The Kids are Fine | Kellic (boyxboy)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN | We Don't Have To Talk About It

KELLIN'S P.O.V

It's been a week.

A week without a word from Vic.

I couldn't tell if it was my fault or his. He texted me two days after that night and I didn't respond, so maybe it's my fault. It was a simple "Are you okay?" and that's it. I swear I typed out twenty responses and my fingers hovered over my phone's keyboard for twenty minutes. My heart ended up beating out of my chest and fear got the best of me, so I didn't respond. Since then, He's consumed my every waking thought. I don't know why. He probably hasn't thought about me at all. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can't I get him out of my head?

***

The morning after we got drunk, I woke up to pain. Pain in my head and pain in my side. My eyes fluttered opened to find that I was in the space between the coffee table and one of the couches. I had fallen off of the couch and- fuck, landed on something. I force myself to sit up and reach beneath my body. It was the empty tequila bottle. I clutched it in my good hand and tried to remember the events of last night. I really shouldn't have taken the xanax and then gotten drunk. Again. Then again, I didn't know that Vic wanted to get drunk with me... but if I did, would I have really not taken the pill? No. I still would've taken it.

I remember that he brought he food and made me eat before I was allowed to drink. I remember laughing. A lot. I smile at this. I remember him falling asleep on the opposite couch about five minutes before I did. Once he was out, I saw no point in trying to keep my eyes open, so I gave into sleep. I know he stayed the night here. He wouldn't have been able to drive home. Even if he was able to, he wouldn't have tried. That's just not the kind of person he is. He's careful. Responsible. He's not taking xanax and getting drunk, then jumping in front of trains; Just keeping me from doing that.

What happened in between eating and falling asleep? That's where it was fuzzy. I hate not being able to remember because I was with him. For some reason, I really wanted to remember. There was a twisting feeling, deep in the pit of my stomach and a nagging in the back of my head telling me that I really needed to remember. God, what happened?

The pain shooting across my head and into my eyes reminded me that I had a bottle of aspirin that he bought for me still up in my room. I looked around the room. There was a blanket neatly folded on the couch that Vic had slept on. I rolled my eyes. He's too kind for his own good.

There were pillows on the floor. There were crumpled up pieces of paper on the floor. There were two drawings on the coffee table. I furrow my eyebrows because, one, they were horrible, and two, I think they were supposed to be us. That's right. We tried to draw each other... and he gave me a hitler mustache? I only knew it was me because my name was written it calligraphy cursive letters on the bottom of the page. I rolled my eyes again, this time at his perfect hand writing, despite being drunk.

I realized I was still holding the bottle when my hands went to find the floor to help me stand. I set it on the coffee table next to the drawings but something catches my eye. I prop myself up on my knees and reach across the table. Its a note. It's from VIc. A full piece of paper with seven words scribbled on it. I blink.

"We don't have to talk about it."

- Vic

I let the paper fall to the table.

"Talk about wha-" I whispered to myself and froze mid sentence because everything came flooding back to me and I knew exactly what we didn't have to talk about. My brain sparks, then flickers: