Running with the Devil

one

Fifteen months ago, Eoin watched as cops handcuffed his best friend across the street for selling to a minor, broad daylight. That's the trouble, Eoin thinks, with addiction. With people like Hawke. Common sense goes out the window because the addiction is all that matters. Hawke makes trades—booze for coke, cash for molly, molly for heroin. Round and around it goes. Sometimes he gets lucky; sometimes he ends up laughing as some asshole tries to punch his nose in.
Fifteen months, Hawke was in jail, and it shows—in his weight, in the bags under his eyes. In the way he hunches over as he eats, how he's always aware of his surroundings. Or, it used to. Eoin hasn't seen him in six months, since Hawke lost visitation, since he's spent too much time in solitary for starting too many fights.
He's not sure what to expect, when Hawke gets out. The last hour ticked by in a blur of chainsmoking and Hawke's Spotify playlist on Eoin's phone, anxiety itching at the tips of Eoin's fingers.
Deeply, distantly, Eoin hopes he hasn't changed for the worse. There's a lot of space to improve, but Hawke's not one to make those changes lightly. Eoin drops the cigarette to the ground, stomps it out with the heel of his sneaker.
He lights another.
Ahead of him, by the entrance to the jail, Hawke shrugs into his jacket. An old canvas thing covered in burn holes from cigarettes. The zipper doesn't work, so Hawke has it buttoned up to his neck.
His hair's long, longer than Eoin remembers it ever being, but still jagged where he'd cut it in lockup. The blond shows through on the top, and Eoin makes a mental note to buy the box dye when Hawke's not around.
Shouldn't be hard. He usually isn't.
"Aw," Hawke says, once he's in earshot, "I didn't think you'd come."
"Why wouldn't I?" Hawke reaches for the cigarette, barely gives Eoin a once-over while he inhales. Eoin reeks of smoke; Hawke just reeks. "You're all set?"
"Mm. Fucking cops kept all my cash," he says. "Think I can crash on your couch for a while? Or are the parents gonna be pissed again?"
He doesn't tell Hawke, not yet, that he moved out. "What's mine is yours." He's surprised how much he means it. How Eoin's been nervous for a week about Hawke's release, how he's been overthinking it since Hawke called to tell him he was getting out, for real this time, and how easily Hawke settles into the passenger seat of Eoin's Camry like he'd never left.
He plugs Eoin's phone into the stereo, cranks up the volume. Bobs his head back and forth a few times. Eoin goes through the process of starting the car—jiggle the key, take it out, slam it back in and turns—and burns rubber hauling ass out of there.
"So," Hawke says, stretching out in the seat, popping it backwards so he can lay down. Eoin tries not to stare at him, not least of all because Eoin is driving, but Hawke is a spectacle and demands attention. It's a hazard driving with him in the car. "What have you been up to? Get any dick lately?"
Eoin rolls down the window, lest the smell of smoke overtake the car. "Not that it's any of your business, but no. Working doubles since half the staff walked out a few months ago." The cash is good, though. Eoin hasn't had to worry about bills, hasn't had to worry about anything, in so long, that he's actually prepared for the kind of financial nightmare that Hawke can often be. Then, out of curiosity, he asks, "What about you?"
The grin stretches across Hawke's face, wide and pleased. "A gentleman doesn't kiss and tell."
A gentleman. Eoin almost laughs, but he manages not to. "What's that in prison speak, again? Desperate blowjobs?"
"You'd be surprised how creative they get in there." But his voice is absent, like his thoughts are somewhere else. Eoin doesn't look at him, instead focuses on the stretch of land around them, rolling hills in the distance, forest to one side, field to another.
He wants to ask. How was detox? Is he still clean, or did he have a steady supply when he was locked up? Hawke's been shooting up since he was thirteen, almost half his life. It'd be hard to drop it cold turkey, but Eoin hopes, most of all, that he did. Not least of all out of concerns for sanitation.
"How's Naome?"
His knuckles turn white against the wheel, nails digging into his palms. Fifteen months free of Naome, and not five minutes back with Hawke, and... "Don't know. We haven't talked."
