50

The thing is. Well, the thing is.

Winston doesn't like his apartment.

And he doesn't want it.

It's weird, because things are better when Jason is there. When he's not alone in the apartment, and his thoughts don't run in circles in the dark. It's bearable, when Jason is there. Winston can look up at the ceiling and not be see the patchwork from old cracks, and nails, and chords. He can look out the window and not drown in all the lights. He can even sleep without being haunted by his memories.

But Winston doesn't want to be here.

He frowns, staring at his reflection in the crappy mirror. The lights aren't as bright as they should be, but it's--they're nod bad. Is the thing. When he looks through the doorway to the rest of the apartment, it's darkened by the turned off lights, yes, but it's still easy to see anything.

Abundant silent is streaming in through the windows, the blinds down but not shut. The neon billboards are still going strong, months after they went up, and they cast light, too.

The apartment isn't pitch black. It's not full of dark corners; there barely are any visible corners with all the furniture wedged in. There's a thin layer of dust on them, but it's not insurmountable; Winston cleans before Jason's every visit. There's no dishwasher, but this isn't really a problem either; Winston rarely eats anything other than cereal here.

It's not bad, this place.

But Winston does not want to be here.

Gulping, he rubs his eyes. Harshly, just for the hell of it. Biting his bottom lip, he wanders out of the bathroom in a daze, falling onto the couch and leaning forward. Rests his head on his knees for a second, until the position becomes painful and he shoves his arms in there for support.

He stops biting his lip when it becomes painful for real. Sits up straight, leans on the backrest, and stares up at the ceiling. It's not peeling, as it sometimes feels like. The repairs aren't even that mismatched; they're noticeable, sure, but not so much that they draw attention from people who don't look at ceilings.

And the couch isn't that old. It's a secondhand, but it's whole without almost a single tear and the stains aren't bigger than raisins and are nearly the exact same color as the rest of the green fabric. It doesn't even smell much of anything unless one's nose is right up on the fabric and his never is with his pillow and sheets in the way.

The apartment doesn't suck.

But Winston does not want to be here.

His exhalation is shaky, at best. His eyes sting, and his nostrils flare, and his hands clench on his knees, digging into the fragile muscle. He purses his lips, then presses them together into a thin line, then allows them to part and exhales once more.

It's not any better.

It's not getting better.

He's not getting better.

He does not want to be here.

"Fuck," breathes Winston, biting on his thumb this time. His lips need the break and he stands, pacing in circles around the coffee table. His footsteps are heavy on the floor, and he soon becomes dizzy from the constant spinning.

Falling back onto the couch the next time he passes it, he forces his eyes shut and holds a hand over them until the world stops spinning around him. Pressing his the palms of his hands deeper into his eyes, he does his best to ignore the gaping the sensation in his chest.

It is a great big maw nestled behind his ribs, tearing his chest apart for more room to grow. It aches, down to his bones.

And he doesn't understand it.

But he does not want to be here anymore.

He's never wanted to be here, truly. It's always been an emergency solution; the best place he could find after his parents---tossed him out, he supposes. It was never meant to be where he would life Forever, and yet somehow feels like a muddy swamp swallowing him down, like a sinkhole that won't let him go.

HE does not want to be here.

Licking his chapped lips, tasting the remnant of coffee on them, he stops pressing on his now aching eyes (he rubbed them too much) and instead sets his hands on his empty stomach. It grumbles, announcing to the world his hunger, but he thinks of the instant ramen in the cupboards, the cereal boxes squared away, and his appetite dies a swift and painful death.

His hand pats over the couch and the coffee table, requiring some turning and tossing, until it grabs a hold of his phone. Cold to the touch, he settles in on his side and holds the phone up to his head.

Unlocking with a sweep of his finger, he's calling Jason before he knows it.

It only rings twice, Winston biting his tongue again, before the call is accepted. Jason's dulcet tones cross the metaphorical (since it's a cellphone) phone line, a pleasant, "Hi, Win," that somehow makes Winston feel like blushing even in his emotional turmoil.

It doesn't last, though. He looks out at the apartment, the perspective strange and unfamiliar, and the heaviness in his stomach sinks deeper into his bones.

Curling his knees to his chest, he rasps a quiet "Hello."

A pause, something rustling in the background, and then Jason says, louder, "Are you okay? You sound odd."

Winston bites his bottom lip, eyes stinging and nostrils flaring with them. He rubs a hand over one of his eyes, the other one hidden in the pillow, and he can't resist a sniffle. It's quiet, he thinks, and it shouldn't be audible, but Jason repeats, "Winston, are you alright?"

And Winston shakes his head. It doesn't accomplish anything but burying his head deeper in the pillow, one of his nostrils clogging shut, and his next breath is a shaky mess at best.

"Winston?" Jason's voice is soft, and Winston forces down a hitching breath, closing his remaining eye. He doesn't want to look at this place, doesn't want to it to be anything but a dump.

If it's a dump, than it makes sense that he doesn't like it. If it's a dump, then it's perfectly fine to want to move out. If it's a dump, then it's not his fault he doesn't like it. It's not his fault he wants to leave, wants to get away from everything about it.

If it's a dump, he's fine.

"I don't—" Winston snaps his mouth shut, worrying his lower lip, eyebrows furrowing heavily. He forces down another ragged breath, forces his lungs to expand until his chest feel so full of air that the next words just tumble out of him.

"I don't want to be here."

"Okay," says Jason.

Winston's stomach is full of knots it hurts, his hand sweaty on the phone, his jaw aching, and the stinging in his eyes has only gotten worse. He inhales through his nose, through the single nostril usable at the moment, and says, remarkably steadily, "I don't want to live here anymore."

"Okay." Jason asks, "Do you want help finding a new place?"

"Ye--no," Winston changes his mind. He knows where he wants to go, suddenly. Has perhaps always known. But saying it out loud?

"That's cool," says Jason, warm and inviting in tone always. Winston wants to cuddle, suddenly, the desire utterly overwhelming; Jason adds on, "Do you want to come to my place and—cuddle, maybe? We could watch a movie?"

"No."

Jason hums, while Winston turns himself into an even tighter ball. Because he does want to cuddle with Jason, desperately, but he also... "I need to talk to Gary," he murmurs. Jason hums again, encouraging, and Winston's voice goes up a pitch as he rushes out, "I need to talk to Gary, and his mom, and Liam. I want to--" but those words he still can't say.

"Move in with them?" Jason says without any trouble.

Winston exhales all the air inside him in one giant swoop, deflating like a balloon. He nods, then realizes they're not on a face-call, and he mutters quietly, "Yeah."

"They love you," Jason says, then before Winston can protest that that's not enough, Jason is already adding, "And they like you. They like spending time with you, and when you're there. I mean, you spend so much time at Gary's place that you practically live there already."

"But don't I--but wouldn't I be bothering them? It's a presumptuous question, right?"

Jason's voice is unbearably gentle as he says, "They love you, Winston."