TITLE: The Quality of Darkness
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.
A/N: This was a tough one for me. I hope the dynamic feels right.
Chapter 3: A Prayer for the Dying
The rhythmic sound of the wipers clearing the rain from the windshield provides the tempo for an extemporaneous melody that Josh hums inside the empty car, his fingers tapping the steering wheel absently. He's in a good mood – well, in a better mood than he was when he left the house a little over two hours ago, at least. His date had gone well and the kiss that Sarah allowed him to give her buoyed his spirits dramatically.
It had been her idea to end the date early; she had noticed that Josh seemed distracted all night. When he explained to her that he was worried about his brother, she had declared him to be "the sweetest boy in the whole world." He suspects that it was for this reason that she had allowed him to kiss her.
Still riding high on the positive ending to a date that had begun shakily, he pulls the car that he shares with Drake into the driveway, pulling all the way up to the garage door. His eyes automatically look up at the window over the garage – it's dark. He looks at the clock on the dash – it's only 9:38pm. Drake must not be home yet.
He turns off the car and closes his eyes, listening to the sound of the rain on the roof. He's always liked the rain, ever since he was kid. He likes to imagine that everything bad gets washed away and that the world is left clean.
Dork. The word pops into his head, spoken in Drake's voice.
Josh opens his eyes, smiling. His brother's right; he is a dork. He laughs into the empty car. He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket and flips it open. In a flash he's texting a message to Drake – "u were right. daisies wrkd! home now. c u l8r. hows the movie?" He sends the message with a push of a button, then flips the phone closed. The rain has let up a little, he notices, as he looks out the windshield towards the front door. Slipping the phone back into his pocket, he pulls the key from the ignition and opens the driver's door. He's pelted by rain as he slams the door shut and jogs up the front walk to the front door.
The horn beeps briefly when he presses the LOCK button on the remote and he can see the hazard lights flash twice out of the corner of his eye. He knows it's locked, but still he does what he always does – he presses it again just to make sure. Again, the horn beeps, the lights flash.
He's a little surprised to find all the lights off when he opens the front door; Drake's not generally big on turning off the lights when he leaves. Josh walks into the house and closes the door behind him, reaching for the light switch and flipping it on as he walks towards the living room.
It's odd, he thinks. The house is so quiet; the only sound is the rain outside. There's usually something making a din in the background – the television, the stereo, Drake's guitar, Mom and Dad talking, Megan chattering to one of her friends on the phone.
Then he hears it – a chirping noise, almost like one of those electronic pets that Megan was babysitting for one of her friends last summer. He looks in the direction of the sound, sees a faint glow from the coffee table. It's Drake's cell phone, he realizes, and goes to pick it up, a strange feeling of apprehension clawing at the back of his mind. He opens it, sees the alert for a new text message. Opening the message box, he sees his message at the top of the list, waiting to be read. There are at least two dozen others below it, all unread, the earliest one dated over a week ago. He quickly checks Drake's voicemail box, curiosity and a looming sense of worry driving his actions. He punches in Drake's passcode, "5472" – the date of birth of Zero Gravity's lead guitarist – and is told that Drake has 28 new messages.
Josh presses END with his thumb and realizes that he's been holding his breath, lets it out in a rush and feels his blood pounding in his ears. Something…something's not right; he can feel it. Drake never leaves his messages unchecked for so long and he never ever leaves the house without his phone.
He's suddenly aware that his hands are shaking and he grasps his brother's phone tightly in a white-knuckle grip, turning towards the stairs. "Drake?" he calls, but his voice isn't as loud as he wants it to be, sudden panic that he can't seem to rationalize blocking his throat.
He heads for the stairs, feeling along the wall for the railing, forgetting about the light switch as he starts to ascend. He gets the odd feeling that he's suddenly trapped in some sort of horror movie – the kind where the main character is running down a dark hallway towards a door, but the harder they run, the farther away the door gets.
Finally, he reaches the top and stumbles over the last step, catching himself before he falls to the floor. The darkened hallway is very dimly lit and as Josh walks further into the upstairs hallway, he can see the light coming from around the bathroom door. When he takes another step, he can hear the shower running.
He almost cries out in relief. Idiot, he admonishes himself. He's just in the shower.
"Hey Drake!" he calls, walking to the door and knocking on it. "You won't believe what I was just thinking." He laughs, but it sounds shrill, even to him.
There isn't a response from the other side of the door. He knocks again, louder this time. "Hey Drake!" he yells again. "You drown in there or what?" But something inside him unravels at the hollow sound of running water.
He tries the door; it's locked. "Drake!" He turns the knob again – nothing. "Drake!" His mind automatically starts formulating a logical explanation, something to push away the growing panic that is seeping into his skin. Maybe he's got water in his ears and can't hear me calling him. Maybe he's just ignoring me; it wouldn't be the first time.
Maybe he's fallen and hit his head. This last thought prompts him into action and he fumbles in his pocket for his wallet, pulls it out, dropping Drake's phone on the floor beside him as he kneels in front of the doorknob. Working in the faint light, he slides one edge of his gas card into the groove on the outside of the door lock and turns it slowly, hearing the mechanism unlock on the inside. He slides the card back into his wallet, puts the wallet back in his pocket as he stands.
He can picture Drake in his mind, standing casually on the other side of the door in a towel, his wet hair sticking up in a hundred different directions, grinning at his reflection. "Dude, haven't you heard of knocking?" he can hear him say, his voice tinged with suppressed laughter.
