[ficlets] junkie
three short fics in a pseudo-series. pete-centric, with really heavy drug references and such and an AWFUL LOT OF INCOHERENCE.
Unbeta'd, unedited, and hardly thought about at all. Completely untrue, with no particular basis in reality, et cetera.
junkie #1
Pete was staring out the window, fingers splayed against the glass as he slumped forward, breathing slow and loud. People were walking around down there in the street, and more than a few cars went by as he watched, mundane and pointless pieces of others lives on display before him. A frantic young girl was running down the street, stopping to check addresses as she went, and Pete grinned to himself -- there wasn't much of anything he let bother him like that, because he'd found ways around the stress and tedium. He sat like that, blinking slowly and occasionally nodding off, for near ten minutes before he bothered looking up.
"Hello, Carlos." Pete smiled before turning back to the window, leaning his forehead up against it and letting his breath fog it over.
"'Lo, Pete." He ignored it when Carl tried starting a conversation with him, ignored it when Carl kicked him -- it didn't matter since Carl was always doing that sort of thing, both of them tended to knock each other around a bit from time to time, and it wasn't like it hurt any -- and barely registered it as Carl (who was mumbling something at him, but whatever, it was probably meaningless anyway) pulled the spent needle from his arm. He'd forgotten it was there, but it really didn't much matter as he hadn't moved much since he shot up, and it wasn't like needles were a rare sight in their flat. If it had fallen out or stayed in his arm, it wouldn't have made any difference.
Pete couldn't be sure, but he must have drifted off for a while, because when he opened his eyes again the sky was all pink and gold. He shrugged slightly at that, noting that his cheek was shoved up against the windowpane and he'd drooled on the glass. Someone would clean it up later, probably, or it would just evaporate. It would be alright, either way.
At one point or another, John and Gary both came through, talking to Carl about wires and microphones and things, maybe something about lighting. John tried to ask him something, but Pete just kind of laughed and answered with something about Albion. Albion was a good enough answer for anything asked of him, since he was so very close to finding it. Maybe if he snorted some coke -- or even a bit more skag, either way -- he'd get there, but that could wait until another day. (Carl, the selfish bastard, would probably start yelling at him if he went for the snow right now.)
Carl said something else to him ('you fucking git, what are you thinking doing this today?') so Pete smiles and figures that'll be enough to get him back on Carl's good side. 'Carlos, my dear boy, methinks thou dost protest too much.'
Waking up again later, Pete yawned and looked down at his watch. Nearly eight. Was there an interview he was supposed to go to? Or maybe he and Carl had planned to go out drinking, to a movie, something silly and expensive like that. One of those things they could afford now they were borderline famous. Something like that, but whatever it was could wait at least a little longer. Pete had to throw up, first, kneeling in front of the toilet and vaguely wishing Carl was there to wipe his face off, or hold his hair back -- not that it was really long enough to warrant that -- or something else equally comforting. Carl really was too nice, sometimes, but a damn fine friend whenever he wasn't harping on about addiction. Pete wasn't fucking addicted, no, he just liked the feeling heroin gave and had enough money to get it when he wanted it.
Pete was pretty sure he was supposed to be somewhere an hour ago, maybe, something like that. Playing guitar came first. Maybe he could lure Carl home with song, or remember where to go while playing, something like that. It would work out, like always. (Maybe Carl would stop hating him if he could come up with a new song, and then everything would be alright between them again, and they'd find a happy ending together and move to a little house by the sea, or at least somewhere slightly more idyllic than their current flat.)
Someone had left a note taped to his guitar case, apparently unable to think of a better place for that sort of thing, like the refrigerator maybe --
Left for the gig already, will be back eventually. Couldn't get you up; try not to die please Bilo??
x c
Oh, they had a gig to play, not an interview. That made a certain amount of sense, because only idiots and hacks would try to schedule an official interview with The Libertines that late at night. They had better things to do, things far more rock'n'roll than entertaining the media. Pete shrugged, still feeling rather indifferent to everything, but shouldered his guitar and headed out in hopes of finding a guitar. He wasn't really sure just which pub it was they were meant to be playing tonight, as silly Carlos hadn't bothered mentioning it in the note, but Pete'd manage to find it eventually.
