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John lay in his bed, looking up at the ceiling above him as his mind drifted off into aggravating nothingness. He hated it, but at the same time, nothingness was better than loathing or anger at the moment.
Though anything was better than the person that had been plaguing his mind for months at this point. His own thoughts were haunting him. It caused him to pick at his skin, and bite at his nails—old and harmful habits he had dropped were back like it was nothing.
Along with his feeling of emptiness he’d also been distancing himself from everyone as of late. At first it was from Smii7y, because he was closest to Smii7y. Then from Matt, because Matt was also close to Smii7y. After that, it was Puffer because after Matt; Puffer was the person Smii7y went to so he could rant. One by one, he stopped talking to everyone. Not opening his computer or phone anymore, not willing to look at the messages left for him. He just let himself drift away from his social life and disappeared for a while.
It didn't have to be a big deal, is what he told himself as heard Smii7y’s laugh repeated in his mind—he had memorized it—and something fluttered in his chest he hadn’t felt in a while. The thing was, it was a big deal. To him at least. He found himself wanting to be around Smii7y more often, bounce off his jokes, in general just talk to him.
He wasn’t used to these feelings—not towards a man and certainly not towards Smii7y. The worst part was he knew they weren’t reciprocated by the Canadian. Smii7y was like that with everyone, joking around and flirting, it wasn't just him that the behavior was targeted towards. John wasn’t special in any way to Smii7y. He knew the only reason why they played together for recording sessions one on one was because fans loved seeing them together. Smii7y made it clear that most of their friendship was business, even if he didn’t mean to.
So, John laid in bed, trying to get his mind off of someone he just couldn’t stop thinking about. So far, it’s been… less than successful; John hadn’t slept in two days now, and he hadn’t showered in.. a far longer time. It was getting to the point where he’d lay in bed so long he’d kept forgetting to eat. He just didn't feel hungry anymore in his day to day. Why should he try to eat if he isn't hungry?
It wasn’t that big of a deal anyway. It was just dumb feelings. He wasn't even sure why he was letting it eat him alive and blow it up to be bigger than it actually was. Honestly, he was probably just inconveniencing his friends by not showing up to plans or recordings rather than actually hurting their feelings or worrying them. Though, it probably didn't matter if he was there or not, it's not like his life and attendance was very important. It wasn’t like he was important in any way.
He didn't notice whenever a case of beer turned into his best friend. He had never even liked beer that much to begin with. He also wasn't exactly aware of whenever he had picked back up his habit of smoking, either.
Maybe, he was just doing anything to get Smii7y off his mind, to distract him from this crush he had on the man. That would make sense. He couldn’t bear thinking of him half the time; it just made him spiral more.
That's the really sad part, when you actually sit down and think about it all. When it all came down to what this actually was, it was just pathetic that he was laying here throwing his life away because of a stupid crush. He had thirty-two years on this earth, so logically, liking someone– man or not, shouldn't be a life changing event for him. He should just either get over it or tell the damn guy.
He couldn't.
These feelings were just…. pitiful and embarrassing. It really pissed him off, since he had been doing so well for so long. He had gotten away from his old habits he had back when he was in his twenties, and he had even finally started making art for no reason other than for himself. He even began sewing and making additions to his clothing, streaming more often, and trying to do things he actually enjoyed.
It had all come crashing down so fast. Everything he had started to have confidence in doing for himself was crashing down for one person. He was so mad it was Smii7y; stupid, dumb, funny, and amazing Smii7y. Smii7y had helped build his career and been with him for years, making John feel tall even where he was falling short. The Canadian had helped him be more comfortable around new people and less avoidant by inviting him out to new places. Smii7y had helped him make so many new friends. He also made John laugh harder than anyone else he’d ever met. Smii7y was the one person he actually enjoyed calling with for hours that went far into the night and-
Fuck.
He was fucked, no other way to put it. He knew at this point that he was the only thing keeping himself from getting better. Even then, he wouldn’t do anything about it. He sat there in bed, and the prospect of doing anything made him want to tear off his skin and bang his head against a wall until he ended this never ending torture, but at the same time made him just want to curl up in a ball and cry his eyes out until he couldn’t anymore.
Maybe he just needed another beer.
Then again, maybe he needed a lot of things. Maybe he needed something new that wasn’t rotting in his bed. Maybe he needed someone to help him out of this slump. Someone to put him back together, even if it hurt. Maybe he just needed to get off his ass and be an adult. I mean, it was clear nobody else was going to do it for him, he didn’t live near any of them and his friends were too busy to fly all this way just for him.
