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LadyK81988 wrote:

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Why oh why have I just started reading this ish?! I LAWWWWVVVEEEE IT!

Girl, you've got me crying, laughing, wanting my panties to drop, and so on. I'm just.....wow. This is really good. Why did I just start reading this story this afternnon, and have already finished the whole thing? It's THAT good.

Dealer!J makes me want him, and makes me want to kick the crack out of him.

yay I love new readers!

and cookies to you for powering through the whole thing. that's no small task

yaaaay for being productive!
I'm not gonna lie, finals are fast approaching and I have 3 papers to write in the next 2 weeks so I won't be getting anything out before then, but hopefully soon after!!


Sooner Than Later

"I…26…B…44…N…7…B…21..."

"C'mon…" Justin grumbles, tapping his heel anxiously against the floor.

"O…16…I…32…"

Saturday afternoons at East Del Mar Recovery usually consist of lunch and then a few blocked hours of group activities, and today's group activity is…bingo. Justin is less than thrilled considering it's his first Saturday here. He was released from detox just three days ago and is already bored out of his mind, looking at his card that only needs one more number for a diagonal win. Problem is he's waited at least twenty minutes for that number.

"G 6, you dirty cunt," he mutters under his breath. John sniggers next to him.

John James is one of Justin's four suitemates, his room connecting just through the shared bathroom. Justin had sort of felt like an idiot when he shook his hand for the first time and asked, "John James what?" and he'd replied, "just John James." For the most part he strikes Justin as a nice guy, but a little strange with his long black hair braided half way down his back and his little round glasses. He's not particularly short or tall, about 5'8," and he wears and the same black Converse sneakers everyday; they look like he's worn them for years.

"N…10…I…2…"

"C'mon, G 6…"

"G…5"

His face falls. "Shit."

"G…7"

His head shoots up in disbelief. "What the fuck?"

"N…18"

"BINGO!" Someone shouts across the room.

"Goddammit!" He bangs his fist on the table, making his markers jump off his card. People at the winners table clap and cheer.

"Justin…" a warning voice comes from down the row of chairs. Alan, his assigned one-on-one counselor, gives him a look from the head of his table.

"I just needed one stupid number!" He stands abruptly, the back of his knees hitting his chair and sending it sliding backward across the floor.

"If you get up, you better just walk out of here," Alan demands. After a few short days he's already familiar with Justin's temper, and he knows it's better to have him turn his attention elsewhere for the time being than to cause a scene for nothing.

"Fine. Fuck this game!" He tosses the rest of his markers onto the table and Alan shakes his head as they scatter and Justin makes his way toward the narrow hall leading away from the activity lounge, toward his room.

-- -- -- -- --

"Do you think it needs another pin in the back? I mean, just taken in a little?"

"Do we have time to do one more alteration before the wedding?"

Aimee and my mother look at each other with worried glances, my mother pinching the fabric at the waist of my peach-colored brideamaid's dress, pulling at least an inch between her fingers, letting it go and smoothing her hand over the sateen, noting how it gapes and wrinkles slightly from the excess.

Today was yet another afternoon of wedding chaos hosted by my mother, who had been dragging Aimee and I along since early this morning. Well, not dragging Aimee so much because it was her wedding afterall, but dragging would definitely be a word to describe my level of willingness to cooperate.

The dress shop had been the last stop of the afternoon, to pick up Aimee's dress after her final fitting. A week from now she would be walking down the aisle in it, and I could feel her excitement as she'd reached under the bag to run her hand over the fabric. My mother started to make a scene, urging her to try it on, but Aimee insisted it was bad luck and she would not so much as take it out of the bag before the day of the wedding. They'd gone back and forth and only when Aimee was almost in tears had my mother backed off with profuse apologies. She's a lot like Justin in that way.

"I think it's pushing it. Unless you're going to lose five more pounds before next weekend I say leave it." The woman working the fitting room seems to be the only one who is calm here, besides me who would rather be anywhere else than standing on the dressing pedestal with four angled mirrors around me as my mother and sister poke and prod. Aimee had taken the opportunity while we were already at the shop to have me try on my dress one more time, just to make sure of the fit, since I'd only had one alteration to the other bridesmaids' two.

"Well it couldn't take long to do one small tuck…it just looks so much nicer." She pinches the fabric in the back and watches it form-fit around my waist in the mirror

"Mom…" Aimee sighs.

"Fine, fine, we'll leave it." She throws her hands up. Everyone breathes a sigh of relief, and as I step off the stand she grabs me by the elbow, lowering her voice. "Leala are you eating right? You can't drop another dress size before the wedding. I thought you weren't supposed to be dropping weight at all anymo-"

"I'm just stressed, Mom. It'll be fine." I cut her off and she eyes me hard. She opens her mouth but a phone ringing cuts her off. I recognize it as mine, thank fuck. Aimee looks at me from where she's sitting along the wall, our purses tucked under the chairs. "Will you hand me that?" She rummages in my purse and my mother helps me unzip the dress. I catch my phone when Aimee tosses it and open it just before it stops ringing. "Hello?" I start back toward the dressing room where my clothes are, drawing the curtain closed once I'm inside.

