This was supposed to turn out much differently than it did. Hey na, my boys are back! There will be a follow-up, possibly later tonight, to the effect of what this was supposed to be. Very, very mild Fuery/Havoc.

OH YEAH! And I really, really, really want to thank Shion-san for reviewing almost religiously to every single one of my drabbles. I luff you. Not only are your reviews constructive, but they're encouraging and absolutely flattering. Luff luff luff.

Disclaimer: I lack all claimage! I claim nothing! Except, y'know, my books, 'n stuff…

Four hundred one words: Care

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"Oh, Jean."

It was a tired sigh, one that had sounded at least three times already this week, but it never stopped a grin from spreading across Jean's face. He set down his cigarette in the ashtray with one hand, raised the half-empty bottle of whiskey to Fuery with the other, and smiled widely. Jean Havoc was a happy drunk.

"What are you doing?" Kain asked in that same tired tone of voice. He sat in the chair opposite his flat mate, leaning half his weight on the table, and tried to fix the drunkard with a steady glare.

It had no effect but to make Jean knock back the bottle again. Making a disgusted face, the blond set the bottle back down with a thump. "'M gettin' happy," was the answer. Kain sniffed, equally disgusted, but by something different.

"That's no way to go about getting happy."

Jean shrugged and went to take another mouthful of burning whiskey but found he couldn't; it was anchored by Kain's right hand. His left was snuffing out the half-dead cigarette in the ashtray.

"I know what'll make you happy," he continued, capping the bottle and drawing it away from his companion. He also took the ashtray and dumped it, half-cigarette and all, in the trash bin. Jean made a disappointed whimper. "Some aspirin and water and a good night's sleep," Kain said pointedly, looking over his shoulder to drive his point home.

Whatever was exchanged between the two after that was lost to Jean; he was force-fed two chalky, bitter tablets and three glasses of water, eight ounces each, thank you before Kain tucked him into bed like a small child. It came back to him the next morning with the beginnings of a horrifying headache and a touch of nausea. Hold it, make that more than a touch.

Jean groaned, leaned his head against the bathtub when he was finished emptying his stomach of poison. He would never, ever, ever drink again, he swore.

Another flash came, and he realized he had asked Kain a question, also child-like: "Will you take care of me?"

And Kain had said, "Of course," and kissed his forehead, brushing back strands of blond hair before wrapping an arm around him to settle in for the night.

At least that was a happy thought. It sustained him through the next half-hour of purging bile from his gut.