Fic: LowLives part 5
LowLives
Word Count: 3426
WOOH. shorter chapter, as we start on recovery, and The Plan. :D
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I wait half an hour. Lying on my back on the futon and staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of people settling in for the night. Someone's arguing a few floors away, on the phone probably, because I can't hear more than one voice. I get up, and get dressed again. My whole body aches, the drugs worn off enough that I can feel every bruised rib and knot in my muscles, and my legs feel like they're going to give out from under me.
I check my voicemail. It's full of messages, most of them from Arthur, getting increasingly frantic as it gets later in the day, with several from Elle, casually asking where I was, and two or three from Nate and Jack, asking even more casually when I thought I might be heading home, and would it be any time in the near future.
I'm starving, so I putter about making myself a sandwich, and step out onto the tiny balcony. It's about large enough to hold one grown man and a cat, maybe, it the cat was very small and perched on the railing and didn't mind heights.
The sky is deeply black like velvet, and the air is chillingly cold. I eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich watching cars drift past like ghosts in the darkness, their headlights guiding the way and taillights leaving behind fiery trails through the cold, crisp night.
If there's anyone watching me when I leave, head bowed low and Arthur's apartment keys tucked into the pocket of my jacket, then I don't see them. I walk quickly to the bus stop, eyes on the shadows to either side of me. The bus comes within a few minutes, breathing out a sigh of warm, stale air as it rolls to a stop with a screech of its wheels.
The bus driver looks annoyed, but nods to me in thanks when I drop the requisite two dollars into the till. I haven't had to pay for a bus ride in - what, four years? More, probably. Enough that I forgot what it was like to stand next to the driver while the bus shakes and rattles as it pulls out.
The seats are scratchy, low quality fabric made for durability rather than comfort and squeak whenever I shift my weight. There's no one else on the bus with me, and it's silent, save the hydrolics of the driver's seat and the whirr of wheels beneath us, though even that is numbed, muted by the barrenness of the bus.
I change buses three times before I manage to get home, and then it's a four block walk to my house through residential neighbourhoods. I'm the only one on the street, even though it can't be past 11 pm, but I can see houses still lit up with warm yellow light and shadows moving across curtains in the shapes of families and people and comfort, all of which just serve to make me more impatient to get home faster. My fingers are freezing in my pockets, curled around themselves, next to the warming plastic of my cellphone.
Jack answers with a curious look on his face when I knock on the front door, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. Elle and Nate are both sitting in the back, in the designated living room, watching TV quietly and laughing. They all freeze and look up when they see me in the entrance, falling deathly silent.
Elle stands, and pulls her hair over her shoulder, running her pale, thin fingers through ginger locks, looking nervous. "We were worried - you didn't call, we - we didn't know if you were coming back or not."
"Sorry, didn't get a chance. Where's Arthur?"
Nate shifts on the couch. "He's outside. On the porch." He looks uncomfortable, because he knows I'll be pissed if he doesn't give me a good reason for not preventing Arthur from wandering out in the cold, skinny as fuck as he is. "He wouldn't talk all day, once he figured out you'd gone. We just -" he glances around at the others, searching for moral support, "we just thought he needed some space."
I won't look at them as I cross to the back door. I know I shouldn't do that, they don't owe any responsibility to Arthur, they're not his big brother, and I'm in no place to make them feel guilty, but fuck they should know better than to do that.
I open the door and head back out into the cold, which seems all the worse for a few minutes inside. The screen door bangs shut behind me and I grope along the frame for the light switch. It floods the back yard with light, and illuminates Arthur, who's standing by the back fence shivering, face turned away from the house, shoulders hunched over.
I breathe a sigh of relief at seeing him bundled up in my winter coat and a hat. He looks all of twelve, with the beanie drawn down around his ears, completely swaddled up in puff and insulation, with his hands shoved down as deeply into the pockets as they can get.
"Hey."
He doesn't turn. "You weren't here. You weren't here when I woke up."
I drop my weight off the porch, and walk across the grass, which crunches under my feet, dry and dead. "I know, I'm sorry, Arthur - I meant to be back earlier, but I got caught up in things. You okay?" I'm just hovering behind him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.
"I'm - I got worried. You took my jacket."
It's a really surreal conversation, like I'm arguing the meaning of life, rather than trying to explain to my junkie brother where I was all day.
"Yeah. I went by your apartment too, your fridge is broken."
