Of Monsters [Closed]

[Jameson Dade]

A delicate, golden brow slowly arched at that and he all but halted in his tracks, but only so that he could double back and very obviously peer down at his new companion’s backside. He then visibly seemed to weigh his options, his eyes taking on this vague and far off expression for a moment. When he fully returned to himself he simply nodded and resumed his course. “You have one of those too.” But seriously, man. Just learn to take a compliment. He didn’t really know Grey’s deal, but he didn’t seem like one of those people who constantly self-depricated. Or maybe he was. Either way, Jameson was the worst person to talk to if one was looking for a downer or a shiny ego pin. He felt at home making other people smile, making them feel comfortable in their own skins.

And in that way, the other man was an enigma. He knew that people rarely got into drug just for entertainment value. Was there some sort of story there? Obviously the mother was a tale all on its own, but he knew so little about it, which only made him more and more curious. Something he had frankly not expected from his impromptu meal. He very nearly wanted to round on the other man and tell him to stop. Just. Stop. Because he didn’t want to form some kind of attachment. But it was already too late for that wasn’t it? He knew the guy’s name. He understood him inherently on a level that most other people, most clean people never would. “Do you really want to know, or is that just idle curiosity?” He asked, his tone carefully neutral. He was anything but. He could not outright make most people do things they did not want to do, but his power was in small touches and little gestures, soft impressions left in flesh and the mind.

He could encourage if the will was there.

It was just another in the slowly growing list of curiosities. The arm around him was to have been expected, and he took it as invitation to lean more closely towards Grey. They made for quite the pair stumbling own the street like that, in the stark cold of the winter. The kilt was ill fitting, because it hadn’t been designed for him, and he suddenly yearned to shed it, like a snake got rid of its own skin. He did that a lot. Let mood or moment, or melody strike him to do something most might have considered rash or spontaneous. He was grateful for the body heat, because he didn’t have very much of his own, and the chance to leech it off of someone left him realizing that it might not really be so simple as that. Killing some guy he wanted to get to know better.

“Awww, how is daddy’s boy today?” He asked the dog as if he were still a tiny puppy. He had not, in fact, been small in quite some time. He also had never really mastered the art of holding still when his master got home so he immediately began to try and jump up at the pair of them. Normally Jameson tried to scold, but it never seemed to matter. He offered something off a sheepish smile to Grey in response when Bucket attempted to stand up on his hind legs, as if the dog might end up the same height as either of them. “You’re a charmer.” He mocked as he launched himself at the Golden, his arms curling around the pooch who seemed, in that moment, to be quite pleased with himself. Especially when pale hands dropped so he could rub furiously over either side of a belly, which spurred on the tempestuous wagging of a tail back and forth. It didn’t stop until he did, at which point Bucket attempted to quite literally sit on his feet. And then lick his hands. Like he could pin the allurist there and force him to enjoy the spit bath.

“About as charming as Bucket.” He murmured a second later before nodding towards his living room. “Go get a toy. A toy. A TOY!” It took a few times for the dog to get it, but he finally darted off down the hall, which gave the vampire time to close the door and lock it with a sigh. This. Was why he would have made a terrible parent.

[Grey Weston]

A strange sound left him at the comment. It began as a scornful noise, a dry scoff that softened into something else entirely; a half-exhaled, tired chuckle. If they'd been more familiar, he likely would have awarded him with a half-hearted shove against a shoulder. "Yeah? Bit late to the party. You should've seen it two years ago. It was fantastic." The past tense was pointed in its deliverance. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate the sentiment on some level, false though it may have been. If it hadn't been such a well-rehearsed, tired game, he might have trusted its sincerity. Addicts, however, were inherently insincere. They didn't mean to be. Most would argue that logic, insist that of course they meant it. Yes, you were a good friend. Yes, they loved you. Yes, they'd get clean, yes. 'Yes' was easier to mouth in the moment. But that's all they were. Moments. The truth was that it was all ********. A bargaining chip. They'd say whatever it took to chase their personal dragons. To get what they wanted. Your silence. Your cooperation. Your drugs.

