Title: Purgatory For Beginners
Author: Flannery
Rating: R
Pairing: Jonathan/Andrew
Disclaimer: Everyone in here was created by Joss. Only the story is mine.
Summary: Addictive magics have Jonathan crawling around rock bottom, but he isn't as completely alone as he thinks.
Author's Notes: This is for Lacy, as part of the Jonathan ficathon. She wanted Jonathan under the influence of magic, so that's what she's getting. Takes place late in season five, or early season six. Thanks to Alice for the quick beta! And remember, feedback is next to godliness, kids.
* * *
There came a soft, breathy laugh from beyond the bedroom door. Both Andrew and Warren turned to look in its direction. On the carpet outside the door, a morning glory sprouted out of the year-old Dr. Pepper stain.
"There's a flower growing in my basement," Warren said. He tried to keep the bemusement from his voice, with little success. It was hard not to be impressed by magic, and the random forms in which it sometimes took. He cleared his throat and said, more sternly, "He'd better not cause any permanent damage."
"I don't think he will." The flower wilted, died, and faded back into the stain, and Andrew returned to scanning the contents on the pill bottle he held. Eyes not leaving the label, he asked, "You don't need these ginseng caplets, do you? I mean, there's still cotton inside the bottle, so..."
"Um." Warren furrowed his brow. "No. No, I don't... but do you really think they're a risk?"
With a sharp rattle, the bottle joined the growing pile of trash. "The thing is," Andrew said, "I just don't know. I've never..."
"Yeah," Warren breathed. "I've never, either."
He was deferring to Andrew in all things related to Jonathan. It may have been his basement, his bedroom, his possessions being tossed away, but before now, Warren had been simply an observer in Jonathan's life. He was confused, deeply so, and hated being confused by things. Confusion brought annoyance; in Warren's mind, it was better to seem hostile than ignorant. But Andrew was so concerned and so genuinely stressed that he felt guilty for having a short tolerance, and it was impossible for Warren to argue since he knew only a fraction of what Andrew did about magic, and about Jonathan.
"Those too." Andrew indicated the box in Warren's hand. "In the trash."
And so Warren was trying very hard not to show any of the irritation he felt. His hand clenched on the box and half of the thin cardboard collapsed in his grip. "They're just birthday candles!" He protested, losing the battle with his exasperation.
Andrew gave Warren a pointed glare. Not wanting to bicker over a stupid box of candles, he sighed heavily and tossed it in the bag.
"Thanks," Andrew said, catching Warren's frustrated look. "This means a lot." The way it was spoken, Warren heard 'this means everything'.
The annoyed look melted slightly, and he gave a nod. "I know." For once in his life, he was determined to do the right thing.
* * *
The glass of the jukebox contracted; no one heard the soft grinding of grain against grain. The sound was lost in the din of the diner, drowned amongst the loud voices of children and the too-enthusiastic laughter of adults. When the glass exploded outward, and the records inside melted to black tar, and the tangle of wires reached out through the machine's every orifice and spit vicious sparks at the ceiling - that was harder to ignore, and the patrons began to react accordingly.
There was a brief scream of confusion, then more screams followed, and everyone was scattering toward exits. The young man at the table directly facing the chaos didn't move. He remained petrified, hands clutching a steaming cup of coffee, black eyes fixed on the tabletop. Every smear from every five-second wipe-down the table had ever received stood out to his sharpened mind, a history written in bacteria and stickiness. The screams were a world away. People rushed by without seeing Jonathan, a fact to which he'd long since resigned himself.
Jonathan watched the small fire burn for a few minutes, watched the black smoke curl upward and dance along the ceiling, before he extinguished the flames. He no longer needed to say the incantations aloud; all it now took was a reminiscence, a focus of intent, and the thing was done. In this case, the flames choked and died. What's left of the jukebox collapsed in on itself.
He rose from his seat, fingers splayed on the tabletop. Jonathan had, at first, planned to walk out without paying for his order. However, with the damage he'd caused to the diner's property that evening, paying his bill was the least that he could do.
* * *
"Andrew." Andrew looked up in response. "Should we keep this?" Warren asked. He held up a coffee-stained receipt. "I took it from Jonathan's coat pocket."
In his hand, Andrew crumbled up an image of a watercolor goddess and pitched it into the bag. "That's from the restaurant?"
Warren nodded absently. Just pie and coffee, $2.74 total - he couldn't fathom what had set Jonathan off. Jonathan wouldn't tell them, or possibly couldn't tell them; he'd been so out of it when they'd arrived to pick him up that Warren had to get the story from a shaken teenaged waitress. It had been a miracle that Jonathan could be smuggled through the crowd and into the car before being cornered by investigators looking for a statement.
