【 ＦＩＶＥ：ＮＩＮＥ || ʙɪɢ • ᴛɪᴍᴇ • ʀᴜꜱʜ 】

【 𝟻 : 𝟶 𝟶 - ᴀʟʟ • ʜᴀɴᴅꜱ 】

(a/n: I used songs from Five-Nine by Curtis Peoples (sans Rooftop) as inspiration, because I've held this EP close to my heart for years and Love On Fire has been stuck in my head like a m'fer. I also burned through a lot of Stephen King's short story collections as well as finishing A Spot Of Bother by Mark Haddon, so the writing may be vaguely reminiscent of their works, just to throw it out there. Call it muddled inspiration or a poor man's ripoff, all my transgressions are laid at the altar. And I also v much suck at Americana-styled thematics, but there was Some Kind Of Attempt??? *clears throat in untraveled asian* And yes it's James/Jett of course (even though I just realised I referenced so many random character headcanons in this story from another fic of the same pairing that I haven't even posted yet oopsies),,, listen I love these idiots in both fluff and angst form and tonight can y'all guess which wolf inside me is winning??? THAT'S RIGHT AND THEY ARE BOTH SAD AND GAY-)

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[ CONTENT WARNINGS: rated Mature for some adult themes and language (but nothing explicit), Fighting, Emotional Hurt, References to Alcohol and Drugs, Implied Addiction, Jett being a salty bastard, super-depressed James, lowkey OOC jerkface Kendall, lots of Sadboi Hours ]

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❝ ᴛʜɪꜱ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇ ᴀꜱ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇ

ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀʏ ᴏᴜᴛ ʟᴏᴜᴅ ɪᴛ'ꜱ ʜᴀᴘᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ

ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀʟᴇꜱꜱ ᴡᴇɪɢʜᴛ ɪ ᴀᴍ ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ

ᴏʜ, ɪ'ᴍ ꜰɪɢʜᴛɪɴɢ ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ꜰᴀᴛᴇ ꜱᴏ ꜰʟᴇᴇᴛɪɴɢ... ❞

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Jett Stetson. Star of the mega-hit CW show New Town High. Best-looking person at the Palm Woods. Woofie award winner, among countless impressively shiny accolades. Cool boy, a swaggering hailstorm in bouffant quiff and popped collars. On top of the whole world's oyster, etcetera, etcetera. On his flippant lone wolf bullshit. On his third fucking can of Pabst Blue god damned Ribbon piss drink that he fished out from the back of his refrigerator, the late five-noon sunshine hasn't even fully set yet and he's shuddering through another sloppy swig. So honestly, who was he trying to sandbag anyway?

L'chaim. It doesn't taste good. It doesn't feel good, either. It's a decent enough distraction, though.

The lobby grows darker and darker with after-five shadows, except for the emergency klaxons flashing red lights all over Jett's hazed-up vision and making him squint. He doesn't blink it away. It could blind him like the corrupting television static he's been melding his entire existence onto, for all he fucking cares. It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter. Even after years and years of tireless Hollywood whoring, with so many hands pulling for him, pulling him under, wrapped around his neck and mercilessly shredding him to pieces. Dying to get a quick piece, a drugged taste, a hunter's trophy to hang on their game room walls. What's there left to taste but the pooling blood in your mouth?

Don't get him wrong, Jett's all game for the shameless shilling and the suck-up showboating—because no shit, being all up in other people's business is the whole biz of showbiz; and as a wise 'Straya slag once gurgled in between scratchy guitar riffs and substance abuse, 'you pay the man, you pay your dues...when it's all gone, you sing the blues'. But busting out the blues in this shammer joint is certainly miles better than being trapped behind a grease-lined Dunkin Donuts counter in some lame-ass kumbaya town with crop-circled cornfields and skyrocketing suicide rates as hottest tourist spots.