Some loosely hinted at family troubles in this chunk - and a couple of lines that could or could not be read as Freddy's dad beating him when he got angry, depending on how you want to interpret that.
Beyond that we are now into the part of the story where Freddy is with Sport. Nothing sexual happens just yet, but as I've said before, Sport is a very predatory character and all his niceness towards Freddy should absolutely be read as a grooming tactic. Please stay back if that's at all uncomfortable for you.
Ochre walls and paintings that his grandfather made some forty years ago are still barely visible through the tangle of comic book posters and movie stars, hacked out from the pages of what few magazines Freddy's ever cared enough to buy. He hates this place, growing smaller by the year though he can't seem to grow up. The carpet is hidden beneath the remains of homework never done and candy wrappers that he doesn't have the motivation to pick up.
He stands, swaying in the doorway, listening for the sound of movement coming down the hall. The bitter taste of beer still fills his mouth, slipping over his tongue for the first time in his life and he doesn't know what to do with the wooziness that accompanies it. Being drunk is nothing at all like what he expected. It's fun, with other people, but as he tries to put himself back together for long enough to crawl into bed he resents how hard it is to think straight.
The clock says it's just after three am. That's not so bad. He'll need to wake up in seven hours tops, splitting headache or not. Or maybe there is no headache, or maybe he has to puke to get it all out of his system. Freddy thinks about bacon and his stomach practically roars in response.
He checks over his shoulder, to be sure no one's snuck up on him. There's no one there, he's as alone as ever. He could slip down to the kitchen and cook himself up something nice.
He wouldn't do that, not to his mom, but he could. Parents can be thick as pig shit sometimes, but they can also possess an almost superhuman knack for keeping you on your toes. Freddy's still trying to decide if they're going to know where he's been, or if he's going to slip by unnoticed. Alcohol has a stink but he'd be fucked if he can tell if it's anywhere on him right now. If it is, he's acclimatised and is well and truly fucked.
With a trip and a stumble, he braves the mess of his floor. Crashing down on top of the covers, he sheds outdoor clothing as gracelessly as can be expected, stripping back to a tshirt and his boxers. He checks under the bed and sees his packed bag staring back at him, ready to go when he is, if the day ever comes.
If his dad knows that he snuck out...
If he knew he would have been sat up, waiting, bursting into fury as Freddy walked through the door. In principal it's only because he cares but he never bothers to specify exactly what he cares about. Some bullshit about how he doesn't want Freddy hanging out with Mikey Farrow. What the fuck does he know?
Mikey's nice, and if he's a bad influence it's nothing more serious than the rest of Freddy's classmates. The baking heat of California in the summer, soon to resolve into the gentle comfort of autumn, closes in around him as Freddy falls back onto his billow. The alcohol has him feeling giddy and sloppy all at once, a smile on his face as he slips into unconsciousness without any indication that there is a dividing line between this world and the next.
Freddy awakes in a room with enough colour to knock an elephant unconscious. Light filters in through tactfully sheer curtains, holding him in half light while outside, the grey gloom of high noon overtakes the city.
It's midday exactly, according to the clock on the opposite wall. everything appeared to be hoot pink, bright green of turquoise, including the magenta bedspread that Freddy is cocooned under. The weight of the duvet keeps him strapped to the mattress, groggily trying to remember where the fuck he is and if he should be at all concerned that he hasn't woken up in a dumpster. He swears he hasn't been this perfectly warm in his entire life.
Tentatively, he stretches himself out, trying to get his blood moving and so spurn his brain into action. He's stiff all over, right down to the way his rib cage aches as he draws in a deep breath, but what stands out to him is the fierce sting of his right hand, loudly protesting balling itself up into a fist.
Freddy holds the hand up to his face and wonders who the hell stocks pink bandages. Deep pink, dark, almost black.
His hand is wrapped up because he hurt it. Or someone hurt it for him. And someone else said they were going to make it all better.
The memories Freddy has of the night before feel like they belong to someone else, murky and incomplete, like a reinterpretation of a story someone told him. There was a mugging, there was running, he was so fucking cold and then he wasn't.
The door nudges open ever so slightly. "Morning, sugar. How are you feeling?"
Freddy hoists himself up onto his elbows and blinks at the door. A familiar face, all dark hair and rounded lines peers round, smiling at him without judgement or intent. Sport. Freddy's heart slams into his throat, urging him to get the fuck up and go, and it must show in his face.
"Hey, hey now." Sport coos. He slips into the room,closing the door behind him and crosses the distance to the bed Freddy's in. Today's choker is made of childish plastic beads, picked up in a horrendous mess of mismatched colours, set over a pair of shorts, a long blue dressing gown and a pair of slippers. "Easy, Freddy. Stay with me. I got you."
Freddy lurches away from him as he settles on the edge of the bed. "Where the fuck am I?"
"You don't remember?" Sport scratches at the back of his head. "Were you high last night or somethin'? You were real fucked up but I figured it was just shock."
"I'm not, I don't-"
"Aw, don't start up with that shit again." Sport huffs out a laugh and resettles his shoulders. "C'mon, Freddy. I told you, I'm gonna keep you safe, I'm gonna protect you. That's what I do, that's what I like." His hand finds Freddy's ankle from over the top of the duvet, smoothing down the covers to stroke along the outline of his calf.
The phantom memory of a hand running down his back, soothing away the night and the cold, suggests itself to Freddy. He doesn't relax, but he doesn't pull away or tell Sport to stop. "Where am I?"
"We're at my place. Easiest spot to take you to. I called up a doctor, he's gonna come round and take a look at your hand later." Sport's eyes travel up from Freddy's feet to his face, where they rest with casual scrutiny.
Freddy can feel himself starting to blush, but catches himself before he ducks his head. He holds up the hand in question. "Did you wrap this up last night?"
"Shit." Sport vaults forward, clearing the perimeter of the double bed in an instant. "Goddamn it. I was hoping the bleeding would have stopped by now."
Freddy stares dumbly at his hand, cradled in Sport's and looking so pathetically small. The dark pink of the bandages iss just blood, it's not by design.
He lost his coat, the night before. The rain coat. All the shit he's been through and the thing that caught him out was loosing a fucking coat. But you can't stay dry without it, so really the choice was between letting the rain wash him away, increment by increment, or winding up here.
He coughs, not taking his eyes off Sports hands, gently unwinding the bloody bandages, clicking his tongue like he's disappointed in them for not holding Freddy together the way he designed. "We didn't...um...I don't think we did...did we?"
Sport pauses, eyes flicking up to Freddy's and letting the silence settle around them before he shakes his head. "No, sweet boy. I'm not trying to take advantage here, you understand? I just wanna fix you up, make sure that you're doing ok." A hand cradles Freddy's chin, thumb brushing just under his bottom lip.
"Take care of me?" Freddy ventures. He can feel goosebumps rising on his skin, despite the overwhelming heat of the duvet.
The smile Sport breaks out into is honest and delighted. It was him, Freddy thinks. The warm thing he can remember from last night, it was Sport. Every part of him seems to exude heat, from the gentle forcefulness with which he carries himself to the deep brown of his eyes, like melted chocolate. "Right. Yeah, right." He laughs just a little bordering on self conscious. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph you really are something, aren't you?"
Freddy shrugs, unable to hold Sport's gaze any longer. He can feel himself smiling, despite every bad thing he's ever thought about the guy. There's still a hand on his chin, moving slowly, trying to calm him down like you would an erratic animal.
Sport shuffles in closer, dipping his head towards Freddy. "You know, this is my bed. I slept on the couch last night."
"You didn't have to do that." Freddy mumbles, like that's gonna change the past.
"Sure I didn't. But I didn't want you waking up thinking I was just using your shit as an excuse to get you into bed."
The implication tightens Freddy's throat. His eyes dart back towards his hand, the wound looks terrifyingly deep in the dim light, but he can still see where fresh blood glistens in the cut.
Sport extricates himself from Freddy very carefully, crossing the room to a little table where he scoops up a fresh roll of bandages. "So, whaddaya say, Freddy? You gonna let me help you out, or was last night a one time thing?"
Freddy looks from the bandages to his hand, from the raised flesh of his arm poking out over the covers to the wide expanse of the duvet. Like a beggar, desperate for the handful of coppers coming his way, he holds out his hand and Sport takes it.
