Trigger warning: alcohol abuse
I don't claim to know everything there is to know about addiction, I only know what it feels like to be on the outside watching, and it was one of the most painful experiences of my life. My apologies for any inaccuracies or any misrepresentations of your plight, love.

I don't own soul eater, sex & candy by marcy's playground, red bull, or anything else mentioned below. No weapons or meisters or anything like that.

and i was thinkin'bout myself and then there she was
02172014

Hangin'round downtown by myself, and I had too much caffeine and I was thinkin'bout myself and then there she was...

He's had at least 6 Red Bulls since he took out his folding chair and plopped down into it. Empty cans litter the ground around him, crushed in his hand, dropped onto the sidewalk, and each one landing with a soft clink as he reaches into the royal blue ice chest behind him, dripping with condensation, and pulls out another drink. The energy drinks have no effect on him, or so he says to himself as his heart beats too fast against his chest and he can't seem to keep his damn legs still. He probably looks like shit by now. He took his shirt off and discarded it hours ago to combat the heat, and now the sun's been beating down on his already too dark skin, sweat rolling down his back and chest and arms in droves. His too long white hair's been soaking in sweat for hours, was already sticking up in weird places from having not washed it in 2 weeks, and he can feel it hanging down and brushing against his shoulders. His eyes are half shut in an attempt to block out the sun, but his eyes are so bloodshot and rimmed with red that it's nearly impossible to decipher where the crimson of his irises begins and ends. He knows he looks like shit, sitting in a folding chair on a fuckin' sidewalk in the projects, downing Red Bulls like they're water, sweating balls and too fuckin' fidgety. Like a monkey, like a damn monkey.

He looks like a withdrawing drug addict. It's pretty damn accurate, actually. 8 hours without a drop of alcohol in his system, and he's already downed 6 Red Bulls and 2 cups of coffee.

He drains another can and drops it to the ground.
7. Make that 7.

Across the street is a park full of little black kids and their older siblings, kids running around and screaming and playing in the sprinkler systems, their older brothers and sisters leaning against trees and swapping stolen cigarettes, too cool to bother with the screams of their little siblings begging to be pushed on the swings and lifted up to the monkey bars and their existences to be noticed. He gulps down another swig of Red Bull. He knows he needs to go find something to eat but he knows also that he can't go back inside alone. Not back in his apartment, where there's empty liquor bottles all over the floor and trash overflowing out of the can and rotting food permeates the air and his cigarette butts have found their home everywhere but his damn ash trays. He knows he can't go back inside by himself, where his ghosts are hanging out to haunt him, and the only thing that hasn't rotted by now is the bottles of Jack and Budweiser that he hasn't had the heart to open for the last 8 hours.

He's skin and bone now, he's barely eaten for weeks and he's still really not that hungry. He also probably smells, though he's desensitized to it by now. He needs to shower, needs to wash his hair, probably needs to do his laundry and wear something that's not stained with sweat and booze and blood, but he also needs to get out of his fuckin' chair and buy some soap.

Good thing it's his day off, as he's not getting out of his chair anytime soon.

He closes his eyes fully, drains the last of his most recent can (that's 8 Red Bulls and counting), and leans back. His fingers drum on the arms of the chair, and though he's sitting perfectly still he feels like he's shaking. Maybe he should've stopped at the first Red Bull.

He claims to have relapsed about 4 weeks ago, when he poured the first (and second and third and fourth) glass of whiskey, but really the relapse started weeks before that when he started dwelling on his cravings again, and the weeks following where he slowly stopped attending his AA meetings and ignoring and finally rejecting the calls from his sponsor and his friends from the meetings, and finally his resolve left him when he walked past the liquor store one Friday night on his way home from work and Black Star stood outside smoking a cigarette and yelled at him to come join him. One thing led to another, and the two ended up back at Soul's place several bottles of Jack later, passed out in front of fuckin' Rocky Horror and a full on relapse that left him dehydrated, thirsty as fuck, and the only way he could seem to get to sleep at night was if he drank so much he passed the fuck out.

Fuck.

