Cat'sdon'tcry, Goldpen, DeiDeiArtistic, Skullover, Tala, compa16, FiveLeggedTangoand VoidOfDoomAndCupcakes, thank you all so much!

Thank you to FiveLeggedTango for reminding me; all the chapters are named after songs that have to do with heroin; chapter 1: Mr Tambourine Man – Bob Dylan. Chapter 2: Dream On – Depeche Mode. Chapter 3: Heroin, She Said – Wolfsheim. Chapter 4: Fire and Rain – James Taylor.

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

I've been walking my mind to an easy time
My back turned towards the sun
Lord knows the cold wind blows it'll turn your head around
Well, there's hours of time on the telephone line
To talk about things to come
Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground.

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

Francis heard the screams before he was even halfway through the entrance to the apartment block. Dropping the boxes carelessly just inside the foyer, and sprinting up to his apartment, his panicked fingers shaking and fumbling with the keys; just as he had feared, the screams were loudest just outside his door. After about a minute of useless grabbing and victimless cursing, he threw the bunch onto the floor venomously and pounded on the door,

"Antonia! What's going on?" he yelled, slamming his fist into the wood again.

There was a rattling and the Spanish woman wrenched the door open, pulling Francis inside violently,

"Get in here! Why did you leave me alone with him? He's been like this for an hour! He'd just finished running and he was tired, and he said he was uncomfortable with me helping him take a bath and, AyDios, he couldn't stand and he was throwing up all over everything and I just-" she said, almost screaming herself in order to be heard above the Canadian's tortured cries.

"I don't speak French!" she said desperately, "and he won't speak English. I don't understand. I don't know what's wrong!"

"Calm down, Antonia, please!" he said, laying his hands on her shoulders, "Go get some coffee, alright? I'll call you when everything has calmed down." She nodded, looking pale and drawn under her caramel skin tone.

As soon as the door had shut behind her, Francis knelt down besides the boy, careful to avoid recent upheavals, stroking sweaty hair back from his forehead.

"Matthieu,chou,Cequiestfaux?çablessé?" He asked, rubbing the taught muscles of Matthew's too-thin legs, trying to make it relax before it snapped like the abused strings of a violin.

"Çafaitmal!Tellement!" He wailed; his voice hoarse, "Ilfaittropfroidetjenepeuxpasdormir!" the Canadian moaned, "I'm so tired."

Francis huffed a sigh; he was calming down, speaking English again. Antonia would be pleased, though he guiltily relished the opportunity to speak his mother tongue without getting any funny looks. Either way, it would appear that the withdrawal had peaked, it could only get better from here on in.

"It's alright, Matthieu,vouspouvezvousdétendremaintenant,jesuisici."

"Francis?" the boys muscles were melting now, relaxing, but so strained that they trembled violently at even the slightest movement.

"Oui.C'estmoi."

"Merci," he breathed, his relaxed limbs beginning to spasm again.

"Not at all, chouchou, come now," he picked him up and carried him to a high stool and a counter, "take these," he pushed two pills and a glass of water towards the boy, generic medication, one for nausea, one for cramps. Nodding, Matt cupped the pills into his mouth with a quivering hand and gulped the water, getting most of it down his front.

"Trèsbièn," Francis praised, "now open up and take this," he watched the cracked pink lips open trustingly and laid the tablespoon of Nyquil on the pale tongue, stopping a shiver of something before it became lust. That was thoroughly inappropriate.

"Let's get you cleaned up, and then we can eat something and you can have a little rest. How does that sound?" Matthew nodded, swallowing the bitter medicine thickly and watching as Francis stripped the sheets and disinfected the mattress and re-made the futon so that it was clean and inviting once more. He watched the Frenchman mop up content-less vomit; all bile and spit. He watched him lope into the bathroom and listened to the thunder of water on ceramic.

