I saved up all my pennies and I gave them to this special guy

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He's not feeling himself. Not right. Something's scratching, clawing, and it's not because of the pain he imagines. It's not because of his life. It's because he needs something--anything. No oxy? Vicodin. No vicodin? Tramadol. Hydromorphone. Pethidine. All that mattered was that they were opioids and they were strong.

He tricks himself into thinking he can last at least a day with one pill. Briggs is convinced someone stole his tranquilizers, and even rounds on Mike. That's what sets it off--junkies aren't exactly ones for a stable environment. Briggs and Mike are both paranoid, powerful individuals who know how the other operates. It starts off as a fist-fight, Briggs claiming Mike took his drugs for drug money. Mike isn't exactly calm when he uproots the small table and begins yelling right back. The fact that he was thinking about it never comes up, but he goes for a walk.

He's still feeling it, the scratching inside his head. Like an insect, wanting to crawl out of his ear. And on top of that, he swears his gut feels like it's being stabbed. Like that knife is being sliced into him, over and over again. His lip is bleeding but he doesn't care--that pain is nothing compared to the flare in his abs, or the way even his teeth seem to be on fire instead of their usual numb state.

It's late by the time he tracks down his dealer after the other doesn't answer his texts. Slams him against the wall, demanding what he wants. Of course his dealer is out. Turns out, by the time Mike has actually beaten the shit out of the guy, the dealer is right. He's out.

"I know a guy, though," He says. "Hangs out at so-and-so a bar."

Mike's going to have to work for his meal, it seems, and he gives one last kick in the ribs to his dealer, tells him pleasantly he'll see him tomorrow and he'd better have some oxy squared away just for him.

To the bar he goes. He looks like shit--hasn't shaved, long hair--but he also doesn't care. All he cares about is the scratching, the pain--he needs that to go away. He just needs to track down who the fuck his dealer was talking about.

Comments

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Mike followed. Not close enough to look suspicious, but enough to not lose his way or look too nervous. He's been doing this a while, despite appearances--for three years, at least.

The money annoys him but it's not like Mike has a choice--not at he moment. Guy has his wallet and his only actual valuable possessions. It's not like Mike should care what he does with the cash anyway, most of it is going to him.

If he pulls through. Mike sure as shit doesn't trust the guy, and probably never will. Nothing personal, just the nature of the transaction. It's not like Mike can be trusted either unless he's positive he can get his pills and go.

That's exactly what he's expecting once they go to the corner. He clears his throat, stuffing his hands in his hoodie pocket once they near the car.

"Street price is 80, I'll buy for 90, max. Just want enough to get me through the week, man."

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"Get in." No answer, no acknowledgement. Just a command as they approached the truck. Did Mike really think Billy was going to let his stuff go for just ten above street price? He was offering a premium service. An emergency supply didn't come cheap.

Billy moved around the bed of the truck and rifled in the bag again. He left the wallet but pulled out all of the cash. The cash went into his own pocket and the wallet back into the bag. Next came the cell phone. It was probably a burner, but he wanted to be safe. He dropped it to the pavement, stomped it with the heel of his boot, and kicked it under the truck's tire. With a nudge, he wedged it beneath the treads. Just to make sure he'd crush it when they moved. Zipping up the bag, he tossed it into the bed of the truck.

Only then did he climb up into the driver's seat. He'd answer no protests or questions. Stoic and silent, as he started the truck. This was going to be his best conquest since Miami.

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Mike laughs. He laughs because he's not sure what else to do, and surprisingly white teeth are shown as he just sort of stares at the phone under the truck.

"You want me to go with you," He states, looking at the other with an amused smile still on his face. This is crazy. He's not stupid enough to bring ID with him. He can walk away, find another dealer. Ask around the streets. Just chalk the money the other has a loss.

Slowly, though, his smile fades. Colin is starting the truck, looking straight ahead, and Mike is left with the scratching in his skull and a pain that he has no idea is imagined. He needs it.

Like it or not, he has no options. He needs a fix and he needs it soon, and he knows he can't rust this guy. He knows, in his gut, something's up. Shit.

He has to go. Mike Warren is desperate. It takes him only a few moments before he looks visibly frustrated at the other's silence and climbs in. He'll keep an eye on where they're going. That way it'll be safe.

Right?

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Billy backed the truck out if it's space, the phone crunching under the tire. Not a word was uttered as he guided the truck out of the small lot. Onto the street. But he seemed to be headed away from the main drag. It was like he had an intuition for the darkest, shadiest streets possible. If his vehicle were smaller, he'd probably be taking narrow alleys as well.

He wondered just how observant Mike would be. The passenger door was obviously rigged. It couldn't be opened from the inside. The handle to do so had been completely removed. As was the crank to lower the window. Just the bolt where it was meant to be attached poked out of the door. The truck was old enough that doors, windows and locks were completely manual.

