Who: Methadone and Heroin. What: Sibling discussions. Where:The Whitney Museum of American Art. When: Wednesday, early evening. Warnings: Possible language and drug references.
Calling Heroin and asking his brother to meet him at the location of his choice, as long as Heroin didn't choose Mount Sinai, had been the easy part for Methadone. Well, it hadn't been precisely easy to make the call and face up to the almost terrifying process of having to apologize to his brother for his most recent offence against him, but the actual meeting would be a billion times harder, a billion times more nerve-wracking. At least, though, Heroin had wanted to meet in a museum, which brought back memories of the two of them visiting cultural centers in the early days of Methadone's existence in America, brought back memories of Heroin trying to explain to his brother how art invoked feelings and emotions when all the younger Opiate had wanted to do was study how molecules interacted with each other; that made sense and colours forming emotions most definitely did not make sense. And since Methadone's inability to comprehend art made him a tad less at ease than he already was at the prospect of having to apologize to Heroin and try to work things out, Methadone's layers of mental barriers and defence mechanisms had been laid on rather thick before he'd even approached the museum. Clothes were not the best armor, of course not, but Methadone had always felt more level-headed when dressed in sharp, crisp, formal clothing and it didn't take much effort to dress for this meeting; he had gone into work in gray slacks, a white dress shirt and a gray tie and removing the white lab coat and replacing it with a matching suit jacket before slipping on shoes buffed until they shined was a routine that held some sense of comfort for Methadone.
The clothes were just one layer, however. There was something to be said for the ability to blanken one's face and show nothing but exterior calm, no matter what was going on below the surface. And there was a lot going on in Methadone's mind; Ketamine had left on vacation, giving Methadone time alone to process, process the frightening prospect of opening up enough to let someone else inside, process the potential damage Methadone had done to his already-strained relationship with Heroin. As much as Methadone was deeply concerned about retaining his familial bond with Heroin, he was more concerned with how Heroin felt about Ketamine; Methadone's older brother had every right to be angry, but Methadone wanted him to be angry not with Ketamine, but with him instead. If he had to bear the brunt of Heroin's anger, he would, easily and without too much complaint, if it would spare Ketamine. However, he would try to work things out with Heroin first and then take that route, if it ended up being needed. As he wandered through the museum, keeping his senses peeled for that twinge on the edge of his consciousness that would alert him to Heroin's arrival, Methadone layered more blankets of calm around him as he took in the paintings, not really understanding any of them.
When he came to a certain painting, however, Methadone had to stop. He leveled it with a stare that almost looked like a minute, confused glare, as if he was insulted by the painting's very existence; why did artists have to be so damned illogical? While he was trying to figure it out, wishing that Ketamine was with him, because it seemed like his younger brother's sort of painting, he felt more than heard Heroin come up behind him. His shoulders immediately stiffened somewhat and Methadone let the confusion bleed from his eyes as he turned, his face smoothed of anything other than calm and the corners of his lips quirking up. "Older brother, thank you for meeting me. What do you suppose the artist was trying to say with this piece, other than 'I was on a lot of drugs'?" Might as well start it off on a slightly humourous note.