Title: Pocket of High
Summary: But I couldn't save him. Couldn't he see I was trying to drown?
Warnings: Drugs, violence, boy/boy, everything that could possibly go wrong. Ya know, all the usuals in my stories minus the happy ending.
Pairing:Seph/Cloud/Kadaj
Disclaimer: Wouldn't this have happened if I owned the franchise?
A wink. A smile. That's all it took. Well, the vial of heroin was certainly adding appeal to the offer, as well. A wink, a smile, a capsule of drugs; with all of that, I took his hand and we walked into the shadows. Maybe we would come back, maybe we wouldn't; I didn't find it very important if he was packing powder.
He was familiar; some things were slightly off -his hair was shorter along with his height. His eyes were brighter -maybe from my high, maybe from his. His hands shook, his lips were chapped. And the name, too, completely different: Kadaj. Like an inelegant teenage-nightmare-clone of Sephiroth on drugs. No, literally, on drugs. He was staring at me, for some reason. Like, of the hundred or so people in the Tav, I was the only one who could save him. Too bad he was looking at exactly the wrong person, he was a cute kid. But I couldn't save him. Couldn't he see I was trying to drown? Apparently not, I decided when his footfalls directed themselves at me. He tried to act smooth -or at least as smooth as a narc could act, with all that twitching and lip-biting going on. He might have been able to pull it off, too, if I were four or five years younger.
By the end of the verbal conversation, it became alarmingly obvious: this mimic of my last partner didn't want me to save him; he wanted to pull me under, to drown with me. On his terms. Like I could have refused, with that manic, maniac grin plastered to his face that promised I would be abused and loved in ways so vulgar it would seem beautiful with 'snow' running through our veins. If nothing else, I needed the last part.
He offered his hand, and what kind of man would I be to deny him? The darkness beckoned us, whispering unspeakable things provocatively into our ears and sealing the phrases with harsh nips at our throats. The shadows do me in...or maybe it's only him. Hearts pound against cages, sweat becomes cold. Slaved to crank, the only things to do are swallow the bottle, cut a little deeper, and put the gun to our chests. But don't pull the trigger, we never can. And if one of us ever could, the other wouldn't follow; we don't mean that much to each other.
A/N: ...Well that was horrible. Sorry for disturbing anyone who made it this far...
I'm posting this now because I've had it in my doc manager for a while and LC's next chapter is running late. But I'll have it up by Sunday, don't fret.