#jae writes

Your eyes flickered from the tipsy man on the couch, back to the screen, and you shut the laptop on the desk in record speed. 

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he scoffed. “Everything is…fucking peaches.”

Taking a moment to collect your thoughts, you furrowed your brows in response. You could feel the anxiety rising in your chest, because you knew the question you wanted to ask, but had no idea whether the response would be a nonchalant shrug of the shoulder or a table flipped. His eyes locked onto you for the first time that evening as you approached the couch and sat beside him, gently taking the bottle from his bruised fist. Before he could open his mouth to speak, you softly rested a hand on his arm.

“Talk to me,” you whispered to him.

“Oh for FUCKS sake, this again?” He threw his hands in the air and leaned back into the couch cushions, laughing humorlessly, “I don’t know how many times I’ve gotta say that I’m Gucci. I got that sponsorship coming down the pipeline with Liquid Death--”

“That was just a free shirt.”

“I got that deal with…uh…fuckin’…” He snapped, trying to remember, “That fuckin’ TikTok dude. The one selling the Labubus.” 

“Russ--”

“My DMs are flooded with brand deals! I was on People’s Sexiest Men Alive last year. Or was it the year before? Whatever. I’m on fire. Don’t do that. Don’t you look at me like that, I swear to Christ.”

He rose from the couch and paced in front of you. Back and forth. Back and forth. His smug teenage grin remained frozen on the screen behind him basking in the radiant green glow of Oregon University’s stadium lights, blissfully unaware of what the next decade would bring. You could feel the frown pulling at the corners of your mouth. 

“There you go again,” he crossed his arms, then decided to drop them to his sides, then finally tangled one of his hands in his messy darkening hair now that the artificial blond was beginning to fade, “Stop looking at me like I’m a fucking charity case. Or a hasbeen. Like you pity me. I’m Russell Fucking Holliday. Nobody pities me.”

“I wasn’t pitying you.” You replied softly.

“I see it written all over your face.” He gestured in your direction, “‘Poor fuckin’ Russ, ruined his career because he can’t control himself’.”

“I don’t think that about you.”

“I don’t need pity.”

You sighed, “I’m worried about you.”

He suddenly snorted, the cocky veneer returning with a vengeance, “There’s nothing to be worried about, you’re just being dramatic.” 

At this, you eyed him incredulously, “Then why did you ask me if I hated you?”

Russ paused his pacing to stare at you, his expression perfectly still. As if he’d forgotten how this conversation began in the first place. He coolly shoved his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, feigning nonchalance. But the facade crumbled almost immediately when he met your gaze.

“Dude…I don’t fucking…I don’t know.” He crossed his arms over his chest again, defensively. 

Brief flashes appeared in your mind’s eye. Scattered pills. Empty whiskey bottles. Smudged lines of white and a running engine in a closed garage. You could almost hear your own screaming as firefighters broke the garage door down and pulled his pale, unconscious body from his car.

You stared at each other as his response hung in the air between you. Because he very well knew the answer to your question.

“Russell.”

A smug smirk graced his face. “Bee.”

“Don’t call me that.” You countered, pensively folding your hands together in your lap. “Is it getting bad again?”

Simmering silence.

His brows furrowed, and you saw the mask of cool indifference--perhaps muted fear-- creeping up again, “Can you just…stop? You don’t have to do all of this shit. I know you’re only here because I pay you. If I didn’t, you’d be somewhere else. Doing whatever meaningless thing you do.”

You rolled your eyes and leaned back against the couch cushions, “Classic Holliday. Deflect, attack, repeat. Maybe try being honest for once. Or, I don’t know, try a fuckin’ therapist. And no, Russell, Svedka and Tito’s don’t count as therapists.”

A spectrum of emotions crossed his face. “You are so…you’re fucking annoying.” He sneered through gritted teeth, “You’re always just fucking obnoxious. And then you wonder why--” he cut himself off and took a deep breath, dropping his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

“Why what?” You asked. You could feel the corners of your mouth twitch, knowing exactly what he wanted to say, “Why? What? Russell?”

“I’m not gonna say it, because then I’ll be the bad guy again. Like I always am in your world.”

