Catharsis || Lashton AU - boyxboy

4. vydání

"So will you scatter my ashes where they won't be found?
I kept my word and you hate me for it now.
You knew all along,
Try to forget me and just move on."
Senses Fail, Calling All Cars ☯

Days past of working at the coffee shop, sitting on the corner, hanging out with Van Gogh, writing down each detail of my boring little life, and awaiting the return of the curly haired boy, though he never came.

It'd been six days exactly. I don't want to say I missed him. Because I don't think I'd known him well enough yet to develop a feeling, such as longing, for him. But I couldn't help the clawing at the inside of my ribs and my spine and my brain that just needed to know what happened to him.

Considering the shape he was in when I'd first seen him, I wasn't sure what could have happened to him.

Nothing bad, I hope.

And so part of me wanted him to return to my little street corner so that I could hear the remainder of his story, and the other part of me wanted him to return so that I could see the bruises faded and the cuts healed, and assure myself that he was okay.

So, well, by definition, perhaps I did miss Ashton a bit.

And I wondered if he thought of me at all on his little city street adventures.

Anyways, it was about midday, around noon, and I had my break in about half an hour, only to return here an hour later to work for four more. Work at a coffee shop in general shouldn't be that busy, but a coffee shop in the heart of New York City, gets rather busy.

"What's that on your neck?" Van Gogh asked cheekily, before poking the blotchy bruise on my neck. "Someone ought to tell Cassie to tone it down a bit, yeah?"

I felt my cheeks redden profusely, before my hand instinctly flew up to shield the bruise.

"Shut up, Van Gogh. Just because you're asexual doesn't mean you get to pick on those who actually get some, you twit." I said, grinning slightly before grabbing my rag off the counter and continuing to wipe it down, my hand still covering my neck.

"Pft, if I were somewhat aroused by the human body in any way, shape, or form, I'd totally get some before you, you stupid giraffe." Sully laughed playfully, fixing the neat bow his apron strings were tied into in the back.

I laughed lightly, watching the clock out of the corner of my eye. "Oh, please. You may be more muscle-y than me but the ladies can't resist the Hemmo. Even you know that."

"Ladies? What ladies? You mean Cassie, Lindsey, Amanda, and that one random girl you hooked up with like seven months ago? That's not what I'd call an abundance, Mr. Ladies-Man." He replied sourly, but grinning all the same.

"Hey, just because I don't hook with a bunch doesn't mean I'm not a ladies man. I mean, what can I say? I like to play hard to get." I said with a gentle smirk, stepping away from the counter and tossing the dirty rag into the bin by the back door.

"Come on, Hemmo. I need to the confidence boost. Admit it. If you were gay, I'd be your first choice. We all know it." Sully responded, running his hands down his chest and rolling his hips slightly.

"Wrong. If I were gay, my first choice would be Benedict Cumberbatch. He's my man-candy-everyday." I said, wiggling my eyebrows at Sully in the most suggestive manner I could muster up.

"Dammit." He breathed. "I could never compete with those chiseled-by-Jesus-himself cheekb0nes. Curse you, Sherlock Holmes. Curse you."

I chuckled lightly, taking little-to-no notice of the bell at the entrance ringing, indicating a new person. "You're damn right you couldn't. Khan has your cheekbone game beat by a long shot, you--"

I stopped in my tracks as I noticed who'd walked into the shop, struggling with everything in me not to allow my jaw to hit the ground.

"I'm a what?" Sully asked, turning around from his spot at the counter, stopping in his tracks as well.

"What? Long lost brothers? Best friends? Bunk-buddies in Summer camp in the third grade? What? What am I missing?" He joked, taking a few steps closer. "Jesus fuck, dude. What happened to your face?"

I snapped my head around to glare at Sullivan, arrising an apologetic (but somewhat innocent) look from him.

Ashton simply chuckled lightly, before running a hand through his honey-colored curls and taking a seat at one of the counter stools.

"My dad pistol-whipped me." He said, bluntly. "Can I get, like, the strongest coffee you have? Black's fine."

My attempts to keep my mouth shut failed as I heard those words. "What? Pistol-whipped you? Are you serious? Are you-- Have you called the police or anything?"

"Call the po-- Jesus Christ, man. It's the heart of New York City. He didn't shoot me; just drew a bit of blood with the handle. It's my fault, anyways. I guarantee the NYPD have more important things to not deal with right now." He scoffed, before Sully set the black coffee down in front of him.

"So you're gonna let him do that whenever he wants?" I said, a bit dumbfounded.

"What the hell else am I supposed to do? If I called the police and by some miracle they decided to do something, there'd be a whole big trial over nothing, and then he'd get out of jail not too much later ready to kill me. I'd rather bleed a little." He said, removing a small, silver flask from the inside of his worn-out jean jacket.

"Your dad- You- How old are you?" I asked, curious as to how he still lived with his dad and was able to drink.

"Eighteen. What're you gonna do, call the cops on me for drinking three years too early? I'm sure they'd care about that. Come on, I can hear that Australian accent of yours, mate. I'd be able to drink back home by now. What does it matter?" He asked, before pouring what I could only assume was vodka into the coffee in front of him.

"Well damn, I don't care if you wanna drink. So long as you're not getting full-blown wasted in our damn coffee shop." I said through fog. Because it's not that I cared, really. I just didn't like that he was eighteen and had not other option to drink to dispose of the pain.

"Can I at least clean your face up for you? I mean, no offense, mate, but there's blood running all over the place and it doesn't look too pretty." I asked cautiously, grimacing at the open wounds all over his face and neck.

"Go for it, Luke. Hurts like a bitch anyways, I don't imagine you can make it hurt anymore." He said, sipping on his coffee and making a face at the alcohol.

"That's pretty intense, dude." Sully said, before tossing me a fresh rag soaked in warm, soapy water.

"Innit." He said, before sipping on his coffee again and allowing me to dab at the bloody gashes covering a good portion of his face.

I only hoped this time he'd be able to stick around to finish his story.

So this wasn't bad I think??