Maybe the cab driver -- whenever he managed to find a taxi, and what did it say about the city if a wandering poet couldn't get a taxi this early in the evening? -- maybe the cab driver would know where he was meant to play. The band was famous now, Pete was pretty sure, or more famous than they had been just a few months ago, and cab drivers were supposed to know about important events. Shows by the Libertines were definitely important, legendary even, the kind of thing to get written about in history books.
If all else failed, Pete had a cell phone with Carl's number pre-programmed in, number two on the speed dial. (Pete's own number was number one, for when he felt like talking to himself, which was less and less often these days.)
It just wouldn't be a properly Libertine show without Pete there (and what was Carl thinking, going out to perform without Pete at his side? that sort of thing should be made illegal).
And besides, he was better off showing up late than never.
junkie #2
Pete's really not sure what all he's taken tonight. He started out with a massive spliff, shared with Carlos at first; after that he might have had some kind of pill -- painkiller maybe? and he's pretty sure at some point after that someone helped him shoot up. Maybe. Not Carlos, though, Carlos won't help him with that anymore. Carlos says he needs to quit.
But he's on an awful lot of things
and his vision is sort of swimming; it's all rolling and liquid, confusing as anything he's seen. He holds his hand up, moves his fingers a little and watches the trails of light they leave behind. He waves his hand one way, then back again to clear the smoke left by the first pass. It's all a bit fuzzy, and Pete's pretty sure he's got at least eight fingers at the moment. He's not sure where he got the spares. On lone from his other hand, which he can't feel properly, maybe. That sounds about right.
"Oi, Pete"
He doesn't recognise that voice but that's alright. He turns his head slow, lowers his eyelids and raises them again and -- aha! -- there's some young fellow surrounded by a halo of light. Quite pretty. Maybe an angel. "Oi? But old-fashioned rock'n'roll is much better, unless you've got a cowbell." Pete's not sure he says all those words, but they're definitely what he wants to say, and the angel is laughing -- the angel Gabriel descended to earth to save a poet's shattered soul, mission from god, that kind of thing. Pete's all in favour of grand missions.
The angel speaks in tongues! He keeps talking and Pete just stares, growing more and more confused, slack-jawed and wide-eyed and utterly gone. He should have kept track of what he did tonight. But no, no, he has to listen and see if he can gain divine guidance from his personal saviour here; find meaning in the sacred incoherent ramblings.
Everything's pleasantly soft and pleasant, and so Pete wants to find his guitar and make sure everyone else knows as much. It's a party, after all, and he should be a good host, entertain his guests. "Where's the guitar? Has it found Arcadia without me? Because the Albion is still sailing, so it can't have jumped overboard, oh, no, unless it decided to mutiny but why would it since I treat it so well?"
Pete's resting his arms on some bloke's shoulders now, leaning over him and speaking honestly, hoping whoever-this-is will know and be able to help him. Nobody can help him; he can't help himself. Carlos will help him, if he can find Carlos.
"Uh, I saw a case up against that wall. You want me to get it?"
"Yes"
"So get off" and Pete does, steps back and way with a bow that ends in him sitting down on the floor (he can't figure out what else to do with himself after he's bent forward so he sits down and thinks about it for a while).
And there is a guitar in his lap! Suddenly, appearing from nowhere, he has a guitar, one which he starts playing. Only one string is out of tune with the rest, so he fiddles with it -- and it's still wrong, still wrong, still wrong, so fucking wrong! Play that same note over until it's right, until it decides to agree with him, over-and-over-and-over;
"Come on, here, let me," and there's Carlos, there to save the day, always fixing things! Carlos is so helpful. Pete smiles at him.
"Thank you everso, my dear Carlos. Will you marry me?"
"Oh, fuck off"
"Oh, Carlos, Carlos, don't leave me, you won't, will you?"
"Of course not," Carl says; Carl sighs and Carl doesn't leave, so Pete plays the guitar and Carl listens for a while, and some other people listen as well and the whole world is warm and bright and melting in Pete's hands. His feet are all wonderfully tingly. He feels jittery, shaky, like he wants to throw up. He feels amazing. He's not really sure at all how he feels or what he's doing, but what he does know is that the world doesn't seem to matter at all. It's alright. It's alright. Carl is there and so is the crew of the Albion and they are sailing to somewhere amazing, and it's going to be fine.
If Pete can stay awake.
junkie #3
Pete stared at himself in the mirror, at the dark shadows that ringed his eyes, and couldn't help but retch again though his stomach was long since empty, leaning over the sink.
