Birth

The picture lay discarded carelessly under a pile of magazines and mail for weeks and weeks and weeks. It was never far from Rhys’ mind, but he never really bothered to take it out. He’d put it on the fridge, like a parent would their child’s work, but he always just forgets. He tells himself all the way home from the Junk Club one evening, that as soon as he gets home, he’s going to put it up.

He kicks open his door and wrenches his keys out of the lock. Rhys stops in the doorway, startled, because there’s…someone sitting on his couch. He moves to switch the light on, but stops, half way, because there’s a faint orange glow of a cigarette, and Rhys really, really doesn’t like this. He takes a chance and flips the light on, half expecting to see Faris or Joshua or Tom, and half expecting to see an axe murderer. It’s not either of them. It’s…It’s Joseph. It’s Rhys’ drawing. Sitting there on Rhys’ couch. Smoking a cigarette.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Joseph said after a moment. Rhys hovers by the doorway, trying to, well, keep himself from passing out. “But I took a couple of fags.” He throws Rhys’ empty cigarette packet at him, but it just hits his chest and falls to the floor. “You alright?” Joe stands up, stalks over to Rhys, and pokes him in the chest.

Rhys startles, reaches out a tentative hand, and pokes him back, just to affirm that he’s real.

Joseph frowns, before saying surely to himself, “I’ll go and make you a cup of tea,” and goes into the kitchen. Rhys sits on his couch, stiffly, frowning at thin air, because he’s going to need something a bit stronger than tea. And while this is probably a sick joke on Josh’s part, who saw his picture and laughed about it, then found someone who looks like Joseph, he’s still freaked out. And dizzy. Oh god is he dizzy.

Joseph comes back, tea in his hand, and Rhys takes it and sips it greedily and doesn’t say thank you, because Joseph is in his house, anyway, he shouldn’t have to thank him. He puts his tea down on the table and Joseph sits down next to him.

“Hello,” Joseph says after a moment, offering his hand to Rhys. “I’m Joseph; Joe. I’m your picture. Curious, isn’t it?” And he’s smiling all the while, and doesn’t seem to mind one bit when Rhys doesn’t shake his hand.

Rhys keeps frowning, because this is seriously fucked up and Joe isn’t real; he’s a drawing! Rhys quickly goes to dig out the picture of Joe, but only finds blank pieces of paper, and he’s feeling frantic and his heart is beating at a mile per minute, but all he really finds in his pile is a scrap piece of notebook paper with ‘Joseph’ scribbled in the corner. “…I need a drink.” he puts the paper down, hands shaking, and he opens the draw in the bottom of his coffee table, where he keeps all his liquor.

“I don’t think they mix,” Joe observes, frosty blues watching Rhys pour a generous amount of Kahlua into his tea. Rhys doesn’t care at all, because when he’s drunk, this whole thing will seem so much less absurd, and he really won’t feel so insane talking to someone who doesn’t exist.

He gulps down a few mouthfuls, then offers the rest of the cup to Joe, who, after very little hesitance, accepts. They don’t bother mixing anymore after that, and even though the liquor tastes quite horrible on it’s own, Rhys really doesn’t care. They’re drunk, soon enough, anyway.

Joe shoves Rhys’ shoulder, smiles crookedly at him, and says “You should blow me.” And Rhys says yes, okay, and slides off the couch, to his knees, because he’s drunk and this isn’t really happening anyway. And he gags a little at first, with the combination of being drunk and not having done this in almost a year, but after he gets the hang of it, it’s okay, and it doesn’t take long for Joe to come down his throat, so he must have done okay.

Rhys sits down on his arse on the floor and just watches Joe shamelessly, and then after a fair while, Rhys isn’t sure how long, he says, “We should shag.” Joe readily agrees, much like Rhys suspects he would, and they do. And it’s not a big deal, because it’s not really happening and Joe won’t be there in the morning, because hopefully he’ll be back on the paper where he belongs. But, while Rhys has a willing participant that’s incredibly good looking, he’s just going to go for it.

He wakes in the morning, his stomach churning, and his arse hurting. He looks to his side, where Joseph is laying, all spread eagle and making next to no noise, and fuck, because what the fuck is he going to tell his friends?