Phaedra M. Paderborn (painbreak) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-12-14 02:17:00 |
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Entry tags: | heroin, morphine |
Who: Heroin [addictedness] & Morphine [painbreak]
What: Partial Log, to be (possibly) completed via thread.
When: Wednesday afternoon/early evening, following this.
Where: Phaedra's office ---> the Highway
Warnings: Mild drug references
Johnny had slumped blissfully between waking and sleep for over an hour in her office, his eyes never quite fully open or closed, but at peace, momentarily - the lightness of being, the ease and relax of his muscles, the slowed breathing. It had all been there. And she had slid into her desk chair, watching him, and attempting to complete the paperwork she had started before his arrival, to no avail. She had turned in her chair to gaze out the one window in the office, drawing the curtains back slightly to peer into the grey light of noon, her own eyes bright and touched by the sweet euphoria coursing through Johnny's body. She had given him a dose that would throw a mortal into a mild coma, but for a man, an immortal man, who had used and abused her substance for five years, over a century and some decades earlier, like Johnny, quite a bit was needed. When his breathing rate slowly increased, and he slowly came back to his senses - although not entirely, but enough to move, Phaedra was by his side, assisting him to a stand. She was petite, but she was strong, and she looped one of his arms over her shoulder, guiding him out of the office, down the hall, into the lobby. Martin had given her a strange look, but said nothing - he got up, towering over Phaedra as he did, and opened the door to the outside for her. A taxi was idling by the curb. She had helped Johnny ease into the back seat, and slipped in after him. A whispered word to him, and she had his address. The taxi had drifted through the city, and Johnny had slipped in and out of clarity, sometimes speaking, sometimes rambling, sometimes remaining absolutely silent. But she had his address now, and as she guided him out of the taxi to his residence, she watched him open the door slowly, and disappear behind it shortly thereafter. Sighing contentedly, she fell back into the back seat of the taxi, murmured a new address, and where to stop. Some twenty minutes later, the taxi was pulling away, Phaedra was lingering at the border of her organic brother's territory, ten blocks east of the Highway, and she pulled her lab coat around her snugly, having forgotten to grab her winter coat on her way out of the clinic. She waited. Her hair was bright but slightly disheveled; her eyes were wide but there would be a notably... off... glint to them. It was cold. But she would wait.
Across town, seated at the soundboard of his recording studio, Heroin had paused as his Self flowed through her soldier's veins again - as her hair grew redder and her eyes grew bluer something shifted and rippled along the connection between the twin substances. He didn't wait any longer. Trusting to instinct, he locked the building on his way out - there was little chance of returning - and guided the motorcycle into the stream of traffic. As he rode, the place in him that was her, echoed as with the change. Or rather, the return of something lost long before his own creation. The soldier come home to Bliss; underneath his helmet Heroin smiled and it was a baring of teeth. This was good; this was as it should be. He took the corner sharply, relished the control of the machine beneath him and the burn as his hand scraped across the road. Fingers torn to the bone mended as he straighted the bike, careless from the rush of euphoria that built in Morphine, in Johnny, and by the time that he pulled to a dead stop, Heroin was alight in shared sensation. He tossed his head back and savoured the taste of Morphine, SisterTwinSelfGoddess before he brought his own power up like an old cloak to ward back the chill. Even if chill was the last thing he felt.
Back on his own two feet, Heroin tucked the helmet into a saddle bag and walked the block to meet his sister. Her hair was indeed brightened, her eyes lighter - or would be, in his face - and Heroin's smile glinted like the flash of a razor the second before he swept in his arms and a tight, spinning, whirling, disorienting hug. "Beautiful Mae, dearest Phaedra. You feel so light - Father Opium would be so distressed."
Phaedra was swaying on the flat heels of her shoes, not quite able to stay still, even as the breeze whipped around her, the cold sliced through her - she felt none of it. She felt him approach before she saw him, heard the growl of his motorcycle close now, closer still, so close. She inclined her chin up, bright eyes flickering across the pale sky above, and a light smile touched her lips, as her arms unfolded and she swung them idly by her sides, a hand lifting to toss errant curls of red from her face, which, despite the way she had pulled her hair back that morning, were not staying in place. She almost started humming to herself, and idle passer-bys may have mistaken her for a loon - what, with the white lab coat, tousled up-do and the distinct off feeling about her. But then, then she was up and off her feet and in the warm arms of her brother-Self, and that light smile slid insidiously into a wry smirk. Thin arm came to loop about his neck, the toes of her expensive flats scraping the pavement as she was lifted - she didn't care. Shoes were nothing in comparison to the feelings that she was suddenly sharing with her twin, his joy and warmth making her forget the cold, and ascending her blissful tip of power from Johnny's use to a higher level she thought possible. An airy, distant laugh escaped her lips.
