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Everything…stops.

For a moment or two, before L regains his bearings, and his expression is not quite as placid as it was only a second ago. Beyond is intelligent, yes, but L is very careful, and there is no known record of his name anywhere that could be found. He is Ryuuzaki, has been Ryuuzaki since he can remember, and that single syllable leaving B’s mouth has put him in a position that he would do well not to be in right now, given his current predicament.

“Mm?” Of course, he is not going to react, because to do so would admit the truth—and subsequently, a minor defeat. “Is it so good that you have forgotten my name?” A tip of his head, and his eyes are imploring. Does this man even realize that he has just put himself in danger?

Most likely not.

But how long has he known?

Beyond’s mind came to a still some time ago, with the occasional grain of time squeezing through the thin and thinning abdomen of the hourglass. Time’s so slow. So slow, that, as brief as his trips have grown to be, they yet feel like hour upon hours, time distorting and weakening, and giving L’s tone an even dreamier lull. His eyes remain shut as he hears the slight rise in tone — sign of a question.

“Huh?” Processes in delay, backpedaling to actually absorb the script being recklessly recorded on his subconscious. And a light chuckle, dry, as though L were making a joke. “It’s so good.”

Shortly after, his shoulders slump forward slightly with an inhale.

“I remember you, your name.”

Perhaps there would be a better time to address this. L needs to know the how, the why, the when. Things that require not only a great amount of detail, but complete honesty on the other’s part.

“I see,” is his only reply, and then he is rising from his chair. Being in this state is nothing new to B, and so leaving him alone for a moment or two while L secures a drink from the bar should not be an issue.

Just a precaution: he lifts the needle, caps it with the disposable plastic cap, slips it into his pocket before heading for the door.

“I will return within five minutes. Please, stay where you are.”

Staying where he is will not be an issue. In fact, he might not have transiently recognized L’s departure without the announcement. Not only is he accustomed to this, to spending time in this state without so much as a guardian, vulnerable to any number of dangers; it’s also irrelevant. His mindset screams only of security, warmth, indifference — and yet, atop that indifference is a euphoric sense of well-being.

Beyond doesn’t mind it at all, and his wavering hum of recognition should establish that even as the news slips from his current consciousness. That’s the greatest thing about the time directly after. Nothing. Maybe, occasionally, something only long enough to dissolve into a purer nothing.

“‘ssir,” bubbles out weakly, and his head nods forward, fingers flexing and unflexing around the chair handle.

Yes, Beyond will not be going anywhere for quite a while.  If L were unsure in the slightest, his client would not reside in his office alone for one minute, let alone five. He only gives a small nod of acknowledgment, and then he is departing, closing the door behind him.     

Despite the thickness, L decides on a mudslide—something sweet, without a biting, alcoholic flavor—and returns with two. They are topped with pure whipping cream mixed with the slightest drop of chocolate liqueur for color, shavings of pure cacao giving it a small, bitter bite.  Drizzled over the sides are pure milk chocolate droplets, heated enough to drip down, but thin enough to regain firmness once the coldness of the glass is met.

Needless to say, they are very attractive. He balances them in one hand in an expert fashion while he turns the knob with the other, slipping inside of the dimly-lit room. It is quiet in here, despite the thrumming of bass traveling from the main club area through the narrow hall.

When the door shuts, the nearly comatose form stirs and he takes an evening breath, lungs pumping a bit slower than they should. His lids flutter, constricted eyes scanning the empty space and chocking it up to the high, though the thought isn’t retained within the next second. His muscles are no longer sore. In fact, they’re quite soothed, and his heart feels like it’s beating much too fast for the pacing of time, tapping and tapping of the clock behind him dragging on slowly.

It’s growing slower and slower, and the euphoria huddles in his stomach, sends him over until his head’s between his knees. As though preparing for nausea, but that’s the last thing on his mind. Everything’s wrapped around him, the good feelings, the stability, and the positioning of his body falls to the wayside as long as there’s such a pleasant sense of safety coursing through.

It’s the subsequent click of the door, that seems to come immediately after his provider left, that draws him up an inch or so, inhaling, and then settling down again. His hand loosens on the chair’s am. The palm slides forward and completely off the handle, and the clicks of the mudslides’ bases plays the attention-seeking war, now.  

B doesn’t appreciate the good looks of the glasses, but he knows the origin of that sound, associating it with pleasant additions to the usual. Not that he often has the money to drop on a glass, as well. The thought lulls at the bottom of the tank and his eyes remain shut, arms curling over his legs.

With a glance and nothing more, the door is pressed closed with L’s foot, and he moves to the large, dark-colored, plush couch that rests against the far-left wall, places Beyond’s drink on the small side-table, and then his own on the desk.

“Mm, I have work to do. You may have the couch.”

For now. And L reaches into his pocket, removes the capped syringe, places that on the desk, too. It will be a while before the other requires it, he thinks. Possibly not even tonight, but he is not sending B out onto the street with any form of paraphernalia that hasn’t been properly purchased.

The drink is sipped—dark and sweet and biting, and with the tip of his tongue flicking over his lip to remove a drop of cream, L commences the work he has been putting off for two days: a side-case that he has taken under yet another alias.

Simple work. A missing child. Suspected abuse in the household, and so the parents are reluctant to contact the police. That is where he comes in. Perhaps he should feel a bit guilty for charging them such an astronomical amount. However, it remained their choice. Employ his assistance, or contact the police.

They chose wisely.

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Everything…stops.

For a moment or two, before L regains his bearings, and his expression is not quite as placid as it was only a second ago. Beyond is intelligent, yes, but L is very careful, and there is no known record of his name anywhere that could be found. He is Ryuuzaki, has been Ryuuzaki since he can remember, and that single syllable leaving B’s mouth has put him in a position that he would do well not to be in right now, given his current predicament.

“Mm?” Of course, he is not going to react, because to do so would admit the truth—and subsequently, a minor defeat. “Is it so good that you have forgotten my name?” A tip of his head, and his eyes are imploring. Does this man even realize that he has just put himself in danger?

Most likely not.

But how long has he known?

Beyond’s mind came to a still some time ago, with the occasional grain of time squeezing through the thin and thinning abdomen of the hourglass. Time’s so slow. So slow, that, as brief as his trips have grown to be, they yet feel like hour upon hours, time distorting and weakening, and giving L’s tone an even dreamier lull. His eyes remain shut as he hears the slight rise in tone — sign of a question.

“Huh?” Processes in delay, backpedaling to actually absorb the script being recklessly recorded on his subconscious. And a light chuckle, dry, as though L were making a joke. “It’s so good.”

Shortly after, his shoulders slump forward slightly with an inhale.

“I remember you, your name.”

Perhaps there would be a better time to address this. L needs to know the how, the why, the when. Things that require not only a great amount of detail, but complete honesty on the other’s part.

“I see,” is his only reply, and then he is rising from his chair. Being in this state is nothing new to B, and so leaving him alone for a moment or two while L secures a drink from the bar should not be an issue.

Just a precaution: he lifts the needle, caps it with the disposable plastic cap, slips it into his pocket before heading for the door.

“I will return within five minutes. Please, stay where you are.”

Staying where he is will not be an issue. In fact, he might not have transiently recognized L’s departure without the announcement. Not only is he accustomed to this, to spending time in this state without so much as a guardian, vulnerable to any number of dangers; it’s also irrelevant. His mindset screams only of security, warmth, indifference — and yet, atop that indifference is a euphoric sense of well-being.

Beyond doesn’t mind it at all, and his wavering hum of recognition should establish that even as the news slips from his current consciousness. That’s the greatest thing about the time directly after. Nothing. Maybe, occasionally, something only long enough to dissolve into a purer nothing.

“‘ssir,” bubbles out weakly, and his head nods forward, fingers flexing and unflexing around the chair handle.

Yes, Beyond will not be going anywhere for quite a while.  If L were unsure in the slightest, his client would not reside in his office alone for one minute, let alone five. He only gives a small nod of acknowledgment, and then he is departing, closing the door behind him.     

Despite the thickness, L decides on a mudslide—something sweet, without a biting, alcoholic flavor—and returns with two. They are topped with pure whipping cream mixed with the slightest drop of chocolate liqueur for color, shavings of pure cacao giving it a small, bitter bite.  Drizzled over the sides are pure milk chocolate droplets, heated enough to drip down, but thin enough to regain firmness once the coldness of the glass is met.

Needless to say, they are very attractive. He balances them in one hand in an expert fashion while he turns the knob with the other, slipping inside of the dimly-lit room. It is quiet in here, despite the thrumming of bass traveling from the main club area through the narrow hall.

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Everything…stops.

For a moment or two, before L regains his bearings, and his expression is not quite as placid as it was only a second ago. Beyond is intelligent, yes, but L is very careful, and there is no known record of his name anywhere that could be found. He is Ryuuzaki, has been Ryuuzaki since he can remember, and that single syllable leaving B’s mouth has put him in a position that he would do well not to be in right now, given his current predicament.

“Mm?” Of course, he is not going to react, because to do so would admit the truth—and subsequently, a minor defeat. “Is it so good that you have forgotten my name?” A tip of his head, and his eyes are imploring. Does this man even realize that he has just put himself in danger?

Most likely not.

But how long has he known?

Beyond’s mind came to a still some time ago, with the occasional grain of time squeezing through the thin and thinning abdomen of the hourglass. Time’s so slow. So slow, that, as brief as his trips have grown to be, they yet feel like hour upon hours, time distorting and weakening, and giving L’s tone an even dreamier lull. His eyes remain shut as he hears the slight rise in tone — sign of a question.

“Huh?” Processes in delay, backpedaling to actually absorb the script being recklessly recorded on his subconscious. And a light chuckle, dry, as though L were making a joke. “It’s so good.”

Shortly after, his shoulders slump forward slightly with an inhale.

“I remember you, your name.”

Perhaps there would be a better time to address this. L needs to know the how, the why, the when. Things that require not only a great amount of detail, but complete honesty on the other’s part.

“I see,” is his only reply, and then he is rising from his chair. Being in this state is nothing new to B, and so leaving him alone for a moment or two while L secures a drink from the bar should not be an issue.

Just a precaution: he lifts the needle, caps it with the disposable plastic cap, slips it into his pocket before heading for the door.

“I will return within five minutes. Please, stay where you are.”

Everything…stops.

For a moment or two, before L regains his bearings, and his expression is not quite as placid as it was only a second ago. Beyond is intelligent, yes, but L is very careful, and there is no known record of his name anywhere that could be found. He is Ryuuzaki, has been Ryuuzaki since he can remember, and that single syllable leaving B’s mouth has put him in a position that he would do well not to be in right now, given his current predicament.

“Mm?” Of course, he is not going to react, because to do so would admit the truth—and subsequently, a minor defeat. “Is it so good that you have forgotten my name?” A tip of his head, and his eyes are imploring. Does this man even realize that he has just put himself in danger?