His mouth smiled, but the pale hazel of his eyes was accusatory. Liar. It took one to know one, so the saying went. Grey knew himself more intimately than he could tolerate, most days. "I want to know." The words were direct, despite their low pitch. "I do and at the same time, I don't. Does that make sense?" It was inherently selfish, the desire not to know. It made it easier. If he could force himself not to care, it wasn't his problem. It wasn't his problem if his GPA steadily declined after three weeks of failing to show up to class. It wasn't his problem if, consequentially, he lost scholarship funding and his bank account ran dry. It wasn't his problem if she ******* drank herself into a coma. It was remarkably easy, that mantra. "'Those people who do not recover are people who cannot or will not completely give themselves over to this program.'" The recital is smooth. Even. He cuts his gaze askance at Jameson, lips thinning.

Barely suppressing the urge to laugh. But if he laughs, if he starts, he's half afraid his breath will hitch, catch on a sob. So he swallows the urge, gives his head a short, dismissive shake. "Does it matter?" Perhaps it's unfair of him. He's grateful for the silence. For not having to think beyond where to step next. Grateful, on some level, to not be alone. To not have to return to an apartment who's colors don't match and empty bookshelves. Canvases that haven't been touched in weeks. Little echoes.

Bucket's sudden rear is enough to coax a laugh. Warm and fond, if tired. He shrugged, upon catching Jameson's expression. Poor discipline aside, he wasn't going to judge an animal for its blatant pleasure at its owner's homecoming. He took a careful step out of the way, allowing both dog and master their reunion. It was...strange. Less the eager display and open affection emanating from both, respectively, and more how curiously detached he felt. He realized, belatedly, that his left sleeve was still partially rolled up, firmly bunched around his inner elbow. His fingers plucked at the sleeve for a moment, gingerly easing it down, covering a handful of partially scabbed over pinpricks and the ugly spiderwebbing of a bruise inside the crook of his arm.

"Sorry," he muttered. "I'm just..." A pause. "I should probably start over." It wasn't quite an apology, but at the very least, it addressed the fact that he'd been somewhat of a dick. Unfairly so. He tracked the dog as it scrambled down the hall in a clatter of nails, watching the slightly arched, fluffy tail bob out of sight. He flinched at the sound of a deadbolt sliding home. "My name is Grey," he began wryly. "And you'd think the sole of my shoe was Tina, as often as I shove my foot in my mouth."

[Jameson Dade]

“Oh, even more fantastic? Like Raiders-of-the-Lost-Ark-skin-melting fantastic? Because that’s the only way I can see that statement even making sense in reality land.” He immediately retorted. And then he laughed, not because it wasn’t true, but because he loved to make fun of himself, and in his own mind, that over the top compliment just sounded so cheesy. The tone was brief, but light and from the gut. He wasn’t one of those melodic sorts. His laugh wasn’t sweet or serene, or even particularly nice, but it was genuine. Genuine in a way that made it difficult to refute as anything other than raw delight. That was what Jameson brought to the table. His greatest deceptions were truths, and his worst lies were nothing but honesty.

He was a slippery little **** at times.

“Yes. Yes it makes sense.” Though likely not for the same reasons as Grey. Jameson’s relationship with his own parents was, at best, strained. He loved them out of habit, because they were the only thing he knew. He had been raised by a dealer and an addict. He had been raised not knowing what true affection was meant to look like. He honestly wouldn’t have known a good parent if he had run smack into them. He was still uneasy around Max’s mother for that reason. Because he had hated her when he had been in high school. She’d always been trying to get Max to break up with him, and he’d just…he had viewed her as the enemy.

But she had been the one to find him when he was at his lowest, when he had been inhaling drugs like breath. She had been the one to check him into rehab, the one who had talked to him daily after he’d gotten out. They hadn’t chatted in a while. Jameson had fallen far off the wagon once he had been turned. He’d totally given up on himself, and he knew that if Emma knew that she would have just given him that look, the one that said she was disappointed. That she still loved him. Still hoped for him. But was disappointed. It was a crushing thing for him, the weight of that, the burden of feeling like he needed to be ‘good’ for her and knowing that he simply wasn’t.

He had killed her son, and she clung to him as the only remnant of the boy she had raised.

His own mother hadn’t cared nearly so much. No, Marla Dade cared about getting high and drowning herself in whiskey or vodka. She had been a ‘fun’ mother growing up because she’d let him do whatever he wanted, and when he’d become a teenager, she had let him get into everything a teen wanted. There had been no rules, no boundaries. It had taken him a long time to realize that he loved his parents a lot more than they loved him – even longer to realize that they had totally destroyed his ability to show that love to other people.