He has to piss. He has to piss so bad but he can't bring himself to get the hell out of his chair, and he sure as hell can't go back inside. Not alone. He doesn't trust himself anymore.

So there he sits, Red Bull half drained in one hand, looking like hell, like he's been hungover for weeks and like he hasn't showered in longer. He watches the people walking by not noticing, not giving a shit, considering this neighborhood is poor as fuck and no one really looks at him like he's out of place anyway. How the hell'd he end up with this place anyway?

Oh, yeah.
He couldn't afford to maintain his addiction and his rent if he upgraded.

Maybe he should move, he thinks, to somewhere more expensive that he can't afford an addiction with. Especially not with his minimum wage job as a fuckin' dishwasher, but he knows that if he relapses again he'll just get evicted and then he won't be able to rent anything and he'd be forced to ask for help, and may all be damned if he has to ask for help. Fuck that. He's lived on his own since he was 17 years old, he'd live out of trash cans for crying out loud if it meant he never had to go back to his parents for help.

He raises one arm to scratch the back of his head, and puts it down again as quickly as possible. Shit, that stinks. Maybe he isn't totally desensitized to his own smell.

He looks like death, really. He always did before, with too sharp teeth and too white hair and those weird red eyes that looked like demons. Seriously, if the Grim Reaper was real, he'd probably pass for him. Fuck.

But he always looked like death anyway, and he probably always would. He can't gain weight to save his life, and his pants fluctuate from barely fitting to falling down to his knees when he goes through the cycles of his addiction. He buys his shirts small, and sometimes when he's been consuming alcohol more often than food, it looks like he buys the extra-fuckin'-L. Double X, sometimes. His ribs poke through too tight skin, and his long piano man fingers are chicken bones attached to the end of his hand in well spaced intervals. He knows his face has to have sunk in by now, though he hasn't looked at himself since he broke his only mirror 3 weeks ago in a drunken rage. The cuts are still healing on his hands.

He hates the idea of anyone seeing him like this, and that's probably why he kicks his empty cans at her when she crosses the street to walk up to him, green eyes looking at him in a mixture of fury and mercy, blonde hair clean and healthy and cascading gently over her shoulders in waves.

She's the antonym of himself, all health and kindness and joy, cheeks just plump enough and skin just soft enough, shirts fitting her like they're fuckin' supposed to, but her eyes are also bloodshot he notices. Like she's been crying. For him. She's probably been fuckin' crying for him.

Damn it.

"What the fuck are you doing, Soul?" she whispers, arms crossed tightly over her chest as she scans his surroundings. She glares coldly at the Red Bull cans crushed and scattered around him, the open ice chest with at least 12 more floating in what used to be ice but is now mostly water, she eyes warily his orange t-shirt discarded on the steps to his unit, she scans him up and down in a way that he would've made some sexy comment to if she weren't tearing up again at the sight of the cuts on his hands and the scar on his chest and the ribs that appear to be poking through his skin.

No, this isn't cool at all.

They make eye contact finally, her green eyes locking painfully onto his own crimson, and he sees her pass between anger and compassion, like she can't decide whether to walk away or to give him the biggest hug she's ever given.

She chooses neither, and instead takes the half-empty Red Bull in his hands, downs it quickly, and crouches down to pick up his other empty cans. He stares at her warily as she gathers them in her arms, closes his ice chest with her foot, and makes her way up his stairs, kicking the half-open door with her foot before he finally realizes what she's about to step into.

"Maka, don't-"

He's too late. She opens the door all the way and stops at the sight. He watches her look around the room and finally drop the empty cans in her arms. She looks back at him over her shoulder and shakes her head.

"Soul," she whispers, and he feels the knot rising into his throat while he avoids looking into her deep green eyes, slowly standing from his chair only to grab it again to keep himself from falling. She's there in a heartbeat, grabbing him by the arm to steady him, wrapping his disgusting and sweaty arm around her shoulders and helping him make his way up the stairs into his stupid, disgusting apartment that he's apparently going to face now, and trying to avoid falling on his ass because he's had too many fuckin' Red Bulls and he thinks he might die of some heart attack or something. If his liver hasn't failed him yet.

