Author: Gray Glube PM
He's never had the type of luck someone would consider the good kind.Rated: Fiction M - English - Friendship/Horror - Violet H. & Tate L. - Chapters: 2 - Words: 8,120 - Reviews: 13 - Favs: 12 - Follows: 22 - Updated: 08-22-12 - Published: 08-10-12 - id: 8413471
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Summary: He's never had the type of luck someone would consider the good kind.
Warning(s)/Kink(s): Language, sexual situations, violence, drug use, dub-con, violence, self-mutilation
Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story.
A/N: Anybody need some sexual tension in their lives? Because I wrote some. Also you get some dead breakfast club that is not dead nor a club, it's AU for a reason right? You will also see other characters later on but not in the way you expect. For reference the last chapter takes place about the first two weeks of September, this one takes place over the last two.
He's changing for practice when the kid who owns the locker on the floor in the next column unseals a Ziploc filled with little white pills.
The kid, lanky and greasy haired throws the small plastic bag back into his locker.
"Attention deficit disorder," he answers tugging on his track tank and shutting the metal door, forgetting that he still has to put his running sneakers on, he curses under his breath and redoes his combination.
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"It's what Ritalin is for," he tells the other boy, still perched on the ground by his own open locker, while he slips off his Converse and ties on his Nikes.
The kid still looks wary even after Tate rolls his eyes and waves away the fact that the kid likes to swallow down the equivalent of legal speed.
"If you're looking for someone, I don't sell. Well..., weed but nothing heavy."
"No?" He's a little disappointed, he's always looking for someone to provide something to take the edge off.
"Yeah, Kyle does. Nothing wild though. I can hook you up if you want."
The kid nods. "I'm Kevin."
Kevin turns to put his back against the lockers and draws up a knee to tie his own shoe, "You sell?" He asks not looking up from his laces.
"Oh, too bad. Competitory prices would be nice."
"Thanks for the economics lesson," Tate smirks and Kevin kicks at his foot with a grin.
It's hot out, for September, on the track. He's trying to get his six minute mile down to a five before the end of the month. He hasn't run since last year. Kevin plops down next to him on the grass while he's stretching, he can smell the unwashed boy reek of him and suppresses a visible cringe.
"That's him, over there. With the girl," Kevin points over the metal bleachers on the other side of the football field encompassing track.
"Kyle?" Even from far away he can tell it's the same Kyle who's in World History with him. It's the easy slouch and shoulders swathed by the leather and canvas of his Westfield Wolverines football jacket.
They sit in separate rows but every so often they talk in order to borrow writing utensils or work on some fuckwit classroom activity having to do with document based question essay responses or end of the chapter long answers. The kid isn't dumb, just preoccupied with more important things to do, like fuck his girlfriend or whatever home/away game is happening afterschool.
"Yeah. He'll probably be around until his girlfriend finishes," he nods to the girls in gym apparel throwing each other up in the air and making long-limbed scantily clad pyramids.
A whistle blows and their heads swivel to their coach. He has them run suicides to build up endurance until someone vomits.
The once solitary boy on the bleachers isn't left so solitary anymore, there's a girl mimicking his straddle on the striated metal plank, Tate watches the boy cup the brunette's kneecaps and rock her legs back and forth, "Come on." He watches Kyle swoop in for a kiss that the girl turns away from with the shy smile girls get when boys start acting like all they want is a kiss, "Not here."
"Come on, babe. It's hot right?"
Tate rolls his eyes.
"Later," the girl pushes Kyle back with a firm hand and finger wag.
"That's what you always say."
"I can't help it if my parents are always home."
"So come over to my house."
"Tonight, come over tonight."
"I have practice."
He can't help but feel bad for girls with boyfriends who beg like dogs sniffing at someone's crotch for a treat.
"I can't. Homecoming is in a two weeks."
"Hey. I'm sorry."
"No, you're not."
The banter is light and they're both smiling a little. The easy familiarity makes Tate frown with something that may be jealousy but he knows the girl's easy flirting will do nothing but infuriate her boyfriend after long enough because girls like her don't realize that boys like Kyle are cruel because it gets them what they want.
