killingsoftly: (Too Much Love will Kill You)
He was sick after, shaking. There hadn't been much in his stomach and in the end it was just dry heaving, retching again and again. Sickened that the Sorcerer had done such a thing. More sickened that he'd let him, that he'd fallen into it, knowing it for the lie it was but so desperate for anything that he'd taken it. Cried when words he wanted to hear from Warren's lips fell from those lovely lying ones.

Not him, and yet every curve of muscle, every inflection of voice was him and he'd wanted...wanted so badly.

He shivered on the bathroom floor, curled up. Not numb anymore, but overheated, seeking the cool tile. He didn't know how long it was before he could drag himself to the shower, but when he could, he stood under the hot water trying to scrub every touch of him off of his skin, but he was too deep for that, imprinted with the sure knowledge that Devin was somewhere in him there and he could never fully escape what it was that he was. His hands beat the walls until they were bruised, the knuckles bleeding, and he fell to the floor of the shower, sobbing. Dry, wracking sobs that threatened to tear him apart and he would have screamed if he thought he'd ever stop. He bit his knuckles instead, stuffing his fist in his mouth to muffle the sobs.

He stayed there until the water turned to ice and then he stayed there longer until he felt numbed again. He dried off almost methodically. He found sweatpants, tugging them on, but didn't even look for a shirt. His hands fumbled with the pill bottle, then tossed it aside. Alert wasn't what he wanted and he needed it faster than whiskey. He went for the box, searching through, hands shaking until he found the powder in the bottom of the box. He almost couldn't heat the water, he was shaking so bad, but he got it dissolved, and pulled into the needle. He found a vein easily, biting his lip at the pinch and then it was in.

It was warmer again, then, a rush washing over him. He made it back to the living room, eyeing the balcony, but collapsed on the couch, welcoming the distance, the clouding, sinking into it, not noticing that he was still crying a little.
killingsoftly: (doubtful and untrusting)
He wouldn't cry. It was a useless endeavor. Nothing had changed, not really. Warren loved the girl whether he was with her or not. He'd done his best to convince the boy he wasn't a danger to everyone who loved him, and if the parallels cut a little too tightly he wouldn't let it show. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Something.

He wouldn't cry. He'd shed tears over her. Shed tears over her as well. And over him, they'd already fallen, more than he would let anyone know, though Fergus had held him through some of them. He could say they were for something else. Say they were from frustration. Exhaustion. Wanting to go. Needing to go. Needing to stay.

He wouldn't cry. He didn't have it in him. This cold emptiness didn't lend itself to tears. He wanted to be warm again, but he couldn't reach into the warmth, fall into it. Into him. The whiskey just made it worse. Sent him spiraling down until he was as afraid as they had been that the balcony would be too tempting. He didn't need that. He couldn't do that to him.

He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't spend his time drunk. He had other options. Make the pain go away. Make him warm. There were pretty girls. Pretty boys. Two at a time. Three. Brief respite from the cold. And when that wore off, and the loneliness crashed over him again, there was his box.

He wouldn't cry. He needed him to be strong. To be there for him, and he'd never done that for anyone. He felt himself crumbling, unsure what was needed. The white powder hit his system hard and fast. Things weren't so cold and he could focus and he felt the troubles ease off just enough to let him be what he needed to be.

He wouldn't cry. He'd fly instead and try and hold off the crash for as long as possible.


killingsoftly: (Default)

September 2007

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