“You were never meant to see me like this”
CW: Referenced past pet whump and noncon, referenced alcohol use/hangover
TIMELINE: Post-No Matter What, one year after Oliver Branch’s death
When he comes back into his room, two plates layered with Jake’s hash browns and fried eggs balanced in his hands, Laken is up and pulling their binder on over their head, carefully working the tight black fabric down to where the hem sits just at their ribcage. Their back is to him, and like always Chris is struck at the way they’re so utterly, amazingly perfect.
“Oooh, is that breakfast?” They glance over their shoulder at him, eyeliner smudged at the corners of their eyes, nose ring catching the sunlight coming through the blinds. “I’m starving. What’d Jake make us?”
“Um... hash-... hashbrowns and, and, and eggs. Over-easy, like, like you-you-you like.” Chris sets their plate down. “Over hard for, for me.”
“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a wimp,” Laken teases, and if it weren’t for his pounding headache and how even after three glasses of water his tongue still feels like dry dead weight in his mouth, it would be like last night never even happened.
But-... it did.
“Please, please tell me he at least gave you-”
“Hot sauce? Here, here, here you go.” He digs the little bottle full of fiery red from a pocket and tosses it to them. They sigh in gratitude and relief.
“Excellent. Thanks. Oooh, coffee.” Laken takes a drink, makes a face. “Lukewarm.”
“Well, it’s, it’s, it’s been here awhile, I can get-... I can get fresh-”
“No, that’s cool. Thanks for it. I’m just gonna drink it really fast. You’re probably on cup, what, four? Can you feel the movement of the earth yet?”
“No, but, but, I could-... last night.” Chris presses his lips together. Things are too much a blur - he knows he drank too much, he knows what he tried to get Laken to do. He knows that-
That he misses his Sir, is sad that he’s gone so far that Chris could never go back to him, slide back into Baldur, give up and forget himself completely if he wanted to. Not that he does. But-...
He knows that Oliver is still dead, and that he drank himself sick trying to forget and remember him, and he tried to be good for Laken, and...
“I’m, um, sor-... sorry about, about last night,” He says as they sit cross-legged on his bed, wearing the binder and a pair of boxer short underwear. They look up at him, a bit of heavy black hair falling over their forehead, the shaved sides short enough to see hints of scalp through.
They’re handsome, and beautiful.
And he’s a broken toy.
We love you, Chris, whether you like it or not. You’re stuck with a couple of fucked-up brothers and Laken, too. We’re all choosing you.
Jake’s words downstairs echo in his mind and he tries to stand himself up taller, to look stronger. Like someone who doubts himself less than he really does.
“It’s okay,” Laken says, softly.
“No, it’s, it’s it’s not. You’re not... you weren’t supposed to, to, to see me like... that.” Chris sits down next to them and slumps a little, hands between his knees. “I’m supposed to, to to not-... to not do that any, um, anymore.”
“Yeah, well. You did. Shit pops back up even if you want it gone. I’m still here.” Laken reaches over and takes one of his hands in theirs, pulls it up to their lips, presses a kiss to the back of it. Their hand and lips are warm. Warmer than Chris ever is.
“I just-... don’t, um, do that. Normally. And I haven’t, haven’t tried to to to-”
You can choose to be good or choose to be hurt, trainee
“-come on to someone in... in, in, in a long time.”
“I know. I know you, Chris. Not-... everything, and I’ll never ask to know what you don’t want to tell me, but... I know you.” Laken kisses his hand again. “I know that you’re kind, and gentle, and climb trees and do backflips and love that stupid show about the fucking French Revolution even though, objectively speaking, what is the fucking appeal, they don’t even win-... Chris, that question does not require an answer... but I know you. And it’s-all-gone-to-shit-you is still you you. And that’s who I love.”
Chris smiles, a little, down at his feet. “I, I, I love you, too.”
“Good. Now let’s eat these hashbrowns before they’re colder than my coffee.”
“It’s not, not, not my fault you slept so late.”
“Chris, I was up taking care of you, it is literally your fault-”
He takes the hot sauce right out of their hand and they laugh and throw themself at him to get it back.
