Chapter Text
оніміння
adjective ; UA
Unable to feel anything.
Boris isn’t exactly the best of the people and he knows, he knows he can (or will) be a horrible person. He’s what society liked to call a “trashy person”, a bully, mocking and making fun of everyone he considered inferior or stupid, because most of the society’s fucking retard, and a junkie, ‘cause, you know. Then, what else could he do? He didn’t care that much about others' opinions and he won’t change them and won’t change, and he tried to, he really tried.
❝Is that okay for you?❞. He blinks. Her ginger drummer’s looking for an answer. ❝Did you even pay fucking attention?❞
❝No❞, answers, making her pinch his cheek hardly.
❝Now I know why Mari always gets hard on you, you zoomed out really quick and often. Are you doing drugs again?❞
❝No❞. He didn’t even leave them. Grow up, Marsh, it isn’t easy to leave addictions for people of his type, put your thoughts in a better order. ❝Just repeat the shit❞.
She started all over again, he focused this time and tried to not black out on the coach at the same time. He got a long shift last night, pretty bad tips, a customer complained about some shitty drink to him and a drunk girl threw him a margarita. He hates his night job, but the bills need to be paid, he needs food, he doesn’t have Bill Gates or Putin’s income to be a complete jerk over the working social class.
❝And that’s all, alright?❞, she finished and he nods, he’s fine with that, ❝also, I crave a boon❞.
❝What boon?❞
❝❝Richie got a new roommate, they get pretty well. He really stands Rich❞.
Wow, that’s new and a miracle, Richie was a complete annoyance and a menace to society in a nerdy way, always talking about dinosaurs, sharks and making bad puns he even wanted to hit him with his motorbike.
❝So, I want him to meet the rest, you know, Mari and Evan❞.
❝I’ll think about it, you kind of convenience me when you say they stand Trash-trash❞.
❝He’s name is Will, I think you’ll like him too❞.
Boris knows it’s too sudden for assumptions.
✦ ––––—–––—–––––––—––– ✦
Boris doesn’t like much about New York. Maybe because he wasn’t from it from the start, he’s born in some part of Australia he can’t remember, maybe it was Sydney, every aussie seemed to be from there. But it didn’t make him sad being far from his birthplace, nor like it was a proper home, nor every place he lived with his fucking abusive dickhead father. At least, the best his dad did was to leave him, one of the reasons he’s there now in NY needing to work as a waiter to survive and college score to keep if he doesn’t want to see his gentle scholarship sink on Hudson’s River.
But he has a pretty average life. He wakes up every morning hating himself a little less that yesterday, he searches and eats if he finds not-expired-yet crap and goes to his faculty to pretend he wants to study about the dirty and horrendous american political system, hoping it’ll help him in the future when he becomes U.S. president; if he’s lucky, he has a good Marina’s prep lunch before going back to study, do homework, take a few coke lines as he enjoys his afternoon and goes to work until it’s almost midnight, he returns to his place and the routine restarts the next day. In better days he had band plays.
His band, a varios rock theme band he started when he was sixteen, his only worthy life project, his golden egg, as important as his letter jacket, The Outcast, formed with his only friends.
He’s fine with his life,or at least, he tells himself to be.
He’s been lacking joy for a long time. He couldn't count exactly when, he isn’t an idiot, he knows something’s wrong in him, and he tried to make something about it. With his short base knowledge and searches he tried to find alternatives to the relapse of his sadness: no-receipt-needed pills, new hobbies (he learnt how to make origami flowers and shit) and exercises. But it didn’t seem to help this time, still the same mad person. At least, someone could give him a medal for trying, but no one gives medals to “try” in real life, or for standing shit.
❝Beers for 6th table!❞ the manager shouted, making him go to grab them, ❝don’t try to play fun, Pavlikovsky, we’re pretty tight❞.
❝I’ll not sir, no problem❞.
He hates his boss, he’s three years older and he thinks he’s a CEO or something, bossing around, talking about how incredible is to have a BMW and a nice rich girl, how’s been getting fucked by the bartender of the morning shift.
Boris passed by drunk people, experimental music blew his ears, too much make-up here, too many boys talking about skinny girls and too many colored-lights. He manages to serve the table of three white girls in mini skirts and crop-tops, he smiles at them, just to play a bit.
The manager is obviously pissed off, but he doesn’t care, he takes his time-off after that to smoke. He goes through the backroom’s back door to the alley, he lights up a cigarette and blows.
