Who: Methadone and Ketamine. What: Talking. Where: Methadone's apartment. When: Wednesday, mid-evening. Warnings: Possible language, drug references, will update as needed.
Another long day, but, really, every day was a long day. New patients, curled around themselves in uncomfortable waiting-room chairs. Charts overflowing out of file cabinets. Measurements and glasses of juice, needing eyes and shaking fingers; it never changed and that was what Methadone depended on for survival, that nothing would ever really change. So it was stressful and repetitive, but it was what drove him on, drove him to never give up and, for that, Methadone could handle occasional ennui. Still, on the rather short walk home from the hospital - yes, he had a car, but why bother with it when the weather was beautiful? - Methadone couldn't help but think that he'd never really been bored before, bored of the tasks that kept him alive. Perhaps it was Ketamine's influence; Ketamine was practically the antithesis of routine and order. Or perhaps Methadone just wanted Ketamine around as much as possible and any time he was without his younger brother, he felt the need to rectify that immediately. Or, well, as immediately as he could when he was working an eighty-hour work week that seemed to be getting longer and longer with each passing week. Such was the life of a medical resident, however, although the years between this stage of the process and actually being licensed and able to open his own practice seemed to stretch out in front of him like skin stretched over the ribs of an addict.
When he reached his apartment building, he shook his head slightly to clear it of cobwebs, of thoughts that twisted over themselves, tangled up into messes that couldn't really be fixed. And even from downstairs, he could feel Ketamine's presence in his apartment; that sensation made his pace quicken as he walked quickly up the stairs. The elevator would take too long, after all. The first thing he noticed when he opened the door to his apartment was Ketamine curled up on the couch, the light from the aquarium playing over his brother's face in a way that made Methadone smile lightly as he slipped out of his shoes and loosened his tie somewhat. A glance toward the kitchen as he crossed the main area of the apartment told him that there was dinner in the fridge for him, Lilly having made it, placed it in the fridge, and then retreating to her bedroom, likely when Ketamine had arrived. But Methadone wasn't all that worried about dinner, or overly hungry; no, he just made his way to the couch to lean against the arm, reaching down to run careful, affectionate fingers through Ketamine's hair.