InsaneJournal

you want to know how it will be / me and him and you and me
Who: Marijuana and Heroin; brief completed AIM scene.
What: An awkward and painful, yet necessary, conversation.
Where: Highway, upstairs apartment.
When: Thursday evening, backdated.
Warnings: Language, mentions of drug use.


Marijuana: The credits rolled but Marijuana didn't want to move. He wasn't sure when it had happened, but, through the course of the movie, he'd ended up firmly entangled with Heroin. In fact, he was practically in his husband's lap, head tucked under the crook of Heroin's neck with his hand firmly immersed in Heroin's hair. His legs had ended up splayed over Heroin's, his free hand had curled tightly in his husband's shirt and hadn't let go. He knew that, once the movie was over, he'd have to bring up the Dave situation and there were a million different things he'd rather be doing before having to tell his husband that he was trying to bring his ex-lover back from the dead.

Reluctantly, he shifted, turning off the TV. Reluctantly, he moved slowly off Heroin's lap and satisfied himself instead with resting his head on his lover's shoulder, with twining their fingers together and just listening to Heroin breathe for a long moment. He closed his eyes and a vision of a coffee mug appeared in his mind. Dave, stirred up by Media. He sighed wistfuly, opening his eyes and shifting back to look at Heroin. "I- husband-mine. May I discuss something with you, something important?"

Heroin: Being wrapped in Marijuana was always a moment of bliss; Heroin had a hand under his husband’s shirt and his cheek on top of Mari’s head and rubbing his arm absently as the closing rolled to an end. It was a reminder of everything that was still right, still good while the rest of the world spun wildly around them. Heroin sighed unhappily as Marijuana moved away from him and his hand slipped from the warmth of Mari’s back and Heroin’s lap felt empty without his husband’s weight, their legs tangled, wonderfully entwined. He drew Mari’s hand up to his lips, kissing their interlocked fingers and stroked his hair with the fingers of his free hand.

The DVD switched back to the main menu and Heroin hit the remote with his toe, too comfortable and lazy to contemplate moving. The television went quiet and Heroin nuzzled the top of Marijuana’s head. “You can discuss anything with me, Geliebte. Especially if it’s important; I’m always here for you.” Heroin traced a line along Mari’s temple to the curve of his jaw and then across to his chin; the fine stubble of hair scraped Heroin’s fingers and he couldn’t resist leaning in for a kiss, all gentleness and reassurance. And for whom? There had been things wrong for too long, and as much as Heroin wanted to make them better -- had to make them better, he was so afraid of what they were. “What’s going on, Mari?”

Marijuana: Marijuana let a soft noise of contentment escape from between his lips and into the gentle kiss, only breaking off from it to rub his cheek lightly against Heroin's. He only moved back slightly to look into hazel eyes and feel comforted by the softness of the colour, feel comforted even though he knew that Heroin's eyes weren't going to be soft for very long. "First, mi amante, I just- want to say, want you to be sure of this; I love you. You're my husband, my big brother, my light, my everything. You're my reason for waking up in the morning and being in your arms is the peace I need to fall asleep every night." Marijuana shifted anxiously, gnawing on his lower lip. "And if you don't want me to- if what I'm about to tell you makes you uncomfortable, if you're against it, just- tell me. And..." Marijuana felt the weight of what he was about to say weighing down on his shoulders and it felt like letting Dave die for the second time. His voice wavered. "And it won't happen."

He was quiet for a long moment, and then the words came out in a torrent of rushed fervour. "I talked to Media recently. About folklore figures, and how a lot of them were mortal once and they died but with all the press and mortal attention they received, they came back to life, immortal and alive and breathing and not dead-" Marijuana broke off, finally taking a breath, a large gulp of air that just rushed out when he started to speak again. "And I asked her if she could do it on purpose, create a folklore figure out of nothing, bring a mortal back from the dead." Marijuana felt too warm, too agitated, his breaths were coming too quickly and not quick enough, his mind was starting to spin but he placed a hand just under his throat in an attempt to calm himself. "I asked her to bring Dave back."