But when Josh opens the door, all he sees is empty air and Drake's clothes stacked neatly on the toilet.
"Drake?" he asks. "This isn't funny. Say something." He can't put his finger on what's missing until he looks to his left into the mirror. Water droplets hang heavily from the bottom edge and Josh follows one with his eyes as gravity overtakes it and it falls to join others in a puddle behind the sink. There's no steam.
"This isn't funny," he says again. "If this is some kind of joke, I'm gonna k–" But he can't finish the thought, the word catching in his throat, choking him.
The sound of something hard sliding along the bottom of the tub startles him and he looks towards the shower, walks to it. He watches his hand reach for the edge of the shower curtain and pull it back, his mind oddly detached from his body, like a balloon on a string.
He sees his brother there, pale and unmoving, his legs drawn up towards his chest, knees resting against the side of the tub. His eyes are closed, dark lashes stark against his cheeks. His arms have fallen to his sides and from Josh's vantage point, he can't see his wrists, can't yet see what – deep down – he already knows.
He hears the sound again – something hard sliding against the tub – and his eyes are drawn to it. It's caught on Drake's left foot and the current of water finally frees it, carrying it towards the drain, where it comes to rest, knocking against the back of the tub with every swirl of the water.
It's a utility knife, its blade pushed all the way out.
His mind suddenly slams back into his body and he screams, although he can't be sure it's out loud. He's all motion now; conscious thought has abandoned him. The only function of his brain now is to direct the movement of his limbs.
He jumps into the tub, the cold water soaking him through his clothes, and he's mumbling over and over again, "No, no, no…" But he doesn't notice any of it. His hands touch Drake's face – the skin is cold beneath his fingers and an unearthly sound bubbles involuntarily up from his throat.
He presses two fingers to Drake's neck, searches for a pulse. When he can't find one there, he grabs Drake's left wrist in his right hand, presses two fingers against the skin and realizes it's torn. He stares incredulously at the gashes there, long and jagged, following the meandering routes of veins. They're a dark purple color and as clearly defined as if they had been drawn there.
He can't take his eyes away, knows without looking that there are others just like them on Drake's other wrist. He's on his knees, Drake's legs between them, the water continuing to pelt his back unnoticed. He's shivering, but whether it's because of the water or the icy tendrils of fear that are gripping him, he doesn't know.
He cradles his brother's battered wrist in his right palm, presses the first two fingers of his left hand once again against the pulse point in his neck – "Be sure not to use your thumb, or you may confuse your pulse for theirs," he remembers the CPR instructor saying – and closes his eyes.
"Please," he whispers and the sound is a broken one.
His eyes fly open when he feels a throb under his fingertips. His eyes are wide and he takes his hand away, tries again, this time carefully tucking his thumb away so as to eliminate any confusion.
He looks down, his eyes focused on the jagged cuts on Drake's wrist when he feels another throb beneath his fingers. It's faint and slow, but it's there. A few drops of blood seep from Drake's wrist and fall into Josh's hand.
Holding his breath, he waits for another heartbeat, watches as a few more drops of blood fall from Drake's wounds and joins the others in his palm. Blood doesn't pump without help, he thinks. Drake's heart is still beating.
The realization energizes him. He needs to call for help. The nearest phone is in their bedroom, but he doesn't want to leave Drake. He remembers his cell phone and digs in his pocket for it, but it's waterlogged and doesn't work.
Drake's phone! He had it; where'd he put it? He spies it where he left it, on the floor outside the bathroom. It seems like a mile away now.
He jumps from the tub, banging his right knee hard on the edge, but he barely notices as he scrambles across the tile. He reaches for the phone, flips it open, dials 9-1-1, all in less than two seconds.
"9-1-1. Please state your emergency," the calm, professional voice of the dispatcher says through the phone.
"Please," Josh says, his voice cracking. It's the only thing he can think to say. He can't take his eyes off his brother.
"Sir, you need to tell me what's wrong."
"My brother," he says, as a puddle forms on the floor beneath him. "Please help him." His voice is nearly a whisper now.
He's supposed to stay on the line with the dispatcher until the ambulance arrives, but the connection is lost and he doesn't call back; he's too preoccupied with Drake. He turns off the shower and climbs back into the tub, sitting on his knees. His right knee screams at him, but he ignores it. Tearing the bath towel from the rack, he wraps it tightly around Drake's right wrist. Grabbing the hand towel, he wraps it tightly around his left one.
Then he gently maneuvers his brother until he can situate himself behind him, settling against the back wall of the shower. He holds Drake securely between his legs, Drake's body pressed against his own, his head resting heavily against his right shoulder. "You're gonna be okay," he whispers as he pushes Drake's wet hair off his forehead. He draws up his knees on either side of Drake, folds his brother's arms across his chest and holds them there with his left arm. He snakes his right arm underneath Drake's, pressing his hand over his brother's heart, ignoring the coldness of his skin. It suddenly strikes him just how small his brother is. Drake's always been so larger-than-life; but now, like this, he seems so fragile. He closes his arms tighter around him.
He thinks he can hold on tight enough for both of them.
He lowers his head until his right cheek is pressed against Drake's wet hair and he closes his eyes. He hasn't prayed in years, not since he was a child; he's not sure he remembers how. But he tries anyway, saying simply, fervently, "Dear God, please don't let him die. Please don't let him die." Tears roll down his nose, falling into Drake's hair.
He repeats it. Over and over.
He's still saying it when the ambulance arrives.
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