He only knew one way to be. Just one.

Those thoughts were distracting and he almost missed the next part. In his own mind, his smile had slipped, but it reappeared like a soft crack over porcelain. “I was in a program for a while. I did well for a while. That’s not me.” That was the problem with recovery – it assumed that the sickness was gone and that the body or mind could repair itself. But Jameson was his sickness. He was an addict, always would be. But it made him wonder about Grey, if he expected to get apathy in return for his interest. Apathy or the crushing weight of the same sea of disappointment Jameson himself expected. Or if it was something else entirely. Like the realization that he was turning into his mother. Addiction could be genetic.

When Bucket ran off to grab a toy, Grey spoke and Jameson found himself turning to the other man, peering into his own. His attention briefly diverted to an arm, and then dragged its way back to pass over the other man’s features. His lips drew thin as teeth dug into them from the inside. “No.” He said immediately. He lifted a hand and looked for a second as if he wanted to grip Grey by his throat. Instead, his fingers settled on a shoulder and he tugged the man into a hug. It was abrupt. “Never apologize for who you are. Especially not the parts you think are ugly, because those are the most beautiful pieces.” To Jameson at least.

He reveled in flaws, in his own, in everyone else’s. Everyone had their strengths, but those were many and varied. Flaws were the things that truly connected people. The lowest common denominator. The dreams about being naked in class, the first time shamefully getting caught masturbating, the first painful muddled attempts at doing something and failing. Failure, for what it was, was more powerful than success. He released the human a second later and began down the hall towards his bedroom. Bucket had apparently gotten distracted. The vampire pulled the door shut to a room filled with loot he had picked up, though it was likely that Grey might have seen the contents if he stuck close enough to the dead man.

He burst into his room to the sight of Bucket chewing on something, curled up on a rug. The dog looked up, tail wagged, and then he went back to what he was doing. Jameson shot him a look as if to say ‘really’? And then flopped onto his bed, tugging the bag he’d stolen from the druggie from where he had tucked it under one arm. “Come on. Let’s get this party going.”

[Grey Weston]

"I...wasn't." The statement is halting, almost cautious. "My--" The word cut off abruptly, as if he were adverse to putting a label to what they had been; of narrowly defining one of the last time frame's in his life where he'd been truly happy. He remembered, instead, the second-to-last time he'd seen his mother. She'd been seated across from him at her kitchen table, wearing a threadbare bathrobe that hung too loose on her skinny frame; swinging open at her hips. Her hair had been a bird's nest of copper ringlets, a halo knocked askew. Always wildly uncontrolled and smelling vaguely of citrus. The table was cluttered with empty bottles striped of their labels, stacks of unopened mail dusted with the cold ash of her cigarette. The ceiling fan spun lazily, circulating stale, close air. He'd been criticizing her taste in men. Again. She'd laughed. It sounded like the harsh rasp of a crow, fading into a hiccuping sort of giggle that left him smiling. Nervous. Sad. "Baby boy," she'd said, leveling the trailing end of an ashing cigarette at him with one hand, and reaching across the table for his own with the other, "I'm terrified of the day you fall in love."

He'd laughed, then. Laughed because she was, and he'd loved her, this fragile wreck of a woman. What he'd really wanted to say that evening, wedged inside of a phone booth, across the miles and miles of insulated wiring, was "I'm terrified, too." Meaning: What do I do? "The guy I lived with," he finished. "He tried to enroll me. Brought home a pamphlet." He swallowed, shoulders hitching in a shrug. As if he could shed his memory like a second skin with the simple gesture. He'd laughed then, too; but it had been harsh, annoyed. Faintly incredulous. "Just read it." "No." "Grey. Come on." As it turned out, he'd missed the subliminal 'please' undercutting those words. He'd missed a lot of things. By the time he took notice, naturally, it had been too late. He closed himself off from the memory. As effortless as shutting a door. "You got further than I did. I didn't even show up."