Ten minutes into his indirect drive, he finally spoke. Answering a question that Mike had given earlier. "If you want Oxy, it's a hundred and twenty. Minimum."

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"Fuck," Mike says out loud. It's actually not to the question--he's desperate, he gets it, Colin had probably just counted the cash in his wallet when he wasn't looking. It was to the door, nimble fingers gliding over the edge of the handle.

This was just pain shady. Moreso than usual. The lack of communication just makes it worse, and so Mike clears his throat.

Time to play the charming boyscout.

"Right--Colin, right? Kelly talked you up pretty good, you know. You from Manchester?"

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Fucking Kelly. When would that piece of shit dealer learn to keep his filthy mouth SHUT for once? Maybe Billy would need to do something to make sure he couldn't go wagging his tongue to just anyone. It wasn't the truth, obviously. But it's what Kelly thought was the truth. Maybe it was time he made KELLY a fucking conquest.

"You want the Oxy or not?" Billy snapped. His accent was different now. A sidestep to the west, more Liverpool than Manchester. A subtle enough shift with few enough ears that only someone with a little intelligence could pick it out. Because there was a chance the information hadn't come from Kelly. Mike could be just that good with accents. Or he could be getting his information from elsewhere.

The truck finally turned onto a highway. Only two lanes, but stretching off into the dark. They were halfway there.

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The accent was different now. Mike knows what's up--Colin's using the same tricks Mike does to keep his job. Lying and acting.

Shit,he's good, too--really good. He's fairly sure that it works all the time on normal junkies. Normal? Junkies. Straight junkies.

Mike Warren was not a junkie. Just needed something to get him through all the pain.

He's really starting to itch, too. He's fidgeting. Grinding his teeth. He's actually not even aware of how much he's moving. It was normally an every day thing for him anyway, but with the added need for his medicine? It's bad. He's quiet, though. For the entire car ride.

Memorizing the highways, of course. Figuring out their address.

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Billy let it stretch. They seemed to be heading away from anything that could be useful. One of those dead stretches of high with no exits visible. Stretching along the back of some industrial area. High walls on the opposite side of traffic. High fences topped with barbed wire on theirs. The low crash barrier wall on their side eventually ended and the shoulder widened. A little further on, there seemed to be a turnaround. A spot to get out of traffic if need be. Butted up against the back of an abandoned warehouse. A dark, desolate patch of highway. Even the street lights seemed to be out.

Billy didn't just pull off the highway. He guided the truck into the shadows beyond. Until the grill of his truck couldn't be seen from the highway.

He killed the engine and turned toward Mike. "Since you seem to have a hearing problem," he said, mildly irritated, his accent keeping on with the Liverpool lilt. "I'll ask you again. Do you want the Oxy or not? Because if not, this is where you get out. If you do, you get a ride back. Hundred and fifty." How much had he been paying attention to notice it went up?

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"The extra 30 for gas?" He asks dryly, and he feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up. This is fucked. So, so fucked. He licks his lips, foot tapping the bottom of the car.

He's out of his element. He knows it ant Colin knows it and that accent shifts again--Mike follows it because it's something he can latch on to. Something he can follow in a place he's unfamiliar with. He's faking it but he's not that good.

Mike needs to get a bead on this guy somehow. Still, he doesn't move. He wants the pills.

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Billy doesn't answer at first. He just watches Mike for a moment. Whether intentional or coincidence, he'd positioned the truck in such a way that even with the dim light from the highway, Billy's face couldn't be seen. Black-on-black except for the random passing car that cast him as a silhouette. One hand rested on the steering wheel, the other elbow up on the back of the seat.

"If it's too much for you," he responded, no slipping toward something that sounded more Irish. "I'm sure there's...an arrangement...that can be made."

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And to that, Mike rubs a hand on his face, scraping his palm with stubble and sighing. This was it? An up price? It had to be some sort of way to intimidate wayward junkies. Make sure they won't go nuts and froth at the mouth or something.

Christ, this was over dramatic. He smiles again, still pleasant, slightly confused.

"It's not--can I reach for my wallet to actually pay you, man?" He's got the money. He's fairly certain. He left with 200 just in case.

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Most junkies he didn't lead out of the bar. Most he turned away because they were under the impression that he'd sell cheap. But Mike was something special. He didn't care about the money. He just cared about the fit junkie on the seat beside him.

All of sudden, Billy lashed out. His arm pulled away from the seat, fast as a viper strike, to grab Mike by the neck and slam him against the car door.

"Maybe I'm not making myself clear." His accent had dropped, leaving him with his native Scottish. "I have a very specific price for my product."

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The back of his head collides with the door and he doesn't bother hiding his pain, face scrunching as he winces. He swears instead of stars he sees birds, and not the kind that flutter around in cartoons.

