Work Text:
Brad’s eyes are locked onto his TV. But he can’t seem to focus on it. All he can think about is how badly he wishes there was someone, there, on the other side of the couch, laughing at the cartoons playing, their smile lighting up the room.
Not because he is lonely.
Because Brad Bakshi is not lonely.
His house is not too big.
The rooms are not too large.
It does not feel empty, alone at night.
So he watches the TV. And tries his best to pay attention to the screen, if only not to think about everything racing through his head that goes against every single fiber of his being.
He does not care.
He likes being alone.
Then someone knocks on the door, as if by wishing it so, someone has arrived for him. Then he hates himself just for thinking it, because he doesn't "need" anyone. Someone showing up to his house is a nuisance. He digs his fingernails into the palms of his hands and gets up, walks to the door.
He knows who it is before he even opens it. The loud, annoying knock. What he does not know is why Jo is here.
“Jo.”
“Brad.” Jo regards him a little… softer than usual. And in her arms is some kind of duffel bag. If he were a little more himself right now, he would tease her. But it’s all he can do to just not fall apart with the thoughts bouncing in his head.
He’s happy she’s here.
And he hates that.
“May I come in?” she asks, and so Brad nods, and steps aside, awaiting her explanation. They stand facing one another, in the dark- only a single light in the foyer is on- and he waits.
“My parents kicked me out of the apartment.” Jo says. He doesn’t ask about this. It’s her life, even if she’s intruding on him because of it. “I need a place to stay. Just for a few days.”
Brad pretends to think about it. But he knows what he’s going to say. Because some part of him is so grateful she showed up. No matter how much he hates that, it’s the truth.
“Fine. Don’t make a mess. The guest room is down the hall.”
Jo brightens at this. He almost wants to smile back.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he turns the TV off. He walks to his own room. Locks the door. Jo can explore the rest of the house, if she wants- but there’s nothing of note. Nothing even the slightest bit personal in the entire house.
--
Brad is not lonely.
--
He wakes up to the sound of cereal falling into a bowl and a headache pressing against his skull. He can’t think. So he walks to his attached bathroom. He takes his medicine, like every morning, even when it feels like rocks going down his throat. He washes his face. He puts on his clothes. He walks out to the kitchen.
Jo is sitting there, legs crossed on a stool at the counter. A bowl of Lucky Charms in front of her. She smiles. “Morning, Brad.”
He nods. Stands. Watches. He’s not sure why.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Jo asks. He curses himself, silently. For not thinking about this.
“Yeah.” he says. He can’t have her thinking that he… No. There is nothing to think. He’s fine. Fine.
But the cupboards are empty. Stale bread… a few cans and jars of things he bought too long ago. A box of cookies he purchased in a moment of weakness only to never eat. Jo must have brought the cereal herself, he realizes.
“You can have some.” Jo says, pointing to the box. And though the thought of eating that shit sickens him, he pours a bowl. Sits next to her. Eats in silence, places the bowl in the sink, and excuses himself to his bathroom where he empties his stomach.
When he comes back out, Jo is standing by the door. He says nothing. Puts on his shoes. Gets in the car. Says nothing when Jo climbs into the passenger seat. And he gets to work and everything is normal. And Brad almost feels okay.
--
That evening, Brad sits on the couch. Watches Ducktales. Jo joins him, scrolling on her phone. After a moment, she asks, “What do you want to eat for dinner?”
“What?”
“Takeout. I can pay, since you’re letting me stay here.”
“I don’t need anything,” he says, because he doesn’t need food. Doesn’t want to eat, doesn’t need to force something down just to throw it up and he especially hates that the thought of it sounds good, like he wants to eat shitty food just because it would taste decent-
“Pizza?” Jo asks.
“...Sure.”
The food isn’t bad. It’s not good, but he manages to eat a whole slice. Sure, he throws it right back up, but… It’s fine. It’s fine.
--
The days go by the same for awhile. A sort of routine. He doesn’t mind it most of the time. It’s nice to have someone around.
“Brad.” Jo says one morning, as he lounges on the couch, watching TV. Again.
“Jo.”
“Can we talk?”
Everything in him tells him to leave the room. To get out. Out. Get out. His mind is in full panic mode and he can’t think can’t think can’t think.
Did she see something? Hear him in the bathroom? Notice how little he’s been eating? His nails dig into his palms.
“What?” he asks, trying to sound nonchalant. Uncaring. Like Brad.
“Brad,” Jo starts, and he hears it in her voice. He can’t sit through this. Someone trying to “help” him, again. He has to get out. So he stands up. He walks to the door. Jo must be calling his name. He can’t think about her he can’t be here he can’t.
She grabs his sleeve, while he’s about to step out the door. He sees her eyes, how she wants him to stay. He sees the kid he took on as an apprentice last year. He sees someone trying to trick him. He leaves, and slams the door in her face. He hopes- no- needs her to be gone when he gets back. So he drives.
