Work Text:
Jimmy was sitting on a disgusting, closed toilet lid in a dingy public bathroom. The Tulpar had just arrived at Earth a few hours ago, and a whole month remained before he had to go back to space to haul thousands worth of a useless product.
This time, it was medical equipment they had to ship.
Whether it was bandages, disinfectants, alcohol wipes, or stationery, he didn’t know. They didn’t tell the crew what they were exactly shipping as it broke some bullshit confidentiality contract between Pony Express and the company that chose them to haul the products. But whatever it was, Jimmy only had one thing in mind when he heard the words medical equipment.
Needles. Syringes. Tourniquets.
4 months of endless torture every single day. Whether it was in the cockpit, the lounge, or in his sleeping quarters; he couldn’t stop thinking about plunging a sharp, thin needle with a particular substance inside. Anyone would grow nauseous at the thought of a filthy, sticky liquid that was made God-knows-where getting injected into their body, but not Jimmy. He craved it like no other.
No crew member was allowed to bring anything illegal or intoxicating in the Tulpar, for obvious reasons. There was nothing they could bring inside the ship except clothes and toiletries unless there was a valid medical reason for certain items.
No pharmaceuticals (unless prescribed by a licensed doctor), no weapons, no knives or sharp objects, no explosives, no batteries, no aerosols, no ammunition, no alcohol, no nicotine-containing products (except nicotine patches prescribed by a licensed doctor or a rehab clinic) and so on. In addition to these strict limitations on what a crew member could carry inside, Pony Express stated there would be no onboard entertainment—unless you counted a few decks of cards, a chessboard, and classic board games as entertainment.
There was a massive TV in the lounge, but only scenic videos would play on a loop. It was either a safari-type environment or an aquarium during the day, and the same night sky visual after 7 pm. That was their cue that their rest time was approaching since there was no way to determine the time.
This constant monotony, horrible food, and nothing else to ease their boredom proved too much for Jimmy. It wasn’t his first time on the ship of course, but it was the longest so far. Their shipments usually lasted from a few weeks to 2 months maximum. 124 days seemed like it was worth it to work for, considering the payment, but it was the exact opposite.
One hundred and twenty-four fucking days. All spent in a never-ending prison, with 3 other crew members he did not enjoy the company of, to put it lightly.
Apart from Curly, everyone else got on his nerves. Especially the ship’s nurse, Anya. He avoided talking to her like a plague. She had the privilege of becoming a medical student and still failed 8 fucking times. Her attitude pissed him off even more. Meek, insecure, and introverted. Total opposite of Jimmy. He didn’t like people who weren’t like him.
Swansea, the mechanic, was even more irritating but at least he knew what he was doing. Daisuke, though very dumb, was just a young kid. Jimmy couldn’t fault him for being there trying to gain experience, except when he thought back to his days when he was Daisuke’s age, stealing food to feed himself and buying cigarettes and beer to escape his poverty-stricken life. Oh, he was jealous alright.
Now that he was in his new position as a co-pilot, he sometimes contemplated taking the emergency gun and ending it once and for all.
But alas, he made it. Now he’s back on Earth. In a shady gas station bathroom, all alone.
Fluorescent lights lit up the place, yet the closest one to his stall kept flickering at an inconsistent pace. Jimmy thought it was ironic. It’s as if wherever he went, something would always be wrong. Off.
Jimmy yanked the leather belt from his waist that was fastened to his work-provided green cargos. The rough fabric struggled to let loose from the belt hoops smoothly, but he managed to slide it off quickly enough. He placed the belt in front of him on the ground, leaving it in a coiled position. He couldn’t wait to use it, to feel it tighten and constrict his blood flow just to ease that slight pain of the needle going inside his arm. And obviously, to see where the vein was in the first place. It has been a while. Four fucking months.
As he straightened himself after bending down a bit to reach the floor and quietly set the belt, he noticed broken tiles that lay underneath his feet. It’s not something he just noticed, it was always there. His brain had reminded him that they were there, never moving.
Jimmy touched the shattered tile with his foot out of curiosity and shifted it slightly. There was no need to do it, but he wanted to touch it. To move it. He wanted it to make some sort of difference. It made none. It was useless.
Jimmy reached inside his thick, fleece-lined dark green work jacket. The pockets had a nice, fluffy texture inside and heated his hand for a millisecond before he felt what he needed to get. A small plastic bag and a spoon were in his grip and he pulled them out, staring at them for a few moments.
He lay down the spoon and baggie on his lap and reached again into his pocket to get a red BIC lighter he bought before going into the bathroom. While doing this, he kept looking at the beige-colored powder moving in response to his movements. He pulled off his coat, letting it fall to the floor next to him in a heavy heap. The cool air of the bathroom brushed against his skin, but it didn’t matter. He was beyond caring about the chill, his mind was already focused on what was to come.