Heroin: The undefined fear of Marijuana’s unhappiness pressed tighter at the edges of Heroin’s mind, crushing his breath when it tried to rise in his throat and reached down, curled his fingers into Mari’s shirt as he shifted and Heroin’s fear sharpened, defined a terror that Marijuana would move another inch away. His disclaimer of love and devotion only fed the fear—why start with a carrot if there wasn’t going to be a whip? Heroin twisted the inches of cotton between his fingers, plucked at the t-shirt, pulling it away from Mari’s back as Heroin’s chin fell to his chest. Media, he was impressed; there weren’t many gods who would have thought of her, to beat death, and fewer with the b—courage to approach her. Drug Prince of the city wasn’t an empty title with Mari, Heroin almost wished it were. He dropped his hand from the cotton and stood up. “I need to make tea,” he announced to the room, to the couch, to Marijuana’s shoulder where it leaned against the back of the couch.

“I—” can’t leave like this, can’t leave him wondering, hurting, unhappy, can’tcan’tcan’tcan’t—Heroin didn’t bother smiling, he kissed the top of Marijuana’s head instead. “I’m…” happy would choke Heroin, he cleared his throat, “it’s a lot, to get my head around at once and I just—I know how important he… is, and anything that could bring him back… I support you. I just need tea.” Heroin fled for the kitchen chased by a ghost that had never and would never really leave their bedroom. Their bed, Heroin felt suddenly, horribly claustrophobic in the familiar hallways leading to the kitchen and threw himself into the nearest counter, grabbed the edge and told himself that Mari was too close to chance screaming. But godsmotherfuckingdamnit Heroin wanted to scream, to rip the countertop off and throw it into a wall, through the wall; he wanted to tear into the cabinets, break everything that wasn’t his and wasn’t ever going to be. He slammed the kettle onto the stove, instead.

Marijuana could have made tea faster, Heroin settled for making it loudly. The tray clanged, the mugs almost crashed, the plate of cookies should, by all rights, have shattered under the force of Heroin dropping it onto the tray. By the time the water whistled, it sounded to Heroin’s ears like the scream he wanted to make. His hand burned when he lifted the kettle, turned an angry red as he poured into the two mugs and the tray rubbed against the fresh burn. It’d heal, though; at least the burn would heal. “I made my birthday blend,” he murmured as he set the tray down, “and I brought the fresh batch of macaroons I made.”

Marijuana: Heroin stood and Marijuana didn't hear anything he said. All Marijuana heard was the increasing rate of his heart beating, too loud in his ears, all Marijuana heard was a hollow void, all Marijuana felt was a hollow void. He wanted to move, wanted to follow Heroin into the kitchen and make sure those noises that were just breaking through the edges of his consciousness weren't noises that meant Heroin was hurting. But Heroin was hurting and Marijuana felt frozen - it was because of him, his fault Dave had died, his fault Heroin was hurting now, and why did he have to keep hurting the people he loved? - frozen and cold. It was with the whistle that Marijuana snapped back into feeling and he practically jumped off the couch with the intention of barreling into the kitchen, all softness and love and reassurance and pathetic queries as to Heroin's emotional state.

Something told him it would be better if he waited, however, and even though he wanted to punch a wall or down a mickey or or roll a ten-gram joint, he ended up at the windowsill, looking out blankly at the apartment building across the street, looking up blankly at a certain fourth-floor window. A few warm tears fell down onto the fingers that were curling tightly into the wood window frame. Wood splintered, broke. But when he felt Heroin's approach, he let pieces of wood fall to the floor, bit a splinter out of his thumb and rubbed at his eyes. "M'not hungry." He mumbled instinctively, giving Heroin a lethargic shrug as he plodded listlessly back to the couch, sinking into the corner and toying with the visible portion of the silver chain that dipped down under his t-shirt.

Marijuana crossed his legs underneath him, shoved his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie as he simply stared into the ashtray on the coffee table. And as much as it would be easier to pretend he was contemplating cigarette butts instead of trying to quell a potential anxiety attack, he blinked a few times before he dragged his eyes in Heroin's general direction, trying to keep his voice even. "If you don't want this to happen, it won't." And he meant it, even as Dave's face surfaced in his mind and caused his eyes to drop back down to the ashtray.