They make their way slowly into what was once his living room before it became his trash can. She can't help but cringe at the smell, and he can't help but cringe at her face.

She had been there when he'd first picked out his couch 3 years ago. It was a black leather sectional, and she'd rolled her eyes when he insisted that this couch, this was the one. "Leather's so not comfortable," she'd muttered under her breath at yet another proclamation of how cool his new couch was. He'd slung an arm haphazardly over her shoulder, dragging her onto the couch with him, feeling her petite (scrawny) frame settle against her will against his own, and insisted that they weren't shopping for comfort, they were shopping for cool. She rolled her eyes again and stood back up, "Fine, Soul, whatever," and he'd smirked in reply, nudging her with an elbow and wandering to find a sales associate to help them. When they'd finally gotten it in the door, he sank into the couch again, pulling his best friend down with him, and smiled into her hair. The couch was clean, shiny, brand new, and smelled like leather and Maka, his new favorite combination.

The couch was no longer visible beneath the layers of laundry he refused to bother with, papers and candy wrappers and beer bottles poking up from between the cushions. A plate sat on the end of the sectional, a half eaten burrito that looked at least a week and a half old sitting, rotting, in the middle. And that was just the couch.

He watches her walk slowly across the living room, attempting to step on the patches of floor that still remain, only to give up and walk across his layers of trash and underwear to make her way to the kitchen. He leans against the doorframe, hands in his jean pockets, watching her plug her nose as she stares bitterly at the piles of dirty dishes in the sink and on the counters and the unwashed pots and pans piled on each other on the stove. His fridge is nearly empty, he knows, and he's afraid to let her open it to see only some rotten cheese and several bottles of beer, but he also knows that she's going to open it anyway because this is fuckin' Maka and she's going to open every fuckin' cabinet she can get her hands on.

He knows he needs to face this anyway, but he still doesn't know if he can take that look of pain that strikes her eyes with every step forward she takes.

She eyes warily the trash can, overflowing with the rotten food he'd bothered to throw away, overflowing with liquor bottles and beer bottles and papers and the empty cardboard boxes that had once contained his alcohol. She looks back at him, across the kitchen, across his living room to the open door he leans against, and he sees it again, that look he can't stand, that he almost wants to slap off her face but he knows that to do that would only make everything so much worse.

"You...probably don't wanna go into the bedroom," he chokes out finally. He thinks of the clothes and alcohol all over the floor of his room, along with the condom wrappers from his several one night stands and he doesn't want to see her face when, yet again, he's chosen someone else over her.

"Do you still have soap?" she askes quietly, hands in her back pockets. He shakes his head slowly. She nods. "I'll be right back, okay? You can sit back outside if you don't want to be in here alone..."

He follows her back outside, slouching back in his chair as she walks away. He's tempted to open another Red Bull in her absence but he's only just stopped shaking and he doesn't really want to feel that way again.

She's going out to buy him soap. She'll probably pick up some other stuff while she's at the store, and he's still sitting out here on his ass basking in self pity and he doesn't know how he's going to face this.

Christ, it's not like he's had a rough fuckin' life or anything. Nothing in comparison to hers. Shit, her mom left her, her dad's a whore, she used to spend the night at his home when they were in high school because she didn't wanna hear her dad's muffled moans and the other woman's sighs and gasps all night while she tried to study for her tests in the morning. Fuck, he wouldn't either.

It's not like his life was all that bad. Sure, his older brother was the family favorite, and he was never able to live up to the standards his father had set, but his mom adored him and his brother was one of his closest friends and he had Maka, who saw him when he was quiet and brooding in high school, who befriended him when he was still a jackass, who gave him the time of day when every other girl (and half of the guys) were scared shitless of him, who gave him distance when his addiction demanded it and who dropped whatever she was doing to come when he called and choked on his words and stuttered out his apologies.

He had the best friend in the world, who he was hopelessly in love with, who he'd pushed away and rejected and lied to a thousand times over, who still came to him and went to buy him soap.