It reminded him of sand toppling over itself, like a bucket of sand that he would have as a child, and carrying it somewhere, wondering why it moved the way it did. It was a little hypnotizing to him. But maybe that was just the nostalgia talking. There was nothing graceful about the way heroin moved in a stained plastic bag.
The smell wavered over him as he untangled the plastic knot. Something about the faint, vinegar smell of the substance made Jimmy’s mouth water. It smelled awful, and a hint of chemicals could also be detected in the odor. Only if you focused hard enough on it, which Jimmy did. He was in an observing mood today, though it was probably due to the adrenaline that took over him when he met up with his drug dealer.
The guy lived in his mother’s basement and Jimmy could easily overpower him, but something about the exchange made him feel... unclean. Impure. What would his manager say if he saw him? His crew? His relatives? His parents? What would Curly say if he saw him like this?
He physically shook his head, trying not to let the thoughts in his head get to him. A sudden itch crawled up his skin, right on the inside of his elbow. On the spot. The sharp sensation distracted him for a moment, and he scratched it with his opposite hand. It stopped the itching, but now left a red mark and a tingly feeling lingering on his flesh.
The feeling of his existence felt strange all of a sudden. Like an out-of-body feeling that he couldn’t quite grasp, let alone explain. He deduced that this was his body’s response to the craving for the substance resting on his lap—something he hadn’t been able to touch for four long months.
Jimmy wasn’t stupid, though. He didn’t shoot up every day before heading into space for months. In fact, he didn’t shoot up at all. It was always either snorting small amounts or, more commonly, ‘chasing the dragon’ —using the same, torn piece of foil each time. It saved him the hassle of shopping for more foil, he told himself. In reality, it was the irrational belief that Curly, who lived with him, would begin suspecting him if he left behind equally sized pieces of foil and straws in the bin.
He knew the withdrawals would hit hard, especially on a ship full of idiots and with his too-caring-for-his-own-good best friend of a captain. So, he eased off his intake little by little, making sure the absence of the drug wouldn’t raise any alarms. Convincing someone to piss in a cup for him, however, that was another challenge altogether.
Despite all the negatives, he missed this feeling. He really fucking did.
Picking up the spoon, he spit on it twice to give it enough liquid. He felt a tinge of excitement pool in his stomach, making him feel superior to everyone. If only they knew what he was doing.
The illicit nature of this whole situation made him feel alive, and he picked up the pace. Jimmy was desperate to get it done with, but wanted to savor every minute of the entire procedure. It was almost, if not as fun as the effects of the drug.
As much as he liked the feeling of being alive, he wanted it gone. Wanted all of his responsibilities to disappear, he didn’t have to be a less important captain now, in charge of 3 ungrateful workers. If only that’s what he was, he didn’t have to be in charge of shit. He wanted to be, but he wasn’t. Always second in fucking charge. Never first. Never.
All of a sudden, the arrogant and exciting aspect of what he was doing evaporated in an instant.
Swallowing a dry lump in his throat, he held the spit-covered spoon in his left hand firmly and picked up the open baggie with his other. He aligned the bag perfectly to the spoon so none of the $50 worth of heroin would spill out onto the grungy bathroom floor, in between the grooves of the tiles that Jimmy moved partially with his foot earlier.
He looked closely at his hands. His fingers trembled as he held the spoon containing his saliva and the browned powder inside, each movement feeling like it took forever. The itch he scratched on his skin had turned into a burn, a constant gnawing reminder of hunger he needed to replenish. That the only way he could feel normal was the material in front of him affecting his nervous system.
Every second felt stretched on, making the room spin just a little more. The flickering light overhead cast shadows on his lap. It was only that one light above him that was malfunctioning. The rest stayed perfectly still, illuminating the bathroom as they were meant to. Why was his different? Why did his not glow?
A flash of Curly’s face blinked in his mind for a split second—before the drugs, before the loneliness, before the damn ship, and the responsibility he had to take for his fucking crew, even though he wasn’t as important as the captain. The image of Curly haunted him at that moment. Whenever Jimmy would lose self-confidence, or go on a tangent on why he would never be as successful as Curly, he would always give him the same look.
Genuine concern would appear in his eyes, forehead wrinkling as his blond eyebrows furrowed. His lips would be downturned into a frown and subtle dimples could be seen next to the corners of his lips. He hated how he thought Jimmy was more than just another lost cause. He hated that he thought of him so highly that he vouched for him to be his co-pilot. Jimmy had nothing to offer Pony Express. Nothing new to provide the ship that the last co-pilot didn’t already do better.
The thought gnawed at him. They didn’t give him the position because he was older or more experienced. They gave it to him because of him.
He managed to make it out of his shitty trailer park home, sure, but he didn’t get the position of a co-pilot by himself. He started as a simple maintenance crew member, bound to be let go after a few months. If it wasn’t for him, Jimmy would be back in his hillbilly town, beating his wife because she made the chicken just a bit too overcooked and yelling at his kids to fetch him a beer.
