Um. So. Hi. I'm really, really new to this fandom. Like... about a week new. But when I am new to a fandom, well that's when I write a ton of fan fiction with debatable quality. And it's usually sad and terrible and seldom any fun, but no-one can say I didn't try.
So as a sort of offering to you all, I present my first fic for this fandom.
Title: End of the World
Characters: Chuck Noblet, Geoffrey Jellineck
Pairing: Well duh. Cheoffrey.
Rating: I... don;t know. T?
Synopsis: Geoffrey always wanted to let Chuck know just how he was feeling, but never felt brave enough. As a form of therapy, he wrote Chuck a letter, encouraging him to write one, too. Five years later, with the letter in his possession, Chuck feels it's about time to do some writing of his own.
My dearest Chuck,
It feels odd, writing a letter for you when you’re only a corridor and a half away. I think. It’s so strange; I can always automatically find your classroom but even as an artist I seem to have no sense of direction. I’m hopeless with maps.
I sure hope the letter is still nicely scented when it finally gets to you. I chose a pretty blueberry pen because I remember how much you said you liked the muffins I made you. Do you remember? You said they were like eating delicious rainbowy raindrops made of blueberry. It’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever said about my baking. I just thought I’d try to evoke that memory through this pen. Oh God, that’s a horrible scent. What do they make these pens out of? Bleach and sugared mushrooms? Yuck. The good news is, there is a slight hint of blueberry to them, so, let’s hope that’s all that remains when it gets to you.
There are so many things that need to be said, so much that I need to convey, so many secrets I keep hidden not just from the world but from you… but to be fair, it is kind of hard to talk with your mouth full every 3am.
Before I met you, I was weak, pathetic, insecure, fat, lonely. I am still most of those things. But with you it’s like it’s okay to be those things because… because you don’t care. You don’t care how weak I am when you’re the one supporting me, making me stronger. You don’t care how pathetic I am when you hold me so tightly, like a frightened bunny in the arms of the butcher. You don’t care how fat I am when we get friendly with cheesecake until 8am on a school morning. I have my theories. The craziest one I have is that you could actually love me. That’s my favourite one.
Even though you never say it or write it down or show it, I think you do love me. Just as I love you. I have sacrificed so much for us and I’m sure you have, too. I don’t see any evidence… But I’m still holding out for a sign. It probably sounds really selfish, all things considered, but I just need a little confirmation.
I mean, I’m ready to move in with you. I’m ready to tell the world how much you mean to me. I’m ready for all of the pain and the torment that comes with it because I know that what we have will cancel it all out. Our love and happiness will be the reward we so desperately deserve, Chuck. Well, that you deserve.
Oh, Chuck. I just wish I could tell you about my insecurities without sounding as needy and desperate as I am. I wish I could tell you all about the binging and the purging, and I wish I could tell you about the box-cutter incidents and the reason I can’t wear neckties but I can’t. God, Chuck, I wish you knew how much I need you to comfort me and tell me I’m pretty. I wish you know about the paranoia and the deficiency-related hallucinations I suffer. I wish you knew all these things but how can I tell you anything when you keep pushing me away?
Anyway. That’s all I wanted to say. I love you and need you and I know we'd be perfect together. We just need to try. Please say you can do this for me. Please? I don't know how many more nights of watching and waiting and nothing ever happening I can take.
Oh, and next time? Do you think we can just have mixed fruit? I’m starting to feel a little pudgy.
All my love and affection,
Geoffrey x x x
The fragile, bleach-and-sugar-scented paper creased in Chuck’s hands. Smudged patches grew where his glasses failed to hold back the anguish that dripped from his face. Was it the lettering that trembled as he tried to keep composed or was it him? He couldn’t quite tell. His… friend Geoffrey had written this letter five years ago. That was half a decade. That was way too long to wait to send it, far too long to hold out for a response. Wiping away the moisture from his face with a damp sleeve, Chuck pulled out a fresh sheet of white, lined paper and placed it neatly in front of him on the desk. Picking out an old strawberry-coloured pen, he uncapped it and put the tip to the paper. This was the hardest thing he had done so far. The divorce, having to explain everything to his son, losing his moustache… nothing even came close to this task. Drawing in a deep, heavy, shaking breath, he began to write, surprised at how quickly and easily the words flowed.
