Work Text:
I wish that I could be numb
I wish that this would be easier (easier)
I think I'm coming undone
How long do I have to feel this hurt? (feel this hurt)
Feels like I'm fading away
Damaged bones break under the weight
How long 'til it's too late?
Maybe I'll be better off this way
I'm losing all control now
I sold my soul for a cigarette
I thought that I would care by now
But somehow letting go won't feel so bad
They say the guilty never truly rest
Is that why I lie awake in bed?
The bitter memories in my head
Are all that I have left
Archers: Bitter
_ _ _
Jigen hears him before he sees him, it’s near routine now…
Muffled, shuffling footsteps move harshly against carpeted floors, the sound of the bedroom door swinging open. But it doesn’t hit the wall behind it this time around, and it surprises him. It instead slides with a graceful soft hush and as it does, the bright light from the hallway enters the room in a wide sweeping beam and from where he lays, Jigen can see him now. At least, more so, his tall silhouette casted against the drab and damaged wallpaper that lines the walls surrounding the bed. He sees the shadow sway, watches the shadow as it grabs onto the door frame for support as it lurches forward before it can teeter over and fall to the floor.
Once steady, the shadow increases in size as the figure makes its way over toward him. He feels the bed dip as Lupin crawls into it, and it is there that the heavy odor of drink and drug both meet him simultaneously, and Jigens ashamed to admit that he heaved a deep breath, which thankfully he could easily disguise as a deeper sigh, and that his nostrils had quivered in near pleasure at the scent as it wafted in the small space between them.
When there’s no response, no guttural slurring of speech or the misdirected shambling of limbs attempting to brace him around the shoulders, Jigen turns on his shoulder, and he winces, for what a grotesque thing it was that lay in such fantastic postures on that ragged old mattress. The twisted legs cocked in positions that only resemble the idea of comforting, the gaping mouth, the one arm hung loosely off the side of the bed. Even the staring lustreless eyes devoid of all color pointed at the ceiling, all coming together to create an image that burns into Jigen’s head and fascinates him as well as terrifies him.
Because he can’t help but wonder why.
Why does he do this to himself? What is he trying to outrun?
Does he even want the answer?
Is he even prepared for it?
Jigen does not know.
And he has no time to ponder, because Lupin notices him when one dull fish eye slowly turns his way, devoid of its usual luster and life, and Jigen stomach twists into a untieable knot when he hears the all too familiar pet name that emits from a hoarse and garbled throat. “Jiji,” the man beside him rasps with slurred words that both grace and grate at Jigens ear’s as he rolls and starts carding his fingers through Jigen’s dark forest of chest hair.
His touch is cold. His fingers are like ice against his warm skin, and they're stiff too. And it’s that stiffness that makes Jigen ponder for a few moments, of the now likely possibility that Lupin’s already dead. That he’s been dead for sometime and this is just his own personal hell. And maybe in some weird way, it’s Jigens as well, because only he would be willing to subject himself to this and still stay.
Even as Lupin’s fingers graze his chest, Jigen know’s he should tell him no. That he should slap the hand away and turn him away without a second thought because the idea of another day when Lupin heaves into a bucket until he nearly faints followed by another night of binging and excuses, drains him at the thought of it.
But he doesn’t. He never does cause he knows he can’t. Instead he does what he always does. He humors him. A dull, sullen, humor.
“Why do you do this to yourself?” His fingers follow the curve of Lupin’s ribs where his stomach sinks in and the divots and gaps of his ribs make canyons and barren trenches that seem to go altogether too perfect with the mess of scars that fills in the extra space.
He’s used to a skinny Lupin by now. He’s gotten used to the thief practically starving himself to near emaciation for weeks before a heist, - “to fit through vents easier” he had once said. Jigen doesn’t believe that bit anymore - but it doesn’t make the look and feel any easier. After all a diet consisting of nothing but cigarettes and alcohol will do that to a person. Jigen know’s that for fact, having ridden that crazy train before, and touching Lupin is like touching a remnant of the past, a little torn piece of a history that Jigen was certain he had left behind.
And it causes something in Jigen to die a little, because now he knows that not even death defying, safe-cracking, talented intelligent thieves, such as his partner, are safe from their own vices, let alone the vice’s of the world.
At his question, Lupin’s head tilts, the look no different than the behavior of the most curious and innocent of infant creature’s; but he knows the boyish charm on his face is forced, not natural. And he also highly doubts that no matter how much he stares at him, that Lupin can even see him in such a state with the way his eyes are like two glass marbles barely secure inside of his head, and how even now his head swerves as if he’s chasing his own eyes.
“Life ain’t nothing but a riptide, darling.” He says finally, head ceasing it’s swerving to look up at him and nod in a hesitating manner, the smile on his face equally just as forced.
“And what, this is your sorry excuse for a life jacket.” It comes out with more bite than intended. But Jigen doubts if Lupin notices at all.
He doesn’t.
