Chapter Text
My head feels heavy. I don’t really know what to do about it. I think my legs are asleep, and my arms feel a little weaker than normal. A lot weaker, really. I think I might be sick, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before. Did I eat something weird earlier?
There’s a weird noise in front of me, but I can’t see anything. I can’t blink either! Wait, my eyes are closed, when did that happen? It is taking a strange amount of effort to open them, but I think I got it. Jackson is in front of the dresser, it sounds like he’s going through it.
“Jackson?” I try to say, but it ends up sounding like “Jacin” or something like that. He isn’t looking at me, though, so I don’t think he hears me.
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“Jack?” Bobby mumbled, sounding like his mouth was numb, and maybe it was, who knows where he put it. “Jackson!” His voice cracked as he spoke, and he began coughing fitfully. Jackson kept rummaging through the drawers, though, praying that the worst hadn’t happened and he’d find the bag somewhere in here, even if it was moved or thrown out.
“God!” He whispered. “God damn it, Bobby, what did you do?” Tears ran down his face as he pulled all the clothes out of the dresser, digging through all the pockets and shaking all the shirts out. “Oh my God, Bobby, please, please, please!”
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My throat hurt pretty bad since I tried to call him again. I coughed a lot, but it didn’t really help at all, there was nothing stuck in there. I felt horrible for acting like this, I didn’t have a single reason to be all mopey, especially today of all days! We started dating today, three years ago, and it was the best three years of my life, I’ve never been unhappy here with Jackson. Why am I being this way all of a sudden?
“Jackson?” I asked again, I was hoping for a response this time, though my voice still wasn’t very loud. “Jackson, happy anniversary!” I tried to sit up, my arms gave out and I flopped back down like a teddy bear. Jackson looked at me this time, so I tried again, and I was able to lean on a very shaky elbow.
He said something to me, but it was kind of hard to hear, so I asked him to say it again. I’m glad to know he can hear me at least.
“Bobby, where is it?” I didn’t really answer, I asked him to repeat the question again because really, I had no idea what he was going on about. I finally noticed that Jackson was talking and breathing frantically, and it sounded like he was sniffling a lot. “Bobby, I know you saw it! Where did you put it?” I was starting to get a little nervous, not by Jackson of course, but by whatever was freaking him out so much.
“What did you lose?”
“Robert!” He screamed at me, or in my direction, I couldn’t really tell. He started moving again, walking back and forth around the bed, pulling the blankets up, pushing the bed around a little bit. Did I make him angry? I must’ve lost something again.
I’ve never felt scared around Jackson, I didn’t think any word would fit better. Why was I scared? I’m very empathetic, but I didn’t believe that I was afraid the same way Jackson was. I let myself fall back on the bed, a small ache coming from my arm when I laid on it.
“I’m sorry.” I didn’t think he heard me, so I began to fiddle with the wrap on my arm. I realized as I was messing with it that it was there. I didn’t notice it before, but it was where the pain was coming from. Maybe I hurt myself somehow, that could be why Jackson was so upset.
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“Happy anniversary...” Jackson looked back at his partner, watching him struggle to get himself up. Bobby fell over a couple of times before he was able to lean on his arm, but even that didn’t seem very stable.
“Bobby, where is it?” He asked quickly, panic surging through his body. “Bobby please tell me where you put it!” He gave Jackson a quizzical look, but it was clear he was trying not to let it show. He asked him to repeat the question.
“Bobby, I know you saw it! Where did you put it?” Bobby didn’t answer again, he just stared at Jackson’s face. He didn’t have very good eyesight, so it was safe to bet he didn’t see anything wrong with the way he looked. Jackson stared him right in the eye, though. It was dark in the room, not pitch black but still dark enough to see nothing. Did Bobby’s eyes look dilated? Unfortunately, his eyes had trouble constricting, so his pupils always looked a little blown out. He was talking funny, he seemed weaker, anybody could guess that he was probably sick.
“What did you lose?” Bobby questioned. He didn’t have a single idea of what Jackson was telling him! He had decided that he had found the culprit. He should have done something sooner, instead of trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. He saw the needles in the trashcan, who else could have used them?
