One Year On (Julian)
Dec. 25th, 2008 10:51 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
virtuosic-flair.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
darker_london"I'm not going to let you get away with pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing if you stick a needle in your arm."
That was what Spectre had told him the day he had revealed that he had made a choice during the tragedy at Digital Anachronism Studios. Spectre had chosen to save Julian, and another boy he hadn't been able to save...a boy Julian had liked...had died in the flames. Because Spectre had chosen him. And when Julian had wasted months on drugs, Spectre and Joe had decided that Julian needed to know. He needed to know what had been lost so he could still be here. And maybe then he would start to live his life again.
One year ago today, Julian had stolen money and ended up in a fistfight which had seen him kicked out of the shelter he had been staying in. He had ended up sleeping in some abandoned house, freezing and hungry. Now he and Damon were sleeping on the pull-out sofa at Spectre and Thomas' with Aislinn in a makeshift crib, three feet away. Julian was surrounded by people he loved, and he had Damon's arm draped over him. He had everything he wanted.
Except heroin.
It wasn't honest to say he didn't want it. Nor would he be any better off pretending he didn't. He was a lucky young man, and he knew it. He couldn't turn a corner without finding love there, waiting for him. He had a beautiful daughter. A wonderful boyfriend. And parents who never made him feel shame. They never once acted like they wished he had been born different, and Julian could believe they had never even thought that. In fact, he was sure they hadn't. He was far better off here than he'd been on the streets. Which should have been obvious, but nothing was obvious when you were an addict, save for the need to have heroin pumping through your veins.
And Julian still needed it. It was harder now, thinking of everything the past year had brought. Thinking of where he had been exactly 8,760 hours ago. It didn't seem like that long ago. Not at all. And here he was, lying awake in his Aunt and Uncle's home on Christmas night, barely able to stay still for wanting to walk out the door. To do what, he didn't know.
No one would know. Damon was a heavy sleeper. And Aislinn was sleeping through the night now. If she did cry, someone would hear her, surely. It was dreadfully irresponsible. Stupid even. But Julian was eighteen and as he rolled out of bed and dressed to go out, he managed to convince himself that he was just going for a walk. Just a little walk to clear his head at 2 in the morning when it was freezing out...
Even wrapped in Thomas' big coat, the chill got to him. It had been relatively warm for winter during the day, but it was frigid now. Julian huddled into it and he headed out into Regents Park, hoping, if nothing else, to put some distance between himself and the house. Stumbling through quiet streets was reminding him all too much of his ordeal. His journey. And as he continued to walk, he started to wonder just why he had come out here. What did he think he was going to accomplish...
"You lookin' for somethin', Mate?" A shadowy figured called to Julian. The man knew the look. Shifty eyes, the trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably. This young man was after a little pick-me-up.
"M..me?" Julian asked, whirling to face the figure. And Julian knew his type. The cocky yet careful demeanor. The air about him that said Julian would die if he stepped one tow out of line here. He was a dealer. As the man nodded, Julian opened his mouth to refuse and found himself unable to do so. Then he reached into his pockets because he was sure he didn't have any money, and he found his Uncle Thomas' wallet right there where it probably shouldn't have been. He opened it up and found quite enough notes to serve any purpose and he looked back up at the dealer. "I..."
"Spit it out, Kid, it's freezin'." The dealer hissed, waiting.
"Wh...what do...uhm, what do you have?" Julian's voice wavered
"Quality shit." The dealer said, evasively. "What do you got?" He asked, meaning how much money did Julian have.
Julian leaned down to count the notes in Thomas' wallet with shaking hands. He pulled them out and held them up for the dealer to see. The dealer smiled. And everything that followed seemed so incredibly surreal it was as if Julian was watching it on a screen, playing out in front of him. Money exchanged hands. And then so did the drugs. Julian didn't actually have any way to shoot up, so he was given opium to smoke, instead of heroin to inject. And as Julian stumbled away to find a quiet corner to chase the dragon, he could have sworn he heard Aislinn crying. He knew that was actually impossible, but it didn't matter. In his mind, he heard his daughter crying and fatherly instinct began to war with his addiction which hadn't been fed in months and months.
Julian whimpered and he sat down, his back against a cold brick wall, so he could prepare the drug for smoking. He was frantic now, fingers moving as rapidly as the cold would allow. And then, instead of Aislinn, he heard Spectre's voice in his head.