Heroin: Heroin licked his lips, fiddled with the cookies on the plate, reorganizing them quickly to alternate between deep green and white, picked up his mug and put it down, picked at the edge of his burn and watched Marijuana the whole while. He was hurting too, shutting down and Heroin’s fingers itched to dig into Mari’s shoulders and just shake him until he understood.

Though what Mari should understand, Heroin didn’t know. That it was too much? Mari had met with Media, double-crossing-manipulative-back-stabbing-bitch-goddess and—and was bring Dave back; it was too much. Heroin couldn’t process it and Mari was shutting down and Heroin had to fix that and he couldn’t because he still wanted to cry and scream and it wasn’t fair. Nothing was fair. Heroin shut his feelings in their box, promised himself a hunt, and cautiously perched on the arm of the couch, next to his little brother. “You should eat,” he murmured, hazel eyes sharp with worry. “Mari, I—” with his good hand, Heroin ran his thumb along the line of Marijuana’s jaw. “I support you, you know I do.

And Dave…” he licked his lips to search for the words, went back to picking the burn, “Media can bring him back; it was a good move, Mari. It’ll be better to have here again.” Better to live with the truth than be haunted by it, Heroin ripped the skin from his palm and looked futilely for a place to throw it away; instead, he wrapped it in a handkerchief and laid the bundle in a corner of the table, more trash to be taken out later. “Did she… give you any sort of timeline? A month? A year?” His voice wavered; a year waiting under the Damocles’ sword would be… Heroin’s stomach twisted and he swallowed, he wasn’t sure how he’d survive a month of waiting and Mari… probably wouldn’t notice. Heroin winced, not fair, the little voice said, he wasn’t being fair to Mari; nothing was fair.

Marijuana: Marijuana looked at the cookies; they didn't appeal to him like Heroin's baking - and to be fair, all baking, and to be fairer, all food - usually did. He just shook his head, a minute little movement, and shifted, looking like he simply wanted to burrow down into the couch, let it swallow him so that all he could see were threads and cushions and all he could hear were the very muffled noises of New York City. "It can't be that simple." He didn't know, couldn't have any way of confirming how Heroin was feeling other than gut instinct, other than simply knowing that Heroin's words couldn't really be felt. And when he looked up at the sound of skin ripping, his stomache heaved, his pulse quickened, he became more aware of what was going on around him, aware of the fact that, while he couldn't fix whatever was going through Heroin's head, he could try to fix the burn.

Spurred into action, his fingers trembled far more than Marijuana would have liked as he reached under the couch for the first aid kit that Cam had stashed there ages ago. White metal tin held on his knees, it rattled even before Marijuana began to dig through it, his actions a tad manic as he searched for the salve that would help soothe Heroin's pain. Eventually, he found a tube, found bandages, and looked up at Heroin with wavering, needy green eyes. "Let me help?" He gestured uselessly toward the burn. "Talk to me while I help?" Hurting Heroin, had hurt Dave, had hurt Cam... Marijuana thought scathingly that, for the least harmful of the Drugs, he was the one who caused the most pain.

Heroin: ‘It’s not simple,’ the words balanced on the tip of Heroin’s tongue while he winced at the stinging in his hand. It wasn’t often that he felt, in the course of a hundred years he’d inflicted more damage to himself than any police officer and rarely experienced a second of a pain. Time’s changed and circumstances hurt. Heroin flexed his fingers, tugging at the tendons in his hand and winced. The burn had gone deep enough that he shouldn’t have picked—his lips twisted wryly, should have seen that coming. The rattle of metal made Heroin look at Marijuana and the first aide kit in surprise and Heroin almost—almost—reached out to stop the frantic digging. But he only offered his palm when Mari asked, smiled gently and nodded. “Thank you, little brother; I should paid more attention to the kettle I was using,” Heroin kissed his husband’s cheek, little more than a peck which lingered before he straightened and settled closer on the couch.