He'd read it eventually. On the floor of an apartment that had become significantly emptier some months later, having found it buried beneath a discarded pile of old bills and stray pieces of paper with incomplete sketches. He'd laughed then, when what he had really wanted was to grab the man by his shoulders and shake. Scream at him that this was what he was, who he was. That there was no 'recovering,' no hope of 'more,' and if he wasn't good enough for him as he was, then **** him, and **** his sanctimonious 'program' that preached as if life had a reset button. That he could go back to his whitewashed walls and picket fence and the safety of a whitebread American family. Live the dream. The irony was that, although he said none of those things, that's precisely what had happened.

He hadn't been good enough, of course. He saw that now.

He was so lost in his own thoughts that he failed to notice Jameson's scrutiny. The way that his gaze traced a path from his eyes to his arm, littered with tracks that were slow to heal, the ruin of a central vein on the verge of collapse from overuse. Back again. He spoke; the 'no' abrupt. Grey froze, as momentarily at a loss. The contact was unexpected; fingers settling over his shoulder, tightening to pull him into an embrace. He tensed for a moment, standing awkwardly, still and unresponsive in the other man's grasp. Slowly, hesitantly either because he couldn't help himself or because he didn't know what else to do, his arms lifted to gently wrap around him in turn. "I would've done anything for him," he murmured, words hushed. It wasn't what he meant to say, and the realization hit a second later.

"Careful. I'm about as ugly as they come. But that doesn't mean I need to be a dick about it." He offered a lopsided smile, pulling away. Somewhat sheepish. As apologies went, it was hardly stellar. He disentangled himself a moment later, dutifully moving to step out of his way before following him down the hallway. Not immediately on his heels, but close behind. He hesitated on the threshold of the bedroom. It was an odd choice, as far as location went. It bred a certain familiarity wasn't entirely prepared for--or sure he wanted. But the allure of the bag's contents had a far stronger draw than any personal skepticism he may have harbored. He stepped into the room a second later, lofting a brow. "A little circa 2001 of you," he commented dryly, picking his way across the floor to settle onto the edge of the mattress less than a full second later.

[Jameson Dade]

The guy Grey had lived with.

A boyfriend then. People didn’t refer to each other like that, in his experience, when the connection could be easily explained away. When they lived in the same house, they were roomates or housemates. Little more than neighbours maybe. The exact phrasing spoke volumes. It was like when someone spurned by their parents referred to them as ‘the people who raised them’, like it had no bearing on who they had become. Or when siblings were referred to as nothing more than people who had once shared a womb, like they were strangers who had passed through the same room by chance. The lack of commitment to emotion, and the specificity said that there was more depth there than Grey wanted to comment on. Maybe it had been a bad break up.

“It sounds like he cared about you.” The comment was idle, non-committal in the context of the conversation, like saying that killing whales was bad. “Probably for the best though. When you are at the bottom of the pit, looking up; anything that offers hope seems like a really good idea at the time.” That wasn’t entirely fair of him, because a mixture of rehab, and the NA program had helped him to at least get his life somewhat on track. Or as on track as one could have possibly been with his condition. The truth of the matter was that he had to work five times as hard to get the same results as anyone else. Most people could go through a day, work, and though they might have hated their job – they could focus on it. With him, every single day was a fight, a struggle to stay clean.

He’d been forced to change virtually everything about himself. He couldn’t walk the same streets he had before, couldn’t associate with the same people. He had to deliberately avoid the habits that had led to him using. There were certain movies, songs, and TV programs he couldn’t enjoy because they had sway over him in that way. By the time he had given up, he hadn’t really care anymore, because the idea of changing who he was had seemed more disgusting than sinking into that pit again

“And trying to fix yourself for someone doesn’t work.” It was like those girls who got boob jobs because the guys they were with thought huge tits were fantastic. Going through the program required a great deal of resolve, a lot of commitment that simply didn’t exist unless one wanted to do it for themselves. And only for themselves. Because the truth of the matter was that the drugs were a better friend than anyone else. They were a better lover half the time too.

His suspicions were confirmed a few moments later. Would have done anything. There was only one person like that in Jameson’s life, and that had been Max. He supposed he understood Grey just a little bit better then. The key difference in their relationships was that Max hadn’t really cared about how unhealthy they were so long as they could do it together. Both of them had been enablers, and addicts, which had been painful and toxic, and beautiful and fun. There had been times when Max had gotten violent, when he was coming down and there was nothing available for them to shoot into their veins or snort, or smoke. Max had been much stronger than Jameson back then. He remembered one time when they had rented a hotel room for a weekend. The idea had been to throw something of a party for each other and spend the entire time high.

