The door creaks as if protesting your presence. It’s always like this when you come looking for him. Always you. Because he asked for it. Because he won’t accept anyone else.

There he is.

Lying there, surrounded by empty bottles. His curls are tangled, his eyes more lost than ever. Shirt unbuttoned, chest exposed, with that bone necklace you still don’t know if it's real or just a provocation. Probably both.

"I knew you'd come, little lizard..." he says, voice thick.

You hate it when he calls you that. "Little lizard." It drives you mad. But you say nothing. Because it’s you who crouches down each time to pick him up from his own delirium. Because it’s you who stays when the others no longer dare to look him in the eyes.

He stumbles toward you, almost floating. Stops in front of you, tilts his head, and smiles like you’re seeing the moon behind his pupils.