Can't Stand Me Now

Cornered the boy kicked out at the world
The world kicked back a lot fucking harder
-Can't Stand Me Now, The Libertines

The next person to come by was to be executed. Especially if it was Craig. Quentin was crumbled into a ball on the floor behind the sofa, determined not to cry. The tears burned behind his eyelids and his face was wet, but he would not cry. Crying was a sign of weakness. There was a dull pain in his stomach, and he hugged himself tighter to try and make it go away. It wouldn't. Fuck, Craig was so dead. Once Quentin got a hold of him, he'd smash his teeth in. It was Craig's damn fault he was lying there behind the sofa. It had been his previously best friend's idea to try the drugs offered to them, and now Quentin was a mess. He could barely remember what had happened so far during the night, only that Craig hadn't been there when he needed him too.

All the blinds were down, and all lights were out. Quentin lay in the dark with his pain and his tears, feeling the last effects of the heroin wear off. Now he was alone with the stomachache, an ache that grew stronger as the drug seeped from his system. He clutched his hands over his abdomen, his face scrunching up as a new bolt of pain made his body shiver. Now he could no longer contain the tears; they came, warm and wet, rolling down his face and falling on his clothes, the floor. Violent sobs shook his body when the pain didn't, and he pressed his face to the floor as if he wanted to sink through it and just disappear. The pain was unbelievable. It reduced him to tears and shivers, to the helpless state of a two-year-old who doesn't yet understand the concept of pain and its causes. All he wanted was to get away from it, to fall asleep and wake up to a world where none of this had ever happened. But he knew that was wishful thinking.

The floor was cold and hard, very unwelcoming to a human body. Quentin tried to move, but his body seemed locked in the crumbled-up position and any movement caused, if possible, even more pain. When it eventually started so subside, ever so slowly, the young man was exhausted to the brink of fainting, and before he knew it he was out cold, sleeping on the wooden floor with his forehead against the leg of the sofa.

*

His nose tickled. That was the first thing he noticed when he woke up; in fact, it was what woke him. As he reached a hand up to scratch it, he cried out at the pain coursing through his arm and up to his neck. Confused, he tried to get up off the floor and into a sitting position, but as he moved his legs tears sprung to his eyes again, the burning sensation too much for him to handle. Coming to the conclusion that he couldn't move, he tried to wrap his mind around last night, all the while making subtle movements to try and at least straighten his body out. It was one long torture; apparently, his spasms during the night had gotten to his muscles quite good.

As he heard the sound of a door opening, he froze and listened to the approaching footsteps. "Quinn?" The voice was Craig's, and Quentin closed his eyes, not answering. "Quentin? Are you here?" If only the tears would stop. Craig would not get the satisfaction of seeing him cry. He would not get the satisfaction of knowing what kind of hell Quentin had been through. "Quentin, man... Are you here? Come on, don't play games..." 'Don't play games', who's playing games here? Couldn't he just get the hell out of the house, and leave Quentin alone? "Quinn, seriously, man... If you're here, please answer me." Wait... He did actually sound remorseful. Craig, remorseful? It was unheard of. Craig Donahue didn't regret anything he did, ever. That's what he was known for, in their little town. "Quinn?" One last try. Quentin found himself torn between decisions. "C--" No. Yes. "Craig..."

"Quinn? Where are you?"

"Behind... behind the sofa..."

As Craig's face appeared above him, Quentin saw it was lined with worry. The blue eyes were anxious as they looked him over, coming to rest fixed on Quentin's brown eyes. "Are you okay, man? You disappeared last night, I couldn't find you anywhere... I thought you'd gone to kill yourself." The confession was given with a shaky voice, and Quentin could think of nothing but what a surprise this behaviour came as. He'd always seen Craig as the guy who never stood down, and never admitted a wrong-doing. A flawless rebel. "Shit, I shouldn't have... I wouldn't have accepted that shit if I'd known... if I'd known you'd be like that."

"...What was I like?"

"Man, you were raving. Hallucinating and shit, going stark mad. Wouldn't let anyone touch you, we just tried to help you, man, but you wouldn't have none of it. Ran of into a fucking alley and disappeared, thought you were out cold by now."

Quentin lay on his back, staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Any memories he had from the night were hazy and dark, sans the stomach pain and spasms. Those were all too vivid. Mustering all of his will-power, he managed to sit up, uttering a whine as he did so. The sound earned him yet another worried look from Craig, who stood on his knees in the sofa, arms steadied on the back of it. "You okay, Quinn?"

"Spent the fucking night coming down."

"...Bad?"

He didn't bother to answer. His inability to move should be answer enough. Rubbing his face, he managed to sit up on his knees, leaning against the sofa. His whole body was protesting and aching, but he was determined to get up off the floor. On his knees, he moved around to the front of the sofa, and with an upheaval of his last energy he managed to get up on it, collapsing against the pillows. Breathing in sharply through his teeth, he closed his eyes and gave way to the pain, just letting it wash over him.

That's when he felt a hand on his chin. He didn't open his eyes, but the only person in the room but him was Craig. And Craig definitely would never touch him like that. Not sure of what he would see if he opened his eyes, Quentin kept them closed and awaited what would happen next. When the hand retreated, only to be replaced by a body moving close to his own, he couldn't keep from looking. What he saw was something he would remember for the rest of his life.

Craig was crying silently; the tears rolled down his cheeks, but that was all there was to it. No sobbing, no shivering. Only tears. God only knew what Craig had been through that night, but it had definitely changed something. Quentin wasn't going to ask what, merely be satisfied with the fact. Changing his seat, he put an arm around his best friend's shoulders, holding him close. It was the only thing either of them could do right now - being there for each other.