one-
He would wonder why he picked up the habit sometimes. Sitting in the living room, head in his hands, repeatedly telling himself it wasn't that bad. There were worse things. There... There had to be worse things, right?
Taking the neck of the vodka bottle in his hands, he put the opening to his lips and tilted his head back and downed the rest of the clear, lethal liquid. His throat burned in response, a fire lit in his esophagus and belly. Oh well, it was better than nothing. Perhaps using this he could curb his aching want for the other weapon he had.
No, not really. He found himself still stumbling on over to the bathroom, gripping the walls, trying to stop himself. He had to stop himself. It was growing too strong. And he... Well, he was too weak. To continue fighting. There was no use fighting, it had him by the collar, was dragging him along helplessly, was taunting him. It was all he wanted. That was it.
He fell into the bathtub, not turning on the water, sticking his bare arms to the cold porcelain, trying to numb himself. He had to stop feeling. Had to quit. Had to... Oh, fuck it. His hands were already around the powdery substance, already grabbing the needle, already tightening the rubber tubing around his upper left arm, already putting it in, tenderly, like his arm was the virgin on his bed. Release. Already. Already. All ready. Set, go.
His lungs tightened. His breath hitched. Sweat pooled on his brow. The high began as soon as his veins filled with the venom, rushing to his brain, giving off sweet euphoria, so close he could taste it, envelop its light until he was warm like the sun. Giving up his cold heart. Giving up the brutality his mind made him feel everyday, until there was nothing left besides the snug feeling in his aching appendages. And then he melted into nothingness, as it all faded and he was thrown into a swimming circle of laziness, the kind of tired one feels in their bones after they have walked many miles and they are finally back home. Back in their bed. Asleep at last.
He awoke later from his peaceful slumber, still sweating, his skin sticky, curled up in the bathtub, the sound of his partner coming home from work, whistling through the hallways. Groggily, he pushed himself up and out, getting rid of anything that might concern his partner, shoving it into the deepest depths of the medicine cabinet beside the sink.
He opened the door, shambling out as his partner entered the bedroom, calling his name, "Glad you're home, Alfred."
Alfred smiled as he spotted Ivan, waltzing over with a spring in his step, hugging him and giving him a quick peck on the lips. Ivan strained to upturn his lips. He loved Alfred a lot, he really did. Besides heroin, he was the only other thing that could grant him the warmth he so desperately desired. But there was a change in his brain. It hurt to smile these days, though he grinned often. It was only because he was trying to tell himself he was still okay.
"You seem tired. Did you just wake up from a nap of yours?" Alfred combed Ivan's hair back with his fingers, wiping away the remaining sweat from his brow, a tad concerned at this discovery, "Are you warm or something?"
Ivan put his hand to his forehead, feeling the sweat. He grew flustered, and quickly stated, "No thanks, I'm fine. I just had a nightmare while I was napping. I was in the bathroom to wash my face." His left arm was burning, and he clamped it to his side, hiding the new red dots on his skin. He turned to his wardrobe and grabbed a jacket, putting it on, "I'm actually quite cold." He laughed awkwardly.
Alfred raised his eyebrows, "Okay... Well, I hope you had a good day while I was gone." He went back over to him and put his arms around the large, big-boned figure of Ivan. He gazed up at him and kissed him again, harder than last time, trying to edge his tongue inside Ivan's cheek.
He closed his eyes, but soon retreated, looking away, "No, not right now. I'm not up for it." Ivan mumbled, his voice husky. They hadn't had sex in a long time, mostly because of Ivan's sudden disinterest in it, a side effect of the drug he was addicted to. This did effect their relationship negatively and Alfred was always irritated at Ivan's unwillingness. Truthfully, not only was his sex drive lacking, but he was afraid to show Alfred his body after he had destroyed his arms. Bruises criss-crossed his skin, wounds were yellowed with pus from infections, scabs unhealed. The whole thing was still a secret. He had been doing this for nearly a year and hadn't told anybody, hiding himself constantly, lurking around, lying through his teeth about his whereabouts on the days he met his dealer. No, no one would understand. Alfred may break up with him if he ever found out. He would lose many friends. It was best to keep it all a mystery.
Alfred appeared disappointed, rubbing Ivan's back, and looking up at him with sincerity, "Are you sure you're alright? You just..." He trailed off. Ivan knew what was coming. They had these fights many times before and he was getting sick of them.
"Haven't been myself. I know. You don't have to remind me." Ivan moved away from Alfred, opening the bedroom door and heading for the kitchen. He grabbed another bottle of vodka from the alcohol pantry and poured himself a shot. Alfred wandered after him, but took a seat at the dining room table, watching Ivan prepare his drink through the open wall at the bar counter.
"Ivan... Do you still love me?" He stopped what he was doing and looked back over at Alfred. He was playing with his hands, folding them and unfolding them, nudging the silver ring on his finger. He looked like he was about to cry.
Ivan headed over with his shot glass and vodka bottle in hand, putting them in front of his chair beside Alfred and sitting down, resting a hand on his shoulder, "Of course I do. What makes you think I don't?"
"You just..." Alfred was scrunching up his face, grabbing onto Ivan's hand, "You seem so unhappy, so uninterested. We haven't made love in several months and you used to enjoy that a lot. You're always tired and napping and when I get home from my long shifts at work you don't do anything. We don't go out. We don't walk together. You're drinking too much again. You disappear God knows where some days and I... I just..." He broke down sobbing, burying his head in his arms.