"Oh, fuck. I left my keys there, didn't I? Should've brought those with me."
"Yeah, found those. It's fine." I look out over the fence, stalling. There's not many stars out - the sky got cloudy, and they hover over the city reflection the lights until they glow brighter than the patches of deep black space. "I went to the warehouse, where Vincent works."
At that he does turn around, eyes wide.
"Fuck! Arthur!" He looks like shit, deep purple swatches under his eyes, and his skin pale and tight across his cheekbones. Blood is smeared, dried and crusty under his nose, and he's got a new gash across his forehead that looks raw and bruised already. "What the hell happened?"
He groans, and drops his head to his hands, grinding the heels of his palms into tired eyes. "You took my fucking jacket."
And everything in the pockets.
"Just - couldn't sleep, couldn't think."
He's shaking under the coat, so I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around him as best I can. It's odd, holding him like this while we're awake. But he looks so tired, so drawn out, stretched to his limits, that I just want to make him better already.
"You need to get off the po."
He jolts, a giant tremor down to his bones in denial and fear. "I can't, you fucking know I can't - it'll kill me, it'll kill me and leave me broken!"
"You have to! If you don't, you'll never survive, and they'll fucking find you, no matter what I do - I can't have that, Arthur, I can't lose you."
He's slipping down in my grip, so I bring us both to our knees, and it's exactly like the night he first came, me wrapped around him as he sobs for control. Then I shake him.
"Listen to me! I'll help you, you dumb ass, I'll be here every night to help you!"
That makes him look up at me, eyes shining with beads of tears. I fucking hate it when he cries. "Where will you be in the day time?" But he knows.
"You know where I'll be. I need to make sure you're safe."
"Don't fucking do it," he says, his voice so low, so monotone, it sounds like there's no one in there behind the noise.
"I have to, Arthur. That's what I do, if you won't take care of yourself, then I'll do it for you. And that includes taking care of Vincent."
He doesn't respond, and we stand there for several more minutes, in the silence and the cold, and then I pull him inside.
The others have gone off by this time, fled to the safety of their rooms, and I'm thankful. I lead Arthur into my bathroom and sit him down on the toilet, before rummaging about in the cabinets. I set some things out, then turn on the faucet of the tub full blast, waiting for the water to get as hot as it goes before stopping up the drain. The room fills with steam quickly, heat seeping into my bones, and I feel safe enough to strip Arthur of his coat.
He's got three layers on underneath, and I've only been gone less than a day and he already seems worse off, gaunt and narrow under the long-sleeved shirts that hang limp over his shoulders. I wet a washcloth and tilt his head up, soaking off the dried blood under his nose until it's pink and clean, before starting in on the cut on his forehead.
It's close to the shiner I have him a few nights ago. That makes me even more worried than I already was.
"How did this happen?"
He shrugs, but doesn't move his head, which is good because I'm about to pour hydrogen peroxide on it, and he's so not gonna be happy about that.
"Did you do this to yourself?"
He doesn't shrug this time, which means yes.
"Close your eyes," I tell him, and use my other hand to shield his eyes, tipping the brown bottle over just enough to send a little stream of disinfectant over the open cut. He hisses sharply, cringing under my fingers, flinching back slightly, but I got all of the wound so it's fine.
I wipe around it, getting up the smeared blood, and then dab at the ragged edges as gently as I can. I wince in sympathy when he flinches back, trying to pull away from my hands.
"You know, if you didn't get yourself in so much trouble, I wouldn't have to do this all the time."
He sulks, and rolls his eyes. "Not all the time."
I tip his head back and poke him in the cheek, then raise my eyebrow when I've got his attention. "All the time." It's a damn good look, if I do say so myself - I perfected it when I was fourteen and a little shit, out to prove grownups wrong and make my little brother feel like an idiot. It helps that he is one, and that I am usually right.
He looks down again, chastised, but I can hear him mumble something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like not all the time.
I smack him on the shoulder with the washcloth, stepping back. "Get yourself clean, and warmed up - when you're done, we'll talk about the po."
He strips naked, shaking even in the heat of the room, and climbs into the tub gingerly, flinching at the extreme heat on his extremely cold feet. He moves like an old man, creaking bones and tentative steps.