--
He drives for 8 hours. When he ends back up in his own driveway, he is ready to collapse. And he opens the door, and on the couch is Jo. Watching an old sitcom. He shuts the door. Quietly.
When he joins her on the couch, she doesn’t look up. So he watches the show with her. He must fall asleep on that couch, because he wakes up with a blanket tossed over him and Jo, peacefully sleeping across from him.
He feels all too much and nothing at all, so he curls a little more into himself and falls back asleep.
--
“You need to buy more food,” Jo calls from the kitchen. Reluctantly, Brad gets up. He lets her walk to the car. Drives them to the store. They buy fresh fruits and vegetables, and Brad lets Jo pick out whatever she wants. She’ll be the one eating it, anyway.
When they get back home, Brad realizes Jo has been here over a week. She needs to go. She can’t stay forever.
Even though the selfish part of him wishes she could. How stupid is that?
“When are you leaving?” he asks that night, as they sit in front of the TV, as has become routine by now.
“I’m trying.” she says. And they watch in continued silence.
--
Brad falls asleep on the couch again. He says it was an accident. He convinces himself it was. But he wakes up to a blanket on his shoulders and Jo laying across from him and he feels a little happier than he has in a long, long time. A little safer.
A little less lonely.
And that makes him hate himself so much more.
--
Jo texts him, while she’s at the store one night. A picture of two bell peppers. That seems more odd to him than the fact she has his number at all. He never gave it to her. No one from work has any of his contact information.
"Which one should I get?"
He picks one at random, knowing he’d barely be able to stomach it regardless.
She sends back a little smiley face.
--
She cooks the bell pepper into a meal. He eats it, and manages to stomach a few bites without needing to remove it from his body. If Jo notices how little he eats, she says nothing. He says he keeps it down because Jo made it. It was a gift.
It would be disrespectful to waste the food.
But then he looks in the mirror and digs his nails into his stomach. Into his skin. He wants to rip the food out.
But he doesn’t.
--
In the end, it all falls apart on a Tuesday night. Three weeks exactly since Jo arrived. Jo stands in the doorway of the bathroom, and there he is, hands on the seat, doubled over on the floor. He hates how vulnerable he is right now.
“Brad?” Jo asks. She seems almost… worried.
“Just a stomach bug. I’m fine.” He says, and pushes past her to wash his face.
“Brad.” Jo says.
He has to look at her.
“I know.”
“What do you know?” he asks, “Because it seems to me like you’re freeloading on my house and making assumptions about me. I could kick you out right now.”
Jo doesn’t leave. “It’s okay,” she says. Brad feels like a caged animal. He wants to leave. But she stands in the doorway, preventing him from getting away. He hates that he let this happen.
But.
Does he?
If he yelled.
If he told her right now she had to get out.
She would.
So really, doesn’t he want this?
He left that door open.
He “forgot” to lock the door to his bedroom.
He wasn’t trying to keep quiet.
He let this happen.
No.
Worse.
He wanted it to happen because he’s a weak.
Stupid.
Kid.
“Get out.” He’s staring into the sink, unable to think, wanting to rake something sharp across his skin and-
“No.”
He turns to Jo. She stands there, defiant. “Brad. Please.”
And he’s so, so tired.
“Look, I can’t… make you eat, or whatever. And I’m not gonna. I won’t force you to talk either but… I am here.” Jo looks at him. Everything hurts. “You're not stupid. Or fat. Or whatever. It's not your fault.”
“...Okay.”
Jo smiles a little, and she looks sad, still. Worried. She goes to leave.
“Wait.” he says. It doesn’t feel like his voice. Jo turns back to face him. “Don’t tell anyone.” It’s not a request. It’s an order. He may not be her boss anymore, but she nods.
When he feels more steady, he walks out. Jo is on the couch, watching Ducktales. He sits down. He watches, and at some point Jo gets up to retrieve a blanket. She sits next to him. Close. But he doesn’t mind so much. It’s almost comforting.
When he wakes up, Jo’s head is on his shoulder and his own head leans against hers. The touch doesn’t sting, like it would with anyone else. It feels comforting. So he doesn’t move, just lets himself drift back into sleep.
--
Jo’s lived with him for 3 months now. They never “talked”, but every so often he’s able to get a meal down. It’s easier when it’s something she cooks. Easier to rationalize to himself.
She never pushes him to do anything. Never comments when he’s in the bathroom too long. And every so often he wakes up on the couch, the two of them resting against each other.
His house doesn’t feel so big anymore, not with Jo constantly yelling across it for his attention over the smallest things. He doesn’t hate returning to it. And he’s started watching Jo’s favorite shows, her loud, boisterous laugh filling the room and making it feel warm and safe.
He might not be “fine”.
But for now, he’s good enough.