Until that night, Warren had considered himself unshockable. Mostly through the marvel of modern television, he'd seen fires and corpses, and victims of vampires left on display at the high school, bodies ravaged by disease and grotesque demons from beyond this dimension.
Tonight, when he looked at Jonathan, he found the speech struck from his throat: Like chips of obsidian, Jonathan's eyes had never looked so prominent or so powerful. With those black eyes on him, Warren felt like he was in a deep cave with a collapsed entrance. They weren't simply black, as an adjective or color; Jonathan's eyes were black, like the complete and total absence of light and maybe the ominous presence of something more. The pupils were dilated and nearly engulfed the whites of his eyes in a void, framed in the softer blackness of eyelashes. He'd been exceptionally pale and feverish, with the barest trace of veins stretching across his cheeks. Merely helping Jonathan into the backseat of his mother's car had given Warren a shiver in his fingers and an ache in his teeth.
"Throw it out," Andrew said after a moment's hesitation.
Ink from the paper was rubbing off on Warren's damp fingers. "I was just thinking," he said quietly, "It might be good to keep, as a reminder."
Andrew shook his head. "No. Just get rid of it." Behind his eyes burned the shell-shocked faces of the crowd outside the diner. Andrew himself was still jittery and hadn't stopped moving since they'd arrived back at Warren's.
"I think we should hold onto it for Jonathan." Still, his hand closed over the paper in resignation, carelessly wadding it into his palm.
Andrew had moved on to another box. He busied himself sorting through action figures and collectibles, culling and trashing the occasional talisman. "You don't understand," he mumbled, and Warren snorted in irritation. "Tonight was traumatic for him, too. He won't want to remember it."
Warren had already shoved the receipt into his pocket.
* * *
A fire truck was parked outside as they left, flashing lights turning the silhouette of Warren's face an angry shade of red. Jonathan shut his eyes against the brilliance.
There was a half-humorous warning from Warren not to turn the inside of his mother's car into anything unnatural. Jonathan heard it like it was shouted in a windstorm. As Warren pulled back on the highway, Jonathan rested his face against the cold glass of the window and pulled his coat up over his body. The return trip to suburban Sunnydale was absolutely quiet, except for the occasional soft and reassuring whisper from Andrew.
His head was spinning inside, and it wouldn't stop with any amount of Tylenol he swallowed. The icy bite of the glass against his cheek seemed like the only real thing anchoring him to this plane and he started to wonder what would happen when even that gave up its grip on him.
Jonathan felt alone. This went beyond loneliness - this was a desperate and trembling isolation. His hands clenched tightly on the collar of his coat, and he barely noticed the touch when Andrew leaned close and took hold of his chilled hand.
* * *
"We can't keep him locked in there."
They both turned and looked at the closed door. Though he'd been more than a little reluctant, Warren had given up his bedroom for Jonathan, and now sat on the plaid-patterned futon that Jonathan usually slept on when he stayed over. "Really, Andrew, how long can we keep this up? We can't force him to stay here, and we can't force him to stop using spells if he doesn't want to give it up."
Andrew's eyes were glossy and he blinked them shut. "I can't leave him alone."
It was said so quietly it was lost to the air around them, and Warren said, "What?"
"I said we can't leave him alone. What're we gonna do? Take him home and - and tell his parents all the stuff that's going on? Drop him in a support group or something?" Andrew paused. "Oh." He smiled sheepishly. "This is Sunnydale, so maybe that's an option. I should look into that."
It wasn't Warren's fault that Jonathan was cracked out on dark magic, and he wanted to say so. He wanted to tell Andrew that he kind of resented having to rearrange his life in order to baby-sit Jonathan and keep him from blowing up property or overdosing and exploding or whatever it is that could happen.
But he said none of that, because he couldn't say no to Andrew.
"You'll have to stay with him tonight," he said as if he didn't know Andrew would be doing that anyway. Warren stretched out on his back. He wondered if the ceiling really just undulated, or whether he'd imagined it. "I've got some stuff in there - this powder he gave me last month, and a candle, and a few crystal things on the bookshelf. Make sure he doesn't blow anything up."
"Okay," Andrew replied hoarsely. He looked like he wanted to say something; maybe to apologize for the strain this was putting on Warren and the sacrifices he'd had to make. Andrew had always tried so hard to shoulder Jonathan's problems by himself.
"You should go," Warren told him before Andrew had a chance to speak any further. "Make sure he's all right in there. Keep him company."
Andrew gave a nod.
Warren turned his eyes to the ceiling; it was absolutely still, no ripples or waves, making him believe he imagined the earlier movement.
"Night," Andrew said. It came out slightly tense, like a simple formality before he could rush off to Jonathan's side.