Most likely not.

But how long has he known?

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“Yes, you will.” A statement that needn’t be voiced. L is not known to give things away freely. Unless, of course, this proves to be unenjoyable for the other. This batch is untested, said to begin as a week high, then creep slowly until the subject is near reeling. It goes for three times as much as L’s usual product, but he was able to secure a shipment at a reasonable price. One that would allow him not to suffer any loss if it proved weak.

 

A glance at the old-fashioned school clock that rests upon the wall.

 

“I will need you to tell me how you are feeling in—“ One second, two, three—  “Fifteen seconds.”

 

Beyond is a prime subject for simple reasons. His tolerance is high, and L is sure that someone who uses as much as he does has survived at least one overdose. Meanwhile, he has returned to watching the other intently, and he would prefer if Beyond would keep his eyes open. L wants to see his pupils’ reaction, the rate at which his eyes fail to take in the proper lighting.

His head shakes lightly, as though to throw off exhaustion, and his eyes slide to the other man’s, which are set elsewhere. Somewhere high above. If he looks, it might be difficult to stay on the ground, and so he blinks, eyes shutting momentarily and parting. Finding the dark set staring right through him, reading him, and, at this distance, it’s more than disconcerting. It should be intimidating, in fact, given their relationship, the man he knows his dealer to be, and his own desire to impress the man. Somehow. 

His expression drags, lulls, and eyes lid at the request.

“Seconds…” B nods agreeably. Quite willing to partake in this experiment, albeit in retrospect, that means next to nothing to him as long as his reality’s swimming. It definitely is. And the sensation builds, builds further leaving his eyes heavily shut, and head lulling forth as his body warms up, mind rolling back and forth between true awareness. Somehow, he’s losing himself in the ensuing waves.

Quite predictably, he doesn’t offer his review of the substance those seconds later, simply enjoying the euphoria that’s dismissing any sense of self awareness. Yes, his eyes have permanently shut for now, head leaning forth and perhaps there’s some threat of him tumbling forward, and he nearly does a time or two, before catching himself.

L watches the gradual process—the way that Beyond loses coherency in a matter of seconds. He does not seem displeased, and perhaps L will have to wait until the high has worn off in order to enjoy the full assessment.

But for now—

“Mm, I am going to need you to keep your eyes open.” And his arms reach out, one hand splaying against B’s shoulder to keep him up, the other lifting to curl an index beneath the man’s chin. L does not find it preferable to have one of his customers nodding away in his office. If Beyond is to stay, then he is to stay awake.

“Do you feel nauseous at all? Anything negative that you would attribute to the drug?”

Watching, watching.

As though on a particularly unstable raft, he falters back harder than the hand holding him upright should have pressed, and yet his head rock forward again. The voice holds him, his attention, and he’s aware – aware enough to know he’s high, and that Ryuuzaki is asking him to open his eyes. It takes a one-two momentum of thought and his lids part, slivers of what they once were, and he – nods forward once more, catching his free hand on L’s neatly-tucked knee.

“…Nauseous?” Processing, processing. “No. No…”

And his lids shut again, shoulders nearly curling in spite of the pressure of the man’s palm and that stabilizing finger beneath his chin. The second question, he stirs again, eyes parting quickly, as though catching himself, and he stares through his provider.

“It’s good,” he very eloquently describes, answers clipped and short enough to denote a man interested in pleasing the questioner. Without enough awareness to think of lying, as he might have, for the questions should indicate that an answer to the contrary might equal a free hit.

Good, then. The other half will not be necessary until later—though the other will receive it, as it is all but useless to L, now. Beyond will know better than to come back expecting another free round. Even tonight, he arrived with a petty amount of money, but not altogether penniless.

“Try to stay awake.” Spoken softly, voice droning. “I will not have you sleeping in my office, but I do not intend to send you out into the street like this.”

It would be a pity for something to happen to B. It would be the loss of one of L’s most frequent customers. Very carefully, he lowers his hand from beneath that chin, presses back on the other’s shoulder in order to settle him comfortably into the chair.

He supposes that in time, he will venture out into the club, secure himself a light, sweet drink. The drug has surprised him with its effectiveness, and with Beyond in this state—and essentially in his care—he cannot very well carry on with business this evening.

“I’m not sleeping,” Beyond sets the record straight, tone confident and dazed. His lids close again and he sinks back cooperatively, legs carelessly sprawled. Despite the proclivity to lean backwards after the deliberate positioning of his body, his head continues to gravitate forward, almost lopping over until he recalls the requirement of remaining in the office. He’d like to stay with L. But he’s not particularly against leaving, either.

In fact, his opinion on the matter is… moot. Blank. Nothing. Right now, there’s not too much that he cares to mind, and it certainly won’t clearly interrupt something this tranquil. His muscles are too weak to support the kind of movement that would transport him out, though. That head flops back and he breathes shallowly, eyes parting.

L’s name waves more than it does, normally.

“Are you French?” A pleasant tone. Grasping at something that’s quickly diminishing.

That earns a tilt of L’s head, but he quickly coughs it up to a simple, pointless question. Perhaps there is something in his features that Beyond can distinguish, perhaps the question comes from nowhere at all.

“Partially, yes.”

On most occasions, L would find this annoying. A reason to want to keep his distance from his clients—but now, it is nothing less than amusing. Something to watch and pick apart, for no other reason than blatant curiosity.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” L will never be accused of being an inconsiderate host. “Cold?”