A bitter laugh escaped him, echoing in the empty bathroom. He was just a recommendation. Curly was strong, a good leader, and everything Jimmy wanted to be. Everything Jimmy couldn’t be. The thought circled him like ravished vultures and their gritty, loud croaks were heard in the form of the Goddamned fucking light above his head buzzing.
No, no, no, no, no. No fucking more. Enough. He set the bag down on his lap and grabbed the lighter in his hands. His thumb painfully flicked the metal wheel, hearing the rusty wheel rub against the flint and ignite to create a fire. The orange flame hovered over the hole in the lighter, waving back and forth like dying embers in a campfire, struggling to stay alive in the wind.
He put the lighter under the spoon, not putting it too close so it didn’t touch the fire but close enough. Jimmy stayed perfectly still, but his hands were trembling. The fire stopped lighting eventually, and he flicked the metal wheel with his thumb once more to ignite it. He grew to look forward to the flame stopping and lighting it again, as it gave him the smallest sense of control. Like everything was in order, like nothing was out of his reach.
The solution on the spoon began boiling. The familiar vinegary smell intensified, and tiny gray smoke clouds rose from the simmering liquid. The light diminished from the red canister. The smallest second of hesitation created a sense of hollowness in his chest, almost like a breath he didn’t know he was holding.
The flame flickered weakly, dancing in his trembling hand, and for a second, it felt like the only thing he had control over. His thumb moved without thinking, striking the wheel again, the familiar sting jolting him back into the moment. That brief moment of reconsideration faded, replaced by a rush of guilt—maybe it was Curly, always filled with that stupid concern for him. Or maybe it was the empty ache in his chest, the one that reminded him how much he needed to fill the vacant space.
However, the rush of guilt diminished too once he saw the cocktail flawlessly caramelized on the burnt spoon. He felt proud of himself, proud with himself. He’d done it right, hadn’t wasted a single grain, and cooked it to perfection. Jimmy swirled the beverage around in the spoon carefully, making sure not to spill it, as it felt like an achievement.
He cautiously held the spoon and set the lighter aside, reaching into his other pocket. He pulled out a cotton pad and a beautiful, sterile needle that would go under his skin in just minutes from now.
Staring at the syringe with the attached needle in pristine packaging almost made Jimmy laugh. This tool, one of humanity’s biggest accomplishments that was designed for healing, for saving lives, was now in the trembling hands of a washed-up man on the edge of forty, using it to destroy himself. The thought should have shamed him. Instead, it added to the odd satisfaction coursing through him—a bizarre pride, knowing he’d taken something meant for the greater good and made it his own. Something that will enter him, and never be used again as his body would taint it. Something that would pierce his skin, and have its purpose forever defiled.
Bending his knees to his chest, he made sure that the curved spine of the utensil wouldn’t spill the contents he had spent minutes preparing, and set the spoon next to the belt he had taken off earlier. The belt next to the spoon was coiled and riddled with worn-out holes reminding him eerily of a rattlesnake, like it was waiting to pounce and rob him of life.
He sat up again, hunching. The plastic crinkled as he unwrapped the needle. He wondered what this needle could’ve been used for in another life: nurses and doctors saving lives, diagnosing the vulnerable people of society, maybe holding the hands of terrified children, trying to ease their pain. And now here it was, pressed between his fingers, ready to do the opposite. Ready to steal away the little he had left. But none of that mattered. Not now.
He glanced at the concoction on the spoon and noticed a bubble bursting, still recovering from the heat. He didn’t even know if the dose he’d measured would get him high, make him sick, or outright kill him. He wasn’t sure which one sounded better.
Jimmy tore a piece of the cotton pad and bent his body again. He placed the small piece of torn cotton into the solution delicately, ensuring the solid wouldn’t mess up the sticky substance and spill it on the ground. The brilliant white and fluffy material of the cotton metamorphized and shrunk into a brown hardened-looking ball, despite being more fragile now than before it got ruined.
He sucked in his stomach and took the syringe from his lap. He relaxed his stomach again and picked up the spoon gently from the ground.
His hands were shaking as he angled the needle to the dissolved, brown cotton ball holding in the pure heroin. He pulled the plunger back and stared at it going up in its transparent body. The brown, tacky mixture replaced the spotless, chemical aesthetic of the syringe’s body.
When the plunger was pushed back, he removed the needle from the spoon and tossed the utensil away from him, no longer needing it.
In a way, it felt liberating to let go of it. So much time was wasted on preparing the mixture, all to be tossed away in favor of the cotton ball. He pushed the plunger in, and a small hiss could be heard from the air getting sucked out. The smallest amount dribbled out as he made sure the syringe only had the drug in its cylinder.
