Title: A Small Life
Author: GatorGrrrl
Rating: T+
Warnings: Bad words, implied sexual situations, angst
Disclaimer: I do not own Drake & Josh. I just like bending them to my will.
Author's Note 1: Okay, so technically there is no T+ rating. But, after thinking it over, I don't think it quite deserves an M rating, either. So, unless there is a huge outcry from readers to change it to M, I'm leaving it at a T. Also, this is a future fic and since I can't foresee the future, I cannot say for sure whether answering machines and/or cell phones even exist in the time period of this story. So please humor me.
Author's Note 2: No, I haven't forgotten about "The Quality of Darkness." I'm working on Chapter 22 as we speak, but this story niggled in my brain until I had to write it just so it would leave me alone. I hope you like it.
Prologue: Rude Awakenings
The foot peeking out from beneath the blanket is not his, Drake realizes, as he blinks in the gauzy light filtering through the sheer curtains. The inside of his mouth tastes like something akin to tobacco, only more mind-altering, and it doesn't take him long to recognize there's a marching band stomping around inside his skull.
He draws his left knee up under the covers, causing a puff of warm air to squeeze out from beneath them. He wrinkles his nose at the mixture of stale sweat and sex, groaning. Hazarding a look to his right, he sees a tangled mass of dark blonde hair streaked with purple spread across the pillow and tries to conjure the face that goes with it.
Nothing. He doesn't remember her name, either.
Pressing his hands to his eyes miserably, he groans again. "Fuck."
Sitting up, he grimaces at the movement and sinks heavily against the headboard. The blankets tent over his knees and he catches another whiff of what he's long considered the Smell of Iniquity. Yes, iniquity. He used the word in a song once; he found it in a rhyming dictionary when he was trying to find a word that rhymed with antiquity.
It wasn't a very good song.
He scoops the half-crushed pack of Winstons off the table by the bed and shakes one out, letting it dangle loosely from his lips as he searches for a light. Next to the clock – which reads 2:17, the little red dot in the upper left-hand corner telling him it's PM – is a small book of matches from the seedy club he played in the night before. Securing his fingers around it, he opens it and instantly sees the name "Tammy" and a phone number written inside the cover.
His eyes flit to the sleeping girl burrowed beneath the covers next to him. Tammy. Is that her name?
Hell if he knows.
Tearing a match from the pack, he drags it smoothly against the striking surface. There's a faint whoosh and then a yellow-orange flame begins to dance jauntily on the end of the match. He holds the flame to his cigarette, taking a deep draw, then watches the flame as it creeps towards his fingertips, shaking it out when he feels the first sting of heat against his skin. Tossing the matchbook back onto the table, he leans his head against the headboard and blows the smoke towards the ceiling in a narrow stream.
He repeats the action until the ash is nearly an inch long, then flicks the ash casually onto the carpet with a quick flick of his thumb across the tar-stained filter. Then he rests his wrist on his knee, the cigarette tucked securely in the crook between his index and middle fingers, and follows the trail of smoke as it twists towards the ceiling.
"What time is it?" The question is asked in a voice thick with sleep and rough around the edges.
Drake looks at the clock again. "Two twenty-two," he says, not looking at her.
"Shit!" she says and he can feel the mattress move beneath him as she struggles to sit up. "PM?"
His eyes fall on the window, on the hazy band of sunlight seeping through the curtains and he feels his mouth curve up into a smirk. "Either that," he says, "or the earth has stopped spinning." He takes another long drag off his cigarette and flicks some more ash onto the floor.
"Shit," she says again. Then, "Ow. Fuck."
Drake finally sneaks a look at her. She's sitting on her knees, the blankets bunched around her waist, pressing the meaty part of her right hand to her right temple. The tiny gold hoop piercing her left nipple glints dully in the light with each breath.
She's young, he thinks.
His head is throbbing, too, like his brain has grown to twice its normal size. But it's a feeling he's grown used to over the years.
"Shit," she says again. "My mom's gonna kill me."
Drake's blood freezes in his veins. Shit, he thinks. Not again. He really needs to start asking more questions – most importantly, are you old enough to vote?
"Uh, look," he says, placing the cigarette between his lips and throwing off the covers. He scurries to his feet. The last thing he wants to do is piss her off enough to have her go crying to her parents. Or worse, the cops.