And she'd probably know exactly which one he liked, too.
He sat in self pity, draining Red Bulls and feeling sorry for his pathetic ass life, and she went to buy him soap.

He didn't deserve her.

She comes back within 15 minutes, with 3 grocery bags full of shit, and stares him dead in the eye with the resiliancy he'd come to admire about her. He stares back, knowing how pathetic he looks in comparison, and gestures towards the bags.

"What is all that?" he asks hoarsly.
"Supplies," she replies with a hardened voice. "Come on, we're going inside."

She leads the way, as is often the case, shoving shit off the coffee table with her foot and places her bags on the table. He glances at her curiously as she rummages around, before finally finding whatever it is she's looking for and turns back to him.

"Here," she says calmly, placing a fluffy white towel, a matching washcloth, and a bottle each of his favorite soap and shampoo in his arms. He begins to protest, but she shakes her head in reply before pulling her hair back into a messy bun. "I assume you don't have any clean clothes, so you'll just have to wear that towel for a little bit. Go shower," she commands, and he can't help but obey because quite frankly he's rank, and honestly she's kinda hot when she's demanding like that (he wonders how in control she could be in bed before he can stop himself) even though he knows that she'd never get with him anytime soon, she's too damn practical for that. Besides, he probably ought to be 24 hours sober before he entertained any thoughts quite like that.

He strips his clothes and steps into his shower for the first time in 2 weeks and almost moans out loud over how good the hot water feels against his skin. He almost does it again 2 minutes later after he's scrubbed away layers of grime and sweat and he can actually feel the full affects of the hot water. He stands and basks in the hot water for a lot longer than he'd intended, scrubs his hair clean and does it again for good measure, and then just stands for another full length of time before the water starts to go cold and he finally remembers that his best friend is out there somewhere, wading through his shit, and he makes his way out of the shower, drying his hair and body as much as he can. He wraps the towel around his waist and leaves the bathroom. He can hear his washer/dryer going from here, and the first sight he sees is his clean couch.

The clothes are gone, the trash has been picked up, the bottles of alcohol are all missing, and the burrito is nowhere to be seen. The blinds have been opened, letting light into the room for the first time since he can remember (which really isn't that long), the floor has been picked up, and all that really needs to happen in there is for it to be vaccuumed. She works fast, he notes, and turns his gaze toward the kitchen. He can't help but smile at the sight, and the feeling hurts his cheeks. He hasn't smiled in weeks, except for those half ass smiles he gives when something struck him as funny during a drunken stupor. But this, this is a real smile, borderline grin, and he stares for just a moment at the girl in his kitchen, who's somehow cleared the room of the smell and managed to wash and put away all the dishes, who his currently in the process of draining bottles of alcohol into his sink and throwing them angrily into the trashcan, which is now empty of everything save empty bottles, and glaring at each one as it clinks.

"I hate you," he hears her mutter to the last bottle, and his smile disappears as he remembers why she's hear again anyway.

"How long was I in the shower for?" he speaks up. She turns toward him, hand over her chest, and exhales loudly.

"You scared the fucking shit out of me," she finally sputters. He laughs out loud, a sound he doesn't remember could come out of him. He forgot how jumpy she was.

"Sorry," he shrugs as she rolls her eyes.
"You weren't gone long. Maybe 45 minutes. I expected it to take longer for you to finally get yourself clean."
"You work fast."

She shrugs. "I think some of your clothes are almost out of the dryer so you can put some pants on."

He finally notices how uncomfortable she is, as he's wrapped only in a towel. She hasn't met his eyes since he came out of the shower, and he's finally realizing why her cheeks are so red. He feels himself laughing again, and he's really not sure why but he likes the feeling, wants to laugh and smile like this more often. Why did he stop?

"Why did you stop what?" she asks timidly.

Oh. He said that out loud.

"Um.. I was... talking to myself," he mutters, scratching the back of his neck.
"Stop what?" she insists again.
"L...laughing. And smiling. And shit. Damn, this isn't cool, Maka."