Jimmy didn’t know what emotion to feel. This felt more like something he had improvised, something that was methodical in its core. Nothing he had to think emotionally or rationally about, just doing as addicts taught him how to do it.
But he wasn’t like them. He could never be like them. He only did this sometimes to regulate his emotions and keep him on his toes. He wasn’t like them, those addicts who spent every waking hour chasing the high, regretting it afterward. He only did it when he needed to—just enough to stay sharp, to keep the pressure from crushing him. They depended on it, Jimmy chose to do it to himself.
Plus, Jimmy had a job, and not just any ordinary one. He was in charge of a tough crew, handling responsibility no one else could manage. Who could blame him for needing a little escape when the weight of it all fell on his shoulders? If Curly hadn’t thrust that job onto him out of nowhere, maybe he wouldn’t need this at all. What was Curly thinking, giving him such a monumental responsibility with no time to prepare? Was he really so blind that he couldn’t see Jimmy was more than capable of handling it on his own?
If only Curly had warned him, given him the time to adjust instead of just pushing him into this. Working alongside his best friend was more damaging than fun. Every letter from corporate, every serious emergency or responsibility—he had no part in it. It was always, always Curly. Never him. Never. Fucking. Him.
It wasn’t just the job. It was that look in Curly’s eyes, that subtle condescending look, an unspoken message that screamed: he doesn’t trust you to handle it alone.
The weight of that was almost worse than anything. It wasn’t Jimmy’s fault. He wasn’t the problem. He did everything right, stuck to the plan, followed the rules, did what he told him to do. He tried his best, made his decisions, and stood by himself. What did Curly do? He sat there in the cockpit, in his high-and-mighty chair, telling Jimmy this, telling him that. All Jimmy could hear was his ‘humble’ bragging and that edge in his voice that showed how much he loved commanding others.
The admiration from the other crew members was something he couldn't bear to stand either. Swansea’s respect for Curly, Anya’s admiration, and Daisuke’s awe at him being such a responsible captain. What about Jimmy?
What about Jimmy?
He was stuck in a bathroom now, a needle full of heroin and a belt waiting to be tied around his arm. He wondered how they would feel seeing him here. Would they feel bad? Would they pity him? Would they finally realize his worth, only now when he was at his seemingly lowest?
He picked up the coiled belt and straightened it by holding the top, letting the rest of its black, leather body fall. He sat back right up.
He stretched his right arm in front of him and placed the belt above the elbow. He sank his teeth on the edge and the leather was cold and stiff against his lips but felt worn down. Like cheap or synthetic leather, despite knowing it was expensive. His fingers fumbled with the buckle, but it was the harsh grip he had on the strap with his teeth that gave him the focus he needed.
As he clenched the belt between his teeth and used his fingers to find the tightest hole he could possibly insert the buckle into, the pressure around his arm increased. His rattlesnake comparison confirmed his thoughts as the constriction of his muscles felt like a snake getting ready to strangle its victim. His breath quickened, the taste of leather mingling with the tangy sweat that trickled down from his temple down to his mouth. He deserved it.
His teeth loosened their grip on the leather and it slipped a little. A temporary relief was provided, but Jimmy quickly found his place back into the thick material instinctively.
He took in a sharp breath, taken aback by the sudden rush of pressure releasing from his arm. It was overwhelming, it’s like his muscles weren't used to the absence of tension they were in before. His arm screamed for more like it was addicted to the sensation like he was. He deserved it.
He gave in to his desires and sank his teeth even further, securing his place and tightening the belt around his arm even tighter so he wouldn’t slip up again. He was doing this so well, just a little more. So much time was spent preparing the mixture that he attained the feeling that would soon follow. He deserved it.
There was something about the act, something primal, something animalistic that made him feel superior like he was asserting control, a wild animal biting into its prey. As the leather stretched tight, the power to constrict, to control grew increasingly in his mind. He deserved it.
If only they could see him now, feel him, pressing his sharp canines into the material, indenting holes into it, leaving slimy, wet marks behind. Every moment he spent doing this was readying him for the best high of his life that he had been yearning for months now. He fought for this, he navigated space and he helped his crew. Every moment of frustration with his crew, every argument with Curly, every decision he made on the ship… he had a right to escape. He earned it.
He deserved this.
Finally, with one last adjustment, the belt was secured in place. The flesh underneath throbbed, and he felt his pulse beating a steady rhythm that felt foreign to Jimmy at this point.
He tilted his head up to the ceiling, eyes drawn to the unpredictable light blinking above him. It seemed dimmer, with some sections now blown out while the others next to it continued to shine beautifully without fault. At the far end of the bathroom, in the last stall, there was one light that broke the illusion—a flicker that disrupted the pattern. Jimmy chose to sit in this stall, directly beneath it, knowing it was giving out and wouldn't provide good lighting. But it wasn't his fault. The gas station should've replaced the lightbulbs, it was their responsibility. Not his.