"Hey."

It's Justin. My back straightens slightly when I hear his voice, a little surprised and still not used to the sound of it. He'd called three days prior, his first day out of detox, to tell me he'd moved to a room and that visitation was on Sundays and that I could come whenever I was ready. He'd sounded like he was on his death bed. Today he sounds better. But despite everything, I think this is probably the most he's called me in a week in the five years I've known him.

I shift the phone between my ear and shoulder as I shimmy out of the dress, wiggling it over my hips. "Hey…what are, ugh…what are you doing?"

"You okay?"

I breathe a sigh of relief once I get it off. "Yeah just…just doing stuff for the wedding; trying on this dress…again." I roll my eyes as I situate it on the hanger before sitting down on the little padded stool in the corner in just my underwear.

"A dress?" He sounds amused. I think about him smiling and I smile a little.

"Yes, don't be cute. What's up?"

"Nothin. Sittin here." He sighs dejectedly and my brow furrows.

"You okay? You sound upset."

"This just…this place is so fucking gay," he whines and I roll my eyes. He's like a five year old I swear to god. I knew he would do this. I can already tell he's going to do nothing but complain about that place.

"What happened?"

"…Nothing," he concedes after waiting a moment. I sigh, becoming impatient with him. He'll talk me in circles forever as long as he keeps me interested.

"Don't do this…just tell me what's wrong."

"I got kicked out of bingo," he grumbles.

I try and choke down my laugh as I ask, "Bingo?"

"Yes fucking bingo don't mock me," he snaps and I press my lips together to keep from laughing more. Something about the thought of him playing fucking bingo…it's priceless. "Anyway I'm just checkin in about tomorrow." I'd told him I would come visit the last time we talked. I know how important those first few vitsitations are; how lonely it can feel to have no one there.

"You think my memory is that bad?" I tease him.

"Well fuck, I dunno. I know there's a lot goin on," he stammers, as if he's now embarrassed. "I just don't wanna be sittin here waitin on you if you're not comin…wastin my day. I can do other shit, you know." I roll my eyes.

"Would you calm the f-" I stop myself, knowing my mother is probably right outside the goddamn room and the curtain isn't exactly soundproof. I sigh, lowering my voice. "Give me a break, okay? I'll be there."

"Fine," he sighs. I get up and start putting on my jeans. "So you're getting along now…like with your sister and mom and shit?" His voice tells me he isn't really thrilled about the prospect of this. My hands stop at the button and I think about a way to explain exactly how it's been having them around again.

"It's been…weird." I know it hasn't been wine and roses but I don't want to lie just to make him feel better. "We're getting there."

"I'm sure they're thrilled you're still talking to me." This is his brilliant way of asking me if I've told them.

"They don't know."

"Shocking." He's sarcastic but he sounds a little hurt and it throws me.

"Well what do you expect? You act like you don't want them to know and when I tell you they don't you get all upset. Do you care or not?" My voice raises and I see Aimee's feet appear underneath the curtain. I turn toward the corner so my voice carries less.

"You need to chill the fuck out. I didn't even say anything."

I sigh, letting my forehead thump against the soft padding of the wall. Why in the fuck the walls of the dressing room are padded is beyond me, but it saves me from more of a headache than the one Justin gives me. "Whatever."

"Yeah, whatever," he mocks me. "Shit, I gotta go-okay, I'm getting off. Yes, I hear you-L, I gotta go."

"Wait, what's-"

"I have to get off the phone-yes, I'm hanging up, right now-seriously I have to go, bye."

I open my mouth again but his voice is gone.

"You're seeing him again, aren't you?" It's Aimee's voice that now makes me turn around.

"Aimee-"

She cuts me off before I even get started. "Just tell me the truth. Please. Please, just…stop lying to me." It hurts when she says it. It hurts to think that I'm now a liar to my own sister. That's what she sees when she looks at me.

"I was never not seeing him," I answer quietly, reaching for my shirt.

"Jesus, Leala…" she sighs exhaustedly, shaking her head, looking away as I put my shirt on, not because of modesty but because she can't even bear to look at me. "I mean, what's it going to take?" She shrugs, and I wish she was still not looking at me because the disappointment in her eyes when she turns to me makes me want to look away.

"It's different-" I plead.

"It's never different. It's you, and it's him, and it's just…what it is." She insists, her hands falling to her sides. "And it's always going to be what it is…and that's never going to be enough."

"Aimee…"

"What?" She snaps, making an effort to keep her voice down because I'm sure she's as well aware as I am of the likelihood of our mother standing outside listening to all of this. "What could you possibly say that's going to make it different? Go ahead, try me, please." She takes her stance obstinately, crossing her arms over her chest.

