Now enjoy a very angsty short story.
Dying Embers
Prompt; Insomnia.
Characters; Garvin (and others) and Ingall. Rest of GRAIN and Devery are both mentioned to varying degrees.
Word Count; 3,681.
TWs; Swearing, varying levels of dissociation, internalized ableism, self-esteem issues, self-worth issues, self-hatred, self-depreciation, suicidal ideation, depression, chronic pain, alcohol, smoking mentioned, nausea, derealization/depersonalization, and messy writing/ending. Maybe more? Hard to really say.
Notes; Takes place after Built On Trust (Pg 626). He’s not doing very well. He definitely needs a different antidepressant.
*~*~*~*
It was late. Everyone else was asleep. They had even managed to get Lacerta to go to sleep. Which made two nights in a row for the week so far. He blinked at the ceiling. He was fairly certain that he should be feeling happier about that than he was. It was probably put off by the fact that he hadn’t slept in… He wasn’t actually sure how long it’d been. He’d had to have slept at some point recently. He just… Couldn’t remember when at the moment. Probably because he was literally supposed to be sleeping at the moment too. But no, instead of doing that, he was staring at the ceiling like a fucking idiot.
-
Garvin took a breath and tried to will his mind into just shutting up for once in his shitty, worthless life. He shifted, carefully, trying not to wake any of his partners up. There was no reason to wake them up and make them worry. He was tense, more than he had been for a while now, in a way that made him restless. In a way that made him feel even more sore than he already usually was. He took a breath, bit his tongue, and slowly led his hands to his face to scrub at his face without waking anyone. He pushed the heel of his hands into his eyes, watched the colored patterns that showed up in his eyelids, and took another breath. He wasn’t sure why he was having so much trouble sleeping recently.
-
He pulled his hands away from his face, blinked the after images and blurriness away, and did a glance over of the others on either side of him to make sure none of them had woken up. He wasn’t going to get to sleep. Not with how restless he felt. How sore he was. He needed a drink. Except. He wasn’t supposed to be drinking because of pointless fucking ‘just in case’s. He bit his tongue to keep from groaning. Stupid fucking antidepressant being able to have bad fucking interactions with alcohol.
-
Garvin found his way out of the bed, careful and slow, making sure that he wasn’t going to wake anyone as he got up. He stood, looked around the room for a moment as he got his bearings. He pushed his hands into his eyes again, against the headache forming behind them. Against the stinging in them. The swirls of color that showed up in eyelid somehow hurt his head more, and he pushed the heels of his hands further into his eyes for a second. When he pulled them away, his eyes throbbed for a moment, with black spots and after images of the swirls clouding his vision. He blinked, forcing his sight to clear and focus and adjust to the dark again. He set his jaw, took a breath, and made his way out the room as quietly as possible.
-
He couldn’t drink, and smoking would really only serve to wake him up more. Which really just wasn’t what he wanted at all. He was tired and he was fucking exhausted and yet he was still awake. He wanted to fucking sleep. He wanted to go to sleep and just not have to deal with fucking waking up. He breathed. Getting literally anything that wasn’t a drink or smoke from Levy wasn’t really an option either. He ran his hands through his hair, trying to figure out what he was doing before he ended up laying on the couch and staring at the ceiling from there. The others would worry if they ended up finding him staring at the ceiling from the couch.
-
He couldn’t drink. Or, at least, he wasn’t supposed to. It wasn’t like it was a for sure thing that drinking would end up fucking killing him. He really doubted it’d kill him, actually. Even if it would, it didn’t sound like it’d be too bad of a way to go. Maybe it’d just put him to sleep. Maybe it’d be a peaceful way to go for once. He still doubted it’d kill him. It’d probably just put him to sleep for the night, or at least for whatever was left of it.
-
He made his way to the kitchen. He felt that, maybe, the others really shouldn’t have expected him to actually heed the warning against drinking. Then again, he’d been doing fairly well at listening to it for the last couple weeks. He was fucking tired though. It could kill him for all he cared, at this point he was just tired of being awake. Garvin rested his head against the cool metal of the fridge when he reached it, a hand already holding the handle. Just for a moment. He took a breath, squeezed his eyes shut, forced them back open, and then pulled the handle to open the fridge.
