Johnny only stayed for one more night, and much of it was spent awake, unable to sleep. The withdrawals hit harder than ever and he spent a lot of his time staring across the room and rubbing frantically at his eyes. Everything fucking ached, in a hot, cold, all-consuming way, and the only thought he could muster through the turmoil in his mind was whether the pills he still had were going to make things better or worse. After the third restless hour passed, he decided on trying for just a couple more hours to get to sleep before hitting up an old friend again for help, but as he turned onto his side he was shaken from his attempts by the sounds of angry voices, followed by a loud thump.
"...fuck's your problem?" Van was grumbling from the bedroom, words muddled. Cole hadn't said anything, but Johnny could hear him breathing hard, shuffling around and exhaling sharply every few seconds. The clink of glass, more angry noises, more deep breaths and long silences. "Hey. What the fuck is up? What did I do this time?" Van asked, voice strained, followed by silence. "I mean, seriously, what?"
Even after a couple more minutes of intense focus, he could make no sense of the scene in the other room. He could hardly keep his eyelids shut at this point, so he forced himself off the couch and dragged himself towards the bedroom, stopping by the doorway.
The door was open, and from his angle he could see Van's form sort of hunched over Cole, who had his hands clasped tight over his nose and mouth. He could only see Van from the back, and not enough of Cole to really tell if something was wrong, but Van obviously seemed worried. His posture tense. Reaching down, fingers gentle despite his visible state of stress, and putting his hands on the kid's wrists, carefully pulling them apart and tugging the hands free.
As soon as they were removed from his face, blood was flowing into his mouth and dripping off his chin, down his neck and the front of the oversized shirt he was wearing, painting his skin red. His eyes darted across the room towards Johnny, growing suddenly wide before flickering away. His entire body trembled and squirmed, but still he didn't say a word. Before Johnny could even fully register the whole situation, Van was already looking up at him, and Johnny found himself immediately asking, "Is everything okay?"
"Yeah, yeah, I've got it handled," Van responded a little distractedly, grabbing a shirt off the bed and handing it to Cole, who wasted no time scrunching it up and holding it to his nose. He was definitely shaking, and now Johnny could sort of see Van's arms were pretty banged up, the kind of raised pink of scratches and irritated red of being hit repeatedly. His temper was boiling, and he stared silently for a moment, scrutinizing the guy, the younger man shivering and trying his hardest not to look up.
"What'd you do to him?" he found himself blurting out, tone flat.
"Jesus, Johnny, do you see this kid? What the hell do you take me for, huh? You wanna try and keep your fucking accusations to yourself?" Van snapped at him, clearly fed up. He turned back to the poor kid to continue trying to staunch the bleeding. "He freaked the fuck out on me for nothin'. Tore me up a bit and bolted, ran headfirst into the door on his way out. 'Cause he's a damn fool who probably wants me to kick him out for real. Don't you? Tryin' to piss me off all the damn time."
Despite the words, the tone was gentle and surprisingly soothing, and Johnny was starting to get a little itchy watching Van treat him so tenderly.
"You want me to help clean it up, or you got it?" Van mumbled, combing fingers gently through the kid's mop of hair.
"I've got it," came the whispered reply, much to the relief of both of them.
"Alright. You just call for me if y'need anything. I'll make you some tea." With that, Cole nodded and slunk into the bathroom, his hand so stained in red it left a mark on anything he touched. Van turned back to the bed and began picking up pieces of clothes that were strewn about the mattress. Tossing a pair of jeans towards the hamper, letting a shirt join the mess on the floor. "You don't have to fucking give me that look," he mumbled with irritation, and Johnny realized he was still standing, silently scrutinizing him.
"No, I'm pretty sure I do."
"Spare me the judgment."