Suddenly aware of his nudity, he grabs a handful of blanket in his right hand and presses it to his crotch, his throat burning from panic and nicotine. "I didn't know, alright?" he says, carving the air with his left hand. "I-I mean, look at you."
She's looking at him like he's lost his mind and for a moment he wishes he had because then, at least, he could use it as a defense. "What are you talking about?" she asks.
But the words fall from Drake's lips like a waterfall, drawn out by the force of gravity, crashing heavily to the floor between them. "I swear, I wouldn't've laid a finger on you if I'd known. And granted, I don't remember a whole hell of a lot about last night, but I do remember that one thing you did with your tongue. And, Jesus Christ," he says, the cigarette bobbing urgently between his lips with each word, "where did you learn that from? 'Cause I sure as hell don't remember learning that in high school."
Her vague, confused smile turns into all-out laughter at that, damming the flow of Drake's words. He stands there, staring at her in silence. "What the hell's so funny?" he finally manages to ask her.
She finally gets herself under control enough to look him in the eye and say, "I'm twenty-one, you idiot."
"Twenty-one," Drake says. He doesn't know whether to be skeptical or relieved. He settles on a mixture of both.
"Shit," she says, grimacing as she presses her hand against her temple again. "What the hell did I drink last night?"
"But you said your mom's gonna kill you," he says. "I thought…"
She looks at him, a strand of purple hair falling across her left eye. "I was supposed to meet her," she says, then looks at what Drake assumes is the clock next to the bed. "Twenty-eight minutes ago." She looks back at him. "It's museum day."
She says it like Drake is supposed to know what that means. But before he can ask, she's lifting up one fold of the blanket and reaching underneath, pulling out a black lace bra. He watches as she loops her arms through the straps, then reaches behind her back and hooks it in one fluid motion. She climbs off the bed and Drake can see the small butterfly tattoo on her right buttock as she bends to retrieve her panties from the floor.
He sees his boxers lying in a heap two feet from the end of the bed and shuffles over to them, dragging the sheets behind him. Kneeling down, he grabs them, straightening carefully as he tries to figure out how to slip them on without relinquishing his hold on the sheet.
Suddenly she's beside him. "I've seen it, you know," she says, zipping up her skirt. Leather. If Megan saw her walking down the street in that thing, she'd splash her with red paint and call her a murderer. She winks at him. "Up close and personal." Then she plucks the cigarette from his lips and takes a long, slow drag from it, her lips puckering around it suggestively.
He just stands there, boxers in one hand, sheet in the other, and watches her crush out what's left of the cigarette in the overfull glass ashtray on the bedside table. Then she takes out a fresh one and lights it from the same pack of matches Drake used. She takes a long drag, then makes a face as she pushes the smoke past her lips. "Winstons," she says, "taste like come."
You would know, he wants to say, but doesn't. Instead he says, "They're not mine."
She takes another drag, then crushes that one out, too. "No?"
"Someone left 'em here."
"What was her name?" she asks him and even in his state, the challenge in her voice is obvious.
"Don't remember," he says, meeting her eyes. He drops the sheet. She doesn't even hazard a peek.
"Surprise, surprise," she says.
"What's mine?" he asks, slipping into his boxers.
"Drake," she answers immediately. Apparently, the look on his face prompts her to continue. "It was on the poster outside the club. In big letters." She tilts her head to the left, appraising him. "You someone special?"
The question annoys him and he ignores it. "Okay, hot shot. What's my last name?"
The way her eyes darken tells him he's stumped her. "You got me there," she says.
"Yeah, well," Drake says, turning and walking towards the bathroom, "I guess those letters weren't big enough." There's a hint of bitterness in his voice he can't disguise.
He's inside the bathroom, staring at his reflection. The mirror is old; the reflective surface has worn away in places, allowing the gray backing to show through. His eyes are red, his skin blotchy. There's still the hint of a bruise above his right eye where he opened the door into his forehead. He's always been a very uncoordinated drunk.
"For what it's worth," she says from the doorway. Her voice startles him; he figured she'd left. "You were good last night."
His fingers tighten around the edge of the sink and he's still looking at his reflection when he answers her. "You, too."
"No," she says, and out of the corner of his eye he can see her take a step towards him. "I mean at the club. You were really good."