His immediate reaction is to grab the other by the throat as well, or at least clock the other in retaliation. He can handle himself in a fight, that's for sure, and for a junkie--though he's not one--he has impeccable aim.

He's in pain, though, he tells himself. Mike hurts, almost everywhere, and needs the fucking oxy and needs it now. He can't just clock the other. He raises his hands, as if to show he's unarmed, and somewhere in the back of his mind he's positive the other's accent is now scottish. Or maybe he hit his head too hard? He must of, because what the other was alluding to was...

"You're making yourself clear," Grimacing because of the pain, hand on his neck tight but bearable, "It's just I'm not gay."

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In the dark, Billy smiled. A wicked, cruel sort of smile that had the light made the visible, all of those cruel intentions would have shone in his eyes. His hand was already moving over Mike's thigh.

"Neither am I," Billy said, the smirk evident in his voice.

The hand glided over the front of Mike's track pants, nimble fingers tracing over what he found there. Almost teasing. His other hand tightened. Not enough to cut off air, but enough to make it more difficult to speak.

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Shit, this guy was serious. It wasn't just a fake out. This was...

Well, this was the strangest situation he'd been in. He'd literally seen someone shoot himself but this has him nervous, this is what has him on edge, and the hand on his throat means both of Mike's hands come to the other's wrist, trying gently to pry them off.

It's the other hand, though. Touching him, even through the fabric of the jeans he can feel how warm the other's hand is compared to his shaking cold ones. When did they start shaking?

"Point proven--just tell me what I have to do." This is the lowest he's sunk, but what he needs he needs now. Oxycodone. He smiles again, nervous against trying to breathe. "Let me take the meds and I'll do whatever you want."

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"What I want," Billy said, his voice dropping to almost a growl, "is for you to shut up..."

The soft fabric of the other's pants was so very easily to work through. Far better than the denim he wore. The jeans he'd been all too aware of the entire drive here. And just how tight they'd been growing the more he thought about just what he was going to do. It was the only reason he'd stayed so quiet. Others, he'd charm and chat with, casual as ever. But he didn't want to give the game away. He wanted Mike scared. Paranoid. And the best way to do that was silence. Keep him guessing.

"You'll get what you came for, if you behave."

His hand moved, fingers pushing beneath the waistband. He grabbed the other's cock, firmly. Stroking it hard while watching his face in the dark. Listening. Knowing just how much Mike must be hurting.

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Mike's lips part, almost about to protest, and he's dimly aware of his hair in his face obscuring his eyes slightly. Part of him is glad, the other part is far too focused on that hand on his cock, touching him. He noticeably tenses, and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.

The problem is that Mike can't understand. Can't grasp why this is a thing, and not road head or whatever it was he's supposed to be doing. Why he's being paid attention to and--

"Fuck," He manages, though it's a bit more mumbled than usual with the hand on his throat. There's a sudden spasm that has nothing to do with the hand on his dick--one of his hand twitches and he swears it just got a little colder in the truck.

Shit. He just needs at least a pill before he can do this, just one. Maybe then he can make sense of why the stranger's touching him, the hand on his neck. He has to be quiet and behave, that's obvious, but it's more than awkward. Mike has no idea how to handle this. That's the biggest reason why Mike is about to panic and freak out. Something he never, ever does.

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That confusion, that panic, that's what he wanted to see. He can feel it under his fingers. That thready, panicked pulse. Hear it in the other's breathing. But more than anything was the response to his touch. Mike wasn't so far down into withdrawal that his body was ignoring the touch. Good to know.

He had his reasons for this. The first being it stopped the claims of not being gay real quick of the other was hard. But that dwarfed in comparison to the thrill of control. To get someone who was completely unwilling to squirm and pant was better than any high from any drug.

The harder he stroked, the tighter his grip on Mike's throat. It didn't take long before he cut off the other's air completely.

oh my god this tag became so fucked up

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It felt good. Oddly good, given the situation. He could feel his pulse in his ears, that was for sure, heart beating rapidly. Mike didn't know what else to do except for sit there, awkward and strangely aroused before the hand began to clamp down on his trachea more.

He did something wrong. He had to, that hand on his throat. He had to, and he almost immediately starts to panic. Not being able to breathe some people could handle for more than others, but the whole reason he got into this mess, the entire hospital visit--how he had died. Literally.

Mike was panicking, now, as the other tightened his grip with how hard he stroked. He needed the drugs and he needed the drugs badly but this was reminding him of the hospital, reminding him of dying and he couldn't handle that, not now, not without the drugs. He lets out a murmured, muffled noise of protest just as the other shuts out all the air completely.

Something amazing happens.