"He's in rehab," I answer, waiting for some sort of recognition in her eyes, some change of heart, but her face doesn't change. She shifts her hands to her hips and waits for me to continue. "I just wanna be there for him." I look at her pleadingly, and there's no way in hell she could love someone as much as she loves Kevin and not understand that. She's just choosing not to.

"You're never going to quit are you?" She shakes her head, almost laughing. "There's always a reason, always an excuse, just something to keep you right where he wants you-"

"This isn't a game!" I whisper harshly, now becoming angry. How can she be so heartless? "You know, I'm trying. I'm getting my shit together…but I love him." She rolls her eyes, looking away, and it makes my blood boil. I continue adamantly, "Aimee I love him and I can't just cut that off. This isn't some high school thing…don't you think it's a little beyond that? Can't you give me just a little more credit? Put yourself in my shoes." She snaps her head back to me when I say it, and though I can feel her response ready on her tongue she holds it back, her eyes softening and I finally feel like I have the upper hand. "Yeah…put yourself in my position. What if it was Kevin…and you'd been through everything that Justin and I have…something tells me you wouldn't just be like, 'fuck off, Kev, not my problem'-"

"Okay, I get it." She holds up a hand to stop my speech. When I'm quiet she sighs and drop it again, looking at me with the most sympathy I've ever seen when Justin was the topic of conversation. "I get it, I do. I just worry…that you're sucked in to this thing, and yeah he's in rehab and that's great, but what happens when he gets out and-"

"We cross that bridge when we get there," I assure her, my voice and heart overflowing with thankfulness that she can finally just see how it feels for me, just a fucking little bit, to be stuck in the position that I'm in. "I'm trying not to worry about what could or couldn't happen, because it will make me a crazy person, it will." I nod and she laughs despite herself. "And you can't worry about that either, because really you have as much control as I do…which is none." She nods and I know she gets it, finally she gets it. I slump my shoulders and continue exhaustedly, "I'm just so tired of you hating me for something that I don't really feel is my fault. I can't help how I feel."

"I know." She puts a hand on my shoulder, reassuring me. "And I don't hate you." It feels good to hear her say it, to know that I finally just told her the truth and she's okay, even if the truth isn't very pretty yet. "Can we please just get through this wedding? Mom is driving me absolutely bonkers and this is just going to make it worse," she pleads, putting her other hand on my shoulder and I laugh, nodding in agreement.

"The next thing out of my mouth was about to be something along the lines of please don't tell her." I shrug and she smiles at me.

"Deal."

-- -- -- -- --

The half hour drive to Pasadena isn't as bad this time as the first. My hands aren't shaking nearly as hard, and in place of his duffel bag is now a small box in the passenger's seat, just something simple I threw together for him, a sort of transitional gift to help him settle in to this new place.

I put the car in park and take a deep breath, readying myself for anything and everything that I'm about to see and feel. Judging by his voice on the phone, I know he's still weak. I know I'm going to want to help him, to do this for him if I could, but I can't.

The sliding glass doors give this place the illusion of a hospital, and the white linoleum floors, white walls, and sterile smell only further the image. It's slightly uncomfortable, the whole vibe of this place, not cozy and homey like where I'd been. A second sliding glass door brings me into a big lobby, empty but for a few tall plants in the front corners of the room and one small receptionist's desk, but no one is seated there. A security guard stands outside a set of double doors to my right which, I assume, is where I need to go.

He gives me a polite nod and I push through the first door and again through a second set and it opens to a small room with lots of windows, floor to ceiling windows, and a few round tables. It's almost like a cafeteria minus the food, just tables and linoleum floor and it's sort of intimidating with no one sitting around, like no one wants to be here. I look out the window into what appears to be a small side yard, just a grassy patch with a small dirt trail outlined with wooden logs leading away around the side of the building. In the distance there are lots of trees, most bare but for some sparse browning leaves, and more trails, and it's sort of like a nature habitat or a state park. I'm waiting for the little squirrels to scamper out from hiding, but I suppose it's still too cold outside.

A small window with a desk set into the wall sits off in the corner, and a woman eyes me curiously behind the glass but I'm sure she can tell I just don't know where the fuck I'm supposed to be. I approach the desk apprehensively but she's looking at me politely, with kind understanding eyes. She smiles softly.

"Um, I don't know exactly where I'm supposed to be," I laugh, a little embarrassed and she smiles bigger, almost in a knowing way.

"You're here for visitation?"

"Yes."

She nods. "You're in the right place. I just need you to sign in here," she pushses a clipboard at me. "I need your name and the name of the patient, and your identification, please."

I set the small box on the side of the desk and fill in my name, and Justin's, and I pull my license from my pocket and slide it to her with the clipboard. She looks at the clipboard, then at the card, then at my face before handing it back with a nod and typing something into a computer next to her. She pushes back from the desk.

