[In the moment, Roy is furious, and there's no question that he's hurt. Every person who turns their back on him and walks away hurts just a little bit more, and Roy's had a whole life full of people turning their backs, walking away, telling him either directly or indirectly that he's not enough. Not good enough or strong enough or smart enough or fun enough or just plain enough to keep their attention, their loyalty, their friendship. People seem to slide in and out of his life and sometimes trying to hang onto them feels like trying to catch water in his hands. Hopeless, everything slipping through his fingers.
So Jason had left without saying good-bye, had come back without saying hello, and maybe he could deal with that if they hadn't been connecting again, if they hadn't been repairing things. They'd been friends again. Roy had forgiven him, in every way but the stupid sarcastic jokes they'd still made about it. When Jason was hurt and vulnerable and trapped, he'd called Roy, trusted Roy, he'd felt like they were best friends again. Like their friendship mattered. Like he mattered.
Apparently not. And damn, that really hurts. The anger is more a cover than anything else. Something strong to shield the vulnerability of the whole thing.
Jason's flippant joke about drunk ravers doesn't exactly help, when it comes to the anger, though. Roy's mouth tightens slightly as Jason yells at the girl, exhales in a rush, waits until Jason's done yelling at teenagers, his hands clenched into fists. Heart pounding, head spinning a little, he doesn't even bother trying to hide how upset he is, because a flippant comment isn't going to cover this.]
Fine, whatever. You know, I really thought we were starting to get close again. Stupid me, as usual.
[Turning on his heel, he stomps out of the club. Makes it halfway home again, at a dead run, before he changes his mind. It's pathetic, but he can't leave it like that, he wants to know why. What he'd done this time.
Roy's always been a little pathetic. It might as well be his middle name.
So he goes back, and he waits. By the time Jason is done his shift, Roy is sitting on the edge of the curb outside the venue, knees up with his arms around them, chin resting on his forearm, green hoodie pulled up over his hands, hood over his head - nowhere near enough to keep anyone warm on a night like this - staring kind of blankly into the street. Waiting.]
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So Jason had left without saying good-bye, had come back without saying hello, and maybe he could deal with that if they hadn't been connecting again, if they hadn't been repairing things. They'd been friends again. Roy had forgiven him, in every way but the stupid sarcastic jokes they'd still made about it. When Jason was hurt and vulnerable and trapped, he'd called Roy, trusted Roy, he'd felt like they were best friends again. Like their friendship mattered. Like he mattered.
Apparently not. And damn, that really hurts. The anger is more a cover than anything else. Something strong to shield the vulnerability of the whole thing.
Jason's flippant joke about drunk ravers doesn't exactly help, when it comes to the anger, though. Roy's mouth tightens slightly as Jason yells at the girl, exhales in a rush, waits until Jason's done yelling at teenagers, his hands clenched into fists. Heart pounding, head spinning a little, he doesn't even bother trying to hide how upset he is, because a flippant comment isn't going to cover this.]
Fine, whatever. You know, I really thought we were starting to get close again. Stupid me, as usual.
[Turning on his heel, he stomps out of the club. Makes it halfway home again, at a dead run, before he changes his mind. It's pathetic, but he can't leave it like that, he wants to know why. What he'd done this time.
Roy's always been a little pathetic. It might as well be his middle name.
So he goes back, and he waits. By the time Jason is done his shift, Roy is sitting on the edge of the curb outside the venue, knees up with his arms around them, chin resting on his forearm, green hoodie pulled up over his hands, hood over his head - nowhere near enough to keep anyone warm on a night like this - staring kind of blankly into the street. Waiting.]