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[just1tearforme.livejournal.com]

Nerd Gone Wild
Chapter 12: Your Worth
R, 2070 words
A/N: Ralph Waldo Emerson, Trent Reznor, quoted respectfully.
Previous chapter: Chapter 11: You Bleed Like Me

Chapter 12: Your Worth
 

Unsteadily, Greg got to his feet, a few stray shards of glass crunching underfoot. The bottle of Gentleman Jack on the counter, within reach. Less than a quarter of the bottle remained, and then perished as he tilted it to his lips and drank it all. The burn of the alcohol no longer registered only the brief quenching of thirst. The world tilted suddenly, he clutched the counter leaning heavily against it. Things seemed a lot hazier, and lot more golden in sheen. His eyelids fluttered. With effort he pushed himself off the counter and stumbled to the couch. The leather creaked as he flopped bodily on it. He pulled his phone out from beneath his ass, staring at it. Last call: N. Stokes flashed across the screen. Fucking Stokes, as if he wasn’t having enough of shit time he had to go drop his drama on him too. What the hell was his problem? He treated him like a child whose problems didn’t matter, it was always look at me, look at my drama. Didn’t he get that other people hurt too? He wasn’t alone in that department, nor did he have the corner on the market.

His thumb slid over the send button, pressing it. Calling.

“Stokes.” He sounded normal, like typical Nick. Either he didn’t look before he answered or he was expecting this call.

“You’re such a fucker.” He said, his tongue feeling thick and heavy in his mouth.

“Excuse me? I-”

“That was such a bitch thing to do. Why are you such a bitch Nick? Huh? Why are you a bitch?” His words slurred a bit as he spoke. “The world doesn’t revolve around you, you know. I’m Nick, look at me! I’ve got drama! Sad little drama fairy…”

“You’ve been drinking haven’t you? God, you sound drunk. I’m not dealing with you when you’re drunk. You want to say this shit to me then call back when you’re sober and can act like a man.”

Call ended. “Fuck you too.” The phone slipped from his fingers, bouncing on the floor and under the couch. Stupid little drama fairy. ‘Oh, I can’t deal with you right now.’ I don’t want to deal with you. Such a bitch. His eyes fluttered closed, he struggled to pull them open. God he was so tired, like the life had been sucked right out of him. Nick’s fault. With difficulty he pushed himself up off the couch, stumbling down the hall.

Greg awoke in the dark; there was little difference in having his eyes open or closed. His forehead smacked into something hard as he tried to sit up. “Motherfucker.” He mumbled, rubbing his forehead. Where the hell was he? The last thing he remembered was coming home from Sanoma’s, having a drink and then a line. He sighed. He turned his head, eyes focusing on a lump inches from his face. The lump looked suspiciously like the jeans he wore the other day. If they were, then that meant he was under the bed. He grabbed the fabric, his boxers were tucked inside, he’d know that silk anywhere. Definitely his jeans. And this was officially the weirdest place he had ever woken up, that was discounting the time he awoke on top of a bar naked with a transvestite. Gently, he eased himself out. He sat up but his head felt like it was going to explode. Pain throbbed behind his eyes and down into his neck. He laid back down, eyes closed, willing the massive pain in his head to go away.

His head still pounded as he stumbled to the kitchen, exacerbated by the light that filtered through the living room.  He groaned throwing an arm up across his eyes. It felt like world war three was going on in his head. The parallel lines on the counter were there still in their perfect form. He ingested half of one, it was (he hoped) enough to take the edge off and eliminate his killer headache. He noted a crunch of glass underfoot, but would take care of it later. His arms were covered in dried blood, his blood that much he knew but fuck if he could remember how it got there. Both his hands ached, one had a cut across the palm that had begun to bleed at the edges, and the other sported some swollen and bruised knuckles. He knew how the knuckles had come to be that way, collision with Nick’s jaw. Idly he wondered if he sported any sign of the strike, but he pushed that thought from his head, not like he gave a damn.

He rubbed the mirror in the steam filled bathroom, clearing a small oval free of condensation. His reflection stared back at him. He was skinnier than usual, cheeks a little hollower, collarbone more visible, the cords in his neck more defined. His irises once deep brown now a little more grey. He didn’t recognize himself; it was his body but the face of Sophie, Benny, Vandiya, of twelve other people he didn’t know by name. Where was his face? Where was Greg? He put his hand on the glass, leaning in, looking into the faces and beyond searching for him. What have I become, my sweetest friend?

The scalding water turned his flesh bright pink as he stood beneath the spray. Slowly the dried blood absorbed the water tingeing it pink as it rolled down his arms and swirled into the drain. The lines in his skin stood out angrily, reminders of memories he should have but couldn’t recall. They climbed him like vines, wrapping and twisting about. He could envision them continuing up his arms, across his shoulders, down his chest and back. Perhaps as a tattoo, not like he had to worry about it being unprofessional anymore. He was pretty certain he’d screwed himself out of that job anyway. He tilted his head beneath the shower letting the thought slide from his brain like the water dripping down his spine. If only he could shed his skin this easily. Then maybe he’d see his own face in the mirror. He closed eyes, concentrating on breathing. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Pretend that you don’t see. Breathe out. Pretend that you don’t see the cracks in me. Breathe in. Picture your face not as it is. Breathe out. But how it used to be. Breathe in. Remember eyes so bright. Breathe out. Not faded grey. Breathe in. Remember when you weren’t hollow. Breathe out. Remember how to just… be.