“Oh!” You nearly bellowed, mirth laced in your tone, “Another thing to cross off the Russell Holliday checklist. ‘I’m not a dickhead, everyone else is just too sensitive to my blunt honesty’. Great job.”

In the blink of an eye he was next to you on the couch with a shit-eating grin, leaning close enough for you to smell the alcohol on his breath. “Maybe if more people were blunt with you, you would stop getting ghosted by every person you talk to. How did that last thing go with… what’s his name? Did he stick around long enough to tell you, or did he just immediately block you?”

Your eye twitched. “Fuck you, Russell. Fuck you.” Your voice wavered with anger, which only made you more upset because he loved getting a reaction out of you. The daggers in your gaze made the grin slip from his face. 

“That was low, my bad.”

“Yeah, your bad, you stupid drunk asshole.”

The tension in the room was palpable, all because you had the audacity to care about his mental state. He looked apologetic and deeply uncomfortable as you mentally toyed with the idea of kicking him off the couch. After all the years you’d known him, you would think you would be used to all this. But you weren’t twenty-two anymore.

“You’re the only one who cares,” he sighed, “other than, you know, my old man. And even he seems sick of my shit, not that I blame him. God no. I’m just… God, Bee, I’m so fuckin’ tired. I’m sick of this shit. I want to unzip all of this and disappear. Just wipe all this off.” He gestured to his face and arms, every distinctive feature he had. “I wanna go somewhere no one knows me and just fade away.”

Some of the anger dissipated as he leaned into the cushions beside you, both of you staring at his younger visage on the massive television.

“Why did you ask me if I hated you?” You asked.

He silently flexed his fingers and ran a hand over the tattoo on his inner forearm. You assumed he was deciding whether to tell the truth or evade it again.

“I just need a reason to disappear.” His voice cracked slightly. “You hating me would make it easier. And I wish you did.”

His emotion felt like a vice around your heart. You still avoided eye contact, unsure you could do so without crying.

“Don’t stay here in LA for me. Not if that’s not what you want.”

He let out a soft, humorless chuckle. “You piss me the fuck off maybe 75% of the time, but for some strange reason, I can’t let you go.” 

You couldn’t really tell if he was talking about you, or the city you both grew disillusioned with. But you finally chanced a glance at him and found him staring with an unreadable expression. Longing? Sadness? 

“Is it getting bad again, Russ?”

“Jesus,” he said, “No. It’s not, Bee. I’m good. I’m fine. Look at me.” He gently grabbed your chin and turned your head to face him, “Look at me. I’m good.”

All you could see were the dark circles beneath his eyes, the sallow skin, the sheen of unwashed hair. He wasn’t doing well. 

“Will you tell me if it gets bad again?” you whispered, gently grabbing his wrist. He followed the motion with his eyes, something flickering across his features before he pulled his hand away.

“It won’t.”

“Russ, promise me.” 

“I promise.” He gave you a small smile, but you could tell his heart wasn’t in it. Your eyes roamed his face, searching for any indication he might finally admit what you already knew.

Nothing.

“And for the record,” you said, as you began to rise from the couch, “I don’t do this because you pay me. Because you barely pay me enough.” 

He snorted, some of the lightness returning to his demeanor. 

“You could have any part-time gig in the industry and you’re sticking with me. Seems like a shit deal.” 

You stretched your arms over your head and you could hear your joints crack. You chose to open the balcony for fresh air. The rain finally stopped, with the sole evidence of it being the sound of cars passing below his balcony on the wet pavement. Crickets chirped, the moon brightened the sky, and you took a deep breath of the cool, early fall air.

"… the {torch/flashlight/lantern} illuminates but a portion of a great and sprawling cavern of rock, with several paths leading further into the dark unknown. There's no telling what lies beyond or how far these paths might go, and that singular thought sends a {chill down/thrill up} your spine."