“Robert!” He sobbed, feeling fear push itself into the very center of his mind. Bobby could have died, he's high and he probably doesn't even know what he's on!
Jackson gripped the sheets tightly, thoughts racing through and around him.
But somehow, Jackson still tried to deny this. He thought that Bobby would be the last person to do this type of thing, and he had scolded Jackson often for doing it himself. So, Jackson kept looking, searching for the small bag stapled to a larger one. He flipped pillows off the bed, lifted the mattress. He didn’t find it in the dresser. It wasn’t under the bed frame, or in any of their boxes. The bag wasn’t behind or Bobby on the bed. Jackson knew he wasn’t going to find it, but he didn’t stop looking.
“I’m sorry.” Bobby’s voice was small, and at a higher pitch than normal. It didn’t sound like something he meant, and Jackson had heard him use that tone before, though he couldn’t quite remember why. Bobby sounded scared. Jackson’s heart shattered, and he stopped rummaging through the closet, staring at the floor, tears running down his face as his chest heaved up and down much faster than it should have been. He had brought Bobby into this. Bobby, his perfect Robert Grant, was such a dreamer. He had such a beautiful imagination and a promising future in a genre he would have loved.
And now he's lying on the bed, possibly overdosing or soon to have some sort of panic from the withdrawal. Ribbon wrapped hopelessly on his arm, he couldn't have done it right, he must have lost a large amount of blood during the process. If he woke up tomorrow, he wouldn't even have the courage to leave. Robert "Bobby" Grant wasn't going to go to school, attend events, or see his family. He was going to sit right there, waiting for his junkie boyfriend to die taking this drug or to kill the both of them trying to.
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Robert scratched the wrappings on his arm, loosening it and twisting the excess on his finger. His arm had something dried on it, but he wasn't focused on it. He watched Jackson sit on the floor, unsure where his head was facing in the darkness of the room. He thought about speaking to him again, but decided it would be safer to leave him be. Jackson had fallen forward, his head against a streak of blood that had dried on the carpet. Sobs shook through his body and the floor beneath his face quickly became damp with tears.
Somehow, yet in different ways, the two of them came to the conclusion that this wasn't going to get better. This is what they had become, what their time together had turned them into. An addict and a coward. Robert still laid on the bed, hoping to pacify the situation with his silence, Jackson still cried on the floor, waiting for any sound to confirm that Bobby was aware and safe. Robert thought distantly that maybe Jackson had hurt him, but he quickly shoved the thought away. Blaming each other wasn't going to get them out of it.
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Grant's eyes flew open, a small, almost strangled gasp escaping his mouth as he sat up too fast for his mind to acknowledge that he did. His vision blurred and tunneled in for a moment, and his breath quickened as he began to panic. His sight returned to normal, which was blurry and too bright, but normal. The room had a blue tint from the moonlight streaming through the window to his left, and everything was completely silent.
Everything but Camille, whose snores sounded like an air horn impression. Grant calmed down as he watched them sleep blissfully, wishing for one night that he could sleep so unbothered. Grant hadn't realized his hand had drifted to his other arm, but when the tips of his fingers brushed against his inner elbow he flinched hard enough to hit his head against the wall.
He rubbed his head as he eased himself back onto the bed, he was just going to lay back down and wait until he fell asleep. His hand drifted back to his arm, intentionally this time, and he felt around the scar, somehow still unsure how well it had really healed. He knew it was years ago, and the line would no longer be swollen and it wouldn't hurt when he touched it, but a small part of his brain told him that everything had happened so recently, so near today, that the wound would still be fresh. He could remember the faint indents of the ribbon, something he had found in the closet and had hastily wrapped far too tightly around his arm.
Grant laid on his back, tapping his fingers against his chest, imagining he smelled blood. But he caught the scent of chemicals, and he felt some of his anxiety pass. Camille always used several lotions before they slept, and Camille may have smelled weird, but it was comforting to know that they were there. Grant listened to their awful snoring for a few more minutes until his eyes finally fell shut.