments
- "For Real"
by Tokuyama Hidenori
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
You are fifteen and you hate everything and everybody.
You hate Pittsburgh and its dirty streets and its lack of *anything* that could ever be considered remotely exciting, its lack of anything new or good. It has nothing - it's a second-rate, second-class burb in every way conceivable to the human mind. It's a tiny little pond where all the good little fishies swim happily together in crowds. In your mind, you're determined to move to New York as soon as you can, as quickly as you can amass enough money. Yeah. Get a flashy penthouse with cool blue lights that you turn on when you bring a different trick back every night to fuck. Then you'd be Brian Kinney, King of the World. Instead of Brian Kinney Stuck-In-Boring-Old-Pittsburgh.
You hate school and all the useless classes and useless teachers and the even more useless students. Everybody just goes on with their boring, dreary little lives, turning round and round in their tiny little worlds, circling the edges of the tiny fishpond. You hate them all. You're never going to see any one of them again after you graduate anyway, so you don't see the point of getting to know them in the first place. You hate your boring lessons. As if you're ever going to need to know how to calculate the angles of a triangle later in life anyway.
You hate your old man. Jack Kinney is a bastard - a good for nothing son of a bitch. You don't care about him. You don't care about anything he says or does, because he's a washed up loser. All he does is drink and scream and curse and hit. At Joan. At Claire. At you. It's all he can do. And all you know is that you never want to end up like your old man.
You hate Joan. Fuckin Ice Queen. She's a bitch. Fuck "Honor thy mother". And you don't care if you're going to hell for thinking that, because you don't believe in God. Or hell. Who cares? Besides, going to hell might even be better than staying here in Pittsburgh for the rest of your life. She's a lush just like the old man. Only ... more careful. She doesn't get into little raging fits like him. She just drinks until those ice blue eyes are glazed over and she doesn't see anyone or anything. She doesn't seem to hear when you ask her what's for dinner. By now you've learnt not to ask her for anything again. She's going to church now. You wouldn't care except that she drags the rest of you along with her. Her eyes are glazed in church as well. Except it's not from alcohol. It's from religion. And you hate Church. And you hate a God who hates fags. Because if God doesn't want you, then you don't give a fuck about Him either.
You hate Claire. Only seventeen and already a blackmailer. Guess being a heartless little shit runs in the family. You hate her mousy hair and snivelly face and ever-ready-to-tremble lips. She has only two expressions - that ugly scrunched up face that she makes before she cries, and that smug, petty smirk twisting her lips when she blackmails you for thirty fuckin' dollars. You hate her for being your sister. For making you feel sorry for her sometimes. For acting as if the old man will magically wake up from his drunken stupor someday and change into the perfect father.
You hate yourself for also believing, sometimes, in a tiny corner of your mind, that he will as well.
You hate Debbie Novotny. You hate that occasional look of pity in her eyes when she looks at you. As if she feels sorry for you. As if you're a pathetic little boy who just needs a good cuddle and then everything will be alright. You hate that hot, clenching feeling in your chest. You have to take a deep breath and try not to blink, when she tells you that you're trouble, but you're still a good kid and that she has some extra lemon bars in the fridge so take a few, you're getting' too skinny, you look like a scarecrow the way your scrawny body's been shooting up these days ...
You hate Vic. You hate him for getting a fucking disease, for promising to be there for you and Mikey and then breaking his word like everybody else in the world. You hate his withered cheeks and the sunken expression in his face sometimes when he looks as if he wants to give up the fight to live. You hate it when he looks at you sometimes with those soft eyes that seem to run in the Grassi family, as if he understands everything you're going through. You know he doesn't, that he can't, so you want to tell him to stop. But you don't. And you hate yourself for being so weak that you want to feel as if someone understands you, even when you know that they don't.