"Metabolism, sweet Hazel. Metabolism." Smirking still, she tilted her head, light in her eyes. Her voice was darker, an undercurrent of pride and need so familiar to their family.
For a moment, it seemed that eternity was in bliss. The euphoria resonated in all the places that Morphine dwelled within her twin; Heroin would have held them like that until all the days faded into nothing. And, for a precious second, they did. It was a moment that he would never try to describe, being caught in the ocean’s pull, being the ocean’s pull, being submerged and submerging all at once and the world blurred around them as he spun. Then, with exquisite care, he set her on her feet again. Heroin smiled to see her smirk and smiled to hear the shadow in her voice. He kissed her cheek for the joy of it and kept his arms loose around her shoulders.
“Indeed? Is that your secret, my lovely twin? And all these years I’ve thought there was a portrait stashed away in your cheese cellar.” His eyes sparkled dizzyingly, white and silver and gold and blue all mixed in with the typical hazel. A few stray glances lingered on them, but Heroin was captivated in his twin’s joy and ignored the looks he felt as he had arm draped around her shoulders. “One way or the other, Father-Brother will have my head on a very ugly platter if I keep you out here to catch a chill. Would you like to come home to my parlor? Or to the top of the Empire State Building? Your destination is my command.”
Her sweet smile lingered. Tides were receding within their shared subconscious space, dramatic and slow, and oh, this was a tidal wave that Morphine so desired. Let it fall. Let it crash over me, she thought a cooling thought, as her brother let her regain her footing on the cement below. She would not mind not touching that ground all day, if it meant being with Hazel as she was now, while, across the city, the soldier still drifted in and out of her world. That, paired with the use of her substance that was the everyday, the mundane acts of life-giving and life-saving and pain-relieving, made her senses expand, his kiss and touch to her threefold as intense as they would be on any given day. And, she leaned into her brother just slightly, the closeness not only for warmth but for his energy was fierce, and she could taste it.
"Well, there may be such a portrait, but for the cheese cellar, I am not so certain," she said with a slight arc in her brow. "But, I am sure it would be a beautifully ugly platter, brother. As lovely as the Empire State Building might be today, the warmth and comfort of your parlor sounds divine, Hazel, for it is closer to us now, yes?" Hand pressed gently to his chest, peering up at him with fiery-light-blue eyes, flashing a silver- violet in the afternoon light. She knew his home was now where her organic brother, and others, lived and worked, but she pushed that thought away, knowing Heroin would realize Morphine was not the sort to flagrantly share this change and shift in demeanor with all of their kin.
Each touch that passed between them, Opiate-kin, flowed with the grace and burn of lighting through oceans – splitting heroin and morphine, merging Heroin and Morphine, all spinning molecules and same-ness. He covered her hand where it rested on his chest, so much smaller than his own, and as he thought the word ‘dainty,' Heroin couldn’t but smile and let the rush of power in his sister wash away that impression. With an arm slipped ‘round her waist, he held her close and let that rush burn away so many other things as he enjoyed the particular feeling of being pinned by those bright eyes.
Still grinning, rather fiercely, too, he tilted his head to better take in the full picture she presented and the full range of answers owed. “No cheese cellar? I’m almost certain that should scandalize someone – but I have no idea whom,” he winked and held her slightly closer. “And then you have far more confidence in his taste than I’ve ever entertained. Unless you meant to imply that my head would improve the platter in which case… I’m honestly not sure what reply I can make except that, for some, my head being on a platter would be so deeply appreciated that even Opium’s taste in platters could not take away from their joy.” By the end of the speech-bordering-on-soliloquy by Heroin’s standards, his eyes had taken on a sparkle that Morphine alone saw; it was equally light and dark, all mischief and delight in the face of what typically gave him pain. But then, what was pain when Morphine and Heroin rode her euphoria together, fed together? Her on her solider, and him upon her.
“The Empire State building may wait then, my lady; it would be my honor to take you to my home.” His arm remained around her waist, and it was only a sense of decorum formed in the nineteenth century that kept Heroin from simply sweeping her up and carrying her back to the motorcycle. Though, on second thought – he lifted her into his arms with little trouble, she was light, and frail as he looked, Heroin held the strength of his addicts and his family. The looks increased, but he carried her easily up the block to where he had left the Ducati and made sure she was settled before he slid in front of her. Helmets and jackets remained in the saddlebags; this was Marijuana’s territory and police were never the issue.