The hum of the light buzzed annoyingly in his head, mixing with the constricting pressure of the makeshift tourniquet cutting off his blood flow and causing him mild tinnitus. Jimmy glanced down at his lap where the syringe rested. Everything he needed was right there, stuck in a pressured container.
The sticky substance inside would soon be in his veins and he would finally feel the high he’d been craving for months. But for now, the syringe glistened softly under the dim, twinkling light. The glow of the cylinder reflected a shine that abruptly vanished when it met the dark drug inside. The liquid was like a void, dark and consuming, occupying a part of the syringe, ready to erase everything else.
He hesitated for a moment. It was almost too perfect. The needle, the heroin, the anticipation. The blinking light above seemed to mock him as if it was beckoning him to just inject it into his vein. Fucking do it already.
Suddenly, Jimmy’s world crumbled.
He heard footsteps outside the bathroom. A small flicker of hope ignited in him. Maybe it was a woman, maybe someone just passing through, someone who wouldn’t intrude. It’ll be fine.
Will it?
This was out of his control. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It’s late. Way too late. Who the hell is out at this hour?
Blood drained from his face. He froze. He was completely caught off guard. His skin was cold, but it wasn’t just the temperature; it was the sweat, the anxiety, the fear of being caught. Cold sweat started to form on his face and the throbbing sensation in his arm intensified a hundred times over. His arm was growing unbearably numb. But that didn’t matter. His plan, his high, was what mattered.
Jimmy snapped his eyes shut, wishing the world to stop spinning. No one was supposed to come here.
Time felt like it was mocking him. It was slow, excruciatingly slow. He wasn’t made for this kind of uncertainty, this weakness. His pulse quickened as he tried to focus, but the anxiety kept pushing through. He had to stay calm. It was hard for Jimmy to imagine himself in other people’s shoes, but he tried to right now. Tried very hard. Surely they’d just do their business and leave...?
Right. Like a normal person would.
The door creaked open. It’s fine. It’s fine. They’ll leave. Why wouldn’t they? Nothing’s going to stop him. Nothing ever had.
Not even—
“Jimmy?”
Curly.
Jimmy's eyes widened, and the cold air stung them sharply. Why was he here? Why couldn’t anything ever go his way?
Most importantly, was this asshole stalking him?
Jimmy inhaled a short, shallow breath before forcing himself to speak. The sensation of trying to talk felt alien. His voice sounded scratchy, weak—wrong.
“Curly.”
A sigh of relief came from Curly. So he was looking for him.
“Jimmy, where were you? I was waiting for you back home—Shit, I got so worried. Don’t do that again, yeah?” Curly’s voice softened as he approached Jimmy’s stall.
Jimmy saw the shadowy outline of Curly’s feet under the door shifting with uncertainty, almost like he was debating whether to leave. The stall door quivered forward slightly by a faint press from Curly’s hand, before springing back to its original position. Then came a firmer push, the pressure heavier this time. The hinges creaked, and the rough sound echoed in the confined room.
This was pathetic. He was a grown man; he didn’t have to report his every move. They weren’t on the ship anymore. He didn’t have to listen to him. He wasn’t Curly’s responsibility on Earth.
It was deliberate, Jimmy thought. Like Curly was trying to bridge some invisible gap, to connect with him. Maybe even comfort him, despite not knowing if anything was wrong. He didn’t like how Curly knew him so well. Did he manage to let his guard down that much?
“Jimmy... you doing okay?”
...
“Jimmy?”
...
“... Jim...?”
Jimmy’s arm was aching involuntarily, in a desperate attempt to warn him to release the compression. The pressure in his veins was relentless, his circulation was cutting off. Anxiety and an increased heart rate didn’t do his body well, and he started to grow sick. A pain in his stomach formed, but it wasn’t an ordinary ache you would get in response to eating too much or ingesting something that had gone off. It was a pain that could only be described with the phrase ‘fight or flight’, despite there being no option to fight or flight. He was frozen in place.
It felt like an empty absence, a pit in his stomach, a massive crater. He wanted it to stop. The discomfort gnawed at him, like a cat scratching at the door wanting to be let in. His body refused to listen to his wish for it to stop.
He loosened the belt with his free hand, the buckle making a soft metallic click as it relaxed around him. Maybe Curly would think he'd finished his business, or that he was just messing around in there. But he didn’t budge.
The belt fell away, slipping off his arm and landing to the side, straightening itself naturally on the floor. He let his cramping arm relax.
His vocal cords burned and he desperately wished they could cooperate with him, but they just wouldn’t dare move. His mind was blank, even though there were a thousand things he wanted to say. To shout. To scream. To cry out. It didn’t make sense. Why isn't he able to tell Curly to go away? Why couldn’t he assert himself, like he always did?