The problem was that they’d run out in one afternoon. They had been in the bath together, and it’d been romantic. No bubbles or anything, but the water had been warm and soothing. They had been laughing, and talking about one of their old high school teachers and the next thing the blond boy had known, his head was being shoved under water. On his back, and Max kneeling on his chest, there had been fingers on his shoulders to keep them pinned in place. Max had seemed so angry that day. So Jay had fought for a few minutes and then passed out. When he woke up several hours later, he’d been on a bed.

They’d acted like that hadn’t happened.

Jameson missed Max every single day.

He didn’t comment immediately on the subject of this mystery man that Grey had brought up, because he wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. Their lives had strange parallels, and it was both familiar and disconcerting all at the same time. “Shut up, you’re cute.” And that much was true. That sheepish little grin lightened Grey’s features. Jameson wanted to reach out and touch them, but that would have been weird. Weirder. Whatever.

“What happened with your boy?” He finally asked as he shuffled the bag over to the other man. He got comfortable on his firetruck comforter. His bedding was all red, and his tastes might have seemed juvenile, but they were comfortable. That was really all he cared about. His bedroom itself looked like his personality, with dirty and clean clothes scattered all around on the floors. There were piles of books and art supplies, and just about everything. One of his walls had neatly arranged picture frames with images inside, mostly things he had painted when he had been younger. The rest of it was a mural, mostly in red and black. It detailed his vampiric life, like Mora with her halo of golden hair and bloody lips.

Thomas Ozymandias was there, a shadow in the doorway. Robin was a lamb with a man’s head. The whole thing was darkly impressionistic.

He dragged some pillows under his back so that he could half prop up. There were plenty enough for both of them, because Jameson liked to nest. “Do you need a pipe?”

[Grey Weston]

"Maybe." The response was absent, the word low in the back of his throat. Surprisingly thick in sound, as if he'd had to swallow around in it order to speak at all. The nonchalance was a lie. That much was clear in the way that his narrow shoulders hunched, sharply defined shoulder blades stark and drawn as he tensed, as if warding off a blow. Or defending himself from the possibility that Jame's idle comment held a grain of truth. It was typical of him, really; shying away from the truth as a measure of self-defense. He fiercely wanted the man's observation to be wrong. To believe that it had been selfish. It would've made it easier to hate him. He shot Jameson a wry look a second later, fingers restlessly plucking at the comforter. "I wasn't looking for a way out. That was the issue. He misread the signals." It was blunt. Harsh, maybe, given its blatant disregard for his ex-lover's feelings on the matter.

It was surprisingly self-aware, all things considered. One of the hardest things for an addict was the ability to be completely honest with themselves. It had taken Grey well over a year to reach that point. A year of irrational bouts of anger simmering just beneath the surface of his skin. A year of resentment. A year of shaking insecurity that nearly crippled him with the heavy weight of the realization that he was, for once, completely alone. He'd had a year to get acquainted with himself. What he'd found should have disgusted him. And it did--on some level. But it was curiously easy to forgive with a needle in a vein. "No," he agreed, gaze lifting to lock with Jameson's. "Doesn't sound like it stopped you from trying." He didn't point out the hypocrisy of the man's observation.

In part because it would have been cruel. There wasn't any amount of condemnation he could have offered that he likely hadn't heard before. Thought before. It was a venerability, one he'd exposed unasked. And despite the conflicted comradery among their ilk, acceptance was key. It was often all they had. His gaze diverted a second later, roving slowly along the walls. There was a spark of interest there; an intense sort of focus as his eyes tracked across the various images suspended there. He shot a glance over his shoulder at Jameson, the eye contact brief. The way life seemed to spark behind those eyes in that single glance was telling. Suddenly animated. Curious. He barely stifled the impulse to get up from the bed and wander the room to get a closer look. There was pleasure in the restless way his weight shifted. Obvious and immediate. For a brief moment, the vibrancy of color and careful compensation held more appeal than the nearly forgotten contents of the bag.

He started slightly when Jameson spoke, turning to face him once again. "What always happens." He replied, tone flat. The start of a hollow laugh threatened; rattled in his chest, before becoming caught in his throat. It trailed into an impatient noise. "He was a good boy." A pause. "Spent half his life trying to piss his parents off just to prove he wasn't. Thought he was a badass the first time he got his hands on kush. It was fun, at first."

