Rehabs weren't his favorite places to be, but he'd been through enough programs to appreciate their benefits, even though he hated the clinical decorations and fluorescent lights. He pulled back the door and went in, introducing himself to the nurses and saying who he was there to see. When he mentioned John's name, the nurses exchanged wearied looks that did nothing to steady the shake in his legs. One gestured to him to follow, and they set off down a long corridor shaded from the sun that seemed darker for where it was leading him. They passed through a few locked doors, a hint of security that turned the food in Anthony's stomach, before coming to a flat black door. He thanked the nurse and took a breath, waiting for her footsteps to recede in the distance. They echoed as she got further away and the sound seemed ghostly in the empty air. Anthony steeled himself and knocked.
From the other side of the door, John's ears lowered at the knock- if he had a tail he'd have tucked it between his legs. Another nurse, surely, another doctor coming to feed him more pills and scold him for the state of his body. John was crestfallen, lonely, hopeless. He wasn't actively suicidal necessarily, but he wasn't fighting off death, either. He felt numb without drugs, without stimulation, without the shapes and colors in his brain that moved him and danced behind his eyelids. He missed that rainbow of colors and thoughts and feelings; he couldn't remember a time where he could access them sober- it had probably been when they lived in the mansion, when everything was beautiful and perfect and all of the stars had aligned.
Now, everything was beige, like the shitty walls in this shitty rehab.
John pulled his sleeves down to cover his seeping skin grafts and quietly lay his pencil and paper down, curling into himself. He didn't want to open the door. He wanted to tremble in the corner of his bed and avoid eye contact with whomever was about to poke and prod him. But he gathered his courage, took a deep breath and got up to answer- staff would eventually enter on their own, anyway. His eyes bugged at who stood there instead.
"Anthony?" He asked, stepping back and blinking his eyes to make sure he wasn't dreaming. Anthony looked like a glowing angel, standing out paradoxically against the dreary walls. Anthony would stand out anywhere, but he looked like an extra terrestrial in this gloomy, pedestrian place.
He took another step back to allow the man to step in, and tried not to let his heart pound out of his chest. It was the first time he'd seen Anthony sober since he'd left the band. As his eyes adjusted to his light and the growing certainty that this wasn't an apparition, he began to absorb him in full- Anthony really was glowing, healthier and more robust since the last time they'd seen each other. The sharpness of that memory had faded over the months and started to slip through his grasp as he'd grown weaker and more removed from reality. He'd held onto what he could of it whenever he lost the will to keep living, tried to recall how it felt to have his spirit and body held by Anthony in a dark moment. There wasn't much else he could remember that felt better.
John crossed his arms as he looked him up and down. Anthony was wearing an old graphic t-shirt and his hair was super long and dark and shiny and beautiful, and the familiarity of his face loosened some of the stiffness he felt in his body. His muscles looked strong as always, like they could hold him up if his legs got too tired to stand. That would be nicer than simply sitting.
"I can't believe you're here," John mumbled, surprised, feeling a smile stretch over his lips. "I just drew you. Shit. Fuck, that's crazy!"
He scurried over to his bed and picked up his notebook, quickly flipping through the pages to the last one- the one of Anthony's mouth. He held it up in front of the man so he could see. Was this divine intervention? He'd only put the pencil down minutes before he'd walked in. "See? It's you. And now you're. Here!"
Part II
Start from the beginning