"Believe me, I never wanted to have to do this. You haven't given me any choice. Look at what you've done to yourself, Julian. I honestly couldn't see any other way to make you value the life you've been given. I've been trying to get through to you. I never gave up, even when you said horrible things to me. You hurt me very deeply, Julian, and you're throwing away a priceless gift in the life you've been given. That's your choice, of course. But I'm not going to let you get away with pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing if you stick a needle in your arm."
It wasn't a needle. But it was bad enough. It was one step away, and the result would be the same. The high, and then the withdrawal and the awful pain that brought. His lungs itched to inhale the sweet smoke, and his veins cried out for the high, and Julian let out a horrified scream, which echoed through the night, probably disturbing more than a fair share of slumbering Londoners.
"Spectre...I don't...I don't know how I'm supposed to do this. Be...that person again. Who the hell was that person?!"
"He was a son. He was a good friend. A best friend. A nephew. A grandson. He was loved, and he was incredibly loving. He loved people, and he loved ideas. Concepts, creativity. Music. He was young, and a good man. He always spared a thought for others, and would give up his last penny if he saw someone who needed it more. He laughed, and he cried, and he lived. I really can't say enough good about him. Now can I emphasise enough my firm belief that you can and will be that person again. Because I don't believe that anything can wipe out Julian Littleton. Not even heroin."
Quickly, Julian dropped the drugs and he didn't even stay to see them fall to the ground. He ran back towards Spectre's house as quickly as he could. He slipped and fell and stumbled, but he kept going. If he stayed out here any longer, he wouldn't go back. And he was needed. He had people who believed he was a good man.
The second he was in the door, he shucked Thomas' coat like a sack of potatoes and then he ran for the pull out sofa where Damon was still dozing. Julian turned to his daughter to make sure she was alright. And she was. Sleeping. Not crying. Not even aware Julian had left. Julian let out a quiet sob and he reached down to stroke her cheek gently, and then he climbed into bed. He curled up at Damon's side, burying his face in the other boy's hair. His arm wound around Damon and clutched him so tight he was sure Damon would wake up, but he didn't. And there, Julian wept for everything he'd almost given up. And the drugs he had given up. And for the fact that he wasn't as strong as he thought.
And for the boy who had lost his life that day, so Julian could live. Julian wasn't perfect at it. He probably wouldn't ever be. But goddammit, he was trying.
That was what Spectre had told him the day he had revealed that he had made a choice during the tragedy at Digital Anachronism Studios. Spectre had chosen to save Julian, and another boy he hadn't been able to save...a boy Julian had liked...had died in the flames. Because Spectre had chosen him. And when Julian had wasted months on drugs, Spectre and Joe had decided that Julian needed to know. He needed to know what had been lost so he could still be here. And maybe then he would start to live his life again.
One year ago today, Julian had stolen money and ended up in a fistfight which had seen him kicked out of the shelter he had been staying in. He had ended up sleeping in some abandoned house, freezing and hungry. Now he and Damon were sleeping on the pull-out sofa at Spectre and Thomas' with Aislinn in a makeshift crib, three feet away. Julian was surrounded by people he loved, and he had Damon's arm draped over him. He had everything he wanted.
Except heroin.
It wasn't honest to say he didn't want it. Nor would he be any better off pretending he didn't. He was a lucky young man, and he knew it. He couldn't turn a corner without finding love there, waiting for him. He had a beautiful daughter. A wonderful boyfriend. And parents who never made him feel shame. They never once acted like they wished he had been born different, and Julian could believe they had never even thought that. In fact, he was sure they hadn't. He was far better off here than he'd been on the streets. Which should have been obvious, but nothing was obvious when you were an addict, save for the need to have heroin pumping through your veins.
And Julian still needed it. It was harder now, thinking of everything the past year had brought. Thinking of where he had been exactly 8,760 hours ago. It didn't seem like that long ago. Not at all. And here he was, lying awake in his Aunt and Uncle's home on Christmas night, barely able to stay still for wanting to walk out the door. To do what, he didn't know.
No one would know. Damon was a heavy sleeper. And Aislinn was sleeping through the night now. If she did cry, someone would hear her, surely. It was dreadfully irresponsible. Stupid even. But Julian was eighteen and as he rolled out of bed and dressed to go out, he managed to convince himself that he was just going for a walk. Just a little walk to clear his head at 2 in the morning when it was freezing out...