The ride to the Highway was blessedly brief, though the hum of the motorcycle had begun to take on the cadence of drums in the last few moments before Heroin pulled into the drive. He was off first, picked Morphine up again and set her on the ground with a kiss and a smile. “Brotherly license,” he murmured as excuse or explanation, it hardly mattered when neither were really needed. The shop was busy, but Heroin maneuvered them through without notice and up the steps that led to his shared apartment. It reflected Marijuana first; his scent which always comforted Heroin and his decorating, which did not, was still the most apparent. But Heroin had begun to make inroads and under the posters and knick-knacks there was a neo-Victorian living room.* “Is there something that you would like, Phaedra? We will be undisturbed, I’m sure.” And oh, he was.
"Scandalize someone, sweetheart? I would never do such a thing," spoken and slipping into a whisper of laughter at his elongated, poetic mini-speech about platters and his head, and despite the morbid connotations underpinning his words, she was smiling once more. "Oh!" She exclaimed with mock surprise lacing her voice, as she was again lifted, carried and perched on the back of the motorcycle. How terribly romantic, and a relief - she had been silently bouncing off clouds since earlier that day, making it hard, sometimes, to remember there was indeed ground beneath her feet. The city and buildings blurred past her eyes, like paint haphazardly smeared across raw canvas. She enjoyed the brief wind through her hair, tousling her up-do to the point calling it an 'up-do' was a lost cause - by the time she stepped through the threshold of the Highway, her hair was down and splayed across her shoulders in a riot of auburn-crimson curls and waves. She glanced around the interior of the entryway quietly as her brother lead her up the stairs, with images and familiarity drifting through her mind, memories of the week she spent following the... assault. But that was so far away now, so distant, and so it was as if she looked upon the interior in a new light.
Phaedra inhaled lightly as they slipped through the doorway of the space Hazel shared with Marc, Heroin with Marijuana. A concept and pairing in her mind that she could never quite have foretold, but was taking it all in stride, fluidly. She was too old and too bound to Heroin to raise issue with who her brother fell in love with, and the love for poetry within her thought the whole thing terribly fascinating. "Mm, charming decorations," she mused sardonically, but sweetly, as Hazel made his way through posters and various odds'n'ends. She could smell the earthy smell of dirt and smoke and organic, and she did not mind, knowing the smells were now integral to Heroin's emotional well being.
And there, a sitting room, Victorian in style but updated to suit her brother's modernized tastes. She relaxed even more than she had previously, nearly dripping into the nearest, soft seating she could find, sinking into comfort and ease. For a while, she would forget work, and the clinic - and the patients whose problems and pains were nothing to her in that moment. Bringing a hand up to her face, closing her fingers softly, she leaned her head on her knuckles, thoughtfully, staring up at Heroin with distant but adoring eyes. "I have everything I might need with me," she murmured warmly. "But tea? Tea would be divine."
“Well,” Heroin began and then stopped and shrugged. The Highway was undeniably more Marijuana’s than his and, for the most, Heroin was content with that. But it was different to see Phaedra within the comforting four walls, embraced by the earthly smoke and reclined upon the couch Mari had bought as conciliation. The building euphoria faltered under the weight of worry and, on its heels, hurt that he should worry. And no amount of power coursing through her veins, or her substance rushing through the veins of her solider, would blind Morphine to the feelings and nuances in her twin. So he walked away. The kitchen was on his left and he set about making tea – proper tea, as it should be, for his twin. Measuring out loose tea leaves for a blend as the water boiled, Heroin breathed the mix of smoke and fresh tea and forced the tension from his shoulders. It almost worked. The rush of power warred with the sudden descent and Heroin managed a tentative equilibrium. Once the kettle whistled, any Opiate but Morphine would have believed him perfectly at ease. Even Heroin believed it, as far as he could.
The tray he chose was hardly better than one Opium would have selected: a mess of floral patterns, interconnected vines and little flowers spilled over the china face. He set down two mugs, the tea pot and service and a little plate of lemon meringue cookies and slices of pumpkin bread. He set the entire affair down on the wood-and-glass coffee table before his sister and executed a half-bow before he kissed her cheek again. It was not a question of who was reassured by the gesture, because it was for both of them. “And do you now have everything you need, sister-Self?” The light was back in his eyes as he asked, settling next to her on the couch and offering the silver-violet mug to her. The familiarity of the gestures soothed him; eased the knotted feelings that surrounded a home not wholly his own – the Opiates were always so much a part of each other, Heroin couldn’t conceive of home where Phaedra wasn’t as welcome as he was. And with home and Opiate and Marijuana all tangled at crosses with each other, Heroin shoved the snarl to the back of his mind and took up his own mug.
Phaedra witnessed the sinking emotion within Hazel - the muscles of his jaw tensing, the colors of his eyes imperceptibly shifting, nuances and suggestions that something other than shared delight was between them. The corners of her lips twitched slightly as a shadow rippled through her, making her pause in this moment of quiet pride and pleasure within herself. While he was in the kitchen, she found herself staring blankly ahead of her, her mind slipping, teetering, questioning. It was only when the kettle whistled that she snapped from this glitch in her proverbial wiring, gaze lighting upon her twin-Self as he slipped back into the parlor. She would not voice her concern, for there may have still been the taint of said concern in her light eyes. It was a brief splinter in her otherwise composed, albeit slightly tousled, facade.