"Fuck, Carlos, I'm a mess, aren't I." He put his head down, eyes closed so he didn't have to look at his own vomit. He's using his hands to brace himself on the counter, his legs too wobbly to be trusted. There's not much of himself that he trusts right now.
"Carl?" he asks after a while, not getting an answer. And he realised, Carl was not waiting patiently outside the bathroom for him. Carl was not taking care of him; Carl was not going to wipe his face off or hold and comfort him. Carl wasn't there. Pete laughed, shakily, feeling betrayed and feeling sick at himself for thinking like that -- he's a grown man, yeah, and Carl wasn't his mother. He could survive on his own. He'd done it before -- though that was different, wasn't it, because he was still a kid then really, living with his parents and all -- and he could do it again, sure.
Pete sighed, heavily, reaching out blindly to turn the water on and get the sink at least a little clean. Wouldn't do to just leave the sink smelling of vomit, that would just be rude. Breathing heavily, he tried not to shake as he splashed cold water in his face, cleaning off sweat and spit and god knew what else. He grabbed a towel, rubbing his face and hands dry against it. The towel smelled clean, like soap and fabric softener; probably one of Carl's, then, since Pete only rarely cleaned his own. He'd have to put this one in the wash sometime to make up for using it without asking. Not just then, though; Pete decided that trying to go down to the laundry would be more trouble than it was worth. The least he could do was fold up the towel, though. It took far too long to figure out how to fold it even sloppily, but he eventually managed, setting it down on the counter and staring at it for a while.
That was good. This was going to be easy, Pete decided, just as soon as he stopped feeling like a trainwreck. He was coming down badly, falling, burning in the descent back towards Earth and it was fucking uncomfortable, all jittering trembling and the taste of vomit still hot in his mouth.
It didn't help that he'd had a lot to drink after the gig -- which he'd been an hour late to anyway.
He just had to come down, and then he could go do laundry and apologise to Carl and maybe the world would be sane again. He'd act all responsible and prove that he could do things just fine on his own, thank you, and then maybe Carl would stop hating him so much and they'd find Arcadia and never be unhappy again. (Pete was feeling miserable enough just then that there were several other ways he could think to never feel unhappy again, but they all involved more drugs or a magical cure for addiction -- not that he was addicted -- or the world ending.)
Unbeta'd, unedited, and hardly thought about at all. Completely untrue, with no particular basis in reality, et cetera.
junkie #1
Pete was staring out the window, fingers splayed against the glass as he slumped forward, breathing slow and loud. People were walking around down there in the street, and more than a few cars went by as he watched, mundane and pointless pieces of others lives on display before him. A frantic young girl was running down the street, stopping to check addresses as she went, and Pete grinned to himself -- there wasn't much of anything he let bother him like that, because he'd found ways around the stress and tedium. He sat like that, blinking slowly and occasionally nodding off, for near ten minutes before he bothered looking up.
"Hello, Carlos." Pete smiled before turning back to the window, leaning his forehead up against it and letting his breath fog it over.
"'Lo, Pete." He ignored it when Carl tried starting a conversation with him, ignored it when Carl kicked him -- it didn't matter since Carl was always doing that sort of thing, both of them tended to knock each other around a bit from time to time, and it wasn't like it hurt any -- and barely registered it as Carl (who was mumbling something at him, but whatever, it was probably meaningless anyway) pulled the spent needle from his arm. He'd forgotten it was there, but it really didn't much matter as he hadn't moved much since he shot up, and it wasn't like needles were a rare sight in their flat. If it had fallen out or stayed in his arm, it wouldn't have made any difference.
Pete couldn't be sure, but he must have drifted off for a while, because when he opened his eyes again the sky was all pink and gold. He shrugged slightly at that, noting that his cheek was shoved up against the windowpane and he'd drooled on the glass. Someone would clean it up later, probably, or it would just evaporate. It would be alright, either way.
At one point or another, John and Gary both came through, talking to Carl about wires and microphones and things, maybe something about lighting. John tried to ask him something, but Pete just kind of laughed and answered with something about Albion. Albion was a good enough answer for anything asked of him, since he was so very close to finding it. Maybe if he snorted some coke -- or even a bit more skag, either way -- he'd get there, but that could wait until another day. (Carl, the selfish bastard, would probably start yelling at him if he went for the snow right now.)