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“Yes, you will.” A statement that needn’t be voiced. L is not known to give things away freely. Unless, of course, this proves to be unenjoyable for the other. This batch is untested, said to begin as a week high, then creep slowly until the subject is near reeling. It goes for three times as much as L’s usual product, but he was able to secure a shipment at a reasonable price. One that would allow him not to suffer any loss if it proved weak.

 

A glance at the old-fashioned school clock that rests upon the wall.

 

“I will need you to tell me how you are feeling in—“ One second, two, three—  “Fifteen seconds.”

 

Beyond is a prime subject for simple reasons. His tolerance is high, and L is sure that someone who uses as much as he does has survived at least one overdose. Meanwhile, he has returned to watching the other intently, and he would prefer if Beyond would keep his eyes open. L wants to see his pupils’ reaction, the rate at which his eyes fail to take in the proper lighting.

His head shakes lightly, as though to throw off exhaustion, and his eyes slide to the other man’s, which are set elsewhere. Somewhere high above. If he looks, it might be difficult to stay on the ground, and so he blinks, eyes shutting momentarily and parting. Finding the dark set staring right through him, reading him, and, at this distance, it’s more than disconcerting. It should be intimidating, in fact, given their relationship, the man he knows his dealer to be, and his own desire to impress the man. Somehow. 

His expression drags, lulls, and eyes lid at the request.

“Seconds…” B nods agreeably. Quite willing to partake in this experiment, albeit in retrospect, that means next to nothing to him as long as his reality’s swimming. It definitely is. And the sensation builds, builds further leaving his eyes heavily shut, and head lulling forth as his body warms up, mind rolling back and forth between true awareness. Somehow, he’s losing himself in the ensuing waves.

Quite predictably, he doesn’t offer his review of the substance those seconds later, simply enjoying the euphoria that’s dismissing any sense of self awareness. Yes, his eyes have permanently shut for now, head leaning forth and perhaps there’s some threat of him tumbling forward, and he nearly does a time or two, before catching himself.

L watches the gradual process—the way that Beyond loses coherency in a matter of seconds. He does not seem displeased, and perhaps L will have to wait until the high has worn off in order to enjoy the full assessment.

But for now—

“Mm, I am going to need you to keep your eyes open.” And his arms reach out, one hand splaying against B’s shoulder to keep him up, the other lifting to curl an index beneath the man’s chin. L does not find it preferable to have one of his customers nodding away in his office. If Beyond is to stay, then he is to stay awake.

“Do you feel nauseous at all? Anything negative that you would attribute to the drug?”

Watching, watching.

As though on a particularly unstable raft, he falters back harder than the hand holding him upright should have pressed, and yet his head rock forward again. The voice holds him, his attention, and he’s aware – aware enough to know he’s high, and that Ryuuzaki is asking him to open his eyes. It takes a one-two momentum of thought and his lids part, slivers of what they once were, and he – nods forward once more, catching his free hand on L’s neatly-tucked knee.

“…Nauseous?” Processing, processing. “No. No…”

And his lids shut again, shoulders nearly curling in spite of the pressure of the man’s palm and that stabilizing finger beneath his chin. The second question, he stirs again, eyes parting quickly, as though catching himself, and he stares through his provider.

“It’s good,” he very eloquently describes, answers clipped and short enough to denote a man interested in pleasing the questioner. Without enough awareness to think of lying, as he might have, for the questions should indicate that an answer to the contrary might equal a free hit.

Good, then. The other half will not be necessary until later—though the other will receive it, as it is all but useless to L, now. Beyond will know better than to come back expecting another free round. Even tonight, he arrived with a petty amount of money, but not altogether penniless.

“Try to stay awake.” Spoken softly, voice droning. “I will not have you sleeping in my office, but I do not intend to send you out into the street like this.”

It would be a pity for something to happen to B. It would be the loss of one of L’s most frequent customers. Very carefully, he lowers his hand from beneath that chin, presses back on the other’s shoulder in order to settle him comfortably into the chair.

He supposes that in time, he will venture out into the club, secure himself a light, sweet drink. The drug has surprised him with its effectiveness, and with Beyond in this state—and essentially in his care—he cannot very well carry on with business this evening.

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“Yes, you will.” A statement that needn’t be voiced. L is not known to give things away freely. Unless, of course, this proves to be unenjoyable for the other. This batch is untested, said to begin as a week high, then creep slowly until the subject is near reeling. It goes for three times as much as L’s usual product, but he was able to secure a shipment at a reasonable price. One that would allow him not to suffer any loss if it proved weak.

 

A glance at the old-fashioned school clock that rests upon the wall.

 

“I will need you to tell me how you are feeling in—“ One second, two, three—  “Fifteen seconds.”

 

Beyond is a prime subject for simple reasons. His tolerance is high, and L is sure that someone who uses as much as he does has survived at least one overdose. Meanwhile, he has returned to watching the other intently, and he would prefer if Beyond would keep his eyes open. L wants to see his pupils’ reaction, the rate at which his eyes fail to take in the proper lighting.

His head shakes lightly, as though to throw off exhaustion, and his eyes slide to the other man’s, which are set elsewhere. Somewhere high above. If he looks, it might be difficult to stay on the ground, and so he blinks, eyes shutting momentarily and parting. Finding the dark set staring right through him, reading him, and, at this distance, it’s more than disconcerting. It should be intimidating, in fact, given their relationship, the man he knows his dealer to be, and his own desire to impress the man. Somehow. 

His expression drags, lulls, and eyes lid at the request.