As Andrew left, Warren switched on the television. His attention elsewhere, he missed the wall behind him give a dying shiver.
* * *
They'd had this idea - They would be the Trio. They would be infamous.
Jonathan knew they were only playing at being villains. It was fun, and relatively harmless. A sort of game where he could step outside himself, where he and Warren and Andrew could become the sort of powerful players they'd always desired to be.
Only there wasn't a Trio, and there never would be.
Jonathan's face was wet and he buried it against the pillow. A whimper formed in his throat. The walls around him gave a soft shudder as he cried.
Warren and Andrew had been close even in school, despite the small age gap between them. Jonathan had become friendly with the pair only earlier in the year. Always, he'd be the third wheel. Always, he'd be the hanger-on. It would be Warren and Andrew, and close by on the outside, Jonathan.
* * *
Snow drifted downward around Andrew. "Whoa," he said under his breath. In the chilly air, the word formed as a puff of cloud from his mouth.
Jonathan's head languidly rolled to the side. His eyelids slid open. "S'not so impressive, Andy. Just frozen precipitation."
Andrew tried to keep the astonishment from his voice. "You'd better stop this. You're making a mess."
On the bed, Jonathan turned his face up toward the other man, managing to look perfectly innocent framed by soft white crystals. "It was too warm in here," he grinned. The smile looked all wrong on Jonathan's face, with the massive black eyes glaring wide and hard up through the falling snow.
"Take your sweater off," Andrew suggested, "But don't get Warren's bed all damp. No one likes sleeping on squishy sheets."
Jonathan sighed, and the snow stopped falling. When he didn't move, Andrew sat beside him on the edge of the bed and began pulling Jonathan's sweater up. "You're hopeless, you know that?"
Jonathan laughed breathily. "How else would I get you to undress me?"
After the first time - a strong summoning spell that resulted in Jonathan's first binge - Andrew had felt an obligation to watch over Jonathan during the aftermath. They were, after all, friends, and he couldn't very well leave Jonathan alone while his head was whirling with magic and the world around him wouldn't stay still. Also, he secretly loved the easy way Jonathan would laugh during his highs, and the way he'd cuddle close to Andrew and cling with intense need as he came down.
At the same time, it stressed Andrew more than he'd ever let on; each binge got progressively worse, and the hangovers increased in length and severity, and Jonathan was simply giving in to each craving without thought of consequence.
He rested a hand against Jonathan's cheek and forced the other man to look at him. "This is the last time," Andrew said. He thought he saw the black abyss of Jonathan's eyes roll.
Jonathan leaned backward until the back of his head again touched the pillow. Eyes shut, he exhaled faintly sparking breath toward the ceiling. Andrew sat nearby, watching while the last lights of the cloud faded and died.
"You used to think it was cool." Shimmering breath accompanied the words.
"I still do," he replied.
A few of the colored sparks fell across Jonathan's cheeks, stuck to his eyelashes as he spoke. "You know I do it for us, Andy." He turned his head to the side, cheek resting against the pillow, still damp with tears and melted snow. "The three of us, we're nothing without this power. How're we going to command respect in this town? Robot girls and flying monkeys?"
"No," said Andrew, "Don't say that anymore. Warren and I are going to work really hard to get you to stop. So - so you can't use that excuse anymore. You can't say you're doing it for us, 'cause you're not, and you haven't for a long time." He studied Jonathan's blank face for a reaction, and then added, "So... no more magic."
Panic was beginning to rise in Jonathan's throat. Spells and enchantments were all he had to offer the group! He gave a dismissive snort, but there was a catch in his voice as he said, "It sounds like you're less than dedicated to the Trio, Andy."
It didn't do any good to argue with him in his post-magical state, so Andrew fell quiet.
Jonathan would sleep all through the next day, Andrew knew, which would give Warren time to clear the room of any potentially magical items. Andrew always hated the day after - Jonathan would burn so much power that the next day, he'd sleep like a comatose, and need a dozen blankets piled upon him in order to keep his body temperature from falling. Sometimes, in the weakened state, he'd open his eyes and look straight through Andrew without any sense of recognition. Andrew supposed it was just an effect of the exhaustion, but it never failed to terrify him.
* * *
Just before eight that evening, he'd placed the call. When he closed his eyes, Jonathan could make out the faint images of his friends, miles across town: Warren's eyes had immediately darted to Andrew when he'd picked up the receiver, and Andrew had begun chewing on his jagged fingernails.
When he opened his eyes again, the view of the payphone and dirty diner wall had rushed back so quickly, he'd nearly been sick. With every blink he was somewhere else: five feet away, staring at his own back; outside, gazing into traffic; back in the dimly-lit corridor by the restrooms, black plastic phone cradled to his ear.