She frowns, like she's thinking, and part of him wants to smooth out the furrowed lines on her forehead but part of him also knows that she'd probably be uncomfortable with that kind of touch. She's thinking deeply, and he notices now that she's tied a dark blue apron around her waist and is wearing bright yellow, rubber gloves. Before he can help himself he's laughing hysterically, because she's such a fuckin' dork and he's so fuckin' in love with her and he can't help it.

"What?" she demands, hands on her hips, glaring at him. This only causes him to laugh harder, and soon he's gasping for breath, leaning against the refrigerator, tears streaming down his face. She demands answers out of him yet again, why is he laughing, what's come over him, what the hell is wrong with him, she asks repeatedly.

"You're just such a fuckin' dork, Maka," he finally chokes out. "I missed you."
"Hey," she says softly, smiling. "I missed you, too. You back for real this time?"

He pauses and glances around the room, his apartment with light flooding in for the first time in weeks, his trashcan full of emptied bottles of alcohol, the black leather couch he hasn't been able to sink into since his full on depression started, and the girl standing near the sink, bright yellow gloves and striking green eyes, blond hairs falling out of her messy bun, and a soft smile in his direction, as if she hadn't just spent the last 2 hours buying him soap and shampoo and towels and laundry detergent, as if she hadn't been cleaning his totally fucked up apartment, poured bottles of alcohol down his drains while he basked in self pity and showered and didn't lift a fuckin' finger to clean up his own damn couch.

"Yeah, Maka, I think so," he finally says with a smile of his own. She grins, and nods her head toward the dryer.

"I think your clothes are done, Soul, so you can go put some pants on," she giggles, and he makes his way to the dryer, finds a pair of boxers and jeans, and stalks his way to his bedroom to put them on.

What he didn't know was that she'd made her way to his bedroom while he was showering, and while the room isn't clean yet, the laundry had disappeared and the bed was made. He smiles as he slides his underwear and jeans on, and shakes his head.

Things aren't perfect yet, and things won't be perfect for a long time, but she stays in his apartment and sleeps on his couch for a week and holds his hand when he can't sleep from withdrawals and sits next to him when he's too afraid to go back to his Alcoholics Anonymous meetings and face his sponsor and his friends. She strokes his hair when he finally drifts off to sleep in the early hours of the morning, does her homework at his coffee table, and makes coffee in the mornings and dinner every night. He's eating and showering regularly, he makes it to work on time and tells his boss about his problem and that he's getting help, and he gets in the habit of taking the trash out every other day on his own.

She calls him every night when she moves back to her own place, making sure he's getting sleep and doing his laundry and attending AA meetings at least 3 times a week. He's not perfect yet, sometimes he still craves but he learns to take different routes home and he's finally told Black Star not to bring alcohol over, and he begins putting his life back together.

Things aren't perfect, but he's whole this time and he doesn't have a void anymore that he needs to fill. He told her he loved her, finally, and she told him that she needs him sober a year before they could ever try deepening their relationship. He's okay with this, he understands, but he replays the scene again in his mind when her cheeks turn pink and she says under her breath that she loves him, too.

She will never make him complete, she won't be the thing that makes him whole, but he's okay with that because he can't depend on substances or people to fill his voids anyway, and she's too independent to be needed. He doesn't need her, but he loves her, and she enhances his life and brightens his days and maybe one day he can hold her against his chest and feel her heart pound against his own, hold her hand in movie theaters and bicker with her over every stupid, petty thing they can think of.

It won't be perfect for a long time, it may never be perfect, but he's recovering, finally. He knows this time that he can't keep himself sober, that by the grace of God he's skating by, and that he owes so much to his best friend, who checks on him frequently and laughs at his stupid jokes and brings him milkshakes for every month he stays sober. He leaves the blinds open in his apartment now, lets the light flood in, and he knows that things are different this time. He's not the same as he was before. His hair stays clean and his fridge is stocked with bottled waters, vanilla Cokes, and he always has a pot of coffee ready. His apartment is an alcohol free zone now, and he even called his family the other day to apologize. Maybe they'll come over sometime.

Things aren't perfect yet, they probably won't ever be. But it's a start, anyway.