I Used My Last Pair Of Good Underwear Two Days Ago

TW, Past drug abuse, self harm, disasociation

“You’re doing it again.”

“What?”

“Going away.”

   Wes is moving again, he always is. Folding a load of laundry he had dragged into Dillion’s house.

   “Hey love you don’t really have a choice but can you pretty please let me borrow your washing machine? Our dinosaurs broke and Jared Insists he can fix them. We’ve all been hand washing and fighting for places to hang dry for a week.” 

Dillion just shook his head in amusement, and stepped aside for Wes.

He also needed to borrow his shower, coffee, and fresh banana bread, turns out. 

   Wes’ damp curls hang down onto his forehead as he works through his pile of laundry. 

“The second load should be done soon- I can switch it if you want-” 

“You're so sweet, thanks.” Wes grins, holding up a long sleeved shirt with the front carved out. Dillion scrunches his nose. 

“What’s that supposed to cover?”

“Uh, my arms? And look, it has a hood!” Wes tosses the bottom-of-the-drawer- tank top with more holes than fabric off and slips the shirt on.

“I wore it for- pride? Yeah. My first pride at the club with some fishnets. And then some.”

Wes laughs, flashing a toothy grin at Dillion before looking at the ratty tank top and shrugging; he throws it over his shoulder. It lands behind Dillion’s old TV stand. Dillion’s face heats up and he groans.

“I think you got me sick.”

“That’s a blush luv, you’re sick with the gay.” Wes punctuates his statement by wiggling his fingers before returning to folding.

“No I’m- no. I don’t think-” 

Wes glances up at Dillion, making a face he’s never seen before. Dillion shifts, and looks at the ground, he slinks out of his body; rolling down to lay in the floor to stare at the bottom of his own thread-bare socks.

“You know how I am. Or how I’m not.”

“I do indeed.”

Wes picks up a thick jacket lined with wool and clips the metal clasps together. The sound rings in Dillion’s gut and shakes his teeth in their sockets.

“I’m not well enough to-”

Dillion teeters off, rolling his not-head to Wes, studying his bare legs, the scars that peak out from under his skirt remain white even as he’s tanned. He sees a crescent moon, some stars, and a feather, all connected by squiggles and lines to complete the design. 

“You look at them a lot.” Wes climbs into his body, slotting his feet back on as well as he can. 

“It looks like it hurt. It’s also really cool.” Wes grins, folding a dark green sweater delicately.

“That’s what Penny said, when he saw them. They were kinda fresh but. Yeah. He let me finish the ‘sleeve’. Or I would have torn myself apart from the root.” 

   Dillion nods, he doesn’t get it, but Wes doesn’t understand the trips he takes to the floor either, not really. So he just lends a void to yell into. Dillion slips off the couch in his real body, pauses and stares down at Wes. 

“I don’t understand the point of that. what that is supposed to cover?”

“It’s not.” Wes puffs out his exposed chest.

   The washing machine dings, So Dillion averts his eyes and wanders to the laundry room. His machines are old, and sometimes they rattle and sometimes the washing machine leaks. But they work, so Dillion pulls the clothes out, separates what needs to be hang dried, apparently, but the tags say so, so he does. The dryer groans as it begins and Dillion pats it sympathetically before floating over to Wes, who has migrated to Dillion’s kitchen. He’s splayed on his island, reading the back of a pack of ramen. 

“This shit is like- poison. I once ate two packs dry while high, then snorted the powder.”

“Gross.”

I know right, I threw up and I couldn’t smell right for weeks.” 

   Dillion sidles up to the island, taking a seat like a normal person as Wes sits up to open the package and take a bite of the dry noodles. There’s a beat of silence besides Wes’ chewing and the bird chimes Josie had made whistling outside. 

“Do you ever miss it?”

“Elaborate.” Dillion doesn’t know how to tactfully, Josie has told him he has a deficiency in the skill. So he spills his brain on the counter, sorts through his thoughts, then swipes everything away. 

“The drugs? The work. I don’t know, the freedom of it all,” Wes swallows, setting the package down with a crinkle that ripples through Dillion’s fingertips. 

“Yes and no- I don’t miss working the corner. It was gross and dirty and I worked with a lot of repressed pedos.” 

“Ah.” Wes takes it in stride, stretching his arms up and back, sending little pops up his spine. 

“I miss the hard stuff. After a while it became less about the high and more about the fact that I needed it to live. To function. The pamphlets don’t tell you about that part. I think about saying fuck it and bumping a line every day.”

   Dillion coughs as he feels his nose pressing against Wes’ flimsy fence.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise sweets, it’s just a fact of life. But, I do prefer being sober. It’s like being in jail kinda. I don’t know, I miss it and I don’t. But I think I like straight teeth and thick hair better.” Dillion nods along, and reaches over to grab a chunk of noodle, crunching it just to hear something in his brain. 

   “Why’d you ask?” Dillion pauses. Why did he ask? The next minute is spent going through his own brain, sorting through messy folds and bending dead wires until something sparks.

“You just seem so- free. Everyone likes you. You talk about it like-”

“It was a learning experience, a learning experience that had me weighing 95 pounds and stealing things from people that loved me to pawn. I stole from Penny too, after I relapsed. Mark nearly beat my ass. I don’t blame him.” Wes has a sad sort of smile on his face, weathered and out of practice. 

“People like me because I like people, you dummy. I’m an extrovert, the drugs didn’t do that I did. The drugs just made me annoying.”

“Annoying enough to come over unannounced to tell me you’re using my washing machine.”

Wes cackles, and swings back; spreading out across the island while reaching out to clasp Dillion’s hand, messing with his limp fingers.

“I guess you just- you never make anyone uncomfortable. I’ve seen you talk down a biker twice the size of you, you kissed him on the cheek and he didn’t beat you to a pulp.”

“Hey! Pressy is a big softie. He was just pissed his buds didn’t invite him to a party.”

“That’s my point. You like- crawl inside people’s brains, take notes then come out without disturbing anything.” Wes laughs, presses a kiss on Dillion’s palm, and sits up; placing his feet on Dilion’s thighs off the counter.

“Ugh I love your brain, It’s so funny.” Wes cups Dillion’s face, knocking his head around playfully.

“I’m not in it most of the time.”

“Ah yes, the floor.”

“Yeah.”

“You pay attention though. You go away but you always hear.” 

“I don’t know,” Dillion hesitates, looking away from Wes, Wes who is pressed against him with the most compassionate look in his eyes. “-I uhm. Don’t leave leave. I usually just sit in things. Feel my… things work. And watch people from a new perspective.”

“So artistic. I guess you’re just stuck being weird.” 

“You’re weirder.” Wes grins and bumps their foreheads together, then swings around to take a bite from his dry, sad noodles. 

“I have a kettle, y’know.”

“Keep insulting my exquisite taste and I’ll make you watch me snort the flavour packet.”

 Dillion gives Wes a light hearted shove, his heart buzzing warmly at his friend sitting in his kitchen, with his belongings spread out across his house.