warnings: heroin use, mention of blood

Chapter 31: Will & Whispers

In which Will visits Whispers

BPO bar is crowded, and noisy, and stuffy in a humid sort of way.

Will glances around, and sure enough, there in one of the back booths sits Whispers.

There's a book in his hands, but he isn't reading it: He's staring right at the door of the bar, right at Will, his expression one of mild surprise.

Will lowers his eyes and makes his way over.

"William," Whispers says as he approaches, like he's greeting an old friend. "What a treat. It's been too long."

"I need dope," Will says flatly, standing by the edge of the table. "However much this'll get me." He fishes in his pocket for the cash from Croome and shoves it toward Whispers, who picks it up, counts it thoughtfully, and tucks it into his coat.

"Do have a seat," Whispers says then, gesturing toward the booth across from him.

Will crosses his arms but obeys. The vinyl squeaks under his drenched jeans.

"You look well," Whispers murmurs, gazing at him over the rim of his glasses. "A bit wet, but... it's good to see some meat on your bones." He reaches across the table and trails his thumb down Will's cheek.

Will slaps away his hand. "Stop touching me," he says. "Just give me the fucking stuff."

Whispers makes a tutting noise. "Don't be rude, Will," he chides. "We've scarcely even exchanged greetings." He smiles. Will glares back. "Where have you been these past months, hmm?" Whispers probes softly. "Have you been going to someone else? I certainly hope not. You know I can't abide disloyalty."

"None of your fucking business," spits Will.

Whispers lifts an eyebrow at the retort, but continues on placidly: "And what about your little friend?" he asks. "What was her name? Sara? Such a nice girl. I haven't seen her lately either."

"Don't you fucking talk about Sara," snarls Will. Then, in a rush of brazen fury, he says: "I got clean, okay? That's where I've 'been.' I got fucking clean."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Sixty-six days ago. So fuck you."

"And yet," says Whispers, "here you are."

Suddenly Will feels like he's going to cry. He looks down. Leave, says something inside him. You don't need this.

But he does need this. He can't leave. He squeezes his eyes shut, and tears spill down his cheeks.

"Oh, Will. There there," says Whispers, leaning forward, with a smile equal parts mocking and sympathetic. "Don't cry. Some people just aren't meant to stay clean."

"Shut up," mutters Will.

Whispers pats the back of Will's clenched fist. "Some people are just too weak," he simpers. "And that's alright. It's nothing to be ashamed of, Will." He reaches into his coat and pulls out a small plastic bag. "I believe this is what you're after?" he says, handing it to Will, who snatches it from him and shoves it into his jeans.

"Thanks," he mumbles. He sniffs and wipes his eyes on the collar of his jacket before standing up.

"Enjoy it," Whispers tells him, smirking. "I'll see you again soon."

The worst part is, Will knows he's probably right.

o - o - o

Will ends up in an alley a few blocks away from BPO.

He sits down next to a dumpster, sheltered slightly from the rain by a fire escape overhead. Then he digs through his backpack until he finds what he's looking for: a grubby little bag that he somehow never got around to throwing away. Inside there's a syringe, and a spoon, and cotton, and a nice thick shoelace.

He ties the shoelace around his bicep.

It was stupid to think he could stay clean, he thinks, as he pours a dose of white powder into the dip of the spoon. Whispers is right. He's too weak. And life is too much. And his dad is fucking dead, and he never even got to say goodbye.

He draws up rain water from the ground of the alley and squirts it on top of the powder. He stirs the mixture a few times with the plunger of the syringe. Then he gets out his lighter and holds the spoon over the flame.

Sixty-six days. Sixty-six days, and he's going to throw it all away. He watches the flame dance blue and gold under the metal spoon. He feels its heat on his fingers. He stares at the mixture, at the powder and water melted together in a noxious swirl.

He imagines returning to the church and admitting to everyone that he fucked up. He imagines their shock, their disappointment. It makes his stomach turn.

Maybe he won't go back, he thinks. Maybe he doesn't deserve to go back.

His vision blurs as tears cloud his eyes. Blinking them away, he rolls a small piece of cotton between his fingers and sets it down in the spoon, then picks up the syringe and draws the solution up through the cotton, into the barrel.

There's a pinch as he inserts the needle into his vein. He watches blood plume up into the syringe, and for a moment he thinks of his father, of his friends, of Sara.

Then he thinks of nothing, and injects himself with heroin.

o - o - o

The rush is nearly instantaneous.

Warmth is what it starts as, warmth that begins in his chest and spreads out till his whole body feels like it's wrapped in an thick, downy blanket. Then comes the calm— light and tingly, a wave of security that passes over him and settles in his lungs, and he breathes it in, and breathes it out, and everything is alright. He's safe and warm and happy, far away from the rain, from the alley, from everything bad in the world.

And he's sleepy. Overwhelmingly sleepy.

So Will closes his eyes, and slips into oblivion.