“Seconds…” B nods agreeably. Quite willing to partake in this experiment, albeit in retrospect, that means next to nothing to him as long as his reality’s swimming. It definitely is. And the sensation builds, builds further leaving his eyes heavily shut, and head lulling forth as his body warms up, mind rolling back and forth between true awareness. Somehow, he’s losing himself in the ensuing waves.

Quite predictably, he doesn’t offer his review of the substance those seconds later, simply enjoying the euphoria that’s dismissing any sense of self awareness. Yes, his eyes have permanently shut for now, head leaning forth and perhaps there’s some threat of him tumbling forward, and he nearly does a time or two, before catching himself.

L watches the gradual process—the way that Beyond loses coherency in a matter of seconds. He does not seem displeased, and perhaps L will have to wait until the high has worn off in order to enjoy the full assessment.

But for now—

“Mm, I am going to need you to keep your eyes open.” And his arms reach out, one hand splaying against B’s shoulder to keep him up, the other lifting to curl an index beneath the man’s chin. L does not find it preferable to have one of his customers nodding away in his office. If Beyond is to stay, then he is to stay awake.

“Do you feel nauseous at all? Anything negative that you would attribute to the drug?”

Watching, watching.

“Yes, you will.” A statement that needn’t be voiced. L is not known to give things away freely. Unless, of course, this proves to be unenjoyable for the other. This batch is untested, said to begin as a weak high, then creep slowly until the subject is near reeling. It goes for three times as much as L’s usual product, but he was able to secure a shipment at a reasonable price. One that would allow him not to suffer any loss if it proved weak.

A glance at the old-fashioned school clock that rests upon the wall.

“I will need you to tell me how you are feeling in—“ One second, two, three—  “Fifteen seconds.”

Beyond is a prime subject for simple reasons. His tolerance is high, and L is sure that someone who uses as much as he does has survived at least one overdose. Meanwhile, he has returned to watching the other intently, and he would prefer if Beyond would keep his eyes open. L wants to see his pupils’ reaction, the rate at which his eyes fail to take in the proper lighting.

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That earns a slightly amused look, and when L has deemed the drug thin enough, he sets the lighter aside, lifts the concealed needle, rips the plastic away with his teeth. The plastic-end of the instrument, he holds between his teeth as he discards the covering onto the desk, and then it is being pinched between careful fingers, index and middle urging the plunger upward as the sharp metal tip is dipped into the liquid.

He is purposely drawing this out as slowly as possible.

And then the spoon is set aside carefully, and L holds the needle with a doctor’s professionalism. He leans forward—close—gives Beyond another long, silent assessment before he speaks.

“Your mind is brilliant.  It is a pity that you waste it away on such frivolous things.” Even as he is tracing along the other’s scars lightly with his index, trying to find a plump, unused vein.  They seem non-existent. With a light exhale, he places the plastic-end of the needle between his teeth once more, reaches for the elastic to tie around the top of the other’s wiry bicep.

“Hold out your arm.” Slightly muffled by the instrument, but audible enough to be comprehended.

The liquid-comfort creeps -slowly, slowly- uphill and his subconscious immediately charges Ryuuzaki of deliberately torturing him — but, Beyond’s experienced enough to know it could as easily be his paranoia. Then again, it sounds like his dealer, doesn’t it? While he provides the goods, he also derives some pleasure, B’s noticed, from being the one to hold what his “customers” are desperate to possess. His heel bounces lightly, impatiently, and stills, eyes forced from minding the needle to those assessing eyes.

He wants to argue that, turn it into a jest and maybe morph it into some manner of taunt, but, first, he’ll outstretch his arm cooperatively. L can’t find his vein. His lips quirk despite the array of withdrawal symptoms nipping his heels, and he feels the grazing of L’s hand over his skin. Subdued, because of the burn scar, comparable to the muffing of auditory stimuli behind a wall, but t’s nice. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t pleased with the thinning of his body, he insomnia is strikes him with and thusly the dark-rimmed eyes.

“Yes, sir,” he half-mocks, but without the usual purr of humor. His other hand urges his sleeve further up and he lowers his hand to his arm to feel for the vein in a particular vicinity. It’s hard to find, not only because it’s so thin, but the strange texturing of his scars. At the very least, it camouflages the track marks. “Right around here. I can do it.”

An earnest offer, watching the other like a child waiting for his nightly dessert.

Of course, Beyond’s insistence is ignored. Without the slightest sound of disagreement, L loops the elastic around the area just above his elbow—once, twice, and then secures it with a tight knot. It is difficult to locate a vein beneath all of these scars, but it is not something that  he is going to allow the other to do. Because this is a particularly strong batch, and Beyond will become overexcited, inject the needle’s full contents at once, and L will be left with a body on his office floor.

He has no desire to deal with setbacks.

He gives the band a few seconds to do its work, and it is mildly efficient. The pressure draws a few veins within visibility through the scattering of scarred skin, and he works over them with a thumb. It is clear that none of these have been unused. Most are hard, some are deflated, and he chooses the least afflicted one with a press of his fingerpad, drawing the needle down with his right hand.

It is with silent concentration that he presses the tip of the needle to the bulging vein, slides it just beneath the skin at an angle, then presses the plunger down—slowly, carefully—until half of the contents have been injected.

And now he will wait as he withdraws it, sets it aside, goes about wiping at the small trickle of blood with a cotton ball. Meticulously, for he is not aware of any diseases that Beyond may or may not have.