I leave him there, taking his clothes to the laundry room and piling them on top of the washer - then I write myself a note so that I remember to come back for them and not forget them for a week, which has happened before. I duck back into the bathroom for a moment to leave warm sweatpants, a long sleeved shirt, and an extra sweater on the sink.
When Arthur finally gets out of the tub, he's flush pink with warmth, face looking brighter and the exhaustion in his eyes is less deadly and more along the lines of average tiredness. I'm sitting on my bed, covers thrown haphazardly up to the pillows in a mockery of neatness. The bag of po is sitting beside me - Arthur's, not mine.
He looks at it and his eyes get unnervingly focused, pupils blown wide.
"Sit down?"
Following my request, he glowers at me as he perches on the foot of the bed.
"Don't fucking intervent me, asshole," he says, like he doesn't understand what we're doing.
"It's not an intervention, Arthur, you damn well know you're fucked up."
He doesn't look ashamed of himself, which is good, because that's not what I'm going for. I need him to acknowledge reality long enough to let me help him get off the drug.
"What we're gonna do is the same as we did before. Okay? You come to me when you need a hit and I'll give you what I think you can handle. If I'm not here, go to Jack - I'll talk to him in the morning. He knows how we do this." Now's when Arthur starts looking sick to the gills, sick of himself, and sick of being sick. I continue, knowing it'll be easier to just get it the fuck over with. "You're gonna snort it, and I'll be watching. Don't put it on your gums, no injecting - I don't even care if you don't fucking inject this shit, don't even consider it, yeah? And I'll start weaning you off - longer periods between hits, smaller hits every few times."
He makes a noise like a whimper, choking it off into the back of his throat in an attempt to restrain himself.
I reach out and put my hand on his bony shoulder, rubbing and squeezing. "It's gonna be hard, Arthur. It's gonna be really fucking hard, and you're gonna have to be so fucking strong to get through this, but it needs to happen." I sound like I'm pleading, when I say "I can only do so much, man, you're gonna have to be the one to go the rest of the way."
He nods, a little twitch of his head, eyes on the sheets being twisted into knots between his fingers. His face is twisted into a reluctant grimace - the one that says he knows I'm right, but God does he want to deny it.
"So come on." I pick up the bag and tip a small portion onto the card I got out for that reason. I said I'd be watching him, but I can't actually do it, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, covering my mouth.
I hear him sniff, and I hear him sigh, and I might throw up.
Let me say something about Arthur. Arthur never had a terrible childhood. He wasn't abused except by normal teenage standards of high school, and he wasn't raped by evil parents, or forced out to work all day by evil relatives.
I know. I was there.
This isn't Harry Potter, or James and the Giant Peach, where magic, or the real-life equivalent is the only escape.
Arthur started doing drugs because he got bored.
I know. He told me.
And I never stopped him except when it was too late, which just makes me the shittiest big brother in the world.
I look up again, and he's sitting more relaxed, not even feeling the effects yet, just psychologically relieved that he's got it in his system again.
"Can you sleep on that?"
He blinks his eyes open slowly, peering at me under heavy eyelids, and glaze shining over his eyes already. He nods, one long dip of his head so unlike his earlier actions.
"In a few minutes," he says. "Gotta get past the high first."
I acknowledge it, and get up to leave, heading to the living room to pace for the fifteen minutes it'll take him to come down enough to sleep. It might not even be that long, I consider, circling the coffee table, he's used to it more than I am, probably already has a higher metabolism for it. I wait fifteen minutes anyway, not wanting to know the answer to that.
He's curled up on his side on top of the covers, watching the door when I return, and I take my time changing my clothes finally. I poke and prod him, limp and sleepy, until I get him arranged properly under the blankets. He's radiating heat, almost too much to bear as I slip in with him, wrapping myself around him like I've been doing all the past nights.
I lay awake for far too long, in the darkness, before allowing myself to relax. It's soothing after a while, feeling his heat, and listening to the deep inhales of sleep.
-
I wake up early and peel Arthur from where he's plastered all along my side like a leech. His body temperature dropped overnight, which is good, but now he'll be cold without me there. I pile extra blankets on top of him until he's barely an indistinct lump at the bottom.
I'm the first one up, but I really need to go, so I abandon housemate protocol and knock loudly on Elle and Jack's door.
There's silence for a moment, and then a responding thunk, which I'm pretty sure is someone's shoe thrown at the door with alarming accuracy.