-

"Echoing somewhere, deeper down the narrow hallway - the walls feeling much too much like a coffin - you hear the steady drip-drop of water, the only indication that you're actually covering ground as you cautiously tread forward."

i'm Sure i've posted one or both of these before but i can't for the life of me find them which means i get to reuse them (and definitely not because i haven't written anything new besides worldbuilding 😂🤡)

.................. actually i do wanna post some lil worldbuilding bits too. as a treat :3c

it's set in a sleepy little town in a valley (so, surrounded by dense forest and then also mountains), BUT it was also built over an extensive underground network of ancient ruins - think the deep roads from dragon age, or engwithan ruins from pillars of eternity. and basically it's filled with a whole bunch of. well. ancient shit that starts messing with the town and its residents after MC shows up bc they are by nature an Instigator of Things :)

Race had always had a good poker face, at least that’s what he liked to think. Spot, however, could recognise his tell from a mile off. A small press of his lips, gently rolling them between his teeth was a dead giveaway for Spot every single time, and within the last twelve hours, Race had been over, Spot had seen it a million and one times. And it wasn’t just the subtle press that clued him in on Race’s inner thoughts, the constant restlessness- tapping on his legs, eyes flicking around the room, whispering under his breath- it was enough to make Spot himself nervous. But, he considered himself a good host, and more importantly a good friend, and nothing was going to stop him from making Race as comfortable as he possibly could.

--

Tip-toeing down the hall, Race peered out into the living room, watching Spot curled up with a blanket on the couch, fixated on typing away on his laptop. Holding his breath, Race padded into the kitchen, grabbing a glass and cracking the fridge, pouring himself a glass of water as quietly as possible. His head was pounding Race raised the glass to his cracked lips, letting the water soothe his dry throat when-

“Is everything okay?”

Race jumped a foot in the air with a small yelp, clutching desperately at the glass in his hand and spun around. Spot was turned to face over the back of the couch, arms raised slightly in an apologetic gesture. “Sorry- but uh, are you okay? This is your eighth glass of water in twenty minutes, you’ve been out to grab three extra blankets and four pillows.” He straightened himself a little more on the couch. “Is the guest room uncomfortable?”

“No!” Race took a quick step forward toward the bench, eyes wide. “No,” he repeated, a little calmer, clearing his throat. “The room’s fine, everything’s fine it’s just…” He trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

“Weird sleeping in a house that’s not yours?” Spot finished hesitantly, cocking his head a little to the side. Race nodded slowly, pressing his lips together. Yeah. He thought, trying to ignore the way the light highlighted the angular features of Spot’s face. Let’s go with that.

--

Lies. Spot gave a small smile as Race excused himself back to the guest bedroom. He was lying. Spot didn’t know what to feel. Angry at the blatant untruths he had given him? Or hurt that Race felt that he couldn’t tell him the truth? Spot settled back onto the couch, hands resuming their position hovering over the keyboard, but the words didn’t want to work anymore so he sighed and placed his head in his hands. Somewhere in the dark recesses of his mind, a little voice whispered, its words cold and poisonous. 

He doesn’t want to be here.

Spot ran his tongue over his teeth, fixing his eyes on the wall ahead.

He doesn’t want to be near you.

Spot had ignored this voice a hundred times before, and he would ignore it another hundred if he had to. 

Why do you think he’s been acting like this? He’s distancing himself from you. He hates you. 

Spot stood up, digging his nails into his palm as he tried to force the voice out. As much as he hated to admit it, that one stung. But he had to remind himself that it was nonsense, that it was just an exaggeration fabricated by his imagination. He knew it wasn’t true. Probably. He sighed once more. Spot wasn’t sure why, but the thought of losing Race hurt him. Like really hurt him. More than he thought it would. He and Race felt so entwined with each other that Spot feared if he lost Race, he would lose a piece of himself. And just like that, the icy voice was back, louder and harsher than before, and Spot shook his arms out as he stepped into the kitchen, biting down on the inside of his cheek in an attempt to get rid of them. He picked up a glass of his own, filling it halfway with water. Maybe Race had the right idea trying to drown his uneasiness.