-
He shifted, squinting past the sudden light in his face so he could actually see into the fridge and find what he was looking for. It didn’t take too long to find the bottles, technically only belonging to Aquila now, in the back of the fridge. It still took a little longer than he would’ve thought it would, just because it wasn’t in his immediate line of sight anymore. Aquila had probably moved them to try and help the others with making sure he didn’t end up risking an interaction. Admittedly, it’d worked fairly well for the past couple of weeks. He hadn’t been at the point where digging through the fridge and cabinets to find any sort of alcoholic drink seemed better than just sticking it out yet. He wasn’t even sure if he was there or not now. He was just tired. Maybe a little desperate.
-
He reached to grab one of the bottles in the back of the fridge, watching the shakiness of his hand as he did and hoping he didn’t end up dropping it. He’d been shakier recently. Which had to be saying something with how much his hands had seemed to shake before. His hand outright missed the bottle the first try at grabbing it. He took a breath, leaned into the fridge. Just a little, as if it were a range issue and not something with his shit mind. His voice hissed between his teeth as he leaned in all the same. “Fuckin’ swear– C’mon.”
-
He bit his tongue, clenched his jaw, tried again at grabbing the bottle, and hissed at himself again when he managed it, not even trying to hide the frustration in his voice. He was the only one up, there wasn’t really any reason to hide it. “See? S’not hard ta jus’ grab it. S’real fuckin’ easy.” He took a breath, paused, and shifted how he was holding the bottle so he could wrap his fingers around a second one too. He didn’t miss the second one at all, at least. He led the bottles out of the fridge, careful not to end up destroying how everything was laid out and put into the fridge. He really didn’t feel like having to clean anything up at the moment.
-
He still ended up knocking something over, right as he was pulling the bottles into the dark of the kitchen. Garvin stared at it for a second, took in the fact that it was something with a closed lid, and closed the fridge without fixing it. It’d be fine. It wasn’t something he had to fix immediately and he really didn’t have the energy to do anything that he didn’t have to do. He blinked to get his eyes to adjust back to the dark faster, shifting and turning so he could lean against the fridge for a moment while trying to get his hands to stop shaking as much as they were. Instead of managing that, his hold on them slipped for a second and he jerked to keep his grip tight enough that he wouldn’t drop them.
-
When he was a little more sure he wasn’t about to have to deal with all the consequences of dropping one, or both, of the bottles, he placed one onto the counter next to him and wrapped the other in both of his hands. He took a breath, rested his forehead against the cap of the bottle for a second, and squeezed his eyes shut. He didn’t keep them closed for too long, opening his eyes again at the same time he pulled his head away from the top of the bottle.
-
A moment later, he opened the bottle he was still holding and took a drink from it, simply taking in the way it burned on its way down his throat. He let out a breath he hadn’t noticed he’d been holding, closing his eyes and taking a soft breath, trying to decide whether or not he’d need a third one too. He wasn’t even supposed to be drinking the one. He didn’t think two would be enough. Really, he felt like getting fucking shitfaced was probably his best choice. He didn’t want to open the fridge again, not with how bright the light of it was. He could always get a third one later. Which, leaving it as something for him to have to deal with later seemed to be how things were going at the moment because that was such a better idea to him than getting another one out already. Or three more. He wasn’t really sure how many more he was going to need by the time that he opened the fridge again.
-
He’d deal with it later. For now, he grabbed the bottle he’d sat on the counter next to the fridge and started on his way to the couch. He could at least make it there without dropping either bottle. He didn’t think he could handle someone waking up if he dropped one. He knew he couldn’t handle cleaning it up if he dropped one. Honestly he’d probably just fucking give up for the night. Or get out enough bottles to make sure he didn’t wake up for… As long as possible, probably. Either way, dealing with the consequences of dropping one just seemed like it’d take way too much effort for him.
-
Luckily for him, he managed to get to the couch without dropping either bottle. He set the unopened one on the coffee table in front of the couch, took a drink from the one he’d already opened, and sat down. He hoped whatever the interaction was, it’d be able to fucking kill him. He doubted it would. He blinked, tried to find the energy to care about figuring out why he was hoping it’d kill him, and decided that either he didn’t have the energy or he was right to be hoping it’d put him out of his fucking misery. Really, at this point, it’d be a mercy to not have to worry about waking up again. He was tired. He was exhausted. His existence was just as worthless as it’d always been, really.
