To the Sea

[l0v3l1k3w1nt3r.livejournal.com]

No. This story isn't dead yet.

Rating: PG
Pairing: Jeff/Chip

Previous segments: Wake up, open the door,and escape...

X-posted at wliialove 
---

"Jeff, this isn't really necessary - "

"It's OK mom." He gestured her to the seat. She couldn't understand how the small, pleasant smile had appeared on her son's face Normally, this would've been a good sign if a smile appeared; Jeff had always been a cynical character even as a boy. However, Mrs. Davis had only seen Jeff react like this after she had finalized her divorce from his father. In truth, his smile was one of desperation and forced hope, as if smiling would pull back the hour hand of time. Twenty-eight years of age, and it already felt like Jeff had died inside himself.

The quaint sunbeams dancing through the veiled window, Mrs. Davis stood ever so still as she gazed back at the wooden frames of the canvas. Jeff had his palette in one hand, the other making elegant strokes of color and capturing his mother's image. He'd done her portrait several times; during each session he'd try to cage her serenity and tranquility, feeling absorbed and one with the molded colors. In other words, he adored the feeling of getting in place by his mother's presence.

"Anything new?" There was no change on Jeff's face in response to her inquirement.

"I'm fine."

Of course... how could she have not expected this reaction? "How are your paintings?"

"Sit still, and I might get this one done perfectly."

She wished he'd add the reassuring gleam she'd planted on her visage. Her wrinkled hands cringed on her lap. "Do you remember that tree house your father built for you back when you were a young boy?"

Not one significant change, not even an eyebrow furl.

"I remember he'd built it in the old oak in the backyard, and how you loved to climb up there and read your comic books. Plus it had such a lovely view of the valley..." She pleasantly reminisced for a moment. "It was your haven. After school you'd rush up that rope ladder and not come down until I called you for supper. Then your father left... and you never even looked at that old oak again. When I asked why you never came up there anymore, do you remember what you told me?"

A silence.

"'I want a new one.'"

"I'm almost done." But his subject suddenly stood up, back straight and a pale complexion dawning upon her.

"You can't push it any further Jeff. You have to stop running."

Jeff set down the paintbrush, eye contact unfixed on the floor.

"It's not safe to bottle up your emotions like this. You're hurting not just yourself but everyone around you, everyone who cares for you. You have to speak your mind, or nothing will feel better."

Jeff tore the canvas off the easel, his paintbrush snapping in his hands. "What's wrong with Chip and I?" he beckoned. "Out of all people, I thought you'd be the first person to support us!"

Mrs. Davis sat back down in her chair, the fabric of her shirt caught within her fists. "I had to admit, it was a shock when you finally came out. I guess I passed off more upset than usual. To me, it didn't matter who you were with, as long as you were happy. What I struggled with was how easily you left your old girlfriend behind, like she wasn't of concern at all. Then you do the same to Chip. Why do you treat everything like... like baloney?" Of course, Mrs. Davis was using her motherly instincts to not swear.

"What, are you saying I'm selfish?"

She pursed and quivered her lip. "Yes! You're just like your father!"

It was an excess for both of them, as the woman fell to her knees and burst into tears, and the young man left the house without a word, her portrait unfinished as always.

---

It was easy to imagine how one could feel as crappy as Jeff did, when he walked into a bar dressed up for a joyous holiday. A cloud loomed in the back of his head, ignoring the moist icy touch of the beer mug in his hand. Jeff fretted over the truth of his mother's words; he could barely garner any evidence of his selfishness. Then again, Jeff figured that fact alone was probably enough evidence. He never really gave any of his actions a sober second thought. If he had thought ahead over his choices for post-secondary, Jeff would've gone to college and stuck with the business major. A career in fine arts was quite risky, and he hadn't even put the feelings of his supporters in mind. His parents wanted to see him in a suit. His ex-girlfriend wanted a wedding band and kids. Now he was a twenty eight year old man with a ruined career, an unavoidable deb and was going to be alone during the holidays. If he ever saw a branch of mistletoe handing over his head, Jeff would've surely gagged the next person he saw with it.

