All the cash, which, to his surprise, turned out to be a grand total of seven hundred and fifty dollars, sat in his pocket for hours, and once more he was sleeping in his car, this time with a full tank of gas and a stocked supply of necessities. And almost seven hundred dollars in his wallet. A but unreal. Funny, where being with Paul had made him want to strip all the vice out of him, now Johnny was practically drooling at the thought of cocaine and booze, pills and powders, just anything he could get his hands on. As always, the idea of self-indulgent excess had him practically on fire, shivering in anticipation of letting himself go far beyond control. Selfish. So incredibly selfish. Stupid Johnny, with his disgusting habits, indulging himself without a care for anyone or anything else. Drowning himself in reckless, filthy misery. Stupid, lazy, irresponsible boy, his mother's voice echoed from the corners of his mind, a voice that hadn't been real in a long time, but made his head spin and his heart race just the same.
The whole day passed. Then the rest of the weekend. By Monday, he was fumbling around, wandering the streets in a daze, buying a pack of cigarettes, because Paul had liked it when he smelled like smoke, and now he can't stand the smell of anything else. His mind ran in loops, like a record with a scratch in it. Drove and stopped more times than he could remember. Drank. Shot up in the car, lying in the backseat.
And with bloodshot eyes and a shaking, jittering body, admitting to himself that there was nowhere else to be, he found himself knocking at a familiar apartment door. He stood there in his dirty old jacket, feeling the wind whip the ends of his hair into his face, trying to look sober. The numbness in his bones begged him to go to sleep. The shivers and stabs of pain underneath made him grit his teeth as he knocked his fist harshly against the door again, harder, muttering vicious nothings to himself.
He was sure his good friend would take one look at him and know everything, and judging by the way the door opened and a long stretch of silence covered him in an oppressive wave, he figured it was all over. Van was looking at him like he was a pile of filthy garbage that had been dumped on his doorstep. Like he was the ugliest thing Van had ever seen, despite the fact they both knew Van wasn't much better. He let Johnny in without a word.
Twitchy and miserable, Johnny collapsed on the couch. The familiar surroundings, the couch, the television, the shelves lined with dusty crap. Everything in the home smelled heavily of smoke.
Van didn't ask any questions. Didn't act concerned, or invite him to stay, but he also didn't make him leave. He only went to pour himself a drink, left the bottle on the coffee table, and headed back to bed. After a moment, there was the sound of faint shuffling and a sigh, then nothing. Staring at the bottle until his eyes couldn't focus anymore, Johnny couldn't find it in him to grab it, despite the ache and the sweat breaking out. Sprawled on his stomach, half-conscious, he only wanted sleep, something to hold off the sickness.
With no recollection of how he managed any sleep in the first place, he awoke to sunlight streaming in through a dirty window and the sound of someone rattling around in the small kitchen. Must be Van. The soft sound of running water; a glass put beside him on the coffee table. And then nothing. He would've asked for a ride somewhere, but despite a rough hangover, the dregs of the high were still numbing his mind and he simply dragged himself upright and got comfortable. He glanced to the kitchen, intending to ask Van what he thought of last night, but was struck dumb for a minute as he realized, through blurry vision, that the figure in the kitchen was most definitely not Van. Too short, too skinny, a mop of shaggy black hair and small delicate features.
After a moment Cole noticed Johnny staring at him. Johnny was too dumbstruck to do anything but blink, face frozen in surprise at the presence of their teenage bassist in his friend's kitchen so early in the morning. Standing there holding a carton of orange juice, dressed in something much too big with some faded 80s band logo printed on it, probably something of Van's, eyes wide and staring. Silent and still, and clearly freaked.
The stare was broken as the kid turned away and shuffled quietly into the tiny kitchen. Johnny could hear the clinking and fumbling, the clumsy sound of cups meeting counter tops, the bang of a cabinet being shut too quickly. Van emerged from the bedroom moments later, hair a mess and eyes darker than usual. Bare-chested, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, leaning on the door frame and gazing with exhausted, heavy-lidded eyes across the room to Cole.
"Makin' us breakfast, quillo? Goddamn, hope not. I'd like you to keep your fingers attached."
Cole tensed, lips pinched closed, fingers curling around the handle of a drawer. "Coffee's ready."
"Van," Johnny forced his voice to work. "What the fuck is going on?" He wasn't entirely sure why he asked the question, if he really wanted to know the answer. Something squirming under his skin, a crawling discomfort that he couldn't even place.
Van didn't move from where leaned lazily in the doorway, scratching at his chest. "Cole's here," he responded with as much eloquence as the situation called for.
"I can see that. How long has he been here?" Johnny asked, thinking of Van's nasty temper. Thinking about the way the little scrawny thing flinched when Van talked. Thinking about the too-big shirt the kid was wearing and the way it hung off his frame.
"Couple days. He wants out of his house. So..." Van shrugged.
So he slept in the bedroom with Van, supposedly, since Johnny obviously had the couch. "A few days." Johnny couldn't bring his brain to handle such a concept, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He wasn't sure if he should feel afraid or concerned, or even if there was any point to being alarmed, but he didn't have the energy to deal with whatever was going on. His head pounded and the last thing he wanted was to be questioning his pal's questionable decisions in this state. Sickness was prickling the corners of his eyelids and he rubbed at them before relaxing against the arm of the couch and slumping further into it, hearing every creak and groan of the wretched thing under him.
