Chapter Text
Tyler's made me the leader of the club for an indefinite amount of time. He tells me that it's about time that I step up and show the guys that I'm just as strong, can be a leader too, while he's off running around doing something he won't tell me about. He's given me the task of giving the guys homework to prove their loyalty to the club. He's written down options for me, but he had said that once these options run out, it's up to me to come up with new ones.
He gave me this after he had been out for a while Thursday night. He didn't tell me where he went or what he was doing, all he had said was that I was going to take over the club from now on. Friday was spent at work, and by the time I got back home Tyler was handing me a piece of paper.
I stand in the center of club. Tyler is off in the corner, giving me a thumbs up and a sleazy grin. He must be getting a kick out of this.
"I'm here in place of Tyler going forward." The crowd groans. "Before we start the fights, I have an announcement to make. Once a week, you will be given assignments. If you don't complete these, you're out of the club. Does everyone understand?"
Word for word what Tyler had told me to say.
The crowd nods, some utterances of approval. "This week's homework is to pop the tires of all of the cars at your local car dealership. You must also steal one of the car's dealership license plates, and bring them next week. Does everyone understand?"
Straight from Tyler's writing.
The crowd seems a bit more fired up. They surround me, the scrawny guy who said Tyler's not here, and they're all ready to fight. I weasel my way out by getting the new people ready to fight before moving to the back, where Tyler's sitting.
"Did I do a good job?" I sit on the broken toilet, next to Tyler.
"Wonderfully." He pats me on the back.
The new members set out the cardboard and toss their shirts to the side. They stance up, one throws the first punch. I'm inching closer to Tyler.
"Are we really doing this each week? The homework thing?"
Tyler lights a cigarette. "Yup. No better way to keep them involved in the club."
One of the new guys taps out. Through the crowd, all I can see is a fleshy mess of skin and blood stand up and make his way to the back of the crowd, putting his shirt back on. He elbows one of the other guys, who goes up to the center and takes off his shirt. Tyler finishes his cigarette and tosses the butt on the ground, smushes it with his foot.
He looks at me. "You're not gonna fight tonight?"
"Don't really feel like it tonight."
He pouts. "What, are you nervous after that speech? You did fine. Get up there."
I can't say no to him.
The next fight finishes. There's a large influx of new guys here tonight, and I offer to take the next one. I take my shirt off, toss it back to Tyler, and step in the center. A couple guys wince. I'm hoping that that's because they've seen me fight in the past, and not my worsening figure. The lack of food in the house combined with the endless fights has caused my body to gain a massive amount of scarring and lesions.
I step up and get ready to fight. Tyler shouts words of encouragement from the back.
The new guy managed to really knock me around. I can tell that my nose is going to swell overnight, and that he got a few scratches in on my arm. A bruise is starting to form around my eye. Tyler rubs my shoulders as I look at myself in the mirror and wash my face of the blood.
By the time I'm finished changing into sleep clothes and head back downstairs, Tyler's already waiting on the couch. I can tell he's antsy by the way his leg is bouncing, his shoulders roll, and his fingers flex. He jumps out of his seat when he notices me walking into the living room.
"Let's go! Let's fight." He's jumping up and down.
"Right now?"
"Right now!" He takes his shirt off and tosses his sunglasses to the side.
"Tyler, I'm already beat. I don't think-"
I'm interrupted by Tyler throwing a punch directly at my cheekbone. There's a small cracking sound as his knuckles dig into my face. I stumble back into the TV, bracing myself and making sure that the TV doesn't break. I go for Tyler's stomach, trying to wrap myself around him and into the couch.
This barely works, with Tyler just punching my back instead, elbowing me in the ribs. I pick myself back up and get a punch in at Tyler's face. He stumbles for a second, then knocks me to the ground. I fall down, smashing my back into the splintering hardwood floor, where Tyler places himself on top of me. He grabs my face, pulling my gaze towards him.
As he rears his fist back, I notice these spots crawling along Tyler's back and on to his shoulder. They're these dark, black spots, speckled with red. They look like deep bruises. I reach up under his arm and touch the spots on his back.
"What are these?"
This causes Tyler to stop, try and look under his armpit, back at me, and put his arms down. He shrugs and sits back.
"It's about time you noticed them."
I sit up, bracing myself with my forearms, brows furrowing. "What are they?"
"What do you think I was doing out on Thursday? I was at the urgent care, dumbass. Didn't I tell you?"
"No." He probably did and I just ignored him.
"Well," he gets up and sits on the couch, "it's cancer. Melanoma. Stage three, starting to turn into stage four."
