alex (xsuch_a_lushx) wrote in newsboyxnewsboy,

hi.. i come bearing fanfic.

Title: Whispering Pines [Rewrite]
Author: QuietViolence (xsuch_a_lushx)
Summary: Several of our favorite boys and plenty of our readers are sent to Whispering Pines for rehab from their different problems. What adventures unfold? You'll just have to read to find out.
Rating: PG-13 (at least for now)
AN: I’m trying to rewrite this story in hopes of being able to get myself out of the hole I backed into. A couple parts of this are directly from the other chapter, but most of it is quite a bit different, though I guess technically the same main events happen.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything, and I really don’t have much of anything worth much except for some good j-rock PVs, so suing me really wouldn’t help anyway.

That, of course, is the devil’s bargain of addiction: a short-term good feeling in exchange for the steady meltdown of one’s life.

When I walked into my house one Thursday afternoon, I didn’t realize just how much my life was about to change. Before I barreled up the stairs I barely noted we had company. Once I had set my stuff down, procrastination kicked in, and I sat on the top of the stairs, listening to my mother and her guest.

I caught a glimpse of the woman sitting opposite my mother, both on matching white couches. She was tall and thin, wearing a navy business suit that was most likely from Neimans, but it could have been Saks too. Either way, it was evident she wasn’t short on money. So, Miss Expensive-Navy-Suit was sitting there, conversing with my mother, who, I noted a second later, had tears welling in her eyes. Since my father had left three years ago, I’d become even more protective of my mother than normal. I walked down the stairs towards her, but as I reached the room, conversation came to a complete standstill. Wiping her eyes on her red sleeve, she motioned for me to come into the room.

“Jayce, honey, we need to talk. The other day I made quite a shocking discovery. I was cleaning your closet, and well…” Oh, no. I knew exactly what she was going to say. And worst off, I knew she wasn’t going to be angry, like any other mother, she was going to be upset and blame herself. She’d never believe me that it had all been my father’s fault, and not her own. “I found some things that were slightly less than legal.”

“I’m really sorry, Mom. You don’t even understand how sorry I am,” I said, hugging her. I knew in my situation some people would have tried to deny it, or play it off as if they didn’t care. I’d be lying if I did either, and lying never really suited me too well. A moment later, I looked up at the woman in the navy suit, suddenly aware that a stranger was viewing an extremely intimate moment. “What are you doing here, exactly?” I asked, trying not to sound rude.

She glared, obviously annoyed. “Your mother called to talk about where to send you for rehab,” she stated blandly, though a look of disapproval was evident in her eyes. She turned back to my mother, as if trying to forget I existed. “I really think you s hould look at this brochure. Whisperings Pines is just wonderful, I haven’t heard a bad thing about it in quite a while,” she told my mother, holding up a colorful tri-fold brochure. She glanced up at me and her eyes scanned my pink streaked blonde hair, shiny silver tank and rock star tight jeans before she said in a whisper, “They’re more excepting of the,” she paused and coughed loudly. “Different types.”

I laughed loudly when she finished her sentence, amused by this woman’s homophobic speech impediment. She couldn’t even say the world! “The word is homosexual, miss,” I said before resolutely walking out of the room, not returning to the family room until I heard the end of their conversation. As black stilettos crossed our hardwood hallway floor at a brisk pace, I walked and sat back down next to my mother.

“Jayce,” she said. “I just don’t, know what to do about this.” Tears were forming in her eyes again, and something about them gnawed at my heart, making me feel guiltier than I had since at least before I turned five. “I want you here with me, I want to help you. But I can’t help you the same way they can there. They’re professionals, they know what’s best. Please, don’t think I don’t love you.” At this point she dissolved into tears, and I didn’t know what to do other than grab the brochure from her hand and walk into the kitchen.

I grabbed the phone and dialed the number. “Uh, yes, hello. My name is Jayce Taylor, And I’d like to check myself into rehab,” I informed the person on the other end of the line. After twenty more minutes of talking with the receptionist at Whispering Pines, I’d secured myself a spot in their drug rehab program. Ten minutes later and I had a one-way plane ticket to New Jersey, leaving that Saturday.

“Mom,” I said, shaking her slightly. She had drifted off in a heap on the couch, and I was worried about her. When she looked up at me, I told her about the plans. “I want to go, I want to make myself better and make you proud,” I told her, meaning every word of what I said. She smiled and squeezed my hand before I headed upstairs to pack.

That night I packed up my things with a mix of sorrow and relief. My stuff took up nearly four bags, and bedding and towels were provided at the facility. I had to have my clothes: multiple tight and bright shirts, about seven different pairs of designer jeans, platform shoes, etc; my jewelry, which meant my seventeen different earrings for my thrice pierced ear as well as all my bracelets and necklaces; my hair dye, all six colors; and my tackle box sized makeup container. Such is the closet of a gay man. Or, at least, a flaming gay man.

