Ade stirred the granules of white sugar slowly around the cup. The colour of the tea was off, a nasty brown lightened with a splash of milk. Mud brown. Dirty brown. Dirt.
They’d run out of milk first thing in the morning, and now Ade was attempting to make a cup of tea but it looked more like liquidised vomit. Or mud. Absent minded, he put down the spoon and cast his gaze out of the wide window which overlooked the tops of a rugged mix of victorian and modern roofing, like mountain tops of a great alps, shrouded that morning in a clingy mist.
His bony fingers tapped the edge of the work surface as Morton’s pounding footsteps echoed outside, snaking up the carpeted stairs of the flat. The door flung open and Morton entered, milk, biscuits and bread in one hand and front door keys in the other.
“Morning.”
“Hello.” Ade didn’t look round- instead, his eyes traced over each chimney and jagged roof tile, taking in each bump and line that was outlined by the rising light of the early morning. His breath hitched- it was beautiful. Streaks of striking colours smeared the sky, the rooftops framed by the rich, rugged splashes of red and orange. And yet a few days ago, he hated every inch, every millimeter, every tiny bird and whisp of smoke of the London skyline. It was beautifully awful.
“Oh, did you make tea?”
“Mud. It’s more like mud.”
“Shame. I’ll make another cup.” Morton placed the shopping down on the floor. “Have you had a shower?”
“No, not yet.”
“Maybe you should go and have one?” Morton suggested. “I’ve just got to nip out and get you some clothes.”
Ade felt a lump rise in his thin, rough throat.
“T-thank you.”
A few minutes later, Ade found himself in the shower, watching the hot, stinging water pelt down from the chrome shower head. The lock had been forcefully removed from the door, leaving a splintered chunk: a violent action to prevent violent intent, he supposed. He hadn’t been allowed to lock his own door for when he’d been away: when he’d got his own place, he could lock all of them. It’d made him feel safe. But now, at a moment when privacy was necessary for his own comfort, Morton had prevented it. What if someone came in? Ade shuddered and looked at the running shower again, unsure of whether he wanted to have one; he hated being naked. It was as though he was under scrutiny from the water, every inch exposed.
Finally, he found the courage -arbeit shakingly- to undress and have a wash. His hands viciously attacked the material of his t-shirt as Ade pulled it over his head: then, he slid off the tracksuit bottoms he’d been wearing, and got in the shower.
The water, hot and steamy, was like bliss. The heated water warmed his aching body, and for a moment, Ade forgot how much he detested his own body. Just for a moment, as he squeezed shower gel into the palm of his hand and lathered it up, spreading it over his neck and shoulders, he didn’t care for his scars. They littered every part of his paper thin skin of his arms, and the dots across the crook of his arms burned as the water fell, but he didn’t care. Tiny scratches inflicted by nails and edges of furniture didn't matter. Bruises from walls and rocks and floors randomly colliding didn't matter; didn't care. He didn’t care, he didn’t care, he didn’t care-
The door opened.
For the smallest of moments, Ade felt like he was falling, falling through a thick black pit of pure trepidation. His arms wrapped themselves around his torso, and his heart crawled its way up his throat as he saw a man in a white suit standing in the doorway, shrouded in a thin veil of hot mist.
“You know he’s still out there, don’t you, Adrian?”
The tiles were cold on his back as Ade pressed himself against the back of the shower, sharp eyes fixed on the figure.
“You know, and I know. You won’t catch him if you don’t try. You've given up. Remember the size nine feet?”
His throat seized up: muscles flexed. Desperate, full of fear, Ade crushed the lids of his eyes shut, crouched down, and started to count: one, two, three, four. He’d go away soon; one, two, threefourfive; he was sure of it, six, seven, eight, nine. One, two, three, four, five-
“Ade?” It was Morton’s voice that cut through the mist and noise of the shower throwing out water. “Ade, I can hear you counting… are you alright?”
II
Morton knew something wasn’t right. Slowly, he opened the bathroom door (he was glad he’d taken the lock off) and waved the hot mist away from his face: his brother was cowering on the floor, hands over his ears and hair over his eyes, rocking gently and rhythmically to the sound of his own groaning drum. Stark naked, his frail eyes peered at Morton dartingly, weakened through the pure fear; face pale and hands starting to shake, he averted his eyes downwards to the tiled floor. He shielded his weakness. He couldn't look at Morton.
“Ade, let me help you up.” he whispered, outstretching his hand. "Please."
As though helping an injured animal, Morton wrapped his arms around Ade and lifted him up, water dripping from his skin, cold. Angry arms hit Morton's side and stomach but caring... Caring wasn't an option as Morton dragged his brother through into the living room and chucked him a towel. Caring would have made him scream at him, and would have made him cry from misunderstanding. He couldn't understand- why did he do that? What was wrong?