Mike smells, just for a second, that spring day. The coniferous and deciduous trees. How it had just rained, that all-too familiar earthy smell he always got when he was near the treeline. His eyes shoot open, wide and dilated, and he's overcome with something. He's not sure what--the smell, the hand stroking him as he does so. He locks eyes with the other's blue ones, a look of complete and utter confusion on his face. Asking why. But he's not fighting back. Not as much as he can. No kicking, no trying for the door like he normally could. Mike's hands are still trying to pry the other off, but shaking hands in withdrawal are nothing compared to a dealers.

He smells it, the place with the 47 red birds. It's indescribable. It's exciting. It's so much more than words can describe.

Oh Mike honey you messed up child

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It wasn't the sort of response Billy expected. He was used to a fight from those he picked. It's why he picked them. Men who thought they could fight back, though they stood a chance. So they would trash and flail and kick. But not Mike. And he didn't cry, either. It always ruined it if they cried too soon. It didn't count for much if he could break them in a few minutes.

But it was that Mike didn't seem to be fighting for breath. Not really. He'd stumbled upon others who found it arousing, but this was different. In the light of passing cars, he saw the other's face. Wide-eyed and confused. Seemingly half-hearted attempts to dislodge the choking hand, but no more struggle than that. Mike truly was a strange one.

However, Billy had insisted the other behave himself. Perhaps what he saw as confusion was more of a question. "Is this what you want?" Billy imagined him asking, with a look like that. He wasn't sure if he liked it when they followed commands so easily. But Mike was rather desperate for those pills. Perhaps that what drove him to behave.

"I suppose," he said finally, as if Mike had been a part of the conversation he'd been having with himself, "Every good dog deserves a treat." He dug in his pocket as he spoke. He produced a small, round pill. Slowly, he slackened his grip. Just enough for Mike to start breathing again. Anticipating the involuntary intake of breath, he was ready to place the small pill on the other's tongue at that exact moment.

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The smell is gone and Mike snaps out of it, eyes wide and red rimmed,and the moment he gasps for air the pill goes in. He actually nearly spits it out, not sure what the fuck is happening, still confused and disoriented--but he gets it, now, what's going on. The pill goes down dry and he feels it coating his throat, sticky and trying to push it's way down, and he's not sure if it's relief that's flooding through him or the reality of the situation.

At likes this Colin guy is actually giving him what he wants. His meds. The scratching, the pain, it can stop and will stop soon. So, so soon, it's almost blissful.

Or would be, if he didn't have a hard on and the other's hands were on his throat. Had he seriously just choked him while trying to jerk him off? What the fuck was this guy?

"Let go of me," He stated, now that he was out of the field, out of the treeline. Grabs the other's arm and yanks. "Proved your point, alright?"

[heroeswork]

But they were far from done. Billy's fun had only just started. Instead of returning his hand to the other's cock, he just pressed closer. A knee on the seat between Mike's legs, the hand still at his throat.

"And what point is that?" He asked, tugging his hat off. There was no reason for it in the dark.

Tossing the hat to the dashboard, the hand returned to Mike's body. Fingers pushing up under his sweatshirt. Feeling over his skin. His mind wandered to the building behind Mike's head. There was a basement, all cold concrete and metal beams. How no one would bat an eye after a junkie went missing. It didn't matter if they'd been seen leaving the bar together, no one would care. It had been so long since he'd found someone who he'd thought could survive a few days. And Mike seemed he might last longer still.

This wicked dream of a plan shone on his face with a sharp and twisted smile. Almost invisible in the dark, as his hand explored Mike's torso.

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God. Mike didn't smack the other's hand away, not quite, but he does grab the other's wrists and pry them off of him. This was...Odd, to say the least. Fucked up was actually the first things that came to mind.

"I mean I've got it. You're the dealer, I have to do what I say, that sort of stuff." He can only guess that this is some sort of weird power trip. "Like I said, point proven." He can only bow his head so much. Especially since he isn't a junkie--not an addict.

The birds, though. That's still disorienting him. But it doesn't matter--he has it, now. He has his Oxy.

[heroeswork]

Billy moved back a little, his hand finally pulling away from Mike's throat. His hands fell to the other's hips, yanking him hard so he laid down on the seat. Not at all caring if Mike hit his head on the door in the process.

"If that's all you think, if you think it's just doing what I say, then you've not yet grasped the gravity of this situation." He loomed over Mike, his fingers starting to pull down those track pants.

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No, he understands perfectly, and he'll take his chances somewhere not here. This whole situation is fucked and once he feels his whole body slowly start to adjust. It's not immediate, but the shakes are gone. The coldness is gone.

"Get off me," He snaps, head hitting the door. He barely feels it, his left leg moving up to try to kick the other away from him. Laying on the car seat, underneath someone he barely knew. Some guy he barely knew. He gets just enough leeway to sit himself up again, back against the door, hand going for the handle.

That's right. It was a trap. Fuck.

"Touch me again and I'll break you." He means it, too.