Work Text:
Alternatively: "The Cocaine Crisis" or "Devil's Deals."
"When you're high, who ya flyin for?
…
When you play, gotta deal with the devil."
—Deal with the Devil, Pop Evil
His days had begun to blur together.
The pattern was ceaseless: Craig would wake up at some ungodly hour of the morning, usually between two and four, to stumble into the bathroom and vomit before clawing his way past the shower curtains and standing in the blistering heat of the shower until it ran cold. He spent most of this time wondering how he still had hot water. The answer usually didn't hit him until breakfast time, when he ran into his roommate and suddenly recalled that Kenny didn't get involved in all the drugs like he himself did, so at least one of them managed to keep a clear head. Good for Kenny, then.
Sometimes Craig would forget why he'd come into the kitchen at all, consequently bypassing what was supposed to be his first meal of the day. Kenny cooked the meals himself, too, always hoping that Craig would get some sense into his head and eat something healthy at least once a day. It seldom worked that way, for even when he did eat, it was usually some shitty takeout he'd bummed from Clyde.
The blond would sit at the table and stare at him as he left the apartment, skinny frame clothed in little more than jeans and a tank top, despite the rapidly-decreasing temperature outside. Craig only noticed every once in a while that his friend (more than a friend, really, but he always kept it at that) would look so disappointed whenever he left. There were always cesious bags under his eyes. The dark-haired boy knew he stayed up at night, too, waiting for Craig to come home. He also knew that Kenny was afraid—afraid that one day his roommate really wouldn't return. That he'd be dead in a ditch somewhere, killed either for the money he owed or by the drugs themselves.
He never thought about the consequences of his actions for long, however, and another night would be spent with Clyde or Tweek, doing coke off the coffee table and not caring what damage they caused to themselves.
Craig came home each day after the high wore off, feeling nauseous, anxious, and disappointed in himself. Still, no matter what, Kenny always greeted him at the door with a hug, one so gentle that it was almost as if Kenny were afraid of breaking him.
There were times when Craig wasn't so tired, and they'd spend the remainder of the night in Kenny's bedroom—cleaner than Craig's, more comfortable. Those moments were always best, but Kenny always woke up later that day alone, anyway. Craig wasn't sure why the blond put up with it; sometimes he wished that Kenny would kick him out, tell him he hated him, spit in his face. God knows he deserved it for all the shit he put him through.
His days seemed to be on fast-forward, and they didn't stop until New Year's Eve, when he came home to broken furniture and thumping sounds originating from one of the apartment's back rooms. The loan shark and his men must've come after him, he thought frantically. His first instinct was to find Kenny, and that impetus alone forced his legs into action.
"Wait!" he pleaded to no one, racing to his roommate's bedroom and shaking the doorknob frantically, to no avail. "He didn't do a goddamn thing! It's not his fault! Don't hurt him!" His own voice, scratchier than usual, hurt his ears. He kept screaming, anyway.
Then he heard a muffled gunshot from inside his room, and he recalled little after that, except for something blunt hitting him in the back of the head, carpet scratching his cheek as he hit the ground, and the faint sound of the New Year countdown playing on the television.
Three…
Two…
One!
He blacked out with Kenny's name on his lips.
Craig awoke to departing police sirens and was immediately aware of a cop shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, kid! Can ya hear me?"
"Mmmh…" He sat up. "What—" the question he'd begun to voice was stopped dead in its tracks when a jolt of pain seared through his skull, which was exactly when he felt himself being lifted onto a stretcher. "Fuck."
"Don't worry," the cop told him, his voice gruff. "We're gonna get you to a hospital, all right? We got the guys who busted in."
He meant to ask something—something about someone else. Were they okay? He didn't remember why he wanted to ask, or who he was going to ask about. That wasn't right…he must be delirious.
Hell's Pass Hospital, a considerable eyesore painted in bright white paint, made his head hurt even worse than it already did, but the staff members did their jobs, at least. He managed to talk his way out of getting tests done with a gasped, "I just need something to stop the bleeding." It did the trick, for he was home again in no time, bandaged and two days sober.
The first thing he noticed was that the furniture—some old and some new—had been rearranged. He wondered why. Had he done that? He wasn't really sure of anything anymore, except that he desperately needed to sleep.
