Work Text:
The cigarette burned crooked between Will’s fingers.
He sat on the edge of his bed in his boxers, shoulders hunched beneath the gray light leaking through his curtains. Smoke curled lazily towards the ceiling, gathering beneath the faint glow of a light close to burning out.
His room smelled like stale tobacco, sweat, and something chemical he didn't want to think about. He took another drag. His hand wouldn't stop shaking.
“Come on,” he muttered. The cigarette trembled between his fingers. He flicked it to the floor, giving up, or something like it.
His stomach twisted, exactly how it had been for days. Wilbur doubled over. A dry painful wretch crawled up his throat, leaving him gasping against his knees. His whole body felt wrong, like all his nerves were exposed.
He hadn't slept probably in days. Maybe months, honestly. But it's worse now. He can't remember the last time he'd eaten without feeling sick. His muscles ached as if he had run a marathon the day before. He knew exactly what this was.
“Fuck.” His voice sounded hoarse. He reached for the packet again.
Empty.
Will stared at it. For several seconds he simply held it, turning it over as though another cigarette might appear if he looked at it from the right angle.
Nothing.
He threw it against the wall. The little cardboard box bounced harmlessly onto the floor, skittering to a stop.
His room was close to empty, everything still in his duffel bag from when he’d first moved in months ago. He’d mostly been sleeping on the floor of Tommy’s room. A few t-shirts lay scattered near the door to the bathroom that he and Tommy shared, a half open book lay facedown on his bed. There was a glass of water on the desk but Wilbur hadn’t touched it.
He didn’t want water. He wanted something that would make the crawling beneath his skin stop.
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Dream. The thought arrived fully formed and Will hated himself for it. He had promised Tommy he would stop. He’d said he could get through it. That he was stronger than this. He wasn’t an addict. He could stop.
He opened his phone, scrolling to his pinned contact, Dream. He hadn’t texted him in the last five days. He looked back with guilt at the previous messages.
Wilbur:
I need something
please
Dream
I’ll bring money
just come get me
get the fuck over
He started a new text. Struggling to text with the shaking. Typing and retyping to get the spelling right. He didn’t know why he bothered.
Wilbur:
come get me please. I’ll bring cash.
It only took a few seconds for Dream to respond, the little dots indicating typing disappearing, replaced with a short message.
Dream:
I thought you were getting clean
He didn’t fucking need Dream trying to police him too. He could make his own life choices. He didn’t need his own dealer trying to guilt trip him into stopping.
Wilbur:
just come get me
Dream:
I’ll be there in ten
He heard footsteps outside his door and immediately straightened, dropping his phone. A knock.
“Will?” Phil’s voice was muffled through the door, but it still carried enough to jolt him to full awareness. Clearing some of the haze from his addled brain.
“I’m fine.”
There was a pause. “Didn’t ask.”
Wilbur swallowed and Phil knocked again, quieter this time. “You awake?”
“Obviously.”
Another pause. “You sound awful.”
“I’m sick.” It came too quickly. Phil knew him too well. Wilbur could practically hear the suspicion forming on the other side of the door.
“Sick with what?”
“Something.”
“That’s helpful.”
Wilbur rubbed both his hands over his face. “Food poisoning, maybe.”
“You’ve barely eaten.”
“Exactly.”
“That’s not how food poisoning works.”
Wilbur glared at the door as if Phil were standing directly in front of him. He could feel the lie falling apart. “Can you just—” His voice cracked. He stopped. Phil didn’t say anything and that somehow made it worse.
Will got off the bed and his legs nearly buckled. He caught himself against the desk, knocking the glass of water onto his side.
For a moment he just stood there, breathing.
Then he heard Phil say very softly, “Will.”
“What?” Wilbur stared at the door.
“Open the door.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“I’m changing.”
There was a long silence. Wilbur looked down at himself, boxers, socks, track marks. He almost laughed.
“You’re not changing, are you?” Phil’s voice had changed.
Wilbur’s throat tightened. “No.”
“Will, what’s going on.”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t lie to me.” The words landed harder than they should have.
Wilbur opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
Phil continued. “You’ve been acting sick for days. You don’t sleep, you don’t eat, you’re shaking. And now you’re telling me you’ve got food poisoning while you’re standing in your room doing god knows what at two in the—”
“I said I’m fine!” The shout tore through his throat. Silence followed. Wilbur stared at the floor. His chest heaved. He immediately regretted it.
“Sorry,” he whispered.
Phil didn’t answer immediately. When he did his voice was gentle. “You can still go to rehab.”
He couldn’t. He wasn’t an addict. He could do this on his own. He didn’t need Phil policing him. He didn’t need anyone else to see the sweat on his skin, the trembling hands, the desperation.
Wilbur backed away from the door. “I need to go out.”
“Where?”
“Just out.”
“Why?”
“I need air.”
Phil sighed. “You can get air in here.”
“Not the same.”
“Will.”
Wilbur grabbed a sweater from the floor and pulled it over his head. His hands fumbled with his trousers. He didn’t answer Phil. Instead he walked into the bathroom to find his belt next to the case of syringes.
Tugging it on and tucking the case into his sweater pocket, he heard the click of Phil trying the door. Locked.
“Wilbur.”
“I’m going.”
“Where?”
“I told you. Out.”
Phil went quiet. Wilbur shoved his feet into his boots.
“Will, you don’t have to do this. There are options.”
Wilbur's hand stopped on the doorknob. His eyes burned.
“Do what?”
“You know what.”
Wilbur opened the door. Phil was standing on the other side. He looked tired, worried. Maybe angry, but the worry seemed to drown it out. His eyes moved over Wilbur’s face, then down to his shaking hands.
“I have to go.” Wilbur stepped around him. Phil caught his wrist. Not hard. Just enough to stop him. Wilbur looked down at the hand, then at Phil, contemplating fighting..
“Let go.”
“Tell me where you’re going.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
Wilbur’s eyes filled. He hated that. He hated everything about this.
“Because you wouldn’t let me leave”
Phil’s face fell. For a second Wilbur thought he might cry. Instead Phil released him. Wilbur stood there. He wanted Phil to grab him again. He wanted Phil to force him back into the room. He wanted someone else to make the decision.
He wanted something to replace the yearning aching need in his veins.
Wilbur walked out, down the stairs, and to the waiting van outside. He doesn’t look back at Phil. And he doesn’t think about Tommy.