Maybe it was the key word in each of those sentences.
He didn’t want to get better, not really.
John turned his head to look at the clock, and the action already sent a sharp pain up his neck into his head that made him wince. A small cry of pain escaped his lips as he rubbed at his forehead before actually looking at the clock. He frowned at the time—it was 4:37 in the morning. He would’ve groaned as he turned his head back towards the ceiling, but he didn’t have the energy to do so. He just threw an arm over his eyes, as if covering them would help kill the pain he’d been feeling for weeks. But he knew that nothing was working to distract himself from it anymore. Not beer, not cigarettes, vape, or weed. Not even the hunger pains deep in his stomach. His thoughts were always plagued no matter how hard he tried to replace them with anything else.
Despite the pain blasting in his head from the movement, he forced himself to pick up his phone and turn it on, wincing at the light, tears stinging at his eyes from the sheer amount of messages he had. He didn’t have the motivation to check any of them, not even the one he saw from his family. He knew, logically, that meant they cared, and that he should feel loved. It didn’t feel like it though, because to his mind, if he couldn’t touch the warmth they gave, then it wasn’t real.
He pulled himself up from bed, trying not to let himself spiral as he looked down at his floor that was covered by trash and waste. He let out a quiet sound that was almost like a sob, and for a moment, he just sat there with his head in his hands, trying to forget everything. Everything. It obviously didn’t work, so he let his fingers— dirty, oily— drag down his grimy face then drop down to his lap. He pushed himself up to a standing position, his eyes focusing on nothing as he mindlessly moved towards the kitchen.
As he went, his eyes locked on to the medicine cabinet. For a moment, he wondered if he could overdose on pain killers. He thought about how his landlord would react. She probably wouldn’t come check for a few weeks, and by then his body would be sitting on the kitchen floor rotting in filth. She’d be disgusted with who she let rent his apartment, she’d probably request to burn all of his things. He let his mind conjure up an image—his body rotting, bubbling at the mouth after an overdose; as he did, his eyes widened and he doubled over. He gripped the counter with one his hands, the other going to his throat as he tried to stop himself from puking up the emptiness of his own stomach.
He took a few deep breaths and stood back up straight, his hands now shaking as he took another step forward. He grabbed a cup from his cabinet—you would think he’d have a lot of dishes, with all this rotting, but he wasn’t lying when he said he hadn’t eaten much. It wasn’t like he’d drank water either. He didn’t want to deal with having to see a sink full of responsibilities.
He let the cup fill up with tap water, he wasn’t in the mood to be picky about any of it. He opened the medicine cabinet, taking out the bottle of pills and only picking one. He wasn’t going to go through with that idea he had. He let out a sigh as he looked down at the pill in his palm—the idea of swallowing anything right now had his throat closing up, but the pain blaring in his head was more persistent.
He tossed it in his mouth and picked up the cup of water, trying to drink it down a few times and failing. His body wouldn’t let him. He gagged once before taking a shuttering breath and trying again, finally getting it down. He wasn’t sure when such a small task started to feel like it drained him this much. Swallowing a pill felt too much like the days when he’d stay up late editing his videos- even if it was one, one thousandth of the effort.
He clutched the counter and let out a deep breath, biting his lip as he felt tears forming again, slowly rolling down his checks and dropping down onto the counter. He felt so pathetic, what was his 32 years of life for if he was just standing here, throwing it away because he had feelings for someone that was thousands of miles away? Was he really throwing everything he had worked for away for this?
Yeah. Yeah, he was. Because he was worth nothing really, because in the grand scheme, ‘everything’ he had worked for was really nothing at all.
He smiled; it was something sad and broken. He pushed himself away from the counter, his hands balled into fists as he went to drag himself back to his room and wallow in his own self pity and hatred. Right as he got to the hallway that led back to his room, he froze upon hearing a knock at his front door. His front door. He hadn’t heard that in forever- unless it was Katie, this young blond preppy girl, from next door again, coming to complain about the smell. But he had checked the time earlier, it was late. She wouldn’t complain even this late at night.
He looked at the door for a long moment, as if debating whether to just ignore it and walk away, or to go open it.
Each step towards the door, he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He felt nervous, unsure of why, but his palms started sweating. He took one final deep breath as he made it to the door and twisted the doorknob down, pulling it open.
The first thing he noticed was that it was dark outside.
The second thing he noticed was the familiar yet disheveled face at his door. The voice that came from his mouth was raspy from… crying? But it was always recognizable to John, it was the only thing he had thought about for weeks.
“John.”