With a sigh, he meandered around the tiny apartment, one hand constantly on the wall to guide him. The first room he came upon in the hallway was clearly a bedroom, so he slowly made his way inside, looking around with a peculiar sinking feeling in his gut.
His legs stilled a foot away from the corner of the queen-sized mattress on the floor. There was no bedframe, only one blanket, and nothing else in the room aside from a small TV, a tall, thin floor lamp, and an end table with an empty picture frame atop it. There had probably been a picture there once, he figured, but he couldn't think of what it would've been a photo of. Shrugging that thought off, he lowered himself onto the mattress and absently toyed with one string of his chullo; he knew that he'd had that hat for eleven years now, at least. He remembered his name… His recollection of thoughts from the past seemed pretty steady, yet his bearings regarding the present were skewed at best, and this worried him. Worries flowered into irritating itches on his arms, neck, and legs. No, he realized, those weren't from worrying—those were the cravings again, back with the vengeance of a bloodied head and a dizzied memory.
He tugged the poor, decrepit hat off his head and set it on the equally worn pillow beside the one he was now using.
An hour ticked by, but no sleep came to him. The itches from before dug frantic paths into his skin, made him twitch and tingle enough to drive him into a sitting position with his knees bent and his head in his hands. This was getting to be ridiculous, he thought as he finally rose to his feet. Okay, so he couldn't sleep. Big deal. He'd spent lots of nights without sleeping, and he could easily do it again.
With his dark hair disheveled and his head still pounding, he circled the floor-bound mattress, then paused to pinch the bridge of his nose and exhale deeply. He wondered what, exactly, had happened to make him like this. One bleary-eyed glance at the bedroom floor made the question burn that much brighter.
He remembered debilitating, seemingly incurable boredom. He remembered the hectic descent into drug abuse. He did not remember why there was blood on the carpet, or why the sight of it made him feel so empty.
Electric eyes widened subconsciously, controlled only by the desire to identify the source of the mess. It wasn't dark enough to be old blood; the spot itself seemed to live immortally within the blonde fibers of its new home, threads like capillaries still soaking into the grains as rivers would stretch through hills and valleys.
No matter how many analogies he prettied it up with, there was no getting around the dull thud of guilt panging in his chest, beating at his ribs, rousing the acids in his stomach until—his brain screeched a warning just in time for him to run to the bathroom and puke up almost nothing and then cling to the toilet bowl to ruefully congratulate himself on at least remembering where the bathroom was.
Staggering a bit before he made it to his feet was expected, yet still unwelcome. He instinctively reached for his cheap plastic toothbrush, navy blue and probably in dire need of replacing, before he regarded the other one beside it. The other brush was the same brand and in the same brittle state, only yellow. He didn't take his eyes off it as he brushed his teeth, despite the bad feeling it put back in his stomach. After plunking the blue brush back in the container, he returned to the room with the blood-stained carpet and got back in bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and forcing himself into an uneasy sleep.
The blanket, ratty and gray, was certainly not his. It smelled like cheap laundry detergent, faintly of cigarettes, and strongly of someone he loved.
Someone. He couldn't think of who.
"Mornin', sunshine." Someone's voice—a nice voice, with a bit of a hick drawl mostly concealed beneath a thick layer of sarcasm—greeted him as he ambled, disoriented, into the kitchen that morning. "You hungry?"
The smell of sausage made Craig's mouth water. He was just about to answer to the affirmative when the voice cut in with, "You don't have to answer that. I already know you never eat."
Craig blinked once, lazily, then squinted at the source of the voice: a tall, scrawny, blond-haired man that must've lived the same nineteen years Craig had and yet looked suspiciously like he was still sixteen.
"Nah, I'm hungry as shit," he answered at last, which got the blond to turn from the stove to face him. He looked surprised for only a moment, but that registered too late for the other to be concerned about it, thanks to the fact he was caught (pleasantly) off-guard by how incredibly gorgeous this stranger was. Wavy golden hair, sea-blue eyes, a sparse array of freckles, long eyelashes, and pretty lips set into an impish grin. The works.
"Wow, never thought I'd see the day," the disarmingly handsome boy said with as much smile in his voice as on his face. "New year, new leaf, huh?"