“No. . .no, quite the contrary. I know for a fact that they ain’t gonna save me . . .”
(How he could speak so clearly even despite the minor slurring is beyond Jigen)
“. . .but they’re doing exactly what they are supposed to. Simply making the drowning just a little more fun.” Because what was Lupin without his fun, Jigen thinks solemnly as the younger thief leans in and brushes his lips to his, fingers dancing idly and clumsily against his chest. “Come on darling, drown with me a little huh.”
Jigen looks down at the little bottle that suddenly appears like a magician’s trick in Lupin’s hand. He wants to turn him down, to throw him out and scream that he won’t watch him die. That how dare he force him to take a front row seat to his sputtering, smoking tailspin.
How dare he force him to fall in love with him knowing that he’s killing himself slowly, knowing he'll never stop until he does die.
Because if there’s one thing Jigen has come to learn.
It’s that there’s nothing in the world that can kill the thief.
Nothing but himself.
His greatest enemy.
But the same riptide that has him has Jigen too, just in a different way. The life they lived is killing them both, dragging them both under the rushing waters. But while Lupin clings to whatever high he can find, Jigen instead gives up the old high, and clings to him instead.
A entirely new thrill.
And maybe that’s why he doesn’t say another word as he takes the small glass bottle and it’s familiar bitter contents from Lupin’s hand, pops the cork and downs it in one swig with a bitter expression on his face even though he knows the high from the bottle won’t affect him much. Maybe that’s why he return’s his kiss’, fingers digging deep into the master thief’s skinny frame, the nobs of his bones against thin damaged skin like footholds that Jigen can grab on tight too, hard enough to bruise and never let go.
Moreover, Jigen always needs more.
More of his touch, his voice, his breath.
More more more and then some because more is never enough where a life by the thief’s side is concerned, and maybe it’s also because Jigen knows that a day is coming, not too far off in the distant future, where he’ll eventually have none of them, and this is just his sorry attempt at driving the fear away.
Lupin doesn’t talk after that, he just gives. He strips Jigen of his night shorts, hands clumsy and uncoordinated as the alcohol from his breath fills Jigen’s mouth as well. A strong whiskey flavor enough that Jigen’s certain he’s gonna be drunk too by the end of the night.
The sex that follows is fast, clumsy. So . . . un-Lupin that it feels like having sex with a complete stranger. Because Lupin is too high, too far gone into the stratosphere of his own making to care at the moment and it kills Jigen to the point Jigen is himself, too hurt for any sort of sexual finesse. It’s not about that, anyways. It never is where situations like these are concerned.
Because he remembers the nothings that Lupin slurs in his ear as Jigen braces against his shoulders.
He’s lying, telling him that he won’t lose him, telling him everything is fine like he always does. And Jigen wants to believe him, because Lupin has said stuff like this before- in other instances, and has always been right. Always right. Because in the end it all has been ok even if the beginning was terrible and scary and uncertain.
Just like now.
But Jigen lies too, telling him he forgives him, telling him that he believes him and that he’s not terrified of the potential of losing him, even though he’s never been as good a liar as Lupin. Even though Jigen can see the tiny pinprick of tears that bead into the corner of of the thief’s eyes as he presses them down shut tightly and harshly in the telltale sign that his high is slowly starting to run down and realization is once again kicking in to just how low this king amongst men has fallen over the years despite what he presents to the public. To his friends.
To himself.
But Jigen says nothing, he simply lets Lupin hook his head over his shoulder, his own little way of allowing the thief his cry while pretending he doesn’t notice as he does the same to Lupin’s and digs his blunt nails into his back to anchor himself to the younger thief, thin red lines coursing down his shoulders from the harsh contact and connecting the two when it drips and merges with Jigens own skin.
Like little red life lines, tying the two of them with one another.
Oh how long until they break: he thinks.
How long until the two of them are separated forever again.
For not the first time, he prays it won’t be soon.
When they’re finally done, tired and sticky and under-satisfied, Lupin wastes no time in simply rolling over without a word, unable to look Jigen in the face even if he could.
His back to Jigen, his snores fill the quiet room soon after.
Jigen feels cold, feels. . . something unpleasant, like his body is covered in cold wet slime.
But he can’t stop himself from pressing his forehead against Lupin’s back, just between his sharp pronounced shoulder blades. He can’t stop himself from closing his eyes. But he doesn’t sleep. Instead he concentrates, because he needs to listen, to feel. And listen and feel he does. He listens and feels the lungs that stutter and wheeze against the tide of booze and drugs that run them ragged, listens and feels the sluggish and slow beat of a heart that acts just about as tired as it’s owner that gently rattles his partner's ribcage.
Jigen listens and feels, tries to cement it in memory, knowing deep down that one day both lungs and heart will soon finally give in and stop.
Knowing one day, not sure when, but one day, Lupin’s heart will give up, and that Jigen’s own will soon follow.
Knowing one day that he too will drown for all different reasons.
Life ain’t nothing but a riptide, darling