"I'll have someone get Justin for you, just a minute." She steps out of the side door and paces down a narrow hallway leading out away from me before stopping outside a door and knocking twice softly. She pokes her head inside and then starts back toward me. "You can have a seat, someone's getting him right now." I nod and gather up his box, taking a seat at the closest table.

I watch down the hall as that same door opens and a tall, athletic-looking man steps out, turning away from me and walking the remaining length of the hall before disappearing to the left around the corner. I sit and wait a few quiet minutes and it seems too silent, me being the only one in the room other than receptionist girl who is holed up in her little window desk, and then the sounds start to become more familiar as I hear the soft chatter of a TV program floating down the hall. It looks like it opens into a larger room on the other end, and I can make out a few card tables and the very end of what looks to be a chair or couch in the small opening that I can see from where I'm sitting. A few guys cross the room and disappear from my sight, but I turn my attention away abruptly as that same man is coming back down the hall with Justin trailing a step or two behind him.

He looks small next to that guy-who I imagine must be six and a half feet tall in comparison-and skinny as a rail despite his baggy clothes, his sneakers thudding dully against the floor as he drags his feet. I stand as he comes in to the room and walk around the table to meet him. His eyes aren't red-rimmed but instead look slightly sunken now, the color faded to a dull gray-blue, the hollows beneath them slightly bruised and making him look just as exhausted as I imagined he would.

I hug him gently, for the first time in two long weeks, squeezing around his shoulders and he feels bony and frail in my arms. He's always been skinny but his frame used to be so much stronger, and even if he was feeling weak he always gave the façade of a hardass, he always put on that face. He doesn't say anything, just wraps his arms around me and he feels a little stronger when he pulls me against him, but just for a moment.

I wonder if his weakness is exaggerated in my mind because of these two weeks we've been apart. Shit, I don't even remember the last time I hugged him before that. Maybe my memory is just off. Or maybe the reality of the situation is finally weighing grave on my heart for the first time since all of this began so long ago. I'm finally afraid of how bad off he really is, of how I may have lost him for good if he hadn't come here. This might be his last chance.

We take a seat at the table and he looks relieved to be off his feet. I remember how exhausting it was those first few days; just moving around would take what little strength I had left right out of me after a while. I survey his face, not really sure if he's happy I'm here or just slightly relieved to see a familiar face, but he smiles at me a little across the table and it's good to see him. Despite everything, it's always so damn good to see him.

"I brought you something," I tease with a grin, pushing the small shoebox wrapped in generic brown mailing paper across the table. He grins back at me tiredly.

"What?" He shakes it obnoxiously like Christmases that seem so long ago now, and I laugh, kicking him under the table.

"Open it."

His hands tear at the paper feebly, hands that were once strong and rough, now trembling and unsteady. "Fuckin tape," he grits his teeth, trying to joke it off, and I let him. I know he's fresh off the drugs; I know he's exhausted. I know he's feeling so much that he will probably never let me know.

He finally gets into the box and shuffles through the contents, pulling out the lighter and pack of cigarettes thankfully, "muah," he kisses them as if they're a million dollars before laying them on the table and I just watch him, with my hands folded under my chin I watch him take delight in something so small as ten dollars worth of crap shoved in a shoe box, and it hits me that he really has nothing else left. When he finally looks up at me his eyes are strangely clear, a peculiar vacancy there that makes me wonder if over the past two weeks it's hit him, too.

He pulls out the deck of cards, unfolding the top of the box and sliding them out, fanning them in his hands and shuffling them, and I want to remind him that they're just cards, but I can't bear to stifle the joy that he seems to find in the simple gift. He thumbs through the pages of the novel, the last item in the box, and turns it over in his hands, studying the front and back covers.

"It's called a book, J." He looks up at me unamused and I give him a winning smile.

"Shut up," he laughs. Even his laugh is tired. He shakes his head before placing the book back into the box, following it with the cards, nestling them into the empty space beside it. He looks up at me again. "Thanks."

He's clean. For the first time it finally hits me why this feels so familiar; it was so long ago but we've been here before. He's off the drugs for the first time in five years…five fucking years…one fifth of his whole life he spent in another frame of mind, as another person, only fleeting glimpses of who he was before surfacing to haunt us both. It's been enough to drive me to the end of my rope time and time again, and now…just as soon as it came it's gone again. The drugs are gone.

Something in his voice, the softness in his eyes, and the way he's still trying so hard to put up a wall, to be strong even when he's been broken down to his lowest, it draws me to him. I get up and walk to the other side of the table to sit next to him, sliding my chair over until the legs of it are wedged next to his and our hips are touching and he puts his arm around me, pulling me in against his shoulder. I slide my arm around his waist, between his back and the chair and I feel his spine against the bend in my elbow, feel his ribs when I wrap my other arm across his stomach. I try to push it down, knowing that this is the worst, knowing that it can only get better from here.