With a groan, Hawke rubs at his face. He can be pissed. He only knows his own side of the story, which, as always, is heavily skewed in his own favor. "I told you guys—"
"Bite me," Eoin says, more cruel than he'd intended. "You were away for over a year. Your girlfriend's--"
"Mother of my child," Hawke corrects.
"—none of my fucking business, and if you're not even dating what's the point?"
"You've seen the kind of people that Naome hangs out with."
"You mean people like you?"
"Ha ha." Hawke sighs, reaches forward and turns down the music. Just to piss him off, Eoin almost turns it back up. "You know, kid's gonna get the wrong idea. Start hanging out with peopel that are no good for her, and pretty soon, she's gonna be sixteen and pregnant. You want that for my daughter?"
With a snort, Eoin says, "I didn't realize that prison made you into such a wholesome person." That's the goal, but America never does take the right idea—rehabilitation, in this case—and go the right path with it.
"Not everyone in prison's some rapist or child molester or serial killer. Some of us are decent citizens."
Some of us. It's laughable that Hawke includes himself in that group. The idea of a wholesome Hawke, a standup member of society, that gives to charities, that isn't a charity case...
In Eoin's silence, Hawke starts poking at his own phone, almost certainly long since out of service on his month-to-month plan. "Lemme steal your hotspot, check in on her."
He wants to tell him no. It'd be easy, a simple little word, but Eoin struggles with it, when it comes to Hawke. Besides, Hawke knows Eoin's code, and Eoin's too much of a creature of habit to change it. "Your security sucks."
"I didn't realize I had to keep friends out of my phone." Friends. Is that what they are? Eoin is a pitstop on Hawke's journey to his next high, and people tell him as much whenever they get the chance. It's not like Eoin's in love with him or anything; Hawke is just... Indescribable. Eoin's used to being able to write people off without a second's notice, but Hawke demands. Without even knowing, Eoin would say.
The music plays for a few minutes, Hawke tapping his fingers against his knee to the beat of the drums. Eoin drives, drives, drives, until the rolling hills in the distance become rolling hills around them, the fields giving way to forests and lakes. Spring's just around the corner, but for now, snow still lies scattered across the earth.
Finally, Hawke speaks. "Cool. Wants to have dinner on Friday. I'll be out of your hair by then, yeah?" He plucks the sunglasses from their place, hanging on the visor over his head. They're Hawke's sunglasses; Eoin didn't realize they were still there. "Home sweet home."
He cranks up the music and curls towards the passenger door. He doesn't wear a seatbelt—never has—so Eoin takes special care to not drive like a maniac. Hawke snores the rest of the trip, and Eoin lets him. Eoin's never been to prison, but he can guess a guy doesn't get great sleep. And it means that Hawke won't ask questions, ones he's using to fill the silence, to pretend like he gives a shit. Questions he doesn't care enough about to listen to the answer.
Not that many of them are truthful. As long as they've known each other, it's been like this. Hawke keeps his secrets and in turn, he doesn't expect Eoin to give up his own. Any time Eoin thinks he might, maybe, have some kind of insight into Hawke's life, it comes back to bite him in the ass. Better to let Hawke exist in the reputation he wants. All of Eoin's attempts at nailing him down just seem to drive Hawke further away.
It's nightfall by the time they arrive at Eoin's apartment, a clean little studio on the upper side of the city. Hawke's sleeping with his jacket over him like a blanket, and he nearly clocks Eoin in the head when Eoin wakes him. He doesn't apologize. "This ain't your parents' place."
"Nope," he says, and a small part of him wonders if bringing Hawke to his apartment is a good or a bad idea. "Moved out."
"And you didn't tell me?"
"You didn't ask."
If only it was that simple. Hawke doesn't care; he never cares. He cares about two things in life; his drugs and his daughter. Everything else is optional. Eoin doesn't fill their silences with small talk, with updates on his own life, because it doesn't matter. The silence is preferable to the obvious disinterest. Most people try, they make an effort. Hawke doesn't. It's noble, in a way. He doesn't pretend he cares, so there's no crossed wires, no uncertainty about where he stands.