"I'm just...confused, I guess. Little worried," Johnny let himself admit. He couldn't quite explain his thoughts, the feeling like the walls were slowly closing around him. Van sighed, tossed one of the fallen pillows back on the bed and headed out past Johnny for the kitchen. Johnny wasn't about to accept this answer and followed, hearing the clink of a mug on the counter and the creaking of the cabinet. "You better explain yourself," he ordered, and Van stared at him like he was testing his patience.
"What's the big issue?" he asked. "So the kid had a panic attack."
"What caused it?"
"Don't fuckin' know, do I? If I did I'd have prevented it."
The pot of water went on the stove. Van rolled his sleeves up, stared at the wall for a moment, and sighed again, heavier this time, more theatrical.
"Look, it was nothin'. I rolled over, must've triggered something, he don't always like being touched. It's not the first time and it ain't gonna be the last," he explained finally, filling the silence between them. "God knows what the hell happened to him but it is what it is and there ain't a damn thing I can do about it."
The other man looked exhausted. Arms crossed, shoulders slumped, worn dark lines under his eyes that made him look uncharacteristically vulnerable. More and more Johnny was seeing the sort of man his old friend was. Brutish and untamed, certainly, but not devoid of character or any care for anyone. He wasn't afraid to crack skulls, he still left Johnny on edge, but he wasn't as deep and dark and terrifying as he made out to be. Or so Johnny hoped. "Is there more?" He pressed. "More going on than you let on?"
For a while Van was silent, staring hard at the stove like he had never seen it before. Finally, turning his gaze back to the other man, he made a long, unidentifiable noise, shifted his stance and sighed again. "I don't know. Can't say, not for sure. Not yet. I know he's got...got some issues, had it rough with his parents. But it's all new and I'm no good at dealin' with it. I think...he needs to go to some professional, y'know? I wish I could do somethin' about it. His dad sure as hell ain't." Narrowing his gaze and inhaling slowly, Van rubbed a hand over his face, then glared around the room. "Jesus, this is such a goddamn shithole," he mumbled.
Johnny scanned his surroundings, unable to argue. It wasn't the worst thing he'd ever seen, really, but it definitely didn't give the impression of being welcoming, of safety. In a twisted way, he understood it a little bit. How sometimes violence could feel safe, familiar. Better than nothing. And it was easy to become attuned to, to use to cope with things outside one's control. He had picked up on that a long time ago, and maybe the kid was no exception. If that were the case, staying here wasn't the worst option. Van could handle a smack in the jaw no problem.
Tortured bastards. The two of them. It was almost comical. One, violent and angry, and the other, the least intimidating thing on earth, shivering in the bathroom dealing with a panic attack alone. Neither deserved such torture, but that was life.
He watched his friend search for a tea bag, pull one out and set it in the mug, tap his fingers against the edge of the counter. Nervous, hesitant, the way the edges of his expression shifted. Emotional range unknown. The pot on the stove reached a boil and he turned the heat off before pouring the steaming water into the mug.
"You know, maybe it'd be best to get the kid into a different environment," Johnny suggested. "Find somewhere quiet."
"Stop worrying about it, alright?" Van grunted, a bit irritably. "Don't you have your own shit to deal with? What's goin' on with Julie?"
Johnny's stomach sank. He flinched, looking quickly to the floor, opening his mouth as though he'd say something then closing it again. Shame pricked the corners of his mind.
"Oh, come on, don't act like it wasn't obvious. You were falling apart all over the bar that last place we played, and now you show up here to crash on my couch lookin' like you haven't slept in a week, all skin and bones and jumpy as hell."
He had no comeback, and he could only stare, taking a slow, deep breath.
"Am I right or am I wrong?"
"Look," Johnny murmured after a moment. "It's complicated. I'm gonna talk to her, I just needed to get away for a few days. Gather my thoughts. So back off. This conversation's over."
Shaking his head and running a hand back through his hair, Van exhaled sharply, turning away from him. The clinking of a spoon against the inside of the mug filled the tense air for a moment, before Van headed for the bedroom and out of sight.