As Artemis sat on the side of Tom’s bed, the world seemed to come into a sharp focus. It wasn’t that he had sobered, it was that things had stopped for a time, reality had refused to keep its distance. The world was dimmer, darker, yet more vibrant.

He wanted to curl up here under a duvet and feel safe enough to cry. And he reckoned he could, here.

His half-formed thoughts failed to arrange themselves into an orderly queue and he was stuck with several vague impressions. How embarrassing this situation would be for one, the excuse he’d have to feed Butler for another and whether the blinding pain behind his eyes would subside. It didn’t.

He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. The pressure built in his head, his nose, the muscles in his neck, like a pulsing fruit ready to burst. Or maybe he was just noticing now. He was so fucking tired. Everything felt clogged and too much, he was all creaking joints and tender muscle.

This had gone horribly wrong, like everything else he tried, and it was difficult to see how he could get himself out of this mess. Nothing he did made anything better; none of it ever mattered.

It was hard to remember how he had felt so light before, the clarity was distant. It has scarcely been two weeks, but he barely recognised the person he had been. He was a dull and hopeless wretch now, a thing. Things happened to him now, he didn’t happen to things. He didn’t feel quite like a person, not anymore.

It came out of nowhere, the thought that things would be much simpler if he had overdosed. For him at least. Relief and grief coiled across his face, knotting, matching, competing.

It was quite enough here to feel everything. It tied him to the moment, to the feel of the sun. distracted him from the ashen taste of despair.

Dizziness clogged his head when he looked up too fast and nausea clung to his next few breaths. When the pressure subsided it was as if his brain was being doused in cool water, which was dazing in its own way. He felt like he might faint for a moment. And then the moment passed but the pain remained.

He stood and the process repeated itself, his knees weak.

The room was a dark navy, not plastered in posters or anything particularly personal. Very utilitarian.

The carpeted floor groaned, but didn’t creek as he walked across it, barefoot. The doors were all glossy white with glassy doorknobs, cold to the touch. The rustle of his uniform was loud in the quiet house. The stairs released a hollow boom as he went down them, he hadn’t noticed that earlier, they didn’t feel substantial.

He could hear the hiss of cooking in the other room, the scents of paprika and other various spices drifted around the landing. He passed through a door to the kitchen and caught sight of Tom at the stove.

Squinting at the light, Artemis stumbled into the kitchen muttering a quick, “Hi.” Before slumping at the unvarnished wooden table without sparing Tom a glance.

The boy in question looked round flashing a charming but exhausted smile, “Hi. I hope you like mushroom stir fry because I just used most of the fresh vegetables in the house, my mam will not be happy.”

It wasn’t clear whether the grunt he released was affirmative or not, “Thanks.”

Tom unloaded the pan onto two plates on the side and plopped them down on the table at the same time, dropping a fork next to Artemis’s plate, “So, what’s going on?”

Artemis opened his mouth to answer, closed it, not sure what to say. It was as if he was being asked to jam every stone on a beach into a briefcase. He couldn’t help the apathy the task rose in him.

“Let me re-frame that. You want me to supply you, and it would be safer and easier if you came to me. I’ll supply on the day, three Xanax and one long term release stimulant, let’s say elvanse, but if you want me to do that, you have got to tell me what’s going on, regularly. So, what’s going on?”

He didn’t say anything for a second, mind still foggy, fuck he just wanted to sleep and cry, “I could just find another drug dealer.”

“You could. But I don’t think you can be bothered. Depression will do that to you. And call me selfish, but I if you are going to keep going like you are now, I don’t want to be the guy responsible for that.”

Artemis went through several stages of emotion, confusion, irritation then slightly more muted frustration.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

He went to pick up the fork to distract from the conversation, but he hadn’t decided if he was going to eat yet or how much he was going to eat, so he pulled his hand back. What did he do with his hands? He hadn’t been thinking about that before. He rested his elbows on the table.

Tom’s tone was light and casual, “What was that?”

Artemis shrugged away the ice that had encased his bones after a long moment, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You did a thing.” The boy elaborated.

Artemis narrowed his eyes, “It’s nothing.”

“Okay.” It was surprising how quickly he dropped it, “So, where do you want to start?”

Irritation twinged his neck and he winced, “You’re assuming that I’ll agree.”

“I am.” Tom admitted between mouthfuls. The boy didn’t say anything else, waiting for Artemis to say something.

He felt different here, the world seeming a lot less fixed, in a small kitchen, sitting opposite Tom in the mid-afternoon. He felt a lightness he hadn’t felt for some time. Maybe it was that he didn’t often break routine these days, routine was good Dr Argon had said, but right now it felt as if routine was drilling a hole through his skull, wearing him down.

