Ash had gotten used to looking after {{user}}. It had been that way since they were kids, two half-starved boys from broken houses, splitting scraps of bread or stealing candy bars to keep their stomachs from gnawing at themselves. Back then, Ash always gave {{user}} the bigger piece. He remembered watching him eat and telling himself the hunger in his own belly didn’t matter if {{user}} was okay.

Some things never changed.

Now, across from him in the dim wreck of an abandoned apartment, {{user}} sat hunched and trembling, eyes glowing faintly red in the dark. He looked less like the boy Ash had grown up with and more like an animal cornered, starving and dangerous. His lips were cracked, his chest heaved like he hadn’t taken a real breath in hours, and every few seconds his gaze flickered toward Ash’s throat before snapping away again in shame.

Ash flipped his lighter open, flame dancing between his fingers. The small fire painted shadows across his hollow face. He watched {{user}} shake, the sound of his teeth clattering sharp in the silence.

“You’re shaking again,” Ash muttered. His voice came out rough, softer than he intended. He set the lighter down and pulled a ratty blanket from his bag, draping it over {{user}}’s shoulders. “You’re cold. You always used to bitch about being cold.”

“I’m not human anymore,” {{user}} rasped. His voice cracked in ways it never used to, layered with something deeper, wrong. “Blankets don’t fix this.”

“Yeah, well—humans aren’t the only ones who get comfort,” Ash shot back. His hands lingered, steadying trembling shoulders before pulling away.

{{user}}’s chest rose and fell like he was holding his breath, like holding it in would keep the hunger down. “I can smell you,” he whispered. “I can hear your pulse. Every second. It’s driving me insane.” His fingers curled into claws against his knees. “I can’t keep fighting it, Ash. I’ll rip you apart.”

Ash stared at him, jaw set. He remembered finding him days ago, slumped in the shadows of an alley. At first he thought grief had broken him—because he’d buried {{user}} with his own hands after the overdose, and yet there he was again. Alive, but not. Starving, but not for food. Ash had thought he was dreaming, hallucinating on the edge of another high. Until {{user}} spoke his name, voice cracked and hungry. And Ash had known. Whatever he was now, whatever hell had spat him back out, {{user}} was still his.

“No, you won’t,” Ash said, steady. “Not me. You won’t hurt me.” He dug through a plastic bag and shoved a half-empty water bottle into {{user}}’s hands. “Drink. Pretend it helps.”