I knock again, to let them know I'm not leaving, and my hand's still in knocking position when Jack throws open the door. He's scruffy and grumpy and rumpled, with all the hair on one side of his head flattened up, and his eyes squinting at me, even though the lights aren't on.
"What?"
"I gotta talk to you."
He blinks a bit, taken aback by the seriousness of my tone, but stumbles out the door, tugging it closed behind him a little half-heartedly, like an after-thought. I catch a glimpse of Elle spread out all across the bed, hogging pillows and blankets both.
We don't need to go far, standing in the hallway in our pyjamas.
I don't sugarcoat it. "Do you remember when Arthur was hooked on crack?"
That wakes Jack up, enough that he stops rubbing his bleary eyes and jerks his head up in shock.
I nod, and pull out the plastic bag. "It's a new drug. Po, it's not really on the streets much, but it's spreading. It's bad, too. I'm trying to get him off it, but I can't be here during the day - are you cool to take care of his hits while I'm not here? It's the same, exactly the same way as I did it before, snorting only little bits, and stuff until he can function without it."
Jack is silent, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin, dark red unlike the light brown hair on his head. He's looking off into the distance, thinking.
"So, that's what's wrong with him?"
I hesitate too long, and he's looking at me funny.
"What else is there? Hell, what else could there be, what could be worse?"
I sigh, and step closer so I can drop my voice even more. "He's in trouble, his boss is a fucking monster, and I'm trying to figure out how to get him out. That's where I need to go, and I need to go now, so please - tell me. Can you handle this, or am I going to need to figure something else out?"
He shakes his head. Then he nods. Then he gives up on motions and says "Yes, yeah I can do it. I can do this for you. How long do you think it'll take?"
"I don't know." I really don't. "I can only hope it won't be too long, but considering how powerful this shit is, it'll probably be a week at least, maybe two if it's really bad. It'll have to go slow, 'cause I'm pretty sure going cold-turkey will kill him, and he can't handle the withdrawal the way he is now."
"Okay. Can I call you if anything goes wrong?"
"You can, but I probably won't be able to pick up, so I might not get it 'till tonight. You know what, do it anyway, just let me know if anything happens, and I'll see what I can do, yeah?"
-
previous / next
Word Count: 3426
WOOH. shorter chapter, as we start on recovery, and The Plan. :D
-
I wait half an hour. Lying on my back on the futon and staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of people settling in for the night. Someone's arguing a few floors away, on the phone probably, because I can't hear more than one voice. I get up, and get dressed again. My whole body aches, the drugs worn off enough that I can feel every bruised rib and knot in my muscles, and my legs feel like they're going to give out from under me.
I check my voicemail. It's full of messages, most of them from Arthur, getting increasingly frantic as it gets later in the day, with several from Elle, casually asking where I was, and two or three from Nate and Jack, asking even more casually when I thought I might be heading home, and would it be any time in the near future.
I'm starving, so I putter about making myself a sandwich, and step out onto the tiny balcony. It's about large enough to hold one grown man and a cat, maybe, it the cat was very small and perched on the railing and didn't mind heights.
The sky is deeply black like velvet, and the air is chillingly cold. I eat my peanut butter and jelly sandwich watching cars drift past like ghosts in the darkness, their headlights guiding the way and taillights leaving behind fiery trails through the cold, crisp night.
If there's anyone watching me when I leave, head bowed low and Arthur's apartment keys tucked into the pocket of my jacket, then I don't see them. I walk quickly to the bus stop, eyes on the shadows to either side of me. The bus comes within a few minutes, breathing out a sigh of warm, stale air as it rolls to a stop with a screech of its wheels.
The bus driver looks annoyed, but nods to me in thanks when I drop the requisite two dollars into the till. I haven't had to pay for a bus ride in - what, four years? More, probably. Enough that I forgot what it was like to stand next to the driver while the bus shakes and rattles as it pulls out.
The seats are scratchy, low quality fabric made for durability rather than comfort and squeak whenever I shift my weight. There's no one else on the bus with me, and it's silent, save the hydrolics of the driver's seat and the whirr of wheels beneath us, though even that is numbed, muted by the barrenness of the bus.
I change buses three times before I manage to get home, and then it's a four block walk to my house through residential neighbourhoods. I'm the only one on the street, even though it can't be past 11 pm, but I can see houses still lit up with warm yellow light and shadows moving across curtains in the shapes of families and people and comfort, all of which just serve to make me more impatient to get home faster. My fingers are freezing in my pockets, curled around themselves, next to the warming plastic of my cellphone.