Van sighed. "You need breakfast?" he asked, finally looking at him.
Johnny glanced around again, saw Cole in the corner of the kitchen, eyes cast down and slender fingers picking nervously at a raw spot on his lips. "Well." Johnny sat up, taking a moment before he completely rose to his feet. "I'm gonna. Shower first."
He shuffled across the living room and into the bathroom without a glance in either direction, focusing on his head swimming as he entered, wincing. He felt filthy and knew a shower wasn't going to take care of it, but got one anyway, scrubbing angrily and vigorously and only feeling mildly better after getting dried off and dressed. His nerves burned. For a moment, he had the urge to skip town, move on to a different city where no one knew him, change his name, start new. But what was the point? If anything, it sounded worse, and so he just stared at himself in the dirty mirror, feeling emptier than usual. Even the drug's effects had dulled by now and he just wanted to vomit on the spot. Empty. It was so empty.
Drugs. Right. With a surge of impulsivity, he popped open the medicine cabinet in hopes of a bit of extra help, making a sound of dissatisfaction at only finding an old bottle of Adderall and a couple leftover Percocets, long expired, a box of bandages, some antiseptics, the usual fare. He pocketed the percs and shut the cupboard, opening the rest of the drawers just for fun. Washcloths, soap, blades, the usual. Bandages, gauze, a couple suture needles and heavy thread. Intrigued, Johnny examined them for a moment before slowly placing them back. Huh. Van was pretty handy in a pinch, he supposed. The guy didn't seem to care about getting injured, but maybe his rough approach to life caused more damage than intended, and it made sense that he was prepared with medical supplies.
A knock startled him out of his thoughts and he quickly shut the cabinet before the door was cracked open and Cole peeked inside. Johnny met his gaze in the grimy, spotted mirror as the younger man slipped quietly into the room, fidgeting slightly before closing the door behind him and putting his back to it. An awkward silence had fallen, and the two men eyed each other quietly. Up close, Johnny could see the dark circles beneath Cole's eyes. They gave him a rather sickly look, and for a moment Johnny had the feeling he should say something to him, some question to ask what had been happening to cause this kid to look so pitiful.
But Cole was the one to speak first. "Are you okay?"
Johnny almost grinned. He was anything but. The drug was all but gone by now, leaving a burning sensation in the pit of his stomach, like a brand settling in his body. Focusing on anything was a near impossible task, and he felt as though his body were about to crumble away. The rush of warmth along his face and neck, up his limbs, was insufferable. "Fine," he responded simply. "Perfect."
Eyes still on him, Cole was blinking slowly. Nervously. Uncomfortable silence fell between them again. "Are you having withdrawals?" the kid mumbled, face half concealed by his mop of hair. "I've got pills. If you, um, need it. Oxys and stuff." He bit his lip and looked down, clutching his hands tightly. "Sorry."
For a minute Johnny just stared at him. Disbelieving. Maybe a little disoriented, and struck dumb by the fact that the scrawny, sort of sheltered thing before him had a supply of prescription narcotics. Concerned and protective over the child standing next to him. Maybe a bit curious. After all, in the time he'd known Cole, in what little he'd seen of him, Johnny had formed the opinion that the kid just didn't seem interested in getting fucked up on anything but alcohol occasionally. The most high he'd ever seen him was stoned on pot, and only once, because it made him so paranoid and sick that they had cut it short and Cole was on the edge of tears the entire time. "You've got drugs?"
Cole nodded, slowly.
"Where?"
Still not moving, the kid just gave a tiny shake of his head after a moment. Defiant.
He knew he shouldn't pry. He could always score his own, assuming he wanted to. A desperate, hollow churn of nausea welled in his stomach, and he pressed the heel of his hand against his brow and didn't respond for a second. Self-restraint kept him from immediately jumping at the chance to get fucked up and away from the misery. "Did Van get them for you?"
Cole didn't answer, and suddenly seemed very uncomfortable, which answered his question.
"Is that why you hang around here?" he continued, the suspicion bubbling inside of him. "You know, I don't think you should—"
"Shut up!" Cole suddenly snapped, his expression darkening to hostility. "It has nothing to do with the stupid drugs. Not everything is about getting high all the time. I don't take them for fun, I don't need a fucking lecture from a guy having withdrawals on the bathroom floor." The aggression immediately fizzled out once the words had left his mouth. Blushing and biting at the corner of his lips anxiously, he shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot, shooting a tentative and nervous glance at him. "Sorry," he murmured. "But...if you needed anything, I just mean..."
"No, forget it," Johnny interrupted, hoping the hint of desperation in his tone hadn't been too obvious. "Let's just. Leave it. Not your problem, you just—you don't. Uh. You really don't need to do anything." He blinked, giving his head a shake. It was agony to not break down right then and beg for help.
"Oh. Okay." Cole remained silent for a moment, then turned to the door, hesitating with his hand on the knob, glancing at Johnny again. After a moment's reluctance, the kid opened his mouth, then closed it and moved away, and disappeared, closing the door behind him and letting the silence settle again.