You hate Michael Charles Novotny. You hate the way he hangs around you like an eager little puppy, the way his sweet pathetic smiles spreads all the way up from his pretty mouth to the rest of his face, crinkling his nose and lighting up those big brown eyes which shine with bright hero worship when you tell him about your conquests. You hate the way he rambles on about his fuckin' worthless comics. Stupid fuckin' Captain Astro and Galaxy Lad. As if there are any real superheroes in this fucked up world you live in. As if any of the rest of his so-called friends would give a flying fuck if they knew he liked dick. As if anyone would rescue him if anything happened.
But Mikey believes it. You can tell. Sometimes he pretends not to be naive enough to believe in superheroes and happily ever after and all the rest of that hetero-romantic bullshit that the rest of the world tries to feed you. But he does. You can tell.
You hate the feeling of your stomach twisting in knots, as if an invisible hand had suddenly just reached in and squeezed your insides, when you see fuckin' Tommy Rickman smiling, carelessly leaning forward as he talks to Mikey. Doesn't Mikey notice how close he is to that asshole? Doesn't he know that he looks as if he *wants* to be closer to that prick?
But you calm down almost instantly because you know he doesn't, because Mikey never knows anything about anyone. Sometimes Mikey surprises you with the intuitive way he can tell how you're feeling, but most of the time, he probably wouldn't get a clue even if it bit him in the ass. In a way, that's good. Because Mikey *shouldn't* have to know anything about anyone else. Except you. He doesn't even have to understand himself. The only person that Mikey needs to understand? Is you.
You hate those disturbing little jolts of feeling that occur every now and again at the strangest moments - when his gawky teenage awkwardness abruptly vanishes and you find it almost impossible to swallow the dry lump that suddenly gets stuck in your throat at the oddly innocent look in those paradoxically sultry eyes. He's not beautiful, but Mikey is ... touchable. He makes you want to touch him. When he sprawls on the couch and stretches his arms, lifting the hem of his t-shirt to reveal an inviting patch of soft, creamy skin. When he wakes up from a nap and his hair is all messy, sticking out in all directions, and your fingers feel the need to comb through those unruly strands, brushing them away from those sleepy dark eyes that blink ridiculously like an owl's. And then there are moments when he's stomping away from you, and your eyes can't quite seem to tear their gaze away from the enticing ass being unknowingly flaunted in tight jeans.
Whenever something like that happens, you feel like you have an invisible itch that you can't scratch. It drives you nuts. HE drives you nuts. You hate his innocence. You hate his little whiny drama queen act when he thinks nobody's paying attention to his problems. You hate his cute 'lil begging-to-be-pinched baby cheeks that make him look younger even though he's actually older than you. You hate the snippy tone he gets when he's pissed with you. You hate the way he calls you on your shit sometimes while indulging you the next. It drives you crazy. *Mikey* drives you crazy. And you hate the fact that you can't quite figure out if you think that's a good or bad thing.
[You are fifteen and you hate everything and everybody.
But you're starting to think you hate Mikey most of all.]
"Hey Brian, wanna go to Buzzy's and check out the new Captain Astro comic?"
He is *so* pathetic. If he were *anybody* else, you would flay his skin with a single look or a word. Hell, you've done it a thousand times even when it's him. After all, casual cruelty is second nature to your Kinney personality. You stare at Mikey, arching an eyebrow, and his enthusiasm instantly deflates like a popped balloon, the disappointment transparent on his face as those full lips curve in a petulant pout. You know he is about to say "Forget it", when something uniquely Mikey happens - he arches one dark eyebrow back at you, crossing his arms as he glares stubbornly back at you with the patented Novotny Look that says "You owe me this teensy tiny favor after everything I've done for you, and besides, it's not even a chore, is it a freaking crime to ask your best friend in the whole world to actually spend some time together? Especially after I covered for your ass in Chem lab yesterday and I got into trouble with Ma after she found out about the detention, which, by the way, is ALSO your fault, and..."
You smile at his silent challenge and sling one arm comfortably around his shoulder.
"Sure, Mikey. Anything for you."
[Because when you're with him ... ]
You chuckle at the slightly startled look in his eyes and tip his chin up to softly press a light kiss to those hated lips.
[you don't hate yourself or the world quite so much anymore.]
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