His mind blurred as he was picked up again and immersed in hot water. Having a thought was still the mental equivalent of wading through aquagmire, but he could move easily. Or he could if he wanted to. The medicine and the strain that his weak muscles had just endured were making it very difficult not to fall asleep as competent hands stroked his body clean.

And yet somehow, despite his best efforts, he remained awake. He was barely conscious of being lifted from the water once it began to cool and carefully wrapped in something huge, warm and fluffy.

"You need to help me with this, chou," a rich voice rumbled in the distance as first one arm was guided by steady, warm hands through a sleeve and then the other. His head was eased through a fleecy neck-hole.

Smiling absently, his eyes having drifted shut some time ago, Matthew cuddled into his favourite red hoodie. It had been a gift for his last birthday at the orphanage. It was warm and safe; it got him through everything.

Underwear and then a pair of tracksuit pants were slid up his automatically co-operative legs, and those helpful hands patted his hips lightly,

"There we go, chou. All done."

"Thanks," he murmured, the effects of the medication making his mind swim. Francis's face went a little red as he made to stand and Matthew swayed his clothed crotch not a hair's breadth from the Frenchman's nose.

"Come on, let's sit down," it wasn't until he had sat Mattie back down at the counter and taken some leftovers and bread out of the fridge that he felt the blood trickling down over his lips. It must have been the blush that did it.

"Merde," he hissed, dialling Antonia and popping his Chicken a la King in the microwave at the same time, "Antoine," he said, "oui, everything is settled. Could you bring some tissues and toilet tissue over, s'il vous plait? I've a nosebleed and I used my stock cleaning up."

Hearing the half sighed, half chuckled affirmative on the other end; he hung up, tossing two pieces of toast in the toaster.

"I'm not actually hungry," Matthew breathed, sleepily, justtired. He could barely form a coherent sentence in his head, and yet he still couldn't sleep. What was wrong with him?

"I know. That's why the toast is for you. You may not want to, but you must eat." The boy moaned incoherently, snuggling deeper into the over-sized garment.

"Mm'kay," he muttered.

In the end, Matthew only managed three-quarters of a slice, which was actually a decent amount, considering. Antonia arrived five minutes later to find Francis sitting on the futon with Matthew curled up, head resting on his chest. The Frenchman had blood all over his face and an icepack on the bridge of his nose.

"Hola," she called softly, dropping the keys that Francis had abandoned outside onto the counter top. Smiling, she tossed a box of tissues to Francis, who broke it open, dipped one in water and proceeded to clean up his face with one hand, stuffing the thin paper up his nose with the other.

"Merci," he sighed, leaning back, "I hate nosebleeds. They're so messy."

"That they are," she agreed, pulling out a tissue of her own and wiping at a smudge just under his lip, "do you want me to take him while you clean your face?"

"If you would," he eased the Canadian away from his chest, "chouchou, Antonia is going to take you for a moment, oui?"

"Oui," he replied. Smiling, Francis held him up while Antonia took his place. She smiled down at him; the kid was cute when he wasn't screaming enough to wake the dead.

"Aw, he has your hair," she grinned at her friend as he walked into the bathroom. There was a crash, and a few muttered curses. Giggling a little, she stroked the boy's hair as he rubbed his head into her thigh, listening to him hum.

"Don't even joke about that," Francis grumbled, drying his face. His sour expression melted a bit as he looked down at the young man she was cradling. Antonia shook her head,

"Ay, Francis! Curb your instincts! That's a terrible idea! He's sick and confused. But," she grinned, "That does explain the nosebleed."

Francis shrugged. She was right.

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

The nosebleeds are legitimate! I swear! Remember I said that Francis used to be a crackhead? Snorting cocaine is very bad for the lining of your nose, and it's permanently damaged his, so if it's too hot, he over exerts himself, or there's just a lot of blood in his face, he starts spouting red.

Thank you for reading, and thank you to Woodsy for posting and adding in the French, which I will at some point come back and fix once I consult someone. ^_^

~RutheLa