Craig didn't know what any of that was supposed to mean, so he settled on answering with a shrug. After a brief moment of deliberation, he sat down at the knot-mottled wooden table to his left, which happened to be the epicenter of a small square of green linoleum just outside the kitchen. Must've been a dining room, he guessed. A really shitty one.
"If I'da known you were gonna eat, I would've made something better than sausage biscuits…"
Craig's stomach growled. "Mm…no, that sounds pretty damned good, actually."
"I'm glad."
The blond scraped the two sausage patties out of the frying pan and arranged them into biscuits, then slid the plate and a glass of Mountain Dew onto the table with a painstakingly-practiced sort of expertise. "Bon appetit, asshole," he said, barking a laugh that called to attention a minor flaw of crooked teeth.
He didn't move from the table, instead setting his palm flat against the wood and leaning on his arm to get a proper standpoint at which he could stare (warmly?) at the other boy.
"Cool trick you pulled there."Craig's voice sounded listless, but it seemed to be understood that he meant the compliment. "Are you, like, a waiter or something?"
"Uh, duh, dude. You know th—" He stopped midsentence as if he'd suddenly realized something, instilling a panicky feeling in the other's chest. He'd suddenly become aware of how upset this boy would likely be if he admitted he only had a vague recollection of who he was. And seeing how excited he'd been when Craig agreed to eat breakfast made him very reluctant to compromise that happiness.
"I was just kidding." His response was awarded with a small smile and a shake of the head—the last thing he saw before focusing entirely on devouring the meal he'd been given.
The other boy chuckled somewhat awkwardly, swept his hand off the table, and returned to the stove to make himself two more biscuits. By the time he sat down at the table, Craig had just finished.
While the blond ate, they sat in oddly companionable silence (was it odd? Craig didn't exactly know who this was, though he felt a familiar flutter in his stomach when he was around him…) until the scene triggered a fuzzy memory to click in the dark-haired boy's brain.
This was the person he recalled feeling so strongly about before he'd fallen asleep, he was sure of it. He remembered—something. A dream. And this boy had certainly been in it. Craig was on the floor, had called his name and blacked out. What was that name again?
"Kyle…?" He hadn't meant to say it aloud, and the sound of his voice forming the name startled him.
The blond raised an eyebrow. "What about him?"
Wait, no, Kyle was the Jewish kid. "I remember him," he offered lamely, trying to pass over the subject as quickly as possible.
"Uh…yeah…I do too?" The not-quite-stranger's other eyebrow rose to join the first, then they scrunched together, forming a pinch right above his freckled nose. "He's only been gone for, like, a year. His college isn't even that far away from here, Craig."
Shit, he thought, make something up. Quickly. "Not that Kyle."
"Ohhh, you mean his lame-ass cousin." A snort. "I remember him, too. Wish I didn't."
Craig internally let out a sigh of relief. He couldn't remember the name, and right now didn't seem like a safe time to try. The silence returned when his roommate (at least he could deduce that much) got up and began to wash the dishes, and he took that as his chance to sneak into the bedroom he'd fallen asleep in. It was the other male's room—he knew that now that he was almost fully rested and subsequently less foggy-minded—so maybe that meant he could find some evidence of the name he sought.
Though he was tentative to pass the blood stain at first, he managed to get by it and go about searching through the end table's two drawers for something with a name on it. Quietly sliding the top drawer open, he peered inside to find a dingy-looking Bible, an unmarked envelope (containing money, he discovered), and two neatly-folded aprons, one red, one black.
He pulled the aprons out in hopes of finding a name tag, but the only words they bore were the names of the establishments they belonged to—the red to Casa Bonita, the black to Tweek Bros. Coffee. Disappointed, he tried to fold them back, failed, and then settled for stuffing them back inside.
Though he had little expectation for the Bible, that was what finally gave him his answer. On the inside cover, a name was penned in nearly illegible chicken scratch that, after a fair amount of deciphering, he finally managed to gather a name from—just in time for the owner to arrive in the doorway.
"Dude! What the fuck are you doing in my room?"
Craig's shoulders jerked into a tense position, but he reminded himself that everything was all right now and took his time setting the Bible back in its rightful place. "I was looking for something, Kenny." He felt better saying the name, but his companion paled upon hearing it. "What?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"You— Do you feel okay?"
