He doesn't want to be there, sitting on the floor of his shower, cold water pelting down on him. He already felt cold before he went in there but she kept insisting he was burning up. The water is just making the shaking worse and he's almost positive if he's not careful he's going to end up hurting her. Not that he has any control over how badly he's shaking. But he sort of wishes he did because he doesn't want to hurt her.
He's not even sure how he got to this point. It wasn't something he ever planned on, to be sitting in his shower fully clothed with water pelting down on him, his arms bruised and filled with puncture wounds. He never planned to have tiny little Rachel Berry trying to keep her arms around him while he shook and coughed and just wanted to jump out of the fucking window because what was the point in living when everything in his life just then was horrible, was pain? He never wanted her to have to take care of him. He didn't like being taken care of. And it wasn't her job.
New York was supposed to be a good change for him. It was supposed to help him grow, help him move on from everything in Lima. He was supposed to get a real life that he could actually enjoy having. But life rarely cared about the plans you had worked out for it. It takes you in whatever reason it wants to.
Back in Lima he was never into drugs or anything of the like. Well, he took some sometimes but simple shit. He smoked pot and he got drunk and the weird shit that was despite all the stupid dramatic bullshit that was happening in his life it never seemed like he needed more than that. He could deal. He was a master at dealing with bullshit in his life. He had to be to get over a lot of the stuff that happened in his life.
But things were different in New York. In New York things were much more complicated. Things were harder. He had to work his fucking ass off to try and make things work. And it was hard. It was so much harder than he thought it would be. It was time consuming and it stressed him out. But he never thought if he took anything he'd end up being addicted to anything. He was too strong to get addicted to anything, right? He'd be fine. He was a badass. And badasses didn't get addicted to shit. Never. Only he totally had.
It wasn't that bad at first. People didn't even notice the change. Even Rachel didn't notice when they finally started hanging out again. Because he needed it but not that badly. It wasn't something he had to do twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. He had better control than that. That's what he kept telling himself even as he took more, took harder stuff. He was in complete control.
Apparently, according to Rachel, denial isn't that surprising. A lot of people don't think they have a problem when they do. But in his mind there wasn't a problem. There was never a problem. He wasn't in debt from it. He wasn't doing horribly. And he was able to spend time with his friends so it wasn't that big of a deal.
No one even noticed a change in him. Except for Rachel. Only Rachel. She used to give him a big hug every time she saw him. They'd sit and talk and they'd catch up with what had been going on with each of them since the last time they spoke. But over time she started to give him that strange searching look she would give people when she wasn't sure they were alright or being honest. And he always shrugged it off. What reason did he have to actually acknowledge it? He was fine. He knew he was.
But about eighteen hours ago she showed up at his apartment like they had planned. She was supposed to be bringing him to meet some of her friends so that she could introduce him. Something about wanting her newer friends to meet one of her older friends. And he supposed that he understood that. Trying to combine the two worlds and all of that.
His door was unlocked but only because he had been by it when he had to rush away. And Rachel had been knocking on his door repeatedly. She must have gotten worried when he didn't answer and tried the door because the next thing he knew her tiny little hand was on his back as he threw up into the toilet. He wasn't sure how he didn't hear her shoes clicking across the floor but he hadn't. He hadn't heard it and only knew she was in there with her hand on his back.
He wasn't sick. Not really. He had just taken too much. Not enough to kill him but enough to make him sick. And it was when he stopped heaving and was leaning against his bathtub, the petite brunette's tiny hand pressing a wet, cool washcloth against his face that things shifted. Because he was anxious then. Anxious and feeling needy and he couldn't keep himself calm or stop himself from moving around. And he did it without thinking about it. He rolled up his sleeves and picked at the hem of one of them.
Time sort of did that weird thing where it slows down and speeds up all at the same time. Because her hand stopped patting at his cheek and her eyes were glued on his arm. She dropped the cloth down into his lap in a way that obviously wasn't intentional but then she reached out and brushed her fingers against the track marks he had kept hidden beneath his sleeves, touched him gently like she was afraid she was going to hurt him. When her dark eyes turned up to his though they weren't hard like he expected them to be. They looked sad. They looked so very sad, like maybe she was going to start crying.
Then time went really fast. Both of her hands went to his face and she still looked ready to cry as she kissed his cheek and pressed her forehead against his. And it wasn't romantic. It wasn't romantic at all. It was her worrying about him and he knew it. Especially when she launched into a patented Rachel Berry rant and started to rip him a new one, telling him he was going to kill himself if he wasn't careful. And he wanted not to care but he did. More because he hated seeing her looking like she was going to cry than anything.