She watched him slowly, as he went through the motions of setting down the delightfully printed tray, the tea, the baked sweets. As her brother leaned to kiss her cheek, she lifted a hand, soft and small fingertips coming to splay warmly along the angle of his jaw as he moved away. "Everything I need, and more. It is lovely, Hazel." Smelling the pumpkin bread, she let a smile illuminate her face once more, though now, there was a slightly questioning air to her voice. She leaned, plucking up a cookie to nibble on its meringue delight, tilting her head as she kept her eyes on her twin, mirth and concern mingling in strange, sisterly ways within her gaze. She could place the feelings within her, and thus within him, but could not find words in her thoughts to give to these feelings, because they were not hers, and they were his, and they were lost like a breeze, ephemeral. Worry was transitory when she was with him, and she was his anchor. She drew her legs up beneath her. "I remember my first high tea... so long ago. Mm, but not nearly as sweet as these treats," she smirked, barely noticing she was on her own little speech-bordering-on-soliloquy. "Or it is quite possible they were as sweet, but by 1885 I had acquired quite the corset. It was... impossible to eat, you might say." And he wondered why she was so slight. Then, so was he. High tea took on an entirely different note within the context of Heroin and Morphine.
Moods were transitory when the two Opiates were in each other’s presence; it was emotion that lingered. Heroin recalled the breath of her joy, the purity of her satisfaction and let those feelings be as much an anchor to him as she was, and both pulled him free from the worry-in-the-moment as he sipped the bloody orange and currant tea. This was home now, shared and home and Heroin savored a deep breath, picked apart the unique scents that filled his parlor and felt himself melt into them. This was home, Marijuana and Morphine and tea and days before the snow and moments of peaceful madness that trickled through his senses into another true smile, made of dreaming fragments and wishes granted. “Your company makes it far more lovely, Phaedra. As you know.” Wordlessly, he held the hand that had rested on his jaw and laid a light kiss against her knuckles. The moment lingered; then he squeezed her fingers gently and wrapped both hands around the warmth of his mug.
Heroin mirrored Phaedra and drew his legs up, a move that would have been delightfully awkward in front of anyone else but was smooth and easy in her presence. Facing her, half-way leaning in, he rose an eyebrow as he spoke, “but wouldn’t the nature of a high tea make the memory a bit fuzzy, sister-mine?” He grinned, giggled really and picked up a slice of pumpkin bread to nibble on. “Mm, I remember corsets – perhaps it’s why I’ve never understood the fuss about bras. Comparatively speaking, they’re fairly un-inhibiting.” There was no giggle, no grin, only a sincerely thoughtful expression on Heroin’s face – except for the light in his eyes that invited mischief as well as introspection on the evolution of feminine lingerie.
"Opiate-clouded memories are ever the most delightful, Hazel." She returned the grin, although hers was sleepy and giddy all at once, a surreal expression - part of her was not even there, it may have seemed. Part of her was with Johnny, spreading through him. She wanted it to last. She knew it would last for him for some time, but not long enough for her. "Indeed, bras do not deform a woman's middle," she sipped her tea slowly, the steam warm and pleasant as it drifted up from the cup and onto her skin. For a woman of an age known for its propriety, discussing the history and evolution of lingerie once upon a time would have seemed truly risque. But not now, not with Hazel. She smiled inwardly at her brother's subdued expression and gesture and the way he sat; everything about him, magnified in her senses because of her heightened awareness that was not quite awareness, but something beyond. Her voice darkened just a touch as she continued, her eyes flickering their papaver somniferum violet in the dim, warm light. "When I found Johnny, the first time, I knew not the beautiful discomfort of corsets. I believe I only had... one or two gowns, simple shifts, truly. White, and blue. The white... it is still in my attic," pause, sip, nibble on the pumpkin bread as if she were discussing the weather. "Stains from Johnny Reb's many deaths have made it... something of a different color." She sighed wistfully.
She shifted her shoulders in a subtle wiggling motion into the cushions behind her, sitting close to her brother, leeching his warmth in the best of ways, clutching her tea, staring over the brim thoughtfully. "Five years following, he was... mine." A possessive quiet trickled through the word mine, yet it was not fierce, not threatening - it was simply fact. She turned to look at her brother. "I would like to keep him under the opiate thrall, Heroin." Now, there was a whispered ferocity, rare but potent when spoken by Morphine. Would she employ the help of her brother if meant keeping her soldier enthralled once more?