And it had been. Fun. Innocent. Things hadn't started to get bad until a week after he'd agreed to try to clean up. The first time he had, at least. He remembered how his hand had shook so badly he could barely hold the paintbrush. Remembered the firm warmth of the Bryce's chest had pressed against his back. The way his hand had reached over his shoulder to gently grip his wrist, fingers sliding to interlock with his hand with a gentle squeeze, steadying it.

"He couldn't handle it. I..." He paused, a rough exhale sliding past his lips. "I scared him. So he left." A shrug. He was grateful for the change in subject, when it came. "Yeah?" He asked, grin deepening until it sank into a twin pair of dimples. "How cute?"

He considered him for a moment, grin slow to fade. He was typically a shooter. He had sunk to those depths early into his addiction; highs less potent, incomplete, if smoked or snorted. Most developed that kind of natural resistance over a period of years. It had taken him two. "Probably," he said after a beat. Relenting.

[Jameson Dade]

Wasn’t that always the way though? Everyone was always part of the support system, even when that support wasn’t asked for. At least in the beginning, when the problem was just emerging into light. Everyone always wanted to throw themselves at the addiction with their advice and words that, while generally well meaning, were usually hollow in the long run. Most people did not have the staying power to deal with something that was ultimately an affliction that lasted a lifetime. They frankly didn’t get it; that no amount of ‘you-can-do-its’ were going to unseat that hunger inside. Being what Jameson and Grey were, was like having this starving black hole at the center of one’s being. No light could escape, no hope for survival once it started to grow and devour everything in sight. That was the truth beneath the skin.

No. No it had not stopped him from trying. But he’d felt he had owed Emma at least that after the hand he’d had in her son’s death. Ultimately, it hadn’t served him well, because he’d fallen right back off the wagon. But the world wasn’t meant for someone like him. His was a different place, beyond the common senses, a realm of vibrant colour and floating feelings , and Enter Shikari blasting from north to south pole. He was very much an ill-fitting puzzle piece when it came to the jigsaw world.

“I’m pretty sure whatever artist painted on the canvas of our lives is the same guy.” He commented finally after an extended silence, though he left it at that. One day he might tell Grey about Max, but he didn’t really want to. Not then, when he was about to get high. The last thing he needed was to have it ruined either by the creeping memories or by his meal becoming a downer. It was why he’d changed the subject to begin with.

But the common theme of their stories was loss. He wondered for a moment if the other man felt the way that he had after losing Max. Was it the same? Being dumped and having the person you loved die on you? He realized that it didn’t really matter, because he saw himself in Grey. It made him want to get closer, so that was what he did, understated as it was. He wriggled himself towards the other male as the human spoke. How cute indeed. He leveled a look on his companion, the corners of his lips flattening into a line for a second before he was forced to chuckle. He couldn’t manage even false scorn it seemed. The world was too much of a **** hole to take any of it too seriously. “You’re cute enough to get a mostly free high.” He said a second later. Though that didn’t really mean all that much, he supposed.

Grey could have done much the same as him, just ripped someone off. So he licked over his lips to wet them. You’re cute enough for me to not want to kill you. ******. With internal sadface. He was going to follow it up with something else but caught sight of the way that the joy was almost comically sapped right out of those features. Another chuckle, because it was like he had taken a toy right out of a child’s hands, and for some reason, that only made the parallels between them seem to bolden. Too. *******. Cute. He eventually settled on ripping open the bag with a little tug so that the contents spilled over his chest and down to one side on the bed. He finally twisted onto his side so that he could begin to pick through them, beckoning for the other male to lay across from him to peer through their pilfered goods. It seemed like there were a few options to pick from. Oh good.

“If you want to shoot, don’t let me stop you.” He whispered across the space between them. He had seen the track marks after all. He just preferred to smoke.