Like in a dream or an elementary school play, Jonathan recited his location and current condition and could they please come and get him - oh and he was sorry, truly, for splitting open the ground in Warren's front lawn and he really hadn't meant to do so.
Inside, everywhere but in his fevered head, Jonathan felt a dull, empty ache. He knew they'd come get him, but only out of obligation. Only because he was the one that could cast wards around the home to disrupt locator spells, and only because Jonathan was the one that could wash the guys' dishes with just a chant.
His feet didn't touch the ground as he walked back to the table. The soles of Jonathan's shoes hovered a fraction of an inch from the filthy carpet.
* * *
It was to the point where Jonathan wouldn't pick his head up from the pillow anymore. The magic had sparked out inside him and sucked with it every last morsel of energy it could take without killing him. Andrew had watched Jonathan fade, like the flower that'd earlier wilted just moments after blossoming in the basement. At the very last, Jonathan had reached a hand out for his water glass, which twitched as if being pulled, then let himself lie boneless on the bedsheets as Andrew picked the glass up for him.
"I'm stopping," he told Andrew, tired eyes searching his face in the faint light of the crescent moon.
"That's good." Andrew smiled gently. His arms were wound around Jonathan's forearm, Jonathan's hand clasped between his own hands. It recalled the scene earlier, in the back of Warren's car - Jonathan's expression as he leaned against the window was so lost, so vacant, that Andrew had wanted to envelope his friend in a warm embrace and suck the bad feelings out like a sponge.
Jonathan's skin was clammy, and his fingers were like icicles. Andrew continued rubbing the limp hand between his palms in an attempt to warm it.
"Andrew?"
He blinked, and realized he'd been staring into Jonathan's eyes. The bewitching black had all but receded, and the whites of his big, searching eyes seemed to catch and hold the dim moonlight. A half smile lit Jonathan's face, and Andrew found his cheeks flushing with blood. "Are - are you cold?" He asked, trying to diffuse the moment.
"Always," rasped Jonathan.
Without a thought, Andrew drew Jonathan's arm against his chest and draped himself across the smaller man's blanketed body.
Jonathan sighed as Andrew lay against him. He rested his face against warm flesh, nuzzled close in the space between neck and shoulder. Breath from his nose was making Andrew's skin moist and he both heard and felt the soft groan Andrew made.
Jonathan wrapped an arm around Andrew's skinny back and exhaled the words, "Don't leave me," against his neck. There was a heartbreaking desperation in his voice.
Andrew's soft cheek rested against his. "Won't," he whispered.
After several long minutes of jagged breaths and thumping heartbeats, their mouths met in the dark.
The first kiss was tentative, because neither boy could see well and Jonathan was disoriented. Their lips ended up half-together, half on the side of the face, and Andrew giggled awkwardly before Jonathan's mouth pressed against his in a sloppy kiss.
The world was a blur of lips and palms. "Shh," Andrew hissed when Jonathan groaned against his kisses. He moved his mouth to Jonathan's ear and breathed into it. "Warren's just outside the room."
Jonathan gave a half-nod and they kissed again.
"Andrew." Jonathan nuzzled his mouth tenderly underneath Andrew's jaw. "...so good to me," he breathed, sliding his cold hands under Andrew's shirt. "Love you for that."
It was Andrew's head that was spinning now. Things were happening so fast and a half dozen thoughts fought for dominance: shouldn't be doing this... taking advantage... why didn't we do this before?
"Dunno," answered Jonathan, scraping his nails over Andrew's bony ribs.
Andrew hadn't even realized he'd said it aloud.
The kisses grew languid, less passionate, and hands stilled in mid-caress on their bodies. Soon Jonathan, void of energy, was simply moving a hand in affectionate strokes up and down Andrew's forearm. The two curled contentedly into each other, sharing the occasional closed-mouth kiss or intimate touch.
"Did I warm you up?" Andrew asked quietly. The question - any words - sounded loud and stupid in the calm room.
"Mmm." Jonathan smiled. He had ceased fighting his heavy eyelids, and Andrew knew he'd be gone at any second.
Sleep was slow to come for Andrew; he found it impossible to doze with the warm, breathing body close beside him. He wriggled under the covers with Jonathan and resumed his embrace once he'd got comfortable. As predicted, Jonathan didn't move again once he'd passed out, his head lolling dumbly on the pillow.
This time, Andrew didn't darken his thoughts with musings on how corpse-like he appeared - this time, he marveled at the tenderness in Jonathan's empty expression, and how even in the weak nighttime light from the window, he could make out the sharp crescents of Jonathan's eyelashes resting against his cheeks.
* * *
Author: Flannery
Rating: R
Pairing: Jonathan/Andrew
Disclaimer: Everyone in here was created by Joss. Only the story is mine.
Summary: Addictive magics have Jonathan crawling around rock bottom, but he isn't as completely alone as he thinks.
Author's Notes: This is for Lacy, as part of the Jonathan ficathon. She wanted Jonathan under the influence of magic, so that's what she's getting. Takes place late in season five, or early season six. Thanks to Alice for the quick beta! And remember, feedback is next to godliness, kids.
* * *
There came a soft, breathy laugh from beyond the bedroom door. Both Andrew and Warren turned to look in its direction. On the carpet outside the door, a morning glory sprouted out of the year-old Dr. Pepper stain.
"There's a flower growing in my basement," Warren said. He tried to keep the bemusement from his voice, with little success. It was hard not to be impressed by magic, and the random forms in which it sometimes took. He cleared his throat and said, more sternly, "He'd better not cause any permanent damage."
"I don't think he will." The flower wilted, died, and faded back into the stain, and Andrew returned to scanning the contents on the pill bottle he held. Eyes not leaving the label, he asked, "You don't need these ginseng caplets, do you? I mean, there's still cotton inside the bottle, so..."
"Um." Warren furrowed his brow. "No. No, I don't... but do you really think they're a risk?"
With a sharp rattle, the bottle joined the growing pile of trash. "The thing is," Andrew said, "I just don't know. I've never..."
"Yeah," Warren breathed. "I've never, either."
He was deferring to Andrew in all things related to Jonathan. It may have been his basement, his bedroom, his possessions being tossed away, but before now, Warren had been simply an observer in Jonathan's life. He was confused, deeply so, and hated being confused by things. Confusion brought annoyance; in Warren's mind, it was better to seem hostile than ignorant. But Andrew was so concerned and so genuinely stressed that he felt guilty for having a short tolerance, and it was impossible for Warren to argue since he knew only a fraction of what Andrew did about magic, and about Jonathan.
"Those too." Andrew indicated the box in Warren's hand. "In the trash."
And so Warren was trying very hard not to show any of the irritation he felt. His hand clenched on the box and half of the thin cardboard collapsed in his grip. "They're just birthday candles!" He protested, losing the battle with his exasperation.
Andrew gave Warren a pointed glare. Not wanting to bicker over a stupid box of candles, he sighed heavily and tossed it in the bag.
"Thanks," Andrew said, catching Warren's frustrated look. "This means a lot." The way it was spoken, Warren heard 'this means everything'.
The annoyed look melted slightly, and he gave a nod. "I know." For once in his life, he was determined to do the right thing.
* * *
The glass of the jukebox contracted; no one heard the soft grinding of grain against grain. The sound was lost in the din of the diner, drowned amongst the loud voices of children and the too-enthusiastic laughter of adults. When the glass exploded outward, and the records inside melted to black tar, and the tangle of wires reached out through the machine's every orifice and spit vicious sparks at the ceiling - that was harder to ignore, and the patrons began to react accordingly.
There was a brief scream of confusion, then more screams followed, and everyone was scattering toward exits. The young man at the table directly facing the chaos didn't move. He remained petrified, hands clutching a steaming cup of coffee, black eyes fixed on the tabletop. Every smear from every five-second wipe-down the table had ever received stood out to his sharpened mind, a history written in bacteria and stickiness. The screams were a world away. People rushed by without seeing Jonathan, a fact to which he'd long since resigned himself.
Jonathan watched the small fire burn for a few minutes, watched the black smoke curl upward and dance along the ceiling, before he extinguished the flames. He no longer needed to say the incantations aloud; all it now took was a reminiscence, a focus of intent, and the thing was done. In this case, the flames choked and died. What's left of the jukebox collapsed in on itself.
He rose from his seat, fingers splayed on the tabletop. Jonathan had, at first, planned to walk out without paying for his order. However, with the damage he'd caused to the diner's property that evening, paying his bill was the least that he could do.
* * *
"Andrew." Andrew looked up in response. "Should we keep this?" Warren asked. He held up a coffee-stained receipt. "I took it from Jonathan's coat pocket."
In his hand, Andrew crumbled up an image of a watercolor goddess and pitched it into the bag. "That's from the restaurant?"
Warren nodded absently. Just pie and coffee, $2.74 total - he couldn't fathom what had set Jonathan off. Jonathan wouldn't tell them, or possibly couldn't tell them; he'd been so out of it when they'd arrived to pick him up that Warren had to get the story from a shaken teenaged waitress. It had been a miracle that Jonathan could be smuggled through the crowd and into the car before being cornered by investigators looking for a statement.
Until that night, Warren had considered himself unshockable. Mostly through the marvel of modern television, he'd seen fires and corpses, and victims of vampires left on display at the high school, bodies ravaged by disease and grotesque demons from beyond this dimension.
Tonight, when he looked at Jonathan, he found the speech struck from his throat: Like chips of obsidian, Jonathan's eyes had never looked so prominent or so powerful. With those black eyes on him, Warren felt like he was in a deep cave with a collapsed entrance. They weren't simply black, as an adjective or color; Jonathan's eyes were black, like the complete and total absence of light and maybe the ominous presence of something more. The pupils were dilated and nearly engulfed the whites of his eyes in a void, framed in the softer blackness of eyelashes. He'd been exceptionally pale and feverish, with the barest trace of veins stretching across his cheeks. Merely helping Jonathan into the backseat of his mother's car had given Warren a shiver in his fingers and an ache in his teeth.
"Throw it out," Andrew said after a moment's hesitation.
Ink from the paper was rubbing off on Warren's damp fingers. "I was just thinking," he said quietly, "It might be good to keep, as a reminder."
Andrew shook his head. "No. Just get rid of it." Behind his eyes burned the shell-shocked faces of the crowd outside the diner. Andrew himself was still jittery and hadn't stopped moving since they'd arrived back at Warren's.
"I think we should hold onto it for Jonathan." Still, his hand closed over the paper in resignation, carelessly wadding it into his palm.
Andrew had moved on to another box. He busied himself sorting through action figures and collectibles, culling and trashing the occasional talisman. "You don't understand," he mumbled, and Warren snorted in irritation. "Tonight was traumatic for him, too. He won't want to remember it."
Warren had already shoved the receipt into his pocket.
* * *
A fire truck was parked outside as they left, flashing lights turning the silhouette of Warren's face an angry shade of red. Jonathan shut his eyes against the brilliance.
There was a half-humorous warning from Warren not to turn the inside of his mother's car into anything unnatural. Jonathan heard it like it was shouted in a windstorm. As Warren pulled back on the highway, Jonathan rested his face against the cold glass of the window and pulled his coat up over his body. The return trip to suburban Sunnydale was absolutely quiet, except for the occasional soft and reassuring whisper from Andrew.
His head was spinning inside, and it wouldn't stop with any amount of Tylenol he swallowed. The icy bite of the glass against his cheek seemed like the only real thing anchoring him to this plane and he started to wonder what would happen when even that gave up its grip on him.
Jonathan felt alone. This went beyond loneliness - this was a desperate and trembling isolation. His hands clenched tightly on the collar of his coat, and he barely noticed the touch when Andrew leaned close and took hold of his chilled hand.
* * *
"We can't keep him locked in there."
They both turned and looked at the closed door. Though he'd been more than a little reluctant, Warren had given up his bedroom for Jonathan, and now sat on the plaid-patterned futon that Jonathan usually slept on when he stayed over. "Really, Andrew, how long can we keep this up? We can't force him to stay here, and we can't force him to stop using spells if he doesn't want to give it up."
Andrew's eyes were glossy and he blinked them shut. "I can't leave him alone."
It was said so quietly it was lost to the air around them, and Warren said, "What?"
"I said we can't leave him alone. What're we gonna do? Take him home and - and tell his parents all the stuff that's going on? Drop him in a support group or something?" Andrew paused. "Oh." He smiled sheepishly. "This is Sunnydale, so maybe that's an option. I should look into that."
It wasn't Warren's fault that Jonathan was cracked out on dark magic, and he wanted to say so. He wanted to tell Andrew that he kind of resented having to rearrange his life in order to baby-sit Jonathan and keep him from blowing up property or overdosing and exploding or whatever it is that could happen.
But he said none of that, because he couldn't say no to Andrew.
"You'll have to stay with him tonight," he said as if he didn't know Andrew would be doing that anyway. Warren stretched out on his back. He wondered if the ceiling really just undulated, or whether he'd imagined it. "I've got some stuff in there - this powder he gave me last month, and a candle, and a few crystal things on the bookshelf. Make sure he doesn't blow anything up."
"Okay," Andrew replied hoarsely. He looked like he wanted to say something; maybe to apologize for the strain this was putting on Warren and the sacrifices he'd had to make. Andrew had always tried so hard to shoulder Jonathan's problems by himself.
"You should go," Warren told him before Andrew had a chance to speak any further. "Make sure he's all right in there. Keep him company."
Andrew gave a nod.
Warren turned his eyes to the ceiling; it was absolutely still, no ripples or waves, making him believe he imagined the earlier movement.
"Night," Andrew said. It came out slightly tense, like a simple formality before he could rush off to Jonathan's side.