Re: Sport/Orange - shady skeevey stuff - 17/?
Beyond that we are now into the part of the story where Freddy is with Sport. Nothing sexual happens just yet, but as I've said before, Sport is a very predatory character and all his niceness towards Freddy should absolutely be read as a grooming tactic. Please stay back if that's at all uncomfortable for you.
----------------------------------------------------
Ochre walls and paintings that his grandfather made some forty years ago are still barely visible through the tangle of comic book posters and movie stars, hacked out from the pages of what few magazines Freddy's ever cared enough to buy. He hates this place, growing smaller by the year though he can't seem to grow up. The carpet is hidden beneath the remains of homework never done and candy wrappers that he doesn't have the motivation to pick up.
He stands, swaying in the doorway, listening for the sound of movement coming down the hall. The bitter taste of beer still fills his mouth, slipping over his tongue for the first time in his life and he doesn't know what to do with the wooziness that accompanies it. Being drunk is nothing at all like what he expected. It's fun, with other people, but as he tries to put himself back together for long enough to crawl into bed he resents how hard it is to think straight.
The clock says it's just after three am. That's not so bad. He'll need to wake up in seven hours tops, splitting headache or not. Or maybe there is no headache, or maybe he has to puke to get it all out of his system. Freddy thinks about bacon and his stomach practically roars in response.
He checks over his shoulder, to be sure no one's snuck up on him. There's no one there, he's as alone as ever. He could slip down to the kitchen and cook himself up something nice.
He wouldn't do that, not to his mom, but he could. Parents can be thick as pig shit sometimes, but they can also possess an almost superhuman knack for keeping you on your toes. Freddy's still trying to decide if they're going to know where he's been, or if he's going to slip by unnoticed. Alcohol has a stink but he'd be fucked if he can tell if it's anywhere on him right now. If it is, he's acclimatised and is well and truly fucked.
With a trip and a stumble, he braves the mess of his floor. Crashing down on top of the covers, he sheds outdoor clothing as gracelessly as can be expected, stripping back to a tshirt and his boxers. He checks under the bed and sees his packed bag staring back at him, ready to go when he is, if the day ever comes.
If his dad knows that he snuck out...
If he knew he would have been sat up, waiting, bursting into fury as Freddy walked through the door. In principal it's only because he cares but he never bothers to specify exactly what he cares about. Some bullshit about how he doesn't want Freddy hanging out with Mikey Farrow. What the fuck does he know?
Mikey's nice, and if he's a bad influence it's nothing more serious than the rest of Freddy's classmates. The baking heat of California in the summer, soon to resolve into the gentle comfort of autumn, closes in around him as Freddy falls back onto his billow. The alcohol has him feeling giddy and sloppy all at once, a smile on his face as he slips into unconsciousness without any indication that there is a dividing line between this world and the next.
--------------------------------------------------
Freddy awakes in a room with enough colour to knock an elephant unconscious. Light filters in through tactfully sheer curtains, holding him in half light while outside, the grey gloom of high noon overtakes the city.
It's midday exactly, according to the clock on the opposite wall. everything appeared to be hoot pink, bright green of turquoise, including the magenta bedspread that Freddy is cocooned under. The weight of the duvet keeps him strapped to the mattress, groggily trying to remember where the fuck he is and if he should be at all concerned that he hasn't woken up in a dumpster. He swears he hasn't been this perfectly warm in his entire life.
Tentatively, he stretches himself out, trying to get his blood moving and so spurn his brain into action. He's stiff all over, right down to the way his rib cage aches as he draws in a deep breath, but what stands out to him is the fierce sting of his right hand, loudly protesting balling itself up into a fist.
Freddy holds the hand up to his face and wonders who the hell stocks pink bandages. Deep pink, dark, almost black.
His hand is wrapped up because he hurt it. Or someone hurt it for him. And someone else said they were going to make it all better.
The memories Freddy has of the night before feel like they belong to someone else, murky and incomplete, like a reinterpretation of a story someone told him. There was a mugging, there was running, he was so fucking cold and then he wasn't.
The door nudges open ever so slightly. "Morning, sugar. How are you feeling?"