Even wrapped in Thomas' big coat, the chill got to him. It had been relatively warm for winter during the day, but it was frigid now. Julian huddled into it and he headed out into Regents Park, hoping, if nothing else, to put some distance between himself and the house. Stumbling through quiet streets was reminding him all too much of his ordeal. His journey. And as he continued to walk, he started to wonder just why he had come out here. What did he think he was going to accomplish...
"You lookin' for somethin', Mate?" A shadowy figured called to Julian. The man knew the look. Shifty eyes, the trying to appear nonchalant and failing miserably. This young man was after a little pick-me-up.
"M..me?" Julian asked, whirling to face the figure. And Julian knew his type. The cocky yet careful demeanor. The air about him that said Julian would die if he stepped one tow out of line here. He was a dealer. As the man nodded, Julian opened his mouth to refuse and found himself unable to do so. Then he reached into his pockets because he was sure he didn't have any money, and he found his Uncle Thomas' wallet right there where it probably shouldn't have been. He opened it up and found quite enough notes to serve any purpose and he looked back up at the dealer. "I..."
"Spit it out, Kid, it's freezin'." The dealer hissed, waiting.
"Wh...what do...uhm, what do you have?" Julian's voice wavered
"Quality shit." The dealer said, evasively. "What do you got?" He asked, meaning how much money did Julian have.
Julian leaned down to count the notes in Thomas' wallet with shaking hands. He pulled them out and held them up for the dealer to see. The dealer smiled. And everything that followed seemed so incredibly surreal it was as if Julian was watching it on a screen, playing out in front of him. Money exchanged hands. And then so did the drugs. Julian didn't actually have any way to shoot up, so he was given opium to smoke, instead of heroin to inject. And as Julian stumbled away to find a quiet corner to chase the dragon, he could have sworn he heard Aislinn crying. He knew that was actually impossible, but it didn't matter. In his mind, he heard his daughter crying and fatherly instinct began to war with his addiction which hadn't been fed in months and months.
Julian whimpered and he sat down, his back against a cold brick wall, so he could prepare the drug for smoking. He was frantic now, fingers moving as rapidly as the cold would allow. And then, instead of Aislinn, he heard Spectre's voice in his head.
"Believe me, I never wanted to have to do this. You haven't given me any choice. Look at what you've done to yourself, Julian. I honestly couldn't see any other way to make you value the life you've been given. I've been trying to get through to you. I never gave up, even when you said horrible things to me. You hurt me very deeply, Julian, and you're throwing away a priceless gift in the life you've been given. That's your choice, of course. But I'm not going to let you get away with pretending you don't know exactly what you're doing if you stick a needle in your arm."
It wasn't a needle. But it was bad enough. It was one step away, and the result would be the same. The high, and then the withdrawal and the awful pain that brought. His lungs itched to inhale the sweet smoke, and his veins cried out for the high, and Julian let out a horrified scream, which echoed through the night, probably disturbing more than a fair share of slumbering Londoners.
"Spectre...I don't...I don't know how I'm supposed to do this. Be...that person again. Who the hell was that person?!"
"He was a son. He was a good friend. A best friend. A nephew. A grandson. He was loved, and he was incredibly loving. He loved people, and he loved ideas. Concepts, creativity. Music. He was young, and a good man. He always spared a thought for others, and would give up his last penny if he saw someone who needed it more. He laughed, and he cried, and he lived. I really can't say enough good about him. Now can I emphasise enough my firm belief that you can and will be that person again. Because I don't believe that anything can wipe out Julian Littleton. Not even heroin."
Quickly, Julian dropped the drugs and he didn't even stay to see them fall to the ground. He ran back towards Spectre's house as quickly as he could. He slipped and fell and stumbled, but he kept going. If he stayed out here any longer, he wouldn't go back. And he was needed. He had people who believed he was a good man.
The second he was in the door, he shucked Thomas' coat like a sack of potatoes and then he ran for the pull out sofa where Damon was still dozing. Julian turned to his daughter to make sure she was alright. And she was. Sleeping. Not crying. Not even aware Julian had left. Julian let out a quiet sob and he reached down to stroke her cheek gently, and then he climbed into bed. He curled up at Damon's side, burying his face in the other boy's hair. His arm wound around Damon and clutched him so tight he was sure Damon would wake up, but he didn't. And there, Julian wept for everything he'd almost given up. And the drugs he had given up. And for the fact that he wasn't as strong as he thought.
And for the boy who had lost his life that day, so Julian could live. Julian wasn't perfect at it. He probably wouldn't ever be. But goddammit, he was trying.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}