Poison Hemlocks

Ch. 08 - The Dilemma

String doesn't like being alone - quiet spaces, empty hallways, walking into a room and having to turn on the lights because nobody was inside, nobody turning in the bedsheets for a more comfortable rest but himself, no other breaths being taken but his own, though dead bodies do make quite the company sometimes too.

But yeah, he doesn't like that sort of stuff. Because being surrounded by silence causes your brain to disrupt it, causes your thoughts to be loud.

And that makes you do things that are very, very stupid.

So String does anything in his power to make sure he's never alone.

He'd have a callgirl for whenever he felt like it, for whenever it wasn't Paper. He'd drink till he sees the faces of those whose deaths he witnessed, those Paper had killed. He'd stick a needle in himself, shoot things he shouldn't into his bloodstream, let it flow, let the pain take over and make him too numb to think, till Paper has to come in and tell him to stop.

He grits his teeth. It always leads back to Paper. The immaculate control that man has over him would either aggravate him or bring him a strained pleasure. String just wants to forget it altogether, forget him. Nothing has distraught his mind more than the presence of this one man.

Worse part of all is that he knows just how messed up the way Paper treats him. The cuts and bruises, the fool's errands, the almost nonsensical actions and decisions String knows has some kind of psychological shtick to it.

And yet, it's always outweighed by the occasional good stuff. The money, the power, the praise that meant more than anyone else's, the sex that keeps him coming back for more, the new beginning after the shitshow that was Ivy.

String squints his eyes shut, a headache creeping in, his temples throbbing real lightly but real excruciatingly. He isnt sure whether it's from the thoughts running laps around his mind or little miss Mary Jane. Whatever it was, it's making him forget. The pain relieved by a different kind. The dilemma.

And the dilemma finds his way back to him.

He could've swore he locked the door, the key set on the table right in front of him. To no one's surprise, the door is heard creaking open slightly, followed by the familiar clicking of heels, and the door closes again.

Paper saunters in, setting his own pair of keys onto the coffee table. Of course he'd have a pair. He owned the place, this apartment he'd let String stay in.

He shifts his weight onto one leg, hands joined together behind his back, though String wouldn't be surprised if he was hiding a scalpel back there, and he watches String, with something in his eyes unsure whether it was intrigue or disdain, but there was something.

String huffs, figured Paper wouldn't speak if he didn't first. "Yeah, boss?"

"What is that?" He asks, eyeing the blunt between his fingers.

"Oh, this?" String replies in a sarcastic tone. "Reefer, fresh from the field." He gestures it towards him. "Wanna drag?"

Paper takes the blunt. String half expected him to drive the lit end into his skin again, like there isn't enough cigarette burns on him already, but instead, Paper takes in it, then tilts his head slightly back to release the smoke into the already infested air.

String chuckles. "So you won't tolerate my preferred brand of cigs but you make an exception for weed?"

"You didn't update me on this," He ignores String's effort to lighten up the mood.

String huffs the remaining smoke he's got left in him. "Was gonna, but I figured I should test it out first."

Paper only hums in response, whilst String had expected a rough lecture. That's another thing about Paper that String found kind of irritating. He's unpredicatable. You may never know when he decides to bite, like a stray cat, except he was anything but a stray.

Then, arms half crossed, one propping the other up, Paper settles onto the couch. He doesn't hesitate to lean against String and delicately kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, not caring if the particles of dew drip onto it.

String's gaze narrow down to Paper. He watches him slowly twirl the blunt in his fingers, puffing smoke like a sleeping dragon, eyes closed, seemingly taking it all in. His breath was steady, but String couldn't help but notice his chest hitching in movement ever so slightly from time to time.

String is amused, too fucked up to think twice about snaking his arm across Paper's shoulders, and Paper remains a haunted statue, without a reaction to the contact.

"Seems like you're enjoyin' it," String then says, continuing to watch him attentively, as the other man's eyes flutter, as the smoke swirls into the air like mystical magic sparks.

"Have never tried it before," Paper replies.

String's eyes widen. "Ya never tried weed before?" - Paper shook his head - "Wow, ain't ya just full of surprises."

He then hears Paper's signature little chuckle, one that insinuated his signature little smile. However, it catches String off guard when the laugh lingers just a little longer than usual.

"I am," Paper tilted his head up to meet his eyes. "Aren't I?"

String moved his head to see Paper better. He was so much different up close. You wouldn't think he was a mythical underworld crime boss. He could see the odd, familiar gentleness in those dark eyes, resting eyelids, black outline he wasn't sure was mascara or bags. But it kept him staring back, deep into the inky pools, a part of him knowing he wouldn't be able to swim back to the surface.

It was the weed talking, String had convinced himself, when he leaned in, putting their faces only a quarter away from each other. String could feel Paper's slow breath on him, smoke with every huff he took.

He just wanted a closer look at those eyes. For they seemed empty almost all the time, except for tonight.

"Is it something on my face?" Paper then asks, his brows very slightly lifting upon the question, though he wasn't self-conscious. He knew something being on his face wasn't the case. He just likes the chase.

"Yeah," String replies anyhow, plucking the blunt from Paper's fingers, lightly as to make sure he'd let him. "You've got a little somethin'."

"Truly?" Paper hums, moving from his position, breaking the bosom distance between them so suddenly, that String felt a tinge of disappointment.

But Paper doesn't leave. He only adjusted himself, now sitting on his knees on the couch, fully facing String, eyes not letting go.

"Could you show me?" He asks, but it's an order, String knows.

He shrugs, looking away, bringing the blunt to his lips for just a little more nausea. He had thought things were going a different way, but again, Paper liked the chase, and String wasn't in the mood to run.

"I could, but-"

String's startled at the sudden touch. Paper's hand is on String's cheek, directing him back to lock their eyes. Then, without warning, Paper had his other hand in String's bleached hair, and he pressed their lips together.

Light, soft, simple.

And mind-breaking.

String's eyes are wide, his heart is racing, the blunt slipping from his fingers bound to be forgotten on the floor.

But before String could do anything, before he could kiss back, Paper pulls away, a line of smoke connected their lips, a proposition that it happened.

He really fucking kissed him.

He wants to say something, but no words formed, as if his voice was completely stolen.

Instead, Paper speaks. "I said to show me."

Then, he becomes nonchalant.

He takes his time, in no rush, to stand up and dust the particles of the dope off his suit, flattening out his blazer, straightening his posture, back to his seemingly perfect, robotic self, like nothing had happened but a regular conversation between a boss and his worker.

String is left alone in the room again, quiet and tranquil. But he isn't really alone this time. It isn't really quiet and tranquil.

Paper's left him with a tangent. And String wouldn't be surprised if he ends up in an asylum by dawn. It's driving him absolutely insane.