He almost went on, talked about the selection of mugs and tea and cookies and plates and everything he’d done in the kitchen; Marijuana asked Heroin to talk and it would be talking, just unhelpfully. Taking a deep breath, he cautiously laid his cheek on Mari’s shoulder. "I don’t know what else to say. I do support you, whatever choice you make and Dave,” he licked his lips, shut his eyes and focused on each slow breath, “I can’t even begin to say I know what he means to you, Mari. But I know things haven’t been right here since… they haven’t been right for a month. And Media… she wouldn’t have agreed if she wasn’t going to do it. It’s just… it’s a lot to take in.”

Marijuana: As much as his fingers had trembled while locating what he needed, they were still, still and loving and gentle as Marijuana slowly, carefully, spread the salve over the anger-red burn. He had caused it, he would fix it. His head bowed, eyes focusing solely on what he could do to fix his selfish nature, the nature that made it so he could not even let go of his loved ones, even in their death. "Tell me to stop if it hurts too much, big brother." He mumbled, fingertips ghostly-light as they worked, spreading the salve that would ease the heat, ease the pain. A pain-killer shouldn't ever have to hurt. Once the wound was shiny from more than just the damaged skin, Marijuana cradled it in his lap, knowing that he had to wait until the salve soaked in before he could bandage it.

He didn't want to wait. It was evidence, staring up at him angrily, of what he had done to Heroin by being so selfish but he focused, his own emotional turmoil bedamned, on Heroin's words. "It is. A lot, I mean." Hadn't Heroin asked a question earlier? Marijuana's thinking was evening out, his mind slowing a tad, and he could at least attempt to focus on words instead of pain. "And she didn't give me a timeline, I just... I'm putting it in her hands and trying not to hope too hard, too deeply." Marijuana sighed lightly, chanced a glance down at Heroin, chanced leaning down to press a kiss to the top of his head. "M'going to bandage it now, alright? Then maybe we can go to bed early, maybe take the cookies with us. I'll eat." Slowly, carefully, like he couldn't be too gentle, he wound the gauze bandage around his husband's hand, not pressing, but ensuring that it was tight enough to be helpful and protective. "And I know you support me, but- I was telling the truth when I said that, if you didn't want this to happen, it wouldn't. All you have to do is say the word, Heroin-husband-brother-lover-mine, and I'll call it off."

Heroin: The salve felt like mint, stinging in its cold and refreshing even in its bite; Heroin fidgeted a little, pressed closer to his husband until their knees bumped together and he was almost painted to Mari’s side. Heroin laid his free hand on Marijuana’s shoulder, kissed the curve of it softly and Heroin rested his forehead there. They fit. And he was so tired, his eyes shut and he wanted so badly to stay like that, to curl into Mari’s side and just sleep. Heroin struggled away from sleep, the exhaustion that clung to his bones and chanced a light kiss to his husband-brother-lover’s temple. “You don’t hurt me,” he whispered, combing his fingers carefully through Mari’s black hair. “I hurt myself.” Heroin’s fingers moved restlessly through his lover’s hair, playing with the waves and smoothing stray strands back behind Mari’s ears again. Distantly, Heroin nodded, he understood that bandaging in a way that he couldn’t entirely understand anything more.

But it was reassuring, Marijuana still cared, still took care of him. He laid his cheek back on Mari’s shoulder and watched the steady winding of light gauze in his so-capable hands. “If anyone can… it’s Media. I understand not wanting to… and she’s not all that inclined to share her inner workings, either. Secretive bitch,” Heroin murmured softly as he snuggled closer. His hand was almost fully wrapped, but moving it out of Mari’s hands, his lap, was unthinkable. “Geliebte—Marihuana,” Heroin whispered, closed his eyes; Dave’s death had put a rift between them, more than the distance between Phaedra’s home and the Highway. Asking Marijuana to let Dave stay dead… if the first death was unintentional, then this one would be murder. “I want this to happen; if there’s any chance she can bring him back, then we should take it.” Heroin covered Marijuana’s hand with his own, bandaged one and squeezed reassuringly