That earns a slightly amused look, and when L has deemed the drug thin enough, he sets the lighter aside, lifts the concealed needle, rips the plastic away with his teeth. The plastic-end of the instrument, he holds between his teeth as he discards the covering onto the desk, and then it is being pinched between careful fingers, index and middle urging the plunger upward as the sharp metal tip is dipped into the liquid.

He is purposely drawing this out as slowly as possible.

And then the spoon is set aside carefully, and L holds the needle with a doctor’s professionalism. He leans forward—close—gives Beyond another long, silent assessment before he speaks.

“Your mind is brilliant.  It is a pity that you waste it away on such frivolous things.” Even as he is tracing along the other’s scars lightly with his index, trying to find a plump, unused vein.  They seem non-existent. With a light exhale, he places the plastic-end of the needle between his teeth once more, reaches for the elastic to tie around the top of the other’s wiry bicep.

“Hold out your arm.” Slightly muffled by the instrument, but audible enough to be comprehended.

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lisforlucrative:

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lisforlucrative:

Ah, there it is.

Defeated.

Typical of most of his customers, though L does not pay them enough mind to take notice beyond surface hints.  This, however, is something pathetic, something that warrants more notice than a passing glance. Beyond has an impressive mind. It is the only reason that L has ever bothered to speak with him beyond casual business exchanges.  Impressive and wasted, as is the case with so many intelligent individuals who find life’s boredom overwhelming.

He is going to ignore Beyond’s fruitless bargaining for now. Instead, he will push himself up from the chair, scuffle over to the mini-fridge that he keeps stocked to the brim in the right-hand corner of the room, bypassing the other without a word.  If his mobile vibrates, Beyond will be leaving. L is wasting enough time—he does not intend to forfeit money, as well.

The small, silver door is pulled open, and L extracts a few things:  bottled, flavored teas, small cheesecake circles kept in protective plastic covering. The door, he now closes with his foot as he moves to set the items down on the desk—one of each for either of them.

“When is the last time you have eaten?”

Languidly circling the desk back to his side.

Beyond doesn’t need abilities beyond those he possesses to read the disinterest and dismissiveness in L’s expression, his body language, and he feels like he’s going to be sick. He’d need to go back to the laundromat and steal coins here and there, hold open doors, hold silhouette puppetry in the mid-evening out front. Coin take a long time to add up to a dollar, and even more to reach the desired forty — or he could take more extreme measures.

It would be easy, but Saul wouldn’t let him sleep there again. His teeth gnaw at the scarred flesh of his finger, eyes following the man and languidly settling upon the cheesecake. A small, hopeful glance for something more. Different. He’s not even hungry, regardless of how long ago food entered his system and how much his body may be keeling for nutrition.

Cheesecake wouldn’t provide it anyway. But, he’ll eat it to avoid turning something away. That wouldn’t get him anything any faster.

“I don’t keep track,” he admits, for Ryuuzaki is one of the few individuals who receives honesty — to an extent. Because he can read through Beyond, with or without his granting of the knowledge and so it’s much weaker to deny these things. His hands go out for the tea, at least, because his throat’s so dry, and it feels like his temples are burning up.

“Thank you.”

Not very grateful. This isn’t what he wanted, but, he’ll chug a mouthful and stare at the cheesecake in preparation for the consumption.

L, on the other hand, is halfway through consuming his own—it only takes a few bites—and he twists the cap of the tea open, takes a long, gluttonous sip.  Mulling over whether or not B’s desperation can be exploited, whether or not he can be put to any use.

Everything can be exploited.

“Here.”  He gestures to the space next to him, cleaning his fingers of the last of the small cheesecake circle. “Bring your chair to this side.” He moves his own over a few inches to make room, and there is another sip of tea, another glance to the near-distressed man across from him. While the other decides whether or not he is going to comply, L leans down, opens the bottom most drawer.

Unopened, sterile needles. Alcohol, a constriction band. An unused lighter and equally untouched spoon is brought out with a small container of cotton balls. He does dislike keeping this form of paraphernalia near his person, but there have been a few times when they have come to good use—not for himself. Never that. L prefers to partake in lighter forms of enjoyment.

The preparation items, he sets upon the desk in a straight, neat line, busying himself with the task of organizing everything.

The addict’s eyes flicker beyond the foreground of a sweetened cheese-block to acknowledge Ryuuzaki’s redirecting of the conversation. The initial hesitation, eyes staring quietly, has little to do with trust and everything with the suddenly film of lethargy in knowing the edge wouldn’t be taken offer for - at least - another day. L doesn’t know how it feels. It’s like his entire body’s contorted, and he knows it’s not from sleeping on an uneven bench.

A slow exhale that — shudders short at the mere sound of the needle clacking wood, and he could have - used his own set. But, if L’s insisting… The hesitation passes in a whirlwind and, as calmly as he can, he drags the chair over, cheesecake untouched, and settles down beside his dealer with an earnest gaze. L’s the type of man who doesn’t like to be superseded.

There’s an urge to speed his patiently-paced preparation work along, but that might upset ——— whatever this is. Whatever it is, he likes it. He can feel his nausea giving slightly to anticipation.

“The interest?” But, his tone tells them that it could be 100% per hour, and he’d still take it.

“There is an old proverb concerning gift horses and mouths—“ Very precisely empting the contents of a bag onto the spoon—careful not to spill a speck. “It comes from the Latin, Noli equi dentes inspicere donate, which translates roughly into ‘Never inspect the teeth of a given horse’”

There. He holds the spoon steadily, and if Beyond reaches for it or L, he is going to receive a swift kick in the chest. L’s expression denotes precise concentration, as though this were something he is particularly adept with. The lighter is produced, flicked to life, and the flame runs below the previously untarnished metal in even patterns.