The terry of the towel felt scratchy against his skin as it wicked the droplets of water away. Little loops of the cotton turned red as they wiped over his arms, red constellations on blue towel sky. He slipped into worn cotton pants, tying the drawstring so they rested on his hips. Reverently he inhaled the half a line gracing the counter, feeling some regret that the little packet was two thirds gone. Grabbing a bottle of beer he stepped out on the porch balcony, twisting off the cap as he leaned against the railing. Las Vegas gleamed in the dark illuminated by a thousand miles of neon fire. He could only see a few stars, too much light, but sometimes he wondered what the Vegas sky would look like if all the lights were gone. To see the stars stretched from one end of the horizon to the other, gleaming in the inky black of space seeming close enough to reach out and touch. To run a hand through like brushing the surface of a pond, and yet still be so far out of reach. Maybe he’d take a trip out into the mountains one day, sleep beneath them, separated by millions of miles traversable in a glance. The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible.

Waking in the afternoon he was right where he should be, in the bed Greg fell asleep in hours before. When he did a line, panic seized his heart. Two days and the packet was gone. How long would the other last? Three? Four? Five, if he cut back? He pulled a small evidence bag from his kit, sliced open a corner of the packet and poured a little of the fairy dust in. It wasn’t much, just a little bump, an emergency ration. It was barely a fourth of what he had taken the last few times, probably not even enough to get him high. But it would have to do, if he added anymore there wouldn’t be enough left to last three days or so. He tucked the ration in his kit, out of sight, out of mind or something like that.

He would have liked to be back in bed, but Benny’s funeral was today. There was no way he would miss this opportunity to say goodbye, my lover, one final time. Reaching into the closet he pulled a black garment bag from the depths, his Armani suit. The only designer label he owned, worn only on special occasions, and Benny deserved the best. With great care he laid the suit, a dress shirt, and tie out on the bed. He disappeared into the bathroom, returning to his room with carefully styled his hair. Methodically he did up the buttons of the garnet shirt, tucking it into his pants, checking for wrinkles. He made sure his collar didn’t touch his hair when he flipped it up to tie the amethyst hued tie. Instead of dress shoes he slipped into studded Creepers Benny would appreciate. The suit jacket went on last, unbuttoned, black satin handkerchief tucked into the breast pocket. He slipped his wallet into a pant pocket, tucking the keys into a jacket pocket as he hunted down his cell phone. It didn’t even give a mournful little chirp as he retrieved it from beneath the couch, dead battery. No matter, he didn’t really need it anyway. As he closed the door, he slipped his sunglasses on.

It wasn’t hard to find Benny’s funeral in the cemetery, it was the only one full of bright colour amid patches of black. Dominantly men gathered, a few women here and there, all wearing ‘their’ colours. Some had done like him and dyed their hair similar to how Benny’s had been during their time together. There weren’t words exchanged as the group gathered and grew; only tender embraces and wane smiles dispensed amid tears. They didn’t have to speak; they all had their own set of memories bound by one man. Someone brought roses of deep red and forget-me-not tied with silver ribbon, and passed the flowers to everyone. One by one, each person approached the casket, they lay the flowers on the lid. “Benjamin Prescott, I love you and won’t forget you.” And stepped back. When it was his turn he pressed a kiss to the casket, “Love you Benny.” Silent tears rolled down his cheeks, and supportive arms embraced him warmly. Once all had bid their last goodbye, they dispersed as silently as they came.

“Greg?” He jumped, his heart skipping a beat. “Sorry.” Grissom held up his hands in apology. “Didn’t mean to scare you, or intrude.”

He sighed. “Then what are you doing here Gris?”

“I wanted to talk to you but you haven’t been answering your phone. May I have a moment?”

“I suppose,” he said pausing at a visitor’s bench next to a mausoleum. “Is this one of those sit while we talk conversations?”

“If you like.” He gestured towards the bench.

“Alright, we’re sitting. What can I do for you?” he said, looking straight ahead not at Grissom.

“Greg, I don’t claim to know what’s going on with you, but I do know that you’ve had a rough time the last few months with everything that’s happened with you and Nick and- I know it came to a head the other day, words being said and actions taken that are regrettable. Ecklie wanted to fire you, but I’ve convinced him otherwise. You’re job is still waiting for you if you still want it. I’ll hold onto it for a while. Let you sort out what you need to deal with. When,” If. “You’re ready, come talk to me okay? But only when you’re ready.” He patted his shoulder and walked away.

"The stars awaken a certain reverence, because though always present, they are inaccessible." - R.W. Emerson