Young enough to have a new start- young enough for re-birth, renewal. But was he willing? Determined enough, no? No. No, he was not, not yet. But when? When would Ade be ready to shed the drugs and the old life? His illness. What about that? Shouldn't it just leave along with the drugs? Wasn't it brought on by them? That was what he'd been told. Ade would be all better if the drugs walked away. He wouldn't walk from them- they'd have to stop working, and then leave. Walk. They'd have to do it themselves- Ade wasn't strong enough to release them, because they had such a hold on his mind that he'd crack. How was cold turkey? Maybe it'd work, Morton had thought. Cold turkey would be good for him, but it'd hurt. He'd have to try...
It was decided: Morton would make him go cold turkey.
III
“Cold fucking turkey? That’s cruel, Morton.”
Ade was asleep in one of the two bedrooms, thick curtains closed and eyes fluttering amidst the gentleness of ragged, jarred sleep. At least he was asleep was all Morton could think of.
“Seriously, though?” Morton’s friend, Josh, was sitting opposite him on the living room sofa, hands cupping a steaming mug of freshly made tea. His faded band t-shirt was snug over his muscled arms and torso, and his jeans were edged with a reddish mud from walking to the new flat. “Taking it all away-”
“He’ll just stay hooked otherwise.” There was a coldness in Morton’s voice that reminded Josh of the brother’s father’s voice: he’d been a dominating man, sharp suit and slick hair. Angry voice. “He’ll just keep taking it and be just as reliant on it as he is now.”
“I didn’t know it had gotten this bad.”
“It’s bad.”
“How bad, though? Like, really bad?”
Morton rolled his eyes. Josh relaxed a moment and sat back on one of the lifeless cushions, caressing the cup as though it was someone’s perky breast. He’d always been a man-whore; Morton wondered idly whether he had some whore tucked away in his flat. He also briefly then wondered what Ade had done to get money, but pushed the vulgar thought from his mind as quickly as he could.
“It’s quite bad, Josh. Maybe he’d be feeling better if I could get him back to the doctors. But I can’t. I don’t have the will to drag him there; he won’t go otherwise.”
“I could take him?” offered Josh, fitting forward a little. Morton shook his head.
"He wouldn't go."
Josh flexed an arm muscle and they both laughed, a shrill, sharp sound that cut through the bleak miserableness that clung to the flat. It didn't feel right.
"Fair enough." Josh replied, "but you know that I'll do as much as I can, right?" Morton nodded. "I'm here for you. It's...it's gotta be tough."
"I don't think tough is the word." Morton huffed, his eyes moving towards the bedroom door where Ade was sleeping.
"What, then?"
"Painfully difficult; arsewhole-ish; hellish..."
"Haha, alright. I get it, boffin. Talking of brains, what is he doing about education?"
"He's been to university, remember?"
Josh's face was blank.
"Oxford. Three years. No? Don't remember?"
"Hell, was he old enough?"
"Not really." Morton smiled, and it felt strange on his lips. "He should've gone to King's or something."
"London? Mate, hell no!" Josh's face was full of shock, his eyes wide. "He'd have been on speed within a week and on drugs waaaay quicker! Anyway, I can imagine that he liked Oxford. You didnt: I could tell you were a UCL man when I met you!"
"My masters degree was a huge mistake." Morton laughed. "I met you and waisted all of my money."
"Got you a good job, though," Josh clasped his hands over his knee. "Good old financial economics, eh?"
"Says the guy with a MA in International Relations. You should have my job." Morton ran his fingers through his hair. "I might have to quit anyway."
"You can't!" Josh was indignant. "Who would finance all this? His recovery? The food? You need a stable job."
Morton rested his head in his hands, sighing, repeating something like 'I know, I know" before falling silent. The bedroom door had creaked.
Ade was standing in the doorway wearing baggy, ill fitting pyjamas. His eyes, wide open and shining a murky green-grey, illuminated his sunken cheeks and waxy skin. He looked so ill, Morton thought, that he shouldn't be standing. Or awake. Or breathing.
He came and sat down next to Morton and slowly placed his hand down on the sofa, palm pointing towards the ceiling. Then, very slowly, he reached across to where Morton was sitting and clasped his hand over Morton’s wrist and left it there for a moment, breaths deep but uneven.
“Ade.” Morton avoided his brother’s eyes. “How… how are you?”
“I don’t think I’m well, Morton.”
Morton’s eyes shifted to Josh for a brief moment, and he swallowed stiffly. Ade’s legs were shaking and his hands were too warm, like fire burning Morton’s wrists.
“I’m… I think I’m ready for help.” He took a deep breath, his eyes intensely fixed on Morton. “Please. Please?”