[Grey Weston]

"Someone ought to have told him his subject matter is bleak as ****. And his color pallets don't match." The words were wry, and perhaps too wide of their mark to be humorous. He was under no delusion. Not anymore. His artistic eye was a clear one. Unflinching in the brutality of his self-examination. He knew what he was. He'd known the moment the pursuit of a high stopped being recreational and had become about need. He knew how he looked, for that matter. Maybe that was why Jameson's remarks had seemed more charitable than sincere. Pale, washed out. Dark circles under his eyes that were as dusky in shade as cheap eyeshadow palettes sold to goth kids in their tweens. All he was missing was an expiration date, neatly tattooed across his forehead. There were days he considered inking it himself; a slow countdown to the inevitable. There was no 'fix' for people like him. No miracle cure. He was his own disease.

He'd felt unmoored, those first few months. Unused to being alone, he'd had to relearn...everything. He'd loved Bryce because he'd been a 'what if?' A glimpse of a life he'd never have the opportunity to know. That was what it boiled down to, in the end; a question of who he'd loved more. It wasn't, in the end, Grey's using that had torn them apart. It was his honesty. He'd spent weeks after referencing a grainy photograph. It'd been taken with a shitty Instax they'd found at a garage sale; ten years old and bulky, the bright fluorescent orange fading into a sunbleached white. He'd taken the photo one late spring morning. He'd still been in bed, sheets pooled around his hips, his back to Grey. The sunlight through the window had thrown bars across his skin, and the wrist of his right arm rested against his shoulder. Fingers outstretched, reaching for his unseen lover, wordlessly enticing him back to bed.

He'd painted it onto canvas and moved it into his bedroom three weeks later. Placed it on the right hand side of the bed so that, when he woke in the mornings, he reach out with his fingers and brush them against the rough surface. Fingertip to fingertip with a still life in some desperate attempt to make sense of how his life had become so...still. He was jarred from his thoughts when the mattress dipped slightly, responding to the shift in Jameson's weight. The man was moving towards him, and for a second he just stared. There was no judgment in his gaze. Because he got it. He understood. He stretched out a second later, one arm cautiously inching across the bed covering to close the distance between them. He hesitated for a split second, before his fingers dropped to brush against skin. The sound of the chuckle forced the corner of his mouth to quirk higher. The expression was at once sweet and self-conscious. As if everything was...new to him.

"Mostly." He eyed him at that. There was a catch, buried beneath those words. A caveat. Everything had a catch. A cost. He'd figured that out pretty quickly. He waited until Jameson was engaged in pawing through the contents of the bag before stretching out. The haphazard way that the contents settled over the sheets seemingly went unnoticed by the pair. It was only when Jameson spoke that he glanced up. The movement was sharp; startled. Like an animal responding to the abrupt snap of the underbrush. He stared at him with a largely unreadable expression. A muted sense of wonder. Cautiously hopeful. As if he'd never heard those words before. Perhaps he hadn't.

Those ten words shouldn't have offered such sublime absolution. And yet. "Such a gentleman." His fingers closed around the tattered remains of a ziploc a second later. The plastic was cloudy. Streaked. But the contents was what he was after; a single clear shard, roughly the size of the tip of his thumb. He was slow in his movements, as he drew it closer. Like a wolf with its belly pressed to the ground, slinking towards a carcass. Unwilling to give up what it clutched in its jaws, but not blindly attached. "Did you want...?" He ground out, words measured. Hushed.

[Jameson Dade]

“Pretty boy, my god paints with all the colours. It only looks grey and muddled because you aren’t looking up close.” Was that from something? He was pretty sure that was from something. Or maybe he had just made it up. Whatever the case, it wasn’t true. It was the kind of thing someone told themselves to feel better about their situation. Like when a girl got dumped and said it was because the guy wasn’t ready for her. He wasn’t mature. The problem couldn’t have possibly been her. Or like when someone on a diet said that they could eat a grease covered burger because they’d had nothing but broccoli for the entire day before that. He was a prodigy in the art of enabling.

The truth was that they were less of a painting and more of a five car pile up waiting to happen. Maybe the cars were pretty colors, maybe they were even expensive – but at the end of the day, they were cold and dead and ended up as hunks of crunched junk that served no more purpose than a paper weight. That was them, at their core. But life was all about perception, wasn’t it? Nobody ever really knew what was right and what was wrong, and nobody certainly had any light to shine that wasn’t at least partially tinted by their own past misdeeds. Everyone told themselves what they wanted to hear, even if what they wanted to hear wasn’t particularly pretty. People had a great deal of power over the world, how they chose to see it.

