Work Text:
“This is a pretty high dose, Mel,” Pollution thinks out loud, studying the syringe now that it’s nearly full of morphine. At first, he only gets a huff in response. The wincing that quickly follows gets the point across as well as words could.
Still, a verbal reply comes, “You smoke like a chimney, y’don’t get t-t’tell me what’s good for me.”
“Just saying, Deluge or Props–”
“Fuck what Props thinks.”
“And Deluge?”
“You think she cares?” Meltdown’s last question is just exasperated, at this point.
Pollution checks the syringe for air bubbles and taps it against the bedside table for good measure. The room is only slightly elevated from an older hospital’s rooms, in his opinion, with the medication strewn about and just how grody the perpetually-stained bed is. And here he is, playing doctor. At least it’s not fentanyl. Unless…Then again, not his place to judge if it was anyway. He was no stranger to pain himself, but Meltdown’s fidgeting and the tension in his body make it clear who has the other beat. Pollution was no stranger to drugs either. Well, maybe he was. There was no need to act like cigarettes and the occasional blunt or stolen ritalin tablet was at all close to… this. But it’s not really an addiction if your organs might as well be slurry, breaking down as fast as immortality can repair them, is it? That’s what it’s for. It’s what it’s for and no one’s going to be poisoned. No extent of Propaganda’s ramblings would change that fact. Even if it was, fuck it, the temporary death would still be better than letting Meltdown feel himself rot. He'd probably thank him all the same.
“Quit stalling on me.”
“Shit, uh, sorry. Sorry, I usually… whatever. You ready, bud?”
“...Please."
“Alright. Just sit still for a minute, aaand…”
Meltdown groans as Pollution helps the needle into his side. Both are glad there’s no need to find a vein. Pollution pushes the plunger down, waits a moment, then pulls out.
“That… that’s it… I did that right, yeah?” he asks.
“Yes,” Meltdown nods in response, “Th-thank you.”
Pollution looks away, as if what will happen next is something he’s not privy to. Another softer groan, however, draws his attention in. He turns to see the glow of Meltdown’s eyes grow fuzzy. The light dissipates then pulses bright before receding into dimness again. His face softens more than Pollution had ever seen before, both in the figurative sense and, more grossly, it almost seems his sloughing flesh sinks further down and loosens more and more. Pollution tells himself the latter is only his imagination as Meltdown weakly reaches for his hand. He finches more than he wishes to when contact is finally made, but swiftly recovers to hold onto his friend. In his mind he just sees Meltdown sink further and further into the bed, into himself, until he bleeds into the sheets fully and all that remains is a larger stain. The thought tightens Pollution’s embrace. He climbs up on the side of the bed, sits against the bedboard, and gently places Meltdown’s head in his lap. He holds him, grasping his hand tighter and tighter until the thought of him dissipating right then and there goes away.
“Do you feel better?” Pollution whispers.
Meltdown just nods again with a slight smile, pushing himself further into Pollution's lap and grasp.
When was the last time Meltdown ever smiled?
The night grows quiet, and Pollution stays wide awake, keeping watch as Meltdown drifts off to sleep.
"Sweet dreams, Mel."