"Don't be such a creep about it."
"What? You're the one who needs it babe. I can wait, but you? You are just waiting for me to give it up."
"Oh yeah, I want it sooooo bad baby."
"Say that again."
The girls smacks the Kyle on the arm and leans in for a kiss, mumbling afterwards against his lips that he's a creep, affectionately.
"I'm a creep?"
Tate turns his back on their sloppy make-out session until Kyle speaks up again.
"You're dad's here."
"Shit. I'll text you later."
"Shut up." She prances down the bleachers with her ponytail swaying and her hips sashaying as Tate climbs up to where her boyfriend is leaning back and nursing some unresolved groin-related unease.
Tate sits down a ways down from the vacated spot, Kyle raises a brow.
"Heard you know how to score."
There's a pause and a hissed inhale, "Maybe."
"Listen let's not jerk each other off, do you or don't you?"
Kyle sighs, "Yeah. What are you looking for?"
"May take a little while and I don't do anything less than a hundred bucks."
"Alright. Three hundred. That's…"
"Yeah I know how much you get for three hundred," Kyle insists looking the slightest bit irritated.
"Don't fuck me man," Tate warns.
"Whatever," Kyle looks put-out, "give me until next week. I don't pass it off here though. Gimme your cell number. I'll text you."
Tate takes the proffered cellphone from Kyle and puts in his own number, resisting the urge to check to see if he's got any naked pictures saved in his photo album of his cheerleader girlfriend.
"Who'd you hear about me from anyway?" Kyle asks when Tate returns his phone.
"Kevin. Track team."
Kyle makes a sound of disbelief, "Fucking Gedman. He's got a big fucking mouth."
"Business is business."
"Yeah, but I try not to expand the circle too far," Kyle gives him a look that Tate understands immediately, "Gotcha."
"You're name's Tate, right?"
"I heard," Tate waves a hand in the direction of the girls at the base of the bleachers.
"Yeah, I bet. God she's so fucking loud sometimes."
"Well I wasn't talking to anyone else was I?"
Tate smirks. Kyle blows out another breath, "Fucking cheerleaders."
"The uniform ain't bad."
"Doesn't hurt." Kyle agrees tilting his head and looking at him, slowly like he's sizing him up, "You're not queer are you?"
"Whatever. Well don't wear your fucking shorts around man, makes you look like a faggot."
Getting up and pushing his fists down into the pockets of his hoodie he starts to walk back down to the track, "Whatever. Thanks."
Tate swings his head back, "Yeah?"
"Cash before the weekend. Not in front of…"
Holding up a hand Tate rolls his eyes, "Done this before, know how it goes."
"Yeah…well, just making sure."
"Yup. See ya around."
"Nice look." It's a drawl from his right.
She's sprawled out on her back across the couch cushions, her jeans are slung long and loose across her pointy hip bones and her Nirvana tee has been cut open down the sides and tied closed on either side of her waist, her midriff is pale, bare, and unpierced. Her toenails are electric blue and lime green, one black flip-flop lies on the floor under her swinging feet hung over wooden sofa arm.
He can see the seat of her pants from the open space between it and the cushions. He finds it oddly erotic, because he can't help imagining her jeans were gone and if they were he'd be able to make out the shape of her little cunt from behind the thin cotton that be covering it.
"I run." He feels suddenly self-conscious of his jersey shorts, mostly because he's half-hard.
"Horny teenage boys."
He hides his pelvis behind the stair banister when her head pops up to grace him with one of her casual glances that feels intimate when it's given to him. He swallows with a tight throat, "Is she late again?"
She smiles, syrup slow and warm, "Nope, I'm early. She changed the time but I only got the message once I was knocking on the door."
"So, you let yourself in?" He grins because she makes it easy to do just that.
"I thought you'd be here and the door was unlocked, which is very unsafe, and it was either wait in here or out on the stoop."
"You can't snoop when you're out on the stoop," he insinuates despite being eager and pleased that she's hoped to see him.
"Scared I'd find something?" She taunts hefting herself up and siding towards him with only one flip-flop on.
He wipes the back of his hand across his dampened brow, "Like what?"
