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Maybe Scott shouldn't have chosen Heathers.
But somehow, in his long life of being queer, Jimmy hadn't ever seen it.
"You're literally bisexual and you haven't seen it?" Scott had asked, astonished. At Jimmy's nod, he added, "It's the most bi movie ever. And I could sing the musical all day, too, but musicals based on movies are always better than the movies based on musicals—"
"What's so important about it?" Jimmy had interjected, one brow raised, and Scott couldn't help but feel a flurry of pride at how much Jimmy had opened up over the past months.
"You'll just have to watch it and see," Scott told him, so here they are, three days later, Scott on his end of the sofa and Jimmy on the other, a bowl of popcorn (that Jimmy rarely takes from) between them.
It's not a date, Scott reminds himself repeatedly. It's just a movie night between him and his ward. No, a movie night between him and his friend. Jimmy holds no romantic feelings for him. And he doesn't have any for Jimmy.
Lies.
But they're watching, volume lower than what Scott would normally watch a movie with (loud noises make Jimmy jump, and subtitles are readily available), and Jimmy seems to be enjoying it. He lets out a little laugh at all the right places, and rolls his eyes at the outdated references, and loosens up a bit as the movie goes on.
Until the one scene.
The part that Scott didn't even think about, more worried about the other dark tones of the movie.
Where Veronica fakes her own suicide.
Before Scott even registers that he got up, Jimmy is out of the room, in the kitchen, turning on the lights and starting the sink running.
Scott pauses the movie, something sinking in his stomach. "Jimmy?" he calls tentatively. "Are you all right?"
No response.
What was that about Jimmy being his ward?
It's getting easier and easier to forget that Jimmy isn't just his roommate, but someone he is charged by the state to take care of.
Scott uncurls his legs from the couch and gets up to head into the kitchen, letting his feet fall harder than normal to let Jimmy know that he's coming.
Jimmy's standing over the sink, scrubbing hard at a bowl, head down. After a quick, splashing rinse, he sets it in the dish drainer and reaches for a plate.
"Not that I mind that you're doing dishes," Scott says drily, "but why? What happened?"
Jimmy doesn't say anything, his scrubbing motions becoming jerkier.
"Was it the movie?" Scott tries. "I honestly didn't think—"
"Can you leave?" Jimmy asks suddenly, before cringing. "No, sorry, I didn't mean that, sorry."
The panicked apologies send Scott into caretaker mode, whether he likes it or not. "Are you having a flashback? It's okay, you're not there—"
"No, I'm—Scott, I'm fine," Jimmy insists, hunching further over the sink. "Please—please don't worry. You can—you can go finish the movie, okay? I'll just wash up here and go to bed early."
Scott almost agrees. He doesn't want to make Jimmy upset. He wants everything to be right for him.
And then he remembers that he isn't just Jimmy's friend. He's his caretaker, and he has to make sure that Jimmy is safe and mentally well.
"Okay," he says carefully. "But I'm scheduling you a therapy appointment for tomorrow."
"What? No, I'm already seeing Nora on Thursday—"
"The trigger was bad enough that you're having to clean to distract yourself," Scott points out. "I know what it looks like when you're trying to fight a flashback, Jimmy. If you really want me to leave, I will, as long as you go to therapy tomorrow. "
Jimmy doesn't answer for a long time, washing another bowl with even more aggressive scrubbing. He rinses it, sets it aside, and turns off the sink, squeezing out the dishrag.
"I tried to kill myself," he says bluntly, turning around and leaning on the counter. "While I was . . . there. I was gonna hang myself on my own leash, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?"
"I—" Scott feels himself blanch, as hard as he tries to keep a straight face.
"And I tried to kill myself a bunch of times after you got me out, just so you know. If it wasn't for people messing around, I would've succeeded. Does that make you happy?"
"Jimmy—"
"Because it sure didn't make the crazy doctors happy!" Jimmy's crying, now, just a little bit, eyes wet and red, even as he laughs. "I have to be on drugs to be normal! Just because I was a stupid, suicidal pet!"
Jimmy isn't looking at him anymore. His eyes are fixed on a spot slightly to the left of Scott, as if looking him in the eyes will make all the precarious emotions spill over in a tidal wave.
"It was—what do you call it, premeditated?" Jimmy says. "I decided—when I woke up—I was gonna twist my leash around the doorknob of my cell and the hook, and I was gonna hang myself. But they took away the leash—and they strapped me to the hospital bed so I couldn't get any scalpels—and they drugged me up real bad—"
"Jimmy—"
"What kind of person needs drugs to not kill themself—?"
"Me," Scott says loudly, and Jimmy cuts off mid-sentence, eyes focusing on his face.
"What?"
Scott leans against the wall, crosses his arms. "Me," he says again. "I'm on antidepressants, too. When I was eighteen, I . . . made an attempt on my own life. Aeor saved me. I've been on medication and going to therapy ever since."
"I'm sorry," Jimmy mumbles after a pause, the frenetic energy seeming to drain out of him with the two words.
"It's okay," Scott says, and he feels like he's about to cry, like those few sentences have rubbed his soul raw, but he's going to stay strong for Jimmy. "It was a while ago, I don't mind talking about it. But I have depression, due to some . . . stuff, and I didn't see a future that I wanted to be a part of. So, I'm sorry that you went through that, Jimmy. But I don't want you to think that needing medication means you're somehow less of a person."
"Sorry," Jimmy says again. "I—I didn't know."
Scott shrugs. "You didn't. It's not really something that comes up naturally in conversation, you know. But medication isn't a bad thing, okay? If it helps you to survive . . . well, that's good."
Jimmy chews on his lip, turns his gaze to the tiled kitchen floor. "I'm just . . . I'm tired of being messed up in the head."
There's not really a cure for that, though.
As infuriating as it is, mental illness isn't like a cut to be stitched up and bandaged. It isn't a pulled muscle that can be healed with an ice pack and a little rest. Mental illness is a cancerous tumor writhing inside the brain, and the excising is painful and exhausting and almost certainly doesn't get all of it out.
"I know it's hard," says Scott. "I don't know how hard, but I know it is. And you've still made an incredible amount of progress."
Jimmy shrugs. "Maybe. I . . . I wish I didn't have to."
Scott doesn't know what to say.
So he just offers a sympathetic smile and waits.
It's cruel. It's cruel that Jimmy was ever pushed to such lengths, that he ever felt so hopeless.
Scott knows it's cruel.
He knows that it hurts to look back, to remember oneself in such a dark place, swallowed up in the pain.
At least he has a few years' difference. Jimmy's still at the place Scott was when he was nineteen.
What would Aeor do when nineteen-year-old Scott would lash out, angry and tired?
The answer comes quicker than Scott expects.
Aeor would send him to bed.
"Well, I'm ready to go to sleep," Scott says, not quite having to fake a yawn. “We can take care of these dishes tomorrow, yeah? Let’s take the rest of the evening off.”
“But—”
“Nah, leave ‘em.”
“The movie?”
Scott shrugs. “I’ve seen it before,” he says nonchalantly. “And we can watch something else next time. Maybe Lord of the Rings.”
Jimmy makes a face.
“Don’t tell me you don’t like them.”
“I—they’re just so long,” Jimmy protests. “I don’t have time for a three hour movie.”
“That’s not the important part, what matters is that they’re a classic.”
“They’re boring.”
“Clearly, you haven’t been watching them right.”
“I’ll lock myself in my room again. Don’t think I won’t.”
“You would never.”
“I would! And I will!”