-
He shifted, went to pull a coat that he wasn’t wearing on tighter. He drank from the bottle to make ignoring the sting at his eyes easier. He didn’t really deserve to wear his trench coat. It wasn’t really his anymore anyway. He leaned his head against the back of the couch and stared at the ceiling. He blinked. Everything seemed out of place, out of focus. Like he was dreaming. He was tired. Could he be tired if he was dreaming? He didn’t know. He didn’t really care. He blinked, wondered absently about the time, and drank from the bottle again. The ceiling didn’t look right. He was still in the apartment, wasn’t he? He couldn’t recognize the ceiling. He didn’t remember getting up and moving. His head was still leaning against the back of the couch. His eyes were probably just fucked. Everything about him was probably fucked. How anyone ever managed to tolerate him was beyond him.
-
Maybe they didn’t. Maybe they were waiting for him to leave. Maybe they were waiting for him to actually manage to succeed at killing himself for once. Maybe they were just too nice to kick him out or kill him themselves. It wasn’t like he hadn’t given them enough reason. It wasn’t like he actually added anything by being around, let alone anything good. He was a fucking burden. A worthless piece of shit that couldn’t tell when he wasn’t welcomed somewhere.
-
He blinked at the ceiling, went to take a drink from the opened bottle. It was empty. He wasn’t sure when he’d finished it. He didn’t remember drinking all of it. He let it slip from his hand and onto the couch next to him anyway. He’d pick it up later. He was tired. He was so fucking tired. He didn’t want to be awake. He didn’t want to be breathing. Opening the second bottle seemed like it’d take a lot of effort. He stared at the ceiling for a moment, debating it.
-
He reached for the second bottle so he could open it. He was tired. He was also still awake though and, one way or another, drinking would fix that. His hands didn’t seem to be shaking as much. Still more than he wanted them to be though. Just another thing to add to the list of things he wanted that he’d never get. The bottle was open. He couldn’t remember opening it. He didn’t try to. It didn’t really matter. It was open, that was really the only thing he cared about.
-
He drank. He blinked. He bit back a complaining groan. He considered breaking the empty bottle next to him, using the glass to finally get rid of the sound of his annoying fucking breathing. Breaking the bottle would wake someone up. He held his breath for a moment instead. He stared. He blinked. He drank.
-
It was the same shit. It was always the same shit. He set his jaw, squeezed his eyes shut, and used the hand that wasn’t holding the most recently opened bottle to hit his temple. He couldn’t quite think. He wasn’t sure what was even wrong. He was tired. Exhausted. He didn’t want to breathe. He didn’t want to be alive. Was he alive? He didn’t feel like he was. He hit his empty hand against his temple again, against the pounding headache growing there.
-
He drank.
-
He bit back nausea. He stared towards the dark screen of the TV across from him, felt his hand clench around the neck of the bottle he was holding. He blinked. Everything seemed… Wrong. He couldn’t focus. He really didn’t care. The bottle seemed far lighter than he wanted it to be. He drank what was left, dropped it next to the other one, and… Stayed right where he was. Sitting down on the couch. He breathed. He didn’t want to be. He blinked.
-
He was walking, slightly stumbling, through the hallway. There was nausea in the back of his throat. He couldn’t remember getting up. It didn’t seem like it mattered. He didn’t think it did. He swallowed the vomit trying to make its way out his throat and mouth. He managed to get into the bathroom with less noise than he would’ve expected, at least. More than he would’ve liked, but probably not enough to wake anyone. He didn’t like the idea of having to deal with anyone. He locked the door so he wouldn’t have to, for just in case someone woke up before he left the bathroom.
-
He didn’t bother with turning on the light. He didn’t need it. It’d just be adding money to a bill that didn’t need to be added. He leaned over the sink, resting his hands on the counter. He stared at the drain. He was trembling, shaking as he tried to hold himself up and hold back his nausea. He wasn’t sure why. He didn’t really care why. There wasn’t a reason out there that could make it seem less stupid. The world didn’t feel real. He didn’t feel real. He wasn’t sure if he was dreaming or if he was just being an idiot. Maybe he just wasn’t real. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched. His existence had always been fickle anyway.
-
He blinked at the sink drain, swallowing back vomit. His eyes stung. Burned. He wasn’t sure why. He wanted a smoke. He wanted a drink. The thought made him more nauseous. He still wanted one. He wanted something. Whatever would make everything make sense again. Whatever made everything fucking tolerable. He gritted his teeth, felt his jaw clench, and looked up towards the mirror.