Marijuana: "Because of me." Marijuana countered quietly, smoothing out the bandages carefully before trailing his fingertips over unburnt wrist, almost to reassure himself that there was a part of Heroin that Marijuana's own selfishness hadn't marred. But there was comfort being offered, restless fingers in his hair and Marijuana let the sensation of touch and contact ease his mind, settle the voice that was saying that no matter what he did, he'd be hurting someone. He tilted his head toward Heroin's hand and just wanted to stay like that; with Heroin's hand in his hair and the memory of Heroin's lips against his temple.

Slowly finishing his task, his shoulders slumped; there wasn't anything more he could do to heal the damaged skin, wasn't anything more he could do to bridge the gulf between them, wasn't anything more he could do to soothe Heroin's flesh or mind. "If you're sure." The words were simple, Marijuana's voice as tired as he felt; dinner with the Four and this in one day, it was too much for Marijuana to handle smoothly, too much for either of them to handle smoothly. He didn't squeeze Heroin's hand in return, he didn't want to cause more pain, but he did tilt his head to press a light kiss to Heroin's cheek. Slowly, he shifted, feeling horribly human - tired, scared, anxious, hungry - it was the last sensation that had him leaning forward just enough to take a single cookie. Taking a bite, he barely registered the taste before he offered the remainder to Heroin. "Do you want to go to sleep now?" He simply wanted to close his eyes and forget that pain even existed. "I can carry you, if you want. I like carrying you to bed, taking care of you."

Heroin: “No,” Heroin said firmly and kissed his lover’s temple. “You take care of me, Geliebte, you always have.” He ducked his head, nuzzled along the underside of Marijuana’s jaw and lingered there, breath brushing against the crook of his neck. When he slumped, Heroin’s had slid from his husband’s hair so he could wrap an arm around him and hug him tightly while Heroin burrowed even more. The day felt endless, unwinding during the movie seemed impossibly distant while the dinner and Dave blurred together. Heroin rubbed his thumb over Marijuana’s knuckles as he was kissed and kissed back, the curve of his husband’s lips. An almost smile hovered over Heroin’s mouth as his lover tried one of the green cookies, he finished what was offered, made a note to use less mint next time, and snuggled back into the nook of Mari’s side. Heroin nodded, to everything, his cheek rubbing against his husband’s chest and wrinkling the t-shirt. “Please? I love you carrying me, Marihuana, I love you.”

Marijuana: Marijuana wanted to refute Heroin's statement; his selfish desires were causing Heroin pain, that much was certain, but his mind was too hazy to do much more than shake his head just a tad. But he didn't also didn't want to start an argument, not when they seemed to be in a halfway decent case, as shaky as their foundation was. Heroin's tight embrace, the kiss Heroin pressed to the curve of his lips, his mind eased a tad more, eased enough for the corners of Marijuana's lips to quirk up slightly. He was level enough to lean down, kiss Heroin softly, licking an errant crumb from his husband's lower lip before he pulled back enough to gaze down at his older brother. "I love you too." It came out in a whisper, weighted down with apologies and buoyed up with hope for a better future. And then Marijuana shifted, drew Heroin gently into his lap, one hand sliding under his brother's knees to hold him up and the other slipping around his husband's shoulders to cradle him lovingly against his chest. It didn't take him much strength to stand and take Heroin with him; carrying Heroin was easy, it was speaking to Heroin about Dave that was difficult. His arms tightened, he buried his nose down in Heroin's hair as he walked, only teetering once in the hallway. Marijuana pressed a light kiss to Heroin's forehead as they reached the bed before gently leaning down, laying his husband-brother down on the mattress carefully, making sure not to nudge or brush up against Heroin's injured hand.

Pulling the covers up and around his husband, Marijuana wavered, standing and unsure for just a moment. But his cheeks flushed sheepishly and he slipped under the comforter with Heroin, tentatively reaching out and drawing Heroin in against his chest. "I love you." He repeated fervently, resting his forehead against his husband's shoulder.