Curly’s shadow remained stationary. It stayed just outside the stall, unmoving. Jimmy could feel the weight of it. It felt like a burden cast upon him, like an unspoken question that refused to be ignored, daring him to answer.
Curly wasn’t going to move, he knew there was something wrong. He always did. It was more of a curse than a blessing because Jimmy never liked to fix things with others. He was better off on his own. If Curly wasn’t so persistent then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be here in the first place. Opposites attract, huh?
Jimmy looked down at the filled syringe in his lap. Instantly, it felt dirty. It no longer had that same luster, that sweet brown liquid of relief. Now, it revealed its true color. Jimmy didn’t want to accept that. He couldn’t accept that.
“Jimmy, open the door,” Curly demanded. His voice was too soft and caring, but there was a vague feeling of urgency behind his insistent tone. He was worried about Jimmy. Worried that something bad happened to him. Why did Jimmy’s hands start trembling again?
Jimmy didn’t realize he was holding his breath and inhaled deeply but quietly. Even after that, he found his breath to be held in subconsciously. He wanted to focus on his heartbeat, and the unsettling static of the tinnitus in his ears ringing. He couldn’t. All he could focus on was Curly’s shadow that blocked lighting from underneath.
“Jim...” Curly whispered this time, almost too quietly. Jimmy’s face went pale, and his eyes suddenly grew too tired to be held up by his drooping eyelids. He let his eyes wander down, trying hard not to close them. They reached a position in which they were half closed, neither uncomfortable nor comfortable.
It was almost serene. He nearly forgot Curly was still there with him.
Jimmy didn’t want to disappoint Curly. If he did open the door, he would see a pathetic display of a man. Hunched over sitting on a dirty toilet, unshaven, unclean, red mark around his arm, a belt on the floor, and best of all—a fucking syringe filled with heroin on his lap. What would he even fucking say?
‘Oh, Jimmy! Drugs are bad! I believe in you, blah blah blah! You’ll get through this! You’re so capable! Oh, but don’t forget, I’m still better than you so don’t believe in yourself too much!’
The corner of his top lip flickered slightly, a brief movement that he barely acknowledged.
“Jim, whatever it is... we can fix this. You know we always do. Whatever happens, I’m right here, yeah?” Curly said gently, sounding defeated.
Jimmy’s shoulders dropped, a faint exhale escaping as his eyes settled on the floor. Why does Curly care that much anyway?
Curly's other hand pressed against the door like another weight of anticipation of Jimmy’s response, heavy but patient. Jimmy’s pulse throbbed in his ears. Besides the faint hum of the light flickering above, the only other sounds in the room were their breaths. While Curly’s were fast and deep, Jimmy’s were slow and shallow. He clasped the thin body of the syringe, almost as if it could ground him, keep him from giving in to his orders.
He won’t let him in. He can’t. He’ll tell the crew, he’ll tell P.E. Best case scenario, they’ll only fire Jimmy. Not only will he not have a job, but his entire reputation would shatter in pieces. It would only make things worse if he opened the door. Curly would finally see him for what he is: pathetic. Vulnerable. He’ll never stop looking at him with that stupid fucking look. Always reminding him of what he was. What he is.
But what if he does let him in? He’s always been there. Doesn’t he deserve to know? Doesn’t he have the right? He is his responsibility as the ship's captain, even if they weren’t in space anymore...
Jimmy’s breath hitched slightly. He couldn’t remember when someone cared this much about what he did.
No. It’s better this way. He can’t get him to see him like this. He’s fine. He won’t ever see him like this, he doesn’t need anyone’s pity. Especially not Curly’s, someone who he needs to prove wrong for the first time in his perfect fucking life.
Curly shifted outside, and the faint sound of his boots scraping against the floor drifted in, breaking Jimmy’s concentration. That small, insignificant movement ruined his train of thought. He swallowed hard. Fuck, what was he thinking about again?
Curly was still there. Still waiting. What if he doesn’t leave? What if he just stood there forever?
The thought of Curly leaving without a word—that stirred something deep inside Jimmy. But then, another thought clawed at him. What if Curly just stayed there? Waiting. Waiting for Jimmy to make a choice.
No, he can’t. He can’t. Why won’t anyone give him fucking time to think things through, damnit! Why does he always get fucking rushed by everyone?!
His pulse quickened and the ache in his arm intensified, a constant reminder of how much he wanted to be rid of it. How much he wanted to just be rid of this feeling of pain. He wanted to be nodding out on the toilet seat for hours, relishing in the best high of his fucking year. He gritted his teeth. Stop fucking hurting. You don’t deserve to hurt.
Why was this bothering him so damn much? Why couldn’t he treat this just like everything else? Forgetting about it and thinking of it as no big deal? What’s so special about now?
Or was he afraid to have feelings?
“What did you do, Jimmy?”