--

He tried to stay away. He tried to go back to bed, to close his eyes, roll over and go to sleep, he really did. But here he was, laying on the couch, heart hammering so fast he thought he it was going to burst through his chest, Spot’s fingers tugging softly but rhythmically through his hair. He had tried, and he had failed. Race stared straight up at the ceiling, butterflies swirling in his stomach as Spot’s thick fingers brushed through his curls. Spot was humming quietly, still tapping away on his laptop with his free hand, and Race wanted to throw up or pass out, or maybe both. His eyes flicked over to Spot’s face, half-hoping to catch his eye. However, this only made him feel a little guilty, for some reason, so he looked away, ignoring the rising heat in his cheeks.

Chewing on his bottom lip, Race closed his eyes and. tried to forget that it was Spot fucking Conlon who had his hand in his hair, but even with his vision dark, images of the handsome guy he was leaning on danced on the back of his eyelids, playing like an old film reel. Oh, how Race longed to open his eyes and be able to wrap Spot up in his arms, to feel the warmth of his body, toned chest and arms pressed tightly against him. How his heart ached to reach up and press his lips to Spot’s, and how it hurt him so that he couldn’t. The boy in question shifted slightly, stretching his legs out, and Race had a brief flash of panic that his head was too heavy on Spot’s lap. But his worry was short-lived, as Spot settled back into the couch, humming quietly to himself as he thought, fingers ghosting over the keyboard. Race felt a little stupid for the intense spike of cold fear, but then again, he reminded himself, anxiety is often stupid. And just like that, his brain jumped from worry, right back to Spot, his body heat providing such a comfortable, cushiony place for Race’s head. He bit back a small yawn, one that reminded him of the reason he was here in the first place; to “actually relax and try to get some sleep,” as Spot put it. However, Race had never been less relaxed in his entire life. If I’m keeping Spot up, he supposed, I should at least try to stick to the purpose of this. So, he closed his eyes, adjusted himself, and took a deep breath in.

But instead of sleep, the only thing his brain latched onto was the smell of honey, cigarettes, and lavender.

Spot.

There was no way he could sleep now. The scent filled his nose, attacking his every sense. God, how he loved that smell. He loved the way it was so soothing to him, how he could recognise it anywhere and have his face light up. And he loved how it clung to him, the threads of his clothes providing a lingering sense of comfort even when he wasn’t with Spot himself. 

Race screwed his eyes up tighter, trying to block it from his mind, wipe the small smile forming off his face, but with no avail. He was still completely overwhelmed with thoughts of Spot. Every sight, every smell, every sound, every touch, it only reminded him of the dak haired boy, and it was driving him crazy. How soft his hair was, how his rough, calloused hands fit so snuggly, so naturally, in Race’s, how he felt so safe when Spot hugged him, as if nothing or no one could hurt him while wrapped in his arms. Race’s head was whirling now, spinning with an almost paralysing effect. And then, in the midst of all this unruly, untamed chaos, spoke a voice.

Kiss him.

Kiss him.

It echoed through his mind, silencing all other noise.

Kiss him.

It sounded like such a simple thing to do, like there wasn’t a million and one things preventing him.

Kiss him.

Race took another deep breath in. he couldn’t... could he?

Kiss him.

And what if he did? What was the worst that could happen? He could ruin his friendship with Spot for good. But honestly, Race didn’t know what would hurt him more, losing one of his closest friends, or never being able to be with him the way he longed to.

Kiss him.

His breath caught in his throat and time seemed to slow as Race felt the muscles in his arm move up slowly, reaching to cup Spot’s face. He tried to go through with it, but it seemed like his soul had left his body, watching his own actions from afar. He tried, watching as his fingers flexed gently, itching to brush over Spot’s soft skin.

He tried.

Just as his hand neared the corner of his jaw, Spot turned, small, confused frown lacing his features when Race snatched his hand back. “Uh- did you need something, Race?” Spot questioned hesitantly. Race shook his head stiffly and rapidly.

“Nope! All good!” he replied. Spot opened his mouth to continue but Race cut him off. “There’s no need to worry about me,” he chuckled slightly. “just- just forget I’m even here.” Spot clamped his jaw shut, and paused slightly, frown deepening as he gave a short nod, turning back to his bright screen. Race let out a long, slow exhale.

He tried, and he failed.