"So..."
"So, I'm having you take over the club until my treatment's done." He fidgets with his balled-up shirt. "It'll only be a few months. Just a surgery, really."
"And you didn't think to tell me this?" I'm fully sitting up now.
"Didn't want to scare you. Besides, I knew you would've found out eventually."
"You know you can tell me anything."
Tyler shrugs and takes a cigarette out of his back pocket. He lights it up, resting his arms on the top of the couch. He's not going to talk to me. I get up and head into the kitchen. The sip of my beer mixes with the blood in my mouth. I feel even more sore than I was before. Tyler turns on the TV and switches it to the cartoons.
He's incredibly calm about this. If what he said was true, it's just a surgery that'll have to be done. If Tyler's not scared, then I don't need to be scared. Taking control of the club is a small price to pay for his security. I'm willing to deal with that if it means he's okay.
I've learned to just let him do what he wants. A couple weeks ago, he burnt the back of my hand with lye in the shape of his kiss. He did it while going on about capitalism, about my self-worth, and ever since he's been trying to get me to realize my worth in this world, or lack thereof. It's almost impossible to talk with him at this point. He seems to feel a need to have control over me, which, while it does give me a sense of security, means that I have a cripplingly low self-esteem (at least I'm self-aware about it). Everything needs to be done for him. I don't think I necessarily mind it. Everything he does is for me, after all.
I am Jack's submission.
By the time the next club meeting rolls around, Tyler's already been to a couple appointments. He's been fairly transparent about it, which I guess was stemmed from our fight the other day. He told me that the cancer was able to be easily biopsied, with some treatment afterwards. A surgery date should be scheduled soon, but in the meantime he can't be getting too worked up. They'll have to do "immunotherapy" on him, which he says will be even more appointments. He's being surprisingly cooperative for a guy that hates to even cover his cuts with bandages.
Only about half of last week's crowd is at this meeting, but all of them are holding a license plate. Some of them are trading conversations about where they went, and how they did it. For the past week, the news was entirely focused on this act. Tyler watched with pride, pointing at the TV and yelling to me as if he was the one on the news. I couldn't help but feel accomplished.
Due to his doctor's guidance, Tyler isn't even at this club meeting. It's up to me to guide everything. While he only gave me a few ideas for the homeworks initially, I added some ideas myself. I decide to use one of my ideas for this week's meeting.
"Hi, um, hello." The crowd doesn't seem as upset this time. "I have a new assignment for everyone tonight. But, first, everyone needs to give me the license plates."
The men line up and give me their license plates. One of the men doesn't have a license plate. I ask him if he's new, he says yes, I believe him. Thankfully, all of the men have license plates with them. I don't know if I have the guts to kick someone out of the club.
Everyone's crowded around me in a circle. Some of the men yell out, asking where Tyler is. There's a slight hint of sarcasm on their tongue. I reply that he's put me in charge, and that he wouldn't appreciate them bothering me like this. They snicker and start talking amongst themselves.
"Alright, settle down." I sound like my boss. "This week's task is to smash as many bottles at a liquor store that you can before being kicked out."
I can sense Tyler's amusement and pride at this task.
The crowd gets excited at this proposal. I hear murmurs of where some people are planning to go, and whether or not they're going to steal some alcohol as well. It takes a bit for them to calm down, where I set up the first fight. I step off to the side and let the new member fight.
One member catches my eye. He's this scrawnier, blonde-haired man, with a face so pretty you want to punch it. He's been at these meetings since the very beginning, and I think he's fought in almost every single one. Tyler seems to have taken a liking to him since he's been the most excited about all of Tyler's ideas. If you saw him in public, you would think he was flirting with girls at some frat party, not airing out his grievances about them through fighting. I make a mental note to talk to him after the meeting.
I don't fight much this meeting. I spend most of the time walking around the circle, making sure the fights are fair and that everyone gets their chance. The men leave the bar, some hanging around to drink, others ready to go out with the other guys. I stop the angel-faced boy on the way out, bringing him to one of the booths in the bar. One of his eyes is almost swollen shut from his fight tonight.
"Hey, Mr. Durden," he winks, "what'cha want?"
I scowl a little bit. "Don't call me that."
He puts his hands up. "I know, just teasing. When's he coming back?"
"In a few months. Look, I want to ask you some questions about the club."
"Mhm." He motions to someone in the club to get him a beer.
I put my forearms on the table and lean in. "Would you like to help with running the club?"
His eyes widen. "Really?"
I nod. "I don't think I'm well equipped to run this thing by myself."