Maybe his viewpoint was wrong. Maybe it didn’t matter.

“Calm down, I don’t expect anything sleazy.” He replied easily a second later. Though maybe it would have been better to let Grey think that was the case. He hadn’t really been thinking, or he might have realized that having to explain exactly what he wanted was probably going to make him sound crazy.

But at least he wasn’t alone in that, was he? Grey was a little bit animal wasn’t he? Jameson could see it in his eyes. Like he was a wolf who had found a piece of meat. He could almost visualize it, the way that teeth sank into flesh, how a snout dipped and eyes gleamed as they peered into his own with challenge. He could almost hear the rising growl, and see the way that shoulders hunched closer as if the other male could enclose that little piece of heaven. Grey wolf. It was a play on words of sorts, but he made a note to himself to paint the other man onto his wall. Those same features, all pale skin, dark hair and deeply golden eyes. Teeth like fangs. Maybe in the light of the full moon.

He saw it there like a flash.

“No. Consider this part of the exercise voyeuristic.” Which probably ruined his credibility. Who got drugs and was so magnanimous as to not demand any of them for themselves? Did it matter? He doubted his new friend was going to think clearly enough to question it all that much. So he relaxed for the moment, more than content to watch Grey’s process. “My time will come later, I assure you.” He added just after that, as if to try and mitigate whatever damage he might have done, or at least to assuage any sense of alarm his original answer had brought.

[Grey Weston]

Grey shot him a look. The more pragmatic side of him--crueler, blunt--wanted to ask him if he'd pulled the words from the half of How It Works that he hadn't read. A smaller part of him wanted to ask if it helped. If, after a while, it got easier. If he'd one day be able to lie to himself with a similar ease. He remained silent, his expression shifting from one extreme to the next. Wryly skeptical, and then derisive. Mildly pained. The truth was, even if it sounded like ********--and probably was, it was surprisingly insightful. Pretty, even. That was the painful truth, after all; that people like them were capable of creating beauty. Rarely on purpose, almost always unintentionally. Off the cuff. "You read a lot?" He asked at last. He'd asked because the phrasing had sounded like something an English major might've come up with--or at least, someone who treasured words more wholly and blindly than made rational sense.

Grey had always envied that ease with words. The articulate. Which wasn't to say that he wasn't well-spoken himself. It was just that he'd found it harder to speak, over the years. Hadn't seen the point when no one really listened. So he'd learned a new language, made from pigments and camel hair and stapled canvas. Talking without speaking; capturing everything he'd ever seen or overheard or thought or dreamed. A continuous narrative that would exist long after he was gone. He shook off the thoughts when Jameson spoke again. Calm down. There was something funny about that, and his lips split into a grin. The gesture revealed a pair of canines that were surprisingly sharp. Jagged things. Could've been a trick of the light, but it was...ironic.

"I'm calm. I'm not so sure you are." The response was even. Astute. Maybe he should've been nervous. He'd read people long enough to know that, generally, when they requested calm, it was because they were anything but. Self-preservation should've kicked in, then; should've informed him that now would be a good time to leave. He should have been nervous, the moment Jameson assumed he was. "I wasn't worried." The delivery was flat. Matter-of-fact. The implication behind the words was heavy; he'd done worse or similar things in the name of a high before. No such thing as too high of a price. He exhaled a second later, tension gradually easing as he did so. Released on a breath. He'd just started to fish inside of his pocket for his battered Zippo when the other man's words caused him to glance up sharply.

"Not sleazy. Right." There was an edge to the words; an unspoken doubt. A degree of amusement as well. "You know, Jameson..." He finished, dropping the lighter onto the bed cover, hands rising to pull open the dirty Ziploc, fingers slipping inside to fish out the shard. It was about the size of the end of a thumb. Fragments. Well-used. "Maybe the problem is that you're afraid to admit what it is you really want." His fingers curled around the abandoned Zippo a second later, carefully lining it against the bottom corner of the shard that rested on the crumpled plastic bag. He brought it down a second later, cracking and crushing the end that came free with methodical precision. "Mind grabbing me a glass of water?" He asked absently, pushing the tiny pile of powder into the center indention of the bag with the pad of a finger. Practicality would have demanded a spoon as well, but he lacked patience.

Whatever price Jameson had in mind had been all but forgotten.