Jack answers with a curious look on his face when I knock on the front door, a dish towel thrown over his shoulder. Elle and Nate are both sitting in the back, in the designated living room, watching TV quietly and laughing. They all freeze and look up when they see me in the entrance, falling deathly silent.
Elle stands, and pulls her hair over her shoulder, running her pale, thin fingers through ginger locks, looking nervous. "We were worried - you didn't call, we - we didn't know if you were coming back or not."
"Sorry, didn't get a chance. Where's Arthur?"
Nate shifts on the couch. "He's outside. On the porch." He looks uncomfortable, because he knows I'll be pissed if he doesn't give me a good reason for not preventing Arthur from wandering out in the cold, skinny as fuck as he is. "He wouldn't talk all day, once he figured out you'd gone. We just -" he glances around at the others, searching for moral support, "we just thought he needed some space."
I won't look at them as I cross to the back door. I know I shouldn't do that, they don't owe any responsibility to Arthur, they're not his big brother, and I'm in no place to make them feel guilty, but fuck they should know better than to do that.
I open the door and head back out into the cold, which seems all the worse for a few minutes inside. The screen door bangs shut behind me and I grope along the frame for the light switch. It floods the back yard with light, and illuminates Arthur, who's standing by the back fence shivering, face turned away from the house, shoulders hunched over.
I breathe a sigh of relief at seeing him bundled up in my winter coat and a hat. He looks all of twelve, with the beanie drawn down around his ears, completely swaddled up in puff and insulation, with his hands shoved down as deeply into the pockets as they can get.
"Hey."
He doesn't turn. "You weren't here. You weren't here when I woke up."
I drop my weight off the porch, and walk across the grass, which crunches under my feet, dry and dead. "I know, I'm sorry, Arthur - I meant to be back earlier, but I got caught up in things. You okay?" I'm just hovering behind him, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.
"I'm - I got worried. You took my jacket."
It's a really surreal conversation, like I'm arguing the meaning of life, rather than trying to explain to my junkie brother where I was all day.
"Yeah. I went by your apartment too, your fridge is broken."
"Oh, fuck. I left my keys there, didn't I? Should've brought those with me."
"Yeah, found those. It's fine." I look out over the fence, stalling. There's not many stars out - the sky got cloudy, and they hover over the city reflection the lights until they glow brighter than the patches of deep black space. "I went to the warehouse, where Vincent works."
At that he does turn around, eyes wide.
"Fuck! Arthur!" He looks like shit, deep purple swatches under his eyes, and his skin pale and tight across his cheekbones. Blood is smeared, dried and crusty under his nose, and he's got a new gash across his forehead that looks raw and bruised already. "What the hell happened?"
He groans, and drops his head to his hands, grinding the heels of his palms into tired eyes. "You took my fucking jacket."
And everything in the pockets.
"Just - couldn't sleep, couldn't think."
He's shaking under the coat, so I pull him to me, wrapping my arms around him as best I can. It's odd, holding him like this while we're awake. But he looks so tired, so drawn out, stretched to his limits, that I just want to make him better already.
"You need to get off the po."
He jolts, a giant tremor down to his bones in denial and fear. "I can't, you fucking know I can't - it'll kill me, it'll kill me and leave me broken!"
"You have to! If you don't, you'll never survive, and they'll fucking find you, no matter what I do - I can't have that, Arthur, I can't lose you."
He's slipping down in my grip, so I bring us both to our knees, and it's exactly like the night he first came, me wrapped around him as he sobs for control. Then I shake him.
"Listen to me! I'll help you, you dumb ass, I'll be here every night to help you!"
That makes him look up at me, eyes shining with beads of tears. I fucking hate it when he cries. "Where will you be in the day time?" But he knows.
"You know where I'll be. I need to make sure you're safe."
"Don't fucking do it," he says, his voice so low, so monotone, it sounds like there's no one in there behind the noise.
"I have to, Arthur. That's what I do, if you won't take care of yourself, then I'll do it for you. And that includes taking care of Vincent."
He doesn't respond, and we stand there for several more minutes, in the silence and the cold, and then I pull him inside.