“It is difficult to trace it to before 400 AD, though it is a common belief that it goes back perhaps two to three hundred years prior.”

Mm, the liquid is not quite thin enough. It will clog the needle. And so the lighter continues.  A glance to his eager companion.

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lisforlucrative:

Ah, there it is.

Defeated.

Typical of most of his customers, though L does not pay them enough mind to take notice beyond surface hints.  This, however, is something pathetic, something that warrants more notice than a passing glance. Beyond has an impressive mind. It is the only reason that L has ever bothered to speak with him beyond casual business exchanges.  Impressive and wasted, as is the case with so many intelligent individuals who find life’s boredom overwhelming.

He is going to ignore Beyond’s fruitless bargaining for now. Instead, he will push himself up from the chair, scuffle over to the mini-fridge that he keeps stocked to the brim in the right-hand corner of the room, bypassing the other without a word.  If his mobile vibrates, Beyond will be leaving. L is wasting enough time—he does not intend to forfeit money, as well.

The small, silver door is pulled open, and L extracts a few things:  bottled, flavored teas, small cheesecake circles kept in protective plastic covering. The door, he now closes with his foot as he moves to set the items down on the desk—one of each for either of them.

“When is the last time you have eaten?”

Languidly circling the desk back to his side.

Beyond doesn’t need abilities beyond those he possesses to read the disinterest and dismissiveness in L’s expression, his body language, and he feels like he’s going to be sick. He’d need to go back to the laundromat and steal coins here and there, hold open doors, hold silhouette puppetry in the mid-evening out front. Coin take a long time to add up to a dollar, and even more to reach the desired forty — or he could take more extreme measures.

It would be easy, but Saul wouldn’t let him sleep there again. His teeth gnaw at the scarred flesh of his finger, eyes following the man and languidly settling upon the cheesecake. A small, hopeful glance for something more. Different. He’s not even hungry, regardless of how long ago food entered his system and how much his body may be keeling for nutrition.

Cheesecake wouldn’t provide it anyway. But, he’ll eat it to avoid turning something away. That wouldn’t get him anything any faster.

“I don’t keep track,” he admits, for Ryuuzaki is one of the few individuals who receives honesty — to an extent. Because he can read through Beyond, with or without his granting of the knowledge and so it’s much weaker to deny these things. His hands go out for the tea, at least, because his throat’s so dry, and it feels like his temples are burning up.

“Thank you.”

Not very grateful. This isn’t what he wanted, but, he’ll chug a mouthful and stare at the cheesecake in preparation for the consumption.

L, on the other hand, is halfway through consuming his own—it only takes a few bites—and he twists the cap of the tea open, takes a long, gluttonous sip.  Mulling over whether or not B’s desperation can be exploited, whether or not he can be put to any use.

Everything can be exploited.

“Here.”  He gestures to the space next to him, cleaning his fingers of the last of the small cheesecake circle. “Bring your chair to this side.” He moves his own over a few inches to make room, and there is another sip of tea, another glance to the near-distressed man across from him. While the other decides whether or not he is going to comply, L leans down, opens the bottom most drawer.

Unopened, sterile needles. Alcohol, a constriction band. An unused lighter and equally untouched spoon is brought out with a small container of cotton balls. He does dislike keeping this form of paraphernalia near his person, but there have been a few times when they have come to good use—not for himself. Never that. L prefers to partake in lighter forms of enjoyment.

The preparation items, he sets upon the desk in a straight, neat line, busying himself with the task of organizing everything.

Ah, there it is.

Defeated.

Typical of most of his customers, though L does not pay them enough mind to take notice beyond surface hints.  This, however, is something pathetic, something that warrants more notice than a passing glance. Beyond has an impressive mind. It is the only reason that L has ever bothered to speak with him beyond casual business exchanges.  Impressive and wasted, as is the case with so many intelligent individuals who find life’s boredom overwhelming.

He is going to ignore Beyond’s fruitless bargaining for now. Instead, he will push himself up from the chair, scuffle over to the mini-fridge that he keeps stocked to the brim in the right-hand corner of the room, bypassing the other without a word.  If his mobile vibrates, Beyond will be leaving. L is wasting enough time—he does not intend to forfeit money, as well.

The small, silver door is pulled open, and L extracts a few things:  bottled, flavored teas, small cheesecake circles kept in protective plastic covering. The door, he now closes with his foot as he moves to set the items down on the desk—one of each for either of them.

“When is the last time you have eaten?”

Languidly circling the desk back to his side.

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lisforlucrative:

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lisforlucrative:

What kind of businessman would he be to produce the product without proof of payment? 

“Have you come to me again with your pocket change?”  Spoken in a bored tone, and L lifts a hand, adjusts the collar of his white tee while he watches the other with a quiet contemplation. Beyond is hungry—that much is clear.  For many things, perhaps. Impatient, yet he still mocks. His skin is a bit more drawn than last time, and his hair could use a wash.

L, himself, is dressed rather comfortably, though the slacks he dons in lieu of denim cuts into his inner thighs slightly, and the shoes upon his feet are greatly unwanted. However, it would do him no good to appear altogether unprofessional, and so he endures these things.

An index picks at his bottom lip briefly as he sets the cup down, continues to assess Beyond. There will come a point, L considers, that the younger will come to him in such a state of desperation that he may just try to rob him.