"Are you okay in here?" I ask quietly after a moment, not looking at him, my eyes unfocused and cast off into the room somewhere. I feel small next to him, curled in to him sadly.

"I'm fine. I'm just tired." His arm curls in further against my neck, his hand hanging loosely in front of me. I study the pale scars across his fingers, how some of his knuckles are swollen and pronounced from being broken so many times, hands that have protected me and given me pleasure, that have held me and harmed anyone who hurt me.

"I worry about you."

"Don't."

"I can't help it, J." I turn my head to look up at him and he's staring straight ahead, eyes trained on the table, lids blinking only to wet them. They never focus. He's here but he's not.

"I'm okay." It's not very convincing, almost like he's saying it to himself, but he nods for emphasis. He finally looks at me. "You wanna come outside? I need a smoke."

I nod, smiling a little. "You're lucky I brought you some."

His arm slides from around my shoulders. "Yeah usually I gotta bum one." I don't miss how he pushes on his knees, using both hands to help him get up. My hand goes to his lowerback to steady him and he steps away quickly, shrugging me off as he grabs the carton and lighter from the table.

As we head for the door he unwraps the pack and slides two out before slipping it into his pocket, tucking one behind his ear and nestling the other between his lips. He cups his hand around the lighter as I push on the heavy glass door and he inhales deep as he follows me out, putting the lighter into his pocket and pulling the cigarette away with his other hand, blowing a trail of smoke upward and over my head. The wind carries it away as the door closes behind us.

We walk across a gravel yard, almost like a playground without any of the swings or fireman's pole, over to an area of picnic tables with trees sparsely planted around the perimeter. Justin puts a hand out to steady himself as he steps onto the seat and sits on the table itself, pulling the hood of his jacket over his head and zipping the front before leaning over so his elbows are on his knees. He takes another drag on his cigarette.

I fold my arms across my chest, a little cold but mostly studying him. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm here, huh? Isn't this the answer?" he says, sitting up and gesturing around him. The bitterness laced in his voice makes me bristle slightly.

"To what question?"

He puts the cigarette back to his lips and the ember brightens as his cheeks sink in before he pulls it away, smoke rolling from between his lips as he says from the back of his throat without exhaling, "I guess that's what I'm supposed to figure out." He blows the smoke out when he can't hold it anymore. "Right?"

I scoff. "You ask me like I know."

"You're the one who's been here…done this." He says it like he's mocking me and I roll my eyes.

"It's not exactly the same for you." I answer matter of factly.

He shakes his head, looking off to his side, studying nothing particular in the distance. "Well shit I guess I'm on my own then," he says quietly.

He smokes the cigarette almost down and neither of us speaks, he just looks off over the trees. I wonder where he wishes he could be right now. I know it's anywhere but here.

His head turns back to me and his eyes are still vacant in a haunting way, but I know his mind is anything but. The questions will come. I know they'll come soon and when he starts to feel again everything is going to turn upside down farther than it already is. The test will be if he can hold his footing as his world turns, if he can weather all of the storms that are ahead.

"I'll help you…if you need me." I say after a moment, quietly but in a firm tone. He looks so lost, alone in his mind, but there's no way that after all the shit we've been through he could possibly doubt I will be there for him through all of this.

"I know."

He sighs and pushes himself up from the table and I take a few steps to close the space between us. His arms come up around my neck and he lets them drape over my shoulders, reaching across to grab one elbow and letting his arm hang against my back, the butt of his cigarette still nestled between his fingers, barely burning. I wrap my arms around his waist in the same way, my arm hanging down from his lowerback, and I tuck my thumb in the back pocket of his jeans, the hem of his sweatshirt bunched up just above it. He rests his chin on my head; my ear pressed to his chest, listening to his heart thump exhaustedly, something inside of me willing it to just keep beating, to hold on through all of this pain.

"What a fuckin mess." I feel him shake his head a little above me, his deep sigh painfully hopeless.

"We're gonna get out of it, J." I nod against his chest, the bone of it pressing into my cheek. I would promise him if I could, but all I can do is hope.

I hope we do. I really fucking hope we do, because something inside of me can't help but know that this could work. If we both just got our shit together…it could work. And a bigger part of me is scared to think; scared to even wonder if it didn't work out…could it ever feel like this with anyone else? Could it ever be this real? Because even through all of this shit that we've face, together and apart, I've never had anything more real than this feeling that I have with Justin. I don't know if I could let someone be this much a part of my life again, if he were to go away. And even if he went away, I don't think this feeling ever would, ever.

He brings the cigarette up to his mouth again, and I feel his chest expand and see the butt hit the gravel to the side of us, my head sinking back down against him again as he exhales. "Have you talked to Kyle?"

"Why would I talk to Kyle?"

"'Cause he's your friend," he says, as if it's simple logic.

I sigh. "Kyle's not my friend, Justin."