The others have gone off by this time, fled to the safety of their rooms, and I'm thankful. I lead Arthur into my bathroom and sit him down on the toilet, before rummaging about in the cabinets. I set some things out, then turn on the faucet of the tub full blast, waiting for the water to get as hot as it goes before stopping up the drain. The room fills with steam quickly, heat seeping into my bones, and I feel safe enough to strip Arthur of his coat.
He's got three layers on underneath, and I've only been gone less than a day and he already seems worse off, gaunt and narrow under the long-sleeved shirts that hang limp over his shoulders. I wet a washcloth and tilt his head up, soaking off the dried blood under his nose until it's pink and clean, before starting in on the cut on his forehead.
It's close to the shiner I have him a few nights ago. That makes me even more worried than I already was.
"How did this happen?"
He shrugs, but doesn't move his head, which is good because I'm about to pour hydrogen peroxide on it, and he's so not gonna be happy about that.
"Did you do this to yourself?"
He doesn't shrug this time, which means yes.
"Close your eyes," I tell him, and use my other hand to shield his eyes, tipping the brown bottle over just enough to send a little stream of disinfectant over the open cut. He hisses sharply, cringing under my fingers, flinching back slightly, but I got all of the wound so it's fine.
I wipe around it, getting up the smeared blood, and then dab at the ragged edges as gently as I can. I wince in sympathy when he flinches back, trying to pull away from my hands.
"You know, if you didn't get yourself in so much trouble, I wouldn't have to do this all the time."
He sulks, and rolls his eyes. "Not all the time."
I tip his head back and poke him in the cheek, then raise my eyebrow when I've got his attention. "All the time." It's a damn good look, if I do say so myself - I perfected it when I was fourteen and a little shit, out to prove grownups wrong and make my little brother feel like an idiot. It helps that he is one, and that I am usually right.
He looks down again, chastised, but I can hear him mumble something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like not all the time.
I smack him on the shoulder with the washcloth, stepping back. "Get yourself clean, and warmed up - when you're done, we'll talk about the po."
He strips naked, shaking even in the heat of the room, and climbs into the tub gingerly, flinching at the extreme heat on his extremely cold feet. He moves like an old man, creaking bones and tentative steps.
I leave him there, taking his clothes to the laundry room and piling them on top of the washer - then I write myself a note so that I remember to come back for them and not forget them for a week, which has happened before. I duck back into the bathroom for a moment to leave warm sweatpants, a long sleeved shirt, and an extra sweater on the sink.
When Arthur finally gets out of the tub, he's flush pink with warmth, face looking brighter and the exhaustion in his eyes is less deadly and more along the lines of average tiredness. I'm sitting on my bed, covers thrown haphazardly up to the pillows in a mockery of neatness. The bag of po is sitting beside me - Arthur's, not mine.
He looks at it and his eyes get unnervingly focused, pupils blown wide.
"Sit down?"
Following my request, he glowers at me as he perches on the foot of the bed.
"Don't fucking intervent me, asshole," he says, like he doesn't understand what we're doing.
"It's not an intervention, Arthur, you damn well know you're fucked up."
He doesn't look ashamed of himself, which is good, because that's not what I'm going for. I need him to acknowledge reality long enough to let me help him get off the drug.
"What we're gonna do is the same as we did before. Okay? You come to me when you need a hit and I'll give you what I think you can handle. If I'm not here, go to Jack - I'll talk to him in the morning. He knows how we do this." Now's when Arthur starts looking sick to the gills, sick of himself, and sick of being sick. I continue, knowing it'll be easier to just get it the fuck over with. "You're gonna snort it, and I'll be watching. Don't put it on your gums, no injecting - I don't even care if you don't fucking inject this shit, don't even consider it, yeah? And I'll start weaning you off - longer periods between hits, smaller hits every few times."
He makes a noise like a whimper, choking it off into the back of his throat in an attempt to restrain himself.
I reach out and put my hand on his bony shoulder, rubbing and squeezing. "It's gonna be hard, Arthur. It's gonna be really fucking hard, and you're gonna have to be so fucking strong to get through this, but it needs to happen." I sound like I'm pleading, when I say "I can only do so much, man, you're gonna have to be the one to go the rest of the way."
He nods, a little twitch of his head, eyes on the sheets being twisted into knots between his fingers. His face is twisted into a reluctant grimace - the one that says he knows I'm right, but God does he want to deny it.
"So come on." I pick up the bag and tip a small portion onto the card I got out for that reason. I said I'd be watching him, but I can't actually do it, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees and my chin in my hands, covering my mouth.