He wonders if, someday, he’ll be far away from here, from New York or something. He imagines moving to a nice silent place, like a little lost town, like Salem or Mayflower, into a small house with a small front garden with flowers. But he answers himself, he can’t, he’s stuck here and it wasn’t as bad as his inner depressed voice wanted to make it look. He had a floor, a place to sleep, friends, money and even…
Well, he doesn’t know if he can count Theo as something important in his life again. But he’s done already with all.
Why does all feel so numb? Like, if no one felt the same way as he. Tired of life. A little bit tired of life, like don’t be happy but keep going on, like you’re hanging from a rope but not wanting to die.
He finishes his cigarette to come in again, his boss will go nuts if he doesn’t go back to work quickly. He works this shift from 6:00 p.m to 1:00 a.m this time, he splits the tips with two other partners and takes a cold hamburger to go.
New York nights at least were as magical as the starry nights from Las Vegas, the lights were like it, the streets were empty but loud, it’s cold but not enough to feel it and the sea breeze was less salty. He drives his ass to his apartment on the “sightseeing” route, on the 9A and hopes to not hear his neighbors fighting again.
His complex looked good on the outside and from the inside, but his floor was like the cardboard-box of a homeless person. The foyer is a complete mess, the wall rack has 7-Eleven plastic bags with whatever, the soft seat is filled with shoes and boots, and the key basket has cigarette dust and packs. The living room wasn’t better, even when he spent his early morning rearranging things, it still had the vodka stain on the couch and carpet, and dust on the coffee table. But he isn’t in the mood to clean right now, not like he’s ever in the cleaning mood.
He takes off his shoes and throws them around, he hangs up his black letter jacket and walks to the kitchenette, not caring if there's broken glass and he steps on it. He sets the microwave to heat his hamburger up, finishes a half-left beer can and checks his phone. He has 3 missing calls from Marina, was tagged in a rock post and someone liked his “deep shit” post. Starting from the start, he phones the black-coffee-hair girl.
❝Vishnya?❞, he says when he stops hearing the ringing tone, ❝awake at this hour? Bad for a lil’ baby❞.
Cut the shit, Borya, are you home?
❝Now I am, thanks for the concern. I’m making me dinner❞, if dinner was microwaving a hamburger and drinking beer at this hours, ❝what were the missing calls for?❞
Mom was worrying about you, she heard someone passed for a overdose and she won’t let us alone if I didn’t check you’re alive
❝Well, I am, tell Donna not to worry, I’m not that stupid❞, he mocks, he clearly wasn’t enough stupid to die from an overdose. ❝don’t talk to me as if I was a small kid needing constant monitoring, I’m still alive. And stop the mad face I know you are doing it❞.
Well, sorry to being worried for you. You obviously have everything under control
He clicks his tongue, again the green-eyes was making her monologue of “being a good person who pukes rainbows and flowers” and felt concern for him, for his welfare and other fallacies he might not tolerate. But she was indeed right. She doesn’t lie to him, not about that kind of crap and it makes him feel worse, because he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t deserve it.
Just take care, Boris.
I’m need to leave, still doing homework
❝Good night, cherry pie, sleep tight❞. Boris ends the call as he puts out his hamburger to eat at the counter, wondering if she was going to be mad at him for a while.
✦ ––––—–––—–––––––—––– ✦
He was doing his Intro to American Politics notes when a newspaper fell on top of his second-hand stolen book. He looked at the hazel eyes of Perkins, trying to understand the vague look he’s having on him.
❝I was reading that❞, finally says, pointing to Democracy in America’s book, ❝and I’m doing homework❞.
❝I know you are but, look at this bullshit❞, had in reply.
TThe bullshit was, in fact, news about how the music industry was dying and how band covers weren’t as trascendental as it looked. Boris knew about it, he read it yesterday and was upset all afternoon that he wrote in his essay that John Addams could screw off and suck Washington’s dick, more or less. They meet their eyes again and he tries to focus on not answering like a bitch.
❝So what?❞, he clearly failed.
❝So what? Criminy, Boris, they talk shit to bands like us as if Panic! at the Disco wasn’t a Blink-182 band cover❞.
❝Propaganda, media shit, you know, news aren’t always right and we know it ‘cause we’re living the ❛band cover’s life❜ playing in dirty bars and streets❞. Yeah, he’s being a mouth-breather about it. ❝Stop crying on my notes, layno❞.
❝Boris is kind of right, Evan❞, seconded Beverly, stopping from painting his toenails, ❝Bands can start covering but it doesn’t mean they can jump into fame by just that. But we aren’t changing our band status, not if Borya doesn’t share something with us❞.
