Various Drabbles (Slash/Femslash/Het/Gen) [Ranging from PG to R]

Triple Take (slash)

A/N

SLASH. Rated PG-13 or slight R for drug usage, cursing and sexual themes. Drabbles will never be continued or pursued. However, I've maintained the idea that if anybody else wants one of the storylines to continue into a full length story, I'll definitely be fine with that. Just send a message or comment my way.

"Drugs are a bet with your mind." - Jim Morrison (couldn't pass up a quote by him, however ironic it might be.)

Triple Take

The first time I ever talked to Christopher Daniels was late into the evening one Saturday when I was on my way towards a local library to work on a last minute project.

He was slumped over the stairs leading up to the building, looking half awake and half dead. The boy flicked his fingers back and forth, shaking the hair out of his face, only for it to slide back, once again.

“Hey—hey, are you alright?”

Apparently, it took a moment for my voice to register clearly as he slowly turned his head in my direction. His eyes were wide and dark and tinted an odd pinkish color, looking astounded and completely at ease, all at the same time. His hands weren’t flicking back and forth, I finally noticed, they were shaking.

Shaking shaking shaking.

But he didn’t seem to care and neither did the world.

After that first incident, it was like Christopher was everywhere. He was always one of those people I saw around town or school but I never really seemed to talk to. He was hooked on drugs and sex and being miserable—actually, that last one was a theory—and he never talked about himself when he was around me.

Actually, we didn’t talk all that much.

I was always sorta a loner, keeping to myself while reading a book during lunch. Christopher would silently come, never eating anything, and take a place next to me, looking over my shoulder at my choice of literature every now and again. He was skeletal looking, almost. Pale with ghastly purple bruises under his eyes.

Every now and then his pant legs would lift up just the tiniest and I’d catch a glimpse of angry scars that never healed correctly or his shirt sleeve would roll and little odd colored bruises where collapsed veins lay would bathe under the sunlight. It was evidence of why he looked so broken, clear cut proof that he was drowning down below.

Broken broken broken.

Drowning drowning drowning.

But I didn’t know how to save him.

O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O-o-O

It was four months after I met him that we had an actual conversation—all because of drugs.

I’d gone to the library again that Saturday and checked out a couple books, dreading the walk back home and going back to said ‘home’ that smelled too much like cheap beer and stale food. But, this was the second time I’d come to find Christopher Daniels slumped over on the library steps.

He looked over at me as I approached, stained teeth pulled back into overtly fake junky smile, eyes as wide and dark as ever. “I was waiting for you.”

“Well, here I am.”

“There you are,” He agreed.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell have you ingested now?”