Shit. Was that the wrong name? Maybe this had been someone else's Bible, once. "Uh… Yeah? Why?"
"You're not…" Blue eyes flickered to the stain, then back up to Craig, who was swept up in a cold wave of suspicion mingled with dread.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," the blond responded with smile so forced even he found it too hopeless to hold for more than a second. "I just…you're never in here."
"That's not true." He didn't know how he knew this, but judging by the other's face, he could tell he was right about it. "I'm in here all the time. I even slept in here last night. Or this morning. Whatever."
"Craig." The blond sighed, then tried another smile, this time able to make it look genuine enough to hold. Craig could tell that it still wasn't.
The floor-bound boy tried his luck once more, testing the name in his mouth. "What's the matter, Kenny?" It felt right. The other didn't object, either, so he must've been correct.
"I just don't want you snooping around. I have personal stuff in there, y'know." Kenny flushed before breaking into his usual bark of a laugh. "You really don't wanna find that shit, either."
Just looking at his face, the way the blush spread over his cheeks and ears, how he bit his lip, closed one eye when he rubbed his temple, Craig was very inclined to disagree. He did want to find whatever Kenny was hiding, and he sort of had an idea of what it was. He sort of felt like he wanted to use it. The thought cemented his suspicion that the two of them were supposed to be close. Very close. He'd feel like complete shit if he ever got caught in his game of pretending to know what he didn't.
Fuck, he was in trouble. Knowing this, he was baffled with himself for what he said next. "I think… I love you." And he knew he'd dug well past the safe point when he heard how airy Kenny's response was. This was no longer simple trouble—he'd opened the floodgate to disaster.
"Oh, no." Hands shook in front of an orange parka. "No—no, you don't."
"You can't tell me that. You have no idea."
"You have no idea!" Those hands shook in front of his mouth now. "I wasn't supposed to—I didn't mean to say that. I'm sorry. Fuck."
Craig finally rose to his feet. "You're hiding something from me."
"It's not like I want to. But it's supposed to be a…secret."
"A secret," Craig deadpanned. "Christ, we're not in middle school."
"Look, just believe me here. You don't love me."
"What if I do?"
"You can't."
The taller of them leveled an even stare at the trembling blond, and, with conviction, replied, "I can. And I know that I do."
His words did the trick. "You can't, Craig. You have no fucking idea who I am!"
Craig's heart skipped a beat, but his voice didn't. "So you knew."
"Of course I knew! I—" He sucked in a breath, stopped himself. Glanced at the carpet again. "I can't tell you, all right? Just leave it at that."
"That's your blood on the floor, isn't it?"
The room filled with a silence so potent that Craig swore he could hear the air crackle with tension. No answer arose, so he repeated himself, getting the same result.
"You got shot, didn't you?" Nothing. "Make me remember."
Kenny finally answered, but his voice wavered a bit. "I can't. I'm sorry."
"Why not?"
The blond turned to leave, but Craig was light, fast on his feet. He crossed the room and caught the other by the shoulder, only to earn himself a face full of Kenny's arm, which had him staggering backward until he tripped on his own feet and crashed to the floor.
Kenny's gasp reverberated in his skull. When he turned his head, he felt carpet fibers scratch his cheek, reminding him of the unfortunate New Year's predicament that he subconsciously groaned at. Right beside him was the spot of blood, browned and faded from where someone had tried to shampoo it out. He stared at it for what seemed like forever, yet Kenny still hadn't left the room.
"Craig?"
The black-haired boy's vision whited out in a burst of memory:
"Craig!" Kenny's voice sounded as though he had screamed his throat raw.
The addict hit the ground as the last three seconds of December ticked by. There was a gunshot, but then he heard his name being called again. That was strange; Kenny had been shot, hadn't he? He shouldn't have been able to call Craig's name.
The latter's vision blacked, offering darkness filled in by a sound like static on a TV, which quickly faded into silence. He felt cold at first, then nothing at all.
"God, no…" Kenny's voice was closer this time. The bullet was in his own head, then. Kenny was fine. Good. Good…
Craig whispered the other's name just before his pulse sputtered out one last heartbeat.