Ivan didn't know what to do. He sat there with his hand on Alfred's shoulder and stared at him breaking down into tears on the dining room table. Out of desperation, he hugged him. He kept yelling at himself in his mind. Alfred was onto him; he knew something was up, there was no use hiding it now. He argued with his mind whether or not he should tell him, but with how unfaithful Alfred was in him now, it was probably not the best idea at the moment. Later. He should tell him later. After he's calmed down. After... Fuck, he didn't want to tell him. It was too risky. Everything was too risky. Maybe he'd be caught by the law before he told Alfred, so he wouldn't have to face him himself and tell him. Maybe Alfred would discover it on accident. No... That would turn out bad.
"It's okay, Alfred. I love you a lot, don't you ever doubt my love for you. I'm still here and I care about you and I want to see you happy. I'm sorry for being distant or far away from you. I'm so sorry. I'll try to fix it, okay? I'll fix everything. You'll see." He squeezed him tightly against his chest and eventually he calmed down enough and let go.
"I... I think..." He wiped away the rest of his tears, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with the sweater he was wearing, "Ivan, I'm starting to think you're depressed. I mean... Once I started noticing you were changing I looked it up on the Internet and a lot of sources were saying you should see a therapist or something so... I don't know..." He looked back up at him.
Ivan looked away, draining his shot glass that he hadn't touched yet, "I'm not depressed, Alfred. I'm just... Going through a phase, or something." He poured more vodka into his glass, and then put it to his lips, downing it again.
"Even if you aren't I still want you to see a therapist. I just don't think it's a phase, it's been going on for months-" Alfred was interrupted as Ivan slammed his shot glass down on the table, nearly breaking it in his large hands.
"I'm not fucking depressed!" Ivan's voice bounced off the walls and echoed throughout the house. He was trembling with trapped in emotions, trying to hold back a more violent reaction. He sat there gritting his teeth while Alfred stuttered a quiet apology and went to pick up the shot glass and vodka bottle, running to the kitchen and putting everything away. When he came back, Ivan was already on his feet, ready to head back to the bedroom. He felt bad about suddenly screaming like that and came up to his partner, hugging him again, "Look... This... This isn't your problem to handle, I'm sorry. I have to deal with this. Please don't interfere."
Alfred was crying again, "I just don't want this to come between us. If you love me, you'd let me help you. I've helped you before when you needed it. I know you have your own problems. But don't forget that I'm here and that sometimes you can't fight battles on your own. Whether you're depressed or not, there's something wrong. People don't suddenly change like this. I'm worried about you, Ivan. I'm always worried about you. I... I don't want to lose you." He grabbed the back of Ivan's jacket, balled the fabric up in his fists.
Ivan closed his eyes, breathing in Alfred's sharp scented cologne, kissing the crook of his neck, "There's no need to worry about me. I'll be okay." He looked down at Alfred, and wiped the tears that fell from his cheeks off with his thumb, "It's late. Let's go to bed."
They both shuffled into the bedroom and got dressed into their night clothes, curling up beside each other in bed, Alfred spooning Ivan, two parentheses. Alfred fell asleep before Ivan, his snores gentle and his grip slack around his middle. Ivan peered through the darkness onto his night stand, staring at the matryoshka doll beside the lamp. It was an old family trinket of his, passed down by his parents. It was older than him; authentically made in the U.S.S.R. before it fell in 1991. His eyes then passed on over to the framed picture of Alfred and him on their wedding day. They had signed marriage papers the day it became legal in Florida. It was a good day, the wedding. Ivan was happy then. They had their wedding outside, in an old Civil War fort. It had suddenly begun to pour while they were cutting the cake, and they had to rush inside the old stone crafted hallways of the fort. Once the rain cleared, they went back outside and had to get rid of the ruined cake. Alfred promised to buy another cake (and he kept that promise). The fort officials fired a cannon into the distance at one point just for show. Ivan had kissed Alfred as they fired the cannon, later regretting the decision after the deafening boom created an awful ringing in both of their ears. They had gone home that evening, drunk off of the champagne, made love on the living room couch. It was so sappy.
Back in the present, Ivan was crying. Out of loss. Where had things gone so wrong? That smile he held in the photo was so real, not created out of lies and the want to be happy. It was genuine. But now that was gone. Ivan was unhappy. Alfred was growing scared. And tired. Ivan could see it in his eyes, he was so tired. And then there was the fucking heroin. The addiction. Why Ivan had started he hadn't a clue. Maybe he was tired before Alfred. Maybe he was always tired. Of everything.
But he didn't want to be tired. He wanted to be satisfied and full of life and euphoric. Euphoric without the need for chemicals. Pure euphoria. And it was there. He had food, money, a roof over his head, and a lover to keep him company. But why wasn't he happy? Why did he ache in his heart for something? He had everything, for the most part. He was crying harder, muffling his sobs so he wouldn't wake Alfred. He cried himself to sleep. And he dreamed about being out in a field back in his home country of Russia, the sky the deepest blue he had ever seen. Bluer than the ocean, bluer than Alfred's irises. He was on his back, staring up at the sky. The swish of the large stalks of wheat grass were music to his ears, the wind blowing through his platinum blond hair sprawled on the ground. He closed his eyes and breathed in oxygen, breathed out carbon dioxide. There was movement beside him. He opened his eyes and looked beside him and there was Alfred, looking off into the distance. He called his name. Alfred turned around. He had no face.
Ivan woke up screaming. Alfred wasn't beside him. It was eight A.M. He was already at work. Ivan stayed in bed a little longer but didn't go back to sleep. When it was later in the afternoon, he got up and got into the bathtub and got high. The cycle repeated. Over and over and over again.