I know what you mean. It’s really strange writing a letter to someone who’s only a quick drive away. Assuming it’s not, like, 5pm. It’d be quicker walking at 5pm. Actually, it usually is.
Remember the pen? You’re right about these pens. Fuck, I’m choking on the smell; I’m sure they make ‘em out of rotten pancakes or something equally as vile. Only for you, Geoffrey. Only for you. You know, it’s not quite the same as 3am strawberry cheesecake but let’s just pretend it reminds us of that and not of truck stop restrooms. Did we ever find out if that was a rat or a mongoose? And that stain on the ceiling; what was that? All I know is that I'm pretty sure just looking at it gave me chlamydia.
Look at me. Asking questions as though you’re going to write me back. I’m so stupid. Goddamnit.
I never did give you that sign you wanted. Well here it is.
Geoffrey. I love you. With all my heart. With every fiber of my soulless, terrible, unkind being. I love you so much that I would walk to the ends of the earth with you, I would take a bullet for you, I would even get up out of my sick bed and run to the store to get milk for your muesli at 4am. That’s how much I love you, want you, need you.
And not just sexually. Even though the sex is – was – fantastic. Even though you had the stamina to last for hours and the patience to wait for days on end. Sometimes weeks. I sure didn’t have that patience. Well. Not until the second year of our love affair.
I know, I know. I can actually talk about our “friendship” in its proper terms now. Wouldn’t you be so proud? Wouldn’t you just want to wrap your arms and possibly your legs around me and sob into my neck like you did after almost every sexual encounter? Your soft lips against my shoulder, the words you sob muffled into me. God, Geoffrey. I want to hold you. I need to. I just need to see your beautiful face one more time. I need to show you how much I’ve matured. I need to tell you how much I love you. It’s probably getting stale and hackneyed now. But it’s truer than it’s ever been.
I love you.
It’s just a shame that I never told you.
It’s just a shame that I didn’t have the courage to hold your hand and whisper it to you when you were still around.
I’ll never have that chance again.
Geoffrey. Please forgive me. Please. I’ll never leave your side again. I’ll be there for you forever. I’ll tell you every day how gorgeous you are. I’ll pay attention to you this time. Oh God, Geoffrey, please.
I miss you. Every day.
Your beloved lover,
The graveyard was quiet, other than for Chuck’s solemn, crunching footsteps on the frosted leaves scattered around the grounds. Stopping at the grave he’d visited every single week for the last three years, his heart sank when he noticed that some insensitive clod had swiped the ornate bouquet he’d brought only yesterday. Kneeling down in front of the headstone, he ran a hand along the name carved into it. Geoffrey Jellineck, it said in beautiful font, curved and pretty but not too ostentatious. The world was ugly, but at least he had a beautiful face. Chuck himself felt rather ugly as he noisily wiped the mucus from under his nose with his woollen sleeve. Three years, it had been, since this grave had been dug and the slender, under-nourished body of Geoffrey Jellineck had been lowered in. Three and a bit years since Chuck had held his hand as he exhaled for the last time. Three and a bit years since he’d been caught by his wife sobbing over the man’s dead, amazing body and screaming for him to please come back. Just under three years since the messy, humiliating divorce. Just a little under three years since it finally hit him that the wonderful, neurotic artist was never, ever coming back. Just a little under three, miserable, soul-crushing years since his entire world ended.
Wordlessly, he slipped the letter into the miniature decorative marble kiln that was meant to hold flowers and slid down onto the grave, desperately hugging the grass as though it was his dead lover, and prepared to sleep for a very long time. He’d tried to fight it, to deny it, but in the end… it just wasn’t worth it. It was all over. It was time to let it go.“I’m never leaving you again,” he whispered with a cough. He had waited far too long to do this. The pain and anguish had torn him apart for what felt like centuries, though it had realistically only been a few years. Either way… it was time to join Geoffrey at last. Tears dripping onto the frozen ground, he closed his eyes, took his last breath and allowed his world to go completely dark.