"Why'd he put you in charge, then?"
"Because he trusts me."
He raises his eyebrows in disbelief, but almost immediately forgets that I said this once his beer arrives. He takes a few sips from the beer before returning to the conversation.
"So, what do I have to do?"
"You just have to make sure things don't get out of hand." He seems almost disappointed. "That's all."
"What do I get out of it?"
I haven't thought that far ahead.
I stumble over my words, trying to think of an appropriate answer, before I respond with, "Nothing."
I thought this would've put him off from doing the whole thing, but he just shrugs and goes "Cool."
I nod, not really knowing what else to say. I leave him alone with his beer. There's still a couple guys hanging around the bar. I can see some of them whispering to one another, glancing between me and the angel-faced boy. I try my best to ignore them as I make my way to the bus.
Tyler returns home from his immunotherapy session while I'm in the middle of watching the news. The past couple days have focused on the liquor store robberies, with the police even dispatching a squad to try and track down who's setting this all up. I guess this just means I'll have to dial back my ideas.
He's only had a couple sessions so far, but it's still more than I thought he would've had a week after his first appointment. Whenever he comes back, he doesn't want to tell me how the session went or what's planned next. I can't tell if he's just exhausted or if he's purposefully hiding things from me.
As he enters the living room, I point to the TV and ask if he saw the news. He tells me that they were showing it at the doctor's office, and that the older crowd there were shocked something like this could happen. He gives me a fist bump and ruffles my hair before heading straight upstairs. He's more lethargic than he usually is on a weekday, and the fact that he's been skipping work should not be contributing to this (it should be the opposite, making him ready to go and do anything). The immunotherapy must be taking a bit of a toll on him.
I give him a little bit of time to himself before I go upstairs myself. I walk as calmly as I can to his bedroom, trying not to scare him as I slowly enter the bedroom to find him laying in his bed. He's thrown his jacket over the armchair in the corner and is spread eagle in a shitty t-shirt and boxers.
"Is it that bad?" I ask once he notices me in the room.
"Dude, I feel like shit." He wipes his face, rubs his eyes.
I sit on the edge of the bed. "Do you want anything? Drink, food, anything?"
Tyler seems to think about picking his head up, but just lets it fall back down on to the bed. "No. I just need some sleep."
"Yeah, me too," I mutter under my breath.
"Ah, yeah, your whole 'insomnia' thing." Tyler smiles and, winking, says, "You should just get sick yourself."
I chuckle. "Yeah, maybe."
Tyler rolls over, throwing himself to one side of the bed. If he wasn't about to pass out before, he's definitely going to now.
He pats the empty side of the bed. "C'mere."
Is he serious? "Are you serious?"
He starts giggling; he must be hopped up on some painkillers. "C'monnnnn. Let's sleep. You know you want to."
He's not wrong. I shift myself over to the other side of the bed and lie down. His bed is comfier than mine, probably from him living longer here than I have. I feel myself sinking into the mattress as Tyler fades into a slumber. I can feel myself fading as well -- my eyes start getting heavier, my head starts to get a bit fuzzy. My kiss-shaped scar rubs against Tyler's back. I fall asleep next to Tyler.
I wake up at what I can only assume is the middle of the night. Tyler's rest must have helped him feel better, because he's out of the bed and somewhere else. I check the bathroom, living room, kitchen; I don't find him. He must have decided to go to work after all.
When I look for him in the kitchen, I realize that it's not the middle of the night, and that it is instead around sunrise, and that I need to go to work. I debate if I even want to go to work. I've been doing the bare minimum that I have to do, even just writing down possible fight club homeworks when I'm supposed to be finishing a report. My boss hasn't even bothered to send me on trips.
This is probably the first time in a while that I'm showing up to work on time. The first couple times my boss called me in to discipline my horrible attendance. After about a month of showing up an hour, maybe hours late to work, he gave up and just let me do whatever I wanted.
My body's sore as I'm making my way to work. All of the previous fights must be catching up to me right now. I still have this bruise around my cheekbone and nose. Honestly, it's the nicest I've looked in the past few months. It's nothing compared to when I had my cheek almost caving in and I was spitting teeth in to my hand.
The people I used to make small talk with now ignore me. I see them whisper to each other as I walk into the office. Some make small glances, or snicker, or gasp, and the club members do double takes. This is probably the most attention I've received at this job before.
My boss calls me into his office as soon as I sit down at my desk. I don't have time to put down my paperwork before getting up. He looks at me with a mix of contempt, disappointment, and pity. I sit down in the chair, and he takes a deep breath while sitting down himself.