Jimmy wished he never heard that. Curly’s familiar deep, gruff voice hit him harder than he expected. He felt a warm fluid pool in his eyes, threatening to spill over. An uncomfortable sting in his nose overwhelmed him, and his nose started dripping. He sniffled, trying to ignore the irritating discomfort of his nose burning his face. He bit his lip hard, tasting iron in his mouth but dismissing it. Since that didn’t work, he attacked the side of his cheek with his top and bottom molars. He tried to ignore it, but it was like trying to hold a flood behind a disordered dam. Fuck.
“Open the door, Jim...” Curly pleaded again, worry growing in his voice. He made it clear he wasn’t going to leave. What else was Jimmy meant to do?
He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, and even the simple act of swallowing was unpleasant. He sniffled again, releasing the inside of his cheeks to prepare himself to speak cohesively. “D-don’t tell anyone.” Jimmy rasped. His voice was raw, barely above a whisper, yet he still tried his best to cover up the fact he was on the verge of tears.
He sniffled again. He hated how desperate he sounded, like he was weak. He didn’t want Curly to know something was wrong. Why couldn’t he just leave him alone?
Jimmy felt a hot, wet streak run down his face. And then another. And another, like they were competing in a race, each one quicker than the last. He sniffed harder than before, his ears popping as a consequence. They burnt against his fiery face like acid. He wasn’t just crying, he was breaking down.
“I promise, Jim,” Curly assured him in response, anxious to see him. Why did he always try to fix something he couldn’t control? He couldn’t fix Jimmy. No one could. Not even Jimmy himself.
Jimmy leaned forward, hands shaking as he unlocked the hatch. His trembling fingers were hardly able to grip the lock, but in the blink of an eye, the sign went from a maroon, deep red to a glowing lime green color. He felt mocked, like the color green itself permitted Curly to ridicule him. The broken light above him flickered one last time, before ceasing to stop completely. The rusty, outdated doors creaked open slightly outward without the help of an external force.
They really should fix this bathroom.
He sank back down onto the toilet lid, the weight of everything hitting him all at once with no warning. He couldn’t do anything but to face the gravity of the situation. He had no other choice.
The doors carefully drifted outward. Slow, yet confident. Gentle. Comforting. Responsible.
Take responsibility.
The words flashed in his mind like a blinding light when Curly opened the door, searing into his sight. A kind of effect you would get after you stared at the sun for too long, and the shape of the sun would stay in a dark circle in your vision. They imprinted, moved around with his gaze no matter where he looked, but he couldn’t look at it directly. It would always outrun his focus. The more he tried to ignore it, the more it taunted him by dancing just out of reach.
Then Curly took up his vision.
He stood in the dim light, perfectly situated in the middle of the door. One side of his face glowed, soft and golden, while the other was swallowed by shadow. It was too perfect, like even the fucking universe wanted to frame him as something bigger than life. His wavy blond locks were in a messy arrangement that perfectly balanced his features, some were playfully straying away from his face and some were stuck to his damp forehead.
He couldn’t help but to look up at him, to look into his eyes. Bright blue irises with diluted pupils adjusted to the semi-dark atmosphere, staring at him, into him.
His other eye was veiled in darkness and appeared less distinct. His irises shimmered, a reminder of childhood summer skies that Jimmy rarely had the opportunity to see. Days that didn’t belong to him anymore, if they ever had in the first place. A bright, rich blue, vivid even in the dark. That bright, perfect eye locked him in place. Something precious, angelic. Unlike Jimmy’s dark brown, unassuming ones, Curly’s looked alive. Sure, it was comforting, but invasive. Like it could see every ugly, useless thing inside him. Dark blue rings elegantly circled his blue eyes and a green shade could be spotted radiating along his black pupils in the middle, adding even more color and personality into his already striking, exotic appearance. They weren’t just eyes; they were a reminder of everything Curly was that Jimmy wasn’t. Angelic, people-pleasing, charismatic, bright, precious...
And painfully unattainable.
Jimmy must’ve looked pathetic when the tears that were pooling in his bloodshot eyes finally spilled over. His face flushed too quickly, and before he could choke it back, an even more pathetic sob snaked its way out of his throat.
A heavy, hollow pressure ached in his chest. An ugly feeling he couldn’t get rid of—a disgusting contrast to Curly’s out-of-mind appearance. Always second in place, always.
Despite his breakdown happening not seconds ago, Curly, as if on cue, sank to his knees in front of Jimmy. He did not care about the cold floor beneath him, or the brown bag of heroin with a few more grains in it, or the foul spoon rotting away next to Jimmy’s shoes. He didn’t care about how awkward it might look, he simply did it because he wanted to be there. For Jimmy. For his best friend.