-
His eyes looked dull.
-
Which. Fucking duh. His eyes were gray. Of fucking course they looked dull. That was just how it worked. Was he fucking retarded?
-
He set his jaw, stared at the gray eyes in the mirror. They looked dull. They were gray, that was just how they looked. They still looked duller than he thought they should. He blinked. The gray looked fucking stupid. They weren’t even his. Not really. Nothing was. Nothing ever was. Or would be. Or could be. The eyes staring back at him looked duller than they were supposed to be. Duller than he remembered them being. He wasn’t sure why.
-
The eyes in the mirror looked lifeless. Dead. Like ashes from a fire that had long been put out. He stared at them. They stared back at him. He wished, for a moment, that he was as dead as the eyes in the mirror looked. As dead as the eyes that were supposed to be his seemed to be. He was tired.
-
He stared. He blinked. And he decided that, actually, he was too tired to deal with leaving the bathroom. He was too tired to deal with getting another bottle. He was too tired to deal with lying awake in a bed of people he didn’t deserve. He was also too tired to keep standing in front of the bathroom mirror, leaning against the sink. He was exhausted. The ground seemed like a better choice. It sounded cold and hard and solid.
-
He found his way down to the floor fairly easily, mostly quietly. It was just as cold as he’d been expecting. As he’d been hoping it would be. He curled, stared towards where the cabinet under the sink met the floor, and breathed.
---
It was the sound of something knocking that woke him up. Garvin blinked, bleary, and tried for a moment to figure out where he was. He squinted against a headache starting behind his eyes, and rolled onto his back as a hesitant voice spoke up, muffled as if behind something.
-
“Garvin? Are you in there?”
-
He blinked at the ceiling, still trying to right himself. That was Apus, wasn’t it? He closed his eyes for a moment, tried to push himself up, and paused when he noticed that he was in the bathroom. He couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there. He didn’t really care, not with the headache still growing behind his eyes. He resisted the urge to groan, to lay back down, to try and get some more sleep. Because Apus was up, and he was in the bathroom. Blocking the way to the shower. So he resisted the urge to cuss himself out and forced his voice to answer his boyfriend instead. “Yeah.. ‘M in ‘ere.”
-
Garvin worked on pushing himself up as he spoke, ignoring the ache… Everywhere, as he did. He wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, it didn’t feel like it’d been anywhere near as long as he needed though. It didn’t matter. He was keeping Apus from being able to get on with his day. He ignored the mirror as he went to open the door. Paused when he realized it was locked.
-
He sighed to himself, unlocked it, and opened the door to find Apus looking like he’d been trying to figure out if he should say something or not. He was almost glad he hadn’t yet. He was tired. He didn’t want to deal with anyone. He blinked, dredged up a grin, and spoke before his boyfriend could. “‘M all good, no need t’worry. I jus’ fell ‘sleep in ‘ere s’all. I’ll, uh, go ‘head an’ get outta yer way so ya can shower.”
-
Apus stood there and he could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to decide whether or not to say anything. In the end, he nodded, eyes narrowed in either worry or in hatred. Garvin couldn’t quite tell. He didn’t really care to figure it out, however much sleep he’d gotten in the bathroom hadn’t been enough. He was exhausted. So instead of trying to figure out what the expression on Apus’s face meant, he found his way out of the doorway of the bathroom.
-
He made his way to the living room again, if only because the idea of going to the bedroom to try to sleep some more sounded… Bad. He didn’t want to risk waking anyone, he didn’t want to risk Lyra switching from clinging to Lacerta to clinging to him. When he got to the living room, the empty bottles weren’t on the couch anymore. He didn’t bother with wondering what had happened to them. Apus was awake, that was really all he needed to know to figure out what had happened.
-
He sat down on the couch, took a second to simply… He blinked a few times, trying to get himself to figure out what he was doing. He’d been staring off. He wasn’t actually sure why. He took a breath, moved to lay down on the couch, and stared at the cushions. He hoped he’d be able to get at least a little more sleep. He somehow doubted he would. It didn’t really matter either way. He’d have to get up later whether he got more sleep or not. He closed his eyes.
Fall Month: 2 
Day 
