one shots // falsettos.

nights like this // j + m

originally posted on my ao3

—

After Whizzer had passed, time seemed to stop.

The sun seemed dimmer, food seemed bland and roses didn't look as carmine as they had when Whizzer's eyes would light up and his smile would only widen. Marvin could barely drag himself out of the mellow, congenial grasp of his muted green duvet into the muggy, pathetic life which awaited him beyond his chipped wooden bedroom door, but by God did he try. He still took Jason for the weekends, not wanting to make his son, who was also mourning the death of a dear friend, feel like he couldn't bask in what used to be his other two dads house. Once, Jason had piped up that he wanted to go to, in his words, "Dad and Whizzer's house." And begged himself as he glared down at the floor with his bottom lip between his teeth not to cry.

Mendel and Trina were trying to get through to him on days where he wouldn't sit behind locked doors and sob until he felt empty. They'd originally given him a week off school to get over the initial shock and the days of depression and loneliness. They'd given him extra ice-cream, let him stay up later, even given him whatever he wanted just to get through the impassible haze and sturdy-built walls of anger and nothingness, to get through to their son. On the days they could, however, he'd give clipped replies and meek head shakes, eyes glued to the floor, glazed with burning tears. Mentioning his name seemed to cause the house to still, a dark, mournful blanket casted over their house, hollow aches in their chests causing even the flowers on their windowsill to wilt.

Trina was hurting. For Whizzer, Jason, Mendel, everyone. Especially Marvin. How his brain had been swallowed by grief, pain, depression. Charlotte and Cordelia would deliver updates on how his mental state was. They weren't expecting a perky, well-minded report, and they certainly didn't receive it.

One murky Sunday's eve, Jason overheard Mendel and his mother's hushed whispers like the harsh crackles of fire murmuring something's about, "how will he cope," and "if it's true". If he had listened any further, he surely would've let the nausea overcome him.

Jason finds himself and his churning stomach enmeshed betwixt the muggy air suffocating him and his rough, tempestuously rough bedsheets in the early hours of a foggy Tuesday morning. He felt as if his insides were wound like a coil, ready to snap. His breath came in acute, shallow pants and it was like static was rushing through his limbs. He wanted to get up, he couldn't loll in his room with his emotions so contiguous to his swimming head. He needed to walk it off, to stim it off, to do anything to get rid of it. He settles for yelping out a meek, quiet, "Dad.", and even though he knew he'd receive no reply, it doesn't stop him from letting out a sharp sob, stomach hollowing out and nausea writhing up his dry throat. His shirt clings to his back for dear life with perspiration, not bothering to change out of his pyjamas, as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed, the action making his head swim.

He knows it's risky, he really does.

But that doesn't stop him.

The note he leaves remains adhered to Mendel and Trina's kitchen fridge, written with aspiration that his mother won't murder him for taking himself out to the old, weary bus stop (sat aside a grime-covered gas station) to the bottom of the road of Ashburry Drive, with his bar mitzvah money, of course. It also promises that he'll be home for dinner, since he reckons that from - he glances to the clock sat above the door to the lounge, and the hands read 5:25 - five o'clock in the morning should be enough. As he swings his bag over his shoulder, he stops himself.

This is crazy. Right?

But then the image flashes back to him, burnt into his retinas. His father draped over the gravestone of his lover, sobs collapsing over him in waves, and his father is drowning. Whizzer was his lifeguard, Whizzer was his buoy, his safety, and now he's--