Swing hums and swings back and forth with a palm curved over the wooden ball on top of the stair bannister, "Porn stash, drug stash, pile of naked, dead, defiled girls," she rattles off with easy humor.
He leans in close, she subtly sways back a bit and it pleases him in some secret way while he intones with a dramatic whisper, "That last one."
She makes a sound in her throat, it sounds like she's amused.
"I fucking reek. I'll be back." After a shower and a quick bout of expected masturbation.
She smiles again, but it's just as subtle as the way she'd swayed back a moment ago and if she'd been looking at his mouth instead of his eyes he'd have leaned forward and kissed her after she's said, "I think you smell good, girls like it when boys are a little sweaty, you know?"
"Uh-huh, sure," he says flippantly only because she's made him nervous. He regrets it because she steps back to topple her back onto the couch.
"I'll be here," she waves him away while swinging her dainty feet back and forth, the other flip-flop drops to the floor with a muted slap as he makes his way up the stairs.
He's mixing together whey powder and milk because he plans on going for a run when his mother calls from the open back door.
He's wary but walks out of the house and into a mid-session acting class. It's one on one and with a older woman with ashy blonde hair and big spacey eyes, she looks like she's in the middle of a pretty good high.
"Could you come here and help?"
His mother has him read through lines for forty minutes before she releases him to his athletic activities. He's left his protein drink on the kitchen counter and it's unappetizingly warm, he only drinks half and pours the rest out down the sink.
The heat on the stretch of sidewalk he sprints down is oppressing and suffocating, he vomits a spray into the street and walks off his fatigue and sour stomach back home.
He falls onto the lawn and watches the clouds drift by. The sky is soothingly constant in its blueness. He sighs heavily and it feels good, a stretch of his burning lungs that eases them into comfort.
"She's an awful slut, that girl," his mother tells him while grinding out a Pall Mall once he's removed himself from the front lawn and returned to the backyard to fall onto a garden lounger.
To be honest he's not sure why he's gone back to her presence, he supposes it's a habit. He looking for her recognition, still, always, until something else comes along to replace it.
"Common interests," he retorts.
"Excuse me?" Her eyebrows shoot up from behind her expensively large sunglasses and then her brow furrows viciously in fury.
It's the free sample of Ritalin he scored off Kevin last practice in his system, a bonus to the joints he'd bought from him instead of Kyle, making his brain run at supersonic speeds that saves him from the slip up of opening his mouth.
"Coming in to rest?"
"To rest?" Her brow unfolds into something less substantially creased.
"It's hot out."
"Oh, no," she waves a hand that moves like old smoke, "Could you fix me a Long Island Ice Tea?"
"How much ice?"
"Half-full. Thank you. You're a good boy."
Something inside of him smiles with razor teeth. He lets the dog kenneled in the kitchen lick a few of the icecubes he puts in her drink.
The dogs kenneled downstairs are yipping violently enough to wake him up fully from his post-school day bout of passing out. There's the violent warmth in his groin and the sensation he's managed to fall asleep around telling him he really needs to piss.
There's steam pouring from the open bathroom.
It doesn't strike him as odd until he's putting a leash on the two dogs that need to piss as badly as he did that his mother had been out getting her hair done since he got home from school.
He knots the leaches to the stove handle and goes back upstairs.
The mirror is still foggy and the shower curtain is damp. He pushes up the bathroom window and peers down to the driveway that is empty.
Downstairs the dogs bark.
With a scowl he thumps down to the kitchen, steps proving his agitation.
There's a woman emptying a bucket of soapy water down the kitchen sink.
She's dressed in black and white and her red bangs cover one eye dramatically, when she brushes them away he can see why, it's milky white and serves as an unsettling surprise."
"You must be Tate. I'm Moira. The maid. I'm here every day except Monday and Wednesday." She fills the bucket half-way with water before placing it on the floor and pouring in a quarter bottle of lemon-scented wood cleaner.
"Oh. Yeah. I'm Tate."
She hums in an effort to let him know she's heard him, before rising up and moving around the kitchen to find the mop, "I'm usually gone by now, but it rained yesterday so I couldn't hang out the laundry."
"Oh. Uh, thanks for doing it."