--

Spot didn’t know why he’d done it, he just saw Race come back out from the bedroom once more, and before he knew it, words were flying out of his mouth. Race had stared back at him, a perfect deer-in-headlights impression, cheeks glowing bright, visible even from where Spot was seated as he patted his lap. Race had cast a quick glance back at the guest bedroom, but hesitantly stumbled his way over, and now here they were. Spot chewing on the inside of his cheek, unseeing eyes scanning his laptop screen, processing exactly none of the information shown, as the other boy lay rigidly against him, Spot stroking his hair softly. He didn’t know why he’d done it, or why Race’s weight against his leg felt so normal, felt so right, but he did know he wanted more. Spot bit down harder on his cheek, feeling his heart quicken and energy crackle through his veins, but he forced himself to remain still, lest he disturbed Race. This was to get him to relax, remember? Spot scoffed to himself. It’s not like he was relaxed to begin with, Race had been stiff as a board from the moment his head came in contact with Spot He sighed, fingers still toying with Race’s curls, he just hoped his legs were comfortable. 

Spot closed his eyes in frustration. It had just started to take a small turn up, and he had ruined it! He cursed himself mentally. Race had gently cozied himself again Spot, and he hadn’t been settled for even a minute when he couldn’t help himself and glance over, a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and Race was right back to his rigid state. Spot ran his tongue over his teeth, the failure of his- admittedly- half-baked idea annoying him to no end. He didn’t know why, but he wanted to scream, to yell, to whine, to plead for this to work, for something to work! What kind of friend was he if he couldn’t even help Race relax enough to sleep? He was confused, a little hurt, but mainly confused. He felt… weird. He couldn’t quite place what his emotions were doing, but it was weird. There was a small twinge that stabbed into his chest, a cold blade of pain that got worse as Spot glanced down at the still obviously uncomfortable Race. He looked away, breath hitching in his throat as his mind raced. He decided to chalk it up to lack of sleep. He continued to brush his fingers through Race’s hair, and steeling his nerves, he glanced back down at the boy splayed across his lap. His golden hair was messy, tracks from Spot’s hand creating little peaks like fine hills, delicate freckles dotted soft cheeks, creating a small speckled trail down to chapped lips, and Spot felt his cheeks heat up. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Race’s face, his eyes, or his lips. His hands twitched, itching to move from Race’s hair down to his cheek, and his heart rung loudly in his ears. He sighed, oh how he could just lean down and press a kiss to his forehead.

What?

Spot paused, brain finally catching up with what his overflowing thoughts had spewed. He didn’t know why his thoughts had spun themselves like that. It’s because he’s my friend. He rationalised. I want to kiss him in… in a friend way. Yeah. Yeah, that made sense, right? Just a quick, friendly, kiss to his forehead. Or his cheek. Or his lips. Or- 

Oh. 

He knew why he had thought, and said, and done those things. Maybe it wasn’t in a ‘friend way’. 

“Spot?” came the quiet voice of Race. “Something wrong?” Spot’s eyes flicked down to meet Race’s, panic pricking at the top of his spine. He hadn’t said any of that out loud, had he? 

“No?” he replied, cocking his head, as he tried to keep his composure. “Why?” Race pressed his lips together, averting his eyes down to the side of the couch.

“Oh, it was just that…” he trailed off with a small gesture to his hair. Spot looked down, amid of all his thinking, he had stopped running his fingers through Race’s hair.

“Ah,” he nodded slowly. “Sorry, just thinking.”

“You don’t have to apologise!” Race lifted his head, half sitting up. “Just wondered if I was too heavy.” Spot waved his hand dismissively, moving his hand down to Race’s shoulder.

“Not at all, lie back down if you want, and I can keep playing?” Race shook his head quickly, swinging his legs over the couch. He pressed his lips together again.

“I really should go to bed, I’ve kept you up longer than I should.” Spot sighed, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip to suppress a groan of annoyance, he couldn’t take this anymore.

“Okay,” he said looking up at Race, who was turned away from him now, “What is up with you?”

--

Race froze, back still to Spot. “Wh- what do you mean?” there was a loud sigh from behind him, and a creak of weight shifting from the couch.