Carl said something else to him ('you fucking git, what are you thinking doing this today?') so Pete smiles and figures that'll be enough to get him back on Carl's good side. 'Carlos, my dear boy, methinks thou dost protest too much.'
Waking up again later, Pete yawned and looked down at his watch. Nearly eight. Was there an interview he was supposed to go to? Or maybe he and Carl had planned to go out drinking, to a movie, something silly and expensive like that. One of those things they could afford now they were borderline famous. Something like that, but whatever it was could wait at least a little longer. Pete had to throw up, first, kneeling in front of the toilet and vaguely wishing Carl was there to wipe his face off, or hold his hair back -- not that it was really long enough to warrant that -- or something else equally comforting. Carl really was too nice, sometimes, but a damn fine friend whenever he wasn't harping on about addiction. Pete wasn't fucking addicted, no, he just liked the feeling heroin gave and had enough money to get it when he wanted it.
Pete was pretty sure he was supposed to be somewhere an hour ago, maybe, something like that. Playing guitar came first. Maybe he could lure Carl home with song, or remember where to go while playing, something like that. It would work out, like always. (Maybe Carl would stop hating him if he could come up with a new song, and then everything would be alright between them again, and they'd find a happy ending together and move to a little house by the sea, or at least somewhere slightly more idyllic than their current flat.)
Someone had left a note taped to his guitar case, apparently unable to think of a better place for that sort of thing, like the refrigerator maybe --
Left for the gig already, will be back eventually. Couldn't get you up; try not to die please Bilo??
x c
Oh, they had a gig to play, not an interview. That made a certain amount of sense, because only idiots and hacks would try to schedule an official interview with The Libertines that late at night. They had better things to do, things far more rock'n'roll than entertaining the media. Pete shrugged, still feeling rather indifferent to everything, but shouldered his guitar and headed out in hopes of finding a guitar. He wasn't really sure just which pub it was they were meant to be playing tonight, as silly Carlos hadn't bothered mentioning it in the note, but Pete'd manage to find it eventually.
Maybe the cab driver -- whenever he managed to find a taxi, and what did it say about the city if a wandering poet couldn't get a taxi this early in the evening? -- maybe the cab driver would know where he was meant to play. The band was famous now, Pete was pretty sure, or more famous than they had been just a few months ago, and cab drivers were supposed to know about important events. Shows by the Libertines were definitely important, legendary even, the kind of thing to get written about in history books.
If all else failed, Pete had a cell phone with Carl's number pre-programmed in, number two on the speed dial. (Pete's own number was number one, for when he felt like talking to himself, which was less and less often these days.)
It just wouldn't be a properly Libertine show without Pete there (and what was Carl thinking, going out to perform without Pete at his side? that sort of thing should be made illegal).
And besides, he was better off showing up late than never.
junkie #2
Pete's really not sure what all he's taken tonight. He started out with a massive spliff, shared with Carlos at first; after that he might have had some kind of pill -- painkiller maybe? and he's pretty sure at some point after that someone helped him shoot up. Maybe. Not Carlos, though, Carlos won't help him with that anymore. Carlos says he needs to quit.
But he's on an awful lot of things
and his vision is sort of swimming; it's all rolling and liquid, confusing as anything he's seen. He holds his hand up, moves his fingers a little and watches the trails of light they leave behind. He waves his hand one way, then back again to clear the smoke left by the first pass. It's all a bit fuzzy, and Pete's pretty sure he's got at least eight fingers at the moment. He's not sure where he got the spares. On lone from his other hand, which he can't feel properly, maybe. That sounds about right.
"Oi, Pete"
He doesn't recognise that voice but that's alright. He turns his head slow, lowers his eyelids and raises them again and -- aha! -- there's some young fellow surrounded by a halo of light. Quite pretty. Maybe an angel. "Oi? But old-fashioned rock'n'roll is much better, unless you've got a cowbell." Pete's not sure he says all those words, but they're definitely what he wants to say, and the angel is laughing -- the angel Gabriel descended to earth to save a poet's shattered soul, mission from god, that kind of thing. Pete's all in favour of grand missions.
The angel speaks in tongues! He keeps talking and Pete just stares, growing more and more confused, slack-jawed and wide-eyed and utterly gone. He should have kept track of what he did tonight. But no, no, he has to listen and see if he can gain divine guidance from his personal saviour here; find meaning in the sacred incoherent ramblings.