"Oh okay, you've just been hangin around him for five years for no good reason," he says sarcastically, pulling back a little, and I look up at him, annoyed.

"That's like saying Bruce and Tyson are my friends. Those are your fuck up friends," I explain, a little harsher than intended but it's true, those guys aren't friends to me, or to J for that matter, if we're being completely honest. He still steps back from me, a little offended.

"Fuck up friends huh? So that makes me a fuck up too?"

"Yeah, 'cause that's really what I said." I roll my eyes and he shakes his head, sitting down on the bench seat of the picnic table, rocks crunching lightly under his sneakers.

His eyebrows raise slightly, his head cocking smartly to the side. "Might as well."

I give him a disbelieveing look. "I didn't come here to fight with you."

"Then stop."

"You're the one starting shit."

He sighs, shaking his head, and lights his other cigarette. I cross my arms moodily and it's silent again as he smokes and I look away, at nothing really, but just mostly not at him. I hear him chuckle after a minute, low and short and a little disbelieving.

I look at him, a mix of sullen and grumpy, not really seeing the humor here. "What?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You." He nods, the corners of his lips twitching up with amusement but he's trying not to smile. He brings his caigrette to his lips to mask it, sucking and blowing the smoke away easily. "Doin that same shit you always do. Gettin me all riled and then pouting."

"Shut up." I narrow my eyes at him but it melts quickly as his smile grows into a genuine one, a flicker of light taunting me in his eyes, giving me hope.

I sigh and my feet drag as I walk to him reluctantly, something about the way he's looking at me making me unable to just be fucking irritated at him like I know I should. I just can't help but want to be here for him.

"I'm just a huge dick, I know." He nods, his face mocking my pout as I finally make it the short distance to him, standing between his feet. I give him a wry smile, sensing the sarcasm in his statement, and it makes me know that on some level, somewhere inside of him he sees how much I completely adore him, in spite of myself even, in spite of everything he's done to me. Even if he doesn't want to admit it or accept it, he knows that I care.

"Pretty much," I say anyway. At least I can pretend.

"Fuck you." We both laugh.

I lean down toward him a little, bracing my hands on his bony knees and I wonder if he's going to sit back some to put space between us but he doesn't. Part of me doesn't think he cares either way. My initial intention is to kiss him but I know he wouldn't kiss me back. He would just let me do it because he's here and I'm here and that's what we do. I'm tired of that.

"You want me to come back next week?"

"Up to you," he replies simply. He doesn't shrug but the lilt of it is in his voice.

"That's not what I asked you," I prod gently, trying to maintain patience with him.

"Well I'm not gonna make you."

"You can want me to," I say, a little irritated now. It wouldn't kill him to just fuckin say that he wants me to be here, to make me feel a little less like I'm chasing him and a little more like he actually gives a shit. On second thought, today of all days he probably doesn't.

He sighs, tossing the butt of his cigarette into the gravel and then looking up at me again, something in his eyes still holding that look of eternal defeat, of emptiness, and there's no way he doesn't want me to help him through this. His hands reach for my wrists and his long fingers curl around them gently, sliding under the sleeves of my jacket, the cool pads of his fingertips pressing against the thin skin of my inner wrists.

"You do what you gotta do," he finally consents. "I'm stuck here either way."

"I'm not coming if you don't want me here."

He leans his back against the edge of the table but doesn't let go of my wrists, his head dropping back with an exasperated sigh, and I know I'm being a little pushy but I just want to hear him say it. He looks up at me again quickly, his jaw sliding sideways as if he's trying to contain what he really wants to say as he shakes his head.

"Dammit L, I don't know what I want right now, okay? Let's just get the shit straight. I don't fucking know," he finally snaps, his lips pulling into a tight line across his face and I back down before his temper really flares.

"Okay, okay," I hush him adamantly, leaning toward him more, squeezing his knees for emphasis. "Calm down."

His brow knits tight across his eyes, his voice still clipped and harsh. "I mean, fuck, you know…you come here or you don't. What the fuck do you want me to say?"

"Justin, stop." It's a plea hidden inside an admonishment, my eyes widening at him.

He's only quiet for a moment before he asks, "What time is it?" There's no indication in his tone, but I know he wants me to leave.

"Yeah I guess I better go, huh?" I say scathingly, straightening up abruptly.

He narrows his eyes at me. "Oh fuck off, that's not what I meant."

"Yes it is," I bite back contemptuously but he just sighs, looking away as he shakes his head. I look at him for a minute and wait for him to say something else but he doesn't. "Fine, I guess I'm going then." I don't move.

"Whatever," he mumbles, barely coherent with his head turned away and he leans over his knees again, running a hand over his face tiredly, pushing his hoodie back off of his head to get some air.

"You're not even gonna tell me bye?"

"You're not fucking going anywhere!" He snaps, looking up at me wide-eyed, gesturing at me with his hand and then blinking at me dumbly before gesturing again, shaking his head. "Fuck," he sighs, looking straight ahead again, clasping his hands between his knees.

