conk or bepsi babey take ya pick

i can have a lil unrealistic romance fantasy,, as a treat

There are a lot of things Pickle hates. Not dislikes, because a dislike for things is reserved for mundane, inconsequential annoyances- like wet socks and low water pressure and the little bit of milk left in the carton that's not even enough for a measly cup of hot chocolate.

Now, hating things, on the other hand, is a much bigger, separate ballpark. Most people hate things like late buses and cheating ex's, but Pickle has a very specific taste in hating things, an acquired taste with very particular knack of avoiding them. He hates things like tea, and tea with lemon, and lemonade, and lemons, and loud know-it-all's, and the mail on every second Tuesday, and winking with his right eye.

But the thing he hates the most are bad days. Days when his thoughts overtake his head. Days that dig its heels into his flesh and remind him that no, it's not going to get any better than this.

It's been a bad day.

He spent most of it with everyone else, working on chores and art classes with achy fingers, and Pickle is moments away from snapping. Usually, he loves these kind of days. Loves losing himself in the simplicity of interaction and casual conversations, the work an added cherry as something he can focus on. But a very specific switch was flipped and it's all overwhelming-underwhelming instead. Things he's done, what he's said, slips through the cracks of his fingers. He works through the motions with botched, slipshod progress, moving through the day in a stinging haze.

Dinner isn't much better. There's food in front of him, but he can't even muster the energy to look up at it. He's lost under the constant babble of prattle and gossip, the oppressive closeness of a dozen other bodies, the racing of his own thoughts. He buries himself in the stitches of his own sweater and limbs, head down to block out the buzz of too bright lights. He's deciding between the pros and cons of pretending he's dead for the rest of his life when his head snaps up at a careful touch against his back.

OJ's standing there with concern written all over his face, "You alright? You're looking a little pale there."

Pickle is irritable and frustrated and feels like he's on the verge of bursting into tears. "Yeah, I'm- I'm good."

"No, no you're not good." OJ says, his tone shaped from babysitting a dozen fools on the daily. His expression softens right after though, they're still friends after all. "I think you should head to bed, you've done enough for today."

That's the problem though. It never feels like he's done enough. Pickle's skin itches with irritated energy, his head bursting at the skull with anxious thoughts that run and tumble over one another, fragments of thoughts and emotions and frustrations and fears that don't quite finish themselves before they crash into others, words and static that smash together into this hideous frenzy in his head. He shoves his head under his pillow, hoping to drown out everything: from his thoughts, to the sound of his breathing, and even the white noise of his room. He doesn't even remember stumbling into his room.

A few minutes pass (minutes? seconds? days? hours? he can't keep track). Somewhere, distantly, Pickle hears the sound of his door click open and shut. There's only two people who visit him regularly, and one's already nudged him towards sleep like a middle aged lady. He's not surprised when a familiar weight dips into the foot of his bed and he hears Knife's voice say, "you comfortable under there?"

It just serves as a prompt realization that he's all twisted up, neck bent at an angle and one leg dangling off the side of his mattress. Pickle's answer is a harsh sigh from under the pillow. The tiny space rapidly heats with his breath, humid and unpleasant before it cools again. The reply to his to response is a rough hand coming to rest on his ankle, thumb stroking over pajama pants. Pickle's limited focus narrows in on the affectionate touch: the gentle weight, the firm grip, the warmth bleeding through the fabric.