He turns his head and meets her eyes. Hers are bloodshot, too, but in the overhead light he can see her irises are green. "You don't have to say that," he says.
She doesn't answer for a moment, just shakes her head slightly. "I mean it," she says. "It's the reason I was attracted to you in the first place." She nudges him. "Normally, you'd be a little too old for me." When she smiles, the hard edges she so carefully cultivates with the black makeup and purple hair dissolve away.
He feels himself smiling despite the comment. "Everyone seems old when you're sixteen," he says.
She smirks then and sticks out her tongue like the teenager Drake thought she was. The silver ball nestled in the center of her tongue glints in the light. A moment passes between them. Then she says, "My name's Kate." She holds out her hand. "Kate Murphy."
Drake looks down at her hand, then decides to take it. "Drake," he says. "Drake Parker."
Kate nods. "Parker," she says. "I knew that."
"Sure. Uh-huh."
She laughs, letting go of his hand. "It would have come to me eventually," she says. "When I went by that club again and saw your name on that poster."
"I'm sure it's already gone by now," Drake says. "I was only there last night."
She frowns. "Too bad. I was gonna bring my friends to hear you play."
"I'm supposed to be at The Porpoise next Saturday," he says.
"The Porpoise?" She says the name like it tastes bad. "That place is a shit hole."
"Don't remind me," he laments. "But it's gigs like that that keep me in the lifestyle to which I have grown accustomed." He motions around the tiny bathroom with the peeling paint and cracked tile.
"You're too good to be wasting your talent in dive bars," she says and the seriousness in her voice makes his chest ache.
She doesn't remember, he thinks. She was only seven years old when your first single came out. "Tell that to my agent," he says, but the truth is, his agent jumped ship when the money stopped rolling in. Not that Drake could blame him. What's that saying? You can't get blood from a stone. Or money, for that matter.
She looks at him for a long moment, long enough to make him grind his teeth to keep from squirming under the scrutiny. Being on stage and having people stare at him was one thing – the stage lights and smoky haze meant he didn't have to see their eyes. But this one-on-one thing…well, he stopped being good at that a long time ago.
Finally, she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. "Good luck, Drake Parker," she says, her voice soft.
The kindness in her voice paralyzes him; he's not accustomed to it. People, he's come to convince himself, are good for only three things: getting him drunk, getting him high, or getting him off. Anything beyond that is bullshit.
She's out of the bathroom before he can say anything and a few seconds later, he hears his front door open and close. He stands there for a few more seconds, then walks out into his living room, staring at the door like he expects it to suddenly open.
Then the phone rings shrilly, cutting through the silence of the apartment and the static in his head, startling him. He doesn't run to answer it, just stands there and listens as the machine picks up after only two rings.
"Maybe I'm here, maybe I'm not. Leave a message," his recorded voice says.
"Hey, Drake. I tried calling your cell, but it said your phone was no longer in service."
The voice belongs to Josh and Drake knows what his brother's going to say before the words even come out of his mouth and he closes his eyes against them.
"If you need money…" But then he stops, letting the comment linger.
Drake feels a little dizzy and sinks down onto the coffee table before his knees give out.
"Call me, man. Please. I promise not to lecture you." Josh tries to laugh, but even distorted by the answering machine, Drake can hear the desperation in his voice.
"Anyway, happy birthday. That's all I really wanted to say." Josh sighs, a heavy sound that sinks at Drake's feet. "Bye."
When he hears Josh disconnect, Drake looks up. The red light's flashing on the machine, but that's nothing new. It's been flashing for days. Weeks, even. All of the messages are from people who want money.
Well, except for Josh, who wants to give him money.
"Fuck," Drake says out loud and the word seems to die on the air. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
He props his elbows on his knees and cradles his head in his hands. His temples still throb and his mouth is dry. And now, his eyes burn with the tears he's been denying for a long time.
For once, he lets a few escape, feels them slide over his skin, sees them fall to the carpet between his bare feet.
It's my party, he thinks. I'll cry if I want to.
He tries to laugh at that, but it comes out as something else entirely.
"Happy fuckin' birthday," he says through his tears.
Drake Parker is thirty-two years old.
This was planned as a one-shot, but it has potential. Dunno.
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