She called up her friends and said they weren't going to be able to make it and then she sat with him. She was determined to help him detox. She wasn't going to let him kill himself- her words, not his. But she reminded him that the overdose could have been worse, much worse and he absolutely couldn't deny that. And the only reason he agreed was to keep that look off of her face. It would have been a lie to say he never cared about her. They had been friends, hadn't they? So he hated her being upset.
But sitting there on the shower floor shivering with her arms wrapped around him he wanted to take it back. He didn't want to be going through withdrawal anymore. He was in pain. He was in so much pain that he couldn't think straight and he felt like he couldn't breathe. His muscles and bones felt like they were on fire. He felt like he was going to throw up at any second. He couldn't eat. He was shaking and he felt cold, so cold. His muscles felt like they were locking up and he was so depressed he couldn't stand it. And according to what Rachel told him she heard he has possibly more than two days left of this to go through. He just doesn't want to deal with it anymore. He wants to go back in time and never have promised her he would let her help him try to get it out of his system.
Before they got into the shower he told her that Finn probably wouldn't like her sticking to another guy's side for a couple of days. What guy would? But Rachel just looked at him and said that what Finn did or didn't like wasn't a concern of hers, that he had no opinion in the matter. He wasn't sure what that meant but he didn't think to ask. It wasn't important, really. And he could ask her later if he was curious.
Her little arms tighten around his chest and she's leaning against the shower wall. Her clothes are soaked through and shivering from the temperature of the water but he's shaking harder than her so he can barely tell. Every once in a while she lifts up one hand and runs if over the top of his head like she's petting him but somewhere in the back of his hazy mind he knows that she's trying to soothe him. It's not working very well but she's trying.
Reaching up he wraps a hand around her arm, wants to pull it away but feels too weak to. Instead his hand tightens around her arm and his nails dig into her skin, not hard enough to draw blood but he knows she can feel it. He can't take it anymore. He wants a fix. He needsa fix before he loses his mind entirely. He's going to throw up and he's going to have a full-on panic attack.
"Please." His voice comes out scratchy and deep even to his own ears. His throat feels tight and he can taste bile in the back of his throat. He hates all of this. He just wants to feel better and he can't stop himself from feeling like shit. "Please, Rachel. Just one more hit. That's all I need. Just a small one."
"No." Her voice is firm and he knows there's no room for argument. She won't give him what she wants no matter how much he begs. And he could beg and cry. He could scream and she's determined not to give him what he's asking her for. What he's begging her for.
But doesn't she understand that he needs it? Doesn't she understand that he can't do this? He's not that strong. He tries to be but he's not. He wishes he was though. He wishes he could deal with this all because he's always considered himself a very, very strong guy. He's always been tough. So why can't he handle this? Why can't he just give up and tell her to fuck off? Tell her that he doesn't want to do any of this anymore? Why can't he tell her that he doesn't want to do this anymore?
Her grip on him tightens and she draws him back against her. His body slumps a little and the last thing he wants to do is crush her. He's so much bigger than her that he knows he could hurt her if he isn't careful. He knows he could probably crush her. But he can't stop himself from putting basically all of his weight against her.
Her chin comes down to rest against his shoulder and her hand goes up to brush over the top of his head again. Her teeth are chattering in his ear and he just wants to tell her to leave him alone, to get the fuck out of the shower and go home. To tell her that he'll be fine but he knows she won't do that. That she won't believe it. And he knows she won't just leave him. For all of her faults when Rachel considers someone a friend she cares about them. She forgets how to show it sometimes but that doesn't mean she doesn't care.
"You're going to work this out of your system," she whispers to him. "You're going to work this out of your system and we're going to get you clean. We'll get you into a support group if we have to. But I refuse to watch you kill yourself by doing this. So, you can hate me if you want to. Hate me, scream at me. Have a fit if you want. But I'm not letting you take anything. I'm not going to watch you die when you don't have to, Noah."
Her hand goes back to his chest and he feels her sigh more than he hears her. "You're stronger than this. We both know you are. So don't give up."
But he's not strong enough to beat this and he knows he's not.
He doesn't even realize he starts to cry in frustration until he feels the warmth of his tears running down his face.
She just continues holding him against her while he shakes. And somewhere deep down inside of him even while he hates her for what she's doing he can't really hate her. Because despite everything he knows she's just trying to help him.