I hear him sniff, and I hear him sigh, and I might throw up.
Let me say something about Arthur. Arthur never had a terrible childhood. He wasn't abused except by normal teenage standards of high school, and he wasn't raped by evil parents, or forced out to work all day by evil relatives.
I know. I was there.
This isn't Harry Potter, or James and the Giant Peach, where magic, or the real-life equivalent is the only escape.
Arthur started doing drugs because he got bored.
I know. He told me.
And I never stopped him except when it was too late, which just makes me the shittiest big brother in the world.
I look up again, and he's sitting more relaxed, not even feeling the effects yet, just psychologically relieved that he's got it in his system again.
"Can you sleep on that?"
He blinks his eyes open slowly, peering at me under heavy eyelids, and glaze shining over his eyes already. He nods, one long dip of his head so unlike his earlier actions.
"In a few minutes," he says. "Gotta get past the high first."
I acknowledge it, and get up to leave, heading to the living room to pace for the fifteen minutes it'll take him to come down enough to sleep. It might not even be that long, I consider, circling the coffee table, he's used to it more than I am, probably already has a higher metabolism for it. I wait fifteen minutes anyway, not wanting to know the answer to that.
He's curled up on his side on top of the covers, watching the door when I return, and I take my time changing my clothes finally. I poke and prod him, limp and sleepy, until I get him arranged properly under the blankets. He's radiating heat, almost too much to bear as I slip in with him, wrapping myself around him like I've been doing all the past nights.
I lay awake for far too long, in the darkness, before allowing myself to relax. It's soothing after a while, feeling his heat, and listening to the deep inhales of sleep.
-
I wake up early and peel Arthur from where he's plastered all along my side like a leech. His body temperature dropped overnight, which is good, but now he'll be cold without me there. I pile extra blankets on top of him until he's barely an indistinct lump at the bottom.
I'm the first one up, but I really need to go, so I abandon housemate protocol and knock loudly on Elle and Jack's door.
There's silence for a moment, and then a responding thunk, which I'm pretty sure is someone's shoe thrown at the door with alarming accuracy.
I knock again, to let them know I'm not leaving, and my hand's still in knocking position when Jack throws open the door. He's scruffy and grumpy and rumpled, with all the hair on one side of his head flattened up, and his eyes squinting at me, even though the lights aren't on.
"What?"
"I gotta talk to you."
He blinks a bit, taken aback by the seriousness of my tone, but stumbles out the door, tugging it closed behind him a little half-heartedly, like an after-thought. I catch a glimpse of Elle spread out all across the bed, hogging pillows and blankets both.
We don't need to go far, standing in the hallway in our pyjamas.
I don't sugarcoat it. "Do you remember when Arthur was hooked on crack?"
That wakes Jack up, enough that he stops rubbing his bleary eyes and jerks his head up in shock.
I nod, and pull out the plastic bag. "It's a new drug. Po, it's not really on the streets much, but it's spreading. It's bad, too. I'm trying to get him off it, but I can't be here during the day - are you cool to take care of his hits while I'm not here? It's the same, exactly the same way as I did it before, snorting only little bits, and stuff until he can function without it."
Jack is silent, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his chin, dark red unlike the light brown hair on his head. He's looking off into the distance, thinking.
"So, that's what's wrong with him?"
I hesitate too long, and he's looking at me funny.
"What else is there? Hell, what else could there be, what could be worse?"
I sigh, and step closer so I can drop my voice even more. "He's in trouble, his boss is a fucking monster, and I'm trying to figure out how to get him out. That's where I need to go, and I need to go now, so please - tell me. Can you handle this, or am I going to need to figure something else out?"
He shakes his head. Then he nods. Then he gives up on motions and says "Yes, yeah I can do it. I can do this for you. How long do you think it'll take?"
"I don't know." I really don't. "I can only hope it won't be too long, but considering how powerful this shit is, it'll probably be a week at least, maybe two if it's really bad. It'll have to go slow, 'cause I'm pretty sure going cold-turkey will kill him, and he can't handle the withdrawal the way he is now."
"Okay. Can I call you if anything goes wrong?"
"You can, but I probably won't be able to pick up, so I might not get it 'till tonight. You know what, do it anyway, just let me know if anything happens, and I'll see what I can do, yeah?"
-
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