Eoin is a pitstop on the road to Hawke's next high.
Hawke lets out a low, appreciative whistle when he sees Eoin's apartment. Tidy, simple. Empty. There's a couch, a TV, a PS4 he never has time to play. Eoin's computer hides under his bed, mostly for porn. A couple of mismatched stools sit at the bar, a card table as a makeshift end table and an ugly, oak nightstand that's half the size of his bed. No posters on the wall. Nothing that makes it his own.
"Looks like you got robbed, man."
First thing's first. Eoin won't fill in the silence with talk, but he will fill it in with reruns of It's Always Sunny. "Nope." He pays Hawke no attention as Hawke wanders around the small space, checks in corners and cupboards. There's no telling what he's looking for, but he must be satisfied.
"You didn't happen to get my shit, did you?"
"What shit?"
Hawke sighs. "I'll take that as a no. You got a pair of shorts I can borrow? Maybe let me take a shower?"
He can either say yes, or he can wake up to Hawke digging through his shit trying to find clothes to wear. "Yeah, top drawer."
He realizes too late that it's not just underwear he keeps in the top drawer, that his sex toys are hidden underneath socks he never wears. Hawke never gives up the opportunity to snoop, but when Eoin turns around, trying to head him off, Hawke returns, Eoin's fleshlight in one hand, dildo in the other. "So when I said if you'd gotten any dick lately..." It's obscene, in the light, in Hawke's big, calloused hands. A shiver runs up Eoin's spine, but he doesn't let the thought get far.
Eoin tears them from his hands. "Just go take your fucking shower," he says, face burning. "And keep out of my shit."
"Oh, that won't be a problem," Hawke calls, laughing his way to the bathroom.
While Hawke showers, probably jerking off to whatever porn he can download on his phone, Eoin stands in his kitchen, downs two glasses of water. If there's one thing that gives Hawke's drug addiction a run for its money, it's his sex addiction. There's no way the guy got by with just handjobs and blowjobs on lost bets while he was in jail. So Eoin has sex toys; it's not something no other adult has, and it's not like he has the opportunity to use them all that often. And it's none of Hawke's business.
His gaze slides to the bathroom door. All Eoin can hear is the sound of running water, no telltale moaning. Nothing. Maybe Eoin should kick him out. It'd be easier. Hawke deserves it. Hawke deserves most of what has happened to him. Eoin's not stupid enough to think that drug addiction is a choice, but there are choices that Hawke kept making. One more hit, one more line, one more one more one more. He 'one more'd his way straight to jail.
And it's not like there's not a list of reasons. Hawke takes grey morality to a whole new level. Anyone with a right mind would kick Hawke out. It's just self-preservation.
The water shuts off, and Eoin's uncertainties circle the drain with the water. Even if he wants to kick Hawke out, Eoin isn't that guy. Hawke is too ensnaring, too mysterious. Eoin's never really been a puzzle guy, but mystery novels are compelling for good reason.
It stands to reason that Eoin might be interested in Hawke because he's so fucking closed off.
Done in the shower, Hawke leaves the bathroom with a towel tied around his waste. For a guy terrified of needles, he sure as shit has no problem shooting up. Scars line the insides of his elbows, even today, and Eoin wonders if there's ever going to be a time when Hawke's not covered in his past. "Feel better?"
"That water pressure is fucking amazing," Hawke says, collapsing onto the couch with a groan. "Free folk are fucking spoiled."
""I'm glad it meets your standards."
Hawke barks out a laugh. "I don't have standards, man. Haven't for... oh, how long was it again? Fifteen years?"
"Cute," Eoin says. Droplets of water dot Hawke's shoulders like freckles, and Eoin draws constellations on his skin with his gaze. After a minute, he says, "So, your plan?"
"Hm?"
"You said you'd only be on my couch through the week. Where are you going after that?"
Hawke laughs, stretches his arms above his head. "You're too focused on the future. Don't you ever stop to savor the present?" He reaches for the controller on the coffee table. "Man, what did the last year do to you?"