"I'm sorry to have to do this."
Oh, great, exactly what I need right now.
"We're very glad you showed up to work today."
Yeah, everyone looked ecstatic.
"We're aware of your situation, but you need to be showing up to work."
"Situation?"
He ignore this, and continues. "You have not shown up for almost three weeks straight. We cannot keep you on the payroll if you do not intend to do any work."
For three weeks? I was here multiple days last week. If Tyler can't be working due to his immunotherapy, then I would be the one working.
Before I can protest, he continues. "Please clean out your desk by the end of the day."
"I know how this looks-"
"We have already finalized it."
My body aches. I want to jump over that desk and beat him up. I want to punch something. I want to punch someone. My body's too sore. I can't do anything.
"What situation?" There's a bit of vileness in my voice.
"The cancer."
I told him about that? "Can't I just get paid time off? Do you really have to do this?"
I'm sneering at him, and he's taken aback. "As I said, we've already finalized it."
I can't move my body. I'm paralyzed. I want to sock myself in the face for my stupidity, for my horrible work ethic, for my ruined life, but I can't.
My boss gets up and pats me on the shoulder. I feel a sharp pain. He notices my wince, and helps me stand up. I try my hardest not to give him a death glare as I shuffle away from him, not saying anything as I go back to my desk.
Most of the stuff at my desk is just fight club information. I don't think I've done any actual work in the past couple months. The original copy of the fight club rules sit on my desk. I realize how barren my desk looks compared to some of the people near me. The only photo that sits on my desk is a photo of me and my parents after my college graduation. That's almost a decade old now.
I am Jack's lack of a future.
They gave me a giant cardboard box to take everything back home. It's an embarrassing walk out of the building. I have to carry this on the bus and all the way back to the house. I walk in and yell out to whoever could possibly be in the house, which turns out to be Marla, who appears to be raiding the fridge.
"There's nothing good in there," I yell from the living room.
"I'm not trying to steal your food." I see her head peaking from over the top of the freezer. "I'm storing some more fat."
"Who said you could do that?"
"You did."
"I did not." I enter the kitchen holding my cardboard box.
"Yes, you- what's that?" She gets distracted immediately.
I place the box down on the table and put a big, shit-eating grin on. "Got fired from my job."
"So?"
"So, I don't have any income now."
Marla scoffs and shuts the freezer door. "I've gotten fired from tons of jobs. You'll find another one."
I'm surprised Marla's even had a job before. I try to hide my surprise and appear annoyed at her instead. She takes a beer from the fridge and peeks into my box, then looks at me with a disappointed face when she realizes I have almost nothing. She takes a swig of the beer and starts heading for the back door.
Before she opens the door, she pauses. "How'd you get fired?"
"They thought I didn't show up to work at all for the past few weeks."
She shrugs. "Shouldn't you be happy you're fired if you didn't want to be there, then?"
I don't respond to this. She's right. I hated that job. I hated going there, I hated working, I hated everyone there. I think about the fact that not showing up tomorrow isn't considered "skipping work", and I feel a wave of relief wash over me. I'm sure Tyler will enjoy hearing this news.
Marla gets tired of waiting for an answer and goes to leave, saying, "Don't come crying to me when you get bored."
This snaps me out of my trance. "Yeah, like I would do that."
She flips me off and the door rattles behind her as she leaves. Almost immediately after she leaves, Tyler comes down the stairs, yelling something about his back. He sounds like an old man complaining about how sore he is. He comes in, peeks into the box, and plops himself down in a chair.
"I got fired."
"I heard."
I let it all out. "I was at work these past few weeks, I don't know what the fuck they did in the system but I was there."
Tyler shrugs.
"Also-" I point at Tyler- "they know about your cancer. I don't remember telling them that, but they know about it."
"So what? You're fired. Not like they were going to help anyways." He gets up and fills up a glass with dirty brown water. "Fuck that job. Fight club's your priority now."
Tyler's staring me down from behind his red sunglasses. I feel weak under his gaze. He's right, fight club is my priority now. I've spent more time thinking of new homework and how to improve the club than I have about what I plan on eating for dinner. Tyler's kiss throbs with a dull pain.
He chugs the rest of the water. "Don't go ruining the club on me."
I need to prove to Tyler that I am worthy of running the club. That I am worthy of him. He seems to know what I'm thinking and gives me a knowing look, seemingly proud that I'm thinking this way. This only needs to last until he has his surgery (speaking of which, he said it's in a few weeks. They just need to get everything settled.).
That's enough time to get the club moving forward.