A strange, strange little thing that I'm tempted to continue, but won't. Didier is such an interesting character to me. He seems one-dimensional, more of exaggeration then anything until, surprise, the scene on the bus ride home. And it make you wonder, doesn't it?

And of course, I just love Carter.

Of Abstinence and Abuse

...good night, sweet dreams, I'll see you there

Like cigarette smoke, the jealousy burns his throat and eyes, choking him momentarily.

He knows he should stop before he does something rash and everything cracks to pieces around him like last time, seven years bad luck (it's been one year, a few weeks and four hours, if you asked).

He knows but, again, it's too much like smoking.

Addicting, that is.

The attention, the adoration, the faces looking up at him for the answers (he doesn't have them), willing to give him anything he asks for.

(Rewind, rewind, and pause.)

He might be staring now, too hard and too obviously.

It's the way the sunlight hits the edge of the open smile, blindingly white and frustrating because it's not meant for him (not like that, no, not again) and if anything he's selfish and greedy and a hater of beautiful things that are too good for him.

The boy is full of smooth white lines that break off in jagged edges.


They meet at a movie theater the first time.

The place is almost empty.

"It's been running for weeks," the short one tells him but he isn't listening. There's blood everywhere (don't think about it, too late) and he doesn't understand what's going on but looking at it makes him sick.

"Bathroom," he says through numb lips (couldn't feel anything) and glares at the redhead when he tries to follow (just cold).

Let him just be alone, for a minute. He needs to rebuild his walls.

Needs to shove it all back in and stop thinking about it until it didn't happen, until he forgets. The bruises have faded, why hasn't the rest?

He flushes twice afterward but he can still taste it in the back of his mouth (bitter and iron, no that was then) and it gags him a little as he drags the back of leather coat over his mouth.

Disgusting, he thinks. (They told him.)

"You gonna take all bloody day or what?"

The voice isn't familiar, and yet, he knows exactly who it is. He opens the door and looks out, avoids the mirror reflection.

"'Bout time," the boy mutters, and takes a drag of his cigarette, "Could you imagine the trouble I'd be in if you'd gone and buggered off?"

He blinks, stunned (terrified) and swallows.


The boy shrugs, exhaling smoke, "M' name's Carter."


The smoke touches the ceiling and curls (he feels dizzy), and a lighter is pressed into his hand. He chokes out a smile and lights his own. It's been a while, but why not? He's craved it, no matter how hard he tries to quit.

(The inhale, exhale. Smoke and circles.)

Carter shrugs before he can thank him.

"Nice to smoke with someone again," the boy explains, "Will doesn't like it."

Something clenches in his stomach, something dark and impossible to put his finger on. Like the smoke, it slips through his defenses and lingers.

(Not yours.)

Carter flicks the cigarette bud into the sink and stretches, spine arched (a little more, please) and popping into place (look away now), a groan of satisfaction turning the pink mouth upward. He's fascinated for a moment, lips dry against the flimsy cigarette paper.

"See you later," Didier says, accent thickening (hiding).

The boy pauses as the door and thinks.

"Probably not."

(This is the part where he doesn't care.)