Steel blue eyes fluttered, and he found himself staring up at Kenny's worried face. "The blood…" he began, voice sounding stronger than he actually felt, "it's mine." He felt dizzy, all of a sudden. "God, I feel like I'm going to puke," he muttered.
He heard Kenny mumble a weak curse that his voice cracked in the middle of. The last thing he heard before his heart suddenly seized in his chest were the words, "God, no!"
Déjà vu.
Death, he learned, wasn't any less painful the second time around.
"Let me get this straight." His toneless voice echoed in the black oblivion he found himself suspended in. "This place is purgatory?"
"Yes." The low hiss of a voice he'd become acquainted with came from every direction. It, unlike his own, did not echo. A gurgling growl and a distant scream came from somewhere he thought may've been beneath him, though he wasn't positive.
"That would mean I'm dead."
"Smart boy."
"Why did I come back to life in the first place? I was pistol whipped in the fucking face. The loan shark shot me in the head after dragging me into the bedroom with Kenny. I died, didn't I?"
"Yes, but your little friend…he made a deal."
"With you?"
"Of course. He gave me your memories of him."
"Why?"
A low chuckle sounded around him; the voice spoke slowly and deliberately. "It's my job to make people suffer. It was a pleasure to see him when someone he loved so much didn't even know who he was."
Craig scowled. "Yeah, I'm sure it was fuckin' hilarious."
"But I know something about you." The voice growled in a way that told Craig the speaker was smiling. "And I'd be willing to make a deal."
"A deal like what?"
"I will bring you back, memories and all, if you give up your powers."
"What powers?"
"Nine years ago, in Peru, you were a beacon. A key. A savior."
"Oh, that." He had no qualms about giving that up; he hadn't even used it since fourth grade. "Sure, you…" He faltered. "No. Wait."
The grumbling laugh returned. "I have all the time in the world. You are the mortal. And if I were you, I would choose quickly."
"If you would, say, make it so my drug debt 'mysteriously' disappeared, I think I'd be able to give up the power…"
"You must give up something more. Equivalent exchange."
"I'll quit the coke."
"Oh, really? The moment you touch it again, you will find a very angry lord at your door, you know. You've seen what happens when you break the devil's deal: The moment you regained your memory, the agreement to keep you alive was destroyed…"
"I won't touch the drug again."
"Better things to touch?"
"Better things to die for."
"How noble."
"Well? My life for my powers and my debt for my rehabilitation. Sounds fine to me."
"Of course it would sound good to you…you're a mortal." One more laugh, then the drawling tone continued. "A stupid, stupid mortal."
"Is this how long a deal with the devil takes?"
"You should praise me for the time I've taken for your benefit."
"I don't praise anyone."
"I think you do. I think, perhaps, he is waiting for you now."
Craig grit his words out through clenched teeth, staring into the abyss as if he expected to find the subject at which he could rightfully direct his glower. "Deal, or not?"
"Such an impatient human. We have a deal."
When Craig woke up, he was still lying on the floor. Kenny sat beside him with his head between his knees and his hands in his hair. The blood spot was still beside him, but now it had ceased to bother him.
"Kenny," he mumbled, grimacing as he pushed himself into a sitting position.
The blond's head jerked up, displaying wide, watery eyes and a decidedly unattractive gathering of snot under his nose.
Craig smiled at him and shook his head. "Man, you're a fuckin' wuss. Wipe your damn nose."
At once, the boy's face split into a grin. He swiped the sleeve of his parka under his nose and launched himself at the other.
"Ew, dude."
"Fuck you, asshole."
"Maybe later."
Kenny sobbed more than laughed, but the message was the same. "How're you even here?"
"I think I just bartered with the devil."
"I've learned from personal experience that that's not always a perfect idea…" Arms tightened around the dark-haired boy's midsection. "What did you give him?"
"The stupid power I used in Peru that I don't give two shits about. I also got him to waive my drug debt. Promised to quit the stuff." Presently, he felt an itch snake across his neck, which he dutifully ignored.
He felt Kenny hum against his chest. "Good."
"Yeah, yeah. Listen, I'm not good at apologies, but—"
"Don't. It's okay."
Craig wound an arm around Kenny's waist and buried his face in his hair. It smelled like he'd always remembered it—like cheap laundry detergent, faintly of cigarettes, and strongly of someone he loved.
He would never let himself forget who.