Seb had his highs and lows, as Elo was very aware. When he hit withdrawal, he hit it like an steel wall, hard and fast and frictionless as he slid farther and farther down into shaky, desperate pure need. He’d fall and fall until he picked up a syringe again.
But when he was in a high, teetering on that unspoken brink of fine-not-fine, a big smile on his face and stifled turmoil in his heart, he would cook. Elo would let him crash at his place (it wasn’t really crashing. He had given his cousin a spare key a while back) and Seb would use up all those fancy ingredients Gemma kept stocking in the kitchen. He’d throw things together, wild laughter and glinting eyes, and come up with combinations that sounded horrible but tasted like heaven.
In those moments Elo was so comfortable calling him ‘Kid’ again.

“Hey, Kid. Whatcha cooking tonight?”

It was nice while it lasted. But like all addicts, Seb would crash again.
And Elo would call him. And he wouldn’t pick up the phone.

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