I Need You The Most
Rating: PG
Fandom: EDM
Ships: past Skrillmau5
Warnings: self-harm, angst
after the twitter fight, joel can't sleep.
He’s sweaty and hot and feverish even though he’s got the AC on full blast and it’s not even hot out, it’s so fucking close to American Thanksgiving that the stores have decided it’s already Christmas. It’s 3 AM in Toronto, which is midnight in LA, and Joel hates that the first thing he can think of when he notices the time is how Sonny’s a complete night owl and he’s probably still up and probably doing something more productive or enjoyable than writhing around under his bedsheets trying to sleep but only actually thinking about the stupid goblin who stole his heart without realizing it. Sonny’s probably taking a nice, relaxing bubble bath with a bottle of merlot and a semi-clear conscience or some girly faggy shit like that. Because he’s Sonny, and he doesn’t have to put up a front of not caring. He just goes along with the breeze all fucking carefree and reckless. Doesn’t put up these stupid walls and act like a cynical asshole because it’s been ingrained in him since day one. And he’s so stupidly beautiful in a way Joel knows he’d never be and he doesn’t want to anyway, but god, does he have to flaunt it?
He has Sonny’s new number but he’s putting his all into not texting, or calling, or FaceTiming or what have you, because it’s 3 in the morning and if Sonny answered at all he’d probably first ask Joel why he’s not asleep and then second why he’s calling him, and then what can Joel say? I’m sorry? Isn’t it too late for that, no pun intended? And it’s not like Joel’s in the habit of calling people to apologize after stupid Twitter spats. He doesn’t fucking do that. Why would he do that for Sonny?
Because he loves him. That’s the obvious answer. But no, Joel doesn’t love Sonny. Not right now. Maybe he used to. Maybe when they first met, Joel felt his ice melting, and maybe when Sonny would share a hotel room with him, he would wait for Sonny to fall asleep to kiss his hair and whisper like a secret that he loved him, and maybe when they’d smoke together in back alleys behind venues, he’d ask to borrow Sonny’s lighter not because he forgot his but because he relished the ever-so-brief feeling of Sonny’s hand brushing against his. But right now, he hates Sonny.
Well, he doesn’t hate Sonny, he hates Justin Bieber, and the music industry, and the world, and himself.
But he hates Sonny. Hates the way he offers himself up to whatever so-called opportunity approaches him at the right moment. Hates the way he loves and lives so openly and unabashedly. Hates the way he sees the best in everything except, apparently, Joel.
Sad old washed up asshole. Worst label head ever. Dick. Bully.
If it was anyone but Sonny, he wouldn’t fucking care. Of course he rebuffed him the same as anyone else, but shit, it stings. It stings that Sonny thinks any of that of him, because half of it Joel knows is true and the other half he can’t defend himself from as easily as he wishes he could. It’d be different if it was anyone else, but it’s Sonny. Sonny, Sonny, Sonny.
Meow .
Joel sits up on his elbows, and Professor Meowingtons is staring at him from the foot of the bed. The cat crawls up onto him, steps straight on his dick because he’s a dumbass cat who doesn’t know that shit hurts, and eventually settles on Joel’s chest. Joel isn’t having it. He grabs Meowingtons and sits up completely, pulling the cat off him and setting him down on the floor next to the bed.
“No.”
Meowingtons stares up at him with big, wide, shiny eyes, like he can’t comprehend the English language, because he can’t comprehend the English language, because he is a cat.
Joel sighs and looks back to his phone where it lay abandoned on his bedside table. Fuck it. He grabs the phone, his cigarettes, his lighter, and makes his way out onto his balcony, overlooking the lights and streets of Toronto. It’s somehow cooler outside than inside.
He lights a cigarette and then dials Sonny’s number while he sucks on it.
Ring, ring.
It goes straight to voicemail. Joel curses under his breath, a puff of smoke escaping, and hangs up, shoving his phone into his pocket. Whatever. Doesn’t matter, it wasn’t like he actually wanted to talk to Sonny anyway.
Stupid Sonny. Stupid fucking world. Stupid fucking Justin Bieber.
He takes another drag from his cigarette.
Joel tries his best not to let it slip, not to crack so he won’t bust wide open, but he can’t help it. A hiccuping sob escapes him, and then another, and then another, and suddenly, Joel’s half bent over the railing and all the city lights look so much brighter magnified by his tears.
Joel hasn’t cried in years, but now, it’s all coming up like a fucking monsoon or something. His chest aches and he feels just queasy enough to be miserable without puking, and he hates Sonny and he loves Sonny and he hates Sonny and he still hates Justin Bieber but mostly he just hates himself beyond fucking belief.
In a fit of loathing, he snubs his cigarette out onto his own skin, really twists it in so it stings worse, then throws the rest of the stupid thing over the railing and collapses into a ball, hugging his knees. He sniffles weakly, then lets another sob wrack his body. He hears a little dunk-dunk against glass and looks up just briefly enough to see Meowingtons asking to be let out onto the balcony.
Joel looks away. His heart lurches and tugs at something in his digestive tract, it seems, because another spike of nausea hits him. It all feels so big when he knows it’s so small and that’s the worst part. Sonny doesn’t despise him or anything, he said he’d always be there for him whatever that means, and even if he did despise him it wouldn’t be the end of the world because Joel’s got so much more going for him than whatever that Bieber-blowing bastard thinks of him, but the fact he thinks anything negative of him at all stings. He needs Sonny to look up to him the way he used to, treat him like a friend again, crawl into his bed and find his way into his arms again. He needs it like he needs the sun to come up in the morning because Sonny used to be what lit up his world every day, and now he’s like a stranger.
Another sob escapes Joel despite his protests.
Dunk-dunk-dunk.
Joel sniffles and pulls himself up off the ground. His arm shouts at him where he burned it, but whatever, he got it out and he’s fine now. He’s fucking fine.
He opens the door to let Meowingtons out, and Meowingtons paws at Joel’s leg the way he does when he wants up. Joel lets out a little sniffle and bends down to pick the cat up, holding him close as he comes inside and shuts the sliding door with his foot, almost like a teddy bear. He sits down on the bed, toward the foot because Miss Nyancat has made herself at home curled up on his pillow. For a second, Joel feels like everything will be alright, and he wipes his tears away and cradles Meowingtons until he starts squirming to be let down, and even then Meowingtons just curls up on his lap and starts purring.
So, yeah, he has his cats. Doesn’t need anyone else. Fuck Sonny, and fuck Justin Bieber, and fuck Diplo too just for good fucking measure.
Joel shuffles and disturbs Meowingtons when his phone starts buzzing in his pocket and he goes to answer it, only to see it’s Sonny. His contact name is still set as little goblin :). Joel scowls, but answers.
“What do you want?”
He hears shuffling on the other end. “You don’t need to be like that, man, I just saw you called me earlier and I wanted to make sure you didn’t-”
“It was a butt dial. Just go back to bed. Or get to bed, whatever. Good night.” Joel hangs up without waiting for a response, and then throws his phone across the room into the cat bed Meowingtons doesn’t use.
Another sob escapes him.