I glanced towards my closet, wishing my stash was still there. I needed the ecstasy. It made everything seem all right, and made all my bad feelings disappear. It was an amazing feeling, one I’d become addicted to quite easily when I was an impressionable sophomore about a year and a half ago. When my then-boyfriend Thomas handed me the pills and told me to take them, I didn’t even question. I’d just wanted to seem cool to Thom, who was a senior and somewhat of a rebel. But in the end, I’d lost him and fucked my life over. What a right little sob story I’ve got going, ain’t it?

Because of my stupidity at fifteen, I was now paying. I rose early Saturday morning, around six o’clock, and got dressed. I emerged from my room at 6:30, went into my mom’s bedroom and gave her a goodbye hug, and then hopped into my car and headed towards the airport. Traffic was better than usual, for one reason or another, and I ended up at the airport with quite a bit of time to spare. I checked in and glanced down at my watch: 7:14 a.m.

Noticing a Starbucks, I gathered up my two bags and ran off to order a Venti caramel frappuccino. The boy behind the counter quickly made my drink before glancing back at me with a look of slight interest. “Are you heading off to Whispering Pines?” he inquired.

“What’s it to you?” I demanded. I was self-concious, sure, but can you blame me.

He laughed a bit, “Calm down, boy, you aren’t the only one headed there this morning. I, for one, have tickets for a blame which departs within the hour.” He put the last bit of whipped cream on my frappuccino before glancing at the clock. “And I should be heading towards the gate as soon as my shift ends. Which would be,” he handed me the drink. “Right now,” he announced before pulling off his apron. He hopped over the counter and grabbed a duffle bag from the floor across the room.

“So, how’d you figure it out?” I asked, curious.

He let out a slight chuckle. “You have the brochure in your pocket,” he informed me matter-of-factly. “I’m not that smart, but I can deduct something like that.”

“Fair enough,” I said, smiling a bit myself. Just knowing that there was going to be someone at Whispering Pines who wasn’t crazy was enough for me. He seemed like an all right guy, and that was a relief. I looked him over again. He was wearing ripped and baggy jeans, a t-shirt that said “The Clash,” and had a black bandana tied around his head. His dirty-blonde hair covered his eyes. “And your name would be?”

“Kelly, Jack Kelly. Well, that’s what I’m known as anyway. And you?”

“Jayce Taylor. Most people call me Dutchy though,” I added, almost as an afterthought.

He grinned a bit, making his lip piercing more noticeable than before. With piercing in mind I looked at his face again and noticed a small silver hoop decorated his eyebrow as well. “I take it you’re Dutch, then?”

“Nope, from the Ukraine actually. It’s a sad, sad story beginning early in my childhood,” I joked, grinning. “Nah, actually it’s from seventh grade, when we were drawing flags. I tried to draw the French flag, and ended up doing it upside down, which is of course the Dutch flag. And you know Jr. High, they found that hysterical. And I’ve been known as Dutchy for nearly five years since.”

“Man, that’s gay.” He paused a second later and looked at me. “I mean, stupid. Sorry ‘bout that.”

I felt myself smile. “Trust me, the only thing about your opinions on homosexuality that upset me is that you aren’t gay. You’re damn sexy.”

“You better not be in my room, Dutch boy,” he responded, not at all caught off guard by my comment. “Ever been here before?” I shook my head. “No? This’ll be my..” He counted on his fingers quickly. “second year and seventh visit here. I only have to come back every once in a while to check up on me, but they busted me again.”

“What’re you in for?” I asked as we started walking towards gate C27 where our plane was scheduled to depart from.

“Bit of an alcohol problem,” he admitted. “Well, more like a major alcohol problem, actually. Like a passing out at least four nights out of seven from intoxication kind of alcohol problem.” He looked over at me. “You?”

“Drugs,” I said bluntly. Feeling as if I should elaborate, I continued, “Mostly ecstasy, but I dabbled in some others. Pretty much tried everything but heroin. The concept of injecting something just kinda creeps me out.”

“Now boarding rows fifteen through ten,” the loudspeaker announced.

I glanced at my ticket. 11A. “Guess I’ll see you when we get there,” I told him, grabbing my messenger bag. I sat myself down in the plane, grabbing my headphones. Jane’s Addiction flooded through my ears as I pushed the play button and smiled.

A/N: I’m a lot happier with the way this one came out. I took into consideration what people had said. Anyway, please let me know what you think, because the only way I can get better is constructive criticism.

x-posted to newsies_fanfic
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