I start to walk away, tucking my hands into my pockets and listening to the gravel crunch under my shoes. What a dick. I get half way to the door and I hear a second trail of footsteps behind me, the pace slightly quicker than mine, gaining on me.

When I make it to the door, a different door than we exited, he's behind me, and he catches it over my head when I open it, letting me step inside.

"Do I need to go to the front desk?" I ask, still walking, not looking back at him.

"Yeah." He hurries in the door behind me. I don't slow down, even though I'm not sure where I'm going exactly. I try to figure it out quickly. If he wants to be this way, I'll let him. I won't hug him or say goodbye. I'll walk right out the fucking door.

We march down the narrow hall, overly bright and still too much like a hospital for my liking and it makes me uncomfortable, makes me walk a little faster, not looking around too much. Justin is still right behind me. It opens up at the other end to the familiar visitor's room, and I see the receptionist's window nestled into the corner.

"I need to sign out," I say before I even make it to the counter, and she pushes the same clipboard at me that I had signed in on before. I look at my watch even though there's a nice-sized clock positioned on the wall right next to me, and I scribble down the time, sliding the board back to her. She draws a highlighter mark through my name and types something short and quick into the computer to her left before smiling back at me through the window.

"Have a nice afternoon."

I nod politely and cross through the small room, the sun now beginning to set and sliding in at just the right angle through the large glass windows to brighten the room with an almost uncomfortable amount of sunlight. I push on the single door which leads to a short wide hallway that serves no purpose but to conjoin the room to a set of double doors leading to the lobby of the center. I push them open and they almost swing closed before I hear Justin's voice through their opening.

"Alright, see ya fuckin later."

I stop, turning back to him and hes standing behind the doors, his face slightly blurred through the hazy plexiglass windows in them. I reach for one handle and pull the door back open, not stepping through, but just so I can see him better.

"Oh, now you want me to say something?" I ask smartly, lifting an eyebrow at him.

"Would you stop?" He sighs, and I step through the doorway, letting it close behind me, trapping us in the small space. "Just stop."

He shakes his head at me and takes one step forward, pulling me in against his chest and I lay my head there against him, my arms curled between us, the zipper of his jacket still cold against my cheek. He rests his chin on the top of my head, his voice vibrating in his throat against my temple. "Quit actin like I don't wanna fuckin see you. I just…I gotta get used to this shit, you know?"

I nod against his chest before I pull away, giving him an exhausted look that comes off as more of a pout. He shoves his hands deep in his pockets and I reach up to push his hood back off his head. "I'll see you next week, J."

Hold on, hold tight
If I'm out of your sight
And everything keeps moving on, moving on
Hold on, hold tight
Make it through another night
In every day there comes a song with the dawn…

-- -- -- -- --

"Hey, man." Mike, Justin's roommate, greets him when he walks in the door. His voice makes Justin jump slightly; he'd seen him sitting there but it didn't really register until he spoke up.

"Sup?" He sets the shoebox on the bedside table and unzips the front of his jacket, sighing exhaustedly as he shrugs it off his shoulders and reaches into one of the plastic storage bins under his bed for a clean tshirt and boxers, to dress himself after he showers.

This is Justin's fifth night sleeping in the same room as Mike, which is still a little weird to him because all he really knows about the guy is that he's 37 and from somewhere in northern California. He seems quiet; every night Justin comes to the room and he's playing solitaire, the real version with cards, sitting cross-legged on top of his bed comforter.

"I saw you had a visitor," he says without looking up.

"Yeah," Justin finally replies awkwardly, a mix of a question and an answer. He's not yet accustomed to having conversation with strangers, and it's weirder when they aren't even looking each other in the eyes so Justin can read him. He's good at reading people.

"She family?" Mike starts to lay a black card on a red one and has to stop himself.

Justin sighs; he's not really in the mood for twenty questions, especially about this particular subject, especially after how the afternoon had gone. "Did she look like family?" he replies gruffly, digging for his soap.

Mike looks up at his back, still holding the card. "You havin a bad day or somethin?"

"I'm havin a bad life, man," Justin snaps, and when he looks over his shoulder Mike is staring at him wide-eyed. "Sorry."

"It's cool." He shrugs and goes back to his game and Justin realizes it's the first time he's been alone with Mike except to sleep. Usually they don't talk like this, but Justin assumes that if he's going to be living with this guy for the next 90 days he should at least get comfortable talking to him.

He sits on his bed, facing Mike's which is against the opposite wall. He toes off his sneakers and they slap against the floor as they fall. "What are you in for?"

"Is this jail?" he snorts. Justin chuckles. "What am I not in for?"

"You look pretty harmless to me." Justin quirks an eyebrow in amusement as he looks at Mike. He isn't really giving off the hardass vibe with his middle school spiked hair and he doesn't even have any tattoos.