“You look like death, Beyond. What can you afford?”

At the remark, he swallows pure sand and slithers back defensively, leaning against the back of the seat, and his knees draw up. Mimicking. Though, he doesn’t play with the curve of L’s spine, muscles groaning with aches and protesting the possibility before it chisels into reality. His head settles back languidly, so very okay, and he picks at his lip.

“You’re one to talk. Still having a hard time sleeping with both eyes shut?” More like, either, he muses, and his head lulls pleasantly. “I could offer my guardianship. I don’t look it, but I’m very, very strong.” And softer-toned — “Don’t tell anyone.”

The taunts and jests are grand and all, but he’s clearly chipping them short in certain places, eyes intensely on the darker gaze. As though to demand his eyes not drift back towards that area.

“…” His attentiveness wavers and he hunches forward, now, arms curling around his knees. His joints immediately roar against the sore posture. B ignores it, a mite more serious and earnest as he stares on. “I have fifteen dollars. Sixteen, rounding up.”

“And you came here,” L replies with a bemused tone, back straightening at the vague insult.  “When have I ever priced anything so low? You’ve come to ask for a handout.”

Which L does not give. Money aside, B has absolutely nothing to offer him.  To punctuate the situation, L does not make it a habit to engage in trade of any sort. Cash or nothing, and Beyond does not have the required funds to secure a transaction. Wide eyes narrow a bit, and L is fully aware that the other knew this before arrival.

He sips his coffee, watches.  There is nothing more to speak of, here. Perhaps next time, the man will not make the incorrect decision.  There are dealers on the street who will accept his change.  L is not one of them.

The response is predictable, if not disheartening, and his painfully blank expression persists, unfazed by the refusal. His foot taps against the uncushioned seat, restless, and his arms fold over his knees as his head rests down. Swallowing. Thinking. A crinkle. Oh, yes, he’d nearly forgotten in his unease, and his hand goes into his loose pocket to withdraw the Twinkie that finds the edge of the desk.

“You know I’m good for paying it back,” he reminds with a strange smile, unwrapping the mass-produced cake product. “Are you suggesting I find a new dealer? That’s odd business practice, sir~”

The cake breaks in half and he holds half out between two digits as an offering, eyes watching widely. Maybe, sucking up. His hands slightly wavering, but he prides himself in the lack of an outright shake. He’s not just a desperate dopehead — that’s what it says.

And L’s hand immediately goes up in a polite refusal. He has a supply of sweet things when he wants them. He definitely does not intend on partaking of a crushed Twinkie from an addict’s pocket.

“While I have known you for a considerable amount of time, if you cannot come to me with the proper amount of money, you are a useless customer to me—so yes.” Tips his head a little as he continues to study his “customer.” Fidgeting, borderline nervous.  If it were anyone else, it would be disconcerting. “I would suggest that you find an individual to better suit your budget. Anything you have to offer in trade is useless to me, and I require no services from you.” Gestures around the room languidly. “I am very comfortable here. Anything I would need, I can acquire.  Perhaps Beyond would consider a position here. Some of the customers have preferences that the limited staff here are unable to offer.” 

backupjam:

lisforlucrative:

What kind of businessman would he be to produce the product without proof of payment? 

“Have you come to me again with your pocket change?”  Spoken in a bored tone, and L lifts a hand, adjusts the collar of his white tee while he watches the other with a quiet contemplation. Beyond is hungry—that much is clear.  For many things, perhaps. Impatient, yet he still mocks. His skin is a bit more drawn than last time, and his hair could use a wash.

L, himself, is dressed rather comfortably, though the slacks he dons in lieu of denim cuts into his inner thighs slightly, and the shoes upon his feet are greatly unwanted. However, it would do him no good to appear altogether unprofessional, and so he endures these things.

An index picks at his bottom lip briefly as he sets the cup down, continues to assess Beyond. There will come a point, L considers, that the younger will come to him in such a state of desperation that he may just try to rob him.

“You look like death, Beyond. What can you afford?”

At the remark, he swallows pure sand and slithers back defensively, leaning against the back of the seat, and his knees draw up. Mimicking. Though, he doesn’t play with the curve of L’s spine, muscles groaning with aches and protesting the possibility before it chisels into reality. His head settles back languidly, so very okay, and he picks at his lip.

“You’re one to talk. Still having a hard time sleeping with both eyes shut?” More like, either, he muses, and his head lulls pleasantly. “I could offer my guardianship. I don’t look it, but I’m very, very strong.” And softer-toned — “Don’t tell anyone.”

The taunts and jests are grand and all, but he’s clearly chipping them short in certain places, eyes intensely on the darker gaze. As though to demand his eyes not drift back towards that area.

“…” His attentiveness wavers and he hunches forward, now, arms curling around his knees. His joints immediately roar against the sore posture. B ignores it, a mite more serious and earnest as he stares on. “I have fifteen dollars. Sixteen, rounding up.”

“And you came here,” L replies with a bemused tone, back straightening at the vague insult.  “When have I ever priced anything so low? You’ve come to ask for a handout.”

Which L does not give. Money aside, B has absolutely nothing to offer him.  To punctuate the situation, L does not make it a habit to engage in trade of any sort. Cash or nothing, and Beyond does not have the required funds to secure a transaction. Wide eyes narrow a bit, and L is fully aware that the other knew this before arrival.

He sips his coffee, watches.  There is nothing more to speak of, here. Perhaps next time, the man will not make the incorrect decision.  There are dealers on the street who will accept his change.  L is not one of them.