As Andrew left, Warren switched on the television. His attention elsewhere, he missed the wall behind him give a dying shiver.
* * *
They'd had this idea - They would be the Trio. They would be infamous.
Jonathan knew they were only playing at being villains. It was fun, and relatively harmless. A sort of game where he could step outside himself, where he and Warren and Andrew could become the sort of powerful players they'd always desired to be.
Only there wasn't a Trio, and there never would be.
Jonathan's face was wet and he buried it against the pillow. A whimper formed in his throat. The walls around him gave a soft shudder as he cried.
Warren and Andrew had been close even in school, despite the small age gap between them. Jonathan had become friendly with the pair only earlier in the year. Always, he'd be the third wheel. Always, he'd be the hanger-on. It would be Warren and Andrew, and close by on the outside, Jonathan.
* * *
Snow drifted downward around Andrew. "Whoa," he said under his breath. In the chilly air, the word formed as a puff of cloud from his mouth.
Jonathan's head languidly rolled to the side. His eyelids slid open. "S'not so impressive, Andy. Just frozen precipitation."
Andrew tried to keep the astonishment from his voice. "You'd better stop this. You're making a mess."
On the bed, Jonathan turned his face up toward the other man, managing to look perfectly innocent framed by soft white crystals. "It was too warm in here," he grinned. The smile looked all wrong on Jonathan's face, with the massive black eyes glaring wide and hard up through the falling snow.
"Take your sweater off," Andrew suggested, "But don't get Warren's bed all damp. No one likes sleeping on squishy sheets."
Jonathan sighed, and the snow stopped falling. When he didn't move, Andrew sat beside him on the edge of the bed and began pulling Jonathan's sweater up. "You're hopeless, you know that?"
Jonathan laughed breathily. "How else would I get you to undress me?"
After the first time - a strong summoning spell that resulted in Jonathan's first binge - Andrew had felt an obligation to watch over Jonathan during the aftermath. They were, after all, friends, and he couldn't very well leave Jonathan alone while his head was whirling with magic and the world around him wouldn't stay still. Also, he secretly loved the easy way Jonathan would laugh during his highs, and the way he'd cuddle close to Andrew and cling with intense need as he came down.
At the same time, it stressed Andrew more than he'd ever let on; each binge got progressively worse, and the hangovers increased in length and severity, and Jonathan was simply giving in to each craving without thought of consequence.
He rested a hand against Jonathan's cheek and forced the other man to look at him. "This is the last time," Andrew said. He thought he saw the black abyss of Jonathan's eyes roll.
Jonathan leaned backward until the back of his head again touched the pillow. Eyes shut, he exhaled faintly sparking breath toward the ceiling. Andrew sat nearby, watching while the last lights of the cloud faded and died.
"You used to think it was cool." Shimmering breath accompanied the words.
"I still do," he replied.
A few of the colored sparks fell across Jonathan's cheeks, stuck to his eyelashes as he spoke. "You know I do it for us, Andy." He turned his head to the side, cheek resting against the pillow, still damp with tears and melted snow. "The three of us, we're nothing without this power. How're we going to command respect in this town? Robot girls and flying monkeys?"
"No," said Andrew, "Don't say that anymore. Warren and I are going to work really hard to get you to stop. So - so you can't use that excuse anymore. You can't say you're doing it for us, 'cause you're not, and you haven't for a long time." He studied Jonathan's blank face for a reaction, and then added, "So... no more magic."
Panic was beginning to rise in Jonathan's throat. Spells and enchantments were all he had to offer the group! He gave a dismissive snort, but there was a catch in his voice as he said, "It sounds like you're less than dedicated to the Trio, Andy."
It didn't do any good to argue with him in his post-magical state, so Andrew fell quiet.
Jonathan would sleep all through the next day, Andrew knew, which would give Warren time to clear the room of any potentially magical items. Andrew always hated the day after - Jonathan would burn so much power that the next day, he'd sleep like a comatose, and need a dozen blankets piled upon him in order to keep his body temperature from falling. Sometimes, in the weakened state, he'd open his eyes and look straight through Andrew without any sense of recognition. Andrew supposed it was just an effect of the exhaustion, but it never failed to terrify him.
* * *
Just before eight that evening, he'd placed the call. When he closed his eyes, Jonathan could make out the faint images of his friends, miles across town: Warren's eyes had immediately darted to Andrew when he'd picked up the receiver, and Andrew had begun chewing on his jagged fingernails.
When he opened his eyes again, the view of the payphone and dirty diner wall had rushed back so quickly, he'd nearly been sick. With every blink he was somewhere else: five feet away, staring at his own back; outside, gazing into traffic; back in the dimly-lit corridor by the restrooms, black plastic phone cradled to his ear.