The gray-eyed boy sighs. Why was everything on him? He sure was the lead singer, but not the writer of the group, for that there were Bev and Maria or even Evan could do a better job than his in the subject. Maybe it’s the stereotype of the leader being the one writing something deep and harcore from his troubled life and past lovers, but he isn’t Taylor Swift guys, you can fuck it suck it.
❝Why this is on me again?❞, he wonders out loud, putting the newspaper away to continue his duty, ❝Marina does a great job writing, so you do Bev, and I liked your last lyrics❞.
❝Haunting Me it’s crap, and we wrote it half drunk while you wrote this ❛I hope you die❜ thing❞.
He remembers, but he isn’t bringing the topic. He laughs a little, returning to his notes to stop avoiding Evan’s whining, and Bev’s disillusioned sight. Two hours later, Marina and Beverly’s best friend, Richie, were coming in with pizza boxes and soda, announcing being the “saviors of the poor unfortunate hungry souls”.
But, he couldn’t fully enjoy his pepperoni-with-mushroom slice.
He flutters in the same sentences, “not if Borya doesn’t share something with us”. He didn’t mean to be rude to Taylor, he likes her last albums, Folklore being above them all, and he’s sure there’s a 1989 official merch shirt somewhere in his closet. He admits he’s jealous of her and other magnificent songwriters who made wonders with their experiences and past lovers, because, in fact, he tried to write like them. He tried to write about what he knows, about love and despair, his own experience being an outcast, but all turned to something he could pick out of the trash or a mad song.
Boris was a horrible person AND horrible expressing emotions. Two in one.
✦ ––––—–––—–––––––—––– ✦
❝Are you free this night?❞
The voice of her pink-and-black streaked-hair friend echoes in the study space in the library. She’s looking at him, with her sad, big and sky-blue eyes painted with black shadows, she never really left her grunge-and-forsaken style behind when leaving Las Vegas. Boris took his book out of his sight, arching an eyebrow with doubt.
❝What I mean is, Aster and I are going hardcore on a night club, maybe flirt a bit, but I want you to come since Ellie and Eby aren’t coming. Enjoy life a bit, studying must be killing your soul and you need a tequila sunrise and a hook up❞, she argues, playing with the top of his pencil at the same time.
❝I’m not, Kotku, sorry❞, replies, making her pout for the nickname and the answer itself, ❝ I’m busy, woman, I’m not like you who has her Calculus professor eating your pussy to pass. And I am not going to suck my teacher’s dick❞.
❝You’re missing it❞.
❝And so, why to study when you can follow mommy’s path?❞, he becomes self-conscious when she buries his pencil on the desk. ❝Ok, sorry. I was joking❞.
❝I know you were. You’re always this forgetful, you sure forgot I like to study so I can earn money after I graduate and that I’m pretty smart, most with math, just a bit lazy. But stop making this about me, why are you going to be busy?❞ she asks.
❝The Outcasts have a play on Coraline’s❞.
❝I must assume, it’s all for your homosexual misfits’ band❞.
Now he’s the one looking at her with murdering eyes.
❝I’m joking❞, she uses against him, ❝but like, didn’t they banned you ‘cause Marsh friend almost drank all the liquor?❞
❝Yes, they did, screw Richard for that❞, comments with annoyance, ❝but Maria succeed to giving us another chance. Misfits’ God bless her❞.
Kotku laughs below for his prayerful gestures, making him smile.
She still looked cute when she smiled, when she’s happy, far away from her mother and ex-boyfriends' toxic behaviors towards her. He was surprised when she still had the same emo Ophelia look when they met again in Brooklyn in his junior year, but certainly, she had more colors in her face than back then, and she was happy to meet him too, more or less like he was. They had a big warm hug and talked for hours about how they’d been doing.
He laughs about how he was in love with her and how he isn’t even when she was looking better than ever, maybe he wasn’t even in love with her on those days, young dumb people can pretend to be after all.
❝Well, hope all goes well this time, you deserve it❞. She plays with his hair, messing with it more than it was before, ❝also, I heard a rich girl is throwing a party soon❞.
❝Tell me about it, sunshine❞.
❝I don’t have details, but I heard from Aster that heard from Ebony this Lambrini girl is throwing a kind of birthday party because his parents are leaving town soon, and that she loves rock bands. Let me gather more data❞.
Boris smiles this time. Kotku was a cunning bitch.