"you remind me a bit of narcissus, but a version of him that hates himself."
"thanks."
IN WHICH Christopher Sutherland, star football player and best friend of Bradley Lewis, makes out with his drug dealer and has to face the consequences.
( stan...
( so free up the cheaper seats, here comes a greek tragedy )
chapter two!
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CHRISTOPHER SUTHERLAND'S GUILT HAD NEVER BEEN THIS IMMENSE BEFORE. He didn't know what to do. He felt like he was losing his fucking mind. What the actual fuck had he done?
He couldn't tell anyone about the kiss. He was never going to admit that he'd initiated something so intimate with Stanley fucking Barber and, worst of all, he loved it for some godawful reason. He would never let the words leave his mouth because he knew, deep down, that it would fuck everything up. Everything he'd built, everything he knew, everything he needed to stay the same for as long as possible.
Chris shouldn't have been so weak. He shouldn't have let his guard down and given in like he did. He didn't know what was wrong with him, what would make him feel the need to kiss another boy when he'd suppressed it all his entire life. He didn't know what to do so, naturally, he blamed it all on Stanley.
And it wasn't fair; of course Chris knew that. Chris liked Stanley Barber as an acquaintance and he liked Stanley Barber's weed. He knew it would be hard to ignore him. They had a lot of classes together and they didn't sit too far apart. Stanley wasn't the type to let something like this go quickly. Chris knew he would bother him about it at school the next day, and Chris would be so irritated he may punch Stanley. Chris got aggressive before football games; he hated to lose and every fucking asshole at their school reminded him of losing.
Now Chris was walking home quickly with the intention of forgetting everything he had just done with Stanley Barber a few moments before. He could clear his head and he could ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach and the way he felt so nauseated his face was probably green. He would go home and, hopefully, the burning feeling on his lips would go the fuck away.
Christopher's house wasn't much. It was small- a three bedroom, though the bedrooms were the size of closets, really- and blue, with overgrown weeds in the front yard and vines climbing up the outer walls. The inside was even less appealing, barely any decoration and no family photos branding the walls. Chris's father was asleep on the recliner in the living room, the television blasting in front of him, playing some Tarantino movie Chris didn't remember the name of. His dad held an empty beer bottle in his calloused hand, and that didn't surprise Chris one bit. His father wasn't a bad or mean man, but his love for alcohol oftentimes flooded over his love for his family.
Chris would be a liar if he said his fathers behavior wasn't upsetting. He hadn't even spoken to his father in a few days; Chris had been spending most afternoons with Delilah lately. Sometimes Chris would nod in a greeting, but he would rush off before his father could get a word in.
