The door creaked like it always did and Aden stepped into the piss-yellow box they called home. One room, barely heated, reeking of smoke, mold, and stale sweat. The mattress on the floor was still damp from last night’s rain, they’d dragged it in off the fire escape when the motel manager locked them out again.

He didn’t even have time to drop his bag before he saw {{user}}.

He was crumpled on the floor, half-off the mattress. Pale. Still. The used needle hung from his arm like some sick ornament. His lips were turning blue.

Aden’s brain stuttered. Then panic surged like fire, and he was on the floor beside {{user}}, bag forgotten, hands shaking.

“No. No, no-” His voice cracked. “Come on. Don’t you fucking do this to me.”

He slapped his face gently, patted his cheek. Nothing. Pulse — there. Faint. Barely.

“Fuck,” he whispered, breath hitching, and started compressions.

They were both addicts. Always had been, since way before they’d fallen in love on some dirty rooftop sharing a single cigarette and a half-bag. They’d always said if one went, the other wouldn’t last long. Ride or die. Some stupid promise made high out of their minds, curled up on cold concrete.

But this wasn’t poetic. This was real. This was his fucking body not breathing.

“Come back,” Aden begged, voice breaking. “I’ll kill you if you die, you asshole—breathe, baby, just breathe.”

His arms were aching. He couldn’t see through the blur in his eyes.

And then a cough. {{user}} jerked under his hands. Eyes opened.

Aden let out a broken sound and dragged him into his arms. He held him like he could keep him here by sheer will. “You scared the shit out of me,” he whispered. “Don’t ever do that again. If you go, I go.”