"It's my job," she muses brushing by him to enter the hall with her bucket and mop.
He turns and leans on the entryway to the kitchen to watch, she's not unattractive but she's cool in the way paid help is emotionally frigid and her uniform is not the stuff out of pornographic representations of maids. She's young but still too old for him.
"Yeah, but thanks anyway. I know my mom's a bitch about some things though, with cleaning and whatever."
"Thank you. I'll be out of your way in a minute," she's already started mopping and isn't even looking at him anymore.
"It's fine I've got to walk these guys anyway."
"It was nice to meet you," she says to the floor.
"You too," he says while he passes with a small, squirming mongrel under each arm, "Oh, hey!"
"Yes?" She looks up like it's an inconvenience.
"Were you upstairs before?"
"In the bathroom?"
Her head bows back down to the wet floor, "I had to scrub out the tub."
"Oh, okay. That's good, I thought we had a ghost or something."
"Yeah, house is supposed to be haunted right?"
"I wouldn't know, sorry."
He sidesteps a wet stripe and makes his way out the door.
It's the cancellation of track due to rain that brings him to wait for his bus in the library.
He sits down at an empty seat and crosses his ankles, slipping down against the uncomfortably upholstered back and closes his eyes, letting the background noise lull him to sleep.
There's a girlish squeak to his right.
He cracks open an eye and searches for the source half-heartedly.
The sound starts again and is followed by a clatter of what he assumes to be a couple of paperbacks off a shelf and a muttered conversation.
"Come on. You can afford it."
"Overcharging because my parents have money is skeevy."
There's a dejected sigh, "Do you want the pills or not?"
"You gonna lower your prices?" The unseen girls question goes without a response to her question he hears her scoff, "Never mind then. I'll get it from someone else."
"Yeah, who? Kevin? Yeah, riiiight."
"There's other people besides you and Kevin."
"Good luck finding one."
There's a surprised sound. It comes from the girl.
"There are other things, you know, if you can't afford it. Other things besides money."
The girl laughs, loudly, once, "I'm not going to blow you for a handful of Hydrocodone, shit-head."
"Good luck finding someone else then."
"Thanks," a girl who looks like she has a lifetime membership to Hot Topic and a monopoly on Raccoon Eye makeup skirts around the corner of the L-M Fiction stacks, followed a full two minutes later by Westfield's resident drug dealer.
Tate has his eyes snapped shut and his mouth opened as if asleep by the time the other boy switches his gaze to the place where he's seated.
His hands start shaking on the bus ride home after practice. It's not the typical onslaught of paranoia that assaults him but rather the manic jitters that swatch him and swaddle him like an unruly baby, it's the precursor to the sort of spiraling rage he's been plagued by since Beau was buried.
He doesn't know what's prompted it but that the thing with it, it just happens. There's not a trigger like some people assume. It's always there. Growing gradually day by day until the mentally ill froth of it spills over the edge from mere accumulation. One crazy thought too many.
It won't be long before he sweeps dishes off the kitchen counter where they're drying just to hear them shatter and crunch against the stone kitchen tiles or throw a heavy school textbook into something for the satisfying boom that will shake the floor from it or find a suitable spot on his body to take a razor to.
He ignores it in the early evening but starving it with inattention only makes it snarl inside of him. By the time his mother has entered sleep through the doorway of a drunken stupor at eight, an early night by his account, the beastly thing in him is gnawing on the edge of his last bit of nerve to tell it to "fuck off."
It takes two maternal Valiums to soothe the inky clawed thing inside of him and make it stop trying to claw its way up his esophagus and out his mouth or lick at his brain with a length of poisonous tongue, a Lexapro from his own prescribed supply to color the world a shade less dismal, and half a joint to wade out of an impending and encroaching sense of doom.
Despite speed-lane snorting the pill medley off the back of a glossy coffee table art book, and licking off the remaining tiffany blue residue that sticks, relief is taking its time. He knows the perfect spot to tap a vein. The thought alone is as mouth-watering as a bell to a dog in Pavlov's kennels.
He makes a ceremony of it. Starts a bath and smokes up the rest of the weed he's got on hand while the pharmaceutical half of his high kicks in, following it by jerking off with flourish and lazy strokes.