“C’mon.” A hand on his shoulder gently turned him around. “You can’t lie to me. Something’s been bothering you from the moment you got here, and it’s not because you’re out of your house.”

“I-“ Race opened and closed his mouth, gasping like a fish out of water as he searched in vain for words that wouldn’t come. His hands shook lightly and involuntarily, heart pounding in his throat, and he felt like he was going to throw up. Spot closed his eyes, bringing his hands off of Race’s shoulders.

“Look.” He said, voice low, “You’re my friend, and above all things, I want you to be comfortable. And if there’s something I’ve done- if I’m making you uncomfortable, I can organise another place for you to stay, I’m sure Albert can-”

“No!” Race’s Eyes widened, holding his hands out in front of him. “No, it’s not that!”

“Really Race?” Spot deadpanned. “Then what is it? What’s with all the restlessness? The uneasiness? The lying?” Race pressed his lips together nervously.

“Lying? No, Spot, I-” but Spot beat him to it.

“I just want you to be straight with me. What’s wrong?” Race swallowed thickly, trying desperately to think one single, cohesive thought that explained away everything, set it all right, but what came out was;

“I love you!” 

Well that wasn’t supposed to happen. 

Race clapped his hands over his mouth, eyes the size of dinner plates, face looking like he just face-planted onto the sun, as Spot stared back at him. 

Stop! He cried internally, anxiety alarm bells ringing in his head. What am I doing!?

But he didn’t stop. In fact, his brain kept whirring and words kept pouring out of his mouth. “That’s what’s wrong okay? And- and now I’m living with you, at least temporarily, and every time I see you, I turn bright-fucking-red!” 

Spot was still standing fixed to the floor, expressionless, and Race felt his anxiety rise. How was he just standing there? Here he was, pouring his heart out to him- albeit semi-unintentionally- and Spot completely stone-faced! Oh god, what am I doing!? But he still continued to speak. 

“I can’t think right around you! My words get all muddled up and I get butterflies in my stomach, and I can’t even sleep cause every time I close my eyes a- all I can see is your damn, stupid smile!” His eyes stung as fought back tears with all his strength.

Still, Spot hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a thing. Race balled his hands into fists, nails biting into the soft flesh of his palm, words still spilling out of his mouth. 

“Honestly, sometimes I can’t stand even being in the same room as you, cause all I wanna do is run up and pull you into a kiss!” Hot tears began to spill from his eyes, leaving damp tear tracks down his cheeks.

“And- and it hurts me that I can’t!” Race wiped away the tears furiously, chest heaving as he fought to keep his emotions under control. The two of them stood there for a few seconds in a thick, tension-filled silence, only broken by the occasional muffled sob from Race.

“Well?” He spat, his attempt at anger doing a poor job of covering up his fear. ”Are you gonna say something? Anything!?”

Spot remained silent.

Race swore to himself, bringing his hands up and gripping at his hair. “Forget it.” He sighed, dragging his hands back down his face, clutching at the neck of his shirt. “That was stupid, I never should’ve-” 

But he was cut off. Cut off by something warm, something solid.

Spot had stepped forward, grabbing Race’s wrists, and pulled him into his chest, silencing him with a kiss. Race closed his eyes, leaning into the kiss, relishing in the feeling of Spot’s chapped lips against his own. Spot moved one hand up and delicately cupped Race’s jaw, brushing his thumb over his smooth skin. They broke apart after several seconds, and now, it was Race’s turn to be speechless, Spot taking his turn to speak. “I-” he began, pulling his hands back to nervously fidget with his fingers. “I’m sorry, I’m just kinda shocked.” Race laughed.

“You and me both.” Spot chuckled too, Race cautiously reaching for his hands again, smiling faintly. They stared at each other for a while longer, pressed flush chest to chest, both of their faces still glowing softly red.

“So…” Race mumbled after a second “Where do we go from this?” Spot hummed, thinking to himself as he stepped back towards the couch, sitting down and pulling Race onto his lap.

“I dunno,” he started, a half-hidden yawn cutting him off, Race following suit a split-second later, burying his face in Spot’s neck. “But would you stay with me tonight?”

--

So yeah! hope that was okay (sorry about the length i got kinda carried away :’3) also: