Ok, so Mattie isn't entirely level headed just yet, but be patient. Oh, my holy hallelujah, you guys have no idea how much research went into this! I've never been addicted to anything before. Well, not anything that I had any trouble quitting.

"Ring around the Roses is not really a 'guy song', Ruth, even if he is high out of his mind." – My mother. I didn't have the nerve to tell her he was gay. Mom can be a scary motherfucker sometimes.

CBJC, ht4eva, Cat'sdon'tcry, Tala, Polttava Pyromaani and Skullover; huggles for you all!

If you can get your hands on Depeche Mode's Dream On while reading this do it. It's commonly thought to be about heroin addiction and withdrawal, and is generally a damn good song. Some lyrics for you:

~====o)0(o====~

Feel the fever coming
You're shaking and twitching
You can scratch all over
But that won't stop you itching

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew lay, sweating and mumbling on Francis's futon couch, moving constantly. Antonia looked to the Frenchman by her side and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Well, mijo, what now?"

"Now he detoxes."

The Spanish woman sighed heavily for what had to have been the twentieth time in fifteen minutes.

"Francis, what's a junkie to you?"

"What's a cokehead to you, Chérie?"

"Those were entirely different circumstances and you know it."

"How so?"

Silence greeted his question cordially, as it had on the many times when he'd asked her what she had been thinking to pick a near-rabid cocaine addict up off the streets. Not that he was objecting; at least now he could return the favour.

"Watch him for me? Just for a little while. I have some supplies that I need to get if I'm going to help him."

"What if he doesn't want your help? Did you think of that?" Antonia snapped, folding her arms. She was all for helping the needy, but the boy looked half dead, and he was withdrawing badly. And you didn't just go abducting people off the streets; it brought down the cops, and the cops spelt bad news for a budding dealer. And let's not forget the time that her second-in-command would be spending on his new charge. That was most certainly not conducive to business. What if this boy made Francis relapse? And let's not forget the hypocrisy of a dealer helping someone get clean. It was just bad entrepreneurial sense!

"If he didn't want my help, then he wouldn't have asked," the Frenchman called as the door clicked softly closed behind him.

~====o)0(o====~

Voices, voices, chitting, chatting. They're talking about him. It's cool, blue; blue-blue-cool eyes Francis talking with green suit lady. He remembers, remembers, remembers, and remembers. Green-eyes-green-suit, Mexican? Maybe. Mijo. blue-blue-cool eyes Francis mijo? His he younger? I don't speak Spanish. He doesn't speak Spanish, but Carlos Carlos. Dumb Cubana from Havana. He calls me Mijo. Called him Mijo because he forgot his name. Dumb fuck. Dumb dumb dumb, so dumb.

The heat is gone. No heat. Heat is fading, pulling seeping fast into this soft. What is this soft? Squishy soft. Smells like roses. Posies of roses. Ring-a-ring-a-rosies, a pocket full of posies. Atishoo, atishoo, we all

fall

d

o

w

n

Drink this. Water, lukewarm. Tastes bad. Stale. Baking powder? Green suit lady is talking to him. I don't speak Spanish jumps to his lips. Stomach churning pushes the words out of the way. Water is sick, bile salty, bile slick.

Splatters like spilt intestines into the bucket. Somehow that's good.

There's no heat at all now, and he shivers into the soft, soft, rosy soft. He opens an eye, and it's beep blue. Blue like midnight. Falling into midnight. Falling down. Falling down.

We all fall down.

That's supposed to stop you throwing up, mijo. Oh well. I hope Francis get's back soon.

"Me too," shudders are beginning now, hard and convulsive. His tongue is bleeding, bitten by skeleton chattering teeth. Glasses break out the slip-and-slide all the way down his nose. They fall into the tub of saliva sick, and Antonia gags.

I'm not getting that. No of course not. That would be gross. Sick gross. Gross sick. He moves to grab at them, but she pulls his hand back.

Our bleeding. Truth. Blood is trickling spit out the corners of his open mouth. Swallows. Blood. Tastes like protein. Raw meat and egg and blood. Tastes like loose teeth and cloves after hockey practise and the dentist.

O~ Canada~ Our home and Native land. True patriot love. We stand our love for thee.

The coughing starts again. Hack-hack-hack. Splat. Dark bubbly spit-and blood stains on the midnight. On the floor. On the rim of the bucket. Rim shot. But none in the bucket. Hit and miss. Bad goal. Off side.

That's disgusting.

I'm sorry. Moaning, whimpering. No sense any more. The cold is too much. The cold burns and burns and burns. His legs are in a vice of cold. So cold. Frozen icy bones, glacial marrow. Make it stop, make it go away! It's so cold.

S'il vous plait! Make it stop! Door creaks, floorboards squeak. Shiny man-shoes. Blue, blue, Francis is home. Thank God.

Dieu! Please! Francis, make it stop! It hurts!

Where does it hurt? Someone is stepping back. Green suit lady. Someone else kneels besides me. Cold cloth to my head. He shies away. No! No cold, too cold. My bones hurt, please!

I know what is going on. Antonia, fetch me the red box from the chemist bag, please?

Rattle, rattle, click, click. Box handed over, lickety quick.