The bartender suddenly passed him another beer, although Jeff had no memory of ordering another drink. "Courtesy of that fellow over there."

Jeff looked in the direction the bartender pointed at as his empty mug was cleared out. Looking at the man's face, Jeff dared not to even grace the mug's handle, as Greg Proops sauntered over to the stool next to him.

"You think you can just show your fucking face around me again after what you did?"

"It's not my fault you broke up with your dear Chip-"

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Jeff's teeth clenched together, the pressure on his back teeth causing a minor pain to his jaw. As well, he felt an odd sensation within; he could sense his thoughts slowly whirring into goo, although he'd only had a single drink. Jeff saw Greg pull out a handkerchief, the same cloth Greg had cleaned himself with on his last visit to Jeff's home.

"You made a grave mistake to disappoint me, Jeffy." Jeff watched as Greg stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket again, before taking a forlorn gaze at the fabric. "Ever fantasized before, Davis?"

Hell... with the approaching migraine, Jeff was willing to do anything to get Greg to leave him in peace.

"I've always wanted to go to the beach..." Jeff began to answer, "not a shit beach like the one nearby, but a tropical beach. Aquamarine water, miles of soft golden sand, a cloudless sky, palm trees... nothing but quiet paradise. The thing is, I can't swim... but Chip was one hell of a swimmer." Jeff find it hard to fathom his name, as if it were a terror eating away the inside of his throat.

"Y'know..." Greg slipped off his glasses suddenly, and the world about them fell into a blur. "You're quite an interesting character. Maybe that's why I got so upset every time you rejected me. Yeah, I felt bad getting told off on the first few rounds, but after it was like I needed to do it. I breathed you, I ... lived through you."

"... Are you a schizophrenic, or just clearly insane?"

"Possibly," Greg replied, tilting his head to the side. Through Jeff's eyes, Greg seemed to be spinning in all directions, a small hammer smashing against his temple and a small white noise erupting from the inside of his ears.

"So how're you fucked up?"

"I'm an obsessive maniac. I didn't have to kill my father to get that way."

"I didn't kill my father!"

"Yeah, you totally weren't involved with the reason behind your father's suicide, just like I wasn't with the date rape drug in your drink. Your first one."

Jeff took another look at the bartender. He looked different without the black shades and suit. But soon, all Jeff would see was black.

---

Chip was, in every sense of the word, solo. He played three song set lists by himself biweekly at Mariposa's for money. He rented out a dump of an apartment just so he could have a roof over his head that winter. Lastly, Chip was trying to survive without Jeff. The water stains on his ceiling appeared to be highlights considering his situation. Having piked up an old acoustic guitar from the garbage bin and spent a few bucks fixing its strings, that piece of trash was Chip's only hope, the last roadblock to his stagnation. It turned out his last paycheque didn't fall through when he desperately needed it, and seeing how much of a temper Wayne was able to sustain, Chip wasn't going to see a lot of money in his pockets for a while. That didn't stop him from persevering.

That afternoon, Chip padlocked his door, swung his guitar over his shoulder and headed to the streets to play his tunes. Normally, it was a habit of Chip's to self sooth himself in situations like this by ringing up an old cliche. 'What's the worse that could happen?'

Yet, with the fact he'd worn the same dirty outfit for two weeks, he'd gotten kicked out of a band with potentila for a record contract and he was livbing in a cesspool, how far could that cliche go for him?

What about Jeff?

Chip stopped playing for a while when his name came up again. There were dozens of strange faces swarming by him, faces he'd never met and never meet again. Jeff wasn't among those faces... so where was he now? Chip was certain he too was suffering from the loss of his paintings. Then again, Jeff was always suffering... perhaps Chip should've tried harder to be there for him. All they had to do was talk and perhaps none of this would've happened...