Being careful as to not touch the tip of the needle, his hands reached for Jimmy, first resting gently on his shoulders, then pulling him in slowly, testing how far he would allow him to go. When Jimmy didn’t pull away, Curly held him tighter, pressing his forehead against his, like he was offering more than just a hug, like he was giving him all the space and care he had left. Like how he imagined a disappointed parent would hug him... or an overprotective social worker. Or a concerned lover...
Curly’s strong arms wrapped around Jimmy, secure and careful, as though he were fragile. The cold air of the bathroom that had made goosebumps crawl across Jimmy’s skin began to dissipate as Curly’s warmth enveloped him. The contact was unexpected, and Jimmy wanted to pull away and call him a faggot and shut him off the whole day, making fun of him. But something about the rawness of the moment and the cold and warmth between them blending together didn’t feel wrong. It felt as if someone had really seen him for what he is, but accepted him. But why...?
Jimmy sobbed louder, burying his face in Curly’s shoulder. Uncontrollable whines and sobs left his mouth, and Jimmy clung onto Curly as firmly as he could. He gripped onto his back, trying to grip onto fabric, onto Curly himself.
Jimmy felt like he couldn’t breathe. He didn’t want to let his guard down, he wanted to push Curly away, but there was something preventing him, an invisible force he couldn’t see but rather feel.
A storm of emotions suffocated him, overwhelming and uncontainable.
This should have felt comforting, but it didn’t. It felt like standing on the edge of something unstable, a plank with nothing beneath it. No matter which way he fell, the ground was unpredictable, and the fear of the unknown paralyzed him. He was terrified of losing control.
Jimmy sobbed louder. He felt a cold wet patch of tears pressing against his cheek the more he tried to muzzle himself further into Curly’s warm embrace
Was this that feeling he had been missing out for all his life? Is this was being loved felt like?
Why didn’t he feel alone?
Curly’s cologne filled his senses as he sniffled into his shoulder to try to stop the embarrassment of mucus pouring down his nose. Curly let go of Jimmy for just a moment, shifting his weight to his other foot. For those unbearable seconds, Jimmy’s coldness returned. The absence of touch restarted the same empty feeling he had in the beginning when he was preparing his needle. His frozen state was amplified by the unpleasant sensation of not being touched, and he was made aware of the feeling of warmth people craved. He understood it now.
Why people hugged, kissed, cuddled, why they made love instead of just fucking.
Thankfully the warmth returned, overwhelming Jimmy once more. Curly’s natural musk, mixed with his expensive cologne, filled his senses yet again. He was overwhelmed by Curly, and only Curly. The co-pilot to his captain.
Curly made him feel like he was the captain. Like he was the important one now. The Yin to his Yang.
Curly’s breathing synced with Jimmy’s when he noticed him getting calmer; synced breathing that soothed Jimmy down more than he’d like to admit. In-out, in, out, breathe in, breathe out, in... out... in... out...
Slowly but surely, without any pressure or direction from Curly, his breathing steadied. Shifting from ragged gasps to a consistent, automatic rhythm. His brain took over after a while, calming down his breath subconsciously without thinking about having to breathe.
Jimmy swallowed a lump in his throat, but unlike last time, it wasn’t painful. It went down smoothly.
Jimmy was the first to pull away, allowing the comfortable silence to speak for the two of them. Curly followed him, looking into his eyes. His glare shifted from Jimmy’s face, to his arm, and then landing to his lap.
Jimmy froze again, his heart rate rapidly increasing.
“Jim... calm down,” Curly shushed him, putting a protective hand on Jimmy’s warm upper arm, grounding him, holding him in place.
“I won’t tell anyone, alright?” Curly whispered, his voice soft yet sure of himself. He locked eyes with Jimmy again, looking up at him. His gaze flickered to the needle before he spoke again. “This...” he sighed before he continued, “We can fix this, we’ll figure it out together,” Curly said. He took the hand that stroked Jimmy’s arm and interlocked their fingers, gripping it with intensity. Though it was nothing compared to that hug, it was still warmth. That feeling, of being loved. It terrified him to no end, no doubt, but right now he preferred it over the anxiety that caused his body to freeze in fear.
“I’ve known you for a long time...” he continued, squeezing Jimmy’s hand for emphasis and then loosening his grip. Jimmy couldn’t meet his gaze anymore and instead looked up at the ceiling.
The light next to the now-broken one started flickering too.
“We’ll work through it, day by day, baby steps... it’ll be tough...” Curly didn’t break eye contact, even if Jimmy wasn’t looking back at him. His voice was calm and gratifying. Assuring. But the flickering light held Jimmy’s attention too much. It blinked erratically, pulling his gaze like a magnet. It was strange—he’d never noticed it before, but now he saw it clearly: the light next to the broken one had always been dimmer than the rest.
“You and me, yeah?” Curly squeezed his hand harder than before, forcing Jimmy to pay attention to him.
Jimmy looked down at Curly, and before he spoke again, the second light burnt out silently, almost going unnoticed in both their eyes.
“Right.”