When he cuts it's high enough not to be noticed from under his shorts, he's just cum but his dick throbs like an aftershock once the thin red line starts burning from the soap and heat in the water, once he can watch the water bloom with first blood, spiraling like visible wind curls or smoke from a cigarette.
He hums in agreement to a spare thought that's floating away through the bath water. It's something about cigarettes and her smoking them. Her.
The way she smokes them is curled up in his blood, unfurling into the bath water.
He's got a fantasy where she unfurls into it, swells up over him so he can swell up inside of her. Like the tide or a current that can just carry him away and he'd take her with him if he went, he doesn't want to drown alone.
When he sleeps it's dreamless and when he wakes up it's in tepid water.
He pours himself into bed, damp and nude and half-high. The sheets meld to his skin like fruit skins or bubblegum film. Blearily and belatedly from his ass up sprawl on the bed he realizes that there may be someone else in his room. The paranoia has swept in like it always does. Sooner or later, but he think he smells smoke. The acrid scent of Marlboros, but the red florescence of his nightstand alarm clock tells him its 2am and his mother is still too sloshed to move and his imagination is as nightmare filled as the shadows in his closet ever were.
He reaches over to the ashtray next to his clock but finds the joint missing. He remembers that he smoked it. But he remembers that's he's wrong because the one he smoked had been inside a spiral notebook, an under the school bleachers emergency stash for the really bad days.
The cherry of it glows orange from over the edge of his bed, towards his hip. She's resting small and delicate, sitting on the floor with her elbows on the bed, her legs tucked into the space underneath.
It hurts his neck to look at her but he traces the shape of her warmed by an inhale glow lips. It's too dark to see the plume of the exhale leave her mouth and float off her tongue but he feels the warm puff of it blow across and up his ribs.
"Ugh. It's good. I'm still high."
She slides closer to the head of the bed, still on the floor, like a trailing dust bunny from under the bed, her face comes closer to his still turned to stare at her in the dark.
"Open your mouth."
He can feel the wafting warmth of her tongue when she blows smoke onto his, he tries to flick his out after it but she retreats. Her eyes gleam, but his shadow covers the rest of her face, it's all just shapes, indistinct in the way dreams are, she is he knows but that doesn't really matter, "God, you are fucking beautiful."
"You're fucking high. But thanks."
"Get high with me."
"Maybe when you're awake."
"It's my dream."
"Hmmm. You dream about me?"
"Tonight I am. Open your mouth."
She does and next he wants to tell her to get naked so they match because in dreams sometimes you get to do what you want, rarely and not for long but if you're quick you can have it real good for a little while but his leg twitches and kicks at air and he's thrown from the presence of his dream girl.
But then she's back, sleeping in like a gift from his subconscious. He tells her he missed her and she laughs.
She says: "I really like you Tate."
And he dumbly says that that's 'cool.'
In recompense for the inanity of the response he tells her things. Things he'd never say when she'd really be listening things he can't even think about while the sun's up.
Things about his mother, things about Addie, things about Beau, things that scare him, things that keep him up at night, things that help him fall asleep.
He doesn't know when she goes or when he stops spilling secrets but the darkness is dreamless after she's gone from it.
There's something wet trailing along the crease between thigh and groin where there's an itchy trail of flaked blood and the flavor of cum he didn't, bother to wash away.
Something traces the shape of his dick lying against his thigh, stirs him back awake, just barely, something cool and soft brushes along the expanse of skin and muscle low on his stomach and then down the inside of his thighs and he jolts up in full conscious confusion when he realizes it's how hair feels.
There's a moment of fear but he flips the sheet back and finds nothing but his own nakedness and a state of almost there arousal he flops back onto his pillows and breaths in the coolness of too early morning that's making the curtains sway. The room is shaded indigo blue and something inside of him wants to sob. He doesn't want to be alone.
A/N: For reference Moira when she appears in this is young Moira, as in the non-slutty young Moira, so really she's regular Moira.I think it's pretty obvious that Violet is dead. That's not the part of this story I wanted to be a mystery, how she got dead is.