Warm hands grab my leg. There's something cold on them and strong fingers, long fingers, squeeze skinny calves hard, rubbing them better. And then it burns. Whatever is on his hands soaks into the skin and starts cold fires in his muscles. But it heats fast. Legs still shaking. Still hurts.

Antonia, run him a hot bath, as hot as you can stand.

Alright. Huffing sigh. She's not happy. Wonder why. What's wrong with her life? She's not screaming in a stranger's house. She doesn't need any more. Double helixes of French and English aren't heaving from her mouth like puke. She isn't begging for more. She doesn't have the burning cold in her bones.

Do you have any? Give it to me? Please? I need it so much. It hurts without it.

Pain blocks his mind. My mind. I can't function, it's all blocked. Nothing can get through, no cognitive ability is registering. Arms picking him up, strong arms and strong fingers that smell like burning and roses.

Can you stand, Matthieu? How should I know? Stomach churns, heaves, retches. Spit down Francis's front. Blood too.

If you didn't like this shirt, cher, you could have said so.

Shirt is fine.

Chemise c'est de la merde

Shirt is shit.

Well, it is now that I've puked on it.

You speak French. Not a question, but still a question. A riddle is that?

Oui. Je suis Canadien.

That's nice. Stand here. He orders. He stands. Open your eyes.

Eyes open. Wall before me. Kind of blurry. The pain is worse. Standing on a platform, A panel.

A treadmill?

Oui. Run.

You expect me to run? I can't even stand!

Oui. Run. You'll feel better. He starts walking at first, but picks up speed. Breathe rasping a little. One foot, two foot. No more cold. Three foot, four foot, shaking stops. Five foot, six foot, he's talking to me, and I can think and understand. I can answer.

"What's your name?" he asks basic questions.

"Matthew Williams. I'm from Quebec. I moved here for collage."

"And you had enough spare income for a crack habit?"

"I got in on a scholarship. I was working to pay it off, and my best friend got me hooked."

"Some friend."

"He thought I was my boyfriend," Matthew looked around the room. It was small, but tastefully furnished. Expensively, too; lots of silk, velvet, chiffon and tassels. Lots of roses as well, which would explain the scent. Francis whistles long and low,

"That's harsh." A harsh bark forces its way through the Canadian's lips and it takes him a minute to realise that it was a laugh.

"I got used to it." There was pity in the Frenchman's eyes.

"Won't he be missing you?"

"He never even noticed me when we were together, so I doubt he'll miss me now that he-" Matthew is cut off by a sound, part hiccup, part sob that bursts from his chest like those things in Alien. He wipes his eyes on his arm, realising that he's in his shorts and t shirt still.

"Could I ask some question?" he asks, sniffing a little. The tears keep coming, and so do the sniffles, but they aren't from sadness.

"But of course, cher. Ask whatever you like," Francis says, leaning against the wall in front of the treadmill and smiling winningly. Matthew looked at him hard. He was shorter than the Canadian by a few inches, but older. He had pale blonde hair that fell in waves to his shoulders. His face was made out of sharp angles that made him beautiful, rather than handsome. A healthy Wheatfield of stubble covered his chin. There is peace in his fresh blue eyes. His eyes were always dusty blue, like a washed out sky or the old west.

"Who are you?" the question was strange to his tongue, he's spent his whole life being asked that.

"Je suis Francis Bonnefoy," he laughed, "I hail from Paris, France. I'm in America on business."

"What sort of business?"

"I work for Antonia. She pushes drugs." Matthew stopped running and fell backwards onto the floor, his mouth gaping.

"Well now I know why you picked me up! I would like to go home, please." Wherever home was now. Where was he, even?

"I picked you up so I could help you, Matthieu," Francis said, extending a hand to the fallen boy, "come now, get up and keep running. The cramps will come back, otherwise." The Canadian shakes his head.

"I want to go home?" why is that even a question? He doesn't know. Pain is rubbing up against him like a cat, returning even after you've kicked the damn thing off the couch.

"I want to help you get clean," Francis whispers. His face is kindly, but so was Ditz's.

"I don't want to get clean."

"Well I'm not going to give you drugs."

"Why not, you're a dealer?"

"Antonia got me clean. I'm paying it forward. Isn't that admirable?" He asks hopefully.

"But you still peddle drugs." Francis sighed.

"I help who I can, and I never sell. I help Antonia launder the money. I'm a gardener, not a dealer."

That explained the plethora of roses at least. Now that Matthew could see, they stood in vases and wreathes all over the apartment.

"Why do you want to help me?" the boy's voice was small. Pain was seeping back into his bones now and he wanted it to stop, wanted this all to go away; he wanted to find Ditz and a hockey stick, and shake the dust out of him.

"Because you asked, cher," Francis replied, softly, kindly, still holding out his hand to help the boy stand up.

Reaching up, Matthew took his hand.

~====o)0(o====~

Happy Birthday, Daddy!

Meh, guys. Sorry this isn't much. My art exam is tomorrow, so I can't stay up all night writing for you, much as I would love to. Also, my dad would do a serious Dexter on me if I kept him up all night the night before his birthday when he has to work while he's sick. Especially when I gave him the flu in the first place.

I am a good daughter, I swear.

Review? S'il vous plait?