Freddy hoists himself up onto his elbows and blinks at the door. A familiar face, all dark hair and rounded lines peers round, smiling at him without judgement or intent. Sport. Freddy's heart slams into his throat, urging him to get the fuck up and go, and it must show in his face.
"Hey, hey now." Sport coos. He slips into the room,closing the door behind him and crosses the distance to the bed Freddy's in. Today's choker is made of childish plastic beads, picked up in a horrendous mess of mismatched colours, set over a pair of shorts, a long blue dressing gown and a pair of slippers. "Easy, Freddy. Stay with me. I got you."
Freddy lurches away from him as he settles on the edge of the bed. "Where the fuck am I?"
"You don't remember?" Sport scratches at the back of his head. "Were you high last night or somethin'? You were real fucked up but I figured it was just shock."
"I'm not, I don't-"
"Aw, don't start up with that shit again." Sport huffs out a laugh and resettles his shoulders. "C'mon, Freddy. I told you, I'm gonna keep you safe, I'm gonna protect you. That's what I do, that's what I like." His hand finds Freddy's ankle from over the top of the duvet, smoothing down the covers to stroke along the outline of his calf.
The phantom memory of a hand running down his back, soothing away the night and the cold, suggests itself to Freddy. He doesn't relax, but he doesn't pull away or tell Sport to stop. "Where am I?"
"We're at my place. Easiest spot to take you to. I called up a doctor, he's gonna come round and take a look at your hand later." Sport's eyes travel up from Freddy's feet to his face, where they rest with casual scrutiny.
Freddy can feel himself starting to blush, but catches himself before he ducks his head. He holds up the hand in question. "Did you wrap this up last night?"
"Shit." Sport vaults forward, clearing the perimeter of the double bed in an instant. "Goddamn it. I was hoping the bleeding would have stopped by now."
Freddy stares dumbly at his hand, cradled in Sport's and looking so pathetically small. The dark pink of the bandages iss just blood, it's not by design.
He lost his coat, the night before. The rain coat. All the shit he's been through and the thing that caught him out was loosing a fucking coat. But you can't stay dry without it, so really the choice was between letting the rain wash him away, increment by increment, or winding up here.
He coughs, not taking his eyes off Sports hands, gently unwinding the bloody bandages, clicking his tongue like he's disappointed in them for not holding Freddy together the way he designed. "We didn't...um...I don't think we did...did we?"
Sport pauses, eyes flicking up to Freddy's and letting the silence settle around them before he shakes his head. "No, sweet boy. I'm not trying to take advantage here, you understand? I just wanna fix you up, make sure that you're doing ok." A hand cradles Freddy's chin, thumb brushing just under his bottom lip.
"Take care of me?" Freddy ventures. He can feel goosebumps rising on his skin, despite the overwhelming heat of the duvet.
The smile Sport breaks out into is honest and delighted. It was him, Freddy thinks. The warm thing he can remember from last night, it was Sport. Every part of him seems to exude heat, from the gentle forcefulness with which he carries himself to the deep brown of his eyes, like melted chocolate. "Right. Yeah, right." He laughs just a little bordering on self conscious. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph you really are something, aren't you?"
Freddy shrugs, unable to hold Sport's gaze any longer. He can feel himself smiling, despite every bad thing he's ever thought about the guy. There's still a hand on his chin, moving slowly, trying to calm him down like you would an erratic animal.
Sport shuffles in closer, dipping his head towards Freddy. "You know, this is my bed. I slept on the couch last night."
"You didn't have to do that." Freddy mumbles, like that's gonna change the past.
"Sure I didn't. But I didn't want you waking up thinking I was just using your shit as an excuse to get you into bed."
The implication tightens Freddy's throat. His eyes dart back towards his hand, the wound looks terrifyingly deep in the dim light, but he can still see where fresh blood glistens in the cut.
Sport extricates himself from Freddy very carefully, crossing the room to a little table where he scoops up a fresh roll of bandages. "So, whaddaya say, Freddy? You gonna let me help you out, or was last night a one time thing?"
Freddy looks from the bandages to his hand, from the raised flesh of his arm poking out over the covers to the wide expanse of the duvet. Like a beggar, desperate for the handful of coppers coming his way, he holds out his hand and Sport takes it.