Like in a dream or an elementary school play, Jonathan recited his location and current condition and could they please come and get him - oh and he was sorry, truly, for splitting open the ground in Warren's front lawn and he really hadn't meant to do so.
Inside, everywhere but in his fevered head, Jonathan felt a dull, empty ache. He knew they'd come get him, but only out of obligation. Only because he was the one that could cast wards around the home to disrupt locator spells, and only because Jonathan was the one that could wash the guys' dishes with just a chant.
His feet didn't touch the ground as he walked back to the table. The soles of Jonathan's shoes hovered a fraction of an inch from the filthy carpet.
* * *
It was to the point where Jonathan wouldn't pick his head up from the pillow anymore. The magic had sparked out inside him and sucked with it every last morsel of energy it could take without killing him. Andrew had watched Jonathan fade, like the flower that'd earlier wilted just moments after blossoming in the basement. At the very last, Jonathan had reached a hand out for his water glass, which twitched as if being pulled, then let himself lie boneless on the bedsheets as Andrew picked the glass up for him.
"I'm stopping," he told Andrew, tired eyes searching his face in the faint light of the crescent moon.
"That's good." Andrew smiled gently. His arms were wound around Jonathan's forearm, Jonathan's hand clasped between his own hands. It recalled the scene earlier, in the back of Warren's car - Jonathan's expression as he leaned against the window was so lost, so vacant, that Andrew had wanted to envelope his friend in a warm embrace and suck the bad feelings out like a sponge.
Jonathan's skin was clammy, and his fingers were like icicles. Andrew continued rubbing the limp hand between his palms in an attempt to warm it.
"Andrew?"
He blinked, and realized he'd been staring into Jonathan's eyes. The bewitching black had all but receded, and the whites of his big, searching eyes seemed to catch and hold the dim moonlight. A half smile lit Jonathan's face, and Andrew found his cheeks flushing with blood. "Are - are you cold?" He asked, trying to diffuse the moment.
"Always," rasped Jonathan.
Without a thought, Andrew drew Jonathan's arm against his chest and draped himself across the smaller man's blanketed body.
Jonathan sighed as Andrew lay against him. He rested his face against warm flesh, nuzzled close in the space between neck and shoulder. Breath from his nose was making Andrew's skin moist and he both heard and felt the soft groan Andrew made.
Jonathan wrapped an arm around Andrew's skinny back and exhaled the words, "Don't leave me," against his neck. There was a heartbreaking desperation in his voice.
Andrew's soft cheek rested against his. "Won't," he whispered.
After several long minutes of jagged breaths and thumping heartbeats, their mouths met in the dark.
The first kiss was tentative, because neither boy could see well and Jonathan was disoriented. Their lips ended up half-together, half on the side of the face, and Andrew giggled awkwardly before Jonathan's mouth pressed against his in a sloppy kiss.
The world was a blur of lips and palms. "Shh," Andrew hissed when Jonathan groaned against his kisses. He moved his mouth to Jonathan's ear and breathed into it. "Warren's just outside the room."
Jonathan gave a half-nod and they kissed again.
"Andrew." Jonathan nuzzled his mouth tenderly underneath Andrew's jaw. "...so good to me," he breathed, sliding his cold hands under Andrew's shirt. "Love you for that."
It was Andrew's head that was spinning now. Things were happening so fast and a half dozen thoughts fought for dominance: shouldn't be doing this... taking advantage... why didn't we do this before?
"Dunno," answered Jonathan, scraping his nails over Andrew's bony ribs.
Andrew hadn't even realized he'd said it aloud.
The kisses grew languid, less passionate, and hands stilled in mid-caress on their bodies. Soon Jonathan, void of energy, was simply moving a hand in affectionate strokes up and down Andrew's forearm. The two curled contentedly into each other, sharing the occasional closed-mouth kiss or intimate touch.
"Did I warm you up?" Andrew asked quietly. The question - any words - sounded loud and stupid in the calm room.
"Mmm." Jonathan smiled. He had ceased fighting his heavy eyelids, and Andrew knew he'd be gone at any second.
Sleep was slow to come for Andrew; he found it impossible to doze with the warm, breathing body close beside him. He wriggled under the covers with Jonathan and resumed his embrace once he'd got comfortable. As predicted, Jonathan didn't move again once he'd passed out, his head lolling dumbly on the pillow.
This time, Andrew didn't darken his thoughts with musings on how corpse-like he appeared - this time, he marveled at the tenderness in Jonathan's empty expression, and how even in the weak nighttime light from the window, he could make out the sharp crescents of Jonathan's eyelashes resting against his cheeks.
* * *