"My four front teeth aren't even real, dude." His response catches Justin off guard slightly, and he gives him a curious look. "Jail fight," he explains.

"You went to jail?" This piques Justin's interest. Maybe this guy is a little tougher than he lets on.

"Prison," Mike corrects him. "Two years. Possession."

"Of?"

"Heroin."

"Shiiit." Justin whistles lowly at Mike's answer. He's meddled in a lot of shit, but heroin is one thing even he knows to stay away from. The guys he knows who go on it, rarely come off, or live through it. This guy is a lot tougher than he lets on.

Mike chuckles. "Yeah…you think you're a bad motherfucker…try comin off that stuff."

"No shit, man." He shakes his head, still a little taken back.

Mike looks up at him again. "So what the fuck did you do?" He studies him a little too long and Justin clams up a bit.

"Well, this is kinda plan B you know?" He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Mike smirks knowingly. "Let me guess, plan A was doin time?"

"Yep," he laughs a little despite himself, and loosens up again. This guy seems to understand him. It's different here than he thought it would be, talking to people who have been where you are. It doesn't make him want to be here anymore than he does, but it makes it bearable at least.

"That's not a good plan A." He shakes his head, laying down another card and moving a stack on top of it. He smiles to himself.

"That's why I'm here," Justin replies, watching him play. He doesn't miss the way he sometimes lays the wrong suits together, but it isn't adding up in his head just yet.

"What'd they get you for?" Mike's voice deters his attention.

"Mostly weapons shit…luckily I was holdin, that's the only way I slipped out."

"Funny how that happens huh?" They both chuckle.

"They just wanna fix everybody," Justin muses sarcastically and Mike laughs heartily.

"Hey, let 'em fix you." He throws his hands up and Justin's laughter melds with his. "I promise it's better than sittin in a cell."

"I heard that." Justin nods enthusiastically. They fall into silence again for a moment, but it's comfortable now.

"So if she's not family, what is she? Neighbor? Coworker?" Mike finally asks.

Justin cocks his head at him. "Its funny how those are your first two guesses."

Mike laughs a little before he sighs and lays his cards down, looking at Justin. "Well I know it's hard to find girls who put up with this shit, you know."

"I guess so." He feels the conversation taking a turn for the serious and it makes him nervous. He's not into the true confessions shit, especially about something he hasn't even put together in his mind yet, where exactly he stands now.

"I couldn't keep mine," he offers sadly and Justin feels bad for him.

"You got a wife and shit? Kids?"

He nods. "Had. Past tense."

"It's cool man, you don't gotta-"

"It's fine," he waves a hand dismissively, looking at the floor before he continues. "She left me a while back, before my first rehab attempt, took the kids and went back to Oregon to live with her mom. We're from Oregon originally, moved to northern California for a while just to get away, before the drugs got bad, but anyway, I went to rehab to try and get her and the kids back, but I didn't do it for me, you know? So it didn't really stick." He looks up at Justin who is staring back at him, unsure of what to say, but he doesn't need answers. "No matter how much you love 'em, it just doesn't stick."

"Yeah…" Justin trails uncomfortably. He's never had a complete stranger spill his guts like this, and he feels like this is just the beginning if Mike is one of those tell your life story kinda guys.

"You love her?" His question makes Justin sits back a bit, his eyebrows raising at the nerve of this guy to ask him a question like that. Mike quickly retracts it, "Sorry, I just-"

"It's cool." Justin cuts him off hurriedly, not wanting to talk about it anymore. "It just…it's not really like that," he explains.

"She's not your girl?"

He sighs impatiently. "She is, it's just different."

Mike nods, not really understanding but just accepting Justin's answer. Then he shrugs, offering all of the advice that he knows when it comes to things like this, the knowledge he's gotten from having to fight his entire battle alone up to this point.,"Well, if she loves you, let her. If she wants to stick around through this shit you better hold on to her. Before long you're gonna need somebody besides these quacks in here to tell you what's real, you know?"

"I guess." Justin's eyes avert to the floor. He thinks about what Mike said, but refuses to let the truth of it sink in just yet. He pushes himself from the bed and grabs his clothes. "I gotta shower."

"I'm just talking out my ass, man," Mike says quickly, worried he's pissed Justin off, and Justin just shakes his head, continuing toward the bathroom.

When he finally makes it to the doorway and looks back at Mike he's gone back to his card game, and he watches him a moment, thinking more about what he said, wondering how he could have gone through as much shit as he did and still seem soft-hearted. He can't begin to understand how this guy could care about him, a complete stranger, when he has as much to face and conquer as he does. He cares.

"No you're not," Justin says, more to himself because he knows it's true, but he can't seem to comprehend it just yet. He's not sure he's ready to try.

But as he closes the bathroom door Mike smiles to himself, hoping he's willing to try sooner than later.

*lyrics credit:
"Breathe In, Breathe Out" -Mat Kearney