He trusted Tom to some extent as well, in a very different way than he trusted Holly.

“I just need something to calm me down, things are… strained as of late.” Tom had looked up from his food to listen, but still he said nothing, preserving the calm in honeyed amber, “Seeing James every day is a complication.”

Tom’s face went strangely blank, as if he was thinking about a few things at once, “Is that James from the rugby team?”

“Moorcraft, yes. Why?”

“Did he say anything to you? D’you think he was drunk or something?”

Artemis felt something slither into his gut, “He was drunk, he does remember it, but he doesn’t seem remorseful.”

Tom cocked his head slightly, the question implicit.

“He… was gloating about it, I think. He sits next to me once a week, tries to touch me.”

Tom frowned, “Shit. Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked, I didn’t mean to imply… That was a shitty thing to say. He’s just… I thought I knew him.”

Artemis shrugged; his thoughts clogged “It doesn’t really matter. I just want to be alone, not have to do anything.” Something shifted in his chest once he’s said it out loud, the pain grew sharper and yet… it was like a weight was lifting. He felt like shit and that was that, staring it head on made it seem… real. manageable.

Tom nodded in understanding, “I could beat him up if you want.”

“Tom, that sounds like the kind of thing that could get you into trouble.”

The other boy shrugged, “Not if I hit him where no-one can see and scare the ever-loving-shit out of him. Plus, its not like he’s going to face consequences for it otherwise.”

Artemis blinked. “That’s… oddly sweet of you.”

Tom flicked his head to the side in agreement, “Violence is one of those rare areas in which I excel.”

With some hesitation the boy spoke up, “Can you tell your parents about this? Or like, a responsible adult. I’m not uh~ yeah.”

Artemis thought about telling his parents, his mother’s cold smothering form of affection, his father’s awkward lack commitment. Something went cold in his chest. Then, “I could tell Butler but- I don’t- I can’t tell him. Not about this. Not now.”

A tightening of Tom’s jaw signified the thought, “Could you just tell him how you’re feeling? Not what happened.”

“I suppose. Maybe.” He raised a hand to scrub his forehead wearily, “It’s messy.”

“Messy?”

“It’s so much effort existing right now. There’s too much to feel, it’s draining. Sometimes I’m just tired. I don’t know if I can…” he inhaled deeply, but there was no space in his lungs, it felt tight, “It seems like a lot of effort,” his smile sharp and bitter and his voice taut and irritable.

The kitchen was quiet.

Artemis sighed, “You wanted to know what I’m feeling, now you know. Not much use in my telling you however, now you feel guilty and I’m still wallowing. This seems a rather pointless exercise.”

Tom frowned, “I really couldn’t tell you if this will make anything better but,” he shrugged, “I don’t know how else to help and honestly – I’m not okay with giving you drugs without checking on how you’re doing.” His voice brightened a shade, “Besides, this is the most animated I’ve seen you in a while, I almost made you angry, which is something other than despondency, so I’ll roll with it. Anger seems like a reasonable thing to feel right now.”

It took him a moment to realise Tom was right, in his irritation he had become like himself again. Talking about it made him feel like a person again, less like a wounded animal, limping on, trying to survive. “I suppose.” Was all he said.

He tried to ignore as Tom’s gaze flicked down to his untouched food.

“I can get a rennie.” Tom said.

“A what?” Artemis asked.

Tom tilted his head, “A rennie? A little chalk tablet, they stop you feeling sick.”

Oh. Tom thought he was too nauseous to eat. It made sense. There was a choice here, more than one choice. He could take the tablet, which admittedly would settle his stomach, and eat nothing. He could take the tablet and eat, pretend that was what was wrong. He could refuse it too. He wasn’t expected to do anything here.

But he could do what he always did. Five bites. That would be familiar, comforting.

When he was young, Artemis had what his father called ‘bad habits’. When he was nervous or excited he would bounce his leg, pace, wrap his arms around himself, sometimes rock rhythmically or cover his ears and close his eyes.

They used to be grounding constants but that had all stopped when his parents deemed him ‘too old’ for that sort of behaviour. He had been seven at the time. His mother would bat his wrist away from rubbing his own arm with a warning look or his father would forcefully uncurl his arms from his middle.

From then it was all, ‘stay still’, ‘make eye contact’, ‘sit up straight’. Living had become a trial is distress endurance, he simply had to put up with being overwhelmed, being uncomfortable, anxious.

Eating in patterns like this made his mind buzz in a settled kind of way. It was the same, it was always the same. So, he nodded, looking wan, “A rennie would be ideal then.”

Tom got up, rifling through a cupboard muttering about how, “No-one in this house throws away empty packets.” He eventually found it and Artemis had five bites of his food after.

He let out a breath.