Everything's pleasantly soft and pleasant, and so Pete wants to find his guitar and make sure everyone else knows as much. It's a party, after all, and he should be a good host, entertain his guests. "Where's the guitar? Has it found Arcadia without me? Because the Albion is still sailing, so it can't have jumped overboard, oh, no, unless it decided to mutiny but why would it since I treat it so well?"
Pete's resting his arms on some bloke's shoulders now, leaning over him and speaking honestly, hoping whoever-this-is will know and be able to help him. Nobody can help him; he can't help himself. Carlos will help him, if he can find Carlos.
"Uh, I saw a case up against that wall. You want me to get it?"
"Yes"
"So get off" and Pete does, steps back and way with a bow that ends in him sitting down on the floor (he can't figure out what else to do with himself after he's bent forward so he sits down and thinks about it for a while).
And there is a guitar in his lap! Suddenly, appearing from nowhere, he has a guitar, one which he starts playing. Only one string is out of tune with the rest, so he fiddles with it -- and it's still wrong, still wrong, still wrong, so fucking wrong! Play that same note over until it's right, until it decides to agree with him, over-and-over-and-over;
"Come on, here, let me," and there's Carlos, there to save the day, always fixing things! Carlos is so helpful. Pete smiles at him.
"Thank you everso, my dear Carlos. Will you marry me?"
"Oh, fuck off"
"Oh, Carlos, Carlos, don't leave me, you won't, will you?"
"Of course not," Carl says; Carl sighs and Carl doesn't leave, so Pete plays the guitar and Carl listens for a while, and some other people listen as well and the whole world is warm and bright and melting in Pete's hands. His feet are all wonderfully tingly. He feels jittery, shaky, like he wants to throw up. He feels amazing. He's not really sure at all how he feels or what he's doing, but what he does know is that the world doesn't seem to matter at all. It's alright. It's alright. Carl is there and so is the crew of the Albion and they are sailing to somewhere amazing, and it's going to be fine.
If Pete can stay awake.
junkie #3
Pete stared at himself in the mirror, at the dark shadows that ringed his eyes, and couldn't help but retch again though his stomach was long since empty, leaning over the sink.
"Fuck, Carlos, I'm a mess, aren't I." He put his head down, eyes closed so he didn't have to look at his own vomit. He's using his hands to brace himself on the counter, his legs too wobbly to be trusted. There's not much of himself that he trusts right now.
"Carl?" he asks after a while, not getting an answer. And he realised, Carl was not waiting patiently outside the bathroom for him. Carl was not taking care of him; Carl was not going to wipe his face off or hold and comfort him. Carl wasn't there. Pete laughed, shakily, feeling betrayed and feeling sick at himself for thinking like that -- he's a grown man, yeah, and Carl wasn't his mother. He could survive on his own. He'd done it before -- though that was different, wasn't it, because he was still a kid then really, living with his parents and all -- and he could do it again, sure.
Pete sighed, heavily, reaching out blindly to turn the water on and get the sink at least a little clean. Wouldn't do to just leave the sink smelling of vomit, that would just be rude. Breathing heavily, he tried not to shake as he splashed cold water in his face, cleaning off sweat and spit and god knew what else. He grabbed a towel, rubbing his face and hands dry against it. The towel smelled clean, like soap and fabric softener; probably one of Carl's, then, since Pete only rarely cleaned his own. He'd have to put this one in the wash sometime to make up for using it without asking. Not just then, though; Pete decided that trying to go down to the laundry would be more trouble than it was worth. The least he could do was fold up the towel, though. It took far too long to figure out how to fold it even sloppily, but he eventually managed, setting it down on the counter and staring at it for a while.
That was good. This was going to be easy, Pete decided, just as soon as he stopped feeling like a trainwreck. He was coming down badly, falling, burning in the descent back towards Earth and it was fucking uncomfortable, all jittering trembling and the taste of vomit still hot in his mouth.
It didn't help that he'd had a lot to drink after the gig -- which he'd been an hour late to anyway.
He just had to come down, and then he could go do laundry and apologise to Carl and maybe the world would be sane again. He'd act all responsible and prove that he could do things just fine on his own, thank you, and then maybe Carl would stop hating him so much and they'd find Arcadia and never be unhappy again. (Pete was feeling miserable enough just then that there were several other ways he could think to never feel unhappy again, but they all involved more drugs or a magical cure for addiction -- not that he was addicted -- or the world ending.)