Title: Buzz
Pairing: Implied Hayley Williams/Pete Wentz
Genre: Free written - Angst
Warnings: Smoking, Explicit Language, Mentions of depression,
Description: Hayley isn't one to smoke. She really isn't.
Word Count: 859
Authors Note: I mean, this is just something I pulled out of my ass at like 3 AM. So enjoy.
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Hayley isn't one to smoke. She really isn't.
The breeze is soft, twirling around the tree tops, and dashing over the concrete streets beneath Hayley's feet.
She's jogging, no particular destination in mind, down the empty road. Her eyes follow the bright yellow lines spread over her field of vision, she's almost chasing after them at this point, curious as to where, when, and why they're going to stop. Her phone buzzes within her left hand, and she clenches her fist around the vibration, ignores the soft tremble of her fingers around the plastic casing.
She's a bit light-headed, sleep-deprived, and thirsty, but it doesn't bother her much; it's more of an itch under her skin. She knows she has to scratch at it, pick at it, dig it out to make the tingling sensation disappear, but her mind disagrees. She's fine with having a buzz settling beneath her pale, soft skin.
Her phone buzzes again, and this time she considers throwing the damned thing under her feet and stomping on it with her boots, instead she breathes deeply, lugs her heavy bag down to the ground, and chucks her phone within the front pocket.
A blue curl loosely dangles over her eyes, and she huffs out a breath, enough force to push the hair backwards, rest it neatly on top of her mess of blue hair atop of her head.
Her mind is heavy with thoughts, dancing around her cranium, kicking gracefully at her nerves, forcing less-important thoughts to settle beneath her eyes.
They're worried, she thinks. They're all damned worried about me.
There's a small pebble, resting peacefully few feet away, and every bone in Hayley's body is urging her to kick it. Kick it hard, fast, and far. Kick it at a passing car, but there's so many issues with the thought that she only brings herself to bending over, and placing the rough, grey pebble against her palm. She holds it, squeezes it between her fingers, and continues strolling along the yellow line, her bag bunging against her shoulder blades.
Pete's worried, she thinks bitterly, and feels a surge of guilt hit her deep in her gut. Patrick, Andy and Joe are probably worried too.
Realisation slaps her hard across the face; Jeremy and Taylor are probably worried out of their damned minds.
Her own thoughts are pilling against her, shouting, screaming, punching, kicking, and she fights back with full force. So much force the pebble within her hand hurdles down the empty street at full-speed, and skips about twenty feet.
Her phone buzzes within the confinements of her bag, lightly vibrates against her back, and she glares angrily down at her feet until the sound has evaporated into thin air, leaving her ears with an empty sensation.
She's not alone, she knows it. She's never along anymore. There's too many damned thoughts, worries, regrets following her every move, they start to form an invisible, annoying, depressing best-friend. Except she doesn't really like this best-friend. And it's not really invisible; Taylor and Jeremy have seen it. Pete's seen it too, knows that she's not really alright at this point, knows that she just needs a friend to talk to sometimes, cuddle with a little too; Hell, he's been that friend more times than either of them can count.
There's a packet of ciagarettes digging against her hip bone, sticking out from the waist-band of her jeans. They're not her's, of course not, they're Brendon's, but, as she wiggles her hand under the tight fabric of her jeans, she thinks he probably won't mind missing a few.
She wraps her fingers around the thin paper, and plucks out three of the cigarettes. She rolls them around in her palm, stares down at them, eyes glaring past the cigarettes, past her hand, past the road beneath her feet, and into her own mind. She's angry, doesn't really know why, but she is.
Pete's probably angry, too, she frowns, and clenches her right fist closed.
She reaches down into the waistband of her jeans again, and tosses out a small, pink lighter. Her thumb flicks at the small gear, and flames spring from the rusted tip, smelling of naked stress.
"Fuck it," She shrugs, and brings a cigarette towards the flame. It catches quickly, and flares, before she places the thin paper against her lips.
It's nice, having a deep, burning feeling in her lungs. The thoughts in her mind slowly begin to drift away, as she exhales smoke, and watches it twirl around the dark sky.
Her phone buzzes again, and she smiles softly. She isn't angry anymore; she's ready to face her friends, face her stress, face her fans, and puts on a smile. She reaches back, drifts a hand within her bag, and pulls out the smooth case of her phone.
She presses the screen against her cheek, and sighs as Taylor's concerned rambling fills her empt ears. "Hello? Taylor? Yeah, I'm ready to go back. Tell Jeremy and Pete that I'm smoking, near this little gas station down the street. Yeah, okay, I'll wait here."
Hayley might be one to smoke. She really is.
